Brown-Bag Popcorn & the Chemung’s Song
Down in Elmira, where the Chemung flows,
Where the summer sun sticks to your elbows and nose,
We’d head to Dunn Field with a skip and a hop,
‘Cause the Pioneers’ season was ready to pop.
Popcorn, that is - Mom’s famous treat,
Salted just right, all buttery-sweet,
Poured in brown grocery bags so wide
You could hide a whole baseball team inside.
We’d lug them along, puffed out like sails,
Past the ticket booth with its hand-painted nails,
Past the guy with the hotdogs, steaming and loud,
Into the glow of the Friday night crowd.
And oh, that smell as we wandered in -
Grilled onions and beer,
Leather gloves baking in heat, year to year.
The sound!
The crack! of the bat,
The whoosh! of the swing,
The “HEY BATTER BATTER” the hecklers would sing.
Neighbors rolled in like clouds on a breeze -
Anthony’s laugh shook the rafters with ease,
Maria’s smile kept the row feeling right,
And John-John could holler clear out of sight.
Before long, our row was full of cheer,
And the game had barely shifted a gear.
Now this was the 1970s style -
Mustaches curling like they’d trained a while,
Hair flowing free from beneath ball caps,
And polyester pants doing polyester laps.
The majors had Reggie, the Reds had the Machine,
But here we had dreams and a diamond of green.
The Chemung hummed softly behind the right wall,
As the Pioneers faced down the Yankees’ call,
The Expos in blue, the Pirates in gold,
Teams with swagger, sharp and bold.
But we had heart and red on our backs,
And popcorn grease shining on our snack sacks.
The fastball hummed, the slider bent slow,
And the dirt kicked up in the sunset’s glow,
We’d slap the railing, clap till we burned,
‘Cause baseball’s a lesson you never unlearned.
By the seventh-inning stretch, we’d sway and sing,
Watching the ball like it might grow wings,
And the Chemung’s cool breath would slide past our skin,
Smoothing away the day’s sticky grin.
Then the scoreboard guy, in his lofty seat,
Clanged in the numbers, neat by neat,
Sliding the panels in place with care,
While we craned our necks to see up there.
The beer man hollered, the kids ran wild,
And the mosquitoes, sneaky and riled,
Would dive for our ankles, ears, and knees -
Drawn by the Chemung’s summer breeze.
And just when the game was heating up right,
Dad would spring his big surprise bite:
“Let’s beat the traffic - time to scoot!”
Like he’d just pulled off some master loot.
We’d groan, we’d beg, we’d drag our feet,
Still chewing popcorn, still in our seat,
Until Dad stood up with that Dad grin,
And the eighth inning was where we gave in.
We’d trail out early, the cheers still near,
Carrying popcorn and half-closed cheer,
Glancing back at the glow on the grass,
Wishing the ninth would hurry and pass.
But leaving never took away the spark,
The way the Pioneers lit up the dark -
The diving catches, the clouds of dust,
The old bats taped with layers of trust.
We’d stay (or try to!) till the last pop! in the glove,
Till the stars spilled over the field we love,
Then walk back home in a popcorn haze,
With the Chemung singing its baseball praise.
And still, all these years, I can hear the cheer,
Taste the butter, smell the beer,
Feel the wooden bench under my knees,
And the Elmira night wrapped up in a breeze.
For all the big-league stories they tell,
Those brown-bag nights were just as well -
Even if Dad made us miss the last play,
Dunn Field never really went away.
GBS
1999
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