Atlanta—It’s late March. Overcast. Chilly. A lot of pollen dust in the air. My windshield looks like the trees have been committing immoral acts upon it.
The Braves have their first home game of the season tomorrow. The town is buzzing.
I owe this city a lot, but I’ve never figured out how to make good on what I owe. Atlanta and I have history.
When we first came here, I was a boy, and I wasn’t sure how I liked it. We stayed in my aunt’s house, in the county seat of Clayton County.
Back then, this place didn’t feel like a monstrosity. Not to me. It was like several small towns quilted together. And I grew to love its patchwork.
I remember going to Fulton County Stadium to see the Braves. In those days, the Braves were experts at losing. But it didn’t matter. A ballgame is its own reward.
I remember once, we were leaving the stadium, I stared through the windshield at a sea of taillights. I'd never seen so many vehicles in
one city before.
“Wow,” I said. “I’ve never seen that many cars.”
My cousin laughed at me and said, “Well, well, well, country come to town.”
I spent some summers in Atlanta, as a young man. It was here that I met a young lady who I thought was sweet on me. Our romance was a flash in the pan, we parted friends. She might read this, so I ought to mention her.
Hi.
As a grown man, I once drove through Atlanta rush-hour traffic with a forty-foot camper attached to my truck. The camper had dual axles and bad wheel bearings. I had white knuckles.
I heard a loud pop. The trailer swerved. I used an ugly word. Cars honked and sped around me. An eighteen wheeler almost ran me off the road.
I pulled over at a liquor store that…