..in the Irish breast.
While I was in Colorado for the winter, some hopeful soul pasted this note over my Sports Illustrated cover – Sept 8 2008 version, with some guy named Mark Ingram on the cover.
The peculiar thing is that I didn’t come back to my cube until almost three months after the game, yet whoever it was never came back in and took the note down – they just left it up there. Some sort of defiance, perhaps?
It could be a lapse of memory. I’m having lapses of memory. When I downloaded this pic to my box preparatory to posting it, I found out that I had taken a similar picture almost two months ago. Did I already post about this note?
And, if nobody is reading this, does it even matter?
Maybe that’s what the Irish fan was thinking – once they lost, did it even matter if he came back to take the sign down?
I’m still out here, still doing what I do every day. I have been through a lot of internal gyrations; I’ve reached a point where I’m okay with whatever happens, but now I’ve become impatient, in wanting whatever will happen to hurry up and happen.
And that’s just dumb.
It’s really a kind of sneaky fear; I’d rather have the bad thing happen than have to live under the cloud of possibility that the bad thing might happen. it is as though the fear of the thing is worse than the thing. And what we are really talking about here is the fear of having to live with the fear of the thing, since the current moment is okay, albeit a bit uncomfortable.
So hope springs eternal in the Irish breast, but in the area of the Puckett breast, all I have is a spot about the size of my open hand, that feels like it’s pushing down on my solar plexus. It feels like it’s difficult to breathe, as though something were pushing back while I am inhaling.
I think that that’s called “depression”.
And the only cure that I know for that is – prayer and action.
Action is what I have to do.
And a prayer is what that poor Irish fan did not have, even though he did have hope : )