Tuesday’s Chicago sports headlines remind me of a story I heard years ago back in the dorm: the story of the man in the black leather.
The rancher remounted. On the horizon he saw pitch-black smoke spiraling to the sky. He galloped in that direction, and over a rise confronted a horrific tableau—his house in ashes, and out front his fair daughter lying prostrate in the grass.
The rancher stood. He wrung any drop of mercy from his heart. Mounting his horse he rode into town, and when he swung open the barroom door he saw him at once—sitting alone at the bar and throwing down a drink.
“Well . . . ,” said the rancher. “Let’s watch that shit!”