NEXT TIME I'LL AIM HIGHER: Alright, finally, the story of the day I threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field earlier this year...

Way back when (once upon a time) at the beginning of the Cubs season, I noticed that my 39th birthday fell on the same day as a home game against the Mets. I placed a call to an old college pal of mine who happens to work for a major sports brand and asked him if he could maybe set aside some tix so that a group of us could take in the ballgame together on my big day. No prob, he replied. I've got six seats right down by first base. Splendid, I replied. Lovely. Grand. (Okay, maybe I didn't say exactly that.)

I surveyed the troops and, hard to believe, six of my college cronies quickly agreed to jump onboard my little plan. About a week in advance of the fateful day, the guy who scored the tix (heretofore referred to as "the sports pal") sent a somewhat cryptic e-mail to the lot of us, asking us to show up early for lunch at the Stadium Club (or whatever they call it at Wrigley). How nice. Super. He also alluded to a surprise for the birthday boy (me). Hmmm, I thought. Maybe we'll get a pre-game pic with Dusty. Maybe we'll get to tour the dugout or the clubhouse. Cool!

When the big morning arrives, I make quick reminder calls to all the guys, telling them to meet up at the Sports Corner bar and also emphasizing the "don't be late" theme of the day. Next, I go in my backpack to grab our six tickets...and I come up empty. Huh? There are no tickets in my backpack. Frantic phone calls reveal there are no tickets in my desk at work, no tickets in my wife's car, no tickets anywhere that I've been in the past month. I am sweating, freaking, fucked. I am so bummed.

I call the sports pal, the orchestrator, and even Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber sounds a little freaked. "I'm on it," he says. But he doesn't sound happy. Luckily this guy is a seasoned "fixer." As the president of our fraternity, his legacy of cleaning up his friends' (our) messes extends way back. He's good.

Way late, sans tix, I sprint out of my house underdressed for the early spring day, heart pounding, a sense of mild diarrhea making itself evident in my nether regions. Can't find a cab. No freakin' cabs anywhere. I'm already twenty minutes late. Holy mother of shitstorms, I am gonna have a grabber here on Armitage. I'm sprinting toward Wrigley, and finally a cab almost runs me over. I make it to the Sports Corner and try to calm myself with a warm beer in a plastic cup. I am a wreck. The sports pal calls to say he's scored replacement tickets (those exist?), and to tell us to get our asses over to the restaurant, pronto. My friends are making so much fun of me I can barely get a word in edgewise.

We get to the restaurant, sit down, heart still near explosion volume, and my friend hands me a letter:

"Congratulations, Scott. You'll be throwing out the ceremonial first pitch at today's game."

No way. NO WAY! All my friends are looking at me. "No way!" I say out loud.

"Way!"

My friend Brad punches me hard in my pitching arm. My friend Vince orders me a beer. My friend Brian looks at me and shakes his head. My friend Krogo...well, I have no idea what Krogo did. But that's neither here nor there.

No shit. I'm throwing out the first pitch. And I'm a wreck.

"Drink up, pal," says the waitress, in on it. "And you better not short-hop it."

My heart is pounding. My hearing seems affected, so that everything seems to have a layer of hum atop it. I'm dazed, and I have that feeling that the whole world is staring at me. Lord. We eat a quick lunch, and then we're off. Most of the waitstaff wish me good luck on the way out the door.

The sports pal ushers us through layers of security and down onto the field. I'm still dumbstruck. They hand me a ball. I start to try and play toss with Brad, but I'm told to stop it. "None of that, please." Several pockets of guys in the lower rows begin to heckle me. "Hey dumbass," they say, "keep it out of the dirt."

I attend a quick "meeting" with two other guys throwing out first pitches and the Cubs reps. One of the other guys is very old and can barely walk. Another guy is about my age, and he seems as nervous as me. He looks like a salesman, phone on the hip, logo on his shirt. We get briefed.

"When they call your name, just trot out to the mound and throw it. Don't mess around. Aim high, the mound makes you throw it into the ground. After you're done your catcher -- a Cubs rookie -- will sign your ball for you. I think it's gonna be Cliff Bartosh today, a young pitcher, and he's over six feet, so he'll be able to reach up for it. Good luck."

Wayne Messmer sings the anthem. My heart-rate escalates. The hecklers are staring at me.

The old guy shuffles out to the mound with a helper. The crowd loves him. He's old. He's handicapped. And he's wearing a Cubs jersey. They march him three feet in front of the plate and he delivers a strike. Hurray! Yes! Way to go!

Next comes the salesman. They announce his name, and as he begins his trot out to the hill I get a taste of what's in store for me. "Boo! You suck!" He rears back and throws his ball about halfway to the plate and into the grass. "Boo! Nice throw, grandma!"

"Ladies and gentleman, please direct your attention to the pitcher's mound where Scott Hess will throw out today's first pitch."

"Boo! You suck! Lift up your skirt!"

At least that's what I think they said. The pounding of my heart overwhelmed all external audio.

I start my brisk jog to the mound, and it looks three miles away. I concentrate on each footfall...and begin to worry about falling down. I can't remember how to run. The mound is very tall and very large. It looks more like a mesa than a mound. I wish I had a Camelbak and some crampons. I wish I had a sherpa. I wish I'd worn a Cubs jersey instead of this dumb hipster jacket that's tight across my chest. I wish I had thrown an actual baseball at least once in the past five years. I wish...

And then everything goes silent. I stare in at Cliff Bartosh. He smacks his mitt with his fist, gives me the slightest nod. Bring it.

I drop my arm back in a three-quarter motion, not quite overhand. (After it's all over my friends will tell me that I looked like I was a video on fast-forward, that I ran out there and stepped on the mound and threw it all in one motion, like I was in a rush.) I cock my arm and kick my leg and really let it go. I do not puss the ball up there. I friggin' THROW it. They're gonna hear the pill hit the mitt!

The ball lauches from my hand and begins its trajectory toward the plate, the mitt, immortality. I complete my leg kick and my body swings around and I stare in at the catcher's mitt, awaiting the pop.

Alas, it's not to be. The ball has a mind of its own. Looking more like an 0-2 "waste" pitch than a ceremonial first pitch sans batter, the ball dives for the red dirt just in front of home plate, skidding about six inches in front of the plate and taking a wicked, dastardly, family-planning bounce right at Cliff Bartosh's nuts. Time stands still, and this is what I think: Do relief pitchers wear cups when they trot out to catch the ceremonial first pitch?

Bartosh's glove flies down from on high to save the family jewels, his deft scoop actually reclaiming respectability for my pitch. He trots out to the mound with the ball.

"Thanks, Cliff!" I say, beaming.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks for that," he says, not exactly beaming. "Jesus."

I trot back to my friends, a chorus of indifferent boos and "you sucks" raining down on me. I am thrilled.

I just threw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field! Who cares what you say?

I leap over the foul line and high-five my friend, the sports pal. "I think that's one of the coolest things I've ever done," I tell him.

And it was.

Next time I'm gonna get it all the way there. But in the meantime I don't mind looking at the telltale red scuff mark and knowing that it's Wrigley dirt.

(Sorry I don't have a great ending for this, but I just typed it in one fell swoop, and that's how it came out, unvarnished by editing.)