My Father’s Favorite Pastime
To Tony Fitzpatrick

On edge of the darkest ghetto 
stood Candlestick Park 
lit bright as an A-bomb’s flash. 

With tiny hands I turned 
a Bazooka-scented baseball card 
of Willie Mays. Rows of shattering 
batting stats dispersed into smoke,  
while Willie stuck like skin,
unforgettably black like my Mother,
whose schoolmates called “Shinola.” 

Black like her son, 
who Abyssinians would one day 
adopt as “red black.” 

In the shadow of America’s 
spectacle still nothing mattered 
but Blackness. Against the night’s 
cruel chill we huddled against the 
Hawk, sipping Ghirardelli chocolate,
in search of baseball’s hearth.

Fat with peanuts and Crackerjacks, 
a white man sold us something 
silver, shiny, wallet-shaped.

Wrapping it in a velvet pouch, 
deep blue and fit for royalty, 
my Father handed me the mystery,   
warmer than a Sunday oven, 
bringing mad joy to my hands.
I kept that warmer for centuries, 
in an unlocked chaotic drawer.

Packed with memories, junk,
imagination, the blaze in its metal guts
stealing even Willie’s thunder.

My Father’s Favorite Pastime 
Written by Michael Warr

父亲最喜爱的消遣
Translated by Chun Yu

在最黑暗的贫民窟边上
立着蜡烛台球场
像被原子弹的闪光 
照亮着。

我用小手翻转
一张带有巴滋卡口香糖香气的
威利 · 迈斯棒球卡。
一排排击球统计已烟消云散
只有威利如肌肤般紧贴不去
像我母亲一样黑得难以忘怀－
她的同学们叫她西奴娜鞋油。
像我母亲的儿子一般地黑－ 
有一天阿比西尼亚的人们
会将他定为“红色的黑”。

仍旧，在美国式眼光的阴影中
除了“黑”，其它都不重要。
在夜晚的严寒中
我们相依顶着冷风
一边吸着吉尔德利热巧克力
一边寻找着棒球的家园炉火。

一个因花生和焦糖爆米花 
而肥胖的白人
卖给我们一样东西 
银白色，亮闪闪，状如钱包。 

包装在一个皇家风范的
深蓝色丝绒袋里 
我的父亲递给我的神秘之物 
比星期天的烤炉还温暖 
给我的手带来疯狂的欢乐。 
在一个没上锁的抽屉中
我将那个暖手保存经年。

充满着回忆，堆积， 与想象，
它金属胆中的火
甚至窃取了威利的风头。