Real Athletes play Wiffleball

Since the dawn of time, the competitive edge has dominated whatever life form inhabited the earth.  I've never met anyone that lived around the same time as the Dinosaurs, so I can't speak for them.  But I imagine that a T-Rex would get insanely pissed off whenever anyone tried to mess with whatever animal he or she was eating.  I bet he would also all of the sudden call time out whenever he was playing sandlot football with a bunch of other T-Rex's and the team that he was not on was about to score a touchdown.  No one likes to lose, even if its a friendly game of sandlot football.  Now a days competition is everywhere, politics, religion, education, burping contests and of course, sports.

What sucks about a lot of sports these days is its less about the competition and more about business.  How many times do you hear about some pompous pro athlete signing a "business decision" contract to play for a pro team. Specially in baseball  *COUGH* Albert Pujols and Prince Fielder this year *PUKE* Johnny Damon in 2005.  MLB, NBA, NFL you name it... money is first, winning is secondary.  The NHL kicks ass.  How many times do you hear about some spoiled hockey player holding out for a new contract?  Exactly.  Then again... how many times do you hear about hockey?  Exactly.  Fuck you ESPN.  World wide leader in sports my ass.  The best sports are the ones played in neighborhood driveways, and backyards.  Street Hockey, Sandlot Football, Pickup Basketball and my personal favorite, Wiffleball.

Whether you're playing in a tournament or just messing around with your friends its a sport that can be played by anyone of any age or fitness level.  Both the bat and ball are light enough for a 5 year old that still might be a little weak to handle a wooden bat or a 60 year old that cant really handle the ware and tare of throwing a real baseball without the shoulder flaring up.  There is also very little running involved. (fuck yeah)  While baseball relies on running the bases, wiffleball uses ghost runners.  So if you have a bad knee or weigh a little more than the average person, fear not.  Singles, doubles, triples and home runs are decided by how far you hit the ball.

Got nothing to do on a mid summer Saturday?  Load of a cooler with sandwiches and Gatorade and head to your nearest Wiffleball tournament.  If you thought you and your friends were the only people in the world that knew how to whip off a sweet wiffle curve ball think again.  Teams from all over the area flock to these tournaments every year and why wouldn't they?  There is no better way to spend a kick ass summer day then with some of your best friends playing a sport you've played since you were kids.   After a few years you get to know some of the other teams and become friends with them as well.  It does not take long for the tournament to become one giant backyard were everyone is joking around telling stories and having fun.  By the time the day is over, you're sunburned, tired, ready for a beer and your sides hurt from laughing.  Fuck the beach, I'd rather be playing wiffleball.

So if you're tired of watching 200 million dollar athletes complain about their back being to stiff to play or your favorite player signing a contract with another team because they were offering him a couple million dollars more just remember, there is a backyard with your best friends waiting for your turn to bat.  If you strike out, who gives a fuck.  No one is paying you anyway.

It also makes for a pretty sweet movie plot.  

 

Dorothy said it best...

After a long journey down the yellow brick road that featured a talking scarecrow that could not walk for shit, a tin man that danced like a sonofabitch, a lion that would tare a hippopotamus from top to bottomus and a wicked witch that would stop at nothing to get her ruby slippers back, we learn from Glinda the "good" witch of the north that all Dorthy had to do in order to return to her beloved Kansas was close her eyes, click her heals three times and repeat the phrase, "there's no place like home."  Next thing she knew she was waking up in her bed surrounded by her friends and family welcoming her back from the land of Oz.  Really?  Miles and miles of yellow brick road, lions tigers and bears, a shit load of flying monkeys ALL while a witch is trying to fucking kill her and her friends?  That's all she had to do to get home?

Put your fucking wand down and explain yourself...

HEY, GET BACK HERE!!!

While it might have seemed like a dick move by someone who's suppose to be good, in the end it was necessary for Dorothy to learn the true value of friends and family and how important it is to never forget who you are and where your from.  If it means having a witch throw huge fucking balls of fire at you then so be it.  It will teach you to not spontaneously run away from home again wont it?  Your poor auntie Em was worried sick.

After being away for close to five months I got a chance to visit my home town of Waterville Maine last weekend.  Unlike Dorothy I left my home town without the aide of a Tornado.  I packed everything I could fit into my 98' green ford ranger and put peddle to the metal towards Chicago.  It took me a while, but I'm finally starting to get things churning out here.  If you've ever made a big move like that it can be easy to forget that starting life over takes time.  You go from an area you know like the back of your hand to an area that you've never seen, heard or experienced before.  Not to mention its an area that's fucking HUGE compared to Waterville Maine.  Its almost like relearning how to walk.  When my plane touched down in Portland everything was exactly how I remembered it.  I could not help by think of those last lines in the Wizard of Oz "There's no place like home."  Seeing my parents and brother Matt (who had made his own trip from New York) for the first time since the end of August was a little bit surreal.  Its a weird feeling when your home state is no longer your home.

