Play T Ball

Ok, this may be a great mistake, but I'm about to accept the nomination for coaching my son's T-ball team. I know, I know...I'm a horrible team player and he can't catch or throw for shit (...he'll be starting!), but I feel this is something I could do. I feel this is something that I could do well.
I want my team to win. I could very well see us being the league champions, and we'll stop at nothing for the Manor Township T-ball championship trophy. My guys will run if they're late for practice. My guys will run if they fall out of line. These kids will come to me doughie little punks and will leave boys. There will be no ice cream celebrations for a loss. After a loss, we will return to the practice field and review tapes and concentrate on mistakes. We will practice in the pouring rain. Thunderstorms? Are you kidding? That's what makes real t-ball players...a little lightning to get your ass running around the bases. That's right.
Oh, don't worry...I'm not going to be the type of coach to let an umpire's bad call get the best of our road to victory...no no no. I will memorize every damn rule there is to this game and keep the rule book in my back pocket for reference at all times. I plan on being thrown out of many games red faced and swearing at the line judges...all in devout pride for our team and our reluctant hunger for victory. I can see it now...

"Foul Ball!"

"A foul? A foul?...You're kidding right? A foul? The ball was clearly fair play."


"Take a seat, Coach...let's move along here...T up!"

"Take a seat? What next? Go home and watch (at this point, I wrestle the rule book from my back pocket, having a hard time, because my cut off jean shorts are so damn tight, you'd think they were painted on)...and watch the grass grow?"

"Coach...Please."

"Please what, DUDE? I can show you right here in the damn book what a damn foul ball is...You gonna tell me now that we're not gonna play by the damn rules? My boys aren't going for the effing championship trophy based on a bunch of damn..."

"Coach...please watch your mouth...I apologize for the call, but I gotta call 'em like I see 'em"

At this point...my senses let loose. Maybe it's the damn too tight cut off's I got on, or the 12 cups of coffee I had before the game...dunno. But, my clip board is let go from my free hand, sending my paper work and notes of play to the April winds and I dart to the poor volunteer line judge in a raging fury...
"Call 'em like you see em? and I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL!!!!"

Luckily my rampage gets stopped before it gets out of hand. The local police chief and Jr. Karate instructor took me down easily before I was four steps away from the dugout.
People turn their heads in embarrassment as I am growling obscenities into the sod, with the two local heroes pinning me down, helpless.

The game is postponed, because parents got upset with the line judge as well, and started getting the kids off the bench before the inning was up. My wife and son leave in tears as the chief and karate coach finally release me; drained and very apologetic. The assistant to the volunteer line coach tells me that my coaching privileges could be revoked, if another such out burst takes place. I try to reason with him and start to open my rule book to the chapter on 'fair play', but now the pages are ripped, grass stained and not really legible. He pleas with me to put the rule book down and go home. I leave peacefully. I walk home delighted...we are still undefeated.

The running shoes are new. My passion for running is also new...and possibly a hot trend for me for about another run...maybe. Some friends of mine run, and they think it's really cool. Like any normal person, I want to be cool in some form or another, and decided to add running to my list of personal passions.
I bought these beauties last night, caught in instinct after buying work boots for summer. Buying running shoes does not make you a runner. Shit, running didn't really make me a runner, and I found out quickly just how much I hate running after a half mile or so. -A half mile, I may add, that was mostly down hill. In no time flat, I was sweating, coughing and crying. If these were symptoms of a great run, and part of the joy my friends were finding...this activity was going to be a hard sell. BUT, I already bought these damn shoes, so I decided to press on, through the wind and driving rain. I tried to notice simple natural surroundings, but was most content running with my head looking straight down at my immediate path and new shoes pounding the pavement laying ahead of me. Also, by looking around at my surroundings, I was sure to notice more often the distance left ahead of me, that only grew shorter very slowly.
Walking became a natural part of my running. My heavy panting and coughing was sure to wake up innocent sleepers as I paused hands on knees. Bees Knees, that is.
I did not throw up, but came visibly close; hacking flem from the lung's lower portion. Cars slowed down when they passed me on their way to church and I waived them bye, to assure that I was not dying in this roadside manner. Manor. Roadside Manor. No, no, no...keep driving...I'll pull through.
Obviously I'm an amateur, and my initial thought was that maybe I shouldn't have bought the cheapest shoes that 'super shoes' had to offer. My training for a May marathon was going shitty as hell and I will no doubt be letting down the other 3/4 of my team...if they will still have me. But...this is what I do. I get all wrapped up in instinctive passions and disappoint the masses. I'm a natural.
By the mid point of my run, I felt the burn. I also felt foolish. 'Damn sure I looked stupid. I couldn't decide weather I wanted to wear my knit hat, or keep my hood pulled up. Running with out head protection was not an option...my scalp is very sensitive to weather...even when the going got sweaty, and I felt the need to run bare-headed...I quickly felt shiverish on the top and covered quickly. The knit hat felt good on my head, but was hot as hell. The hood let my body heat rise from my back and warmed my head and ears nicely, while keeping the rain off my stylin' hair, but...damn it was loud. The fabric of the jacket hood rubbed against itself with mild, gentle friction, and it was too much for me. There's a lot of noise in my head already when I'm out for a good run. I'm out here letting loose and blowing some steam, you know...I don't need this hood's racket slowing down my complex thought process. Surely other runners know what I'm talking about. If you don't run, then...well I feel sorry for you, because this is an elite club that I am now a part of for life and we have piles of issues that can only be understood from our point of view.
Yeah, the runner's burn was taking me over, but I was really looking for the high. I pressed on, awaiting a sense of euphoria to take me over. My vision was impaired slightly several times through sweat (tears?) in my eyes, but I was never quite 'stoned' by the run. 'Talk about disappointment.
Even though walking consumed some of my run time, I truly tried to push it in the last quarter. -Quarter mile, that is. My strides became longer and I found a rhythm in my breathing that allowed my cough to subside and I pulled in all the oxygen this engine could handle. Burn! Push!
The tears of sweat were running down my cheeks and I tasted them. I had not far to go now and saw my beer drinkin' neighbor pulling out of his driveway. Shit...-not that I care what anyone thinks, but...I wasn't really ready to go public with my running habit just yet. Shit...he would be sure to stop and give me an earful of shit if he recognized me. Shit. I reached back over my shoulder (in mid-stride, never losing my rhythm) and pulled my hood far over my head and it's edge to my brow. -A clever disguise? No. But a needed guise none the less. He passed and I pressed on...pushing, burning.
When my house finally approached, I envisioned myself passing the baton onto my marathon partner, and slowed my sprint (god knows this was no sprint) down to a jog, then a healing walk through the yard. I turned down offered water from our team's sponsor and looked to the horizon where my teammate ran. I cheered. I laughed and I cried.

