Spill a little mustard on your shirt for Franktuary, which sunsetted its brick and mortar a few years back, but still operates a food truck here and there I hear.
Reverently prepared hot dogs.
Peter and I used to pilgrimage to their Lawrenceville location for boys day out Saturday lunches.
And like the great philosophers of antiquity, we’d spend the purgatory between our ordering and our munching engaging in spirited, hangry debates over the universe’s cosmic questions.
Does ketchup belong on a hot dog?
Answer: as you will consistently find across both your meat-eating eastern and western religions, the creator intended ketchup for hamburgers, mustard for hot dogs.
Are Franktuary’s fresh cut fries with garlic aioli better than Shorty’s fries with gravy?
Answer: What, in life, is truly objective? Just as Plato and Kant tussled with that hot potato across centuries … Peter and I staged “The Great Potato Debate” across many a table over the years. He was unequivocally Team Frankturary. Me? I was polytheistic on the matter. For the ultimate answer … ask God next time you see her.
Without irony, I believe that you can test the mettle of a good cathedral by the questions and conversations it engenders.
Once, while Peter and I were debating metaphysics, Heidegger, and the nature of being — by which I mean whether honey mustard was a salad dressing (Peter) or a condiment (me) — a father and young son, both dressed in Pirates jerseys, sat down at a booth across from us.
No sooner had they taken their seats when the son, maybe eight or nine, asked his Dad, “Who’s your favorite baseball player of all time?”
Which settled the question of God’s existence for me once and for all.
to a quick hot shower after running in the cold and wet at the track after sunset
to air-frying the steak quesadilla Peter made last night and set aside for me … and savoring it standing up in the kitchen
to sailing down Green Tree hill and through the tunnels to receive a weathered city that only glistens at night
to having a pick of parking spots next to the park where people are still pickleballing under the lights
to the luminous marquis of the old Garden Theater standing as proud reminder to never let our past define our possibility
to walking into Alphabet City and finding it full, just as the mighty Alexis was preambling the evening’s program
to grabbing the last seat at the bar, left open because it couldn’t see the stage … but it could see the drummer, which is exactly what you came to see
to a septet breaking into Perdido breaking like a fresh egg over your week’s bowl, seeping down and through all the way to the bottom
to the drummer excusing everyone but the piano, bass and guitar, leaving them to Nat King Cole the shit outta’ Stompin’ at the Savoy, painting life so beautiful in black and white
to the trombone player’s tone on I Can’t Get Started, as full and warm as the bourbon in my second Soothsayer
to the piano player pouring himself Body and Soul, exploring till he found that chord he knew was in there, causing the sax player bowing her head to smile around her mouthpiece … and look up and over to him and nod
to the in-betweens of the bandleader preaching sermons on St. Norman Granz and Jazz at the Philharmonic
to listening with an irrepressible smile of my own to 90 minutes of combinations, educations and improvisations orchestrated as neatly as a bento box, leaving me not full just satisfied
to driving back home in reverie in no great hurry
to pulling in the driveway pushing 9:30 and finding the outside light on and Peter shooting hoops
to stepping into a rebound and dishing his layup
to settling into old familiar rhythms
to knowing it’s in when it leaves your hand
to feeding him in stride and him splashing one after another after another
to seeing your November breath while staying out way past dark on a school night
to calling it, but not before each ending on a make
Went to a storytelling thing in the city a few weeks ago.
Flew solo … something I normally don’t do.
Usually my inner voice prepares a convincing list of reasons it’d be better for us to stay on the couch.
Something about the event’s theme — Bridges — made me think of a small story that might be worth telling.
I’m never really sure of such things.
Inner voice likes to remind me I could be full of shit.
Might be a story only I want to hear.
Which is among the reasons I appreciate the event’s drop-your-name-in-the-hat approach.
Lets the universe decide.
Was late peeling off work.
Got there about 10 minutes before it started. Place was pretty packed.
