Baseball

A few years ago, for some reason, Catfish decided he wanted to play Little League Baseball. He's always been a 'soccer kid', and had never really got into baseball. We go to see the Yankee's about two or three times a year, but throwing the baseball in the front yard just doesn't happen. I never played baseball, so I didn't really didn't encourage him to play. When he asked to join a Little League team, I thought "What the hell....this will be fun."

That was a understatement.

Our team was a collection of about 12 or 14 10 year old boys of various sizes, skill levels, and attention spans. We had one kid, a tall lanky pitcher, who threw smoke. He was probably the best pitcher in the league. No one got hits off this kid. We had another kid, a much shorter hyper-competitive pitcher, who threw almost as well, but would let the other team get into his head. One kid, a big bear of a kid, showed up for practice about a 2 weeks after we had begun training the team. He was a big kid, and talkative. Our head coach sent him to me. I was working with kids in right field, and the coach was hitting balls to us. We had a kid serving as a runner so that when the coach hit the ball, we had someone to 'throw out'. The big kids was explaining to me that he knew all about baseball.

Coach hit the ball, a slow grounder, to the big kid. He trotter up to field the ball. The kid running the bases saw the big kid trotting to the ball, and kicked it into high gear. The kid was trying to get to second base. He was really moving as he sprinted past first and toward second. It looked like it was going to be close. By this time, the big kid had the ball, and with a long and very athletic stride, he threw a rocket and nailed the runner in the back with the baseball about 4 strides short of second base. The runner was down.

It seems that the big kid actually knew a lot about kick ball, and very little about baseball.

Catfish, on the other hand, understood baseball. It only took getting hit once or twice by a pitch for him to figure out that if he stepped backwards out of the batter's box, he would avoid getting hit. Unfortunately, when you are stepping backwards out of the batters box, you don't hit the ball very often.

One Saturday, we were playing a pretty good team. Their pitcher threw hard and well. We just weren't getting hits. It was a zero/zero game into the 4th innning. Catfish had come up to bat a couple of time, and on each occasion, with each pitch, he stepped back and out of the box.

Finally, it was Catfish's turn to bat again. Before he went up to bat, I told him, "Don't back out of the box.". He looked at me like I had two heads, and said "He's going to hit me with the ball.". No, I assured him, he's not. He hasn't hit anyone in the whole game. My words fell on deaf ears.

Catfish walked to the batters box, and got set. The kid readied to pitch. With a swerl of arms and legs that only a 12 year old boy can accomplish, a pitch came rocketing right down the middle of the plate, and Catfish stepped back.

Again, I called to him. "Don't step back!". He glared back at me, and got ready for the next pitch. Again, another strike emerged from the swerl of arms and legs, and again, Catfish stepped back. He looked over at me with that 'I know I'm in trouble look'. I again told him to not step back.

He stepped back into the batters box, and readied for the pitch. The pitcher readied, and the tornado of arms and legs began again. Once more the ball came smoking out of the tangle, and sped toward home. This time, Catfish stood as still as a statue. He didn't step back. He didn't flinch.

The ball nailed him right in the kidney. It was a smoking fastball, and it got him solid. It didn't richochet off and go to the back stop. It hit him solid on the kidney and dropped at his feet.

He was kind of hunched over as he trotted to first base. As one of the Coaches, I was allowed to go check on him. As I trotted across the field, he glared at me. I could almost see smoke coming from his ears. He wasn't rubbing his back, but I knew it had to really hurt. I slowed from my trot to a walk just a few steps short of first.

Before I could ask how he was, with a steely gaze fixed on my eyes, he said "I told you he was going to hit me with the damn ball."

Catfish prefers soccer.

