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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507867" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Night Game</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some of us believe<br>We would have conceived romantic<br>Love out of our own passions<br>With no precedents,<br>Without songs and poetry--<br>Or have invented poetry and music<br>As a comb of cells for the honey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shaped by ignorance,<br>A succession of new worlds,<br>Congruities improvised by<br>Immigrants or children.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I once thought most people were Italian,<br>Jewish or Colored.<br>To be white and called<br>Something like Ed Ford<br>Seemed aristocratic,<br>A rare distinction.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Possibly I believed only gentiles<br>And blonds could be left-handed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Already famous<br>After one year in the majors,<br>Whitey Ford was drafted by the Army<br>To play ball in the flannels<br>Of the Signal Corps, stationed<br>In Long Branch, New Jersey.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A night game, the silver potion<br>Of the lights, his pink skin<br>Shining like a burn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Never a player<br>I liked or hated: a Yankee,<br>A mere success.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But white the chalked-off lines<br>In the grass, white and green<br>The immaculate uniform,<br>And white the unpigmented<br>Halo of his hair<br>When he shifted his cap:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So ordinary and distinct,<br>So close up, that I felt<br>As if I could have made him up,<br>Imagined him as I imagined</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ball, a scintilla<br>High in the black backdrop<br>Of the sky. Tight red stitches.<br>Rawlings. The bleached</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Horsehide white: the color<br>Of nothing. Color of the past<br>And of the future, of the movie screen<br>At rest and of blank paper.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I could have.&quot; The mind. The black<br>Backdrop, the white<br>Fly picked out by the towering<br>Lights. A few years later</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On a blanket in the grass<br>By the same river<br>A girl and I came into<br>Being together<br>To the faint muttering<br>Of unthinkable<br>Troubadours and radios.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The emerald<br>Theater, the night.<br>Another time,<br>I devised a left-hander<br>Even more gifted<br>Than Whitey Ford: A Dodger.<br>People were amazed by him.<br>Once, when he was young,<br>He refused to pitch on Yom Kippur.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Pinsky">Robert Pinsky</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507867" data-title="The Night Game de Robert Pinsky" data-description="Some of us believe
We would have conceived romantic
Love out of our own passions
With no precedents,
Without songs and poetry--
Or have invented poetry and music
As a comb of cells for the honey.

Shaped by ignorance,
A succession of new worlds,
C..."></div>
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