As regular Writing Boots readers know, I play baseball on summer Sundays. And mild spring and fall Sundays, too. As everyone who knows me knows, I play all out. In fact, I’ve been called, “All the Way Dave.” Only once, but still.
Though I’m one of the oldest of this gang I play with, I’m also the only one who dives for fly balls on the regular. And I catch most of them, too.
One of our number, a mild-mannered 30-something outfielder, asked me during a break in the action the other day, “Do you have good health insurance?”
A reference to the diving.
I laughed, and humble-bragged, “No, I’m just an idiot.”
Then he said, “You also ride a motorcycle.”
A reference to the monster steed with the fiery anus upon which I arrive at the park.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you do other dangerous stuff?”
How I wanted to tell him that if he thought this was dangerous, he should see what I do during the week: Writing every day and trying to be interesting and honest, without permanently alienating important professional connections, admired acquaintances and dear friends and family, in the middle of a society at war. Without any guidance from like-minded bloggers from 1859, or 1969.
“Naw,” I told him. “Just the diving and the motorcycle riding. That’s about it.”
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