You’re sitting in an overheated car with no air conditioning driving home from the ball park for all the wrong reasons, the radio fades in and out depriving those savory notes of 80’s hair band goodness, and while looking up at the rear view mirror there’s red streaks of stress lining those baby blues. The car stutters like a businessman explaining to his wife about the lap full of glitter and Jim Beam on his breath after an extended happy hour after work.
Lack of sleep from the kids waking up at times only intended for those who wanted to watch Sorority Girls Poker Pajama Party 16 on Cinemax, sends a perpetual buzzing noise through what’s left of your brain after those final articles/business plans/work projected were saved to Microsoft Word.
But, the moment comes that makes all the thrown mashed potatoes and gravy against the window at KFC and shouting about WHY CAN’T I WATCH MY SHOWS DADDY worth it. The gravel beneath your feet stands firm after digging those new cleats into the batter’s box. A helpful wind blows out towards the 310 ft. sign in left field besides the bald headed left fielder who appears to have fell asleep in a tattoo artist’s chair. Your choice of weapon is a perfected balance layer of graphite and aluminum encased with turbo spring technology as the label exclaims.
The just-hit-the-mushroom sized Mario-like pitcher lofts a turtle over the middle of the plate, no spin, no treachery, just Princess Toadstool and Toad sitting in the bleachers behind the chain linked fence awaiting their hero to free them.
As the 27 ounce bat meets the twelve inch sphere and sails over the helpless ink boy who does nothing more then crane his neck to watch the ball twang off a lightpole several stories up, the once brow beaten dad is ready for all that life can throw at him again.
For some people its throwing down a massive river bluff and raking the chips. For other’s its getting that pre-crack Lindsay Lohan to acknowledge the size of your junk at the bar and forgetting her phone number the next morning.
For this guy, one meaningless athletic action followed by a perfectly poured (in this country) pint of Guinness at a local bar, erased the foul stench of the leftover lasagna Tupperware container in the front seat of my car that I kept staring at yet couldn’t pull the trigger to actually haul the overpriced plastic into the house for a meeting with some lemon scented Palmolive.
And no more worries as I gear up for the WSOP next week.
Thanks for dropping by, now go to your happy place today if she’ll let you. Make sure you're keeping up with the WSOP coverage as these guys (and gals) are overcoming surly poker players and hot assed Milwaukee Beast girls to bring the Rio to you.