Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Monday, October 27, 2003
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Ladies and gentlemen, please remove your berets, drop your suspenders and pause for a moment of silence. Rerun is dead!!
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
This was written in 2002 after a bad day at the softball field....This is about the same time I realized Bobby is a genius.
Are You Walking?…There’s No Walking In Softball!
And so for the second time in our last three games, my esteemed softball team lost a lead in the late innings by watching the opposition walk around the bases. In a game that features such big balls, what happened to your manhood?
There is no walking in slow-pitch softball. Especially in co-ed slow pitch softball. Why even play if you’re looking for walks? Go for a walk in the park. Go for a walk along the beach holding hands with the wife who undoubtedly wears the pants. But don’t take up space on the softball field.
When you sign up to play co-ed slow-pitch softball, you’re looking to have fun. Period. Of course, there’s mild competition involved, similar to a friendly game of ping-pong. But overall, you’re picking up some beer, checking out the girls on the other team, and making fun of the guy on your squad who couldn’t catch a cold. Winning is, and should be, an afterthought.
When members of the opposing team are at the plate looking for a walk, it is no fun for anyone involved. It can’t be fun for them. I mean, how can you possibly lay off those pitches? Why would you want to lay off those pitches? It’s certainly not like they’re so far off the plate that you can’t possible take a cut at one! And it’s definitely no fun for us out there in field. Yeah, we might be getting a nice tan, but we came to play softball!
In slow-pitch softball, at least in our league, it is only a called strike if the ball hits home plate. Do you have any idea how difficult that is? It’s like trying to piss into a straw. If we decided that we were going counteract their feeble walk-attack, we would still be playing right now.
Besides the fact that men drawing walks in slow-pitch softball gives you a Richard Simmons-like aura as you jog to first base, it also has other disadvantages. First, it draaaaaaags out the length of the game. This, in turn, causes a second, and much more unfortunate occurrence. By the time the game is over, there is no beer left for the post-game discussion and interviews. Nobody just wants to go home after a softball game (unless you’re on the other team and you want to rush home to your wife to vividly describe how you looked at five pitches to win the game for your team). Furthermore, as a fielder, you lose all concentration when the other team is walking. There is no flow to the game. When they finally do decide to swing, you have no idea what to do with the ball (this also doubles as an excuse for my two errors at shortstop yesterday).
Walking in slow-pitch softball is like getting together for a football game and watching the opposing quarterback take a knee on every down. It’s like going to a funeral on your birthday. It’s like going on a romantic getaway to Wyoming. Well, you get the idea. It takes all the fun out of it!
So if you’re in a co-ed softball league and you like draw walks, enjoy those cheap wins while you can. Because if you face our team this summer, it’s not going be slow-pitch softball any longer. And we’re aiming for the head, because there’s obviously nothing down there.
Are You Walking?…There’s No Walking In Softball!
And so for the second time in our last three games, my esteemed softball team lost a lead in the late innings by watching the opposition walk around the bases. In a game that features such big balls, what happened to your manhood?
There is no walking in slow-pitch softball. Especially in co-ed slow pitch softball. Why even play if you’re looking for walks? Go for a walk in the park. Go for a walk along the beach holding hands with the wife who undoubtedly wears the pants. But don’t take up space on the softball field.
When you sign up to play co-ed slow-pitch softball, you’re looking to have fun. Period. Of course, there’s mild competition involved, similar to a friendly game of ping-pong. But overall, you’re picking up some beer, checking out the girls on the other team, and making fun of the guy on your squad who couldn’t catch a cold. Winning is, and should be, an afterthought.
When members of the opposing team are at the plate looking for a walk, it is no fun for anyone involved. It can’t be fun for them. I mean, how can you possibly lay off those pitches? Why would you want to lay off those pitches? It’s certainly not like they’re so far off the plate that you can’t possible take a cut at one! And it’s definitely no fun for us out there in field. Yeah, we might be getting a nice tan, but we came to play softball!
In slow-pitch softball, at least in our league, it is only a called strike if the ball hits home plate. Do you have any idea how difficult that is? It’s like trying to piss into a straw. If we decided that we were going counteract their feeble walk-attack, we would still be playing right now.
