Taking Dad To A Game Poem by John F. McCullagh

The Polo Grounds, when the Field’s first seen
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.

It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?

Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.

The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.

We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans

The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill, ,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.

My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age
What he was then, so I am now.

Thirty years, about, its been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don't get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.

They can't enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
They can't pour themselves a glass

In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game
What was I waiting for?