The Boys Of Summer

I drove 300 miles for lunch today, leaving early this morning to get to my appointment. It was in a small town, all crops and church steeples. We ate at the local café, a place full of people whose grandparents and great-grandparents came from Germany so many years ago. Lunch was sauerkraut and sausage and apple sauce and dark bread and dumplings, everything good and made in the kitchen behind the counter. We talked about crop prices, and about the school that closed because there aren't enough kids in town anymore, and about baseball. A lot of the small towns are dying, but until they do, there's still town ball and a chance to remember all the men who ever played on those fields.

I thought about that tonight when our boys were playing their own game.

I thought about it when the kid who hadn't gotten a hit all year lined a triple into left field and jumped up and down on the base while his parents and his grandparents and his teammates and their parents and Coach P. and I jumped up and down with him.

I thought about it when the umpire called one of our runners safe and Coach P. walked over and told him that our guy was late getting to the base and convinced him to change his call, a third out that killed our big inning, and the other coach walked over and said, "Thanks, guys."

I thought about it at the ice cream shop, a place that's become a ritual after games, where my son and his best friends ate their cones and relived the game and chased each other around the picnic tables while we parents told them to settle down without really meaning it.

I thought about it and understood that we do not celebrate wins, we celebrate that our town is still alive, and so are we, and that someday people will talk about the boys and girls who played here.

If We Can Land A Man On The Moon

There's been a lot of talk in recent years about the decline of the American entrepreneurial spirit. I don't buy that. Any nation that can build a Buick can rule the world.

The problem is these damn kids nowadays are thinking too small. Here are some of the things I hope they're engineering with my tax dollars.

1. Methane Powered Cats

There are a lot of cats in the world today, more than 8 trillion by one count (mine). Each cat consumes food, which takes fuel to grow. Our current energy crisis can therefore be directly attributed to cats. If cats could instead be bred to live off methane, and then attached to cow anuses, much like lampreys on trout, there would be more than enough oil to go around. We could then withdraw from Iraq, allowing it to continue to flourish as a paradise on earth.

2. Disposable Souls

We have made great progress in our noble quest to throw everything away. We have disposable napkins, disposable diapers, even disposable countries (see Iraq, above). What we don't have are disposable souls.

Let's say you commit a mortal sin. Sure, you can fast, go to confession, do whatever your religion demands in order to save your soul. What a pain in the neck. What if instead you could simply toss your soiled old eternity in a Soul Genie and slap in a brand spanking new one? In your face, Father O'Leary! To say nothing of the dramatic reduction in awkward Sunday morning conversations.

3. Rechargeable Snacks

Who doesn't like a handful of AAA batteries after lunch? As we all know, however, once they've been through the old digestive tract, they're not good for much else. Batteries run on acid - why can't they be designed so stomach acids recharge them? Eat and play - the motto of the future.

4. Portable Stadiums

Professional sports teams are constantly threatening to move unless they get new stadiums. Let's cut out the bureaucracy and invent stadiums they can bring with them. Everybody wins but the architects, and they're a sneaky bunch under the best of circumstances.

5. Inflatable Pork

There's nothing worse than looking forward to a fine meal of pork, only to sit down to a clearly inadequate portion. While some of us (me) would use this as an excuse to pocket our host's silverware and sneak out the back door, that's not a viable option for everyone. In that case, just hook up a bicycle pump to your bacon and you're in business.

So come on MIT and all you other sciency schools. Let's get inventing!

Put Me In Coach, I'm Ready To Play

Tonight was game number 10 for the mighty warriors of the Little League diamond. After the first inning, the score was tied 2-2. We broke it open after that, eventually winning 17-12. It was only that close because we put in a couple of our less experienced pitchers in the last couple of innings. God bless the five-run rule.

The last week has seen the team continue to grow in unexpected ways. Slorn continues to make his unique contribution to the group, wandering around the dugout and repeating in a mechanical voice, "tampering with the smoke detectors in the lavatories is a federal offense." It turns out that one of the player's mothers is a family therapist and I suggested to Slorn that he lie down on the bench and describe his childhood to her. He sort of giggled and broke into the chorus of the musical he's currently rehearsing with his choral group.

