Being home like this, or at least at my mother’s (she’s moved away from where I grew up so it’s not really like I’m really home home) makes me realize that now is where I should write one of those “going home” type essays. You know, poignant and sad, yet heart-warming and endearing. Lots of stuff about finding small reminders of past lives once forgotten and reconnecting with the past. The kind of stuff people love. The kind of stuff that gets published all the time. The kind of stuff that makes me go “ick.”

Kind of shame, though, cause it doesn’t get anymore Bringing It All Back Home like plopping on a 20-year old copy of U2’s War on mom’s record player and listening to it (album, baby, album!). And I have a pretty good essay too. Why, I know a lot of writing teacher’s and fellow students who’d eat it up.

Instead, I’ll just cut to the chase, save y’all from the sappiness. See, when I got bar-mitzvahed my favorite present, the only one I really cared about (even more than the money which my damn mother spent instead of giving it to me) was a baseball an uncle gave to me signed by Garry Maddox. Garry Maddox was the then-Centerfielder for the Phillies and my favorite ballplayer. As the famous saying went, “two thirds of the earth is covered by water, the other by Garry Maddox.” For years, that baseball was on the desk I had in my bedroom. For years, whenever I needed a boost, I’d pick up the ball. I’d play with the ball. I’d just stare at the ball.

Years and years later, I found the ball. The autograph, the one by Garry Maddox has long since faded away, gone from everything but my memory.

Uh, how’s that? Pretty deep, right? I know, it really puts perspective on things, doesn’t it? Too much fucking perspective….

Eh, enough with this crap....Onto Baltimore.

Happy Pesach everyone.