#6.

This was a poem I wrote a couple weeks after watching Bill Buckner walk with tears in his eyes to throw the first pitch at the Red Sox home opener.

#6

Ever since my three months from coming into
this world, I still appreciate what you did
that night, breaking a number of hearts,
but granting a miracle to especially one. I was
in the room with him and kicked in excitement,
wishing I could see what all the fuss was about
as my identical, parental counterpart engaged in
such a leap of faith that almost broke one of his strong,
comforting hands on the wooden beam that gave the
ceiling a seventies-retro persona when the rest of the
world had moved on to 1986. While it was a couple of
terrible twos working against them when it came to
runs and outs, it was the singles that made all the difference.
Fans a little bit further North became tongue-tied
and tortured as their troubled team looked as though
they’d stay that way for another eighteen years. The only
other time his team had triumphed was when he had that many
years behind him, and this time would be the last time for him.
Now, as a fan whose heart you would have broken, I cried as
you walked into Fenway to start another season for a team
who has since triumphed, and my tears were not only thank
you for your time at first base, but for letting
my dad see his Mets win it one last time.

To Bill Buckner