Matthew, Athlete
I always cringe, particularly at funerals, when matchless excellence is attributed to adults, for their faithful attendance to root for young kinfolk in their athletic endeavors. By contrast, I guess I’m a pathetically-neglectful ancestor. Yes, I’ve dragged myself to the odd soccer-game and emitted the obligatory supportive noises, but I doubt I’ve ever fooled anybody into suspecting that I wouldn’t rather be almost anywhere else. It would probably have conduced to my eventual parental salvation if I’d ever taken part myself in team sports. Matt Matt Matt
But I remember that Mammy once got a hundred bucks for an entry in the Reader’s Digest’s “Life in These United States.” department. She entitled it “And Forget Glory.” It recounted my leaving a junior-high-school report card on the bus and getting it back in the mail with a note from the bus company opining that I surely hadn’t lost it on purpose. She and Pappy never thought the less of me because I could neither hit nor catch a baseball. Nor believed that I should.
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