My boy. Our game.

Tuesday:
Baseball on the TV screen
at the neighborhood watering hole.
My son asked if we could go. The game's on cable
and I don't subscribe.
He drinks root-beer, I drink real beer.
We watch our team play.
We talk. It's the subject we discuss
without tension or misunderstanding.
He's a moody teen. I'm a moody old man.
We get by best we can.

Wednesday:
Baseball at the stadium.
My son asked if we could get tickets.
He drinks root beer, I drink real beer.
We watch our team play.
We talk, laugh. We're at ease.
No other subject does this for us.
We're different in so many ways. Or is it too similar.

Thursday:
A cigar on the porch.
My son comes out to ask if I'm listening to the game.
He says our club was behind by four
but the big guy just hit a three-run homer
and we're back in it in the fifth.
I drag a radio out into the evening air.
We sit together as our city grows dark
and our club comes from behind to win.
He sees his Dad jump up and clap his hands.
He wonders why he doesn't see that passion
elsewhere in the day.
I wonder why he comes to me only when
there's news of a trade,
or an interesting headline in the sports pages.

This all will change one day.
Perhaps when I appear less strange, or quirky,
and he suddenly appears as my equal, a man in full.
For now, we have baseball, our tether.
So understand when I say, for now,
this is more than a game.