I took to the softball field again last night, still floating on my success from last week's return from hiatus. The results were not the same as last week. I returned to shortstop, which was a big mistake. To summarize, the word "Hoover" did not come out of Chuck's or anyone else's mouth last night.
Things went fairly well for awhile, although I had one terrible throw to our second baseman early in the game. It was about a ten-foot throw, and yet I still somehow threw it behind him and into the outfield. I later softly tossed an accurate one to him for an out, and an inning or two later, I rocketed one to him from a very short distance, and we got the baserunner out by a hair. I also threw a laser to first base that was on-target. I knew it was a close play, but I thought we got the runner out. The umpire called her safe, though. Our first baseman says she had the ball in her glove before she felt the woman hit the bag, and Chuck, who pitches, says the ball beat her there by a step. But it's rec league softball, and there's only one umpire on the field, so what are you going to do? No use hollering about it.
I got a good reminder about why I wear an athletic cup. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I thank my lucky stars that I'm wearing one. This time, it was a routine grounder, but I took my eyes off the ball, trying to locate the runner. I took that grounder right in the family jewels. Thanks to that cup, though, I was able to quickly recover and throw the runner out. Otherwise, I'd probably still be lying on the field in the fetal position.
After that, though, the wheels came off the wagon. Somewhere around the third inning, I was standing on first base after hitting my second single of the night (I went 2-for-3 again last night, and only a great play by their shortstop kept it from being a 3-for-3 night). The batter behind me put the ball in play, so off to second base I went. Except that about two steps into it, I blew a tire. I could feel my right quadriceps pull, and the other team had no trouble throwing me out at second. That pain in my thigh paled in comparison to what was to come, however.
Somewhere around the fourth or fifth inning, I fielded a grounder, and the baserunner was quick, so I had to put some extra gas on the throw. Just before I released the ball, my elbow came apart. It felt like the whole thing exploded and then went back into place. It was excruciating, and it literally brought me to my knees. My throw wound up somewhere on the other side of town. As I knelt, holding my elbow in my glove, Chuck jokingly asked if I wanted him to pick up my elbow and return it to me. I managed a feeble grin, to which he replied, "It's hell getting old, isn't it?"
We entered the bottom of the 7th (and last) inning in a 6-6 tie. A grounder got past me that I should have gotten. It would have been a difficult play, but I still should have gotten it. That baserunner would eventually end up on third base with one out. A grounder came right to me, and for some asinine reason, I lost all brain function and threw it to first base. There were a couple problems with this decision. First, as soon as I started to release the ball, my elbow made it real clear what an idiot I was. That sensation of a grenade going off in my arm, of course, resulted in my throw missing our first baseman by about a city block. The runner on third could have done the Fox Trot and still crossed the plate with time to spare. Second, even if the throw had been true, our first baseman had no chance to then try to throw the runner out at home, especially since it wouldn't have been a force out. Chuck would have had to tag her out. It was a completely moronic decision to throw. I should have just held on to the ball after fielding it. Game over. We lose, 7-6.
As I hobbled on my throbbing leg to get into line to shake hands with the other team, my elbow felt like it was on fire, and I was vaguely aware of the stinging sensation of raspberries on my knee and elbow from yet another fielding fiasco, just to add more injury to injury.
My pride is still laying in a crumpled heap on the field.
My teammates were gracious about it, but I felt (and still feel) absolutely terrible. I told Chuck that if it wouldn't have hurt so much, I'd have thrown my glove in anger. But I was also acutely aware of the sportsmanship example I needed to set for my daughters, who had both been cheering me on throughout the game. So there would be no glove-throwing.
As I was sitting on the ground after the game, struggling to find the least painful way to get my cleats off, Olivia ran over to me and asked why I was so slow in getting my shoes off.
"Do you have a boo-boo, Daddy?" she asked.
"No, honey," I lied. "Daddy just didn't have a very good game tonight."
"That's okay, Daddy," she said, giving me a hug.
As I soaked up a brief second of physical and mental rejuvenation from my daughter, she pulled away with a disgusted look and said, "Ew, Daddy! Why are you wet?! And you stink!" And then she ran back to the Mrs. and June.
Ahhhh, kids.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Why Some Species Eat Their Young
I woke up late this morning. My alarm clock is the Mrs., and she did her part to wake me up on time, but I fell back asleep, and she didn't discover me for another thirty minutes.
When I got out of the shower, Olivia was still asleep. The Mrs. gets June up and ready before she leaves for work, but Olivia is usually still asleep when the Mrs. begins her commute. I'm normally out of the shower thirty minutes earlier, so it's usually not a big deal to get her up and ready for daycare. But this morning, we only had about 20 minutes before we had to leave.
So I got Olivia up and prepared her favorite breakfast: a bowl of cereal. She then spent the next 15 minutes eating it. Recall that we only had 20 minutes to begin with. She'd take a bite, watch some TV, take another bite, dance around a little bit, watch some more TV, take another bite, talk to her sister, pick at her toenail, ask me if I remember some obscure event from three months ago that she claimed happened "last night" (because everything in her world happened "last night"), watch some more TV, dance some more, try out some gymnastics moves, comment on the birds outside, take another bite.......... I told her nicely that we were running behind, so we needed to hurry up.
And just like my sister did when we were kids, she shifted into Granny Mode.
When she FINALLY finished her cereal (including meticulously picking out just the right straw with which to slurp up the milk in her bowl), she announced that she had to pee. So I heard her in the bathroom taking care of business...but she never came out. I went back to the bathroom to find her sitting on the toilet, buck naked, playing with a doll. "What are you DOING, Olivia?! We need to GO!" I said (slightly less nicely than the first time I tried to light a fire under her). "I'm waiting for the pee-pee to come out," she calmly explained, as if I'm an idiot for asking.
