This year, none of my boys are on a roster. The question we get asked, always with a hint of sarcasm because it’s not like people don’t have some idea of life outside of baseball, is this: What are you going to do? In no particular order, I have some thoughts on that.
Mothers should have personal assistants. Well, obviously. But in this case I’m not talking about all the hats we wear. Mothers should have secretaries, a person with a blank book and a pen. And this person should follow the mother around all day long and record the conversations she has with her children and the funny, delightful, Bill Cosby-worthy, please don’t ever learn the correct pronunciation for that, innocently profound
We were in that charming little shop they make you walk through before and after they feed you at Cracker Barrel. Jake had picked out a lizard that grows when you put it in water, and I had suggested the giant swirly lollipops that are actually really disgusting yet impossible to resist because they seem like all the good things of childhood painted onto a stick. And then I saw