The Last Swim Meet

In early August of 1965, I joined the Jonesboro YMCA swim team. I joined on a Friday, and the State Swim Meet was held the next day in Jonesboro. I won 3rd place in Freestyle and Backstroke, and would have had 2nd in Butterfly, but I was disqualified. Before that morning, I had never heard of "Butterfly" and the kid who explained the stroke to me before the race didn't tell me I had to touch the wall with both hands at the same time, so I was disqualified. I swam competitively for the next 10 years until I discovered cigarettes, beer and women.

Several years ago, Jenn and Jordan were on the swim team here in New Jersey. At the final meet of the year, the last event was the "Parents Relay". My daughters, having grown up hearing of my adventures swimming,and seeing my trophies and medals, were particularly excited by this event. Of course, they ensured that I was recruited to be on the relay team. I wasn't overly concerned about it because the other parents recruited for the relay team were about 10 years younger than me and looked to be in pretty decent shape. We would be competitive with the parent's of the other team. I wasn't going to have to really sprint or anything.

In those days, I still smoked so naturally I watched the swim meet, and cheered our team on while having cigarettes and beer in the bar/patio area of the swim club who hosted the meet. The teams were well matched. It was a close meet. Though our relay would not officially be included in the point tally, in the end, it would take a 'win' by our relay team would produce a team victory in the 'UnOfficial' tally.

Our relay team gathered behind the starting blocks. I stubbed out my last cigarette, and handed my beer to one of the timers. I climbed up on the starting blocks which were higher than I remembered. I stood there...all 226 lbs of pot bellied, hypertensive me. I was sporting a two or three year old knee length baggy bathing suit that still had a little sand in it from the last visit to the Jersey Shore.

I looked down the blocks at the other 2 relay teams preparing for the race. Their lead off men were tall... much taller than me, and they wore Speedo's and had bathing caps with their team logo, and goggles. They were stretching and shaking down. What the hell? These guys really looked like swimmers!! They weren't fat. They looked like early middle aged marathon runners. They were skinny and had long arms and legs. Compared to them, my whole team looked like Danny DeVito impersonators wearing bad swimming suits and having a bad hair day. We drank, smoked and wheezed everyday while these guys obviously were running or swimming. They wore Speedos and caps and goggles. We wore baggy swimming suits and needed bifocals. "Oh damn", I thought to my self. This is going to be ugly. I looked at the crowed, and saw my daughters waving and smiling at me.

In looking from the crowd at me on the blocks beside the tall, skinny guys in Speedos, my daughters saw 'invincible dad'. Everyone else saw a fat middle aged man in a baggy bathing suit about to drown himself in a race against real athletes. Oh damn.

I looked back down the blocks and began to construct a plan to make this as respectable as possible. I knew I needed to be the first one off the blocks because that might be my only advantage. I had always has a quick start, and I knew I'd really need it this time. Each leg of the relay was 25 yards, so if I beat them out of the blocks, maybe it would take them a bit to catch me, and I could make this respectable.

I tried to shake down some but the only thing that moved very much was my belly, and I'm sure that wasn't very attractive. I began to hyperventilate. I figured if I could go the whole 25 yards without taking a breath, it might save me a stroke or two. I continued to hyperventilate to get as much oxygen in my blood as possible.

The starter was ready, and called out "Swimmers, take you mark!". I bent down into a starting posture that probably hasn't been seen in competition in 20 years. It was a little awkward. Swimming starts aren't normally done by a person sporting a pot belly. The starters pistol sounded. In the corner of my eye, I saw that I had them off the blocks. I hit the water, and sprinted. It was only 25 yards but when you haven't sprinted in 20 years, thats like a marathon. My arms were burning and getting tight after only 6 or 8 strokes, and my lungs screamed for air. I wished I hadn't had that last cigarette. I could feel the muscles in my chest getting tight, and the muscles under my arms start to cramp, and then with one final thrust of my arms, it was over. My right arm stretched out and tagged the wall. The next swimmer on our team flew over me and began sprinting his 25 yards.

I was wheezing and coughing, and exhausted. My heart rate must have been 200 beats per minute. Gasping for breath, I looked up at my team mate for help getting out of the pool, but he was looking at the other team. I turned and looked, thinking that we must have been smoked really badly.

