When Good Pitches Go Bad

In a season where I’ve watched my 11-year old pitch well, and then struggle and pitch good, there had been one thing missing. A meltdown. He’s had them before. He’s 11. It’s expected.

I just didn’t expect to see it a little over a week ago.

In a game where his teammates played great and they had a chance to beat the top team in the league, my son had his worst game of the season. Facing a group of kids that he’d fanned the week before, he couldn’t find the strike zone. The last time I saw him pitch this poorly was on a night several years ago where my wife got so upset with the calls behind the plate that she blessed out an umpire after the game. (I will probably be in the doghouse for bringing that up.)

After the game was over, my son held it in until reaching the car before collapsing into a mound of tears. He refused to leave the car when we got home. I left him alone, returning ten minutes later, and found him on the steps in the garage that lead into the house. I sat down next to him, and he leaned on me and continued to bawl.

I tried to console him, saying that his favorite player, Craig Kimbrel, was now blowing saves. He responded that he doesn’t like Craig Kimbrel anymore because he found out the Kimbrel’s favorite team is Alabama. I told him that the Braves starting rotation, who has pitched well this season, really blew it in Detroit. He didn’t care.

Still, part of me was proud of him. In previous seasons, he would have gotten mad in the dugout. He kept his emotions in check until he was away from his teammates.

My son was able to move on, regaining a bit of his smile. He spent a night with friends, which improved his mood even more. He’s practiced hard at home and ready to pitch again. One thing has changed however.

His new favorite player is Evan Gattis.

My Son Wears 42

My last post was about the movies, so I wasn't expecting to make this one about them as well. However, it couldn't be helped.

I recently went with my dad and my sons to see 42 in the theater. For my dad, it was a look back at his childhood. He’s old enough to remember when Jackie Robinson broke into the league. For my kids, it was a chance to watch a baseball movie. Both of them love baseball and play in rec leagues. My younger son even wears 42 on his jersey and has me read to him from *Branch Rickey’s Little Blue Book.  

I was nervous about taking my kids to see the movie. I knew my teenager could handle the language, but worried it would shock my 11-y.o. A few years ago, I declined to take my kids to another sports movie, Glory Road (the story of Texas Western's NCAA Championship, with a primarily African American team.) One of the harshest scenes in the movie is when the Dodgers play in Philadelphia. The Philadelphia manager lets loose every racial epithet possible, trying to goad Robinson into losing his temper. Robinson holds it, finally letting loose in the player's tunnel underneath the stadium, where no one can see him.

However, I was unprepared for the scene my 11 y.o. eventually questioned me about after we returned home. In the scene where the Dodgers makes their first trip to Cincinnati, there was a kid in the stands that wanted to see Dodger shortstop Pee Wee Reese, a major leaguer that grew up in a town near Cincinnati. When the Dodgers take the field, the kid's father starts hurling racial insults at Robinson, and then the young boy copies them. My son couldn’t fathom why the kid was saying what he did. I explained to my son that racism is learned. The attitude of treating someone differently due to the color of their skin is something you're not born with. The Cincinnati scene in the movie ends with Reese putting his arm around Robinson in front of everyone in the sold out stadium. In real life, this is a scene that no one can confirm but, like Babe's fabled "called shot," lives on in baseball lore.

There will never be another Jackie Robinson.

Hopefully, we've passed the day where one is needed.

* Branch Rickey was the General Manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers and the person who brought Jackie Robinson to the major leagues.

The Connery Conspiracy

My sons recently acquired a copy of the movie, “Skyfall.” I took them to see it when it came out. I’ve always been a fan of James Bond, but had taken to watching them on TV since about the time I got married. When I saw the previews for Skyfall, though, I knew I had to see it on the screen.

The enjoyed the video just as much. After viewing it three times in one weekend, my 11-year old began affecting a British accent and calling his mother “M.” They looked forward to the Oscars, as they knew there would be a James Bond tribute. During the tribute, Shirley Bassey sang “Goldfinger.”

My sons were like, “What’s Goldfinger?”

 

At that point, I realized I’d neglected an aspect of their cinematic education.

 

I own copies of all of the Connery Bond films, so I pulled out the tape (yes, that old technology is still around) and showed my kids Goldfinger.

They loved it. They were totally enthralled. I was glad they enjoyed it. I was also glad they didn’t ask me about any of the names of the characters. I followed up a week later with Dr.  No. We’ve also now seen You Only Live Twice and From Russia With Love.

