For reasons I don’t
quite understand, Clare spent her last night of single life with us
yesterday. Like countless times before,
she sat in the living room, phone at her side or pressed against her face as she
told her soon-to-be husband that Matt Davidson of the White Sox looked good
pitching in an 11-3 blowout loss to the Rangers. “He was strangely athletic,” observed my
ever-wise progeny.
This morning, like
countless ones before, she used her Ted Williams’ root beer glass, the one I
bought at a memorabilia show two years and a month before her birth; it was the
same show where I talked with Luke Appling for a good ten minutes. Between the glass and Clare’s aches-and-pains
routine over the years, something must’ve rubbed off from that Sunday in
downstate Lewistown.
In under four hours, I
will walk my daughter down the aisle of the same church where she was baptized,
to be married by the same priest who baptized her; baseball families understand
the value of tradition. Then, if I don’t
break down by the time of the reception, I’ll give a test that will allude to
my child’s athletic prowess (and, with luck, embarrass her just a little
bit. I mean, what good is a father if he
can’t embarrass his daughter at her wedding reception?)
When everything is
over, the leftover wedding put in our care to go in the freezer, I will drive
home with my wife, our lives forever changed.
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