Clare texted last night that game
four of the 2005 World Series was being replayed. “It’s the eighth innings,” read the message
from daughter to mother, which was then relayed to me. So, I watched.
These “classic” replays can’t help
but be bittersweet because we know what happens next: Aaron Rowand gets traded
in the offseason; Bobby Jenks falls victim to injury and demons; Ozzie Guillen
turns into Mike Ditka; 2005 turns into 2006 and beyond. All that celebrating with the future waiting
to happen.
But I watched in order to remember
how good it felt to have my team win, just this one time. And then I remembered how important it was to
Clare. My little hitting prodigy had made
a 16u travel team even though she was just thirteen at the time. Oh, and the coach was a jerk in a crew cut
who accepted asthma attacks—not his—as part of the price of success. The White Sox winning made such suffering a
little more bearable.
And then I went back to
reading.
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