It's amazing how time can change a man.
Yesterday while I was writing, I was pissed off because my softball team sucks and my favorite team sucks. Now, things aren't so bad in either department. Though the Red Sox could royally screw up this thesis (it's 3-3 in the bottom of the tenth right now, one man on with Gary Sheffield at bat. Update, he just hit into a 5-4-3 double play.)
In any event, last night I played in my second softball game after a three-year layoff. I haven't played much of any type of baseball, softball or wiffleball in that time because my right (throwing) shoulder kills after a few games worth of throwing.
My buddy Nick asked me to join his team because they were desperate for guys. I said ok and bought a new pair of spikes and oiled up the glove. Friday was ok, sucked in the field but got a hit. Yesterday, I blew ass. Went oh for four, and wasn't confident in the field. I felt like shit, I think that most of the guys (many whom I don't even know) felt that I was a stiff and I almost quit because I just didn't think I was able to get "it" back.
Today I ended up going 2-3 with a walk and made some pretty good plays at second base. So now I am feeling real good and glad that I played another game. The guys seemed to turn towards me tonight and it seems to me they think that I can handle the game.
I just reread the last couple of paragraphs. This isn't the majors and my psychoanalysis is over dramatic at best, pompous at worst. Ahh, who cares, this is a Blog, not the New Yorker.
Quick game update, Alan Embree is in, he just walked Bubba freaking Crosby and ARod is at third base. Bernie Williams scares the shit out of me. Let's see what happens.
Back to my original theory of time (BTW, Bernie lined out - phew) just 24 hours ago I didn't want to have anything to do with baseball anymore, now I can't wait to play or watch a game again.
I met my parents for dinner tonight and they gave me a lot of my mail that is still delivered to my old home. One of the things that came there is my new copy of Sports Illustrated. Going back to the end of 1986, I have every single issue. But I will say that this is my final year.
When I was a kid, I used to love SI. I'd get it on Thursday afternoon and at night I'd go to bed early so I can read every single (not woman's sports) article. Cover to cover. Hell, I remember poring over the staff box wondering if they hired anyone new.
Now, I could give a shit. I still have three unread magazines on my floor and I'm not sure when I'm going to get a chance to read them. Why don't I read them more? It's not like I have less time, there are two reasons: the internet and the supposed "dumbing down" of America.
We'll handle the Internet first since it's the easiest thing to explain. Basically, Sports Illustrated used to bring me the news of the sports world for all corners of the country within a week's time, which isn't a bad turnaround. Now, if I want to know about the Padres, I can go to the Padres website, ESPN.com or sportspages.com. Instantly. Can't beat that.
The dumbing down part is a bit trickier. I don't think people have gotten dumber, but I do think that this country's editors believe that their readership is stupid. From Maxim to ESPN the magazine everything now is in bite-sized chunks. Maybe that's what folks like, I don't. It seems that once the story begins to get cooking, it's done. And they don't have the great writers that they used to. The pictures are top notch, but the writing is just ok.
So after this year, I'm done with SI. The only reason why I stuck around this year is because I was interested in the 50 states set of articles they did.
Right now, the Sox have bases loaded and no outs againt Mariano Rivera in the top of the 11th. Kevin Millar is up. Millar almost hits into a triple play, I don't know what the hell is going on. Millar hit the ball to Arod, he tagged third base and then threw home. Remy fucked me up. Jeez Rem Dog. So now McCarty is up, two outs, two strikes, men on second and first.
I wonder why Trot Nixon isn't batting? Tito Francona is really beginning to piss me off.
The one last thing I wanted to say about Sports Illustrated is about the curse thing. (McCarty flies out, what a fucking surprise) Manny is on the cover this week, which immediately sent 35 Boston resident to the top of the Tobin Bridge.
"Tha Curse of Spahts Illustrated is gonna kill us!" they all yelled as they jumped off. Boston (and New England) is a weird place. They have the best colleges and universities and tons of great hospitals. Yet we continue to act like country fried rubes with these curses.
Curse of the Bambino, the Sports Illustrated cover curse, I heard someone rejoicing because Tom Brady wasn't on the cover of Madden 2005 because of the EA curse. We're really no different from our forefathers who got their panties in a bunch over witches.
We were ruled by superstition 400 years ago, and we're still ruled by superstition.
Ok, I'm done. Tony Clark is up. Tony Clark is still cashing a major league pay check and is killing the Sox. Man, that is like getting punched in the balls by a midget, it's embarrassing and it hurts like hell.
I might not be back for a few days. I'm going to Atlanta to visit my girlfriend's brother and to see the Sox play the Bravos. Talk to you later.