On a swing and a prayer

Images of Kirk Gibson's dramatic home run to win the first game of the 1988 World Series against the Oakland A's flicker across my screen among a plethora of important sports moments that have flooded the landscape in our locked down society. The world is feasting on these leftover moments. We are reaching into the freezer of history and warming them up to quell our starvation of current sports in this pandemic stupor.

Gibson, came off the bench, as a pinch hitter, aching knees and all, with a man on base and one run down and worked his way to a two-strike, last- chance- moment. He then mustered seemingly every ounce of a swing to launch a line drive shot into the right field stands. The moment sent his hometown Dodger fans and teammates into a frenzy as Gibson hobbled around the bases, first with a right fist thrust in the air and then, as if to punctuate the moment, giving a closed fist backward arm pump as he rounded second base.

It was an unforgettable moment. For more than the obvious reason.

As I sat watching that moment in the family room of my parents' home, my Dad was doing the same in his bedroom. I thought he was asleep until I heard him yell out, "Did you see that?

We had a brief wow conversation before both finally turning in, Tomorrow would be another day.

I was visiting that evening in anticipation of seeing my Mom in the hospital, Diagnosed earlier with lung cancer which a year before required surgery to remove half a lung, she was told the cancer returned, setting the stage for more issues including a need for chemo and a pacemaker.

I remember my Dad telling me at one point that he thought she was going to make it and I sat silently nodding with the knowledge that a physician at a hospital I was working at 100 miles away gave me the honest, grim outlook that removing part of a lung would buy a year at best.

And here we were on October. 15, about 11 months later. Seeing my Mom at that visit would be the last time. I remember that she was wearing sunglasses for some reason, probably to hide the emptied eyes of someone whose time was slipping away. Her hair was partially gone from the chemo and yet she was in decent spirits, also probably hiding the inevitable. As I left, she blew me a kiss that, to this day in my mind, spiritually floated effortlessly across the room.

My Mom died barely more than two weeks later.

I think about that visit in its entirely, including Gibson's home run. My Dad and I had both stayed up late to watch it. I thought it was a cool baseball moment and my Dad was still talking about it the next morning. I haven't thought that much about it over the past 32 years until this year. Maybe because it keeps popping up, representing something we can't have right now.

It also makes me think about my Dad, what was really going through his mind at the time. Here was a man who hoped beyond hope as he saw his love slipping away. And here, in a perfect heroic act against all odds, was the ideal metaphor for the moment.

Oh, how my Dad wanted to pump his fist to celebrate another miracle.