Blurring reality and the dreamworld, I heard my dog Stormy urinating on the living room floor, but I couldn’t shout out. So I hit my wife’s arm and began to scream, but I couldn’t hear my voice; I was muted and/or deaf.
Then I woke up (in real life). It was 3:30AM, and I went downstairs to check out the damage; there was none. Stormy had been restless, so I walked her anyway.
In an attempt to return to sleep, I had the following dream:
I was in Tampa at a crowded park festival. I had a feeling I was there before. I bumped into a group a family of African Americans (or Caribbeans)- they had traditional clothing on. They were very friendly, and I knew their ritual, since I had performed it before. You know those hard balloons and you can bounce? Yeah, we did this great tribal beat together; they accepted me. THEN a young version of Yankees first baseman Mark Teixeira comes walking from the softball field and wants to join in, so one of the black guys quickly muttered for me to give him my balloon. But that’s my balloon, and I did well. It’s not fair. A younger brother told me it was okay, and gave Mark a water-balloon, but when we tried to do the tribal beat, it busted.
So I knew my time was up, and dropped my balloon and walked away.
I found myself in former New York pitcher Doc Gooden’s apartment complex. I didn’t know if he was home or not, but I thought it would be cool to see what was doing. I saw that he graffitied his name at the base of the stairs, and his message was complaining that his pitching coach Mel Stottlemeyer got screwed by the Mets, and someone else stole his job.
I walked up the dark and desolate flight of stairs, and was actually worried about bumping into a drug addict, but I didn’t.
Instead, the dream kinda transitioned in the same setting. I was back at the softball field, and saw some guys (mostly immigrants from various countries) working out to make the big leagues. But these guys sucked, just like local neighbors.
One immigrant needed a catcher to throw to, and asked a Portuguese or Brazilian coach to do it. The coach had a receding hairline, was pretty big, and acted like an expert, but here he is in a free Tampa park with a bunch of losers.
The immigrant gave the coach a Styrofoam happy meal container to use as a mitt. The coach said, “No good; no good.”
I saw Tony Vahl fielding some grounders at 1st base, and we began talking to the coach. We all went into the coach’s house to look for a good catcher’s mitt. I felt awkward looking through this guy’s house. I made a wrong turn and saw his messy bedroom. Vahl and he were talking about the finer aspects of the game, and they finally found some real equipment to bring outside.
As we were leaving the house, I saw a burglar- it was Scott Hall from the nWo. He was wearing his black-and-white nWo gear. He ran ahead of us out of the house, but it was a distraction; his partner Kevin Nash had a sniper and took out the coach.
I woke up a few seconds before the alarm went off.
