I’m sitting at the park on a beautiful Saturday morning listening to birds chirping and old men yelling at young boys to hurry up. What I don’t understand about baseball is the rush of it all. Nothing happens fast in baseball except moving the players from place to place. So they can wait.
I remember being in boot camp and double-timing it the long way around to the other side of the post so we could sit in an empty building for half an hour. It’s the same with baseball. Run, run, run so you arrive fifteen seconds earlier and can stand in line longer.
I see the same thing on the road. Light turns green. Zoom, zoom, zoom 500 yards to the next red light. Cut and weave for a car length because the light will change and after 20 such maneuvers you might be first in line and have the chance to cut though on a fresh red.
I’m not saying my way is best, but rather if you see my truck, or lawn chair, you should probably switch lanes because I’m just not in that big of a hurry.
|For some reason, nobody interrupts me.|