[In a Casey Kasem voice: Coming in this week at number four: Winter!]
I know I probably complain incessantly about those summer days when the temperature gets above 90 and seems to stay there for a couple weeks. But I'm pretty sure I'm gonna stop doing that. And anyone who might be reading this from north of here and east of the Mississippi (What? I can pretend I have followers around the country, can't I?), I know you've had it way worse than us Denverites this year, but come on.
Actually, it really wouldn't suck at all if there was this unwritten code that schools, employers, clients, etc. understood. That everything just gets canceled. That's what the unwritten code should be. We all just stay home, and off the roads. Go for a walk. Get out and play. Take some pictures of how beautiful the snow looks on the trees, or the way it sometimes seems to defy physics by how much space it can occupy on the top of a street sign. But keep the cars parked. Wanna get somewhere? Public Transit. Cross country ski. Snowshoe. Walk. Or I know: how about don't go anywhere? Stay home. Why do we always have to be going somewhere or doing something?
An occasional spontaneous, unplanned, what-should-we-do-now kind of day would be so emotionally gratifying that we would become massively more productive and happy as a society. Really. (Note to self for a future blog: lay out details for my long-wished-for eight-day week with three-day weekends every weekend.) I would have stayed home today. So would have my daughter and wife. We would have slept in. Then we'd get up, make and enjoy some breakfast together as a family. And then? Who knows. Maybe a game of Monopoly. Then a movie on the flat screen. Heck, even on the way to school today, my daughter said. "If I didn't have school today, it would be a perfect time to decorate my Valentines box that I have to bring to school next week." See? All this stuff we always put off for a "rainy" day never gets done, because we're always too damn busy on these rare "rainy" days. As a society, we aren't allowed to take any time off. It's bullshit.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
It's Super Bowl weekend and I don't give a shit.
Well, kind of I do, I guess. In as much as it helps me remember how old I am. (I turned one a couple months before Super Bowl I, so whatever Super Bowl it is, that's how old I am.) But the danger of having become purely monogamous to baseball is that I now have this supercilious attitude toward most other sports. And even the commercials, at least for the last five or six years, have been banal, for the most part. In fact, I can't even think of any exceptions, but that's probably due to the fact that my family gets all of its video entertainment via the Web, and has for over a year. Therefore, we see very few commercials any more. And I actually kind of miss them. But I digress.
So, my wife, daughter, and I will go to a Super Bowl party and have a good time. My wife's mother's family—she and her nine siblings—grew up in Pittsburgh, and almost all of them still live there, so I kind of feel like we have a horse in the race, or at least a team to root for with more than a passing passion. Not that I paid any attention to them during the regular season or playoffs, but still.
About which I shall digress some more: If I had to name an American metropolis, other than Denver, that I could live in, it would be Pittsburgh. I've been there a half-dozen times, and it always strikes me as one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen. Of course, I've never been there during the winter—only the "green" months—but really, I challenge anyone to objectively name a more livably pretty city. Of course you have San Francisco, but I couldn't afford to live there—therefore, not livable. And San Diego, but I wouldn't want to live there (I like seasons). Same for the south, so that rules out places like Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, Miami, etc.
Plus, with my disdain for the American League's designated hitter rule, I would have to live in an NL city. So that really narrows it down. Oh, I suppose I could warm to St. Louis, but I haven't really spent enough time there to be sure.
Not that we're thinking of moving. It's just something I decided I'd think out-loud about. Thanks for listening.
Oh. And go Steelers.
So, my wife, daughter, and I will go to a Super Bowl party and have a good time. My wife's mother's family—she and her nine siblings—grew up in Pittsburgh, and almost all of them still live there, so I kind of feel like we have a horse in the race, or at least a team to root for with more than a passing passion. Not that I paid any attention to them during the regular season or playoffs, but still.
About which I shall digress some more: If I had to name an American metropolis, other than Denver, that I could live in, it would be Pittsburgh. I've been there a half-dozen times, and it always strikes me as one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen. Of course, I've never been there during the winter—only the "green" months—but really, I challenge anyone to objectively name a more livably pretty city. Of course you have San Francisco, but I couldn't afford to live there—therefore, not livable. And San Diego, but I wouldn't want to live there (I like seasons). Same for the south, so that rules out places like Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, Miami, etc.
Plus, with my disdain for the American League's designated hitter rule, I would have to live in an NL city. So that really narrows it down. Oh, I suppose I could warm to St. Louis, but I haven't really spent enough time there to be sure.
