The Resurrection of Michael Vick

Michael Vick was reinstated by the NFL today. Maybe it's the probation officer in me, but I'm actually glad to see it. I have to say, I surprised myself. I was one of the millions who were appalled by the details of his dog-fighting ring, but I'm glad he's getting another chance.

People deserve second chances. I absolutely do not condone what he did to get himself into legal trouble, but he has certainly paid a steep price for it. There have been NFL players who have driven drunk and killed human beings, and they received much lesser sentences from the judicial system, the NFL, and the Court of Public Opinion.

I won't be nominating Vick for sainthood. I didn't care much for him as a player, even before his legal problems; I always thought he was overrated. He definitely has a long road ahead of him. He doesn't even have an employer right now. The Atlanta Falcons officially cut ties with him months ago, and they have some new guy at QB named Matt Ryan who worked out pretty well last year in his rookie season. If and when Vick does find an NFL team to take a chance on him, I'd highly recommend that he keep his helmet on the entire game, even (especially) when standing on the sidelines or running onto the field. I imagine there will be some fans there who don't appreciate his presence, and they may express that displeasure through flying projectiles.

But if he's truly remorseful for his actions, has learned something from this experience, and is willing to make amends and make changes in his life so as to not repeat his criminal behavior, then more power to him. That's what I ask of the people I supervise.

I think that's all we can ask of Michael Vick.

Quick Update

I haven't had a lot of time to write lately. Nothing really major going on. Just a lot of mundane busy-ness. But I thought it might be time for a quick check-in.

Work hasn't really improved much since this post, although there was a marked improvement in my position with the Probation Officers Advisory Board. I can't remember if I've written about the Advisory Board in the past, but in a nutshell, it's about two dozen probation officers from around the state who meet quarterly to discuss, plan, and orchestrate matters relevant to the field of probation in Indiana. I look at it as something rather prestigious. It can be an elected position, or a PO can be appointed by the Chief Justice of the Indiana Supreme Court. You can only be elected to two consecutive terms. I just began my second term after running unopposed again. I had been experiencing some frustrations on the Advisory Board during my first term, but things took a positive turn in May, as I wrote about here. I was assigned to a new committee, and July 14 was my first meeting with that new committee. Without boring you with meaningless details, I like my new committee roughly 42 gazillion times better than my old committee. So that was a positive.

I returned to the Indiana Judicial Center a week later, this past Wednesday, to teach new probation officers about the intrastate transfer policy--the procedure for transferring probation supervision from one county to another within Indiana. I think it went pretty well. I enjoy passing along information I've picked up over the past 13 years to the newbies.

I return to the Judicial Center this week for another meeting. It's a study group I'm part of by way of the Advisory Board. We're studying the future of probation in Indiana. Maybe I should just set up a satellite office in the Judicial Center's building.

Probationer-wise, nothing has changed. In fact, I was assigned a case on Tuesday the 21st. Young lady got a Conditional Discharge on a Possession of Marijuana case. A Conditional Discharge is a lot like probation, except that when she completes her period of probation, the entire charge is actually dismissed. I didn't get a chance to run her criminal history until Thursday the 23rd. And what did I find? A new arrest on Wednesday the 22nd for Domestic Battery in another county. I'm still waiting on the arrest report from the new offense, but if she made it 24 hours before violating, it was just barely 24 hours. So probationer-wise, nothing has changed.

As I wrote about here, I e-mailed the guy who runs a local softball park that I wanted to be a free agent. Over two weeks later, I haven't heard a peep from him. Not even a "I got your e-mail, and I'll let you know as soon as something comes up." Just dead silence. Very nice. So I haven't set foot on a softball field yet, and I'm not very happy about it. Chuck, hearing of my desire to unretire, is trying to put a team together at a different park in our neck of the woods. Problem is, the only night they offer softball there is the night that Olivia has gymnastics. We'd have to sign up by July 31, and the schedule for the next session of Olivia's gymnastics should be out at anytime, so I'm hoping that Olivia's instructor will have a class on a different day or something, so I can play softball. But if not, Olivia wins out without a second thought. Parents sacrifice for their kids, not the other way around.

Speaking of Chuck and softball, he and I just discovered yesterday that we actually met each other a couple years before we became friends. It seems we played against each other in softball! More specifically, I accidentally lined a pitch he tossed to me right back at his head. Fortunately, he caught it (more out of instinctual self-defense than softball skill) and avoided injury, but we both remembered the line drive. The more we talked, the more we put all the pieces together of playing against each other. We were both complaining about playing in Recreational leagues, but that most of the other teams would get players that were obviously far superior athletes, and then play in Rec leagues for some reason. We both mentioned that there was only one other team in the league that was at our skill level. We both remembered playing a see-saw battle that ended with only a run or two difference in score--quite different from the normal 416-0 beatdowns our teams would normally take each week. We both remembered cutting up with the other team throughout the game and having a genuinely good time. We both remembered exchanging phone numbers after the game and suggesting that we just get together every Sunday at a local park and play against each other, which would be more fun than getting bashed every week in the "official" softball league. Chuck told me his team's name--Just For Fun--and that they wore tie-dyed shirts for half the season and Sherman Williams t-shirts the other half of the season, and it all clicked. I remembered nearly decapitating the pitcher with the unintentional line drive, and Chuck yelled out, "I WAS THAT PITCHER!!" Funny!

The clover in my lawn that I've been trying to kill for a month is starting to get a little brown around the edges after the third application of poison I've put down. Holy crap. I think this clover is on steroids.

