Off-briefer

On Work Happy Hours

Mad Men is a great show. Beautifully shot, perfect sets, great characters, great writing. It’s advertising in the 1960’s. Drenched in booze, sexy, fun, smart, a little evil, and most assuredly cutthroat.

The only thing that’s the same about advertising then and now is the cutthroated-ness and booze.

There’s no pitchers of Bloody Marys or the wet bar in every exec’s office anymore, but there’s usually a few of us with bottles in our filing cabinets. But the most prevalent form of boozing comes at the after-work happy hour.

When I worked at this shithole of an agency in 2007, it was all that kept me from taking a nosedive out the fifth floor window, or pushing the executive creative director out of it. The latter was more likely, but neither happened. I fantasized about it plenty though.

Anyhow, what got me through working in that place, was drinking. Specifically, the work happy hour.

5pm. Get off, hit a bar nearby.

I’d usually bring a couple kids with me, these two interns we had, Andy and Kristin, art director and copywriter, respectively. Both interns. Kristin’s my mentee. Im her mentor. Which is comedy in itself, me mentoring anyone.

It was usually Steff’s, this perfect dump that smelled like bleach and corn nuts. TVs everywhere, pool table in back.

Place was a dump. I didn’t really care though. It was a place to drink and relax. There was nothing else to do after work but that. The only shitty thing about it really was that other people that you worked with were there. In this case it’s my creative director, this fire-breathing bitch of woman who was majoring in passive aggressive and a senior art director, a train wreck of a person in real life, mediocre artist at work— they both sucked. But liked to hang out so they always came. But they were those people that you pretended to like all day until you got off and had to hand out with them some more. And you kept pretending until they scooted off after three beers or so.

When they scooted off is when the fun started. Left me, Andy and Kristin to our devices. Specifically, Budweiser and Jameson.

Andy and I played a game of pool against a couple guys we’d never met before. Shot and a beer. Jameson and Budweiser. The only thing that keeps us from completely getting shithoused is that we have to be at work in another ten hours.

 Thankfully, we can’t stand where we work and if we show up smelling positively flammable, so be it.

Kristin tries to tell us what shots to hit while we’re playing. We’re fine with it. The other guys are mopping up the table anyhow. Nice enough guys. One of them has a tattoo on his neck. A word in olde English font. Can’t read it and don’t want to ask him what it says. The other guy is eyeing Kristin like he’s a wolf and she’s a hot pork chop. What he doesn’t know is that she’d probably sleep with him in a second. But he’ll puss out and think that either Andy or I are with her, and pass.

The game ends unremarkably, with the leery guy putting the 8 in the side pocket, a nice shot, took some depth, and we all shake hands. They ask us if we want to play for money. I decline having previously earmarked the money in my pocket for more booze. Andy did the same.

Kristin, Andy and I grabbed stools at the bar and ordered more drinks. Beers and shots. Always. The bartender did a shot with us. She was pretty cool. Not all serious and smug like a lot of hot girl bartenders. She was down to earth in the I like to get fucked up when I work kinda way.

Fast forward an hour. It’s just Kristin and I now, with a bar full of people. Andy went home to his pregnant wife. I had nothing but a crazy, gun loving, tequila swilling carpenter of a roommate to go home to, so I liked to stay out as late as I could. Kristin lived with a family that she nannied for. She had a boyfriend in Chicago that she hated, he was calling and texting her every two minutes, her phone buzzing on the bar top like an annoying toy.

She tells me she can’t stand that he calls all the time. That he doesn’t trust her. I tell her if I was out at a bar at 11pm on a Tuesday with the guy that’s supposed to be my mentor drinking our faces off, I might not trust her either. She says yeah, I guess you’re right.

I woke up to Kristin’s cat meowing at me. Sitting at the foot of her bed, meowing at me. I arose, propping myself up with my elbow, my head pounding like someone tried to shove a basketball in through my ear the night before, and succeeded. Kristin was next to me, facing the other way, her red hair playing nicely on her white pillow. Looking at her all I could think was that she was pale as fuck. I remembered very little after we’d been done at Steff’s. I have to imagine it went something like go out side for a smoke we kiss, say fuck Steff’s, go to her place, drunkenly bang, promise each other that it’s not a big deal and then things would be fine in the morning, and at work…

She turns over and sees me. She smiles. Fuck, she says. You got that right, I say. 

