I grew up wanting to wear a
pinstripe suit
but not the kind that
banker’s wear. No,
I wanted to wear the
pinstripes that adorned
my baseball heroes, the New
York Yankees
legends of the long ball,
running the outfield
skirting my Bronx birthplace.
I was born in the shadow of
Yankee Stadium;
born so bad I slapped the doc
and pinched the nurse
just down the street where
Bronx hospital rocked
with muse in daily delivery—
March 31 the day.
But all I wanted was to wear
a Yankee uniform,
put spikes on my feet, run
the infield, slide into home,
Grace the house that Ruth
built, DiMaggio reigned
and Mantle owned.
—they dressed in sports
regalia, as if it were religion
they pursued and not
homeruns, They wore
Holy Roller pinstripes; holy
trinity of Ruth, DiMaggio
and Mantle crossed their bats
and hoped to hit.
I longed to dress in locker
rooms and hear my name
called on public address
systems, look into the sun
and catch fly balls and pound
my bat at the plate
making ready to be the next
Sultan of Swat,
Yankee Clipper or the Mick.
I was born in the Bronx,
living above a dry cleaning
Store—played catch with
myself.
I grew up wanting to dress in
pinstripes and wear that
Yankee suit because I could
never wear a tie without
feeling enslaved. I wanted
to roam centerfield not a
factory or an office. And if
I couldn’t play baseball,
then I had to be a poet.