I enjoyed a day at the Little League park yesterday, watching Chuck's son play a double-header in a tournament. They got pretty thoroughly trounced in their first game, but they won their second game--against a different team--in convincing fashion. Chuck's son had some nice hits, drove in a few runs, and scored a few runs. One kid on our team hit one out of the park, and another hit it out of the park with the bases loaded--a grand slam! That was pretty exciting! The weather, after a rough morning filled with thunderstorms and rain, was absolutely perfect for baseball. It was a good day.

I picked my ten keepers in my dynasty fantasy football league. The draft in that league is Wednesday night, so I need to get ready for that.

Chuck fixed the belt on my lawnmower. It was the right belt. It's nice to have self-propulsion back.

My dad forwarded me a bunch of e-mails about some family history dating back to the late 1770's. That was REALLY cool! There is some interesting history there. One of the most intriguing stories for me is about a relative who, back in the 1800's, was on the run after killing a cousin. He met his fate at the hands of his brother-in-law, though. Nothing like a little family justice. It absolutely fascinates me to learn about family history so far back in time. The Mrs., not sharing my interest in genealogy, just kind of looks at me funny. I was telling her, at the same time I learned it myself, "Hey! Some of my family were Mormons back in the 1800's!" The Mrs. asked why that was important to me. "I don't know," I told her. "It's just interesting." She asked why. I told her that it's just something I didn't know before. She asked why that would excite me like that, to cause me to blurt it out. Then we just looked at each other like we thought each other was out of their minds. The Mrs. did mention, though, that her mom is doing some genealogy stuff on her side of the family, so maybe my mother-in-law will understand my excitement.

Well, so much for this being a "quick" update. It's time for me to use my newly-repaired self-propelled mower to chop down some of this clover-on-steroids.

United Football League

I've been hearing some rumblings about a new professional football league that's about to leap from its nest this year, so I thought I'd check it out. Have you heard about the United Football League? I hadn't either until recently.

From perusing their website and a few other sports websites, the UFL appears to be starting its "Premiere" season in October of 2009 with four teams--Las Vegas, Orlando, New York, and San Francisco. Team names and uniforms will be introduced in early August, with team logos to be revealed in early September. They're apparently going to play games on Wednesday, Thursday, and/or Friday nights (depending on which article you believe) on the Versus Network, and play their Championship Game in Las Vegas over Thanksgiving weekend.

It's normal 11-on-11 football, and the rules are fairly similar to those in the NFL. Nothing crazy jumped out, like in the defunct XFL, where guys would run at each other from opposite ends of the field toward a ball on the 50-yard-line, and whoever wound up with the ball got possession to start the game. So NFL fans shouldn't have much difficulty understanding what's going on in UFL games.

The UFL's overtime rules are very similar to college football's overtime rules, where each team gets a crack at the end zone, as opposed to the NFL's sudden death model, where a coin flip determines the first possession, and whoever scores first wins.

There are some NFL has-beens and not-quites that you might recognize in the UFL: Mike Doss, Brooks Bollinger, and J.P. Losman, to name a few. The four coaches are familiar names: Jim Fassel (Las Vegas), Dennis Green (San Francisco), Jim Haslett (Orlando), and Ted Cottrell (New York). But there are lots of players I've never heard of, some from schools I've never heard of. There is some talk, though, of the UFL trying to sign Michael Vick and/or Plaxico Burress, depending on the length of suspensions the NFL's commissioner hands down for those guys' off-field behavior.

So we'll see how this goes, I guess. I suspect it will go the way of the XFL, the USFL, the WFL, the WLAF, and any other recent leagues other than the almighty NFL. Even the NFL's developmental league failed, NFL Europa, failed.

The Arena Football League is a noticeably different (and fun) game, and they wait to begin their season after the Super Bowl, knowing that it's too difficult to attract NFL fans during the NFL season. They've been around for a long time (22 seasons), but even they had to suspend the 2009 season because of lack of funding. And it's a fairly regular occurrence in the AFL for a team to go belly-up (as did our Indianapolis-based Indiana Firebirds in 2005 after relocating here from Albany in 2001). The AFL hopes to resume play in 2010, but nothing's set in stone yet.

I don't have a lot of hope for the UFL, since it will be filled with players and coaches who couldn't make it in the NFL, the rules and set-up are very similar to those of the NFL (providing very little that is unique to the league), and its season will run at the same time as the NFL's season and that of college football. But if it's too cold to go to a high school football game on a Friday night, maybe I'll check these guys out on Versus. After all, it's still football!

Why So Serious?!

I'll admit that I'm relatively new to Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) fandom, but I'm a bit surprised by the articles I find on the internet about a couple of the fights from UFC 100 on Saturday night.

The first involves Brock Lesnar. In a nutshell, the guy is a great athlete, he's enormous (he fought at 6'3", 265 lbs.), and he was fighting Frank Mir in a rematch of his first UFC fight. In that fight, Lesnar was busy rearranging Mir's face when inexperience led him to leave a leg exposed. Mir grabbed Lesnar's leg, bent it in a direction it's not supposed to bend, and Lesnar tapped out. It's Lesnar's only loss, and he has decimated the competition ever since, becoming the UFC heavyweight champion in November of 2008.

In the rematch last weekend, Lesnar once again made it his mission to pound Mir into a pulp, only this time, he didn't make the rookie mistake of leaving a leg exposed. The referee eventually stopped the fight in the second round when Mir was incapable of blocking any punches with anything other than his face. I really don't remember Mir ever landing any punches. I remember Lesnar landing about 4237 of them, give or take a couple thousand.

