So easy for a guy of a certain age to get all snot-nosed and blubbery and he doesn’t know why and he doesn’t even have a cold or any known allergies, that he knows of.
If there’s any way to let me know if I’m about to run across a kid playing catch with his dad in the long shadows of late afternoon, please do. Take me over to the next block if there’s any chance I could hear “Angel” droning from a neighborhood window.
Goddamn it, don’t let me anywhere near a Hallmark movie, even a Hallmark card. This is a tall order, I know, but friends don’t let a friend write drunk.
But sometimes, crying out loud, suddenly and publicly, is legit. Close friends die, sometimes twice in three weeks. Vinnie took the bus March 8; on March 30, Bob Clingman hopped on, too.
Bob played in the first-ever 3GA tournament in March 2006 at Lake Spanaway, and he played in a sprinkling of events through the early years of the Association. He is best known to the greater world as patriarch of a large blended family that includes his daughters Cheryl Mallory, spouse of our own Chris Mallory, and Susan Jeffries, wife of Kevin Jeffries, the first of our charter members to book passage.
Chris and Kevin mostly called him RG; his wife, Georgianna, called him Mike, for no known reason I know of. The Commissar called him a friend – road trip partner for Husky games in Berkeley and Tucson, Giants’ games in Candlestick and whatever they call the ballpark now on McCovey Cove; seatmate in Section 319 for who knows how many years of Seahawks’ games. Bob would have known.
Alzheimer’s is a shitty disease. Peace, Robert.
The Masters starts tomorrow, which is just a reminder in case you live in Baghdad or Damascus and might think you have more important things to think about.
Jason Day will win, and when he does, please remember that you read it here nowhere near first.
Further, while you watch, remember this: it’s not real.