Three Of A Kind

The expression is that it always happens in threes. That, especially, people die in threes. Over the past week, this has been the case in the sports realm with the Blue Jays pitcher Kennedy, Sean Taylor and the first black All-American Bill Wilts. Working in news, I much more prone to mark these stories and see the correlation -- though, I think it may be merely coincidence. Sure it doesn't always happen, but it does more than you think and probably doesn't more than you think too.

But what about people being born in threes. I've got this inkling that November 29th was a favored day in heaven. On this date, C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott and Madeline L'Engle were birthed. That's a lot of genius to be giving out at once, even for God. And a lot of genius in the imagination of children's literature too. It's like it wasn't given out all at once. All of them, most known for the work as a children's author with the ability to transcend the genre to appeal across generations at once.

It was like literature won the lottery that day. Or that there was an overstock, one-day sale on genius. Maybe it's Christmas on November 29th in Heaven. Or would they have Christmas?

Either way, today's greatness happens in threes.

UPDATE:

NOVEMBER 30TH: BIRTHDAYS OF MARK TWAIN AND JONATHAN SWIFT (GULLIVER'S TRAVELS). SERIOUSLY... MAYBE I'M THE ONLY ONE FASCINATED BY THIS.

UPDATE:

PROBABLY.

The Paradox Of Winning

Much has been said about the current success of Boston sports teams over the past month. In fact, Sunday marked the last time a Boston sports team (not counting the woeful B's) had lost in the past month(Cleveland beat Boston on Oct. 16th). This time it was the Celtics. Who barely lost. In a game I watched on NBA TV because I have it. Yes. I'm that special. I actually prefer the Celtics over the Patriots. For that reason I missed the first two Pats scores against the Bills.

And what I did watch of the Patriots game was nothing short of masterful. It wasn't that the Bills looked bad. The Patriots looked so good to make a team they were playing not look bad and instead make themselves look even better. The Mrs keeps asking how I can watch the Pats game with the scores so out-of-hand. Because it's beautiful. I've never seen such precision and execution on the football field. It's like watching Beckett work in a playoff game. The opposing batters just don't have a shot because he is that good. The Patriots are just that good.

I likened it yesterday morning to an old SportsCenter commercial.


We are the Holyfield of the NFL.

But it's a long season. So let's not get ahead of ourselves.

As per the punditry that revolves around these landslide victories, it's nice to be the villian. To be the hated team. And it's nice to know and realize this is the case only because we are winning so easily. We are not overpaying players. The organization does things the right way. Forget SpyGate. We're 10 weeks removed from that. It's over. Move beyond it. The only reason we are hated as a team is because the Patriots win and win so very very well.

I love paradoxes.

This may or may not be one.

A Day For The Birds

So let's get today straight. The Homerun king gets indicted on perjury charges. Indicted. Not convicted. Indicted. And the media goes ape over this. Did I mention he's a baseball player? Well, he is. Meanwhile, a president gets convicted of perjury and it's supposed to be no big deal?

Then there's the whopping $270+ million contract the Yankees are paying someone to not help them win a World Series.
Then, the writers are on strike because the same companies that sue online outlets for $1 billion, i.e. YouTube, for posting and making money off of their online content tell the same writers that they have no way of knowing how much money online content is worth.

The governor of Ohio (and fellow Asbury alum and soon-to-be-Clinton-VP-running-mate) thinks we should do away with the electoral college system and just have a popular vote. In his defense, the electoral college system is no way to elect a prom king or queen. To think that history classes should have as much say as the cheerleaders, the nerve.

Then there's also this guy. Fascinating medical story. But some things you can't un-see.

To quote Tracy Morgan from tonight's 30 Rock that accurately sums up this day: "Stop eating old french fries pigeon. Have some self-respect. Don't you know you can fly?"

A Good Man Found On The Edge Of Town

I stumbled across a very interesting association between my favorite fiction writer and my favorite musician. It's a connection I never supposed or suspected, so you can expect my surprise when I discovered that Bruce Springsteen has been heavily influenced by Flannery O'Connor.

I did some more digging, finding that he was most influenced shortly before the Nebraska album. Which, if you know the album, figures. The final line of title track borrows right from O'Connor, "Sir, I guess there's just meanness in the world." He even penned a song for the epic Tracks album in 1998 called "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and captured the essence of the story fantastically.

Springsteen says it's her characters that intrigue them the most. How they are broken, shattered, imperfect and ultimately redemptive. Listening to that album, Tom Joad and Devils and Dust, you see the same dirty and dusty and grotesque characters searching for their "own piece of the cross."

