Binghamton, N.Y. 1972

We sat together at the bar, that seedy joint on Clinton Street, 
where we shared a pitcher, watched basketball 
after we played in the men’s league at the Y. 
Some guys wanted to fight us, because they were very drunk 
and heard you rooting for the Celtics against the hometown Knicks. 
They must not have looked too carefully, 
not seen the thickness of  your shoulders and arms. 
I’ll never forget how you stood up, so calm 
in your blue peacoat that fit like a muscle shirt,
and quietly talked them down. We finished our beers, 
then walked outside, heading toward my VW Bug.
“You handled that well,” I said, glad to have been spared a fight. 
You looked at me, took three deep breaths, a shadow on your broad face. 
“Damn.” You shook your head. “I was about to break their fucking ribs.”
                        

The home run hitter crashed his car so often, 
you’d have thought he’d be dead six times over. 
It was his great reflexes, the doctor said, 
when they took away his license, 
suspended him for fifteen games. 
Attendance dropped thirty-eight percent. 
Five blocks from the stadium, two boys 
opened their own souvenir stand, 
selling perfect little drawings of the slugger, 
each with an accompanying, original poem. 
There was a poem about solo home runs,
a poem about doubles, a poem about fly outs to left center field.
On any given day the line stretched around the block. 
People missed their hero, less bloodthirsty than Achilles, 
not quite as clever as Odysseus. 
When the total eclipse came, the crowd swelled 
and groaned into darkness. It felt like redemption, 
somehow, like the time the bobcat frightened the city
for a cold month before the snow melted and our serenity returned.