I remember the gritty dark
Corridors and sticky floors
In the old stadium
On the steaming summer day
The smell of beer and sweat
Smoked beef and urine
Mustard and french fries

Holding my father’s hand
Up the stairs to the portal opening
To the sudden view of the field below
With its wide green carpet of grass
And the combed rust colored clay
With perfect powdered lines and bases
What I had only known through
Black and white on the small screen
In the cluttered living room

Though we sat far in the bleachers
The teams were warming up
So we went to furthest edge
Where number 7 stood right before me
And with a nonchalant spin of his arm
The ball took off like a rising spear
Rolling on a table of wind
To a distant glove which did not budge
In the long wait for the catch
And its sound of fist to palm

I shouted something or shrieked
Mickey turned to me and smiled
And I wished that I could be that man forever
As much as that smile told me
He wished he could be that boy