Growing up in Indiana, my love of
basketball, and, for that matter, just about any sport, was a natural
fit with one of my husband’s most vivid ghostly childhood
memories.
This was the plan every weekend the
Cubs were in town: A visit to his grandmother's brownstone loft
apartment that overlooked Wrigley Field in Chicago. Oppressive summer
heat, mixed with the smell of the Ben Gay Grandma Sutton used
for numerous aches, pains, and disabilities, was small price to pay
for the privilege of sitting in her window, watching every pitch and
every swing and every home run.
That all changed the night he woke to a
brilliant ball of light that moved slowly across the bedroom wall
until it settled in the middle of his chest. Was it simply the
imagination of an eight-year-old? Maybe car lights? Couldn't be. His
window faced a nearby brownstone. He bounded from the bed with a
sharp intake of breath and raced down the hallway toward his parents'
room. Just a bad dream, they assured him. Go back to sleep.
Early the next morning, the phone rang
with news that his grandmother had died during the night; close to
the time he encountered the mysterious light. His logical thinking,
engineer dad dismissed the idea of any connection to his son's
nightmare, but his free-spirited mother thought it possible
that grandmother visited grandson, one last time.
