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Sundays With Dr. Pauly

Date: Thu, Sep 9, 2010

One of the most enjoyable activities from the holiday weekend was picking a fantasy football team with AJ. It was a random league, an autodraft, so I had to patiently explain to him that's why we got Eli Manning, who he deems less than stellar.

This is true, but we're stuck with him. Which would not be the case if AJ were 21 and could participate at Fantasy Sports Live. Nothing gets my engines revved up like whipping all your asses in daily fantasy football contests. Hell, I'll even beat you with Eli Manning.

With the kickoff of the NFL season, we also get the return of Sundays with Dr. Pauly. Follow the link for all the up-to-date info, but I'll give you the lede right here: up to $2,000 added.



I will see you there.

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Gentile Summit 2010: Power Rankings

Date: Mon, Aug 16, 2010

Another year of midwestern debauchery has come to an end, along with any ill-idealized dreams I had of ever being good at golf, apparently, such was the brutal nature of my swing. I may as well have teed-off with a log washed up on the shore of the muddy Mississippi.

But fear not, great fun was had in Minneapolis and environs, all thanks to the good people below.

1. Chad and Molly.

The top spot could go to none other than our esteemed host and hostess, who planned much of the agenda without complaint (audible complaint, anyway), allowed random socially awkward n'er-do-wells into their home and, burying the lede, provided ample alcohol and cigarettes.

The gem of the weekend had to be the second "floor" of their swank downtown loft, which also happened to be the roof of the building. A frequent gathering place for us, as well as assorted lesbians (who are apparently as excited by DonkeyPuncher as they are by Indigo Girls), the site featured awesome downtown views, the full gamut of offerings by Surly Brewing Co. and ample room for rousing, if one-sided, games of cornhole.

Chad also came through with best suggestion of the weekend, deep-fried chicken wings (drummies only!) at Runyon's. This is the best late-night food ever and he hardly batted an eye when he walked into a nearly closed bar and asked for 72 of them, which seemed excessive at the time, even downright gluttonous, until we got back to the loft and they disappeared in under ten minutes.

2. Emet

Tough choice for the silver medal, as Drizz put forth a monumental effort, but I don't have to sleep with Drizz every night (at least not since the summer of '07), and Emet had a stellar week as well, culminating in her doing all the packing for the trip home on Sunday morning as I moaned and sweated in our concave hotel room bed with a flu bug that can only be described as "sinister."

Emet travels great, of course. This is no surprise. She's a go-with-the-flow type, which is the perfect counterpoint to my plan-everything-down-to-the-millisecond style, so we end up getting to do a whole mess of stuff, while also finding unexpected crevices. We always remember to pause in our journeys, which provides vivid reminders of just how damn much we enjoy each other's company. Whether it was getting caught (and drenched) in a thunderstorm at Minnehaha Falls or hitting four balls into the water on #2 (me only), her good cheer never wavered. Also, she's looking really hot in her new Purple Jesus jersey.

3. Drizz.

Forget the two hours he was unaccounted for on early Saturday morning (hours he semi-recounted later), Drizz was tireless and tenacious. His finest moment was perhaps getting us to and from Canterbury Race Track/Card Club while driving at night in prescription sunglasses, having forgot his regular sunglasses at home. In the interim, he hit a straight flush at the Pai-Gow table.

But that can't be all. This is Drizz we're talking about. At one point on Friday night, he was into the water, but staged a furious comeback after running into an old volleyball acquaintance with a third nipple. I managed to get him drunk enough at Edinburgh USA to pillage his wallet on the back 9. This after he awed both me and our random playing partner (shout-out to Jack from Athens, GA!) with 300-yard drives down the middle on the front. You could actually hear the ball scream at impact. He took all that money back at cornhole (if there were a Drinking Game Olympics, Drizz would be on Wheaties boxes) and prop bets on the futility of A's hitters and the Saturday round at Theodore Wirth and probably some place else I can't remember. All I know is that Drizz is probably the first person to ever profit from a Summit, though those aforementioned two hours probably cut into the take a bit, $20 per song at a time.

4. StB.

He was lower than DonkeyPuncher at one point (I was using these Power Rankings to bend people to my will), when he said, "He's not even here!" True statement. Late (late, late) night at Cuzzy's, the kind of bar where you go when you've drank yourself entirely out of pretension and dignity, and StB continued going strong.

Extra bonus points for bringing along a case of Lager (by which I mean Yuengling, a name which I butchered so many times and in so many ways during the Bash at the Boathouse '06, that Terri the bartender finally told me just to ask for a "Lager" and so I continue to do to this day).

5. DonkeyPuncher

Docked for the rookie mistake of not arriving until Friday, especially since the fam was gone on Thursday night, and also robbing himself of crucial points by not once going to Sex World (as far as I know). Even so, he did entice a lesbian to kiss him by the sheer force of his personality and brown-ness.

As for golf, well, let's just pretend that round at Wirth never happened. Let's let it disappear in the same manner in which our respective swings were lost somewhere at the Minnesota state line.

6. OhCaptain

I (rather mercilessly) taunted Rochester's finest poker blogger all weekend about his standing in the Power Rankings, which caused him to complain at one point that he was "behind people who aren't even here!" which naturally emboldened me to continue doing it. Or course, I kid, that's just the kind of jackass I am, and Tim's virgin Summit appearance was an excellent debut, the kind that will be written about in the annals. What? We don't have any annals?

Shit.

7. Minneapolis Tim

Chad's buddy and my primary Twins fan foil for the weekend, Tim's a clever fellow with a penchant for the suicide squeeze and Neuro-Physics. I am making neither of those things up.

8. The Good People of Minneapolis

There is a term, "Minnesota Nice." I found nothing in the city to abuse me of this notion. We had a jogger stop mid-run and ask if Emet and I wanted a picture together. While we rode the public bikes around town (which was awesome and if we were ranking inanimate objects, the bikes would be in the top 3, along with Surly Furious and Target Field), a few people expressed delight that we were riding them and wanted to know if we were having fun. Also, given the opportunity to run us over on two occasions, Minneapolis bus drivers demurred.

9. Humidity

We have now reached the stage of the Power Rankings where things aren't good. I figured I could rotate a couple t-shirts over the course of the five days, thereby ensuring lighter luggage, but I had to take two of them out of the rotation on the first day after bleeding my rapidly deteriorating sweat clean through them (hear that, ladies!). I can't even get into how the weather made my hair all curly, not curly like sexy, but curly like pubes.

10. The Oakland A's

Sigh. I hate them so very much. They don't deserve me. They are winless in the three games I've attended this season. Their performance at Friday night's game against the Twins at gorgeous Target Field was so egregious that it put me on tilt. Massive Tilt. The kind of tilt I usually only experience, baseball-wise, when they are actually in a pennant race. But 15 hits and only 3 runs, some ridiculous at-bats, the inability to get to Carl Fucking Pavano...

I had to take a time-out walk along the concourse. I shit you not.

*

Perhaps my favorite story from the weekend happened at the Twins-A's game. We were a little tardy (the roof is a tough place to leave), and as we filled up our row, we noticed a priest sitting right behind us. He was with his father (haha the Father with his father), his brother and three nephews, all of whom were very friendly and knowledgeable and immediately started giving me shit about my A's jersey. We talked to them frequently over the course of the game, DonkeyPuncher showing off his Catholic roots, Emet and I teasing the kiddos. Late in the game, the priest leaned down and said to me something to the effect of "We were a little concerned when y'all showed up, there being a lot of families in the section and all, but we appreciate your clean language and how y'all behaved."

Which is a nice microcosm of this group. Degenerates, yes. But considerate and decent. Even if Drizz dropped two S-bombs within 45 seconds of that conversation.

