I was up at 6:30 on a Saturday
morning to be out of the house by 7, in part because my purported better half
needed an MRI on her right knee. I told
her not to drive to the basket against Antetokounmpo, but did she listen to me?
Walking to the car, I couldn’t
help but feel that I’d been here before, if in slightly warmer
temperatures. We were always racing
sunup to get to a travel tournament out in “Boo-foo,” as Clare called it. Depending on the year, she was feeling some
mix of confidence and uncertainty, or dread; that last year of travel was a
nightmare, that is, until the two recruiting letters came. Depending on the year, I probably felt
exactly the same.
Midmorning and we were in our daughter’s apartment. I’d passed the Elmhurst softball field on the
way, and now Clare had softball stories to tell. We also talked about going to the cages now
that her therapy for the labrum surgery was coming to an end. The old mixed with the new in a most
delightful way.
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