The Jewish Kid
by Robert Cooperman
My old professor never tires
of hearing of the time Leo Durocher—
the great manager of the Giants—
was asked about the best pitcher
he ever saw.
Without hesitation, he replied,
“The Jewish Kid,” meaning
Sandy Koufax: a leftie
with a fastball like a falcon
snatching a dove from the sky;
a curve so wicked, sluggers
cringed to barely glimpse
it screaming at their heads,
before it dropped away,
at the last, perilous instant.
For Hyman, Koufax was proof
there’s life for Jews beyond
the one his mother chose for him,
had he only defied her desperation
for a college-educated, book-smart son,
though she never read anything
beyond tabloids and the racing form.
“Oh to have been Koufax!”
Hyman laments now: blind,
in poor health, but still he dreams
of an invincible fastball, a curve sharper
than the crack of a coachman’s whip.
“The Jewish Kid” by Robert Cooperman, from My Shtetl. © Logan House, 2009. Reprinted with permission.
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