It's A Long Season

Tonight was an ugly one for the good guys. Up against a bigger, older team, one with pitchers who can bring some heat. And a home plate umpire, supplied by their side, with an extremely . . . flexible strike zone. Which is okay, the umpires are parent volunteers, but it would be nice if it was reciprocally flexible.

The game wasn't too bad after the first inning, only 5-4. Then the wheels came off. One of our normally solid players caught in a fugue state in the outfield, a ball rolling past him for a double. Two of our best hitters coming up with the bases loaded and striking out. Balls getting booted around the infield, kids not only failing to cover, but failing to have any idea they were supposed to cover. Some asshole parent from the other team shrieking like a banshee until Coach P. turned to one of our dads, looked at his pitch counter, and muttered under his breath, "I'm going to miss this after I ram it down that guy's throat." Which we all thought was funny even if Coach P.'s wife didn't.

There were a few bright spots. Nobody died. I didn't punch the other coach when he ran his team on an overthrow back to the pitcher. Stuff like that.

And some other things. The boys high-fived our batters who struck out, saying, "Nice at bat" and "Way to take your cuts." When one of our pitchers gave up five runs in an inning, the rest of the team slapped him on the back when he came off and congratulated him for getting the ball over the plate. Everybody said thanks to the snack captain.

There were some individual stand-outs too. Slorn got walked to drive in a run. Then, playing in center field, he made a nice play to knock down a hard-hit ball. His dad came over and asked, "Did he really just make a diving stop?"

"Yep," I answered.

"I'll be damned," he said and walked away.

In fact, we named Slorn player of the game tonight. Everybody, parents and kids, clapped for him and he got a coupon from a local ice cream shop. He smiled in his goofy way and said, "Thanks Coach."

Then P. and I took our kids, and one of the other kids from the team, and one of the other dads, and we all went out for beer and soda and wings and gumballs and stayed up too late. And now the boys will be tired at school tomorrow, but it's almost the weekend, and they cheered for each other, and what the hell, they earned it.

Goodbye

Tomorrow is a retirement party. The guest of honor is back in the city, having spent some time away. She's not well. The cancer's been at her for a while and the diagnoses aren't getting better.

For a lot of us, tomorrow will probably be our goodbye. She'll leave town again and that might be it. We're friends, but work friends. We know her husband a little, but not her kids or their kids. If it comes to it, we'll attend her funeral and we'll miss her, but our own lives are busy and other things will fill that space.

But she'll be in town and we'll have a party. We'll hug her, shake her husband's hand, tell her she's looking good. We'll have a few drinks and dinner, toast her, secretly admire her courage in small whispers at the back of the room. We'll drive home to our own families, a little sad, and give them an extra kiss while they sleep. Then we'll lie awake thinking.

And she'll have given us that.

UPDATE: After the meal, after presents were given and speeches were made, she stood in front of us, smiled, and said, "It's easier to be happy than to be sad."

Almost Famous

I’m sitting at work today and I get a text message.

“Won 8-2.”

It’s my oldest, dropping me a note from his tennis match. I text back, “Sweet!!”

I get a response. “Dork.”

When I pick him up I ask, “Why am I a dork?”

“Two exclamation points. That’s stupid.”

I make some smart-ass comment and he says, “See, that’s why people hate you.”

Which is true, it’s just most people hide it better. I’m used to it by now, so I just laugh and think how each passing day brings me blessedly closer to the grave.

We get home. My middle kid, the one with a band concert tonight, is nowhere to be seen. I yell his name.

No answer.

I yell his name again.

Still no answer, but I see his shoes so he has to be somewhere. Even he isn’t enough of a pinhead to run around the neighborhood in his socks. At least not while it’s raining.

I scream. “Goddamnit, where the hell are you?”

My youngest peeks his head around the corner. “We’re in the computer room.”

“Turn that stupid thing off,” I say. “We have to eat and your brother has a concert. Are you coming?”

From the look the youngest gives me I may as well have asked him to eat raw squirrel. Which I did a couple of years ago, to similar effect.

I yell the name of my middle son again. Face red, blood pressure dangerously high.

“What?” I finally hear.

“Turn that freaking thing off and get up here,” I shriek. “You have to eat, get dressed, and get your instrument ready.”

“Why are you always yelling?” he asks.

It’s 6:00 p.m. and I already need a drink.

He eats, puts on his concert clothes (after much arguing over whether he has to wear a shirt with a collar, which he does), and grabs his instrument. Off we head to middle school.

Sitting in the auditorium, a half hour before the concert starts, I’m accosted by an neighbor with strong views on a public works project. We talk street construction, liquor licensing, property taxes. This is the interesting part of my life.

The music begins. I can’t see my son, he plays an instrument that lands him in the back, but I know in theory he’s somewhere in the auditorium so I feign interest. Where do they get these pieces? Ringtones are more interesting. I have a headache, which isn’t getting better as the night goes on.

I meet him in the hall after the concert. “You guys sounded good.”

“We were awful,” he says.

Define awful, I think. “No really, it was good. Especially the part where your section had a solo.”

He looks at me skeptically, convinced I’m lying, which I am. The only people they sounded good to were me and the other the parents in the auditorium.

We get in the car. I turn on the radio and an old Bob Marley song is playing. It’s great. I liked his concert more.

Growing Up Moose

Regular readers have already seen this blog's glossy coverage of the moose demographic. That's an important part of the story and not to be taken lightly. Friend of Befouled Jennifer, though, is concerned that the seamier side of moose life is not properly understood. Point well taken. Let's take a visit to that other side of the tracks.
















Doris

Doris, shown here awaiting trial on charges of cranberry possession, has spent much of her short life behind bars. Abandoned by her father at an early age, she dropped out of school shortly after becoming pregnant with the first in a series of illegitimate calves. Despite the best efforts of a parade of social workers, Doris has never held a job for more than three weeks and shows little interest in settling down.





















