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| Will the Real Home Run King Please Stand UpOkay, it's time for me to chime in on this whole Barry Bonds ordeal.
I'm a sports fanatic, and even more than that, I'm a huge baseball
fan. My den is decorated in a baseball themed motif: pictures,
autographs, bats, balls, the bobbliest of the bobble-heads, signs, and
posters celebrating my favorite moments in baseball history. My
shelves are packed with baseball related DVD's, and not just the Kevin
Costner movies, but highlight reels and historical documentaries, then,
to top it off, right next to that, I have video tapes (yes, there is an
American who still owns a stock pile of outdated, bad quality, have to
rewind them yourself VHS cassettes), video tapes galore on which I
recorded some of my all time favorite games: games I went to and want
to remember, games I watched on TV that held some special significance,
and every playoff game my favorite team has played in my lifetime. The
shelves around the media memorabilia are loaded with books. I've read
just about every book I can get my hands on that relates to baseball:
fictional stories, memoirs, biographies, historical accounts,
statistical analysisisisis, heck, I even have one baseball themed
coloring book on the shelf.
I played baseball. I worked hard. I practiced for hours every day
after the team's practice had ended. I read books to help me improve,
I sought out coaches who'd give me some insight, I watched countless
hours of baseball to help me better my game. All to no avail. I never
achieved my big league dreams. So I didn't play at the highest level,
but I made it as far as my talent and injury prone nature would take
me, spending a few seasons playing semi-pro ball. I'd still be out
there too, but my knees gave up long before my heart did. Now I coach,
and I wouldn't trade that for the world. I get to work with eleven
year olds who have an incredible passion for the game, and I get to
teach them the things that make it great: respect, teamwork,
sportsmanship, and dedication.
That said, and all that simply said to help you understand where I come
from in this debate, which is the role of a tremendous fan of baseball
and it's history, the role of a former player who just didn't have what
it took to get to the next level, and the role of a mentor to young
wide-eyed players who idolize those that step on to a major league
field. That's where I'm coming from.
You know what I say about this whole Barry Bonds ordeal? Ignore it.
That's what I'm going to do. That's what I do when my players ask me
if I saw his "record breaking" homer. That's what I will do when my
son is old enough to ask me about the entire controversy.
No, I'm not going to pretend these little kids didn't ask me a
question, what I'll do is tell them that I do not recognize Barry Bonds
(or any of his chemically enhanced brethren) as a record holder in the
big leagues. What will I tell them? Personally, I see Hank Aaron as
the home run king. I see Roger Maris as the single season record
holder. I believe Babe Ruth is the greatest player to ever play the
game, followed very closely by Willie Mays. If Hammerin' Hank is the
Whopper, then I see the Whopper Junior as Sadaharu Oh and Josh Gibson.
Oh actually hit 868 homers in the Japanese League, but with a different
ball, different level of competition, and different stadium
dimensions. Gibson reportedly hit somewhere between 600 and 800 long
balls in the Negro Leagues, never had a chance to play in the majors,
and died at age 35 (an age at which Barry was still a few dingers shy
of 500).
How about Ken Griffey Jr.? The Kid has hit 583 home runs, but has
missed nearly 2400 at bats due to various injuries (injuries he may
have healed from faster if he'd taken some sort of performance
enhancing drugs). To homer at his career rate for 2400 more at bats,
would have put junior on a pace to hit number 755 some time later this
year. He still may get there, but at age 37 with a whole slew of
injuries, it doesn't seem likely.
How about Mickey Mantle? The Mick was widely considered the heir to
the Babe's throne early in his career, but horrible knee injuries cost
him tons of time, both during the seasons in which he played, and at
the end of his career, but the Commerce Comet's knees got to bad and he
had to retire at age 36. If Mickey had been able to stay healthy, his
536 homers would have been more like 600. If he'd been able to play
just three or four years longer (keep in mind that Barry is 43), he
probably would have hit well over the 714 that was then the record.
Don't forget Jimmy Foxx. Double X ended his tragic career with 534
homers. At the time, that was second in history. Foxx started his
career on a tear, reaching 500 homers by age 32, but a drinking problem
got the best of him and his statistics suffered. His career
essentially over at 33, Foxx held on for a few more years in a utility
role, but if the man known as The Beast would have been able to stay on
track there's no telling what he would have accomplished. Just playing
a few more seasons at the level he always had would have given him well
over 600 bombs.
What about Lou Gehrig? Baseball's ultimate tragic tale. Gehrig began
the 1939 season, but had to call it quits in what should have been the
middle of a great career. The Iron Horse was only 36 years old when he
hung it up and died within the year. Sitting at 493 homers when he
passed away, Gehrig was one of the best hitters ever, but his career
was way too short.
Ted Williams is believed to be the best hitter in the game, but almost
five seasons spent in the military greatly reduced some of his
numbers. 521 long balls is nothing to sneeze at, but the Splendid
Splinter isn't named with the games top power guys, and that's due to
the years, at the peak of his career, that he spend in WWII and Korea.
You can't forget Alex Rodriguez either. ARod recently became the
youngest player to reach the coveted 500 homer mark. So far he's
remained relatively injury free, but the sky's the limit for a talent
like this young man. At his current pace, he should probably pass
Barry some time next week.
The point of this isn't to bemoan the tragedy of Josh Gibson being
stuck in a racist era, the alcoholism of Jimmy Foxx, the injuries
sustained my Mantle and Griffey, or Gehrig's disease, but to wonder
what if. Simply because Barry Bonds has turned himself into a walking,
talking, home-run socking "what if?" It's sad that Barry would have
hit 600 homers without the drugs. It's sad that he would have gone
down in history as one of the best ever. It's sad that he's made a
disgrace of the game and a mockery of the record books. It's sad that
other great players, many of them great men as well, are being knocked
off the record boards by the likes of Bonds and his self created
hulks.
The greatest benefit Barry got out of the substances he took is the
longevity. He's performing at a level far above what he was capable of
(and he was great before) at an age at which most ballplayers are
coaching in the minors, sitting up in the broadcast booth, or getting a
tan on an island somewhere. On top of that, he's able to come back
from injuries that would hobble natural humans, and he comes back from
them far quicker than should be possible.
He will reap what he sows. All this will take a toll on his health.
