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.

the burger king and the apocolypse

he creeps. he sneaks. he startles.

he's "the burger king," and he is the embodiment of my greatest fear.

picture this is the real world: you slowly awaken on a sunny saturday afternoon, without a thing on your schedule and a lazy day on the docket. the birds are chirping happily and the sheets rustle with every slight movement. you slowly open your eyes on this glorious morning and peek at the sunlight as it sprays through the window as you roll over to give your wife a 'good morning' kiss.

all is well with the world.

But, as you roll towards the love of your life, you notice the familiar smell of scrambled egg and bacon. you quickly ask yourself questions. did my wife bring me breakfast in bed? how lucky am i? is this going to be a reflection of the great day i'm about to start?

then, just as you roll towards the warm body in the bed next to you and your eyes groggily open with anticipation, your focus finds something other than your wife. something, well, sinister and evil: "the burger king," laying on his side and holding a breakfast sandwich on a small dish. his frozen eyes, reminiscent of a great white shark, and his evil grin, a perfect rendering of the devil's smile.

he can't be killed by conventional means, much like ozzy osbourne...only bone fragments from actor vincent schiavelli (look him up and you'll know what i mean) can kill "the burger king."

in other words, the end is nigh...fear the reaper? take your cowbell and shove it. FEAR THE KING!

Fearing the coming night...

Cries pierce the night air, without discrimination or favoritism, from the old and young alike. Rubble kicks up nearly-toxic dust, poisoning the air that has been taken for granted for so long. Death hovers nearby, his work already plentiful but more of his task still at hand. Crimson water runs down the gutters in trembling waves and there is a sense of foreboding doom, that this already-ravaged city is still shaking from its shanty core and the rest could give way at any minute.

Welcome to a night in Port-au-Prince.

We, as a society, can't comprehend the damage, death, carnage or destruction covering over Haiti as I write this. The horrifically gaudy numbers continue to expand, bringing a sense of temporary hopelessness to those who didn't experience the quake but felt its tremors deep within our souls. So much life, smothered out like a campfire without campers or a singular candle in the honeymoon suite lacking its intended lovers. Gone in an instant and so much more thereafter.

Cities rise, and empires fall but the common thread that binds us as humans will always be our conscience. It governs our actions and, though we stray from them far too often, we know they are there as a blueprint to a life worth remembering. When our own fall, or are buried by the reality of a flawed world, it is in our DNA to rush to their aid, to comfort them in time of need or send out prayers to the skies, if we can't be there with them. Suffering spirits see eye-to-eye, and the bondage of human suffering extends to those living outside of the magma residing within its center.

This life-altering tragedy is gut-wrenching but can be a defining moment for so many. There are heroes, right now, working for the sake of others. Fighters, lifting blocks of concrete with every ounce of their being, praying that under this stubborn obstacle will be another life instead of the rampant death misting over the city. Caretakers comforting the broken children, lost without parents and shaking from the overbearing fear.

Heroes, one and all...

So frail is the human condition, yet so precious. I find myself wondering, wandering, and look to the moments ahead. Life is more than a gift; it's a calling and challenge to make the most of what we have during the minuscule moments we're given. To ignore this call and allow it to fall on deaf ears would be remiss...or better yet, cowardly.

Liquid dynamite to get me into my ‘Dolomite’

There may not be anything better than liquid explosives in a can.

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!

The coming beast and our vanilla defenses...

“And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”

Witness the coming age of downy. With your own eyes, bear witness to the death of discipline. Take a gander at the changing of the guard from warrior to teddy bear.

Welcome to the beginning of the end.

Few words are able express the depth of my anger as I watch the coming ‘Revolution of Soft,” creeping into our society faster than the infestation of Asian carp under the Mississippi River. Throughout time, man has been forced to fight for its share of the pie, battling animals, the elements and others yet today, as we move in the second decade of the new millennium, I see a disturbing trend manifesting itself with more and more strength and authority.

The modern survival of the fittest has morphed, and the fittest are being weeded out by the weak through litigation, media manipulation and a feminization of the nation and society in which we live. Hugs have replaced the backside of one’s hand as the established means of protection, discipline and resolution. Gone are the days of the warrior, when one defends their honor with strength, or power. In its stead, the combatant has been replaced with lawyers, mothers, and a sensitive mentality where any discomfort to others is unacceptable and thus outlawed.

In essence, we must cater to everyone but ourselves.

