Why the Dodgers Never Left Brooklyn

in the warm takenforgranted room
with a day bed, two chairs, a small table
and some pictures and a mirror,
the boy sits next to his grandfather
who adjusts the radio tuning slightly to
cut down the static and hear
Red Barber more clearly broadcasting
a Dodger nightgame
the score is 3-2 favor the
Phillies, bottom of the eighth
Robin Roberts on the mound
and Jackie Robinson up
runner on second.

in the warm takenforgranted
evening as things unfold slowly
as the windup occurs and Red Barber
conveys that to the boy and
the grandfather, as the pitch
zooms toward the plate and Jackie
has his eye on it, there's
a wonderful tension
in the boy's stomach, almost
an unspoken prayer, a
prayer for victory because
defeat is so painful so thorough
so indescribable. Because the boy
has grown up knowing what
the Dodgers might be, knowing
what Furillo can do, and Campanella,
and Pee Wee Reese. He has seen
Duke Snider hit the big one and
Billy Cox stop a ball at third
that no one knew could be stopped
by a human being.

and so in the dark in the room
on the day bed next
to his grandfather
the boy knows the feeling
of the takenforgranted hand
that rests quietly
against his own, knows the next
game is Saturday and
the voice of Red Barber will
come through the radio,
knows in the sheltered corridors
of his heart, where the Dodgers
come and go, knocking
dirt from their spikes,
that the team will
never leave Brooklyn.