The Year of the Monkey Comes to an End in Rockford
Even with the season at its close, under an avalanche neglected work and errands, I did not think I would find the time to write this post. I rationalized putting it off, or even skipping it entirely. After all, I am not obligated to write. Nobody pays me to write. There is no gun to my head, let alone some kind of reward. But like the sport itself, this act of reflection becomes such an entrenched habit that it feels like an unquestioned duty. It persists; it gnaws at the mind, and like the first Tuesday night without practice, not doing it felt like an eerie quiet. It seemed like such a pity too (in light of so many past seasons misspent writing what now feel like apologies to ghosts), when I know what I’d write, to forego this little ceremony for a season of progress.