Until next year, gang.

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2010: A Television Odyssey

Date: Sun, Aug 1, 2010

After 7+ years, two lamps, a color wheel and countless hours of Big Screen Entertainment, the TV died. The timing could not have been worse, what with cash being eaten up at a piranha-esque rate due to numerous summer vacations and two rounds of golf per week. Emet and I even had a technician come out to see if the Old Girl (the TV, not Emet) were salvageable.

The repairman didn't have good news. No easy fix. So I said to him, "Considering the technology in this TV is obsolete and the price of a new (shiny, beautiful flat-screen high-def) TV is but 3x the price of this repair, what would your advice be?"

I knew before I even finished the question what his true answer was. His face gave it away. To is credit, he didn't dissemble. "I'd go buy a new TV," he said. He lost a repair job, but gained a customer.

Customer Service Grade: A

This was a Saturday morning, so Emet and I decided to wait a day so we could see the Sunday mailers for sale prices. In the meantime, I did my research thing and listed the Must Haves (LED back-lighting, 1080p, at least 120Mz) for the purchase. I ran down the get the paper (oh, I mean newspaper; it's this thing old people have delivered to their house and contains information) first thing on Sunday and found an appropriately priced and appointed set. I paused only to brush my teeth before I was in the car and on the way to Best Buy.

I'm not the biggest Best Buy fan, but they usually have the best prices. I have to wade through four different salespeople all trying to "help" me add-on to my purchase, but being prepared always helps. Not that I can't be diverted by other sparkling options. I texted Emet twice about a) getting a bigger set and b) getting a different set that also offered a free Blu-Ray and Surround Sound.

Despite threatening to go off the rails, I ended up with the TV I'd intended to buy, though the process took far too long and by the end I was surly and dismissive and hurrytheffup to every smiling, blue-shirted body that came my way, an attitude that was not helped when informed delivery would take nearly two weeks.

"Wait. Didn't you say you had the TV in stock?"

"Yes sir, but delivery services are backed up." Recession my balls.

Customer Service Grade: C+

I wish that were the end of it. Two weeks with our little TV perched in front of the big, ol' useless one. But now I needed a new box and dish from DirecTV to beam beautiful HD to the Speaker Compund. Now, I've been a DirecTV customer off and on for twenty years, but that off and on (due to apartment buildings that don't allow satellite dishes) has occasioned many calls to English-challenged customer service, many swarthy installers up on my roof and many man-hours lost to unraveling the mysteries of DirecTV pricing plans.

My first telephone attempt resulted in pigeon English and a number of charges I was not willing to pay. Unable to make myself truly understood, I hung up and decided to play Customer Service Rep Roulette. On my next try, the charges were the same (three additional ones on top of the price of the box) and I insisted on an explanation for each, all the while surfing the internet for local cable company rates (outrageous) and Dish Network plans (better, but no NFL Sunday Ticket, which is my primary raison d'etre).

Customer Service Grade: D

So, it seemed I was backed into a corner. I had no place to go. Was facing $200 in trumped-up charges (these were for such bullshit items as "equipment upgrade fee," "sales order fee" and "contract amendment fee,"). So, I ran a bluff. I told the customer service lady--IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS!--that I found these bonus charges to be egregious and wholly unfair and that I was inclined to cancel their service altogether. She responded that she hated to lose me as a customer, but she would transfer me to Cancellations and that maybe they could do something for me. The new Dude cut out the fees in like 90 seconds and I ended up only paying for the HD box.

Ship it.

Customer Service Grade: B+ (points deducted for trying to screw me in the first place)

I scheduled the installation for a day after the TV was set to arrive and steeled myself for another 10 days of Little TV Hell, but satisfied in knowing my long national nightmare would soon be over, if a bit pricey.

But I run so bad.

*

"It looks awfully dark, doesn't it?"

That's what I said after looking at the new TV for about an hour after I got home from work. I didn't think too much of it, since we weren't yet getting an HD signal, but my research had intimated that the LED backlight feature helped the contrast in darker scenes. I grabbed the TV's manual to investigate and stopped cold. The cover said, "LCD TV."

Shit. I grabbed a flashlight and hustled around the back of the TV looking for the model number. Shit. This is the wrong TV. And my first thought was, "I bought the wrong one."

Panicking, I located my receipt. No, I had not bought the wrong TV. The Geek Squad brought the wrong one. Same size, same brand, just the shittier, non-LED, $500 cheaper one.

Customer Service Grade: F

"Hello? Customer service?" I was on the phone again, eerily calm (perhaps because I spent a harrowing five minutes thinking *I* had made a huge mistake), but that calm was immediately tested when, upon hearing my tale of woe, the voice on the other end of the line said, "Did you accept delivery?"

Mt. Saint Speaker was poised to explode. "I didn't," I said, molten lava beginning to rise. "My girlfriend did. YOU. ARE. NOT. GOING. TO. TELL. ME..."

"No, no sir. Let me transfer you."

In the Home Theater Dept, they were apologetic. Yes, we totally screwed up. Yes, we'll send out your TV as soon as possible. Yes, we will send you a $50 Gift Card for your trouble.

Customer Service Grade: C (though the make-up was an A, I'm averaging that with the 'F', which remains totally unacceptable in any context)

Funny story. All's well that ends well. Our actual TV is coming on Wednesday. Yesterday, during AJ's birthday party, the guests kept asking, "Oh, is that your new TV?" to which I kept responding, "It's A new TV." They all thought it looked fine and it does, when watching a day baseball game, though HD does take a little getting used to, especially on the channels that are non-HD, where everything is wierdly three-dimensional and reminds me of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS.
As for the DirecTV installation, we waited way too long on Friday. He said 10:30 a.m. at first, so I felt totally secure in setting a 2:30 p.m. tee time for Emet and I. Naturally, his first job of the day ran way over and he didn't get to our place until 1 p.m. I told him he was going to have to finish in an hour. He didn't. We left anyway. Despite Emet's protestations that he was going to rob our house, I trusted him. Had to. There's no way I'm missing a round of golf. Not the way I'm swinging it. And, if he did rob us, at least we had our clubs with us, so he couldn't take those, and there's really nothing more valuable in our house currently than my sticks, not in a monetary way, you understand, but in a Can't Live Without Them way.

Full credit to Juan the Satellite Dish Technician for not robbing us.

Customer Service Grade: A (non-robbery trumping late arrrival)

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Teaching Moments

Date: Mon, Jul 26, 2010

I didn't take much notice of the teens in front of us until we got right near the head of the line. I counted them out--five--and realized the line was now longer than I'd expected, because they'd go up one by one to buy their movie tickets, like teen-agers do. Oh well, we were early and my legendary impatience with lines and slow customer service was at bay.

Up they went. One, two, three...

I watched them closer now. I'm obsessed with the behavior of young people around me. This is a new thing and absolutely--100%--attributable to AJ's growing older (he'll be 9 in two weeks). I don't want to be out of touch. Or worse, oblivious. I need to know what the kids are into these days.

The group was four boys and one girl. Gawky age, 14 and 15. Bad skin. Talking around each other, eyes averted. Not A-Listers. Closer to the bottom of the brutal teen pecking order than to the top, I wagered.

As the fourth of them--the girl--went up, a new pack of three boys came strutting around the corner of our back-and-forth line--thirty people deep, at least--and joined up with the waiting others. One of the newbies, hair Bieber-ized, said, "What movie are we watching?"

I tossed Emet a raised eyebrow and she returned fire with that face that says, "Easy, Tiger."

The girl came back from the box office and greeted the new guys with a grin as the last of the original five went forward. The three stayed where they were, right in the front of the line. I looked around at the people behind us, some of them with eyeball daggers drawn.

