We’re sitting in a coffee shop in Billings MT, my home town. My only remaining connection here is my mother, 95 and hopelessly memory-deficient. We visit her, and she pretends to know me. She does not, although staff says that in a lucid moment recently she referred to “my boys,” as in “they don’t visit much, do they.”
I have been reading David Crisp’s Outpost as we sit here, a delight. Crisp is a baseball fan, small town variety, or real ball. He covers the local team, the Rookie League Billings Mustangs, a farm team of the Cininnati Reds, which is why I am branded on that team.
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