It’s the end of yet another calendar year, a time traditional for reflection and thought. I, of course, have never liked my reflection, and have been accused of little thinking.
This year’s been one of changes, one of learning to stand on my feet, one of learning to grade fastballs and curveballs both physical and metaphorical. It’s been a time of sadness and of hope, of joy and sorrow, of late nights in parking lots and early mornings for no pay. It’s hard to put these things in writing without looking the absolute fool, for everything that feels so strong inside my head looks dimmer in the light of day, but now I’m on this writing roll so you can stay (or you can go).
This isn’t your traditional piece, because I’ve never been your traditional writer. People do lists, they do tweets, they do jokes and lines of feats and I’d rather talk about my failures but failures can outline success.
Of course, at this time of year no one wants to hear about your failures. We’re all too busy pretending to be happy to be reminded of our mortality, and that’s fine! So this year was full of blessings and surprises, equal to the bleak reminders, and I swear some day I’ll stop trying to write in rhythms only I can hear.
To break from my structure: I wrote pieces I was proud of, pieces I could leave, and I learned a lot about myself from writing about other people. Baseball’s great to have, because its stories are our own, and we put them there, and getting the chance to write about it in its many forms was great. I’ve written locally and nationally now, something that not many people get to say, and now, I begin to get to my point.
All my life I’ve wanted to be famous. That’s a bit stupid to say, especially in this climate, especially as someone with a bachelors in music, applied flute, who writes about baseball. It’s not really fame I ever wanted in truth, just remembrance, just the thought that maybe someday someone will remember my existence. This year has been about un-learning that. Growing up, and learning that it’s a slow process. Writing isn’t defined by how many followers one has on Twitter, or who recognizes you at the ballpark, or who knows your sense of humor, or who comments on your pieces. Being isn’t about how many people know your name, or like your photo on Instagram. It’s about knowing that you, yourself, exist. That your writing, itself, is to the best of your current ability (not your past or your future) and that you can let it go out there and fend for itself in the wide world. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t change some of my pieces. There’s quite a few I look back on, things I wrote after Christmas 2013 about Wilmer Font or Luis Sardinas, things I would edit within an inch of their life, now. But that’s what growth’s about.
Sometimes I find myself wishing that one of my articles would show up in someone's end of year list, that something I wrote impressed someone else enough that they felt that other people needed to read it, but maybe next year, right? After all, though fame is stupid and fleeting, appreciation isn't, and goals, well, goals are great for setting.
I’m hesitating over even publishing this, as it’s slightly dumb and part-if-not-all-ramble, but hey, it’s Christmas. And that’s what we do at Christmas, isn’t it?
(End of year thanks, with all my heart: Erik Malinowski, for being the best mentor anyone could ask for; Jen Mac Ramos; Levi Weaver, for giving me music that kept me alive on the long drives back from Frisco; Or Moyal, for giving me a chance to find my words; Katy Clarke, for Corner Bakery dinners and press box jokes; Russell Carleton, for listening to my rambling even when I make no sense; Jason Wojciechowski, all of Baseball Prospectus but particularly Nick Faleris, Bret Sayre, Ryan Parker, and Sam Miller; the fine folks in the EDSBS commentariat; Scott Lucas and Tepid Participation, for answering my stupidest of questions; Nathaniel Stoltz; Melisa Oporto and Graham Jenkins, for hockey; and Holly Holl, for helping me out when I make stupid decisions.)
