Your Roots

Similar to questioning one’s faith, I am questioning who I’m rooting for to win the World Series.  I’ve never been an avid Cubs fan, but I’ve been to Wrigley Field.  Does that somehow qualify me as being a year long fan?  I don’t know.  I like the Cleveland Indians, but I’ve never been to the garden city, so I’m a bit torn.  Therefore, one must always, beyond a coin flip, decide which way they should root.  Two of my best friends, my brother, Tom, and a dear old man, Marshall, are rooting for the Indians.  They are the only ones, (inside of my circle of nonsense), I know rooting for the Indians, and they share the same birthdate.  Is this ironic or just coincidental?  Only the late, great George Carlin could answer this question.  For me, I’ve decided it’s all about game seven.  That’s all I really care about. Ultimately, I say, “Piss on games one through five. Let’s root for games six and seven!”

Disclosure:  (Assuming the Cubs win game five)

Post Season Rules

The game of baseball can be taxing.  It goes from boring to stand up and hug or high five your phony neighbor in one inning, one home run, or even one strike. During this post season of baseball, some people have asked me if I am rooting for the Cubs or the Dodgers in game six of the National League Championship Series.  Simply loving the game, I’m rooting for game seven.

No Debate

I can’t believe I’m watching the Presidential Debates tonight as opposed to watching the NLCS between the Cubs and the Dodgers.  Both candidates in baseball may be worthy of competing for the World Series.  Ooops!  I just changed the channel.

 

Hell Phones

God has officially declared that cell phones are evil.  (Chapter 13, verse 2016.)  Why would they be burning up or blowing up in your face if the devil wasn’t involved in the process?

Sitting in the park and texting a friend or relative is acceptable in God’s mind.  Walking across a street staring at your cell phone is unacceptable when there is a clearly placed, “Don’t Walk” signal within view.

I’m all about Jaywalking, but I never have a cell phone in my hand while committing this crime.  It’s resting peacefully in my pocket.

My Effing Cell Phone

Due to weather conditions and laundry issues, my cell phone has been unavailable for the last three days. Embarrassingly, I reacted to losing it almost as immaturely as Americans kneeling or sitting during the National Anthem.  (Those protesting have the right to do so, and I have the right to disagree.)  Different story.

Regarding my cell phone, for three full days, there was no calling, no texting and no such luxury.  Help me, Mr. Banana Yellow rotary home phone when I need you.

I have currently managed to survive without the cell phone, but it is handy, if used properly…much like fire.

 

The Retired Helmet

Vin Scully, the now former announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers has passed, figuratively speaking, for the Dodgers and all their fans.  Yet, he will still remain alive in everyone’s baseball hearts.

The LA Dodger helmet I wore to bed for years was not only embarrassing to my brothers, it also was a legitimate reason for hazing me.  Yet, I bet Vin Scully could have weaved a story with so much eloquence about that silly boy, and it would make it funny as opposed to embarrassing.

Lock Down

I’m not a “We’re all winners!” type of guy.

While watching a baseball game recently, I was asked a complex question regarding coaching.  In my former life, I was a coach at every level up through high school.  Little League, middle school, high school, you name it.  I was a coaching nomad.  Some of those years ended with success and others in failure.   Other than soccer, I think I coached just about every sport, so I thought I had some credibility while answering the question.

I was asked how a coach should motivate a team with potential but lacking motivation. My response was simple and even a bit primitive.  “Sometimes, you just have to scare the Hell out of them.  Make them think you’re a little crazy.  And, sometimes, depending on your audience, it works.”

Years ago, after an embarrassing loss while coaching a wrestling team with fantastic potential, I wasn’t as much upset about the defeat as I was about how our team responded to the loss.  Witnessing one of our best wrestlers making out with his girlfriend in the stands shortly after he was pinned left me more than a little irritated.  Shortly after shaking hands with the winning team, I encouraged our team to get into the locker room for a post match lesson.

Recognizing I was in a pretty serious disposition, the room was silent, and I was calm… for the moment.  The fear in their eyes was clear, and because I was a bit unpredictable, well, that was precisely how I wanted them to feel.  It was then, not saying a word, I, ominously, locked all three of the locker room doors, making sure no one was going to be in the room except them and me.  (Crickets.)  After a minute of awkward silence, I finally broke the silence, because I hate seeing anyone look as afraid as they did that evening.

“Hey, Matsuda.”  He was another one of our best wrestlers delivering a less than adequate performance that afternoon.  “Get out of the way.”

Matsuda looked at me with a “What, huh?”.  I was probably fifteen feet away from him.  “Get out of the way.”  His back was to the lockers and he didn’t understand why he needed to get out of the way, so he asked, very politely, looking back and forth to his teammates, and with terror in his eyes, “Where do you want me to go, coach?”

“I’m going to throw this garbage can in your general direction, and since it is full of garbage, I don’t want it to hit you.  Get out of the way.”

Matsuda managed to get out of the way, the can exploded against the lockers, spewing refuse everywhere, and before picking up the carnage by myself, I let them know how representative the garbage was in relation to how they performed that afternoon.  I’m not necessarily proud of that moment, but we didn’t lose another match for the rest of the year.

The following day, figuring I’d be reprimanded by my administrative Gods or receive some parental concerns, it was quite the contrary.   I received one phone call from a parent only praising me for my actions.

Years later, wrestlers entered my  classroom recollecting that day and the story blossomed, or perhaps mushroomed, depending on their perspective.  Many of those remembering that evening were not members of our team.  That always made me laugh.

 

Emma Can Run

emmacanrun2I simply love gambling, and a wise man once told me, “No matter what the odds are, bet on your grand niece.”  Actually, the wise man was me after losing a race to my grand niece, Emma.  It’s the first time I genuinely didn’t mind losing.

Loving the ponies at an early age, and being subjected to illegal gambling as a six year old apprentice, I loved the names of the horses more than anything else.  Money meant nothing to me.  Chocolate milk, butterscotch pudding, and a good pizza meant so much more.  When my father and some brothers went to the track, while dad studied the race manual we’d find in the garbage can on the way in, I would just look at the names.  Anytime a horse had a name affiliated with one of my twelve older siblings, well, that was my two dollar pick.

“Tommy Gan Go” was one of our favorites. He was usually the fastest.  Since my closest brother’s name was, and still remains, Tom,  it was an easy pick, and usually a winner.

“Mary Can Meltdown” was always a crowd favorite because she would be in the lead for the initial three quarters of the mile, and then begin throwing her horseshoes at people in the stands for not betting on her.  This was oddly similar to my sister at her Christmas Eve parties.

“Greg Can Cook”  commonly placed.   My brother, Greg, is the second best cook I’ve ever met.

“Patricia Can Fly” usually would come in stand by, or fourth, making us no money.  Ironically, my sister, Patricia, is a flight attendant, formerly known as a stewardess.

Having so many siblings made it handy to choose my wishful winner, but never did I see a horse with my name included.  So, I had to digress to dog racing to pick my favorite name, and bet on it.  “Goofy Wizard”.  That dog wasn’t always winning, but it’s still running.

Yesterday, after losing a race to my grand niece, if I ever decide to buy a horse and race it, without my wife’s consent, she will be respectfully named, “Emma Can Run”.

emmacanrun