As another season of baseball winds down, I am reminded of some of my own experiences with the game that I love so. I started playing baseball when I was in second grade. The first team I was on was sponsored by a small grocery store called C&R Market in La Plata, MO. We were the "Bombers." It was a coach-pitch league and my dad was our coach. I was never a great hitter, but what I lacked in talent I made up for in embarrassing moments. I don't really include contracting head lice in that category since the entire team shared my misery. The cooties were apparently spread via our communal batting helmets and as a remedy, every single one of us was required to get his head shaved. My most memorable moment occurred later that same season while standing on second base.
After eking out an infield hit and reaching second on an error, I realized that I had to pee. As I mentioned, this was coach-pitch baseball, so my dad was standing only a few feet in front of me on the pitcher's mound. As he threw pitch after pitch to the next batter, the urgency built exponentially in my seven year old bladder. I self-consciously called out, "Coach?!" in a feeble attempt to get Dad's attention. Eventually, the inevitable happened. Suddenly I felt the simultaneous sensations of complete nirvana and abject horror as a flood of warm liquid streamed down my legs and pooled in the infield dirt. I'm not sure if I was crying because of the overwhelming feeling of relief or the impending sense of doom as I quickly realized everyone would soon know what had just happened. Despair began to overtake me and I began to silently sob while the game continued. Then, like an angel sent down from Heaven to save me, I heard a loud but concerned "time out" emanated from the bleachers. I looked over and saw my mom grabbing her jacket and rushing across the diamond to come to my aid. She wrapped the jacket around my waist and when players and parents asked what was wrong she said, "He got hit by a ball." I don't know if anyone believed it, but it bought us enough time for her to whisk me off the field and into the car- allowing us to escape to our home and avoid any further scrutiny. For that, my mom will always be my hero.
A better baseball memory came during my junior year in high school while I was struggling to earn my varsity letter. The traditional way to earn a letter was to play in enough innings during the year to satisfy the requirement. Since I was a consummate benchwarmer, I had only made a few token appearances in varsity games as a pinch-runner. Therefore, I was well short of the requisite number of innings to earn my letter. There was another option, however. If a player appeared in a post-season game, he automatically earned his varsity letter. Everyone on the team was aware of this fact when the Hannibal High School Pirates played their final game of the 1989 season during the district playoffs. Ours was a team of mediocrity. Our record on the season was 11 wins, 10 losses. In this particular game, we were losing 11 to 0 in the late innings. It was obvious to everyone that our season would come to an unceremonious end with the game's final out. The players took a quick inventory of who had earned their letters during the year and it became apparent that I was the last one eligible who had not yet earned the honor. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, the coach had failed either to realize or care that I was the only member of the varsity team who did not have his letter. All I had to do was make an appearance. Our last batter, a senior named Derek David, started to walk out to the batter's box for his final plate appearance of his high school career. As he approached the plate he yelled something over to our head coach who was coaching third base at the time. At first, no one understood what he was saying until it finally dawned on us. "Coach, let Naughton hit for me."
"What?" Coach Bazell yelled. "Just get in there, David!"
"I'm taking myself out. Put Naughton in." With that, Derek took off his helmet and returned to the dugout. The other team stood on the field, scratching their heads in disbelief.
