Ken had his day brightened this weekend when I called him seeking wise commentary on the spectacle of tag-team wrestling in the context of a major league baseball playoff. He cleared any number of things up for me, ranging from the designated hitter rule to the flinging 72-year-old crazy men to the turf rule, and hung up happy as a clam, having shared his copious knowledge and obscurantist jargon with me until his li’l heart sang, sang, SANG with joy.

Fast forward.

Tuesday night, I’m tenderly simmering the machine-masticated turkey bit that will shortly form the basis of a truly fine spaghetti sauce, gently tipping the sliced mushrooms into the garlic, basil, and fennel-scented meat, carameled with countless slivers of finely-pressed and olive-oil browned garlic, when the phone rings.

It’s Ken. he strongly encourages me to turn the game on, as an overzealous Cubs fan has just knocked an easy pop-fly out of the glove of a Cubs player, leaving the game tied with the bases loaded in the top of the eighth (I’ve had K-Donk review this for usage and accuracy).

As he talks to me on the phone, the score changes to 8-3 Florida.

Then, the phone went dead.

Frantically I attempted to get word to Chicago, to no avail. Several messages left for my pal Dave yielded no return call, and certainly not before the end of the game. It’s clear to me that had Dave been doing his job, Ken wouldn’t have had to call me as he did.