The Bond watching, though, has led to debate. My favorite Bond is Sean Connery, followed by Timothy Dalton. For my 11-year old, the best Bond ever is Pierce Brosnan, followed by Daniel Craig. My teenager is enjoying the Bond girls and has not voiced an opinion on which Bond is best as well as asking why George Lazenby was Bond only once.

They want to see Thunderball and Diamonds are Forever, the remaining two Connery Bonds in my collection. (I don’t have Never Say Never Again.) I’m certain we will soon. I’m happy to enjoy it with them as my wife has no interest in any of these movies. This Christmas, we may need to pick up a few. The movies should be available as this is the 50^th anniversary of the franchise.

I look forward to it.

Bond. Father-son bond.

Face-ing Up To Woodpeckers

It’s Sunday morning as I write this. A little earlier, as I was making my coffee, I heard a familiar, distant tapping that mimicked a muffled machine gun on metal. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw a beautiful white bird with a red crest, tapping away at my neighbor’s gutter. It continued its efforts a little while longer before flying back to its nest in the woods behind our subdivision. There’s another woodpecker that attacks the gutters of my neighbors on the other side of my house. Though I can’t tell the difference between the two birds, I’ve noticed that when they fly away, they fly to opposite directions, so I’m speculating they’re not the same one.

We used to have our own woodpecker problem. One particular bird, likely the one that was drilling my neighbor’s gutter earlier, used to attack the gutter next to one of the upstairs bedroom windows at my house. On mornings when I worked from home, I could hear the bird banging against the gutter at the edge of our roof. I’d step out on the back deck and the bird would fly away. There was no damage yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

Enter my 11-year old son.

Last fall, at the end of football season, my son’s team had their annual banquet. One of the items all the kids received was an actual-sized picture of their own face on a stick. My son’s had been taken with him looking mean, as if trying to intimidate an opposing team’s lineman. 

We put that picture outside the window closest to the woodpecker’s target. Since that day, the woodpecker hasn’t returned.

This wasn’t a random idea. My wife looked up on-line how to get rid of woodpeckers. Placing a picture on the window was one of two suggested options. As the other option suggested placing aluminum foil on the gutter (i.e. me getting up really high on a ladder), the picture option seemed a little safer. However, my son wasn’t amused.

With the woodpecker not having returned, my son has asked that we remove the picture. We’ve declined, saying the woodpecker may return. His presence at our neighbors is evidence that he remains close.

In lieu of that, my son has asked for money for the use of his likeness. My wife and I said that sounded like a good idea, and offered to sell copies of his picture to the neighbors. If we can scare off all of the woodpeckers in the neighborhood, we figured we could sell his picture nationwide.

He wasn’t amused by this idea either.

If any of you have woodpecker problems, please let us know.

Mike Golic: Writing Guru

ESPN has a well-known radio show called Mike & Mike in theMorning. The show is hosted by sports anchor/reporter Mike Greenberg and former NFL defensive lineman Mike Golic.

One of the items the duo often discusses is the decision-making process of professional franchises. Per Golic, many decisions come down to one thing: Butts in Seats. Well-run franchises ask themselves what will put fans in the seats on game day and then they usually do that.

It is with that thought in mind that I think of my favorite avocation: writing. I’ve long harbored a desire to be published. With two completed manuscripts, one with several publishers and the other hidden under my bed, I take writing seriously. Two manuscripts is a good start, but in the world of becoming an author, it’s only a start. I have to keep going. I have to write more.

As most writers know, there’s only one way to write more, and it’s a sentiment Mike Golic might appreciate. It’s called BICHOK. BICHOK stands for Butt in Chair, Hands on Keyboard. If a person thinks he/she could “write a book,” talking about it doesn’t help. He/she must sit down, block out everything else, and produce.

It’s not the easiest thing to do. There are more important things in life than writing. I have a wonderful wife and two amazing kids and my primary purpose in life is to be a good husband and father. Doing that requires that I focus on my day job to make sure my family is taken care of as well as being there to attend football and baseball games, help with homework, and, most importantly, just listen.

Still, writing is a part of who I am. I try to write every day if I can, making time because I want to do so. People might think it’s crazy to try to write when one has a job and a family. However, I know a lot of successful writers. Most of them have day jobs. Most have families. Yet, they get published because of BICHOK. They find time to write.

