Friday, December 3, 2010
Ron Santo and a son's love...
Whether it was a Fathers Day in the bleachers, a late-night together -- me dozing off on his lap as he ate non-frosting blueberry Pop Tarts and drank Vitamin D milk while watching the Cubs play a night game on the west coast, or simply being on the phone with him in the midst of his prostate cancer radiation treatments as Carlo Zambrano threw the first no-hitter since my dad's childhood, it is and has always been one common and unbreakable bond between the two of us...
Ron Santo was very symbolic of that "blind loyalty" many of us Cub fans share...hate the Cubs as you might, but there's as much father-son sentimentality in my "fan-dom" as there is team loyalty. It's my fondest childhood memory of me and my dad, playing whiffle ball in the front lawn as I emulated every batting stance and pitching windup from my modern Cubs against him, as he perfectly emulated the batting stances and pitching motion of his favorite '69 Cubs.
My dad loved Ron Santo as a hero, and it strikes a chord with me when one of my pappy's own heroes passes on...life is fragile and it always brings to light the mortality we share daily with our own fathers....our mentors ...our own personal heroes...and, for me, my best friend...
"He whispered, "Don't Cry, we'll meet by and by near the Heavenly Hall of Fame. I've got season's tickets to watch the Angels now, so its just what I'm going to do...but you the living, you're stuck here with the Cubs, so its me that feels sorry for you!"
"Do they still play the blues in Chicago When baseball season rolls around When the snow melts away, Do the Cubbies still play In their ivy-covered burial ground When I was a boy they were my pride and joy But now they only bring fatigue To the home of the brave The land of the free And the doormat of the National League..."
Monday, October 11, 2010
Poof...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Phantom Burden...
A man, falsely accused and convicted despite his innocence, was sentenced to walk the earth with a large boulder strapped onto his shoulders. Forced to carry this burden with every breath, the man toiled through life with the weight of his burden pushing him down with every step. Fighting many sleepless nights, shedding solitary tears hidden behind the façade of a jester’s smile, he walked the earth carrying his burden everywhere, a shell of his former self.
Belief and technique for modern prose...
Monday, August 2, 2010
The CLICKITY-CLACK of life's coaster...
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The fire within...
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Which way your heart will go...
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Man on fire...
Friday, July 23, 2010
Things I don't like...
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Dangerous words...
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Red rover, red rover...
Friday, June 18, 2010
Battling in the 'At-Bats' of Life
When a batter steps into the box with an 0-2 count, there is an approach that goes along with his rhythm. He doesn’t want to guess nor does he want to be unprepared so he must walk that fine line between both. Any misstep, either way, can lead to a host of failures ranging from a strikeout, a fly out, a weak grounder or a host of appearance-ending outs.
But the hope each great hitter continues to feel stems from the idea that, despite the count on the scoreboard and how poor the odds are in his favor with every passing strike, there still is an immediate chance for redemption, a chance to succeed in fulfilling the at-bat’s productive need. Whether it is a base hit, a gapper, a homer, a sacrifice fly, a ball out of the zone, or even a foul tip, there are still countless ways to extend his appearance during this individual at-bat.
In essence, there are just as many ways to stay alive as there are to punch out.
Life is no different. We are faced with at-bats on a daily, weekly, monthly and yearly basis. Every major hurdle in life is an at-bat and we have a selective amount of pitches to adjust to them and react. Some of us are aggressive, chasing that first pitch with reckless abandon. Others are passive, looking for that perfect pitch that may or may not come over the course of the at-bat, sometimes taking a walk and deferring to the hitter behind them in the batting order as a means of success.
No one specific way is correct but it takes a solid mental approach to allow each individual to have the most perceived success in the midst of both the triumphs and failures. Failure is never fatal and success is never final as life spins through the hourglass. In the scope of a game, there are two or three more at-bats to go and in a season, there are hundreds on the horizon.
It’s the lesson from each at-bat that builds who we are.
Life throws so many differing pitches at us that we tend to get lost in the moment and forget the scope of the season. Like an immature batter who kicks dirt and swears to himself for missing a single pitch he perceived as his best opportunity, we always get lost in the jungle of our existence too easily.
Pitchers make mistakes too, and when they do, it only takes one swing to even the score, leave the yard or produce something special. If you’re caught up in the previous missed pitch, your focus will not be optimal and you may not get max-effort on your next pitch, a disservice to your overall approach. Life doesn’t use a batting tee and no pitch is ever the perfect pitch — it’s just that some are more hittable than others. Hell, some people are bad-ball hitters in life, making a rotten pitch a game-winner.
In the end, the scope and size of this ballgame we all live in is so expansive and wide that we can’t spend too much time laboring over the near misses or the great successes. A wise coach once told me that to stay sane as a coach, you can never get too high or too low because the emotional roller coaster is so jerky and unknown, it can wear you into oblivion. He told me to celebrate the major milestones (the titles, come-from-behind victories, etc) but remember that the next season always begins moment the previous one ends. Every at-bat can be approached the same way, and that doesn’t even take the defensive aspect (defending for your “pitcher,” or others) of the game into consideration. None of us are DHs in life, so our fielding skills must also be disconnected from our failures or successes at the plate.
