Gerry and Reuven Goldfarb
in his final All-Star Game — an old man
at forty-one. And after he retires,
why, he can even play in next season’s
Old-Timers’ Game!
While the rest of us
are churning our way into middle age,
finally making a living or still
struggling to get a foothold in this life,
Ozzie’s retiring, a millionaire,
an elder statesman of the game, his face
reflecting the passions and agony
of an era, someone through whom millions
have lived, vicariously swelling
at his triumphs, downcast and disconsolate
in defeat, wincing at his rare errors,
enjoying reruns of his famous plays —
totting up his Gold Gloves as if they’d earned them —
watching even now, as, with a lump
in his throat, he accepts their accolades,
their nostalgic farewells. All teary-eyed,
they bid him godspeed and notice that he’s
lost a step and hasn’t got that old zing
in his arm anymore, the surgery
having taken it away, then turn their
attention to the phenoms who will take
his place — Jeter, Rodriguez, Clayton —
filling the screens of their adulation,
their vision of Ozzie shrinking,
receding from our baseball world.
Did his fast-forward through fame age him
prematurely? Does his retreat from
the vast stage where he practiced his skills
alert us to our own fading powers,
so that we lose, with him, a part of our youth?
Is he a sacrifice we offer
in the Temple of our generation —
“the greatest” brought low and humbled, even
through the honor we afford him, his swift
transition a harbinger of our own
inevitable demise? Or have we seen
a glimpse of glory: impossible feats
performed by one of us — our leader!
Our teammate! Our colleague in the war
against gravity and time. Accepting
his limitations at last, Ozzie teaches us
to live with our own.
July 10, 1996, during the descent to Logan Airport
Osborne Earl Smith was a baseball shortstop who played in Major League Baseball for the San Diego Padres and St. Louis Cardinals from 1978 to 1996. On June 19, 1996, Smith tearfully said he would retire after the Cardinals’ final game of the season.
