99 MPH

As I lay motionless on the ground, a single thought entered my mind : "Please don't let my father see me die." Then I passed out.

My fastball was clocked at 99 MPH, but I knew as it left my hand that it was going to catch too much of the plate.  In slightly less than .4 seconds the 36 ounce bat had done its damage. In that small window of time the batter, a man standing 6 feet 5 inches tall, weighing 235 pounds, who had already hit 46 home runs in the 2015 season, had gotten a visual read on the pitch (after about 12 feet), decided to swing (after about 30 feet) and began his attack on the less than 150 gram (about 5.25 ounce) sphere hurtling towards him.

The exit speed of the ball after the collision of the two moving objects was estimated at 113 MPH. A study stated that a 90 MPH fastball can be returned by the hitter at up to 110 MPH. But as my offering was 10% faster than the study, and thrown to one whose bat speed was off the charts, the study be damned. The ball hit me before I even had time to flinch.

My mother had died that spring. She was 60 years old and had suffered through a three year battle with cancer. There had been the usual treatments with chemotherapy and radiation, and she had undergone surgery to try to eliminate the tumor after it had shrunk due to the medical attack upon it. But,in the end, it had been too far progressed before it was discovered. And despite every effort of the doctors, and the incredible will of my mother to live, the disease had proven too strong.

My father was heartbroken. He and my mom met just after he finished college and was entering law school. She had been lukewarm to his attentions which drove my father absolutely nuts. After repeated efforts to convince my mother that he was worthy of her, she relented. A one year courtship began and in the spring of 1977 they were married.

I was the oops baby. My oldest sister was born in 1981, followed by a second child, another girl, in 1983. Even though both my parents would have liked a boy to give some symmetry to the family, it was decided that two was enough. But then, in a scene that must be repeated in many households in every country in the world, one night in November,1988 something went wrong (or right) and so here I am.

If my father was a talented attorney, which he was, he was as inept in every other phase of life as was humanly possible. My mom always used to lament the fact that she had four children. The truth was that she had three children and one infant. While my sisters and I developed at a normal pace of growth, mentally and physically, my father was stuck in a holding pattern, unable to perform the most basic of tasks. And so the roles of chief cook, bottle-washer, worker, mom and, in many aspects dad, fell on the tiny shoulders of my mother.

The one area where my father and I could bond, and did, was over baseball. He loved the game, loved the smell of it, the sound and touch of it. He loved everything about it, and most of all he loved to watch me play. From my earliest contact with baseball, I was as drawn to it as my father, and because of my father that love was only enhanced. We talked baseball, we listened to baseball, we watched baseball and we always, always played baseball. My first recollections are of me with a mitt on my hand. My first pictures are of me in the crib, with a ball and bat mobile over my head. And from the first, from the very beginning, it turned out that I had a special talent for the game.

My dad was assistant coach on my Little League team. He used to rush home from working in New York City to appear in our suburban community in Bergen County in time for the beginning of the game. Often he would change out of his shirt and tie in the dugout seemingly only seconds before the first pitch was thrown. But I never remember him being late and I never remember him leaving until the last member of our team was picked up by a parent and safely on his way home.

When I was 11, I pitched a perfect game,  dominating the other team, embarrassing most of the hitters. After it was over, my teammates and I joked, in the cruel way that young people do, about the shortcomings of an over-matched opponent. When my dad and I were the only ones remaining in the dugout, he told me to come over to him. "I have never been as disappointed in you as I am now." His words were almost spit out at me. "You have been blessed with a special talent, but that does not make you any better than the next person. Those players on the other team may not have your athletic skills but today they were far superior to you in ways that are much more important. They tried as hard as they could, they took their defeat with grace, they were true sportsmen and athletes. Today they were the winners and you and your buddies showed yourself to be nothing but a bunch of immature losers." There was only silence on the car ride home.

Soon after my mom was diagnosed, my parents sat me down to tell me of the prognosis. I was in Triple A ball at that time, in my first year after having graduated from college. My parents had insisted that I finish my schooling before embarking on my career, even though I had been drafted in the second round immediately after finishing high school, and even though a very sizable financial incentive had been dangled in front of me to forego my education. I loved college and while I had occasional regrets about not taking the money and heading off to the rookie league, I came to appreciate my parent's insistence that I put my baseball career on hold.

