Score tied 2 to 2. On deck, Number 7, Mickey Mantle!
Sandy announced into his hand 
which sort of made an echo
as he sat behind the wheel of his big Buick
where he was always running late or out of gas. 
Sometimes he couldn’t remember where to go 
and what he might need to get there,
but he’d always take the time to announce
the Mick, as if on the P.A. at the Stadium.

Don’t know whether Sandy’s head was in the clouds, 
the day the truck ran him down 
a couple of blocks from home.
Some say the trucker busted through a light, 
or Sandy missed a Stop on Hollis Court
though he knew that corner 
like the back of Mantle’s baseball card.
Sandy just wanted to get to the next job, 
or the next girl, and once in a while to class
to see what he’d missed— 
though he might have sometimes 
found it hard to care. 

Still, who wouldn’t say 
we’d prefer to stay alive, 
though God knows why fifty years on?
The pain we’ve already felt—
our folks long gone; old friends infirm 
and not quite clear about who we are;
tubes sticking out of us;
nurses coming by to make weary remarks
that will have to pass for love and care;
doctors conferring quietly with our kids in a corner—
we smile the way they nod,
as if our histories were finally worthy.

And we might remember—with some envy—
Sandy of that crash, 
and Tony of some unspecified natural cause—
and Lopatin of some cancer we never heard of
and Kevin falling off a banister, 
hitting his head, and never coming to.
And the Freedmans—one drowned in a river,
his body never found,
and his brother falling off a mountain.

All that loss—
the years never spent,
the wives never married, 
the kids never raised and sent out to make us proud. 
A few dashed hopes to repair a world
that still refuses to allow.
Here, near the end, just give us the damn score 
and maybe we’ll hear Sandy’s voice again, 
telling us who’s on deck— 
and may it always, for Sandy’s sake, be the Mick.