For me, I’m lucky if I get 500 words written in a day. Often, the words aren’t great. However, it’s just me trying to get a story down. Once the words are out of my head and on the page, I can edit them. Five hundreds words isn’t much, but it accumulates. Over the weekend, I wrote “The End” to a new rough draft, my third manuscript. It’s about 85,000 words. In other words, it’s about two weeks short of writing 500 words per day for six months. In its current form, the story stinks and will need major revisions before I'm willing to send it out. However, at least I have a framework to begin the revisions, which is good as I have to pitch the idea to a publisher sometime in May, presenting the entire idea in 100 words or less.

Butt In Chair. Hands on Keyboard.

I’ve already started my next manuscript. My goal is to another completed rough draft before the end of the year. I also plan to edit the manuscript I just finished into something presentable.

Wish me luck.

 

The writer of this blog is currently participating in SpeedBo, a sprint writing event run by a group of inspirational writers at a blog called Seekerville. For writers and readers, there are wonderful prizes being given away every week through the month of March. Click here to check it out.

For those seeking time to write, Author Kelly Stone has a wonderful book called Time to Write. It will help any writer find more time in his/her schedule.

Cupfuls of Memories

I drink a lot of coffee.

My kids, particularly my younger one, constantly remind me of this fact. I brought home decaf last weekend and my younger son told me how proud he was of me.

As a coffee drinker, I’ve acquired a lot of coffee cups over the years. I’ve gotten to the point where I’m particular when I buy them. They have to evoke some sort of memory for me to purchase it. We took a family visit to my alma mater recently to watch some baseball games. While in town, I bought a cup with pictures of the university buildings. 

We took a family trip to Hoover Dam last year and I picked up one there. Two years ago, my older son brought me one home from a school trip, having traded arcade coupons for it. I have other cups, too. All from memories created with my kids.

However, one of my older cups (the one at the top of this post) broke last week. We pulled it out of the dishwasher and the handle came out. My wife said its 10,000 trip through the dishwasher was probably what did it in.

I bought the cup at the Luxor in Vegas back when my teenage son was only one. We’d driven from L.A. to Vegas with my in-laws. My wife went gambling with her parents. I took our son for a tour of the hotel. We found a camel puzzle in the gift shop, along with the coffee cup. Then, we spent a couple of hours in the McDonald’s inside the Luxor, eating French fries and doing the puzzle, until  the place closed down some time after midnight. Every time I drank coffee from that cup, I remembered that evening.

We went to Vegas last year. (The same time we visited Hoover Dam.) My older son was, as I mentioned, a teenager on this trip. It was his third time to Vegas. For my younger son, it was his first trip. 

My younger son had looked forward to the Vegas trip, getting upset only when he discovered that he was too young to gamble, that people smoke and drink in Vegas, and some women do disgusting things for money. However, Criss Angel and two all-you-can-eat buffets later, he thought Vegas was the great place he’d imagined before his arrival.

I plan to take care of the cups I acquired recently. I’ll use them sparingly and then put them away while they’re still whole.

I have so few years left with my kids.

Super Bowl Slapshot

On Super Bowl Sunday, we stopped by GameStop after church so my 11-year old son could use his birthday gift card to pick up a new game. He eventually selected NHL ’13, an eagerly pushed me to lean on the gas so that he might play it as soon as possible.

After a couple of hours of game playing, he seemed to be just getting warmed up. We asked him about his homework, making sure that he had done what he needed to do. He said everything was done. Not a surprise. He’d told us the previous day he didn’t have much and had taken care of it. We pulled him off the game for a while, made sure he spent some time reading, then allowed him to go enjoy his new game again.

Later that day, we headed for a friend’s Super Bowl party. Our 11-year old, the football player, was the most excited. However, when we arrived, we found him doing something we didn’t expect. We found him trying to finish his homework before we got there.

Sometime during the time we’d been getting ready, our son had been working furiously, trying to get his homework done. He’d snuck his materials into the backseat, needing that last few minutes to pen his answers.

My wife and I were disappointed in him, feeling that he’d lied to us. We told him he couldn’t play Xbox for a week. His mother also worked with him at the party, making sure his homework was completed satisfactorily. He missed kickoff.

By Thursday, he was trying to cajole us into letting him play, saying he understood he’d done wrong. However, we didn’t bend, making him wait until Sunday.

He awoke on Sunday at the crack of dawn and headed downstairs by himself, his usual fear of the bogeyman overridden by his desire to play Xbox again. We allowed him to play until we thought he’d done enough, then discussed with him the importance that homework comes first.

Hopefully, the lesson sinks in.