Someone Told me I Swatted Like Mutombo on Saturday. He was gone today... But Rose!

    I co-worker of mine said he was not into sports. I get it, I respect that. I wanted to brag to him, and others, about how my Indiana football team was 5-0 for the first time since 1967, about the time my parents moved to Bloomington, and how that team went to its only Rose Bowl, and ended up losing to USC, and none other than a young O.J. Simpson. My teenage son knew O.J. to be the murderer. Alleged killer, I corrected. We weren't there. But the Trojans did beat my Hoosiers way back then. Before me.

    I saw Dikembe Mutombo play at Georgetown, then the Denver Nuggets, and others in the NBA. He was great, not just tall. He was fun, and different. I made a shout out post to him in my basketball group today. A couple guys responded so far. It was coincidence that someone said it about me. Now the end of September. My wife bade it farewell on her evening walk.

    Then I get the news this evening. The great Pete Rose has died! All of 83. He was something, all right. Growing up in southern Indiana, my first major league game in Cincinnati. We saw him and Bench, and Foster, and a few other Hall of Famers of the Big Red Machine.

    Later he was with the Expos and the Phillies. Perhaps he being in Montreal primed me to like the Expos, and then falling in love with Tim Raines there. Hmmm.. Yep, it might have been some of that Rose magic.     

    

    A few short years later in Cincy was the historic game where he hit a single and broke the record of all time hits, by the legendary Ty Cobb. Was anyone alive in 1985 that ever saw Cobb play? I imagine a few.

    What a career! And then then the gambling and the refusing to fess up. Maybe now there can be reports. Would he ever admit to betting on his own team? Even posthumously?

    Any other Rose would have smelled as sweet. And this player, Charlie Hustle, was among the sweetest.

    May Dikembe, a young 58 year-old victim of cancer, and Pete, a modest octogenarian, rest and peace and may their legacies grow fond for their families and fans with time.

    History and its chapters unfold today, the last day of the month.

    Lighter things than the ugliness of armed conflict or the terror in the mountains of Appalachia. Waters swallowing up whole towns.

    Instead, we have the Mets and Braves entering the playoffs, where hopes remain alive in a kinder autumn, a kinder season to look to.

    Sports help distract, sure. But they also bring us hope, humanity, and ... meaning. And, undoubtably, a few heroes. Anti-heroes. Champions and goats. Workers and chiefs. Givers and takers. Showmen. Teams, causes, dreams, ink on the old paper.

    Some of us think.

    Hemingway looked for it, tried to capture it.

    Life. Death. The whole enchilada.