Scars (Part 1)

Major League Baseball’s season is coming to an end. The New York Yankees, a team for which I played in Little League and now despise in the big leagues, are a favorite to win this year. The news here in New York is littered with A-Fraud. Still, baseball will always hold its place in my life.

Boys dream of playing in the World Series, I did. I played baseball before I knew the rules of the game. My father would have me throw countless balls into a tire nailed to a fence. He taught me dedication and discipline. Dad coached my big brother’s team, and I was happy to be the batboy. I have many fond baseball memories. I also have these:

• Before organized baseball, I played what we called “pickle” or “hot box.” Two bases and three people. Basically a glorified version of keep away. Once I ran head-on into a baseman. Spitting and swallowing blood, I lost a tooth.
• After one of my brother’s games, an older boy asked me to throw him a pitch. He hit a line drive into my side. I dropped in pain and cried. Eventually, the baseball-sized bruise grew to that of a soccer ball.
• One evening I was playing catch with my dad and brother. Something caught my attention, so I turned my head. Then, I heard Dad calling my name. I turned back and a ball met my eye. I remember screaming.
• As a batboy I saw my brother swing his bat into a friend’s face while on deck. I believe it was the same game when another batter foul tipped a ball directly into his own face. An ambulance visited the field twice that day.
• I was pitching a near flawless game, but as I threw the last pitch of my baseball career, I remember feeling a pop. My arm dangled to my side.

After the injury I traded a small, hard 2.9 inch diameter baseball for a softer, large 8.7 inch diameter soccer ball. My days of playing baseball were over, and I joined Shoe Hunter’s soccer team.

As New York begins to chill and the MLB World Series approaches, warmness resides within. A baseball is something legitimate and forever, not like the hormone-filled players that riddle its game. It’s at this time of year I miss the 88 inches of red, waxed thread used to hand-sew the 108 double stitches of every baseball. My father sewed those stitches into my side. I have a scar to prove it.

RYU-I

Street food is good, but only Street Fighters really appreciate it – Sonic BOOM! Actually, Guile was more my brother’s style. I fight like Ryu – Hadouken! Try to dodge that—back to reality.

Yesterday, a pretty girl, Chun-Li, delivered street food to two great warriors past their prime, Ryu and Blanka. She collected the Halal food on the corner of 53rd Street and 6th Avenue near the MoMA in New York City. Chun-Li weaved through the crowds of people, penetrated the 40 mph winds and finally arrived to the final battlefield, Union Square Park.

For Ryu, this was just another fight. Be aware, eating street food is always a battle. For Blanka, this was altogether a different experience. The uniquely prepared rice and lamb flashed Blanka back to his lonely days in South America after his horrific plane crash. Timid with distant memories, Blanka chose the easy way out. He drenched his food in white dressing and ignored the fire sauce. He would later claim it a mistake. Ryu laughed but didn’t show his disapproval. Gouken taught him to hide his feelings to even those closest to him. Ryu and Chun-Li shared the dangerous meal. Years of fighting and now they fight their battles together. While Chun-Li fed the last grains of rice to the domestic beast creatures of the park, Ryu’s old nemesis made entrance – Sagat!

“This one is for you, Ryu. What is the best nation?” he spoke audibly and with flashcards. Ryu remained silent. “Answer me!” Sagat said, “DOUnation!”

Ryu, Chun-Li, and Blanka were confused. Was this another one of his mind tricks? Such an obvious misspelling could only be intentional … unless Sagat had lost his mind. Could it be???

“Fine,” said Sagat. “Chun-Li, what goes up and must come down?”

“I don’t know,” Chun-Li answered with a frown but smizing (according to Tyra this is smiling with the eyes).

“Down … the best, sexy bum in town,” Sagat replied.

Mysteriously, Chun-Li was somehow defeated and surrendered some spare change. In one last move of desperation, Sagat turned to Blanka and said, “You look bored. You need a girl to sit on you. My sister will do it. She is 500 pounds.”

Ryu took note of Sagat’s new creative battle tactics. He noticed Chun-Li smiling and feeding the beasts. He sat and watched Blanka combat street food without fire sauce. His instincts, his battle know-how, his innate desire to conquer, and his street fighting skills were left sharpened and keen as ever. He left the battlefield and returned to work.

Speak with Some Frank

Statistics and research- that's what I do for a living. So I've been hard at work: 457 is not a model or type of plane, it's the office average consensus. I tried to be partial, factual, and fair and balanced ... but the scale is one-sided.

Large Man works for a TV rating company. He resides in a space meant for two employees. His chair, or lack thereof, is a topic of great debate. Some believe he has a special chair to accommodate his mass. Others believe he needs no chair; rather, he sits on parts of himself. He arrives to work via “special car.” He can’t fit through the turn-stops in the subway. Lunch is fun. Typically McDonalds is delivered from around the corner. He is notified by phone when his order arrives. He then walks 100 yards to the elevator, descends 14 stories, and walks 50 feet. Next, he collects his number 2, 4, and 7 combo meals. Large Man double-checks his order to ensure two chocolate milkshakes arrived in place of two sodas. He returns to his desk dripping in sweat.

His phone is permanently set to the loudest possible volume. It must be difficult to hear with excess skin in and around the ears. On October 6, 2009, Large Man ordered from an unknown restaurant. The end of the order conversation:

LM: Make sure you put lots and lots of salt and pepper in the bag. Last time you said you would and you didn’t.
Fast Food Employee (FFE): Yes Sir, we will do that for you.
LM: Do it right now, please.
FFE: Right this second?
LM: Yep.
FFE: Uh … OK. (Pause) I did it.
LM: OK, reach back into your stash and put two more handfuls in my bag.
FFE: Sure, we’ll be there in 15 minutes. (Click)
LM: (CLICK) BLEEPity Bleeping BLEEPS!

His superiors demand he wear suits on days when he must meet with clients (rumors and speculations of a company force-quit spread like butter). He is trying to oblige. He spends countless hours on the phone discussing the dimensions and specifics of the custom-made garments. “Don’t make the pants like bell-bottoms,” he says. Days later he says, “The pants are too tight on my calves.” His calves are baby cows. Sometimes he orders-in veal.

Large Man speaks ill of co-workers. He speaks loud with vulgarity. Large Man doesn’t hear well, so he is unaware of his own earsplitting voice, which is probably worsening his already bad hearing. There are many bathrooms located on his floor. He can use only one stall in one bathroom. This stall is the furthest possible point of relief from Large Man’s desk. He is a living (knock on wood) reminder to all those with whom he works. It has been said, “You are what you eat.” Eventually, some people turn into their job. He is a desk job.

Things Large Man Shakes:
A group of 10 cubicles
Anything on any desk within 20 feet
Confidence in Mankind
His breathing pattern
His voice
The ground
Mice - Screen savers on nearby computers do not activate when left unattended

Lastly, he is a Notre Dame fan. He and the team's coach are two compelling reasons for me to choose another team. Oh, and he snorts.