Sports
are different for me now, after having watched Clare play in high school and
college. I watch the pros, and part of
me thinks, No one on the field is my kid.
But I try.
In
the old days, I would’ve been miserable going to see Lyle Lovett and His Large
Band at the Chicago Theatre. Not that it
would have anything to do with Mr. Lovett, a musician-songwriter as talented as
he quirky. But the concert started at 7
PM, an hour into the White Sox-Yankee game.
Did I mention how much I’ve always hated the visiting team?
But
as none of the players is related to me, I sat back to enjoy 2-1/2 hours of
music with Lovett leading forays into jazz, blues, country, rockabilly, gospel
and ballads. Though his stovepipe hair
looked a little shorter than usual, Lovett’s voice and playing were as good as
I remember. Back in the car, I could
have put on the radio or asked Michele to get the score off her phone, but I
waited until we got back home, a few minutes before midnight. Then I went downstairs to check the
scoreboard on the Comcast sports’ site.
Only at that point did I become a kid again.
In sports, drama is
of the essence (unless you can crush the other guy in the early innings). Not wanting to see the entire line score, I
scrowled down carefully so that just the New York part showed. Let’s see, the score was 2-1 Sox when we
parked the car. The Yankees got one more
run in the ninth. That could only mean
one thing—Sox win! Sox win!
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