It's also what happened that next summer, as I sat quietly in the living room, probably holding my breath, as I opened just about my last pack of baseball cards that were courtesy of my grandfather. There, in the middle of the pack, was my 1968 Carl Yastrzemski baseball card. The stuff that boyhood memories are made of. Today, I also have a special dream. I'm no closer to that dream now than I seemed to be to my Carl Yastrzemski baseball card back in 1968.
Life is full of surprises.
That summer's visit was about the last time I ever saw my grandfather. I don't recall if I looked to see how happy that small moment may have made him. Back then all I saw was a childhood hero's picture printed on card stock and neatly placed in my hand. Now, when I think of that moment, it means so much more. I have no idea what happened to that card over the years.