I'm starting a friendly competition, and currently, I'm winning. Whoever can give me the best topic to write about wins an awesome prize. (Remember: my definition of 'awesome' and your definition of 'awesome' might be completely different.) No but really... let me know if you have anything that you'd like to see me tackle. (Figuratively, of course. I really don't want to pop another rib out of place.) Just comment with your idea on this post and you've entered the contest! There I go... just winning myself to the top.
Remember winning is everything, unless losing gets you ice cream.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
It's a Doggone World
The other day I was driving on the interstate. My vocal replications of Band of Horses were oddly interrupted by a Bichon Frise… with goggles… on the back of a Harley. It might have looked something, but not necessarily, like this:
I chuckled to myself as I passed this casual canine, but have since more seriously pondered what I saw. Goggles… on a dog…?
Where did this fad come from? Do you remember any of these famous K-9s wearing goggles?
I chuckled to myself as I passed this casual canine, but have since more seriously pondered what I saw. Goggles… on a dog…?
Where did this fad come from? Do you remember any of these famous K-9s wearing goggles?
Anyone who is a dog owner, or friend of a dog owner, (or, quite honestly, anyone who has petted, has chased, has been chased by, has been barked at by, or has even seen a dog) knows that dogs love the wind in their faces. It’s common knowledge. Just like the fact that pigs have wings and shaving makes your beard grow in thicker.
And what dogs love, even more than wind, is even more wind. I’m sure you’ve noticed drivers with their windows cracked. At first glance you might think ‘smoker’. (That's very stereotypical of you.) But I ask you to glance again… to re-glance, if you will. And I will.
First, you’ll notice that it’s the back windows that are cracked, not the front. Red flag. Second, you’ll notice the partial face of a dog sticking out. Really red flag. Third, if you drive directly behind them, you will be able to wash your windshield without using any of your windshield wiper fluid. White flag. (If you actually do this, you should probably throw in the towel of life.)
But have you noticed, the more they roll down the window, the more dog-head you see? And don’t get me started on dogs in the back of trucks! They go as fast as they can from one side to the other: “What does it smell like over here? Oh, almost the same as… over here! Except this one’s a little different. Smells like orange color. ...And this side smells like burnt orange!” (Yes, dogs smell colors.) I don’t know if it’s the smells, the sights, or just the feeling that they’re flying, but dogs love high powered wind.
I didn’t see Toto running from any tornadoes. No sir/ma’am. Toto was barking like a lunatic, facing that twister head-on, ready for the ride of his life… and what did Dorothy do? Took him to a automobile-less land of midgets and flying monkeys. Typical girl move. (Yes, monkeys have wings too.) I’m sure Toto’s flying monkey ride was the thrill of the trip, but I’m also sure that a tornado ride would have blown that monkey ride… away. (Wow, that works on so many levels.)
And what dogs love, even more than wind, is even more wind. I’m sure you’ve noticed drivers with their windows cracked. At first glance you might think ‘smoker’. (That's very stereotypical of you.) But I ask you to glance again… to re-glance, if you will. And I will.
First, you’ll notice that it’s the back windows that are cracked, not the front. Red flag. Second, you’ll notice the partial face of a dog sticking out. Really red flag. Third, if you drive directly behind them, you will be able to wash your windshield without using any of your windshield wiper fluid. White flag. (If you actually do this, you should probably throw in the towel of life.)
But have you noticed, the more they roll down the window, the more dog-head you see? And don’t get me started on dogs in the back of trucks! They go as fast as they can from one side to the other: “What does it smell like over here? Oh, almost the same as… over here! Except this one’s a little different. Smells like orange color. ...And this side smells like burnt orange!” (Yes, dogs smell colors.) I don’t know if it’s the smells, the sights, or just the feeling that they’re flying, but dogs love high powered wind.
I didn’t see Toto running from any tornadoes. No sir/ma’am. Toto was barking like a lunatic, facing that twister head-on, ready for the ride of his life… and what did Dorothy do? Took him to a automobile-less land of midgets and flying monkeys. Typical girl move. (Yes, monkeys have wings too.) I’m sure Toto’s flying monkey ride was the thrill of the trip, but I’m also sure that a tornado ride would have blown that monkey ride… away. (Wow, that works on so many levels.)
_
I'm also going to take this time to blame Dorothy for the ridiculous notion that 'high-culture' girls need to carry little dogs in their purses/bags. (Yes, this is Dorothy's fault.)
