Sometimes the most important tales are fought in the smallest of arenas…
I'm deep in the game
hearing nothing but the boom and echo
of the crowd's slow thunder
long after everyone has stopped yelling
He's always up there
high in the seats and hunkered down
hollering cheers and encouragement
aimed straight at me
But from this far away all I can see of him is his eyeglass flash
the smoke signals of his frozen breath and his constant Players tobacco
mixed with the steam from his ever constant cup of coffee
double double
He never misses a game
drives me to every practice
lugs the bag full of gear when I'm beat and
chucks it into the trunk of his rusted rust brown Chevrolet.
He watches the NHL games on television
with me when my homework is done
and sometimes even when it isn't
thumping the arm of his arm chair like a tom tom drum.
He knows who to cheer for
and when to yell boooooo
can perk the teevee's rabbit ears just right
and pop a perfect bowl of popcorn without a microwave.
But best of all is when
he'll sit and spin out the old yarns
of how he played for the Sudbury Wolves
back when they used to be somebody to beat.
Last November he fell asleep in his easy chair
waiting for me to finish my homework
Mom tried to wake him and we heard her call out
supper turned cold as we waited.
The the ambulance arrived too late,
The long beating armchair tom-tom
slowly stopped
drumming.
Some days when I'm deep into the game
I look up to where Grandpa used to sit
and see the semaphore flash of his glasses looking from so far away
cigarette smoke signals and the steam from his coffee cup.
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