Catch Anything?

Walking home on the Strand tonight, my mind turned to thoughts such as these: 

I'm being chased by a ghost, but that's nothing new.

Ain't quite caught me yet.

I turned the same chronological age in May as my father was when he died.

He was born June 30, 1916, and he died on New Year's Eve/Day, 1966.

He was 49, and lived 18,082 days.

I know that, because I Googled the days.

I was thinking about him tonight.

Next Sunday, November 23rd, I'll have been here for 18,082 days, too; every one of them shoulder-to-shoulder with a ghost.

Mom and Dad had four kids, and we ended up scattering like locals at last call. 

We're five years or so apart.

I'm the runt of the litter and maybe the luckiest of all, because I was often given a break when I didn't deserve one.

As time passed, I felt as if I was the Bad Son.

When Betty needed an ally, I didn't do many of the right things for too long, and I usually didn't care.

3,000 miles changed a lot of that.

If I'd realized it sooner, I'd have moved ten years earlier. 

Mothers end up making the best best friends.

I learned the value of living by wits, wile, and a smile when I was an illiterate in Russia.

I was humbled, and it was well past time for that.

Black and white might be gray now, except--of course--for baseball.

You know: 

Ball or strike, safe or out.

No replays at the plate. 

Still, even when you're called out you might be safe. 

I'm not big on looking back; not big on looking ahead.

Right now?

I'm big on that.

Looking back has made me dizzy since that first seizure.

Looking ahead never turns out like I said.

But I'm prone to sentimentality, which only happens right now.

Looking back?

Just for tonight?

Right now?

I'd like to have had the chance to play pitch-and-catch with Dad for hours and hours.

And maybe we'd even fish.

Later I'd like to tell Betty all about Russia, say "Thanks", and argue with her about something small.

Then, to Clare & Carl's for fried shrimp-in-the-basket.

She'd be driving, so I'd have a Genesee.

Back-and-forth until we got to her apartment, then we'd share a Winston, and I'd make her a whisky sour.

You know, go old school...

I'm being chased by a ghost. 

That's nothing new.

Ain't quite caught me yet...