I cried when Jonathan Scott’s father blew a call behind the plate that cost us a ballgame. It was 1962 and nothing could hurt more.
And I winced when some putz came in high at the plate in a game down at Ferguson. (Think Rose into Fosse). Two decades older I was, yet Malkin driving me to Euclid General, two fractures within me — it killed.
Through the magic of all-too-real cinema I watched Gehrig waive goodbye, Ruth bid farewell, and “The Notebook” (twice).
Oh, and you know the last twenty minutes of “Field of Dreams” …where Kevin Costner tosses the ball around with Ray Liotta? A half-dozen times or more — don’t get me started!
And Jack,
And RFK,
And Dr. King.
I’ve watched Bobby cry for his dad and Ed weep for his mom …
I’ve told my mother HER mother died and my grandmother her SON died, and picked the caskets for each…
I saw my father on a slab in downtown Columbus and my mother in a box in Cleveland Heights.
And buried them both.
I’ve watched a son and two daughters skin the knees of their youth …
I’ve witnessed myself, fully grown, stumble in manhood…
And yet—
At 65…and a young 65 at that — a refreshingly immature 65 at that —
Nothing hurts as much as when my kids do.
And nothing soothes the pain as much as the return of their smiles.
(Not even a catch with Ray Kinsella).