pecunium: (Loch Icon)
I miss Barry. He was cranky, and difficult. He was open-handed and open minded. I mean that in the best of ways. He wasn't perfect. He had, as do we all, his bigotries. But, and this is no mean thing; it is perhaps the greatest thing I can think of to say about anyone; none of them was fixed.

His mind was open to the idea that he'd been wrong, about pretty much anything.

Well, perhaps with one exception. I thought that little paean was a digression, but it's not.

The one thing I don't think his mind was at all open about what that the Yankees suck. I'm watching the Dodgers on television right now. In the, roughly, ten years, I was in close association with Barry I don't know how many games we saw together. 162 games a season x ten years means we had 1,620 chances. He was probably batting about .900, and I probably caught about half of those (being a bit conservative) and I'll round down a touch, so call it 700.

So watching a ball game makes me think of him (lots of things make me think of him... and thinking of him makes me think of other friends who are dead now, it's a complex thing mourning. I don't think it ever goes away; like a broken bone the pain is overwhelming, then it's omnipresent, then it's steady, then it's chronic, then it's intermittent).

There was a moment tonight (the Dodgers have had a really bad week) when I was yelling, because, with a man on and a tie score, the ball was hit clean to the right side, and then it bounced into the stands. So my, "Oh Yeah!" became, "ground rule double" and then I groaned, because that meant no run, and the score was still tied.

But, unlike the ache of a broken bone, baseball is a pleasant reminder. Also unlike the ache of a long-healed break, it won't fade to never. Every year, from the hope every fan has at Valentine's Day (when the four most glorious words in the English language are heard... "Pitchers and catchers report") to the end of the season, when the joys, and the pains; the moments of glory that rise from even those teams spending the season without any hope of making the playoffs, I'll be reminded of coming home to the sound of Vin Scully, or the static-laden sound of Ross Porter on the radio in the garage, or the times went to the stadium, hot dogs, and beer and the sound of the ball off the bat.

There are worse momenti mori to have than one which is both so present, and which so lifts the spirit.


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May 2016

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