ROWDY RICHARD AND ME


Fifty-eight years is a long time to wait
To shake a man's hand.
From Polo Grounds infield in 1936,
To an open door in Alameda in 1994.

Dick "Rowdy Richard" Bartell,
On a hot distant summer afternoon.
Performing magic with his glove and bat.
Helping to blot out the great depression.

From that first day so long ago,
It was always "Rowdy Richard" and me.
I would copy his style,
Never approach his talent.

Years pass, memories fade.
The nation struggled through hard times.
Blood was shed in three wars,
And America changed again and again.

Then a day I thought would never come.
Shaking hands at last with a boyhood idol.
Shown faded photos of other men and other days,
Faces as welcome and as fresh as yesterday's box scores.

There is Alameda on the bay,
San Francisco towers in the mist,
Finally realizing why baseball
Holds us in the grip it does.

It was right here on this remote island,
Many, many years ago,
That baseball found a talented kid.
When the game's western terminal was St. Louis.

It occurred to me that the game has always searched
This vast land of opportunity.
Finding kids - giving them a chance to live a dream,
With the swing of a bat, the turn of a glove.

It will always be our National Pastime.
Played by men of ordinary size with extraordinary skill.
Without a clock-measured in outs, innings, and runs,
And a degree of difficulty beyond any other game.

The game has given us stability and purpose,
Has helped us through the times.
Given us heroes and loyal fans.
Fellows like "Rowdy Richard" and me.

Ev Parker 1994
Napa, California



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