Our second swimmer, who wasn't very fast, was nearing half way of the pool, and the lead off swimmers of the other two teams were just now reaching the end of the pool. I hadn't been smoked. I hadn't been humiliated in front of my kids. I had won. I smoked the tall lanky guys in Speedos, caps and goggles. I beat both of them by 1/2 the length of the pool.

With my chest pains beginning to subside, one of the other parents helped me out of the pool, and told me that my 'split' was a 12.9. "I swam 25 meters in 12.9 seconds?" , I wheezed as I looked around for my beer. I looked back at the race. Our third swimmer was in the water, and we were still holding a 1/2 length lead. I looked down the lanes at the other teams, with their speedos, and caps and goggles. Our fourth and final swimmer hit the water, and churned his way through the final 25 yards to victory.

Still standing poolside and wheezing and coughing, I reflected on the moment. From that first meet in in August of 1965 in the Jonesboro YMCA pool, until this one, last race at a club pool in New Jersey, there was never a sweeter victory than this one. I waved at my kids, swigged my beer, and looked for my smokes.

That was the last swim meet.

Morning Coffee in Memphis

Seated in front of the fountain, and between the marble columns of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, watching the procession of early risers seeking coffee is an event unto itself. Beginning at about 6:00am, bleary eyed guests, shaking off the night before and wrestling free from the sultry embrace of Beale Street, wander slowly in. Pausing to extend a courtesy or two at casual encounters, each guest is drawn irresistibly by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Meandering ever so casually and yet striding so discretely and purposefully across the shiny marble floor of the lobby, they are on quest. Guests walking past the grand piano smile faintly at the tunes from the night before that now exist only in memory, smiles and photographs. Up the six steps to the hall leading to the Deli, each in turn go only to emerge seconds later smiling and clutching a steaming cup of hot coffee.

It’s only fitting that a day in Memphis begins this way.

37 West 65

Sometimes you run across something that really puts life in a new perspective. You pause for just a moment, and reflect on the blessings that you have been given.
Last week, Catfish and I had a wonderful weekend of diving. We dove in deep, dark, cold water, and he accomplished things that few kids his age attempt, much less accomplish. In training for these dives, and in acquiring the skills and knowledge to make the dives, he's achieving a maturity of thought at an early age. He's learning that anything can be accomplished with proper equipment and training. Anything.

On Wednesday of last week, his 8th grade class went on a three day trip to Washington, DC. One of the places we visited was Arlington. It may not have occurred to anyone else, but it struck me that each of the heros buried there was someone's son, someone's brother or sister, or someone's dad. Over 600 acres of heartbreak. At the Tomb of the Unknowns, the click of the heels of the Honor Guard echoed across the plaza while 300 8th graders stood silently. The sun beat down on everyone, but the silence of so many lay very heavily on the moment. Again, the little voice in my mind whispered to me that this was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's father.

We visited the Vietnam Memorial. It looks like an open wound across a grassy field. At panel 37 West, Line 65 the name Douglas D Estes appears.

On December 8, 1968, Doug was Killed in Action in Vietnam. He was 18 year old, and he was my cousin. I met him but once in the spring of 1968 at my grandparents home. It was a hot day, and he was smiling and laughing and horseback riding with his girlfriend. He had kind words for his little cousins. I remember thinking that he was so big, and so strong. He was a soldier. He knew how to shoot a machine gun. He got to fly in helicopters. He was there that one weekend, and then he was gone.

Only a parent can know the heartache of burying a child. As I looked at panel 37 West, Row 65, I remembered Aunt Dale's tears at Doug's funeral in Memphis. For a moment, I remembered Doug, smiling and laughing at my grandparents home. I looked further down the sidewalk before the Wall, and caught a glimpse of Catfish and his buddies, looking somberly at the wall. Like a bolt of lightening, a thought struck me. I looked up the sidewalk and saw only children coming down, looking at the wall. I looked back at the wall, and knew that each name was someone's child. I looked back toward Catfish and his buddies, but in that instant, they were gone.

