the rest of your life if you do. You’ll wake up every day and feel terrible about it.” He said it, and then sighed, shaking his head as if I just brought up a dead relative.
How was I supposed to respond to that statement? Did he really need to drop the “hate yourself for the rest of your life” line? There are a lot of people out there with sports-themed regrets, but this was a tad excessive. I nodded very mime-like.
“I’d still be playing today if I hadn’t had kids,” he continued, forcing an empty laugh before elbowing me in a “know what I mean” type way, but I didn’t.
“Did you play pro for a while?” I asked.
“No, I got my girlfriend pregnant in high school and had to quit ball to get a job. The kid ruined my dreams of playing. Don’t have kids. They wreck your life!” Again he laughed in an inside-joke kind of way, and again I didn’t feel as if I was on the inside. I laughed with him to make him feel better.
“Yeah,” he continued, “I was one of the best players on my high school squad. I was looking at colleges and was going to try for the pros, but life gets in the way, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s a shame,” I said. “Someone should really tell life to quit doing that.”
“I had a knockout curve,” he continued, staring off into dreamland, “and I had to have been throwing at least ninety miles per hour. We didn’t have radar guns or nothing, but all the guys told me I was throwing real hard.”
“Oh. Wow,” I said, highly doubtful but mastering it.
“Yeah, she said she was on birth control, but I don’t believe it. She knew I was going to be something special. She thought she’d just lock me down, you know?”
“Hmmm.”
“My advice to you, buddy, don’t trust women.” He stopped and looked at me with a queer smile. “I’ll bet a guy like you gets women after him all the time, what with being a ballplayer and all.” He stared at me as if I had the power to possess women with my uniform. I thought about the only woman in my life, my grandma, and felt the urge to tell him she was available. Instead I said, “Oh you know it, man! All the time ,” and elbowed him back.
“Attaboy! Don’t ever give it up son, trust me. Say, you know my cousin’s kid has one hell of an arm. Do you think you could get me in touch with a scout to come watch him? I think he’s got what it takes. I’ve been working with him. Taught him the old hook.” He wrung his arm as best he could in our tight seating to demonstrate.
“Looks like a good one.”
“Yeah, it’s nasty.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So, can you get me in touch with a scout?”
“Yeah, sure. We do that all the time.” We never do that.
“What do I do, just give you my info then?”
“Yeah, I’ll pass it on to the Padres for you.”
“Ooh, the Padres?” he cringed.
“Yeah, why?”
“Um…I was hoping you could get the Yankees.”
“…”
I spent forty-five minutes I’ll never get back listening to Luke’s life story before the plane touched down in Chicago. He handed me his card as we exited the plane. I threw it away as soon as he was out of sight.
The long connector flight to Phoenix had me sitting next to a senior couple. They wore big, Terminator-style sunglasses that covered up their whole head. They had to use the bathroom every fifteen minutes and kept complaining about how much they hated today’s music compared to the good ol’ days when you could understand lyrics and women didn’t dress like hussies. When they saw my mitt, they asked me if I was a ballplayer. I told them it was a present for my kid brother in Arizona. I told them he was having an operation due to a rare disease called turf toe, and he was going to be off his feet for a while. Baseball was his favorite sport, so I got him the glove from this really nice, caring, and handsome pro pitcher named Dirk Hayhurst, who played for the Yankees. They said they’d keep an eye out for him. I told them my name was Eric
How was I supposed to respond to that statement? Did he really need to drop the “hate yourself for the rest of your life” line? There are a lot of people out there with sports-themed regrets, but this was a tad excessive. I nodded very mime-like.
“I’d still be playing today if I hadn’t had kids,” he continued, forcing an empty laugh before elbowing me in a “know what I mean” type way, but I didn’t.
“Did you play pro for a while?” I asked.
“No, I got my girlfriend pregnant in high school and had to quit ball to get a job. The kid ruined my dreams of playing. Don’t have kids. They wreck your life!” Again he laughed in an inside-joke kind of way, and again I didn’t feel as if I was on the inside. I laughed with him to make him feel better.
“Yeah,” he continued, “I was one of the best players on my high school squad. I was looking at colleges and was going to try for the pros, but life gets in the way, you know?”
“Yeah, that’s a shame,” I said. “Someone should really tell life to quit doing that.”
“I had a knockout curve,” he continued, staring off into dreamland, “and I had to have been throwing at least ninety miles per hour. We didn’t have radar guns or nothing, but all the guys told me I was throwing real hard.”
“Oh. Wow,” I said, highly doubtful but mastering it.
“Yeah, she said she was on birth control, but I don’t believe it. She knew I was going to be something special. She thought she’d just lock me down, you know?”
“Hmmm.”
“My advice to you, buddy, don’t trust women.” He stopped and looked at me with a queer smile. “I’ll bet a guy like you gets women after him all the time, what with being a ballplayer and all.” He stared at me as if I had the power to possess women with my uniform. I thought about the only woman in my life, my grandma, and felt the urge to tell him she was available. Instead I said, “Oh you know it, man! All the time ,” and elbowed him back.
“Attaboy! Don’t ever give it up son, trust me. Say, you know my cousin’s kid has one hell of an arm. Do you think you could get me in touch with a scout to come watch him? I think he’s got what it takes. I’ve been working with him. Taught him the old hook.” He wrung his arm as best he could in our tight seating to demonstrate.
“Looks like a good one.”
“Yeah, it’s nasty.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So, can you get me in touch with a scout?”
“Yeah, sure. We do that all the time.” We never do that.
“What do I do, just give you my info then?”
“Yeah, I’ll pass it on to the Padres for you.”
“Ooh, the Padres?” he cringed.
“Yeah, why?”
“Um…I was hoping you could get the Yankees.”
“…”
I spent forty-five minutes I’ll never get back listening to Luke’s life story before the plane touched down in Chicago. He handed me his card as we exited the plane. I threw it away as soon as he was out of sight.
The long connector flight to Phoenix had me sitting next to a senior couple. They wore big, Terminator-style sunglasses that covered up their whole head. They had to use the bathroom every fifteen minutes and kept complaining about how much they hated today’s music compared to the good ol’ days when you could understand lyrics and women didn’t dress like hussies. When they saw my mitt, they asked me if I was a ballplayer. I told them it was a present for my kid brother in Arizona. I told them he was having an operation due to a rare disease called turf toe, and he was going to be off his feet for a while. Baseball was his favorite sport, so I got him the glove from this really nice, caring, and handsome pro pitcher named Dirk Hayhurst, who played for the Yankees. They said they’d keep an eye out for him. I told them my name was Eric
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