The Dodgers, the Statue of Liberty, Breast Cancer, and Me

The Dodgers, the Statue of Liberty, Breast Cancer, and Me
  After the fifth inning, I found myself caught off guard. I’d just gone to the kitchen to make popcorn, and when I came back, 50,000 people were standing side by side. What happened? Did an earthquake hit like it did during Game 3 of the 1989 series? On the screen, instead of a ballgame, I saw players and fans, managers and umpires, newscasters and batboys, all standing shoulder to shoulder in silence. Everyone in the stadium had hit the pause button, and each held a card bearing the name of a cancer patient. “Mom,” one placard read. A dark-haired woman clutched a sign that said “My Husband” in big block letters. Old and young, Dodgers and Sox, every race, every personality – they all held cards. Some people held several. Then a single throaty voice pierced the silence, equal parts defiant and mournful. Andra Day belted out “Rise Up,” with the power of a civil rights anthem, and in the hush, grief mingled with hope and determination. All those names, all that cancer – it was an overwhelming image. Sometimes it seems like this disease is outrunning our collective efforts, that every time there’s a gain on a cure, a setback follows. Later, as the Dodgers fell behind, I distracted myself by scanning through photos on my phone and discovered one I'd taken this summer. My daughter
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