But it was so quiet. I heard chirping birds, and here I'd thought there was no better sound in life than the crack of the bat or Maria Sharapova's voice in a one-on-one interview.
The wind was blowing, the leaves rustling, and no one ever mentions the leaves are rustling unless they have to write a sentence explaining what the leaves are doing in the wind.
I left the Blackberry inside the car. It's just one of those little sacrifices we all make in life, although I'm not sure anyone here was going to object.
My mom's headstone read: "Wife-Mother." I'm guessing she left instructions that I should not write her epitaph and cause a cemetery disturbance.
My dad's reads: "Husband-Father," and it took me 1,000 words to describe Josh Hamilton.
This is going to sound wacko, but I could actually picture my parents lying there, and it was comforting.
It could not have been more perfect unless they had popped up to say hello and had the ability to catch me as I hopped the fence screaming and running for my life.
I found myself telling my parents how much they meant to me, as corny as that is, and I'm not sure I could give them a better gift. I'm guessing cigars will no longer work for my dad.
Our kids never met my mom, were too young to recall my dad, and react like someone listening to me read my column out loud when I start telling stories about my parents.
I worry when my brother, sisters and I go; it will be like our parents never existed. And here I am in the business of immortalizing guys who get three hits every 10 times up.
Well, not tonight. I skipped the game to hang out with my mother and father.
They saved me from having to watch our dead men walking against the White Sox.