I hit a ball sharply to right field into the cosmos and made it safely to second base. (By "cosmos" I do not mean that I hit the ball into the universal void, but rather into a patch of cosmos i.e. cosmos bipinnatus, the common herbaceous perennial that was growingly thickly against the stadium wall, something like the ivy at Wrigley.) I was standing on second, enjoying the applause of 80,000 spectators at the old Yankee Stadium, when my daughter-in-law suddenly appeared with her two-year-old toddler in tow and handed him to me, saying, "you're in charge." She disappeared, so there I was on second holding the boy by the hand. I told him to stay put, but on the next pitch he broke for third, running as fast as his little legs could carry him. I called out to the shortstop, "Now you're in charge." At which point I cannot recall anything further, except that I tried to follow the boy to third but I could hardly run and it felt as though I was running through mucilage.
A curious dream. Dream professionals and analysts will no doubt be attracted by the claim to significance embodied in the word "cosmos" and by the dreamer's — that is to say my — transparent urge to shirk responsibility.
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