Talking Grover with a Little Girl

I sat in the Beetle and cried. It wasn’t an ugly cry or an evil cry. Emotion had bubbled to the surface and, like an unstirred pot on the stove, boiled over. “I like your Grover mask,” said a little girl to me when I was leaving the ballpark, and what followed was the perhapsContinue reading “Talking Grover with a Little Girl”