My Return to Little League Baseball- Part II

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The Big Giant- Day 1 of my return to Little League Baseball

Michael Jordan did it. So did Roger Clemens and recently Brett Favre. Now I join the ranks of athletes who come out of retirement and rekindle their passion for the love of the game. In my case I am returning to the site of my greatest glory, little league baseball.

My first step was to contact the league reps at Grant Rea Park in Montebello, my hometown where I had played for 6 years. I set up a meeting with a Luis Castillo who heads up the Pony League. I drove out to the park and met with Mr. Castillo, a youthful-looking man in a long-sleeved Jersey and Dodgers baseball cap. We sat on the bleachers that overlooked the baseball diamond. Sprinklers watered the outfield and infield and a gardener snipped the rim around the pitcher’s mound.

“Where’s your son?” Mr. Castillo asked looking around for a glimpse of the phantom boy.

“I don’t have one,” I said.

Luis blinked in rapid succession out of confusion and smiled.

“So who is the person interested in joining our league?”

“Me,” I said confidently.

“You? Is this a joke? I don’t get it.”

“It’s really simple, Mister Castillo. I’m coming out of retirement to play in the Pony League.”

“Mister Gonzalez, you can’t be serious. I mean with all due respect you’re…how old are you?”

“Thirty eight and a half. But don’t worry I’m getting in shape in time for the season.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just that this is a league for boys or girls thirteen and fourteen years of age.”

“Yeah. I know. I figured this was the most challenging league. All the lower leagues seem too easy.”

Luis stroked the beard of his goatee in frustration. Deep in the stubborn wiring of my brain I knew the naysayers would try to talk me out of my dream but I was determined to not let anyone spoil my goal.

“Look, Mister Gonzalez, I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to get at. The Pony League is only open to kids who are thirteen and fourteen. You can’t play here because you’re too old.”

Aha! I thought. Checkmate. I was prepared for this response. I recoiled my words and they sprang out like a skinny French dude from Cirque du Soleil.

“Sir, that’s ageism. Just so you know I had contacted a lawyer prior to our meeting and I have secured his services in case you pulled that age crap on me. And I can assure you my lawyer knows Gloria Allred.”

“Fine! I don’t want any problems. We’ll put your name in the drawing and a coach will contact you Saturday morning. Alright?”

Success! Not even the disgusted expression on Castillo’s face could dampen my victorious spirit. I drove back home after the meeting with a feeling of euphoria, similar to the restless anticipation I felt as a kid when Winter finally ended and the sun heralded the coming of the new baseball season.

Saturday morning arrived and at nine forty seven as I stuffed the last of my egg, cheese, sausage and ham burrito into my mouth the phone rang. I leapt seemingly from the kitchen to the living room and lifted the receiver before the second ring.

“Hello,” I mumbled. I quickly swallowed the burrito. I knew I would pay for that later with nighttime heartburn.

“Can I speak to Jaime?”

“I’m Jaime. What’s up?”

The voice on the other end of the line paused.

“Jaime Gonzalez?”

“Yup, that’s me. Who is this?”

“This is Coach Ramos. Wait, you’re not one of those kids that develops really early are you? I mean you sound like an adult.”

“I am an adult.”

Another long pause followed.

“Oh, are you interested in being a coach or something?” Ramos asked.

“No. I’m a player. Ask Luis Castillo.”

“Ah, you’re that guy. Weird. Anyway, I’m Coach Ramos. You’re on the Giants now. Appropriately enough. Report to the La Merced Intermediate School’s baseball field next Saturday at nine o’ clock for our first practice. Alright, champ?”

“Sure thing, Coach Ramos. I’ll be there bright and early.”

“Man, this is weird,” he said in a sigh before he hung up.

Wow, I thought, my first baseball team in 24 years. I was ready. I had started the prep work months prior by hitting the batting cages almost daily, lifting weights and walking half mile. I was pumped. That night I placed my Nike spiked shoes on the floor by my gray practice baseball pants and Jersey which hung on the bedroom doorknob. The rest of the week went by slowly and I tossed and turned every night waiting for Saturday morning and it finally arrived.

