At every age during my journey, I always possessed a healthy and readily engaging imagination. During those adolescent years of five and six, I could turn into Roy Rogers or Hopalong Cassidy immediately after a Wheaties Bowl of Cereal and capture bad guys before mid morning. At age eight and nine, I had a full MLB teams compliment of baseball trading cards and a homemade 'spinner-game,' which found me on a sun-porch emulating Harry Caray's voice and announcing a world series game between the Cardinals and Yankees. I could do the same throwing a tennis ball against the front porch steps.
As I entered my teen baseball and basketball playing years my imagination did not wane one bit. In backyard basketball shooting games, I placed myself in all kinds of game situations and imagined knocking down game winning shots as the buzzer sounded. I used my imagination in sandlot baseball games of all types; always imagining myself measuring up to competition pressure.
That ability to imagine served me well in my adult life. I could anticipate and prepare better because I could imagine situations and outcomes. I could 'see' (imagine myself) being successful. I coached with an imagination philosophy. I tried to impart to my players the idea that if you can imagine success, you will enhance the possibility of success. You know, 'The Little Engine That Could.'
Using my imagination taught me the value of optimism and hard work as it relates to success.
Well, finally at age 81, I've found my imagination is defeated. Let me explain. On two different occasions two of my adult children were recently in Decatur and stopped by our home. Due to the coronavirus and the call for social distancing, my children stood at the opposite end of the garage from their mother and father. We visited for a time and then they departed. I never imagined in my wildest thoughts that there would come a day when I would not feel the love-hug exchanged with kids, grandkids and great grandkids. And for the life of me, I cannot imagine Christmas 2020.
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