DBacks in The Playoffs 2011

Ahh, October is here and D-Backs are in the MLB playoffs! I love October and the World Series has a lot to do with that. Memories from my childhood include: Kirk Gibson limping all the way around the diamond during his home-run trot; Rollie Fingers and his wack Handlebar mustache mowing down the opposing batters; Reggie Jackson and his raw power and confidence, even Vin Skully and his big league dreams inducing radio call of the game...not to forget the unbelievable joys of 2001 and the D-Backs championship season.  I just love it all!

So, yes, I am enjoying the D-Backs and their early playoff success this year, and I am wondering where it will take us. Game 5 tonight is do or die. Yeah, this is  a great time to be an All-American world class couch potato.

But I have to say even with my love for baseball and the fall classic unrepentantly confessed; watching the batters make their stand at home plate as the pitchers hurl their arsenal of pitches toward them I can't help but start wondering...

...What is the deal with the ill-fitting batting gloves out there? The batters keep stepping out of the batter's box after each and every pitch to readjust the Velcro straps on their batting gloves. Are these batting gloves so sensitive as to get out of whack on each and every pitch of the ball? Who makes these gloves, and can't they find a pair that can stay properly adjusted?

As far as occupations go, from my early youth I thought being a baseball player was the ultimate pinnacle of  achievement. And frankly, when compared baseball to other glove wielding occupations being a baseball player towers in magnificent domination over all others. For instance, being a baseball player  verses a proctologist...no comparison! Hand Model? Please, how much satisfaction do you really get seeing your bare knuckles layered in oily lotion to shill some beauty product? Even being a glove wielding pop start like Michael Jackson can't compare to chewing and spitting before thousands of fans cheering  and nervously watching every swing of your bat.

And these denizens of the diamond get paid beaucoup bucks for this boyish game! We are talking serious dough for adjusting their protective cup and glaring up at menacingly at the opposing pitcher. So, with all this mu la and prestige these players can't find somebody to make a batting glove that actually fits the hand? Please!

Now, I know...sometimes I believe this constant adjusting and readjusting of the batting glove is just a stall tactic used to counter the pitcher exercising control of the confrontation between pitcher and batter. And I also know that these players are professionals, and having a loose glove at some critical pitch in the game would be very unprofessional behavior, I understand all that. But do we really have to watch each and every adjustment on National Television? If I want to watch someone repetitively dress and undress on national television...why can't it be one of those bikini clad Beach Volleyball players or one of those grunting Russian Tennis players? Albert Pujol's hairy bare knuckles are not exactly eye candy friends, trust me on this one.

You'd think Nike or somebody would have figured it out by now.  Self Adjusting batting gloves, how hard can that be? Or Behr could have invented paint-on batting gloves. But no, we have to watch each and every adjustment of the glove strap swing after swing. I'm surprised they don't show it on replay. Cameramen, could you please cut away to the nasty glaring pitcher, or to some couple smooching in the stands, or even to the guys spitting sunflower seeds in the dugout?

Go D-Backs

Cheers, nca

p.s....unrequited glove fetish, the family of a buddy of mine owns this glove company, check it out...

Oscar Stops By For A Visit

The day I found out I needed Open Heart surgery, I had gone into the hospital about 6AM for a procedure called a Heart Catheter. They put a camera in an artery in my thigh, and it snaked up to my heart to take a peek. They put me under, and I woke up after an hour or less with a pain in my punctured thigh and some pretty pics of my heart. They were looking for signs of heart disease, but they found my little problem instead. They decided they needed a second opinion via a MRI, right there in the hospital. The earliest they could get me in for the MRI was about 5:30 PM that night. So I was stuck in the hospital all day and into the night.

 When I finally got in for the MRI, it turned out I was going to be in the machine for 90 minutes. I was laying flat on my back inside a small tube of a machine, with the machine making loud grinding and bumping noises and every few minutes the tech would tell me to hold my breath for 30 or 60 seconds. I was not allowed to move even a tiny bit for all 90 minutes. I was very tired, still a little drugged from the first procedure, very claustrophobic, and also a little scared about facing surgery.