After a few more minutes, I finally got her into her bedroom, where she (of course) immediately rejected the clothes I had laid out for her. She didn't want to wear shorts. She wanted to wear a skirt. She didn't want to wear that shirt. She wanted long sleeves because "it's cold outside." (It's predicted to push 90 degrees today in central Indiana.) She wanted to wear a pink skirt, green rain boots, and a blue long-sleeved shirt. I told her that she's going to be roasting by 9:00am, and her clothes don't match. "Yes, they do," she said. "No, they don't," I said. "Yes, they do," she said. A big argument ensued. For the third time, I told her that we need to get going. I'll admit, my tone was significantly less nice than the first or second times I mentioned it. Minutes passed, and Olivia was no closer to being dressed. And we still had to do her hair, which was a rat's nest.
At this point, I could feel my heartbeat in my eyelid, in between uncontrollable twitching, so I figured it was a good time to take a breather and step back from the conflict. I got my car keys to start loading the car with the daycare bag and some stuff for work. Well, my daughters are like Pavlov's dogs when it comes to the sound of my car keys. I can jingle my keys, and my girls are at the door in about a nanosecond ready to come along, wherever I might be going.
This conditioning resulted in disaster this morning.
As I walked into the garage with my arms full, already 20 minutes late, I heard Olivia screaming in her room like she's being murdered. The next thing I knew, she was running out into the garage, bawling her eyes out, shrieking at the very tip-top of her lungs, "DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!! I WANNA GO TO DAYCARE!!!!!"
Some significant details about this moment in time:
1) I had the garage door up, since I had just rolled the trash can out to the curb;
2) there were about a dozen neighborhood kids and their parents outside waiting for the school bus; and,
3) Olivia was still buck naked.
I'm really surprised that the police didn't show up about five minutes later.
I then took Olivia back in the house and did the best I could to dress her, since it was like trying to dress a crazed wildcat on steroids. In the meantime, I counseled her on the negative impact of her dilly-dallying and arguing in relation to my ability to get to work on time when I had an early appointment, and especially in this economy where my employer has to cut 20% from its budget, and losing a job wouldn't really be the most opportune occurrence when our ability to maintain the lifestyle to which we have become accustomed is reliant on both of our incomes. Of course, those weren't my exact words, and I seriously doubt that any culture in the world would consider my presentation to be even remotely close to "nice" at this point. My volume level had to be increased, too, since I was trying discuss this matter with her while she was screaming and crying and flailing everywhere.
She wound up with shorts on (but not snapped), a shirt over her head with one arm through a sleeve, no shoes, and her hair still in a rat's nest. I was sweating profusely after rasslin' the bear, and I had a couple of scrapes on my arm and something that I think is snot on my shirt. I'm really not sure whose snot it was, either.
At least June was perceptive enough throughout this entire ordeal to just quietly climb into her car seat without saying a word.
Olivia then screamed as loudly as she possibly could at a pitch that came just short of shattering glass for the first fifteen minutes of the drive to daycare. Then it was dead silent the rest of the way. Finally, as we turned onto the daycare provider's street, Olivia said, "Daddy? Remember 'last night' when you threw my shoes in the car?" "Yes, Olivia," I said, "I remember that. It was 20 minutes ago." "I caught one," she said. And sure enough, she had one shoe on.
Our daycare provider took one look at all of us on her doorstep, and I couldn't tell for sure, but it sure looked to me like she was stifling a smile and choking back a laugh. It's always funny when it happens to somebody else, isnt' it? Olivia, looking like a blonde version of Little Orphan Annie, cheerfully gave me a kiss and bounced inside, ready to greet her playmates for the day, as if nothing happened.
About halfway to work, I was finally able to grin a little bit about it. Shortly thereafter, my eye stopped twitching.
And yes, I was late for work. So far, though, I still have my job.
When I got out of the shower, Olivia was still asleep. The Mrs. gets June up and ready before she leaves for work, but Olivia is usually still asleep when the Mrs. begins her commute. I'm normally out of the shower thirty minutes earlier, so it's usually not a big deal to get her up and ready for daycare. But this morning, we only had about 20 minutes before we had to leave.
So I got Olivia up and prepared her favorite breakfast: a bowl of cereal. She then spent the next 15 minutes eating it. Recall that we only had 20 minutes to begin with. She'd take a bite, watch some TV, take another bite, dance around a little bit, watch some more TV, take another bite, talk to her sister, pick at her toenail, ask me if I remember some obscure event from three months ago that she claimed happened "last night" (because everything in her world happened "last night"), watch some more TV, dance some more, try out some gymnastics moves, comment on the birds outside, take another bite.......... I told her nicely that we were running behind, so we needed to hurry up.
And just like my sister did when we were kids, she shifted into Granny Mode.
When she FINALLY finished her cereal (including meticulously picking out just the right straw with which to slurp up the milk in her bowl), she announced that she had to pee. So I heard her in the bathroom taking care of business...but she never came out. I went back to the bathroom to find her sitting on the toilet, buck naked, playing with a doll. "What are you DOING, Olivia?! We need to GO!" I said (slightly less nicely than the first time I tried to light a fire under her). "I'm waiting for the pee-pee to come out," she calmly explained, as if I'm an idiot for asking.
After a few more minutes, I finally got her into her bedroom, where she (of course) immediately rejected the clothes I had laid out for her. She didn't want to wear shorts. She wanted to wear a skirt. She didn't want to wear that shirt. She wanted long sleeves because "it's cold outside." (It's predicted to push 90 degrees today in central Indiana.) She wanted to wear a pink skirt, green rain boots, and a blue long-sleeved shirt. I told her that she's going to be roasting by 9:00am, and her clothes don't match. "Yes, they do," she said. "No, they don't," I said. "Yes, they do," she said. A big argument ensued. For the third time, I told her that we need to get going. I'll admit, my tone was significantly less nice than the first or second times I mentioned it. Minutes passed, and Olivia was no closer to being dressed. And we still had to do her hair, which was a rat's nest.
At this point, I could feel my heartbeat in my eyelid, in between uncontrollable twitching, so I figured it was a good time to take a breather and step back from the conflict. I got my car keys to start loading the car with the daycare bag and some stuff for work. Well, my daughters are like Pavlov's dogs when it comes to the sound of my car keys. I can jingle my keys, and my girls are at the door in about a nanosecond ready to come along, wherever I might be going.
This conditioning resulted in disaster this morning.