What happened after the fight is getting much more attention than the fight itself. After the ref stopped the fight, Lesnar pointed one of his enormous fingers at Mir's bloody face and yelled something at him that I'm guessing wasn't, "I'll see you and your wife tomorrow night at our house for dinner!" Lesnar then gave the Mandalay Bay crowd that was booing him incessantly a double-barreled 360-degree middle-fingered salute. And when the moron Joe Rogan brought his circus act into the ring immediately after the fight to interview Lesnar, Lesnar's background in professional wrestling, combined with the adrenaline rush he was still under from utterly obliterating Mir and avenging his only loss (only to have the crowd boo him), formed the perfect storm. Lesnar proudly stated that he had succeeded in pulling the horseshoe out of Mir's ass (in reference to Mir's seemingly "lucky" win the first time they fought) and had beaten him over the head with it. Then he let loose with his desire to "drink a cooler full of Coors Light because Bud Light [one of the UFC's main sponsors] won't pay me anything" followed by an announcement that "Hell, I might even get on top of my wife tonight."

(His wife, by the way, is Rena Mero Lesnar, better known as Sable, one of the original divas from the professional wrestling scene. She's pictured to the left. I seriously doubt that she was terribly embarrassed by her husband's announcement of his hopes for later, given her experience with the World Wrestling Entertainment and her Playboy spreads and such. She doesn't strike me as the shy, private type.)

Being several Coors Lights into the evening myself, I was still cheering him for his horseshoe and Coors Light comments when he busted out the gettin'-on-top-of-his-wife comment. I was absolutely howling with laughter! So was everyone else in the house. I had tears streaming down my face from laughing so hard.

The next day I read that the UFC's president, Dana White, immediately locked on to Lesnar as he exited the octagon and ripped him a new one in the locker room. Lesnar followed up their meeting with a public apology later in the evening, while holding a Bud Light.

Apparently, White was (understandably) upset that Lesnar had pissed off one of their biggest sponsors, but from what I read in the countless other articles running Lesnar down for his "antics", White (and several sports writers) felt like Lesnar's post-fight behavior somehow made the UFC less prestigious.

I don't understand that argument.

The UFC is wildly popular and is growing in popularity by leaps and bounds. The sport is basically two guys in a cage, using mixed martial arts to beat the hell out of each other for three or five five-minute rounds until one of them taps out (gives up) or gets knocked out, or until time runs out, at which point judges decide who won. Big-boobed women prance around in between rounds, dressed in almost nothing, and holding up signs indicating what round is next. This isn't exactly some high-brow, civilized, thinking man's sport that we're watching here. We're not sipping tea and nibbling on crumpets. It's guy stuff! I know some women watch the fights, but the vast majority of them only do it because they're there with their husbands or boyfriends. The guys are all in the living room, in front of the largest high-definition TV known to mankind, at least ten beers into it, jumping out of their Lazy Boys, yelling and pumping their fists and chest-bumping each other when one fighter knocks another one into next month. Where I watched the fight, Lesnar's comments only furthered the yelling, fist-pumping, and chest-bumping. We were all ready to run out and buy a box full of Brock Lesnar t-shirts, if only one of us had been sober enough to go out into public.

The UFC sets up all sorts of media events for weeks in advance of a fight, the fighters call each other names, question each other's manhood, and try to rile each other up, and everyone is whipped into a nearly-boiling-over frenzy right up to fight time. They finally let these wild animals loose in a cage, two at a time, in a fight to be the last man standing. And seconds after the fight is over, they send some buffoon like Joe Rogan into the ring to shove a microphone into the still-frothing wild animal's mouth...and they expect what, exactly, to happen? A Jeff Gordon-like interview, thanking every sponsor known to man, without really saying anything about the event that just took place? I'm so tired of that canned crap, I can't stand it. So when Lesnar let loose with whatever was on his mind at the moment, more power to him. If I had been in Las Vegas, I'd have found a step ladder, climbed up it, and high-fived him.

Maybe if the UFC doesn't want their fighters saying potentially embarrassing things, they should wait until the fighter has a chance to cool off, let the adrenaline move on through, take a shower, get dressed, and regain some of his composure. Then he can come out and Jeff Gordon the media like some sort of UFC automaton.

But if they insist on using Joe "Bozo" Rogan to stuff a microphone into a fighter's face just moments after he has left his opponent crumpled in a bloody heap on the mat, then they shouldn't get bent out of shape when he says something they don't like.

The other fight that led to a reaction that puzzles me is the Dan Henderson / Michael Bisping fight. From what Chuck tells me, the UFC puts on some sort of reality show (I obviously don't watch it), where several hopeful fighters live together in a house and battle each other for supremacy and a UFC contract. In a recent season, it was the British vs. the Americans. Bisping coached the Brits. Henderson coached the Yanks. Chuck says the British obliterated the Americans all season long, and Bisping frequently let Henderson hear about it. After this fight was announced, Bisping continued to run his mouth for weeks on end.

In the first round of the fight, Henderson chased Bisping all around the cage, basically punching him at will. In the second round, Bisping turned to Henderson's right, just as Henderson had seen Bisping do several times in film of Bisping's other fights, and Henderson unloaded with a right hand that connected square with Bisping's jaw. I'm pretty sure Bisping was out cold before he even hit the mat. But Henderson then added an exclamation point to the sentence, pile-driving a wicked forearm into Bisping's face while Bisping was in la-la land and before the ref could get there to stop the fight. In the post-fight interview with that clown Joe Rogan, Henderson basically said he knew Bisping was out cold, but that second shot was for all the crap he had to listen to from Bisping for weeks.

"Normally, I'm not that way in fights," Henderson said. "I know if the guy is out, I tend to stop. I knew I hit him out. I think that one was just to shut him up a bit."

Dana White apparently had something to say to Henderson, too, after the fight. And now a lot of stories I read on-line are criticizing Henderson for the cheap shot.

