Hard a port!

I’ve been rather unsure what to write today. If to write. Last night this happened:
I was particularly touched when a relation of mine indicated his suspicion that my sanity had recently become, well, compromised. It really is not the case. What’s happened is that certain great big gobs of reality have nestled themselves firmly in my bosom. I am not best pleased. I ought not be here, is the simple truth of the matter.aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
Now. That’s what you get for trying to write at 2.30am when your entire system is shutting down. The combination of insomnia and exhaustion makes sleep occur without happening – a slap around the face rather than the gentle caress of morpheus.
It’s tough to know how to follow so many consecutive vowels, though had they been the letter ‘e’ I might have made some quip about being all the vowels James Joyce was left with after finishing Ulysses.
What I really wanted to say was that yesterday, in some small, strange fashion, I managed a volte face of a rather interesting complexion.
One of the ‘things’ about this progressive, degenerative brain cock-up with which I am seemingly saddled is that it makes things change. Unexpected things change. Some of it’s the drugs, some the disease. Often these unexpected things are small things. But small things often have an impact disproportionate to their size, as well as quite regularly turning into big things while you’re not looking.
Shazam! Where the fuck did that elephant come from … and how the hell did it get into the bathroom?
All of this year I’ve struggled with two physical problems: my fucked shoulder; and my piteous left-hand grip. These problems have had many repercussions but have made my batting performances rather impressive, if you factor in the handicap. The top hand controls the shot, and the elbow should be high, the grip firm. The top hand is usually the left hand, so … a low elbow extension because of the exercise, and a feeble grip because of the PD. So most shots become rather weak, ill-directed. Concentration at a premium …
I am to have an operation on my shoulder in December to fix this type six slap tear. Minutes of fun. The rehab will pretty much end when the season begins. My grip will just become progressively worse.
Necessity is the mother of invention, or so they say. There is a way around it: switch to batting left-handed. Let’s face it, the switch-hit will be a breeze.
So, yesterday, I had my first net batting left-handed. And boy, was it ever weird. I played pretty straight.
As I packed up, smiling faces which had gently laughed at my less-than-fluid batting looked on in admiration as I explained.
I shall persevere … I just hope I can score runs …