Not that we're thinking of moving. It's just something I decided I'd think out-loud about. Thanks for listening.
Oh. And go Steelers.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Welcome back, Teeth.
He starts telling me about how they're going to put me under, move everything back to where it was, put in an arch-something-or-other, to keep it all in the right place that I'll have to wear for six to eight weeks, after which I may need a root canal or two, and possibly some braces. All well and good, I thought. Totally jived with what the dentist at Camp had said when he looked at me the morning after the Teeth Wreck.
So I'm feeling good and looking forward to finding out if this is something that he thinks will take place by the end of the week, or early next.... You know, just want to start getting myself psyched up for it. He goes, "When are we going to do this, you ask? Well right now, of course." Holy shit! Right Now! As in Now, Now? OK. I wasn't ready for that.
I had two things going for me. My wife was by my side (thank you, Denver Public Schools, for closing school today, otherwise she would have been at work). And they were going to put me under to the point where I wouldn't remember a thing.
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I didn't remember a thing.
In October my dad had major arterial surgery—a six hour procedure—after which he said it felt like no time passed between when the anesthesiologist started pumping him full of ga-ga juice and when he awoke from the procedure. Same thing for me, although mine was just an hour long. In fact, when I came to, my first thought was, OK, go ahead and get started already. What? You're done. Oh. Yeah. That explains why I can't feel my face.
When I was laying on the ground, back in Tucson, in right field of Hi Corbett Annex Field 1, I don't remember being blown away by the pain. It was the shock. Then, hours later, the pain really was not excruciating. Even in the ensuing days, the pain never really kicked my ass. In fact, the ER prescribed me Vicodin, but I didn't fill it because Tylenol was keeping it in check. But this surgery business is another deal altogether. What'dya use, doc, a crowbar and sledgehammer? Maybe a wire brush for clean up? Damn my face hurts. That Vicodin script I mentioned earlier? It's filled.
Ahhh, but the teeth have their old addresses back. Looking forward to finally chewing some food, instead of drinking it.
So tomorrow I go see my dentist so he can assess whether my bite needs adjusted (it does, I predict—my teeth may have their old addresses back, but they're not totally moved back in). Anyway, six to eight weeks and I should be pretty much back to normal. As for my future in baseball? Shit yeah. This spring I'm gonna start looking for a men's league. I want to keep playing. I want to go back to the Rockies Fantasy Camp. I want to show those pop flies who's boss.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Rockies Fantasy Camp Wrap-Up
Obviously, I spent the rest of the camp doing a lot of spectating. Yeah, it sucked that I couldn't play, but it didn't suck that I was still there, and getting to hang out with some pretty class act MLB ex-players, coaches, and a manager. And some great campers, too. More on a couple of those later in this post.
Our team played well—in fact, out of a total of four teams, ours scored the most runs—and finished with a 3-3 record. We missed playing in the Championship Game by "that much" but took solace in the fact that we beat a team in the consolation game that had beaten us twice in as many tries.
The Championship Game was a lot of fun to watch. It took place in the main field at Hi Corbett field, under the lights, with music in-between innings, an announcer, and a working scoreboard. For us spectators, there was a cooler of Coors Light nearby from which we could grab some refreshments. Ahhhh. Delicious refreshments.
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Did I mention that I spent time in the ER? Yes, I did. Did I mention that the very next day, another player from my team had to do the same? No, I did not. Jim broke his finger when the bat of the batter was let go of, only to come crashing into his fingers while he was holding his own bat in the on-deck circle. Yowsa. That's fracture number two, in as many days.
The irony here is that only two players on our team were wearing the same number (24, if you must know) and that would be Jim and me. Holy Crap! How weird is that???
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The Camp Banquet was Friday night, and was quite long, and presumably more enjoyable for those attendees who could eat. The number of attendees who could not eat numbered one. The number of attendees who could eat, and were named "Kyle" numbered zero.
But good-natured ignominy did not escape me. I was presented the Rainbow Award which, as it states on my plaque, is awarded to the MOST BLACK and BLUE OF THE CAMP. Thanks. I worked hard for that one. And as I made my way to the front of the room to accept said award, there on the big screen for all to see played the video of my pop-fly-catching misfortune. Yeah, I look forward to watching that again. Not. Well, maybe kinda, but mostly not.
