Sixteen Candles, Give or Take

Once upon a time, I could bike my age in miles for my birthday. No more. Yesterday, I did forty-six (oh, to be so young) on the 606 and called it a day. Once upon a time, I lived and died for the White Sox. We’re talking “Curse You, God” when the ’67 team collapsed in the last week of the season (and maybe He replied in kind. I sometimes thinks so.). But you reach an age when this stuff becomes relative. I’m there. Now, the idea is to stay healthy long enough to see my grandson participate in sports, preferably, baseball; his mother will be a heck of a hitting coach, I know. We’ll encourage him to be a Sox fan, of course. Maybe if we still had a ballpark, I’d go all old-school on him and demand said loyalty, but we don’t. I’ll be happy just so long as he doesn’t get caught up in beer-cup snakes. That would drive me to bike my age, which would be very dangerous, indeed.