Thurman Munson is Dead

A wet dishrag of a thing to care about, really. Staved time, spun from April’s leadoff hope to October’s last licks. Midnight’s pinstripes are a dead dove streaked with coffee, while airplanes dream up better weather. Doubles to left and triples to right. Punchy with an inside-out swing, or a Butcher Boy with two on and two out. And we care about the strangest things. The creased folds and worn grooves of a pine-tar stained mitt. The faint sappy…