N is a fan of the Seattle Mariners. The only ball cap that I own, pictured to the right, was given to me by N. We met up today to watch their game against Oakland. N was excited to show me his new television and speakers. I was excited to eat the barbecue dinner that his wife graciously prepared.
For months, I've kept that decapitated bastard, waiting for the day when the head would once again be reunited with the body. Today was that day. I think N's wife is some sort of broken bobble head whisperer. Her perform-ance with glue and duct tape was nothing short of miraculous. Larry Bernandez is now resting comfortably. N placed him gently into a styrofoam container, immobilized him for his own protection, then packed him tenderly into a shoe box, surrounded by way too much padding. We'll begin the long, indirect journey back home tomorrow. I'm anxious to get him back on that bookshelf in about 4 weeks.
I've been trying to figure out why I kept a broken bobble head for so long. Why'd I bring him with me on this journey? Why'd I want him to be fixed and why do I look forward to putting him back up on my bookshelf? After all, I'm not a huge Mariners fan. I follow them, but not nearly as closely as I did when it was Edgar, The Kid, Bone, and all the rest. Here's what I've come up with so far. It's home. Larry Bernandez is home. The Mariners are home. Heck, even that grumpy guy that refuses to hug me is home. To me, Larry Bernandez/Mariners/N are little bits of the Pacific Northwest in holy-shit-it's-cold-how does-anybody-live-here-Minnesota. I can't speak for all Minnesotans, but I think having pieces of home with me in Minnesota sure helps a lot.