"You guys aren't really going to jump right in front of all these people are you?" I said, my right arm out like a Price is Right model, appealing to their sense of justice. It's about the people, not just me.

The girl cocked her hip. "Yes," she said, both matter-of-factly and defiantly. "Yup," nodded Bieber Boy. Although, unlike the girl, he didn't turn and meet our gaze.

Emet put a hand on my forearm, though it was unnecessary. I was in no mood to tangle, despite a faraway desire to stave in Bieber's smart mouth for him; do him a favor, you know, before he mouths off to the wrong person and finds himself at the bottom of a Doc Marten.

Emet, of course, is a pro in these circumstances. She deals with preternaturally annoying 6th-graders every day at school. "That's really not acceptable behavior," she said.

"We're not acceptable," said Bieber Boy.

"It's downright rude," Emet continued.

"We are rude." (I'm guessing this is not the captain of the Debate Team.)

Still, the kid hadn't turned around. His insolence didn't go so far as to trump his cowardice. I suppose Emet sensed that, as well.

"You should be ashamed," she said, and I saw the heat start to rise on his neck. "Someone should have taught you better."

And scene. Emet wins. There was no (un-)pithy comeback forthcoming. In fact, I swear the swagger jumped right off that young man's shoulders. He went up to buy his ticket and scurried off without a look back.

*

I'm sure later they laughed about the hippie and the schoolmarm in line. Straightened their spine and how they got what they wanted. For my part, I searched my memory banks for similar scenes from my adolescence (found one; okay two) and thought about ways to make sure no adult ever said something like that to MY kid. I've given variations of the same speech a hundred times to AJ. Something along the lines of, "I don't care if you grow up to be a firefighter/situational reliever/janitor/lawyer, I just want you to be kind, to show courtesy, to learn empathy and compassion."

You know, the things that parents say that kids never listen to. But maybe, if you say it enough times, it worms its way in there.

And yeah, "Inception" was tremendous, even if my attention was diverted at times while shooting spitballs at a Bieber-looking kid down in the second row.

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My Job

Date: Sun, Jun 6, 2010

It was not yet 9 a.m., but the sun was already beating down as I reached for my iPhone. It wasn't there. Lovely. Emet would have to figure out for herself why what I thought would be a 20-minute exercise would be three times that, at least. I couldn't even see the front of the line.

Twenty minutes later, I'd moved halfway up the hill when a familiar face walked by. I coached her son last year and the two of us had commiserated during the Little League season about the less than nurturing attitude of baseball coaches (as opposed to my egalitarian methods on the pitch). She asked about Friday night's playoff game between AJ's D-Backs and the Yankees, since the loser would play her son's Rockies later in the afternoon. We talked about how the playoffs seem to have "ratcheted up the stupid" among the adults. Finally, she asked if I was going to coach soccer again. I sighed and said yes.

"What made you decide to do it?" she asked, knowing I'd been on the fence for some time.

"I didn't want AJ's coach to be a dick," I said. Then, in near unison, we said, "Like baseball."

*

I've learned over the course of the baseball season to settle my ass down. For a while there, I was hawkish, tunnel-focused. As much as I tried to stay outwardly calm, my son perceived the stress. And it had a negative effect on him. He dreaded games. He complained about umpire calls, the unfairness of it all, always having to play the outfield. I wanted to fix it for him. That's what I'm supposed to do, is it not? And so I obsessively looked for holes in his game.

When all I really needed to do was relax.

In our first playoff game, we met the Phillies, losers of all 17 of their regular season games. I was keeping score for the game alongside another parent with whom I'd struck up a friendship during the year. We'd talked about the competitiveness of the league. Of the coaches (we've all heard of the near-fight between two of them one level up). Of the parents, like the one who came up at the end of one game to ask me the score--it was 19-0, this particular dickface for some reason needing to know the exact total of the drubbing.

At one point, the Phillie second-baseman made a play. His face lit up like Fourth of July. "That's why we should be out here," the parent said.

Right. The next inning, our coach was screaming at an umpire.

*

The line was moving at a decent clip. I talked with a guy on my soccer team as we waited to register as coaches. I told him about a kid I had last year who cried at the end of the season. He was sad it was over. The kid didn't have any real skill, was chubby and slow. But, by the last game, he was an asset. He was aggressive. I could count on him to give his last breath. And I'd managed to make it worthwhile for him, a positive experience.

Look, I'm no saint. I'm competitive. I got yelled at twice by a referee last year. I would like my team of 8- and 9-year-olds to win. But I will not treat them poorly in pursuit of such a thing. I will not leave sportsmanship and teamwork out of the lessons I teach them. I will not focus only on the good players, while letting the others fend for themselves.

I think the best trait a coach has to have is to remember the kids are infinitely more important than the coach. To take delight in the slightest improvement and to make sure the children know they are valued, regardless of their ability. They don't need me to tell them they are awesome soccer players when they are not. They know plenty about where they stand in the pecking order. No, what they deserve is simple regard, to know their coach is on their side.

*

AJ's D-Backs beat the Phillies and matched up with the Yankees in Round Two. Last time the teams met, the Yankees won, and the D-Backs were deemed to have played so poorly, the coach sent them on a run after the game.

There would be no repeat. I was late, but showed up in time to see AJ single in his second AB (after a walk in his first). I saw him hustle to a ball hit down the right field line, hit the cut-off man and hold the hitter to a single. He was happy, confident, like he has been the last half-dozen games or so, once his Dad stopped telling him what to do all the time.

The score was 18-5, a comprehensive shellacking. The Yankees came up for their last ups and AJ ran back out to right field, as he has all season (though sometimes it's left, sometimes it's center). Earlier in the season, I'd have bristled. The game is over (teams are only allowed to score a maximum of 5 runs per inning), let the kids play a different position (not just AJ, but the other kids who've been relegated to the OF all year). AJ's been dying to play second base all year, as he did last year to decent effect. But he's over it by now. And so am I.

And then...as the pitcher warmed up, his coach made changes. The left-fielder came in to play third, the centerfielder came in to play short and AJ...and AJ...came in to play 2nd.

I'm telling you right now I nearly cried. Not because he was getting his wish, but because the smile on his face was beautiful, the excitement was beyond anything I've seen from him since he scored his first goal in soccer.

And that, right there, is the whole point, is it not? Is that not why a man (or woman) donates time to coach sports? To give a child that feeling, that experience? I don't know why it took AJ's coach so long to make a move like this. There were numerous chances over the course of the season. But I'm not going to complain. It happened for AJ and it made all the difference.

The fact he expertly played a grounder for a routine 4-3 putout made it all seem like a dream (X did begin to weep at this point). When he snatched a tough throw--in-between hop--from the catcher and put a slick tag on the base-stealer for the third out, it was like God himself reached down to touch the child, to reward him for sticking it out, to reward his father for remembering--belatedly--to focus on the positive aspects of youth sports. And when AJ's teammates sprinted over to second base to high-five him...well shoot...I couldn't begin to put the feeling into words.

Fortunately, I don't have to. I have this:



I finally got through the soccer registration line. Took almost 90 minutes and without my iPhone to entertain me, I was on substantial tilt. But that was the easiest part of the season. Now it's on to practices and games and time- and soul-sucking meetings and dealing with administrators and coaches and parents and that feeling I get abour 2/3rds of the way through the year when I just want it all to be over.

But this year, I'll carry around the picture of that perfect smile above. That smile that can't hide how proud that child feels inside. And remember it's my job to make that happen for each and every child under my charge.

