Category Archives: Family

On the Other Hand

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“Which arm should I use?” (My mother wasn’t sure if she was right or left handed.) This was the question she asked me when I convinced her to throw me batting practice in the backyard decades ago when all my brothers and sisters were off to school and our father was at work.  My response?  “It doesn’t matter.  Just throw the ball in my general direction with either arm, and I’ll swing at it or catch it.” She did, and I did.

Baseball’s All-Star game is just a month around the corner, and nobody deserves to be on that roster more than my mother.

My mother did anything to keep me occupied before I entered kindergarten.  At the age of four, I’d already captured the swings of every Los Angeles Dodger, so I wished to display my talents outside.   Mom preferred playing board games with me inside, but after playing a solid game of “Memory” which I’d commonly win, I wanted to take my energy elsewhere.  This was also prefaced by her extinguishing sibling fights, as well as preparing breakfast, lunch, and laundry all before seven o’clock in the morning.

I would persuade her to go outside and just throw a ball at me (yes, at me), even if I had to chase it down with a bat or a glove.  She may as well have been blind folded.  Our yard was half an acre and she hit every square foot of it.  If I wasn’t running into our chicken coop, diving into a potato shed, I’d be bouncing off our cherry tree or tangled in nettles.  Not knowing where she was going to throw the ball, it became quite a challenge as well as a proper workout.  With all her might and love, she’d toss it with each arm, successfully making me happy, even though I was bleeding.

My father was a very good athlete, and whether she admits it or not, my mother is an exceptional artist.  However, growing up without even sniffing the thought of being in athletics, my mother never really had the chance to develop an interest in sports before her sons and daughters arrived.  She was a mother, and her duties were those of which I can’t possibly fathom.  Going beyond her duties as a mother, she became a companion and the teammate I required as a young and energetic youth.  I was her last dog in the litter.

 

 

Co-Laziness

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“When I wrote this book…..”

Don’t give me that crap.  Usually trying to keep my writing positive, I am going to accentuate something negative, or shall I write, realistic, today.  There are many things on this earth which annoy me: terrorists, Trump, Hillary, The Family Circus, but nothing more than a celebrity or ex sports star claiming to have written a book about themselves, unless it is written by themselves.  “When I wrote this book”……wait a minute……….who wrote this book?  You may as well begin by stating the truth.  “When I was sitting on a bar stool telling stories, some man or woman jotted down notes, then converted these stories to well crafted sentences, paragraphs and chapters all ending with, ‘wait till you hear this next one’ so I could get most of the credit by paying him or her to do so.  Only in miniature font, shall I give the man or woman credit putting in the majority of the work into said book.”

I despise the term “Co-written” unless you have two people collectively sitting down with a pen, notebook, laptop, sticky notes, journaling over a cup of coffee or a can of beer and composing sentences together.  Screen writers do it all the time.  That, I respect.  What I don’t respect is the lack of integrity some possess by not properly acknowledging those actually writing the book, which is the most difficult part.

Sadly, my father convinced me at a young age to read the book “The Mick”.  It is an autobiography about the “Great” Mickey Mantle.  With “Great” bold letters, the book’s cover read, “The Mick” MICKEY MANTLE, H. Gluck.  Who’s this H.Gluck guy?   Who cares? Naively, I believed this was written by Mickey Mantle himself.  How does this freak of baseball talent with good looks, Centerfield speed and astonishing power find the time to write a book about hitting home runs while hung over on a daily basis in Yankee Stadium?  Of course, I want to be this guy!  Drinking and dining at the finest restaurants for free in New York, hitting bombs in Yankee Stadium, making loads of money while taking your pick of any girl you want, yet still being educated enough to write an autobiography?  Chicks love the long ball, but they also love the brains.  He had it all.  In the eighth grade, I thought, “oh, yeah, I want to be him.”  Mickey Mantle didn’t write one word in that book and probably forgot or regretted every word he uttered while giving the writer complete artistic liberty.

Heartwarming as the stories may be, whether it be blaming your failures on drug, alcohol, or mental issues, please give those who write these tender stories verbal credit or a crap load of money.

This morning, I was motivated to write this piece because of something I read on the front page of the sport’s section.  Since I am overseas, and you wouldn’t know which periodical I may be referring to, I still won’t disclose who inspired me this morning, but I will tell you, he made me question his complete lack of integrity, not just as a “writer”, but as a baseball player.

