| My Father's Football Game
by David Wagoner
He watched each TV game for all he was worth, while swaying
Off guard or around end, his jaw
Off-center. He made each tackle
Personally, took it personally if the runner broke through
To a broken field. He wanted that hotshot
Down, up and around and down
Hard, on the ground, now, no matter which team was which.
Star backs got all the cheers. Their names came rumbling, roaring
Out of grandstands from the loud mouths
Of their fathers. He'd show them
How it felt out cold for a loss, to be speared, the pigskin
Fumbled and turned over. Man
To man he would smile then
For the linemen, his team, the scoreless iron men getting even.
But if those flashy legs went flickering out of the clutches
Of the last tackler into the open
Past anyone's goal line, he would stand
For a moment of silence, bent, then take his bitter cup
To the kitchen, knowing time
Had been called for something sweeter
Than any victory: he would settle down to his dream game
Against Jim Thorpe and the Carlisle Indians for Washington
& Jefferson, buddy, that Great Year
By George Nineteen Sixteen
In mud, sweat, and sleet, in padding thinner than chain mail,
With immortal guts and helmets
Flying, the Savages versus the Heroes
By failing light in a Götterdämmerung, Nothing to Nothing.
David Wagoner, "My Father's Football Game" from Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems. ©1999 Univ of Illinois Press. (buy now) It's the birthday of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born in Salzburg, Austria (1756). His whole life was devoted to music. He was a child prodigy: by the time he was five he could perform difficult pieces on both piano and violin. He made a name for himself as a composer when he was in his teens, and he went on to write some of the most popular operas of all time, including The Marriage of Figaro (1786), Don Giovanni (1787), and The Magic Flute (1791). He died at the age of 35 while he was in the middle of composing his last piece, Requiem in D, which he wrote as his own funeral march. It's the birthday of Lewis Carroll (books by this author), born Charles Lutwidge Dodgson near Daresbury, Cheshire, England (1832). He is best known as the author of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and its sequel, Through the Looking Glass (1872), and for the characters the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, the White Rabbit, and many others. Carroll was also a gifted mathematician and photographer. His photographs of children are considered remarkable to this day. Carroll always felt at ease around children. It has been rumored that his stammer would disappear while he talked with children. Nobody can say for certain if this is true, but Carroll was well known as a storyteller and he liked telling his stories to children. He first came up with the idea for Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by telling stories to the children of the dean of Christ Church Oxford who had a daughter named Alice. Carroll enjoyed massive success from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and his pseudonym grew into an alter ego that became famous in its own right. Even today more people know the legends surrounding Lewis Carroll better than they know the biography of the real man, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. The stories of Alice and her adventures in the strange wonderland have remained popular to this day. Many readers speculate on the underlying meaning of the tales but Carroll himself said he only intended the tales as carefree fantasy and nothing more. Lewis Carroll said, "If only I could manage, without annoyance to my family, to get imprisoned for ten years, without hard labour, and with the use of books and writing materials, it would be simply delightful!" and "If you set to work to believe everything, you will tire out the believing-muscles of your mind, and then you'll be so weak you won't be able to believe the simplest true things." On this day 104 years ago modernist fiction writer Katherine Mansfield (books by this author) wrote to editor and essayist John Middleton Murry whom she'd been dating for more than seven years: "It is ten minutes past eight. I must tell you how much I love you at ten minutes past eight on a Sunday evening, January 27th 1918. “I have been indoors all day (except for posting your letter) and I feel greatly rested. Juliette has come back from a new excursion into the country, with blue irises — do you remember how beautifully they grew in that little house with the trellis tower round by the rocks? — and all sort and kinds of sweet-smelling jonquils. The room is very warm. I have a handful of fire, and the few little flames dance on the log and can't make up their minds to attack it.
There goes a train. Now it is quiet again except for my watch. I look at the minute hand and think what a spectacle I shall make of myself when I am really coming home to you. How I shall sit in the railway carriage, and put the old watch in my lap and pretend to cover it with a book — but not read or see, but just whip it up with my longing gaze, and simply make it go faster.
My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well. I am fast shut up like a little lake in the embrace of some big mountains. If you were to climb up the mountains, you would see me down below, deep and shining — and quite fathomless, my dear. You might drop your heart into me and you'd never hear it touch bottom.
“I love you — I love you — Goodnight.
“Oh Bogey, what it is to love like this!" They got married that spring, in early May 1918 — but then split up two weeks after their wedding. They reunited shortly later and moved to a villa in Italy since Katherine was ill with tuberculosis and they hoped the climate would help her health improve. They fought a lot, and, less than a year after their wedding date, they had taken to living separately. But it was during that passionate and tumultuous period after their marriage that Katherine Mansfield Murry worked on her famous short story "The Man Without a Temperament," published in 1920. It's a modernist story about marriage, with not a lot of plot, and it features a woman named Jinnie Salesby, who suffers from chronic heart disease, and her long-suffering husband, Robert. It begins: "He stood at the hall door turning the ring, turning the heavy signet ring upon his little finger while his glance travelled coolly, deliberately, over the round tables and basket chairs scattered about the glassed-in veranda. He pursed his lips — he might have been going to whistle — but he did not whistle — only turned the ring — turned the ring on his pink, freshly washed hands." Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.® | 