At least once a summer, walking along the beach,
I’d stop to watch my grandfather interrupt students
from Maryland playing with fancy new lacrosse sticks.
He’d ask to take a turn and they always obliged and
smiled as he cradled the ball in the pocket before
whipping it to the other young man. “Oh boy”, he’d say,
then pause, examine the netting and grip before nodding
and thanking them. Off we’d go down the boardwalk
past Ocean Deck, Taylor Pork Roll, and all the little shops.
He’d tell me stories about his days as a defenseman
playing with the Bear Mountain Cubs, for Springfield in ’32,
his knee injury and officiating for the plebes at West Point.
He’d laugh at young people who thought it was a new sport.
He’d talk about the tribes in New York state, the tradition
and most of all his vivid memories of his old teammates.
|My grandfather, D.Bewick- back row, third from the left.|