I was in the living room of my parent's house when my dad began to cry, softly at first, then more loudly and finally uncontrollably. My mom told him to stop, that it was not doing her any good and it was certainly not making it any easier on me. And then she almost whispered to me that she had between 6 and 12 months to live. I watched the tears stream down my father's face,even as he tried to stop them. 

I headed back to my team the following day. I had only been elevated to Triple A  three weeks earlier. I hadn't really made any good friends there and so I dealt with my mom's "situation" on my own. And not very well. I was treated very rudely in my two outings the week that followed the revelation.

And then one night there was a knock on my apartment door. There stood my parents, my mother with a scowl on her face, a deep, full look of disgust and displeasure directed at only me. "What the hell is the matter with you?". My mother NEVER talked to me that way. and certainly not after just having completed a 350 mile journey in a 14 year old Audi with intermittent air conditioning, in order to visit her one and only son. "Stop feeling sorry for me and STOP feeling sorry for yourself. Get over it. Your father and I are dealing with this and you are NOT allowed to make this any harder on us. Go out and pitch like you know you can. Make us proud." When she finished speaking she closed the apartment door in my face. She and my father got back in the car and drove the 350 miles home without a stop. I did not give up another earned run over the 34 innings of relief I pitched the rest of the 2011 season.

I am told that I appeared to be unconscious even before landing face first in my descent from the pitching mound which is elevated 10 inches from the rest of the diamond. . The ball hit me squarely in the left temple. I had always been known as a good fielding pitcher, as my follow through set me up well to gather any ball hit back to me. If I had been less adept, maybe my body motion would have put me in a different stance and the bullet might have laid a glancing blow or even whistled by me entirely. 

As it was, after striking my head, the ball retreated in the direction from which it came, bounding with much speed just next to the dugout where my teammates watched in horror. One camera angle panned in and captured the faces as they realized what they were witnessing. My best friend on the squad came running out to me even as the play was still unfolding. It was a violation of every rule of the game to enter in the midst of the action, but for this wrong no punishment would be meted out. 

My father had come to very few games during the 2015 season. In the early months, he was still in deep mourning, most days only working part time and on occasion not even bothering to get out of bed. He was, in my opinion and that of those around him, clinically depressed. Baseball, which had always captured his heart and his soul, was unable to even capture his attention. And even as I was having the best season of my career, making the All-Star squad for the first time, and getting close to signing a 6 year mega-deal with my team, even then, he was unable to gather any pleasure from what was happening.

Reluctantly, he attended the All Star game with me and took in some of the festivities. In the past, his being shoulder to shoulder with the greats of the game would have brought him to a place of unadulterated joy. But without my mom around, he was a lost soul. Even my appearance, striking out all three batters I faced, with one pitch being clocked at 101 MPH brought only a somber "job well done" when I met him in the locker room after the game.

As July gave way to August and then September, the race heated up. We were only two games out of first place on September 13, and the team that stood between us and the pennant was in town for a three game set. We managed victories in both of the first two contests and so, on the morning of September 15 there was a deadlock at the top of the standings in our division. And, for the first time all season, my father seemed genuinely interested in what was going on with me and with the game we both adored.

We drove to the park together, arriving about 3 hours before the first pitch. On the way in, we talked about the excitement of the moment and the electricity that would be felt at the stadium that night. We discussed how good my arm seemed, even this late in the season, and how eager I was to get the ball in my hand. I wanted to pitch on the night of September 15 maybe more than at any time in my entire career. I felt that I could bring my dad back into the world if only I could do my job well on this night. That he could stop grieving and start living. And I wanted to do this for my mom to show her that I had learned the lesson she taught the day she yelled at me and closed the door in my face.

On October 16,1920 Ray Chapman was hit in the head by a pitch from Carl Mays. It was twilight, the ball was scuffed up, and reports are that Chapman never saw the pitch that killed him. The ball hit his skull with such force that Mays thought the ball had made contact with the bat. As the ball rolled out to him on the mound, he fielded it and threw it to first. Chapman took several steps before collapsing to his knees, the blood pouring out of his left ear. Twelve hours later he was dead. It remains the only fatality of a player in the history of the major leagues, dating back about a century and a half, and involving pitches and hits in the many millions. As I remained apparently lifeless on the field, the question everyone watching was pondering was whether I would be the second. My dad's face turned ashen and he sunk deep into his seat, almost fully slumped over.