Somewhere down the line, Barry Bonds will pay the price. If only we as
baseball fans wouldn't have had to pay it too. If only the real
legends of the game didn't have to watch their names drop down the
career leaders lists. It's sad. I choose to ignore it. When my son
asks who the home run king is, I'll tell him about how Babe Ruth
changed the game, about Junior Griffey's spectacular start, about
Hammerin' Hank and what he went through, about the forgotten Negro
League players like Josh Gibson. I'll be sure to mention the tragedy
of Gehrig and the sacrifice of Williams. I'll talk about ARod and
Jimmy Foxx and dozens of other players. I won't mention Barry. Not
once. Not ever again.
Just a quick comparison of numbers out there for you. This is all
"what if?," so they're completely meaningless, but may spark an
interesting conversation. It is widely agreed that Bonds took
performance enhancing drugs, and that the main benefit of those drugs
is strength, longevity, and resistance or quick come back from injury.
Bonds fits those concepts. His size and strength, along with the rate
at which he hits homers has increased since 1999. His longevity is
undeniable, playing at a level no one his age has ever done before.
However, Bonds has suffered some major injuries that last ten seasons
(whether those are because of the drugs, despite the drugs, recovery
aided by the drugs is another debate), those may be injuries that would
have ended any other career, or they may be injuries that no clean
player would have had to deal with. Irrelevant for this setting. What
I'm looking at is the numbers the other greats of the game may have put
up had they been allowed the same advantages Bonds has been.
This chart is three fold.The number of home runs a player hit in his
career, the number he would have hit if he'd been able to bounce back
from major injuries that certain drugs allow you to, and the number of
projected home runs had they had performance enhancing drugs allowing
them to continue at their current rate of production until age 43
(Barry's age). These numbers do not account for any increase in
strength or power that may come from such drugs, simply the career
longevity.
| Player |
Retire Age |
Real Life |
Injury Free |
Until Age 43 |
|
|
|
|
|
| Babe Ruth *** |
40 |
714 |
1009 |
1146 |
| Sadaharu Oh ** |
40 |
868 |
1004 |
1140 |
| Josh Gibson **** |
35 |
270 |
749 |
1123 |
| Alex Rodriguez * |
32 |
500 |
536 |
957 |
| Ken Griffey Jr. * |
37 |
589 |
752 |
949 |
| Barry Bonds (injury free) ### |
43 |
757 |
905 |
905 |
| Ted Williams #### |
41 |
521 |
810 |
895 |
| Hank Aaron |
42 |
755 |
838 |
874 |
| Mickey Mantle |
36 |
536 |
639 |
852 |
| Willie Mays |
42 |
660 |
742 |
775 |
| Jimmy Foxx |
37 |
534 |
609 |
761 |
| Barry Bonds # |
43 |
757 |
757 |
757 |
| Lou Gehrig |
36 |
493 |
529 |
746 |
| Barry Bonds (clean) ## |
43 |
757 |
726 |
726 |
|
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|
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|
|
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|
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|
| * still active |
|
|
|
|
| ** Oh
played in Japan, they play far less games, so his totals have been adjusted
to reflect a U.S. # of games played rather than adjusting for games missed
due to injuries. |
| ***
Ruth spent the first years of his career as a pitcher, his totals have
been adjusted to give him the appropriate number of at bats that he
missed early in his career |
| **** Gibson
spent his career in the Negro Leagues.
Stats were not accurately kept.
The base number 270 is taken from the most conservative estimates of
Gibson's games against only the top teams (games against local or semi-pro
teams were not used). This represents
only about 60 games a year, so totals have been adjusted to reflect big
league seasons for his entire career. |
| # The real Barry |
|
|
|
|
| ## Barry if
he'd continued at the pace he had been playing at prior to steroid
allegations and stayed healthy |
| ### Juiced
up Barry if he'd stayed free of injuries despite the chemicals coursing
through his veins |
| ####
Williams lost close to five full seasons in the peak of his career serving in
World War II and Korea. |
| | |
| Monica Seles and the Ankle of DoomThis past Saturday was the 2nd annual Clarkefest. Initially, that meant about as much to me as it does to you. My questions were very simple: What in the holy heck is a Clarkefest? When in the world was the first annual Clarkefest? Why oh why do these Clarke people feel the need to put unnecessary Es at the end of their name? These are Es that starving children in Africa with names like Ndgu and Krmpf could use and here these Clarkes are flaunting their extra Es around and waving them about inciscriminatly, even being so bold as to host fests that celebrate (read rub in the faces of all us E-less folks) their good E fortune.
Okay, so I knew what Clarkefest was. My sister and brother-in-law, the afformentioned Clarkes, had a big summertime barbeque last summer to celebrate my sister's thirtieth and her completion of grad school. Apparently the patriarch of the Clake clan, who gets very very upset if you pronounce his name Clarkie, Clarkey, or Clarkeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (which is endless hours of fun at any Clarkefest). Last year's bash was so successful that they decided to make it an annual tradition and give it a festive name (Clarkefest). Personally, I was all for doing it again, but I thought Clarkeeeeeeeeeeeeeepalooza was a much more appealing name, but when I suggested it, I got a look that indicated that I was about to be injured (foreshadow alert).
Fast forward to the event itself, we were playing Monica Seles
volleyball, which is fun whether you're attending a Clarkefest or not. Monica Seles volley ball is a great summertime activity in which you and your most unihibited friends play volleyball and grunt as loudly and violently as you can each and every time you hit the ball. The real fun comes when the shyer party goers join in and feel obligated to let out a little grunt now and again too. When you can get Clarkeeeeeeee friends and family members of all shapes, sizes, and ages to continuously grunt in varying degrees of Monica Seles commitment, you've got yourself a real party.
The real problem with Monica Seles volleyball in a suburban backyard, is when you run into the inevitable pot holes.
Twisted and turned ankles, tweaked knees, and balance impaired tumbles become the norm at Clarkefest, especially as the keg gets closer and closer to bottom. However, this year, the extreme nature of Monica Seles volleyball led to extreme injury.
Late, near the end of the night, I went up to block a spike and landed
in a hole. My right foot kind of folded up underneath and I crumpled to the ground in a heap of ouch. I'm happy to say that I was able to block the ball and score the point for my team, but at great cost. I'm unhappy to say that my fall had more to do with limited athletic ability and bad luck than it did alcohol (I don't drink, so I can't even blame the beer for my clumsyness).
