Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night: The Dylan Thomas Bourgeois Story

[StLee]

Author’s Note: I am new to the board. I owned an older version of OOTP, but haven’t really had the time in recent years to spend a lot of time gaming. I do spend a lot of time writing, though, and when I saw that this board has an area and audience for prose-style dynasty reports, I decided to take the plunge for OOTP 9 and write about the career of a unique ball player. I’ll use the time waiting for the game to set up the back story. I hope you enjoy! >>
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Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night: The Dylan Thomas Bourgeois Story
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“I see the boys of summer in their ruin.
Man in his maggot's barren.
And boys are full and foreign in the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.”
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Many people don’t think of jocks as ever being half-brained, and never think of us as being loquacious orators of history and philosophy and life. I guess that’s what sets me apart from most people. This is the story of my dream of becoming a professional baseball player and how I became a man because of my dreams.
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I was born Dylan Thomas Bourgeois in a small university town in lace w:st="on">Louisianalace>. My father was an English professor born and raised on the bayou with a ton of books always at hand. My mother was an import, a Northeasterner who always had a knack for mathematics and a love for talking numbers and stats. And our home was devoted to baseball.
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Dad initially wanted to name me after his favorite ball player when he was a kid, Pete Rose, but a few Rose run-ins with the law made my dad change his mind. Eventually, Mom and Dad settled on their favorite poet, Dylan Thomas, instead. They said a Dylan Thomas exhibit in lace w:st="on">New Orleanslace> brought them together while Mom was job hunting. Two months later, Mom accepted a job at the same university. Nine months later, my parents were engaged and happy.
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Since there was no Major League Baseball within a half-day’s drive from our hometown, my family settled on the university’s baseball team as our family bonding spot. Every time the Colonels played a home game, we were there sitting under the blazing lace w:st="on">Louisianalace> sun. Mom always took stats while Dad philosophized on the nuances of the game. I loved my family.
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My boyhood years were not untypical of most. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said I wanted to be a baseball player. My goals didn’t change much over time. Even Dad and I would have long talks about my plans while we were drinking Gatorades after a long day’s workout.
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“Dylan, I love your dream, of course,” Dad said, sweat running down his temples. “You know, I wanted to be a baseball player, too, when I grew up.”
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“Really?” I asked.
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“Yeah, I wanted to be like Pete Rose and slide head first everywhere. I even wanted to be Ron Guidry since he was the local player.”
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“What was your favorite team?”
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“I didn’t really have a favorite team. I guess you can say I liked the Reds a lot because of how dominant they were in the 70s. But I liked the Yankees and even the Angels because of Rod Carew.”
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“I like a lot of teams, too. So I don’t care who I play for when I grow up.”
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“Yeah,” Dad said. Then he looked at me, his face without emotion. “What happens if you don’t play baseball? What would you like to be?”
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I had never considered not playing baseball. “Well, I study, so I guess I could be anything after I go to college.”
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“That’s my boy!” Dad patted my head and we started to walk home from the park. “You know how I named you after Dylan Thomas the poet? Well, there was always a poem of his, a sad poem, that I thought could have been a baseball poem if he wanted it to be. It’s called ‘I See the Boys of Summer.’ The last stanza goes, ‘I see the boys of summer in their ruin. / Man in his maggot's barren. / And boys are full and foreign in the pouch. / I am the man your father was. / We are the sons of flint and pitch. / O see the poles are kissing as they cross.’”
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“What does it mean?” I asked, unsure of how that was close to a baseball poem.
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“Well, it’s about the eventual death of young people. But I always liked the end the best because I could make it sound happy, like a baseball poem. I imagined the summer in ruin was like not winning the pennant. And the pouch is the glove. And the flint and pitch were like the catcher and pitcher. And the poles are baseball bats. Silly huh?”
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I just blinked and thought about it. Dylan Thomas, the baseball poet.

[StLee]

Hmmm.... first I was worried this would not be posted. Now I see there is an unlimited amount of unwanted smilies. I need to clean this up before moving the story on.

[ifspuds]

Those unwanted smilies typically come from pasting directly from MS Word or some other word processing program. I'd recommend saving it as plain text (in .txt format), opening it in Notepad and then pasting it to the browser window. At least, that's sort of how I do it (I write posts in Notepad, actually, to avoid the extra step).

[kenyan_cheena]

Originally Posted by ifspuds

(I write posts in Notepad, actually, to avoid the extra step).

Me, too.