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After the banquet a lot of people milled around the foyer outside the banquet room talking about how much fun we had and how much we'll miss each other and how we should keep in touch. Eventually most of the crowd had made its way downstairs to the bar for more revelry. My group, however, instigated by Aaron's wife, decided drinking games were in order. Not exactly what I had in mind, but what the hell?
One of the advantages to having a suite in which you are staying is that when there is a group of people in the "living room" of the suite, and you decide to go to bed, you just shut the door to the "bedroom" and crawl under the covers. That's just what I did when 2:00am approached. Not sure what time it was when the rest of them stopped making their way through rounds of Kings Cup, but I think there was a 5 in it.
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Now, as for those aforementioned special two great campers:
When one sets off to spend the large pare of five days with fifty other individuals, from that can come a certain amount of anxiety. Like, are we gonna jive, are they gonna cotton to me, is it going to be all full of pretense, just how uncomfortable—and for how long—will it be? Stuff like that. Well, to that end, I could not have been luckier. I met a boatload of dudes that are top notch human beings. I’d be lying if I said that a small amount of folks weren’t a little cocky for my tastes, but that was really rare.
But with two guys, specifically, I could not have been more fortunate to spend the week. Aaron and Renick. The former I actually first met back in December when The Campers were invited to Coors Field for a primer on what to expect, take some swings in the batting cages, get fitted for jerseys, etc. He seemed really cool then, but we didn’t exchange phone numbers or even keep in touch. It was simply a small, early indicator that there would be at least one guy at The Camp with whom I jived.
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The flight down was a full one. If it had two empty seats, I’d be surprised. But it did have one. I know, because it was in between Aaron and I. Good start, I thought. Not only was I nervous about who I’d be rooming with, I was similarly anxious about who I’d be sitting next to on the plane. (Note to self: stop giving your wife so much shit for worrying too much.) So he and I were able to pick up where we left off (from when we chatted each other up in December at Coors Field). It was comfortable. Relaxing. Stressless.
Then, as it turns out, Aaron and I end up on the same team. Boom. That’s it. It’s all good, now, I remember thinking. Or, as my daughter says, quietly, when something good happens: “Yes.”
Aaron’s a genuine and laid back guy with a solid head on his shoulders and what seems like more integrity than a Dalai Lama reunion. And he can play him some ball. But for as good as a ballplayer he was, he was an even better teammate. He never put anyone down. Never showed an ounce of frustration.You could tell he was just living his dream, along with everyone else. At the same time, he did everything he could to perform at his best. It sounds like a cliché or hyperbole when you read about shit like that in the paper or hear it on the TV, like when managers say so-and-so sets an example for his teammates with his actions, but this dude really is a stand up guy.
The other guy who made the week a few ticks better than I anticipated (and don’t get me wrong—I expected this to be fun as hell) was Renick. That’s his first name. Betcha never heard that one before. Anyway, among the information contained in the packet The Rockies gave us at DIA prior to take-off was who our roommate was going to be, so I knew the name of the guy I was rooming with, but didn’t who he was until halfway through Day One, long after we hit the tarmac in Tucson, and were on the fields doing some drills.
When the team line-ups were announced, Renick and I realized we'd be on the same team. Bonus! Roommate. Same team. That's all it took. He and I clicked like beans and cornbread. Our friendship was immediately comfortable, like we'd known each other for some time already. In contrast, there were guys on my team who I broke camp with not feeling like I "got" them in the least, or they me.
Renick's loaded with a great sense of humor, and a genuine desire to see people around him do well. And not for selfish reasons, because it might make him look better, but because he genuinely wants to see people succeed.
When I showed up back at the hotel the night after the Teeth Wreck, and wandered to the bar where I knew Aaron and Rencik were, he had a cold Sierra Nevada—complete with a straw—waiting for me. And whilst I was in the ER having the time of my life, he was enjoying himself at a Texas Hold 'Em Tournament put on for The Campers back at the hotel, and he'd still send me a text from time to time to check in on my condition. Dude's solid.
And so was Camp. I hope to have the opportunity to redeem myself next year, and will do everything in my power to do so.
Our team played well—in fact, out of a total of four teams, ours scored the most runs—and finished with a 3-3 record. We missed playing in the Championship Game by "that much" but took solace in the fact that we beat a team in the consolation game that had beaten us twice in as many tries.
