It’s been awhile since we last talked. And I know you’re busy. But I have something I’d like to ask, if you have a second.
Please—and I really mean this—let the kid I saw in Walmart play baseball this year. You know the kid I’m talking about. He was wearing a surgical mask. He is small and bony.
He’s not well.
I heard him ask his mother about playing baseball.
His mother answered, “The doctor says you gotta wait until you’re better, sweetie.”
“Please, Mom,” he said.
Listen, I know there are droughts, famines, wars, and one billion people suffering from pop country music. But that boy wants to play ball, God. He was almost begging.
Please. Just do some magic. Make his body work again. If you could just surprise him. That’s all I ask.
Also, bless every person who feels unloved. Bless each soul who feels alone. Bless the ones who feel overlooked. And make the Atlanta Braves not suck this year.
Baseball, God. That’s what I’m getting
at. You know how much it meant to me over the years. After my father died, it’s one of the things that kept me going.
A few more things: help Miss Bonnie. Her husband of forty-nine years was everything to her before he died. She’s a wreck. Look in on her if you get a chance.
Help Skittles, the dog, find an owner. She was found behind Piggly-Wiggly. But then, of course, you know the story already.
Thank you for cheese. What a great idea that was. And for my friends—even the ones I haven’t met yet.
Thanks for Daddy. I only knew him twelve years before he ended his own life, but I feel lucky to have known him at all. Some kids never know their fathers.
And for my mother, who raised us on a shoestring…