Memories of a King (or god)

I remember that day in August 1961,

as if it were yesterday,

waiting outside Comiskey Park,

reporters and others buzzing and

milling about,

holding my aunt’s hand,

the Yankee’s team bus nearby,

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 I didn’t really 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 crewcut,

hard as a rock, with a jaw that looked

like it was chiseled from stone,

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 has upset the king (or god);

and you cry.

.

.