(NEXT WEEK: The first practice and team meeting)

The Rabbit Situation

"Who would give me up?"

I found a rabbit in my garage. I had no idea how he got in there or where he came from, that was the least of my concern. What do I do with him? My wife and daughter and I own a parakeet. That’s expensive enough, especially with the unavailability of parakeet seeds (see previous blog) and the cost of keeping it alive in general is too much. But a rabbit living with us? Forget about it. It’d be like a relative with expensive taste moving in permanently. Instead of meat and potatoes they’d want shrimp cocktails and crunchy peanut butter instead of the creamy kind. NO WAY!

I asked a neighbor if the cute bunny was hers. I was cognizant of throwing in words like “cute” and “cuddly” and “adorable” to describe the filthy beast in hopes that my neighbor would take it. She said it wasn’t hers nor was she interested in keeping it as a pet. “Fascist” I spat as I took the fluffy bunny back into my garage.

”Why don’t you take him over the lake?” She said, momentarily forgiving my outburst for the bunny’s sake. She informed me that there was a lake a few blocks from our gated community by a school where a colony of unwanted rabbits thrived without human interference. My mind immediately went into panic mode. What if these creatures decide to band together and attack humans for neglecting them? Eh, I can’t picture rabbits possessing any bitter feelings. I looked into the pink eyes of Mr. Buggles, by this point I named the homeless thing, and stroked the white fur. “Well,” I thought. “At least he’ll be with his own kind.”

So off I jettisoned to the lake. I parked the car and took Mr. Buggles, whom I placed in a box, out and looked for the entrance around the high wire fence. The lake looked unkept and probably contaminated with a medley of pesticides and chemicals. I didn’t see any bunny colony with bunny homes and a thriving bunny community with their own laws. Instead I saw patches of crap floating in dark waters. I finally found the opening, right under a sign that read “NO DUMPING OF ANIMALS. ESPECIALLY RABBITS"

Great. Now what do I do? I can’t let Mr. Buggles out in the school yard, the children will eat him alive. Salvation came in the form of the Fire Station across the street. So I dodged traffic and approached the front door to the small, quaint building. I rang the doorbell and within seconds two Firefighters stood before me. They looked at the box and dread overcame their face. “Hey guys, I’ve got a situation here…” The older one, I’m assuming he was the captain, looked at me and shook his head. “We don’t do bunnies. Maybe around Easter time. Why don’t you throw him into the lake? I heard there’s a thriving colony of bunnies in there?” He closed the door. Not even a sorry. I wish someone had photos or video footage of this thriving colony because I don’t see it.

So now what do I do? The choice became clear. I should have done this from the start. I drove over to the animal shelter. On the way I looked at the reflection of Mr. Buggles' box in my rearview mirror. It was still. “It’ll be fine Mr. Buggles. You’ll find a home real soon, I promise. You’re really cute, and well behaved. This is the best thing for both of us, really.” I parked the car and carried him to this older gentlemen stationed inside a room with the top half of the door opened and the lower half closed. He asked a few questions and later took the box and placed it on a shelf like a piece of unwanted furniture. I said a silent goodbye to Mr. Buggles and fondly recalled our adventure together. Such a waste, I thought. Maybe the economy tanking is a good thing. Maybe people need to start appreciating what they already have instead of wasting on things they can’t afford. I’m pretty certain Mr. Buggles did find a nice home where they don’t eat rabbits. I hope.

A Little Less Cowboy, A Little More Jimmy

Back in 2003 my brother, a two-fisted Republican and proud Conservative, remarked that President Bush was “a real cowboy, a guy that can get the job done.” Six years later my brother indirectly regrets the claim in the same way the former President regrets making the “bring them on” bravado aimed at the terrorists putting our proud men and women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan in greater peril by sparking more anger toward the United States. In hindsight we can honestly say Bush ain’t no John Wayne. Then again John Wayne wasn’t John Wayne, but a product of the power of the cinema and a nation’s need for a true American hero merging. In 2009 we have a new President. This time whereas President Bush’s Western persona (by way of Yale) was embedded in our minds by his election campaign and Fox News, a new figure has emerged from the movie classics, Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey and Jefferson Smith.

