Play By Play

I didn’t see the game last night – but it sounds like it was quite a nail-biter. Man.

My friend David came over last night. We hung out in the kitchen, we drank wine, we talked about life, love, baseball, alpha males, acting, finding the work you love, his kids, our families … I gave him a rough draft of something I’ve been writing for about a year now. He’s read other versions of it, and I really like his eye. I like his perspective – he can see what I’m TRYING to do, and his comments help me see where I am NOT accomplishing it. We talked about our mutual friends, all of their issues, swirling dramas, neuroses … (all with love, of course) It’s always good to catch up with David. It’s also nice to play hostess once in a while.

He’s an insane Red Sox fan. As is his wife.

So the phone rings late in the evening. David immediately knew. “The game’s over.” We both froze. Which way did it go? What would the news be? David murmured as he reached for his phone, “I bet they won.” (Because, obviously, if they had lost, Maria would have slunk off to bed, crushed and defeated. At least this was David’s hopeful – and correct – guess.)

He picked up. And Maria, on the other end, gave him (and me, by proxy) a play-by-play recreation of the game.

Maria would tell him what happened. And he would turn to me and repeat it.

At one point, David got this very serious look on his face as he was listening, and he said, “Keith Foulke scares me, man.”

Indeed.