The Announcer

...Paul Martin...

...Night air poured through the screen door, my brother stared into the space before him, the game building a rhythm that had our father lingering over the sink to hear Sisler digging wide around third with the tying run, and here comes Furillo's throw, a bullet from the base of the wall, and there we are in our kitchen turning toward my brother under the light of the hanging lamp, the roar of thousands growing out of his throat, his eyes wild and distant...

...My brother's tongue on the roof of his mouth cracked line drives over second and long fly balls that curved just foul, his voice rising and falling through quick five pitch innings and elaborate rallies started by Ashburn's walk or Reese's bunt that Jones let roll dead on the line...

...Paul Martinld and distant...

...The Announcer On a balmy night my brother hunched over an empty glass on the kitchen table bringing us the Dodgers and Phils from the Ebbets Field of his imagination, my younger brother and I in pajamas settling in with chocolate milk to watch Don Newcombe stare in for the sign, the outfield shaded to left or right, infield back at double play depth...