Yesterday President Obama held another in a long series of town hall meetings with ordinary citizens in Costa Mesa, California, in the heart of the Republican stronghold of Orange County. All the while he spoke I kept picturing George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life” trying to calm the panicked customers of his father’s building and loan company urging them not to take out their money. Perhaps it was the message of faith and patience from Mr. Obama that conjured up the parallels, or perhaps that physically both James Stewart and Barack Obama share the same lanky build. Even the former Senator from Illinois’ rise in Washington mirrors that of Jefferson Smith in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Both men emerged out of nowhere, captured the pessimistic press with their common sense and folksy approach to get their messages across and championed the working people. But unlike other politicians, both Smith and Obama seemed to really mean it.
That is to say that Bailey, Smith and Obama are not perfect but if something is not right one gets a sense that they will listen and try to find a solution instead of continuing in the wrong direction.

Jefferson Smith and George Bailey represent the high ideals Americans hold for themselves and for their country. In Smith we find a pure innocence and in Bailey we find a righteous man struggling to survive in a not-so-kind world where in the end he realizes that wealth is not as important as the friends you have. Do these virtues exist in 2009?
Only time will tell. If President Obama holds true to his ideals and campaign promises, who is to say that we can’t keep this country from becoming Cheneyville?

Reality TV: Really Unreal

Is it really reality? Last week “The Bachelor” chose the wrong contestant. How the hell do you choose the wrong bachelorette? In fact the whole premise of the show seems so unreal. .
A man or a woman becomes the center of a wooing ritual created by desperate-for-ratings television people. They suss out the rejects by going on dates that involve hot tubs, wine and sleepovers. So the bachelor or bachelorette in question gets the opportunity to sample everyone before eliminating the competition down to 2 contestants. Our boy, Jason, chose a cute, chirpy brunette though he agonized terribly over the decision. Cameras happened to be at the right place as he blubbered emphatically to illustrate how horrible he felt. Poor guy. Geez. If I were on that show I would convert to Mormonism, take on the whole lot as my wives and boom, happy ending. Either that or start my own cult and live in a nudist ranch near Phoenix. Now THAT is real.

Over on “American Idol” there was a haze of confusion over the new system of voting. Instead of the usual 24 would-be singers, there were 36. Look, it’s confusing enough listening to Paula Abdul’s ramblings, but it was even more confusing when they allowed a couple of questionable contestants to pass all the way through to the show. First was some hammy guy who sang fairly well but it was obvious he wasn’t take the whole experience serious. Second was Tatiana, the tortured, unpredictable mess whose over-the-top dramatics must have made the producers of the show think “crazy brings in ratings.”
Worse yet is that she’s Latina. It’s bad enough Alberto Gonzales has sent our people back 50 years in Politics, but it’s even worse when our sole Latin representative on the show is overwrought with looney behavior. But I did learn my lesson watching the show. I watched as Paula tried to console the twice-rejected hopeful. I realized then that everyone, I mean EVERYONE has a soulmate.

“Survivor” is in its 4th week and once again the firsts to go are African-Americans. Maybe the show is trying to say “the reason racism exists in this country is because African-Americans are intimidating.” .
All I know is if I were on that show I would hold hostages until the producers gave me the million dollars. It might shorten the process but I did outwit everyone by smuggling an AK-47 to the islands.

Art Rhymes with Fart- A Commentary

I hate movies that make me think. I want to go to the movie theater, go take a dump and return without missing anything or asking my paid escort what happened. The less conversation the better, that’s my motto. So it really pisses me off to hear about the “artistic” crap people put into the movies like symbolism and metaphors. I have a cushy, non-descript executive job thanks to my bro Thomas from Pepperdine, I work out five days a week and I scan the internets all day, I have no time to capture the little messages and stuff like that. Going forward I am also going to movies with a simple, direct title like “Transformers.” You know going in it’s a movie about transformers. Or “Rush Hour.” You know it’s got Jackie Chan and that black dude…Chris something or other. The point is that I know to expect kung fu and funny stuff. Like the other night, I was over at this artsy chick’s house. I really wanted to bang her but she instead puts on a dvd of a movie called “400 Blows.” Dude, you should have seen the disappointment on my chiseled, Nordic face when I realized it was in French and to the best of my recollections it was about some kid. And I was out of Viagra.