My thoughts? Maybe Bisping should think twice before running his mouth like that in the future. When you're purposely trying to get under someone's skin for weeks at a time, you better pray to your god that you win the fight when the time comes. Otherwise, there is a signficant price to pay. Good for Henderson for shutting him up.

And Dana White? Ease up a little bit, buddy! UFC 100 was my favorite fight night so far. When I'm ready to see some uptight stiffs in business suits trying to control violent beasts' behavior, I'll watch the NFL. When I want to get rowdy with my buddies, drink too much beer, see nearly naked women, and watch guys pound each other into oblivion, I'll turn on the UFC. And if Brock Lesnar wants share that he's hoping to get on top of his wife later, that only adds to the festivities.

Play Ball! (Again)

I've decided to come out of retirement. Softball retirement, that is.

I started playing softball almost immediately out of high school, about 20 years ago. It started when the team from the grocery store in Texas where I worked needed a warm body to occupy a space on the field because a regular player couldn't make it. Since I was young and had played some organized baseball as a kid, I was recruited with the explicit understanding that I was only expected to get out of everyone else's way and not lose the game for the team. As it turned out, I was better than anyone (including me) expected, and I immediately fell in love with the game. I never lost that charge I always felt running onto the field, smelling the grass and dirt, and hearing the clink of the aluminum bats. I've played during the day, at night, in sweltering heat, freezing cold, pouring rain, hail storms, and through countless swarms of bugs. And I never lost the desire to play.

I played on that grocery store team for years, adding stints on intramural teams in college, and for a new company team when I switched employers. After my team's games, I'd hang around the park, hoping some other team needed a fill-in, so I could play some more. When I moved to Indiana, one of the first orders of business was to get on the probation department's softball team. A few years later, I played three or four seasons for a team sponsored by Advantage Counseling, a local substance abuse counseling agency.

Twenty years and fifty pounds ago, I had the speed to roam the outfield, but as I got older, got fatter, blew out knees and hips and shoulders and elbows, and lost virtually all of my depth perception--especially at night--playing the outfield became a disaster. I could see the ball in the air, but I couldn't tell how it was moving. I would think that I was right under it, and at the last second, I'd realize that I had misjudged it by about 30 feet. To this day, I can't judge a fly ball.

So I moved to the infield. I really like third base or second base. I don't have much of a preference either way. A problem quickly arose, though, with me playing third base, especially in co-ed leagues, where we often put a woman on first base. You see, I have a fairly strong arm. What I lack, though, is consistent accuracy. I have absolutely no trouble getting the ball from third to first, even from my knees. The problem is that the ball doesn't always exactly make it to the same zip code in which the first baseman is standing. Think Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn from the movie "Major League."

After awhile on the Advantage Counseling team, we couldn't get a woman to agree to play first base. The Mrs. was the last woman thrown in there to stand in the line of fire (it was something like, "He's YOUR husband. YOU stand out there and try to field his crappy throws!"), and she swears the ball made a hissing sound as it came at her head, feet, knees, 15 feet wide of her, 9 feet over her head, or wherever it might land. And when I did get it into her glove, she thought she had broken her hand.

My friend who sponsored, coached, and played for the team had to do something to get a woman to agree to play first base, so he moved me to second base, where it's a much shorter throw to first that doesn't need nearly the velocity. After a few weeks of cringing every time I started a throwing motion, the same woman finally stayed at first base.

I occasionally took a season or two off--especially as I aged--to let a variety of injuries heal, but for the most part, I spent over 15 years on a softball field. In 2005, though, I decided to hang up the cleats. The Mrs. was pregnant with Olivia, which ended her season with the Advantage Counseling team, and I wanted to focus my time on being a dad. So as the fall 2005 season ended, so did my playing days.

A little over three years later, we're starting to get the hang of this parenting thing, and Olivia and June aren't quite as labor-intensive anymore. I've missed softball terribly during my retirement, and I need to get active again. So with the Mrs.'s blessing, I contacted the local softball park today and signed up as a free agent. I'm hoping to either get placed on a team that needs an extra player, or periodically fill in for teams that lose players to summer vacations. The summer season starts on Sunday, so if all goes well, I'll be running on to the field, smelling that grass and dirt, and hearing the clink of aluminum bats again in just a couple days. I can't wait!

Shut Up, Brain!

I was just lying down with Olivia a few minutes ago, so that she would go to sleep during her nap, which is a rarity anymore. But tonight is gymnastics, which keeps her up 90 minutes past her normal bedtime, and we have learned the hard way that if she doesn't take a nap, gymnastics is a complete nightmare. June is a great napper. She naps every day for 2 or 3 hours. I put them both down at the same time, and I thought lying down with Olivia would be a good opportunity for me to nap, too, since I haven't slept well lately. But I couldn't shut my brain down enough to even remotely approach sleep.

I often wonder what goes through other people's minds--specifically, if there is as much mental traffic in their heads as there is in mine. It seems like I constantly have a million things swirling around in my tiny little brain, and more often than not, I can't shut my brain down to, say, sleep. Or relax. Or enjoy what I'm doing at the time.

Here's a snapshot of what I was pondering as I lay there, listening to Olivia's thumb-sucking sounds slow as she drifted off:

* I'm too hard on Olivia. She is a delightful little girl, and other people frequently comment on how well-behaved she is. But she's three years old, and I have really been struggling with the Terrible Threes. She's a constant attention-monger, her little sister makes her insanely jealous, she constantly clings to the Mrs. like Saran Wrap, she constantly interrupts conversations with meaningless chatter just so we pay attention to her, she sasses us, she purposely does the exact opposite of what we tell her to, she throws ridiculously theatrical tantrums about every 10 minutes, and she has all kinds of foibles that annoy me to the core. I love her dearly, and I'm acutely aware of the fact that she is a first-born (as am I) and that I'm being harder on her than I am on June. My brain knows that she's only three, this is probably normal behavior for a 3-year-old, and it will eventually pass. But in the meantime, she really knows how to push my buttons, and I hate the kind of interactions we often have. Olivia and I always end the day in peace, though. If we've had a rough one, we'll talk about it at bedtime and promise each other that we'll try harder to get along tomorrow. And I do see her trying. This is something I really need to work on, though, although patience has never been one of my virtues.

