Most people don't remember their dreams. In the off chance that you remember a dream when you wake up, the retention of those lingering nightly ghosts is fleeing. Well, usually.
I don't like writing about my dreams because I feel that it's some mix between hippie new age nonsense and pseudo psychology. I'm not saying that I disrespect people who believe in that sort of stuff, simply that it doesn't work for me.
Anyway, this morning I woke up yelling "100!" as loudly as anyone who was sleeping possibly can. This is the deepest and most comical attachment I've ever felt towards a sportsman in my life. I almost startled myself with the dual realization that I was both awake and that the horrifying nightmare was over before the calming voice of reason came over me: Joey Votto is a Cincinnati legend.
I went to bed at 10 last night. I'm usually a night owl, but I started a new job last Monday and I'm trying to reform (some of) my vices. I don't remember any thoughts about baseball before I fell asleep, and the subject didn't come up in conversation yesterday. I'm fact, my dream started with me helping my dad do land surveying. This was my first real job, and the stresses between then and now are similar. So far, my brain is making perfect sense. So far, so good.
At some point, though, the surveying got boring. At least my brain thought so, because I checked Twitter in my dream. It wasn't the first item on my feed, but from the "OMG!"'s and" What's happening?!"'s, it was clear that a horror waited below. And then I saw it. John Fay: Joey Votto traded to Phillies in three team deal. I went nuts. My dad, a fellow Reds fan and dream subject, went nuts. The rest of the day's surveying was canceled.
We returned home immediately because in dreams, this is what you do. Waiting in my kitchen was one Walt Jockerty. This is when the rage started. When I demanded to know why the Canadian all-star had been traded, a mumbled response about budget constraints did not act as solace. "Why not Phillips?" I wondered... "Why not Homer?" At this point, I could feel my voice betraying my full anger, with my passion falling ever short. Still, my mind raced.
There must be a better use of assets than throwing away Votto. Even if Phillips or Bailey were insufficient on their own, combined they would clear enough salary. Who else could clear a major block? Who else was, for lack of a better word, "expendable?" The answer sprang to mind immediately. To save the Canadian, trade the Cuban.
Now, I like Aroldis just fine, but compared to Votto, this is a no brainer. This enraged me further. My voice crescendoed steadily throughout, "Why not the motherfucker who throws..."
With my final, loudest burst, I threw myself awake.