I made a beeline to the front to see if they were still taking names. Saw Jacob, the event’s producer. He asked if I wanted to tell a story.
“Thinking about it,” I said.
“Awesome. We only have two people so far, so you’re guaranteed a spot.”
Gulp.
Didn’t expect the universe to decide so quickly.
But then, Jacob did this thing.
He looked me in the eyes, put his hand over his heart, and said, “And I’d consider it a personal favor if you could shake the bushes and get a few more people on stage.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was flying solo … and that I didn’t know a single other soul in the place.
Not to mention the event was starting in like five minutes.
“And don’t forget that you’re a socially awkward introvert,” my inner voice chimed in.
Yeah, that too.
But, there was just something about the way he asked me.
Heard someone describe it once as “the happiness of being called upon.”
I had just enough time to grab a beer before things started.
While waiting for the bartender’s pour, I noticed a person at the other side of the bar chatting with some friends.
I don’t know if this makes sense, but have you ever seen someone smile … and, just by the way their smile lives on their face, you can tell they’re a character?
So I notice such a smile, and then a second later, hear the owner saying to her friends, “You know, I’ve been coming to these things for two years … and I have yet to put my name in the hat.”
A second later we make fleeting eye contact.
And I blurt out from across the bar, “TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!”
My inner voice does a spit take … “What the fuck are you doing?”
And I’m like, oh … what the fuck am I doing?
“Sorry,” I say. “Um, don’t mean to intrude … but you should totally do it.”
And she says aloud to herself, as much as to her friends (and, um, me I guess), “You know, I was actually thinking of something …
“ … but I don’t have it worked out or anything.”
“Don’t overthink it,” I volleyed back across the bar. “They’re actually looking for storytellers. I think tonight’s the night.”
“I … I’m not prepared,” she said. “I’d have to be prepared …”
But then … she reached into her pocket. Pulled out her phone.
“I’d at least have to put some bullets down … to see if I even have enough.”
I grabbed my beer and went to find a seat.
As I passed behind her, I said, “No pressure … but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.”
The place was pretty packed. Saw a couple open rows in the back.
Spotted a guy sitting on the aisle, also flying solo. I asked if I could sit next to him.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Have you told a story before?”
We got to chatting. I learned that he was a friend of Jacob the producer.
“Have you ever gotten on stage?” I asked.
Nah, he said. Shook his head for emphasis.
Let a couple seconds pass.
“You know, I was kinda’ thinking of something on the way over,” he said.
“Dude … you should totally do it,” I replied. “I think tonight’s the night.”
“Ah …” he started walking it back in his head.
I wasn’t going to let him off the hook.
“They’re actually looking for storytellers. Jacob told me … they don’t have enough.”
“Really?”
“Don’t overthink it,” I said.
“Ah … I’ll decide at the intermission,” he said. “See how things are going.”
“Wise move,” I said … following it up with one last, “But you should totally do it.”
So, the event starts. First storyteller gets up on stage (and is amazing), then the host goes to pull the second name.
And I see the person who I’d last seen at the bar jotting down bullets into her phone … strolling to the stage.
My heart leaps.
I elbow my next chair neighbor and whisper, “We’re about to witness history.”
And I was right.
Her smile totally gave her away. She had a light, for sure.
In fact, her kindling of that light was the topic of her story.
That she didn’t wait to have it all figured out before stepping into the spotlight … was every bit as inspiring as the words that tumbled from her tongue.
What a gift to bear witness.
When she finished (to raucous applause), I exhaled.
My work is done here, I thought in my head.
The intermission comes. Host goes to pull the next name from the hat, and … my next chair neighbor get up.
Not sure if you’re keeping score here, but … I’m two for two.
And his story?
Epic.
A love story … which he chased across states … countries … years … before it all ran aground.
At the moment of their breakup, they had to decide who got to keep the German Shepherd they’d raised together.
He had rescued it as a puppy.
He loved the dog so much.
Knew he’d take better care of it than she would.
And he let her keep it.
And I’m wiping tears.
