I watched the last quarter of the Pink Moon crawl across the morning sky. Its lunar glow still strong enough to cast a silver light on the bedroom wall. The first sound I heard today came from a mourning dove cooing somewhere just beyond the window.
On Good Friday, I wrote about hatred. On Holy Saturday, forgiveness. And now, on Easter Sunday, it only seems right to chalk about love.
But I’m not going to overthink it. I’ve decided I’m just going to start saying “I love you” more often. That’s it. That’s the lesson.
Instead, what’s been riding shotgun in my head this morning is comparison. That nasty little habit we all picked up somewhere along the way.
Do you remember your first comparison?
I do.
It happened in a Little League dugout.
All the boys were sizing up each other’s mitts before practice. I had a left-handed first baseman's glove—a Spaulding signed by Mike Epstein. My Oldman probably picked it up on Maxwell Street or at a flea market. It was beat to hell by the time my hand ever climbed inside.
The other boys had brand-new mitts, autographed by Bobby Murcer, Roberto Clemente, Johnny Bench, and Luis Tiant.
Kevin Sullivan—seven years old and already fluent in his father’s ignorance—told me I had a “Jew glove.”
I went home crying. Told my dad my glove didn’t work.
He smiled and said, “They’re right, Mike Epstein is Jewish. But what they don’t know is that Ted Williams taught him how to hit—and gave him the nickname ‘Super Jew.’”
Epstein was a journeyman. Played for a handful of teams over a decade. My Oldman loved journeymen.
Kevin’s dad died not long after. Everyone said it was a car accident. I found out years later that Mr. Sullivan sat in his closed garage with the Oldsmobile running.
The next comparison came with bikes. I had a Schwinn, thankfully, but that just made me a target. The kids from the next neighborhood over.... who didn’t look like us....always tried stealing my bike.
Good thing we lived on a block with Italian moms and Polish dads who always had their eye on the street. I told my dad what Mr. Wojcik and Mrs. Robustelli called the other kids.
He didn’t get mad. He just said, “We don’t use that word.”
Then he added, “Next time, tell them you watch 'SoulTrain.' Maybe they’ll like you.”
They didn’t.
The kid who stole my bike pedaled off under the viaduct singing "My Cherie Amour.'
The next comparison was my parents' house.
Then my dad's car.
Then the Oldman’s job.
We lived in a small house. My dad had a Cadillac in the garage and he built choo-choo trains for a living.
By grade school, we were comparing gym shoes. I went to a Catholic school and we wore uniforms. So we didn't compare Izods and Polos. Mikey Cavanaugh rolled into third grade with a real necktie. The rest of us had clip-ons.
A week later, we all knew how to tie a tie—and started comparing how long our knots were.
Foreshadowing?
We did compare winter coats and it didn't help that my dad bought me a Saint Louis football Cardinals stadium coat. It was bright red while everyone else had blue and orange coats. At least it wasn't green and gold... those poor kids got the crap beat out of them.
See the problem with comparison?
It didn’t stop at childhood.
It followed me to high school.
To the trading floor.
To after nine-thirty mass.
Comparison is a cancer. It eats away at gratitude. It strangles joy. It blinds us from what is by constantly whispering what isn't.
But today... Resurrection Sunday... the day Jesus rose and opened the gates of heaven.
And when we get there…
Nobody’s checking the time on your Rolex. Time is eternal.
Nobody cares about the label on your sport coat. We’ll all be in togas.
Nobody gives a damn about your car's horsepower, the size of your schwantz, your exotic vacation photos, or how many shitters were in your third house.
What will matter is how you made people feel.
Who you lifted.
Who you forgave.
And how many people heard you say, “I love you.”
So eat the ham. Sip the mimosa. Tip your hat to the Bloody Mary bar.
But remember:
It’s Sunday Funday.
It’s Resurrection Day.
It’s a good day to stop comparing and start being astonished.