I'm not saying it will be easy. We all lose sight. But I'll do my best. It should be interesting. AJ will play in U-10s for the first time this year. And unlike U-8s, the U-10s have playoffs.

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Licked

Date: Mon, May 3, 2010

I am proud to tell you all that I've licked my addiction to Little League. From frothing to 'meh' in just a few short weeks. I can't tell you from what spring this addiction welled, it remains a mystery to me, but it had become clear my total insistence on AJ "playing the game the right way," and my own grumblings about the coaching, had a negative effect on my son. He wasn't enjoying himself, was gripping the bat like a dangling limb on the side of a cliff, and seemed to be one bad call/at-bat away from a meltdown at all times.

So I switched modes--not easy to do for someone as single-minded as I can be--to the "Aw fuck it, let's just have fun" setting on my parent-o-meter which has provided me with much relief and, slowly, AJ is focusing on the benefits of play, rather than the results.

This more open-minded view has shown that the Coach is less malicious than he is oblivious, that the assistant coaches are damn fine at what they do and great role models for the boys, the players themselves are a great group of kids that AJ should be proud to call friends and the baseball, well, it's just a game. A game. And it doesn't matter. As I told AJ, "You're 8! Nothing matters!"

I will mention a single event, but only because it illustrates how awesome Emet is. We hosted the Red Sox this past Saturday, a team of genetically-engineered baseball robots, each of them clothed in the guise of 8-year-olds, but so impossibly tow-headed and blue-eyed that they can not really exist. We've seen three of their pitchers in three games and if they were three years older, you'd say, "My goodness those boys throw hard." They are, in fact, undefeated at 12-0, have dealt AJ's D-Backs losses in each of those three games (the D-Backs are 6-1-1 in their other 8 games), each by a score of one million to zero.

Predictably, the game was out of hand early, but coaching must still go on. One aspect that still annoys me, despite my more Christian Attitude, is the coach teaching the kids to throw the ball back to the pitcher. Once the pitcher has the ball on the mound, runners can't advance. However, by instructing, nay demanding, throws from the outfield go directly to the pitcher, rather than the base they are supposed to go to, the kids aren't learning how to play the game. I understand that whinging the ball around the diamond at this age promotes mis-plays, but you can at least make the first correct throw, yes? My two cents.

Anyways, we're down a quarter million or something to zero, Red Sox with a runner on 2nd and no outs. A grounder is fielded flawlessly by our 3rd baseman and the runner is caught halfway. The 3rd baseman runs him back a little and fires to 2nd. A little high. The runner tears for third and rounds the bag, heading for home. AJ, doing a decent job of backing up in center, fires a one-hop strike to home, a seriously perfect throw, that, alas, arrives at the same time as the runner, who demolishes the catcher and scores. The batter, running all the while--as he is programmed to do in a small industrial park adjacent to Van Nuys--ends up on third.

There is a brief period of silence as the dust settles. Then the coach bellows, "Throw the ball to the pitcher!" The last syllable is hardly out of his mouth when Emet--who teaches 6th grade, so you know she has a voice that carries--yells,

"Great throw AJ!"

She has not yet attained my level of zen.

*

Missed last night's freeroll in favor of golf and beers with Emet. Congrats to longtime reader April for the TOC seat. April and I broke into this blogging bidness together and my delight at her victory is not dulled by my hangover or my atrocious putting.

I've come to the conclusion that my putting woes are almost entirely mental. This highly-scientific conclusion came to me yesterday after I three-putted seven holes on the front for a grand total of 24 putts against a score of 48, which is pretty decent considering the putting. Then, on the back, I had only 16 putts, just a single-three putt (with an excuse) and three up-and-downs.

The difference? I was drunk on the back nine. Go out of my head and just started stroking them.

It's been awfully frustrating, but tomorrow's another day (yes, I'm playing again tomorrow). No beer, what with another Little League tilt on tap in the evening, so no yip-helpers in little 12 oz. cans.

On the plus side, I'm driving the ball like a champ. And now I've just jinxed that.

*

I do believe I will take advantage of tomorrow's day off with the Poker From the Rail tourney tonight. My almost complete absence from the series so far has been due to time issues (and I suppose the fact I already won a Bracelet Race and have booked my spot in Event #24--June 12-16, c'mon down!), but I've been itching to get back into the ring with my fellow degens, so look for me this evening.

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BBT5

Date: Mon, Apr 19, 2010

I was in the Oakland Airport when BBT5 kicked off last night, at the tail end of a three-day bender that included wine tasting in the Livermore Valley (where I grew up), dive-bar shenanigans with Emet, Kool Breeze and Shot and a glorious afternoon at the Coliseum (marred only by the home team being pelted by the Orioles).

I originally thought I'd be home in time to participate in the maiden event, but that's only because I thought it started at 7 p.m. PST. Incorrect. I'll miss the rest of this week's tourneys due to further life issues, like attending Game 4 of the Kings-Canucks series on Wednesday, but hope to play in as many of the events as possible.

Good on Al for his continued hard work and awesomeness and good luck to all of you out there.



The Events

Tournament: Poker From the Rail
When: Monday, April 19th through May 24th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $24+2 (or token)*
Password: 2010WSOP

Tournament: The Mookie
When: Wednesday, April 21st through May 26th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $10+1*
Password: vegas1

*Winner also receives ToC entry

Tournament: Battle of the Blogger Tournaments Invitational
When: Sunday, April 18th through May 23rd starting at 19:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Restricted freeroll**

**$2,000 Prizepool + 1st and 2nd place receive ToC entry

Tournament: Blogger Battle Royale
When: Sunday, June 6th starting at 14:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Freeroll for BBT participating bloggers

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Shipped

Date: Wed, Apr 14, 2010

Remember how I mentioned I was mulling playing a $1K WSOP Donktastic Event when I was in Vegas this June?

I believe you can book it.

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Sporadically Slow Joe Speaker

Date: Thu, Apr 1, 2010

New colors! Because The Bracelet did it, and I just wanna be one of the guys (actually, you may or may not have noticed I no longer had a blog title, due to it being a custom one that disappeared from its hosting site and I couldn't manipulate the template to get it back to the stock header, so I replaced the whole she-bang and somehow, amazingly, managed to not lose the millions of words I've horked up onto this virtual page).

Also, I won two G's playing poker last night, so I was feeling like I really should have a blog title again, for the SEO, of course, considering the millions of readers who come here for my expertise, which, sadly, doesn't extend to the End Game, at which I remain hopelessly out of my depth, but I have a 304% ROI in 2010. Bitches.

*

Emet sent me a text while I was on the train last evening that said she was celebrating a co-worker's birthday and wouldn't be home until late. Curious, since I seemed to recall attending a birthday party for this person just last Saturday night, but Wednesday was her ACTUAL birthday and teachers do like to hoist a few. My next thought was "POKER!" since I haven't played much since moving to the new pad and then I realized "MOOKIE NIGHT," so that fired me up even more.

The good folks at my Mookie table would be surprised to learn I finished 6th in the 50/50 for almost two grand, since I managed to not make the first break in The Mook, despite holding the chip lead (of more than T8000) early on. Yes, you could say I was inviting action. Eventually chucked the last of 'em away with AK to A7 on an A74 board. Which allowed me to focus on my tiny stack in the 50/50. I didn't get over par in that 'un until Hour Four and it took some massive retardation to pull me into the fray.

I will never understand the over-push pre-flop, but I was quite happy to benefit from it. Guy directly to my right had 70K to my 24K with the blinds/antes at 400/800/75, so he's got plenty and even I'm not desperate, but he open-shoves in the SB, I wake up with AQ and call, besting his K8. Very next hand, he open-shoves his button and I have QQ. A7 no good. Well played, sir.

