7:30pm: Pilgrim's Progress
In an unsigned, undated letter from Pilgrim to Trout Fishing In America, c/o Nelson Algren, the following reply was posted:
un/da/te (d)
To: Trout Fishing In America
c/o Nelson Algren
Chicago
Dear Mr. Algren:
In all fairness the ball was right at me; it was not a perfect spiral but few of them are these days, the jet stream, the ozone depletion, and the simultaneous resurgence of both the corner deli and the dot.com economy have pushed us reluctantly into the era of the flutterball. But this was not a flutterball, it was a good ball, and right at me. It was a little off the spiral, but still eminently catchable. Problem was I had forgotten to soak my wombat with Gatorade, and my fingers were dry. Knowing this, I jumped a bit to take the throw with my arms, but must have forgotten to soak my arms with Gatorade as well, as they did little to coral the throw, and it pummelled me mercilessly in the ribs and bounced harmlessly to the ground, a sad moment in the annals of my receiving career. And in retrospect I should have know it would happen, as my elbows had been thirsty.
Even after this ignominous and inauspicious beginning, my day was going to get worse before it got better. I dropped another good first down throw, and even the interception which turned my fortunes was more fortuitous than skillful, for it was a flutterball by the other team's QB that Mikey tipped at the line and came at me end-over-end. I waved at it, reached for it, but was no closer to catching it than I was to deciphering the Riddle of the Spinks (which asks What in the Wide, Wide World of Sports Leon was thinking when he agreed to that rematch!) when the thing went through my fumbling hands and struck me unceremoniously in the kisser; only a reflex action by my arms caused me to wind up catching it.
In conslusion, there is not really any excuse for dropping the extra point; and had I caught it we would have been up 7-0 instead of 6-0, and the game would have been tied when they scored the TD and extra point later on in the second half. These items weigh heavily on my conscience, and will no doubt eat at my mental and physical well-being, and greatly hasten my demise.
Finally, there is no truth to the idle speculation and fantastic rumor that Idiot and I are one and the same individual, an absurd notion if ever there was one. I can not even imagine Idiot in one of my frisbee-golf outfits, and he would not fit into a telephone booth. No, 'tisn't so, that's my story and I'm sticking with it. Also, no comment.
And lastly, I am not a trout stream. I don't believe I have ever been a trout stream, although there was a brief period when I aspired to trout streaming in America, but that was before I discovered my affinity.
unsigned
(although I was scouted in college)
The Reply of Trout Fishing In America:
The same thing once happened to me. I remember mistaking an old woman for a trout stream in Vermont, and I had to beg her pardon.
"Excuse me," I said, "I thought you were a trout stream."
"I'm not," she said.
(Reply of Trout Fishing In America from "Trout Fishing In America" by Richard Brautigan.)
Posted by cronish at April 28, 2002 08:28 PM