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Greatest Fan

Updated on February 11, 2013

Wrinkled like leather, an old man

sits alone.He sees empty benches,

balled up tape,blood-stained

towels, torn pieces of jersey;

a vacant field and its crusted dirt

center, fading hash marks,

the leaning goal posts;

confetti, crushed cups

of coffee, hot dog wrappers; the

program in his hand. As cold rain

drizzles down, he sees his son

D. J. break through the line. He

stands and shouts, “Go, D. J.,

D. J. go! That’s my boy!” Later,

he puts another flower on his

son’s grave, chanting, “Go, D. J.,

D. J go,” a single tear creasing

the leather of his face.


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