That the connection was obvious was not what floored me. What got me was the roots of the connection itself. The Mrs, not much of a Springsteen fan aside from The Rising and a couple of live tracks, was also surprised to learn of the connection. And, as always, she summed it up adeptly: "You shouldn't be surprised. It just shows you're consistent in what you like." I love O'Connor's work for the exact same reasons I love Springsteen's work: Rich imagery compounded by the actual facts of the world and an attempt to redeem a little piece of it.

Suffice to say I've gone back through the albums I have and listened to them again. Unfortunately, I don't have the entire Nebraska or Joad albums, but the tracks I have make me feel like I'm in Andalusia, sitting next to O'Connor, with Springsteen spewing out throaty melodies on an old guitar. Give Springsteen credit, he's not just a political mouthed musician who plays in a cool band with a cool name and had a few hits. He's a brilliant writer. And that he was affected by O'Connor and not merely effected rises up in his body of work.

Meanwhile, reading O'Connor and listening to Springsteen at once is not possible. It's like being in the exact same place at the exact same time and trying to do something entirely different.

Because Of That One Dentist

It's been brought to my attention that they've stopped selling Mentadent at Giant Eagle. Seeing as how that's where the Mrs shops, seems I'm out of luck. I've used the brand for more than a decade. I despise other brands. It's one of the things I dread about traveling: having to use different toothpastes.

See I'm awfully sensitive about teeth in that I cringe and convulse in conversations about cavities, wisdom teeth, tooth pain. Most notably, I can't even listen to another person brush their teeth. Not my wife. Not my college roommates. Not on T.V. Not in the movies (remember the scene from Stranger Than Fiction? I almost had to leave the theater). Do not expect to have a conversation with my whilst brushing. In fact, expect me to leave and find a place where I can cover my ears and not have to hear you brushing your teeth.

So now I don't have the toothpaste I've used for the past 12 years? Crisis.

And let's just leave it at that.

It's That Time Of Year

It's November. The time when I historically come down with something. Last year it was pneumonia and a trip to the hospital. This year, a wonderful GI bug given to me by my loving son. That's right, Isaac has been sick for the past few days -- his first illness. And as he came out of the woods yesterday -- i.e. no fever and a cessation of the vomiting -- the Mrs and I decided to stroll through the woods ourselves -- i.e we got sick. Isaac, much to the chagrin of the Mrs, was given the nickname Poopy McPoopsalot. Yesterday, in the vein of too much information, he became Poopy McPoopsalot Jr. And by a lot, just to clarify, I mean a lot.

A friend recently emailed me wondering why I hadn't shared anything about the Pats and the Celtics run over the weekend. Truth is, because of what happened over the weekend and then this week, I've done gone completely sapped. Like a Vermont Maple Tree sapped.

Anyway, the energy is slowly returning. So expect more posts here in the coming days. Especially on the Celtics. Man, they look good. Unfortunately, as much a Celtics fan as I am, there's been no real desire to make an effort to watch them on T.V. over the past few years. The quality of basketball was just plain horrible. So I stuck to the box scores, blogs and articles on them. All this to justify my now writing more about them. I also had to use a more formal argument to explain to the Mrs. why basketball ranks above football on my list of favorite sports to watch. Evidence #1: My DVDs of the Basketball Jesus and The Celtics history complete with about 10 full games I own. NOTE: This are the only DVDs I even own.

So yes, I'm excited about the Celtics. Very. Very. Excited. And the Pats are good too. Their next four games will be on TV here in the capital city... so that's good.

The Misadventures Of Isaac

So I was prepared for this, one of the inevitabilities of having a boy. Only I wasn't ready for it to happen so early. But on Saturday, Isaac broke his leg. It happened while I was walking down the stairs. I tripped and fell, landing hard on the steps. I was holding Isaac and I didn't drop him, the only visible injury we could discern was a bump on the head from where we banged into the wall and the emotional injury of scaring the bejesus out of him: I yelled, the Mrs. came running in with a yelp of her own. He was consoled and slept for a couple of hours afterwards.

But later in the afternoon, I noticed, while he was pulling himself to stand, he was doing it awkwardly - favoring the left side and screaming like he was in pain. So we went to the Children's Hospital in town where they told us Isaac had a broken leg.

He's doing well, already adapting to the large blue cast on his left leg. He's figured out how to crawl as normal and has even taken to pulling himself back up to a standing position -- which isn't permissible given the injury. And all accounts point to him making a full recovery with no long term effects.

Kids are amazing. How they adapt, how they learn so very quickly.

The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

I Despise The Rain King

Not the song. I actually like the song. I was hoping it would play in my head as background to the novel Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow. Instead, I've been unable to drown out the metaphorical noises of my banging my head against the wall. I'm doing it, however, to the tune of The Rain King, so that's something.

