I’m
an adult soon to reach exulted senior status.
I’ve experienced the joys and challenges of parenthood as well as the
sadness that comes from the loss of family members. And still I act like a kid whose life
revolves around baseball.
The
White Sox are a benighted franchise, from the days of the Black Sox to last
night’s loss when Chris Sale gave up a pinch-hit homerun on the first pitch in
the bottom of the eighth to someone batting for the first time in almost seven
weeks. The night before, rookie center
fielder Charlie Tilson, just acquired from the Cardinals, tore his hamstring
trying to chase down one of the many extra-base hits given up by starter James
Shields. A team at one time thirteen
games over .500 is now five games under.
It’s a good thing I’m too old to cry.
And
thank heavens I’m putting new tires on the car; that should keep me from
spending any money on baseball tickets.
And thank you, Jesus, for having me walk home from the gas station this
morning along East Avenue. I happened by
Home Run Alley, where Clare played baseball with the boys. The sprinklers were on, turning the fields a
glistening green and silver in the sunlight.
Restored, I’m ready to suffer some more.
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