Moving forward I vow never to watch any movies critics love. Who are critics anyway? Eggheads who watch movies and evaluate the content for the audiences who are unaware of what to expect, that’s all. That’s just it. I want to watch a flick and know what’s going to happen. I wanna watch something that allows me a few minutes to think of a good opening line on that Yoga instructor hottie at my gym without losing any plot points. For this reason I pack my own collection whenever I make my frequent business trips to Bangkok. Seriously, if I don’t get an explosion or boobs within the first 5 minutes, I make my executive decision and move on to another movie. I have no patience and time during my 12-hour flight.

So I say this to all the director bros making good, quality movies for guys like me. Keep it up. You dudes won’t get awards, but who cares. Awards are for those who have shown excellence and a passion for their art. The “Art” I know works on my Beamer engine and he’s fat. Just know that when you movie directors cash your hefty checks there is one hombre you rock like a freakin’ hurricane.

FOX NEWS: THE SCARE NECESSITIES

Halloween is over seven months away however the folks over at Fox News celebrate it everyday.

One dark and stormy night I switched over to the cable news show to find Sean Hannity in the midst of a spine-tingling tale. I’m sitting in the living room as thunder rumbles and lightning flashes outside my window. The lights mysteriously go out and I’m left all alone. I feel like the sacrificial teen under the influence skinny dipping in the lake while a homicidal maniac runs loose. With fingernails firmly ensconced between chattering teeth Hannity introduced his next segment. “Really Scary.” Cue sinister organ chord and damsel’s shriek. I turned up the volume in blood-pumping anticipation at the discovery of what is really scary. Is it an 8 foot creature created in a lab someplace running afoul of my town? Or perhaps an 8-ton fire-breathing lizard headed toward me? No, the source was…THE STIMULUS PACKAGE! Muahah ahahh ahaha!

When I pulled my senses together I found myself interested to hear where the “scary” was in the “really scary” reference. Hannity announced his guest for the segment to explain the “monster” costs to the taxpayers. An economist? Like the Pulitzer-Prize winning Paul Krugman? Through the murky haze appeared the marshmallowy visage of Karl Rove. Duh-duh-DUHN! My bones shook. Not because he is not an expert on the subject matter, though he did read a “134 page document” and “more importantly 66 pages of charts.” Nor was it that he was the guy responsible for Bush getting into the White House and is under subpoena. I was becoming one of those uncontrollable idiots scared out of their wits who do something stupid in a disaster movie, which explained why my channel was stuck on Fox News. No, I got scared when Rove described the costs as “scary.” So horrific in fact that Rove produced a “whiteboard” to explain the frightening large numbers. “3.7 trillion dollars to the deficit.” BOO! OMG! I peed in my pants! I waited for him to cite the sources of his figures. To my surprise there were none. Then I waited for the graphics highlighting the costs. Bupkiss. It was like Dr. Frankenstein warning the villagers that the monster was on the loose.

“How do we protect ourselves, Doctor?”

“He’s big and scary. He’s over eight feet tall.”

“Again, what steps should we take to protect our families, good doctor?”

“He’s got bolts coming out of his neck. And he’ll tear your arms out.”

“You’re not listening to us, doctor…”

“Out of the sockets, I tells ya! He’s one scary monster.”

I wonder which “document” did Rove actually read and which “charts” did he research? Could it have been from Bush’s term in the White House perhaps? MUAHAHAH! Then a strange thing followed. The thunder and lightning ceased. I peeked out my window to find a half moon sitting comfortably in the starry sky. The lights come back on and the organ note is replaced by the wacky sound effects from a neighbor watching cartoons. Wah-wah-wah.