If I ever told someone my silly stories and wanted them to write them down while falling off a bar stool, thus completing a book, I would insist the title be, “Co-Laziness”.

A Hearty Stew (For Everyone)

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imageFor Mother’s Day, I decided to make a stew.  I didn’t do it for my mother.  Rather, I did it for a dog.  Seeking the proper ingredients necessary for a hearty stew, I visited the local farmer’s market bagging fresh carrots, garlic, peas, corn, pearl onions, yukon gold potatoes, brussels sprouts, and, of course, stew meat.  I had to drop by a common store for the stock.  We will share this stew with our dog, Jack, because that’s what my mom would want.

Even when our mother was cooking stew for eight to ten people at a time, including a few others who had moved out of the house, she still saved some for our dog, Bolivar.  It was beautiful to witness her care so much for a dog, as though he was one of her own litter.   It was beautiful right up to the point when one of her sons, working and living outside the house, yet remaining in the same zip code, could smell the stew from afar.

Left over stew simmering on the stove for Bolivar, my mother was probably doing laundry, dusting, windexing every window in the house, vacuuming, or praying for a break when an intruder slipped into our house and ate our dog’s lunch.  She caught him with a mouthful and read him a prison riot act. (This was very uncommon for my mother to read riot acts.)  It was our brother, Steve, who had a knack for smelling and eating everything edible, even if it was meant for a dog.

Our mother loved and cared for anyone walking on two legs or four, but she was also very fair.  Steve had probably eaten twice that day before lunch, and mom knew it.  Bolivar deserved that meal, and Steve, good soul that he is, was shamed into cooking another stew for a hungry dog.

Sweetness

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“You guys, my daughter is so smart.”  “Hey, seriously, my son is really, really good at everything.”  (Cue the trumpets.) “I hereby declare, our dog is the sweetest, kindest, most polite and dumbest canine God has bestowed upon us all, and I will fight any man or woman who says otherwise!”  I’ve been guilty of one of these former proclamations.

Parents of children and animals whip these phrases around as if they are stone cold  gospel only furthering themselves from parishioners questioning their beliefs.  Sometimes, when it comes to family, pride can cloud our judgment, much like honesty can get you in a heap of trouble with your significant other.

I’m not knocking parents, because I think they actually convince themselves that these statements are true, and that, my friends, is unconditional love. It is also, sometimes, confirmation of their legal blindness.  When their sons or daughters grow up, they may or may not end up being astronauts, professional athletes, rap stars, blackjack or coke dealers, but, one way or another, they will, without exception, live up to some form of standard.

Etta and BrittWhen my wife and I had our first child, a bernese mountain dog we named Etta,  after about two years of her life, I determined that she wasn’t terribly smart.  Sweet, but not smart.  (Sometimes, I prefer people with similar characteristics.  It seems to clear up the pretentiousness.)   None too happy about my remark, for months my wife denied our ebony and ivory fur ball was anything short of future canine valedictorian status.

Not being a member of the “make your animals do tricks” organization, my wife and I would just give simple orders.  “Sit, please.”   “Wait……wait.”  “Where’s your ball?”  In addition to finding her gigantic beach ball sitting just feet away from her, she was pretty good at the former two commands or suggestions as well.  But, it was her genuinely goofy, rather dumb looking smile she would maintain at all times, making you think her mind was in another room or county.

Frequently traveling with Etta and our other dog, Jack, gave us time to evaluate her intelligence, or lack there of, outside of her comfort zone.  Six years ago, my nephew was participating in a wrestling tournament in Wenatchee, Washington in mid December.  Although there was a winter storm warning, we packed up the dogs and headed east, opting to stay the night at a dog friendly hotel.  After the tournament, and before heading to bed, we took the dogs outside for a potty break and a romp in the six inches of snowfall.  Being impervious to the cold, our large dogs had a blast as we threw gigantic snowballs directed at their bulbous heads, only to laugh at them attempting to catch the balls in their mouths.  It was terrific family fun, and Etta’s goofy smile never wavered.  Not being impervious to the cold, my wife and I finally decided it was time to head back to the room.  Etta must have understood the outdoor fun was over, and before we could tell them to follow us back to the room, Etta decided to lead the way, and surprisingly, she was heading precisely to our room which had direct access outside from the first floor.  My wife, Britt, looked at me with excitement and said, “She knows which room we’re in.  I don’t think she’s as dumb as you think she is.”  At that very moment, Etta busted through the screen door to our room and dove onto our bed, soaking it with her drenched locks.  The grin she maintained as we followed her path into the room negated any lecture we may have provided as we looked from her to the now useless screen door on the rug, riddled with a less than inconspicuous hole.  I then looked at my wife with a smile and didn’t say a word.  We never spoke of her intellect again.

