I get my one New York Times story a year, and brag it up the rest of the year.
This one was particularly fun: a personal essay on a rather ugly souvenir I got at Shea Stadium when I was a wee boy, and a reflection on the timelessness of fathers and sons watching baseball together.
This rust-brown portfolio with a gold Mets logo, gold clip and nary a
dash of blue or orange has, over the decades, smoothed out mushed junior
high homework, held my résumé during job interviews and housed book
chapters that awaited editing. Several days a week, it holds the
important material I plan to read on the train ride home while my work
papers float around in my backpack.
I often wonder how this modest folder has survived my many moves while
seemingly more worthy possessions like furniture and books were tossed
like so many big-salary Marlins. My clipboard is not a cute bobblehead. I
can’t wear it, it’s not autographed, and it’s clearly not game-used. So
what keeps me clipped to it?
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