Nineteen

Irish-Rose was late to church that morning. No one knew where she was for awhile until she texted me at the end of the service. Her volleyball coach had died unexpectedly. Eleda English joined us in the parking lot minutes later. Sometimes when terrible things happen – blindsided – it’s good to have a dose of “normal,” so Irish still wanted to go to the game.

We walked the city streets to the ballpark, three red shirts in Holliday, Freese, and Pujols.

Top side of Section 361 in left field, we got a first-hand look at the goods dragged over in exchange for poor Allen and Joe. I wouldn’t warm up to this guy any time soon, I already knew it.

Ten minutes into the game, Rose – vacationing with Joe, Jaya, and Jaya’s family – texted me to say that, while swimming that afternoon, they had almost been eaten by a six-foot shark. Also something about a herd of dolphins and more angry crabs.

Meanwhile, down one run in the bottom of the first, I heard a kid behind me yell, “Come on, Holliday! Save us!”

Six innings later, he did. And the rally followed for a tight win on Fredbird’s birthday.

So on a warm August afternoon, after checking on the availability of Lynn t-shirts at the team store for Carrie – sold out – we packed ourselves up and headed west while the girls discussed Cherry’s upcoming arrival to St. Louis that evening.

Dad had just set out the Cecil Whittaker’s pizzas when we finally rolled in after five o’clock.

Before we left, Francis showed off his new, “new” truck, pondering a name for the silvery-blue Toyota. He was very proud.

Anna came running over as soon as we got home, all excited about the bonfire they were having that night.

“CAL-VIN!!!! CAL-VIN!!!!”

There were soon piles of kids in our backyard collecting from the stockpile of dead branches behind the shed.

Puck finally fell asleep around nine, stuffed with marshmallows, now that “summer break” actually means something in his life. Two more weeks of freedom. “Freedom.”