Over the past few weeks, Jack and I have driven down the road of nostalgia as we contemplated the fate of our past fleets. Thanks to TTAC’s resident wrench and automotive P.I. Bozi Tatarevic, we were able to find closure; Jack’s Oldsmobubble went to the great crusher in the sky, while my Bronco continues to ply the roads of Oklahoma City before it meets a similar fate in a not-so-distant future.
Now it’s your turn to play “Dude, Where’s My Car?”
The bases are loaded and the score is tied. Two outs in the bottom of ninth. 3 balls. 1 strike.
You know this pitcher better than you know your brother. The last pitch had almost cleared the left field pole, and the entire stadium. Your swing was as beautiful as Mickey Mantle in his prime. Just a few inches to the right and you would have been on your way to a private party with friends instead of another walk back to the batter’s box.
The catcher signals, and you catch one finger out of the very corner of your eye. Fastball. The pitch comes, right down the middle. It’s almost like a dream and yet, you can’t do anything about it.
The stomach pangs in stress and anguish as the rest of your body remains still. You watch it go past. The thud in the catcher’s mitt. The umpire bellowing, “Stttaaarrriiikkeee!!!” Your manager had told you not to swing and now, you have 50,000 fans booing as you curse under the breath and step away from the batters box.
Will you get a pitch that good again? The pitcher grins as he now knows, his mistake ended up giving him an advantage.
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