One Damn' Thing after Another

            Saturday afternoon, Clare found out the softball team trainer had died; he was all of 30, if that.  The cause was an infection from his first chemo treatment for leukemia, which had been diagnosed in December.  I remember watching him Clare’s freshman year in Florida, working on a player’s hamstring before one of the games.  With our center fielder lying across a bleacher seat, it was shoulder to thigh, foot to sky—we weren’t in high school anymore, I thought.

            Saturday night, one of Clare’s roommates was involved in a traffic accident; she and her boyfriend had the misfortune of encountering a driver who didn’t believe in stopping at a red light, or see what damage had been done, for that matter.  Luckily, there appears to be more damage to steel than flesh.

            Yesterday morning, Michele’s mother called to say her dad was in the hospital, something about his heart.  Clare found out about Gramps a few hours before she came home to go hitting.  It was a real hack-and-whack session; Clare hit between coughs.  All of the above are reasons to hate January.

            But I loved those times my daughter made those metal roof posts ring.