(I rarely do this, but I was a little buzzed and highly amused, so I wondered in chat if he had a plane to catch or something. He replied that I should Go Fuck Myself. Touche.)

From there, I did a solid job to get 6th. Went card dead for 75 minutes and got re-popped on a couple steals, so I was dwindling while others were stacking. I was last in chips with 6 left when I called another position over-push with 33 and did not win the race v. A5. Sweet. Mobneys. All of which I will bet on West Virginia. This is not because I hate Duke. Quite the contrary. I can recall shooting hoops in the front yard and pretending to be Mike Gminski (The G-Man, The Ginger Avenger; oh man, if only he were called The Ginger Avenger, that's the greatest nickname ever) or Gene Banks. I most certainly rooted for them against Louisville when Never Nervous Pervis Ellison led the Cardinals to the title (Boy am I glad that nickname trend didn't catch on, a personality trait that rhymes with the player's name; We'd have to deal with stupid shit like Intermittent Guile Kyle Singler or Frequently Loquacious Korey Lucius. Actually, that's kind of fun).

Back to the point (there's a point?), I'm rooting for the Mountaineers because Emet's bracket will finish second in Pauly's Pub if they take the title. I'm not emasculated by that at all.

*

Thanks to all who commented/twittered/called regarding yesterday's post. I feel like I'm walking a fine line between Concerned Parent and Outright Lunatic. Seems most have had at least one bad experience with a youth coach, so I shouldn't be surprised. One conversation led me to believe all will be fine if AJ knows I have his back and I think that works.

*

Speaking of AJ, can there possibly be anything more awesome than your child calling you on the phone and when you answer, he screams, "VEGAS!" No. The answer is no. He's on his second week of Spring Break and X took him to Vegas yesterday. He's beyond fired up and in the midst of our conversation asked if I would take him with me when I go to Vegas this summer (June 12-16...come on down!) and...Jeez...having to tell that excitable boy "No" is the opposite of him screaming "VEGAS!" but Daddy is there for Adult Things, son, and can not entertain the notion it might rub off on his innocent child. Just yet.

Been mulling playing one of the Recession Buster Donkfests during the WSOP when I'm there this summer (hey, lookee there, a $1K starts on June 12, what serendipity!). Honest appraisal of my live tournament skillz is that it's flushing money down the toilet, but maybe I throw in one more online score before June and I'll buy that lottery ticket anyway. If not, I will spend my hours as usual, with the added bonus of World Cup soccer in the sportsbooks, annoying our esteemed writers to hurry up and finish for the day so we can Pai Gow and, very likely, golf (hopefully, some of you locals can find a day to join me).

*

Lastly, thanks to you railbirds last night. Remember that time you watched me play poker? That was awesome.

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Of Fairness and Uncovered Bases

Date: Wed, Mar 31, 2010

I was outside my childhood home one summer afternoon releasing tension by throwing a tennis ball against the garage door. I was waiting for a phone call to tell me whether I'd made the Little League All-Star team. I was realistic about my chances. I knew I was on the bubble. For one, my coach spent the first half of the season fucking me. Not literally. See, I was still involved with soccer when the season started, so was late to a number of practices, only sprinting up after finishing training on the pitch. Unlike every other coach in the league whom I'd known for years, ours was new to the area. One of those old school guys. He didn't even have a kid in the league.

More often than not, I only played the requisite three innings. Most of those were in right field. This was not meant as a punishment, though every kid in the universe knows right field is where you put the shitty players. No, our coach was a tactical genius. Since we had a couple pitchers who threw really hard, he figured Little Leaguers wouldn't be able to get around on them, so most batted balls would go to the right. He instructed me to play shallow and to try to throw them out at first (which only happened once, so horrid was this strategy, but the kid I did throw out at first was none other than my buddy Donny, and I like to bring it up every now an then for fun). More often than not, the other kids were smoking line drives off one of our pitchers, who did indeed throw hard, but straight, and right down the middle.

Anyways, this thankfully changed about halfway through the season, a season in which, to that point, we'd won a single game out of ten. I again had rushed my way from soccer to the diamond, arriving about 15 minutes before game time, which was 15 minutes late, of course. I was not in the lineup and my coach began to (again) berate me. It was then that our assistant coach, the older brother of two of my teammates, spoke up, pointing out the effort I was making by rushing from soccer, pointing out that my soccer team was incredibly successful (we had already won the state championship and were preparing for regionals) and that I might, perhaps, be an asset to this floundering baseball team because of my athletic ability. There was more. Basically, and emphatically, accusing the coach of a bias against me, that my playing time was not equal to my talent level.

I never loved Marty DeBrum more than I did at that moment.

Long story long (and this is gonna be a helluva long post), the coach put me in the starting lineup, where I stayed, and flourished for the second half of the season. We won six games that second half, I played most of the time at 3rd and 1st and I batted over .500. I wasn't the best player on my team, would never have been mentioned among the top players in the league, but the All-Stars (and Williamsport!) was within reach.

Danny O'Brian gave me the news. He rode his bike past as I was playing with that tennis ball and I asked him if he'd heard about All-Stars (he was a shoe-in). Yep, he said, they called a couple days ago.

Crushed.

*

"Hey Daddy!" AJ said after practice last week. "Did you know my new league has All-Stars?"
"Don't worry about All-Stars, AJ."
"Why?"
"It's all politics."

Emet and I spent a few minutes explaining to him what that meant, that, many times, these selections are merely popularity contests and don't truly reward the level of player. All the coaches sons are going to make it, you know. Many assistant coaches, as well.

Like my own Little League career, I'm realistic about AJ's ability. He's comfortably in the middle. Like all Little League teams of this age (7-9), the cream is easily identified. Usually two or three or four kids on the team who are preternaturally gifted, or who've spent hours practicing with Dad or big brothers (or sisters) or, incredibly, hitting and pitching coaches. We have two of those. Then there are the kids who have a little skill, can catch or throw or hit or some combination. We have seven of those. Then there are the kids who are afraid of the ball (three). AJ can hit (when he's not stepping in the bucket, more on that later), never swings at balls, has an above average arm, in fact, one of the best on the team. His glove? Erratic.

So, he's one of those middle kids. Interchangeable with a handful of others on the team. Yet, for some reason, this is not how the coach sees him. The team has just played its fourth game. AJ has started two of them, hitting 9th, owing to the fact some kids were missing. The other two, he's been on the bench, hitting 11th (they use a continuous batting order). He's had but seven plate appearances in four games and has reached base in five of them. Of the kids who hit in front of him, three have yet to hit the ball or reach base. One of them hits 5th.

Further, when he does get to play the field, he's spent every inning in the outfield, despite the constant rotation of players by the coach. He is the only kid that has yet to play in the infield.

*

I find myself curiously more affected by this than I would expect. Perhaps it was my own experience thirty years ago. Perhaps I, as Emet says, "want AJ to succeed at baseball more than he does." It could be the dejected look on AJ's face when he sees that he is (again) not in the starting lineup or hears another kids name called to play second base.

I am so not built to be That Parent. I have not said anything to the coach. But I have now reached the stage of Beyond Fucking Irritated, because this coach has obviously formed a hard-shell opinion of my son and disregards anything he actually does on the field or at practice. And AJ is smart enough to notice it, too.

*

Having spent a dozen years as a coach, I give a great deal of leeway to coaches. It's not an easy gig. It can be frustrating, not so much the actual coaching part, but the dealings with administrators, officials and, yes, parents. At the same time, I feel like my experience gives me an insight into what goes into successful coaching, and am therefore critical of those who don't seem to get it. In a word, a coach must teach.

