301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


Magic Mitt

When he went back for a foul popup behind third base, all of us York
Street Tigers and all the Domtar guys shut their eyes tight.
He had such a sweet disposition that dogs wanted to be him, other
drivers forgave him, and the Russian language spoke itself.
It’s not that he made you glad to be alive—it’s just that he let you know
you were alive.
I made fun of him for reading all the novels written by British women,
and now I think I’d better get at it, starting with Rose Tremaine.
I met him in the Fifties, when all the famous people had his initials—
Mickey Mantle, Marilyn Monroe, Mary Martin, Mickey Mouse.
We mailed each other letters every week, complaining about the latest communication devices.
At university he was famous for his barbaric yawp, and so was Walt Whitman, who had his initials upside down.
Kids loved him because he liked dimes so much, he’d give a kid a quarter for a shiny dime.
I think Carol Matthews handled the household expenses. Mike Matthews made the coffee and you’d better not put sugar in it.
I saw him on the stage, I saw him on television, I saw him on the page, but he was at his very best in the parking lot—don’t ask.
I knew we’d love each other forever when our daughters beat us in a game of two-on-two basketball.
In Montreal I admired him for walking around lower Westmount’s biggest block before having the third dessert.
He often started a sentence with the word “Look,” and by golly, it felt like exactly the right thing to do.
He was my fraternity brother, the only one I ever knew, the man with the golden sword and the magic mitt, my secret gentle sibling.

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