George Orwell captured a horrifying future in his classic commentary, “1984,” yet he failed to truly grasp the real dangers our modern society faces. While the rest of the world continues to look to the strong for protection, we are forced to submit to a weak, litigious leadership born of a different beast altogether. What we get is a modern nanny, protecting us from the cold but not the wolves outside the camp. Sooner or later, these beasts will push past our weak defenses and run rampant, devouring those who have never learned to protect themselves.

Big Brother is no longer watching, replaced by his nurturing, yet helpless Sister, and we now face a revolution of the weak. Our warriors are being banished and eliminated in a cultural genocide never experienced in the history of this planet, at least not since the fall of the Roman Empire. The power of protection is mistakenly passed off to those lacking the strength to provide that very security we need to survive.

Ten minutes of media watching is more than enough to take note of the softening of our society under the guise of progressive thinking. The media, our new educators, have begun to condition us as Americans that strength is in words, not action, creating a bizarro world in which we follow the UN guidelines for discipline, which can be summed up in a mean letter instead of physical action.

As this transfiguration continues, we fall further and further into a society lacking the necessary tools to protect ourselves from the hardened reality of the REAL world. Sure, in a perfect existence, we wouldn’t need to worry about being hardened. But we live in reality, and this reality includes real boogeymen, unbridled elements and a need to strengthen ourselves for the coming winter.

Instead, we face the coming storm with little more than a handkerchief and some kind words from a helpless leadership hell-bent on eliminating the strong and replacing them with a paper-thin wind screen intended to fight the hurricane-like winds of evil, anger and violence in this world.

The military must fight both the enemy and those it defends. Coaches and teacher must walk the minefield of sensitivity that has infiltrated our society through the advent of the progressive movement. And while I’m all for treating others with respect and integrity, I shiver in the face of what we truly are becoming: a nation of crippled weaklings lacking any strength, resolve or chutzpa to dig in and defeat an enemy that would trade generations for eventual victory.

The battle for the hearts and minds is mistakenly being fought overseas, when the most vital battle is being lost at home under the guise of a society that walks, talks and acts as if it was breastfed until it was a teen. Soft. Weak. Unable.

The beast is closer than we think, and it is stronger than we give it credit for. One day, it will be inside the city gates, devouring those inept souls lacking the knowhow, moxy and might to fight back and survive. The strong will still survive but the casualties will dwarf them in size and scope, marking the end of what could have been a great society and the rest of the world will laugh in joy as they bear witness to the fall of the once great eagle, replaced by a pigeon mistaken for a dove.

The clock is ticking, and the beast slows for no man…

Hitting the brakes...

Why is it we seem so destined to rush our lives into an oblivious time crunch? Too many memories wasted on looking to the future while the greatness in our lives is left standing in the doorway, staring us straight in the eye as it awaits us. Its ever-present stare looking past all the worries of today and, instead, at the impact crater we've managed to leave in this place. If we spend too much time looking at the past, we're inevitably going to stumble over the future.

Literally shocked at this revelation, our minds tend to reach towards the safe, towards the most reasonably acceptable cliché of reason: it's the only way to survive in this day and age. We must rush, we tell ourselves, because we have to plan for the future, for when we grow old, but in doing so we slide ourselves into the same old cycle of things — a cycle causing us to forget who we are and where we came from while simultaneously causing us to look blindly towards where we're headed.

Wandering, oblivious to the world's plan, God's plan, if you will.

We rush ourselves out of youth because that's what we've been conditioned to believe is the norm, not what our instincts constantly tell us. Grow up now and be responsible because retirement is just around the corner. And now, decades after we've inadvertently lost our innocence in the unnecessary and socially conditioned blind push, we look back on our lives as being one giant bull-run, too frantic, too quick to really appreciate where we've been, what we've done and where we've come from.

We blink, and life has literally passed us by.

But time heals all wounds. It gives us ample opportunity to right our wrongs and to build something worth being proud of, worth leaving behind in this world once we're dead and gone. A thoughtful gift while our bones return to dust and our essence blows off into the wind. All this may come freely but it can never, ever, come at the risk of enjoying the now, enjoying the present.

We have to fight for what we believe in, teach what we feel is imperative and live as if there is no tomorrow because one day, our lungs will breathe their last and we will face true judgement and the test of our existence: did we leave an indelible mark on this place or did we waste our one gift of a life rushing towards the grave? The time has come to hit the brakes and pull tightly on the reigns because the globe does not, nor will it ever, stop spinning for the sake of one man...