What's the worst part about watching commercials? No it's not the fact that the show you were just watching and enjoying goes on a momentary vacation. It isn't the fact that there's bunch of useless bullshit being shoved down your throat. It's the goddamn songs that ruin our day to day. And I'm not talking about the lame jingles either, like "SAVED BY ZERO" or "5 DOLLAR FOOT LONGS." Jingles are a part of the fabric of America.
Over the past few years, commercials have been the breeding ground where indie rock songs and classic rock go to die. Commercials have always been the epitome of selling out (either that or having your own action figure molded after your band, Jordan Knight!). Frankly, I'm sick of this. Every time a computer commercial comes on, I'm greeted with a quirky "indie" song with some moderate electronics for the optimum computer/digital experience. And the car commercials... haaa, don't even get me started. The car industry has successfully killed three great Queen songs, every decent song by The Who, and cemented the fact that Kid Rock will forever suck a big dick till the end of time. There's no worse television experience I can think of than watching a pickup truck cutting a sharp turn, in slow motion nonetheless, to a bunch of nu-metal.
Commercials, you suck. You just really suck. You've made millions of people, like my mother, want to download Feist and Imogen Heap songs. And that is just wrong Mom. But the commercials taught you to accept, and buy everything.
(However, I'm very proud of The Thermals who declined a half-million bucks for the use of one of their songs in a Hummer commercial. Also, Tom Waits sued the fucking shit out of some English company for ripping off his song "Innocent When You Dream" in their commercial after he declined. He claims that's how his family will live comfortably for a few generations. Thank you so much Tom. Thank you.)
December 9, 2008
I'm Making my Lists and Editing Them Once
It's that time of year again. Yes, time to start compiling those lists. And I don't mean your letters to Santa, because let's face it, the guy doesn't exist. Sorry, but he doesn't. Neither does the Tooth Fairy, Leprechauns, and a Colorado Rockies World Series ring. There all figments of a child's imagination.
But yours lists don't have to be. I'm convinced we only have months and moon cycles and linear time so when December rolls around, we can exercise our rights to publish our wonderful year round lists of everything in life that was worth checking out. December was created to give you a voice to tell the masses what was relevant in the year while you were alive to absorb it all. You can even make lists about things you didn't do. It's amazing!
I don't know about you, but all year long I make lists, some relevant, some daily and full of junk notes. Those include things I ate or how the weather made me feel. Those go in the garbage, fast!. But it's the year round ones that count. The list gives you the right to feel that you have some place in the human race, and that you were able to categorize such minute details into something important to you. And if one child in China happens to read my Best Albums of 2006 list and buys one of them, then let my life be not in vain.
So this December, compile your lists. Don't let US Weekly and Pitchforkmedia have all the say. Tell random strangers what the hell movies you liked, which people you wanted to kill, and what pets died on you in the year 2008. (a small sampling of the former would be: Burn After Reading, a waitress at The Adelphi Diner, and none).
This season, in between shopping and breaking bread with the family, make sure you make your lists. Because I want to know what the fuck you like to do with your time, or should I say, the Top 20 Things You Like (or Liked) to Do with Your Time in 2008.
But yours lists don't have to be. I'm convinced we only have months and moon cycles and linear time so when December rolls around, we can exercise our rights to publish our wonderful year round lists of everything in life that was worth checking out. December was created to give you a voice to tell the masses what was relevant in the year while you were alive to absorb it all. You can even make lists about things you didn't do. It's amazing!
I don't know about you, but all year long I make lists, some relevant, some daily and full of junk notes. Those include things I ate or how the weather made me feel. Those go in the garbage, fast!. But it's the year round ones that count. The list gives you the right to feel that you have some place in the human race, and that you were able to categorize such minute details into something important to you. And if one child in China happens to read my Best Albums of 2006 list and buys one of them, then let my life be not in vain.
So this December, compile your lists. Don't let US Weekly and Pitchforkmedia have all the say. Tell random strangers what the hell movies you liked, which people you wanted to kill, and what pets died on you in the year 2008. (a small sampling of the former would be: Burn After Reading, a waitress at The Adelphi Diner, and none).
This season, in between shopping and breaking bread with the family, make sure you make your lists. Because I want to know what the fuck you like to do with your time, or should I say, the Top 20 Things You Like (or Liked) to Do with Your Time in 2008.
December 8, 2008
Merry X-mas (The War is Over)
The year: 2003. The day: Saturday. Time: Morning.
I woke up one Saturday morning in 2003. I could hear my family milling about in
the kitchen, roaming in and out of the living room, getting their day underway.
I rolled out of bed with one thing on my mind; Cinnamon Toast Crunch. However, my mind quickly shifted when I saw the note that had been slipped under my bedroom door.
It was clearly my mothers handwriting on a piece of white paper one would
write a shopping list on. On it, in blue ink, were 4 simple words, "THE
WAR IS OVER." The war is over? I thought. HOLY SHIT, THE WAR IS OVER!!!
Immediately, my mind raced with CNN news clips of the troops pulling out of Iraq, thus adverting further US submergence into additional Middle East skirmishes. My ultimate fear of the reinstatement of the draft, ultimately leading to my inevitable drafting, was now eradicated.
I opened my bedroom door, waiting for my parents to tell me our country was not
doomed after all. 'Good morning,' my mom said. "GOOOOD
Mornin'," I whistled back. I took a seat at the kitchen table, poured my
cereal, tapped my feet to the rhythm of Stars and Stripes Forever.
But still, no one was telling me any good news. My dad was watching infomercials, not the 24 hour coverage that would celebrate the end of our involvement in Iraq.
Finally, I said smugly, "So, we're out of Iraq?"
My mom looked at me, clearly confused, "Huh?"
"You know, I saw the note you slipped under my door. THE WAR IS OVER."
I showed her the note. 'Man,that was fast. Stupid George Bush. At least he
got us out of there.'
My mom didn't say anything. "Oh that note." I looked at her,
confused. "Your brother just told me to write that and put it under your
door."
I was as confused as you might feel, reading all of this pointless bullshit. That's just
what the note was; pointless bullshit from my pointless bullshit little
brother. "Why'd he ask you to write that?" I asked, the sinking feeling of a
country in flames crashing into my soul, thus thrusting me back all my panic
attacks of one day having to fight in a war (I like movies about Vietnam).
"I don't know why. He just told me to write that."
To this day, I am mad at my little brother, seven years my junior, for telling
my mom to write me stupid notes that have important connotations related to our
countries well being. I didn't even consider myself patriotic in anyway back then.
I just like exciting news.
I woke up one Saturday morning in 2003. I could hear my family milling about in
the kitchen, roaming in and out of the living room, getting their day underway.
I rolled out of bed with one thing on my mind; Cinnamon Toast Crunch. However, my mind quickly shifted when I saw the note that had been slipped under my bedroom door.
It was clearly my mothers handwriting on a piece of white paper one would
write a shopping list on. On it, in blue ink, were 4 simple words, "THE
WAR IS OVER." The war is over? I thought. HOLY SHIT, THE WAR IS OVER!!!
Immediately, my mind raced with CNN news clips of the troops pulling out of Iraq, thus adverting further US submergence into additional Middle East skirmishes. My ultimate fear of the reinstatement of the draft, ultimately leading to my inevitable drafting, was now eradicated.
I opened my bedroom door, waiting for my parents to tell me our country was not
doomed after all. 'Good morning,' my mom said. "GOOOOD
Mornin'," I whistled back. I took a seat at the kitchen table, poured my
cereal, tapped my feet to the rhythm of Stars and Stripes Forever.
