Punched in the Gut (Again)
I am about to reveal two pieces of information about myself that I have been withholding -- for the sake of "anonymity" -- until now.
- I love baseball, and
- I live in Philadelphia (for baseball purposes.)
It's been a long 13 years.
My brother and his wife have two beautiful daughters. My son has grown from a baby jock to a full-fledged one, always pulling for the "Fightin' Phils" -- though we used a different adjective that began with "f" to describe them; always snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. This season was one of the best so far. I really got into it. I also confess to growing attached to the players, forgetting they're just "playing pieces" traded regularly. I always feel a special attachment to anyone who used to be a Phillie. So when they announced that major trade a few months ago with the Yankees (Bobby Abreu and Cory Lidle) I was crushed. Bobby had always been a fan fave here, and Lidle had thrown some gems.
Yesterday afternoon I followed this blog in real time, stunned when I learned the name of the pilot. Although the national news refers to him as "New York Yankee Cory Lidle", the radio here this morning said, "Former Phillies pitcher Cory Lidle." Bottom line is that he was only 34. Sad however you cut it.
Another discolsure: my father has been a pilot since he was 16 years old, and has owned a small plane much of his life. Many of my treasured childhood memories are of "punching holes in the sky" with him on weekend afternoons. Actually, though, the headlines also display one of his greatest fears: that of dying in a plane crash with someone famous, so that the papers trumpet something like "Paris Hilton and 79 others killed in plane crash." How ignominious to be the "another man" killed "with Cory Lidle." I'm sure we'll find out more very soon; I haven't yet read the paper this morning. (I should stop blogging already and go read it.)