With two outs in the eighth inning, Mike Minor stood atop the mound at Great American Ballpark with no hits marring his otherwise mediocre line for the night. He stood proud, confidently, like so many great Commodores before him. As his body coiled and he raised his left arm high into the Ohio sky, he unleashed a pitch of such proportions that, while gazing upon it, one could barely be bothered to utter, “meh.” Certainly such a pitch was inspired by complete confidence both in his own ability and in Billy Hamilton’s lack thereof.
Nevertheless, as I watched the ball arrive safely in center field and Hamilton smile slyly at first base, I knew but one thing. Nothing matters. I felt nothing, I knew nothing. Life, like Minor’s no-hitter, is ephemeral, certain to pass in the blink of an eye, no one else the wiser to its meaning. As noted baseball fan Henry David Thoreau once pondered, “Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.” In this moment I have no regrets. Regrets, like no-hitters, baseball, Mike Minor’s recovery from urethra surgery, and life itself, are swift in their wrath as well as in their passing. Mike Minor left the mound having yielded but one hit, but one that cost him the lead. It is in that one, fleeting, Hamilton-ruined moment that Minor felt the pangs of regret, and in those he shall wallow as he lives afresh for days to come.