"Thirteen" in Punjabi is ਤੇਰਾਂ. It looks and sounds very similar to the word for "yours": ਤੇਰਾ. "Yours yours/ਤੇਰਾ ਤੇਰਾ" is a common incantation/phrase in Punjabi culture, as a reminder of individuals not truly owning anything. Clothes, food, air, the earth and even our bodies, all belong to ਵਾਹਿਗੁਰੂ. We just borrow them while we're here. 1313 is sometimes used as an abbreviation of the concept, and so 13 holds some significance in Sikhi.
Actually, the concept of holy numbers is probably pretty anti-Sikhi. If there was an official one though, it would probably be 5. There are 5 K's, 5 thieves, 5 virtues, and the "Punj" in "Punjabi" comes from the word for 5. ("Ab" is river. "Punj-Ab" was "5 rivers". Punjabi is a cultural designation originally based on geography. It is not synonymous with the Sikh religion, but closely tied to it.)
I chose number 13 for my jersey when I first started playing hockey. I don't remember exactly why, but I think it had something to do with it being an "unlucky" number, and feeling that was a dumb. Hockey culture is steeped in superstition and I suppose I wanted to rebel. I didn't know the religious connotation at the time, nor that my maternal grandfather drove taxi number 13 in Delhi. I probably didn't even know 13 was prime. I just thought it was neat.
Sometimes I can't tell if something was a dream or just thoughts I had while falling asleep/waking up. Regardless, the stories I tell myself don't happen very often. I started writing most of them down late 2019 and have recounted about 12 since then. This is one I experienced multiple times but never recorded:
I'm in the batter's box to the left of home plate in a filled stadium. I see the flashes of cameras from a crowd, shadowy despite the floodlights. There's a vague image of a pitcher at the mound. The rest of the field seems empty. Are there even any umpires? I tap the bat to the inside of my left foot, then the right, set my stance, and twirl the bat up to my shoulder. I feel at home.
I'm standing on the pitcher's mound, ball in hand in glove, held up at my face. There's nothing at the plate but I start my wind up anyways. Turn slightly to the right, raise arms above head, bring back down to chest, tuck my left knee up. Big step forward and I throw as hard as I can.
I'm back at the plate. The ball comes at me slowly. Fastball middle-middle. I can hit this far. I transfer the weight from back foot to front with perfect timing and swing with all my force. My eyes squeeze shut but I trust I'll make contact. Just as the ball and bat are about to meet, things shift. I'm no longer swinging at a baseball. It's my head instead.
This almost looks like a joke written out. I assure you though, it always felt serious in the moment. The dream was laced with feelings of anger and frustration, maybe in the pitch, but likely in the swing.
Sometimes the bat would hit me between the eyes, sometimes the side of my head, and sometimes I'd just stop thinking.
I got my fifth tattoo in February this year. It's a modified version of the art for Vin Skully by Earl Sweatshirt. (which I wrote a bit about the album in 015 voir dire). I'm not particularly fond of the song. I didn't even know who Vin Scully was before hearing it. But I like having physical representations of the things I love, and a blend of sports, cartoons, the number thirteen, and Earl Sweatshirt's music, is something that I hope will always make me happy to see.
I don't play baseball by the way. I thought it was stupid growing up. I have some appreciation for it now but my consumption of it is limited exclusively to Jomboy Media videos and my dreams.
Posted: 2024-07-02