I had just finished my at bat for the Chicago White Sox. It hadn’t gone well, and I had pulled a muscle in my leg. I lay on my stomach in the grass off the right field foul line, stretching my leg. We were still at bat. A loud crack signaled the batter hitting a high fly ball. The ball soared upwards into the sky, hung a bit at its peak, and then plummeted downward to strike me in the leg. This wasn’t the best place to be doing my stretching obviously, so I climbed up into the stands to sit beside my brother and uncle.
I reclined on my back on the bleacher seats and my grandmother’s dog walked over my face. “Stupid dog.” Uncle Mike reached behind him and pulled out a wrapped present for Kevin and I. We tore the wrapping off in eager anticipation only to reveal a 2-year-old’s coloring book. “Wow, thanks.”
At this point I dreamed waking up.
I awoke and groggily reached for my iPhone with which to record my dream. I tried unlocking it, but the screen refused to illuminate and I struggled to see the keypad. Eventually I got it working and set to record a voice memo detailing the dream I just had about baseball and receiving a lame coloring book. I simultaneously called up Melanie and told her about it.
Then I really woke up and was confused as hell. Had I already recorded this dream? Why did I tell Melanie about it? What the hell is going on?