* I wonder when we should start working on June's potty-training. She just turned two, and I don't remember when we started working with Olivia, but it seems like right about this time. June hasn't shown much interest in the potty yet, although she's starting to hang out in the bathroom with Olivia, so maybe the time is nearing. It sure would be nice not to have to buy diapers anymore.

* Work is aggravating me on a number of levels. I'll spare you the boring details, but I'm starting to question my desire to continue in this line of work. Burnout is a serious concern in my profession, and I've seen it in countless coworkers over the years. I've been at it for 13 years now, including 5 years as a supervisor, and what I never thought would happen to me is starting to happen. I'm feeling a little burnt around the edges. Unfortunately, I don't know what else I would want to do for a career. It's not like I dabble in real estate on the side or something and would like to focus on that full-time. I don't have any hidden skills that I want to develop. I can't sing. I can't draw. I can't make music. I can't paint. I can't build things. Being a Mr. Mom would send me to the looney bin in about a week. I've always been good at understanding and predicting human behavior. But now I find myself quite soured on humanity as a whole, and I find it extremely frustrating to be seemingly incapable of sparking any sort of meaningful change in people. But I don't know what kind of career would make me happy. It's not like it's an optimal time for a career change, anyway, in today's economy. And truth be told, being a government employee involved in the criminal justice system is about as secure of a job as you can have right now. I'm hoping this may just be a temporary rut, and that things will improve. Maybe someone, somewhere will demonstrate to me soon that something I've done has actually made a difference. Since I got into this line of work, I've never been able to envision myself doing anything else. But I've also always said--and meant it--that a burned out probation officer (or supervisor) needs to find something else to do for a living because s/he is, at best, doing no one any good, and at worst, doing damage. I'm just not sure how long I should wait to see if this is temporary or not.

* I worry about money. I imagine most everyone does nowadays. But I worry about providing for my family in the present and the future. I worry about paying all the bills each month, and I worry about saving for emergencies, for my kids' college, and for our retirement. And it seems that when money is tight, that's when everything starts breaking. The mother of all repairs was on our van recently after road debris crushed a coolant line, allowing all the coolant to leak out, and the engine to overheat and stop running. The tow bill and the repair was close to $700 (although we count our lucky stars that there was no engine damage). That's after we just put a $1000 down payment on it a couple months ago and had two car payments for two months. Then I broke the lawn mower. $30.00 later, I think I finally have the right replacement drive belt, although I haven't pestered Chuck yet to put it on to see if I have self-propulsion again. We just spent money on a steam cleaner to clean carpet and furniture abused by animals and kids over the years, only to have the dog barf on it FOUR TIMES less than 48 hours later. Speaking of the dog, I just dropped another $50.00 on him today, getting him groomed. He also requires $80.00/month medication for his bum hips, on top of glucosamine powder to help his joints to the tune $50.00 every three months. Oh, and the vet just sent a notice that his booster shots are due. I don't even like this dog. So buying a $20.00 pooper scooper today to replace the one I just broke really irritated me. Then there's the girls' gymnastics, Olivia's swim lessons, daycare, food, clothing, utilities, gasoline, etc. etc. etc. They're all the bills that everyone else has. We're not special or anything. And we could be a whole lot worse off than we are. But it's still stressful. And I haven't even dared to look at my retirement or college fund statements in the past year.

* My parents are in the process of downsizing their living arrangements. On one hand, I share their excitement, but on the other hand, it's a little unnerving. They're both in very good health, but it's unsettling to watch them age. Parents are supposed to be here forever, right? My dad intends to retire in a handful of years, and that's a strange thought, too. Next to "workaholic" in the dictionary is a picture of my dad. I'm a little worried about what's going to happen after he retires. I hope he finds a hobby that actively engages his unbelievably brilliant mind as much as his work does.

