paul·a·ver

“There are no winners or losers in war,” Graham tells me as we stroll away from the Loyalist camp, my hand on his shoulder reminding him not to bounce in the mud. “Only the dead,” I finish the thought in my head, and tell him, “No, you’re right.”

I forgot to mention that, on my way through O’Hare’s United terminal this past weekend, I saw Tom Harkin.

“Chris Sharma is totally cool. Is he the best rock climber in the world?” Graham asks.

“Call a foul on him,” I tell the official, frustrated with the unsporting behavior of my own player, and I stop for a moment to consider whether I’d be as harsh if that player were not also my son, Evan.

“You have a costochondral sprain,” the doc told me as I pulled my shirt back over my head. “If you’d come to me before the marathon, I’d have told you not to run.”