Don the Red Sox Fan

from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry

Don lives upstairs
but today he’s in the garden
with Samuel Adams and Khaki Jeans;
eyes pinned to the pages
of a James Burke mystery novel,
He’s worked a long day
and even a Boston transplant
deserves peace and quiet once in a while

but it’s 7 p.m.

and I’m pacing around, checking stats,
injury reports, analyzing every word of the pre-game
wondering what’s up with our pitching staff
and someone please tell me
where is El Duque?
but
there’s Don, feet propped up,
plate of fresh fruit, Rib eye slow-cooking on the grill
and all I can find
is some leftover Chinese food
broken bits of Xanax, maybe a Zoloft of two
fumbling through take-out menus
medical prescriptions and scorecards
getting ready for the game
and then
I look back out the window
at Don in the garden,
wondering how a self-proclaimed, die-hard Sox fan
can be so calm and collected

so I check the schedule
and notice the Sox are playing the Yankees
no wonder he’s not worried
and
four hours later
his team has already won
but my team is tied at three in the twelfth!
storm clouds rolling in, winds kicking up
here comes the tarp

and it’s 12 a.m.

My head is starting to hurt,
nails bitten off their nubs
empty Chinese food containers, prescription bottles
and there’s Don in the garden
full bellied, fast asleep, moon shining upon his face
and just when I’d been tortured enough
a kid in his first major league at-bat
comes up with the go-ahead run at third
and plucks one into centerfield for
the game winning single
and I holler so loud
I wake Don in the garden
who collects his barbecue gear, empty bottles
and clangs his way down the hallway

I open the door and say, “Mets won!”
and there’s Don,  ruddy-faced
rubbing eyes, checking a text message
and says, “ah look Sox won too, goodnight Frank”
makes his way up the stairs
while I shut the door, turn out the lights
and lay my weary bones down on the couch
to get some rest
because tomorrow is another day
yes, another day at the opera,
another day on the high anxiety,
Mets roller-coaster ride of suicidal delirium

 

Frank Messina