We are the music-makers
And we are the dreamers of dreams
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams
World-losers and world-forsakers
On whom the pale moon gleams
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
The world belongs to those who see its possibilities. Dreaming is like believing in God or enrolling in the United frequent-flier program: It costs nothing, yet has potentially transcendent rewards. Why not dream? Yours can be audaciously gigantic: A teenage Ted Williams, after all, dreamed of people seeing him and saying, "There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived." (Now, remarkably, they do just that.)
Or your dream can be laughably humble: Seven years after I graduated from high school, the Twins won Game 7 of the World Series at the Metrodome, and I drove a rental car through downtown Minneapolis to my childhood home in the suburbs, where I wrote, in the basement, the story for SPORTS ILLUSTRATED.
The dream fulfilled is every bit as fantastic as I once imagined it to be. The strawberries really do taste like strawberries. And the snozzberries taste like snozzberries.