||[Saturday, Apr. 11th, 2009|04:44 pm]
The richest girl in town.
Take me out to the ballgame.
The Oakland Police Department are peddling
the latest tragedy as we walk through the gates,
boys in blue standing beside donation boxes
for the families of the most recently fallen officers,
and I’d feel a less bitter if I believed any of them
had given money to the mother of Oscar Grant
or his now fatherless four-year-old daughter.
But I digress.
We are chased from our seats by people
who hold tickets for them and forced
to confront the folks who sit in ours—
decent, legitimately purchased, and last-minute.
What we’d bought was the hostility of A’s fans lobbing
beers at the heads of the distraught Mariners fans
two rows ahead, who, with their balls,
should be rooting for the Braves.
We abandon our places amongst these A’s fans
for less aggressive Oaklanders two tiers up, and I wonder
if these folks are actually from Oakland, or like the cops outside,
live in Walnut Creek, Vallejo, San Leandro,
or safer white suburbs like San Francisco.
But I digress.
I have a hard time explaining why sporting events
evoke in me such horrible fear, such a clutch for safety:
he understands, though. These expressions of easy machismo
terrify my vagina, make my uterus go numb. Not dumb,
like E-40 would have it, if only there weren’t centuries
based upon this moment, my love of my city tied
to my own destruction as I yell quietly, hoping
no one notices, “Let’s go, Oakland. Let’s go.”
It’s opening day, and we lose, 5 to 4.