Can't Be Separated
A couple of years ago in a playoff game, with the Yanks season hanging in the balance, and a runner on 3rd with two outs, Hideki Matsui came to bat. My brother Jeff was never a huge fan, figuring that Matsui should have brought more power with him from Japan. Before the 1st pitch to Matsui in that clutch situation, the telephone rang and Jeff said, "Here's your boy, bet he makes an out."
I made the bet and cringed as I did so because even the best major leaguer is only successful 3 out of 10 times. On the fifth pitch of the at-bat Matusi popped it up to the catcher. Before the ball settled into the catcher's glove the phone rang again, but it wasn't Jeff calling, it was his five-year-old son, Johnny - "Matsui is a blankety-blank," Johnny said as clear as a bell.
Now the blankety-blank he mentioned was about the worst words you can imagine in the English language - I almost fell off the couch, but I heard Jeff howling in the background. When he grabbed the phone I said - "You can't teach him those words."
"He won't remember it," Jeff said.
Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon - Matsui up with two on and two out - he hit a weak grounder to short. My body did a spasm as I reached for the phone that wasn't ringing. Two hours later, I reached for the phone again, ready to make the call as Matsui's home run reached the seats.
I didn't receive or make a telephone call yesterday, but I laughed knowing that those two calls would have been made - no doubt, and that's when it occurred to me:
A thing as huge as death can't separate me and my brother.
The banter lives on. The love lives on. The conversations live on.
The physical separation hurts like hell, but he's right there - sitting beside me - and on the other end of that silent telephone line.
I made the bet and cringed as I did so because even the best major leaguer is only successful 3 out of 10 times. On the fifth pitch of the at-bat Matusi popped it up to the catcher. Before the ball settled into the catcher's glove the phone rang again, but it wasn't Jeff calling, it was his five-year-old son, Johnny - "Matsui is a blankety-blank," Johnny said as clear as a bell.
Now the blankety-blank he mentioned was about the worst words you can imagine in the English language - I almost fell off the couch, but I heard Jeff howling in the background. When he grabbed the phone I said - "You can't teach him those words."
"He won't remember it," Jeff said.
Fast-forward to yesterday afternoon - Matsui up with two on and two out - he hit a weak grounder to short. My body did a spasm as I reached for the phone that wasn't ringing. Two hours later, I reached for the phone again, ready to make the call as Matsui's home run reached the seats.
I didn't receive or make a telephone call yesterday, but I laughed knowing that those two calls would have been made - no doubt, and that's when it occurred to me:
A thing as huge as death can't separate me and my brother.
The banter lives on. The love lives on. The conversations live on.
The physical separation hurts like hell, but he's right there - sitting beside me - and on the other end of that silent telephone line.
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