What the HELL just happened? (or how DOES it feel to suddenly have no job?)

    How to size up the sudden loss of your job... I have been  unemployed now for a couple weeks, and while I know that there are many, many people who have been out of work for a much longer time than that, this has happened to ME! So, in this case, that is all that matters, at this point, to ME! Selfish, maybe, but factual none the less.
    Someone once told me that an economic 'recession' is when your NEIGHBOR loses HIS job, and a 'depression' is when YOU lose YOUR job! Well, then welcome to my depression. It occurs on several levels.
    Let's start with, hmmmm? Pain.  What does it FEEL like to be working one minute, and unemployed the next?  
Take a trip with me, if you will through time, back to a different day... 
   "God, it's hot! I've been behind this plate fore EVER! When will this game get ---"
   "Hey, SCOTT! Pay attention! The tying run is on third! The plays coming to YOU!", my Coach screams out.
   I glance from the pitcher, to the kid on third, the tall kid, you know, the one that for some reason, at 13 already has razor stubble, and the look in his eye like he enjoys torturing toads? He's giving me the look now.
   The pitch comes, the batter swings and short hops the ball right back to the pitcher who, as he should, flips the ball back to me... I'm protecting the plate, like I'm supposed to... The ball snaps into my mitt, I turn to the left to look back the kid on third, and all of a sudden all I see is his huge right shoe, heading toward my groin, in that special slow motion, spider-sense, that only guys experience when you know you're going to get your first real kick to the groin.
   "OH, Fu--!"
   Now, I am laying on the ground, having felt the actual kick, but that 'special' pain has not quite made it  up my spinal chord to my brain. I KNOW it will. I don't WANT it to. And, I fully BELIEVE that if I don't MOVE, or BREATHE or acknowledge the fact that I will be wearing cleat prints for a month, that it some how won't be happening...Not to ME! Not like this! I made the play, I did it right, I protected the plate, I made the tag, I held onto the ball!!! But for some reason known only to God, I still got kicked in the balls!
    Snap back to reality, sitting in the chair, staring blankly at the letter that was just handed to me. Knowing that somehow, if I don't move, or breathe, that this isn't happening, surely if I sit here long enough this will all be a painless joke, some trick from and episode of 'Punked'.
    Please God, let Ashton Kutcher come jumping into the room, "Dude!!!! Ha! You should SEE the look on your face! Man, we just Punked your ass.... See the camera in the corner!"
    For a split second, I look to the door, and to the corner, then... back to the letter. That's when the crotch-shot feeling arises from my memory and descends firmly into my body once again. A real, yet phantom, pain, I can't ignore.
That, my friends, is what it felt like to me!
    After a brief conversation of the whys, the wherefores,  of the situation, I realized I had been sitting, silent in the chair, not moving, waiting, waiting, for either the rush of pain, or to wake up from one of those all-too-real nightmares.
    Flash back to the dust at home plate.  I'm laying there, the pain has started to reach my brain, you can't really explain it, so I will move on. I can hear the spectators (especially the Dads), exhale, that collective 'Ooooooooh' that all guys get in that situation, when they instantly feel sorry for the victim, and glad it's not happening to them all at the same time. I see my Coach (Dad), walking over to me. He leans down.
    "You've got two choices, boy. Lay there like a sissy, and have me drag you off the field like a dead animal. Or, you can get up, dust yourself off, walk over to that smiling jack-ass, give him the ball, tell him he's out, put your mask back on and get back behind the plate. Make up your mind."
   It took a minute to push enough of the pain away, but I got up and did just what my Dad said.
Flash back to the office. I pushed back the pain (and the tears), folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, stood up, took the offered hand of the director, shook it firmly. He says, "Sorry. I really didn't want to have to do this." I looked right at  him and said, "Yes, I'm sorry too."
    I turned, went back to my office and started packing my things.