But still, no one was telling me any good news. My dad was watching infomercials, not the 24 hour coverage that would celebrate the end of our involvement in Iraq.
Finally, I said smugly, "So, we're out of Iraq?"
My mom looked at me, clearly confused, "Huh?"
"You know, I saw the note you slipped under my door. THE WAR IS OVER."
I showed her the note. 'Man,that was fast. Stupid George Bush. At least he
got us out of there.'
My mom didn't say anything. "Oh that note." I looked at her,
confused. "Your brother just told me to write that and put it under your
door."
I was as confused as you might feel, reading all of this pointless bullshit. That's just
what the note was; pointless bullshit from my pointless bullshit little
brother. "Why'd he ask you to write that?" I asked, the sinking feeling of a
country in flames crashing into my soul, thus thrusting me back all my panic
attacks of one day having to fight in a war (I like movies about Vietnam).
"I don't know why. He just told me to write that."
To this day, I am mad at my little brother, seven years my junior, for telling
my mom to write me stupid notes that have important connotations related to our
countries well being. I didn't even consider myself patriotic in anyway back then.
I just like exciting news.
November 1, 2008
You Know Who You Look Like?...
Everyday of my waking life, people seem to tell me who I look like. I'm constantly informed by seemingly concerned and curious citizens that they've seen my some place else and I ain't foolin' noone no how with my looks. It seems since I wear glasses and sometimes don't shave, I'm around for everyone's visual amusement. Here's what I look like, if you don't know me.
Pretty scary shit, huh? Well, the obvious one I get is Buddy Holly. I hear that about 3 times a day just because I got myself a pair of black horn rimmed looking glasses. Drunk men over the age of 45 usually tell me this as well as polite house moms, as if they're letting me on a little secret. But it's such a dull and trite comparison. It's like if someone went up to a female collie every day and told her she looked like Lassie. It's the standard and frankly it passes through me unnoticed. Here's some other ones I've been compared to.
Rivers Cuomo, lead singer and breaker-of-hearts, from Weezer is one I get quite often. Usually, people say "that guy from Weezer." I don't think I look a damn thing like him at all and this is apparent if you have eyes. It's almost as pointless as saying I look like Buddy Holly, just cause of the glasses thing. Ironically, Cuomo made a bunch of money from a song called "Buddy Holly." I guess that's actually not ironic since he consciously took the time to write it. Don't look like him.
This is just fucking stupid. When I was substitute teaching, many of my frequent sixth and seventh grade students told me I looked like this goofball. I thought they were just in on a big group joke but they seemed genuine about it and persisted throughout the year. I guess they're just stupid. Ya can't teach kids nothin' these days. Don't look like him, AT ALL.
Here's another popular one. Again, the glasses are just thick and I guess we have that greasy clumpy hair thing going. Being called Napolean Dynamite is bad enough, but Austin Powers? It really sucks being compared with two of the most annoyingly quotable movie characters of the past ten years. Now, if someone tells me I look like Borat, then I'm in trouble. Don't look like him.
Here's one my middle school students also pointed out to me. Since then, I've heard it from others. It's Patrick Stump from that band of jerkoffs, Fall Out Boy. At first, I dismissed it. However, I have seen pictures of this rapidly plumping, sideburn sporting frontman that are a little eerie. Eerie in ways that make me want to shave and stop associating myself with music in general. Being compared to the singer of "Dance, Dance" is weird because I don't dance, especially if sober and alone.
Keeping in the spirit of bad bands, the second guy from the left was pointed out to me by my girlfriend's sister. It's one of the nameless guys from that shitty band The Fray. They put out that song that's sure to play in grocery stores and fall season TV previews for years to come. It's more of an inside joke now in my girlfriend's family, about a guy who in a band no one usually knows the name of anyway. But it seems if it isn't pop culture movie icons, it's a couple of dudes from Top 40 Rock. And nobody wants to be on that list (except Patrick Stump and the guy from The Fray, I guess).
Then there's Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service. Again, just sort of has glasses and wears my shirts. I actually sort of think he's ripping ME off. It's a little ridiculous. I used to like his songwriting. But now's he's too cuddly and unnecessarily sad and I want people to stop comparing us. I'm also convinced this annoying redneck, Republican kid from my Senior Film class wrote a blog about how he hates "Ben Gibbard" looking kids.I used to just happen to sit by him and then this coincidental blog?. Fuck you man. You're opinions on Bush were ridiculous and you should go die for oil or something. Sorry. Bottom line: don't want to look like him, but indie rock's made us look like each other.
This is Colin Meloy, otherwise known as "that guy from The Decemberists" which is what people say to me. "Hey, you look like..." and I raise my hand and nod "Yes, the guy from The Decemberists." A lot of people think this is a compliment when they say it because they're discovering this band and think they're getting into some pretty awesome and deep stuff. But I just think Colin Meloy and his Decemberists are boring and stale. Actually, he just looks like Ben Gibbard. Actually, he's identical to Ben Gibbard, both in features and currently shitty music. In fact, those two should just have sex and get it over with. But leave me out of it. Unless, you know, they pay me a lot of money or release one of my records on an indie label with good distrobution.
Just heard this one today from my friend's mother. It actually inspired me to compile this list. It's Seth Rogen, everybody. This is weird, because when he was on "Freaks and Geeks" he looked like my one college roommates, Andrew. Then he got glasses, stopped shaving, and had the extra baggage. Now he's been appointed to my club of lookalikes. I like "Freaks and Geeks" and "Knocked Up" so this is okay to me.
When I first met my girlfriend's mom she constantly told me I looked like Superman. Then she called me Superman for weeks, possibly months, the way a toothless bag lady would. "Oh Superman. Yo-hoo," she'd say and laugh. What the fuck, I thought, Superman flys and lifts planets. One day I asked, "Do you mean I look like Clark Kent?" and she said, "Yeah Superman." I guess that's cool. Clark Kent was a journalist by day, womanizer of Ms. Lane by night. I just don't want to end up like George Reeves or Christopher Reeve. Tragic and Dead, and all Reeve-y.
A couple years ago, my girlfriend and I were watching the film "Jacob's Ladder," starring Tim Robbins. She insisted I looked exactly like him, facial features and all. Sometimes I see it. The pictures not the best, but it's cool cause he's yelling and didn't get his hair cut in a while. I'll take the Tim Robbins lookalike award because if you can handle Susan Sarandon and Shawshank, you can handle anything. Get busy living, or get busy dying!
Well, that's about it for now. Tomorrow, I will step out my front door and hear the "Hey sonny, you know who you remind me of" all over again. It's like "Groundhog Day" but I don't get the girl in the end. I already have one and, as told, her family thinks I look like three of these identity theifs. On another note, I've also heard I looke like John Lennon a couple times but I think people are just running out of things to compare me to. Where does it end? Luckily no ones every told me that I look like AJAX the dog...
Thanks for reading. I'll leave you with a final photo of yours truly. Sleep tight.
Pretty scary shit, huh? Well, the obvious one I get is Buddy Holly. I hear that about 3 times a day just because I got myself a pair of black horn rimmed looking glasses. Drunk men over the age of 45 usually tell me this as well as polite house moms, as if they're letting me on a little secret. But it's such a dull and trite comparison. It's like if someone went up to a female collie every day and told her she looked like Lassie. It's the standard and frankly it passes through me unnoticed. Here's some other ones I've been compared to.