Concrete Dreamer

Damn I had a lot of bad dreams involving concrete all last week. The week also involved a doctor's diagnosis of the flu for my system. Like...me. I had the flu. Yeah. It was great. I spent half of a day in the front of a work truck trying to get warm, with the heat blasting and a bad case of the shivers. 'Seemed like going to work was a good idea at 5 a.m...but as the day pressed on, I felt shittier, rather than better; which was my gamble at first rumble. "I'll feel better"
Yeah, spending hours on end in the front of a truck while all the other crew members are dying trying to get the day's task done with a man short was more than a bummer. I tried to get up several times, but couldn't really breathe either. Plus, I had already had two bad dreams about concrete to start the week off. Shit, broken form work and early arriving concrete trucks were keeping me up at night. I was now sore from head to toe, and didn't know if it was from the sickness or me trying to make due in physical struggles of my concrete nightmares. Yes, my wife offered to pick me up, but my crew was an hour and a half away from home and I didn't really want to run her out of her way...she is busy too; landing a lead role in the drama known as 'The Rock Hill Tavern'. The part has been secured for years, and involves anything from waitress duties to late night emotional support for the cohorts.
It takes alot to get me to the doctor, and my day's misery was more than enough to get me on the phone, demanding to be seen...as soon as I could make it out of this truck hole and toward Mountville.
Upon check in, I was weighed and was instantly depressed of my findings...I had climbed above my 'never to get to' number of pounds and now was a bummed out sick man, with a need of a shower. One look in the mirror of my waiting room led me to the fact that: I don't think I've ever been to the doctor's office in clean clothing. Wow. Yup, a sick dirty fat fuck with pneumonia symptoms and shitty health care. My carcass couldn't wait to go home and sleep for two days.
The doctor's diagnosis was quick and smug. He asked more about my lingering smoking habit than the current death that was becoming me through "the flu". He was annoying me quickly and; if I had the strength or carelessness that it would take, I could see him deserving of a punch in the dick.
I slept for about twenty hours and don't remember any good dreams about concrete. All dreams or visions were of panic. Supplies were forgotten, men fell short on responsibilities, forms broke and hot loads of concrete arrived.
The next day, (the day after my twenty hour nap...ok...that would make it Thursday if Tuesday was my day in the truck) I was ordered to take a crew to the north western end of Harrisburg to form and pour a foundation footing. The ground was rocky and the pin pounding went badly. Many pins had to be drilled. The pins I speak of are to hold forming lumber to height and line.
Into the late afternoon and evening the men and I struggled. We passed a formerly failed inspection and concrete was released. The first concrete truck arrived and was unloaded fairly easy. He was a jolly driver with a cigar habit that turned into a chewing tobacco habit when the end became to wet to pull smoke. When the end got too wet to 'smoke', he'd just stick it in his cheek and suck the juice and spit it out. He did it like he had done it his whole life. He wore it well. He was eager to please with his driving/dispensing service and he saved my life.
The second concrete truck driver was mad as hell and hated everyone on the crew for living. He glared at me with disgust as I plead with him on unloading possibilities. He got mad and did a burn out in the driveway with his concrete truck. The back wheels spun with rage and tossed rocks across the road. The driveway rocks were the base load...that is, they are a rather large aggregate, two to four inches big. This stone is used as the base in driveway preparation. He unloaded his truck with little regard to the men; sometimes piling the concrete so high in a wheel barrow, that Hulk Hogan would no doubt have a hard time pushing the loads. Hulk, sadly was not on the crew and I spent the late afternoon hours screaming at novices on the barrows.
The pour was complete and at the day's end, I marked up sixteen hours on my timesheet. Ahh...not bad for the day after the flu. The bad dreams ceased; as most of the hell of concrete work came to life on that day.