As a wiffle ball pitcher, you must have tremendous focus. You have to know the contour of the ball, where you scuffed and scratched the ball to maintain control, the dynamics of the air that passes over and through the holes, hand position, where you release, whether your angle is more side arm than overhand, the specs of the strike zone, the awareness and tendencies of the batter, and the concealment of your hand position during your wind-up. That’s a lot to keep straight, especially as fatigue sets in.
If you’re just chucking, then your fielding skills better be phenomenal if you’re facing a batter of any talent.
Isn’t that how it goes? If you don’t know what you’re doing, then prepare to get blindsided. How many people do you encounter everyday (or see in the mirror), that are completely overwhelmed and anxietized by a rapid, spastic, technologically-sizzled existence?
Nice antidotes to the frenetic pace of current society are those moments where everything, in stillness, is glorious. Like the yellow light of your garage on a summer night, pouring through the tools that your grandfather used to use with you at his side. Like the baseball games you went to with your dad, where you fell asleep in the seventh inning and you vaguely remember being carried to the car. Like the stars that arched and rolled above you while you first talked with the woman who became your wife. Like the slow breathing of your own children as they fall asleep in your arms. Like your dog hanging his head out the window of your truck on the way back from the lake, fresh-caught fish in the cooler.
Hitting it out of the park is the balance between the combat of earning a paycheck and spending it in eternal arenas.