Makes sense, right? If we assume coaches want to win, the best way to do that is to instruct their players, correct? Teach them the skills and rules so the kids can succeed on the field. But teaching is not simply mechanics. Children learn differently. One can't endlessly repeat platitudes and expect to connect with children. You have to get through to them.

I had a kid last soccer season who was annoying as fuck. Just constantly underfoot and interrupting me at all times. Coincidentally, he was uncoordinated. He ran on the outside of his feet, which I'd never seen before. I would have been fine with him quitting. But, I had an obligation to him and his parents, as his coach, to work with him. And I knew I couldn't get through to him by treating him the same as the others. I needed patience. I needed to take it one small stride at a time and, most important, to find something in him that would inspire him to compete.

By the end of the season, he wasn't half bad. And he was less of a nuisance. And yes, he helped us win.

*

"How come I always have to play the outfield?" AJ asked me. I didn't have a good answer for him. I couldn't say, "The coach has his favorites" or "He just doesn't like you," two explanations I've already formed in my head. There is no real good reason. Each of the team's four games have been blowouts (two for us, two against us). How you don't let kids play different positions in those instances (especially when the games are LITERALLY out of reach thanks to a league rule that allows a maximum of five runs per inning) is beyond me. In AJ's case, he's completely aware that he's being "left out." Consequently, he's becoming less engaged with the team.

This speaks to the ability to recognize and teach kids. For AJ, getting to play second base is a reward, one that will keep him focused, keep him energized. He takes this situation as his failure. He sees injustice in it and, if there is one thing my child can't abide, it's injustice.

We had a practice at the batting cages last week. The head coach wasn't there, but the assistant (considerably more to my liking) was, as well as a parent (of the best player on the team) who helps out when needed. This parent gave AJ's swing more attention in 5 minutes than the head coach had all season. Not the rote bullshit, but actual, easy to understand instructions about hitting and, all of a sudden, he's not stepping in the bucket any more. Then he gets into the cage and turns into Paul Fucking Molitor. "He's got a great swing," the assistant coach remarked, after AJ lined ball after ball into the netting.

He was pumped. "Daddy, did you see the one I hit right back into the pitching machine?" etc. etc. I was pumped, too, though guarded. I wasn't sure the news would get back to the head coach, if maybe he's deign to move AJ up in the batting order, at least ahead of the kid who jumps out of the box every pitch.

*

A few days after Danny O'Brian told me I hadn't made the All-Star team, the coach called me. When he identified himself, I had this euphoric fantasy that I was on the team, there was an oversight, whatever, get your glove and get to practice. In fact, he wanted to know if I'd come to the field on Saturday to play a game against the All-Stars, he was rounding up an opponent comprised of us also-rans. Heart deflated, I told him sure.

"Why'd you say 'yes?'" my mother asked me, knowing full well how hurt I was.

"I want to show them they made a mistake by not picking me," I said.

That's the attitude I've imparted to AJ. He has to work harder. He has to show them what he can do. Don't give the coach a choice to sit him on the bench. Prove himself.

Yet, it has reached a point where I have my doubts.

*

AJ is playing centerfield, which, at this age, means the lip of the grass right behind 2nd base. With runners on first and second, he fields a hump-backed liner on two hops. He is poised to throw the ball to second for the force (that's another thing he's good at; he always knows the right base to throw to), because the runner isn't even halfway there. Except, neither the shortstop (who has never even moved toward the batted ball and remains rooted to his spot) nor second basemen (standing next to AJ, having chased the ball into the outfield) are at the bag. He's got the ball cocked but holds onto it instead, noting the situation and, seeing the runner arrive at second, throws the ball back to the pitcher.

The rule in the league is that runners can't advance once the pitcher has the ball, but, in the meantime, while AJ held the ball, the runner who started the play on second rounded third. He was more than halfway home when the pitcher caught AJ's throw, so he was deemed safe.

AJ gets back to the dugout at the end of the inning and his coach starts berating him for holding onto the ball and not getting it back to the pitcher. AJ starts to explain (though, why he should have to I don't know since any fucking moron watching the play could have deduced exactly what was happening) and the coach cuts him off and tells him to just throw the ball back to the pitcher (you know, not for nuthin', but teaching the kids to throw the ball to the pitcher every play isn't exactly teaching them baseball).

AJ is crushed. The shortstop unnoticed. Me? Fucking furious. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to rip that motherfucker's head off right there.

*

No, my son is not an All-Star. He's a kid who wants to hit and play second base. But more than that, though he can't articulate it, he wants to be treated fairly. Which is what I suppose we all want out of life. As adults, we know that fairness is an elusive notion. Injustice is part and parcel of life, of employment and relationships and class. AJ will need to learn that soon, too. But I'd like to delay it as long as possible.

I'd guess until about mid-season.

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Like Ninja

Date: Mon, Mar 29, 2010

While I was at work yesterday, my mother called to tell me what a sweet boy AJ had been during his sleepover at my sister's. I can only assume this is because he doesn't play the Ninja Game when over there. The Ninja Game is a new one where he tries to sneak up on me while I'm watching TV or playing with the poker machine. Most of the time, I see his reflection in windows or I hear him scuffling along on the carpet, but he's gotten me a couple times. Once, I was fully engrossed on the computer, laser focus, and he came up and slapped me on the back.

BOO!

I flew off the couch like I was dropped into hot grease.

Fucking Ninjas.

Back to him being sweet, though. Mom, of course, thinks Emet has had a good influence on the boy, which she has. Chief among her good traits, to Mom's eyes, is that she gets my lazy ass (and AJ's somewhat less lazy ass) to church more often. There's a tip for you fellas, if you want your Mom to like the girl you're bringing home, just casually mention that the two of you go to church. She's in.

We have all noticed a change in AJ recently. It's not that he's sweeter, really. It's that he's become more mature. With that maturity has come a better focus, like in his reading of situations, when to be respectful and behaved, as opposed to his usual 100 mph, goofy self.

We got to spend a few days together last week on his Spring Break and he's no longer that kid I have to keep right next to me for fear he'll wander off into traffic or stumble into a strip club by accident. He's more interactive. For instance, he's somewhat notorious among other kids for his non-sequiters. Yes, they are hilarious. But they were also a sign that he was not really listening to what's going on around him, was off in his own head (hmmm, wonder where he gets that from?) and when he finally returned to the group, he had nothing to contribute but the fact that he is enamored of Kit Kats.

Our Spring Break trip to the museums near USC was a revelation. Usually, we'd spend the week at amusement parks, but I figured he'd appreciate some culture. What I didn't expect was how inquisitive he'd be at the Science Museum. I found myself explaining every exhibit to him and he actually stood there and listened without chasing after the nearest shinier object. Most of the items there were hands-on, he got to shoot a rocket and pick the best sail angle for wind direction and go into the "Earthquake Room" and he was fascinated by all of it, never once pulling away from me as we discussed the science. Only once all day did he express the slightest dismay and that was when we had to leave.

*

When I got home from work last night, I got caught up on his day, him clinging to me as I changed clothes (not easy to do with 60 lbs. hugging your leg). We're joking around when comes the sound of a police helicopter outside. "Ohhhhh, somebody's busted!" I say. "Maybe they're looking for you," AJ says and I assure him I didn't do anything illegal.

Shortly, he went back to his playroom for video games and Emet slides up to me with a conspiratorial look on her face. I expected her to tell me a cute story about my adorable son, but she says, "Did you lock the door when you came in?" I did. "Because I heard voices and rustling in the back yard."

Really? We have criminals in our garden?

I go over to the open window and listen. Well, that could be rustling. No voices though. "Okay, stay here. Do you have your phone?" She did not. The helicopter flies over again and its spotlight is pretty close.