For eight years, this  warm and wonderful dog warned us when people were in our driveway.  If she liked you, she’d rest peacefully at your feet.  When having fun, her laughter was a gregarious bark.  Although not bred for swimming, she would happily retrieve tennis balls in the Puget Sound on a sunny day just to please us.  After inadvertently passing wind in our living room, embarrassed, Etta would quietly excuse herself to her own doggie timeout, even though we didn’t mind.  When Britt or I were sick, she’d sense it and huddle close to comfort us.  When Jack, six years older than Etta, needed to go outside for a break, she’d come upstairs to let us know.  Up until the day of her passing, I don’t remember her tail not waging.   She may not have been the smartest dog on the block, but no one who met her, whether it be at home, the park, the vet clinic, or on vacation could present an argument that she wasn’t the sweetest dog in our world.

Etta and Ben

 

 

Dancing with the Pirates

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Convincing my wife to watch “Dancing with the Stars” with me the other evening caused her to look at me as though I’d finally started taking hallucinogenic drugs.  Of course, I don’t use drugs.  That still remains years and blocks down the path of my bumpy life. She was surprised, because I’d never made such a suggestion.  Late at night, it’s usually Seinfeld or Jaws putting us to sleep.

For years, my mother and one of my brothers have watched this dazzling show and find it entertaining, so I thought we’d give it a shot.  It was entertaining.  You put a pair of dancing boots on Geraldo Riviera, and it guarantees entertainment, in the most sinister of ways.   Not that I can dance, but if Geraldo’s partner just brought a carry on cardboard cutout through customs of him on stage, you wouldn’t have known the difference.  I don’t mind making fun of Geraldo.  I felt he owed me after making me suffer through three hours of mindless television regarding an Al Capone vault not providing any substance or resolution as to why we paid for television.

Years ago, when this delightful program began to air, my mother immediately took interest.  So, living in another city and speaking to her only once a week, I always wished to take interest in her leisurely activities.  Watching “Dancing with the Stars” and “Little House on the Prairie” was one of her activities.

Not giving a Yankee dime about the outcome of the dancers’ demise, I loved my mother’s commentary.  Similar to rooting for a baseball, football or basketball team you don’t give a crap about, you wish to support the ones you love, even if it involves dancing or soccer.  I wanted to root for her horse in this race.

“Who are you pulling for, mom?”

“I’m rooting for the girl with the wooden leg.”

With my sister laughing in the background, I replied with some distraction and incredulousness. “What?  Is this dancing with the stars, or dancing with the pirates?  Does she dance with an eye patch, and is the parrot on her shoulder taking lessons as well?”

Turns out, Paul McCartney’s ex wife was participating in the event, and I had no clue she had a wooden leg, or “prosthetic” now used in times following ancient Greece.  Loving my mother, unconditionally, I had to root for the lady with the wooden leg.

Seuss, Capone, and The Babe

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The other evening, I was ridiculed by my wife for reading a takeout menu in bed just before the we turned the lights off.  Laughing, she inquired, “Did your parents read menus to you at bedtime when you were a child?”  Even though the options on this Asian menu were fascinating to me, admittedly, it probably looked a little silly.  It did make me think about what they read to me at those impressionable ages.  The stories certainly varied depending on the parent.

Most people believe reading to their children before bedtime is a key ingredient to their development.  Even without having human children of our own, I tend to agree with that philosophy. Yet, it’s not just the reading, it’s that precious one on one attention you may  receive before actually having sweet dreams or selective nightmares.

My mother would fall asleep reading me two pages of a Dr. Seuss book or two sentences of a Sesame Street novella.  I watched her eyes droop while trying her best to complete a rhyme or reason.  Who could blame her?  She was awake at four o’clock in the morning doing laundry in the basement for eight to ten of her children, still remaining in the home, before they went to school.

