The Thing was pitching a no-hitter that day- until Wyatt Wingfoot stepped up to the plate. That's him at bat in Raymond's, and in mine, an unlucky T'Challa prepares to strike out.
It's a weird thing to process. Last time we spoke was ten years ago at my sister's wedding. He was glaring at me across the room, angry over my not fulfilling a particularly unrealistic expectation of his a few years before. I walked over and reminded him that it wasn't the time or place for his nonsense, and to stop. To his credit, he did. That's it, our final interaction. We'd never gotten along. He was alcoholic, unapologetically racist, and pushed me away at every opportunity. He was in the same room as my son once, never met my daughter. He could have chosen to live differently, but didn't. If I'm mourning anything, it's that.
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