Besides the fact that men drawing walks in slow-pitch softball gives you a Richard Simmons-like aura as you jog to first base, it also has other disadvantages. First, it draaaaaaags out the length of the game. This, in turn, causes a second, and much more unfortunate occurrence. By the time the game is over, there is no beer left for the post-game discussion and interviews. Nobody just wants to go home after a softball game (unless you’re on the other team and you want to rush home to your wife to vividly describe how you looked at five pitches to win the game for your team). Furthermore, as a fielder, you lose all concentration when the other team is walking. There is no flow to the game. When they finally do decide to swing, you have no idea what to do with the ball (this also doubles as an excuse for my two errors at shortstop yesterday).
Walking in slow-pitch softball is like getting together for a football game and watching the opposing quarterback take a knee on every down. It’s like going to a funeral on your birthday. It’s like going on a romantic getaway to Wyoming. Well, you get the idea. It takes all the fun out of it!
So if you’re in a co-ed softball league and you like draw walks, enjoy those cheap wins while you can. Because if you face our team this summer, it’s not going be slow-pitch softball any longer. And we’re aiming for the head, because there’s obviously nothing down there.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Originally Published 5/06/03
THE BOTTOM LINE
Baseball, Try Your Hand
By Bobby
There is simply no sport quite as difficult, and humbling, as that of baseball.
I used to play baseball. Little League, that is. I was pretty good, too. And then the pitches started getting faster, and the hitters started getting stronger, and I was becoming more focused on other sports anyway, and that was that. And while the love for the sport remained, (after all, baseball is my favorite sport) I did not play competitively throughout high school and college.
I was, and still am, involved in softball leagues, and have fared fairly well. In the back of my mind, I had always figured I could hold my own on the baseball field if I was to get back into it. To test my theory, I went to the local batting cages to strut my stuff. I started on medium pitch to get ‘warmed up’, but the only thing that got a workout was the mat behind me, which was very busy catching the balls that were somehow getting past me. Leaving my ego behind, I stepped out of the cages so the 10-year old boy behind me could get his turn.
He didn’t need the mat.
I spend so much time watching players make it look so easy, that it clouds my own perception of what I can do. Whether I’m at a Lakewood BlueClaws game, or tuned in to my beloved Yankees, the players are so good it’s amazing. The majesty of the home run, the grace of the double play, the aggressiveness of blocking the plate, the break of the breaking ball. These men play the toughest game at its highest level, and the apparent ease with which they do it makes me think I should be doing the same.
It says a lot for a sport that when you succeed 30% of the time, you are considered a very good hitter. In my opinion, the single most difficult thing to do in sports is to hit a pitch thrown by a professional arm. And that’s just making contact! Ted Williams used to be able to see the seams of the ball on its way to the plate, and put it where he wanted to. In 1941, he was able to do just that 40% of the time, and it’s not crazy to think that no one will ever accomplish that feat again.
It’s not just hitting. Outfielders make catching fly balls look like child’s play, but if they’re unable to get the right jump on the ball the second it comes off the bat, an easy out turns into a pitcher’s nightmare. Infielders routinely gobble up ground balls, rock hard potential weapons threatening to leave the infield at 120 mph, and still not sure which way they want to bounce.
Baseball can be an obstacle course of psychological torment. Over the last several years, professional players have completely lost the ability to throw the ball over home plate (Rick Ankiel), reach first base on a throw from second (Chuck Knoblach), or even throw the ball back to the pitcher from the catcher’s position (Mackey Sasser). Getting hit with a pitch can hurt, cause serious injury, or even kill; it can also mentally destabilize a player’s ability to return to the batter’s box.
Any mistake made in the sport of baseball is accentuated by the vastness of the field, and the small island one occupies within it. There’s no hiding. Errors can be made in every facet of the game; from pitching, to fielding, to hitting, to base running, to backing up, to hitting cutoff men, and so on and so on. And the sport does not discriminate. Even the greatest of players have delved head first into prolonged slumps of unexplained mediocrity.
