Wait, What?

Professional tennis players have a "box" courtside.

Inside that "box" sit their coach. Usually more than one. Two, sometimes three. A physical therapist. These days there may be a psychiatrist in there. Family members - girlfriend, wife, kids, Mom, Dad.

During the match the tennis pro looks up to his box repeatedly. Conversations go back and forth. Tips and encouragement from the coach, encouragement from the family.

It's difficult for me to believe that tips or encouragement make any difference at that point - during a match. I mean these people are professionals playing at the highest level against the most accomplished competitors. They practice a thousand hours a day on a thousand different things - psychological as well as physical. But what do I know? Maybe a well placed "atta boy" can win Wimbledon.

If I had a coach - maybe two or three - a psychiatrist, a physical therapist, and family members following me around through life giving me tips, advice, and encouragement, I would have been mega-successful. I would have been steered towards the right path and given the discipline and inspiration to chase my dreams.

My bank account would look like this - $1,000,000,000,000, instead of what it is: $-150.

But, what the hell - whaddya gonna do?

Wait, what? What's that you say? You never had a coach or coaches or a psychiatrist, a physical therapist or family members giving you tips, advice, and encouragement as you made your way through life, and you did just fine? You are OK?

I must be more fucked up than I thought. I mean, Carol is always saying to me "Joey, you are so fucked up!", but it must be even worse than that.

Time to buckle down and buckle up, compadres - time to kick holy fucking ass.

I got a lot of ground to make up.