Baseball

Baseball.
It’s not me, never has been unless you count an unexplainable attachment I had as a child to my “Reggie Jackson” jacket. The jacket was pin striped, I had never seen a baseball game and wouldn’t have recognized Mr. October. I probably swung a few sticks, but I was more likely to swat at monsters than fastballs.

But, I live in Boston. It’s opening day and I’m buying into the eternal rivalry at least for a Sunday evening. I even dreamed about the team. We were playing indoors and using a tennis ball, but the characters were in place. Damon was goofy. David Ortiz was …. big, very big. And I felt about as insecure as an occasional office softball player might, faced with the task of going up against the Yankees. It wasn’t a fan’s dream. It was the dream of an anxious mind. So, I’m here tonight, watching as much because it’s been a lazy but sweet weekend, and I’m happier to let it slide into Monday.