Hot Streak

by Sam Price

I.

Ever since the invention of the written word, the production of an object as simple as a book has dogged us. At first, it was the complex and costly harvesting of papyrus, then we were plagued by illiteracy and ill-timed fires, and, even in the heyday of bestsellers in box stores, the supply chain consistently kinked. It proves so oddly difficult—for something composed of such simple materials—that one is forced to admit the universe is generally against us gathering knowledge. I supposed that’s a good strategy, speaking strictly in survival terms. It’s hard to obliterate the atmosphere with a stick.

II.

To stay hot at the plate is to defy human nature because when things are going good, when you’re really seeing the ball well and driving it into the gaps, it’s natural for your eyes to get big, and so the zone starts to creep, expanding little by little, and suddenly a pitch easily laid off, at least when the streak started, draws a swing, and you hit yourself right into a slump.

III.

Like you, I’ve read studies—well, summaries of studies—about how inaccurate recall is when forced upon intense or traumatic events. The cops would much rather a working camera than an eyeball witness. But have the psychologists inquired as to how much we remember, and how rightly, when facing no pressure? Even if we could easily define the mundane, and it wasn’t constantly muddied with anxiety, I fear we’re not ready to confront how often we fudge even the non-tragic bits of our past, how easily we coax the corners of our narratives into neat, socially-accepted shapes to plaster over self-doubts, how we set out with all the tools to make something new but, in the end, became master forgers.

IV.

And yet, of all the ancient writings lost to purges or tragedy, I’d most care to hear the drinking songs long silent, the ones sung for the last time, their melodies scattered to new verses. For is that not when we are at our best? Gathered around the fire, half in shadow, boasting or jesting or singing of sorrows still too tender to be spoken of straight.

Sam Price lives in Pennsylvania.