Molokai

I’ve been watching a lot of baseball. It’s the postseason. Four teams are competing for the chance to become the team in the thrilling World Series Parade. The four teams in the postseason are good teams. But the announcers are bad. Sometimes I watch the game on mute because I do not want to listen to them, which makes the game more boring, because then my family and I cannot hear the screams of the crowd.

If I were a baseball announcer, I would not be the color commentator, or the analyst, or the insider, or the “former.” I would not be Harold Reynolds or Bob Costas. I would be Jon Miller and I would stick to the play by play.

Dream: I’m standing on a beach in a fish pond in Molokai. The tide is out. A child’s slipper floats by. Twenty years go by. I notice I have no fish in my pond. The tide is in. The tide is out. I see I have forgotten to open the sluice gate after all this time. All the fish that are fat and lazy are past the lava rock wall. They cannot fit through the gate. It is too late to catch them now.