I hustle downstairs to grab both our phones, now in full-scale Man of the House Mode. I take them upstairs and instruct her to lock herself and the child in the bathroom should any shenanigans ensue. Now, I need a weapon.

I go back downstairs, quietly, listening intently. I turn on the backyard lights, which are more like nightlights than flood lights, and are thus not helpful. I check all the doors. We're good. I go into the garage and, holy shit, those are very definitely muffled voices I hear. Quickly, I grab a 5-iron, because it's my most reliable club, can stripe it 205 yards in my sleep, though it occurs to me later that the shorter shaft of a 9-iron was probably a better choice in the case of close hand combat, but I've been known to hit the 9 fat, so the confidence I have with the 5 probably outweighs that fact.

Regardless, I'm armed and ready to defend my castle. I lock the garage door behind me, feel the heft of the 5-iron in my hand and possibly take a practice swing or two, I can't quite recall. I'm making my way to the family room, listening intently, eying the windows for the slightest movement, impeccable Vardon Grip on the club, when...

BOO!

AJ jumps up from behind the couch, big self-congratulatory grin on his face, I think. I'm not sure, because I've shot through the ceiling.

"AJ!"

"Did I scare you?"

I'm not sure how, but I modulated my voice, if not my heartbeat, pretty quickly, so as not to alert him to the dangers RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR DOOR. "Honey, no more Ninja Game tonight, okay?"

"Okay." And he went back upstairs. It was then I realized I'd dropped the 5-iron.

Fucking ninjas.

*

There was nobody in our backyard. Or, if there was, they did not attempt to storm our dwelling. Emet and I laughed about it this morning. "I think you can put your 5-iron away," she said, seeing it leaned against my night stand.

"Yeah, the nine is probably better anyway."

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Is This Something You Might Be Interested In?

Date: Mon, Mar 22, 2010

There are not too many reasons Emet and I would voluntarily submit ourselves to the waterboard-esque torture of a time share presentation. Them holding AJ hostage would be one. Free golf would be the other.

Fortunately, it was the latter.

But...Oh. My. God. That must be eerily similar to what a cult is like.

We went into the (allegedly) 90-minute presentation with our eyes wide open. I'd been to one before and was somewhat amused by the indignation expressed by the salesfolk when we turned down their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This being a recession and all, I anticipated a softer sell. We figured we'd just be calm and friendly, participate where we were asked, patiently absorb the pitch and then walk away with our parting gifts. I even left outs, akin to arranging a phone call by your buddy to get you out of a bad blind date. We didn't check out of the resort, which had a noon deadline, so I could beg off if the pitch ran over. And then we'd have an hour before we teed off for bloody marys and some swings on the range.

The best laid plans...

Our salesman was a jovial fella named Dale. He was more of a zone trap kinda guy, as opposed to 94-feet of Hell. He was armed with more files than a congressional page, all photos of smiling children and impenetrable statistical data, designed to prove to Emet and I that, our entire lives, we've have been vacationing incorrectly.

Now, the resort is in the middle of facking nowhere. Fallbrook, CA to be exact. Sure, you can get to San Diego in 30 minutes. Or Disneyland in 80. We had a slight problem with this. "What do you like to do on vacation?" Dale asked. "Uh...go to sports events, gamble, drink, go to concerts."

Which is pretty much true. I'm sure it occurred to Dale right then, though he was a consummate pro--never giving up the ghost--that we could do none of those things at this resort.

For a while, it wasn't too painful. Then I noticed that we were running long. My watch had us at two hours already and we had yet to tour the models. Enter stress. You dare keep me from my bloody mary!

*

Emet and I are gracious people. We were willing to hear him out. We never had any intention of buying, but we got a bunch of free shit (golf! Kings tickets!), so we were going to play along. But, after we said, "No," they didn't stop. After we said, "We're late and we gotta get out of here," they didn't stop. I suppose it's their job. I don't begrudge them. We were there voluntarily. But...well...I finally snapped.

We had endured the initial pitch, then the closer (who did the amusing indignation thing), then a re-run from Dale (each time, the price getting lower and lower, to where it was 25% of what they initially offered) and a very slow walk down a hallway to pick up our gifts. When the clerk said, "Jackie will be right down to explain your gift package," I knew we were in store for one last effort and I wasn't about to let it happen.

Jackie arrived and said, "This way please," as she herded us toward her desk. "How are you?"

"Well Jackie," I began, spittle flying. "Not good. We were supposed to check out of our room 20 minutes ago, our tee time is in 40 minutes and our clubs are stuck in the room. Ya'll said it would be 90 minutes and we've now been here for two-and-a-half hours. We're done. We want to go."

I'm sure that was not Jackie's first time around at being the dart board for frustrated non-time share owners. She spun around, dropped our packet back with he clerk and told him to get us out of there. So, kudos to her.

Once back in the car, all was right again. Well, except for having to petition the front desk to let us into our room to get our stuff ("This kind of thing happens all the time with those people," she said). And it was golf time.

*

Boy, am I an addict. It's currently golf that takes up all my time and ambition. You know what they say, you've got to play to get better. So, I pretty much spend all my off-days playing golf (and going to Little League practice). Fortunately, Emet likes to play too, so we get some date time out on the fairways.

The jones is strong. It was even worse yesterday, because last Thursday, I shot an 86. A 4-over 40 on the back. That may be small potatoes for guys like The Bracelet and schaubs, but it's the first time I've broken 90 in 15 years (though, to be fair, I didn't play for 13-and-a-half of those). And I shattered it. Beat my best at that course by 6 strokes. I'd been flirting with 90 recently, however (like a couple weeks ago when I went double-triple-double on the last 3 holes for a 94) and am real comfortable with my swing. I've been hitting the ball great. Sadly, I putt like a blindfolded epileptic.

I was pumped to get back out there. So pumped, apparently, that I was hitting the ball way further than usual (or that may have just been sweet relief at not being imprisoned in a time share presentation any longer). To wit: My second shot into the par-4 first hole was a substantially-uphill 140 yards to the middle of the green. I hit a full 8-iron about 145, which I figured might be a little short due to the elevation change, but all the trouble was behind the green, so I went with it. And hit it 10 yards over, where it landed on the cart path and bounced down into a canyon. Triple.

Missed the green long with a 9 on hole #2. Double.

Then I figured out the air was thin or all those push-ups were paying dividends or the booze was making my swing freer and easier. Either way, I adjusted. Though those first two holes screwed my front nine (49), I rebounded with a solid 43 on the back (which featured a birdie on the 11th, an occasion for which I whipped out a celebration dance that was embarrassing for everyone involved).


Does that read like a hand history? I don't care. Eff you.

I didn't break 90 again, but this course was more difficult than the one I usually play, much narrower fairways and lots more OB issues (though, amazingly, I had just the single penalty stroke and lost ball on the first hole). I walked off the 18th in a great mood and can't wait to play again (Wednesday). All in preparation for donkeypuncher's visit in two weeks, where I expect to win lots of money from him on the links.


*

So, I suppose it was worth it in the end. Got to experience a nice new course. Had a night away with Emet (we gambled at Pala Indian Casino a bit the night before, but I didn't play poker because I hate being that guy whose girlfriend sits behind him bored to tears). And learned, finally, once and for all, to never submit to a time share presentation ever again.

But I suppose joining a cult is still in play. If they have a nice course with reasonable green fees.

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The Edge

Date: Sun, Mar 14, 2010

I've been anxious a lot lately. Big Time. A swirling ache. Where I can't sit still. It's been bad since Saturday, which was Opening Day, which is a terrible day to be anxious because it's the best day of the year, all the little boys and girls in their pristine uniforms and nobody's struck out yet and no coaches have yelled at umps yet (which, incidentally, lasted all of ONE batter in AJ's first game) and everyone's 0-0 with a slate as fresh as the dirt on the infield.

