I've dreamt many, many times about being in a battle. You find yourself in a dream, and you're fighting in the dream, and you're not sure why; but you are fighting, and your life, your humanity your reputation all hang in the balance. One time I found myself in a dream battling a sumo wrestler via a game of tug-of-war at my church's annual fall festival. I dug my knockoff Air Jordans into the ground and battled the great Sumo with everything I had. I desperately wanted to win. I pulled on that rope with all of my might. I lost this battle rather quickly. He pulled me facedown into the mud in front of the entire church. Battle lost. One time, in a dream, I found myself shrunken down, action-figure size, battling the blue Rock-em Sock-em robot in the ring. I must have replaced the red robot. I went right jab, right jab, left body shot, then stepped to the right and knocked out the blue gladiator with my right hook. Battle won. Sometimes my father and I spar in the garage, especially when he is fighting with ma; must have been the inspiration behind the dream. One time I found myself in a dream and I was a Roman soldier, our army ambushed by some nameless, faceless, barbaric enemy. The ambush and ensuing battle occurred in a bathhouse of all places. I found myself worrying about my tunic coming undone during the scrum. I was the last soldier alive on the Roman's side and drove a dagger through the heart of the last barbarian. His lifeless body fell into the red water of the sauna. I survived. Battle won. 1-0.
The score of this battle I find myself in is now 7-4 (3-0) in the top of inning number four. The enormous deficit has been cut to only three. How do you eat an entire elephant? One bite at a time. And we've been chewing all afternoon. I am finding my groove on the mound. However, I also found some trouble along the way. Two outs, two bad guys on the bases, one on first, and one on third. Big, bad Miles Lesnar makes his way once again to the plate. A big boy up in a big spot. "Time!" The umpire shouts with his big, booming voice. The sun has turned his face bright tomato red. He will brown up sometime in the next couple days. He slowly circles the plate and bends over to brush it off as is customary during timeouts. My father hustles out to the mound. He puts his clipboard over his mouth so the other team can't read his lips as we discuss battle strategy. I put my glove over my mouth for the same reason. The major league ballplayers do it this way also. "He's timed up for your fastball son. Remember last time?" I can still see that old plywood sign reverberating off the wall after Miles turned my four-seam fastball into a missile. "Yes I remember." "Give him three circle changeups." My father advises me, making a circle with his pointer finger and thumb; he holds up his middle, ring, and pinky fingers to indicate the number three. The design of his fingers doubles as my favorite pitch to throw. Three circle changeups. My father and Thomas Edison and myself invent the lightbulb together on the mound. Brilliant. "You've got it dad. Let's go." I am enthralled. Of the four pitches in my arsenal my circle changeup is my slowest but perhaps my most effective pitch. This grip smothers the ball and inhibits rotation and speed. When thrown properly, the circle changeup starts out looking like a fastball, fooling the batter; the grip slows the ball on the way to home plate and adds some sinking action, making it a difficult pitch to hit. It sure does take a while to make it there though. If not executed properly the circle changeup just floats home and often ends up right in harm's way. A flat circle changeup is basically batting practice. It takes courage to throw the circle changeup because of this. It takes courage to throw a circle changeup to a god among men.
Big Hercules digs in. I push the ball into my palm inside of my glove. My thumb and index finger form the circle, my middle, ring, and pinky fingers form the three. I rear back and throw this one as hard as I can, the ball tumbles home slowly, perfectly executed. Miles thought it was a fastball. He tries to hit it to the moon. He swings out of his shoes and misses. He reminds me of Bugs Bunny with his limbs flying all over the place. "Dammit Miles! Move your ass to the front of the box!" Miles' coach is onto us. He is red with frustration. Moving to the front of the box will reduce the difference in speed between my fastball and my changeup, making the changeup easier to hit. I look at my dad in the dugout. He has a smirk on his face, our plan is working. He simply nods. I focus. I grip. My thumb and index finger form the circle, my middle, ring, and pinky fingers form the three. I deliver. I feel a cool breeze from Miles' mighty swing as he attempts to launch my eephus pitch into orbit. He looks even sillier than he did last time. Strike two. "Dammit Miles! Just wait on it!" The coach, unable to control his star player's movements, is boiling. My father looks at me, I can read his face "finish him off." Due to the opposing coach's advice, and afraid Miles' will get the timing right, I call an audible. My dad is expecting the circle changeup. Our catcher is expecting the circle changeup. The boiling coach is expecting the circle changeup. Big Hercules is expecting the circle changeup. I grip the baseball across the seams, spreading my index and middle finger out; like two red fangs swallowing a white sphere. I choose the same conceptual strategy my father and I decided upon on the mound, just the opposite. We went slow when Miles expected fast, now I choose fast when Miles is expecting slow. I choose my four-seam fastball. The same pitch Miles turned into a missile a couple of innings ago. I mentally complete the catholic prayer: The Sign of the Cross. And in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. I unleash my four seam fastball. I aim high, up near Miles' eyes, the height difference designed to further underscore the change in speed. I execute perfectly. Miles whiffs feebly. Strike three. Inning over. "Dammit Miles!" His coach is furious. My coach is proud. Battle won. Now for the war.
