ORIGINALLY SUBMITTED APRIL 1, 2009
Dear Mr. God:
As we know, I have not complained much about getting older. Time has been reasonably kind to me and I am particularly grateful that when I shower and look down, I can still see my toes and other appurtenances, so all praise to you and so on and so forth.
As we know, I have not complained much about getting older. Time has been reasonably kind to me and I am particularly grateful that when I shower and look down, I can still see my toes and other appurtenances, so all praise to you and so on and so forth.
I will admit that while I am often quick to damn (oops!) things when they don’t go
my way. On the other hand, you must admit that when I do, I usually have pretty
darn ("darn". I said, "darn") good reasons for doing so.
But surely you remember when I walked with elan, jaywalking with impunity, oblivious to the most crowded streets on the busiest of
cities, lightly skipping through onrushing traffic on nothing more than those then twinkling toes? Those, My Omnipotent Friend, were my reflexes which it now seems You are intent on ultimately taking away. Let's face it, Big Buddy - You're slowing me down and I am pretty irked about it. So yes and pretty please,
I wantmy quick twitch reflexes back because I really need 'em - and that's why I stopped by today.
Now I realize Your Sovereignty has been busy messing with everyone’s hoop brackets, so let me fill you on what's been going on in this corner of Your Universe.
As You no doubt know, the boys’ new baseball season is about to begin. Ok, so they are both pitchers, right? And I’m catching them to help them get them ready. (Oh yeah, thanks for the working knees, I appreciate that. Now, if you could fix my right big toe, that would really be a miracle.).
As You no doubt know, the boys’ new baseball season is about to begin. Ok, so they are both pitchers, right? And I’m catching them to help them get them ready. (Oh yeah, thanks for the working knees, I appreciate that. Now, if you could fix my right big toe, that would really be a miracle.).
As You would also know, if You ever took the time to play catch with them instead of making me do it all the time, The Big Lug now throws very hard.
As in, V-E-R-Y HARD. And The Little Urchin has a 12 to 6 curveball that breaks
right over the plate and drops very low. As in V-E-R-Y LOW.
Now, we know their control gets a little shaky
when they get pumped up and they love to pump it up when I am catching
them. That’s why I no longer catch them without a cup because we also know that someday my hands may
not be quick enough to protect myself in treasured areas and this, Big Sir, would be
a devastating problem.
Anyway, I bet You saw it coming, but I sure didn’t. The Big
Lug threw one pitch so hard that I swear to You that it never raised a glimmer of
recognition in my eye. If I had seen it, I would never even have had a chance to
catch it. If my glove had not been mouth high and he had not hit the glove, I
would have been putting my dentist’s kids through college and let’s face it:
we both know You would have been nowhere to be found when that bill came due!
Now The Lug and The Urchin want to bet me that I
won’t be able to catch them when I’m 60! And I took the bet since I was sure I had You on my side.
I know that You are supposed to have Grand Designs and all that,
but I’m telling you here and now that being slow on top of the possibility of one day becoming 60 years old was never a part of MY PLAN and Goddamn
it, (sorry) I wanna a vote on this! Or, at least a non-binding referendum, if it
please you, Your Majesty, Sir, Boss.
The steady erosion of my reflexes is not at all to my
liking. It jeopardizes my health and well-being which is something we should
both care about a real lot and it makes the best look as shaky as the rest of me when I get into that old Yogi crouch.
I know this for sure, Mr. Lord. If I’m still catching those two when I’m 60, it’s truly gonna put the Fear of You in me and I trust, Big Sir,
that was not your intention.
Now if you grant me your blessings and my wishes, I promise to be good. I’ll go to the gym, refrain from
inhaling and imbibing and maybe even cut back on vices like sneaking
double stuff Oreos for breakfast, and maybe even a few other things that, for
present purposes, are none of your damn (sorry, again) business.
So please, Mr. God, on just this one issue, could you, ya
know; kinda turn back the hands of time a half a tick? If you do, I promise
I’ll never complain to you ever again!
