Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs, our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story about sandlot baseball in Commerce, Oklahoma decades ago. These were men's teams, grown men, some in their thirties and forties who worked together in zinc mines or on oil rigs, sweat and khaki and long beers after work, steel guitar music whanging in their ea
|
|