March 2, 2005
It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over
by Michael Szczerban
You were right, Yogi. It was over
when DiMaggio stepped onto the field
and then it was over again
when he tipped his hat and stepped off.
He hit like you wished you could.
Nights on the road, you smooched the floury,
left-over dames named Esther and Gladys
who had grandmotherly bellies and stiff hair—
the girls Hawkeye Pierce would leave for Radar.
DiMaggio left with Marilyn.
And after the games, when you were naked
in the cold showers, your ass cheeks
mashed together like lumps of wet clay,
you said things that made no sense
to hide what was in plain sight.
I know. I have an older, better brother, too.
Michael Szczerban lives in Pittsburgh and attends Carnegie Mellon University—but his heart remains in Delaware with his Baba's recipe for potato pierogies.
