It's not often that I think I know how our president feels, but last night I did.
Not when he stood on the pitcher's mound. A southpaw myself, I grew up in New Jersey instead of Hawaii, and could have come at Pujols with a little heat.
No, it was when he sat in the broadcast booth. Joe Buck mentioned that he had just been in Russia, Italy, and Ghana and suggested that this night of baseball must come as a pleasant relief. The beaming commander-in-chief, looking even more boyish than usual in his White Sox jacket, agreed.
And I was transported back to July of 2001. I was on my way home from three weeks in Russia, Lithuania and Latvia. I was in a wonderful mood because it had been a wonderful trip. (When you're a travel writer, the sweeter the trip, the happier you are to return - and write about it.) During my layover at Dulles, I went to a bar for dinner. I ordered something that wasn't borscht and, looking up at the TV, saw the introductions of All Stars on a brilliant green field. I could not have constructed a finer welcome home.
Comment feed for this post