Stanley

If you look closely enough, you can see the three teardrops tattooed next to Stanley's right eye. Each one represents a kill, the result of a vicious turf war between Stanley's crew and a gang of knife-wielding whitetail. Although he was born into a comfortable middle-class family, an early taste for malt liquor started his long, downhill slide. When not brawling with his mates, Stanley can typically be found running numbers or shaking down neighborhood widows for loose change. Local law enforcement officials don't expect Stanley to see his next birthday.















Jane

The inspiration for Jane's Addiction's song "Jane Says," this lost soul has been working the streets of British Columbia as long as she can remember. Her dead eyes belie the smile she uses to entice visiting conventioneers. Numerous convictions for petty theft, loitering, and solicitation charges have left her virtually unemployable in the straight world.


Desperate to avoid confronting these hard issues, society too often tries to sweep them under the rug. Until we grab them by the antlers, however, we cannot hope to make progress. These stories are brutal, but they are also reality.

Bon Appétit, Volume 2

While we are on the subject of animals, it seemed a good time to discuss some more of my favorite ways to cook them. Check out these delicious recipes.

1. Black Rhino Soufflé

Capture and kill one medium black rhino. Saw off horn and discard remainder of rhino. Grind horn into powder, mix with other soufflé ingredients, and bake until soufflé-like.

Serves 1.

2. Loggerhead Fettuccine

Shell and devein 10-12 loggerhead sea turtle hatchlings. Melt 3 tbsps. butter and sauté hatchlings until pink. Set aside.

In meantime, boil large pot of water and cook 1 lb store-bought fettuccine noodles per instructions on package. Drain and set aside.

In pan used to sauté hatchlings, add 1 cup whipping cream and 1 cup grated Parmesan. Cook on low heat until cheese is melted. Salt and pepper to taste.

When sauce is done, add hatchlings and continue cooking on low until warmed through. Toss with fettuccine noodles, sprinkle with parsley and additional grated Parmesan, and serve immediately.

Serves 4-6.

3. Braised Elk Gizzards

Peel 20-30 young elk. Wash, dry, and refrigerate gizzards.

Make elk stock by simmering remainder of elk in large 40-gallon pot until tender, approximately 3 weeks. Drain pot, reserving liquid.

Finely chop elk and combine with 1 bay leaf, 3 cloves, 1/2 finely chopped celery stalk, and one sprig thyme to make a bouquet garni. Add bouquet garni to stock and boil until reduced to 2 cups.

Heat 3 tbsps. olive oil in skillet until almost smoking. Add gizzards and cook until well-browned. Reduce heat and add elk stock and 1/2 cup dry white wine. Partially cover and cook for 25-30 minutes or until gizzards are medium-rare. While cooking, add additional wine or isopropyl to skillet if gizzards appear to be drying out.

Serves 6 as a main course, 82 as an appetizer.

Working 9 To 5

The use of "working" animals is a growing trend, both at home and around the world. While dogs remain a favorite because of their keen sense of smell, loyalty, and delicate flavor, others are also gaining a foothold in our daily lives.




















Fire Cows

Many cities are increasingly turning to the noble bovine as a firehouse companion. Besides sharing the Dalmatian's traditional coloring, fire cows combine courage, selflessness, and a surprisingly dry sense of humor. Saved by the bell? More like saved by a cow!





















Mediation Weasels

When seemingly intractable interpersonal disputes arise, many people turn to the weasel. Blessed with profound wisdom and infinite supplies of patience, the weasel commands instant respect. Family court judges in particular find the weasel an excellent resource in child custody matters.















Border Crows

Although crows have long been favored companions of celebrities and the ultra-rich, they were originally bred as winged ranch hands. Watching a border crow herd his charges down a western mountain trail is one of the quintessential American experiences. Giddy-yup, little fella!



















Guard Squid

More than a handful of intruders have come to regret trying to burgle an establishment protected by one of these ferociously territorial animals. While they are gentle and affectionate to those with whom they're familiar, they are equally capable of snaring and digesting those who are perceived as a threat. If the sign says "Beware of Squid," you'd better believe it!

















Search and Rescue Badgers

As one of Nature's gentlest creatures, the badger is ideally suited for locating lost children. One can only imagine the sense of relief a young person would feel upon seeing a badger's cockeyed grin lope into sight. No wonder they're a favorite visitor at nursing homes.

Yes, animals remain companions, friends, and meat. More and more, however, they are also colleagues. So, be careful how you treat our animal friends - someday you may be working for one!

Coach Of The Year, Part 3

We had a scrimmage the other day, dads against kids. It wasn't full teams, just six boys, plus my youngest, against six dads, plus my oldest.

The boys score a run. "That's minus eight for you," says one of the dads.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"When you score a run on a double, it's negative runs."

The boys shake their heads in disbelief. A few minutes later, one of them gets called out at second on a force.

"That's not fair," he howls.

His dad looks at him from the outfield. "The Fair's in August. Don't worry about it until then."

Another kid comes up. He points his bat at right field and calls his shot. His old man beans him.

"Looks like you've got 'Rawlings' tattooed on your back," I remark, pulling his shirt back over the blotch on his spine as he huffs and tries to collect himself. "We'll have to get you a matching one that says 'Wilson.'"

My youngest bats. He reaches second and belly-flops on top of it, convinced we'll steal it from under him. Smart kid.

The dads come up to bat. We score on three consecutive quasi-bunts.

"Those runs have a multiplier factor. It's twenty to negative seventeen."

My youngest throws a ball at me. The rest of the boys shriek.

"This game is stupid."

"You're making up rules."

"Cheaters."

We laugh. They're right.

What a great day.