To be honest, I can’t remember it ever panning out. There is always someone striking out in the back of the mind. Always a guy hitting .187 in there. Always a guy letting routine ground balls go past. Always a Billy Buckner. Always a Jim Joyce. Always someone’s fault. Let me give you an example. My brother says “All you need is an intake and an exhaust” if you want to grill indoors but by the time he told me this, I’d burned an apartment down. I already burned an apartment down. I burned my apartment down, nearly killing several others. I came back from the bank and they were all standing out in front of my smoldering apartment, happy to have their lives in their hands. None of them looked at me. It was one of those warm winter days. The sun thawing everything for a few hours. But, I went to the bank and came back to a burning room. None of them looked at me. They stood across the street and looked at me. I tried to run into the apartment but a fireguy stopped me. They stood on the curb and watched my apartment burn. The fireguys stopped it from spreading to others’ apartments, but I understand, they were mad at me for nearly killing them all. I nearly killed them all. One of them even came downstairs and knocked on my door while I was out, at the bank. One of them tried to save my life. I went to the bank, and I lit part of that big house on fire. I had the keys. I had a mailbox. I had sex with maybe two or three women in that apartment. I had a good time in there. I ate, a lot of food in there. I broke up with her in there. Two goldfish were lost in the fire. Pete and Gus. They are dead. The insurance guy met me in the park and gave me a dirty look. He followed my car to the burnt place and we went inside. I opened the door and we walked in, then he gave me a different look. He apologized. He was wrong to apologize. He was blowing a call. He worked for the insurance company. Two years ago I was not doing anything. Today I am having a small glass of sweet vermouth with ice.