You see, what it is
is God loves baseball.
Every summer He shows up
on a real hot day, calls me
to meet Him in the Battery.
I pull up, shut down the meter,
and we head out. 
Up Broadway
through Harlem
over the river
to the Bronx.
You ain’t surprised
to find out God’s
a Yankee fan, are ya?
He always says, Jack,
it’s a beautiful day.
And I always says,
Yeah, but a scorcher.
Someday, I’m gettin’
air conditionin’ in this heap.
‘Course, I won’t.  Too much moola
and I’d miss the noise,
the smells.
And God?
He’d switch to another cab. 
I’ve got old bones, Jack, He says.
I like the heat.
Then we change the subject.
After all, this is God’s Day of Rest.
I go to the game with Him.
Didn’t at first, but He likes to
have someone to talk to who’s
kind of a pal, so to speak.
Baseball’s a sharing sort of game.
Back Upstairs, He tells me, Him and
His Kids and some of the angels
swap stories and argue friendly-like. 
Jesus is a Red Sox fan;
Mohammed likes the Orioles,
and lately, Buddha’s been for the Tigers.
American Leaguers, all of ‘em -- ever since
the Braves left Boston and the exodus from
Brooklyn.  But none of ‘em like
the designated hitter rule neither, so
there’s warm feelin’s for the Cardinals,
the Mets, an’ the old Cubbies.
Be that as it is,
on the day God comes to the Bronx,
everything’s Yankees,
and they’re beautiful. 
You’d think they know Who’s there,
Him hollerin’ and whistlin’ just like anybody. 
Though always polite, of course,
and never  sayin’ nothin’
‘bout the umpire.  He says He knows
too well the hell of that job.
After the game, we grab a beer;
I drive Him back down to the Battery.
We rest on a bench for a bit.
Then I leave.  Can’t stay out too late.
Would be hard to explain to the missus.

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