During that weekend I fell right back into place with my friends.  It was almost as if I had never left.  We all told the same stories, ate the same food, drank the same beer and had just as much fun as we always have.  Except this time my tiny apartment in Chicago was constantly in the back of my mind.  Even though I was having the time of my life with the best friends and family in the world, I was anxious to get back to my new life of not knowing what the next few days will hold.  It dawned on me that during these past five months, I have without even realizing it come to embrace what I was afraid of when I first got out here.  Everything in Maine was the same, everything back in Chicago was still new, exciting and even a little bit scary.  The rush I had been living for those past 5 months had slowed down to a crawl... as good as it was to be home I was not ready for things to slow down.  

Taking it one day at a time with a new job, new friends and new opportunities is something I will continue to look forward to while I plant my roots out here.  It might suck ass that I'm not three heal clicks away from Waterville, but that won't keep my friends and family away from my heart.  They will always be there along with the thoughts that if the roots don't grow the way I want them to out here, I've got no spaz of a wicked witch keeping me from going back.                             

          

The Catch of the Day.

For most people every day starts early in the morning when we fight ourselves out of bed knowing that we have a full day of work or school ahead of us.  As we rub our eyes and get dressed, we glare over at our comfortable looking beds and think how awesome it would be if we could crawl back underneath the warm covers and continue dreaming about really awesome shit.  Its amazing how hard it is to start the day when you know that day will be spent doing something you don't want to do.  Monday through Thursday the mental war can be brutal.  Friday mornings are usually a little easier to take knowing that the weekend is right around the corner. The chance to finally sleep in and not get up at the ass crack of dawn, unless you were sleeping at a little camp in Hartland Maine that sat on Moose Pond.

Getting up at 5am on a Saturday morning in Maine was always a lot easier when you looked out the window to see a layer of fog slowly rising off a dead calm lake.  America's day was just beginning and there was no better place in the world to witness it.  The dew was sparkling in the early morning sun, the birds were chirping and downstairs I could hear my Dad and Uncle John filling up the cooler with food and beer for a long day on the lake in a 14 foot aluminum boat.  The only living creatures that were not enjoying themselves were the fish that made their home underneath the surface of the water.  It would not be long before our lures would be hitting that same surface in hopes of rousting a 4lb rouge small mouth bass.  Knowing that my day would be filled with picturesque scenery, a few ice cold beers, some puffs on the god given herb and COUNTLESS fishing stories from my Dad and Uncle John made it a lot easier to jump out of bed to greet the day.

Even if the day itself was not particularly nice it would not stop us.  The best part about fishing in the rain was that you knew you would pretty much have the lake to yourself.  Aside from a select few local hardcore's, all the out of state summer residents were sulking at home because of a little rain, oblivious to the fact that out on the lake there were people reeling in a small mouth bass that could not believe he got caught by people stupid enough to be fishing on a rainy day.  The only thing that would slow us down was if the wind picked up.  Even then we would tuck into a stream or cove, kick back and wash down some puffs of the god given herb with a couple more oat sodas.   

TV would like you to think that the only people that know how to fish are those rich fucks in their $30,000 fishing boats.  

"Don't tell anyone that I told you my penis is really small.."

Underneath all the fancy equipment and 200 horse power motors are idiots that have no idea what they are doing.  As much as they hate to admit it they know that the dudes in the 14 foot boats know where the fish are.  I usually spot these assholes about 100 yards away from my boat doing everything they can to make it look like they are not trying to fish in the same spot I'm in.  I've lost track of how many times I've moved out of an area only to see some prick in a bass boat immediately move into the exact area I was just fishing in.  They may have the flash, but I've got the 4lb bass at the end of my stringer.  Good luck trying to catch a fish that was just caught.           

Whether you're a 3 year old kid with a plastic fisher price pole just learning how to cast a line or a 90 year old man sitting on the edge of his dock dangling a bobber at the end of his line not even giving a flying fuck if he catches a single fish.  

American Dream

The best part about fishing is that anyone can do it.  It could be in a boat, on the shore of a pond or in the middle of winter in a shack on the ice.  Even if you're to tired to fight yourself out of bed at 5am just remember that a hell of a day is out their waiting for you on the lake. Even if  they are not biting it beats the shit out of having to go to work.  As my great uncle Dick use to say "You can't catch'em sittin' on the porch!"