# Shfifty five.

This morning I sat with my mom watching the Sunday Giants game. She was blow-drying her hair and I was going through her cosmetics as I always do, looking for things I could take without her noticing. The small TV in the corner of the bathroom glowed orange and black. Up to bat: some Phillies player (who cares). At the pitching mound: Tim Lincecum, his long hair occasionally being swept up in the soft San Francisco breeze. He peered down the line drive and wound up to throw, yet another, steeeeeeee-RIKE!

My mom stopped blow-drying to get a word in, “that Lincecum guy is amazing.” She fired up the machine again and yelled over the roar, “he’s only 27 and has been in the major leagues for four years. Not to mention he has a championship win under his belt.” She paused and switched sides on her meticulous drying-curling-brushing process, then announced matter-of-factly, “I’m gonna introduce him to Camille.” Between the blow-dryer and the Giants fans my laughter was muffled, but I was thinking… “damn, if it were only that easy.” I sure wouldn’t mind a brother-in-law with an authentic (55) black and orange uniform. My sister could use her wit and charm to pump up this stud of a man and maybe they’d win another World Series.

Giants 3-1.

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