In the Spring of 1951,
Harry Truman was President.
Europe was being rebuilt and repaired.
Joe McCarthy was hunting reds
(In Washington, not Cincinnati.)
In the Spring of 1951,
Ted Williams was 32 years old.
So was Jackie Robinson.
And Willie Mays (who nobody knew) was only nineteen.
1951 seems like it was a lifetime ago,
or two, or three.
Like a memory, faded, in black and white.
But Ted Williams will always be “The Kid.”
And Jackie Robinson will never grow old.
And Willie Mays will always be young,
will always make basket catches,
will always wear #24 on his back
and GIANTS across his chest.
And guys like Red Munger,
Sam Zoldak
and Lou Brissie
will live forever.
And so will Barney McCosky
and Al Zarilla
and Thurman Tucker.
I know they’ll live forever,
because I saw them play.
I saw them, because I was there,
right where I was meant to be all my life,
with an old leather glove on my left hand,
and an old black cap pulled down almost over my eyes,
and a gray flannel baseball suit that rustled
in the sweet Spring breeze.
I was there, right beside them all.
Because I was the guy
in center field.