Rivers Cuomo, lead singer and breaker-of-hearts, from Weezer is one I get quite often. Usually, people say "that guy from Weezer." I don't think I look a damn thing like him at all and this is apparent if you have eyes. It's almost as pointless as saying I look like Buddy Holly, just cause of the glasses thing. Ironically, Cuomo made a bunch of money from a song called "Buddy Holly." I guess that's actually not ironic since he consciously took the time to write it. Don't look like him.
This is just fucking stupid. When I was substitute teaching, many of my frequent sixth and seventh grade students told me I looked like this goofball. I thought they were just in on a big group joke but they seemed genuine about it and persisted throughout the year. I guess they're just stupid. Ya can't teach kids nothin' these days. Don't look like him, AT ALL.
Here's another popular one. Again, the glasses are just thick and I guess we have that greasy clumpy hair thing going. Being called Napolean Dynamite is bad enough, but Austin Powers? It really sucks being compared with two of the most annoyingly quotable movie characters of the past ten years. Now, if someone tells me I look like Borat, then I'm in trouble. Don't look like him.
Here's one my middle school students also pointed out to me. Since then, I've heard it from others. It's Patrick Stump from that band of jerkoffs, Fall Out Boy. At first, I dismissed it. However, I have seen pictures of this rapidly plumping, sideburn sporting frontman that are a little eerie. Eerie in ways that make me want to shave and stop associating myself with music in general. Being compared to the singer of "Dance, Dance" is weird because I don't dance, especially if sober and alone.
Keeping in the spirit of bad bands, the second guy from the left was pointed out to me by my girlfriend's sister. It's one of the nameless guys from that shitty band The Fray. They put out that song that's sure to play in grocery stores and fall season TV previews for years to come. It's more of an inside joke now in my girlfriend's family, about a guy who in a band no one usually knows the name of anyway. But it seems if it isn't pop culture movie icons, it's a couple of dudes from Top 40 Rock. And nobody wants to be on that list (except Patrick Stump and the guy from The Fray, I guess).
Then there's Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service. Again, just sort of has glasses and wears my shirts. I actually sort of think he's ripping ME off. It's a little ridiculous. I used to like his songwriting. But now's he's too cuddly and unnecessarily sad and I want people to stop comparing us. I'm also convinced this annoying redneck, Republican kid from my Senior Film class wrote a blog about how he hates "Ben Gibbard" looking kids.I used to just happen to sit by him and then this coincidental blog?. Fuck you man. You're opinions on Bush were ridiculous and you should go die for oil or something. Sorry. Bottom line: don't want to look like him, but indie rock's made us look like each other.
This is Colin Meloy, otherwise known as "that guy from The Decemberists" which is what people say to me. "Hey, you look like..." and I raise my hand and nod "Yes, the guy from The Decemberists." A lot of people think this is a compliment when they say it because they're discovering this band and think they're getting into some pretty awesome and deep stuff. But I just think Colin Meloy and his Decemberists are boring and stale. Actually, he just looks like Ben Gibbard. Actually, he's identical to Ben Gibbard, both in features and currently shitty music. In fact, those two should just have sex and get it over with. But leave me out of it. Unless, you know, they pay me a lot of money or release one of my records on an indie label with good distrobution.
Just heard this one today from my friend's mother. It actually inspired me to compile this list. It's Seth Rogen, everybody. This is weird, because when he was on "Freaks and Geeks" he looked like my one college roommates, Andrew. Then he got glasses, stopped shaving, and had the extra baggage. Now he's been appointed to my club of lookalikes. I like "Freaks and Geeks" and "Knocked Up" so this is okay to me.
When I first met my girlfriend's mom she constantly told me I looked like Superman. Then she called me Superman for weeks, possibly months, the way a toothless bag lady would. "Oh Superman. Yo-hoo," she'd say and laugh. What the fuck, I thought, Superman flys and lifts planets. One day I asked, "Do you mean I look like Clark Kent?" and she said, "Yeah Superman." I guess that's cool. Clark Kent was a journalist by day, womanizer of Ms. Lane by night. I just don't want to end up like George Reeves or Christopher Reeve. Tragic and Dead, and all Reeve-y.
A couple years ago, my girlfriend and I were watching the film "Jacob's Ladder," starring Tim Robbins. She insisted I looked exactly like him, facial features and all. Sometimes I see it. The pictures not the best, but it's cool cause he's yelling and didn't get his hair cut in a while. I'll take the Tim Robbins lookalike award because if you can handle Susan Sarandon and Shawshank, you can handle anything. Get busy living, or get busy dying!
Well, that's about it for now. Tomorrow, I will step out my front door and hear the "Hey sonny, you know who you remind me of" all over again. It's like "Groundhog Day" but I don't get the girl in the end. I already have one and, as told, her family thinks I look like three of these identity theifs. On another note, I've also heard I looke like John Lennon a couple times but I think people are just running out of things to compare me to. Where does it end? Luckily no ones every told me that I look like AJAX the dog...
Thanks for reading. I'll leave you with a final photo of yours truly. Sleep tight.
July 17, 2008
On the Train to NYC
Last week, I was on the train to NYC with my brother and parents. My parent's had bought Yankee tickets and I agreed to go, even though I am now a converted Mets' fan. Still, I never pass up a professional ballgame. Especially, when your parent's will still buy you $7 hot dogs at the age of 23.
There is nothing like going to a major league game. Every piece of poetic bullshit you have already heard or read about it true, so I won't bore you with the details. The sights, the smells, the green grass, the dimensions, the sound of the crack of the bat, the scoreboards tallying up numbers, the roar of the fan next to you. You've all heard about it in one documentary or another, or experienced it in person.
But, not many warn you about the rude guy you meet on the train going to the game. And I'm not talking about the subway. I'm talking about the straight up train, from South Amboy NJ to New York Penn Station. On the morning of last Wednesday, I met my family (2 parents, 1 little brother whose reaching 16), at the train station. We boarded. I was tired. My brother proceeded to eat his egg and steak sandwich my parents purchased for him at WaWa. He opened his blueberry soda and proceeded to spill half of it on the floor next to his steak and eggs scraps. I was dead tired.
I was so fucking tired, in fact, that I asked to switch seats with him, even though he held the coveted window seat. "Brian," I said. "Can I have your seat?" I needed to rest my weary head against the pane and try to catch some shut eye before hitting the House that Ruth Built. He agreed.
My feet slide on the wet, sticky floor of overflown blueberry soda and eggs. Oh yeah, and steak. My 15 and a half year old brother managed to make the floor as ransacked as a bum pissing on it while eating a cat's stomach. It was a moment for Ripley's Believe it or Not. My feet could not sit still, seemingly floating on the sticky surface.
Finally, a few towns in to our trip to NY, with my head rested against the glass, I opened one eye to take note of a suave man who took the two-seater in front of us. He had his hair slicked back, and partially frosted. He carried a leather briefcase. He wore a toilet-bowel blue suit coat over a cat-vomit shirt that looked hideous, but probably cost him up to a thousand bucks! His watched glisten as the sunlight beamed off the dials into my red eyes.
I continued to doze on and off during our trip, wishing the train would stop shifting so much. I remember at one point, I coughed. Then I coughed again. I woke up once and sneezed. Finally, I woke up, and asked my mother, who was seated behind me, if she had packed any drinks. My mother, always the walking survival kit, packs hearty food, snacks, drinks, and medications no matter where my bones have ventured in life. Sure enough, she handed me an Iced Tea bottle which I promptly downed in one gulp.
After I finished the Iced Tea I stuck the bottle in between the seat and the wall of the train, in front of that suave fella I mentioned earlier, and closed my eyes. My shoes continued to skated amongst the spilt pop and breakfast sandwich remains. I opened them again to see the man in front of me's head looking at me rather nervously as he chattered on his cellphone in some foreign accent (I believe it was Italian. You know, I took 2 semesters in college so I'm fucking brilliant at it).
