I NEED A GOOD CRY FROM SOMETHING REALLY NICE

A pre-World Series story

I NEED A GOOD CRY FROM SOMETHING REALLY NICE

I voted on Monday. That is to say, I took my completed mail-in ballot and dropped it off in a drop box at the Coral Springs Library. It was 8.30 am and overcast with rain threatening, but the parking lot was mobbed, the green areas were foliated with partisan signs and there were many volunteers everywhere. It looked more like a tailgate then a voting station.

I asked one of the volunteers where to go to drop off my ballot and they told me how easy and quick the process was. I thanked them and walked right up to the box where an attendant checked my ballot to see that it was properly signed and told me to drop it into the slot. I was grateful that they were adding this level of help and I thanked her for her work.

I met two people I knew and said hello and in each case, they showed no sign of recognition until I did something the Lone Ranger would never do, I pulled down my mask in increments until the flash of recognition turned their suspicious look into a glowing smile.

On my way out I talked with and thanked the volunteers who had helped me, and I said that I could not wait for this to be over so I could sleep through the night. One of the volunteers responded immediately with a strong, “me too”. At that moment I felt both a deep bond with a complete stranger and a sense of how deeply and painfully many of us are feeling at this time. I walked away feeling like we all need an emotional release STAT. I offer this story below in the hope that it induces a cathartic cry in all my readers that will wash away some of the excruciating tension we are all living with.

Ethan Anderson posted a photo on twitter of a bucket of free baseballs that his grandfather left outside a batting cage where they used to go together, along with the following note.

Free

Hope someone can use some of these baseballs, in the batting cages. I found them cleaning out my garage. I pitched them to my son and grandson for countless rounds. My son is now 46 years old and my grandson is 23 years old. I am 72 and what I won’t give to pitch a couple of buckets to them. They have both moved away.

If you are a father cherish theses times. You won’t believe how quickly they will be gone.

God bless

Ps. Give them a hug and tell them you love them every chance you get!”

When word of this tweet got out it touched a nerve and spread like wildfire.

Laur Hagn wrote,” I’m 73, crying, and still miss my Grandpa. Once he surprised me by making a teepee in the yard from long sticks and old vinyl tablecloths. Big enough for two friends and me. Give your Grandpa a hug for me.”

Someone tweeted, “the only thing my dad wants on Father’s Day is to play catch with me and my brother”.

Another wrote, “ Omg this is heart-breaking as I have a bucket of baseballs that I pitched to my son. I’m going to keep it for him to use for his kids. Thanks for sharing this-it really hit home.”

My Zaydee was an immigrant from Poland. I’m not sure he ever saw a baseball up close let alone pitched it. But I will always remember the day at the cottage when he brought home a pony hitched to a wagon and led us on pony rides through the neighborhood.

What great memories do you have of your grandfather?

Grandson Anderson confirmed in a subsequent tweet that he would be going to the cages soon with his grandfather.

I realized that this story could have been written before any of us even heard of covid, but how much more poignant now in the age of the pandemic.

I have not kissed a grandchild in 11 months. I have not travelled father than Palm Beach county in 11 months. I have not been to a shule in about 8 months and I have lived in a country I don’t recognize for almost 4 years. It was time for a good cry, a cathartic cry to wash out some of the shmootz I have collected, and to hope and pray that better days are coming, and God willing, I will metaphorically pitch balls to all the kids yet again.

Please share with family and friends and Please Vote.