My friend Sue was
there, and lucky for me, she had her nurse hat on. Sue and my wife rushed over to the court and the rest of the players gathered around as I rolled around on the ground. Within seconds my ankle had ceased to be, I officially had a cankle instead. The swelling seemed much worse on the outside, like a big knotty tumor had suddenly been deposited where the little knobby ankle bone used to be. Even so, I thought I'd be back playing in half an hour. I crawled off
the court and sat in a chair for a little while, my foot up on a cooler while I watched it get turned shades of purple that I didn't know existed in nature.
Sue and PlainOleWife got me some ice and a sandwich, both of which were nice, but only one of which did anything to alleviate the pain. After a while though, it stopped throbbing (must've been a better sandwich than I thought). I decided to try and get up, and in a sports loving tough guy moment, I figured I would just "walk it off." I've had a few bad ideas in my day. Stealing the duck crossing sign, that was a bad idea. Hopping on the moving freight train after a night at the bars, that was a bad idea. Telling my old boss that he both looked and smelled like, not only a weasel, but a Downs Syndrome weasel with male pattern baldness, also a bad idea. Getting up out of that chair may have been the worst idea I've ever had. This
pain shot up through my leg, up into my rectum, and launched out the top of
my head and into the sky, like someone was sending the Bat Signal for sports related injuries. Standing up felt as if someone had both stapled my gall bladder to a
porcupine and, at the same time, one of them steam roller operators was savagely beating
me with a garden hoe. I decided not to play any more volleyball and
instead collapsed on the ground in a sobbing heap.
They took me to the emergency room where I watched a hilarious
episode of America's Funniest Videos, a tear jerker of an Andy Griffith
show, and most of a "Scott Baio is 45 and Single" (If I knew that,
perhaps I wouldn't have settled so young.)
After Glenn the X-Ray Tech and I had a very nice conversation that went something like this:
Me - Do you want me to sit up on the table?
Glenn - Put this lead thing on your balls.
Me - That's what she said.
Glenn - Lead thing. Balls.
Me - That's what she said.
Glenn - I lack social graces and a sense of humor.
Me - That's what she said?
The
doctor told me there was no break of fracture, but that I probably did
some pretty major ligament damage. I already had an appointment to see
an orthopedic doctor for my messed up knee, so when I went in there
Wednesday, he told me that I had broken some bone whose name sounded
like "medium mayonaise." I tried to tell him that the ER had told me
there was no break. He said sometimes ERs get it wrong. I said, "like
the time they let a helicopter fall on Dr. Romano?" He looked at me
like one might look at a retarded penguin singing Travis Tritt songs.
Then a very efiminate nursey man put me in a cast. It's
blue. It's itchy. My leg is the temperature of a frying pan full of
boiling lava.
I get this cast off on the 15th, then get a
walking cast. Until then it's going to have to be spectator Monica Seles sports exclusively.
| | |
| You Know What's A Funny Word? Nipple
"Oh, he's very popular Ed. The sportos,
the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads -
they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude."
I've seen that movie three dozen times and probably heard paraphrases
of the quote at least fifty more times, and every time I tried to
picture where Ferris Bueller would have fit in in my high school.
Growing up not that far from where the movie was set, you'd think I'd
have some sort of insight into the social hierarchy of a suburban
Chicago high school, but I honestly can't say that I completely
understand all these categories or how I fit into them.
The sportos are self explanatory, although a believe we referred to
them as the jocks, this was a group I would have readily joined had my
lack of athletic ability and more importantly disdain for all things
jockish not prevented me from doing so. Having the only car in the
school parking lot that lacked reverse, the motorheads probably would
have thrown wrenches at me if I'd tried to join their ranks. The geeks
were a social cancer that I narrowly avoided in junior high by
answering "Abraham Lincoln" for every question on the "gifted kid"
placement test. Sluts, well that would have been an odd title for an
adolescent boy, but probably would have been viewed as more of a badge
of honor than the insult the young girls would have viewed it as.
Waistoids (which I have to believe was intended to be about kids
getting wasted, not teenagers concerned about their waist lines as the
spelling might indicate) would have been a good fit for me, as I often
listened to Motley Crue's "Smokin' in the Boy's Room," but since I drew
the line at actually smoking in the boys room, I didn't quite fit
there. As for the bloods (which could either be a gang reference or a
group of socially conscious plasma donators) my fear of needles and
inability to pull off those multi-step handshakes eliminated me from
membership consideration. My understanding of dweebie, strictly on
context, would be a geek without the grades (like a socially retarded,
C student, pimply tuba player), but I'm not quite sure I fit in that
category. Dickheads is such a general term. I personally associate it
with the fringe jocks. I'm sure every high school has those kids that
are complete jerks, and may hand out with the "sportos," but don't make
the team themselves.
Maybe Grace's speech needed to be a bit longer. Where are the bible
beaters? How about the weird drama kids? I distinctly recall groups
of second and third tier popularity, how did they feel about Ferris?
Were the "Heathers" and the "Plastics" also of the opinion that Ferris
was a righteous dude?
Me, I think I was very Ferrisy. I found myself in similar situations a
few times, and often came up with interesting reasons to miss school
and head to the Cubs game. However, instead of being worshipped by the
student body and vilified by the Ed Rooney's of WVHS, I was kind of
invisible. So were most of my friends. Individually, I think each of
us was just on the outskirts of these groups. Stan and Tim wrestled,
but didn't fit in with the jocks. Jerry was a genius, but was a bit
too cool to hang with the geeks. John grew up to be a mechanic and
loves all things cars, but steered clear of the high school auto shop.
Matt talked to the dickheads, even ate lunch with them sometimes, but
never found himself invited to after school dickhead activities. Jeff,
still slightly socially retarded, due to his size and athletic ability,
narrowly missed the dweebie category. Tom and me, well, we were Ferris
- the men that defied category. The men that constantly found trouble
and adventure.
Trouble and adventure were the same thing. It's all semantics. Our
mothers saw it as trouble. We saw it as adventure. Our dads (only
when moms were absent), we could tell saw a bit of humorous nostalgia,
reliving their own hi jinks through our wacky misadventures.
We never did anything terrible. No one ever got hurt. So, most of the
adventures we had were just plain stupid, but looking back, they're
some of the best memories I have.
