one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand
stars how not to dance.
— e. e. cummings
Dad was a Card fan raised by radio:
No matter who was playing he wore red
And fondly reminisced of Stan the Man,
Jack Buck and Harry Caray on the air,
The classic steal of Brock for Broglio—
As home teams changed still Dad was born and bred
To tune each game in from a distant stand
And cheer the Redbirds on, no matter where.
I’ve been a Cub fan all my life, by Joe,
Been cut so many times and always bled
A shade of blue that’s hard to understand
Unless you’ve lived and breathed the Wrigley air
Where “Let’s play two” means never let it go
And keep on root, root, rooting them ahead
Until they win the big one. That’s the plan,
No matter when it happens. I’ll be there.
Mid-March is when I miss him most, you know:
As winter melts away, thoughts fill my head
Of spring and what it means to be a fan
With songs of resurrection everywhere.
Young cubs shake off their sleep and start to play,
Seeing the fields turn greener every day
And hearing the cardinals’ call to cheer, cheer, cheer;
And from a distant stand, my dad is here.
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