Sometimes I think that my best words are behind me. Anything new I could try to fit together would not hold the power or poetry (perceived, of course) of some of my past pieces. And perhaps this stops me. Over the few years in the life of this blog there are a handful of pieces that I am truly proud of - and read often if only to remind myself that somewhere beneath this rugged exterior lies some smoldering potential. But probably more likely is that I like revisiting the punch, feeling what I felt when my fingers flew furiously over the keys - not knowing at the time that I was creating something that would become part of me.

In all honesty, my life is only just beginning. The true challenges are still ahead. I've only been slugging away in the minors. A steady player, consistent base hit - a reliable outfielder, the occasional, expected error. Recently I've begun to feel more like the player just called up to the big leagues, on deck for the first time - legs a little shaky, palms sweaty as I pretend to warm up with the weighted donuts on my bat.

The roar of the crowd and glare of the lights feed the voracious butterflies in my stomach as my teammate takes ball one. Breathe I concentrate on feeling the grain in the wood of my bat and quickly compose a prayer that might adequately summarize my recently acquired and very, very humble attitude. (ball two) I really do not want to strike out. Fly out, hit it to the shortstop, heck bean me. Yes, bean me that's probably the best option. Nothing like a good welt and a grimace to win some sympathy as I bravely take my position at first base. (strike one)

I ponder my possibilities, and take comfort in the awareness that this line of thought is helping. My swing feels a bit steadier and for the first time I have confidence that my legs will support me at least as far as the batter's box.

I am suddenly jealous as I survey the crowd. Jealous of the fat, middle-age father who stuffs greasy, pungent garlic fries into his mouth and jeers at the umpire while his kids wreak havoc in their row and spill a collective 60 ounces of root beer. Jealous because he is here for recreation, and will go home in three hours and forget about stats and won't worry about failure or outcomes or winning records. This line of thinking does not help my nerves and I tighten my batting gloves for the third time. (crack grounder to the second basemen, who easily throws the runner out at first)

The ball is returned to the pitcher who looks at me. The catcher is standing behind home plate and turns expectantly. The umpire looks also and beckons at my hesitation. I try to pound the weights off my bat onto the ground like I've done for so many years - this time I drop the bat and have to pick it back up and weakly dust the dirt off the handle. Not good. As I begin my trek to the plate - to take my place in the batters box I've longed for my whole life, yet dreaded and feared in the past two hours more then anything, I can only think of the mechanics of how to breathe and how very much I don't want to strike out.