The excitement of driving a roofed car is nearly extinct for me, a victim of repetitive utility and familiarity. (Of course I drive an unspectacular and well-worn “auto-mobile” from the 20th century.)
Yet I’ve always subconsciously rated every drive.
Don’t know why. But I always have. When I arrive at my destination, I quickly review the factors I encountered between point A and B. Like traffic. Signals. Temperature. Cabin entertainment. And then I render a quiet judgment. It was a good drive. A bad drive. Or an “I can’t believe the whole wheel came off” drive.
Of course, I never kept score or quantified my drives.
Until tonight.
That’s when I played Driving Baseball on the way home. I counted all stop lights as at bats. Hitting a red light was an out. And a green light was a hit.
Tonight, I went 12 for 16. That’s .750, dear reader. I’m working on my Hall of Fame induction speech.
(Can you tell the grim prospect of a frigid Cleveland-Colorado World Series game in November leaves me seeking baseball excitement.)
Some observations on my drive.
As I came within 100 yards of an intersection, I watched the light like I was watching the ball leave the pitcher’s hand. If it turned yellow on me, it was like he threw a fastball when I was guessing slider or change up. On an 0-2 count. That’s an out.
On the other hand, blazing through the major Coit-Campbell intersection without even tapping the brake felt like a tape measure blast. Getting a green light at one of those inconsequential side streets felt like a cheap Texas League hit. Purists might accuse me of padding the stats.
And while it didn’t happen tonight, I can imagine that sitting through a major intersection's long stop light is akin to a strike out. Sit through two lights at that same intersection, and that’s like a called third strike, followed by a foul pop out on your next at bat. With the bases loaded. Oh, the shame.
Sneaking through a yellow light felt like beating out an infield single, while slamming on the brakes due to a late yellow light felt like getting robbed. A line drive or a blast caught at the warning track; just an out in the box score.
Turning right on a red? Sacrifice bunt.
Four way stop? Intentional walk.
Train? Rain delay.
The beauty of the game lies in its clarity. You stop or you don’t. No need for measurements or instant replays, no fouls or penalties, no huddling umpires debating whether or not the ball cleared the yellow line on the outfield wall.
I only hope I can keep up my torrid pace. Maybe if I continue to give 110%. Whatever. The excitement is back. I feel like a rookie again.
Driving. America’s pastime. Play it.
