I’m 85, which is not news to you. This poem by Douglas Fritock arrived recently in my “Daily Rattle” subscription website. I lost it completely in its ninth inning,

Stacking the Deck

Without hesitating, I slip my fingers

into the waxy pleats and tear the wrapper

from the cards and stick of gum, while

my father films it on his camcorder.

It is my ninth birthday, and among a tableful

of presents I’ll soon forget, my father has

gifted me a pack of 1986 TOPPS MAJOR LEAGUE

BASEBALL CARDS to add to my collection.

Right off the bat, the first name I see is

Mike Schmidt, third baseman for the Phillies,

our hometown team. An auspicious beginning,

my father says. And after him, Pete Rose,

Mr. “Charlie Hustle” himself, followed by

Roger “The Rocket” Clemens, pitcher

for the Boston Red Sox. And on it goes

like that: Don Mattingly, Bo Jackson, Jose

Canseco – nothing but franchise players.

Wade Boggs, Rickey Henderson, Darryl

Strawberry, as if this pack were a snapshot

of All-Star weekend. And the whole time

I’m sifting through the big-name roster,

my father, his eye pressed to the viewfinder,

keeps saying Wow! or Look at that! or Holy Cow!

like Phil Rizzuto calling a Yankees game.

It isn’t until the next day he admits to

buying a whole box, selecting only the best

cards, and sealing them into a single pack

using a glue stick. And it wouldn’t be

for another 38 years – when the hospice

nurse tells me he is too weak to speak,

but can still hear – that I finally thank him,

pausing briefly to steady my voice before

asking, Remember the time I turned 9?