As I walked into the garage with my arms full, already 20 minutes late, I heard Olivia screaming in her room like she's being murdered. The next thing I knew, she was running out into the garage, bawling her eyes out, shrieking at the very tip-top of her lungs, "DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!! I WANNA GO TO DAYCARE!!!!!"
Some significant details about this moment in time:
1) I had the garage door up, since I had just rolled the trash can out to the curb;
2) there were about a dozen neighborhood kids and their parents outside waiting for the school bus; and,
3) Olivia was still buck naked.
I'm really surprised that the police didn't show up about five minutes later.
I then took Olivia back in the house and did the best I could to dress her, since it was like trying to dress a crazed wildcat on steroids. In the meantime, I counseled her on the negative impact of her dilly-dallying and arguing in relation to my ability to get to work on time when I had an early appointment, and especially in this economy where my employer has to cut 20% from its budget, and losing a job wouldn't really be the most opportune occurrence when our ability to maintain the lifestyle to which we have become accustomed is reliant on both of our incomes. Of course, those weren't my exact words, and I seriously doubt that any culture in the world would consider my presentation to be even remotely close to "nice" at this point. My volume level had to be increased, too, since I was trying discuss this matter with her while she was screaming and crying and flailing everywhere.
She wound up with shorts on (but not snapped), a shirt over her head with one arm through a sleeve, no shoes, and her hair still in a rat's nest. I was sweating profusely after rasslin' the bear, and I had a couple of scrapes on my arm and something that I think is snot on my shirt. I'm really not sure whose snot it was, either.
At least June was perceptive enough throughout this entire ordeal to just quietly climb into her car seat without saying a word.
Olivia then screamed as loudly as she possibly could at a pitch that came just short of shattering glass for the first fifteen minutes of the drive to daycare. Then it was dead silent the rest of the way. Finally, as we turned onto the daycare provider's street, Olivia said, "Daddy? Remember 'last night' when you threw my shoes in the car?" "Yes, Olivia," I said, "I remember that. It was 20 minutes ago." "I caught one," she said. And sure enough, she had one shoe on.
Our daycare provider took one look at all of us on her doorstep, and I couldn't tell for sure, but it sure looked to me like she was stifling a smile and choking back a laugh. It's always funny when it happens to somebody else, isnt' it? Olivia, looking like a blonde version of Little Orphan Annie, cheerfully gave me a kiss and bounced inside, ready to greet her playmates for the day, as if nothing happened.
About halfway to work, I was finally able to grin a little bit about it. Shortly thereafter, my eye stopped twitching.
And yes, I was late for work. So far, though, I still have my job.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Triumphant (Sort Of) Return to Softball
Last night was my much anticipated (by me, at least) return to the softball field after a nearly four year layoff. After our short-handed team was demolished last week, 15-4 (thank goodness for the mercy rule), we were facing a team that had narrowly lost their game last week, 21-19.
Some stifling heat and humidity that had blanketed central Indiana for several days blew out of town on Tuesday, leaving yesterday as a perfect night for softball. I was totally jacked up and nervous and anxious to get the game underway. As Chuck and I headed to the park together, he admitted that he, too, had some butterflies in his stomach since this was also his first game back from a multi-year retirement.
Adding to the excitement and anxiety was the fact that the Mrs. brought Olivia and June to the ballpark to watch me play. This was the first time they had ever seen their Daddy play softball, so of course I wanted to put on a good show for them.
We were the visiting team, so we batted first. I was sixth in the batting order, and we had three outs before it was my turn to bat. So in the bottom of the first inning, I ran out on the field to play shortstop--a position I haven't played since college, close to 20 years ago, when I was much younger, slimmer, and faster. Now I was just out there praying that I wouldn't be a disaster at a busy position and lose the game for the team.
My fielding started well. A grounder came pretty much right at me, I fielded it cleanly, and fired it to first base. I have no difficulty making the ball travel at a high velocity. I occasionally have some difficulty, however, hitting the broad side of a barn with the ball when I throw it. So I took a little bit off my throw to first base and delivered it right in the breadbasket for an out. Whew! Glad to have that first one out of the way. (After the inning ended, the first baseman still complained that her hand was throbbing from that throw, even though I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "Oh, yeah," I thought to myself, "I still got it!")
In top of the second inning, I had my first at-bat. For as long as I've played recreational softball, I've had the philosophy that I'm not here to walk. I'm here to hit the ball. If the ball is somewhere in the same zip code as home plate, I'm swinging. So on the first pitch I saw, I drove it just over the infield, right in front of the centerfielders. My trademark shot. I arrived at first base, darn happy to have not struck out. I advanced to second on a hit by the woman batting behind me, and then Chuck came to the plate. He calmly drilled a double that scored two runs, including me.
What a show-off.
As the game progressed, we were in a see-saw battle with the other team. We'd take the lead, then they'd take it back. We'd regain the lead, and they'd take it back. I don't think there was ever more than a two or three run difference in the score at any given time. My fielding continued to be solid, and I even made a couple of plays I was particularly proud of. One was a screaming grounder that I snagged at my shoelaces in a full sprint. My ensuing soft underhanded toss to our second baseman forced out the base runner. The other was a line drive to my right. I had to run, jump, and reach across my body with my glove. I was as surprised as anyone that the ball was in my glove when I came down, robbing the batter of a base hit. And I didn't even pull or dislocate any body parts on the way up or down.
In my second at-bat, the first pitch was once again good enough for me to swing at. I undercut it, though, and it went about seven miles straight up in the air with some sort of wicked backspin on it. I ran it out, because that's what I was always taught to do in youth baseball, and sure enough, my effort paid off. Their second baseman dropped it. I stood on first base, feeling a little guilty for being 2-for-2 (by rec league softball scoring standards) after that wimpy little "hit."
Karma would even things out, though.