I looked at Doug's name on the wall again. It was there, but he was gone, and for just a second, I sensed the utter loss and profound sadness that covered Aunt Dale for the rest of her life. With a new insight, I moved up the sidewalk to find Catfish and his buddies.

A long way from the rice fields

When she was just a baby, I used to look out over the rice fields from my perch on Crowley's Ridge and pray that she would grow up knowing that there was a whole world out there full of challenge and excitement. I wanted her to know that Paris was the city of lights in Europe, but Beirut was it's counterpart in the Middle East. I wanted her to know that while Memphis dry rub was the way to do ribs, the Carolina's really have pulled pork down right. I wanted her to sing the songs of Hank Jr., Elvis, the Boss, and Lynyrd Skynyrd with equal passion. It was important to me that she know the difference between Kentucky Bourbon and Tennessee Whiskey.

At 13, she transitioned from a tiny school in a tiny town in Arkansas to a pointy headed private school in New Jersey. She didn't know a soul here except for Landi, Catfish, Buckwheat and me. She had never lived through a 'jersey winter', but she had survived many an Arkansas summer. She had never even seen a soccer game played when she went out for the soccer team at school. Four years later, the pointey headed private school awarded her the Wigdon Cup which recognized the Most Athletic girl.

The first week of August her first year of college brought good news and bad news. The good news was that she had 'made the soccer team' at college. The bad news was that Katrina was coming in, and that New Orleans was evacuating. She wound up never playing college soccer, but she graduated with Honors from Tulane, and got a full ride scholarship to UMASS for her Masters.

She has her Masters degree, and she'll be 24 years old in September. She has a job lined up in Indianapolis, and will move there next month. It's just now soaking in that 'Indianapolis' will be 'home' for her. It's not like the time in college, when she's gone, but 'here' is still 'home'. 'Home' will be 'there', in Indianapolis. Mapquest claims it's 11 hours and 35 minutes away. That's a long way.

I'd like to visit the spot on Crowley's Ridge where I used to stand and look out over the rice fields. This time of year, you can see the farmers working the fields. From up on the ridge, it looks like nothing has changed in the last 24 years, but so much has changed. She has seen the lights of Paris and grandeur that was Rome. She has shopped the bustling, dusty markets of a North African town. She's stood on Times Square to welcome the New Year. She'll holler 'Hotty Toddy' or 'Go Yankees' with equal vigor. She can speak to you in English, French or Arabic. She's all grown up now, and I am so very proud, but she'll always be my little girl.

A Public Service Message

One of the hazards of being sentenced to lose weight is that you have to modify your lifestyle. In addition to giving up Bourbon until I hit the proscribed weight, I have taken up using our treadmill. Unlike in the past when I tried jogging on the damn thing, this time I am adopting a more sane approach. I set a minimum time, and a minimum distance and I do at least that time and distance each day. Some days I go further, and others I just do the minimum. On all days, while walking on the treadmill, there is ample time for thought.

An idle mind is a dangerous thing. An idle mind trapped in a wheezing fat man's body sweating gravy on a treadmill is a very dangerous thing. Today, for example, rather than dwelling on whether or not my heart rate was actually 188 as reported by my treadmill monitor, my mind wandered back to a recent dispute with the good people at Travelocity. There was a problem with a ticket I had purchased, and I had to call Travelocity customer service. The customer service organization at Travelocity is not designed to solve your problem. It is designed to beat you. This posting is a tutorial on how to 'win' when dealing with a customer service organization designed to 'beat you'.

