Boo.

I Fall Short

One day I’ll be the man I want to be, the man I wish I were who could confidently say that I deserved to be loved by such an incredible girl.  It’s no fault but my own that I’ve fallen short of expectations: yours, mine, ours.

I understand why your love began to fade.  I am a difficult person to love once the charm wears off.   And while the charm did manage to persist a long time, its shelf-life isn’t forever.  Nothing lasts forever, or does it?  I want to believe that some things do.  I have to believe love lasts forever in some form.  I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.

My poor blog

I’ve neglected you.  I’m sure you understand that I’ve been under immense pressure lately.  It’s not that I’ve been lacking in material, but this damn thing called life keeps getting in the way.  I promise that once this first hurdle that I’ve taken so long to overcome is out of the way, I’ll spend more time with you, tickling these keys, whispering thoughts for consumption.

Funny Thing Happened…

Looking through pictures on my camera, Joey paused and asked me who this particular guy was.

“That’s *******’s husband… I mean boyfriend.”

UH-OH!!!!!

Paying It Forward

Several months ago my dad had some car trouble on the freeway on the way to work.  Somewhere on the 405 between home and LAX his radiator went kaput and left his 1989 Toyota Cressida on the shoulder steaming and smoking.  He was only a couple exits away from his destination, and he wouldn’t have made it to work if it weren’t for some Good Samaritans who took time off their daily rat races to offer bottled water for his radiator to get him moving again.

I was on my way home tonight turning left onto my street when I noticed a car on the other side of the street had its lights off.  I turned my lights on and off to signal the other driver, but then I noticed the old lady in the car was having difficulties beyond faulty headlights.  The car was stalled out in the middle of the intersection and a line of cars was steadily building behind her.  As I passed behind her car and completed my left turn, I could hear the futile clicking of her starter.  I parked my truck and ran up to the lady to tell her to put the car in neutral so I could push it to the side of the road.  The intersection is on a bit of an incline, but I was lucky that the two guys who live on the corner came out to help.  Her alternator was shot and her battery was dying quickly so her hazard lights and all other electrical systems didn’t work.  I called the Torrance PD to send over a unit to make sure she was okay until AAA sent over a tow truck.  The lady, Sandra Lincoln, was effusive with gratitude for my help.  She wanted to pay me money, but I couldn’t take payment for doing the right thing.  I told her to pay it forward and be there for someone else should a stranger need help.

The good feeling I had for helping her out was payment enough.  I’d like to think that if my grandmother, mother, or any of my friends were in a tight spot and in need of a helping hand, the kindness of strangers would shine through.  There are times when I watch the news or read the paper that make me think that this world is going to shit, but it doesn’t have to be that way.  You start with one person, and that person is you.

Well, That Was Quick

I have so many things I’ve been wanting to write about.  A lot of them have found their wasted fate stuck in draft folder purgatory: my sister moving out to Vegas, my best friend moving to San Diego, my son moving closer and closer to teenage angst, etc., but here I am in the second week of school and I’m already behind.  I really have no else to blame but myself — as usual — for not printing out my class syllabi and realizing that I have an assignment due tomorrow night at 23:59:59.  The writing of the assignment is only one aspect of my doom.  I have to read the text to actually formulate a smidgen of what I’m supposed to throw onto paper.  Since my professor is a self-professed stalker of the author, I can’t just bullshit my way through it and expect her to appreciate my style and delivery.  It doesn’t help that this class is probably the most labor intensive class I’ve ever attempted to tackle.  Why I’m stuck drudging in a 4-unit English class with an eight novels by one author workload is entirely chalked up to my own irresponsibility.   The bright side in all this is that, historically, I’ve  managed to get by when I’ve found myself in these unenviable positions.  So there, there’s the silver lining in all my stress.  It’s worth something, I hope.

Political Discourse

I’ve been feeling a resurgence in politics lately. One of the websites I’ve been frequenting lately is the Arena section of Poltico.com, which features a running bipartisan dialogue between dozens of featured columnists, political analysts, and others of that ilk.

Another website that I turn to for comprehensive political coverage and opinion is the Wall Street Journal Op-Ed section. I particularly enjoy reading the reader comments which are usually more thoughtful and civil than most other political comment boards. Here’s a sampling:

Shreya Mishra replied:

To Mr Weeks,

Can you honestly say that power is not already concentrated in the hands of corporations? Do you not believe that corporate america has gotten this country and its citizens hostage at the altar of profit? When Halliburton wants profit Republicans go to war, the Republicans want to tax bonuses of hedge fund managers at long-term gains rate while they ask average citizen to take tax-breaks and go spend it in a mall. Your average person is breaking his back working 2 jobs just to see ALL his money being drained out by bills and insurance company costs. Corporations are sucking the people dry and their lobbyists are hand-in glove with Republicans. This economic crisis has one and only one cause and that is the corporate america has successfully bankrupted the citizens of this country.

We wanted to be a government of the people, for the people, and by the people. What the Republicans have left us is a government of the rich, for the rich, by the lobbyists. They have preyed on the weak.

There is no semblance of free-markets left. The financial markets are completely rigged to make it profitable towards companies like Goldman Sachs. We have truly become a socialist country for the powerful and capitalists for the weak.

