Dennis O'Hare

speaker

246 appearances 1 recordings 1 series first heard Aug 2026 last heard 6 Aug

Dennis O'Hare’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.

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Recordings per month over the last 12 months — 1 in all, peaking in Aug 2026 with 1.

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Selected Shorts · Romance of the Summer · 6 Aug 2026 podcast

Where did all the sod come from?

I picture many men in many parts of the city surreptitiously cutting chunks out of their own lawns in the leafy midnight darkness, listening to the uncomprehending protests of their wives the next day, pretending to know nothing of it, pretending to have called the police to investigate.

When the strike is over, I know we will all be here to watch the workouts, to hear the recalcitrant joints crackling like twigs after the forced inactivity,

We will sit in our regular seats, scattered like popcorn throughout the stadium, and will nod as we pass on the way to the exits, exchange secret smiles, proud as new fathers.

For me, the best part of all will be the surprise.

I feel like a magician who has gestured hypnotically and produced an elephant from thin air.

I know I am not alone in my wonder.

I know that rockets shoot off in half a hundred chests.

The excitement of birthday mornings, Christmas eves, and hometown doubleheaders boils within each of my conspirators.

Our secret rites have been performed with love, like delivering a valentine to a sweetheart's door in that blue steel span of morning just before dawn.

Players in management are meeting around the clock.

The settlement is imminent.

I've watched the stadium covered square foot by square foot until it looks like green graph paper.

I have stood and felt the cool colors of the grass rise up and touch my face.

I have studied the lines between each small square, watched those lines fade until they were visible to my eye only and then not even to them.

as they straggle into the stadium and find the miracle we have created.

The old timers will raise their heads like ponies as far away as the parking lot when the thrill of the grass reaches their nostrils.

And as they dress, they'll recall sprawling in the lush outfields of childhood, the grass as cool as a mother's hand on her forehead.

Goodbye.

Goodbye, we say at the gate, the smell of water, of sod, of sweat, small perfumes in the air.

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