But as his teammates swarmed him, all sweat and smiles, it was different. I waited in the front row by the dugout for him to come to me, reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, and told him how proud I was.
I didn’t realize I wasn’t in the dog pile.
My little brother’s all grown up, and he’s not the only one.
* * *
He’s here today, watching me, probably even reading this. My dad’s crying by now, has been since the third sentence, and my mom and older brother are sitting next to him and shaking their heads in amusement.
After four years of writing stories about you, for your parents to read, this story is about me. This story is for them.
This story is my last. And finally, that’s okay.
—Staff writer Lande A. Spottswood can be reached at spottsw@fas.harvard.edu. Peter Scully can be found at the fruit wheel in Oneida, N.Y.