The Futility Infielder

Nearly six years ago, a 27-year-old graphic designer (and frustrated writer) washed ashore onto the banks of a New York City educational design studio. The designer's life had recently gone through an upheaval -- a long-overdue breakup with his college-vintage girlfriend, layoff from a failed new media company. Months of 70-hour work weeks and absolutely zero exercise had left him a pale, scrawny, nocturnal creature, but a bit of travel, a brief romance, and a gym membership restored a touch of color to the designer's complexion. The promise of a few paychecks while he figured out What He Really Wanted to Do seemed like the next logical step.

Last Friday, nearly six years later, a 33-year-old graphic designer spent his last day at that educational design studio, solid in the knowledge that he had wrung every bit out of the experience that he could. He's carved a small niche in his chosen profession, putting his work in front of literally millions of people and atop best-seller lists, and his name in every bookstore in America, all without compromising his principles. He's taken a dry, pulpy 336-page kiddie knockoff of a well-known parent brand and turned it into a splashy, colorful, even hip product, and a reasonably profitable venture for his employer to boot. He's healthy, in a happy relationship, and he's found an outlet for his writing, and a small but devoted audience who receives him warmly.

He's going to stop talking about himself in the third person now, because he knows that you've figured out who he is. Frequent readers of this site may have been aware of some job-related drama I've been going through over the past few months. It hasn't been an easy time, and my frustration has occasionally spilled over into this space; sometimes I've mentioned it, while at other times, it's prevented me from writing at all.

But as I reflect on all of this, that sturm und drang was a necessary part of the process. That was me coming to terms with the realization that my needs and interests had outgrown what my job could provide. It's a bittersweet conclusion, but it's one that everybody around me -- my family, my friends, my co-workers, and my boss -- had already reached, and it is with all of their full support that I bring the curtain down on the best job I've ever had. I'm proud of what I accomplished, and I'm fortunate that I happened upon some incredibly talented people who encouraged my creativity, and helped me to realize my potential. But the time has come to move on to new challenges, to seek new horizons.

So now what? On paper, it's generally a risky thing to leave one's job -- especially during tough economic times -- without having another one lined up. But that's what I've done, mostly because I felt that I need some time to relax and refresh myself while charting out a new course. Ideally, I'd like to find a position which combines my love of sports with my design skills, but I realize that may be a difficult fit. I've got a few ideas on combining the two, but at the risk of jinxing myself or turning away some potential employer who's performing his or her due diligence by reading this, I'll keep them to myself for the moment.

Much as I'd love to, I don't have the option to go pro via my website like those fat cats over at Baseball Prospectus (who are rapidly demonstrating that they're going to be worth the price of admission, by the way). And though down the road I might enjoy writing full-time, that's not part of the current plan. But this site still figures prominently in the picture, because with it I've always got something to keep me busy, a place to speak my mind and to report on my travels and travails. Speaking of the former, I've booked myself a five-day trip to the Grapefruit League. I'll be heading down to Tampa on March 19, and I'm slated to see six ballgames in five days, centering around the Yankees, the Dodgers, and the Mets. This will be my third trip to spring training, and the first since my family visited Dodgertown back in 1989. Joining me will be girlfriend's brother Aaron, a loyal Brewers fan who's currently freezing his tail off in Milwaukee and is game for any ballgame I can scare up ("I'd settle for Mudville vs. the Indiannapolis Clowns!" he told me via email recently).

Last Monday, I trekked through the city's biggest blizzard in seven years, arriving at work early as I began my final week on the job. My emotions were still churning from all of the recent drama. Seldom had winter seemed so smothering, never had my job seemed more oppressive -- what the hell was I doing at work on a snow day, and a national holiday at that? Amid all of this, I was warmed by the rites of spring, the news of pitchers and catchers arriving in camp, along with the ridiculous reports trickling in from Florida and Arizona. Laughing at thought of Jose Canseco leading the Dade County penal system in home runs. Mourning the retirement of El Guapo, relief pitcher Rich Garces, the fattest butt of jokes the major leagues had to offer. Shuddering at the vision of Rod Beck with a pierced nipple and a shaved head. Unfazed by the news that Rickey Henderson hadn't yet found a suitor. Pulling for David Cone to make the Mets for one hurrah. Fascinated by the fact that Drungo La Rue Hazewood's name was so good I can still remember it 22 years after he racked up his 5 lifetime at-bats.

And I thought to myself: winter be damned, unemployment be damned. Baseball is here; I'm going to be just fine now.