World Series
By Sinead Ballagh

My grandfather was a baseball man.
Somewhere there is a picture of his team
taken early in the last century,
young men all —
solemn in their uniforms,
hair parted in the middle
and slicked back.
Their faces stern and peaceful,
perhaps contemplating
the next pitch,
the next hit,
the next slide.
The cheers erupting,
an innocent joy.

My grandfather, now grown old,
Still loved the game.
On summer afternoons
He would sit,
listening
one game on the radio,
another on the transistor,
ear plug securely in place
and a third game on TV.
Ask him
and he can tell you
exactly what is happening
in each of the games
should you want to know
the next pitch,
the next hit,
the next slide,
who’s on first?

My grandfather died,
doing what he loved best.
the World Series playing, still listening,
tall body seated in the old chair,
head thrown back,
seeing in his mind’s eye
the next pitch,
the next hit,
the next slide
And he’s home safe.
— Sinead Ballagh is a Lawrence poet.