Enthroned on an aluminum-framed lawn chair, beSchlitzed in his own backyard, a man in the latter half of the 20th century rose to tend a smoldering Weber kettle grill, whose porcelain-enameled lid, black and shiny as a Cadillac hood, rendered him invincible. Brandished by the handle, it was a protective circle of steel—Captain America’s shield, emblematic of a time and place.
The backrest of that vacated lawn chair, with its basket weave of nylon straps, doubled as a strike zone for Wiffle ball. It was the kind of impartial and inanimate umpire that Major League Baseball is only now considering, but that has been with us, in plain sight, forever.