When my mother drifted off while reading, I would creep into my father’s bedroom many nights hoping he would read to me. (At this point in their lives, my parents slept separately, because thirteen children were plenty.)  After he worked his twelve hour shift, I knew he’d be in bed reading something to relieve his stress.  It was never about a cat in a hat or Oscar being a grouch, and I didn’t care.  With him working such long hours, it was the only time to be next to my father.  My father’s bedtime reading was a little different from what my mom would choose to read to me.   He would be reading about, amongst others, Al Capone or Babe Ruth, two of the most infamous and famous people in the world.

After my well received interruption, my father would proceed to read as I cuddled next to him.  He would also delicately paraphrase…  “And then, prohibition began and while men were massacred on Valentine’s Day, Capone never harmed any women or children.”  Or, when speaking of The Babe, he might say, “Although he was known for his womanizing, immense drinking and voracious appetite for everything, he would sign autographs for any child wishing to receive one.”  Stressing the positive rather than the negative, it made me feel at ease, wishing to take a trip to baseball’s Hall of Fame, followed by a journey through Alcatraz.

Depending on which book they held while reading to me, I would either fall asleep to dreams of calling my own home run shot, bipedal cats with gigantic hats, or nightmares of a Valentine’s Day massacre.  These days, I simply wake up hungry.

Costa Robbery

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My wife’s current place of employment, Deet Bug Spray, is sending her to Costa Rica for research regarding the recent malaria outbreak. She’s worried about the journey because she only speaks fluent English, a dose of French, some Gaelic, but no Spanish.  As an educated man, I provided some pointers. (Other than two years of taking Spanish in high school where the only words I recall are “caca” and “punta”, I had to reach deeper into my pocket of trilingual specialties for her survival phrases.)

My favorite movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, provided more practical Spanish than two years of me ignoring my high school teacher.  “Manos Arriba.” Estu Es Un Robo.”  Translation: Put your hands in up!  This is a robbery.  I haven’t explained what the phrases properly mean to my wife, but I know when she enters a restaurant, she will either get free tacos or sent to jail.  Either way, it will be funny.

Adios.

 

 

 

Catch of the Day

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My wife and I recently won the sweepstakes and decided to take a trip to a place where it only rains once a day.  Sometimes, it may rain every other day, but since I used to be a betting man, there is only one guarantee on an island other than the time: The fish is always fresh.

One of the most glorious and, to many others, seemingly meaningless pleasures in my wonderful world is ordering something off the menu without actually looking at the menu.  (I take the menu home later for leisurely bedtime reading.)

“What will you have to order?”

“The catch of the day.”

“How will you like it prepared?”

“However the chef prepares it.”

This is why I carry Benadryl in my wallet at all times preparing for uncomfortable and life threatening allergies.  If the fish is fresh, there is a slight chance, twenty minutes later after eating it, my throat may be shutting similar to the bars at Alcatraz, and my face may look similar to the puffer fish I may have consumed.  Either way, well worth it.

I do feel safe when my wife is with me to witness this production and keep her ” well charged” cell phone with her at all times in case 911 may come in handy.

Sometimes, I wonder if the catch of the day is the fish or my wife.  I’ll take the latter.

Seasonal Changes

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A gal I currently live with delivered an astute observation while in my presence the other day.  She realized, after spending the last seven years of her life with me, that she doesn’t recognize the traditional seasons quite the same.  Before I took her in as a boarder, it was simply Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer.  These seasons only determined what she needed to wear on any given rainy day in Seattle.  Influenced by her meatball roommate, she began not only thinking, but living outside the seasonal box.  The seasons should not be merely associated with the weather and holidays, but something deeper, something fun, something that can be clean and dirty at the same time, yet, with the right attitude, quite intriguing: Sports.

Sports replaced the seasons for me the day my brothers informed me Santa and the Easter Bunny were a couple of phonies.  Fall was replaced with football, Winter was replaced with basketball, and Spring and Summer with baseball.  With the 2016 NFL season closing, my  roommate had a question for me.  “What do we do until March Madness?”  Neither of us giving a crap about the National Basketball Association, since their regular season games are meaningless, it took me a moment to respond.  “I don’t know.  Maybe read a book?”  Working long hours at the landfill leaves her only enough time each night to eat a hearty meal before her eyes begin to droop.  On weekends, she devotes her time to our animals and others in our neighborhood.  Years ago, she was a voracious reader, but lately, books have taken a backseat to pets and balls.

