Post by mikef6 on Mar 14, 2017 14:56:18 GMT
Kids, if you don’t know who Ralph Branca – or Jackie Robinson – is, look them up before reading this poem.
First, a so-called poem by Me.
Yesterday, ah, yesterday, standing at the magazine rack
At my neighborhood public library
I came across a poem by Robert Pinsky in the New Yorker.
Even though I usually pass by such New Yorker poems, I saw at once
The title. It was about baseball, the most poetic of sports. And I recognized
The word of the title. Ralph Branca.
The poet speaks of Branca. The poet speaks of baseball history. The poet speaks of Jewish heritage.
The poet speaks of a Jewish joke.
As I reached the last line, I turned my head away suddenly
To hide and try to stop the imminent unmanly tears.
Branca
By Robert Pinsky
Ralph Branca was the fifteenth of seventeen children.
This poem is not the poem of “the speaker.”
His father was an immigrant from Calabria.
These words are those of Robert Pinsky. Speaking.
Branca wore Dodger uniform number 13.
“Speaking” is the punch line of a Jewish joke.
Some Romans call Calabrians “Africani.”
Brooklyn had its own daily, the Brooklyn Eagle.
At eighty-five Branca learned about his mother.
He was twenty-one when Robinson joined the Dodgers.
At eleven, I loved Robinson for his daring
Running the bases. Stealing home. His fire.
Branca was one of the few who befriended him.
I was too young to understand his mission,
The fuel of that dancing to taunt the pitcher.
Robinson never forgot Branca’s kindness.
What the old man found out about his mother
Is she was born a Jew in Hungary: Kati.
After he gave up the most famous home run ever,
Back in the clubhouse Branca lay weeping, face down.
Kati gave birth to seventeen Catholic children.
The Giants won the pennant. 1951.
Branca means “claw,” a fit name for a pitcher.
His teammates thought it best that he cry alone,
But “Only my dear friend Jackie, who knew me so well,
Came over and put his arm around my shoulder.”
The Nazis killed the aunts and uncles Branca
Didn’t know existed until he was old.
42: in itself, a nothing of a number.
The Dodgers traded Branca to the Tigers.
Grief: with its countless different ways and strains.
Glory: a greater thing than success, but slower.
Some of the Tigers who had been Giants explained
To Branca how the Giants had stolen the signs
From opposition catchers: The telescope
In center field. Wires, buzzers. Branca chose not
To talk about it. It’s all in Prager’s book:
His research unearthed Kati, those aunts and uncles.
The Dodgers were taken from Brooklyn by their owner:
I, Robert Pinsky, choose not to say his name.
I didn’t live in Brooklyn, but I knew the score.
I knew it was a kind of underdog place.
Nowadays once a year all Major Leaguers
Wear Jackie Robinson’s number, 42.
In the joke, the person who answers the telephone
At Goldberg, Goldberg, and Goldberg keeps replying
That Goldberg is out of the office. And so is Goldberg.
“Well, all right, let me talk to Goldberg.” “Speaking.”
Robinson spoke to Branca: “If not for you,”
He said, “We never would have made it this far.”
First, a so-called poem by Me.
Yesterday, ah, yesterday, standing at the magazine rack
At my neighborhood public library
I came across a poem by Robert Pinsky in the New Yorker.
Even though I usually pass by such New Yorker poems, I saw at once
The title. It was about baseball, the most poetic of sports. And I recognized
The word of the title. Ralph Branca.
The poet speaks of Branca. The poet speaks of baseball history. The poet speaks of Jewish heritage.
The poet speaks of a Jewish joke.
As I reached the last line, I turned my head away suddenly
To hide and try to stop the imminent unmanly tears.
Branca
By Robert Pinsky
Ralph Branca was the fifteenth of seventeen children.
This poem is not the poem of “the speaker.”
His father was an immigrant from Calabria.
These words are those of Robert Pinsky. Speaking.
Branca wore Dodger uniform number 13.
“Speaking” is the punch line of a Jewish joke.
Some Romans call Calabrians “Africani.”
Brooklyn had its own daily, the Brooklyn Eagle.
At eighty-five Branca learned about his mother.
He was twenty-one when Robinson joined the Dodgers.
At eleven, I loved Robinson for his daring
Running the bases. Stealing home. His fire.
Branca was one of the few who befriended him.
I was too young to understand his mission,
The fuel of that dancing to taunt the pitcher.
Robinson never forgot Branca’s kindness.
What the old man found out about his mother
Is she was born a Jew in Hungary: Kati.
After he gave up the most famous home run ever,
Back in the clubhouse Branca lay weeping, face down.
Kati gave birth to seventeen Catholic children.
The Giants won the pennant. 1951.
Branca means “claw,” a fit name for a pitcher.
His teammates thought it best that he cry alone,
But “Only my dear friend Jackie, who knew me so well,
Came over and put his arm around my shoulder.”
The Nazis killed the aunts and uncles Branca
Didn’t know existed until he was old.
42: in itself, a nothing of a number.
The Dodgers traded Branca to the Tigers.
Grief: with its countless different ways and strains.
Glory: a greater thing than success, but slower.
Some of the Tigers who had been Giants explained
To Branca how the Giants had stolen the signs
From opposition catchers: The telescope
In center field. Wires, buzzers. Branca chose not
To talk about it. It’s all in Prager’s book:
His research unearthed Kati, those aunts and uncles.
The Dodgers were taken from Brooklyn by their owner:
I, Robert Pinsky, choose not to say his name.
I didn’t live in Brooklyn, but I knew the score.
I knew it was a kind of underdog place.
Nowadays once a year all Major Leaguers
Wear Jackie Robinson’s number, 42.
In the joke, the person who answers the telephone
At Goldberg, Goldberg, and Goldberg keeps replying
That Goldberg is out of the office. And so is Goldberg.
“Well, all right, let me talk to Goldberg.” “Speaking.”
Robinson spoke to Branca: “If not for you,”
He said, “We never would have made it this far.”