About a week ago, I had a disturbing dream involving Tom Glavine. The details are a bit fuzzy, but Glavine and I were teammates and/or close friends. Recently, Tom Glavine had been turning up with bandages all over his body. It started with a series of Band-Aids on his arms. Quickly the little Band-Aids made way for Ace Bandages that were wrapped around his arms and legs. When questioned, he had a carefully crafted excuse each time. All of his friends were deeply concerned for his well-being. We didn't know if he was hiding a severe case of hemophilia or if he was becoming a cutter.
Finally, I decided to confront him. I approached him in his basement workshop to find him placing his cheek into the path of a circular saw. The blade was very thin and he only stuck his face into it enough to tear a narrow, clean slice through his skin. The last thing I remember was Glavine turning around and looking me in the eye, as blood steadily trickled down his cheek.
It was at this point that I awoke, completely convinced that my dream had happened. I paced my house for a couple of minutes, before I came to the realization that
a) I don't know Tom Glavine
b) It's highly improbable that Tom Glavine, a 41 year old man on the brink of his 300th victory, would develop a disorder most commonly associated with 16 year old Goth chicks.