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Dear Reader,

This is a story that’s been in my head for a long time. We were living in Texas on September 11, and I shared the same sad reactions as everyone else about the day, but the lives of those who died took on an equal and overwhelming significance, as we ended up moving to the suburbs outside New York City in December 2002.

Once my son started playing baseball, I attended many games at his school, and noticed a plaque. It’s small, bronze and nailed up on the old wooden wall of the field house. It’s in memory of a gentleman who was on the baseball board for the town and who died on September 11. It doesn’t talk about the attacks, doesn’t say how he died, but instead the words are about his life and his contributions to the league. In that moment, what had been such an infinite and nearly unimaginable tragedy became very, very real.

One life. One normal man coaching on this half-pint baseball field, who hadn’t expected to die so soon, and the people he touched. Not an entire country, not an endless news clip circling many, but one family and one small community coping with the loss of a single person, amidst the tragedy of so many.

Respectfully,

Kathleen