My grandpa did all the things you’re not supposed to do. Ate bad food, drank more than was good for him, smoked two packs a day. When I was seventeen he paid the price.
No. He didn’t die. He had a stroke.
Sometimes I see it as a blessing. He was a man I could never get close to. Suddenly his towering figure hunched a little, he began to garden and do dishes. He never regained his speech. And his love for baseball became an obsession with the Cubs. We became friends over TV baseball, Harry Carray, and milkshakes I picked up on the drive over to his house.
He would watch every game on TV and the few words he could get out were all swear words which are the only words a true Cubby fan needs anyway. When he died eight years later my grandmother gave me his jacket, even though he had five sons and two daughters who might’ve liked to have it. There was still a pack of Wrigley Doublemint gum in the pocket. Pretty ironic since someday I’m gonna to wear it to Wrigley Field.
Every year I get his coat out and wear it around. Last year was our first year in Canada and I actually forgot, but today I wore it to The Village.
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