I hope Toto ruined the picnic, (if you know what I mean), and if you put your dog in your purse, I hope your dog ruins your 'picnic' too.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is: Don’t put goggles on your Bichon Frise. (Unless you want to protect their eyes from harmful UV rays. If you want to do that… buy doggles!)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Your Wildest (Story) Can Come True!
The other day I saw this video on Sportscenter: Shaq vs Phelps! This got me really excited because I wrote about a potential Shaq/Phelps matchup last year. After I saw this...
Read what I wrote about it here: The Black Michael Phelps
And they did it! Produced by the one and only... Steve Nash!! (do you think he read my blog??? What if he's reading... right NOW!? Hey, Steve. Uh... I have your shoes...? )
Watch the full episode of Shaq vs Phelps here! http://abc.go.com/watch/shaq-vs/230338/234595/season-finale
Read what I wrote about it here: The Black Michael Phelps
And they did it! Produced by the one and only... Steve Nash!! (do you think he read my blog??? What if he's reading... right NOW!? Hey, Steve. Uh... I have your shoes...? )
Watch the full episode of Shaq vs Phelps here! http://abc.go.com/watch/shaq-vs/230338/234595/season-finale
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
10 Things to Remember When Flying
1. Never fall asleep before you get your complimentary beverage. It’s free. And it’s cranberry apple juice. ‘Nuff said.
2. Always ask for 'no ice' in your complimentary beverage. Someone once said that 'less is more', (before today I would say that they were completely ridiculous and a raving lunatic, because less is definitely less, not more… but in this case they are absolutely right.) Less ice means more delectable cranberry apple juice. They store the drinks in a cooler anyways, so you don't even need ice.
3. Always ask for a second complimentary beverage. Especially if your flying buddy declines the opportunity to taste the nectar of the gods (cranberry apple). Cranapple squared equals heaven. Plus it’s free. So I believe the correct equation is: cranapple squared plus free equals heaven times infinity cubed. (Not ice cubed, just numerically cubed.)
4. Always take headphones. I mean, you could use the ones you just found wedged between the two seats in front of you. (I'm sure the prewaxed earbuds would slide quite comfortably into your ear canals. PS- Do you think mixing ear wax is a bad thing? What if it's like mixing blood? I guess they don't call them hearing AIDS for nothing.) But having your own pair is a much needed commodity when there are two screaming infants in the seat directly behind you.
5. Don't take screaming infants. Especially if they're teething. The only thing worse than an extremely frightened baby is an extremely frightened, teething baby on an airplane. Combine that with loud engines, turbulence, and a dark, drafty cabin and you're gonna get a baby that screams at the top of its lungs for 3 straight hours. I didn't think it was possible. I now know it is.
6. Don't sit in front of screaming infants. Especially if you don't have headphones. (Please refer to items 4 and 5.) It also helps to note that the child will continue to scream no matter how many times you look back in concern/annoyance/disgust.
(I'm still audibly laughing at my hearing AIDS comment, I hope you are too.)
7. Be the first to use the lavatory. There are a lot of reasons why… I’ll just say this: a cool seat is much nicer than a warm one.
8. Don’t talk to acquaintances. A college buddy, a former work associate, a new acquaintance… I hate to tell you this but they just might not remember you. Even though you met them yesterday… at a family gathering.
9. Don't talk to strangers. Now this could be a little harder for some of you who are little Chatty Cathys and can't go 5 minutes without saying something. But flying is the perfect time to practice being quiet. Read, pretend you can read, sleep, pretend to sleep, jam out to tunes. Just don't talk to anyone. Hopefully this example will illustrate what I mean. Upon arrival at your assigned gate, you glance around at the other passengers and try to guess which one will be your traveling partner. The nicely dressed, older man (with glasses) a few feet away does the same thing. You make eye contact, and you nod with a closed smile as a sign of acknowledgement. After responding to a few text messages and checking the scores on ESPN MVP, you once again glance up and notice him looking at you. You notice this happens a few more times and shrug it off as a sign that he thinks he recognizes you from somewhere.
You courteously say 'Hello.' as you pass him to board the plane. But once again, you feel a little odd when he ends up sitting in one of the seats across the aisle. Although you make no attempt to mimic his actions, you feel him looking at you throughout the duration of the flight. 'I'm not the one with the screaming baby,' you seem to think.
