September is a sly boots. He comes every year in August’s cloak, though you can sometimes sense him teasing the June leaves or spinning the July wind. It’s a smooth transition with dire implications. He arrives, summer’s punctuation mark. The green fades to orange and then withers to the ground, in preparation for the cold.
In my future dreams, I do my writing from a Barcelonan bungalow overlooking the ocean. In reality, I sit in the sunny spot by the window of the living room. It is a seat coveted by the cat, for its providing the inhabitant a four-hour block of the world’s finest heat. It is perhaps only the cat who most sincerely comprehends the utopian pleasures of a nap in the late afternoon sunlight.
The Red Sox are six and a half games back in the Wild Card race. It’s not in me to give up on them. Hell, even if they make the playoffs, given the glut of all-star injuries, they’d probably get handily pounded. But by whom? The AL East division is the strongest in baseball. If the Boston can slip into one of those top two spots in these final weeks, there’s no saying how far they’d ride the momentum. And with a kid named Lars at first, no less.
Being Thayer 