One such adventure was several years in the making. Jerry's house was
our usual hang out. There were several reasons for that. One. Jerry
had a pool. Two. Jer had a sister. Two and a half. Jer's sister was
cute and she had cute friends. Three. Did I mention the cute sister
and the cute friends went in the pool sometimes?
I don't remember exactly who it was, probably either Stan, who tended
to focus on really odd things, or one of the girls, but someone at some
point, brought to the group's attention that Jerry had remarkably small
nipples. Now, I realize that that is an incredibly odd thing to bring
up about someone, and there are far more mental, psychological, and
physical qualities that would paint a better picture of Jerry as a
character in this story, but there's no need. All you need to know is
that Jerry had abnormally tiny nipples. So small in fact, that some
one at some point, in the continuous stream of tiny nipple mocking that
took place, actually made Jer a "bikini top" made of shirt buttons and
fishing line to cover up his micro-nipples.
Jer's nipples became such a focus in the group that in a variation of
the classic high school boy beats doorknob game (in which if a member
of the group farts in the presence of others he has to say "no beats"
before one of his companion says "beats doorknob," otherwise all his
friends get to punch him until he actually touches a doorknob) we
actually had an amendment that included sneezing and saying either "no
pomegranates" or "Jerry's nipples," depending on whether you were the
sneezer or the sneezee. As you can probably guess, if you weren't
successful in finishing your sneeze quick enough to blurt out "no
pomegranates" before your friends could say "Jerry's nipples," you
would be beat mercilessly until you actually touched Jer's nipples.
This is much simpler to do when the item you need to touch is inanimate
and easily found, like a doorknob (or a trash receptacle for burps),
but Jerry (not a fan of this game) would run away anytime someone
sneezed, making for some interesting trips to the mall during cold and
flu season. It wasn't rare to see a very scrawny, tiny nippled
teenager being chased through Sears by a runny nosed adolescent who was
being pounded on by five of his closest friends. There was a sub-rule,
allowing the sneezer to be excused if Jer wasn't within one hundred
yards, so if Jer was not with us that day, you could sneeze away.
However, John once found out the hard way that two cars travelling down
the highway on a six hour road trip downstate could stay within one
hundred yards of each other the entire way.
Anyways, one particular afternoon, probably in the pool, Stan invented
a new medical procedure in his whacked little mind. He declared that
Jerry was a perfect candidate for Dr. Van Schoobely's patented nipple
enlargement surgery. Ha ha ha. We all laughed, but Stan was serious.
In an entirely creepy way, he spent the rest of the day eyeballing
Jer's nipples and finding any excuse to titty twister his friend.
However, what Stan had really accomplished was planting a seed. We had
been playing pranks on each other for years. A shopping cart in Matt's
bedroom when he got home. Calling the pizza place and changing Jeff's
regular Thursday order to include pickles. anchovies, and green
olives. Replacing Tim's bowling ball with the rock filled, severed
head of a creepy looking baby doll. Dropping hot dogs into John's
industrial size ketchup bottle, only to have him find them over a year
later while garnishing a hamburger. They even once picked up my car
and moved it across the parking lot, sending me into a mad car thief
panic. Our Coup de Gras, however, was Dr. Van Schoobely's nipple
enlargement procedure.
Having been friends since early junior high, we were well aware that
Jerry slept shirtless. We were also aware that a big fat red permanent
marker would do a nice job of at least making his nipples appear larger
than they were. We were also aware that in small town Americana, Jer's
parents didn't lock the door at night. See, I told you a seed had been
planted.
Tom, Tim, Stan, John, Matt, and myself took the mission. The plan was
simple. We'd enter the house late at night when normal people were
fast asleep. We'd creep up the stairs (careful to avoid the last step
because it squeaked) and enter Jer's room. With extreme patience and
incredible stealth, we'd use our magic marker to perform the
nipplectomy.
We put the plan in motion. Tom snuck through the door first, followed
closely by Matt. Their job was to sneak through the living room and
kitchen and open up the sliding glass door in the back. This was a two
fold assignment. First, it would give us two potential escape routes.
Second, it would allow the rest of us to enter through the back, making
less noise and creating less traffic in the front of the house. You
see, right near the front door was the entrance to Jer's dad's office,
where he would work countless hours through the night. I very rarely
saw the man during daylight hours, but all night he'd be in that
office, pounding away on the keyboard. Some of us were convinced he
was a vampire. Stan even threw garlic at him once. "Ha ha ha, you
vampire, I'm gonna throw garlic at you." He actually said that, and he
actually did it. Jer's dad just looked at him weird and walked away.
(Stan got that reaction a lot. More so during prom season).
Tom and Matt belly crawled by the office and made their way to the
kitchen. Here, problem number two arose. Just as they were about to
open the back door for the rest of us, the vacuum cleaner started up in
the dining room. Jer's mom. You see, having had many a sleepover at
the house, I was aware, but for some reason failed to mention, that
Jer's mom liked to vacuum between the hours of two and three in the
morning. Her rationale? To avoid disturbing anyone who was watching
TV. No, she wasn't a vampire, she was just insanely aware of other
people's feelings and television viewing habits.
Watching through the glass, I could see that Tom and Matt were
stumped. If they made their way over to the door, they'd be in plain
view of the dining room, if they went back to the front, they might be
caught by Jer's dad. Tom looked at me, as if to ask what he should do,
but before I could pantomime any words of advise through the glass, the
vacuum stopped. Tom and Matt panicked. They looked left, down a long
hallway to the den, but didn't think there was enough time to get down
the hall. They looked to the table, with it's long table cloth. They
thought about the basement door and the pantry, but none of it was
quick enough. Jer's mom walked into the kitchen.
"Matt. Tom. I didn't know you boys were here. Let me make you a
cake." I swear on all that is holy, that that's what she said. Most
people would sound the alarm, question what two young men were doing in
her kitchen at 2:30 AM, or at the very least be startled a little.
Jer's mom, perhaps at the same time the nicest and the strangest person
I ever met, offered to make them a cake. They declined the offer, but
she insisted, and soon they found themselves trapped at the kitchen
table, waiting for a Duncan Hines classic yellow cake to emerge from
the oven. At one point, however, Jer's mom excused herself to get some
eggs from the basement (That confuses me to this day), and Tom dashed
down the hall to the den and slid the other glass door open.
