“. . . the possible world of narrative is the only universe
in which we can be absolutely certain about something . . .
the credulous believe that El Dorado and Lemuria existed . . .
skeptics are convinced they never existed; but we all know
it is undeniably certain that Superman is Clark Kent . . .”
— Umberto Eco
The best part, I offered, was the hotdog.
The plays and score were unelucidated,
and the fan spirit, mass roar and jump
in the vertiginous Husky Stadium,
overwhelming and mystifying too.
I knew the breathless sportscaster patter
from weekend radio while my father
in his armchair somehow graded papers,
but they spoke in tongues.
I wasn’t asked what part I liked best
when it came to church, but again it was
the after-feast. The call and response
at Manning’s cafeteria at least
was intelligible and I could answer
“Meatloaf” with little embarrassment
“and chocolate pudding” in its faceted
little dish. In our orange upholstered booth
we were unbracketed by a pew’s strange
worshippers, uncompelled to stand and sit
and bend on arcane leather kneelers
to some baffling cue, some whimsy
of the rotund droning minister,
red hymals in the slots ominous,
melodies known to all but me.
There was something terrible in the massed voices,
the expectation of brotherhood in the joyous club.
Things were believed which clearly to me
did not exist, and what I knew true
was unacknowledged. It wasn’t just
that I was faithless, but also that I didn’t buy
buying in just because others
had and seemed happy about it.
Their acquiesence, their unity reeked
of credulity and the over-dressed herd.
I reckon now those fanclubs are the glue
fulfilling our need for community
despite certain differences, even if
it’s just a shared illusion. But this
is the disgruntling truth,
that the same painting, song, idea
can please both a Hitler and a saint.
Your pew-mate a depthless mystery.
So much was under the surface: the love
our clubs evince for their idols
has a foul side. Each one assumes
its villain, and a commitment to Our Hero
predicates one against Theirs.
Atheists, Socialists — hell, Wazoo Cougars,
mods or rockers, pick your nemeses . . .
you pile on the quarterback, picket
or proselytize, you campaign
with a vengeance.
Less dangerous to agree on simple facts:
who Bruce Wayne becomes
when the Bat Signal appears in the sky —
a fiction but indisputable and universal.
My folks vetoed comic books,
despite my fathers youth having been
indelibly permeated by the Funnies —
Casper Milquetoast, George Bungle, Krazy Kat.
He was a card-carrying member
of Barney Google’s Brotherhood
of Billygoats. But they were funny
and superheroes had an agenda;
and agendas, like sports and religion
and politics, were nothing to fool with.
So my hero was Groucho, and like him
I still don’t want to belong to any club
that would have me as a member.
No Moose, Elk, Eagles, Owls, Boyscouts,
Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo,
Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffalos.
Me, I am the odd fellow in the brotherhod of one
that this morning watches the flock of mallards
gliding on the slough as serene as decoys.
Below the surface, nothing but feet
pedaling for all they’re worth.
Sean Bentley | Contents
Mudlark No. 72 (2021)