The first thing to know is that you will no be speaking with the company you thought you were calling bu that you will be talking to a call center company and the agent you speak with will be compensated based on his/her ability to close calls. That means they want you to hang up. The more calls they close in an hour, the better they get 'bonused'. The longer you keep them on the phone, the more 'bonus' money they lose. So, start the call by carefully, completely and politely explaining the problem to them. Keep in mind that nearly every call is recorded, so be nice, and make notes about the persons responses to your questions. If the agent will not resolve the issue, ask for the supervisor. The agent may not want to pass you to the supervisor, but be persistent. The agent may tell you the supervisor isn't available. Remember, their goal is to get you to hang up. The agent may offer to have the supervisor call you. Tell the agent you will hold, and be prepared to wait about ten minutes.

Eventually the supervisor will come on the line. The supervisor's bonus package will be a factor of their ability to motivate their people to close calls, and their ability to close 'troublesome' calls. Time is a factor, so you will want to start from the beginning and again completely, honestly and politely explain the problem and the first agent's efforts. Refer to your notes if you need to. In my case, I had caught the original agent in a lie, and I told the supervisor that I had. Stay polite, accurate, and persistent. At the supervisor level, their motivation is still to get you off the phone, so no matter what, stay on 'message' and do not let them get you off the phone. When it becomes apparent that they are not going 'solve' your problem, as to be passed on to the supervisor's management. They are not going to want to do this, so you may have to apply additional pressure. I was able to figure out when they had hit the end of their script, so I told them we were in a 'loop' and to pass me up the chain of command.

It's helpful to know that usually the supervisor will not actually have the authority to solve your problem, and solving your problem will not be his goal. His goal is to get you off the phone. You have to get to the supervisor's management, and to do this you 'play' to the recording. Trouble calls will be played back by management, and sometimes even reviewed by the 'real' company you thought you were calling. Put your self in the shoes of the call center company, and think about what they would not want their client hearing. I told the supervisor that at some point I was going to encounter someone who actually cared if I ever bought another ticket using Travelocity. I got passed up the chain of command. Again, don't let them call you back, stay on the phone, and be prepared to wait another ten minutes.

Continue this exercise until you get someone who is actually in the United States. Only at that point will you have transitioned from the call center people to people who actually work for the company you thought you called. You will notice a definite difference. If necessary to verify that you are actually speaking to someone in the US, ask them where they are. When they answer, simply ask how the weather is today. Simple question, unless you aren't actually where you say you are. You can verify weather conditions anywhere using weather.com. When you get to the US side of things, your problem can and will be solved.

I would argue that it is your responsibility to use this technique at every opportunity because if you 'beat' them, at some point even the corporate ivy league pinhead bastards who thought that outsourcing customer service into a country whose culture is to 'game' the system will realize that this just isn't working. Whether it's HP Technical Support, Travelocity Customer Service, Dell Customer Support, you can get your problem solved. Just don't hang up.

In the interest of full disclosure, I used to work for the world's 3rd largest Call Center operations company. That's how I know how 'they' work. Now you know how 'they' work. So ,next time you have to call customer support or service, get a note pad, a nice big glass of tea, and be prepared to spend an hour or two. Be nice, polite, accurate and persistent. If it's not worth and hour or two of your time, then don't bother to call because you won't win.

The preceding has been a public service message brought to you by the Leady Meat Company. For meat you can't beat, it's Leady Meat.

If you hang up, the terrorists win.

I'm Fat.

There must be a class in Medical School where they teach young doctors to give that 'look'. It's a serious look...with the brow sort of crunched just a little. It's an eye ball to eye ball look. No kidding around, looking away, or mumbling. When you get that 'look', you just know the doc is about to tell you something horrible. I guess in Med School they teach them to 'just spit it out'; "just say it'.

And so he did. Dr. Frankenstein, standing there in a white jacket with his name on it, looked me right square in the eye, and in a solemn and measured voice, delivered the words everyone my age dreads hearing: "Bill, the problem is that your are just too damn fat."

Somewhat take aback, I replied testily "So what? You're ugly. What's your point?"