And the reply:

Lawrence Weeks replied:

I’ll tell you something I believe — George W. Bush, like Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, George H.W. Bush, Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter, and those before them are all men who loved their country and did and do what they think is best for their country and their fellow citizens. While I may disagree with some and agree with others, I think they are and were all patriots. These shrill juvenile diatribes, whether about Halliburton or birth certificates are just partisan idiocy. Bush did not send us to war in Iraq for the profit of Halliburton — he sent us to war because he thought it would be best for American interests if we were to get rid of Hussein, and AT THE TIME most Democrats agreed. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

I’m not a Republican, and I’m not a Democrat — I’m an American. I have spent the majority of my life working in small business. What I see every month is a very large chunk of my money going to Washington DC, the largest chunk of taxes I pay by far. I don’t live in Washington DC. I live very far from Washington. I am not wealthy, in fact with a wife who does not work and a small child, I’m rather far from wealthy. I am also not bitter, and I am not a wh*re — the fact that I am not wealthy and others are does not embitter me, and Democrats cannot buy my vote with the tax revenue of others, rather the opposite. I am an American, and I value our unique form of limited government and the preservation of the sovereignty of the American people greatly.

Corporations are, like government, just a collection of people. Unlike corporations, however, governments have the power to take your freedom from you against your will, to appropriate your money to give to others, legally, without redress, without a class action lawsuit. That is a power that must be restrained and limited, not gladly expanded for every perceived good that can be thought of. As was written long ago, “good intentions will always be pleaded for every assumption of authority. It is hardly too strong to say that the Constitution was made to guard the people against the dangers of good intentions. There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but mean to be masters.” When Obama speaks of the “moral” argument to take control of our health care system in order to help the downtrodden, what I hear are Daniel Webster’s words.

Our economic crisis was not brought on solely by faceless evil corporations, secretly plotting to eat our children. It was brought on my neighbors borrowing money that they had no hope of ever repaying, fully aware of that fact, yet still committing to it. Those of you who consider them innocent “victims” only belie how little you regard the intelligence of your fellow citizens. It was brought on by companies foolishly lending that money, and other companies buying those loans, and foolish investors world wide buying into those loans. There is blame enough to go around. My lowly individual neighbor, just like the big bad corporation, just like the greedy evil investors, were chasing profit, dirty profit. Get rich quick on real estate. Governments were happily cashing in on the property taxes, the real estate transaction fees, the sundry permit fees, with record revenue and spending. Congress was happily promoting expanded home ownership. Bush promoted the ownership society. We are all to blame, except in the view of your partisan blinders. As P.J. O’Rourke once wrote, “every government is a parliament of wh*res. The trouble is, in a democracy, the wh*res are us.” Indeed, a government of the people, for the people and by the people.

Politics is heating up, which tends to be the case when one party controls the White House and Congress. Stay informed.

64 Drafts

There are 64 unfinished posts in my draft log.  If this posts makes it past the chopping board in my head, it will be the 41st post on this blog.  What is about me that makes it so damn difficult to follow through with things?  Even in the realm of creativity, which is something I’m supposed to hang my hat on, I am 1.5 times more likely to scrap an idea than actually express it.  I have this whole inverted triangle thing throwing me for loops.  Most creative types are able to churn shit out at a breakneck pace because reason dictates that eventually something will stick.  I have an ass-backwards mentality that confounds me into believing that I can just wait until I get lucky and catch lightning in a bottle.

It sucks.  I suck.

Whether it’s my total lack of belief in myself or the disillusionment of having once foolishly harbored that belief, I’m languishing, drowning in possible ideas that won’t see the light of day.

And Then It Was As It Should Be

How long is seven years?

Not quite two Olympics but enough time to earn a bachelor’s degree and finish law school if I were so inclined and motivated.

It’s enough time to teach a kid how to play tee-ball then watch him blossom into a unanimous all-star selection in the league’s highest division.

It’s enough time for my luck to return if I had broken a mirror.

It’s enough time for Britney Spears to go from “the hottest piece of ass in the world” to “knocked-up trailer trash” back to “hot piece of trailer trash that I’d bang because she’s still rich as hell.”

It’s a long time to reflect upon.

Seven Junes ago at the tender age of 21, I effused effervescent optimism as I braved a sweltering downtown summer day to cheer on my heroes — Shaq, Kobe, Big Shot Bob Horry, Rick Fox, Fish, Mad Dog Mark Madsen, B-Knuckle Brian Shaw, Samaki Walker, Devean George, Slava Medvedenko — as they paraded down Figueroa Blvd. from City Hall to the Staples Center where Chick Hearn was waiting to get the celebration started.  I turned to my friends, Mars and Big Pete, and made them promise to come back with me the next year to celebrate a FOURTH consecutive championship.

A lot happens in seven years.

2003 – I paced the floor of my room in front of my TV yelling, screaming, pleading the Lakers to mount the typical comeback and rally against the Spurs.  The clock began to dwindle down while the Spurs’ lead continue to grow.  The game was essentially over before the clock reached zeroes.  Not In Our House banners strewn all over Staples Center rang hollow as the din of the crowd was reduced to the disgruntled murmur of shock.  Tears welled in my eyes.  Kobe was sitting on the bench in tears as well.  I forced myself to watch those waning moments to ingrain the feeling of disappointment and dejection to make the following year’s triumph all the better.

