Veterans Day

Twenty-six years ago today, I had planned out a lecture on what would have been the 70^th anniversary of Armistice Day.  I wanted my students to understand the folly of bad foreign policy and the horror of war, but God had other plans.  Instead, I spent the day at the hospital, where my father underwent an eight-hour operation for the removal of a brain tumor.

On a Veterans Day when Clare was in sixth grade, we went to a place called Baseball Alley for a late autumn practice.  I could be a real d.i. of a coach.  Clare would get a hundred groundballs at third base, more if I thought she needed it.  Then I pitched to her, fastballs and sliders.  She liked the one more than the other, so I threw mostly sliders to break her of the habit of moving her front foot and bat in opposite directions:  Stop doing that, for chrissakes!  Maybe I should mention that my daughter sometimes tried to get out of these practices by saying she had too much homework.

Anyway, it was a warm November 11^th, around 11 AM.  We were on the smaller of two fields, the one she had just aged out of, and for good reason.  The girl kept hitting my pitches over the fence.

These are the Veterans Days I remember.