* I wish I could give Chuck's son a little bit of confidence. He's almost 12 years old, and I remember those years, so I know a lot of it is inevitable. But he seems to focus on his failures more than his successes. He's on the local Little League All-Star team (there's a success!), and I've watched him play baseball (and football) for the past four or five years now, so I know he has a lot of athletic talent. I think pitching is his first love, and he's quite good at it, but he also patrols the infield at any given position with authority. On this All-Star team, though, he's one of the youngest kids on the squad, so he doesn't always get his choice of playing time or position on the field, and that seems to really bring him down. Last night, his team played against another team from a very large school district. The visitors were expected to crush our team, and they did. Chuck's son entered the game in an 0-for-3 batting "slump" that had him flustered, despite my repeated reminders to him that professional baseball players go 0-for-3 in games all the time, and they suffer slumps much greater than anything he has endured. But his spirits were lifted last night when the coach told him he'd be the starting pitcher. I thought he pitched well, even though he gave up a couple runs. As it turned out, he'd be the best pitcher that we put on the mound against the far superior visiting team. But for whatever reasons, the coach pulled him before he even finished the first inning. No one but the coach knows why Chuck's son was pulled (maybe he's saving him for games later this week, since they have a strict pitch-count at this level), but it took all the wind out of his sails. Out to right field he was sent. Right field. Somehow deemed the spot on the field for the worst player (despite the fact that several amazing pro ball players play right field). His head hung low, he shuffled out to his Spot of Shame in the outfield, and it broke my heart. Several of us tried shouting encouragement to him to help alleviate the sting, but to no avail. Finally, the other team sent a left-handed batter to the plate. Lefties often pull the ball into right field. So a half dozen of us in the stands were shouting a half dozen different sets of instructions to him about where he should stand, where he should look, etc. Because, you know, we're all far better coaches than the actual coach, right? On the first pitch, the batter dribbled some little foul tip along the third base line, on the complete opposite side of the field from Chuck's son. So I jokingly yelled to him, "HEY! Where was the effort on that one?!" Chuck quickly chimed in that his son should have dived for it. Other parents yelled that they wanted to see more hustle from him. And finally, the ridiculousness of it all cracked a smile on his face. The head came up. The shoulders popped back up. There was a spring in his step. He looked like a ballplayer again. Turns out, the batter ripped one in between first and second base. Chuck's son charged it, scooped it up, and threw a LASER to third base, saving a run and stopping all baserunners in their tracks. Everyone in the crowd gasped in amazement of his throw. He made a couple other nice plays in the field as the game progressed. He also broke out of his batting slump. He didn't hit it as hard as he probably wanted to, but he turned on the afterburners on his way to first base, never giving up or slowing down, and he beat the throw. I was so darned proud of him for not giving up on the play, I thought my chest was going to explode. And he's not even my kid. At his next at-bat, he showed great plate discipline, not chasing any bad pitches, and walking with the bases loaded to bring in his team's first run (and one of only two) of the night. Even though his team took one on the chin, Chuck's son played a very good game. I just wish I could spare him the anguish of being so hard on himself. I wish he could just relax, have fun playing the game, and let everything else work itself out. I suppose it's one of life's lessons that he needs to learn for himself, though.

* I'm terribly delinquent on a lot of correspondence, and I need to remedy that. I just find myself with limited free time, and then I always seem to wind up doing something other than returning correspondence. I'm sure there are a lot of people who are irritated with me.

* I sprayed my lawn, which is about 70% clover, a couple nights ago to get rid of the freakin' clover. It looks ugly, and it attracts bees. Not exactly what I want to send my daughters out to play in. So I sprayed it with some chemical specifically designed, it said, for broadleaf weeds, including clover. I even read and followed the instructions on the bottle. Two days later, I think the clover looks even healthier than it did before I sprayed it. Dammit. I think it's some sort of clover conspiracy. They somehow got clover FOOD into that bottle labeled poison!

* I play in a dynasty fantasy football league, where we keep half our rosters each year. I have to declare who I'm going to keep in a week. I can only keep 10 players. I have about 15 that I want to keep. It's a nice problem to have (for example, on one of my buddy's teams, I only see about 3 guys that I would keep if I was him), but still.

* I don't look or feel good. I need to lose some weight. My joints perpetually hurt, and I'm tired of looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Plus, I'm sure I don't exactly thrill the Mrs. anymore. I also conceived my kids later in life than many people do, so I'm always a little concerned about staying alive long enough to see them grow up (I haven't exactly been a pillar of health and fitness throughout my life). I couldn't have an easier solution at my fingertips. A good friend of mine owns a nearby gym, and he even gave me and the Mrs. a year's free membership there. It was under the pretense of me winning an NCAA basketball tournament bracket in a group he set up, but in truth, he's one of the most generous guys I know, and he's a fitness nut, so if he can promote fitness AND help a buddy out, it's a no-brainer for him. I've worked out with him in the past (pre-kids) and really enjoyed it, and of course I know all the benefits of exercising, including the benefits of the endorphins that exercise releases. My friend's gym even has an enclosed children's area full of toys and videos. I have no excuse for not going. I just don't make it there. But I need to.

* I wonder how Steve McNair allowed himself to get into the situation that ultimately killed him. It's weird to think that he's gone. I was never an especially big McNair or Tennessee Titans fan, but the Titans are a division rival of the Indianapolis Colts, so I watched him play a lot. I just wonder how a married father of four, of such fame and fortune and prestige in the community allowed himself to wind up with a 20-year-old mistress (or "girlfriend" as the media is spinning it) who, by all indications, planted two in his head and two in his chest, and then ate a bullet herself. How does someone as famous as Steve McNair waltz around Nashville for months with this "girlfriend" without anyone noticing? When his body was found, his wife said she hadn't heard from him in days. Is that normal for a famous person? Shoot, if the Mrs. didn't hear from me for days, I'm not sure if she'd call the police or just change the locks. Anyway, it certainly was self-inflicted (the situation, not his death), so I lose some empathy for him there, but it's still sad. He was only 36 years old. And of course, his wife is now a (humiliated) widow, and his kids are without a father.

* I've been having a really good day with Olivia and June so far today. We're all getting along. We went out and ran some errands and got some lunch and went to the park, and everyone behaved very well. I wish we could have more days like this.

* I'm two episodes away from completing the first season of "Heroes"--a new favorite TV show of mine. I'm watching the show for the first time on Netflix. I can't wait to see how they resolve the exploding man. (Don't spoil it for me!) Hiro is my favorite character, hands down. I kind of like Parkman, too. Peter Petrelli annoys the hell out of me. Sylar creeps me out. They couldn't have cast that character any better. I don't know what that actor's name is, but he certainly plays "psychopath" well. I also enjoy that the Mrs. has taken a liking to the show. We don't often enjoy the same shows, so it's nice to watch it with her.

* I wonder what I should make for dinner tonight.

* I'm kind of thirsty. And I have to pee.

Is it any wonder that I can't sleep?