On Deviled Eggs

New Years Day 1998. It was my first year being home form living in Louisiana, and I had done  my best the night before, new year’s eve to drink as much as I possibly could for fear they weren’t going to make any more liquor the next day.

My sister Debbie and I were living with my mom at home at the time, and my other sister Diane was coming over in a few minutes to watch football with us. My mom and I had bet on all the New Year’s day bowl games, $20 a game. I was extremely hung over. I lay on one couch, and my mom lay on the other. My one sister sat at my feet on the couch I was on. I think it was the Cotton bowl. Can’t remember who was playing. Texas A&M and UCLA. Thanks Google.

Between hot flashes and beer/vodka/jager burps, I sipped water. My sister was fine, she was with mom last night at a friends house for dinner. I went out with some high school friends that were still in there area for a good old fashioned go to someone’s house where there’s a keg and drink every bit of liquor in sight whilst finding a girl you always wanted to makeout with in high school and have naked time. All of these things happened.

Anyways, my other sister came over. With deviled eggs. Like, a platter of 40 of them.

“Hi you guys. I brought deviled eggs, new recipe! I found it…”

“Get those fucking things out of this house this instant,” I croaked.

“MARIO! I hate that word. No one told you to drink last night.”

“Sorry mom. They smell like old person’s farts.”

Couch sister started laughing. Other sister was pissed.

“Don’t eat them asshole,” she said.

“Noooooo problema,” I said. “But seriously, flush those things down the toilet.”

Couch sister laughed. “I’ll have one.”

“Get off the couch and go in there and eat it. I will not have those shitbombs near me.”

“MARIO!”

“Sorry mom.”

“Just try one,” other sister said. She was an amazing cook, and they were probably awesome. I thought that I might barf if I ate one, but my stomach probably coulda used some food at this point. So I gave in.

“Fine. Bring one hither,” I said.

She brought me one.

I ate it in one bite. It was very good.

My stomach, however, was not ready for anything of that caliber. Bad things were gastrointestinally afoot.

“Well, it’s good, right.”

I was still chewing while trying to get off the couch. Couch sister was sitting on my feet.

“MMM! MMM!!!” I was groaning, mortioning for her to get up. She got the picture quick and I bounced up and ran for the bathroom. I made a step before I unloaded the contents of my stomach on the TV, my mom’s light blue rug, and the coffee table. Twice.

I was coughing. My mother yelled Jesus fucking Christ.

Couch sister climbed up on the couch away from the tummy spew.

Other sister was laughing in the kitchen.

I yelled at other sister. “What the fuck is with you? With those eggs! WHYYYY!???”

Other sister threw a rag at me and a bottle of 409, which hit me in the nuts. I folded over, and knelt in my vomit.

Fitting. Happy New Year to me.

Dear Baby

First, I gotta tell you, I’m a little freaked out that you’re coming. Not in a way that’s bad, per se, more freaked out about our small house, how much money I make, can we afford to give you and Lucy everything you want. Don’t let this scare you, cause I always worry about stuff like this. It’s kinda my job as your daddy. Being daddy is a tough job like that sometimes, but it’s the best job in the world.

Second, I can’t wait to meet you.

So I’m writing you this to give you a heads up on how things work. I’ll give you the lowdown on me, mommy and your sister Lucy, your aunts and uncles and cousins. (you have a lot of cousins. This is overwhelming and will be until you get to be about 10. Lucy gets overwhelmed real easy cause everyone want to hug and squeeze her and play with her. But she gets used to it after about a half hour. Especially Ashleigh, your cousin. She’s gonna be ALL over you. Just ask Lucy.)

 Mommy

She’s great. You’ll get pretty much everything you need from her, food, changing, hugs, kisses, baths, snacks, clothes, all that. She takes care of all the important stuff you’ll need when you get here, and she’ll fawn all over you like a good mother does. She’s your go-to for “can I do this?” and “can I do that?”. I usually just say yes to everything Lucy asks me for and then we both get in trouble. In a lot of ways kid, we’re in the same boat with mommy. She’s the gatekeeper. We’re kinda living in her world. But this is good! She keeps us in line. We need it.

Lucy

So far she’s been the superstar. I don’t know how she’s gonna be with a new player on the team. Best thing you can do is, in my mind, let her know that you’re not trying to take over her role. You’ll look up to her, and you should, me and mommy think she’s going to be a pretty smart kid, and she already knows most of the rules. Just do what she does and try not to get in her way. Also, you’ll learn about something called Harkey Charms. DO NOT eat these. Unless they’re your box. Even then I’d probably just give them to Lucy. Think of it as your tribute to her. Just hand em over to her.

