Maybe I’m not a 21st-century, Midwestern male version of Emily Dickinson after all. Dickinson, my favorite poet, has drawn almost as much attention for her reclusiveness as she has for her work. The National Park Service states on a webpage about her home, for example, that she stayed inside the Amherst, Mass., residence for much of the last 38 years of her life. Being an introvert myself who has a tolerate-hate relationship with driving and has gone through periods of wanting to stay home, I can identify with her in that way. Or I could. Suddenly, I’m growing a traveling bone again. I think it’s a hair or two north of my pancreas. But perhaps the bone’s location isn’t important. What is important is that I’m wanting to go places and have adventures. Specifically, I want to make trips related to the recreational sports I play. Or want to play. As I’ve mentioned in previous columns, I’m developing a sports-related bucket list. Items that are on it include getting a free lesson or…