The Son, the Father, and the Game
In the mornings his father played him The Beatles
And it was as if he tapped hit tiny toddler toes against the edges of his miniature world.
Lining his crib were plush basketballs and baseballs
That he clung to with sleepy fingers.
Some nights when Dad watched the Red Sox
He would bring The Boy downstairs and hold him
Until the game was over. He would take The Boy back
Upstairs and gently tuck him in.
A few years later, The Boy would watch his father
As he ate large bowls of ice cream and cussed when an error was made in the game on TV.
He saw this and wished to be that age because it was way easier than being seven,
An idea that he clung to with anxious fingers.
Some nights, though, dad would give in to The Boy
And let him stay up late and eat as much ice cream as he could
While they watched baseball. But when the game was over
It was straight to bed for The Boy.
A short amount of time after that, The Boy began dating
And leaving the house on love-struck mission that left the father alone to watch the Red Sox.
When The Boy came home, he would ask, uninterested, how the game went,
A ritual he clung onto with monotonous fingers.
Some nights The Boy would stay at home and watch the game,
But he would argue with his father about anything and everything.
When they finished fighting, they’d sit in silence until the game was over
And then they went their separate ways.
During The Boys college years he would gather his friends
And they would happily watch a game The Boy was taught by his father to love.
They would all congregate an hour before the game started
A meeting he held onto with fond fingers.
Some nights The Boy would escape the crowd to call his father when good plays were made
And they would talk about the game and life, sometimes for hours on end.
They would ask how one another was and make small talk, but when the game was over
They would hang up and both go to bed.
Long after The Boy had graduated and he was no long just a boy,
His father died and a funeral was held on the edge of the town in which The Boy grew up.
The Boy stood by the casket and remembered the games and conversations,
Memories he held onto with salty fingers.
That night The Boy would find himself in the familiar living room of his childhood
Where he and his father would go to escape life and to watch the Red Sox play.
He turned on the game and watched it in its entirety, but when it ended
He shut off the TV and slept on the same couch his father had lied on.
When The Boy became The Father and had his own boy,
He lined the crib with plush baseballs and basketballs. When his son grew older they stayed up late
And ate ice cream together into the late parts of the night.
A tradition he clung onto with paternal fingers.
On the later nights when his son went out on dates, The Father stayed watched alone
And when they fought The Father took to silence and let the game mend the situation.
They would sit in the living room in complete silence until the game was over
And the Father and his son both went to bed.
2006-06-14
08:52:58
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