2004 – Coming off the “Colorado Incident” the Lakers reloaded their roster adding future hall of famers Gary Payton and Karl Malone to the mix to form what many called the greatest starting line-up ever assembled.  The Lakers breezed to the league’s best record and were the prohibitive favorites going into the Finals until Malone injured his knee setting up an epic fail as the Lakers got bounced by the Pistons in 5 games.  Thus began the the precipitous fall of the once-great Lakers dynasty as Kobe opted out of his contract and Shaq demanded to be traded.  Forced to choose between its aging superstar center and the young superstar guard coming into his prime, Jerry Buss chose Kobe and traded Shaq to Miami for Lamar Odom, Caron Butler, and Brian Grant.  Phil Jackson isn’t offered a new contract and Rudy Tomjanovich is brought in to oversee a new era of Lakers basketball.

2005 – Enter the anti-Renaissance… the Lakers missed the playoffs for the second time in my lifetime.  Tomjanovich didn’t make it to midseason and Frank Hamblen was elevated from his assistant position to finish off the season.

2006 – Phil Jackson returned and Kobe almost single-handedly leads the Lakers past the high-octane Phoenix Suns in the first-round.  The Lakers were up 3-1 and came within a close-out on a Tim Thomas prayer 3-pointer in Game 6 of winning the series.

2007 – The Lakers get bounced in the first round of the playoffs by the Suns again, but this time they went meekly in 5 games.  Kobe was all up in a tizzy about his alleged lack of support and made a very public trade demand.

2008 – After a summer of apprehension that teetered on the news of whether or not the Lakers will deal Kobe, the team got off to a surprisingly good start with the emergence of Andrew Bynum as an interior force.  Then Bynum went down with a knee injury and all seemed lost.  Then Mitch Kupchak, who’d been killed in the press and by the fans, performed highway larceny and traded perennial stiff Kwame Brown, Javaris Crittenton, a couple draft picks, and the rights to Marc Gasol to the Memphis Grizzlies for Pau Gasol.  The Lakers made an improbable run to capture the #1 seed in the West on the season’s last day that propelled them to the NBA Finals against the HATED Boston Celtics.  After dropping the first two games of the Finals in  Boston, the Lakers won game 3 at Staples and were ahead by 24 points in game 4 coasting to tie the series.  Then it happened.  The Lakers came from ahead to blow the game, the series, and the psyches of Lakers fans all over the world.  I can’t say that loss didn’t affect me as a fan.  I’ve seen some bad losses in my lifetime — getting swept by the Spurs in 1999, the end of the 3-peat, eliminated by the Suns after leading the series 3-1 — but this one cut particularly deep.  Losing a 24-point lead at home on the biggest stage goes lengths in decimating the innate confidence a fan must have in their team.

And now, seven years later, we’re back on top of the mountain.  The cliches about needing to experience the deepest valleys of the lows to appreciate the splendid heights of the highs ring true.

As the final minutes of the fourth quarter of last night’s monumental win whittled away, the glimmer was back in our eyes.  “It’s been a LONG time,” I kept repeating to my friends while trying to soak in the moment and savor every second knowing that championships are not to be taken for granted.  We counted down the seconds and when it clock zeroed out Mars, Drew, Big Pete, Hayashi, and I formed a huddle in the middle of Drew’s unfurnished living room and started hopping around like the Lakers pre-game ritual.

Seven years ago I got a sunglass tanline as a reminder of that sweltering downtown day.  I’ll be back Wednesday to cheer my team again.  It’s been a sweet rollercoaster ride of a season that culminated in the ultimate goal.

Savor the moment, LA.  It’s been a LONG time.

Baseball… It’s a Funny Game.

The game’s prospects were bleak at best.  Marc’s Rays had come into the Winner’s Bracket Finals hoping for a berth in Saturday’s TABB Bronco Championship game, but one team stood in its way: the resurgent Angels who upset the #1-seeded Pirates in the quarterfinals.  The gray skies  opened up with a slight sprinkle during pre-games warm-ups and began dumping raindrops the size of dimes by the first-pitch.  Wanting to get the game played due to scheduling restraints for the ensuing days, the game started beneath a steady shower.

The Angels were able to get two runners on base with one out before Mother Nature intervened with a 15-minute rain delay.  The boys scrambled to get their gear underneath the protection of the cramped dugout while coaches tried their best to keep the team focused.

When play was resumed, a costly  error turned an inning-ending double play into a bases-loaded situation that would cost the Rays when the next Angels batter launched a bases-clearing double off the left-field fence.   Down 3-0 in the first inning, the Rays seemed to press as they attempted to surmount the modest deficit.  A series of bad at-bats by the top half of the Rays line-up made the Angels’ pitcher appear untouchable.  Through 4 full innings the Rays only managed to get 2 hits while allowing one more run on defense.

