Dad Was a Four-Year-Old Rowan Farm Boy
Dad Was a Four-Year-Old Rowan Farm Boy
By Tim Peeler
When Yankee teammates alarmed the hotel security
To open the door to Babe’s room
Where he was clearly about to kill
His roomie Leo Durocher
In whose suitcase he’d found
His missing five hundred bucks.
The Babe’s dad who ran a Baltimore tavern
Had taught him the hard way
About stealing from the till
And the Babe hated a thief more
Than he hated a Mrs. Grundy
Which is to say enough to beat
A man’s head against a radiator.
Dad had not learned to be a fan yet,
When Durocher was traded forthwith,
Had not learned to hate light-fingered Leo
And the Gashouse Gang for
Whipping Hank Greenberg
And his beloved Tigers.
Dad was only four.
In his one picture he has my wide ears,
Narrow face.
They say he stood on a barnyard stump,
Preached to the chickens.
Dad was only four,
The corn shuck August night Ruth
Pummeled his thieving roommate.
But he already carried all my DNA,
The way a baby copperhead
Carries all its venom.
Tim Peeler is a retired educator from Hickory, North Carolina. He has written three books of baseball-related poetry, including most recently, Wild in the Strike Zone, a Casey Award Finalist.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.
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