by Jim Daniels
For Ernie Harwell
My grandmother holds onto Ernie’s words, a gospel
of speared line drives, shoestring catches.
Robbed of a base hit: she curses softly.
Going, going, gone: she watches it sail.
Even at the ballpark, she squeezes her transistor.
She sometimes cries after a tough loss.
Ernie calms her, talks about
tomorrow’s game, the starting pitchers.
Instant runs, she says
in the middle of making tea,
wiping the table. Or Pull up a Stroh’s
and stay awhile.
A small crowd on Ernie Harwell Day
cold rainy September. She stayed home–
applauded her radio. Ernie Harwell.
When he says a man from Paw Paw
caught that one, she sees that man spill
his beer, lunge across an empty seat.
She sees him driving west toward Kalamazoo
sipping coffee to stay awake, his son
asleep in his lap. Sees him smile,
palm the ball, check the runners,
throw a curve.
* * *
My grandmother turns up the radio
against her deafness, shoves the earjack in
a little deeper, wiggles it. Ernie,
where are you? she laughs nervously.
Tonight September wind breezes
in the open windows, a late west-coast game
drifting through the air. In the kitchen
I see the red glow of a burner she’s left on.
I flick it off and peek into her dark room.
She is mumbling to herself
against the tinny static.
Let him hear her little prayers.
Jim Daniels is the Thomas Stockham Baker Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University, where he has taught creative writing for 30 years. From The Long Ball (Pig in a Poke Press). Copyright 1988, Jim Daniels. All rights reserved.