In my third at-bat, the first pitch seemed too far inside, and I can't hit it well when it's inside. However, as I watched the ball come in, I realized it was actually right over the plate. I was too far up in the batter's box. A called strike. "Dummy!" I thought to myself. So I took a step back, got myself situated in the proper spot, and the next pitch was in the exact same location as the first one. I crushed it. I nailed it right in the sweet spot of the bat, right in the most powerful part of my swing, right in the center of the ball. Right to their centerfielder. I'm not sure he even had to take two steps to get to it. That made up for the wimpy "hit" that should have been an out, I suppose. So I finished the night batting 2-for-3, which I was mighty pleased with. Three at-bats, and I saw a total of four pitches. That's how I play ball.
We began the seventh (and last) inning in a 7-6 deficit. We scored two runs in the top of the seventh inning to make it 8-7 in our favor. All we had to do was hold them scoreless in the bottom of the seventh, and we'd even up our record for the season. I was pretty darned pleased with myself at shortstop. A few grounders had gotten past me that I probably would have gotten to back in my college days, but I was having such success with the ones I could get my glove on that Chuck was calling me "Hoover," as in the vacuum. I had even fielded a grounder and thrown it to first base with A LOT of mustard on it, dead center in the first baseman's glove. Our second baseman reported hearing the ball hiss as it crossed the infield, just as the Mrs. had reported hearing four years ago when she played first base and had to field my throws. I still had the cannon arm, and all of my throws were on-target. I was invincible!
But karma would humble me again.
With a runner on second base, their batter hit a pop-up a few feet behind second base. I was running for it, trying to track the ball with my horrid depth perception (especially with dimming light as the sun set). It was going to be an over-the-shoulder catch to begin with, but I thought I was under it...until the very last second, when I realized I was not. I corkscrewed myself into the ground trying to recover, but the ball came out of my glove, my cleats lost traction on the dew-covered grass, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my stomach with the ball rolling away from me. Fortunately two of our outfielders were Johnny-on-the-spot with their back-up. One of them retrieved the ball and threw it in to the infield, but it was too late. It was now an 8-8 game. I felt like a complete turd. It only got worse as the other team moved runners to second and third with only one out. My worst fears had come true. I had lost the game for the team. Right in front of my wife and kids, too. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
Through some great fielding by my teammates, however, including a grounder fielded by Chuck, we got the final two outs without any more of their runners scoring. Final score: Us 8, Them 8. By league rule, if the hour time limit is up (and it was), a tie is simply recorded in the standings as a tie. There would be no extra innings. Thank goodness, because I was wiped out!
So we didn't lose. I had a good night at the plate, and with one glaring exception, I had a better night on defense than I could have ever hoped for. I got to hear my kids cheering for me throughout the game, which was REALLY cool. We played an exciting back-and-forth game that came right down to the wire. Chuck pitched, batted, and fielded well, too, and like me, he enjoyed himself immensely. The weather was perfect. And I escaped without injury, aside from some sore thighs today. I had a total blast! I can't wait until next Wednesday night!
Some stifling heat and humidity that had blanketed central Indiana for several days blew out of town on Tuesday, leaving yesterday as a perfect night for softball. I was totally jacked up and nervous and anxious to get the game underway. As Chuck and I headed to the park together, he admitted that he, too, had some butterflies in his stomach since this was also his first game back from a multi-year retirement.
Adding to the excitement and anxiety was the fact that the Mrs. brought Olivia and June to the ballpark to watch me play. This was the first time they had ever seen their Daddy play softball, so of course I wanted to put on a good show for them.
We were the visiting team, so we batted first. I was sixth in the batting order, and we had three outs before it was my turn to bat. So in the bottom of the first inning, I ran out on the field to play shortstop--a position I haven't played since college, close to 20 years ago, when I was much younger, slimmer, and faster. Now I was just out there praying that I wouldn't be a disaster at a busy position and lose the game for the team.
My fielding started well. A grounder came pretty much right at me, I fielded it cleanly, and fired it to first base. I have no difficulty making the ball travel at a high velocity. I occasionally have some difficulty, however, hitting the broad side of a barn with the ball when I throw it. So I took a little bit off my throw to first base and delivered it right in the breadbasket for an out. Whew! Glad to have that first one out of the way. (After the inning ended, the first baseman still complained that her hand was throbbing from that throw, even though I made a conscious effort to slow it down. "Oh, yeah," I thought to myself, "I still got it!")
In top of the second inning, I had my first at-bat. For as long as I've played recreational softball, I've had the philosophy that I'm not here to walk. I'm here to hit the ball. If the ball is somewhere in the same zip code as home plate, I'm swinging. So on the first pitch I saw, I drove it just over the infield, right in front of the centerfielders. My trademark shot. I arrived at first base, darn happy to have not struck out. I advanced to second on a hit by the woman batting behind me, and then Chuck came to the plate. He calmly drilled a double that scored two runs, including me.
What a show-off.
As the game progressed, we were in a see-saw battle with the other team. We'd take the lead, then they'd take it back. We'd regain the lead, and they'd take it back. I don't think there was ever more than a two or three run difference in the score at any given time. My fielding continued to be solid, and I even made a couple of plays I was particularly proud of. One was a screaming grounder that I snagged at my shoelaces in a full sprint. My ensuing soft underhanded toss to our second baseman forced out the base runner. The other was a line drive to my right. I had to run, jump, and reach across my body with my glove. I was as surprised as anyone that the ball was in my glove when I came down, robbing the batter of a base hit. And I didn't even pull or dislocate any body parts on the way up or down.
In my second at-bat, the first pitch was once again good enough for me to swing at. I undercut it, though, and it went about seven miles straight up in the air with some sort of wicked backspin on it. I ran it out, because that's what I was always taught to do in youth baseball, and sure enough, my effort paid off. Their second baseman dropped it. I stood on first base, feeling a little guilty for being 2-for-2 (by rec league softball scoring standards) after that wimpy little "hit."
Karma would even things out, though.
In my third at-bat, the first pitch seemed too far inside, and I can't hit it well when it's inside. However, as I watched the ball come in, I realized it was actually right over the plate. I was too far up in the batter's box. A called strike. "Dummy!" I thought to myself. So I took a step back, got myself situated in the proper spot, and the next pitch was in the exact same location as the first one. I crushed it. I nailed it right in the sweet spot of the bat, right in the most powerful part of my swing, right in the center of the ball. Right to their centerfielder. I'm not sure he even had to take two steps to get to it. That made up for the wimpy "hit" that should have been an out, I suppose. So I finished the night batting 2-for-3, which I was mighty pleased with. Three at-bats, and I saw a total of four pitches. That's how I play ball.