My eyes remanded shut until I heard a voice from over the seat .
"Are you sick?"
"What?" I said completely confused as to who said what.
"Are you sick?" the guy in front of me asked, speaking over his shoulder, most of his face concealed by the high blue seats in front of me.
Outraged by the stupidity of the moment, I retorted, "Am I sick? No."
The man shook his head in disbelief, placing his sweaty palm up to his shiny forehead. "Do you have a cold?"
"No."
He had it. "You keep coughin. And sneezin. And coughin. And you keep puttin dis bot'l in da seat," he said motioning to the Iced Tea bottle I had wedged into between his seat in the wall.
Who the fuck was this guy? I wasn't sick. I was sick and tired of being tired, and decided to rest my eyes. With blueberry soda and steak and eggs beneath my feet and an empty bottle fit for recycling I decided to wedge the future of an inconvenient truth in between a seat and myself. Now this guy in a fucked up suit and an accent, fit for fucking everything that cast a shadow, decided to question my health. I don't think so.
I promptly wedged my bottle back in between the seat and the train's wall. His head began to percolate, bobbing up and down. He couldn't take it, his comb-over and all. He promptly spun in his seat, and like a little bitch, and smacked the empty bottle, with open palm, in my direction. It flew, lifelessly, and hit me in the crotch.
I shit you not. He then said, while stammering, "I don't need... your.... your... cooties."
I laughed. I wanted to slaughter this man with his briefcase and his endless mid-train cell calls and his proverbial ladder he attempted to climb everyday. "Cooties?" I said. "Holy shit. Nice fuckin' suit, buddy," I said as I wedged my knee right into the back of his seat.
I began to cough, faking a new incurable sickness, telling my brother I could not get rid of the phlegm, all while wedging my empty bottle between the seat. Finally, our foreign, and financially well to do friend moved to the front of the train car. He shot me a look. I waved to him, happily, although dying of an incurable sickness.
When we finally stopped, my brother was laughing. I saw that man stand up and get off the train. I waved while performing licking on my empty bottle of Ice Tea, vulgarly. I don' think he saw me. But if anyone ever questions your free right to be sick in a public place, at any time, just think of the business men in gaudy suits and hair grease who get away with more bullshit than you can even conjure up. It's unfathomable sometimes. Give the motherfucker next to you cooties. He's an asshole for questioning if you even have it. And by the way, Mr. motherfucker, I have allergies. And the Yankees beat the Rays 2-1. Let's Go Rays!
There is nothing like going to a major league game. Every piece of poetic bullshit you have already heard or read about it true, so I won't bore you with the details. The sights, the smells, the green grass, the dimensions, the sound of the crack of the bat, the scoreboards tallying up numbers, the roar of the fan next to you. You've all heard about it in one documentary or another, or experienced it in person.
But, not many warn you about the rude guy you meet on the train going to the game. And I'm not talking about the subway. I'm talking about the straight up train, from South Amboy NJ to New York Penn Station. On the morning of last Wednesday, I met my family (2 parents, 1 little brother whose reaching 16), at the train station. We boarded. I was tired. My brother proceeded to eat his egg and steak sandwich my parents purchased for him at WaWa. He opened his blueberry soda and proceeded to spill half of it on the floor next to his steak and eggs scraps. I was dead tired.
I was so fucking tired, in fact, that I asked to switch seats with him, even though he held the coveted window seat. "Brian," I said. "Can I have your seat?" I needed to rest my weary head against the pane and try to catch some shut eye before hitting the House that Ruth Built. He agreed.
My feet slide on the wet, sticky floor of overflown blueberry soda and eggs. Oh yeah, and steak. My 15 and a half year old brother managed to make the floor as ransacked as a bum pissing on it while eating a cat's stomach. It was a moment for Ripley's Believe it or Not. My feet could not sit still, seemingly floating on the sticky surface.
Finally, a few towns in to our trip to NY, with my head rested against the glass, I opened one eye to take note of a suave man who took the two-seater in front of us. He had his hair slicked back, and partially frosted. He carried a leather briefcase. He wore a toilet-bowel blue suit coat over a cat-vomit shirt that looked hideous, but probably cost him up to a thousand bucks! His watched glisten as the sunlight beamed off the dials into my red eyes.
I continued to doze on and off during our trip, wishing the train would stop shifting so much. I remember at one point, I coughed. Then I coughed again. I woke up once and sneezed. Finally, I woke up, and asked my mother, who was seated behind me, if she had packed any drinks. My mother, always the walking survival kit, packs hearty food, snacks, drinks, and medications no matter where my bones have ventured in life. Sure enough, she handed me an Iced Tea bottle which I promptly downed in one gulp.
After I finished the Iced Tea I stuck the bottle in between the seat and the wall of the train, in front of that suave fella I mentioned earlier, and closed my eyes. My shoes continued to skated amongst the spilt pop and breakfast sandwich remains. I opened them again to see the man in front of me's head looking at me rather nervously as he chattered on his cellphone in some foreign accent (I believe it was Italian. You know, I took 2 semesters in college so I'm fucking brilliant at it).
My eyes remanded shut until I heard a voice from over the seat .
"Are you sick?"
"What?" I said completely confused as to who said what.
"Are you sick?" the guy in front of me asked, speaking over his shoulder, most of his face concealed by the high blue seats in front of me.
Outraged by the stupidity of the moment, I retorted, "Am I sick? No."
The man shook his head in disbelief, placing his sweaty palm up to his shiny forehead. "Do you have a cold?"
"No."
He had it. "You keep coughin. And sneezin. And coughin. And you keep puttin dis bot'l in da seat," he said motioning to the Iced Tea bottle I had wedged into between his seat in the wall.
Who the fuck was this guy? I wasn't sick. I was sick and tired of being tired, and decided to rest my eyes. With blueberry soda and steak and eggs beneath my feet and an empty bottle fit for recycling I decided to wedge the future of an inconvenient truth in between a seat and myself. Now this guy in a fucked up suit and an accent, fit for fucking everything that cast a shadow, decided to question my health. I don't think so.
I promptly wedged my bottle back in between the seat and the train's wall. His head began to percolate, bobbing up and down. He couldn't take it, his comb-over and all. He promptly spun in his seat, and like a little bitch, and smacked the empty bottle, with open palm, in my direction. It flew, lifelessly, and hit me in the crotch.
I shit you not. He then said, while stammering, "I don't need... your.... your... cooties."
I laughed. I wanted to slaughter this man with his briefcase and his endless mid-train cell calls and his proverbial ladder he attempted to climb everyday. "Cooties?" I said. "Holy shit. Nice fuckin' suit, buddy," I said as I wedged my knee right into the back of his seat.
I began to cough, faking a new incurable sickness, telling my brother I could not get rid of the phlegm, all while wedging my empty bottle between the seat. Finally, our foreign, and financially well to do friend moved to the front of the train car. He shot me a look. I waved to him, happily, although dying of an incurable sickness.
When we finally stopped, my brother was laughing. I saw that man stand up and get off the train. I waved while performing licking on my empty bottle of Ice Tea, vulgarly. I don' think he saw me. But if anyone ever questions your free right to be sick in a public place, at any time, just think of the business men in gaudy suits and hair grease who get away with more bullshit than you can even conjure up. It's unfathomable sometimes. Give the motherfucker next to you cooties. He's an asshole for questioning if you even have it. And by the way, Mr. motherfucker, I have allergies. And the Yankees beat the Rays 2-1. Let's Go Rays!
