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I’d met several people who woke up on third base and thought they’d hit a triple.
Preparation was key—not for the game, but for the bus to take us to the game. We immediately bought a keg. And some weed.
I’m not exactly sure when
it became a little less civil, but I’d hazard a guess that it was right about the time the mescaline came out.
And most importantly, for my survival, I learned how to roll the world’s best joints while steering a car with my knees.
It’s not the number of times you get knocked down in life that counts. What counts is the number of times you get the fuck back up. So get the fuck back up!
“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway,” I thought over and over.