You've finally made it off the plane, through the baggage claim, and onto the shuttle which will take you to the Economy Parking Lot. The bus is packed and letting this family of three off at their stop will require careful manuvering. You shuffle a few suitcases and rearrange a few bodies. You set your bag down again and look up. Once again, you make eye contact with the man with glasses, and you smile a closed smile while you nod in acknowledgement.... and you get off the shuttle even though your car is at the other end of the lot.
10. Always, always, ALWAYS take headphones. You don’t even need an ipod or an mp3 player… just take the headphones and pretend. Trust me.
2. Always ask for 'no ice' in your complimentary beverage. Someone once said that 'less is more', (before today I would say that they were completely ridiculous and a raving lunatic, because less is definitely less, not more… but in this case they are absolutely right.) Less ice means more delectable cranberry apple juice. They store the drinks in a cooler anyways, so you don't even need ice.
3. Always ask for a second complimentary beverage. Especially if your flying buddy declines the opportunity to taste the nectar of the gods (cranberry apple). Cranapple squared equals heaven. Plus it’s free. So I believe the correct equation is: cranapple squared plus free equals heaven times infinity cubed. (Not ice cubed, just numerically cubed.)
4. Always take headphones. I mean, you could use the ones you just found wedged between the two seats in front of you. (I'm sure the prewaxed earbuds would slide quite comfortably into your ear canals. PS- Do you think mixing ear wax is a bad thing? What if it's like mixing blood? I guess they don't call them hearing AIDS for nothing.) But having your own pair is a much needed commodity when there are two screaming infants in the seat directly behind you.
5. Don't take screaming infants. Especially if they're teething. The only thing worse than an extremely frightened baby is an extremely frightened, teething baby on an airplane. Combine that with loud engines, turbulence, and a dark, drafty cabin and you're gonna get a baby that screams at the top of its lungs for 3 straight hours. I didn't think it was possible. I now know it is.
6. Don't sit in front of screaming infants. Especially if you don't have headphones. (Please refer to items 4 and 5.) It also helps to note that the child will continue to scream no matter how many times you look back in concern/annoyance/disgust.
(I'm still audibly laughing at my hearing AIDS comment, I hope you are too.)
7. Be the first to use the lavatory. There are a lot of reasons why… I’ll just say this: a cool seat is much nicer than a warm one.
8. Don’t talk to acquaintances. A college buddy, a former work associate, a new acquaintance… I hate to tell you this but they just might not remember you. Even though you met them yesterday… at a family gathering.
9. Don't talk to strangers. Now this could be a little harder for some of you who are little Chatty Cathys and can't go 5 minutes without saying something. But flying is the perfect time to practice being quiet. Read, pretend you can read, sleep, pretend to sleep, jam out to tunes. Just don't talk to anyone. Hopefully this example will illustrate what I mean. Upon arrival at your assigned gate, you glance around at the other passengers and try to guess which one will be your traveling partner. The nicely dressed, older man (with glasses) a few feet away does the same thing. You make eye contact, and you nod with a closed smile as a sign of acknowledgement. After responding to a few text messages and checking the scores on ESPN MVP, you once again glance up and notice him looking at you. You notice this happens a few more times and shrug it off as a sign that he thinks he recognizes you from somewhere.
You courteously say 'Hello.' as you pass him to board the plane. But once again, you feel a little odd when he ends up sitting in one of the seats across the aisle. Although you make no attempt to mimic his actions, you feel him looking at you throughout the duration of the flight. 'I'm not the one with the screaming baby,' you seem to think.
You've finally made it off the plane, through the baggage claim, and onto the shuttle which will take you to the Economy Parking Lot. The bus is packed and letting this family of three off at their stop will require careful manuvering. You shuffle a few suitcases and rearrange a few bodies. You set your bag down again and look up. Once again, you make eye contact with the man with glasses, and you smile a closed smile while you nod in acknowledgement.... and you get off the shuttle even though your car is at the other end of the lot.
10. Always, always, ALWAYS take headphones. You don’t even need an ipod or an mp3 player… just take the headphones and pretend. Trust me.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Clubhouse
In the early days of man, relationships were easy. There were no complicated dialogues of dreams/goals/ambitions, there were no matching of personalities/interests/indifferences. There were no mind games, there were no arguments, and there was no drama. Take this couple for example:
A long, long time ago, there was a man named Trog. He was a well respected and admired man. He was a caveman by blood, but his hut-making skills rapidly placed him among the more advanced of his kind. You could say he was a member of the Elite… he lived in a hut. Trog always minded his ‘Slag’s and ‘Norg’s, and always gnawed all the meat off his bone.
