Another summer is coming to a close and I’m beginning to notice something. For the past five years, all I have done is watch, and I see a lot of misguided meandering. Young players just playing, with no real clue as to why or where they want to go. It hurts me because I have the luxury of looking back and knowing what’s at stake, and how not to waste the opportunity.
My fever for baseball has been ingrained into my DNA, and it’s not uncommon to find myself brainlessly being led toward sporting goods stores to buy a dozen baseballs, only to snap out of it just before I get to the register to say, "Whoa, where am I? What am I doing? How did I get here?"
Sometimes, in the light of the full moon, I can be found in open fields howling and grunting peculiar noises among baseballs strewn about the night air — only to wake up in an abandoned alley with no recollection and wearing nothing but a pair of sliders and cleats. There’s just something about this time of year.
