According to Steve Treder via HardballTimes.com, there have been a total of fifty-seven position players that throw left, and bat right handed.  Probably the most decorated, as Treder notes in his article, is Ricky Henderson, who played primarily for the Oakland Athletics.  A more recent player is journeyman Cody Ross.

Fifty-seven.  The game of baseball has been played for a century and a quarter and only fifty-seven left-handed throwing, right-handed batting position players have donned a Major League uniform.  That’s how abnormal that throwing/batting combination is.

And, as the story goes, I too, throw left and bat right.  While I have relished in a moment and world of my own for several minutes standing on the mound of AT&T Park, I have never made it nor will I ever make it to the majors.

Contrary to popular belief, mid to high 60 MPH fastballs with a ceiling pitch count of 15 isn’t enough to make it to the show, even if said self-proclaimed prospect promised to come out to Queen’s “Under Pressure” as a closer, which would generate positive crowd reaction and high fan sing-along participation (sometimes you have to sell a gimmick, man).

Case and point, I’m not “normal.”  My traits on a baseball field are just a few of many that I have come to realize how abnormal I am.  My life isn’t normal, and I really I don’t think it ever has been.  I don’t really do normal things.  Normal things do not happen to me.  Normal does not follow or believe in me, and quite frankly, the feeling is mutual.

And, I’m not complaining.  At least, I haven’t been, and for quite some time now.  I guess I’ve been through enough challenges, situations, and ordeals to finally get that there is a difference between what is simple, and what is normal.

It’s 12:34 AM in the morning and I want cake.  And the only reason I want cake is because I know I have cake in my fridge, and I am excited because I never have cake in my fridge.  It’s leftover cake from an earlier dinner party.  Chocolate – not to sweet – with some chocolate mousse on the top.  Not frosting, but mousse, and that makes it ten times better, all right?  The only problem is, I was given all of the leftover cake.  Like, I had enough cake to feed a kindergarten class; no one else wanted to bring cake home, which makes me wonder if I was the only fan of the chocolate mousse.  That doesn’t matter, but you get the picture: there’s a lot of cake, and only one of me.  That is a problem.  It’s now 12:36 AM in the morning, my heart’s fluttering and I’m dancing a fruitful dance in my kitchen over the fact that yours truly is going to have some cake.

It’s 12:49 AM and I’m still dancing in my kitchen and shit.  But the problem still lingers.  I don’t want to eat all of this cake at one time.  So what should I do?  What did I do?

Got a plate, got a knife, cut me a piece, got me a fork, enjoyed me some cake (not all of it), danced some more, then went back to bed.  Simple, right?

Exactly.  And that’s where the line is drawn, the difference between normal and simple.  My life has always been one big abnormal-sized cake.  Too much for me to handle most of the time, but at the end of the day I always sought for it because of how delicious it is and how much it made me go bat shit in my kitchen.  And all I’ve ever really wanted was that knife to make things simpler to digest.  And it’s always nice to share cake, too.

Why’d it take me so long to realize that?  Maybe I always have, but I definitely knew that I was out of focus for quite some time.  That and I’ve been working on my dance moves.  And I’m sure that earlier you attempted to picture me in my kitchen dancing over some cake, right?  If you said no then you are a bold faced liar.  Either way I’m going to paint it nice and neat for you –

Imagine Beyoncé taking a Zumba class, okay?  The sun is setting gently through the window.  Fluffy clouds pass on through while she body rolls through the intricate rhythms of the music.  Very clean, no wasted movements, all sharp as a claw and all body parts are popped and locked in.  It’s fantastic art, if anything.

Now, imagine the complete opposite of that.  Just the most ruckus and hurtful humanly movements you’ve ever laid your eyes on that it actually starts to physically hurt your retinas.  Wait, wait!  I’m not done yet.  Then, the environment around her just go absolutely awry.  A willy mammoth decides to defrost itself out of extinction and absolutely tears through the studio entrance, rendering poor Beyoncé in fear.  All this while Beyoncé tries to gain her balance during an 8.6 earthquake that struck while our aforementioned willy mammoth decided to show up.  But!  But… she’s still in rhythm.

That’s my dance.  I know, it’s not normal, and I’ll give you fifty-seven reasons why if you ask me.