Today my son turns 36. Presumably we are at the point where my sharing this information will not embarrass him, but I am not 100 percent certain. I was thinking about him while driving to my mother’s house and listening to The Moth on the radio. The story I caught concerned baseball. My son loves baseball. To say he loves it does not begin to express the depth of feeling. I guess the selection of the baseball story relates to the month of October and the World Series. Sad to say, I do not know if the World Series has started this year or ended yet or which teams might be playing. I am not going to check. Instead, I am going to remember my son and his then teenaged friends climbing the fence around the high school field in the middle of the winter to practice pitching and hitting and catching. I remember the little league coach, of blessed memory, who encouraged them to “hit into the sprinklers” on the theory that the opposing team would not want to get wet. I have a memory of our plumber, the head of the varsity booster club, who would have the players go out on the train tracks to fetch lost balls, because balls were expensive. His son, my son’s former high school teammate, is the plumber now.
It ain't over till it's over
It ain't over till it's over
It ain't over till it's over
Today my son turns 36. Presumably we are at the point where my sharing this information will not embarrass him, but I am not 100 percent certain. I was thinking about him while driving to my mother’s house and listening to The Moth on the radio. The story I caught concerned baseball. My son loves baseball. To say he loves it does not begin to express the depth of feeling. I guess the selection of the baseball story relates to the month of October and the World Series. Sad to say, I do not know if the World Series has started this year or ended yet or which teams might be playing. I am not going to check. Instead, I am going to remember my son and his then teenaged friends climbing the fence around the high school field in the middle of the winter to practice pitching and hitting and catching. I remember the little league coach, of blessed memory, who encouraged them to “hit into the sprinklers” on the theory that the opposing team would not want to get wet. I have a memory of our plumber, the head of the varsity booster club, who would have the players go out on the train tracks to fetch lost balls, because balls were expensive. His son, my son’s former high school teammate, is the plumber now.