When I was a boy, around eight, nine and ten,
\nI had a good imagination, but just one good friend.
\nAnd he, my friend, was Mickey Mantle, needed dad menage,
\na summertime mirage at my side, out against the garage.
\nMy grip, exact upon the small bat handle,
\nI’d run inside up steps in his\u00a0limp gait.
\nI’d hit and field and throw just like\u00a0the Mick,
\ntrot bases, head down, never celebrate.
\nI turned my toothy grin into a reticent half smile,
\nsometimes imagined pain in both my shins.
\nI tried an Oklahoma drawl. That dropped in a\u00a0short while.
\nI worshipped all my icons, photos, baseball cards\u00a0and pins.
\nIt’s hard to think a lone white boy in times of Eisenhower
\ncould be confused and even fearful of the noontime sirens,
\nwhose dreams of fireworks often turned to nuclear shower.
\nA boy must best adapt to his environs.
\nAnd, so, I owe a vote of thanks to my fave athlete,
\nwho got me out of my\u00a0white house, if not out on the street.
\nMick dispelled the theory I could not play well with others.
\nI see him now not as a father; more like we were brothers.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"