Aunts, Uncles, Cousins

Auntie Deb and Auntie Di are pretty cool. They’ll give you pretty much anything you ask for. Popsicles, candy, toys. Lucy pooped for the first time in the potty the other day and Auntie Di got her a bunch of toys. Just for pooping! Pretty good deal.

Mario and Dom

These are your boy cousins. Mario doesn’t say much, but he’s a good kid and he’ll always have an eye on you to make sure you’re doing ok. Lucy thinks he’s her boyfriend. Dom is awesome. LOVES hugging and smooching. So I hope you like that. He’ll talk to you like you’re a puppy, but he’s a hell of a great guy. He’s always happy to see you and always has a smile on his face. You could do well taking a step or two from either of them.

Sam, Ash, Jess, and Danny

Sam’s your oldest cousin. She’s in high school now, and I knew her when she was just a little walnut like you. She’s gonna end up baby sitting you a bunch, so I’d be nice to her. When we go to Disneyland, there’s a good bet you’ll be hanging out with her a lot. Lucy got out hang out with her the whole time we went to Disney land for the first time. Ashleigh’s the best. She’ll wanna hold you and hold you and carry you around and she might never put you down unless I tell her to. Jessie is great too, but I’m not sure she’s old enough to hold you all the time yet, she will be, but if she could hold you all the time she would. She’s super funny and she can teach you how to dance. Then there’s Danny. She’s crazy. Lucy loves her so much and looks up to her like her best friend I think because of all her awesome toys, but it’s mostly because of what a sweetheart she is and how good of a friend she is to Lu. Like her big sister.

Uncle Rob and Uncle Gary

Uncle Rob and Uncle Gary are to be respected always for being married to your aunts. Do whatever they tell you. Lots of times you’ll see them and they’ll look sad, but don’t worry, it’s just because they’re really really tired. They’ll perk up for you every time.

Grandma

This is your real best friend. She will buy you anything, literally ANYTHING you want. And then things you don’t even ask for. Grandma loves you so much, you can’t even believe it. I mean like a million toy chests filled with love combined. But seriously, she will buy you ANYTHING you want. You just have to ask. (it was not this way growing up as her son, but that’s another story.) Also, when everyone says no to something, it’s a pretty safe bet that grandma will say yes. You may want to just cut to the chase when you want something and go to grandma first. It’s up to you.

Daddy

Then there’s me. Your daddy. There’s not much to tell you other than I am elated beyond words that you’re coming soon. I’ll always keep you safe and I’ll never let you down. I’m a little crazy, I may try to tickle you quite a bit (ask Lucy) but I like having fun and doing stupid stuff like hiding from mommy under the covers, throwing the ball in the house, letting you eat candy for dinner, stuff like that. I’ll dance with you when you’re sleepy and sing to you when you’re mad. I’ll make sure that you’re doing ok even when you don’t know I’m there, and I’ll always be proud of you no matter what. I’ll always love you with all my heart, and I’ll always be your friend. Just don’t piss me off.mThat’s pretty much it Baby. If all else fails, hit up grandma. She’ll take care of it.

Love

Daddy

On OLA Baseball

Since I stopped playing baseball years and years ago, I always thought that I’d make a good coach. I learned the fundamentals of the game when I was very very young, 8 or so, and I’ve never forgotten them. It’s the reason I played competitively as long as I did and it’s a big part of the reason I was mildly successful. 

My first coach that I remember having a lasting impact on me was a guy named Beanie. He was the older brother of a kid on my team. The team was a part of the catholic grammar school I went to growing up. We had 10 boys in our class, and we’d all grown up together, and we were all nuts about baseball…we played it every chance we could get, watched it whenever we could, took the bus form Burlingame to Candlestick Park to see the Giants play on the weekends. Everything depended on how good we were at baseball. How cool you were, how popular. There was 10 of us, and we were all best friends. We were very lucky in this regard.

But back to Beanie. He started coaching us when we were 8. And he made it fun. And he yelled when we screwed up. But by the end of the short season that first year, we knew basically every defensive situation imaginable. Runners on first and third, 2 outs, base hit to left, Anton hits his cutoff Pat and Pat throws a rope to Shane to nail the runner at third. Bases loaded, 1 out, ground ball to Mario at first, Mario throws home to Seamus for the force there and then back to Marc covering first for the double play. We new it all.

