How to tell a story

How to tell a story

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Tattoo

Tattoo

I grew up a Navy brat. My father
often said the stupidest thing
he ever did was get a tattoo
on each arm. Forgive my
unfashionable lack of them.

Basketball players today
not only have tattoos but
bulging biceps, like lost muscle
beach jocks. Where's the sand?

But here's the thing:
women follow this fashion, too!
which (forgive my heritage) may
give them all, men and women
alike, a future on the wrestling
circuit after the ball games end,
specimens of bulging human
decoration, the illustrated jock.

I miss the skinny, nerdy-looking
basketball players of the past.
I miss the student in student-athletics.
I miss the college president with
a higher salary than the coach.

My dad hated his tattoos.
All the same, on a warm summer
afternoon he would mow the lawn
with his shirt off, while I, mowing
across the way, would keep my
skinny nerdy body hidden
under a shirt. And later mother,
bringing out iced tea, would say,

"Chick, put on your shirt."
And he would.