Summer 2012. It was time for the pre-bedtime walk for my old dog Grace.
That usually meant sometime after 10PM. The kids were asleep. My wife was watching a show, or asleep. It was just me, myself, my dog, and some peace and quiet. I live in Brooklyn, New York. Far from the noise and filth of Manhattan, and just a short walk to the daily, life-saving pastoral glory of Frederick Olmstead and Calvert Vaux’s crown jewel - and my favorite place on Earth - Prospect Park.
For those night walks, we’d often walk along Prospect Park West (PPW), a street that runs the entire western length of the park. These late-night dog walks were also a good time to catch up with Los Angeles pals. If no one was home to field these calls (or if I was simply being ignored), it also became a good time for me to talk to myself out loud like a crazy person, about whatever issue du jour that was gnawing at my mind.
Maybe it was something from that particular day. Maybe it was something from twenty years ago. Some kind of resentment I had been harboring for months, which had festered to the point that it was starting to bubble to the surface. And when that bubble popped, some crazy talk usually came flying out of my mouth. Something I’d never say but would constantly fantasize about saying. Something like “Yeah?!? Well try taking a look at the league website where it clearly says that parents actually can NOT coach their kids from the sidelines, you fucking DUMBFUCK!!!”.
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