Sweet Dreams

I come from a family of dreamers, literally.  My father and one of my sisters had dreams so vivid you could do some first-rate horror-movie film scripts off them.  I still remember my dad telling me about the one where his mother, never speaking, wanted to embrace him…to death.

 

Naturally, I passed on this talent to my daughter, who usually dreams about people and situations, as in game-day.  Me, I mostly dream about places.  It could be New York City or walking under the Lake Street “L” tracks.  Last night, I dreamt about Comiskey Park.  It’s what I’d classify as a good dream, if a little strange.

 

You see, I found my seat in the centerfield bleachers.  Why is that strange?  Because never in my life did I sit there.  Other times, I dream about sitting in the upper deck, which I did maybe five times in twenty-eight years.  But there I was, five million feet away from home plate.

 

I wish I knew who was playing center field—Ken Berry, Adam Engel, Jim Landis?  Johnny Mostil?  Maybe I’ll save that for tonight.  Fingers crossed.