It started in the summer of 2010. June, I believe. The previous decade had been a bad one. If the first ten years were an indicator, the 21st century was really going to suck. I’d gotten married in ’98 and discovered almost immediately I’d made a mistake. In the middle of a turbulent marriage, 9/11 happened. I was born in NYC; my mind rang with grief echos for about a year afterwards.

I was divorced by ’03, and I’d moved twice — once to a rental and then to the condo I bought. In ’04, double barrels: I had 60 days to find another position after they closed my department (which I did on day 58), and then my beloved dog died. For the next five years I threw myself into my work.

Which brought me, stressed and depressed, to 2010. And baseball.

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