Number 9
He was my hero too,
though I never knew him.
There was something about him,
his soft smile,
his quiet voice.
The way he led by example.
The way he gave to so many in need.
Standing on the sidelines
with his helmet in his hands,
he looked like a modern day warrior,
off to battle,
dodging players like they were bullets,
refusing to be taken down,
always fighting till the end,
wounded or not.
I cheered him on from my bed on Sundays,
screaming at the t.v.
And somehow, when he had the ball,
I felt like anything was possible.
Now, that hope is gone,
buried six feet under
for me and for everyone he ever touched.
No more Boys and Girls Club,
or backyard bar-b-que’s in Mississippi
for the neighborhood kids.
No more last-minute Santa wishes fulfilled.
Or help for Katrina victims,
or football camps for children.
No more words of wisdom for Vince.
All gone in an instant.
For days I have cried,
just like I did when Ted Hawkins,
another man I never met,
died.
I’ve tried to understand why I’m so sad.
And all I’ve come up with is -
he was my hero.
And heroes aren’t supposed to die
after being shot in the head by twenty-year-old girls
they’re having an affair with,
while they’re asleep on a sofa.
They’re supposed to die in tragic car accidents,
or in plane accidents making rescue flights to Bolivia for the impoverished.
And they're supposed to stay
on the pedestal we have built for them
until they die.
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