If professional sports had a degree of difficulty scale, baseball would be the highest standard. It is this reason why I admire, respect, and often envy those players who are able to consistently succeed at it.
Even if they’re only 10 years old.
THE BOTTOM LINE
Baseball, Try Your Hand
By Bobby
There is simply no sport quite as difficult, and humbling, as that of baseball.
I used to play baseball. Little League, that is. I was pretty good, too. And then the pitches started getting faster, and the hitters started getting stronger, and I was becoming more focused on other sports anyway, and that was that. And while the love for the sport remained, (after all, baseball is my favorite sport) I did not play competitively throughout high school and college.
I was, and still am, involved in softball leagues, and have fared fairly well. In the back of my mind, I had always figured I could hold my own on the baseball field if I was to get back into it. To test my theory, I went to the local batting cages to strut my stuff. I started on medium pitch to get ‘warmed up’, but the only thing that got a workout was the mat behind me, which was very busy catching the balls that were somehow getting past me. Leaving my ego behind, I stepped out of the cages so the 10-year old boy behind me could get his turn.
He didn’t need the mat.
I spend so much time watching players make it look so easy, that it clouds my own perception of what I can do. Whether I’m at a Lakewood BlueClaws game, or tuned in to my beloved Yankees, the players are so good it’s amazing. The majesty of the home run, the grace of the double play, the aggressiveness of blocking the plate, the break of the breaking ball. These men play the toughest game at its highest level, and the apparent ease with which they do it makes me think I should be doing the same.
It says a lot for a sport that when you succeed 30% of the time, you are considered a very good hitter. In my opinion, the single most difficult thing to do in sports is to hit a pitch thrown by a professional arm. And that’s just making contact! Ted Williams used to be able to see the seams of the ball on its way to the plate, and put it where he wanted to. In 1941, he was able to do just that 40% of the time, and it’s not crazy to think that no one will ever accomplish that feat again.
It’s not just hitting. Outfielders make catching fly balls look like child’s play, but if they’re unable to get the right jump on the ball the second it comes off the bat, an easy out turns into a pitcher’s nightmare. Infielders routinely gobble up ground balls, rock hard potential weapons threatening to leave the infield at 120 mph, and still not sure which way they want to bounce.
Baseball can be an obstacle course of psychological torment. Over the last several years, professional players have completely lost the ability to throw the ball over home plate (Rick Ankiel), reach first base on a throw from second (Chuck Knoblach), or even throw the ball back to the pitcher from the catcher’s position (Mackey Sasser). Getting hit with a pitch can hurt, cause serious injury, or even kill; it can also mentally destabilize a player’s ability to return to the batter’s box.
Any mistake made in the sport of baseball is accentuated by the vastness of the field, and the small island one occupies within it. There’s no hiding. Errors can be made in every facet of the game; from pitching, to fielding, to hitting, to base running, to backing up, to hitting cutoff men, and so on and so on. And the sport does not discriminate. Even the greatest of players have delved head first into prolonged slumps of unexplained mediocrity.
If professional sports had a degree of difficulty scale, baseball would be the highest standard. It is this reason why I admire, respect, and often envy those players who are able to consistently succeed at it.
Even if they’re only 10 years old.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Originally Published 5/13/03
An Offer I Can Refuse
By Bobby
My consistent refusal to eat cake has yet to be accepted by silent indifference.
My future brothers-in-law are well aware of my penchant for avoiding the consumption of cake, and this became the source of much amusement last Fourth of July. As slices upon slices of various cakes were being passed about the backyard, I was bombarded with paper plates and demands, not suggestions, to eat its’ contents. My refusals to do so were accompanied by strange looks, inquiries as to why, and subsequent offerings of cakes of a different species, maybe baked by someone I felt closer to, and someone who would be offended by my denial. We all got a big kick out of the proceedings, as seven people total offered me multiple slices of cake, all receiving the crossing guard-type stop sign with the right hand, my major weapon against such hand-outs.
Of course, refusing any food from any people of Italian heritage is dangerous in and of itself. But my new family is now well accustomed to my dessert denials, and their reluctant acceptance of this has been cushioned by my desire to consume anything and everything but cake. Nevertheless, it must be explained why I take these risks, why I bare the brunt of harsh criticism for it, and what it says about society in general that most people abhor the fact that I do not eat cake.