Also among his people lived a ‘beautiful’ young woman named Goldenhare. She always dressed in the finest, gold rabbits fur (before they became extinct, of course) and always accessorized with the latest small, rodent-bone fashions. Many say she got the name Goldenhare because of her long, flowing blonde hair. But that wasn’t the case at all. Not only did she not have blonde hair, but it didn’t flow either. In fact, she had tangled, ratty, brown hair and she was just about as average a girl as there was in the village. I’m sure someone once new why she was named Goldenhare… but I’m also sure that that person died long, long ago.
One day, Trog approached Goldenhare.
“My name Trog.”
“My name Goldenhare.”
Then Trog, because he was one of the more gentlemanly cavemen, said,
“Me want you.”
And with a swift swing of his club (because he was still a caveman, whether gentlemanly or not) he hit Goldenhare on the head, knocking her unconscious. She ‘gracefully’ fell to the ground with a ‘Thud!’. And Trog grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to his hut.
And I’m pretty sure they lived happily ever after. (I definitely didn’t hear any Trog-Goldenhare drama from the tablet-bloids or the local watering hole.)
Now, thousands of years later, getting hitched isn’t that easy. I think clubbing a girl would get me battery, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, and various other charges that would result in a hefty jail sentence. Not to mention a hefty jail roommate with ‘hefty’ jail experience.
That being said, lets take a look at how it works today.
A strapling young man named Robret meets a beautiful, aspiring artist named Nicolette (both names have been changed to protect their identity). They seem to hit it off and Robret decides he likes this girl.
“Would you like to go out with me?” he asks.
“You can buy me dinner,” she replies.
After the exchanging of phone numbers, IT has officially begun.
Robret texts her just to chip off a little more of the ice. He calls… no answer. He leaves her a voicemail and sends her an e-mail, but not before posting on her Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter accounts. He texts her again…
“Lets hike- Sat @ 8.”
“Is dinner included?” she responds.
“Uh… brkfst?”
For the next several months this pattern continues: text, call, dinner, call, canoeing, dinner and a movie, call, text, text, picnic lunch, call, dancing, dinner, dinner, dinner, text, dinner, text.
The next thing he knows, he’s sitting across the table from her parents in a fancy, 6-star restaurant blabbing about his 5 stroke handicap (golf) and his 4 hour tug-o-war with 3 marlins off the Florida Keys.
Two minutes later, Robret passes the test and gains the approval of 1 typically un-approving father.
On the way home Robret decides it’s time.
"Will you marry me?" he asks.
"No," she responds without hesitation.
"What if I give you this huge, sparkling rock?" as he pulls a red felted box from his pocket.
"Maybe..."
"It's expensive."
"Ok.” Nicolette finally concedes. “But you have to take me to a fancy restaurant and buy me a shiny accessory every year until I die.”
It's amazing what jewelry will do to a girl... it’s amazing what dinner will do to a girl.
And so, as a congratulatory gesture to the recent engagement of Bret and Niki, (I mean, Robret and Nicollette) I say: Atta boy, Bret. Way to club a good one.
A long, long time ago, there was a man named Trog. He was a well respected and admired man. He was a caveman by blood, but his hut-making skills rapidly placed him among the more advanced of his kind. You could say he was a member of the Elite… he lived in a hut. Trog always minded his ‘Slag’s and ‘Norg’s, and always gnawed all the meat off his bone.
Also among his people lived a ‘beautiful’ young woman named Goldenhare. She always dressed in the finest, gold rabbits fur (before they became extinct, of course) and always accessorized with the latest small, rodent-bone fashions. Many say she got the name Goldenhare because of her long, flowing blonde hair. But that wasn’t the case at all. Not only did she not have blonde hair, but it didn’t flow either. In fact, she had tangled, ratty, brown hair and she was just about as average a girl as there was in the village. I’m sure someone once new why she was named Goldenhare… but I’m also sure that that person died long, long ago.
One day, Trog approached Goldenhare.
“My name Trog.”
“My name Goldenhare.”
Then Trog, because he was one of the more gentlemanly cavemen, said,
“Me want you.”
And with a swift swing of his club (because he was still a caveman, whether gentlemanly or not) he hit Goldenhare on the head, knocking her unconscious. She ‘gracefully’ fell to the ground with a ‘Thud!’. And Trog grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to his hut.
And I’m pretty sure they lived happily ever after. (I definitely didn’t hear any Trog-Goldenhare drama from the tablet-bloids or the local watering hole.)