We began the seventh (and last) inning in a 7-6 deficit. We scored two runs in the top of the seventh inning to make it 8-7 in our favor. All we had to do was hold them scoreless in the bottom of the seventh, and we'd even up our record for the season. I was pretty darned pleased with myself at shortstop. A few grounders had gotten past me that I probably would have gotten to back in my college days, but I was having such success with the ones I could get my glove on that Chuck was calling me "Hoover," as in the vacuum. I had even fielded a grounder and thrown it to first base with A LOT of mustard on it, dead center in the first baseman's glove. Our second baseman reported hearing the ball hiss as it crossed the infield, just as the Mrs. had reported hearing four years ago when she played first base and had to field my throws. I still had the cannon arm, and all of my throws were on-target. I was invincible!
But karma would humble me again.
With a runner on second base, their batter hit a pop-up a few feet behind second base. I was running for it, trying to track the ball with my horrid depth perception (especially with dimming light as the sun set). It was going to be an over-the-shoulder catch to begin with, but I thought I was under it...until the very last second, when I realized I was not. I corkscrewed myself into the ground trying to recover, but the ball came out of my glove, my cleats lost traction on the dew-covered grass, and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my stomach with the ball rolling away from me. Fortunately two of our outfielders were Johnny-on-the-spot with their back-up. One of them retrieved the ball and threw it in to the infield, but it was too late. It was now an 8-8 game. I felt like a complete turd. It only got worse as the other team moved runners to second and third with only one out. My worst fears had come true. I had lost the game for the team. Right in front of my wife and kids, too. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
Through some great fielding by my teammates, however, including a grounder fielded by Chuck, we got the final two outs without any more of their runners scoring. Final score: Us 8, Them 8. By league rule, if the hour time limit is up (and it was), a tie is simply recorded in the standings as a tie. There would be no extra innings. Thank goodness, because I was wiped out!
So we didn't lose. I had a good night at the plate, and with one glaring exception, I had a better night on defense than I could have ever hoped for. I got to hear my kids cheering for me throughout the game, which was REALLY cool. We played an exciting back-and-forth game that came right down to the wire. Chuck pitched, batted, and fielded well, too, and like me, he enjoyed himself immensely. The weather was perfect. And I escaped without injury, aside from some sore thighs today. I had a total blast! I can't wait until next Wednesday night!
Friday, August 7, 2009
A Beacon of Light
As bleak and dark as my professional life has been lately, a beacon of light appeared yesterday.
A little background first. I supervise all the probationers in my county who transfer in from other states. I also transfer any out-of-state probationers sentenced in our Courts. There is a nationwide protocol called the Interstate Compact that governs transfers from one state to another. Any sort of detailed explanation of it would immediately put you to sleep. Suffice it to say that it is rather complex, full of regulations and time constraints, and I've yet to talk to a probation officer anywhere who enjoys it. There are supposedly heavy sanctions for not following the Compact's rules, yet I constantly see violations of those rules, ranging from minor to blatant, and nothing ever comes of it.
It may seem counterintuitive, but it's actually much easier to transfer felonies through the Interstate Compact than it is to transfer misdemeanors. There are so many more misdemeanors than felonies that the Compact chooses to focus its efforts and resources on regulating the more serious offenders, rather than getting bogged down by every shoplifter and public drunk in the nation. So there are only a very few misdemeanors that can be transferred.
If a case meets certain criteria, the other state is required to accept supervision. If a case doesn't meet all the criteria, though, the receiving state has the option of rejecting supervision. And I can count on one hand the number of times a state has accepted a transfer that they weren't required to accept. It's extremely rare. (Hawaii, Oklahoma, and Georgia, you guys rock!)
In the vast majority of states I have dealt with, they don't want the extra work, so supervision is rejected. Who cares what's best for the probationer, right? As long as the receiving state is getting out of doing work.
I really hate that. At an indescribable level. It goes against everything that we as probation officers are here to do: assist probationers with their rehabilitation.
As a result, I have some probationers living as far away as Colorado who are basically unsupervised, since the receiving state isn't willing to do any work that they're not absolutely required to do. That doesn't do anyone any good. The probationer doesn't know where to receive services there, I don't know where the probationer can receive services there, and I can't do home visits and breath tests and urine screens and all our other neat little tricks of supervision when the probationer is 2000 miles away. I absolutely do not understand why a probation officer wouldn't take that into consideration when deciding on whether or not to supervise a case.
So fast-forward to yesterday. I was just assigned to a guy who was convicted of a misdemeanor in one of our Courts, but who has a lengthy and violent criminal history. I haven't even met the guy yet, but his criminal history is literally 19 pages long, so I know he's a career criminal. Most of the time, a probationer's criminal history is a page or two long. Maybe three pages. So this guy is probably not going to get the key to the city anytime soon...unless he shoots someone and steals it. Which he just might do.
The problem is that he lives in Illinois. Illinois isn't going to be required to accept supervision through the Interstate Compact because it's a misdeanor. Even my two-year-old daughter could figure out that this guy is a drug dealer, so I really don't want him running around Illinois without someone keeping a thumb on him. I can't imagine that the local authorities in the city where he lives would want that, either.
Fortunately for me, I know a probation officer from his county in Illinois. I've had several positive professional dealings with her over the years. There is a major interstate that runs through each of our counties that has become a rather busy drug pipeline. Our local law enforcement knows this, so they frequently sit out on the interstate and hunt for bad guys hauling drugs from Indianapolis to Illinois and back. They often catch them. As a result, this isn't the first time that one of my probationers has lived in this particular city in Illinois.
So I send the Illinois probation officer an e-mail, filling her in on this guy, and asking if her department has ever dealt with him before. Her response gave me hope again for my profession.