I had pitched the bottom of the eighth inning in this tie game, thrown only thirteen pitches and retired the side in order. It was not my routine to pitch two innings, having only done this once in the season. But this was a pennant race and the rules of engagement were now changed. And so I headed back to the mound for the last of the ninth with our team leading by a run, thanks to a massive home run from our clean up hitter. Three outs away from the sweep, and headed to first place. I hoped my dad was enjoying the moment.

Herb Score arrived on the major league scene as a 21 year old phenom in 1955. He would strike out 255 batters that season a rookie record that stood for almost 30 years. He won 20 games in 1956. On May 7, 1957 he threw a fastball to Gil McDougald. The ball sped off McDougald's bat and hit Score squarely in the face, breaking multiple facial bones and damaging his eye. McDougald, seeing what had happened, ran not in the direction of first base, but directly to the mound. While Score would recover, his career never did. He eventually retired in 1962, well short of his 30th birthday.

The 6 foot 5 inch 235 pound man instantly knew that I was in trouble. Much like the reaction of McDougald, and even in the most heated of moments of a pennant race, his instincts took over. He sprinted from the batter's box, not to the base that was awaiting his arrival as the potential tying run in the most important game of the season, but towards me. He would be called out for running outside of the base paths. 

The protocol in baseball, when an injury happens or is suspected, is for the team trainer to head out to the field to inspect the problem. Then, except in the rarest of instances, the player is helped into the dugout, if that is required, or walks off "under his own power". In all the years that I had watched baseball and in all the years my dad had been around the game we had never seen the ambulance go through the outfield gates in the first instance. But, within a matter of what seemed only a few seconds, there they were, ready to attend to me. They knew this was serious.

My dad had been seated several rows back from the field, along with family members of many of the other players. After sitting slumped over for an instant, he suddenly righted himself and stood up erect and focused. He was going to his son, his only son and no one was stopping him. 

The security guards formed a protective shield around my dad and brought him to the edge of the field. There he jumped over the three foot barrier and ran towards me, in full stride. In what was but a brief moment from when I went down, a most unusual group huddled over me; the medical team, the batter, my best friend and my father. As the umpires attempted to restore some sort of order and the teams stayed a respectful distance away, this strange entourage assembled. In the days that followed, the picture of these people thrown together in the worst of circumstances went viral, receiving almost 30 million hits within the first 72 hours.

And as I lay there and the medical team worked furiously to try to get me stabilized so they could move me into the ambulance, the voice of the most senior of the medical personnel could be heard. "This does not look good", he said reflexively and no one in particular, "this does not look good at all."

The Orange Man Leaves the Building

It won the 1946 Academy award for best original song. As John Boehner entered the stage yesterday, he was singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. A wonderful day to exit.

There was cannibalism at work here, as Mr. Boehner was devoured by the same forces that elevated him. The most wrong of the right wing, the strongest brew of the Tea party, the shut it down Chloe, shut it down voices finally were too much for the man of orange.

We have watched from his tearful entrance as Speaker to his not so tearful exit. The party of Mr. Boehner is not governable as it is at war with itself as well as with the Democrats. No matter how many government shutdowns, no matter how many anti-Obamacare votes, no matter how many confrontations with the President, it would never be enough. As wrong and stubborn as Mr. Boehner could be, it could never satisfy the insatiable appetite of his fellow House members for Armageddon.

Maybe the best joke President Obama told at the annual political roast related to an incident when Mr. Boehner's own turned their ire on him and not the President. "Orange" the President stated, "really is the new black." 

Mr. Boehner leaves as the walls were closing in on him.  It may well be that the last vestiges of common sense, much like Elvis, will be leaving the building when Mr. Boehner departs. Plenty of sunshine may be coming his way, but for the rest of us, even darker clouds loom on the horizon.

The Boy Who Cried Fox

("Donald Trump Quits Fox News(Again) After O'Reilly Appearance is Canceled")

The Boy who cried Fox.

(Alternative - What came first, the Chicken or the Fox?)

Lawrence Peter Berra

He was the master of misstatement, a lovable cartoon character, an everyman who was anything but. Side by side with the grace of DiMaggio, the combativeness of Martin, the astounding natural ability of Mantle, the eye was not first drawn to him. But he was the picture of pinstripe pride and despite his longstanding feud with the Boss and his dalliance with the crosstown rivals, he was always our Yogi, once and forever a Yankee.