The Rays rallied  in the bottom of the 6th inning putting two runners on base with two outs and the Rays’ best player, Blake, on-deck.  The games only go 7 innings in the Bronco division, so this seemed like the last gasp for the Rays to pull off a comeback.  The last time the Rays and Angels played a couple weeks ago, the Rays made a furious comeback down 6 in the last inning that was ignited by a 3-run home run by Blake only to come up 1-run short.  This similar situation weighed on the minds of the Angels coaches as well as the pitcher who also happened to give up that 3-run bomb to Blake two weeks prior.  Should Ryan find a way on base, Blake would represent the tying run, but Ryan could only muster a weak grounder to second base to kill the threat.

The Angels tacked on another insurance run in the top-half of the final inning putting the Rays in a deeper hole.  Down 5-0 with nothing but a meager offense, the Rays coaches looked distraught.  The Rays were preseason favorites to win it all based on the incredible work the manager did in the draft.  The Rays featured the league’s best talent, Blake; 3 travel-ball players who were all-stars last year, Marc, Ryan, and Connor; and another travel-ball player, Nacio; not to mention three coaches with travel-ball/all-stars experience.  Games aren’t won on paper, though, and the Rays weren’t just losing this game, they were getting spanked.

Blake led off the inning with a sharp double to the left-field gap, and scored on a single by Connor.

5-1 Angels

Then it started getting away from the Angels as their pitcher lost command of his pitches and walked the bases loaded.  A fielder’s choice by the third baseman allowed another run to score.

5-2 Angels

The Angels brought in another pitcher for relief, but he walked in another run.

5-3 Angels

Kyle, who had been injured more than half the season after breaking his ankle the first practice, came up to bat with the bases-loaded and the season on the brink.  He swung badly and missed the first pitch, then fouled the next one off before taking two balls to even the count.  Then the unthinkable, the unfathomable… he hit a sharp grounder down the line past the third baseman who was inexplicably playing shallow allowing the tying run to score from 2nd base.

5-5 tie

With one out and the winning run only 70 feet away at third base, the Rays now found themselves in the driver’s seat.  The next batter struck out, which brought Marc up to the plate with a chance to be the hero except the Angels’ manager had other ideas and walked him intentionally to load the bases and set up the force outs.  Ryan came up to bat again with the weight of the team on his shoulders and could only muster a groundball to the shortstop to retire the side.

The Rays pulled off a 5-run inning in their last at-bat to push the game into extra innings.  Neither team was able to score in the 8th inning, and the game was suspended due to darkness…

… and that’s where we are today.  Today at 4:30 the game will continue in the top of the 9th inning with the score tied 5-5.  The winner of the game advances to the Finals tomorrow, and the loser stays and plays for their playoff lives against the Pirates in an elimination game.

It’s really hard not to get caught up in the emotion of youth sports.  I’ve been coaching baseball now for almost 7 years, and times like these where the unadulterated emotions of the game overwhelm remind me about how special this time is for the kids.  Some of these kids maybe  never play the game again within a couple years.  They’ll discover girls, music, or just get sick of their parents making them play baseball.  Some of these kids have never played on a team as good as the one they’re on right now, while others are patiently waiting for all-stars and travel-ball season to start.  They don’t know it yet because they’re living in the moment, but these are moments they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.  In their haste to grow up, they’ll come to cherish these memories.  Hopefully, they can pull out a victory today because happy memories are a lot more fun to recollect.

I’m the a$$hole with the BIG Laker flag flying from the bed of his truck

Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals tips off in less than 3 hours with the Lakers trying to close out another series on the road.  They failed to do it last series in Houston and were pushed to a game 7.

This will be a defining game for this year’s team.  Every year a team will play a game that comes to embody what that team is all about, a game defines that team’s character.  Last year it was game 4 of the NBA Finals.  The Lakers finished the season with flourish securing the #1 seed in the West on the last day of the season, then continued that roll into the playoffs.  The Game 4 debacle where the Lakers came from ahead to lose a game it led by as much as 24 points made a definitive statement that they were not championship material.  They did not have the heart, the will, nor the toughness to grind out a championship.

Game 2 of the 2004 Finals against the Pistons was another defining game in which the Lakers wilted.  The Lakers won the game, but they needed a Hail Mary 3 from Kobe to send it to OT where they pulled it out.  It was a must-win for the Lakers because Detroit came into  Staples a heavy underdog and shocked the Lakers by 12.  The Lakers lost the next three in Detroit by an average of 13.7 points.  Dynasty over.  Team implosion.

And that’s what the Lakers are up against tonight.  This is the most important game in the history of the Denver Nuggets.  For the Lakers?  It’s important, but it’s barely a blip on the historical radar for the purple & gold.

What’s the identity of this team?  Are they the team that ran away from the West in the regular season and swept both the defending champion Celtics and this year’s #1 overall seed Cleveland?  Or are they the team that’s been consistently inconsistent?  We’re going to find out tonight if this team can make its mark in Laker lore.  If they can go into Denver and rip the Nuggets’ hearts out, then they  might have what it takes win the whole damn thing.  If not, then expect more emotional roller coasters, but don’t believe the hype.

Bleed Myself Dry

Don’t sound so empty…

suddenly

averse to change,

oblivious

her ambivalent tone

mouthing casual words,

stakes of ice impaling

the remnants, the survivors

of the latest catastrophe.

