Memories of a King (or god)

I remember that day in August 1961

as if it were yesterday,

waiting outside Comiskey Park,

the Yankee’s team bus nearby,

holding on to my aunt’s hand

while the reporters and others

buzzed and milled about,

all of us waiting to catch

a glimpse of a man,

who I thought at the very least

must be a king or perhaps

even a god,

although at the time

I really didn't understand why;

I remember the commotion

as this king (or god)

emerged from the stadium darkness,

reporters rushing forward,

camera bulbs flashing,

my aunt pushing me to the front

with pencil and paper in hand;

to my six year old mind

he was everything

a king (or god) should be,

tall, blonde and crew-cut,

hard as a rock with a jaw

that looked like it was

chiseled from stone,

and eyes of steel

that flashed with anger

as he pushed his way

through the reporters,

ignoring their questions,

the pant leg of his thigh

brushing my hand as he went by,

bounding up the bus steps then

angrily throwing his duffel bag

against the window;

today I understand the pressure and stress

he must have been going through,

trying to break the record

of an even greater king (or god),

but when you’re six you don’t understand

that even kings (or gods)

have bad days at the plate,

when you’re six you only know

something’s upset the king (or god);

and you cry.

.

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