In general, I do not eat cake because I do not like it. Sure, there are rare occasions when I will have a piece of carrot cake (my birthday most recently) or some other cake-like dessert. But these occurrences are very few and far in between. For starters, I do not like dessert, and my constant craving for all that was bad and teeth rotting as a youth has seemingly destroyed any present desire for anything sweet. Furthermore, dessert is customarily preceded by dinner, a meal, like breakfast and lunch, in which I leave no plate unturned, and do not allow my appetite room for hopes of what might come afterwards.
At the outset of my cake refusals, the confusion and resentment of others often forced me to rethink my intentions and succumb to the demands of those ruled by flour and sugar. But as I matured, and became stronger in my convictions, and more adamant in my hate for cake, I remained steadfast and even began to form societal observations regarding those very people who looked down on me with disgust, icing hanging from their noses.
For most people cake is a guilty pleasure, minor gluttony justified by someone graduating high school. The nutritious ramifications of cake have been well documented, namely on the box. So in essence, eating cake is “being bad”, and no one wants to be bad alone. My refusal to eat cake, albeit out of no nutritional sense whatsoever, outcasts me in the eyes of my peers. The absence of a plate in my hand is proof of the absence of their own sheer will with regards to healthy eating. People believe that if I can do it, so can they, even though I am making no sacrifice whatsoever.
And they hate me for it.
This has obviously been an enormous burden to myself, as each year passes, bringing with it the prospect and hope of joyous celebrations, only to be ruined by my simple refusal to just eat the darn cake. Nevertheless I remain steadfast, a hero of sorts to all my brethren who share a similar distaste for everything tasty.
An Offer I Can Refuse
By Bobby
My consistent refusal to eat cake has yet to be accepted by silent indifference.
My future brothers-in-law are well aware of my penchant for avoiding the consumption of cake, and this became the source of much amusement last Fourth of July. As slices upon slices of various cakes were being passed about the backyard, I was bombarded with paper plates and demands, not suggestions, to eat its’ contents. My refusals to do so were accompanied by strange looks, inquiries as to why, and subsequent offerings of cakes of a different species, maybe baked by someone I felt closer to, and someone who would be offended by my denial. We all got a big kick out of the proceedings, as seven people total offered me multiple slices of cake, all receiving the crossing guard-type stop sign with the right hand, my major weapon against such hand-outs.
Of course, refusing any food from any people of Italian heritage is dangerous in and of itself. But my new family is now well accustomed to my dessert denials, and their reluctant acceptance of this has been cushioned by my desire to consume anything and everything but cake. Nevertheless, it must be explained why I take these risks, why I bare the brunt of harsh criticism for it, and what it says about society in general that most people abhor the fact that I do not eat cake.
In general, I do not eat cake because I do not like it. Sure, there are rare occasions when I will have a piece of carrot cake (my birthday most recently) or some other cake-like dessert. But these occurrences are very few and far in between. For starters, I do not like dessert, and my constant craving for all that was bad and teeth rotting as a youth has seemingly destroyed any present desire for anything sweet. Furthermore, dessert is customarily preceded by dinner, a meal, like breakfast and lunch, in which I leave no plate unturned, and do not allow my appetite room for hopes of what might come afterwards.
At the outset of my cake refusals, the confusion and resentment of others often forced me to rethink my intentions and succumb to the demands of those ruled by flour and sugar. But as I matured, and became stronger in my convictions, and more adamant in my hate for cake, I remained steadfast and even began to form societal observations regarding those very people who looked down on me with disgust, icing hanging from their noses.
For most people cake is a guilty pleasure, minor gluttony justified by someone graduating high school. The nutritious ramifications of cake have been well documented, namely on the box. So in essence, eating cake is “being bad”, and no one wants to be bad alone. My refusal to eat cake, albeit out of no nutritional sense whatsoever, outcasts me in the eyes of my peers. The absence of a plate in my hand is proof of the absence of their own sheer will with regards to healthy eating. People believe that if I can do it, so can they, even though I am making no sacrifice whatsoever.