The Championship Game was a lot of fun to watch. It took place in the main field at Hi Corbett field, under the lights, with music in-between innings, an announcer, and a working scoreboard. For us spectators, there was a cooler of Coors Light nearby from which we could grab some refreshments. Ahhhh. Delicious refreshments.
——————————
Did I mention that I spent time in the ER? Yes, I did. Did I mention that the very next day, another player from my team had to do the same? No, I did not. Jim broke his finger when the bat of the batter was let go of, only to come crashing into his fingers while he was holding his own bat in the on-deck circle. Yowsa. That's fracture number two, in as many days.
The irony here is that only two players on our team were wearing the same number (24, if you must know) and that would be Jim and me. Holy Crap! How weird is that???
——————————
The Camp Banquet was Friday night, and was quite long, and presumably more enjoyable for those attendees who could eat. The number of attendees who could not eat numbered one. The number of attendees who could eat, and were named "Kyle" numbered zero.
But good-natured ignominy did not escape me. I was presented the Rainbow Award which, as it states on my plaque, is awarded to the MOST BLACK and BLUE OF THE CAMP. Thanks. I worked hard for that one. And as I made my way to the front of the room to accept said award, there on the big screen for all to see played the video of my pop-fly-catching misfortune. Yeah, I look forward to watching that again. Not. Well, maybe kinda, but mostly not.
——————————
After the banquet a lot of people milled around the foyer outside the banquet room talking about how much fun we had and how much we'll miss each other and how we should keep in touch. Eventually most of the crowd had made its way downstairs to the bar for more revelry. My group, however, instigated by Aaron's wife, decided drinking games were in order. Not exactly what I had in mind, but what the hell?
One of the advantages to having a suite in which you are staying is that when there is a group of people in the "living room" of the suite, and you decide to go to bed, you just shut the door to the "bedroom" and crawl under the covers. That's just what I did when 2:00am approached. Not sure what time it was when the rest of them stopped making their way through rounds of Kings Cup, but I think there was a 5 in it.
——————————
Now, as for those aforementioned special two great campers:
When one sets off to spend the large pare of five days with fifty other individuals, from that can come a certain amount of anxiety. Like, are we gonna jive, are they gonna cotton to me, is it going to be all full of pretense, just how uncomfortable—and for how long—will it be? Stuff like that. Well, to that end, I could not have been luckier. I met a boatload of dudes that are top notch human beings. I’d be lying if I said that a small amount of folks weren’t a little cocky for my tastes, but that was really rare.
But with two guys, specifically, I could not have been more fortunate to spend the week. Aaron and Renick. The former I actually first met back in December when The Campers were invited to Coors Field for a primer on what to expect, take some swings in the batting cages, get fitted for jerseys, etc. He seemed really cool then, but we didn’t exchange phone numbers or even keep in touch. It was simply a small, early indicator that there would be at least one guy at The Camp with whom I jived.
——————————
The flight down was a full one. If it had two empty seats, I’d be surprised. But it did have one. I know, because it was in between Aaron and I. Good start, I thought. Not only was I nervous about who I’d be rooming with, I was similarly anxious about who I’d be sitting next to on the plane. (Note to self: stop giving your wife so much shit for worrying too much.) So he and I were able to pick up where we left off (from when we chatted each other up in December at Coors Field). It was comfortable. Relaxing. Stressless.
Then, as it turns out, Aaron and I end up on the same team. Boom. That’s it. It’s all good, now, I remember thinking. Or, as my daughter says, quietly, when something good happens: “Yes.”
Aaron’s a genuine and laid back guy with a solid head on his shoulders and what seems like more integrity than a Dalai Lama reunion. And he can play him some ball. But for as good as a ballplayer he was, he was an even better teammate. He never put anyone down. Never showed an ounce of frustration.You could tell he was just living his dream, along with everyone else. At the same time, he did everything he could to perform at his best. It sounds like a cliché or hyperbole when you read about shit like that in the paper or hear it on the TV, like when managers say so-and-so sets an example for his teammates with his actions, but this dude really is a stand up guy.
The other guy who made the week a few ticks better than I anticipated (and don’t get me wrong—I expected this to be fun as hell) was Renick. That’s his first name. Betcha never heard that one before. Anyway, among the information contained in the packet The Rockies gave us at DIA prior to take-off was who our roommate was going to be, so I knew the name of the guy I was rooming with, but didn’t who he was until halfway through Day One, long after we hit the tarmac in Tucson, and were on the fields doing some drills.
