Stay Vigilant, My Friends

I realized something this week.  Kids are weasels.  I mean that in the most loving way possible, but make no mistake; they can be sneaky little rodents.  After haranguing my sons into spending more than 10 seconds brushing their teeth it finally dawned on me that even great kids like my boys will get away with whatever they can, whenever they can.  They know teeth need to be brushed, they know it’s part of their daily routine since they started having a daily routine many years ago.  And yet there is slacking off whenever a watchful eye is focused elsewhere.

It doesn’t stop at chores, either.  I see it even when they are doing something they like.  There’s always a shortcut to be found, a corner to be cut.  Recently, while coaching a soccer game I noticed some of the team walking during a pre-game lap around the field.  Not all kids like running laps, but since it’s been part of our warm up since day one you’d think they would stay part of the team and hoof it.  Nope.  When I questioned them about why they walked the last half one of the boys actually said, “It looked like you were just talking to the other coach.”  WHAT!?!  That kid sat the first quarter.

The point is that as parents, there is an ever watchful attention that need be paid whenever the kiddies are given a task.  I don’t like it.  And I strive to teach my guys the independence and responsibility so that I feel comfortable not having to be the all seeing eye.  Thankfully they are learning the lesson well, but still have some lapses.

There is a saying, “Give them and inch and they’ll take a mile.”  This could not apply more to our young ones.  And I think it ties in a bit to a previous article of mine (Hammer Away, My Friends, 03/18/2011) about not being afraid to stay on top of the kids.  There are many reasons that I expect a lot from my kids.  Just one of them is that I have come to know that if I don’t, then the bar will continually slip.  Not just from my perspective, but from there’s as well.  As the parent, if I don’t establish lofty goals while teaching them why and how to do it themselves, who will?  The kids?  Hardly.  We hammer away at chores, goals, whatever, to an extent that may (to the hammeries) seem unattainable.  But in doing so we nudge them into getting to levels that we expect and that we know they can achieve.

Thankfully I am starting to see the fruits of my pestering labor.  The frequency of prodding and reminding does seem to be diminishing.  There are still plenty of areas in which I find that is a constant tug of war between how much is enough and how much they can get away with, but the light at the end of the tunnel is expanding.

So the moral of this tale is to keep up your pestering.  The kids will roll their eyes, and they will push back.  But in the long run, they’ll be better for it.  You will have the satisfaction that they know what it takes to get a job done, what it takes to do more than just expected, and what it takes to truly excel.

Coming Into Their Own

There comes a point in every kid’s life when they stop wanting to be a superhero for a living and start to really figure out what career path they may eventually want to pursue.  Personally, I still have my fingers crossed for that freak accident that will give me telekinetic powers.  For those rooted in the real world, interests will start to form and an actual life path will take shape.

My boys are only 10 and 12, but I’m already starting to see that they are developing interests that may very well stick with them for a long time.  I’m not delusional enough to think that what they say they want to do now will always be, but it’s interesting to watch them formulate such long term plans.

I know perspective is everything, so considering that I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up it’s no secret that I find this fascinating.  If you are one of those people that have always known what you wanted and what career you wanted and actually have that, then you may want to come back next week for my next rant.  However, as I watch my sons develop interests and become their own young men I sit back and smile sometimes.  I wonder if they will really be a scientist (nothing specific yet) or a game designer.  There are a lot of years between now and decision time, but you never know.

It’s a fantastic and scary thing to experience your child growing away from you.  I am absolutely riveted by their interests, and involve myself in my kid’s hobbies, but I’d be blink to think they aren’t already starting to expand from beneath my parental umbrella.  They are better than I am…and you know I can’t say that about too many.  They are considering things that I know I did not when I was 12.  They are level headed, caring and intelligent.  I assume they get most of that from their mom.

Let’s take my 10 year old.  He’s decided to be a game designer.  I know every kid wants to make video games at some point, but he seems pretty serious about it so far.  Last night he gave me the resume of Todd Howard.  Don’t know Todd Howard?  I didn’t either.  Mr. Howard is a Producer and Senior Game Designer for Bethesda Game Studios.  Todd even made it onto Shaun’s (that my 10 year old) school project as someone who inspires him.  Bethesda has some games coming out soon that intrigue him, to say the least, and he has made it his mission to know how they make them.  From the art to programming to storytelling, he’s been all-in for months.  I know that the chances are slim that this will stick, but I truly hope it does.  I want that creative part of his brain to win.  It would be a pleasure to see him spend his life doing what he loves – not what he winds up with.

By this time, you may be asking, “Pete, that’s all very interesting.  But really, what are you trying to say here?  What’s the point?”  HA!  You were expecting a point to this?  Well, I suppose just that it's wonderful to see my children begin to mature enough to know there is a real world out there and that they may have a part in it.  More so, that they have a choice in how to be part of the world.  PPS; that it’s something that they will be able to decide, free of external bias and pressures.  And when the day comes that they will start down a more concrete path, they will be well equipped.