Her department hadn't supervised him in quite a long time, but she quickly provided me with several local police reports from the past few years involving this guy. She also said that her office prefers to supervise the people in their community, even if the probationer isn't eligible for transfer through the Interstate Compact. (I wanted to cheer out loud when I read that. Someone else thinks like I do! It's a miracle!) So if I'll send his file to her directly, instead of messing with the Interstate Compact, she'll supervise him for me.
I was floored! She voluntarily took the time to provide me more information about the guy, she identified the problem of trying to transfer supervision through the Compact, and she volunteered to solve the problem! She wasn't trying to get out of work, or do as little as possible to avoid rocking her boat. She did EXTRA work, and she volunteered to do even more extra work for me for most of the next year! She went out of her way to help out a colleague from another state who she has never met. It's almost...dare I say it...like we are ON THE SAME TEAM, WORKING TOWARD THE SAME GOAL! What a novel concept!
This isn't the first time she has pleasantly surprised me with her work ethic, the way she thinks, and her willingness to provide and share information. I've gotten cases from her in the past that include so much additional information in them that I feel like I know the probationer before I even meet him or her (and that's a very, very good thing).
In today's world where screw-your-neighbor is the standard operating procedure, this probation officer from Illinois chose to help her neighbor, instead. And for that, I am very appreciative. Thank you for your help on this case, Illinois probation officer, and for renewing a little bit of my faith in humanity and our profession.
A little background first. I supervise all the probationers in my county who transfer in from other states. I also transfer any out-of-state probationers sentenced in our Courts. There is a nationwide protocol called the Interstate Compact that governs transfers from one state to another. Any sort of detailed explanation of it would immediately put you to sleep. Suffice it to say that it is rather complex, full of regulations and time constraints, and I've yet to talk to a probation officer anywhere who enjoys it. There are supposedly heavy sanctions for not following the Compact's rules, yet I constantly see violations of those rules, ranging from minor to blatant, and nothing ever comes of it.
It may seem counterintuitive, but it's actually much easier to transfer felonies through the Interstate Compact than it is to transfer misdemeanors. There are so many more misdemeanors than felonies that the Compact chooses to focus its efforts and resources on regulating the more serious offenders, rather than getting bogged down by every shoplifter and public drunk in the nation. So there are only a very few misdemeanors that can be transferred.
If a case meets certain criteria, the other state is required to accept supervision. If a case doesn't meet all the criteria, though, the receiving state has the option of rejecting supervision. And I can count on one hand the number of times a state has accepted a transfer that they weren't required to accept. It's extremely rare. (Hawaii, Oklahoma, and Georgia, you guys rock!)
In the vast majority of states I have dealt with, they don't want the extra work, so supervision is rejected. Who cares what's best for the probationer, right? As long as the receiving state is getting out of doing work.
I really hate that. At an indescribable level. It goes against everything that we as probation officers are here to do: assist probationers with their rehabilitation.
As a result, I have some probationers living as far away as Colorado who are basically unsupervised, since the receiving state isn't willing to do any work that they're not absolutely required to do. That doesn't do anyone any good. The probationer doesn't know where to receive services there, I don't know where the probationer can receive services there, and I can't do home visits and breath tests and urine screens and all our other neat little tricks of supervision when the probationer is 2000 miles away. I absolutely do not understand why a probation officer wouldn't take that into consideration when deciding on whether or not to supervise a case.
So fast-forward to yesterday. I was just assigned to a guy who was convicted of a misdemeanor in one of our Courts, but who has a lengthy and violent criminal history. I haven't even met the guy yet, but his criminal history is literally 19 pages long, so I know he's a career criminal. Most of the time, a probationer's criminal history is a page or two long. Maybe three pages. So this guy is probably not going to get the key to the city anytime soon...unless he shoots someone and steals it. Which he just might do.
The problem is that he lives in Illinois. Illinois isn't going to be required to accept supervision through the Interstate Compact because it's a misdeanor. Even my two-year-old daughter could figure out that this guy is a drug dealer, so I really don't want him running around Illinois without someone keeping a thumb on him. I can't imagine that the local authorities in the city where he lives would want that, either.
Fortunately for me, I know a probation officer from his county in Illinois. I've had several positive professional dealings with her over the years. There is a major interstate that runs through each of our counties that has become a rather busy drug pipeline. Our local law enforcement knows this, so they frequently sit out on the interstate and hunt for bad guys hauling drugs from Indianapolis to Illinois and back. They often catch them. As a result, this isn't the first time that one of my probationers has lived in this particular city in Illinois.
So I send the Illinois probation officer an e-mail, filling her in on this guy, and asking if her department has ever dealt with him before. Her response gave me hope again for my profession.
Her department hadn't supervised him in quite a long time, but she quickly provided me with several local police reports from the past few years involving this guy. She also said that her office prefers to supervise the people in their community, even if the probationer isn't eligible for transfer through the Interstate Compact. (I wanted to cheer out loud when I read that. Someone else thinks like I do! It's a miracle!) So if I'll send his file to her directly, instead of messing with the Interstate Compact, she'll supervise him for me.
I was floored! She voluntarily took the time to provide me more information about the guy, she identified the problem of trying to transfer supervision through the Compact, and she volunteered to solve the problem! She wasn't trying to get out of work, or do as little as possible to avoid rocking her boat. She did EXTRA work, and she volunteered to do even more extra work for me for most of the next year! She went out of her way to help out a colleague from another state who she has never met. It's almost...dare I say it...like we are ON THE SAME TEAM, WORKING TOWARD THE SAME GOAL! What a novel concept!
This isn't the first time she has pleasantly surprised me with her work ethic, the way she thinks, and her willingness to provide and share information. I've gotten cases from her in the past that include so much additional information in them that I feel like I know the probationer before I even meet him or her (and that's a very, very good thing).
In today's world where screw-your-neighbor is the standard operating procedure, this probation officer from Illinois chose to help her neighbor, instead. And for that, I am very appreciative. Thank you for your help on this case, Illinois probation officer, and for renewing a little bit of my faith in humanity and our profession.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Trials and Tribulations of Coaching a Softball Team
I had been mulling over a blog about the amazing frequency and regularity of failures to communicate. I've been experiencing an incredible amount of frustration lately, feeling as though people expect me to have psychic abilities that allow me to know what they're thinking, what they expect of me, what needs to be done, what's already been done, etc.
