This Is Going Right Over My Bed

He blurted it, like a boy opening his best birthday present, in front of everyone.  (He was about to turn 48, and has just done so.)

"This is going in my bedroom.  Right over the bed." 

Instinctively, immediately, he wanted to sleep under a photograph with breadth that would stretch panoramically across the bed, as the sky that night had swagged Tiger Stadium and hovered, encouragingly, over our seats on the Front Porch.  These were terrific seats, which he had somehow sniffed out as we walked toward Michigan and Trumbull to sold-out Tiger Stadium, where he had himself once suited-up, and where after this night the still-inconceivable no one would. 

We almost never got there.  An apparently convincing phone call to him at his Mother’s, made from Lenox Hill Hospital, where my only friend-with-child had just given birth, worked.   On a hospital payphone, I learned that he was too tired, had too much to do, that the game didn’t matter so late in the season, etc.   Then, he changed his mind.  I should ask him if he remembers exactly why, because this is not a common occurrence.  We agreed to meet in an outdoor smoking area on the boarding level, if I remember right.  Seven serious-sounding words from one late-arriver to an even-later-arriver still echo:  "Now, Sharon, I do not miss airplanes."  arriving from different states, we made the plane.

What a gift to me was his reaction — regardless of whether his girlfriend asks him to put the photograph somewhere else.  These were not feelings I had even hoped to touch in him or myself.  In fact, I am glad for my innocence, as I am not sure I could have brought myself to give him this photograph knowing how stirred he and I would be.   

I will not try to break someone up, yet also not be will not be dishonest about my own feelings.  Now, what good is this?  Well, something good happened on his birthday, whatever it was.  I do not require definitions and stats for every play every day.

That is another episode of Marc and me, and as usual, that’s baseball. 

Thanks, Gremse, as always.  We know you’re watching. 

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