Ever been caught in a book you can't get out of? One you have to finish only because it's required by some person or class? This is where I'm at. I love reading. Love to open a book, sit down, shut-up and read. I dream about reading at work. Looking forward to going home, when everything is over for the day, and beginning a new book, finishing one I've started or re-reading that last chapter because something struck my fancy. But not this book. Not this horrible, horrible book.

It won the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point in the 60s or 70s (I don't even care about when it did; I don't care about being factually correct about this terrible book). I can see why, given context of the social and literary situations of that era. It's a book about discovery; about finding oneself. But the lead character is a misanthrope; an unlovable Falstaff. One who is subject to haughty prose about nothing really, no fluid thoughts or developments of ideas, just ramblings that occasionally make sense, but not so much sense that you remember it after you close the book.

It's taken me two weeks (of course, it's the playoffs and I rarely get much done anyway) to finally see the end. Of course, the end is more like a desert oasis because in no way am I finished with this book when I finish it. Then I must write a paper, and explore the deeper significances of this terrible, meaningless work. One that takes itself much to seriously, much to important. There's humor in it, meaning in it, but it's ultimately humorless and without meaning. And that sentence is indicative of every sentence in the book.

Sorry for the rant. It's just that "When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers". None of which could ever be used to write this book.

On Standing

We stand for different reasons. To keep from sitting to long. The Pledge of Allegiance. A bride walking down the aisle. But for Isaac on Monday, he stood because he figured out he could. I could describe that moment, the first moment he stood for something. Albeit that something was merely because he realized he can.

It was an out-of-the-blue occurrence. Just days before he had started grabbing for things above him. Balancing on three of his four extremities. But on Monday, he made the bold move of, while doing the three-fourths balancing act, to lift his other hand onto the shelf of the entertainment center. I think at that moment, my son developed a dare-devil spirit. Not content with that accomplishment, he strove for something more. Strove to stand for something. It took a minute or so, one that involved him rocking back and forth, hands perched on the shelf, knees under him, during which time he laughed mischievously aloud. And this caught our attention. What was he planning?

Then I saw his leg scoop underneath him and the sole of his foot go flush with the floor. I turned and whispered to the Mrs. , pointing out the development. I mouthed, "Get the camera" and she ran into the other room. Thankfully, he didn't make any move until she got back. And before she could turn it on, he arose. Feet square with the ground, shoulder width apart.

It's the first of his firsts. Sure he was crolling (which has now become a crawl after Monday's events). Sure he ate his first meal, rolled over, slept through the night. But Monday was the first real moment the Mrs. and I realized our son was growing up. Almost too fast. Isaac was standing. Thinking about that moment, the achievement it was for him, one he did without our involvement, did solely on his own, speaks more to how fast he's growing up and how he's developing. In every other first we've been prominently involved. But here we were just bystanders (pardon the pun). Witness to his own will and desire and manifest destiny. And it's a moment and feeling I won't soon forget.

Our son, standing up.

And here's the video version.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

I Think I'll Go To Boston

It's easy to arise on mornings like this. One's where the rain has steadily been falling all night. Where it's moved out, given way to the sun and foretells a glorious weekend of sunshine.

Dane Cook says it best, There is only one October.

And this is an October morning.

On Art

So this is an interesting article. And reading it is almost as big a waste of time as the reason for the article. Finally, one of the world's great mysteries has been solved. But if not for a simple quote near the end of it, reading it would have been a complete waste of time.

"Art is never completed, it is only abandoned."

DaVinci said this. Fascinating idea. And I don't think we're solely talking about painting either. Any kind of art. Music, literature, it all goes un-completed. Ends up like the house on the end of the road with the overgrown shrubbery.

About 6 months ago I ordered a book, Art and Scholasticism. It was a profound influence on some writers I had stumbled across (Ironically it has gone abandoned on my shelf if only because I mistakenly ordered a flimsy bound, large print edition. I'm particular about few things, I like my books to feel a certain way). I think, perhaps soon, I shall pick it up. Possibly there lies an answer to the profundity of the aforementioned quote.

Until that time, I remain challenged by this quote. Can art ever be completed? I suppose in the sense that art is to be interpreted it can never be complete. There will always be a new perspective that can be offered as to the beauty of a particular work of art. But for the artist, must they simply abandon the task? Must they put down the pen, the chisel, the paintbrush and leave? It's been my experience that this is necessary more for the sanity of the artist who tend to go rather Type A on their "masterpieces". But lest we think less of them, consider this: artists (in the broader sense to include writers, musicians and the like) have stumbled into a vast ocean, an uncharted and unmapped region. Pulling from it colors, experiences, rhyme and the details of this magnificent place. Translating and transliterating it to us, the meager peons. And here's where I find this quote so apropos, the artist is just "stretching himself in this world". And it is a vast, nearly infinite world he has just sought to "get his head into". If such is the case, I suppose we cannot expect the artist to complete his work.

