January was cold. And John Updike died.
I remember a couple of parties, watching "Marty" and reading "Rabbit, Run," wishing I could write like that.
February was Phil Garner, UT baseball, wondering if Bryan Morgado would pitch another gem like he did last year.
March was my birthday, cigars and Carolina Blonde with Buck, Robin singing my song, getting together at Shelton's to make up for the mockery that was the week before.
April was a day off, watching baseball and grilling burgers, "that's what she said," "April in the D," Jerry Remy fighting the Big C.
May was memorable, if only for the bittersweet beauty of spring.
June was a jaunt to Michigan, brewpubs and bratwurst, "Freaks and Geeks," fun in the sun.
July was Fenway, finally, "Cheers," drinking Sam Adams on Norm's stool, beating Baltimore, coming home, eight miles high and falling fast.
August was awful, the month the music died, big shock, can't believe it, funny how my teardrops don't make a sound.
September I'll remember, Birmingham, Gators, Eli Gold on the radio, a class reunion that actually mattered, thinking I might just make it after all.
October was a Sam Adams seasonal, meeting Rheta, Rhinestone Cowboy, Reserva Real. God, that felt good.
November was nothing, sick every week, just get me through the day so I can go home and sleep. High note at the end, though.
December was dreary, then cheery, Larry McMurtry, Robinella in the rain, send in the clowns, well, maybe next year.
I'm glad to see this one go.
Let's drink a cup of cheer, my dear, to the promise of a better tomorrow, and days of auld lang syne.