CHRIS DEVORE
CORN Had to be he was lying to himself. He’d sworn off these archetypal moments, these milestones, these benchmarks, these pedestrian emotions. His life’s work had been dodging them – with what he thought of as finesse – in order to live a unique story, a narrative worth repeating. When wham, he’s back in his parents’ house with his wife and four kids. He’s 38. He’s racked up a rigorous schedule over the weekend, which includes an alumni baseball game on Friday, a 20-year-reunion kick-off at A.J.’s on Saturday night, and a family picnic on Sunday at Carl Miller Park. He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the baseball. He’d endure just about anything for this word and its various synonyms – love, regret, hope. Baseball is somehow cousin to just about everything, with the possible exception of clichés and adverbs. He’s back home in Mountain Home, Idaho, and ever since he left Tacoma, it’s just been a blur. He’s unraveled by how he’s misplaced twenty years of maturity like one misplaces a book, or a word in an intense conversation. He’s been pointing out landmarks between the rows of corn, his first of many mistakes. He’s been quizzing his kids about his own history – even the baby. He’s been reliving sports moments as the shortstop, qb, and tenth man, non-shooting guard of the Tigers. In a matter of hours, he’s turned his life from a sentimental documentary to an after-school special.
67