"What?! Alright, Naughton, get a helmet on." As the words left the coach's mouth, the dugout erupted into cheers. This was it. This was my moment in the sun. All I could think was "Don't embarrass yourself." I grabbed a helmet and a bat and sprinted out toward the batter's box. I allowed myself a quick glance at my surroundings to allow the moment to sink in. Coach Bazell had a half smile on his face- one that seemed to say, "We're going to lose anyway, so I might as well make this kid's day." I looked at the pitcher, who to my surprise had the exact same look on his face. I pounded my bat on the plate, dug my cleats into the dirt and stood ready. I knew that the pitcher would consider me no threat since he witnessed first hand the theatrics coming from our dugout. I was sure that he wouldn't waste everyone's time throwing me any off-speed stuff. So, looking for a fastball, I made up my mind to swing at the first pitch no matter what. To no one's surprise, he in fact did throw a fastball and to absolutely everyone's surprise, I was ready for it. I swung as hard as I could. I swung with such effort that I actually closed my eyes for a split second. I heard and felt the ball hit the bat, but never saw it. Since I had no idea if it was a grounder, a liner, or a foul ball I instinctively ran as fast as humanly possible. As I sprinted down the first base line past my dugout, I could hear my teammates screaming and rattling the fence. I stepped on the bag and heard the ball hit the first baseman's glove a second later. I was safe! The dugout went completely nuts and when I looked over the guys were falling all over each other, high-fiving, throwing their gloves and hats, and jumping up and down. For a second or two, I could have sworn we had just won the World Series. My hit, I was later told, was a slow-roller to the shortstop that was more like a swinging bunt than the fierce line drive I had hoped it was. But, I had driven in a run, which prevented us from being shut-out. That, to me, was as good as a win. I heard one of my teammates shout, "Everybody scores!" as the run crossed the plate. While the excitement settled down, another batter stepped in and I stole second base. I reached third on a passed ball and eventually touched home as the final out was recorded. My official varsity stats for the game and the season read as follows:
Batting Avg: 1.000
Stolen bases: 2 Attempts: 2
RBI: 1
I would later brag that I was the only letterman to never be put out that year. I was and always will be grateful to Derek for giving up his last at-bat in order for me to have my most memorable. Ironically, it turned out to be my last high school at bat, too because the new coach that was brought in the next year kicked me off the team. But that's another story...
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Blogger vs. Writer
I have toyed with the idea of writing a novel in the past. However in the case of my life, the truth is stranger (and funnier) than fiction. Frankly, I don't need to make stuff up. Have you met me and my family? I have long struggled with finding a format that would allow me to write within my comfort zone. At long last it finally "clicked" for me. David Sedaris has had many of his essays published in various magazines and eventually he compiled them into several volumes that have become New York Times best sellers. Who says I couldn't do the same thing?
I have been a blogger for about four years now. It is a fun way for me to express myself without having to worry, like so many writers do, about pleasing an editor or offending an advertiser. So am I not a writer even though I only write on this blog? I have now posted over 350 times on this blog plus several more on two other blogs to which I contribute. I wondered how many of those could be considered good enough to be labeled "essays" (with some re-writing here and there) and eventually published in book form. So yesterday I actually went all the way back to the beginning of my blog and culled 23 posts from the herd. I saved them to a folder on my computer where I plan to fine-tune them into what could perhaps be construed as examples of "professional writing." I also came up with 25 more essay ideas that I will try to add to that collection. My plan is to shape each essay into an 8 to 12 page "chapter" and to assemble 12 to 15 chapters into a book. If successful, my goal is to publish 2 or 3 books in this fashion. With 48 essay ideas and counting, I just may be able to pull this off.
"But how are you going to get it published?" you ask. Good question. If anyone has any ideas, I would love to hear them. For now, the best plan I can come up with involves accosting David Sedaris when he comes to Jesse Hall in April and forcing him to take a copy of my manuscript. Then I will begin harassing him, his agent, and his publisher until they agree to take a chance on me or file a restraining order. If all else fails, I could self-publish my first book and when online sales go through the roof and threaten to crash Amazon.com's servers, any publisher with a desire to get stinking rich would of course drive a truckload of money to my front door to sign on for the follow-up. It could happen.
I have been a blogger for about four years now. It is a fun way for me to express myself without having to worry, like so many writers do, about pleasing an editor or offending an advertiser. So am I not a writer even though I only write on this blog? I have now posted over 350 times on this blog plus several more on two other blogs to which I contribute. I wondered how many of those could be considered good enough to be labeled "essays" (with some re-writing here and there) and eventually published in book form. So yesterday I actually went all the way back to the beginning of my blog and culled 23 posts from the herd. I saved them to a folder on my computer where I plan to fine-tune them into what could perhaps be construed as examples of "professional writing." I also came up with 25 more essay ideas that I will try to add to that collection. My plan is to shape each essay into an 8 to 12 page "chapter" and to assemble 12 to 15 chapters into a book. If successful, my goal is to publish 2 or 3 books in this fashion. With 48 essay ideas and counting, I just may be able to pull this off.
