Virtute moved ever so gracefully off the couch with a deft leap. Once gaining his footing on the tv table he gave me a penetrating and haunting look. I presumed what this was about. Gumption had spent the last twenty minutes of the Blue Jays game pacing and trilling her pleads for food between every pitch (she was still into the game of course) so I was sure that Virtute was also hungry, explaining the creepy expression he was darting my way. The game was almost over and so I committed to waiting for the final pitch to be thrown before getting up to do the deed. But that look was more pleading than normal, and though I tried to avert eye contact, it was near impossible to avoid it. Finally, I gave in to the pressure, “Are you hungry?,” I asked him already knowing the answer. Without hesitation or doubt in his voice, he replied, “Yes. We all are.” Which seemed like a bit of an exaggeration given that it hadn’t been that long ago since I had given them lunch. “Games almost over,” I pleaded. But Virtute held firm, “I know. That’s why I’m hungry. That’s why we are all hungry. I’ve only heard stories of what it was like in ’92 and ’93. But this is my time. This is our time.” I told him he sounded like a lousy York University ad campaign, but deep down I knew he was right. Feels good to watch meaningful baseball in the 6ix in September. The wind blew cool and we all took a brief whiff of fall baseball, before Gumption let out a blood curdling shriek – the game was over, Jays win. It was time to eat.