When I was ten years old my father took me to a baseball card signing to meet Willie McCovey (HoF 1986), Willie Stargell (HoF 1988) and Johnny Mize (HoF 1981) at the New York Penn Hotel. It was a day that I think about often, even now as a man grown, because of the way that these stars went out of their way to make it a special experience for me. Hundreds of people waited in line with their countless wares looking to make a big score in that world of memorabilia speculation, but when I approached the table at which McCovey sat, the former great brought me around to his side of things, pulled up a second chair, and spent fifteen minutes while he signed pictures and whatnot for others, talking to me about baseball.
Some time later in the afternoon, when I came to meet Willie Stargell, "Pops" did the exact same thing.
I'm sure you can imagine, for a young boy who never wanted to do anything but play ball, what an incredible series of events that had to have been. Needless to say, as if I needed any kind of push at that point, I was hooked. I would be a baseball fan forever. Even now, in a life full of highs and lows, it continues to be one of my best days.
My father and I have never had what you would consider a close relationship, but what can never be explained to masses of people flocking towards the newer, more exciting games the likes of NFL Football or NBA Basketball, and away from America's Past-time, are the unbreakable bonds formed between the first pitch, and the seventh inning stretch, and that last strike in the bottom of the ninth. For whatever disagreements we may have had, whatever ills during a lifetime of struggles and mistakes and miscues, for whatever hurts may have pulled us apart, my dad and I could always talk about baseball. So when I pulled his name for our family's first Christmas Secret Santa, and thought about what I could do, my mind went instantly to McCovey, and Stargell, and my first love, the New York Yankees.
Way back, before they were the Evil Empire, when the Mets ruled the city and the fans in the upper deck seemed more interested in the cartoons on the big screen than the game on the field, it didn't matter to me that the Yanks would lose close to a hundred games a year. What I remember was my father, trying to get me to a game at least once for every homestand. I remember him taking me out of school for trips to the Stadium for opening day, and the magic that hung in the air of the place. I remember the Yankees as my father's way of telling me that I was special. For all the winning that I've seen them do since, there's not a thing on the earth that compares to that; something the legion of Yankee haters will never be able to take away from me, and maybe few can understand.
So what can I do for my dad on Christmas? The best I can figure, it's to honor my favorite memories of him by teaching my own children the lessons about life that he taught me through the game we both love, those universal truths we can all understand, whether a parent, a child, a Hall of Famer or a 10 year old kid. It only takes one. Keep fouling them off till you get your pitch. As long as you've got a strike left, we can pull this one out. If you only succeed 30% of the time... you're in the Hall of Fame.
And most importantly, in that way that the long marathon of a baseball season most resembles life, because you play it every day.... if you lose this one, as my dad always told me, "Tomorrow's another day".
If you're a dirty old man, and I am, you have to check out the movie Sucker Punch. I rented it last night and it really surprised me, coming in as a strange mix between "The Secret" and Alice in Wonderland. You know that I don't get too into telling you the entire movie when I'm describing them, but there were three storylines interacting following five smoking hot chicks. The way they transitioned between each was brilliant as was their use of camera angles. A lot of it reminded me of Hitchcock scenes where he would set the camera at one angle and really focus your eye on what your were supposed to be looking at. Then they'd cue the music and entire sections seemed like watching a music video that still somehow managed to tell the tale of the tape. And if that wasn't enough, they'd jump you into a great action sequence full of blood, mayhem, and hotties slashing and shooting. I don't know how no one has told me about this, but you should definitely check it out as a rental.
COCKBLOCKING MOMO'S
The flick got me thinking about a chick that I had been sleeping with a while back now because it was something I'm sure she'd really dig, and that got me thinking on an entirely different path. I'm pretty sure the two of us hate each other now; I was never anything more than cheap sex, she never had any intention of getting to know me (I feel so USED), and when she was done with that, she was done with me. I can't complain too much, my birthday was HOT, and that last time I really had her going. But along the way she picked up a MOMO exactly like Tucker from There's Something About Mary.
Every guy has had to deal with a clown like this at one time or another (unless you were the clown), you know the one, constantly full of shit just to kiss her ass, pretending to be into all the same shit she is, always doing whatever they can to make you look bad... all in the name of trying to get between the two of you, and trying to get with her himself, all the while keeping up the appearance that he's just the innocent friend looking out for her best interests. I had caught this clown several times making the most ridiculous statements that showed how full of shit he really was. It had gotten to the point where anytime I said anything to her at all, even after our talking slowed to a death crawl, the jackass would still feel compelled to one up me.
We all know that you can't point these things out to your lady friend. She'll take the "friends" side over yours every time, even when she knows you're right. And why wouldn't she? He's buying her tickets and taking her out to all the things she wants to do without having to ask and she never has to give up the ass to get it. Then she can get cocked by Dirty Big Dick on the side whenever she wants without having to justify anything she's doing to anyone, especially to herself. It's win-win for her everytime. You end up being just some jealous prick who's trying to control her. (That's one of my personal favorites actually, if you don't like like the idea of her running around with other dudes, you're trying to control her. WTF? )
But guess what pal, we all also know that it's never going to work. The minute she feels she has to give it up to get your bullshit, she's moving on to that next son of a bitch. You won't be bending her over (if she were into you like that, you wouldn't have to sling the shit you've been dealing), and all you do is fuck up my shit. And if, after months of ass kissing and buddy buddy bullshit, you still feel threatened by a guy who barely has anything to do with her... well that's a personal issue you need to look into. And that issue is this... you may not be gay, but... YOU'RE A FUCKIN FAGGOT!
For anyone looking for an explanation of what a MOMO is, because I'll be using it a lot, that last line pretty much sums it up.
There was more I wanted to get into on this, but the rant has gone on long enough so we'll leave it for later. But be sure to follow these points to stay out of this mess...
If you're girl has picked up a MOMO, dump her, dump her fast
If you're too into her to can her ass, ignore MOMO, he's just a harmless douche
Keep giving her the good cock
Silly Whoes collect MOMO'S. Real women do for themselves, they don't need some jackass kissing their ass, buying them shit, or playing games. Not having some weasel clinging on to them like a dingleberry hanging from an ass hair is worth whatever price they have to pay to them to do it on their own.
Ladies, be a real woman, not a Silly Whoe.
Guys, be a REAL MAN, not a fuckin MOMO
DON'T BE A FUCKIN FAGGOT, MOMO!
And finally, I promised you yesterday I'd post the video of Hideki Irabu charging the plate if I can find it. Well Scotty found it for me with a nice little bonus, The Strawman punching someone in the face. SO here you go.
Remember, you can't do Abs in 6 minutes. You can barely break a sweat in 6 minutes.
