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,

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 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

of the crowd,

with pencil and paper in hand;

in 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,

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.

.

.