After college basketball’s March Madness, she will begin planning her next season around baseball’s Spring Training in Arizona.  And, of course, following Spring Training, she will book tickets to Opening Day.  The rest of the summer will be plastered with backyard bbq and Mariner baseball taking us clear through to the World Series and the beginning of college and professional football.  I have found the perfect roommate.

RogerHornsby

A Tight Waist

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Leave it all on the mat.  That’s what wrestling coaches say. Well, one day, I tried my best not to do just that.

Eons ago, I was a high school wrestler.  Let me rephrase that.  Eons ago, I wasn’t a very good high school wrestler, especially when compared to some of my older brothers.  They were some of the best wrestlers in the state in their weight classes, and one was talented and dedicated enough to become a collegiate national champion.  Me?  I was merely an average wrestler, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t collect some special memories from this terrifically challenging and, without exception, for me, the most humbling of sports.  (I’ve never boxed competitively.)

To be a successful wrestler, you must have great passion for the sport or be a genetic freak of nature, combined with a screw loose. It is a sport requiring tremendous skill balanced with strength, stamina, and most importantly, a brand of toughness few possess.  I only maintained one of those prerequisites.  Clinging to that loose screw, I was pressured into wrestling.  I didn’t like the sport.  I respected it, but unlike baseball and football, I didn’t have the necessary passion or work ethic required to excel.  Strangely, I wasn’t pressured by my brothers or father.  My father wanted all of us to play basketball, and my brothers knew baseball was my game of interest.  So, I guess, along with a handful of coaches, I placed unsolicited pressure on myself.  Lesson number one:  In wrestling, that usually doesn’t work out positively.

Making the varsity team as a freshman can be considered an admirable achievement for a wrestler since you are competing with seniors.  So, wrestling varsity at 129 pounds should have provided me a sense of accomplishment.  Sadly, I didn’t earn that spot until later that year.  Before the first match, our head coach gave that spot to me only because of my last name.  It was a B.S. move on his part and would come back to haunt the both of us.  Lesson number two:  Everything in wrestling must be earned.

The night before the first match, after practice, I weighed 130 pounds meaning I would have to lose a pound and keep it off before the 9:00 a.m. weigh in the following morning.  Therefore, eating anything that night was simply out of the question.  (Losing weight properly does not include starving one’s self, but I was young, stupid, and our coach didn’t care how we lost it.)

Deciding to stay at my best friend Jeremy’s house the night before the match, I was also invited for dinner which I respectfully declined under the circumstances.  This was a basketball family I was staying with, and Jeremy’s mother, who shall remain nameless, was stunned to hear I couldn’t eat the night before a match.  Where would I get the strength to wrestle?  After unsuccessfully explaining the situation to this wonderful woman, who had treated me as one of her own since Jeremy and I became friends around age ten, she came up with a terrific solution.  Evidently, she had a magic potion which you could drink, or take as a pill, allowing you to eat whatever you wanted to, and the weight would be gone only eight hours after consumption.  Hungry as an orangutan in a banana factory, I didn’t ask questions.  I trusted her, so it was “all you can eat” spaghetti and meatballs for me that night, and I took full advantage of the proposal.

Before hitting the fart sack, she gave me this magic pill and said in about six hours, the weight would start coming off of me well before the 9:00 weigh in.  It was roughly 11:00 p.m. when I swallowed it down, and exactly 5:00 a.m. when I first felt my stomach move and then speak in an unfamiliar baritone voice.  It was about to speak volumes.  Literally, volumes.  Jeremy’s mother failed to read me the warning label: Will cause exploding diarrhea.  Not “may” cause.  “Will” Cause.

Making it to the bathroom in time, I think I did lose a pound or two, but felt a little uneasy about the slight panic I had before locking the door behind me.  I was hoping that would be the last of it.  It wasn’t.  Two more trips to the latrine before leaving their house to catch the bus for our road trip match still wasn’t settling my stomach or my nerves.  School buses don’t have bathrooms, and I don’t think depends had been invented yet, so I had to depend on my reliable backup: prayer.

Usually a pretty jovial person, I didn’t utter a word on the thirty minute bus ride.  I was concentrating more on my bowels than any test I’d ever taken in school.  My eyes squinted, and the left side of my mouth tilted as if I had just come off the most nauseating of roller coasters only to be forced to get right back on it.  Some fellow wrestlers kept asking me what was wrong, and it was all I could do to just shrug my shoulders in fear.  Moving further than that wasn’t an option.  One of the guys told me not to worry.  “You’re wrestling a senior, and he is a returning state veteran so no one expects you to win.  If you do win, you’re a stallion. If he beats the crap out of you, no big deal.”

