Play Ball

The Little League team rosters got released today. I'm a coach this year, taking the opportunity to role model for an audience wider than my own family.

My youngest has reached the age where it's no longer assumed that you play with your friends. League reps try to juggle skills, neighborhoods, schools, relationships, and a million other things when they put together teams, most of which results in everybody hating them. Not bad for a volunteer position.

I've explained this to the boy. For the most part, he understands. Watching SportsCenter three hours a day has given him insight into drafts, trades, and competitive balance (not to mention salary caps and high-profile arrests). He wants to be on a team with all of his buddies, but he also knows that a lot of them are pretty good ballplayers and it wouldn't be right to do that. There's one friend in particular, though, his best friend, the one kid he really, really wants to play with and the one kid who feels the same way about playing with him. They both know, however, that it's a crap shoot. There are a lot of teams and not a lot of guarantees.

So, the rosters came out today and I brought one home. He was downstairs watching television, SportsCenter of course. When he saw me come in, knowing that I had the roster, he looked nervous.

I yelled down, "Hey, want to see the roster?"

"Yeah, sure, I think, I mean I want to see it, who's on the team, do I get to play with my best friend, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, who are we playing with, I bet he's not on the team, I never get anything, I bet he's on the team, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad. . . ."

"For God's sake, feed the dog and we'll look at it."

We did. We got a fair shake. Some decent players, some kids I know, a bunch I've never met. It should be a good season, a chance to teach some things about hitting and pitching and sportsmanship. My boy will have fun, I think.

His best friend? He's on the team. I suppose it shouldn't matter. After all, there comes a time when sports isn't mostly about friendship.

For at least one more year, though, I'm glad it is.

Call Me Ishmael

Saturday night, I slept in a casino parking lot.

It's not as bad as it sounds. I wasn't with my family.

Wait, that's not helping. Here's the story.

This weekend was going to be a hunter-gatherer deal, a chance for some friends and me to bring home sustenance for our lovely brides and precious angels.

"They're calling for bad weather," we all heard as we packed our gear.

"Bad weather? Do you stop needing food just because it's bad weather? That's all the more reason for us to go."

"There's a grocery store five blocks from home."

"Grocery stores are for weenies."

The roads were fine on Saturday morning. What do women know? Predicting the weather is man's work. We got to our destination, unpacked, and started fishing. Didn't have much luck, but that was alright, we were comfortable and had a full cooler.

About 5 o'clock, someone suggested running up the casino for dinner. It was only 20 or 30 miles away, there's a nice buffet, and we could do a little gambling so that we could shower our families with both fish and cash when we returned home.

By 10 o'clock we were ready to head back. Granted, it's not a good sign when a sheriff's car is in the ditch, but that's why you pay extra for four-wheel drive.

There were flags that marked the turn-off to our rental cabin. At least there had been in the afternoon. Now, we couldn't see more than a few feet and the flags sure as hell didn't seem to be there. We weren't even sure we were where the turn-off was supposed to be.

One of the guys volunteered to get out and go look for them. He walked ten feet and turned around.

"Do you think he saw something?"

"Yeah, a wolf."

"Maybe. I wonder if he'll make it back to the car."

"Turn off the headlights. That should freak him out."

Entertaining as the rest of us found this, at this point even we knew it was time to give up. By now, the casino hotel was full. As were the rest of the hotels in the area. The casino itself was open, of course (Mammon never sleeps), so back there we went.

It's fun to gamble at 1 or 2 in the morning. It feels like a sophisticated evening out with the Rat Pack. By 3 a.m., however, I was starting to wonder if perhaps we'd really died on the road out there and I'd ended up in hell. This wouldn't be unexpected, but I've kind of been hoping I could delay it for a few more years.

To make matters worse, the piped-in music was almost entirely "Greatest Hits of the 80s." If there's something more horrible than listening to Madonna sing "Material Girl" while you're pumping money into a nickel slot machine, perhaps I should reconsider my lifestyle after all.

Meanwhile, two of my friends had settled in at one of the poker tables. Another was roaming in circles around the casino floor, looking more and more like a tiger in a too-small cage. The last was sitting at the slot machine next to me, his face taking on a pasty, overly-caffeinated look. I suspected I was starting to look like him. Not something I wanted even on one of his good days.

"Give me the keys. I'm going to the car."

I've spent more nights sleeping in vehicles than I care to remember, but it's been a while. Exhaustion finally caught up to me, though, and I was able to doze for an hour or so. Apparently I at least looked refreshed when I went back in, because the others gave it a try as well, sleeping in shifts until the sun came up and we could find our way back to the cabin.