The four of us waiting outside, darted into the den, completely unfazed
by the change in our plan. We had a mission to accomplish and nothing
was going to stop us. We were like the Marines, only stupid,
unprepared, and with a far less important mission that preserving
freedom.
With Tom and Matt trapped in dessertville, the rest of us waited for a
moment of opportunity. Hard at work on the cake, Jer's mom had her
back turned. There was a window over the sink, and I was worried that
she'd see our reflection as we dashed down the hall, so in full on army
crawl, I scooted down the hallway and into a small mudroom off the
garage. One by one, waiting for Tom's all clear signal, the guys
joined me. While the hand mixer was doing it's thing, I bravely dashed
around the corner, through the far end of the kitchen and into a small
hallway that led to the front door. A half bathroom sat in the middle
of the floor plan, the living room, dining room, kitchen, and the
hallway surrounding it. I ducked into the commode to wait for the
others. John joined me a few seconds later. Tim was next, but he
found himself trapped in the middle of the hall when shadows up ahead
clued him in that Jer's dad was on the move. Closer to the kitchen, on
the other side of the hall, was the basement door. Tim surveyed his
options, and decided to play it safe (as safe as darting into a dark
basement in the middle of the night can be anyway). Without any lights
on in there, Tim missed the first step, stumbled, and fell. Lucky for
him, the stairs curved about a third of the way down, so instead of
tumbling all the way down to the concrete below, he slammed into the
side wall and blindly caught himself on the banister. However, unlucky
for him, he figured someone would soon investigate the tremendous thud
he'd made, so he flew down the steps and slammed full force into the
corner of the ping pong table. You can probably guess where the corner
of a ping pong table hits a sixteen year old boy.
"What was that racket? Did my painting fall off the wall?" a startled Jer's mom asked.
"I didn't hear anything," Matt smoothly replied.
"Probably coyotes," Tom explained. "There all over the place now. We saw one just a few minutes ago."
Jer's mom accepted the probability that the slamming noise she heard
coming from her basement was indeed coyotes frolicking outside and went
back to baking.
At the same time, Jer's dad made his way down the hall. I'd heard the
slam, and the ensuing sound that made me believe that a troop of hippos
had decided to hurry down the steps to play ping pong, and I'd heard
Tom's lame coyote explanation, but now I heard footsteps coming down
the hall. By the direction they were coming from, I knew it was Jer's
dad coming from the office. After considering both hiding in the
medicine cabinet and flushing myself down the toilet, I did the only
thing I could think of, I locked the door.
Blind to what was going on down the hall, Tom and Matt didn't know we
were about to be busted, but lucky for us, Tom was always a quick
thinker. Jer's dad grabbed the doorknob and turned it, thwarted.
Confused as to why the bathroom would be locked, he called into the
kitchen, "Honey, why's the bathroom locked?"
Breathing a sigh of relief, Tom put that quick mind to work. He shove
Matt's head down and pushed him under the table, the cloth falling back
into place just as Mrs. Jer turned around and Mr. Jer entered the
room. "Uh, Matt's in there, Mr. Jer. He might be a little while too."
"Okay," Jer's dad accepted, not questioning what Matt and Tom were
doing there or why his wife was baking a cake. Most patriarchs would
be suspicious or taken aback, but Jer's dad had lived with Jer's mom
and Jer and Jer's brother and sister long enough to accept the weird
things that went on in the house. Vampires who work in their home
office are open minded like that.
So as not to waste a trip to the kitchen, Mr. Jer wandered over to the
fridge and peeked inside. He was a notorious fridge browser, leaving
the thing open so long that my dad would have had a stroke from all the
yelling, but no one in this household felt that a good inventory of the
fridge was a means by which to cool off the neighborhood like my
parents did. While he was distracted, and Mrs. Jer was back to hand
mixing, Stan made a daring move from the mudroom, around the corner,
down the hall, and all the way up the stairs. Matt, doing an
impression of an uncoordinated ninja, rolled out from under the table
to the bathroom. Hearing his whispers, John and I bolted up the steps
and Matt returned to the kitchen. Tim was still lying on the basement
floor pondering the possibility of future procreation.
"Son, did you flush," Mr. Jer asked as Matt returned to the kitchen. "I didn't hear a flush."
"Uh?" was all Matt managed before Tom slapped him in the back of the head.
"Go back and flush please," Mr. Jer asked, peeking over the top of the
fridge door. "I don't want any of your stuff floating in my house."
Matt obediently went back and flushed the toilet, peeking up the stairs
to see me, John, and Stan creeping across the main hallway.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom. In the middle was a
large square shaped hall area. On the south wall was the door to Jer's
sister's room. On the west wall the parent's room (which was open) and
the bathroom. To the north was the room Jer shared with his older
brother Don, the master bedroom.
The door to Jer's room was open slightly, so we crept over there ever
so quietly. Up against the wall on either side of the door, we poked
to door gently, letting it open slowly bit by bit. Once it was open
enough to sneak through, I dropped down on all fours and crawled into
the room. John and Stan were right behind me. For so late at night,
it was actually pretty bright in there, thanks to a street lamp just
outside the house. Just enough light poured in through the three
windows to help us make our way across the room. I saw that Jer was
asleep in his bed, but way across the room I couldn't tell if Don was
there or not. Heck, to be honest, there could have been a stegosaurus
in that room and I wouldn't have known it. The place was huge and it
was a complete pit. The Queen of Clean could have come over to help
Jer and Don pick up the joint, but she'd probably be swallowed by a
pile of clothes and lost to us all. To say the room looked like a
cyclone had struck it just wouldn't be fair, the cyclone would have to
lawyer up and plead his case, "look, I know I'm a cyclone, and I can do
some serious damage to a place, but this mess, come on, not even I'm
capable of this level of destruction. What is that on the ceiling, a
McNugget?"
Seeing that Jer was asleep and assuming the Don was out for the night
(read hoping and praying) we all stood up and made our way across the
room. Stepping over boxes and science experiments and piles of God
knows what, we soon found ourselves hovering over Jer's bed. John was
in charge of the video camera, so he had a spot at the foot of the
bed. I had the Poloroid in hand, but was reluctant to use it because
of the flash. Stan, he was the magic marker man. He slid his way down
the side of Jer's bed, between the overflowing closet and the mattress
to get withing nipple reach.