We always called the ball if it came to us. ALWAYS. If we didn’t we ran laps. If we made enough errors, we took infield and outfield with our gloves off. We were 8 taking shots with our bare hands. (Marc swears I was always the one to make the error that put Beanie over the top, pissing him off enough to make us take infield/outfield with our gloves off. Not sure that’s true, but could be, I was kind of a spaz.)

Beanie made sure we knew every different situation on any given play before it happened. I mean, we were turning double plays like a high school team when we were 10. Throwing runners out at the plate with regularity by the time we were 11. By the time we were in 8th Grade we were just unbeatable. Our baseball knowledge surpassed anything we were learning in Clara Rubia’s 5th and 6th grade classes. It surpassed everything we cared about. We wanted to win. It’s pretty much all we cared about.

I remember nights before games I couldn’t sleep. My uniform hung in front of my bed so I could fall asleep looking at it. My name on the back. Running through the great plays I could make at first base. How I’d start a double play from first; dive to snag a hot shot toward the line that was a sure base hit, but I lay out and make an incredible play. 

Beanie taught us how to love every part of baseball. He taught us how to be tough. How to not take any shit from the other team. How to sacrifice our bodies to make the play. How to run the bases smart. How to play the outfield like we’d end up on Sportscenter the next day.

I got to grow up playing baseball with my best friends in the world for 5, 6 years. And we were good. We’d talk about how we were going pile on Albert on the mound after we won the PPSL North championship. We’d play it out on the school yard playing whiffle ball at lunch. Im not even sure any of us ate our lunches. We just wanted to play ball.

Everything I know about baseball is because of Beanie. However good I ever was was because Beanie was tough on us. I will never forget how amazing a run we had those years at OLA — three championships in 5 years. The only reason it wasn’t 5 championships in 5 years is that in 5th and 7th grade we had to play with some of the older kids on  our team (there wasn’t enough boys that played baseball in their grade — assholes) and except for a couple guys they sucked. So we missed out those two years.

Dunno why I’m writing this really. There’s so much more I could write. Carney with his cup in his back pocket. Shane smashing some kid’s $500 model rocket with his cleats after having it almost impail him on the pitchers mound. Beanie beating Mike Nee’s new orange mongoose dirtbike into a pretzel with a fungo bat because Mike wouldn’t shut the fuck up and let us practice. Joe Cody flying down ray drive at 60mph only to lift Beanie up on the backstop telling him he’d never coach in this town again if it were up to him (he hit his brother, Shane, ground balls too hard (no gloves, probably my fault) until one shot drilled Shane so hard he said fuck this, ran home to that pink house he lived in on Benito and got Joe to come down. Bench clearing brawl drills. We learned how to have a bench clearing brawl.

We loved every minute of it.

On Schadenfreude

Some people like it when others fall down. When they trip, drop something, etc. This isn’t pleasurable for me to witness. Getting hit in the face with a foul ball, some type of other accident… I don’t get off on it. The unfortunate doesn’t have a comedy that I ascribe to.

What I do ascribe to, is when people that deserve it, get it. Like:

When incompetent assholes get fired. (this almost never happens. Most incompetent assholes at work have a hammer lock on someone above them’s nuts, which is why they never get fired.)

When a car speeds past me going 90 on the highway and in 10 minutes I see them on the side of the road either getting a ticket in handcuffs, or looking amazed at their smoking vehicle as the CHP shows up.

When the loudest, most obnoxious parent in the crowd is told to shut up, that he’s embarrassing himself and his kid.

When overly obnoxious sports fans get thrown out/beat up.

When overtly rude waiters/waitresses see that there’s no tip and ask me why.

You get the point. 

On Regret

No regrets, man.

Speaking as someone who has made about a million mistakes in life, I find it awfully hard not to have any regrets. Anyone who says “no regrets” is an idiot. 

I regret talking back to that cop on Kearny and Broadway when I was 20. Jail isn’t fun.

I regret dating the first Kathryn. Second Kathryn too.

I really should have taken the piano more seriously.

Dropping out of grad school wasn’t my finest hour.

I didn’t have to tell that girl at the Marina Lounge that one time that her toes looked like a prison riot.

Ripping that sink out of the wall was overboard. I regret that.