But to say it's abandoned. Or must be abandoned. That's a brilliant quote from a brilliant artist.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Getting You There From Here

For aesthetic reasons I've decided to do some "live" blogging at a new blog I've just created. You can get there from here. This way I don't clog up this site. But also, I really like the name of the new site: Crackerjacks and Peanuts. There are more reasons as well, but you'll have to head over there to read them.

Enjoy tonight's game, I'll begin blogging over there right around the time of the first pitch.

Crackerjacks and Peanuts

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

Now we have Midge Masks. Before there were Rally Monkeys, ThunderSticks and Rally Paddles. Now there's Midge Masks? I have respect for Indians fans. Good fans. Love the game. Are extremely passionate in that un-irritable sense. But Midge Masks? I now am no longer in fear of the Indians.

Why must sports franchises do this? Why must they bastardize a game I love? A game I know intimately and as profusely as the expression involving the back of one's hand. It's as bad as putting "Cheer Now" messages on the JumboTron. It was bad when the Red Sox introduced Wally The Wall Monster. Glorious when fans subsequently booed him. No JumboTron message needed then.

Give me peanuts and crackerjacks. Give me the home team in it's final at bat in a close game. Give me the chance to score a run or prevent a runner from scoring. Give me a great pitching performance, a base hit or a run-scoring grounder to short. I'm cheering. You don't need to tell me. Don't need to mask it with some prop. It is what it is. And it's great. If you can't get into that, well, then, baseball is not for you.

But alas it is. So we'll see fans with Midge Masks tonight. But I don't care if they ever come back. Give me a Red Sox win.

NOTE: I'm going to attempt to "live blog" during the game. I'm not sure why though. Seems like it could be fun. So tune in around game time.

EDIT: Semi-related to the post. It's pretty cool. A good Christmas present for Isaac grandparents!

On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

On My Grandmother

After a long battle with cancer, my grandmother passed away Sunday. Surrounded by her family. In her home of some 50 years; the one that got bigger every time we visited because Grandpa was always adding on. It got bigger as her family got bigger.

I will remember her for her strawberry rhubarb pie. For how sweet and bitter and warm it always was. It was a good pie.

I will remember her for her eyes. I have Grammie's eyes. Bright and white. Clear and large. I have her eyes. And so does Isaac.

I remember the summers at their camp. A camp some of you have been too. Grammie and Grandpa's Camp, as it has always been called. Of Grandpa making his famous pancakes and Mom and Grammie shucking corn and peas for dinners. Playing cards and going fishing. Sitting by the campfire making smores.

I remember other moments. Lots of them. How they almost missed my wedding, is among the funnier ones. And over the next few days I will share and remember many more that I have forgotten about Grammie.

And then there was that final trip up to see her in June. The one where we took Isaac. There was the time she held him in her arms, sick with cancer, worn and wearied. And he, perfectly at home, perfectly at rest, fell asleep despite the unquietness around. It is an enduring picture in my mind. Her strong arms, her large heart, his little body, his little heart. Rocking silently in the chair by the window overlooking the yard before the house that she lived in.

I see that moment through her eyes sometimes. Because we share the same eyes. And we share the same skin. And I miss my grandmother especially then.

Why I Love October

Alright. I'm going to be the "blogger". I'm going to post immediately. Vowing to not let my thoughts settle.

What a great night of baseball -- thanks in large part to TBS HD finally settling with DISH Network. I'll admit, I had the Indians-Yankees game on over the start of the Red Sox game (though I did have the radio broadcast coming through the computer so as to not be totally in the dark). Give much credit amongst yourselves, readers, to the Indians. That's a good, good ball club. By the way, Yankees, OFF doesn't work on insects other than mosquitoes. And that was a fantastic game.

But Manny steals the show. Gets the game ball. Is the Your-Name-Here-Because-We-Paid-Advertising-Money-To-Have-It-Here Player of the Game. It was an atrocious pitch by K-Rod. Missed location badly. Missed everything, even the ballpark by the time that thing landed.

And that's baseball in October, all apologies to the 'great' Dane Cook here. Every mistake magnified. Every bug. Every pitch. It's all in play. It all means everything. You can't mess up. You can't let up. You can't make it up tomorrow. All you can do is win.

It's late. Pushing 1am. And. It. Is. October.