When the team line-ups were announced, Renick and I realized we'd be on the same team. Bonus! Roommate. Same team. That's all it took. He and I clicked like beans and cornbread. Our friendship was immediately comfortable, like we'd known each other for some time already. In contrast, there were guys on my team who I broke camp with not feeling like I "got" them in the least, or they me.
Renick's loaded with a great sense of humor, and a genuine desire to see people around him do well. And not for selfish reasons, because it might make him look better, but because he genuinely wants to see people succeed.
When I showed up back at the hotel the night after the Teeth Wreck, and wandered to the bar where I knew Aaron and Rencik were, he had a cold Sierra Nevada—complete with a straw—waiting for me. And whilst I was in the ER having the time of my life, he was enjoying himself at a Texas Hold 'Em Tournament put on for The Campers back at the hotel, and he'd still send me a text from time to time to check in on my condition. Dude's solid.
And so was Camp. I hope to have the opportunity to redeem myself next year, and will do everything in my power to do so.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Observations and cognitive disassociations.
I finally slept more than three hours, the majority of which did not involve swallowing blood all night, so I've got that going for me.
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This is something I thought of this morning: You know how people sometimes say shit like, "Man, if I was backstage at a Stones concert, I bet I could have my teeth bashed in and still have fun"? I proved that right this week. 'Cuz I did have my teeth bashed in, at Colorado Rockies Fantasy Camp, and I still had fun. Don't get me wrong, if I ever have the opportunity to redeem myself at The Camp ever again, I sure as hell hope the same thing doesn't happen. I just made the most of a crappy thing.
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We had two people at camp who won the opportunity to be here. One from mlb.com, the other from KOA. Those two folks could not be more different.
Angie, who won the KOA contest didn't even let me in on that little factoid until yesterday (day three of the camp). She's humble and quiet, yet competitive and a great teammate.
The other one I briefly referred to in a previous post. Avalanche Blackwell was his professional wrestling name. The Avalanche Splash was his signature move. Or so he says. The dude is a true character. He made sure I knew he was here because he won the opportunity on mlb.com. He told me that in December when I met him at a pre-camp meeting at Coors Field. And he told me that again on Day One. He speaks at the same volume whether he's outside in the dugout at a game, or in the bus on the way to the hotel. He tells you things that you didn't ask about. Out of the blue. In relation to nothing at all. Seemingly just to break the silence. I gotta tell ya, sometimes I like silence. I don't get the impression Avalanche does. I mentioned in my last post that Jim Tracy handed me a signed jersey of his, and Avalanche says to me, hours later, totally out of context, out of the blue, "I know somewhere you can get that jersey framed. There's a place by my house in Louisville." Yeah, Avalanche, that's cool. There's a bunch of places by my house where I can have it framed, too. "Where do you live?" Just off of Colfax in east/central Denver. His eyes widen frighteningly. What's wrong, Avalanche? "That's a damn scary neighborhood!" No it's not, Avalanche. "It is in my book!" He sounds like he smokes a couple packs a day (which I'm pretty sure he does—Parliaments); he uses what I like to refer as hillbilly English—you know the kind I'm talking about; and he lacks some common social niceties. He's not quite a jerk, but he's definitely not the kind of guy you'd want your little sister to marry. But holy cow, his presence at Camp has certainly made it a bit more memorable than it otherwise would have been, no doubt about that.
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This is something I thought of this morning: You know how people sometimes say shit like, "Man, if I was backstage at a Stones concert, I bet I could have my teeth bashed in and still have fun"? I proved that right this week. 'Cuz I did have my teeth bashed in, at Colorado Rockies Fantasy Camp, and I still had fun. Don't get me wrong, if I ever have the opportunity to redeem myself at The Camp ever again, I sure as hell hope the same thing doesn't happen. I just made the most of a crappy thing.
—————————
We had two people at camp who won the opportunity to be here. One from mlb.com, the other from KOA. Those two folks could not be more different.
Angie, who won the KOA contest didn't even let me in on that little factoid until yesterday (day three of the camp). She's humble and quiet, yet competitive and a great teammate.
