Songwriting, playwriting, screenwriting, journal writing, writing of poetry, writing of prose, tagging, drawing, uppercase, lowercase. I’ve tried them. Slave to all in principle, master of none in purpose. Until, perhaps… Fashioned by many hands, I carry a writer’s gene.
FROM I AM RIDING – © – 2009
In his kindest way, as I was a high-schooler fancying a career in professional baseball, my father, who had an innate comprehension of the game and in later years could often be seen with the Baseball Encyclopedia tucked under his arm (he who had indeed lingered in major league dugouts enough to witness, among other things, the bitter phenomenon that left many ballplayers broke and education-less at the end of their careers – bumpkins swindled by agents, lawyers, wives along the way), tendered these exact words of vigilant concern to me: “You have to understand how awfully hard they hit the ball up there.” I didn’t know how solemnly he meant his cautionary admonition at the time, but now present existed a disconnect. I was indeed not one of the ‘they’, one of these guys I was chumming around with on this evening who hit the ball as hard as my father suggested. I was not going to be a professional ballplayer, never mind my ridiculously advanced age of thirty-eight at the time, and I am overtaken by a sour feeling thwarting any innate suspicion or residual desire that I could still attain this goal. Until now, this dream had lived in me at a cellular level, an internal feeling never without, through all my transitions, through my ages. The Elysian Fields beckoned in the exact same way that they did when I was a young boy. A young boy unafraid to give up my body, throw myself hardscrabble at the sheen of oil and rock on the playground surface of Wightman School in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and on the asphalt and concrete surfaces in front of and nearby our various homes in California, Indiana and Arizona, and on innumerable dirt and grass baseball fields since.