1/25/23
I case you missed it, during the Giants-Eagles game this past weekend, after a hard tackle in which his head is slammed into the turf, Giants quarterback Daniel Jones gets up from the ground and, after checking to make sure his head is still attached, reaches toward his face mask to retrieve a contact lens that has popped out. The announcer immediately seizes on the opportunity to say, “Well, it is a contact sport.”
Watch the 15-second YouTube video below to see if I’m kidding.
When he reaches the sideline, Daniel Jones shoves the dirty, disgusting contact back into his eye—and before you know it, he’s back in the game. What a perfect spot that would’ve been to run a commercial for pink-eye medication. Of course, Daniel Jones and the Giants may as well have played with their eyes closed, for all the good their efforts made in the 38-7 shellacking the Eagles gave them. But this is not a football story. That’s right, you can wake up now.
Contact lens wearers everywhere cringed when they saw Daniel Jones run off in a panic. We’ve all been there. The miracle is that Daniel Jones found the lens at all. Most of the time that doesn’t happen. Months later I used to find hardened lenses stuck to the shirts I wore when my lenses popped out. As a former contact lens wearer, I have stories as comical as Daniel Jones’. I have stories of driving with one eye or going on job interviews and saying, “Darn it. I think I just lost a lens, in case you’re wondering why I’m winking at you.”
The things we do for vanity’s sake, such fun things like sticking germ-ridden fingers in your eyes, or having to peel lenses with the consistency of barnacles off your corneas when you’ve fallen asleep in your lenses. Never mind all the bottles of lens solution you have to buy and the solution you borrow when you have an emergency—after you’ve already spit on your lenses to keep them from drying.
Fun times. But wearers of eyeglasses have their stories too, stories of broken lenses, and bent frames, and nose pads from hell. I wore eyeglasses all throughout junior high and high school, when I wasn’t whipping them off my face every time a cute girl walked by. But it’s hard to flirt when you can’t see who you’re flirting with. Sorry about that comment I made Principal Mendoza. I thought you were someone else.
But the biggest mistake I made in not wearing my glasses came on the playing field, during tryouts for my high school baseball team. I remember having practiced all week. My defense was impeccable. I was throwing the ball with amazing accuracy, making one-handed catches, and even a few sliding catches. I wasn’t much of a hitter, but I knew I could play defense. I even fantasized about a career in Major League Baseball. Come on, coach. Put me in.
But on the day of the tryouts, I had prepared for every contingency except one. The coach had confided in me that the team was set for the upcoming season. The only opening they had was at the catcher’s position. I figured how hard could that be? I could catch everywhere else on the field. Why not behind the plate? But when it was my turn to show the coach what I could do, I couldn’t fit the catcher’s mask over my glasses. It mashed them painfully against my face. Screw that, I said, as I shoved my glasses in my pocket. I can do this with my eyes closed.
Lesson to those who’ve never played baseball, or most any other sport. You cannot compete without being able to see what you’re competing at. But I’d practiced the catcher’s stance for hours, so I looked like I knew what I was doing.
From behind the plate, I squinted at the coach and saw him nodding approvingly as I handled some warmup pitches. I signaled from an inside pitch, I signaled for an outside pitch, I dug balls out of the dirt. Then the batter stepped up to the plate, a big lefthanded batter, who cast a big shadow over me. He waggled his bat in front of my face, obstructing my view of the pitcher. But before the first pitch could be delivered, the coach signaled for a pitching change. The guy who’d been pitching to me was already on the team. The coach wanted to see what one of the kids trying out for pitcher could do.
I knew the guy on the mound. He was a friend who’d confessed to me the day before how nervous he was to be trying out. His first pitch skipped in the dirt and bounced off my chest protector. Okay, okay. I’d stopped the ball, but boy that had looked ugly. The next pitch was high and wide off to my left. I’d barely seen it, even with my best squint. The ball clanged off the batting cage, and I scrambled to retrieve it. The next three pitches were also wide or in the dirt. It was an embarrassment for the pitcher and me. I just couldn’t see the balls well enough to stop them. If I’d been a goalie, I would’ve been yanked from the game. The batter looked bored.
Finally, the coach announced that he wanted to see me throw to first on the next pitch. I was excited about the opportunity to give the coach a glimpse of my Herculean strength. I could see the first baseman well enough. But, again, the pitcher delivered another wild pitch. I blocked it and threw from my knees with everything I could muster. The ball sailed high over the first baseman’s head. I think it might still be rolling today. When the coach blew his whistle and called everyone back into the dugout, I knew I was done. I could’ve stayed on the field on my knees, begging for a miracle. But it wouldn’t have helped.
I put my glasses back on and pondered a new career.
“Maybe I could be a mild-mannered reporter like Clark Kent.”
Hmm. A journalist. That just might be the ticket. Now where are my glasses?
#withoutmyglassedI’dmadeaspectacleofmyself