That wasn’t even the end of the story, which ended poignantly on a bridge in Pittsburgh, tying back to the event’s theme like Simone Biles sticking the landing in a floor exercise.
It was note perfect, I tell you. Like, one-man-show material.
He gets back to his chair … I’m like, “Dude,” held out a fist for bumping, since the lump still in my throat kept me from saying more.
Then, I hear the host call my name.
I’m still a bowl of soup from my neighbor’s tale.
But I get up and tell my tiny story.
About a scruffy saint I encountered in a coffee shop who reminded me — in both word and deed — that receiving kindness is every bit as important as giving kindness.
I wobbled in a couple places.
I pretty much wobble everywhere I go anymore.
But I told the story that I needed to hear.
At the end of the event, they bring everybody back on stage.
Then it’s over.
Under the best of circumstances, I’m bad at exits.
Flying solo in a roomful of strangers, after being vulnerable on stage for six minutes, I just wanted to get out of there.
But I had to say thank you.
Saw Jacob at the front of the stage.
I told him I fulfilled the mission.
He returned a quizzical look.
“Two of ‘em were mine,” I said.
You should have seen how the smile lived on his face.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
Receiving those words made me put my hand over my heart.
The happiness of being called upon.
I turned to make a beeline for the door.
Didn’t get very far before someone stopped me.
“I just wanted to let you know that your story made me glad I came,” she said.
Oh my gosh, I replied.
So, it wasn’t only a story that I needed to hear.
Almost started crying again.
Then, she did the kindest thing.
“Can I give you a hug?” she asked.
Our stories?
Bridges indeed.
__
Ever since that night, I keep coming back to the same four words.
Four words that I’ve come to realize are a magic spell … for experiencing awe.
“If it wasn’t for ….”
Wherever you are … whenever you are, say those four words, then fill in the blank with the things responsible for this … whatever this is.
Keep filling. You don’t have to go very far before you strike awe, which is merely a bridge … to profound gratitude.
If it wasn’t for Jacob’s Great Commission …
… I’m not sure I notice the way a smile lives on someone’s face … I don’t interrupt a conversation from across the bar … she doesn’t pull out her phone … punch in the bullets that give her the confidence to make history for herself, and do a thing she’d never done in two years of showing up …
… I don’t fist bump a next chair neighbor for exponentially expanding my understanding of humanity’s capacity for grace (he let her have the dog for cryin’ out loud).
If it wasn’t for the theme of the night, I don’t think of a story and spend six minutes wobbling on stage, so I can be reminded yet again by a stranger that …
… it’s just as important to receive kindness as it is to give kindness …
… that we should never be shy about sharing our stories, because they just might be somebody else’s bread …
… that even when we’re flying solo, we’re not necessarily alone.
And perhaps most importantly, I don’t discover this encouraging, bush-shaking voice that I didn’t even know was inside of me … that’s pretty fucking good at its job.
And that is making its debut on the page here to tell you that I would consider it a personal favor, if you would promise me …
… to never underestimate your capacity for being awesome. To be generous with your invitations, your smiles, your encouragements, your hugs, your stories. To never forget that we can’t change anything, but we can influence everything.
No pressure, but just so you know, I’m preparing myself to witness history.
Where others might commission tattoos, I have … t-shirts.
I fall in love with too many things and am way too scrawny to commit to tattoos.
I can be pretty much summed up by and/or reduced to the Billy Collins’ poem, “Aimless Love.”
“But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.”
Much to the chagrin of my wife (and my closet), I find t-shirts inexhaustible objects for my affections.
While shopping local a couple months ago, I stumbled upon the most wonderful creation, whose artist happened to choose a t-shirt for their canvas.
The above captures Forbes Field’s manual scoreboard the moment right before Bill Mazeroski cemented his baseball legacy on Oct. 13, 1960 — the second before his Game7-World-Series-winning home run off the Yankees’ Ralph Terry in the bottom of the ninth inning.
For me it was love at first sight.