Is It Really Worth The Trip?

Every summer thousands of people flock to the shore.  Every Memorial Day, Fourth of July and Labor Day they load up the family truckster and head to the beach.  All through the heat of May – Sept, there is a steady stream of vacationers, day trippers and sun worshippers.  They go to brush sand from their feet, eat expensive substandard boardwalk pizza, smack at attacking greenheads and sit in traffic.

I don’t get it.  Although I have spent time on the beach throughout my life, I’ve never really gotten the allure.  I actually think I’m in the minority on this one, but that doesn’t make me scratch my head any less.  It’s been almost two years since I’ve been on a beach for more than an hour, and I’m just fine with that.

Everything like this is tainted by perspective or maybe tolerance, and I think I’m lucky enough to not really need an escape (most of the time).  However, that doesn’t lessen my wonderment about the draw of lying on a crowded patch of dirt while salt from the water and blowing sand borrows into all possible crevices.  Depending on the town you visit, this salty dirt is actually so closely packed with blankets, towels and giant umbrellas that it’s virtually impossible to walk through.  Really?  I don’t like people enough to walk through a mall for a half hour.  Why in Hell would I want to spend my day sweating in the sun two feet from strangers on all sides?

“But Pete, we love to frolic in the surf.  It’s so refreshing and fun.”  Bite me.  Refreshing…maybe.  The average water temp in Atlantic City this past summer was under 70 deg.  Folks, that’s just plain cold.  I don’t shy away from chilly water too often, but that doesn’t sound too enjoyable.  And the surf, come on.  Being in the water shouldn’t need to be so much work.  Isn’t being constantly bludgeoned by unstoppable walls of water just one sign that Mother Nature doesn’t want you in her water?  How about sharks, jellyfish, rip tides?  I can’t believe you can even go near the ocean without signing a waiver of liability.  And on top of all that, at least in New Jersey, you have to PAY for the privilege.  I know that falls under a different heading of complaint, but it’s just one more reason for my disdain.

It seems the growing bane of my existence is traffic.  Living in the most densely populated state comes with the caveat of having to sit in traffic now and then.  However, I don’t think it needs to be a prerequisite for spending leisure time.  I fight the river of cars enough commuting to work.  There is generally some traffic backup at any time and place when I’m heading out of the house, but there’s always the chance I could get lucky and reach my destination without it.  Unfortunately, going to the shore at virtually any time ensures a stint in automotive hell.  Nothing like starting a “relaxing” day by sitting still on the Expressway for an hour.  And I like only 40 miles from the ocean.  Anyone making the trip from beyond that is just insane…my opinion, of course.

So you’ve decided not to heed my advice.  You made the arduous trek and find yourself in one of the shore towns.  Now you only have to contend with hundreds of yards of scalding hot dirt.  You heard right.  Time to broil your feet on sand that had been baking in the sun all day while you find that perfect spot on which to lay your blanket (so you don’t have to touch the dirt), put up your massive umbrella (so you don’t have to have the sun beat on you), get your cooler situated (so you don’t have to go far for a drink) and maybe unfold your beach chair (see above about touching the dirt).  Sounds like you just did your best to set up your living room, but at an inconvenient spot miles from home. 

Enjoy your summer going to and from the beach.  I’m sure you will.  I shall opt to stay at home, hanging on my deck with some gin and a Cohiba.  If it gets hot, I’ll walk the ten feet to my fridge and get a drink and a freeze pop and hang out in the AC for a few minutes.

Don't Suck! It's Not Fair to the Kids.

Currently I’m the head coach of my ten year old son’s soccer team.  We’re having a great time so far, and I think the boys are learning a lot.  Yeah, I’m a good coach.  One of the team moms is my assistant, and she is great as well.  The league has been practicing for about two weeks in preparation for the upcoming season.  Before that was the league draft, where all the coaches got together and picked our teams for the year.  There is a lot of time and energy being spent by the parents to get the season rolling and manage the teams and league.  This happens all over, every season for every sport.  Hundreds of people volunteer their time so the kids can have sports/clubs/activities in which to participate.

Throughout my time as a volunteer coach I’ve encountered a complete gambit of adults who also are putting in their time.  Most are good people, with good intentions.  Some are great.  Some just plain suck. 

I wonder sometimes about the (mostly) men that are either obviously in over their heads, are just not good at coaching, or are outright abrasive and disruptive to the kids.  I used to think there needs to be someone who can step in and stop these dolts from being in charge of a team of young kids.  But then I’d think, we’ll at least they had the heart to say yes when asked to coach.  They agreed to give up their time when most others said no.  That held a lot of water for me for a long time.  But no longer.

It’s NOT enough to give of your time.  If you’re not good at it, please stay away.  Volunteerism is a wonderful thing, and I applaud someone who wants to give of themselves in some capacity.  But you need to know in what capacity that should be. 