There are the iconic images indelibly ingrained, as he jumps into the arms of Larsen  after the last strike or rages at the umpire after Robinson's steal of home. That is the Yogi we knew, full of passion, playing the game on it's biggest stage, living or dying with every twist and turn, much as we did.

In the later years, when he returned to the Stadium an old man, he was small in being, far too physically inconsequential it seemed to have ever made a lasting impression on the game. But there was no mistaking his mark, the numbers telling of his majesty.

However, in the final telling, it will be the man himself, not the hits and homers that we most recall. Yogi, ugly but beautiful, little but large, butchering a phrase but with intent, unremarkable but actually amazing. And most certainly one of a kind.

A Gift Rejected

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS PIECE APPEARS IN THE RECORD ON SEPTEMBER 26, 2015

They are released from the constraints that bind those schooled in political speak. But candidates Trump, Carson and Fiorina have taken those freedoms as license to talk not of lofty goals and ideals but of hatreds and vilifications.

Trump finds villains at every turn and condescension in every phrase, Carson  has condemned everyone from the President to all Muslims in terms that demonstrate the depth of his prejudices and misconceptions, and Fiorina grossly misrepresents the truth of her personal achievements and her political understanding to try to amplify her knowledge and gravitas.

They have been given a gift these three, the opportunity to rid us of the conventions that stifle and smother our political discourse. But they have not taken advantage of their unique position and have delivered neither fresh ideas nor smarter conversation.

If we were looking for a change from the same old same old, this was not what we had in mind.

The Ralphettes

I have become the newest member of the Ralphettes. It is not everything I hoped for, but at least it's a start.

As far a I can tell, there is only one song in this backup group's repertoire:  Mustang Sally. The Ralphettes have sadly only performed on about a half dozen occasions over the last quarter of a century. All have been at weddings or bar-mitzvahs, and only when the entire group, and their lead singer Ralph, have been invited guests.

Saturday was their most recent performance. I have now been informed by one of the Ralphettes that they were given only an hour's notice before being called upon to do their thing. The lack of preparation showed. Trying to shake off the rust from so many years of inactivity, and not actually doing anything to get ready, the group's timing was far from perfect. It was, truth be known, a rather pedestrian showing by my now fellow Ralphettes.

They all should have known better. Ralph was the father of the bride and so the revival was all but assured. And when, earlier in the evening, Ralph took the mic and rock and rolled a couple of tunes, the inevitability of the reprieve of the group must have been crystal clear.

The Ralphettes, now all at or near the beginning of their seventh decade, know they need some new blood. And my blood, while probably older than any of theirs, still would at least add novelty. The first male to break the barrier. The first outsider, someone who had not been at any of the earlier performances of the group. The first without any rhythm at all. Well maybe that last one is not the highest of my qualifications.

After the festivities for the night had concluded, I went up to one of the Ralphettes to congratulate her on an unforgettable moment (I didn't say why it was unforgettable). She lamented the group's lack of readiness, and apologized for the unevenness of what I had witnessed. She had noticed my frenetic jumping up and down and almost spastic dance moves throughout the evening and thus discussion turned to the possibility of me making the group one larger.

I wonder if the Beatles thought that Ringo joining them would be the final piece of the puzzle. I wonder if Abbott felt the chemistry with Costello from the moment they shook hands on their partnership. I wonder if Hillary knew as soon as she laid eyes on Bill that her life would be changed forever.

After cementing my place in the Ralphettes with all its members, I immediately began to think big. Maybe we should break off from Ralph as he was stifling our creativity and our opportunity. And maybe we could enlarge our song list from one to two or three. And maybe there could be a new lead singer in town. Preferably a male.

My early career got off to a very promising beginning. When I was in fifth grade, I performed Under the Boardwalk before an audience of hundreds.  So what if the entire elementary school was required to attend the assembly. I am certain they hardly noticed the few off key sounds or the one octave range of my vocal cords. Sadly, my own group of backup performers and I disbanded after my one and only star turn. And equally unfortunate is that my upper and lower registers have only shrunk during the succeeding decades, leaving me virtually no song that can be sung in the proper key. But I am not deterred.

So what if I don't know if any of my fellow band members can carry a tune. Their few doo wops or whatever else was coming out of their mouths was drowned out by the clinking of glasses or scraping of knives and forks, by the chatter from the tables, or the general buzz in the audience as Ralph held court. It matters little. What is of more consequence is that we form a real identity and try to get a manager to get this thing moving forward.

