The Futility Infielder

Nine years ago today, with the help of two friends, I loaded all of my belongings into a U-Haul and left Providence, Rhode Island. I had lived there for six years, including college and developed quite a fondness for the city, but having outgrown my job while watching my peers leave town, I could feel in my bones that it was time to move.

Driving by myself, some four hours later I reached the Triboro Bridge and screwed up a lane change so that I ended up having to re-cross the bridge and pay the toll a second time. The rube was out six bucks before he even hit town. Finally taking the correct exit, I got off on 125th Street, found Second Avenue, and carefully drove 111 blocks south, stoplight by stoplight, my thumbs pounding on the U-Haul's steering wheel to the music on the boombox as I rode the brake all the way down Second.

I treated the friends who helped me unpack the truck to dinner that night at El Sombrero, a Ludlow Street restaurant with the greasiest hot-plate Mexican food you could possibly hope to find. I lost count of how many pitchers of frozen margaritas I paid for, went home and carved out a space to lay my futon, and fell into a deep, tequila-aided slumber.

Somewhat bewildered, I awoke the next morning to see the boxes and furniture strewn randomly around my room. Seven stories up, from where I lay I could see the Empire State Building and the Chrysler standing tall against the blue Manhattan sky. I've never forgotten that view or the excitement I felt that morning, and I've never looked back.