The other one I briefly referred to in a previous post. Avalanche Blackwell was his professional wrestling name. The Avalanche Splash was his signature move. Or so he says. The dude is a true character. He made sure I knew he was here because he won the opportunity on mlb.com. He told me that in December when I met him at a pre-camp meeting at Coors Field. And he told me that again on Day One. He speaks at the same volume whether he's outside in the dugout at a game, or in the bus on the way to the hotel. He tells you things that you didn't ask about. Out of the blue. In relation to nothing at all. Seemingly just to break the silence. I gotta tell ya, sometimes I like silence. I don't get the impression Avalanche does. I mentioned in my last post that Jim Tracy handed me a signed jersey of his, and Avalanche says to me, hours later, totally out of context, out of the blue, "I know somewhere you can get that jersey framed. There's a place by my house in Louisville." Yeah, Avalanche, that's cool. There's a bunch of places by my house where I can have it framed, too. "Where do you live?" Just off of Colfax in east/central Denver. His eyes widen frighteningly. What's wrong, Avalanche? "That's a damn scary neighborhood!" No it's not, Avalanche. "It is in my book!" He sounds like he smokes a couple packs a day (which I'm pretty sure he does—Parliaments); he uses what I like to refer as hillbilly English—you know the kind I'm talking about; and he lacks some common social niceties. He's not quite a jerk, but he's definitely not the kind of guy you'd want your little sister to marry. But holy cow, his presence at Camp has certainly made it a bit more memorable than it otherwise would have been, no doubt about that.
Jim Tracy and the dentist
The day opened on the heels of yet another mostly-sleepless night. It opened with a breakfast that consisted of coffee. It opened with a desire to eat some food. But, the possibility of that happening ranks right up there with the possibility of me playing in any games today at Fantasy Camp. See, the crappy thing that came from yesterday's Teeth Wreck is the fact that my bite no longer comes together in a way that allows for mastication.
Fast forward to Hi Corbett at today's opening daily group gathering. They refer to it as Kangaroo Court, but I have no idea why. But that's not the point. The camp Commissioner (that's Jim Tracy) hands out various fines, like if someone leaves clothing behind in a dugout the day before. Or if someone's cell phone goes off during a game. Things like that. It's always done in fun. But he also takes time to recognize the peeps who did something extraordinary or tremendous.
So after explaining that he had an extra one of his signed jerseys hanging around, because he won the Texas Hold-em tourney from the night before, and the winner was slated to receive said jersey, he called me up. It became mine as compensation for the six-and-a-half hours I spent in the ER with Keith Dugger. So that's not a shitty start to a day, to be handed a jersey autographed by the manager of the Colorado Rockies.
Next thing is even better, at least in terms of how I was feeling about my Teeth Wreck. Turns out one of the Campers was a dentist. He gave me a good look-over and said I was not likely to lose any teeth. And that an oral surgeon would be able to put everything back together, and in its right place. So that was a huge relief. But he also mentioned that I shouldn't partake in any playing of baseball. Bummer. But, hey, I'm still at The Camp.
And so I am. Still at The Camp, indeed. But I'm also exhausted, and finally feel like I'm going to get me some sleep tonight. So good night. Me and my teeth are going to sleep.
Fast forward to Hi Corbett at today's opening daily group gathering. They refer to it as Kangaroo Court, but I have no idea why. But that's not the point. The camp Commissioner (that's Jim Tracy) hands out various fines, like if someone leaves clothing behind in a dugout the day before. Or if someone's cell phone goes off during a game. Things like that. It's always done in fun. But he also takes time to recognize the peeps who did something extraordinary or tremendous.
So after explaining that he had an extra one of his signed jerseys hanging around, because he won the Texas Hold-em tourney from the night before, and the winner was slated to receive said jersey, he called me up. It became mine as compensation for the six-and-a-half hours I spent in the ER with Keith Dugger. So that's not a shitty start to a day, to be handed a jersey autographed by the manager of the Colorado Rockies.
Next thing is even better, at least in terms of how I was feeling about my Teeth Wreck. Turns out one of the Campers was a dentist. He gave me a good look-over and said I was not likely to lose any teeth. And that an oral surgeon would be able to put everything back together, and in its right place. So that was a huge relief. But he also mentioned that I shouldn't partake in any playing of baseball. Bummer. But, hey, I'm still at The Camp.
And so I am. Still at The Camp, indeed. But I'm also exhausted, and finally feel like I'm going to get me some sleep tonight. So good night. Me and my teeth are going to sleep.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
My hamstring is fine, but…
My hamstring is fine, but that's because I iced it really good, twice—once after I tweaked it, once the next morning—and throttled back my running by about 10% in the first of two games today—day two—of the Rockies Fantasy camp.
