26/Twenty-Four

Little brother Joe was 26 years old today. Married, working hard, happy. Good way to celebrate a birthday.

Speaking of things Joe would appreciate on his birthday, Crackers has recently discovered an interest in the flushing of toilets. She happened to notice the curious swirl of water the other day, and now meows for me to continue flushing it. This sounds like a potentially expensive habit.

Uncle Rico was not in attendance that afternoon. Too hot, maybe. More muggy than hot. Felt nearer August. But that’s St. Louis and that’s how it’s supposed to feel during summer baseball.

Cardinals and Pirates sprawling over the field. Pirates like ants, red Cardinals batting helmets like the sour cherry drops Carrie and I slugged through on the long drive home plugged with traffic. Lunch substitute.

“Did you see all the inappropriate comments these women were leaving on photos of the Cardinals yesterday?” Carrie asked.

Aren’t there always. I believe one such comment included wanting to “rub that bald head and squeeze those arms.” It’s enough of an epidemic that Carrie and I considered developing an anonymous survey to determine which female demographic followed/swooned-after which baseball player. Invaluable statistics to the game.

Anyway, eight and a half innings of zeros led Carrie-Bri and myself away from the high Section 434 to a blistering Ford Plaza to take in a Peter Bourjos walk-off. Jon Jay physically lifted him off the field in admiration. Wasn’t sure that was quite possible, but it happened.

After we finally got through the traffic, accompanied by the low tones of Lana Del Ray, Puck was waiting for me on the porch with Mom, reading “A Hive of Busy Bees,” one of his favorites. His day at school produced results that were, if not confusing, happy for the big guy.

“I did very well today,” he told me proudly. “I got everything right on my quiz. I got a C-.”