We learned real quick that Jer was a tosser and a turner, rolling every
which way and flinging the covers all over the place. Watching the
alarm clock across from me, I knew we stood there for more than ten
minutes before Stan felt comfortable enough to proceed with the
operation. Getting down on his knees to get down to nipple level, Stan
removed the cap from the marker. An ace "Operation" player, I was
confident that Tom's hand was steady enough to get the job done, but
John, camera rolling, wasn't so sure. I could see that he was slowly
backing towards the door.
Just as Stan was about to do the deed, the door swung the rest of the
way open and from the darkness of the hallway a figure emerged. Sure
that it was Don (Jer's big brother), I started preparing excuses, but
we were safe. It was just Tim, who had somehow escaped the basement.
Tim joined the gathering around the bed and Stan closed in again. For
a few seconds there, which at the time felt more like hour and a halfs,
we all stopped breathing. I tried to clear my mind and really focus on
the moment at hand, my brain working far faster than Stan's arm or the
rest of the world around me. This was more than fifteen years ago, but
at that moment, poised on the edge of greatness, witnessing one of the
greatest pranks of my youth, I was already rehearsing the words I'd use
to tell this story to future generations. The words, the throughts,
the ideas, they all rushed around, but the real world was still stuck
in slo-mo. I was so excited I could just about pee, as I watched the
whole thing unfold. The pen got closer and closer to Jer's chest.
Stan's face was a study of concentration, locked in and focused. Out
of the corner of my eye, I could see John watching the events on the
camera's view screen, already accepting the Scorsese like praise he
knew we'd heap upon him when we viewed his handiwork. Tim was so
nervous and excited it looked like he'd jump out of his skin. He'd
leaned in so far, I thought he might tip right over onto Jerry.
Just then, as ink was about to meet nipple, Jer turned ever so
slightly. We all flinched, except Stan. He stuck with it. He'd come
this far. Jer shifted again, just a little, then settled. The marker
didn't inch closer, there were no more inches left, it milimetered
closer. It was about to happen. I glanced at John to make sure the
camera's red light was on. Stan milimetered a bit more. Contact.
Then it happened.
Jer's butt opened up and said, "toot." It was the perfect tooter
fart. Just a round little toot, but it was the end of your mission,
because there's nothing to spoil a moment of adolenscent male
concentration like audible sleepy farts. We all lost it. Stan, who
was crouched down like a baseball catcher lost his balance and fell
back into the closet, which was less of a clothing storage area than it
was cotton and fiber compost heap. We were all trying hard not to
laugh, but in the way that just makes you laugh harder. It was
contagious. Thinking about the seriousness of the moment and having it
intruppted by that delicate little toot is making me laugh right now,
so there was no chance of containing it then. Jer was still asleep,
but if we didn't control ourselves that wouldn't last long. To collect
himself, John hurried out into the hall. I turned away and moved
towards the window, trying to regain composure. Tim dropped to the
floor at the foot of the bed, laughing so hard he was shaking the whole
floor. And Stan, he was stuck. He was unable to stop laughing, and
when I looked over at him lying on the closet floor, holding his hands
over his mouth, I started up again too.
The three of us there trying to contain the laughter resembled a herd
of retarded turkeys trying to stiffle repeated sneezes while having a
seizure. Before too long, our racket got to Jer. He sat up like a
rocket and scanned the room. That didn't stop the laughing. For some
reason it made things funnier. Knowing that in the shadows and among
the mess, there was no chance of him seeing me without his Coke bottle
glasses, I dove to the ground, landing next to something that was once
grapes, had passed the raisin stage, and become something that could
only be called gelatinous stinky balls of goo.
I reached up onto Jer's nightstand and grabbed his glasses before he
could and crawl/dashed to the door. Tim was right behind me, still
laughing. Jer threw the covers off and darted after us, but got
tangled up in the sheets long enough for Tim and I to scamper into his
parent's room. John had long ago made an escape attempt down the
stairs, so we pulled open the window and crawled out onto the balcony.
Now right above the kitchen door, I took a chance and flipped myself
over the railing. I hung for a second, then dropped down to the
ground. It was not a smart idea, or a pleasent landing, but with the
lights on in the kitchen, I knew that no one could see out very well.
I saw Tom and Matt sitting at the table still, but took off for the
cars. Tim was right behind me, but landing mostly on his shoulder and
his ear rather than his feet.
Out front, we met up with John who had actually escaped right out the
front door. Before long, Matt and Tom joined us. Stan spent the rest
of the night trapped in the closet, but never even attempted another
charge at Jer's nipples.
Ferris Bueller may have had quite an adventure too, but unless there's
a sequal in the works, he never witnessed one of Dr. Van Schoobely's
patented nipple enlargement surgeries. Maybe me and my friends were
righteous dudes too. | | |
| Dinner With FriendsEvery few weeks, for as long as we've been able to drive, me and my
friends have gotten together for dinner. The same group of seven or
eight of us has been as tight as can be since junior high, so getting
us all together is like a big family reunion. Over the years, though,
careers, moves, spouses, and kids have all made our little get
togethers and interesting and constantly changing dynamic.
During the post college years (AKA: The years Mike's mom was extremely
disappointed that her son wouldn't just grow up already), my friends
and I would meet for dinner quite often. Massive consumption of
alcohol was usually a key ingredient to the evening's recipe for fun.
Some of us still lived at home, a few were still finishing up school,
and unbelievably, a couple of us had entered the world of adulthood -
holding down jobs and managing grown up relationships. Me, I was
desperately holding onto whatever it is that comes between childhood and
adulthood. I was changing majors and dropping classes, doing anything
to remain firmly entrenched in the lackofresponsibilityhood phase I so
enjoyed during my six years of college.
During this period of our lives. the gatherings often took place at
local drinking establishments and were centered more on the liquid
portion of the meal than the assortment of hot wings, nachos, and bowls
of potentially contaminated peanuts and popcorn (seriously, have people
just forgotten the concept of washing their hands after they pee?). I
distinctly recall spirited contests where we'd bet to see who would
"accidently" throw a dart across the bar the wrong direction. I
remember Tim picking a fight because he felt a fellow bar patron simply
"looked like an a-hole." Sadly, my memory banks hold more than one
instance where one of us wound up urinated on by other members of the
group.
