2010-03-11 - 10:02 a.m.

Here's something I can see, by now, that I'll always have: baseball dreams. Oh, the sweet terror. Every six months or so, I'm seventeen again, skinny, the beginnings of a mustache on my top lip. Last night, at least I had my uniform, and my glove, and my spikes. I was ready, stuff-wise. But, as always, that walk to the plate was a tough one, that digging-in, that facing down the pitcher, the figuring out how, exactly, would be the best way to hold that bad so that this time I might beat the shit out of that spinning ball. So many variables to get right. Constant tinkering: toes a little closer to the plate, hands choked up a bit less on the bat, eyes just on the pitcher's right hand this time. Every time up, that all-or-nothing feeling, that feeling of success or failure and nothing in between. Every time, everything on the line, all eyes on me, up or down, yes or no, all all all.

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