*Remember, I fancy myself more of a writer of fiction than fact. This idea for this character came up last night while watching a baseball game on mute.*
Many days, I wonder if, after everything I’ve done that is considered “good” in this world, that my Fifteen Minutes will be centered on the image of me being hit in the head by a foul ball at a nationally broadcast baseball game. I would be the only guy not paying attention during that particular moment, and my life would change because of that. I would be a low-light. I would become a .gif. My digital legacy would be retweeted by nine-year olds who never knew that I had turned to my cancer-struck wife to thank her for the tenth time that day for this final date night together.
Other days, I feel triumphant. I picture myself being one of those guys who catches a sizzling ball without a glove. I may even have a beer in the other hand. Or a baby. Or nachos. The people around me might cheer for a few seconds. I’ll feel like I did something. Like those countless hours of backyard catch and all of that logged outfield time as a young boy were meant to lead up to that moment of glory. I’d be part of the non-professional highlight reel. The image of the ball landing in my hand might be coupled with an inspirational quotation for a meme. Those nine-year-olds might watch that Vine over and over, then look at their own dads with disappointment. Shame. Why can’t You do that, Dad?
But the nine-year-olds wouldn’t know that I’d gone to the game that night instead of sending the child support check.