Pretty long into the MRI, fighting to stay awake and not move, I had this weird vision. I saw my long deceased Dad, and he told me 'Everything will be all right Son'. I know, weird, probably drug induced, and surely all in my imagination. But still, it actually helped me get through the dang crazy procedure.

 Cheers, Nicholas

2014 - Post Script

I came across this picture of my Dad at his work from years and years ago. On the back, it mentions that he worked in the Imaging Lab at the V.A. hospital at one time. Interesting, in light of the story I just told, no?

Boyz will be Boyz

Recently, my daughter drove me down to the local library. I waited for her in the car while she went in to pick up a couple books on hold. While waiting, I put on a CD and started listening to 'Battle Of New Orleans'. Right as the line 'We fired our guns but the British kept a coming' warbled out of the speakers I looked in the mirror and I saw a man holding a pistol pointed in my general direction.

It took me a minute to realize he was actually pointing his weapon at a teenage boy in a car directly to the left. The man had a blue shirt on with a police logo. On the other side of the car, a second teenage boy was being handcuffed by a second officer. The first cop was trying to convince the first boy to step our of the car, with his gun drawn. Drugs? Stolen car? I'm not really sure what the crime was.

This true event made me think back on my boyhood. There but for the grace of God...and all that. I was a bit of a rowdy and miscreant in my day. Nothing too criminal, but risky, stupid, and at times even life threatening. I wonder at the miracle of teen age boys ever making it out of adolescence.

One time, some firecrackers placed in the right (wrong?) spot caused an old tree to burn down. That brought police and fire personnel, and we ran and hid like thieves. We used to lob water balloons from atop buildings along Indian School road at passing motorists, and China Berry's were thrown at cars on 16th Street...in some cases we were chased by the drivers wielding baseball bats.

One time we built what we called a 'Goosegun' It was made of three tennis ball cans taped together will intermediate bottoms removed. The near end had a small hole poked through the bottom. We would drip lighter fluid through the little hole and drop a tennis ball down the muzzle. When we lit a match to the hole, the tennis ball would shoot off  like a cannon ball. We took the gun out to a nearby empty field, and shot it off. Only the tennis ball caught on fire, and everywhere it bounced, it lit a dry bush on fire. We were running around throwing dirt on all the burning bushes in a frantic hurry...we were very lucky we did not start a brush fire.

At another moment in my youth, I was in a shoplifting phase. One particular day, I had lifted a pair of leather gloves...stuffing it into my jacket pocket. As I was leaving the store, something deep down told me to 86 the gloves, and so I did. As I exited the store, I was grabbed by store security. They searched me, and found nothing. They made me take them back in the store and show them where I dropped the gloves. Who knows what trouble I avoided with that lucky moment.

Probably the most dangerous moment occurred cruising Central Avenue with my brother in his truck. We had offended a car load of boys in a parallel vehicle...I think I had thrown a racket-ball at them. They chased us down. We had almost got away on side streets when my brother's truck ran out of gas. We were attached by the boys, and several of them were wielding racket-ball rackets. We really did not even fight back, we were seriously in trouble. They beat the heck out of was with the rackets, and we had to go to E.R. and get stitches. It was one thing to get my own face messed up, but why was I always dragging my brothers into my trouble? I always seemed to be the instigator.
 
Now I know, every boy does not get into the trouble I managed to get into as a youth. But I think a lot do. There is so much trouble to get into...and during those high school years...if you are not a serious student and if you are not working, there is a lot of extra time on your hands. In my case, that time was not always used wisely. I am thankful that I had a angel on my shoulder keeping me out of jail, and out of more serious crimes or danger. I wish every youth has that angel on his shoulder too....now that I have grown up daughters...I see the fragile aspects of life and that deep seated love a father has for his children.

Cheers - NCA