Respectfully submitted,
Your humble tool and less than faithful servant, etc.
HL April 1, 2009
2009
2009
THE RETURN OF THE SUPPLICANT APRIL 1, 2012
Dear Mr. Lord:
It's me reporting in again, Big Sir. I know it's been awhile since my last visit but, as you know, I've been kinda busy. I hope You and Yours have all been well and that Your days and nights are filled with Less Toil the Less Toil way.
Now, I don't mean to be a tattle-tale, but it might interest
You to know that in the past three years since my last visit, my children and Yours have shelved me,
shunted me aside, delegated me to the bench and relegated me to the ranks of the
has-beens; a favored play-pal no more.
Until finally, on this first day of April I begged, pleaded
and cried until they deigned to let me play ball with them one more time.
Oh, strike up an Ode to Joy!
Such a deficit of confidence did my progeny have that I was relegated to
throwing batting practice. Oh how Thee of Little Faith pinprick and puncture my own Swollen Pride!
But when they grudgingly granted me eight (Eight? Only eight?!) soft
tosses before declaring all to be ready, I shoulda known, Lord, I shoulda
known a set up when I seen one a-comin'.
The Big Galoot and the Younger Urchin bucked up and after they shot three fingers, the Galoot lifted his lumber while the Urchin
trotted to the outfield ...and then he kept trotting, stopping only to check the distance
and confer with the Galoot, who kept waving him further away until finally
coming to a grazing ground 3/4 of a mile distant from home plate (I know Your Worship really hates lying, but trust me, Bigger Than Brooce Boss, Boss, not a word of this am I making u).
Well, this all struck me as a tad patronizing and in violation of that Commandment about parents and kids but You wrote it so You be the Judge.
Well, this all struck me as a tad patronizing and in violation of that Commandment about parents and kids but You wrote it so You be the Judge.
Back down here in the real world, this slight from my foes quickened
my resolve to reduce their batsmanship to quivering twig-whiffing. Shrugging off
the shortened spring training (8 pitches? 8?) and the 3 years of accumulated rust, I
teemed with brio as I swaggered up the mound and towed the rubber, certain that
My Last Prayer to You for prolonged youth and extended elasticity had been
heard and approved.
The Galoot stepped to the plate and, in the most
menacing way a loving child could possibly do such a thing, leveled his bat at this doting, dear Dad who was growing rapidly older and increasingly wary. (Oh Lord, Help Me If You Will!)
I went through all the checkpoints of my delivery: paw dirt; pull cap low; hitch pants up, rub ball, spit on ground, sneer and glare into home plate.
Leaning into my ol' Juan Marichal special delivery, I kicked
my leg as high as it would go and
uncorked my first offering.
The horsehide spun smooth and true from my hand. It darted with precision, breaking sharply downward before rudely striking the flinty dirt, bouncing twice and commencing to roll the last 30 feet, slowly and timidly across the plate - whereupon, I immediately declared it a perfectly hittable pitch and Strike One!
The horsehide spun smooth and true from my hand. It darted with precision, breaking sharply downward before rudely striking the flinty dirt, bouncing twice and commencing to roll the last 30 feet, slowly and timidly across the plate - whereupon, I immediately declared it a perfectly hittable pitch and Strike One!
Next Pitch!
This time I decided to ride the Galoot off the plate with my Bob Gibson side arm buggy whip fastball that I had been saving for just the proper occasion.
This time I decided to ride the Galoot off the plate with my Bob Gibson side arm buggy whip fastball that I had been saving for just the proper occasion.
Checkpoints! But this time, with a haughtier sneer and flintier
glare because after all, Bob Gibson was the meanest hombre that ever slung it
high and tight and now, through Your Own Upon Man Bestowed Gift for
Self-Deception, I was the great Gibby.
I stretched, rocked and fired; my arm an extended, blurred whiplash.