Now, why one of our party felt obligated to call home and tell his spouse all this will forever remain a mystery. Needless to say, the story quickly made its way to the rest of the wives, not to mention our children, none of whom had much respect for us to begin with. It didn't help that we hadn't caught any fish.

"How'd the hunting and gathering go?"

"Be quiet."

We've already planned next fall's hunting trip. One of the guys isn't crazy that he got picked to be the moose decoy, but he'll get over it.

Parent Of The Year, Part 2

Oldest child: Can I kill my brother?

Me: No. We don't have burial insurance. I haven't been a very good parent, so if he dies I'll feel guilty and have get him an expensive casket. Then we won't have as much money to spend on you.

Oldest child: That makes sense.

[Pause while oldest child goes downstairs and talks to youngest. Youngest comes upstairs.]

Youngest child: Did you tell him he could kill me if it wasn't so expensive?

Me: I guess it sounds bad when you put it like that.

Cruel To Be Kind

I took two of my PAs*, and a friend of theirs, to the big city for a game last night. The tickets came from a friend. Rich Guy seats for a change, instead of the nosebleeds.

It's always interesting to go to sporting events in the middle of the week. It was a school night and most parents are more responsible than me, so there weren't many kids. Instead, there were a lot of people who came straight from work, via a dinner stop at one of the nearby bars. A lot of twenty-somethings who still think it's fun to dress up for work, middle-aged men out with their colleagues (sorry dear, won't be home tonight, got this job thing I've got to go to), some older gentlemen, most of whom looked like lawyers.

There was a smattering of others too, more couples than there used to see, a few groups of women. Occasionally some obviously less affluent people, although with today's ticket prices, baseball is the last sporting refuge of the corporately unendowed. For the most part, though, young professionals and upper-middle class men.

Now, I'm not an "eat the rich" kind of guy. For one thing, a lot of people would find me a pretty tasty target. Furthermore, I don't think there's anything wrong with working hard and enjoying the results. At some point, it's just greedy (Diamond Jim Brady without the panache), but not too many of the people in this crowd fall into that category.

No, what I don't like about these crowds is that they reek of frat boy Republicanism. The mix of testosterone, alcohol, and money too often leads to people like George W. Bush; as Jim Hightower put it, guys who were born on third base and think they hit a triple. Not really the kind who will pick a fight, they're not brave enough for that. More the type who'll rag on the homeless guy asking for change outside the arena and then spend the rest of the evening swapping Hitlery jokes.

Anyway, last night was one of those giveaway nights, everybody got a little something as they came in. We sat down a couple of rows in front of a group of guys who couldn't have looked more like my stereotype had they tried; early-30s, wearing suits with recently removed ties, drinking beer, talking loud. The boys started comparing their souvenirs, excited by junk as only kids can be. Pretty soon, I heard, "Hey, buddy. Hey, buddy, turn around."

So I did. One of them was holding a handful of the giveaways that he'd collected from his buddies. "Here, the kids want them?"

Of course.

Later, during one of the breaks in the game, t-shirts were getting thrown into the stands, people diving for them and whooping when they got one. A shirt arced our way and one of the boys stood up to try to catch it. Sitting next to him was one of the older guys, white hair, distinguished, wearing expensive business casual. Tall and thin, someone with time and money to spend at the gym. A good foot taller than the kid. He stood up and easily plucked it out of the air.

He smiled at the boy, handed him the shirt, and said, "Here you go, son. You look like you want this a lot more than I do."

These were kind, generous things to do. Now, maybe last night was just a fluke and we happened to be sitting amongst a bunch of social justice organizers who won new wardrobes and tickets to the game. Probably not, though. I'd bet a significant sum of money that at least some of the people in question happily and repeatedly vote for people and policies that are anything but kind and generous.

President Ford's press secretary Jerald terHorst once said, "If [President Ford] saw a schoolkid in front of the White House who needed clothing he'd give him the shirt off his back, literally. Then he 'd go right in the White House and veto a school-lunch bill." I understand the psychology. I don't understand the reasoning.

* Precious Angels

Duck, Duck, Stupid Duck

That Mallard Fillmore, he's hilarious! So what were those lazy, good-for-nothing federal employees doing yesterday?

In a rare coordinated assault on an American combat outpost north of Baghdad, suicide bombers drove one or more cars laden with explosives into the compound on Monday, while other insurgents opened fire in the ensuing chaos, according to witnesses and the American military. Two American soldiers were killed and at least 17 were wounded.

That figures. Taking it easy while we hardworking stiffs have to hump it over to the old cartoon sweatshop. It's enough to drive a guy to drink.

The Evolution Of Democracy

Happy Presidents Day!

Lies, Damned Lies And Statistics