Alright, it's maybe 8th grade, you're pitching. I'm in left, pepper is thick in the air. So you go into your wind-up and I yell out "THIS GUYS MOTHER WEARS A JOCK STRAP!" You crack-up and balk, the umpire whips off his mask, halts the game and reams me out but good in front of everybody. As I'm standing there like a dope getting balled out, I look to the mound and you are howling.
Ring any bells?
I suspect it was actually 6th or 7th grade when that happened, but in any case, what a funny recollection. And now I know why that major league career I was dreaming of never worked out. It was all Grier's fault! He was so good at not letting me forget how absurd it all is. We sure did have a lot of fun. And it's still a lot of fun. The path from a ball field in Bronxville to an apartment overlooking the beach in Malaga could be traced in many, many different ways, one of which might be to see the dots connecting the lines as absurd chance happenings that bleed outsized shares of incredibly good fortune.