An example of this is a number of e-mails containing important information or requests for feedback that I have sent to a variety of people, all of which have gone completely unanswered. That really pisses me off. Seriously, is it that difficult to send a "thank you" or a "got it" or a "I'll be there" e-mail back to let me know, at least, that you received the information? It's not like e-mails never get lost in cyberspace or junk mail filters or anything.
So anyway, I had most of a blog worked out in my head about failure to communicate. I was even going to use a picture of Paul Newman from the movie "Cool Hand Luke."
But I also wanted to update everyone on how softball was progressing.
As it turns out, the two topics came together last night in a perfect storm.
Let's take it from the softball perspective, and you'll easily see the failure-to-communicate theme intertwined.
As you know from previous posts, I e-mailed the guy who runs a local softball park to tell him that I'd like to be a free agent, should any teams need an extra player. Over a month later, I'm still waiting on a reply of any kind from him. So as another local softball park advertised registration for their fall league, Chuck and I talked about it for awhile and ultimately decided to put together a co-ed team. We had a bunch of people who said they were interested. We were just a couple women short, which is no big deal, right?
Well, several hours later, spread over several days, after talking to no fewer than 42,756 women--many of whom committed, then backed out, then committed again, then backed out again--we finally got firm "yes"es from six women. We only field five players of each gender at a time, but this isn't my first rodeo. The chances of getting all twelve people at the ballpark at the same time are slim to none.
So we had six women and six men. We can bat twelve people, and then we'll have an extra player of each gender to rotate in and out on defense, since most of us are 40-ish and, um, not exactly in peak physical condition. Great plan, right? Heck, everyone even paid within a day or two. No deadbeats. Everything's good.
I'd like to also point out that I had no intentions of coaching this team when we were in the planning stages. I was just along for the ride. But as circumstances developed, I just sort of fell into that role. For those who have played softball, you know what an albatross this is. For those who haven't played, suffice it to say that NOBODY wants to be the coach. Ever. And for very good reason.
The first game was last night. On Monday, when I got the season schedule from the park, I e-mailed it to everyone, and asked them to let me know their status ASAP. Exactly two people got back to me. Chuck was on a family vacation that was planned weeks ago, and we all knew about it. I was also going to miss the first game because it coincided with Olivia's final session of gymnastics, at which she was getting a trophy. I wasn't about to miss that. And a third male player was going to be out of state. So we were three men down.
In the interest of time and space, I'll omit the details of what happened over the next three days leading up to the game, but in what consumed no less than 10 hours of my time, I had all kinds of people tell me they were in, then out, then in, then out, then in, and on and on and on. At one point, I only had two male players. At another point, I only had six total players. Of course, I was just guessing on most people's availability, since so few bothered to respond to my e-mail asking for everyone's status. Ultimately, though, I wound up with six men and six women, thanks to some substitute players that one of our ladies rounded up for us.
I suckered--er, convinced--a woman on the team who works in my office to captain the team for one night, since Chuck and I would both be gone. I brought the scorebook to her, and even had a batting order made up, and positions where everyone could play. Should be smooth sailing for her, I thought.
Kudos to her for not interrupting me at my daughter's gymnastics session, but as I was heading home from the gym, I got a text from her that our team had lost, 15-4. Oh well, I thought. Another text from her followed, about how the other team really killed us by hitting the ball all over the outfield. Yep, that'll happen sometimes, I thought. Another text: maybe part of the problem was that we only had 10 people show up, and the 10th person showed up late, and then didn't want to play in the field (for reasons that remain a mystery to me), so we played with one less outfielder than normal. I nearly drove into a tree as I blew my stack.
So the batting order had to be completely redone, the fielding positions were all screwed up, and we only had nine fielders when we should have had ten. The temporary team captain was very gracious about it, but it was certainly no smooth sailing.
The two people who didn't show up are boyfriend/girlfriend. Boyfriend has a bum shoulder, I had been told, and wanted to play first base to avoid having to throw. I guess at some point, he decided that he doesn't want to play at all. He just didn't bother to tell anyone, or whoever he told didn't bother to tell me. And because boyfriend didn't play, girlfriend didn't show up, either. Again, I'm not sure why, and we had no warning whatsoever of her absence, either. I hear rumor that they may not play at all this season, but of course, I'm getting all my information about this a day late and from third-hand sources, so who knows.
So I still haven't stepped onto a softball field yet, and softball is even more aggravating than it was when the first park was ignoring me. Next Wednesday, though, Chuck and I will both be back, which should help a lot on a number of levels. I hope.
I don't regret missing the game at all, though, because I got to see my little girl run up the podium with a big grin on her face, get her very first trophy she has ever owned from her instructor that she idolizes, yell out to me in the crowd, and then proudly hoist her trophy above her head, beaming from ear to ear, as she got her picture taken. She talked about her trophy the whole way home, and I had to pry it out of her hands at bedtime. This morning, her first words to me were, "Remember last night, when I got my trophy?" And our daycare provider barely had the door open before Olivia was yammering to her about her trophy. When I got home, it was "Daddy! Remember when I got a trophy and you took my picture?" It may just be a little participation trophy, but to a 3-year-old, it's very important. And I'm happy as a clam that I was there to see her get it.
An example of this is a number of e-mails containing important information or requests for feedback that I have sent to a variety of people, all of which have gone completely unanswered. That really pisses me off. Seriously, is it that difficult to send a "thank you" or a "got it" or a "I'll be there" e-mail back to let me know, at least, that you received the information? It's not like e-mails never get lost in cyberspace or junk mail filters or anything.
So anyway, I had most of a blog worked out in my head about failure to communicate. I was even going to use a picture of Paul Newman from the movie "Cool Hand Luke."
But I also wanted to update everyone on how softball was progressing.
As it turns out, the two topics came together last night in a perfect storm.
Let's take it from the softball perspective, and you'll easily see the failure-to-communicate theme intertwined.
