I remember the time my parents said that I was now old enough to visit a public restroom all by myself. I was about 4, maybe 5, and we were in a family-style restaurant. I wended my way around a few tables, found the right door without getting lost, did my business like an ace, but when I went to wash my hands, I couldn't reach the handles, even on my tippy toes. Determined to exit the men's room a bigger boy than when I went in, I asked a stranger for some help. The man obliged. He turned the "H" then he turned the "C" but the result was much too hot. So I scolded him for ignoring the obvious: "Hey Mister, don't you know I only have little fingers!"
To a little kid, the world is big and adults are big and big can be scary. If you want to meet a little kid's approval, this is something to keep in mind.
On my sixth birthday, my grandparents happened to be taking a cruise and they arranged it for my parents, my sister and me to board with them, all so I could see the big ship on my special day. It was a big deal. And once on deck, we heard that the greatest heavyweight boxer of
all time, Rocky Marciano, was also on board.
"Hey Pop," Pop was my grandfather, "Who's Rocky Marcy Anno?"
My grandfather called me Butch. (I have no idea why my grandfather called me Butch, unless perhaps I reminded him of a masculine lesbian that he knew.) "Well, Butch, let me see if I can track him down so you can find out for yourself." Pop must have been thinking that this would make my birthday extra special.
My grandfather disappeared among the tall crowd and returned a few minutes later. He had found Rocky on the other side of the deck and Rocky said he'd come over to shake the little fella's hand just as soon as he tended to a few fans. This gave my grandfather a moment to set the stage.
Pop bent down, placed a hand on my shoulder and softly gave me the highlights. Rocky was the greatest. Rocky may not have been very tall, but he was tough and he was all muscle. And in his day, Rocky could have beaten up any one in the world. Anyone.
Then, probably because my grandfather wanted to make certain I would never ever forget this moment, he leaned in a bit further and urged, "And whatever you do, look at his hands. His hands are amazing. Don't ever forget those hands."
Now my grandfather may have thought that his words created
a desire to meet the man, but in actuality they scared the crap out of me. I imagined those hands to be like cannonballs, weapons, deadly weapons. As it turned out, I saw the hands, alright–I couldn't take my eyes off of them. Rocky Marciano shook my tiny paw and I didn't know if I'd ever get it back. His hands were like those old baseball gloves, round and stubby, but they were round mitt-like pulverizers of stone. I never once looked at his face.
It wasn't until years later, after shuffling through a messy drawer in my parent's house–you know the drawer, the one that every family seemed to have, the one in which all the yellow Kodak envelopes accumulated–well, in there, I found a photograph of me and Rocky Marciano. I didn't know such a photo existed. I didn't even remember posing for it. To such a moment, I could attach no face. But there he was. My mom jarred loose enough of the details for me to remember what my grandfather had said, so I figured that I had taken my eyes off Rocky Marciano's hands long enough to pose for this photograph, though I was obviously distracted. If you saw my face, you'd see a little boy who was more than a wee bit worried. I was not in the moment. I was not on that boat. I was somewhere else, in some scary place inside my head. And I looked as if I was about to cry.
My grandfather had given me a pitch, but he didn't really know his target. He didn't know what kind of drama I would spark to. So, despite Pop's good intentions, recall was low.
