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100 Words on Love by Henry Cherry
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First time I went to a ball game, the old man handed me a scorecard and started explaining the rules and what I was supposed to do each time something happened. I might have been seven, eight tops. I looked at the bright grass filtering up in the outfield where Earl Weaver grew tomato plants. “You make this mark for a hit, and this one for an error,” he said. “Here I’ll show you.“ That was the last time I ever tried scoring a game. But he kept bringing me. Thirty some odd years later most of what we talk about is baseball.
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Photo by Henry Cherry
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Read more from this series: 100 Words on Love
Dad has Alzheimer’s. His wry humour and warm affection are still there. We talk about birds and trees – our shared love of them. He can still spot a bird from 50 odd yards way before I do. He still calls me Duch and puckers up to kiss me. I have his hands, so does my daughter. We talk about the places we’ve travelled together and home in Germany. I love how he wears his Santa hat like it’s his SAS beret. Our love bonds us.
great
I’m conflicted: I want to hear more, but I also want to just leave this glimpse as wonderful as it is. Thanks for sharing, man.
There’s something more in the tomato plants. I as spellbound by the fact that a major league baseball team grew tomatoes in the stadium. Big ones. Thanks for reading!
Hank, there’s a story there. Certainly one has been written about those plants, but what about the boy and the old man and the tomatoes.
You must.
I think there is a story in that. The whole swirl of baseball to a kid as it compares through age. It’s like reading Faulkner, each go round you get something new. Thanks again for prompting me.