Ever have those moments in life where everything seems perfect? Where the world could be crashing down around you and you’d still stand there smiling? One of those things in my life recently was the tweet new president of the Baseball Writers of America sent out:
That’s right, everyone’s favorite Japanese import that’s not named Nissan, Tsuyoshi Nishioka, is writing a book!!!
I’m very excited about this and you should be too.
Think of all the publicity that the Rochester Red Wings are going to get. Granted, I am therefor attending to the school of thought that any publicity is good publicity.
Nothing can top my excitement for this book, other than the potential Garth Brooks comeback.
Puckett’s Pond has an exclusive excerpt to the upcoming Nishioka penned book.
(Editor’s Note: I totally made this up. 100% made up. This is not real.)
It was a dark and stormy night in the old-time farming community of Rochester, New York. My room at the local Holiday Inn was so terribly cold, like a breeze off the Pacific Ocean on a wintery Japanese December nigh. I walked out of my room and headed to the local convenient store to get a carton of cigarettes. I’ve been trying to kick the habit, like all the groundballs I had been kicking at the major league level, but it was the only thing that would keep me warm during the horrid summer I spent in Rochester.
Rochester was far from Minneapolis and Minneapolis was far from Kantō. I missed home. I missed my celebrity. I missed being perceived as a baseball God that was a monster on a field with just mere mortals. I wanted that feeling again. I wanted that passion.
I put my cigarette out by burning it out on my arm. I had nothing to prove in this country.
P.S. A huge congrats to LaVelle E. Neal on the presidency. Way to go!