Dear L,
I marveled.
Country-proud.
As you did it over and over again.
Beat the world.
Beat the topography of a country.
Beat cancer.
Beat the accusers and the whisperers.
I never understood the singer-looking-like-young-Carly-Simon thing.
On the other hand, I do understand that one.
You helped millions of people.
Defended your honor.
Such as it was.
Now mainly undone.
I don't care if everyone else was doing it.
I don't care that afterward they didn't give the titles to anyone else.
I don't care if you want to talk about it.
I don't care if you need us to understand.
Jim Thorpe really was the greatest.
They stole his medals for seventy-one years.
Because he played semi-pro ball.
So he could eat.
Now Oprah is going to hold your hand.
And emote with you.
Please.
Please just go away.
Truly yours.
A broken hearted fan.
M.L.
A Gentleman's London, Episode Six: Huntsman
2 hours ago
Posts
4 comments:
I have a distant pal, a committed and vocal triathlete, who 9 years ago named his son Lance.
How does one deal with that kind of betrayal?
Ben I don't know. Perhaps invent a distant third great uncle that discovered Siberia. Or, if it comes up, just say you are named after a guy that helped a lot of people fight cancer.
ML
Lance who? I'm so disappointed I want to forget he exists. If Oprah won't let that happen I'm prepared to forget her, too.
Shelley, AMEN.
Thanks for the visit and the comment!!
ML
Post a Comment