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another september night

September 28, 2019

I sat in the stands on

another September night

in another year with

more white hairs in my beard.

 

I looked up at the CN Tower,

at the 1973 concrete stain,

surrounded by a blue September sky

and empty blue seats:

 

The all too familiar baseball scene in Toronto.

 

I sat in the empty Upper Bowl that was once called the 500 Section. Still.

I looked at the old, rusted side of the 1989 blue, plastic, aisle seats.

 

And I remembered the SkyDome with its fresh paint that brought hope.

And I remembered sitting up there in the early nineties as a twelve-year-old 

freckle-faced kid with braces.

 

I looked up at the banners and then

I looked down at the chipped

white paint and the fading logo on the side of the blue, plastic, aisle seats

in the 500 Section. 

 

A small piece of yesterday. Chipped away.

 

June 3, 1989, was a long time ago. 

 

But there I sat in the stands on

another September night

in another year with

more white hairs in my beard.

 

And I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation I had with the older lady who worked concession. She sold over-priced glasses of wine and bottles of water.

 

I bought a $5.50 bottle of Dasani from her because I don’t drink much alcohol these days. I’ve flipped that aging page. It was heavy, but I managed...

 

It

weighed

me

down

for

a

long

time

though.

 

I spoke to that kind, older woman at the concession stand. 

 

Honest wrinkles on her face. 

 

She seemed lonely in that empty concourse. I asked her what her plans were for the Fall now that the baseball season is over. She told me that she works at the Scotiabank Arena, too. 

 

She is a hardworking mother.

 

She came to Canada from India back in 1970 – the CN Tower wasn’t built yet.

And there was no professional baseball in Toronto; no one working concession at a Blue Jays game.

 

She told me that she remembers watching the 1972 Canada-Russia series. She remembers Ken Dryden. 

 

I wasn’t alive yet.

 

She likes hockey now, but she didn’t know anything about the sport when she came here from India as a young girl. She told me that she is sad that the baseball season is over.

 

So am I.

 

When we finished talking, I walked back into my section and sat down. The game was about to start. And I looked around at the blue September sky and empty blue seats. I looked around at the all too familiar baseball scene in Toronto. 

 

I don’t keep score during these September games. I’m just there for the baseball and to say good-bye. Again.

 

I sat in the stands on

another September night

in another year with

more white hairs in my beard. Still.

 

And all I could think about was that conversation with the hardworking mother who sold over-priced wine and water.

 

I thought about her story. And her life.

 

…The Orioles beat the Blue Jays 11-4, but none of that matters.

 

 

 

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