Ebbets Field

At one time
Flatbush carried the scent of hot dogs, pine tar and leather;
cheers would punctuate a double or triple or homer
and thirty five thousand Dodger fans could coax a tie into a win
from under a hot summer sun in the apt named ‘bleachers’ --
the players would spit their brown dissolve to the ground
arguing with the umps, that ‘out’ call, or ‘strike’ call,
at times clearing the dugout, rejections leading to ejections --
a game of baseball was more a war on a diamond shaped battle field
dubbed America’s pastime.

Then, in time, a wrecking ball slammed into the Ebbets Field facade
punching a hole into Brooklyn Sundays not far from the spot where Robinson
punched one out into left field and soon enough
that outfield grass became churned mud from the iron treads
of bulldozers replacing those players steel cleats and men with maps pointing to the spot
where apartments would grow, bringing hookers and pizza and switch hitters
all standing side by side with the home plate ghosts
and right where hot grounders tried to skip by a shortstop’s scramble.

So now it’s the Ebbets Apartments and some TVs are tuned to
the game in L.A where the Dodgers skipped away in ‘57, leaving the fans flat
and fins growing on the Chevy’s but fans they remain,
screaming at the re-play, shouting ‘safe’, over the hum of an air-conditioner
while waiting for the Sunday pasta and cool beer, reminiscing with any one
that will listen.

Edward Rochester Esq.

Ebbets info:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ebbets_Field