When I was a boy, around eight, nine and ten,
I had a good imagination, but just one good friend.
And he, my friend, was Mickey Mantle, needed dad menage,
a summertime mirage at my side, out against the garage.
My grip, exact upon the small bat handle,
I’d run inside up steps in his limp gait.
I’d hit and field and throw just like the Mick,
trot bases, head down, never celebrate.
I turned my toothy grin into a reticent half smile,
sometimes imagined pain in both my shins.
I tried an Oklahoma drawl. That dropped in a short while.
I worshipped all my icons, photos, baseball cards and pins.
It’s hard to think a lone white boy in times of Eisenhower
could be confused and even fearful of the noontime sirens,
whose dreams of fireworks often turned to nuclear shower.
A boy must best adapt to his environs.
And, so, I owe a vote of thanks to my fave athlete,
who got me out of my white house, if not out on the street.
Mick dispelled the theory I could not play well with others.
I see him now not as a father; more like we were brothers.