"Seriously", Doctor Frankenstein continued, "You need to lose about 15 or 20 lbs. before I can do the surgery."

"You'll still be ugly.", I thought to my self.

Having been down the surgery 'road' before, I did not fall for his misdirection. Hell, Stevie Wonder can tell I'm fat. Here's the deal...when they want to cut you open and root around with your insides, they want to give you something else to think about rather than how much pain you are going to experience as a result of their 'fix' of what ever you have wrong with you.

Case in point. A few years ago, when I blew out my ACL, tore my meniscus, and broke my tibia, it took a lot of effort to get the knee fixed. First, the doctors said I was too old, that people my age don't really 'need' and ACL. To me, an ACL isn't optional equipment. I play soccer. I ski. I run to the bathroom. So, I told the good doctor I wanted the damn thing fixed anyway. So we scheduled the surgery. I was in the ready room when the gass-passer hit's the 'stop button'. The anesthesiologist didn't like my blood pressure or my thyroid. It took two months to get the blood pressure and thyroid issues resolved. During this two month period, because I had a great deal of difficulty walking, and was in a fair amount of pain, I was focused on getting the blood pressure and thyroid in line for the day of the surgery. I wasn't thinking about the 'day after surgery'. I was so focused on getting the surgery done that I didn't ask the most important question. I just wanted the damn surgery done.

Note to self: Think about the day after surgery. That's a very important day because the hospital pain meds will be worn off, and you be using Percocets. Think about that day. Never let some doc fussing about your age, or your blood pressure or your thyroid distract your attention away from one critically important question: "How much is this going to hurt?"

Beware! "We'll give you pain meds." is not an answer. It's part of a grand strategy for an ambush.

Here's how it works. Following surgery, you are in more pain that can be described using the English language. They have cut open the front of you knee, and using power tools or explosives, they have removed the center third of the petalar tendon. They break out the ole Black and Decker drill and, usually using a worn out wood bit, they bore a hole through your femur and one through your tibia. Next they take a coat hanger or something, and they poke the sliver of tendon through both of these holes to create a new ACL for you. You wake up, with your knee immobilized in a big ass brace that has two hinges right at knee level. Take special note of how to lock and unlock the hinges. If you fail to lock the hinges, movement of even .01 degree in the knee will bring you to new heights of unimaginable pain.

They give you "Pain Meds". Percocets, they are, and they have two distinct effects. One is to relive pain, and the other is to shut your guts down. I ate them like popcorn. The pain relief is marginal at best, but the cessation of the colo-rectal function is complete and absolute. Everything in your digestive tract stops moving just prior to its 'leaving the building' so to speak. You still get hungry. You still eat, but Elvis isn't leaving the building, if you know what I mean. Because you are looped on Percs, you don't notice for 3 or 4 days that you've apparently and miraculously been impregnated, and that what ever you are going to give birth to is going to be big. Anyone who has given birth to a large piece of firewood will never take percocets again, and the medical theory is that you'll remember the pain of childbirth instead of the pain from the surgery. It's an evil strategy.

So, now Dr. Frankenstein wants to open me up like a butterflied pork chop and rearrange my innards. He's doing that doctor 'look'. He's very serious. He's offering to gut me, for a price of course, and I suspect there is a lot of pain involved in this.

"How much is this going to hurt?", I ask, trying not to sound scared.

"We'll give you pain meds, but you've got to lose 15lbs.", Dr. Frankenstein replies.

"How much is this going to hurt?", I repeat, not falling for the misdirection.

The doctor isn't playing around. He goes for my jugular. "The easiest way for someone your age to lose weight is to cut down on your drinking.", he says without blinking. He expects this to shake me, for my love of bourbon is legend, but I don't take the bait.

"How much is this going to hurt?" I press on.

"Hurt? Not much.", he finally replies.

"Really?" I exclaim, with obvious relief.

"No...not really.", he smiled, "I can give you some pain meds."