Young Freddie's footie team is in Big Trouble this weekend.
The coach, a very amiable young man, the elder brother of the goalie, won't be able to attend the game. He's a student at Virginia Tech.
Oh, he's fine. Don't know where he was during the shootings, but he's physically unhurt.
But he's got some funerals to attend this weekend.
My kids informed me yesterday that while the shootings were going on, their teachers avoided talking about it in school, because many of the kids have older siblings at Tech.
I opened this morning's print edition of the WashPost and found a list of the victims, accompanied by photos. Here's the online version.
I tried, as dispassionately as I could, to look at each of the faces. I'd urge everybody to try the same exercise. Let your gaze linger on each face, all 32 of them. While you do this, say to yourself, as I couldn't stop myself from saying, Now you.
It takes a very long time.
I'm not trying to summon empathy for the miserable little solipsist who killed them -- I don't carry much fellow-feeling for mass murderers. And the idea that he took a visual style -- a visual style! -- from John Woo movies just nauseates me.
But the exercise of running through those faces, all those people who never expected to be cut down by amok nihilism, might help one to to gauge, to imagine, the depth of Cho Seung Hui's insanity.
Thirty-two times. Thirty-two times.