Even as a little boy, he’d say, I had all kinds

of dreams. And I was always somebody’s hero.

And I’d say Now I’m a little boy, and

you’re everybody’s hero, and my dad would smile,

hug me.

Sometimes

there’d be the beginning of tears

in his eyes. I didn’t know why then.

But I do now.

It’s hard to stay a hero.

It’s like everybody’s just sort of waiting

for the minute you fumble the ball

or miss a pass

or start yelling at people when

you were never the kind of guy

to yell before.

They call it pigskin, my daddy once told me,

because back in the 1800s, footballs

were made out of pig bladders.

And we’d crack up when he said

Who was the person who thought

“I happen to have this bladder sitting around,

might as well fill it with air and throw it”?

Pig bladders, my dad would say.

People were out there playing

with the bladder of a pig.

Then rubber came along, and I guess

the pigs were probably happier

than anyone.

Some Days

Some days my dad doesn’t remember

stuff like the day I was born and how it rained

for sixteen days straight before I came.

My daddy used to swear they had to take a boat.

Sailed to the hospital as captain, he used to say.

Came home with a first mate.

And I’d ask about Mama—what was she.

Everything. Your mama was and is

everyone and everything to me.

Tell me about the boat again, Daddy. But now

he says he doesn’t remember.

Some days he sits in his big chair by the window

and stares out at Sweet Pine.

Asks us over and over again What kind of tree is that?

It’s fall again. And the leaves are bright orange

and Maple’s leaves are too

and even Crabby with her red berries and yellow leaves is beautiful.

You look out and it’s like the sky’s on fire, my daddy says.

You look up, he says, and it’s the most beautiful thing.

Some days his repetition sounds like the chorus of a song.

You look out and it’s like the sky’s on fire.

You look up and it’s the most beautiful thing.

I watch my mom watching him from the kitchen,

her eyebrows wrinkling.

Come watch these leaves with me, little man.

Come watch the way they fall, my dad says.

Come watch the way they fall, little man.

Come watch these leaves with me.

Back Then

Every Sunday night,

I’d run to the TV the minute the game was on.

I didn’t care about the crowds cheering in the stands.

I didn’t care about the cheerleaders

or the referees in their striped shirts

or the coaches getting mad at the referees.

I just wanted to see

my daddy

#44

tight end