Becoming him?

Saturday night.
9:25 pm.
Lazing on my couch, as I have been doing for the better part of the day.
Crickets chirp outside the window.
Only moving to get more water.
Yawning loudly.

Harry Kalas' voice, smooth and always strangely calming, leaks out of the TV. The Phils are down 7-4 to the Braves in the bottom of the 8th. I flip between the game and Cops, and as I do, I realize I am becoming my Dad.

Summer nights with him were spent laying on the pull out couch in the living room. Huge pink pillows surrounded me. The single room air conditioner blasting, the sheet hung from the doorway to keep it freezing. We watched the Phillies game and listened as Harry narrated the plays and provided endless stats. Next to him, I drifted in an out of sleep, extremely relaxed and feeling the safest I can ever remember feeling.

Cops was a preferred show for him. He was hooked. Prostitution stings, drug busts, high speed chases - whatever the flavor, he was interested. Flashing lights, toothless women reporting domestic abuse, the infamous theme song (you're singing it in your head now), oh Cops was a favorite, a guilty pleasure perhaps. Or maybe, and I feel a little bad for feeling this way, he identified with the people on the show, as unfortunately his criminal record was far from perfect.

Different ball players on a new field...
Fresh episodes of Cops...
My apartment instead of our house in Darby...
Different but the same. He is still here.

The Phils are still losing, but now by 2, Dad. It's the top of the 9th. I'll keep watching. Harry keeps me company.