I asked him, "Do you know what Dada is?"

"No coach, what?"

"It was an absurdist art movement of the early 20th century. For some reason I'm reminded of it when you're around."

"Cool," he said. The family therapist was standing nearby and shook her head. She continues to find our coaching style "interesting."

"In fact," I continued, "I bet in about 20 years you'll be starring in some extremely off-Broadway show."

"Cool," he said again before wandering off to practice his flight attendant impersonations.

Meanwhile, my little punk decided to take an attitude when he got reassigned to center field at the last minute. The kid playing second is new to the position and I told my boy that he needed to back up the base pretty closely. The first throw to second base elicited no response from my son, although the ball almost got past the infielder. The second throw also elicited no response, even though the ball rolled right between center and left. The left fielder, no expert himself, finally corralled the ball and threw it in.

"Hey," I shouted. "You in center field, you better get your head in the game."

The opposing team's coach stared at me until I explained, "My kid," and then he nodded in understanding.

I glanced at Coach P. "I'm going to kill him. Go ahead, stick him in right field the rest of the game."

Coach P. said, "I'll talk to him."

The inning ended and the boy came off the field. Coach P. pulled him aside, out of earshot of the others. "Your dad's a coach and you're one of the best players on the team. If you're not going to take this seriously, neither will the others. Don't ever do that again."

The boy looked chagrined, far more so than if I had talked to him. He put on his helmet and walked to the batter's box. When he hit a ground ball to short, he beat it out for an infield single. The rest of the game he made sure he was the first guy off the bench to slap the backs of his teammates.

Good. I don't care if I raise a baseball player, but I sure as hell don't want to raise a brat.

I've Come A Long Way, Baby!

Many people have asked, who is this Snag, international gourmand, music critic, and poet?

Excellent question. Please allow me to introduce myself.

I was born many decades ago in a small hamlet in Peru, the scion of missionary parents. My father, a well-known cartoonist, died during childbirth. Shortly after, my mother, a devout follower of Aleister Crowley, despaired of her lot and traded my twin sister and me for a handful of tin.

In keeping with the traditions of the natives who subsequently raised us, my sister was home-schooled while I was put to work tending the tree squirrels that were the basis for our tribe's economy. So successful were the shaman's teachings that my sister left our home for the University of Chicago Medical School at the age of sixteen, the same year that I was packed in a shipping crate and airmailed to Waterloo, Iowa.

The choice of my destination remains shrouded in mystery. Perhaps the bond I had formed with the squirrels disconcerted others of my tribe and Waterloo seemed a safe distance away. Perhaps my brethren's fondness for Abba led to some understandable confusion. No matter. Waterloo it was.

As can be imagined, the people of northern Iowa were more than a little surprised to open the crate and discover a six-foot tall hunchback speaking in clicks and whistles. The good people of the Midwest, however, swallowed their disappointment and took me under their wing. Before long I had a steady job washing cows and had begun to make friends. All was well.

That is, until the first spring rolled around. In spring a young man's fancy, and all that. My mistake, I admit, but really, how was I to know the fine points of bowling alley etiquette? And it's not like you can't wash a bowling ball. Nevertheless, a series of harshly worded court orders led to my taking leave of the friends I'd so recently made.

Fortunately, my time with the squirrels had taught me many useful foraging skills. On these I relied for almost fifteen years. Whether it was nuts, berries, or road kill, I could get there first and gorge most. It was a good life, but I wanted more. I needed a degree.

I took my entrance examinations and applied at most of the major research universities. While several expressed interest in me as a subject, none were willing to gamble on me as a student. Was it the ACT essay written in crayon or some deeper prejudice? Who can say. In any event, it was a bitter pill to swallow but I vowed to persevere.