My Independence Day Weekend

I had a really superb Independence Day weekend, and I just want to share. We took a road trip to my in-laws' house and enjoyed a three-day weekend with the Mrs.' side of the family.

Now before you break out the mother-in-law jokes, I really like my in-laws. I feel quite lucky to have that kind of relationship with them, and that they treat me like one of their own kids. We have vacationed with them a couple times and had great times both times. My sister-in-law vacationed with us one of those times, she used to live just down the road from us for about a year, and she has turned her cake-decorating skills into a vital role in our kids' birthdays. My brother-in-law and I share a love of sports and have played in countless fantasy football and baseball leagues together. I almost always win, since I'm a far superior player than he is, but you know, at least he tries.

So all of us and our families converged on my parents-in-law this weekend for a rare gathering of the entire clan. I hadn't seen my niece and nephew in quite some time, and they're quite a bit taller and more independent now! They're several years older than my kids, but all the kids mingled well over the weekend.

The temperatures were also perfect for me. Others were complaining about how it never got out of the low 80's, but I was in heaven. Normally when we celebrate Independence Day at my in-laws' house, the temperature and humidity are somewhere between Inferno and Hades. You get heat stroke walking to your car from the house. But here in the Midwest, we've had a freak snap of unbelievably outstanding weather for the past week or so, and I've been on Cloud Nine.

We enjoyed a swim in the pool on Friday afternoon when we got there. I have issues with my joints, and if I sit for too long without moving around, rigor mortis sets in. So after 4.5 hours in the car, playing in the pool was the ideal relief. Nice and refreshing, and the water took the pressure off my joints. Olivia has been taking swim lessons lately, so she showed off some of her newfound kicking skills. June's only complaint was that the water was a little cold for her liking, but she otherwise enjoyed hanging out with me while I toodled around the pool. Once I noticed her chattering teeth, I put her in a little inflatable boat. She enjoyed the warmth of the sun's rays, while still splashing in some water in her boat and floating around with the rest of us.

After swimming, I played some Cornhole. My mother-in-law, who is rather religious and who I often good-naturedly tease about her inside connection with God, wasted no time in smiting me at Cornhole. Then she sicced a swarm of locusts on me. You know, just to remind me of which one of us has God's personal cell phone number. My father-in-law at least kept it interesting for a few games, even though he beat me every time. Then I'm pretty sure Olivia even beat me a couple times. Finesse and precision have never been my strong suits. Anyone who has played first base in softball with me playing third base can attest. Now, if there was a game of throwing a bean bag through a concrete wall, I'd be pretty good at that.

My father-in-law and I wrapped up the day by watching NASCAR's minor league (whatever their sponsorship is now) race in Daytona on TV. Clint Bowyer won, in case you were wondering.

On Saturday, it rained for most of the day, but I still had a great time. Everyone threw some money together, and the Mrs. and I went to a local fireworks stand, where we were assisted by an 11-year-old who made sure we left with an impressive arsenal. When we got back, we swam in the pool, even though it was raining. My kids bailed pretty quickly, but the Mrs., my niece, and I had a long splash fight in the pool in the rain. When we finally got out of the pool, we enjoyed barbecued pork chops, hamburgers, and hot dogs, along with a huge supporting cast of outstanding food, the vast majority of which was prepared by my mother-in-law. Finding delicious eats in her house is never difficult, but she really outdid herself this weekend.

After lunch, I enjoyed hanging out in the garage with various family members who rotated in and out. Even though the rain kept falling, the temperature stayed in the low 70's, so it was quite comfortable outside. We all just chatted, and it was great. My brother-in-law had me going for awhile, trying to convince me that Steve McNair had been killed. Sadly, it turns out that he wasn't pulling my leg.

That evening, the rain stopped just in time for fireworks. I'm happy to report that I only burned a finger, two toes, and my wrist. (Those damn sparklers!) All of my appendages are still attached, though, so that's good. I was pretty worried about how my kids would respond to the fireworks. Last year, Olivia just about came out of her skin with all the neighborhoood fireworks going off around her. And since June is now the age that Olivia was last year, I had my doubts as to how this was going to go.

Turns out, you give the girls a bowl of popcorn, cover them with their favorite blankets, and put them in their mommy's or aunt's lap, and fireworks are AWESOME! As we lit our fireworks in the street, I was shocked to see my daughters laughing and clapping and screaming with glee at the audio and visual experience. All around us, people were firing artillery shells into the air, resulting in thunderous explosions of color all over the place that eliminated any need to see the city's fireworks display. A neighbor down the street must have dropped a couple thousand dollars at the fireworks stand, given what he sent up into the air. It was great fun! At the end of the night, my nephew collected most of the spent fireworks from the street to take home with him. I had to chuckle at my brother-in-law a little bit on that one.

The next morning, my mother-in-law cooked up pretty much everything you'd see on a Bob Evans menu and made sure we were all stuffed full for our respective trips home.

And I returned home to find that neither Alex Rodriguez or Manny Ramirez made the MLB All-Star team, so that made me happy.

All in all, it was an outstanding weekend.

MLB's All-Star Farce

Today is the last day to vote for your Major League Baseball All-Stars. The All-Star Game is being held in St. Louis' Busch Stadium on July 14, 2009.

During my lunch hour, I decided to vote on-line for my choice of All-Stars, since today's society demands that every skills competition have some element of a popularity contest to it. This way, a bunch of idiots who know nothing about the competition and who have nothing better to do in life than to dial a phone 4000 times or think up computer programs to automate millions of votes can fill the pockets of TV networks, sponsors, and athletic leagues. After I got done casting my one vote, I made the mistake of checking the current voting results.

