When I began to follow sports on TV, they all looked like big grown superhero men. I figured any of them could pick me up and toss me away like a crumpled up piece of paper... over their shoulder without a second thought.
I'd examine hockey and baseball cards. See heights and weights on the back and think them giants. I'd size up the pictures on the front... seeing bearded men with rippling arms and broad shoulders. I was all pipe cleaners back then. Unable to throw a ball across the diamond from third to first and weighing a third of what their cards told me.
As years progressed, I became draft age. That isn't to say there was any consideration of me actually being drafted... for anything. I was just getting around the same age as those that were to be drafted. I'd hear analysts speaking of these up and comers and think how they're my age. If I was any good, I could be there with them. It seemed so close somehow. As if age, alone, decided your fate. I'd look on the backs of these players cards and think "I've still got to grow a few inches... and put on fifty pounds... otherwise I'll just be a light hitting utility infielder."
At that time I'd look at the top players in the game. Grizzled vets who still made those rookies seem as kids. They were no longer superhero men. But they were still larger than life.
Over the following decade or so, my imaginary career in professional sports took off. Winters were hockey season. Summers for baseball. My road hockey and softball experience substituted for professional baseball and hockey and good seasons in my world translated into professional success.
If I were drafted by the Blue Jays, I'd be up to AAA ball perhaps. Waiting in the wings as Robbie Alomar held on to my position on the big league roster. And I'd look at the hockey world and figure I'd get a shot on the bench with the Hab's or Canucks. Backing up Patrick Roy or Kirk McLean. Happy enough with the 25 games I'd get in net each season.
As the years go on, I decide to end my hockey career and focus on baseball. After all, I was just a backup goalie... and won my Cup with the Canadiens in 1993. It is time to focus on my better sport.
I grew big enough to be one of those stocky ball players. Fast on the base paths. A bit of pop with the bat. Able to give good defence at any position. I imagined what my softball stats would translate as over a 162 game season. And saw myself on the team with Delgado. I'd probably pal around with Hentgen. And live the life of a big leaguer.
Injuries began to limit my games. By my late 20s, 162 game schedules became too much for my shoulder and knees. But still I'd get a good 140 games in ok. Just needing a game here or there to rest up. And my super utility role reduced some. No more outfield for me. I'm strictly an infielder now. But still valuable with the glove at 2nd, short and catcher.
As time moves on, things begin to change. In real life, I began to see those superhero men of my childhood baseball cards in a new light. These men are now bench coaches. Managers and TV analysts. The big, muscular men who could toss me aside are middle aged now. Bellies replace biceps. Beards are replaced by wrinkles. And watching a game with younger friends, I'll mention a former player I recognize on the bench with them replying "he used to be a player?"
This would flash me back to the days I began watching. I never thought of the old managers of the 80s as former players. And now the men I started off watching are those same ex players you'd never guessed actually once played.
Today I watched some Spring Training baseball. A pop up down the left field line scattered the guys in the bullpen. Young fellows with blonde locks and neatly trimmed beards are all unfamiliar to me. But one jumps out. One I recognize immediately. Frank "Sweet Music" Viola! I saw him pitch for the Twins. He was the best in the game for a couple of years. My imaginary career would have me come to the plate against him... probably while he was beyond his prime... but still it would have been a big occasion in my career... to face Frank Viola.
Today... he's a bullpen coach. His leathery face still donning that Sweat Music moustache. Only now it's grey. With matching coloured hair peaking out from under his cap. He no longer looks like a ball player. Today he seems more like a grandfather. And he's the lone man among a dozen that I recognize.
Needless to say, my imaginary playing career is now over. Yes there may be other 41 year olds hanging on in the bigs. Bench players coming in to pinch hit from time to time. But my drive isn't there anymore. My shoulder gave out a few years back and any throws I'd make now would be soft, arcing lobs across the diamond. And that speed is long gone. In a tight game, now, I may come in to pinch hit but a single would see me lifted for a pinch runner... ready to fly around the bases as I slowly jog back to the dugout.
No, rather than go through that, I'd have retired by now. Living the life of a former player back home in Newfoundland. A quiet time where I'd meet up with friends from time to time for lunch. And talk about the old times while watching another former teammate lumber out to the mound ready to make another pitching change.
TUESDAY...
--- Mona and me alone. Claudio is gone now. A busy day too. Pretty steady through the day.
WEDNESDAY...
--- A bit less than yesterday but not much.
THURSDAY...
--- Nights. Grab a burger from Wendy's. It was going to be a shwarma from Yala Yala but I ran out of time thanks to garage door problems. This cold is beating up garage doors.
FRIDAY...
--- Garage door basically dies when I get home in the morning. Something gives away and the belt comes off.
--- Don't sleep enough but get in to work ok and make my way through.
SATURDAY...
--- Quiet time around the house.
--- Watch Montreal vs Toronto hockey tonight. Bob Cole may mess up names sometimes now but he's still the voice of hockey. Nobody else creates the excitement he does.
SUNDAY...
--- Softball. We win one and lose one. We're a pretty good team this season but the turf wears me down. My calf remains somewhat knotted since the fall and now my hip and knee both get irritated by the time games are over. Not enough to stop me but all just fairly rickety.
--- Sunday night tv ends things.
MONDAY...
--- Grocery run. I was particularly low on stuff before so a fairly big bill.
--- Garage door guy comes to look things over. Can't fix it yet. Need a part. I guess it's not going to be a cheap fix.
--- No walking even though the sun is out. My leg remains tender in the joints and it's too cold. -15 without accounting for wind. Tired of this.
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