On the Anniversary of Bob Murphy’s Death

Six years after his death, his voice is always still in my head.  This is one of the reasons why I can’t give up hope so easily.


Everything is fair and safe and well-intentioned.

The bases are firmly anchored and the weather is perfect.

People have funny stories to tell about each other. 

 I am happy in the back seat of a car on a dark road because Joe Christopher has just hit a home run.

It is early March, but spring is here.

I know whether or not the ball that has just left the bat will leave the park, and if I don’t know, then it will be very close and very exciting.

 I know it is good to be a parent, a husband, and a friend.

I doubt that those who do bad things really meant to do them.

I am glad when the Mets win, but I have sympathy for the misfortunes of others.

 Young kids are eager and veterans are wise.

The young kids will become veterans.

The veterans will retire, but they won’t die for a long time, and you will still run into them from time to time.

 Everyone has something interesting to say.

Every bad thing that happens can be borne.

I am awake and full of hope.

 Afternoons are pleasant in prospect.

Nights are evenings.  They are to be enjoyed.

It is never morning, but somehow it always seems to be.

 It is 2 A.M. in my room in my parents’ house and it is the twentieth inning and neither the Mets nor the Astros have scored a run.

One summer in my thirties, almost all the recaps are happy.

A man I have known all my life dies when I am almost fifty and I never wrote him the letter I always meant to write him, telling him how much he meant to me.

 Inside Bob Murphy’s voice, I am happy to be on earth.

And I am one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. 

©Dana Brand, Mets Fan (McFarland, 2007)

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