Frank Philbrick

Kate Kita warmed this old ballplayer's heart one bleary morning in McGolrick park.  Sipping on terrible beer in eggshell blue cans, coughing on chunks of Dice's bloody mary and entertaining old Polish couples was one way to spend a Sunday.  Kate would sip, but never stop, and I knew as no one else there what the inside of her shoulder felt like as it whirled again and again.  The little pops and slips that let you know your love of something is breaking you down.  Kate just played through it, right into my highest esteem.