Now, thousands of years later, getting hitched isn’t that easy. I think clubbing a girl would get me battery, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, and various other charges that would result in a hefty jail sentence. Not to mention a hefty jail roommate with ‘hefty’ jail experience.
That being said, lets take a look at how it works today.
A strapling young man named Robret meets a beautiful, aspiring artist named Nicolette (both names have been changed to protect their identity). They seem to hit it off and Robret decides he likes this girl.
“Would you like to go out with me?” he asks.
“You can buy me dinner,” she replies.
After the exchanging of phone numbers, IT has officially begun.
Robret texts her just to chip off a little more of the ice. He calls… no answer. He leaves her a voicemail and sends her an e-mail, but not before posting on her Facebook, Myspace, and Twitter accounts. He texts her again…
“Lets hike- Sat @ 8.”
“Is dinner included?” she responds.
“Uh… brkfst?”
For the next several months this pattern continues: text, call, dinner, call, canoeing, dinner and a movie, call, text, text, picnic lunch, call, dancing, dinner, dinner, dinner, text, dinner, text.
The next thing he knows, he’s sitting across the table from her parents in a fancy, 6-star restaurant blabbing about his 5 stroke handicap (golf) and his 4 hour tug-o-war with 3 marlins off the Florida Keys.
Two minutes later, Robret passes the test and gains the approval of 1 typically un-approving father.
On the way home Robret decides it’s time.
"Will you marry me?" he asks.
"No," she responds without hesitation.
"What if I give you this huge, sparkling rock?" as he pulls a red felted box from his pocket.
"Maybe..."
"It's expensive."
"Ok.” Nicolette finally concedes. “But you have to take me to a fancy restaurant and buy me a shiny accessory every year until I die.”
It's amazing what jewelry will do to a girl... it’s amazing what dinner will do to a girl.
And so, as a congratulatory gesture to the recent engagement of Bret and Niki, (I mean, Robret and Nicollette) I say: Atta boy, Bret. Way to club a good one.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Are you sure you want to...
Thursday. THA-hurs-day. Thirsty. Yes. It is that day. Not quite the weekend, but not really a weekday. And you're stuck at work/summer school/in-laws. And you need a beverage. So you decide to check out Bart's blog. It HAS been a while, hasn't it? You're expecting another mild romp through the coursing adventure of what was formerly known as 'A Bart's Life'. Hmmm... not so. You quickly scan the pictures of Hanley Ramirez to make sure he hasn't changed any of them... Nope. The All-Star is still there, in All his glory.
Then, you hear it. The pluck of a banjo and the twang of a southern accent. You're confused. You don't quite know what you're hearing... is it from YOUR I-tunes? ... No. You check to see if you left the radio on... that's a negative as well. All of a sudden the sweet melodic voice of Taylor Swift slides through your ear canal. 'AAAAArg,' you think. 'Where is that dag-blasted music coming from?' You can't take it any more. It's time to pull a move from 'The Bartlot' and lace up your Chuck Taylors and make a run for it. You scroll frantically for the player on Bart's blog. You scroll and scroll and scroll. ... And scroll.
You're almost in panic mode now. And do you know what panic leads to? Acceptance. There's no way you'll let this upbeat, pop-like rubbish get the best of you! Is there any way out of 'The Bartrix'?! You finally make it down to the player... but right as you're about to push the 'stop' button YOU stop. You can't believe it! You're tapping your foot to the likes of Kellie Pickler! 'Noooooooooooooo!'
Yes. I know what you thought. You thought you could just shut it off. You thought you could beat the system. But you couldn't. And you didn't. And guess what? Now you're hooked to country music. Living in Wyoming will do that to you. So will not having the strength to push the stupid 'stop' button. At least I can use the first one as an excuse... what about you?
Then, you hear it. The pluck of a banjo and the twang of a southern accent. You're confused. You don't quite know what you're hearing... is it from YOUR I-tunes? ... No. You check to see if you left the radio on... that's a negative as well. All of a sudden the sweet melodic voice of Taylor Swift slides through your ear canal. 'AAAAArg,' you think. 'Where is that dag-blasted music coming from?' You can't take it any more. It's time to pull a move from 'The Bartlot' and lace up your Chuck Taylors and make a run for it. You scroll frantically for the player on Bart's blog. You scroll and scroll and scroll. ... And scroll.