I did, and took the drastic step of joining the Peace Corps. Although I had hoped for a posting in Cameroon or Uzbekistan, I soon found myself in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, building schools and digging wells. I'll always cherish my memories of those two years, helping these forgotten people reclaim a small shred of dignity. These two years were also enough to turn the heads of the same admission counselors who had previously rejected me and I quickly found myself bombarded with brochures from most of the top-tier schools.

By then, my motto was fool me once, won't get fooled again and I dismissed their entreaties. I had bigger fish to fry. Fortunately, there are several Lisbon-based mail order colleges offering a number of very attractive study-at-home degree programs and I promptly availed myself of an exciting opportunity in biomedical research. My isolated, unmarked cabin in the far reaches of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest was the perfect place for me to hone my skills in the vivisectionist arts.

It is not an easy life, trapping and gutting prey, wrapping it tightly in butcher paper, and hiking the many miles to the nearest post office, then waiting weeks and sometimes months for an evaluation in Portuguese, a language I know nothing about. It had to be done, though, and after three grueling years and a graduation ceremony conducted entirely by telegraph, I was ready to strike out on my own. I sharpened my blade, left my homestead, and headed for the big city, ready to make my mark as a freelance coroner.

Business was slow at first and the drain tile I installed in my garage seemed to trouble many of my neighbors. This is a great country, however, and anyone can live his or her dream. Within months, I had more clients than I could handle and took on several assistants.

Since then, I have built one of the more successful abattoirs in the quad state area. I have met and married the woman of my dreams and together we are raising three angels from heaven, plus our children. I mostly telecommute now from the spacious doublewide I welded myself on seventeen acres of the most beautiful termite mounds you've ever seen. In my spare time I coach Skee-ball and grow nettles. I have a five-legged dog named Katie and a horse with no name. I've even reconnected with my sister, who has been recently released from a long stint for Medicaid fraud and has promised to take a look at my hunch.

And yet, with all I have, I occasionally find myself wondering, is this all there is? Will I never climb the Pyrenees on the back of a llama? Will I never raft the wild rivers of Nebraska, or hunt the mighty shrew, or eat salmon from a box?

We shall see. My life is a young one and the offal I consume promises me a long and vibrant existence. I am merely happy for the opportunity to share it with you and to tell you a little about me, the man you thought you knew.

Memorial Day 2007

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

To Market, To Market

This morning I took oldest and youngest boys grocery shopping after middle boy left for a friend's cabin for the weekend. Oldest likes to cook, and besides he's put me on a diet. It's a humbling experience negotiating with your teen-aged son over the cholesterol count in a package of Chinese sausages. I'm told that I can have 1/2 of one this weekend if I behave.

We also squabble over my desire to make Frito pie. I told him he doesn't know good living. He told me I'm an idiot. I consider it a draw.

In the meantime Youngest was apparently sniffing glue. Chattering incoherently, he finds the bucket of basketball-sized rubber balls, dribbles down the chip aisle, whirls, and hits a three-pointer over the head of an old lady.

"Knock it off," I hiss before apologizing to the woman. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

We get to the next aisle where he starts pawing through the different cereals, looking for the most repulsive. Jackpot! Chocolate chip cookie cereal.

"Can I get it?" he pleads.

"No, don't let him," says Oldest. "That stuff's disgusting."

"Yes it is," I say. "So what?"

"He's going to get fat and stupid if he eats that junk."

Youngest pipes in, "I am not. Dad's the fat one."

Oldest nods as if conceding the point.

"Buy the cereal, I don't care." I'm willing to go along with the fiction that the vitamin spray they use on this crap counterbalances the rest of the poisons in the box. We've only been there five minutes and I already just want to get home.

Two aisles later Oldest pushes the grocery cart into the back of Youngest's legs. Knocks him down in front of the spices.

"It was an accident," Oldest hollers as his brother leaps up and prepares to attack.

"It was a goddamn accident because you were screwing around," I growl as I pin back Youngest's arms. "Knock it the hell off."

"That's bullcrap!" shrieks Oldest. "I was not screwing around. It was him. You always take his side because you love him better."

"He does not," says Youngest. "He hates me. He loves the middle one best."

"You're right, he does," says Oldest. Now that they've recalled their common enemy they've made peace with each other again.

