I used to joke, some years ago, as they accused my favorite football coach of slugging a kid. “It’s the angle,” I would say.

They sat in the stadium—three of them—each integral to my world, each with her own set of eyes.

In the open end was Lucy. Perched in her highchair, staring into a life ahead, she savored every movement and yes, every moment!

I watched in Chicago. She was “not herself” said the parents (of their girl’s malaise). I studied her eyes—the little one’s—as Stacy fed her and Jason held her…and she healed. Tender, looming orbits, they filled with the love that surrounded.

There’s an innocence in babies. Undeterred by pasts, theirs is a realm where seeing truly is believing. As such, when a mother coddles or a father sings, they not only learn love, but believe in it. It’s a warm world (when you’re ten months old), and I couldn’t help but thinking that my little one’s Little One is in a good place, evolving a good world view.

She was, in fact, not herself last Friday. Keeping her in (per doctor’s orders), tweaking our schedule, we did what strong families do best: we made do.

It was a great weekend! Lucy, from her spot near the one, was embraced by images of parents laughing, a grandfather playing, and the threesome both laughing with Seinfeld and crying to “The Descendants”.

Lucy Hannah Bohrer, her whole life before her, had a much better angle than did her aunt. (Or should I say great aunt?) (Or should I say great, great aunt)?

Way on the other side of the field…down at the closed end of the stadium, was Aunt Helen.

In the bad seats….with the bad world view.

She’s seen it all, I suppose…this 98-year-old. (Perhaps too much). I wonder how I’d view life if I too had witnessed two world wars, a Holocaust, and the death not only a much younger brother, but of all her contemporaries. Would my vision not narrow looking only through a rear-view mirror? Would I too not see things “half-empty”? Would my eyes not also be closed?

We were driving home—just this Kol Nidre—three of us:

“What did you think of the rabbi’s sermon?” she asked.
“I liked it,” said I, (speaking both in truth and safety).
“Really,” she surmised….
I just waited.
“The rabbi should listen to his own worlds,” she continued. “He had no business telling that story. You know he still has not returned my call”.

“Get over it,” I wanted to say, but didn’t. It was, after all, a new year. (Again, though, who am I to judge? Did I not, in fact, sit in the closed end of Municipal Stadium the day of The Drive? Do I not, TO THIS DAY, still contend that Karlis’ game-ending field goal was wide to his left?)

The best seats, of course, are near midfield…

Which is where she sits: Carrie.

Eyes wide open…like the ocean…ever the fan of life.

She’s seen good plays, plays gone bad, and even called some audibles. She gets it.

We spoke of family, (the other day), and there was laughter. We spoke of Helen as well that night, (and there was not).

It mattered not, sitting there next to her by the fifty.  Not at all.

I wasn’t getting out of my seat, you see.  I liked the balance, liked the view, and more than anything else, I loved the fan by my side.

It is, to this day, about the angle.

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