Goodbyes

It’s a little ridiculous, how certain things hit you.

Tonight, I was at Turner Field for Bobby Cox’s last game. After the last out and the end of the game, wherein the Braves came up just short, the old guy took his final curtain call, tipped his hat to all of us, and trotted down the steps, out of view and, presumably, into Cooperstown.

I caught myself getting a little misty. A quick glance around our section confirmed that I wasn’t alone in it; about half the guys there seemed to be squinting and sniffing. But my throat and chest didn’t tighten because Bobby Cox won’t ever manage another game for us. It's the end of an era, et cetera et cetera, ad nauseum.

Surrounded by 45,000 or so people, and standing with some friends, I missed my mom.
It’s not a new feeling; I miss her all the time. Everyday. But, when it hits you in your chest, out of nowhere like a car accident, it’s a little more real.

Mom was the biggest Braves fan I’ve ever known; that’s weird because there was nothing about her that would suggest that she loved baseball as much as she did. When my friends found out how much she loved the team, it was like discovering that your pastor really, really liked UFC/mixed martial arts/whatever. She didn’t always agree with his in-game decisions, but she always appreciated that he was, above all else, a class act.

(I could go on about this all night, but tomorrow promises to be a long day, and real life rarely has or gives time for sentimentality)

Anyway, as Bobby made his way off the field, and everyone (even the Giants) gave him a standing ovation, I wished my mom could have been there beside me, saying goodbye to one of the good ones.

Live every second

Night, all.