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When the Astros stormed the field Saturday night after winning their second World Series, I immediately called my sister Betsy in Houston. We talked about all the Astros games we’d been to over sixty years, starting with the franchise’s very first game in 1962. We recalled the decades when we had season tickets above the home dugout. The many painful losses. The occasional joyful victories. A dark subtext, at first unspoken between us, was the Astros’ first, tainted World Series title, back in 2017. We’d sat in the Crawford Boxes above left field for game three of that series against the Dodgers, barely a month after our mother died, wishing then that she and our father could have seen it. We talked about that day…

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