And they hate me for it.
This has obviously been an enormous burden to myself, as each year passes, bringing with it the prospect and hope of joyous celebrations, only to be ruined by my simple refusal to just eat the darn cake. Nevertheless I remain steadfast, a hero of sorts to all my brethren who share a similar distaste for everything tasty.
Originally published 3/27/03
…The More They Stay The Same
By Bobby
Memory Lane must be a circle.
The other day, while doing my best to give others the impression I was working diligently, one of my coworkers dropped an envelope on my desk that was addressed to me. Wasting no time, I tore it open with the hope it was literally my ticket out of here. Instead, I pulled out a round piece of cardboard, which was outlined with gold stars. It read, “Delivering Excellence Recognition Program”, and it had my name handwritten on it, along with the date. That was it. My unexpected present neglected to go into detail about exactly what excellence was being recognized, or who had that authority to dish out such extravagant excellency awards. All I knew was that I did something excellent, somewhere, and at sometime.
I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with my award, so I hung it up by my cubicle with a thumbtack so all of my coworkers could bow down as they walked to the fax machine and take time to recognize my excellency, as instructed. It wasn’t until someone passed by and had the audacity to chuckle at the site of my prize, that I was informed what it was. Turns out, our company’s sales reps each had a boatload of these things to give out to their field service reps (that’s me), just as a motivational tool. Finally taking the time to look around the office, I saw that these things were plastered all over the place, like motivational wallpaper.
One month away from twenty-five, and I’m still getting gold stars.
Not much has changed apparently, from my grammar school days to where I am now. I still have a desk to report to every morning. We have an intercom here that announces, at 8:00am, that it’s time to start working. We have nameplates on our desks as well, so other people know who we are when they’re handing out assignments. I’m surprised we don’t all stand up and recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” every morning.
The guy that sits next to me has two balloons of Elmo, yes the Sesame Street character Elmo, tied to the bottom of his computer. So do several other people here. Our company is initiating a new program entitled “Expert Leader Motivator and Organizer.” With “ELMO” as the acronym, some sadistic higher-ups thought it would be “cute” to place these stupid balloons on the desks of said “leaders”. I apparently was not nominated.
We even have a company cafeteria here. Some of the guys that work in the warehouse go to lunch at the same time everyday and sit at the same table. And man, you do NOT want to get caught sitting at their table when they waltz in for lunch. I’m not even kidding. I have actually witnessed new hires get kicked off of the ‘warehouse guy’s’ table because they didn’t know. They’re like the bullies of our company.
We have dress down day every Friday, just like back in school. And just like back in school, dress down day gives everyone the chance to point out the more promiscuous, less stylish, and financially strapped coworkers. Next week our company has instated “crazy hat day”, giving everyone that much needed opportunity to look like a complete moron as they perform their daily activities.
Company functions, like the infamous Christmas party, eerily resemble the old school dances, only with alcohol present to accelerate the process, and subsequent discussions of who ‘hooked up’ with who. And there are still people that are ‘too cool’ to attend said functions. There are also still occasions, namely the day following a company party, that our managers require a doctor’s note in our absence, an inquisition to our illnesses.
Sometimes if we’re lucky, our bosses buy us pizza for lunch. When the announcement is made that ‘the pizza has arrived’, we are instructed to enter the conference room, one at a time, and to leave enough slices for everyone else. When the ever-dreadful occasion of a coworker’s birthday arrives, streamers and balloons and signs are placed on the person’s desk overnight, so when they arrive at work, they are pleasantly bowled over by the party atmosphere that surrounds their work environment. Then everyone eats cake and comments on how good it is and how they shouldn’t be eating it.
In essence, I spend my day trying not to get caught for doing things I’m not supposed to be doing. Surfing the net has become the equivalent of launching spitballs. I still go right for the seats in the very back during meaningless company meanings so I can make fun of people with my friends. But I still know how to kiss a little tush when necessary.
Nope, not much has changed.
