My mother's friend Angie from work
knew how much I liked baseball
and gave me the ticket she got
from Vic Wertz, the beer distributor
for the wedding hall her mother ran.
Angie gave me allergy shots every week--
she was beautiful in her white uniform.
I went with her fiancé, who didn't know much
about baseball. I was twelve, caught
between sports and the sexual wake-up call.
Art was his name, and as we sat
in left field box seats, upper deck,
I wished Angie were with me instead.
I bought ginger ale and shivered.
He drank beer and shivered.
The Tigers lost 10-1. Lou Brock's stolen bases.
Bob Gibson's strikeouts. The wind blasted
our faces. He wanted to leave early
but I wouldn't budge. I kept whispering
The World Series, The World Series. . .
but I was still cold.