Even from our seats at the top of Candlestick Park,
we feel the energy from sixty thousand people
shouting and cheering with every single play.
My father is alive,
standing more than sitting
every time Clark comes to the plate.
The game is so close.
Runs in the first inning,
the crowd singing
or shouting bad words
when the score is tied.
For me, it’s loud,
thousands of untuned musical instruments
trying to play together.
My grandfather puts his arm around me.
Wonderful game. Do you miss playing?
I don’t know how to answer this.
I’m sure there’s a reason.
I want to say,
I just don’t.
But that’s never the right answer for grown-ups.