We had a good time at the baseball game,
my daughter and I, cheering and clapping,
no time for boredom, nor yet for napping;
we learned to call each player by his name.
But women’s sports are not treated the same—
will she still see the crowd’s pennants flapping,
hear the thunder of all those feet tapping,
next month at the women’s basketball game?
At least in our house, unfairness won’t fly—
not with the six-year-old righter of wrongs.
We can’t give big contracts, but we can try
to send some love from our seats way up high,
to rally the crowd with signs and with songs.
We cheered for the Sox; we’ll cheer for the Sky!
My mother was a Yankees fan,
had a jersey and everything;
she wore it with Keds and little
socks that didn’t match at all.
I don’t know anything about
this game, only that it made her
happy to root for someone.
In my mind, I can see the logo:
the bat, the hat, stars and stripes.
I can see her, too, if I really try, but
the image gets hazier with each
new year. I swore it never would.