So I was bummed when, the day after I ordered, I got an email from Wild Card in Lawrenceville, informing me they were out of larges … and asking me if I’d be interested in a medium instead.
But then I noticed a second email from Wild Card in my in-box. From the same person. Mentioning that if I wanted to try the medium, she’d send me a self-addressed return envelope in the slim (ha) chance it didn’t fit.
Who does that? Wild Card in Lawrenceville does.
Turns out, the medium suited me as kindly as Ralph Terry’s high fastball did Maz.
First time I wore it, I thought of a kindred spirit who would appreciate it.
Texted a pic of my proud torso to my friend Jeff.
His reply reeked of pure Pittsburgh serendipity.
Get this: turns out I actually know the person who designed the shirt.
Not only that, it was Jeff who introduced us a few years ago.
How’s that for a confluence?
Jeff shot me the number of his good friend, Nick, who I texted immediately, informing him of the wellspring of exponential Pittsburgh joy presently emanating from my torso.
“Ha … I think that’s my favorite, too,” Nick replied all the way from LA, where he now lives with his acclaimed-author-and-TV-writing- wife and family.
He summed up the inspiration for the design so perfectly and profoundly.
“Next pitch changes everything.”
Wow.
__
I’ve been walking around with Nick’s words in my pocket ever since our serendipitous exchange.
They keep grabbing me by my collar and shaking me awake.
We are all always only a pitch away from everything changing.
For the better … if you happened to be wearin’ black and gold on Oct. 13, 1960.
Or for worse, if you were wearin’ pinstripes.
Our existence is nothing but precious and fragile.
Yet always pregnant with possibility.
Which makes the choice of putting good into the world — even in something as temporal as a t-shirt — a sacred act.
As sacred as any kindness requiring intention … a self-addressed return envelope just in case, as an example.
If it wasn’t for the kind gesture of the person at Wild Card, I may not have ordered the shirt, and wouldn’t have thought of Jeff, wouldn’t have learned that I knew the designer, would never have sent Nick my gratitude, and would have gone a lifetime missing out on the golden wisdom he drew from Mazeroski’s heroic act.
Our tiniest gestures can be oxygen for campfires … that remind us that we’re connected in ways we can’t even imagine.
Met my friend Jeff after work Friday at the Allegheny Elks on the North Side.
For their legendary fish fry.
Got there a few minutes before he did, so took my place — reverently — at the end of the long line already hugging the side of the building.
While waiting for Jeff to arrive, I took in the majesty of the people standing in front of me, Friday shining under a perfectly Pittsburgh grey sky, the kind that’s never far from rain.
Curly haired babies, old bald heads and everything in between, seasoned with splashes of black and gold even though all our teams pretty much suck.
It’s the rarest kinds of lines.
The kind you actually don’t mind waiting in.
Perfect for catching up with good friends at the end of a long week.
Imbued with the purest of expectations, for a payoff that’s as close to a sure thing this broken world offers.
The kind of line that, even if it was longer, you’d be OK with it.
At least I would.
Jeff joined me after just a few minutes, our big, multi-second hug officially christening my weekend.
We fell into catching up …
“Happy Anniversary!”
“Mary says hello …”
“Going to see …”
“Food was uh-mazing …”
You know, the important stuff.
Didn’t care how long it took us to gain entrance, but when we did ….
The warmth and aromas greeted us like a gentle kiss on the forehead.
Perfectly preserved as if by pickling, the interior of any Elks Club worth its salt.
The vestibule adorned with framed photos going back to black and white decades of past Exalted Rulers and their fellow leaders. An old stand-up sign with white magnetic letters highlighting the current crop, including the name of the lodge’s organist.
I bet she throws down.
The hand-written menu presenting you with the most important choices you will make this Friday. No possibility of a wrong answer. Neighbor in line said they even have a friend who swears by the stewed tomatoes. I take her word, knowing I’ll never find out as long as mac and cheese, french fries and cole slaw are headlining.