July 2, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 4)
When my nightmare on the pitching mound came to a crashing halt, I finished out the rest of my first season back in the little leagues, returning after a six year drought. Even though the pitches weren't mine to throw the rest of the season, I still had to play the field, and unfortunately, come to bat. One game, my coach batted me in the clean-up spot, in an attempt to build my confidence. The clean-up spot is the 4th man to bat on a team, who is usually the best, or second best hitter on the team, and always shows great displays of power, so they can bat in men left on base. Just because I had a gut that hung far over my belt line didn't qualify me as a clean-up hitter. When a teammate laughed out loud (lol'd, if you will) while reading that game's line up card, I was so mad and embarrassed that I deliberately struck out 4 times. I was a lost cause in cleats.
Finally, with about five games to go in the season, I was 0 for 2 in that day's game when I came up to bat. Suddenly, the opposing team took out their pitcher and put in a kid who I actually knew from school. My fears dissolved as I thought, "Hey, I know this guy." He couldn't be very tough. He was a wimp in real life, like me. How good could he be on the mound?
Apparently, not very good at all, because after he delivered his second pitch, I squared in and shot the ball into center field. BASE HIT. I had my first hit of the season. It was one of the greatest comebacks of my life.
As the humidity intensified, and final exams hide just around the corner, my first season back in the big time was over. My team took a decidedly deserved spot in last place, with me only aiding in our decline. As I left my last game, I felt a tremendous weight drop from my shoulders. Still, I was a little sentimental. I finished the season with a whopping 3 hits. Some players get 4 or 5 a game, on a great night. Me, I just didn't want to push it.
So next spring, when I was in 8th grade, my parent's asked if they should sign me up for baseball again. Now, if you've been keeping up with the past few entries of this nightmare, then you know that any self respecting person with half a brain would have tried to find something they were good at and excel in other areas. Painting, or crocheting, or pottery, or truck driving. Anything. But I didn't want to be a quitter. "Sign me up," I said. If I could travel back in time, I'd kick my own ass back to the tee ball days.
So, I set off for my fourth and last season of little league. I was in 8th grade and ready for more of the same disaster. I felt like a kid walking into the middle of a bullfight, or a kid in a wheelchair who wheeled up to the school bull and spit in the back of his hair. But like I said, I didn't want to let the other assholes of the world laugh me out of something I was rightfully no good at.
And well, this team wasn't any better than the one I was on in 7th grade, as far as attitude or winning consistency. Nor did I fare any better in my play. In fact, I ended up getting 3 hits during the course of the whole season, just like the prior season. I actually improved in the outfield a bit, which is a bit anti-climatic in the whole "failure-is-the-only-option" theme of these entries. But still, when that season came to a close, I couldn't wait to hang up my cap and declare that I would never, under circumstances of deadly consequence, try out for high school baseball. My playing days were deservedly done.
Looking back, my 8th grade season was pretty dull. Scary for me, for sure. However, there weren't too many moments where I wished I was dead, as I had in 7th grade. I mostly sat around and prayed for rainouts or practice cancellations. Or hoped against odds my teammates would strikeout early so I didn't have to get up in the inning. It's was a pretty dull season. Embarrassing, for sure, but dull, and for that I won't dwell on it.
When my 7th and 8th grade seasons had ended I racked up a total of 6 hits. I did some rough calculations the other day and deduced that my adolescent little league average was about .038 with, roughly, 110 strikeouts. If you haven't figured out, that kind of performance is punishable by execution in most countries.
So, I gave up the game of organized baseball forever. Maybe, one day I'll be coaching my kid's little league team or sign up to be a conditioning coach for a local high school team. But that's all down the beaten path. A path lined with cleat marks and used tobacco juice. For now, I'll reserve my duties to sitting on the couch, watching Mets' games, and ESPN baseball highlights. I'll read my baseball memoirs, newspapers, and memorize Hall of Famer's stats. I'll watch my movies and wish I could have done something out on the basepaths or had the wisdom to have kept my nerve in the game on every inside pitch thrown to me as a first grader. So the next time you see a major league player drop a routine fly ball, or swing at a pitch headed for his groin to end a rally, think of me and all the asthmatic, allergic, chubby, nimrods of the world. Maybe we're sittin' around writing a blog somewhere. Or a life story. Or a novel. Or a declaration to the greatest games and moments that slipped through our fingers and passed us by without going easy on us.
Someday.
Finally, with about five games to go in the season, I was 0 for 2 in that day's game when I came up to bat. Suddenly, the opposing team took out their pitcher and put in a kid who I actually knew from school. My fears dissolved as I thought, "Hey, I know this guy." He couldn't be very tough. He was a wimp in real life, like me. How good could he be on the mound?
Apparently, not very good at all, because after he delivered his second pitch, I squared in and shot the ball into center field. BASE HIT. I had my first hit of the season. It was one of the greatest comebacks of my life.
As the humidity intensified, and final exams hide just around the corner, my first season back in the big time was over. My team took a decidedly deserved spot in last place, with me only aiding in our decline. As I left my last game, I felt a tremendous weight drop from my shoulders. Still, I was a little sentimental. I finished the season with a whopping 3 hits. Some players get 4 or 5 a game, on a great night. Me, I just didn't want to push it.
So next spring, when I was in 8th grade, my parent's asked if they should sign me up for baseball again. Now, if you've been keeping up with the past few entries of this nightmare, then you know that any self respecting person with half a brain would have tried to find something they were good at and excel in other areas. Painting, or crocheting, or pottery, or truck driving. Anything. But I didn't want to be a quitter. "Sign me up," I said. If I could travel back in time, I'd kick my own ass back to the tee ball days.
So, I set off for my fourth and last season of little league. I was in 8th grade and ready for more of the same disaster. I felt like a kid walking into the middle of a bullfight, or a kid in a wheelchair who wheeled up to the school bull and spit in the back of his hair. But like I said, I didn't want to let the other assholes of the world laugh me out of something I was rightfully no good at.
And well, this team wasn't any better than the one I was on in 7th grade, as far as attitude or winning consistency. Nor did I fare any better in my play. In fact, I ended up getting 3 hits during the course of the whole season, just like the prior season. I actually improved in the outfield a bit, which is a bit anti-climatic in the whole "failure-is-the-only-option" theme of these entries. But still, when that season came to a close, I couldn't wait to hang up my cap and declare that I would never, under circumstances of deadly consequence, try out for high school baseball. My playing days were deservedly done.
Looking back, my 8th grade season was pretty dull. Scary for me, for sure. However, there weren't too many moments where I wished I was dead, as I had in 7th grade. I mostly sat around and prayed for rainouts or practice cancellations. Or hoped against odds my teammates would strikeout early so I didn't have to get up in the inning. It's was a pretty dull season. Embarrassing, for sure, but dull, and for that I won't dwell on it.
When my 7th and 8th grade seasons had ended I racked up a total of 6 hits. I did some rough calculations the other day and deduced that my adolescent little league average was about .038 with, roughly, 110 strikeouts. If you haven't figured out, that kind of performance is punishable by execution in most countries.