The best batters are the contact hitters who “battle.” They fight off every pitch, even when they are in a hole or down in the count, until they find a pitch that will suffice to get the job done. They are the two-strike hitter you want at the plate when the game is on the line and the intestinal fortitude that governs them allows their mind’s eye to see every pitch out of the hand before making that split-second decision to swing out of their shoes or to chop it foul for another pitch in the at-bat.
Life is a series of at-bats and those who find the most peace, serenity and enjoyment in life, are those who battle and fight every pitch off or leave every ball outside of the zone alone before getting that perfect hack at that near-perfect pitch in their own personal circumstances. You can be a contact hitter, or a strikeout king, as it is your life, but the Hall of Fame is reserved for players who hit for average, as you’ll rarely see a .270 hitter’s bust on the wall. In the end, the choice is up to you.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
the burger king and the apocolypse
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Fearing the coming night...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Liquid dynamite to get me into my ‘Dolomite’
Now when I say “liquid explosives,” I don’t mean anything that can be used by moronic quasi-terrorists trying to blow up their own foot (and flight) that even Al-Qaeda won’t associate with. I’m talking about Rockstar, Red Bull, and Monster: 1.21 jiggawatts of energy in an aluminum container the size of a tall-boy but full of delicious raspberry-ish flavor.
Seriously, Doctor Emmett Brown would never have needed a bolt of lightning or Libyan plutonium if he had this stuff. It’s science at its best and I won’t lie: I spent the better part of my post-college days looking for a drink that could replace “big slams’ of Mountain Dew in my life, providing me with that extra bit of energy when the day starts dragging. I hate coffee for the most part, but LOVE sudden bursts of energy that turn me into the olive-skinned offspring of Dolemite: Swolemite.
If you fill my stomach with a can of no-carb, no-sugar, double-strength Rockstar, Rudy Ray Moore doesn’t have a thing on me. Willie Green and Mayor Daley would no longer be able to contain my quest to regain ownership of my club, “The Total Experience,” Queen Bee would comp my visits, detectives Mitchell and White would get nothing but a human tornado from me and Creeper would get all the hamburgers I could find without him having to ‘creep’ very long in his dirty old wife-beater. In essence, these energy drinks get me going like the Energizer Bunny.
And while I understand this is probably not the healthiest choice for natural energy, I haven’t been able to find an alternative – stead for quality physical fitness, but who’s got the time to become Steve Prefontaine these days. Let’s stick to nutrients in a can. Opening a single tall boy of Rockstar at the beginning of my day is instant joy, likened to the startling morning sound of a beautiful woman’s laugh from the left side of my own bed, or the feelings a fat man gets when he accidentally stumbles into an all-you-can-eat buffet instead of a personal trainer’s office.
If I were Popeye: Rockstar would be “me spinach.”
Modern research still hasn’t figured out the dangers and benefits of this, but – by now – it’s too late for me anyways. I very well may have this purple propellant coursing through my veins but either way, energy drinks have become my generation’s coffee. While the younger generations pump themselves full of lattes and frappuccinos teamed with energy drink chasers, I am fine with a cold beverage that can get my engine going while I clear away the morning cobwebs in my mind. If the FDA lets them sell it, why not drink it? Our government wouldn’t fail or deceive us, would it?
I’ll keep drinking these bad boys as long as I can. Perhaps this numbness I feel in my shoulder is merely a pinched nerve. You gotta love 240 mg of caffeine mixed with 2,000 mg of taurine. Gee, not sure why my forearm hurts nor can I explain the loss of feeling in my fingertips but the tingling is probably normal, and this shortness of breath? It's common during this time of year – hay fever or something. I’ve not heard one major warning from the medical community regarding energy drinks, but I would like to know who the wise guy is that’s spinning this room. Odd, I hear feint sirens in the distance, must be a fire in the neighborhood or something, and this energy drink sure isn’t doing a good job of keeping me awake. In fact, I think I’ll take a short nap right here on the spiraling floor.
Well, as I float into this unexpected yet magnificently bright light, I’m wondering if maybe I should cut down on a beverage where there is little evidence or research regarding long-term side effects. Taurine, Vitamin B, Green Tea: all couldn’t be bad for you, could they? Oh look, Saint Peter is waving at me, or is he just simply signaling for me to go back down the way I came. Well, good-bye, pearly gates, and hello, hospital room. As I wake up with all these tubes in my arm and nose along with a fresh scar on my chest, I notice I am still a little groggy.
Excuse me, Doc? Do me a favor: snag a few of your best looking nurses, go grab me a Rockstar, and meet me at The Total Experience in one halfa-hour, you bad muthu…*gasp!* Shut yo mouth!