Ramblings

“Write a tragedy, articulate all that pain, and maybe you’ll get paid” – Rilo Kiley

A friend told me to see her perspective instead of feeling sorry for myself. That friend didn’t realize the self-pity is born from recognition of that perspective, not ignorance of it. And I thought she knew me.

Romance and tragedy are contributing partners of the emotional spectrum’s diametric extremities. Romance amplifies life’s little joys making them transcendent experiences for which to wax eloquent. Leaves stirred by a brisk springtime breeze become the strings of nature’s orchestra. Tragedy elongates life’s shortcomings..

She Breathed Life into a Tortured Soul

My favorite times of the day were those fleeting minutes I wasn’t enduring a lecture, working on a project, or drudging at work because I spent those moments in constant reverie, daydreaming about her.

Jennifer Marie Thompson’s debut in my life was subtle. Sure, there was an instant attraction, but considering her fate, an angelic choir and a beam of light shining from heaven would have been poignant. I didn’t know from the inconspicuous beginnings that she would become the one that would rekindle my belief in something I had long since given up on: love.

Right from the onset, I put up walls to protect my already damaged psyche. While I had been single for several years, heartache and hurt weren’t strangers. Years upon years of constant internal struggle about who I was, who I was becoming, and my self-worth took a toll on me. With every wall I raised, there was Jen breaking it down, climbing over it, doing everything she could to get to me. She challenged me to let go, to believe in her, to trust her with my heart.

What did I know of love? I had been in love before, a different kind of love under very different circumstances. I was venturing into uncharted territory this time around. I was bringing more experience, more wisdom to the plate than the sixteen year-old know-it-all from a decade before. This moment, this investment had higher stakes, more risk, but also the promise of more reward.

When I finally told her I loved her, she might’ve cried. The details of such a significant moment are something I will never again let slip my mind. She’d been waiting for me to say the words because she’d already fallen in love with me.

I didn’t deserve her. She might’ve been younger, but she had a wealth of experience to fill the pages of books. She was a driven, hard-working girl with the courage to pack up and move 3000 miles from home without much of a plan, other than to make it in California. And she almost moved back to New York.

We had just started dating when her friendship with the girl she moved out west with began to crumble. Her teaching gig at a school in Monterrey Park was about to conclude with the summer, and she didn’t have an idea of where she was going to live. I had already began developing feelings for her, but I wasn’t in any position to ask her to stay. I began dreading the passing of each day because it was one day closer to possibly saying goodbye to her forever. One afternoon I noticed her away message on AIM said: Looking at an APT in Rolling Hills. I was absolutely elated. Not onlywould she be staying in California, but she’d only be living a few miles away from me. It was fate, right?

Our chance convergence of completely different life paths seemed destined by fate. There were a myriad of elements that had to fall into place for that fateful night in July to happen, but there were some particular ones of significance. We met at our first softball game for the Scrubs, which was Scott’s (Jessica’s boyfriend) team. I was only on the team because one night after going to a Dodger game with Jessica, we met up with Scott and his friends at this dirty dive bar, Pats II, in Redondo Beach. It was my first time meeting Scott, and he invited me to play on his co-ed softball team on Thursday nights. Also on the team was Scott’s friend, Scott Rush. Rush was dating a girl from New York that he met through his sister who lived in Silver Lake. That girl, Jen Curci or “C” as we called her, met Rush’s sister through some distant relative who mentioned that C and her friend were looking for a temporary place to crash when they got to California. C’s friend was Jen, my Jen. She didn’t believe in God, but she believed that there had to be a greater cosmic power that brought us together.

The fateful quality of our love enveloped our emotions. We loved each other like characters written into a romantic screenplay. I never wasted a loving thought and quickly turned it to a loving expression no matter how corny and cheesy. She was my Wordsworthian inspiration of overflowing powerful emotion. She embodied the romantic cliches I used to imagine growing up. She was the leading lady in the romantic movies I lived vicariously through, and she was the face I saw when I closed my eyes and mouthed the words to love songs.

The best part was that she loved me more than anything. I had never felt more important, more central, more loved than I did with Jen. She filled me with an appetite for life, a life with her. She would chide my unhealthy diet because she wanted me to grow old with her, and I wanted to grow old with her. I spent days reminiscing about blissful memories, and nights were spent dreaming about better tomorrows. I cherished the feeling that I had someone to share tomorrow with, that I could count on sharing new memories to romanticize with someone special, someone I’d been dreaming of my entire life.

On Jen’s desk there’s a baby picture of her and older sister at Disneyland. Her sister is appropriately smiling at the camera, but Jen’s attention is diverted to the side where she’s pointing. We joked that I was at Disneyland that same day, and she was pointing at me off camera. Our love was meant to be since that random encounter at Disneyland in 1985.

I’m so flawed you could call me human. Sure, everyone has their faults, and I have copious amount of the blaring kind. I’m almost 29 and I’m still working on a bachelor’s degree. I’m living hand-to-mouth doing my best to help raise a tween-aged son. My non-belief in myself severely hampers my potential of which I’ve been told I have lots of, but unfortunately potential is merely an intangible measurement of unattained goals. I’m messy, irresponsible more than I should be, selfish, and indolent when I shouldn’t be. I was playing with house money the entire time Jen was enraptured with my charms with a three-year expiration date.

