The Perfect Catch: A Portrait of the Artist as a Catch-22

For the moment, my most favourite number is 22. She’s been a friend of mine for some time, going back to high school. Back then we went steady. Now we’re dearest friends… Do I confuse you? I take you back some years, to halcyon days of school gone past…

I was a weakling. And a bit of a runt. And I was sick of it. It was my final year in high school and I was sick of benchwarming. For three years thence, I was a cheerleader dressed in football pads, a second-stringer. A tackling dummy for football practice. But I wasn’t your average tackling dummy. My father was a champion athlete, a man of extraordinary ability. I was a champ too, at least in cub scouts. I did so many sit-ups in under a minute they called me, “rubber band.” But when I hit high school something happened. Or rather, something didn’t happen. While other guys shot up strong and proud, sporting chin-whisker, I cowered in the locker room, anxious of my nakedness, my naked scarcity of hair in the proper places. I was behind the curve and worse, I knew it.

So when it came to football, my feline grace and nimble feet mattered little. I was skin and bones, and skin and bones don’t make for good shock absorbers. I loathed the tackling drills, especially when I was up against Kirk Pietrantonio. He was fierce and bigger than me. If I was a tiger cub, he was a lion king, and he had a savage mien to show it. I think that’s when I had my first mystical experience; he sure knocked the sense out of me.

After my junior year the wheel began to turn. I had chin-whisker, but I was still scrawny and the clock was running out. Football season was less than a year away. I had to do something, I had to try. That winter, I carted my plastic weight set to a friend’s house and we made a gym. We worked out every day in a tiny square room. Sometimes his mom brought us lemonade. Where I grew up, the winters are harsh. I well remember my lonely trudges to his house. The cold taunted me, tested me–a skinny boy who wished to be strong. At first I was awkward; the rigor and discipline was daunting. But I persisted. Even after I mentally adapted, my body was slow to respond. Still, I persisted. Day by day by day. By day. I persisted. I persisted through the winter. I persisted into spring. And, as the first buds of spring blossomed, so too did I. I got muscular. Strong. More so, an inner toughness manifest and made itself known.

By the time football season came around I was ready. At five foot seven I was still a smurf, but at least my frame was muscled. I was 145 pounds and quick as a cat, easily the quickest guy on the team. Coach even ran a drill where they’d throw me a pass, and I’d run round till all the guys tagged me. They hated me! I drove them nuts! I’d juke, jive, stop, start, and spin all over the field–even my stumbles were elegant. I was dancing! I’d run round some guys till they were breathless. I was breathless too, but I never quit; it was too much fun… For sure I was smiling!

Coach made me wingback, a wide receiver. And on defense I was free safety. Best of all I was a starter, a first stringer. I was on the field, in the game. In the show. My ego glowed. And yet life has a way of protecting us from ourselves if we pay attention. In my case it had to do with my number, 22. I picked it out myself. Visually, 22’s a pretty number–I liked the symmetry. I thought myself clever too… I recalled the novel Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. As a receiver, I thought it’d be funny if I too were “Catch-22.” It was my hidden joke. I didn’t tell no one. Funny thing is the joke was on me. For all my feline grace, I couldn’t catch worth a damn! I was so bad the coaches got to saying, “That Imy… He’s quick, but he can’t catch!”

My friends teased me incessantly. “He’s quick, but he can’t catch!”

Indeed, I was “Catch-22.”

And so began my love affair with 22. The best friends in life are the ones who teach you, who spur you to grow. From high school till today, 22’s been with me the whole wide way. And our love has evolved. No more is 22 a “Catch-22,” a tiger chasing its tail. Now she’s a release, a release from pain and the ironies of life. When I see 22 I pay attention, extra attention, to that around, and that within. I feel for harmony, I see the symmetry. 22’s a lovely number. I love her. She’s number 1.

Postscript: I first wrote this on Monday, January 9, 2006, in Columbus, Ohio. I am no longer in love with 22. She is not number 1. Number 1 is Number 1, there is no other. And I love Him for what He does, what He did with 22. 22 is not a symmetry but a pseudosymmetry, a magnification of the number 2. And the shape of a 2 is that of a snake, a snake poised to strike. 22 is a warning, a sign sent by Him to me and to you. And the novel Catch-22 was written by Joseph Heller, Heller… He sent him too.