The line inside is also perfectly timed … to allow proper deliberation over your two sides and which of the holy (lower case ’t’) trinity gets voted off stage.
It’s cash only.
Perfectly priced platters that, regardless of the domination you break, leave you with some singles to choose an individually wrapped, $1 each home made chocolate chip cookie (or two … or three) from the basket in front of the ladies settling you up.
Even that’s so much better than automatically factoring a cookie into the price.
There will never not be magic to putting your hand in the cookie jar.
After paying you leave with your number to forage for a seat.
We found a couple at the bar.
Cue angel chorus.
Glorious wide oval, three bartenders persistently bantering and pouring like jazz musicians having a good night, one of ‘em wearing a Chico’s Bail Bonds t-shirt that hi-fived our childhoods.
Just like waiting in line, waiting for our food was pure gift, zero inconvenience.
From our seats at the bar, we had an open site line to the Allegheny Elks’ house band — members of the Pittsburgh Banjo Club. Accompanied by a bass player and a trumpet player, they strummed old-timey songs as joyfully as you can imagine.
For me, I equate seeing the Pittsburgh Banjo Club at the Allegheny Elks during Lent akin to seeing Sinatra at the Sands with Count Basie on New Year’s Eve.
Took me back to when I was six or seven years old, sitting next to my sister Missy on the black piano bench in the living room while she played old songs from a thick songbook. We’d sing the corniest songs — poorly, but with gusto — together as she played.
Waiting for our fish sandwiches, I swear I knew the words to just about every tune the PBC was laying down (“Hello, my baby, hello my honey, ” … “I”m lookin’ over, a four-leaf clover,” … “By the light … of the sil-ver-ee moon ….”).
Um, polkas included …. zing, boom, tararrel.
I only wished Missy was there to sing along with me.
Being the next-to-last Friday before Easter, the place was poppin’ … so it took a long time for the food to come … not that we noticed or even cared.
Gave us time to secure enough provisions to line the bar in front of us with tiny filled cups of Heinz, tartar, malt vinegar, along with packets of hot sauce …
… and clink glasses of cold beer straight from the tap.
By the time the food arrived, I was quoting Kurt Vonnegut quoting Fats Waller.
“Somebody shoot me while I’m happy.”
For the fish sandwich, they put the empty big bun on top of the ridiculously wide fish, leaving it for you to assemble.
That’s a glorious bit of experience design right there, giving the audience the satisfaction of placing the final piece of the puzzle.
You have about twice as much fish as surface area on the bun, which is, of course, somehow, the perfect proportions.
Though you are hungry, though you’ve waited a long time in line and sitting at the bar … you take your sweet time.
You savor.
You chat between bites.
You go back for more malt vinegar.
You smile maybe your week’s widest grin when the bartender asks you if you’re ok if he uses the same glass when you switch over to Yuengling for your second beer.
Your smile gets wider when he says, “I knew you were a good people,” when you answer Yes.
You ask the female bartender if anyone ever orders the grilled fish, and she testifies that, yes, people do, and yes it’s quite good, and really, she’s not BS-ing, and to validate her testimony, mentions that she’s sleeping with the grill guy.
You bless their unborn children.
You let yourself fall back in love with the world for a moment when the lady waiting for her pitcher next to you comments that, at first, she mistook your clear plastic cup of malt vinegar — stacked three high on top of its empties — for Jack Daniels … thinking I was already three shots deep and not even halfway through my sandwich.
You politely correct her while confessing, “But, I like the way you think.”
And by the time you’re calling it, with just a couple bites left on the plate, you’re already re-thinking some of the major decisions you’ve recently made in your life.
“Next time, I think I’m going mac and cheese for both of my sides,” said Jeff, as the universe joined me in silently nodding in agreement.
You peel yourself off your stools, taking a last deep glorious inhale and a good look around before you backwash out the bar, through the dining area and vestibule, and back out outside to the long sidewalk …
… where the grey sky has gone dark, and the temperature has dipped a few more degrees to remind you that you are alive on the North Side on a Friday night …
… and a multi-second hug goodbye later — the satisfying last piece in a perfect puzzle — that you were in good company.
