(Ed. Note – This is a special guest post by friend-of-the-blog Jordan Guinn. Get more of his acerbic humor on Twitter.)
Twice in the last three years I’ve been fortunate enough to take a week out of my summer to tour baseball parks across the country with Fernando. The trip involves a rental car, lots of energy drinks and many disagreements about whose playlist we should be listening to.
Before Nazis became socially acceptable again in recent years, they used to make the best villains. Surely, a legion of genocidal war criminals in snappy black uniforms were indefensible – they murdered millions of innocent people! They practiced ethnic cleansing! Who could defend these guys?
It makes sense: the anniversary of his death was less than a month ago. But the strangest thing about my father’s passing is how long it took to affect me.
Maybe it’s the softness that develops with old age. Since I’m now an ancient 33 years old (the same age Jesus was when he was crucified), I’ve definitely started getting sappier. Like, cry-during-a-pasta-commercial sappy. OK, so that hasn’t actually happened, but there are a variety of situations that will result in tears now.
Still I can’t let go. It’s unnatural! I belong to baseball; baseball belongs to meeeeeee….
(This post was written Monday morning)
Fear and Loathing in America’s Heartland has come to an end, as I sit here sipping Diet Coke and waiting to board the plane back to San Francisco. Guess who has to teach a class in Pleasant Hill in 15 hours? The guy who says to sleep when you’re dead (me). Let’s hope I can sleep on the plane this time. Continue reading “Although we’ve come, to the end of the road…”