Assume the Position

Another ruthless night, a repeat of the night before.  Went to bed just after ten, woke up before midnight.  Etc.  But last night, the horror came.  It is the eighth inning and I'm way, way behind with hardly a chance to make up the deficit.  It is not that I did anything wrong, I just didn't do much right.  The stands are emptying; still, there is nothing to do but finish the game.  Maybe I should say it is late in the fight.  Whatever.  Suddenly one wishes he had trained harder, smarter, taken care of business.  The natural skills decimated, he can hardly weave or bob and takes every blow heavily.  Timing all gone, he misses punch after punch.  Why in the fuck, he thinks, doesn't somebody throw in the towel?  And all that is left is to try to keep your feet until the inevitable end.  Where once they cheered, now that laugh or even boo.  Younger fans can't believe the man before them was ever good at anything.  Or worse, they don't care.  A tap dancer who can't tap.  A comedian who has forgotten the joke.  A trumpet player with a busted lip.  A Lothario without a . . . you get it.

But with the light, there is nothing to do but put on the face.  I said I wouldn't speak yesterday, but I did.  And shouldn't have.  Somehow it is a shock to me that I am punished by my enemies for past indiscretions.  An escape artist with no escape.  Houdini without the hidden key.

There is nothing left but to assume the position.