Batting Cage Fail

Every once in a while in my profession I am presented with a vexing case which doesn’t lend itself to easy remedies. I spend hours and hours pouring over the details, trying to pick the right strategy. Which risk do I want to remove? Which risk am I willing to tolerate? Whenever this happens I feel the need to do something sporty to distract my mind. Sometimes I’ll go for a run or walk 18 holes while carrying my clubs, anything that will wear me out because when I’m exhausted I stop thinking obsessively about everything.

So this afternoon I threw my golf clubs in the back of the car and drove over to Bogey’s Sports Park to hit a bucket of balls. It was nice. I hit the ball well and the weather couldn’t possibly have been any finer. As I was preparing to leave I looked up the hill and noticed the batting cages.

I have a history with batting cages. Years ago when I was just starting out in business and well and truly broke, I used to use my lunch hour over at the batting cages just south of Ashland on Number One Highway. Back then they had a 90 mph cage and I used to wear that cage out until I was dripping wet with sweat. Of course, now that I’m 65 my days of putting a 90 mph fastball in play are over. Besides, nobody has a 90 MPH cage anymore. Anyway, before thinking my decision through properly, there I was buying two tokens, walking up to the cages with a too skinny, too light aluminum bat and one of those one size fits all helmets. Upon arriving I noticed that only two of the cages were open…70 MPH and 80 MPH. Gulp.

I dropped the first token in the 70 MPH machine and prepared for the worst. To my astonishment, I only swung and missed once in 20 pitches, fouled off maybe 4 or 5 and laced the rest of them right up the middle. For a brief and unrealistic moment I let myself believe I was a kid again.

One more token. Twenty more pitches. I determined that the 80 MPH cage was my destiny. How much harder could 10 lousy miles per hour be? But this was when I realized that I was out of breath and sweating profusely. Yep. Still 65 and not fooling anyone! So I sat down at one of the picnic tables to gather myself. I noticed that both of my hands were red and raw looking after only 20 swings. Better loosen the grip on the bat, I thought. Then it was time to step in against Mister 80 MPH heater.

When I finished, my hands were stinging and cramped with pain. My shirt was soaked through and thankfully there was no one up there to witness my pathetic performance. I managed to foul tip maybe four or five. I did put exactly six balls in play—all ground balls toward the second base side. The rest of the pitches were giant whiffs. Pretty humiliating, but my strategy had worked—I was no longer thinking about my troubling case.

When I arrived back home I cleaned up, then opened my computer to check the closing numbers on Wall Street. Thats when I saw the picture. It had popped up on my Facebook wall, a memory from 8 years ago, back when I could have done much better in the cage…

It’s probably my favorite picture of her. We were in the Cayman Islands, getting ready to go out for dinner. I took the photograph of her on the staircase in the front of the hotel. I studied it carefully and it brought back memories of that wonderful week. She is elegant, graceful and approachable. Her smile isn’t forced or tired. She is charming and fun, the kind of women who would never embarrass you. Her beauty is natural, never overdone or showy. She is tender hearted and kind, always thinks the best of people sometimes to a fault. The best thing is…that girl belongs to me.

My difficult case will take care of itself. Later tonight when my back starts to tighten up and my hands start pulsing with pain, she will look at me, knowing that I brought it all on myself and roll her eyes. 

But, she loves me anyway.