I have nothing to offer. The tangibles are limited, and all I have are the words to elucidate a promise. Those words grow to become meaningless over time. After less than a year, I wanted to marry her, but what held me back was my pitiful existence. She deserved better than what I brought to the table, I didn’t want her to struggle with me. If I had my life in order, I would’ve been in position to grasp a hold of the angel that breathed life into my tortured soul before she allowed her feelings to wither and wilt.

Jen was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. While I’m torn and shattered now, the past three years have been the best years of my life. She filled my life with love, and for that I will be forever grateful. She resurrected the emotion that once meant so much to me. I’m a better person today for loving and being loved by her, and all the heartache I feel permeating my entire being is insignificant compared to the euphoria I felt while basking in her love.

It felt like a three-year honeymoon period, and I can’t help but wonder if the dissipation of such an intensely burning love might have confused her into thinking that she falling out of it instead. I guess it’s been building for a while, and she’s a very good at pretending everything is okay.

The last time I saw her, she was naked in my bed. We had a fight the night before that spilled into the morning. We woke up early and had a conversation, and I thought we worked it out. We made love twice, and when I had to get up to get ready for the baseball tournament, she didn’t want me to leave her side. Had I known it would’ve been the last time I’d feel her soft skin against mine, I would have never left. I would’ve stayed all day holding her body close with her head tucked into my chest underneath my chin squeezing her closer until we breathed in unison. I would’ve kissed her cheeks thousands of times like I always did. I would’ve looked into her big enchanting hazel eyes into the depths of her soul and told her I loved her, and I would do anything for our love. But I didn’t. I got dressed and packed up the gear. On my way out the door I looked over to her and said bye. She motioned with her hand which caused me pause, so I walked back and sat next to her while she lay in bed.

“Is that it?” she asked unsatisfied with how informally I was about to leave.

“No. I loove you,” I whispered into her ear before kissing her lips and her cheek for good measure. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“No.”

I didn’t know she’d mean that in more ways than one. The last time I saw the love of my life, she was in her full glory wishing me to stay at her side. I might her bring a bag of belongings she left at my house, but then we’d have to say goodbye. I’d have to turn around and walk out of her life. My last memory of the love of my life will be of a cold face unresponsive to the yearning of my broken heart.

“Welcome to Catharsis”; Population: 1

Dear David,

You’re going to pour your heart out because it’ll make you feel better eventually.  Your words will be here to remind you how you feel right now, but also to remind you of the strength of your emotions.  You’ll read this today and probably cry.  In the near future, you’ll read it and probably cringe.  Hopefully one day, you’ll be able to laugh when you read it.

If you feel it, write it.  This is the catalyst to unlock those emotions that don’t get through the filter.  It’ll help you cope.  Trust me.

Sincerely,

You

Un-See

The inadvertent click

and path of curiosity

wreaks devastation

on a decrepit heart…

___

Arms raised high,

hands clasped tightly around his neck

drawing his face nearer, burrowing

into the softness of her bare neck.

___

Her provocative perfume enchants,

intoxicates…

entices concupiscent passion

erupting in a moment of inebriation.

___

Gripping firmly, pulling her close.

Face buried in his chest,

embedding her stress

in the embrace of another.

Eyes pressed, thinking

not of me.

___

…fade to black.

Escaping anguish:

the impossible dream.

Pray to un-see.

WORLD Baseball Classic Thoughts

Ichiro lines a single to centerfield for the game-winning RBIs in the 10th inning.

Finally, it’s over.  Now, I can go back to scouting Spring Training for my upcoming Fantasy Baseball drafts, but before I go through that, I feel compelled to share some thoughts on the World Baseball Classic that wrapped up last night at Dodger Stadium.   What a perfect setting for an all-Asian classic final that was classic in every sense of the word.  Los Angeles was the perfect setting for one of the most heated baseball rivalries on a national level in the history of the game, a rivalry that extends beyond the baseball diamond to cultural hatred for one another.  I’m sure there’s lingering resentment for Japan going imperial and raping Asia in the 20th century, and Korean electronics have become a mainstay in what was once a Japanese specialty, so the national fan base really gets into these kinds of games.  And I mean REALLY gets into it.  The Korean fans definitely made their presence felt, and it reverberated from Chavez Ravine to Koreatown through my TV screen and all the way around the world to Seoul.  Color me impressed by the sheer ferocity of the Korean fans.  These weren’t drunken belligerents ready to throw down like Euro soccer fans or East Coast idiots.  These were fans who were drunk with passion for their team, and I really respect that.  I loved the drums, the united cheers, and even those goddamn thundersticks.  I kind of wish MLB games were like that, but then I remember that Major League Baseball is just a commercial whore.

