Because I couldn’t think up a good title for this blog because I’m not sure what I am going to write about. I just thought I would let the spirit move me. Every now and then, I wonder why my life turned out the way that it did. I would even confess that there are times I get very close to becoming completely absorbed in self pity, but then I do a reality check and have to confess that I am pretty lucky. When I was a kid, I was going to be a professional baseball player. I knew the starting lineups of every major league team; I would sit for hours with my cover pulled over my head with my little transistor radio and listen to Jack Buck and Harry Carey. “Orlando Cepeda steps up to the plate. He swings. He connects. Way back, way back! It could be; it might be; it is — a home run! Holy Cow! The Cardinals won the World Series in 1967 and should have won it in 1968.
In my sixth grade year, 1969 and 1970, my life began to fall apart. My grandmother died. It was about the first time I had ever had anyone close to me die. For some reason, people started bullying me when I was in the sixth grade. I don’t know why. I certainly didn’t ask for it. In the summer after my sixth grade year, I tried out for little league. I made the team — the last place on the roster. I did not play a single second of a single game the entire season. To this day, I dislike that coach, and he’s dead. It’s hard to let go of some things.
My dream of becoming a baseball player resurfaced a little when I was in high school, but I discovered I lacked a few important skills. I couldn’t run fast, I couldn’t field well, and I couldn’t hit, but my sixth grade year was the beginning of the end for a lot of things in my life. For example, I am convinced that my bipolar disorder began kicking in during my sixth and seventh grade year even though it wasn’t for another 20 something years that I actually got a diagnosis and some help.
To be continued