"But how are you going to get it published?" you ask. Good question. If anyone has any ideas, I would love to hear them. For now, the best plan I can come up with involves accosting David Sedaris when he comes to Jesse Hall in April and forcing him to take a copy of my manuscript. Then I will begin harassing him, his agent, and his publisher until they agree to take a chance on me or file a restraining order. If all else fails, I could self-publish my first book and when online sales go through the roof and threaten to crash Amazon.com's servers, any publisher with a desire to get stinking rich would of course drive a truckload of money to my front door to sign on for the follow-up. It could happen.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Rude, Crude, and Socially Unacceptable
Often times, my mother describes my behavior as "rude, crude, and socially unacceptable." I can't really argue with that. I can be a consummate gentleman when the situation warrants it, but otherwise I enjoy disgusting those around me and even myself. Case in point: I was sitting on the toilet a moment ago when a memory crossed my mind. Allow me to share.
In Marine Corps boot camp, we didn't go to the bathroom Instead, we "hit the head." Instead of asking a drill instructor for permission to go tinkle, we would say, "Sir, Recruit Naughton requests permission to make a standing head call, Sir!" If going "number two" was your priority, you would use the term "sitting head call." One day, our platoon was engaged in a field day where all the platoons in our company met to compete in various athletic contests. The exercise field was a good half-mile from our barracks and just as the instructions for the morning's activities were being given by our D.I., the runny eggs that I swiftly and carelessly inhaled for breakfast began to reek havoc on my digestive tract. I tried to fight off the urge to evacuate my intestines until I became painfully aware of the impending disaster. Panic stricken, I stood up and interrupted the Marine sergeant who was explaining the exercise. "Sir, Recruit Naughton requests permission to make an emergency sitting head call, Sir!!!"
"Well, hello there! Did you just interrupt me recruit?" the D.I. asked incredulously.
"Sir, yes Sir! It's an emergency, Sir!"
"Go," was all he said but the look in his eyes told me that I was a dead man. And so I ran faster than any man has ever run a half-mile while struggling not to soil himself. Thankfully, I made it just in the nick of time. Words cannot describe the immeasurable relief I felt in every fiber of my being. Moments later, and with a smile on my face, I walked out of the head only to be stopped by a team of three drill instructors. I immediately knew that my world was about to end. These particular drill instructors were visiting from Parris Island Recruit Training Depot to observe how the San Diego D.I.s ran things. Apparently, when I made my mad dash to the head they quickly closed in like sharks who could smell blood in the water.
"Push!", the first D.I. yelled. Of course he meant "Do push-ups until your arms break in two."
"On your back!" barked the second. Sit-ups. Have you ever done a hundred sit-ups after nearly shitting yourself?
"I said push!", the first D.I. reminded me in a not so subtle fashion.
"On your feet!", the third chimed in. Marine Corps jumping jacks. These were traditional jumping jacks with squat thrusts added between each repetition. Each time I obeyed an order from one of the drill instructors the others feigned outrage and immediately made me follow their orders. It became a little game for them to see how quickly I could switch exercises. I don't know how they kept from laughing. And I don't know how I kept from puking. I guess it was because I had nothing left in me to expel.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only five or ten minutes, the drill instructors sent me back out to rejoin my platoon. As I sit here now, I honestly can't recall partaking in the field exercises that day. I must have, but after the trauma of the emergency sitting head call and the ensuing punishment, it has been blocked out of my memory.
So by writing this I guess I have just proven that my Mama was right. You're welcome, Mommy.
In Marine Corps boot camp, we didn't go to the bathroom Instead, we "hit the head." Instead of asking a drill instructor for permission to go tinkle, we would say, "Sir, Recruit Naughton requests permission to make a standing head call, Sir!" If going "number two" was your priority, you would use the term "sitting head call." One day, our platoon was engaged in a field day where all the platoons in our company met to compete in various athletic contests. The exercise field was a good half-mile from our barracks and just as the instructions for the morning's activities were being given by our D.I., the runny eggs that I swiftly and carelessly inhaled for breakfast began to reek havoc on my digestive tract. I tried to fight off the urge to evacuate my intestines until I became painfully aware of the impending disaster. Panic stricken, I stood up and interrupted the Marine sergeant who was explaining the exercise. "Sir, Recruit Naughton requests permission to make an emergency sitting head call, Sir!!!"
"Well, hello there! Did you just interrupt me recruit?" the D.I. asked incredulously.
"Sir, yes Sir! It's an emergency, Sir!"
