For a summer in ‘38 my father played first base
For a B-class affiliate of the St. Louis Browns
He was long and could stretch for a throw across the infield
But right-handed and couldn’t hit a curve

In ‘39 he joined the Navy to learn mechanics
Working on biplanes in Pensacola
Which seemed a good career move
Until two aircraft carriers were shot out from under him

Later he coached a Peewee team
In the Catholic school league of our town
And while a St. Louis farm team of the 30s might win
Jacksonville choirboys in the 60s had no such luck

There’s a photograph of me in my cap and jersey
Proudly displaying the Christ the King initials
But I never went in before the fifth inning of seven
And then to right field and never at second base

Next to me my brother stands wearing a miniature version
Too young to join he could feel a part of the team
But boredom would seize him before the bottom of the first
And he would putter in the dirt under the bleachers

In high school I traded my baseball costume
For Berber jewelry jangling down the street
In imitation of Brian Jones the monarch
Though mine consisted of beads from a discount store

And my father said Be your own man
Why do you want to wear a uniform
Just as Zappa had ridiculed Feathers and bells
And a leather band to go around my head

But I wanted to join the cultural revolution
That came from real people who had made themselves artists
Otis and Jimi and Janis
And not from the wife of the Party Chairman

And I never really pulled it off
Not with my Catholic schoolboy’s haircut
And the braces on my teeth
And the regalia doesn’t buy membership anyway

Everybody wants to belong
Nobody wants to be expelled from the circle
But the tribe does expel and with endless enmity
Toward the loser the apostate the wretched outsider