To An Athlete Dying Young

The Time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the marketplace
Man and boy stood cheering by,
and home we brought you shoulder high.
A.E. Houseman To An Athlete Dying Young

The first time I heard this poem, I wept. It reminded me of my father. An athlete who died young. My father was a swimmer - he had a wing span that crushed every competitor along his wake. He was strong, built to win. A herniated muscle ruined his chances at the Olympics, but he always "looked" like an athlete. And, to be totally honest, had the ego of an athlete.

My father was 46 when he died in an instant. He had a heart attack. An athlete dying young.

Today marks 21 years since he died. I was 12 years old. I remember every detail of the day he died. Every detail. Smells, sounds, temperature, what we watched on tv, what we ate for lunch. But I can’t remember much more than that. I don’t remember a lot of our memories before that. It’s weird because I know we were happy, I know we laughed, but I don’t remember it all.

So, today, on this 21^st year without Kenneth Bradbury Batla, I will eat German Chocolate Cake, go swimming and laugh with my family. It’s the only thing I can do to make sure I remember something that I know he would have loved.