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| but is this a ball or a strike? I'm not sure how to tell the difference. It's hard to tell the count if you don't know whether to say 1-0 or 0-1. While I'm typing, I guess there's a runner on, with one out. Then again, what inning is it? If you count innings by outs, I'm still inthe first inning, and I have a long time to go before I'll reach the end of the game. I suppose if xanga's servers were flooded and the site went down I could claim that the game was rained out, but otherwise, to end the game I would have to quit to end before the 9th inning. (I don't like quitting. It's dumb, usually. But then again, I have contended that blah-blah-blahgs are stupid, too. I sense an impasse.)
If I did step up to the plate more often and start typing, would I be able to differentiate between balls, strikes, hits, and home runs? To be consistent with myself, would I not have to contend that every post is a strike against me? Am I the umpire, though, or the batter? (if I'm the batter, is it millet&rice donut muffin batter, or is it blueberry muffin batter?)
I miss baseball. I don't listen to it, watch it, or play it (or rather, whiffle ball) anymore. In days of yore my brother and I were known to play double-header games of whiffle ball. I was known to have to call on back up pitchers (clones of myself) when my arm got too tired and I walked too many people (all spitting images of my brother) in a row. He played left handed, even though in most things he's a righty. Sometimes we listened to the radio while we played -- the Phillies or Rush Limbaugh.
My mom enjoys not having home plate (a 4ft circle of dirt), 1st and 3rd bases (which were 1ft dirt patches - 3rd less noticeable than 1st), and Pitchers Indentation (a strip of predominantly dirt with some grass and gravel mixed in -- with second base hardly distinguishable behind it). I miss it. It still doesn't seem right to have grass growing on home plate -- grass which looks quite lush now.
I don't miss the mosquitoes or the carpenter bees. I don't miss playing with half the neighborhood - although I appreciate the memories. I miss playing whiffle ball with my brother. If he were here, I'd ask him if we could play a game tomorrow. He's not. He's in a country where he misses out on whiffle ball and thunderstorms. I'd feel sorry for him if I thought he didn't want to be there. I don't.
I miss trying to control my lousy pitching so that he could hit the ball, even though it meant that he might hit it high into the pine trees or possibly even onto the roof (an automatic home run if he hit the house). I miss grounding out time after time (after time, after time) to the short stop, or as a change, sending a line drive straight at the short stop. I miss my brother's trick pitches: the curve, the sinker, the who-knows-what-that-was-experiment. I miss trying to figure out how to throw a curve ball when I still had trouble consistently throwing something normal.
I miss getting bored of the game at the 7th inning stretch (or whatever inning we took it in) and either having my brother tell me to keep on playing until we finish, or sometimes not having the heart to tell him I didn't want to finish, and just sticking it out. I miss getting slaughtered 8-0 (or more). I miss actually winning (never mind the handicaps he gave himself).
Sometimes recently I've heard Harry Kalas on the radio. It brings back memories. He is the voice of the Phillies to me, and always will be. He also is part of the background noise of whiffle ball. My brother's voice never quite had the same ring when he called out the count, but that's alright; he taught me what it meant when Kalas said "1-0, no outs, in the bottom of the fifth." In fact, he told me over and over again which came first - not the chicken or the egg, but the balls and strikes, the top and the bottom.
What are memories worth? Not much on a blah-blah-blahg. What's the count? Undetermined. Replays available, unlike in whiffle ball. Check back later for an update.
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| This is the third strike against me here. Maybe, oh non-existent readers, you'll be interested to know that I've started a ghastly blah-blah-blog: http://antiquarianbookworm.blogspot.com. But do not fear, it's not my own writing. Rather, it is an attempt to share worthwhile words written by dead people. Perhaps it's a waste of time and energy, perhaps not, but it's a trial run for a while to see how it goes.
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| I have been chastised severely to go against my blogging principles and "update." For the record, my feelings have not changed; I am merely putting a second entry on my blog so that those who actually visit this site will not have to undergo the trying experience of scrolling down through the comments on my first entry any longer.
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| I will not post on a blog. It's dumb. But I'm tired of keeping up with people without being able to leave them notes. So, I will now be able to leave notes for people. | | |
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