The ball leaped from my launching palm, a perfectly executed delivery, speeding toward the plate, hard, fast and tight.
Each stitch of the ball tumbled and and paused, casually waving "so
long" to me before resuming the journey towards its' free wheeling fate.
OK. So now, I'm behind and working the court, see?
And yes, Dear God, this is when I turned my lonely, dimmed eyes to you. Yes, I know You have other things on Your Mind. And yes, I know Your Plan includes speeding up baseball games but, after all, even You have to admit that You haven't done that too well with that one. Besides, I'm only one pitcher hurling desperately against the tunnels of the ages, so I asked of You to spare me this one humiliation,
for Your Sake, will ya, please?
From a distant Elysian Field, I heard the plaintive cry of
Urchin the Younger calling to relieve me. No Way! The Galoot was mine; all
mine! And anyway, I remain eminently capable not only of relieving myself, but
cleaning up my own mess afterwards!
Ok, I needed a strike. Who could I turn to? You? I dunno.
Seemed to me You were putting me through a whole lot of trials and tribulations
without so much as a burning bush or other some such sign, so maybe I'll just
have a look through some old mental baseball cards for true inspiration.
At last! A vision!! It's the Spaceman, Bill Lee! He hangs out high around You, right? He
was armed with that ol' Tony Perez special blooper ball - and so was I! Yep. The good old
Eephus, developed through many summers of pitching to these very same strapping
lads when they were no more than wee tykes. I dominated 'em then with my soft toss
specials and I could do it again ...with Your help, of course, Mr. High
and Mighty Sir.
I launched the spheroid skyward. Up, up into the stratosphere. Then down, down through the hemisphere, a tantalizing
parabola, certain to arrive belt high and split the plate - which it actually
did, all praise to You, Mr. Ever Present Every Where!
And then ... and then ... (waiting ... still waiting ...) There! The Galoot swung that big ol' hickory stick.
Thunders of Thor! The pungent smell of scorched horsehide
filled the air. I turned to watch the punished ball scream away to the farthest
reaches of time and space. Back, back,
back, John Wasdin Way Back! WAY BACK!
Beyond the horizon, a lone, distant runner emerged. At full gallop, a speeding blur crossed the vast Elysian expanses on a perfect intersect between orbiting ball and earthen sod. Back to the plate, young legs ran. And ran. 500 feet away they ran. 644 feet! 729!! 852 feet at least!!! With the barest, casual glance over his shoulder, the runner dove across the glistening green, lowered a comforting mitt to the ground, cradling the bruised ball and bringing restful relief to ball and me.
And just who was my hero You ask - as if you didn't know?
No, it wasn't Mercury or some old Greek. It wasn't Flash or even Superman (do you know them by the way? Same
neighborhood or club, maybe?) At the risk of being branded an infidel and cast
forth to wherever branded infidels are cast, it wasn't You, Lord, 'cause I have my own sources
who assure me that You were busy that day with Your annual ritual of screwing
up everyone's Final Four brackets. No, it was my very own Angel in the
Outfield, Urchin the Younger, come to rescue Dear Old Dad from the tyrannical
jaws of crushing defeat!
The wayward ball safely ensconced in Urchin's yon distant
mitt, the Galoot slammed his bludgeoning hammer half way to China and stomped
his feet like the Big Baby he used to be at the sight of my raised thumb proudly and irrevocably signaling that he was O-U-T!
Supremacy restored, I strutted from
the mound, off the field, down the rocky path, into the car and drove away leaving The Younger Urchin and Big Galoot to their forever games, secure in the knowledge that My Prayer had been answered and I have escaped the ravaging tides of time.
So mucho thanks for that one, Mr.
God. No other complaints on this end but if I ever have any, I'll be sure to send them along. Oh! And if you need me for anything, you know, like a Crusade or what-have you, don't be shy.
See you further on down the road.
Respectfully submitted once again, I remain
Your humbled servant and once in a blue moon of a supplicant, etc., etc.
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2012
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