For starters I drove through the snow into the city. Roads were awful. Slid into a bank trying to make the left onto Maiden Street.
Traffic on the interstate slowed to a sloppy crawl just before Canonsburg. Google told me I should peel off the exit, so I listened.
Called home to let Karry know my circumstances.
Candidly, part of me was hoping she’d tell me to just come back home.
Give me an excuse not to go through with the second brave thing.
“You should stay on the interstate. It’s gonna be better than the side roads.”
She is so much better than Google.
It was the wisest counsel … from the person who’s been pointing in the right direction for 30 years and counting.
So I got myself turned around. Limped back onto I-79.
Kept going.
Sent a text letting ‘em know I was on my way, but was gonna be 15 or so minutes late.
“That’s OK. You’re on last!”
__
On a whim the week before I submitted something for Story Club Pittsburgh’s monthly live gathering.
Something about the theme — Turning Point — caught my eye. Made me think of something I’d written but never shared before.
The following day Kelly their (awesome) producer emailed me back, “The Spotlight slot’s yours if you want it.”
Eesh.
After I said yes Kelly informed me that the stories had to be under seven minutes.
Over the next few days, violent editing ensued.
By the time I’d gotten in my car Tuesday to drive into the city, I still hadn’t quite limbo’d my story under the bar.
Crawling along the interstate afforded me some extra practice time in the car. Must’ve run through it a half dozen times trying to find places where I could chop a few more seconds … without having to rush it.
And praying I’d remember my edits.
Seven minutes seemed like both forever and not nearly enough time.
As I drove I reminded myself I was last, so I’d have some time once I got there if I needed it.
Arrived while the emcee was still on stage and before the first storyteller.
Other than the spotlight slot at the end, the proceedings are open mic. Anyone who wants to tell a story drops their name in a hat — from which they pick seven names to go on stage.
As I grabbed a chair, the voice inside me said I owed the brave humans on stage my full attention … the same gift I would soon be asking from them.
The greatest gift in the world as far as I’m concerned.
They made it an easy gift to give.
The first person shared a brave and beautiful story about a person they stayed in a relationship way too long with, and what their hopeful but misplaced optimism had taught them. An older gentleman spoke about losing a best friend in high school and how he’s tried to live for both of them since. Another person relayed an amazing daisy chain of grace and kindness from law enforcement that allowed him to essentially walk on water all the way from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. There was a story about a rat in an apartment and another about a snake on a trail. And a lawyer told a tale of tracking down a client who met him not with a handshake, but a shotgun pointed at his chest.
Before I knew it, the emcee was calling my name.
By which point a good 90 minutes had passed since I’d taken my seat.
Since I’d last thought about my story.
I’d been picked as a Spotlight Storyteller once before, about a year ago. But I got sick and couldn’t be there in person. Made arrangements to share virtually from home. Had my notes on a second screen just in case, which made it easy.
This time, it was just me.
No notes.
The lights made it hard to see the faces of the people in the audience.
As I started in from memory, my mouth felt dry.
Was about a minute in … when I felt my words sliding to the tip of my tongue.
Got a little over halfway through.
And lost my way.
In the spotlight.
Alone on stage.
In front of a pretty full house.
With the clock ticking.
Stuck.
But then …
… something amazing happened.
A few people in the audience started snapping.
A couple clapped encouragement.
And a wonderful soul in the front row … one of the few faces I could see in the lights … repeated the last couple of lines I had said back to me.
A roomful of humans that was already offering me their greatest gift, did their best to point me in the right direction.
Took me a moment, but I got myself turned around.
Limped back on the interstate.
Kept going.
Crawled the rest of the way.
Until I made it.
__
On my drive back home, I thought of Patti Smith, and the time she forgot the words to “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” while performing in front of the King of Sweden and the royal family at Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm.
