"the Secret Of Us"

Things remind me of other things.  Offering one source of possible post ideas.  You sense the meaningful connection… 

And the fruit drops smartly into the basket. 

Last time we were together, I mentioned my teenaged Arizona “Guru”, trashing baseball’s unparalleled timelessness thereby welcoming generational comparisons confidently proclaiming,

“It’s not the same game.”

So, okay.  Ted Williams hit .406 in 1941.  (An enduring record, thrown into challenging suspicion because Williams never faced triple-digit fastballs, the now ubiquitous defensive “shift”, the endless parade of fresh-armed pitchers, and the hellacious, “Split-finger” specialist “Closers.”  (Note: You do not have to understand any of that.  It just means hitting a baseball is comparatively harder today, supporting the argument, “It’s not the same game.”)

(Secondary Note:  Some diehards believe Ted Williams would have eventually figured things out.  But such claims remain permanently moot, as Ted Williams is gone, and, great as he was, “You can’t hit dead.”)

My “Baseball Guru’s” unwavering pronouncement sparked the above-mentioned “meaningful connection.”

Which is the following.

Many times, at various gatherings with writers of equal temporal longevity – and you may not need “temporal” – the conversation drifts nostalgically towards earlier accomplishments.  Almost inevitably, with awe and amazement – and, often, an accompanying sigh – we react to our youthful achievements with variations of,  

“I can’t believe I did that.”

Surviving the hours.  Withstanding the pressure.  Maintaining the “Standard.”  And though I occasionally missed the bull’s eye, delivering my maximum effort dependably “On deadline.”

Week after week. 

Season after season.

I can’t believe I did that.

Nor can anyone else.  Not that I did that, but that they did that.  (Although there was one scalawag who creepily confided, “I can’t tell you how surprised we all are by your success.”  Not that his “non-compliment” upset me.  Though I remember it forty years after the fact, so it conceivably may have.  Just a little.)

It’s not just show biz where this startling phenomenon occurs.  My Arizona friend Shelly, a former Sociology professor, spoke incredulously of writing his thesis through countless sleepless A.M.’s, while carrying a full professorial workload during the day. 

He couldn’t believe he did that. 

(I bet you have similar examples of your own.  Which I invite you to commentarially provide.)

The thing is, there is an explainable reason for “I can’t believe I did that.”

The “I” in that statement is not exactly still “You.”

That was “You” then.  Not the retrospectively impressed “You” now.

In a way, it’s like baseball “backwards.” 

As my teenaged “Guru” affirmed, “It’s not the same game”?

It is, significantly, not the same “You.”

(The contrasting distinction being that the ballplayers are better now and the astonished “We” were superior before.)

Who specifically are we?

Let’s take a look.

Last time, I suggested, as with generationally distanced ballplayers, older writers cannot sensibly compare ourselves with our current brainier counterparts because “We’re not them.”

Looking back, comparing accomplishments,

We are not exactly ourselves either.  (We are essentially two different people.  With remarkably similar personal attributes.)

Not them. 

And not essentially ourselves.

Kind of cuts down on the options.

So who, ultimately, are we?

We’re the guys who say,

“I can’t believe I did that.” 

And you know what?

I’ll take it.

Looking back, comparing accomplishments,

We are not exactly ourselves either.  (We are essentially two different people.  With remarkably similar personal attributes.)

Not them. 

And not essentially ourselves.

Kind of cuts down on the options.

So who, ultimately, are we?

We’re the guys who say,

“I can’t believe I did that.” 

And you know what?

I’ll take it.