August 2013 I don’t know what time it was on July 2 that Cincinnati Reds pitcher Homer Bailey walked San Francisco Giant’s center fielder Gregor Blanco, but I knew it was coming. My sister, Karyn, and I jinxed it. The walk came in the seventh inning. Bailey was on fire.
Bear with me if this column is a bit of a departure from my usual style and topic. I’m a bit preoccupied, you see, as my son is due to be born July 22.
I missed the rebound by just about an inch. A much taller 7th grader from Our Lady of Lourdes beat me to it. That was bad, but what was worse was that on the way down I lost my balance and tripped, landing flat on my face. More embarrassing still,
This wasn’t supposed to be my column for this month, but then I’ve got it pretty good. I wasn’t hurt or killed in the Boston Marathon explosions, and neither was anyone I know. But three people are dead, and more than 140 are hurt as a result of senseless violence.
“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day: The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.” Just about any baseball fan or English major is familiar with those famous lines from the Ernest Lawrence Thayer poem Casey at the Bat. The poem resonated