I remember bupkis about that day. I was a newish mommy with a nine-month-old boychick just starting to cruise the premises and test the concept of mobility. I could never take my eyes off him till he was asleep. The days all blur together. But Char, my mother-in-law, remembers everything about that day.
It was October 15, 1988, Game 1 of the World Series, and Dodger Kurt Gibson had just hit a "legendary" home run in the bottom of the ninth to win the game and ultimately the World Series. According to my M.I.L., "We were downstairs and started screaming and you got so mad at us." "I did?" "We screamed so loud we woke up Billy." "I yelled at everyone?" "You sure did." "Everyone who?" "Everyone watching." "Huh." "You were so mad." "So you said." "I've never seen you so mad." "Great story, thanks."
Yesterday, I was talking to her on the phone, moments before the start of the tragedy that was Game 7, and she tried to launch into the story again. "You'd just gotten Billy to sleep and -- " "Stop." "You got so mad when we -- " "No more, please." "I was sitting next to your dad and -- " "Strike 3. I'm hanging up now."
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