Big Hurt

I am watching The Big Hurt get retired by the White Sox. It is sweet and nice and a true.
"I want to thank my family, especally my oldest three, we have been through a lot, I am so glad I was able to see you grow up, I am proud of you."
He was not humble but he was teary, and he thanked everybody in the right order. Without saying it he acknowledged the hardships and the journey. As a son, hearing that from my dad at his moment would have sounded just right. "I couldn't thank everybody. I don't want to make you watch me stand out here all day crying."
He thanked his over 875 teammates...Threw out the first pitch to Carleton Fisk. Who didn't crouch, and had to get on tippy toes to hug him.
What I am thinking about is my father. He would have liked watching this, he would have appreciated the journey and the congregation.
He would have loved that The Big Hurst face and number was put on the wall right under the words, "The Catch" celebrating Germaine Wise's perfect game saving catch of Mark Burhle's perfect game. It wasn't just a perfect play, it was situationaly incredibly.
I begin to understand what Proust was talking about with his ridiculously drawn out meditation on the Madeline, how one sense, memory, impression can bleed into so many others. 
Finally I find myself able to be sad about him, rather than merely miss his presence. All that other bitchshit is behind me (clearly not completely). This of course is harder, but truer and more healing. It is a place where the logic of his situation mix with the absence of his person and the gifts of his life.
His gifts where small gifts, happily repeated when Nyssa asks, "What did grand-pa say when he was surprised?"
"Oh my Heavans!"
Because he knew there many of them.




I know this post needs a lot of editing to be professional, Players spellings, maybe link to a video or two. And i might do it if I get the chance, but right now I am satisfied...-G