As you know from previous posts, I e-mailed the guy who runs a local softball park to tell him that I'd like to be a free agent, should any teams need an extra player. Over a month later, I'm still waiting on a reply of any kind from him. So as another local softball park advertised registration for their fall league, Chuck and I talked about it for awhile and ultimately decided to put together a co-ed team. We had a bunch of people who said they were interested. We were just a couple women short, which is no big deal, right?
Well, several hours later, spread over several days, after talking to no fewer than 42,756 women--many of whom committed, then backed out, then committed again, then backed out again--we finally got firm "yes"es from six women. We only field five players of each gender at a time, but this isn't my first rodeo. The chances of getting all twelve people at the ballpark at the same time are slim to none.
So we had six women and six men. We can bat twelve people, and then we'll have an extra player of each gender to rotate in and out on defense, since most of us are 40-ish and, um, not exactly in peak physical condition. Great plan, right? Heck, everyone even paid within a day or two. No deadbeats. Everything's good.
I'd like to also point out that I had no intentions of coaching this team when we were in the planning stages. I was just along for the ride. But as circumstances developed, I just sort of fell into that role. For those who have played softball, you know what an albatross this is. For those who haven't played, suffice it to say that NOBODY wants to be the coach. Ever. And for very good reason.
The first game was last night. On Monday, when I got the season schedule from the park, I e-mailed it to everyone, and asked them to let me know their status ASAP. Exactly two people got back to me. Chuck was on a family vacation that was planned weeks ago, and we all knew about it. I was also going to miss the first game because it coincided with Olivia's final session of gymnastics, at which she was getting a trophy. I wasn't about to miss that. And a third male player was going to be out of state. So we were three men down.
In the interest of time and space, I'll omit the details of what happened over the next three days leading up to the game, but in what consumed no less than 10 hours of my time, I had all kinds of people tell me they were in, then out, then in, then out, then in, and on and on and on. At one point, I only had two male players. At another point, I only had six total players. Of course, I was just guessing on most people's availability, since so few bothered to respond to my e-mail asking for everyone's status. Ultimately, though, I wound up with six men and six women, thanks to some substitute players that one of our ladies rounded up for us.
I suckered--er, convinced--a woman on the team who works in my office to captain the team for one night, since Chuck and I would both be gone. I brought the scorebook to her, and even had a batting order made up, and positions where everyone could play. Should be smooth sailing for her, I thought.
Kudos to her for not interrupting me at my daughter's gymnastics session, but as I was heading home from the gym, I got a text from her that our team had lost, 15-4. Oh well, I thought. Another text from her followed, about how the other team really killed us by hitting the ball all over the outfield. Yep, that'll happen sometimes, I thought. Another text: maybe part of the problem was that we only had 10 people show up, and the 10th person showed up late, and then didn't want to play in the field (for reasons that remain a mystery to me), so we played with one less outfielder than normal. I nearly drove into a tree as I blew my stack.
So the batting order had to be completely redone, the fielding positions were all screwed up, and we only had nine fielders when we should have had ten. The temporary team captain was very gracious about it, but it was certainly no smooth sailing.
The two people who didn't show up are boyfriend/girlfriend. Boyfriend has a bum shoulder, I had been told, and wanted to play first base to avoid having to throw. I guess at some point, he decided that he doesn't want to play at all. He just didn't bother to tell anyone, or whoever he told didn't bother to tell me. And because boyfriend didn't play, girlfriend didn't show up, either. Again, I'm not sure why, and we had no warning whatsoever of her absence, either. I hear rumor that they may not play at all this season, but of course, I'm getting all my information about this a day late and from third-hand sources, so who knows.
So I still haven't stepped onto a softball field yet, and softball is even more aggravating than it was when the first park was ignoring me. Next Wednesday, though, Chuck and I will both be back, which should help a lot on a number of levels. I hope.
I don't regret missing the game at all, though, because I got to see my little girl run up the podium with a big grin on her face, get her very first trophy she has ever owned from her instructor that she idolizes, yell out to me in the crowd, and then proudly hoist her trophy above her head, beaming from ear to ear, as she got her picture taken. She talked about her trophy the whole way home, and I had to pry it out of her hands at bedtime. This morning, her first words to me were, "Remember last night, when I got my trophy?" And our daycare provider barely had the door open before Olivia was yammering to her about her trophy. When I got home, it was "Daddy! Remember when I got a trophy and you took my picture?" It may just be a little participation trophy, but to a 3-year-old, it's very important. And I'm happy as a clam that I was there to see her get it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
A Fun Read
The Mrs. took the kids to her parents' house for the weekend--no marital problems here; it was a planned trip--so I've enjoyed a couple days of quiet and solitude around the house, in addition to some unrestricted time with Chuck and other good friends. Nothing really exciting going on, so I've been perusing the Internet for a variety of things and stumbled across a blog that has repeatedly made me laugh out loud.
I added it to the list of blogs that I follow, which can be found in the right-hand column of this page, but subtle additions like that sometimes go unnoticed, so I wanted to point it out to everyone.
In summary, it's written by a guy who has been having some difficulty with his landlord. And that's putting it very mildly. I'm not sure what makes it so funny for me: that the landlord is a complete lunatic, or that the author has a writing style that I find to be absolutely hilarious. Maybe a little of both. As an added bonus, the author appears to be from my neck of the woods--Indianapolis--although the story takes place just outside of Chicago.
Enjoy Gary.
http://strangerthaneviction.tumblr.com/
I added it to the list of blogs that I follow, which can be found in the right-hand column of this page, but subtle additions like that sometimes go unnoticed, so I wanted to point it out to everyone.
In summary, it's written by a guy who has been having some difficulty with his landlord. And that's putting it very mildly. I'm not sure what makes it so funny for me: that the landlord is a complete lunatic, or that the author has a writing style that I find to be absolutely hilarious. Maybe a little of both. As an added bonus, the author appears to be from my neck of the woods--Indianapolis--although the story takes place just outside of Chicago.
Enjoy Gary.
http://strangerthaneviction.tumblr.com/
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