You're almost in panic mode now. And do you know what panic leads to? Acceptance. There's no way you'll let this upbeat, pop-like rubbish get the best of you! Is there any way out of 'The Bartrix'?! You finally make it down to the player... but right as you're about to push the 'stop' button YOU stop. You can't believe it! You're tapping your foot to the likes of Kellie Pickler! 'Noooooooooooooo!'
Yes. I know what you thought. You thought you could just shut it off. You thought you could beat the system. But you couldn't. And you didn't. And guess what? Now you're hooked to country music. Living in Wyoming will do that to you. So will not having the strength to push the stupid 'stop' button. At least I can use the first one as an excuse... what about you?
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Numero Uno... and Dos
The other day my uncle said in passing, "Oh, I think the Fish are coming to town this weekend." Immediately, flashes of leather mitts and wooden bats crossed in front of my eyes. The smell of fresh-cut grass and May rain clouds invaded my nostrils. The salty taste of peanuts and sunflower seeds, hot dogs and pistachios caused my salivatory glands to ignite. I wiped the drool off my chin as I drifted back to reality.
Armed with my tickets and my Florida Marlins shirt, myself, Bret, Dad, and Curtis set off to Denver. We arrived just in time to watch Florida's batting practice.
We strolled down to our section and down the rows. 10, 9, 8, getting closer and closer, 7... but we were far TOO close to be in the sixth row? Maybe they misnumbered the seats... or we were in the wrong section. But there it was... two rows up from the dugout... row number six. "Is this right?" came the question amid 'Holy Cow!'s and 'Wow!'s. No one ever told us that the dugout actually consists of rows 1-4.
Later that day, I figured I'd take a gander, sneak a peek, 'window shop' (you know... just for the heck of it...) to see what kind of seats I could, might, maybe, possibly, get. After a few clicks and disinterested sighs later, I rubbed my eyes. I looked a little harder at the screen. Then I looked around to see if anyone was behind me, waiting to see my reaction then burst out laughing as if they had pulled the ultimate prank. No one was, and no one did.
I couldn't believe it! What had I just found?! I couldn't STILL hardly beleive it, and yet, there they were! Four tickets... Section 138... sixth row.
Armed with my tickets and my Florida Marlins shirt, myself, Bret, Dad, and Curtis set off to Denver. We arrived just in time to watch Florida's batting practice.
We strolled down to our section and down the rows. 10, 9, 8, getting closer and closer, 7... but we were far TOO close to be in the sixth row? Maybe they misnumbered the seats... or we were in the wrong section. But there it was... two rows up from the dugout... row number six. "Is this right?" came the question amid 'Holy Cow!'s and 'Wow!'s. No one ever told us that the dugout actually consists of rows 1-4.
"Do you want to move back?" asked the usher.
"Yeah, we're a little TOO close to enjoy anything," replied Dad.
So there we were. Row two... er, uh... six... right above the Marlins dugout. We took in batting practice and warmups. I got a thumbs up from Emilio Bonifacio, the third basemen, when I showed him my Marlins shirt. Cameron Maybin, the center fielder, came and signed autographs.
And I just took it all in.
It was almost game time and Hanley Ramirez and Jorge Cantu came out of the dugout right in front of us to get in a few final warm-up tosses.
Here's Hanley going up to bat in the 1st inning. Notice I'm wearing a white ball cap and blue jacket...
Then, all of a sudden, a loud SMACK...!
A thing of beauty!
Did you notice anything unusual? Watch it again.
What about right around the 25 or 26 second mark?
Did you notice the guy in the stands with the blue jacket and white hat? Here let me work some magic and get the guys in the booth to pause it for a second... and John Madden to draw some stuff on it... "Now here's a guy if he wasn't standing he'd be sitting."
Thats right folks. I was on TV. But you all already know that. The guys on Sportscenter can't stop talking about the 'only guy cheering for the Marlins', and after my brief appearances on Letterman and the O... who wouldn't know who I am?
The game was tied 3-3 after 3 innings... but then during the 5th inning the Marlins exploded for 5 runs. Here's Hanley with an RBI single.
Later in the game, Dan Uggla, the All-Star second baseman, was hanging around the top step of the dugout. Curtis yelled at him, "Hey, I want a ball!"
"I don't have any!" he yelled back.
"I want a ball!" said Curtis again.
"And I want to pitch," said Uggla with a grin.
"Yeah, I'd like to see that too!" I said, showing him my shirt. He gave me a thumbs up, and went back into the dugout.
The Fish won 8-3. Hanley was 4/5 with a HR and 2 RBI and a stolen base. Needless to say, I was one happy baseball fan.
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