These years brought a few changes among our ranks. Jerry and his long
time girlfriend moved across the country. Tom, having been away at
school for a few years, returned with news that he'd be getting
married. That set the ball rolling, things were destined to be
different.
As my pals slowly became gainfully employed, and I continued to be a
disappointment to my mother with my string of bartending and table
waiting jobs, the establishments we met in became a little more
upscale. Now, keep in mind that I'm talking about upscale for the
likes of us. This was no dinner at the Ritz, this was moving from the
local bar that smelled like a backed up toilet in the summer time
because of the sewage treatment plant across the way to the "fine
dining" of Chili's. (Hey, any place that serves their food on a
scalding hot plate that could be used as a weapon in the prison yard
screams class to me). Often times my friends nights out would be to
the restaurant I happened to be working at at the time. I had this
twisted notion in my head that I was destined to be a writer, so I refused to get a "real job," claiming the lousy pay and crap work will keep me hungry. It did, but not the kind of hungry I had been talking about. What
exactly I was writing or hoping to do with that writing was moot, I was
a writer simply because I had declared myself one. Living in a house
with four friends (one from our little gang), I made most of my income
from selling cups at the front door as people entered our parties. The
parties were frequent, and lucrative, but did little to advance my
"writing career," in fact, I spent far more time searching for aspirins
and wondering where in the holy hell I was (seriously, I once got lost
in my own dining room) than I did writing anything.
A great deal of those years are a complete blur, but I know it was
during this time that Stan moved away. He'd declared bankruptcy,
broken up with his fiance (during a fight in which all of us were
present for), and decided to stay with his parents for a while and
straighten out his life. Tim, going the opposite direction in his
life, got married and bought a house.
Jeff and I had had enough. Stuck in a lease at that party house, we
couldn't seem to separate ourselves from the drinking and partying that
was going on around us. We needed a fresh start. There was a long,
slow roadtrip to LA. California was the perfect place to start over.
My sister and her new husband, who had been absorbed into our
fellowship over the years, didn't want me to go. She scoured the
papers looking for jobs, careers really, for me. I wasn't having any
of it. I needed to get away. One Halloween, we had our "last
supper." The whole gang got together to wish me and Jeff farewell.
Jeff made his announcement. He wasn't going. His mom, afraid of
losing her baby, had bribed him with a big screen TV.
California rent prices and the new found lack of a roommate led me to
delay my migration west. While sticking it out, I found a new job.
This one was supposed to be a career. It was supposed to be an entry
level to adulthood position. It wasn't. It was a pyramid scheme. A
cult really, and I'd found myself suckered. The helplessness I felt,
the lack of direction, the feeling of being lost, those all helped this
"sales cult" suck me in. I peddled their crap, I preyed on the young
and foolish who came through the door looking for an opportunity too,
and I bought into it all.
While I was off drinking the Kool-Aid, pretty much living in the movie
"Boiler Room," more and more of my buddies were getting married. The
influx of female taste buds into the group had us suddenly meeting at
classy places for our dinners. By classy, I mean, of course, having
tablecloths and all the stalls in the bathroom actually contain a
toilet. Having been one of the last of my friends hanging onto the
single life I felt like an extra wheel when we went out, and even though I had a degree, having an income just a
notch or so above homeless crack addicts didn't help me keep up with the money my pals would spend on dinner. I started to lose out on
quality time with my pals, but most of that was by choice, because the job. As smart
as they were, they had group outings, trips to the bar, Saturday "optional"
days at work, and Sunday softball games in the park. They encouraged you to move into apartments with co-workers to save long commuting hours. They tried to
steal away as much as your time as possible, making an effort to keep
you away from friends and family that might just point out, "Hey,
you're in a brainwashing sales cult." Not that you would have believed
them anyway, you were so far gone that you'd turn on long time friends
to defend the job. I missed our regular outings for over a year
because I was so brainwashed.
Completely unrelated to the job, I met my wife during that time. She
knew what time it was. She saw the writing on the wall. Initially,
she was enamored by the promises the company had made, the riches they
assured were just around the corner, but realized that it was a scam.
And, you know how she saved me? We went to my sister's wedding and she
met my friends. She saw immediately the bond we had and wondered why we
never hung out anymore. She made me go every Saturday and Sunday to
have dinner with them. She, in a sneaky way that the cult people would
have loved, showed my who was really important in my life. Initially, I was wary. Having been away from my friends so long, and having talked up this great job so much, I was embarrassed.
She helped
me see the light, even if that light was Mama's boy Jeff, slightly
demented Tim, and a rapidly balding John, the light was people who
cared about me, not the dollar signs I passed up the pyramid. She reminded me that we'd stood by eachother. We, as a group, had known eachother foever. The guys helped Stan, gave him a place to live when his fiance kicked him out. They were always there for Tim, through all the employment problems. We were there for Tom when his marriage fell apart and his wife moved out, and we were there to celebrate the day she moved back in. Everyone was there for Jeff when he dealt with his health problems, like a yo-yo going in and out of the hospital, his friends were by his side. We'd always been there for eachother. I'd always been there for them, my soon to be wife pointed out, that's how friend ship works. She was right. I got a little razzing for being brainwashed, but within a few minutes it was like old times again.
Now, having escaped the "cult" almost seven years ago, I'm happily
married and after a brief return to school, gainfully employed myself.
Most of the boys are now married too, (Jeff is still holding out for
Jessica Alba to come to her senses and move to the Chicago suburbs),
and almost all of us have kids, but we still have our dinners. Just
this Saturday we all went out, all of us. And yes, the dynamic has
changed again. Gone are the fancy restaurants with their fine china,
white table cloths, and working toilets, we now chose to frequent
family friendly joints where the kids can run and play and we can sit
and relax, telling all the old stories, reliving the good times, and
making new memories every day. Just as long as the new memories don't
involve anyone peeing on anyone else, I'm good. | | |
| Plain Ole WhitmanDay care providers have got to be a bit soft in the head. No offense
to those of you out there who have chosen to take care of the nation's
children for a living, but were you kicked in the head by a mule?
