Why I love baseball-the art of losing and still winning

Baseball is the only occupation that you are handsomely rewarded for failing more  times than you succeed.

Let us take a look at the art of hitting. A .300 batting average for a career is more than likely Hall of Fame worthy, especially if you do it over a ten or more year period of playing Major League Baseball. So, exactly does that translate to? It means that you only got a hit three times for every ten times that you batted. That mean that you failed seven out of ten times.Not so hot huh? As Go Figure would say"Go Figure."

Now, what other occupations can you  fail every seven out of ten times and be considered great in your field?  How about a surgeon? How long would he last as a surgeon  if  he successfully operated only three out of ten times? How about a chef? Only three out of ten orders that he cooks comes out right, I don't think that many restaurants would put up with that very long. I could go on and on, but you get the point.

You have got to love baseball because you only have to succeed three out of ten times to be great.
And, that is a lot like life. I love baseball. It is a lot like me.

I love baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Zen

GF has been writing some about baseball recently. He was a very good player when he was young. I loved baseball, too, and grew up with it with my father teaching my brother and I at a very young age the basics  of the game.I was not the athlete by a long shot that GF or my brother was, but my love for the game was probably every bit as much. It still is. I cannot wait for the late days of February  and Spring training starts.

There is new hope. Maybe this is the year that my team wins the World Series. I can dream, because on opening day, all thirty MLB teams start with the same clean record.

I love the smell of the grass, and when I was a kid going to AAA games in Spokane, I loved the smell of the cigar smoke wafting up in the twilight at the Fairgrounds baseball park, and the cry of he vendors selling overpriced ice cream and hot dogs. Yes, it was heaven.

I suppose that because Spokane was an LA Dodger affiliate, I grew up a  Dodger fan since there were no MLB teams in the Pacific Northwest at the that time. Of course, now I am a die hard Mariner fan, but I still can cheer for the Dodgers because they are in the National League. Anyway, on those clear, crisp October days, the World Series was a huge event. I am sure that GF remembers that we even got to go to to Miner Hall and watch the games on television during school hours. Baseball Was America, America was baseball.

I cannot imagine schools doing that nowadays. Too bad. It is our culture.

The greatest thing of all is that baseball is more than a game. It is a microcosm of life, and when you can master the nuances of baseball, you will understand life. I will write more on this another time.

Simple Pleasures

1. Combing your own hair

2. taking a shower without someone helping you(although that can be fun with the right person)

3. breathing without gasping and wheezing every second

4.peeing standing up

5.walking 5 steps without a walker

6.a good strong cup of coffee, made Cedar style instead of the hospital variety

7.taking to your kids on the phone and letting them know that you are still around and they are stuck  with you for awhile longer

8 getting a call from your grandson and talking baseball, the way that i used to talk to me Dad when I was little.

9. having nothing left to fear

10. having wonderdul familyand friends to support you and surrond you with love and well wishes.

Sorting it all out

Well, it has been a fun month. The fun had only started on my last post on the 2nd, Little did I know what was going to happen two days later. For one whole week the doctors had tried to get my left lung to move air, but it simply would not.  On the night of May 3rd, they decided to bring out the big guns to break it loose, and I was more than willing tot try it. It did work a little ,and then all of a sudden they pushed it too much and once again I was in distress. They loaded me up with drugs, got my breathing back under control, and the night ended.

There was nothing special about the next morning. It was a nondescript day, at least as far as I could tell from a hospital room. The therapist came in to do the morning treatment, and said that we were going to do the same thing as the night before, only we would lead into it a different way.  I was a little skittish from the night before, but knew we were running out of time to get that dang lung unplugged. The session started, and I knew something was wrong right away. I signaled to my wife, who was next to me ,chatting with my older sister, that I was in trouble. They pulled the mask off of me, and I was frantic to breathe. By now, the nurses were beginning to arrive. I turned to my wife and told here that I was dying this time. I heard the nurse in the background yell at me to be quiet and save my energy, and that I was going to be okay. I knew I was not OK, and that is the last thing that I remember.

 .Sometime later I looked up at my wife who was sitting on the bed with tears in her eyes. I was puzzled because I had had such a wonderful, peaceful, nap, and she was crying. I asked here what was wrong, and she said, " you don't know, do you?" She then told me that I had coded, and was indeed dead for a few moments. She even showed me the paper from the EKG showing the flat lines.

OK, I am amazed. Apparently on May 4th, I died, and on on May 4th, I got a new life, a second chance. a contract extension, something. I must now choose carefully, and use this time wisely to make my life count.

More later

Special thanks to GF for the call at the hsopital,. So nice to hear from you, my old friend.

No farm this time

No farm this time for me.I guess that I tried to Tuesday afternoon in the Rite- Aid  parking lot, but my wife stopped the sale  when she came back to found me with my oxygen level plummeting to dangerous lows
The hospital was only 1 block away, so the ambulance was there within minutes, and I was whisked away.

Well, I am still here five days later, and I look like hell. The massive steroids are bloating up my face, causing my blood sugar levels to spike, despite the fact that I am not a diabetic, but  I  have to have insulin shots three times a day. My hair is a mess, and my beard needs trimming, but I did not buy the farm this time, although it came really close to the deal. But, I am alive, and hopefully going home tomorrow or Tuesday.