There are probably thousands of reasons to not be a major league baseball player; the 6 month vagabond lifestyle, mosquito media infestation, and the lost metaphor.
The last one would worry me the most. It’s that invisible threshold that probably vanishes when you transition from fan to player.
A job is a job is a grind, but dreaming about a job is well, a dream without the elbow grease.
My life often goes backwards or I learn the obvious much later than most people. I`ve been feeling more and more like a pitcher lately, staring doom in the face without my best pitches and still managing to avoid the jackknife and roadside ditch.
Yeh, I’ve been adjusting on the fly better than ever. I either rush the delivery and quick pitch people or do the opposite and wander around the mound with diversionary tactics.
This may be the dawn of my pitching career or maybe I`m too old to be a pitcher. Either way, Jack Spicer was right. Pitchers are ghosts and they don’t follow human rules.
Teddy Higuera was my favorite pitcher. I witnessed his horse and finesse in 1986 and 1987 at County Stadium in Milwaukee. He threw 248 innings followed by 261. He threw 15 complete games and then 14. He struck out 207 and then 240 batters. He won 20 games and then 18.
That was almost 30 years ago, but I remember Higuera standing on the mound, southpaw. He was never 5 feet 10 inches. He was more like 5 feet six inches and 175 pounds of guts and magic and he still possesses me.
Spicer said, “For someone like Mays (Willie Mays) or Ernie Banks, there’s no sucker pitch. Either they’re in a slump or they aren’t, and it doesn’t really matter what the hell you do. You might just as well let the pitcher figure the thing out.“
Some days can never be won. I stand on my head, recite mantras forwards and backwards and still, the day greets me one Willie Mays after another. Yet somehow I kick the useless day right in the ass and know that i`ll do it again tomorrow.