I've always liked baseball. Not for the endless statistics (there are way too many of those in the game), but because it's fun to play. Like all sports, it takes a lot of hand-eye cordination. But, that's not the real challenge. At least, not for me.
It's the thrill of picking up that Louisville slugger, knocking the dirt from my clets and stepping up to the plate. Possiblity is infinite in the action. Faith is there too, along for the ride as I wind up, stare down the pitcher, and hope for the perfect pitch. Feeling the weight of the bat in my hands. The vibration of the wood in my grip as I connect with the ball. Sycronized connectivity. Oh, man. . .there's nothing better.
Now, granted, for each crack of the bat and line drive I propel into the outfield there are times when I hit nothing at all. A swing and miss. Sometimes, all you get are ninety mile an hour curve balls and nothing but air. Those times suck. Because no matter how good a player you are, it's hard to connect.
But, in the end, that's what keeps me in the game. The possibility of connection, of cracking one into the stands and hearing the crowd go wild.
Writing is a lot like that, isn't it? A vortex of pleasure-pain where possibility, faith, and sheer tenacity collide. And in that moment, if we're lucky the perfect pitch sails our way and. . .wham! A home run. But, more often than not, we get a curve ball. A successful writer accepts each swing and miss. Picks themselves up out of the dirt, brushes off and gets back in game. Because maybe. . .just maybe. . .the next fast ball won't have the wrong spin. Maybe that's the one that gets knocked out of the park.
Possiblity. It's a beautiful thing.