I glare. "Both of you stop it. I swear to God I'm going to sell you to gypsies."

Youngest takes the opportunity to slip into the next aisle and grab a handful of candy. "Can we get these?" he asks.

"No. Put them back."

"You never get us anything."

I gesture at the cart, filled with chocolate chip cookie cereal, Oreos, Cheez-its, and $50 worth of other garbage. "Fine, I'll put all this back then."

That momentarily silences him and he returns the candy to the shelf.

We get to the produce aisle and I look at the apricots and plums. Youngest stands beside me making gagging noises.

"Can you behave for 30 freaking seconds?" I ask. He goes into some kind of Tae Kwon Do stance and begins stalking me. I wave one hand at him, trying to maintain a defensive perimeter, while I squeeze fruit with the other. Oldest has abandoned us, concerned that one of a classmate will happen by and think he and I are related. He doesn't seem to realize I'm no more happy about that than he is.

Finally we get checked out and back to the car. I load the groceries in the trunk and drive out of the parking lot.

We get home and my Lovely Bride is sitting at the kitchen table having lunch. "Your youngest son is a pinhead," I tell her. She shrugs and goes back to her soup. There's a reason she lets me do the shopping.

Albert, Dance Around!

This afternoon my youngest is playing the part of Albert Einstein for a school project. He's had to research Einstein's background, put together a costume, prepare and memorize a speech about the man. There's nothing like a grade-schooler with white hair and pants yanked up to his chest. It's a nice look.

Last night after the ballgame (good guys won, yay for us), we were having ice cream and he was describing the project to some of his friend's parents. He talked about Einstein's life, where he grew up, where he died. One of them, half-jokingly, asked, "What do you know about the science?"

"Not very much," he answered, and then gave a reasonably correct explanation of why force equals mass times acceleration. Assuming I understand the concept well enough to judge.

Holy crap! I think. He's a genius! My nurturing's paid off. I'm the best parent ever!

Then he dropped half his cone down the front of his shirt. Easy come, easy go.

Anyway, I've been trying to help him with the presentation. For example, I just told him the other day, "I bet you weren't aware that Einstein wrote music."

"Really?" he asked, though warily.

"Sure. You know how he played violin, right? Well, he used to like to write music to play with his friends. That Avril Lavigne song, 'Girlfriend'? Einstein wrote that. She's just doing a cover version."

His head starts shaking.

"He did a lot of other cool things too. He loved to collect string. In fact, he had one of the largest balls of string in the world. That's why physicists talk about string theory. It's the theory that nothing can be bigger than Einstein's string ball."

His eyes begin to glaze. "That's not true," he says.

"Sure it is," I reply. "A lot of this stuff doesn't get into normal textbooks. That's why you're lucky to have a dad who knows so much."

He begins humming to himself, a tuneless, desperate noise.

"Quantum mechanics," I say. "That's another thing many people don't understand. There are these special spaceships called quantums that can fly faster than the speed of light. Einstein invented the tools the mechanics use to repair them. If you study very hard in school, you can be a quantum mechanic when you grow up."

The humming gets louder. Our dog Katie comes downstairs to see what's wrong. He clutches her around the neck and begins talking to her.

"Albert was also an animal lover," I note. "He had a ranch in Wyoming."

The boy looks at me for the first time in a few minutes. "He lived in New Jersey."

"Yes. New Jersey's in Wyoming. Remember when we went to Yellowstone when you were little? We stayed in Trenton."

He's back to talking to the dog.

"This ranch he had in Wyoming," I continue. "That's where he built his ark. Have you ever seen pictures of Moses? Looks just like Einstein, doesn't he? That's because they're the same person. 'Moses' is Hebrew for Einstein. It's all in the Bible. You can look it up."

He gets up to leave and Katie gets up too. They walk upstairs together. "Mom," I hear, "he's doing it again!"

"Just ignore him," my Lovely Bride tells him. "There's something wrong with him."

I turn on the television, tune in to the Discovery Channel. There's a whole world of science left to learn.