Just a little story…

 

Eleven years in this chair

And he arrives

The Home had given me

No warning or heads up.

He had lived in Buffalo

After being put out to pasture

By the League

Farm Team hopeful

For the Yankees.

Third baseman with

Hands everywhere in the pinch. 

Line drive snags thrilling crowds.

But never called up.

Something somewhat political

Involving families.

On a hot blooded

Three game weekend

With the Tigers

He spied out my Sally.

In a bus group.

They made a run for

A dingy wedding chapel in

New York City.

Had saved enough cash

For a three night frolic

At the Biltmore.

And a few shows and shopping.

Thereupon ended Sally for me

Many dreams

A lifelong friendship

Since grade school.

A singular zeal for baseball.

But my eyes had not been good.

He had been sort of

A fifties style of

Billy Sunday.

Enjoying the compelling circuit

Agile.

Speaking out whatever

He wished, and drinking too much.

Sally lasted until 1963.

(Year of JFK’s drive through Dallas).

Took off with a dentist, I hear.

For Cincinatti.

Folks forgot the sporty third baseman.y

Sunday had got religion.

Big time.

Did his antics before large crowds

Of Jesus seekers.

What about my chum Wilson?

Anything redeeming?

Dunno.

And now he shows up here

What is to be my response?

The cold shoulder?

One large row with piss and vinegar

And then what?

A neutered cohabitation?

Or rather genuine reconciliation

Forgiveness, healing and

Laughter?

The kind Jesus taught

And showed.

With this Wilson re-united.

In Rochester, at a Home.