But yeah. On edge.

It wasn't difficult for me to pinpoint a reason. I've spent the better part of three weeks trying to arrange my schedule around AJ's baseball practices and games. Many of them are during the week and at a time I have no chance of making, due to my hours and long-ish commute. Emet has graciously lent a hand. Not so with X. Not to bitch about her lack of involvement, but the fact is, these sorts of things don't matter to her. Or matter enough for her to move things around to help.

When I was 8, I tried to beg out of a soccer game, claiming sickness. The real reason was the size and aggressiveness of my opponent that day. Bigger kids. Older kids. The aptly-named Crusaders. My mother was having none of it. She sat me down and explained that I had made a commitment to play soccer and I was going to honor it. That I had an obligation of myself, my teammates and my coaches to show up and do my best. Obviously, that lesson has stuck.

There's another reason I've been so adamant that AJ not miss a practice. He's in a new league. An outsider. The coach knows all the players and the parents. They've played together for a couple years. AJ had to be there if he wanted a chance to impress, to penetrate a tight group with a history together (I should note the coaches and parents have all been quite lovely). He needed to make an impression.

*

Thanks to an empathetic boss, picking up some shifts on Sundays and the ever-supportive Emet, we've managed to get him to every game and practice. Where I sit and scrutinize his every move. On the edge of my seat. That anxiety.

And, I'm sorry to say, I crossed over from supportive to That Guy.

*

"AJ, you know Daddy loves sports and sometimes gets really excited. Like when we watch the Kings play and they score a goal. It's the same when I watch you play sports. I want you to do well, because I know it makes you happy. Remember when you scored that goal against the Cobras? You were so excited. And that made ME excited. It was awesome to see your face. I know you were proud and I was proud of you. Same when you scored those baskets last week. But sometimes Daddy gets too excited and instead of being happy for you, he wants to be happy for himself. And that's not right. Because of that, I've been too hard on you sometimes and not let you just play and have fun. I'm sorry. I still want you to behave yourself, pay attention and listen to your coaches. But when you are playing, don't be nervous about what Daddy will say. Just do your best, support your teammates and have fun."

I offered that mea culpa to AJ last night as I put him in bed. He seemed...grateful...relieved. At one point he reached up to hug me.

*

I felt better. Sure. But realized at the same time that the source of anxiety was not his baseball schedule or my burst of over-bearing parenting. It was time. It was that I spend hours moving my life around (and thinking about ways to move my life around) to see my son play baseball. And what have I done with that time? I threw batting tips at him like nasty curveballs, tossed him disapproving glances when he messed around. I couldn't control myself enough in those precious hours, not enjoying the mood of boys at play, instead spending them bombarding him with instruction.

Instruction I couldn't give him at other times because we weren't together. I was at work. Or he was at his Mom's. No time. And that's from where the anxiety stemmed, that deep-down knowledge that I lose him. Continually. Three days this week; four the next. Time he should be with his Dad. Time I spend frantically trying to maximize, while, at the same time, being sidetracked by the pressure of it all.

When X was plotting her escape, I said to her, "You are voluntarily giving up half of your life with your son. He's four now; he'll be 18 when he goes off to college. That's seven years you're giving away; seven years you're taking from me." Dramatic? Sure. I was pulling out all the stops. But it still rings true for me on a regular basis. I miss him when he's not around. And I know he misses me. There are days when he won't even leave my sight, where we sit on the couch, him not next to me, but physically on me.

No, he's not been taken away from me, but sometimes he's not there when I want to talk to him. I miss the funny things he says and does at his Mom's. Just his presence, and how it brings an entirely different dynamic to our home.

*

Like many times in my life, just logically pinpointing the source of my issues goes a long way toward resolving them. It's a better day. I came in to work a little later today so I could take him to school. Nothing major. No great bonding miracle or timeless moment. Just an extra 45 minutes together.

Sometimes, that'll do.

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Seven Deadly Sins

Date: Mon, Jan 25, 2010

I've been living in full-scale Soccer Dad Mode recently. AJ is simultaneously involved in basketball and baseball right now, on the heels of a short break following soccer season. We're talking about five games/practices a week and coupled with the morning and evening trips to school, the two of us spend a lot of time in the car together.

These short drives serve as a forum for wide-ranging discussions, information from the playground, his mom's house (where he spent all of Sunday in his pajamas playing video games. When I suggested this was perhaps a waste of a good day, he replied that his teen-age step-brother did it too, so it must be okay) and whatever is on his mind.

What was on his mind last night was a new video game he was playing when I came to pick him up. "You have to commit seven deadly sins in a fortnight," he said. As I searched for a reply, he added, "What's a fortnight?"

That was not the last of the questions.

"What's gluttony?"
"That's when you have too much of something."
"What's envy?"
"That's when you desire something that someone else has."
"Oh, I thought that was lust."

Cue Jon Stewart "Wha wha wha what?" Face.

"No honey, lust is when you desire the someone, not the something."
"Oh."
"Let's go back to envy."

*

Envy is a difficult thing to explain to an 8-year-old. Of course they want the video game their friend has, or the bed that looks like a race car. "It's okay to want things for yourself," I said. "We can call them goals and to reach them, you have to work hard."

Coincidentally, this is an ethos that he has recently begun to understand. We're in a new Little League district, owing to the move, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to play this year. I refrained from talking him into it, but I did want to know the reasons why not. There were a couple. He didn't want it to interfere with basketball, which he loves. And he didn't have a good time playing baseball last year, called it "boring" because the coach always made him play in the outfield.

I assured him the former wouldn't be a problem. The latter, more difficult. I couldn't tell him that his coach last year was an asshole and that he was far from the only kid who didn't enjoy the season. Instead, I asked him what he thought would make baseball more fun for him.

He wants to pitch. And he wants to win.

Well shit. I've got a Daddy Speech for that.

*

What I had to do was make the connection for him between success and desire. If he wants to pitch, he has to earn it. He has to practice, take instruction and apply it. In short, make a commitment to this goal. You don't achieve anything by wishing it so. And that goes for everything.

I often rail against the Self Esteem Movement. We're all worthwhile, blah, blah, blah, and we are therefore all equally entitled to praise and worship. Bullshit. Praise without cause does not give kids self-esteem. It gives them license to skate. It ingrains the knowledge that no matter how lowly one performs, he will be passed through because, god forbid, we demand excellence from anyone. Self-esteem comes from within, from effort, from knowing you've done all you can. I'm not about to sugar-coat AJ's deficiencies and I'm sure as hell not going to defend him to teachers/coaches/psychiatrists if he runs afoul of what is expected of him.

I told him, "You want it. Go get it." So he did. And hit the fan.

*

I'm not sure there's anything better in life than having your son say, "Daddy, can I pitch some to you?" I mean, that's what I'm on the Earth for. I squatted down on the front lawn and chased his errant throws. I gave him a few tips and he started throwing it over the plate. thinking I needed to simulate game action, I went into the garage and brought out a standing fan, about the perfect height for an 8-year-old, and put it in the right-hand batter's box.

Perhaps I shouldn't have gotten so confident so soon. Damn hubris.

He hit it twice, turning it from a working fan into a prop we now use for pitching practice. Still, he threw it pretty well. Not well enough to pitch for the Rookie Diamondbacks just yet, I don't think, but well enough to keep working on it.

"I pitched pretty good, huh Daddy?" he asked.
"You did son, but you'll do even better after more practice."
"I know, but I was good."

I suppose we'll get around to talking about Pride soon enough.

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