Baseball
Last night was strange. We watched baseball. It was hard to watch it – the players weren’t all that into it, the fans really weren’t enjoying it, and the announcers kept reminding us during the whole game how everyone’s hearts weren’t really in the game. Then why play? Why go? I, for one, thought that it was marvelous to be able to watch something other than the news for a few hours. We’ve watched the tragedy unfold countless times on our TV screens, sat there glued to the set waiting for one more scrap of information, one last glimmer of hope that it wasn’t as bad as all that. It’s been a week. Reality is starting to settle in, that this really happened, it wasn’t a nightmare, it can’t be undone. We’ve had to move on, go back to work, take care of our families and our affairs – with precious little time to mourn the loss of lives and of innocence. An escape from that reality, even for just a few hours, is not a bad thing. And to me, baseball has always seemed like time out of time – not unreal, but another reality entirely (think Field of Dreams). So I will unashamedly watch baseball, and weep when they sing the national anthem (and not just because they’re singing out-of-tune, I swear!), and wave the flag in my head (I still can’t find one anywhere in Rochester). I will give my husband and my puppy extra hugs every day, and thank God constantly for my family and friends. And I will never forget what happened on September 11, 2001. (And I will try very hard to come up with a more light-hearted blog one of these days – this has, though, been great therapy.)
