Inside the lines…

Inside the lines, he was the consummate artist. His strokes were bold and brusque, but were always presented with imagination and flare. He didn’t use the vague strokes of Van Gogh or the abstract flashes of Picasso. His were more to the point and direct. Black and White. Evil intent. Search for respect.

When I watched him there inside those lines, I saw mostly a flash of color that entered the frame and then enveloped and obliterated any opposing view.

Yes, outside those lines, there was armor piercing, not under armor. Respect was earned by the caliber of the weapon, not the strength of a forearm. Where it mattered not the source of the cash, but the toys that the cash could buy.

But, I choose to allow those images outside the lines to fade to black. I’ll remember him as he was inside the lines. When I catch a glimpse of the ring of honor… sure, I’ll see Sonny and Billy, and Joey T., Russ and Joe and the artist they called Monk. But, Twenty One will be right there along with those other greats. Those ordinary men who could accomplish unimaginable feats inside those lines.

I salute you, Sean. You are special.