One of my best friends represents a rock star now far on the wrong side of 60 whose career has been revitalized thanks to the magic of his manager. I wonder whether he would be interested in handling another band in need. an all girls backup band, with a guy. A guy without rhythm or voice. What could be more enticing.

I think the future is ours for the taking.

Introducing the Republican Ticket for 2016

("The Rubio and Fiorina Option")

Who knows where this bizarre primary season of discontent in the Republican party will lead. There were past flirtations with total madness, think Michele Bachmann or Herman Cain, but these passed more quickly than Trumpmania.

However, if the insanity dissipates, I would suggest that the strongest Republican ticket could well be formed from the two most critical swing states in the nation. John Kasich sounded the alarm bells as the debate speak veered off into the fantasy land of ripping up the Iran deal "on day one" and shutting down the government, yet again, this time over Planned Parenthood funding. A seasoned politician, popular enough in his home state of Ohio, Mr. Kasich is still of an age to make the Democratic candidate ( Hillary or Bernie) appear a generation too old.

And Marco Rubio, with the background story of his family, the state of Florida in which he holds office, the certainty (and more knowledge than most) of his thoughts on foreign affairs, his deeply conservative beliefs  and his youthful image, provides what would seem to be a perfect partner for Mr. Kasich.

There have been five open seat Presidential elections since 1960,when the television era truly changed the dynamic with the Kennedy- Nixon debates. While the younger candidate has not always been successful (the victors were Kennedy in 1960, Nixon in 1968 and Obama in 2008 while the older candidate George H. W. Bush in 1988 and George W. Bush in 2000 were winners, even as W. managed to lose the popular vote) history would seem to indicate that youth is more likely to be served.

So, even as I am a died in the wool Democrat and vehemently disagree with the policy positions of both Mr. Kasich and Mr. Rubio, I would suggest to the Republicans that they could do far worse than teaming these two on their ticket next year.

Ronald Reagan, The Next Dead President of the United States

Given that illusion is the heartbeat of this Republican primary season, as the leader of the pack is without even the most basic concept of what it takes to govern this nation, I would suggest that the man whose name was possibly repeated more than any other at the second debate be named the Republican candidate for President. Ronald Reagan, whose Presidential plane served as looming backdrop, whose attributes were invoked as a greatness now lost, whose accomplishments seem mythic, who better to lead this country out of the wilderness.

Who cares that he is long dead. What matters is that he continues to inspire. Let the thought of him guide our decisions, strengthen our heart, calm our shaking hand, and bring us to a better tomorrow. Long live the next dead President of the United States.

The Flavor of the Month

Heading into tonight's second Republican debate, it appears clear that the candidacy of Donald Trump must be taken seriously. While some pundits point out that Mr. Trump has the support of only a relatively small percentage of potential primary voters in his party, it stands to reason that many, if not most, of those now supporting others will likely switch their allegiance to Mr. Trump as the number of candidates whittles to a precious few.

However, we should turn to the most recent past, four years ago, to gain some perspective on whether we will be going to Mr. Trump's coronation in January of 2017. In the summer and fall of 2011 the following were national headlines:

July 19, 2011 - Michele Bachmann takes lead in national polls

August 15, 2011 - Donald Trump leads 2012 GOP field

August 24, 2011 - A second poll in two weeks shows Rick Perry with a significant lead over his competition

October 7, 2011 - Herman Cain opens up a 20 point lead on Romney

This election cycle feels different, seems like every predicate is without meaning and the only constant is that the conventional is in serious trouble. Non-politicians prosper on the right and a life long lone voice on the fringe surges on the left.


But for those of us who find ludicrous the thought of a Donald Trump running the office of the Presidency like a bull in a china shop, at least we can hold on to history for some comfort in knowing that today's king or queen may well be old news tomorrow.

Will People Actually Vote This Time?

("Latinos for Donald Trump")

Wasn't it Mitt Romney who spoke of making life so miserable for "illegal" immigrants that they would self-deport? Wasn't there conversation in the Republican debates of building a moat to keep out the unwanteds? Wasn't it perfectly clear four years ago that the Hispanic community was considered a blight upon our nation by one of our two parties? And yet the numbers reveal that less than half of the eligible Hispanic voters even appeared to cast a vote at the ballot box.