My hamstring is fine because I was able to take my mind off of it in the second game. Playing right field, I misjudged a fly ball. Everybody does it at one time or another, especially when you're just learning to play the outfield. (Note to my next-lifetime-self: learn to play outfield long before you're 45.) It's tough to judge just where that thing's gonna come down when you're standing 200 feet from where it was set on its trajectory. Scores of men and women I've played softball with over the years have had balls come down next to them, five feet behind them, or simply bounce off their glove. I, however, was much closer in my misjudgment. The exact distance by which it missed my glove was negligible. The exact distance by which it missed my mouth was not negligible.
My hamstring is fine because the feeling of a baseball landing on your mouth from out of the heavens is the kind of feeling that forces you to feel little else.
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For those of you who remember the Rockies game known simply as "The Play-In Game" back in 2007 when they completed their magical run to the playoffs, and eventually the World Series, you will no doubt remember the game-winning slide into home plate by Matt Holiday where his head violently banged the ground as he slid. The guy from the Rockies dugout, the Rockies head trainer, who was quick to Holiday's side with whatever tools of his trade he used to assess the damage is a guy named Keith Dugger.
Even though the first person I remember seeing after I finally reopened my eyes was our second baseman Susie Wargin, from Denver's 9News, Keith Dugger is the man with whom I spent the next six-and-a-half hours. He got me off the field, into the locker room, to the ER, and back to the hotel. I am very thankful for having him to BS with. To be reassured by. To be made to not feel stupid for catching a routine pop fly with my mouth by. The Rockies are lucky to have such a great guy in that position.
As for my mouth, well, I'm gonna live. It doesn't look like I'm going to lose any teeth. Two or three of my front teeth have been reassigned a new angle from which they jut out of my gums, and I have a small fracture in the bone between my mouth and nose. My lip is swollen and hamburgery.
As for the rest of the Camp, I'm gonna do my damnedest to continue to enjoy the hell out of it, but it won't involve me being too involved in any games. Head trainer's and doctor's orders. But I still might be able to play soft catch and swing the bat in the cage, possibly even as a pinch hitter. I can still root for my team and enjoy the building camaraderie. I'm not going down. I'm not giving up. But I am going to be swallowing some blood for a few more days.
My hamstring is fine because I was able to take my mind off of it in the second game. Playing right field, I misjudged a fly ball. Everybody does it at one time or another, especially when you're just learning to play the outfield. (Note to my next-lifetime-self: learn to play outfield long before you're 45.) It's tough to judge just where that thing's gonna come down when you're standing 200 feet from where it was set on its trajectory. Scores of men and women I've played softball with over the years have had balls come down next to them, five feet behind them, or simply bounce off their glove. I, however, was much closer in my misjudgment. The exact distance by which it missed my glove was negligible. The exact distance by which it missed my mouth was not negligible.
My hamstring is fine because the feeling of a baseball landing on your mouth from out of the heavens is the kind of feeling that forces you to feel little else.
—————————
For those of you who remember the Rockies game known simply as "The Play-In Game" back in 2007 when they completed their magical run to the playoffs, and eventually the World Series, you will no doubt remember the game-winning slide into home plate by Matt Holiday where his head violently banged the ground as he slid. The guy from the Rockies dugout, the Rockies head trainer, who was quick to Holiday's side with whatever tools of his trade he used to assess the damage is a guy named Keith Dugger.
Even though the first person I remember seeing after I finally reopened my eyes was our second baseman Susie Wargin, from Denver's 9News, Keith Dugger is the man with whom I spent the next six-and-a-half hours. He got me off the field, into the locker room, to the ER, and back to the hotel. I am very thankful for having him to BS with. To be reassured by. To be made to not feel stupid for catching a routine pop fly with my mouth by. The Rockies are lucky to have such a great guy in that position.
As for my mouth, well, I'm gonna live. It doesn't look like I'm going to lose any teeth. Two or three of my front teeth have been reassigned a new angle from which they jut out of my gums, and I have a small fracture in the bone between my mouth and nose. My lip is swollen and hamburgery.
As for the rest of the Camp, I'm gonna do my damnedest to continue to enjoy the hell out of it, but it won't involve me being too involved in any games. Head trainer's and doctor's orders. But I still might be able to play soft catch and swing the bat in the cage, possibly even as a pinch hitter. I can still root for my team and enjoy the building camaraderie. I'm not going down. I'm not giving up. But I am going to be swallowing some blood for a few more days.
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