I grew up wanting to wear a pinstripe suit
but not the kind that banker’s wear. No,
I wanted to wear the pinstripes that adorned
my baseball heroes, the New York Yankees
legends of the long ball, running the outfield
skirting my Bronx birthplace.

I was born in the shadow of Yankee stadium;
born so bad I slapped the doc and pinched the nurse
just down the street where Bronx hospital rocked
with muse in daily delivery— March 31 the day.

But all I wanted was to wear a Yankee uniform,
put spikes on my feet, run the infield, slide into home,
Grace the house that Ruth built, DiMaggio reigned
and Mantle owned.

—they dressed in sports regalia, as if it were religion
they pursued and not homeruns, They wore
Holy Roller pinstripes; holy trinity of Ruth, DiMaggio
and Mantle crossed their bats and hoped to hit.

I longed to dress in locker rooms and hear my name
called on public address systems, look into the sun
and catch fly balls and pound my bat at the plate
making ready to be the next Sultan of Swat,
Yankee Clipper or the Mick.

I was born in the Bronx, living above a dry cleaning
Store—played catch with myself.

I grew up wanting to dress in pinstripes and wear that
Yankee suit because I could never wear a tie without
feeling enslaved.  I wanted to roam centerfield not a
factory or an office.  And if I couldn’t play baseball,
then I had to be a poet.

For his entire professional career Larry Jaffe has been using his art to promote human rights and to reward this commitment was recently appointed Poet Laureate for Youth for Human Rights. He was the recent recipient of the Saint Hill Art Festival's Lifetime of Creativity Award, the first time given to a poet.

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