Gone

            The TV and the TiVo were no longer on good speaking terms, at least on the subject of Netflix movie downloads (Retrieving…Retrieving…Retrieving).  So, we went out and updated our entertainment media.  It’s not having to spend a lot of money that bothered me.

            First, some background.  Clare hit .425 her junior year of high school, played a Dustin Pedroia-like second base and drew some Division I interest.  Then came travel ball with two new coaches, both clowns of immense proportion.  First, they batted her up and down the order, then they shifted her from second to dh, then they platooned her, then they couldn’t wait to pinch hit for her.  What sprung eternal in April had grown ugly by late July.  Oh, and the college coaches proved to be mirage.

            We were at the nationals’ tournament in Salisbury, Maryland, when disaster struck.  Clare was trying to beat out a grounder in a downpour when she collided with the second baseman, who was moving to cover first.  I watched as my daughter spun, literally, 360 degrees in the air before landing in the mud flat-out on her back.  Michele rushed out on the field, because that’s what mothers do.  Only Clown #1 told her to get off; I think he was afraid of forfeiting on account of an unruly parent.  Did I mention Coach had already told Clare that she would never hit in college?  The week couldn’t end soon enough.

            We went back to the hotel after the game and turned on ESPN.  As luck would have it, the White Sox were playing a day game against the Blue Jays, with Mark Buehrle pitching.  Clare and I watched bonus coverage of Buehrle taking a perfect game into the ninth inning.  The first batter he faced was Gabe Kapler, who lined the ball to deep left-center field.  “So much for that,” I thought, but, no, Dewayne Wise, just entering the game as a defensive replacement, leaps and catches the ball, only to juggle it on the way down.  And, and, and he hangs on!  The gods finally smiled down on Maryland.

            I recorded a rebroadcast of the game, which went unwatched until the following January.  Then, after we buried my sister, Clare’s Auntie Betty (as in Mame), Clare and I sat on the couch to watch perfection unfold from the very first pitch.  I never watched the game after that.   But I kept it on TiVo as a reminder of July and January, of struggle and family and loss.  And now it’s gone.