I frequently notice that a lot of people comment on how they never apply anything they’ve learned in school to their present job. Well, we may not be discussing algebra and the “Treaty Of Versailles” here, but there are many aspects of corporate life and behavior that can be traced directly back to our school days. I actually have learned a lot.
And I have a gold star to prove it.
…The More They Stay The Same
By Bobby
Memory Lane must be a circle.
The other day, while doing my best to give others the impression I was working diligently, one of my coworkers dropped an envelope on my desk that was addressed to me. Wasting no time, I tore it open with the hope it was literally my ticket out of here. Instead, I pulled out a round piece of cardboard, which was outlined with gold stars. It read, “Delivering Excellence Recognition Program”, and it had my name handwritten on it, along with the date. That was it. My unexpected present neglected to go into detail about exactly what excellence was being recognized, or who had that authority to dish out such extravagant excellency awards. All I knew was that I did something excellent, somewhere, and at sometime.
I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with my award, so I hung it up by my cubicle with a thumbtack so all of my coworkers could bow down as they walked to the fax machine and take time to recognize my excellency, as instructed. It wasn’t until someone passed by and had the audacity to chuckle at the site of my prize, that I was informed what it was. Turns out, our company’s sales reps each had a boatload of these things to give out to their field service reps (that’s me), just as a motivational tool. Finally taking the time to look around the office, I saw that these things were plastered all over the place, like motivational wallpaper.
One month away from twenty-five, and I’m still getting gold stars.
Not much has changed apparently, from my grammar school days to where I am now. I still have a desk to report to every morning. We have an intercom here that announces, at 8:00am, that it’s time to start working. We have nameplates on our desks as well, so other people know who we are when they’re handing out assignments. I’m surprised we don’t all stand up and recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” every morning.
The guy that sits next to me has two balloons of Elmo, yes the Sesame Street character Elmo, tied to the bottom of his computer. So do several other people here. Our company is initiating a new program entitled “Expert Leader Motivator and Organizer.” With “ELMO” as the acronym, some sadistic higher-ups thought it would be “cute” to place these stupid balloons on the desks of said “leaders”. I apparently was not nominated.
We even have a company cafeteria here. Some of the guys that work in the warehouse go to lunch at the same time everyday and sit at the same table. And man, you do NOT want to get caught sitting at their table when they waltz in for lunch. I’m not even kidding. I have actually witnessed new hires get kicked off of the ‘warehouse guy’s’ table because they didn’t know. They’re like the bullies of our company.
We have dress down day every Friday, just like back in school. And just like back in school, dress down day gives everyone the chance to point out the more promiscuous, less stylish, and financially strapped coworkers. Next week our company has instated “crazy hat day”, giving everyone that much needed opportunity to look like a complete moron as they perform their daily activities.
Company functions, like the infamous Christmas party, eerily resemble the old school dances, only with alcohol present to accelerate the process, and subsequent discussions of who ‘hooked up’ with who. And there are still people that are ‘too cool’ to attend said functions. There are also still occasions, namely the day following a company party, that our managers require a doctor’s note in our absence, an inquisition to our illnesses.
Sometimes if we’re lucky, our bosses buy us pizza for lunch. When the announcement is made that ‘the pizza has arrived’, we are instructed to enter the conference room, one at a time, and to leave enough slices for everyone else. When the ever-dreadful occasion of a coworker’s birthday arrives, streamers and balloons and signs are placed on the person’s desk overnight, so when they arrive at work, they are pleasantly bowled over by the party atmosphere that surrounds their work environment. Then everyone eats cake and comments on how good it is and how they shouldn’t be eating it.
In essence, I spend my day trying not to get caught for doing things I’m not supposed to be doing. Surfing the net has become the equivalent of launching spitballs. I still go right for the seats in the very back during meaningless company meanings so I can make fun of people with my friends. But I still know how to kiss a little tush when necessary.
Nope, not much has changed.
I frequently notice that a lot of people comment on how they never apply anything they’ve learned in school to their present job. Well, we may not be discussing algebra and the “Treaty Of Versailles” here, but there are many aspects of corporate life and behavior that can be traced directly back to our school days. I actually have learned a lot.
And I have a gold star to prove it.
Monday, April 21, 2003
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)