In 1974, a year after they’d beaten my Mets in seven
I irked my mother rooting for the Finley A’s
Against the Dodgers in the Classic. She corrected me two ways
We were a Senior Circuit family (as I now tell my boys)
And I should grasp the Brooklyn lineage. I tried
But didn’t buy it. The Dodgers seemed white and square.
The green-gold mustachioed men were the hipper option.
This remained my guilty romance. Decades later
I’d BART with Owen Hill and bleacher-shout at Ruben Sierra.
Champagne and Baloney the bible of my Designated Heresy.