Memories of a King (or god)

When I was 6 years old my Aunt Ruth took me to a Chicago Whitesox/New York Yankees baseball game. I don't remember the details of the game but I do remember standing with my aunt after the game trying to get autographs from the Yankee players as they left the stadium to board the team bus. Many years later I expressed those memories in this poem.

I remember that day in August 1961
as if it were yesterday,
standing outside Comiskey Park,
the Yankees team bus waiting nearby,
holding on to my aunt’s hand
as 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 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,
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 has upset the king (or god);

and you cry.
.
.