Amid all this regret, I can honestly say I’m happy with the skin I’m in, the life I have. So I look at the place I’m at in life and I find that it’s not so bad. I find that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And it’s largely due to the mistakes, the way I’ve lived my life.  I’m more than cool with that. 

So yeah. Regrets. But fuck it.

On Neighbors

I don’t particularly care about my neighbors. The house I live in, in the suburbs, isn’t where I want to spend the rest of my life. Maybe that’s why I don’t care. If my family’s living arrangement were more long-term, I’d care.

Hey Bob, how’s the day treating you. Borrow my cordless drill? Sure. Don’t worry about it. I’ll come get it when I need it.

Watch your dog and grab your mail while you’re away? No sweat, happy to do it.

Until these long-term roots are established, I am an asshole to my neighbors.

Parking in front of my house gets a loud engine rev so they can hear it, and then a slight “SKREE” as I pull away.

Your dog uses my lawn for a bathroom — that gets you whatever the dog left, thrown with a shovel, back on your lawn.

Knocking on the door at 10pm the night before garbage is due to be picked up to remind me that the garbage is gonna be picked up in the morning gets you “Hey thanks. Nite!” in the most sarcastic tone I can muster.

Waving hi as we pass each other pulling out of the driveway gets you a leering head nod. I want to completely ignore you but at that point it would just be rude.

I don’t want to get to know them. I don’t want them to borrow my cordless drill. I want to have parties that they’re not invited to, bag their dogs shit up and throw it back on their lawn and leer at them as they attempt to connect with me while I’m pulling out of my driveway at 7am for work.

I want them to view my house as a house that needs no neighbors.

If I need to borrow something, I’ll go to the store and buy it.

Just because we live next to each other doesn’t predestine cordiality. It predestines territoriality.

I could wave, smile, not care about dog shit on my front porch, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t clearly show my disdain.

In my eyes, I’m a great neighbor.

On Procastination

On Grandmothers

I never had grandparents. Wow, that sounds melancholy and dramatic. But they passed away before I was born. Never knowing them (grandparents) made not having them just fine. It never was a problem.

But I do know that grandmothers are supposed to be a certain way. Wise. Loving. Tough. Spoiling of their grandchildren. Great cooks. My mother, who is the closest thing to a grandmother I know, since she is grandmother to seven (one of mine), is all of these things and more.

On Christmas, she fills the tree with presents. I say fills and you imagine 10, 12 presents, awww she’s a good grandma. So sweet. No. We’re talking 50-60 presents. My sister’s living room (where we do our family’s xmas eve) is literally half-full with gifts. All from Grandma.

She doesn’t cook anymore, she’s older, and my sisters and my wife are good cooks. But when she cooks she blows them all out of the water. I have vivid, in-color memories of being 4 years old, on a step stool with a loaf of bread hovering over her pot of pasta sauce, dipping pieces of bread in and devouring till I couldn’t handle it anymore. This is my favorite memory. Not my first homerun, not graduating from college. That memory.

My daughter, my nieces and nephews will learn in time that she is always right. About everything. Again, not hyperbole, she’s just that smart. She’s seen and done it all, and I can attest that EVERYTHING she has warned me against, told me would happen if I made a certain choice, etc. has come true in spades. Resulting in arrests, breakups, just trouble in general, because, I of course, rarely listened to her. Now, I take everything that she says as unmitigated truth.

She hit me once when I was 17 and left a scar above my left eye, which I still have. Her left hand, cross body hook that sent me to the tile of our foyer in the house we grew up in. It was 2am, way past curfew, and I deserved it. She stood above me like Ali did Patterson. One punch, over. Tough as nails. Still is.

So even though I personally never knew my grandparents and more specifically, my grandmothers, I have the great pleasure of watching my mother be a grandmother to my sister’s and my own children.

It’s as good and satisfying, (to watch her dote, spoil, laugh, yell), as any gift I could ever get. I never had grandparents. Where unfortunate, I am not deprived in the least. 

On Baseball

The following is based on mostly true events as I remember them.

Senior year of college. About a month before we graduated. The men’s baseball team at St. Mary’s had had another sub-par year and their season ended early. So to keep playing, they put together a club baseball team that would play double headers on the weekends. The team was part of a league that played other cities around the bay area and beyond. They held tryouts. My close friend Mark and I made it. Me as a pitcher and center fielder, Mark would play second base.

