Mike

He grew up down by the slough.

  Where fishing’s good, the swimming too.

A rope we hung from a cottonwood,

 Swinging wide from where we stood.

Barefoot hikes through the woods,

 No never dids and never shoulds.

He took the lead with all us kids,

  Busting mutton, like Casy Tibbs.

Then came his love of every sport,

 He was pretty good I will report.

Tossing footballs, Little League,

 Never seemed to show fatigue.

On the field, he did his bit,

 His time at bat, for sure a hit.

He gave me lessons, how to box,

 Truth be told, he cleaned some clocks.

Shooting baskets, ten below,

 Underneath the moonlight glow.

At the hoops, he was a whiz,

 Making layups was his biz.

He always gave the game his all,

 And never, ever hogged the ball.

Then came that day in Sixty-One,

 Gone to Glasgow just for fun.

He took a walk around the town,

 A mixer truck ran him down.

We knew not if he would survive,

 But we didn’t figure on his drive.

For weeks, he lay smashed to mush,

 But he was one tough young cuss.

He nailed his Levis on a wall,

  And proclaimed he’d walk by Fall,

He labored through the pain and hurt,

 Shaking off the blood and dirt.

On the court, he labored hard,

 No crutch would ever be his pard’.

From the bench, he cheered the team,

 He’d never play, it would seem.

The game was close, state tournament.

  The Blue Ponies were victory bent.

Then the coach called, “Time-out!”

 From the crowd, there came a shout.

And we could tell from the din,

 Who the coach was putting in.

No one cared about the score,

 We saw the winner on the floor.

We all were glad that we came,

 Because Mike Thill was in the game.

LDT Jan 31, ‘26

In memory of Mike “Otto” Thill (1944-2025)

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