A poem by Donald Trump

There aren’t too many things that Donald Trump and I have in common, but elements of our educational upbringing might be among them. Trump and I both graduated from Penn/Wharton (44 years apart), and the two of us both went to elementary school in Forest Hills, Queens (different schools though).

When he was young, Trump attended the Kew-Forest School, a private prep school in Forest Hills. He reportedly had some behavioral problems at the school.

From NPR:
Trump was famous for breaking the rules. Long before buildings would be named after him, schoolmates used the Trump name as shorthand for getting into trouble.
“We used to refer to our detention as a ‘DT’ — a 'Donny Trump’ — because he got more of them than most other people in the class,” said Paul Onish, one of Trump’s grade school classmates.
Onish calls Trump one of his best friends at the Kew-Forest School in Forest Hills, Queens. Trump attended the school through seventh grade, and the two of them got into trouble together constantly — talking out of turn during class, passing notes and throwing spitballs. Onish remembers a few stunts on the soccer field, too.
“There was even a couple of incidences during half-time when we would eat whole oranges without peeling them in front of the competition to show them how tough we really were,” Onish said.

From The New York Times:
According to the book, Mr. Trump attended the New York Military Academy after years of rowdy and rebellious behavior at Kew-Forest, a more traditional prep school in Queens. Mr. Trump once recalled giving a teacher at Kew-Forest a black eye “because I didn’t think he knew anything about music.”

Today, a member of a Facebook group I’m in for residents of Forest Hills posted the following photos from her mother’s 1957 Kew-Forest yearbook.

The first is a wonderful photo of a preteen Trump dressed in his school clothes. (Check out the hair.)

The second, and even better, is a poem he wrote titled “Baseball,” professing his love for the sport. Read it and weep.

Baseball
I like to see a baseball hit and the fielder catch it in his mit. I like to hear the crowd give cheers, so loud and noisy to my ears. When the score is five to five, I feel like I could cry.
And when they get another run, I feel like I could die. Then the catcher makes an error, not a bit like Yogi Berra. The game is over and we say tomorrow is another day.
Donald Trump, ‘64

This poem is amazing, and it needs to be shared with the American people.