As a boy (who destroyed his eyesight
reading in the dark by flashlight,
I went to the library
for Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
because I had heard of the artful dodger
and figured he must have played for Brooklyn;
and even now, years later, as an English major
(who has read five novels by Dickens)
I still like to think of the artful dodger
as a baseball player, a pitcher preferably,
Sandy Koufax to be exact:
After
shutting out the Twins in the fifth game
of the 1965 World Series, Sandy was asked
by Vin Scully (the Dodger announcer,
like me a redhead) on television
how he felt. "Like a hundred years old,"
Sandy replied, softly, sincerely
embarrassed by the camera more than the question
and by an arthritic elbow, pained.
Three days later,
he came back, despite insufficient rest
and the curious absence of his curve ball,
again to shut out Minnesota, this time
in the decisive seventh game,
with a show of skill and determination
that demoralized the opposition,
Killebrew, Allison, and company.
"Sandy,"
now how you feel?" asked the persistent Scully.
"Like a hundred and one," was Sandy's reply
as an hysterical Lou Johnson (who hit
the game-winning homer) poured champagne
over his bashful dark semitic head.
— David Lehman
(published in The Paris Review #63, Fall 1975; never collected)