For a summer of my life I worked for a minor league baseball team in Northern Kentucky, barely below where Kentucky turns into Ohio. I lived in an apartment above the clubhouse with another guy. He was from Cleveland. Most of our conversations involved sports. We talked about that time Phil Dawson looked in his eyes and said no while signing autographs after a Browns’ practice, Lebron going to Miami, whether the Texas Rangers were going to end up like the 1990s Indians, D’Qwell Jackson’s Pro Bowl candidacy, and comparative Steelers-Colts hatred.
Earlier this week I texted him.