So, I gave up the game of organized baseball forever. Maybe, one day I'll be coaching my kid's little league team or sign up to be a conditioning coach for a local high school team. But that's all down the beaten path. A path lined with cleat marks and used tobacco juice. For now, I'll reserve my duties to sitting on the couch, watching Mets' games, and ESPN baseball highlights. I'll read my baseball memoirs, newspapers, and memorize Hall of Famer's stats. I'll watch my movies and wish I could have done something out on the basepaths or had the wisdom to have kept my nerve in the game on every inside pitch thrown to me as a first grader. So the next time you see a major league player drop a routine fly ball, or swing at a pitch headed for his groin to end a rally, think of me and all the asthmatic, allergic, chubby, nimrods of the world. Maybe we're sittin' around writing a blog somewhere. Or a life story. Or a novel. Or a declaration to the greatest games and moments that slipped through our fingers and passed us by without going easy on us.
Someday.
June 30, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 3)
"I never called a balk in my life. I didn't understand the rule." - Former Major League Umpire Ron Luciano.
Everyone knows, in baseball, that it's one, two, three strikes your out as told by the simple ditty, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Others then learn, four balls means the batter can take their base. A hit means your safe. Rounding all four bases on a hit is a home run. A catch in the air or a tag of the runner with a live ball means your out. And so on and so on.
The nuances of the game get more complex as you go along. One minute it's three strikes your out and the next it's all about making a double switch in the 7th for a lefty outfielder so you can pinch hit a right-hander off the bench who hits screwballs with a .266 average to right-center field gaps to get the runner home from second, with the opponents outfielder's playing in "no doubles" position. What the fuck? The stakes can escalate quickly. Such is the case with the little known, little seen, much dreaded, and defensively crippling balk.
A balk is when a pitcher gets ready to throw his pitch, by placing ball and pitching hand in glove while standing on the pitching rubber, and then breaks his motion. He, or she (ladies), turns his body towards a base, takes his hand out of his glove, throws to a base while stepping towards another, etc., all while not stepping off the pitching rubber on the mound. If you do these things without stepping off, the guys on base get a free pass to move up to the next base, even if it means scoring a run. So now you know. I wish I had.
So with all that info absent from my timid and tepid baseball brain, my coach in seventh grade decided it would be a good idea to try me out as a pitcher. Our pitching staff wasn't exactly blowing anyone away, I can only speculate in hindsight. One practice, he had me take a few throws off the mound to our batters. "Good pitch Truchan," he said at first. "Nice speed." Then there was a lot of, "Wow, okay don't hit our men," and "Okay. We can't afford to drill any of our own guys anymore." I was named starting pitcher for our next game.
I was handed the ball and trotted out to the mound one April afternoon with some renewed confidence. At least I didn't have to boot the ball into the outfield while trying to play a routine grounder anymore. I just had to lob my pitches in there and hope the visiting team could hit just as poorly as I could. Piece of cake. I'd go a full game. My father was watching on anxiously, having given me tips beforehand. But I knew what a pitcher did. He threw as fast as he could, all the time, no matter what. Right?
I took the mound and the batter stepped in the box. "PLAY BALL!" I delivered the first pitch in for a called strike. Good start. My next pitch was a different story. I almost shaved off the batter's puberty blossoming mustache fuzz. "BALL" Then, I threw behind him. Then, I threw a pitch in the dirt. Then, I threw one down the middle but just off the corner. "BALL FOUR. TAKE YOUR BASE," the ump cried.
I was a little erratic to say the least. But here's where the problem started. I stood on the mound, the runner on first. It was then I heard everyone from the bench snicker. I delivered the pitch. "BALL ONE." More laughter from the bench. "BALL TWO." The whispers grew louder. "Why isn't he pitching from the stretch?" God knew what that meant. "BALL THREE." I threw again. "BALL FOUR." Fucking godammit.
This pitching thing wasn't as easy as I thought. My command had gone to lunch, for eternity, and didn't plan on showing up anytime that afternoon. But what happened next crippled me.
Turning my back to the runner on first, I began to pitch in that fashion. "There you go Truchan, now you're in the stretch," my coach yelled. Oh, news to me. I placed the ball and my hand in my glove and stared at the batter. I then took a peak over at the runner at first, just like on tv. But I turned my shoulder towards him. "BALK!" yelled the ump, throwing his hands in the air as if someone where shooting at him.
I looked over in confusion as my team's bench groaned. The runner on second strolled over to third and the guy on first took a leisurely walk to second. WHAT? I then set again, placed the ball and my hand in the glove, looked in at the batter, took my hand and ball out of my glove, and.... "BALK!" The kid on third came into score, and the kid on second went to third. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!
Was there no end to this conspiracy of ridicule and hatred against me? I stood on the mound, a deer in headlights, a possible stream of urine running down the front of my pants. My coach trotted out to me. "Truchan, do you know what a balk is?" I shook my head, thinking it's either a type of freshwater fish or everyone was having problems pronouncing the word "walk." Coach went on, "When a pitcher puts his hand in his glove with the foot on the rubber, you can't break your motion. You can't take your hand out of your glove, you can't move your shoulders, you can't walk around, unless you step off the rubber. That's a balk," my coach explained. He followed up his lecture with moves and reenactments and in-game examples. I just nodded, quivering as the words floated threw my ears and into the dirt of the mound.
I finally got it right, what ever the rule was, but I walked the next guy. And the next guy. The next batter got a hit. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don' t know. But there were suddenly two guys on and we were losing 2-0 with no outs. I had to stop the bleeding. So, I put my hand in my glove, stared down the batter, spit like a pro, and... "BALK!" The runner's advanced. I set again, looked in at the next kid, and... "BALK!" Another guy scored, the other runner went to third. I stood there looking at my dangling hands, wishing I could actually throw a pitch. So for the next batter, I thought I could try and throw him one inside, so I set and… "BALK!"
My coach ran out again, shaking his head. "Okay, Truchan. LOOK. When you break your motion after you set, you blah blah blah llekjfalkerfl kjllfkj adkj and then you blah blah lkjdfaoi blakhhoh and that's when blah lkdjf. So that's what a balk is. Okay?" I nodded again. The coach placed the ball back in my hands. I wanted him to call a funeral service on the way back to the dugout and make a reservation for one for next available seating.
Good God strike me down now. I looked up to the sky but it was relatively clear. A lighting phenomenon, perhaps? Anything. A tiger storms in from left field and mauls me to a pulp. LITTLE LEAGUE PITCHER MOURNED IN FREAK TRAGEDY AS HUNDREDS COME TO SERVICES; COLLEGE FUND STARTED IN HIS NAME. A boy can crap his pants and dream, can't he?
So, I set into my pitch, hand and ball in glove, looked over to third at the runner, took my hand out of my glove, thought about..."BALK!" The runner from third came into score. The visitor's cheered and laughed. My team groaned some more and laughed and cursed and sharpened spears.
The coach walked out slowly, hands in his back pockets, head to the ground. I couldn't wait to give him the ball and run, or beg him for a police escort to my dad's car. "Alright, I gotta take you out. We can't afford anymore runs," my coach said. "I didn't know this ump would be calling balks at this age level. Something we'll work on." With that, he motioned to our center fielder to come in in relief, with a 5-0 deficit, or possibly worse, and no outs.. "Truchan, take center." He held his hand out and I gave him the ball, as it dribbled out of my jellied grip.
Gimping out to center, tears began to formulate and gushed heavy out the sides. Who did I think I was? A pitcher? A ballplayer? An athlete? I was a kid who could sometimes hit wiffle balls and collected baseball cards. "Maybe I'll rob somebody of a homerun while charging the outfield fence?," I thought.
Later that inning, a ball was hit towards me, and I let it drop in the gap and roll to the fence, runners scoring like crazy. It was officially the worst inning of my life. When I got back to the dugout after the final third out, someone said to me, "Hey, here comes Balker, Texas Ranger." Any other day in my life, I would have found that clever, and brilliantly corny. But at that moment, I just wanted to find a hole.