I
get the same reaction from new people that I meet when I tell them I'm
a junior high school teacher, but I have an excuse: a very serious blow
to the temple when I snuck up on a donkey as a youngster. No wait,
that wasn't me, that was a cartoon character. Sorry, I get confused
sometimes. Seriously, my excuse for spending my day with a roomful of
eleven year olds is that I need to be around people at my own mentality
level for a while.
I enjoy being around my boy, but I also like a break from the
days where I say nothing but "No, no, don't eat that cat poo," "stop
throwing toys at the dog," "oh yes, I sure do enjoy taking the lid off
and subsequently putting it back on the same tupperware over and over
and over. No sir, I never tire of this game," or talking in nothing
but repetitive paired syllables like "mama," "baba," "wawa," "dada..."
I enjoy being around the eleven year olds if only because they laugh
every time I say "fart."
I guess America's parents owe it to day care providers that
they get a break each day. Now I'm not one to complain about the life
of a teacher (did I mention that I get a laugh every single time I even
elude to farting?), however, with my summers free of real life grown up
work responsibilities, I don't get that adult break every day. (Okay,
I never get the adult break, but do people at your work giggle
uncontrollably when you say "poopie?" I didn't think so. They probably
give you a look like you just slapped their mother across the face with
a dead beaver.)
No, in the summer, I become Daddy Day Care. I love my son,
but I am not used to large uninterrupted Mommyless time with him. I
was not aware that things that weren't speed addicted Tasmanian Devils
with hyperactivity disorders were capable of such bursts of energy. I
was not aware that anyone on this planet besides my mother coming home
from a long relaxing vacation only to find toast crumbs on the counter
was capable of such mood swings. I was not aware that anything this
side of a Play-Doh fun factory was capable of having such an amazing
quantity of assorted multi-colored goo escape from tiny holes in it's
body. And, I was not aware that it was possible to look this much
forward to nap time, not to nap myself, but to repair structural damage
and prepare the house for the next rampage.
Today, to burn some of the energy, give the dogs a break from
being pelted with Fisher Price Little People, and get some fresh air in
his little lungs, I met up with my sister (another teacher) and took
the kids to the local forest preserve.
If I thought PlainOleTike had a lot of energy, I must have
forgotten about my niece. This is the little girl that could
single-handedly give Oreo the funding for world domination. If you
could bottle what she has, the Red Bull people would be embarrassed
about the lack of kick their product has.
At the park, I learned a few things about childhood that I'd forgotten.
At
five years old, PlainOleNeice, tiny little net in hand, became obsessed
with bug hunting. Unfortunately for the success of her new hobby, she
also has the attention span of a Mountain Dew saturated gnat from the
MTV generation. "Loooooook!!!! A butterf... over there, I see a... oh
my God, a lightening bu... blue bugs, I see blue... the butterfly's
back, Mommy, the butter... is that a baby bee?..." This went on for
two hours at a volume most heavy metal bands would find difficult to
maintain. There were bugs three states away completely aware that the
world's newest bugologist was on her way, heck, there were bears in the
forest heading for the high ground for fear that this little spitfire
would scoop them up into her plastic jar. However, with the innocence
of a five year old, everything she did catch was the coolest thing in
the world for the next two minutes. Utter fascination. Lucky for us
she didn't concern herself with the dead rabbit, only the gaggle of
flies that had swarmed nearby.
Me, considering the fact that I've spent most of my outdoor
time as an
adult avoiding insects and experimenting with chemicals and sprays that
kill them, this was an eye opener. I'd forgotten the simple joy of bug
collecting. Heck, animal collecting of any kind. Scooping minnows
into my mother's old Cool Whip containers by the creek. Buckets full
of frogs, including the one my sister tried to kiss, just as it jumped
out of her hand, landing perfectly in her open mouth. And the bugs...
caterpillars, butterflies, fireflies, and countless other creepy
crawlies that would live a few days in a jar on my dresser. Memories
flooded back.
At fourteen months, my son had a different experience in the
woods. Like whichever famous poet it was that loved life among the
trees so very much, PlainOleTike decided to blaze his own trails.
Usually ones that weren't the more travelled or the less travelled, but
were more like impenetrable walls of weed and tree. It didn't matter,
where he wanted to go, he wanted to go, and where he wanted to go was
usually wherever he saw something bright and colorful that caught his
eye. Every flower in the forest had his name on it, and he wasn't
going to be satisfied until he said, "hi" to each and everyone (except
the orange ones that he decided to growl at. They must have been up to
no good; babies have a sense for that sort of thing). Each patch of
wild flowers got it's due attention. A few of them were chewed on,
which wasn't what that other poet had in mind with the stopping and
smelling, but I think the sentiment was there. Luckily he didn't see
the dead rabbit.
Me, my usual walk in the woods is for the exercise. I know
the distance of the paths, so it makes it convenient to take a stroll
there and get in the mileage and time I need to log to make the family
physician happy. I honestly hadn't noticed the flowers before today.
Next time I'm bringing my camera.
PlainOleNephew, a new addition to the family at a whopping
four months, just went along for the ride. Stuck in his stroller and
content to stare up and the branches waving around in the breeze, he
didn't seem to have a care in the world. That was, until we went off
the paved path and walked along the lumpy, hole-filled, root covered,
rock infested trails down by the river. I thought all the jostling
would upset him, but each up and each down must have been like an
infant Six Flags for him, because he absolutely loved each and every
root, rock, and hole. He was smiling, gurgling, cooing, laughing, and
just about any other happy baby noise there is with every single bump.
My sister, never having been a good driver, narrowly missed the dead
rabbit. I can't imagine that would have been a pleasant bump.
Me, I enjoyed the paved path. I've always liked the paved
path. The bark and the pebbles don't get in my shoe. I don't have to
concern myself with twisted ankles or sprained knees, but in time, with
two strollers doing their best Jeep impressions off road, the dips and
the bumps became part of the fun, in fact, we started aiming for the
biggest obstacles in our path, hoping to bounce ourselves right out of
our seats and having to work to right the ship before the next hole.
That was fun. Next time I want to ride in the stroller.
I may spend my days imparting wisdom on the youth, but today
I was the student, the little ones were the teachers. Today I was
quite happy to be Daddy Day Care. A trio of babies taught me a thing
or three about life. They reminded me to be fascinated with all God's
creatures, stop and smell the flowers every once in a while, and take
it in stride (even enjoy it a little) when there are bumps in the
road. Also, avoid the dead rabbits.
| | |
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