One for the Ages

It was 1984, that foreboding year, I now
  recall.  You were in the hospital,
  your cat having snagged your nail.
It appeared you might lose your finger. 
I was there with you, even though we weren't

  boyfriend/girlfriend anymore.
You had a TV in your room;
  there was supposed to be somebody
  in the other bed, but there wasn't,
  so you could watch what you wanted.

I asked if I could turn on the Celtics
  and Knicks, Eastern Conference 
  Semi-Finals, and you said yes.  You don't 
  remember now, but it was like Ali-Frazier,
  Bernard King and Larry Bird in that series;

  up and down, coast to coast, going at each
  other, cutting no slack, giving no quarter.
We'd hold hands, your swollen finger like
  a sprained ankle, and I'd watch when we
  weren't talking, and sometimes when we

  were.  You knew what I was doing, yet
  you smiled, you didn't care, because at
  least I was there—somebody was there
  with you.  The Celtics and Knicks were
  on tonight, first time in over a decade

  in the playoffs together, and I thought
  of you.  I hear you have a daughter now—
  maybe as wild as you, as crazy as you
  were before we met.  I hope there's 
  someone on the edge of her bed,

  holding her hand when she lands in the
  hospital, attached or not.  There with her
  as he peeks at some dumb game with
  a sideways glance and a smirk on his face,
  watching and part of one for the ages.