While he’s traveling Thursday, we have a day game, Arizona departing after we pull out a win, courtesy of Dan Westburn throwing a shutout. I flee the park as soon as possible, even though I know Tommy won’t arrive till late. I stock up on beer, wine, and bourbon because who knows how he’ll be. I also stock up on food, change the sheets, all the while suffering a mix of sharing his pain, and anger at not knowing what that pain is. He’s never gone so silent, never shut me out.
At eight, I shower and slip into my robe, then pour a stiff bourbon because I need fortification. Or maybe the opposite. Maybe I need to soften the edges, mellow the pissed-off mood that’s colored the day. As I drink, I consider he may be injured again, but no, that wouldn’t silence him. He’d be angry. He’d vent all o
