That’s my Dad on the right.
From the past, he appeared. Black and white. Newspaper. Pic. Pixelated. With his teammates. Wire-thin boys. Hands on hips, defiant. Catching their breath at practice. Tank tops and silk short shorts. Back then, that’s what they wore. Stark numbers stamped on their uniforms. Chests.
It was 1942. A Depression past. A World War to fight.
Captured in the time between. On break. Tomorrow’s men.
My Dad played point guard.
What he would pass to me would stick forever.
My heart hurts, and I'm dizzy.
Seeing him that way.