Baseball is rife with quirky superstitions. Rally caps, locking up arms during an important at bat, holding up the number two to your caps when there is two outs and a count of two and two. There was a story this weekend during the College World Series of a kid who puts his old wrist bands from high school in his pockets for every game. Then there is the lonely one: The pitcher sitting all alone at the end of the dugout while he’s working on a no hitter.
Wouldn’t want to upset the cosmic balance of things and be the one who puts the jinx on, now would we?
Since I’m not one for convention and have issues knowing when to keep my trap shut, let me slide down to where the pitcher is sitting in the late innings of a perfect game. Let me go ahead a wash my underwear in the middle of a seven game win streak.
I’ve been loosely chronicling our little songwriting escapades against the backdrop of a ticking clock. A cut on the radio by the time I’m forty. That’s the goal. Who knows, the posts could be a neat success story some day, or a bitter cautionary tale. We’ll see.
We took step in the right direction late last week gentle readers. Another step forward. We heard from a co-writer that an artist put a song of ours on hold. That’s our first hold. In the grand scheme of things, getting a hold is a neat thing, but yet it’s light years away from actually making the CD, Pluto distance from being a cut.
I’ll stop short of rally caps and refusing to wash undergarments, but I won’t talk about this particular hold from here on out. Don’t know how the game is going to end, but it sure is fun playing.
Miles and miles to go. 863 days.
No comments:
Post a Comment