The record for balks in a Major League game is 5 by Bob Shaw, pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1963. In that game, he tied a 33 year old record for 3 in an inning. Sorry, Mr. Shaw, I had you beat. Dave Stewart set the single season record with the Oakland A's in 1988 with 16 balks. Don't worry Mr. Stewart, I'm sure if my coach had the guts to leave me out there, or put my in one more game, I'd shattered that.
"Sorry son. I wish I could have told you what to do out there. I saw you didn't have a clue what your coach was telling you out there," my dad told me in the car after the game. I shook my head. "Well, for future reference, a balk is when you blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." I dropped my head further, and never forgot what a balk was.
(Part 4, and final installment coming tomorrow. Thank you.)
Everyone knows, in baseball, that it's one, two, three strikes your out as told by the simple ditty, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Others then learn, four balls means the batter can take their base. A hit means your safe. Rounding all four bases on a hit is a home run. A catch in the air or a tag of the runner with a live ball means your out. And so on and so on.
The nuances of the game get more complex as you go along. One minute it's three strikes your out and the next it's all about making a double switch in the 7th for a lefty outfielder so you can pinch hit a right-hander off the bench who hits screwballs with a .266 average to right-center field gaps to get the runner home from second, with the opponents outfielder's playing in "no doubles" position. What the fuck? The stakes can escalate quickly. Such is the case with the little known, little seen, much dreaded, and defensively crippling balk.
A balk is when a pitcher gets ready to throw his pitch, by placing ball and pitching hand in glove while standing on the pitching rubber, and then breaks his motion. He, or she (ladies), turns his body towards a base, takes his hand out of his glove, throws to a base while stepping towards another, etc., all while not stepping off the pitching rubber on the mound. If you do these things without stepping off, the guys on base get a free pass to move up to the next base, even if it means scoring a run. So now you know. I wish I had.
So with all that info absent from my timid and tepid baseball brain, my coach in seventh grade decided it would be a good idea to try me out as a pitcher. Our pitching staff wasn't exactly blowing anyone away, I can only speculate in hindsight. One practice, he had me take a few throws off the mound to our batters. "Good pitch Truchan," he said at first. "Nice speed." Then there was a lot of, "Wow, okay don't hit our men," and "Okay. We can't afford to drill any of our own guys anymore." I was named starting pitcher for our next game.
I was handed the ball and trotted out to the mound one April afternoon with some renewed confidence. At least I didn't have to boot the ball into the outfield while trying to play a routine grounder anymore. I just had to lob my pitches in there and hope the visiting team could hit just as poorly as I could. Piece of cake. I'd go a full game. My father was watching on anxiously, having given me tips beforehand. But I knew what a pitcher did. He threw as fast as he could, all the time, no matter what. Right?
I took the mound and the batter stepped in the box. "PLAY BALL!" I delivered the first pitch in for a called strike. Good start. My next pitch was a different story. I almost shaved off the batter's puberty blossoming mustache fuzz. "BALL" Then, I threw behind him. Then, I threw a pitch in the dirt. Then, I threw one down the middle but just off the corner. "BALL FOUR. TAKE YOUR BASE," the ump cried.
I was a little erratic to say the least. But here's where the problem started. I stood on the mound, the runner on first. It was then I heard everyone from the bench snicker. I delivered the pitch. "BALL ONE." More laughter from the bench. "BALL TWO." The whispers grew louder. "Why isn't he pitching from the stretch?" God knew what that meant. "BALL THREE." I threw again. "BALL FOUR." Fucking godammit.
This pitching thing wasn't as easy as I thought. My command had gone to lunch, for eternity, and didn't plan on showing up anytime that afternoon. But what happened next crippled me.
Turning my back to the runner on first, I began to pitch in that fashion. "There you go Truchan, now you're in the stretch," my coach yelled. Oh, news to me. I placed the ball and my hand in my glove and stared at the batter. I then took a peak over at the runner at first, just like on tv. But I turned my shoulder towards him. "BALK!" yelled the ump, throwing his hands in the air as if someone where shooting at him.
I looked over in confusion as my team's bench groaned. The runner on second strolled over to third and the guy on first took a leisurely walk to second. WHAT? I then set again, placed the ball and my hand in the glove, looked in at the batter, took my hand and ball out of my glove, and.... "BALK!" The kid on third came into score, and the kid on second went to third. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS SHIT?!
Was there no end to this conspiracy of ridicule and hatred against me? I stood on the mound, a deer in headlights, a possible stream of urine running down the front of my pants. My coach trotted out to me. "Truchan, do you know what a balk is?" I shook my head, thinking it's either a type of freshwater fish or everyone was having problems pronouncing the word "walk." Coach went on, "When a pitcher puts his hand in his glove with the foot on the rubber, you can't break your motion. You can't take your hand out of your glove, you can't move your shoulders, you can't walk around, unless you step off the rubber. That's a balk," my coach explained. He followed up his lecture with moves and reenactments and in-game examples. I just nodded, quivering as the words floated threw my ears and into the dirt of the mound.
I finally got it right, what ever the rule was, but I walked the next guy. And the next guy. The next batter got a hit. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don' t know. But there were suddenly two guys on and we were losing 2-0 with no outs. I had to stop the bleeding. So, I put my hand in my glove, stared down the batter, spit like a pro, and... "BALK!" The runner's advanced. I set again, looked in at the next kid, and... "BALK!" Another guy scored, the other runner went to third. I stood there looking at my dangling hands, wishing I could actually throw a pitch. So for the next batter, I thought I could try and throw him one inside, so I set and… "BALK!"
My coach ran out again, shaking his head. "Okay, Truchan. LOOK. When you break your motion after you set, you blah blah blah llekjfalkerfl kjllfkj adkj and then you blah blah lkjdfaoi blakhhoh and that's when blah lkdjf. So that's what a balk is. Okay?" I nodded again. The coach placed the ball back in my hands. I wanted him to call a funeral service on the way back to the dugout and make a reservation for one for next available seating.
Good God strike me down now. I looked up to the sky but it was relatively clear. A lighting phenomenon, perhaps? Anything. A tiger storms in from left field and mauls me to a pulp. LITTLE LEAGUE PITCHER MOURNED IN FREAK TRAGEDY AS HUNDREDS COME TO SERVICES; COLLEGE FUND STARTED IN HIS NAME. A boy can crap his pants and dream, can't he?
So, I set into my pitch, hand and ball in glove, looked over to third at the runner, took my hand out of my glove, thought about..."BALK!" The runner from third came into score. The visitor's cheered and laughed. My team groaned some more and laughed and cursed and sharpened spears.
The coach walked out slowly, hands in his back pockets, head to the ground. I couldn't wait to give him the ball and run, or beg him for a police escort to my dad's car. "Alright, I gotta take you out. We can't afford anymore runs," my coach said. "I didn't know this ump would be calling balks at this age level. Something we'll work on." With that, he motioned to our center fielder to come in in relief, with a 5-0 deficit, or possibly worse, and no outs.. "Truchan, take center." He held his hand out and I gave him the ball, as it dribbled out of my jellied grip.
Gimping out to center, tears began to formulate and gushed heavy out the sides. Who did I think I was? A pitcher? A ballplayer? An athlete? I was a kid who could sometimes hit wiffle balls and collected baseball cards. "Maybe I'll rob somebody of a homerun while charging the outfield fence?," I thought.
Later that inning, a ball was hit towards me, and I let it drop in the gap and roll to the fence, runners scoring like crazy. It was officially the worst inning of my life. When I got back to the dugout after the final third out, someone said to me, "Hey, here comes Balker, Texas Ranger." Any other day in my life, I would have found that clever, and brilliantly corny. But at that moment, I just wanted to find a hole.
