by Stan Klein
my father taught religious school every saturday and sunday morning. i was required to attend every saturday. afterwards, we would go over to my great-uncle’s package liquor store, and he would deliver booze for them.
my brother would lay down on crates reading in the back, while i played pinochle with my great-uncle and two of his hanger-on buddies, my clip-on tie hanging on to my disheveled shirt by a tie tack. while they smoked their unfiltered cigarettes, i chose pretzel rods instead, and life savers rather than real coins.
the ball game played on the radio. the three geezers filled my head with baseball tales and local player lore.
after a couple years i turned ten, and they presented me with an all-star baseball mag as a gift. every picture had a hand-signed autograph. i cherished this prized treasure.
years later it came time to move out of the folks’ house. i rediscovered this prize, only to realize that every third signature possessed the same handwriting.
i laughed and looked up at the sky. ‘you guys got me!’
A proud son of Cleveland, Stan Klein is a fine artist, a gallery manager and an usher for both the Chicago Cubs and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.