This is intended as a blanket indictment of a nation that cannot be dragged from its apathetic stupor. What could be more meaningful to the African Americans in our nation than the re-election of Barack Obama? Yet one in three did not exercise their fundamental right. I well understand the impediments placed upon many in voting, made only more difficult by the many methods employed by the Republicans to keep likely Democratic votes from being cast. But that does not explain the staggering numbers who stayed home on election day.

Mr. Trump may be around next November, and, if so, his candidacy may signal a call to arms for those deeply offended and aggrieved by his incomprehensibly inappropriate remarks. But, until that day comes and evidence proves me wrong, history teaches us that nothing will change this from a nation whose principal vote is cast for no one.

Serena

What constitutes a miracle? The US ice hockey team beating Russia?

How about the very young Cassius Clay who some thought was too scared to even enter the ring, standing over the bear, Sonny Liston, who had twice destroyed Floyd Patterson?

Or Buster Douglas taking down an unstoppable Mike Tyson?

Maybe even the Joe Namath led Jets victory over the inVinceible Packers?

They all seem to pale against this. The great Serena, having turned back every challenge thrown her way, with the end tantalizingly close, a grand slam for the taking. And who even heard of her opponent before this week? Immortality lay just ahead.. Too close to the sun, like Icarus.

Sports draw us in emotionally in ways that defy logic. And when we are so invested, the good and the bad become not just events, but reach a higher plane, become, well Al Michaels knows what they become.

Charlie

Charlie nestles into Laura's lap as though he is trying to enter her womb. Not so much sitting there as becoming part of the body to which he is quite evidently emotionally, and now physically attached.

Charlie weighs 7 pounds, just about the size of an average newborn and he is more than good looking. He turns heads wherever he appears. Walking with him for but a few minutes, I am approached by a number of total strangers who are compelled to advise those with whom I stroll of what is so clearly evident.

Charlie is a cockapoo, with tannish fur and beautiful eyes. He is less than 6 months old and will, at full growth, likely have a hard time breaking into double digits on the weight charts. He is, and will forever be, incredibly cute.

Laura is our third child. While her parents might disagree with our assessment, we claim rights to her when she is on American soil. Laura is English but has resided in the U.S. for well over a decade. She befriended our son, who is the same age as Laura, in 2003, and they have remained close ever since.

For a time in late 2013 and early 2014 she lived in our home in Massachusetts. Soon it was filled with smells of incense, books on meditation, little Buddha like figurines, and writings on women's advocacy. Laura is, in her own way, as compelling  and mesmerizing a figure as Charlie.

Laura is now married and living on the wrong coast of the country, thousands of miles from where my wife and I reside. I witness, over the course of our visit, the joy that radiates from Laura and her betrothed. And the space that Charlie fills.

For all Laura's strengths, of which there are many, being able to have a perfectly calm center, is not one of them. Maybe that is why she and our son bonded. Souls not easily at rest.

The  meditation, the yoga and all the external signs throughout our house in Massachusetts were directed towards the goal of finding that inner peace. And Charlie has entered Laura's life to help her locate that place from which quiet emanates.

Laura did not say if Charlie was acquired as a companion dog. But whether or not that was true, it is clearly the role for which he was perfectly born. As Laura sits on the floor, legs crossed in a Buddha like repose, Charlie wanders over to her, and essentially melts into the space waiting for him. Laura leans over, softly repeating Charlie's name, then straightens up and continues our conversation.

Our house was filled with pets for about 3 decades.  Young dogs who grew old and then were gone, each one wonderful in his or her own right. We even adopted a dog that had been beaten blind as a puppy, who used our shepherd as a kind of seeing eye friend. While each of them filled up significant space in our hearts, they were not there to do what seems to come as instinct for Charlie.

He is a preternaturally calm puppy. There were 2 other dogs with him yesterday, one barking out orders to play, play with him. But Charlie would have none of it, preferring to investigate his surroundings on his own terms.

And every few minutes he would retreat to home base where he would rest in the comfort of Laura's embrace. Two beings bringing one another serenity.

It is nice to see our third child doing so well. It is hard to know exactly what is going on inside the head of another, but the laughter and smiles, the soft touch of her hand upon her husband's arm, the ease with which they spoke to each other, were reassuring signs. And in the center of it all, that quiet center, was Charlie.