The record for balks in a Major League game is 5 by Bob Shaw, pitcher for the Milwaukee Braves in 1963. In that game, he tied a 33 year old record for 3 in an inning. Sorry, Mr. Shaw, I had you beat. Dave Stewart set the single season record with the Oakland A's in 1988 with 16 balks. Don't worry Mr. Stewart, I'm sure if my coach had the guts to leave me out there, or put my in one more game, I'd shattered that.
"Sorry son. I wish I could have told you what to do out there. I saw you didn't have a clue what your coach was telling you out there," my dad told me in the car after the game. I shook my head. "Well, for future reference, a balk is when you blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." I dropped my head further, and never forgot what a balk was.
(Part 4, and final installment coming tomorrow. Thank you.)
June 29, 2008
An Idiot's Guide to Playing Baseball as Told by an Idiot (Part 2)
When I finished my first grade season of little league, my mom asked me if I wanted to sign up for next year. I apparently told her, “Well, I don’t like hitting. And I don’t like playing in the field. But I like sitting on the bench.” My mom opted not to sign me up. I was thankful.
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
After I left the game of baseball, I started a lowly life on the defensive line of organized soccer. If there was one thing I hated more than being hit by pitches, it was playing soccer, and playing defense in soccer was the absolute worst. The games were so slow and boring. The coaches insisted on practicing three to four times a week to have our grammar-school-toned muscles dribble soccer balls around orange cones. My dream in soccer, year after year, season after season, was to play the front line where I'd be able to score goals, win games for the team, and get girls in my class to think I was athletic and, therefore, skinny. The problem was no girls were actually hanging out at the soccer fields at age 9, and I was flat out fat.
Finally, I gave up soccer at the age of 12, having scored just 3 goals in my career (2 of them in my first year, 1 of those against my own team, but my parents didn't have the heart to tell me until years later). It was around this time that I started to get the itch to play baseball again. I began to think of all the time spent standing on the backlines of the soccer field talking to the goalie and picking clumps of grass out of the ground to see which way the wind was blowing. I realized that I had been a complete wimp for bowing out of the game of baseball. I wanted to get back in there and show my skills. After all, I had been staying fresh in my backyard playing wiffle ball and having catch session with my father for years. I'd just slip back into the game, just like I'd never left. Easier reminisced then done.
In the backyard, the day before my first practice in the seventh grade, my dad asked me to show him a swing. Putting on my best Mo Vaughn, I slouched down, wound up like an awkward spring, and swung my bat into the hairs of the lawn and up to the heavens. I stood there, watching my imaginary ball fly over the Green Monster. I waited for my dad to say “Atta boy son. That’s how it’s done.” Instead, I got "What the hell kind of swing is that? This ain't golf."
I showed up for practice with my wooden bat I bought at Sports Authority. I thought it looked like Mo Vaughn's bat. Come to think of it, I never really liked Mo Vaughn. But his baseball cards were worth a dollar back in 1997. "Remember, keep the bat level," my dad reminded me as I left the car. "You got it dad," I said with a brash confidence and a complete knowledge of the great American game.
It was apparent I was horrendous from the moment I met my teammates, most of them kids I tried to avoid in the hallways of Middle School. God, why hadn't I though of this. The other's were kids from Catholic school, who if they had been in my school, I would have avoided in the hallways. There was some kid named Josh, a lanky, gawky, Jewish kid who just sat at the end of the bench the whole season. We became quick friends. Who said Jews and Christians couldn't mix? All it took was an inability to hit pitches over 40 MPH. We became quicker friends when everyone ridiculed me at my first practice for bringing that wood bat. This was the dawning of the age of aluminum and I was living in the dark ages.
As the practices wore on, and I began to mesh less and less with the guys, it became painfully clear that I was missing many links in the necessary chain of command. In my command of hitting. In my command of fielding. In my command of bench talk and baseball trivia. I was clueless. At practice, the more ground balls went through my legs or balls fell in the gap in outfield or lobbed pitches fell over my swinging bat, the more I thought I had made the worst mistake of my adolescent life.
The first game of the season, I was confident I'd be able to turn my lack of practice hitting and fundamental fielding around. Coach stuck me at third base, a position I can only assume was chosen for me from the old number in a hat game.
I remember the first batter for the other team reached safely. Then, the second batter hit a fast grounder to me. I froze a moment, charged it, and fired a sidearm throw to first. Immediately, my teammates and coach began to yell. "Throw to second. Throw to second. What are you doing?" But it was too late, the throw went wide and bounced off the fence behind the first baseman. The lead runner luckily held at second. They were both safe. With my head spinning inside my cap, my coach yelled, "Truchan. Ya gotta get the lead runner at second next time. K?" I nodded back to him with one of those I-don't-know-where-my-head-was nods. But I didn't know where my head was at all, or why I had agreed to this, or what the fuck getting the lead runner meant.
Then, I cemented my middle school baseball career in the annals of local legend. With two on and nobody out, our pitcher wound up and fired the first pitch to the batter. I watched as our catcher took the ball for a strike, jumped up in my direction, and began to fire the ball to me. "Holy shit, the runners stealing third," I thought, catching the runner barreling my way from second in my peripheral vision. I took two steps back, hovered around the base, and caught the catcher's throw. I looked at the attempted base thief with the ball firmly in my mitt. He was gonna be out by a mile. "Don't try, kid," I thought. But then, my mind blanked. Did I have to tag the base or the runner for the out? What were the rules? Who's writing this crazy script? Not knowing what to tag, I decided to try to tag both. I spun around in a circle, tagged third base with my glove, and finished my awkward 180 degree spin only to find the runner safe at third. My spin had drilled me into the ground. a mound of dirt rested around my twisted shoe. My fat ass sat on the edge of the kids cleats. "SAFE!" yelled the ump. "Oh my God," yelled somebody from the bench. Or maybe it was the whole bench, or the whole crowd. "Why did you tag the base, why did he tag the base, he tagged the base, who is he, why was the base tagged, never saw that before, tagged the freakin' base." I learned then and there the rules of baseball a little clearer. But I never seemed to grasp them any better.
My hitting quickly became the thing of locker room punchlines. Need a fan, get the Truchan brand. The Cherry Poppin' Daddies and Truchan's bat are leading the Swing revival. Okay, no one said that but at least that would have lightened the tension. As the at-bats and games and weeks piled up, I became the chuckle of the team and brunt of ridicule towards our losing season. While listening to a couple of teammates talk a little MLB on the bench after a game, I tried to chime in with a great highlight I'd seen the night before on SportsCenter. "Shut up Truchan. You're an embarrassment," one of them told me. When the coaches would tell us to watch pro ballplayers to see how's its done, I'd scoff at the notion, thinking Mo Vaughn taught me shit about hitting.
Coach stuck me in every position that season. I played first because I was chunky, but couldn't dig the balls out of the dirt. I played second once but had absolutely no idea how to cover steals from first or attempt double plays or where to stand on a shift. I found myself roaming around the outfield, from left to center to right, always running in on balls hit to me, every time, only to watch them sail over my head, every time. "Always run back on a fly ball Truchan, and then in on it if you need to," my coach told me. So, I'd take one step back before making a mad dash in, only to watch the ball drop in behind my outstretched glove.
The only logical move that season, my slew of failures, was to try to shape me into a pitcher, of course, and salvage the remainder of my middle school baseball career.
(Part 3 coming tomorrow)
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