I remember writing “I saw #63” underneath the bill of my Cards’ cap.
That I saw #17, too.
And that I was worried I’d miss seeing the record-setting home run by attending summer camp.
In June.
He would unfurl, and he would connect.
Then the ball was somewhere in red seats, surrounded by fans in Ozzie Smith jerseys.
It’s too easy to say time stopped, but there was a pause between contact with the bat and with the outfield bleachers.
Maybe it was because every single person in the stadium knew.
So did every person huddled by KMOX, and watching telecasts on Fox Sports Midwest.
We all learned the name of his son.
I stood in line at bookstores, collecting newspapers and magazines with headlines from every broken record.
What was it that we all knew, again?
That he was awfully skinny when he bashed forearms with Jose Canseco as a rookie with the A’s in 1987?
And now he was a cartoon character, the kind I’d scrawl in light pencil because I couldn’t keep him in lines?
I want to remember how it felt to be a fan.
It’s something like dreaming of Christmas past.
Keeping ghosts in shadows, still.
by 