That said, I couldn’t be more annoyed by the game I was watching.  I’m just not a fan of the product of Asian baseball.  It isn’t the unconventional pitching mechanics (really?  a 2-second pause at the top of the wind-up) or the funky swings (really?  inside-outing a pitch in your wheelhouse?) or even the crazy hairstyles that remind me of Asian boy bands.  It’s the pitching strategy that kills me: breaking ball after breaking ball, slider after slider.  In baseball terms that’s called “pitching backwards”… throwing your secondary pitches in fastball counts and throwing your fastball in secondary pitch counts.  Every pitching coach will preach that the most important pitch of any at-bat is “strike one”, and typically that means throwing your best pitch for a strike.  Usually, a pitcher’s best pitch is his fastball, or at least it should be.  The reason why curveballs, sliders, splitters, and change-ups are called “secondary pitches” is because they’re supposed to work off the fastball.   The reason why the fastball is supposed to be a pitcher’s best pitch is because the mechanics of throwing it lends itself to being the pitch that can be most commanded.  Breaking balls are thrown in a general vicinity of a zone, in hopes to draw a swing-and-miss due to disrupted timing, or an easily fielded ball due to poor contact.  The old baseball axiom says, “hitting is all timing, and pitching is disrupting that timing.”  Another axiom says, “it’s incredibly hard to hit a round ball with a round bat squarely.”  I had never seen so many 3-0 and 3-1 sliders in my life.  It would be one thing if a pitcher doesn’t a have a fastball, but these pitchers were able to consistently hit 90+ on the gun.  One pitcher, in particular, had me flummoxed.

Yu Darvish is generally considered the top Asian pitching prospect, and last night was my first chance to see him throw.  He is quite impressive on paper.  From the two innings I saw him pitch, he displayed a plus-fastball that was consistently hitting 95-96 on the gun with late life (meaning there was late movement as it reached the plate),  a slider that was in the mid-80s that broke right to left almost 14 inches, and a change-up to keep the hitters off-balance.  The scouting report says he also has a splitter and a knuckle-curve in his repertoire, but I couldn’t discern if he used it last night.  I was too preoccupied yelling at the TV for him to throw a fastball.  Case in point, in the bottom of the 9th, he was brought in to close the game.  He struck out the first batter, then proceeded to walk the next two to put the tying run in scoring position.  Here’s another old baseball axiom,”walks will come back to haunt you” and sure enough it did.  Darvish has a dominant fastball but is gun-shy to use it?  I’m sure the manager was the one calling the pitches, if not then it was the veteran Kenji Johjima behind the plate, but in either case, he should’ve been challenging the hitters with his fastball.  It was hard to watch such a filthy pitcher throw with one arm tied behind his back.

The turning point of the game didn’t occur when Ichiro singled in the go-ahead runs in the top of the 10th inning, it came when the Korean manager decided to pitch to him.  He had already collected 3 hits in the game almost went yard in his previous at-bat.  He was the best player left in the tournament, and the manager took his chances pitching to him with the go-ahead run 90 feet away.  Korea only exacerbated the precarious situation by allowing the runner on first to steal second, thus putting two runners in scoring position with one of the best hitters in the entire world at the plate.  The Korean manager could’ve rectified his first mistake at that point by electing to intentionally walk Ichiro with first base now open, but he didn’t, and the rest is what they call history.  I’ve watched a lot of baseball in my life, and I have to say Ichiro’s at-bat was one of the best clutch at-bats I had ever seen.  The 8 pitch at-bat included a foul ball off a pitch that bounced in front of the plate as well as several “spoils” (fouling off a pitcher’s pitch).  Ichiro wore the pitcher out and won that battle when the pitcher made a mistake over the plate.  Good hitters make pitchers pay for their mistakes, and Ichiro won another WBC title for Japan at the expense of their most bitter rival.

I had the misfortune of catching Rachel Maddow while I was channel-surfing.  She was being her typical snooty self disparaging America’s pretense of the World Series when the teams that play are only from the United States.  This really bothers me because it doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to know that even though Japan has won 2 WBCs, Korea won the Olympic Gold last year, and Cuba has long been a national power, the best baseball players in the world play in the Major Leagues.  The best baseball players in the world come to the US to see if they are Major Leaguers.  The best baseball players in the US don’t go to Japan or Korea or the Dominican Republic to measure themselves.  Which leads me to another point about this contrived tournament.

The USA will NEVER win the WBC because we send our players in the off-season while the rest of the world sends their top players in mid-season form.  Baseball is a skill game that requires lots of time to get into the proper form.  Unlike football or basketball’s preseason, which is used primarily to get the athletes in physical shape for the grueling season, baseball’s spring training is used to get players re-accustomed to the fundamental mechanics of playing the game.  I mentioned earlier how Asian teams have a propensity to throw breaking balls.  When hitters come to Spring Training, the first thing they do is find their timing on fastballs.  After that’s done, they move on to the secondary pitches.  Although Major League Baseball is the primary sponsor of the WBC, it will not put its own season at risk by having the WBC coincide.  MLB knows that hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake whenever Major Leaguers take the field in a game that means nothing to those teams who are signing the checks.  The USA will keep sending players to the WBC with an inherent disadvantage, and they will continue to lose to teams who are in better form.

