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my father never took me to the races
my father never took me to the races
he took me to baseball games
but he never knew the player's names
his love for that game died before i was born
he never explained how he grew up in brooklyn
rooted for the yankees and had his heart broken
when the giants moved to san francisco
at least he cared about baseball once
i could see that when we went
one year for my birthday
he took me to a basketball game
the knicks were headed to the championship
and he fell asleep during the game
he really didn't care about that at all
i loved baseball and basketball
not just the mets and the knicks
not just my favorite players
i loved the games themselves
i read everything i could
studied the box scores
understood what happened
what should have happened
i knew what was going to happen
i never wanted to be an athlete
i wanted to be the game
my father never took me to the races
his gambling was hidden in the corner
with the rest of the dirty laundry
he should have understood me
and known the racing form
would read to me like a book of poems
he should have known that
when you look at a past performance the right way
you become the horserace
once when i had nothing to do
my father gave me his copy of
the old man and the sea
when i read it in one sitting
he asked me questions about it
he seemed to think my answers were important
he's still waiting for me to write his novel
i wonder if my father knows why
hemingway stopped going to the races
he said it took too much work to be good
my excuse for not writing a novel
when my parents sold the house
i took my father's clothing to the drop
and in the pocket of his coat
i found a pile of unused OTB slips
old ones from when you had to write down your bets
i carried my father's bet slips with me for months
memories of the house i did not grow up in
-d
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