How do I begin to explain a two year bout
with writers block? Let’s just say I now know why Hemmingway drank, why Emily
Dickinson became a recluse, why Hunter S. Thompson was an utter lunatic, and why
Virgina Woolf filled her pockets with rocks and took a walk in the River Ouse.
This thing that
was my passion, this thing that was
my release, this thing that I once
enjoyed more than any other thing in
the world, became a daunting, scary, and highly overwhelming thing. A wave of panic and terror took
over my body at the thought of even writing a grocery list. Every time I put my pen to
paper or my fingers to keys this little Holden Caulfield wannabe in my head
said, “I’m a fraud! I’m a no good phony!”
My brain just couldn’t put together a coherent sentence if my life
depended upon it.
But look! Here I am, WRITING. It won’t be a surprise to many
of you who I have to thank for that; my beloved Detroit Tigers.
As I sat Friday night
watching an incredible game against the Yankees, I found myself instinctively
reaching for my phone to text my Dad. “Oh man, Pops! Torii Hunter was robbed on
that call! I can’t believe Mild Max was ejected for sticking up for him!” and
again later on when Austin Jackson continued his hot streak, “Daddyo, you were
right! AJ makes losing Granderson a lot less painful.” I do this quite often
and every time, reality smacks me across the face; as reality has a tendency of
doing. My heart sinks into my stomach. Eventually I regain my composure and I say out loud
what I was going to text my dad. Well Friday night, I believe he answered my
spoken text…
Top of the 9th, Tigers at bat, we’re down 3-1. With
one out, Austin Jackson shows the Yanks what their missing by smacking a double. Next at bat, Hunter gets the second
out for the Tigers. This brings up the one and only Miguel Cabrera. I immediately get to my
feet. Rocking back and forth, I watch
Miggy swagger up to the plate, a look of calm on his face because he knows he’s
about to make it storm. ” SMACK!” One foul ball almost caught over the railing
by Yankee first baseman, Lyle Overbay. “CRUNCH!” One foul ball off his knee cap
(which Miggy brushed off, merely a flesh wound) “WHACK!” Another foul ball, this time off his foot. He takes a few hops and steps right
back into the box. With a 2-2 count and every Tiger fan holding their breath, “CRACK!”
homer over the center field wall, with plenty of room to spare. As Austin Jackson glides across home plate and Miggy jaunts around the bases and touches home for the tying run, I of course, am making noises that only dogs
can hear. Quickly, I remember to calm myself since my neighbor almost
called the cops during the Seahawks vs. Packers debacles last season, for fear
I was being robbed or worse. Miggy had saved us from a Yankees defeat...at least for now.
Perhaps I’m as loony as some of the aforementioned authors but
I do believe this at bat was my dad answering my text. With every swing Cabrera took I heard him say,
“Never give up, keep playing with your whole heart no matter how far you’re
down.” With every foul ball that Miggy maimed himself with but got right back
in the batter’s box I heard Timmy say, “Never let ‘em see you hurt, kid.” And sadly, in the bottom of the tenth when
Miggy uncharacteristically missed a grounder, causing the game losing run, I
heard him say, “You can’t win ‘em all, but hey, there’s no crying in baseball.”
