WHAT I LEARNED FROM MY FATHER

There are two different kinds of laughter.
One hurts, the other heals.
One separates,
the other brings together.
You laugh at someone else,
that’s sin.
You laugh at yourself,
that’s salvation.

"Tell the peaches and ice cream
story," Mother would say.
We’d all groan but secretly
loved to hear him tell it,
about the time when he was
a boy and had a friend whose
aunt owned an ice cream store.
They sneaked into the freezer
and ate ice cream.
They ate and they ate
and when they were full
tried to keep it going by
pouring canned peaches
over what was left
until finally they gave up
and threw the whole mess
into the chicken yard.
"And that’s one time," he’d conclude,
"I got enough ice cream."

My mother would laugh
herself to tears.
Ours joined hers and his.
Salvation.

THOUGHTS AT THE HIGH SCHOOL GAME

I used to be a shortstop.
Not a great one, mind you,
but not that bad
if I say so myself.
Back then, my specialties
were moving to my left
and shagging the short flies.
Our outfielders knew it
and played deep.

Such powers do diminish.
These days I watch the games
from the third row behind
the home team dugout.
The other day one of the kids
asked if I played ball
when I was young.
I was tempted, I do admit,
to regale him with the saga
of what we did in ‘58,
but thought better of it,
and went for the easy laugh.
"Yeah," I said, "and the older
I get, the better I was."
He smiled.
(I was a pretty good
base stealer too,
if I do say so myself.)

A SHEPHERD RECEIVES A PERFORMANCE REVIEW

Matthew 18:12-14

Look, I hired you because
you told me you had what it takes
to be a good shepherd.
But, goddamn it,
you can’t just leave
the whole flock on its own
to go looking for a stray.
That’s irresponsible . . . stupid.
What if something spooked them?
What if that cougar showed up?
I know, I know,
that didn’t happen
and you found the runaway.

Listen, son, I know you meant well
but you got lucky.
A really good shepherd has to be
. . . well . . . practical,
know what makes for sound economics,
honor the bottom line.

Okay, you can go.
Just don’t let it happen again.

SPRING TRAINING

When I was a boy
spring’s blessing was a mixed one.
Yes, it was warm enough
to dig out my battered glove
from the pile of junk in the closet,
go outside and throw the tennis ball
against the wall
of the garage and pretend
I was the starting pitcher
for Connie Mack’s A’s
in their first preseason
game in Florida.

But the same sun that lured
me outside for such fantasy
likewise woke the grass.
"Lawn needs mowed"
my father would say,
which was not an observation
but an order.
The neighbors had a power mower.
We did not.
And you can believe it or not
but I swear to you
our lawn was bigger than the outfields
of the Polo Grounds,
Ebbets Field,
and Yankee Stadium.
Combined.