Big in Japan, Hated in Venezuela
"This was just going to be one of those nights," he thought.
He did this, or, rather, he thought this, while he was grabbing the bill of his cap and scraping it upwards, over his brow, imagining he was both the ox and the plow, plowing the tiny fields in the furrows of his forehead, and the sweat was... well, this was where the metaphor broke down, and he had to get back to the task at hand. That task being crouching down a little, straightening up, putting his glove to the side of his face and pretending to say something over to the shortstop, bending back like a bow being pulled into position, and then crouching back down again, wholly unlike a bow. More like a crab, an upside-down crab. His latest visit with Doctor Tillman got him into the whole visualization thing. Doc Tillman was also the one who kept correcting him about referring to his thoughts as doing things.
"You must know. Thinking is not doing. Thinking is very, very powerful, but it is not doing. Never forget." He spoke with a down home boy, southern accent, but, for some reason, Bill always heard his advice, when he played it back in his head later, in a German accent. He had a notion to bring in a voice recorder and record Doc Tillman's advice, but the one time he'd mentioned that the doctor blanched and called in his secretary over the office intercom and had her explain how copyright issues and certain contracts limit the rebroadcast of his sessions in any way, shape, or form. She left, again, through what seemed like a dumbwaiter, only slightly larger, and Bill heard the whirring of something he imagined was rope on a pully once the door shut.
He'd just booted yet another chance ranging to his left, which was not endearing him to the faithful in the stands. And now he was imagining he was a crab. Not actually a crab, sitting out there at second base for the Boston Red Sox, at Fenway Park in beautiful Boston, Massachusetts, with his uniform hanging off him, only little beady black eyes on long stalks sticking out of the neck hole, his glove laying beside himself, which he would scuttle over to and on top of to try and get a view of the batter. Not to field a ball, but more to get out of the way, should a ball be batted his way, because he could not imagine a scenario in which a ball meeting a crab shell would turn out well for the crab inhabiting the shell. Of course he didn't think that. It was just the current image playing through his mind with particular ferocity... a ferocity which was quickly abandoned, like a crab scooting out of the way of a batted baseball, when the infield reverberated with the crack of the bat and the ball skipped across the grass, twice, two big hops, into his mitt, and found its way from there, with the help of his right hand and a light toss, to the first baseman. The crowd cheered, sarcastically, which he could understand, and as he jogged in the shortstop patted his on the butt. "There we go," he said. Which would not be the sort of thing a crab would hear often, Bill thought.
To be continued...?
disclaimer:
So ends another issue. Enjoy. It isn't quite the dog days of summer, but feels that way.
And some time around the real dog days of summer, expect something a little new from us...
Of course, judging us on our ability to deliver on past predictions of events we plan to carry out anything over a few hours time from the time the prediction is issued, we probably won't have anything all that new.
But, now that we've said that, who knows? We probably will have something, and more. We shall see.
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Thank you, and good night.
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