As an expectant father, with a future junkball-throwing lefthander due in January, two pink lines on the home pregnancy test were enough to change my outlook forever.
At that moment it hit me in a rush: I don’t know jack about squat. I’ve done nothing in life to adequately prepare. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of life taking a detour around serious responsibilities. But in the past six months, I’ve gradually turned off Easy Street to begin my merge onto the parenthood superhighway, and to the surprise of this shell-shocked, scatter-brained, know-nothing of six months ago, the terror has actually waned, and life’s purpose is starting to take focus. That disposable income, which would have gone toward a movie, a video game or night at the bars, has been invested, in some form or another, into 25 years of future use, 30 if he decides to follow in his old man’s footsteps and pursue a life in journalism. Meanwhile, time spent on the blog, which once ranked as my favorite hobby, has been rededicated toward my new favorite: home improvements, parenting classes and getting our lives ready for what’s to come.
But I digress. It’s all all just a fancy way of saying that life’s little miracle may be exactly be what Cole Hamels needs. Perhaps becoming the best pitcher on earth is no longer his top priority. Maybe we’ll see a different pitcher tonight, one free of the enormous, uneccesary pressure he puts on himself, because the stork dropped off a 7-pound, 9-ounce bundle of joy with the doorman of his Center City condo. (Unless, of course, that bundle of joy is a light sleeper.)