“Crap?”  Don’t say the word “crap”.  I just wanted the bus to stop, someone to take me into the locker room on a Hannibal Lecter hand truck and leave me alone for about a week.

Butt cheeks puckering like they’d just taken their first tequila and lime shot, my prayers were partially answered.  I made it to the bathroom, but not before the janitor did.  At that point, upon release,  I felt the aftershocks may be over.  I had hoped I left the last of this unnatural disaster in the toilet.  There was a slight sense of relief while exiting the stall and walking sheepishly to the scale, quite sure I’d make weight and then move on with my life with respect and honor.

123 pounds!  One pound above the weight class below me.  You’ve got to be @#$tting me.  I was cleared to wrestle.  Convinced my odd disposition was just a case of freshman nerves, no one properly knew the trouble I’d experienced that morning.  As a freshman, I felt it wise not to disclose any information which could ignite hazing I did not need.

“Wrestling at one hundred and twenty nine pounds, from West Valley, freshman, Ben Gannon.”

Wrestling is nerve wracking enough as it is.  Add some volcanic intestines and a spotlight hanging over the mat while a hundred or so  people stare at two boys in singlets roll around the mat in a skillful melee.  (Singlets are the tight fitting required costumes wrestlers wear displaying every bulge, mogul, nook and cranny of the male physique.)  Family, friends, enemies and neighbors are about to witness a match thinking I must be nervous, because they are suffering from anxiety as well.  They have no idea.

Fortunately, after my last rendezvous with the John, I actually felt pretty decent, so when I trotted onto the mat to shake hands with my formidable opponent, for the first time, I became focussed on the match itself, and what I had to do to win.  Not knowing how long I could last, I figured I would have to find a way to pin him quickly.  So, when the whistle blew to begin the match, I think I surprised everyone in the stands and my opponent by taking him down within the first ten seconds giving me a lightning fast two point advantage.  My advantage didn’t last long as my opponent, rather angrily, reversed me to tie up the score.  Still, since I proved I was capable of scoring, I felt I could win.  At that very same moment, quite aggressively, my opponent, eerily discerning I had an achilles abdomen, reached around my stomach using what is referred to as a “tight waist”.   Imagine a cowboy cinching a saddle on a horse so the horse can’t free itself from the saddle.  Instead of a rope, an arm and hand surround your belly and twist counter clockwise while squeezing  to secure the opponent properly.

At first it was just every ounce of toxic gas being forced from my body, and I swear, my opponent stopped, as did I, wondering what may be showing up to the party next.  I was frozen with fear and held my post when he decided to do it once more.  Thankfully, those singlets are water tight, and everything left in my body was now splashing around in my singlet.  My opponent’s gasp came less than a second after mine, and I knew what my next move was.  I had no choice but to roll over and let him pin me as quickly as possible so I could get the hell out of that gymnasium before any leakage followed. It had the makings of epic humiliation, and when I rolled over, I wanted to scream at the referee to slap his hand on the mat to finish this nightmare before it could possibly get worse.  He did, and my opponent separated himself from me as if I was a scalding hot, repugnant cast iron skillet.  I couldn’t blame him.  While getting off the mat as quickly as possible hoping to avoid spillage, a teammate tossed me my sweats and I wrapped them around me heading to the locker room.  The singlet met its demise in the garbage can and when I came out to join the team for the remainder of the match, no one said one word.  It was the only genuine relief I’d felt the entire day, and much like my wrestling career, my suffering was over.

On the ride back on the bus, I did confide in a few of the wrestlers explaining what had happened.  Although it provided a terrific laugh, it never left the bus.  If they ever told anyone at school, I never was on the receiving end of nasty nicknames, so I felt very fortunate.  My remaining high school years could have been littered with gastrointestinal jokes.

I finished the rest of the season wrestling varsity at 129 pounds, won some matches, and took some savage beatings, but I can’t really recall one match specifically besides mat classic ex-lax.  I do know this.  Still remaining very close to my friend and his family, when I return to my hometown to visit them, I will never put anything in my mouth while at their house that doesn’t come off my own fork.