I can state that there are 8 Wal Marts, 4 Hooters but only 2 Starbucks in this entire town.
I walked well over 14 miles today and used up 4 bus tokens!
With every step I wondered if I'd done the right thing in quitting. Here I was broke, no food and miles to go to get a poor chance to eat again. Of course someplace down the line I realized I was in this situation because asshole lawyers can't keep their word so not quitting would only have postponed this drama. As I walked I did laugh out loud thinking about this comic strip I adore; “Pooch Cafe”. I remembered Pancho, the strips dog star, dressing up as a hoot owl because that was the natural enemy of cats and squirrels. I sent a fan letter to the artist and received a nice friendly reply.
After 3 interviews, smiling, hoping, listening, I was depressed and hungry. I didn't want to move or live. I had to take Ethel, my dog, out and I promised the catcher I'd meet him in the park to work on stuff. While I was getting ready to go the morons at my former job called me to tell me there was no work tonight. Quitting was clearly the right thing to do. The light workout was good for me. It kept my mind off my mental fatigue. The catcher was mystified that I not only still wore metal cleats but noticed that I'd long ago sharpened them to a knife edge. I'm that kind of shortstop. I was highly entertained by Ethel, who might be a baseball fan. She sprawled her belly in the grass and on every pitch her head would jerk from me to the catcher, then when he lobbed the ball back to me her head would slowly follow it.
The catcher thinks I'm one of the quickest pitchers he's ever seen. As he's only played high school ball I took the compliment gratefully and then quickly forgot it.
I did manage to get a 3rd pitch: a split finger fastball. It doesn't submarine but it does come out of my hand like my regular fastball. I don't think many batters in this league are good enough to follow the ball out of my hand so they may not notice the lack of tumble until it's too late. The pitch works like a curve for me dropping down and away from right handers and in on lefties. I can throw it for strikes.
I can't get the snap in my wrist for a good true curve so I have to make do with physics and lack of rotation.
The catcher (and my Southern friend) don't understand why I'm working so hard at this. I know we'll be playing for the man and his dog, the occasional pack of bicycling kids and NO ONE ELSE! But even they need to see that you are trying your best, they need to know that it's important. I've got no image of myself playing pro ball, those dreams are long and happily dead. I have a commitment to myself. I need to be the best I can. The real score board is in my head. It matters that I look at myself and see that I gave it all I had. We have a Weds. practice where I try it all out again.
We came home and I ate a third of my noodles. I'm still hungry. I want Starbucks coffee. I want money. The job that I've got the callback on is going to pay 400 per week, about 300 take home. Right now that seems like a lot.
Debra Hill died today.