Hey, everyone. It's late but I am wide awake. I've been busy today, writing Notch 6, the latest in my series of western short stories. It is almost like I'd know Cedric Gant if we met on the street. If we did, I certainly wouldn't invite him to draw. Ha, ha.
Meanwhile, in Indianapolis tonight, there are a bunch of other sleepless men. Odds are, they are not writing a book. They are thinking about playing in the most important game of their lives, the Super Bowl. Soon, all the hype will be over and it will come down to tackling, blocking, running and catching, as it always does.
True, the game is nowhere near as important as their health, their wives and babies or their faith, whatever that might be. Yet, millions in salary, bonuses, endorsements are at stake. Even those cushy, 'talking head ' jobs with the networks are much easier to get if you have one of those big rings. More important still, to some of them, is the professional satisfaction of being the best. The feeling of respect, the admiration. As far as the money goes, there is always a lot of money for those who are the best in the world at anything. Those who are the best doctors, singers, writers, teachers, ministers. To be able to perform with the best is one thing, to perform a simple task with hundreds of millions of people watching is a little tougher.
In Indy, a man rises yet again from the bed and hurries to the restroom. He is scared and nervous, nearly in panic mode. "What if I throw up on TV? What if my pants rip or I soil myself, or I fumble three times in the first half?" He debates on taking a sleeping pill and opts instead for a glass of booze. All the ticket requests are over now. All the interviews are done. The phone isn't ringing and he is basically incommunicado until the morning. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He dreams of glory, of green turf and noisy crowds. He sees beautiful women, cameras and overhead blimps. Then he awakens...and goes to the bathroom again.
From the author's green retreat, I'm CE Wills.
Meanwhile, in Indianapolis tonight, there are a bunch of other sleepless men. Odds are, they are not writing a book. They are thinking about playing in the most important game of their lives, the Super Bowl. Soon, all the hype will be over and it will come down to tackling, blocking, running and catching, as it always does.
True, the game is nowhere near as important as their health, their wives and babies or their faith, whatever that might be. Yet, millions in salary, bonuses, endorsements are at stake. Even those cushy, 'talking head ' jobs with the networks are much easier to get if you have one of those big rings. More important still, to some of them, is the professional satisfaction of being the best. The feeling of respect, the admiration. As far as the money goes, there is always a lot of money for those who are the best in the world at anything. Those who are the best doctors, singers, writers, teachers, ministers. To be able to perform with the best is one thing, to perform a simple task with hundreds of millions of people watching is a little tougher.
In Indy, a man rises yet again from the bed and hurries to the restroom. He is scared and nervous, nearly in panic mode. "What if I throw up on TV? What if my pants rip or I soil myself, or I fumble three times in the first half?" He debates on taking a sleeping pill and opts instead for a glass of booze. All the ticket requests are over now. All the interviews are done. The phone isn't ringing and he is basically incommunicado until the morning. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He dreams of glory, of green turf and noisy crowds. He sees beautiful women, cameras and overhead blimps. Then he awakens...and goes to the bathroom again.
From the author's green retreat, I'm CE Wills.
Comments
Post a Comment