Believe it or not, sports fans, your favorite smart-aleck was once a baseball fan. I’d bring the elephant and the walkman to school and listen to the playoffs, head out for the left field bleachers at the Coliseum whenever I had an extra five bucks(or was it less?!?), and used to think Bull Durham was the greatest romantic comedy ever. It was long ago, when the accent first appeared over the last name, before New York City, before three novels, two blogs, and a reunion with the Son of God. Lover of metaphors that I am, I still dig baseball metaphors. Rally caps are still magic. Three strikes are still an out, even if now it’s more with dating than with batting. And when your symbolic bat hits the ball just right, you can still tell it goodbye and run around the diamond.
Forget steroids. I recommend Philipians 4:13, the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary, a Miraculous Medal bracelet, your Mama’s blessing, and a lot of heart. Laryngitis for good measure.
This morning’s interview was the first in my life where I hit a homer. I even heard the “thwock.”