"Go," was all he said but the look in his eyes told me that I was a dead man. And so I ran faster than any man has ever run a half-mile while struggling not to soil himself. Thankfully, I made it just in the nick of time. Words cannot describe the immeasurable relief I felt in every fiber of my being. Moments later, and with a smile on my face, I walked out of the head only to be stopped by a team of three drill instructors. I immediately knew that my world was about to end. These particular drill instructors were visiting from Parris Island Recruit Training Depot to observe how the San Diego D.I.s ran things. Apparently, when I made my mad dash to the head they quickly closed in like sharks who could smell blood in the water.
"Push!", the first D.I. yelled. Of course he meant "Do push-ups until your arms break in two."
"On your back!" barked the second. Sit-ups. Have you ever done a hundred sit-ups after nearly shitting yourself?
"I said push!", the first D.I. reminded me in a not so subtle fashion.
"On your feet!", the third chimed in. Marine Corps jumping jacks. These were traditional jumping jacks with squat thrusts added between each repetition. Each time I obeyed an order from one of the drill instructors the others feigned outrage and immediately made me follow their orders. It became a little game for them to see how quickly I could switch exercises. I don't know how they kept from laughing. And I don't know how I kept from puking. I guess it was because I had nothing left in me to expel.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only five or ten minutes, the drill instructors sent me back out to rejoin my platoon. As I sit here now, I honestly can't recall partaking in the field exercises that day. I must have, but after the trauma of the emergency sitting head call and the ensuing punishment, it has been blocked out of my memory.
So by writing this I guess I have just proven that my Mama was right. You're welcome, Mommy.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Happy Birthday, Son
Although it is almost midnight here in Missouri as I type this post , it is just after 12:00 noon in China. That means our son Jiang should be celebrating his second birthday with his foster family right about now. Rest assured, we will have a belated birthday party for him when we get him home where he belongs in a few weeks. In the meantime, we will begin attending intro to Chinese classes this Thursday. (I can barely speak 'Merican.) Wish me luck...
Friday, September 12, 2008
Travis's Book Club
This week I checked out two books: "When You Are Engulfed In Flames" by David Sedaris and "From Baghdad to America" by Jay Kopelman. Both are biographical/anecdotal in nature, certainly not novels. Neither are for the faint of heart. Both will make you throw up in your mouth a little bit, but for completely different reasons. Both will make you laugh out loud at times. Both are raw. Both are honest. And when combined, they felt like they almost completely reflected who I am as a human being.
Sedaris is not normal. He writes his essays in a fashion similar to the way I blog. He puts his life out there for all to see. He's neurotic, a little creepy at times, and hilarious. He's done things...things most people would never admit to doing much less write about. He is the "gay" me. Kopelman previously wrote "From Baghdad with Love" telling about his life as a Marine who broke all the rules by falling in love with a puppy in Iraq. (Against all odds, he was able to smuggle the dog stateside.) The new book takes up where he left off in the first, when he returned home. Kopelston bares his soul regarding life after the horrors of war and how Lava, his dog, helped him feel human again.
Both books are written in a style similar to mine. Neither are politically correct. Both aim to expose the reader to the inner workings of a slightly deranged mind. Both authors share experiences that at times remind me of situations or emotions I have experienced. Both are poignant, funny, and disturbing. So am I. If you like reading my blog, then I highly recommend that you check these books out. You'll be glad you did.
Sedaris is not normal. He writes his essays in a fashion similar to the way I blog. He puts his life out there for all to see. He's neurotic, a little creepy at times, and hilarious. He's done things...things most people would never admit to doing much less write about. He is the "gay" me. Kopelman previously wrote "From Baghdad with Love" telling about his life as a Marine who broke all the rules by falling in love with a puppy in Iraq. (Against all odds, he was able to smuggle the dog stateside.) The new book takes up where he left off in the first, when he returned home. Kopelston bares his soul regarding life after the horrors of war and how Lava, his dog, helped him feel human again.
Both books are written in a style similar to mine. Neither are politically correct. Both aim to expose the reader to the inner workings of a slightly deranged mind. Both authors share experiences that at times remind me of situations or emotions I have experienced. Both are poignant, funny, and disturbing. So am I. If you like reading my blog, then I highly recommend that you check these books out. You'll be glad you did.
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