In my dream-world, I would have grown up to be William Saroyan, James A. Michener, C.S. Lewis or Ted Kluszewski. The first three were writers; the fourth, a baseball player.
In 1958–59, Kluszewski played first base for my team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was traded to the White Sox the year before Pittsburgh made its heroically historic run, beating the New York Yankees in the 1960 World Series. As you may recall, Bill Mazeroski, who played second, whacked a walk-off home run in Game 7 to win the game 10–9 and the series 4–3.
I would have liked to have seen what “Big Klu” might have done against the Bronx Bombers. We’ll never know. Sad.
We’ll never know a lot of things:
· What if JFK hadn’t been shot?
· What if Titanic had missed the iceberg?
· What if authorities had prevented 9–11?
· What if Carrie Fisher had a happy childhood and her Dad, Eddie, hadn’t left her Mom, Debbie Reynolds, for Elizabeth Taylor?
Like I said: We’ll never know.
Often I sip from the flask of failures and regrets. I shouldn’t, but it tastes sweet on my lips before it turns sour in my soul.
As a kid (perhaps 8 or 9) I was in a potato sack race — and winning. In anticipation of victory, I raised my hands … at which time the burlap sack (with the help of gravity) dropped to my ankles, tripping me. My face hit the ground. Grass and dirt filled my mouth.
Seems I’ve had to re-learn that lesson every few years.
When I first became a Christian, after getting a “Dear John” letter in Vietnam, I expected to live a perfect life, thinking: “With the help of Jesus, all the pieces will fit, and I’ll figure out the puzzle of this thing called life.”
I was wrong.
Life is a mystically mythical mystery — a mix of landmines and Rubik’s Cubes: “Bright. Shiny. BOOM!”
In my real-world, I grew up to be a journalist, husband, and father. Saroyan, Michener, C.S. Lewis and Kluszewski are all dead. I expect to join them some day. We’ll have a lot to talk about, I’m sure.
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