The general public has upheld my opinion of it.

I have a number of issues with the Major League Baseball (MLB) All-Stars Game:

Problem #1: Putting the choice of All-Stars in the hands of the general public. In a nutshell, MLB is divided into two leagues--the American League and the National League. Thirty-three players from each league are chosen to compete in the All-Star Game. Most of the players are chosen by fan voting.

Problem #2: Why are we choosing All-Stars in the middle of a season? These guys are "All-Stars" after playing half a season? I'm more impressed with the guys who can put together an entire season of All-Star worthy stats.

Problem #3: Since 2003, the league that wins the All-Star Game gets home field advantage in the World Series. So never mind that your team makes it to the World Series after having the best record in baseball. If the other league won the All-Star Game, your team's regular season dominance means nothing. In a game where any team can beat any other team on any given day, home field advantage in the league's championship series comes down to a single exhibition game that was played three months earlier by a bunch of guys selected by the idiot general public. The team may have included two or three guys from your team, each of whom might have played an inning or two. Brilliant.

So, back to the current results from the All-Star balloting. My favorite team is the Oakland A's, who are in the American League. The A's are wretched this year, so I certainly don't expect any of them to make the All-Star team, but I naturally gravitate to the American League first.

I read through the results of the American League first basemen. They seemed reasonable. Second base? A battle between two deserving guys, Dustin Pedroia with the Boston Red Sox and Ian Kinsler with the Texas Rangers. Third base? I was happy to see Evan Longoria of the Tampa Bay Rays running away with it, but my jaw dropped when I saw who was in second place.

Alex Rodriguez.

WHAT?! This is the same New York Yankee who missed the first month of the season with an injury?! The same Rodriguez who admitted in February to using steroids in past seasons?! The same A-Rod who is currently batting .239?! Nice job, Yankees fans! Way to stuff the ballot box with votes for a cheater who sucks during the two months of the season he has played so far.

I was still recovering from the A-Rod thing when I got to the list of outfielders. Tell me, which one of these guys you think would deserve to be an All-Star?

Player A: .219 batting average, 10 home runs, 23 runs scored, 26 runs batted in, 0 stolen bases

Player B: .292 batting average, 15 home runs, 57 runs scored, 47 runs batted in, 8 stolen bases

Player C: .298 batting average, 8 home runs, 46 runs scored, 52 runs batted in, 2 stolen bases


Player A is 7th in the voting. Player B is 8th. Player C is a distant 12th. Oh, did I mention that Player A is named Ken Griffey, Jr.? Player B is Johnny Damon of the Yankees. Player C is Nick Markakis of the Baltimore Orioles. "Who?!", you might ask. Exactly the problem with the general public voting on All-Stars. No one outside of Baltimore has heard of Nick Markakis, so he gets no votes. But everyone has heard of Ken Griffey, Jr., even though he's a washed-up almost-40-year-old has-been part-time player.

The National League voting is even worse.

Granted, my favorite player, Albert Pujols (pictured above) is running away with the first baseman contest, and he'll get to start as an All-Star in his home stadium. Way cool.

Philadelphia Phillies second baseman Chase Utley is deservedly demolishing the competition at second base.

Ditto for New York Mets third baseman David Wright.

But at shortstop, it's a fairly close race between the Florida Marlins' Hanley Ramirez and...............Jimmy Rollins from the Phillies?! Are you freakin' kidding me, Philadelphia?! Rollins is playing so badly that he just got benched for a week! He's batting .205 on the season, people!! He's 0-for-his-last-27! Since his week-long benching, he's gone 0-for-8! And THAT'S who you want to send to the All-Star Game?!

I love the Chicago Cubs, but when I saw that Alfonso Soriano is in fourth place in the outfielder voting, I had to beat my head against my desk. Soriano's "All-Star" batting average? .230. He has batted .198 and hit a grand total of two home runs in the last month--on June 2 and June 7.

Worse than seeing Soriano in fourth place was seeing Manny Ramirez in 7th place. The Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder is just wrapping up his 50-game suspension for testing positive for steroids. He hasn't played since May 6, and any stats he accumulated this year were enhanced by a banned substance. Thank you, Los Angeles, for rewarding a cheater.

At least San Franciscans were smart enough not to write-in Barry Bonds. That cheater hasn't played in two years, but something tells me that if he had been a Dodger, he'd be leading the votes for outfielders.

Oh, and keep in mind that these are the guys who are going to determine home field advantage at the World Series in October!

If I was a major league baseball player, it would be a tremendous honor to be chosen as an All-Star by the other players, managers, and coaches. Who else knows more about the game and could accurately assess my production?

Inevitably, after the balloting is complete, you'll be able to read articles all over the place about how so-and-so got stiffed from the All-Star Game, and how so-and-so should have made the roster. But this is what happens when you put the general public in charge of something that most of them know very little about.

Adding to the brilliance of MLB's All-Star plan is that they allow each person to vote up to 25 times. Or, rather, each e-mail address to vote 25 times. It's pretty tough to find a way around that one, isn't it?

Now if you'll excuse me, there are no Oakland A's on the leaderboard at any position, so I'm going to vote another 24 times by entering my e-mail address, then 25 more times using my work e-mail address, then 25 more times using my wife's e-mail address, another 25 times with her work e-mail address, and 25 times a piece with every one of my friends' and coworkers' e-mail addresses. I might even set up some bogus Yahoo and Hotmail e-mail accounts to get 25 votes a piece out of those, too. I figure that if I really work hard on this for the next 12 to 18 hours, I can probably single-handedly get Jose Canseco voted in as an All-Star. It would make about as much sense as Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Jimmy Rollins, Alfonso Soriano, and Manny Ramirez.