“Let me tell you about my dream last night.”
That’s how you begin a blog post nobody wants to read, and since nobody already reads this blog (he’s a regular!), I will proceed with the story of my dream last night, since I am apparently only talking to myself here.
I dreamt I tried out for the Spokane Indians (the local minor league baseball team) and SURPRISE! it turned out that a doughy fifty-five year old with bad knees and the endurance of a flash bulb was just what they needed to fill out the roster for the season.
And going with that concept (that dreams need not have any connection to reality), on Opening Day they put me at catcher. That’s right, the smallest, oldest guy on the team was given the role of taking out any base runners attempting to score from third. I’d do my part, standing there trying to stop them, but would they even notice? Because after building up a full head of steam rushing in from third base, I would be the willowy veil of cotton they would blow through on their way to glory at home plate. It was a plan intended to make mine the shortest baseball career in history.
What was my dreamy gooey brain thinking?
As it turned out, my brain spared me the thrill of blunt-force trauma on the base paths, no doubt out of a sense of self preservation, because it turned out the other team never scored.
And just to show that my sleeping brain likes to dream big, it was I that scored the winning run after a slap single past first got me on base and my teammates hit a few more to move me around to score.
Finally, reality found its way into my sleeping brain, because in the dream I skipped the next game because I was sore and told the coach I was probably going nowhere with my baseball career (at fifty-five? Isn’t that a bit hasty?) and he should give my spot to someone with a real shot at the majors.
Shit. Even in my dreams I’m old and busted.