I had no rooting interest in last night’s game.  Most of my friends were cheering for Korea since a lot of them are Korean, while some of the kids I coach were rooting for Japan since they’re Japanese.  I was just hoping to see some good baseball, and aside from the perplexing pitching strategy, it was a great game by all accounts.  Baseball is the greatest in the world, and I’m happy that it’s getting a big stage like this with the best players in the world participating.  I wish MLB would step-up and allow the tournament to take place at a time when the USA could send its players when they’re ready to play, but unfortunately at this level, it’s all about money, not the game.  Congratulations to Japan and Korea for a great tournament and a classic final game.

And now, a little inspiration

Tonight, when you’re tired, sleepy, and have hit that mental wall, which deludes you into believing that you have nothing left to give:  SUCK IT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!  Stop fucking whining about the work.  You chose to do this, now fucking do it!  Don’t give me this bullshit about getting old and not being able to do what you used to do.  You’re a fucking writer.  This is what you fucking do.  It’s what you’ve always done, now just fucking do it.  NO MORE MOTHERFUCKING EXCUSES.  This isn’t the first time, nor will it probably be the last, and every single time you’ve gotten through it, so just do it.  He, who says he can, and he, who says he cannot, are both right.

Deconstruction of a Broken Heart: Part I

The Initial Hope

Compared to the standards established in years prior, the summer of 2006 was setting up to be a nondescript period of time, which was fitting since I was beginning the descent of my roaring 20′s. The long nights of gallivanting the nights away went from consecutive to occasional to sporadic. Clubs and raves became the dive bar after adult-league softball games, and midnight began to feel late.

I was going on my seventh year of being single, and while it seemed like a long time, I was in a good place, finally. I had been battling the demons of depression that were deeply rooted in my many insecurities. I had no reason and every reason to be alone at the time, yet it tortured me to be so. Finally though, I had come to a resolution in my heart to just live and not languish in worry.

One Thursday night in June, I arrived at the softball field early to warm-up for our first game of the season. Jessica’s boyfriend, Scott, invited to play on his team, and I was excited to be doing something active to keep me busy.

As the team warmed up on the side of the field, two girls approached us wondering if we were their team. Luckily for me, we were. One stood behind the other who was doing all the talking. She was wearing black spandex pants, a maroon tank-top, and running shoes. Her dirty-blonde hair was up behind a headband, and I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. They were both named Jen, so we nicknamed the talkative one “C” since she was Jen Curci, and quiet one was nicknamed “T” for Jen Thompson. I was enchanted by “T” the moment I saw her. While they were being introduced to the team, my eyes locked in on her big hazel-browns, and usually I would turn away after a moment of awkwardness, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I smiled a wry smile, and she turned away because I caught her looking at me.

After games the team would go to the dive bar down the street called The Hangar for drinks, and I would use this time to make whatever conversation with Jen that I could. One night while lost in the words of our conversation, I reached over and poked the dimple in her cheek. I loved it when she smiled because that dimple made my heart swoon. It was the first time we made physical contact aside from the congratulatory high-fives on the field. I had breached the point of physical flirtation.

I noticed a poster in the elevator at work about a string quartet giving a performance of Haydn at the library. I invited Jen to the come along to show her I was a cultured gentleman. She wavered on committing to the plans, so I grabbed her cell phone and programmed my phone number into it. I told her to call me and let me know what she wanted to do.

The Friday before the Haydn sting quartet performance I got a phone call from a funny area code I had never seen before. I was hanging out with my sister at her ex-boyfriend’s house at the time, and quickly ran outside to take the call. Jen was calling to let me know that she wasn’t going to be able to make it because she was going on a camping trip with the other Jen. I opened up the mental bag of conversational tricks and kept her on the phone. What was supposed to be a quick call to tell me that she couldn’t hang out the following day turned into a two-hour conversation about anything and everything. It was the first time in a very long time that I had become so engrossed in a conversation that I lost all concept of time. There was just something different about Jen. Something special. Something that made this beautiful girl in a city rife with beautiful girls stand out.

I had always considered myself a “hopeless romantic in search of hope”, and for the first time in a long time I had an idea what that elusive hope was. It came in the elegant form of a girl who came from thousands of miles away to capture my thoughts, my heart, and my soul.

Tales from Fatherhood

Monday morning as I was riding my bike up a hill at school, the chain snapped sending me hurtling over my handlebars.  It felt like a pretty spectacular crash with me nearly face-planting into the pavement then having my bike fall onto my back.

Apparently, I snapped a link on the chain which caused it to stretch and fall off the sprocket.  I let the chain hang off the side of the bike because I didn’t want to get my hands filthy.  Yesterday after work, I was walking my bike out to my truck to take to the bike shop when I noticed that the chain had been placed back onto the sprocket.  There was a post-it note on the bike frame from Marc that said:

“Hey dad.  I fixed [the] chain so you don’t have to worry.”

He even added the smiley face at the end.  I’m not going to tell him that the chain was broken and I had to get it replaced so he can think he really helped me out.

When he was little I wanted him to hurry up and get older so we could play sports.  Now that he’s older, I want him to slow down so I could savor the fleeting moments of his childhood.  Then, he takes the time to “fix” my bike while I’m at work.  Young or old,  big or small I’m just blessed to have such a great kid.