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.