CHARACTERFARM

"Who is that woman waving frantically at you?" LZ asked.

"I think that's Coach Dan's wife," I said. "I don't know her name."

"She's coming over," LZ said. "She looks very excited to see you."

"Hi," I said. "All ready for the start of the season?"

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked.

"Aren't you Dan's wife?" I asked.

"I mean from before," she said. "Don't you remember me from before? I'm Glinda P."

I remembered the name. I'd gone to grammar school with a Glinda P. I could picture a girl with bangs and a square lunch box. The lunch box was wicker or straw, with a dark strap, probably leather. It was a curiosity in a fourth grade lunchroom of clunky metal boxes and brown paper bags.

"Now I remember," I said. "But didn't you leave that school?"

"Yes," Glinda said. "We moved when I was 9."

I only remembered her because of the lunchbox. How had she remembered me? Had I some bizarre possession or personality quirk that made me instantly identifiable after some 30 years? I didn't want to ask. I didn't want to know.

Glinda was now focused on LZ. I did a quick introduction.

"Why don't you ladies get acquainted," I said. "I'm going to walk over to the dugout and see how the team looks this year."