I Accept the Things I Cannot Change 

Hello, my name is Scott, and I am a recovering fastball hurler. When I was young and headstrong, I thought my fastball was the greatest thing since Jesus Jones's "Right Here Right Now." Man, that song rocked. And so did my fastball. Growing up in New Orleans, going to school in Lafayette, hoo-ee, sweet jambalaya, I could throw that heat like the flames shooting out of a Gulf of Mexico oil rig. And les filles, I tell you, mon vieux, they like the fastball man.

But somewhere along the line, I learned that just because I can hit 94 on the gun doesn't mean I'm such a big shot.

First, that rainy night in Old Frisco, when some old gap-tooth guy gets lucky and hits the top of the fence to win it, well, they told me to throw the high cheese past him and I couldn't do it. As I walked off the mound this guy with orange pom-poms taped to his ears yells at me, "You're even worse than Tyler Walker!" That's when I realized I might need some help.

Then the next day, I come in and figure, yeah, I can get strike one with the fastball on Michael Tucker, this guy I think used to play in Kansas City or something, and he frickin hits it like he was Barry Bonds or something, man! Into the water with all those canoes and shit.

Sorry, I'm not supposed to cuss at these meetings. At least I wasn't in Denver. I'm not sure how they run things here in Colorado Springs.


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