Is That All There Is?!?

Another Night, Another Dream


Dear Mr. Barry Zito,

Last night, nipping at the tails of a relaxed and mellow day, I fell into the trap of nothingness... I was left with nothing to do.
There were plenty of tasks I could have completed or research I might have compiled, but there was no chance of this. I have a feeling you know what I'm talking about here.

Responsibilities beckoned but I was able to shrug them off mere as trivialities of modern life. I heard the siren song of smoking cigarillos and taking batting practice in the vacant lot. There were temptations but I couldn't do anything. I was stuck a distraught, tangled mess until heading to bed. I'm the same mess this morning. I ran out of a vitally important French review session because my Butterfinger tasted like vomit.

I'm not weird. I ain't crazy. These are the things you feel when you open yourself up, set a standard, or garner some small belief in yourself.

You've seen the ziggurat. A Cy Young in 2002, a dastardly 12-6 curve that confounded batters as much as your antics confounded sportswriters. (He wears #75, that's so ZANY!). These exploits made you a pitching paragon, an argument for the finesse pitcher, and a ripe target to receive the richest contract a pitcher has ever received. I'm not sure about the specifics but it's something like 126 million over 7 years. We won't pile on here. We can say you make more than I do in a week.

Since that fat contract, you've been really terrible, the phrase "god-awful" puts it mildly. You've been open about it, discussing your struggles with the press, explaining your frustration at finding the all familiar ziggurat suddenly out of reach. You have recently been demoted to a relief pitcher, sparking snide comments about your persona, abilities, and pressing questions as to whether or not you were ever any good to begin with.

We're strangers Barry, but we're not all that different. My personality and weirdness overshadows everything I do. I attend the University of Southern California. I was even confused for you at the Mall once. It was by someone saying they knew you. According to him: you, your sister, and he took a song-writing class together.

My advice to you is simple: Our struggles can not become us. We might look back at some days, nights, and endeavors and feel a great tumult seize up inside us, take hold, and shrink us to bits. Don't let circumstances take hold of your head and overpower your person. You're too good for that, we all are. You aren't great because you're a great pitcher. You're great because you were the only pitcher ever to offer Yoga lessons in the back pages of Vanity Fair. No one can take that away from you.

Mired in the malaise, I picked up a book. The prose was written from a 3rd person omniscient point of view, detailing a fallen star's further fall from grace. We don't respect the character. We sort of hate him, actually. However, entrance in his head, innate understanding of what spurs his choices, inspires his insipid conversations, and what fuels his fears gives a brave idea. As long as we are human, generating thoughts and vibrant ideas about even the most indolent matters, we are achieving. By thinking, any thought, we accomplish something, establishing new terrain.

Who cares about pitching?

Good luck Barry.

Sincerely yours,

Joel Walkowski