(in memory of summers, Shea, and childhood heartache)
Baseball ruled the world back then,
At least the world I wandered in—
The cracked gray walks of 812,
The bark of trees, the sky so blue.
Me and Anthony made a pact,
The kind of thing kids swear intact:
First card you pull becomes your guy—
Your team, your soul, your reason why.
Ten cents a pack, the wax was thin,
We cracked them open, grinning grins.
His? Ron Cey in Dodger blue,
Mine? Duffy Dyer, tried and true.
And just like that, my heart was sold,
To Shea’s green grass and orange-gold.
The Mets were mine—each score I tracked,
Each inning’s rise, each comeback act.
And nothing matched that holy crack—
A fresh wax pack pulled from the rack.
Gum so stale it cracked your jaw,
But oh, the thrill of what you saw.
My Mets! My cards! That sacred crew—
Garrett, Harrelson, and Dyer too.
A catcher’s mask, a stance so right,
He crouched inside my dreams at night.
I’d lay the cards out in my bed,
Like bedtime stories to be read.
And whisper box scores to the air—
A goofy kid without a care.
The cardboard gods were spread in stacks,
Across the porch, on wooden slats.
I knew them all—the stats, the style,
I'd trade a double for a smile.
Snowballs pitched against the tree,
In Hogan’s yard, I'd wind up free—
Pretending I was Koosman, Seaver,
With dreams that made my mother heaver.
At Center Street and Arnot Park,
We’d play past dusk until near dark.
And "trouble spot" out in the street,
Where belt-high throws meant quick defeat.
No winners there, just bruises earned,
And grudges set for quick returns.
We never kept a score for long,
But swore each catch was worth a song.
Then came the trip—we all recall,
A pilgrimage, our Shea St. Paul.
The Canestaros came along—
Ramona bright, Maria strong,
John-John with his goofy grin,
And Kathy’s laugh, so full of wind.
Corky drove with steady pride,
A road trip dad, eyes open wide.
But my own dad—he was pure joy,
A grinning man, a happy boy.
His dream was ours that sticky day,
To take the trip, to watch them play.
Four hours from Elmira’s green
To where the Mets made baseball mean.
He packed the car with love and care,
And something magic filled the air.
Mom packed the cooler, soft and blue,
And nestled deep, a sacred stew—
Banquet chicken wrapped in foil so tight,
We ate it there in parking light.
It may have been the best I’ve known,
With knees up high and windows blown.
Each bite divine, each crumb a crown,
A kingly meal before the town.
Then into Shea—through gates of steel,
The place where legends hit and healed.
The lights like stars, the turf aglow,
A perfect sky prepared to show.
And what a show! That blessed grace—
We saw the swing of Willie Mays.
And Hank Aaron, poised and still,
With wrists of thunder, heart and will.
Then came the crack, the sudden shout,
Two men colliding, full of clout.
The outfield gasped—a silent moan—
As George Theodore broke his collarbone.
He lay so still upon the green,
A jarring hush swept every scene.
We watched him rise with aching groans,
A memory carved deep in bones.
Even now, I feel that chill—
That moment when the world stood still.
But still the game rolled brave and bold,
And Shea was baseball, pure and old.
We cheered like mad, we stood and roared,
Our hearts more open than before.
The ride home blurred like summer haze,
A string of stars, a dream, a daze.
Maria sang the anthem tune,
John-John snored beneath the moon.
I watched my dad behind the wheel,
Still glowing with that boyhood feel.
He’d given us a day so rare,
That even now, I smell the air.
But joy, like seasons, takes its turn.
And soon, I’d come to feel the burn.
The winter news hit like a thief—
A bitter bite, a boy’s belief.
The Mets had traded Dyer—why?
No warning, no goodbye, no cry.
To Pittsburgh, of all places dark,
A catcher lost, a vanishing spark.
My Mets had stabbed me in the chest—
I swore them off, I swore it best.
I crossed the bridge, I changed my hat—
No longer orange, and never that.
I joined the Bronx, the Yankees proud,
Their pinstripes cut through every cloud.
Thurman Munson, tough and true—
A warrior I could cling onto.
Another catcher, full of grit,
With blood and dirt ground in his mitt.
He didn’t smile, he didn’t pose—
He just got up when others froze.
And though I stood alone back then—
The only Yankee fan of ten—
I wore my choice like battle scars,
A rebel chasing different stars.
Still, in that box beneath my bed,
Where legends sleep and dreams are fed,
Old cardboard lives, still sweet with dust,
Each stat still sharp, each crease still just.
I’d run my finger down the line—
“Dyer, Mets, '72”—so fine.
The pact I made, the games I played,
The boy I was who never strayed.
There’s Dyer, cracked and faded now,
But somehow still I make a vow—
To never let that boy slip through,
The one who loved what once was true.
Baseball ruled the world back then,
And maybe, in some hearts, it can again.
The cards I carried—bent but blessed—
Still press against my boyhood chest.
GB Shaw Jr.
Colonial Heights, VA
1984
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