And how beautifully and humanly she wrote of her experience. Of the kindness shown her afterwards by some of the Nobel scientists in attendance, who shared their appreciation for her very public struggle. “I wish I would have done better, I said. No, no, they replied, none of us wish that. For us, your performance seemed a metaphor for our own struggles,” she wrote so movingly in The New Yorker.
It occurred to me that, had I spent those 90 minutes before I stepped on to the stage going over my story, I would likely have avoided my embarrassment and delivered a better performance for the audience I was there to serve.
But that would have come at the expense of giving my full attention to all the other wonderful storytellers that came before me.
It would have required withholding my most valuable gift in the world.
So I refuse to regret my choice.
I accept my stumbling as a fair price to pay … for the gift of bearing witness to their stories.
Maybe even a bargain.
Because had I not stumbled, I would not have experienced an audience of strangers reaching out to steady me.
And the traveler writing these words would be much the poorer for that.
The fortuitous timing of turning back the clocks gifting us an extra hour to make an 8:30 a.m. start time at Station Square.
Karry’s words before I left the house: “Enjoy your time with your son.” Until she said them, my mind was anxious about whether or not I had 10 miles in me (the odds far from guaranteed). Her six words melted my anxiety on the spot, reminding me that the morning in front of me was not to be measured by distance. A reminder that I can’t hear often enough: that what we do is not what we are doing. That it’s not about arriving. It’s about being resident.
Being among the first Sunday morning passengers on the T at South Hills. Watching and listening to it fill up, stop by stop … all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. A crescendo of expectation. By the time we arrived at Station Square, it was filled to overflowing. Spilling out onto the sidewalk to make the pilgrimage over to Highmark Stadium. The loud music and announcer calling us from a distance. The feeling of being part of a summoning.
Shortly after starting, going across the West End Bridge and looking right to see Pittsburgh glistening under the clearest, crispiest blue sky. A lone boat had the confluence all to itself, its wake billowing behind, regal as a queen’s robe. The sun and the scene conspiring to almost make me cry it was so Sunday morning beautiful.
About 2 miles in, I caught Peter on a slight down hill somewhere on the North Side. I stayed just behind him, careful to remain outside of his peripheral vision. I didn’t want to risk him seeing me and feeling compelled to slow down his pace on my behalf. Content to just let him be my pacer for a little bit. What Grace to have lived long enough to follow in my son’s footsteps.
My playlist serving up the best medicine exactly when I needed it. Three miles in, Frank Sinatra crooning, “Nice and Easy,” me hearing Frank’s finger snaps in the mix for the first time. He couldn’t resist … the band was swinging so much. By the last choruses, I couldn’t either. Me and Frank in the rocking chair as it were. Ol’ Blue Eyes subsequently passing the baton to Pancho Sanchez, Rage Against the Machine, Lauryn Hill, AC/DC, Levon and The Band, Morgan Harper Nichols, Indigo Girls and a chorus of other encouragers. One of my best mixtapes ever, if we’re bein’ honest here.
The cheerleaders, mascots, DJs, cow-bell ringers, kids, friends, significants, seniors, families and neighbors who came to root. Especially the two drumlines throwing down. When I saw they had their hands full, I made sure to applaud them.
About six miles in, passing under an archway that read, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Proly woulda cried at that point, too, if I hadn’t been holding on to my tears for miles 9 and 10.
Between miles 7 and 8 we ran on Penn Avenue through the Strip District. It was as close as I’ll ever come to imagining what Stallone had in mind running Rocky through the streets of Philadelphia. Penn Avenue’s melting pot holding down the Strip’s legacy while the world squeezes in on all sides.
Pretty much over the whole endeavor by mile 8, but also knowing I’d run too far to give up. Muscling through the last two on fumes and a blistered and calloused right foot. Accepting every hi-5 offered by folks encouraging from the sidewalk. A thousand bonus points to the saints holding the Mario-inspired “TOUCH FOR POWER BOOST” signs down the home stretch.
Letters for Maggie 