Something to do on Sundays for sure, and my friend Mark and I got to relive the glory days of high school for 3 months. Not a bad deal.

We were still in school, but we’d be graduating in a month or so. Nothing much to do in that last semester except try not to get kicked out. Not as easy as it sounds. So one Saturday before a double header, (one that had me pitching the first game, 8:30am first pitch), our apartment building had a progressive party. Each apartment would pick a country, and decorate accordingly, as well as having a cocktail from that country.

One apartment was the Caribbean. They had Pina Coladas. Another was Mexico, they served Prairie Fires, a shot of tequila and hot sauce. Our apartment chose Japan. We chose Kamikaze shots. Yes, we knew that the drink was wholly American. We couldn’t think of anything else to serve. So, we turned our TV to the Japanese language channel, left that on, dressed like Japanese tourists (yes I realize this is semi-racist) and we wore bandanas with the Rising Sun on them. For each Kamikaze shot we took, we’d mark it off on our headbands (actually the headbands were white tube socks with red marker for the rising sun).

When I passed out that Saturday night I had 18 notches marked off on my headband.

The next thing I remember is Mark trying to put my baseball pants on me. I woke in a jolt.

“Hey motherfucker what the!” I yelled.

“Dude. Shut up and get dressed. We have to be in Livermore in like 30 minutes.”

I got dressed. Mark was in front of our place, motor running, waiting for me when I skip-stumbled down the stairs. I threw my baseball gear in the front seat, dove in the back seat and didn’t wake up until we pulled into Livermore High School’s baseball field parking lot.

I warmed up with Mark. We had a nice conversation as we played catch.

“Hey man, aren’t we playing the team with the pitcher that beaned you twice in one game,” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Ok,” I said. “It hurt right?”

“No it felt great,” he said. I believed then that he was being sarcastic. Later I found out he was.

“Ok,” I said.

Game time rolled around and I took my warm up pitches. I felt amazing. Throwing hard, pinpoint accuracy. My curveball was working well. I even had a knuckleball that I whipped out every once in a while.

The ump called “play ball!” My catcher trotted out to go over the signs with me. His name was Greg. He was at the party last night too.

“You smell like shit man. You sure you can pitch?” he asked, laughing.

“Dunno man. We’ll see,” I said as he slammed the ball in my glove.

“I’m calling all fastballs. Don’t throw anything crazy,” he said.

“Shut. Up. Go back there,” I said pointing to behind the plate with my pitching hand. He trotted away shaking his head.

I struck out the first batter on three pitches.

I walked the next batter on four.

The next guy to come up was the pitcher that beaned Mark twice in our previous meeting. I saw this and walked off the mound and motioned Mark to come over. He did.

“I’m gonna drill this guy as hard as I can. Make sure they don’t kill me,” I plead.

“Just pitch dummy,” Mark said.

“I’m defending your fucking honor over here dude,” I said incredulous poking him in the chest.

“Defend it with someone smaller. That guy is a beast,” he laughed.

“Fuck it,” I said. The ump broke us up. I turned to the mound.

I got in the stretch and stared at the runner on first base. My pickoff move was shit, I was still very drunk, and again, I felt invincible. So I was going one place with it.

In the enormous batter’s ear.

You know those moments in life that are completely in slow motion? This is one of them.

I kicked high in my motion as always did and let go of the hardest fastball I could throw. We’re talking mid 80’s fastball.

I felt the ball explode out of my left hand as I came down in my motion, my right foot planting perfectly, pointing toward the hitter.

When it hit this guy in the helmet, the meager crowd gave up an “oooh!” as if to say, that big motherfucker at bat is gonna kill that little guy on the mound.

The guy went down like a ton of bricks.

Then he bounced up with the deftness of a freaking ninja.

The next part is a bit hazy. Both benches cleared. The behemoth charged me and I charged him. I remember him punching me in the forehead. He screamed like a little girl as his wrist or some other bone in his hand cracked.

I fell back to receive various kicks and punches from a lot of different people.

When everything cleared, the ump kicked me out of the game, the beast had to go to the hospital for his hand, I had a towel on my busted lip and nose in the dugout.

Mark came over. “You ok?”

“Flenrkhdffsk” I said, spitting blood through the towel. I was trying to say, “Fine thanks. Go get ‘em.”

“You’re an idiot. But I love ya,” he ran back out.

We won 8-2.