As legend would have it… by hakim bellamy

No one really remembers how long he stood there.
How long Black soldiers stood on the shore
of the Chesapeake Bay. How long the heart burst
like bombs. How many stars shy of a pennant.
How many stars short of glory. Approximately 35.

Young. I was 15. The exact age (in stars) of Old Glory
at the time Francis Scott Key penned the song
that made every single person in that ballpark
rise at the same time. For at least one minute
and eighteen seconds, everyone is standing.

Even the millionaires on the green,
Even the billionaires in the boxes, who own
the very seats we stand in front of, out of respect.
But my uncle is a Vet. And though the ramparts in his memory
shock and awe, they will never Berlin.

So his minute, became ten…twenty…thirty…thirty-five…
The first time he flinched, was a foul tip that cracked
Louisville in half like the Ohio River. It sounded like gunshots.
Or fireworks. Or both. And that was the first time
his knees buckled in three innings. People started to worry.

As they often do, when they see young soldiers, off base,
with guns but without fatigues. As they often do,
when they see ex-soldiers on corners, with cardboard
but without fatigues. As they often don’t…
at any other time. Unless it’s sweeps week
and some exec thinks war is good for ratings.

When he finally at-eased, his left peck resembled
a starfish of crumpled shirt. You could see his fingerprints.
Deep, like he was palming his way through a seizure.
Grapefruit in hand. I asked him what our team needed to do,
in order to get out of the 4 to 5 quagmire we created?
Just to see how much of the game he could stand.

And he just said something about Fort M’Henry.
About the 1918 World Series and why he is afraid of that song.
How it sounds like a shelling, every time we sing it.
And why he stood for thirty-five minutes staring at a fuckin’ flag
Just as those that came before him did on the shores of Baltimore
the morning after.

Relieved. Glad it was over. Happy that it was finally quiet enough
for lawyers who moonlight as poets to write poems,
for a band of brothers, a social club of merry men to sing songs.
For us barely caring enough to remember the first verse, and forget
the other three. Just like “Lift Every Voice And Sing,”
and call ourselves free.

© Hakim Bellamy March 25, 2014