Two passings while I was out.

The first was Kirby Puckett. Whatever his actions after glaucoma forced him out of baseball, while he was a player, he was one of few that his fans could like BECAUSE of his attitude, not in spite of it. They didn't feel like they had to apologize for being his fans. All of sports need more Kirby Pucketts.



The second was Dana Reeve. Whatever you think of her and her husband's politics, you have to admire a love that lasted BEYOND "'til death do us part."

I imagine it went something like this:

St. Peter stood inside the gates to Heaven, talking to Superman.

"She's coming," he told the Man of Steel as he turned the winch that opened the gates.

Superman wiped a tear from his eye at the knowledge his son no longer had either parent, but his heart swelled at the realization that the two would be together again.

"Can I . . .?" he asked St. Peter.

"Of course," he replied. "Dana's waited a long time to be carried across the threshold again."

And Superman walked . . . WALKED out of the gates and swept his wife up into his muscular arms, his cape rustling behind them in the gentle breeze.

He smiled, and she smiled back, then they kissed and he turned around and carried her through the gates, toward the light, across the Threshold of Eternity.