I’ll use my son’s lacrosse coach from last season as an example.  It’s my understanding, and confirmed by several others that are closer to him, that this man has been banned from coaching two other sports in our town.  WHAT!?!  Then who is the puckered ass who put this man in charge of a youth lacrosse team??  As I, and other parents watched the team “progress” through the season more and more of asked each other if we knew much about the coach.  It turned out that most of us did not.  Suffice it to say that the coach was an unmitigated dickhead.  On the first day of practice, I introduced myself and offered to help the team in any way needed.  He said “Great,” and walked away.  That was the only word he spoke to me for sixteen weeks.  Dickhead.  This was a team of 10-11 year old boys, most of which had never played the sport before.  We watched as he yelled, stomped, demanded and generally taught the boys…well, I’m not sure what he taught them.  I think the only reason we didn’t speak up is that we were all new to the sport as well and thought maybe that’s how you coach lacrosse.  It was bad enough that my son, and several other boys, said they would play again next season if he was planning to coach the team.  Oh well, we’re done with him now.

I hope that illustrates my point that just because you are “generous” enough to accept a volunteer position doesn’t mean that you’re good enough.  Don’t get caught up in smelling your own shit.  Nobody thinks they are bad at coaching a youth team.  But guess what, SOME OF YOU SUCK!!  It doesn’t take too much of a genius to look around at others in comparison to yourself and realize, “Wow, those guys are WAY better at this than I am.  Maybe I should rethink this position.”  Now, that’s a terribly hard pill to swallow.  I’m not sure I could do it.  Of course, the point is moot since I’m generally pretty great at stuff.

So, fair readers, especially you with children…when you look around town at the folks involved in your children’s activities, don’t let them off the hook too easily.  I know it’s nice that they want to help, but that shouldn’t be the end all.  Always remember, just because someone can do something (or says they want to) does not always mean that they should do that thing.  If you are going to volunteer to be involved, then BE involved.  Take some time to learn about what you will be doing, and do it well…better than well…because the youngsters (and their parents) you will be in charge of are looking to you for guidance and support.  Your time is not enough.  A little bit of your soul should get in involved as well.

Ralston Cup Pre-Tourney Newsletter

I must credit and thanks my good friend and teammate, Scott Warnock, with this fantastic newsletter.  He has been writing these for our tournament for nearly fifteen years, and it never fails to capture the essence of the day...

The Boys of July? Al Classic will defend Ralston Cup they never brought home last year

Et un imbécile grands ruins August tradition. Each team faces key questions, some keyer than others

BERLIN, N.J.—At 9:30 AM here on August July 30, 2011 at Ralston Yards, the “original home of wiffleball,” the Ralston Cup Invitational Wiffleball Tournament will take place for a world-record 25^th year.

The tournament has been a staple of August in North America for a quarter century, but this year the date was changed to accommodate a big fool who, despite the digital vacation-booking and schedule synchronization capabilities at the disposal of most Western humans in 2011, failed to plan a trip to France, of all places, on the correct weekend.

The date change by Cup commissioner Paul, in a break from his normal pharisaical* (see Handy Glossary) rule, which has been marked by diktats and verbal pummeling, is another worrisome sign of a gentler Ralston Cup era.

Other signs abound. Enjoying the keg has become optional, thanks to the Falcons. A wiffleballer of old’s idea of venturing outward meant a trip to Clementon; now folks go abroad. Whilst at one time technology was a bottle opener that made a burping sound when you used it, now many players blog, whatever that means, spouting taradiddle. In them days, kids were rightfully despised: Rabid wiffleballers once berated a 12-year-old until he cried. Players now bring their little fellas to scamper around the Yard and take a few cuts: “Whee! Good try little buddy. Next year you’ll actually hit the ball!” Soon, the rascals will get trophies just for attending. Back in the day, dates weren’t moved around to accommodate the utterly incompetent; no one cared about your perspective;  wiffleballers not only pitched but hit uphill—in the snow.

Worst of all, Al Classic broke a sacred rule, forgetting the Cup last year, leaving it in the screened-in porch.

While it is the Cup’s silver anniversary, nothing special is planned. Folks will probably wait until next year for that, what with 26 being such a significant number and all.

Following is the annual unbiased, objective, eminently fair perspective on the teams vying for the Ralston Cup. Because this is an event driven by macro trends and themes that illuminate human nature, a kind of epic tragicomedy framed around a piece of orbicular plastic, this newsletter will ask a strong, poignant, sometimes rhetorical question facing each franchise. Read on.

The key question: Will the Ralston Yards proprietress demonstrate her significant sitzfleisch by not only tolerating the periphrasistic pleonasms of this publication but also enduring the calliopean, ululating gasconade that will again coat East Camden County in a hircine miasma?

Speaking of miasma, Al Classic’s Mordorites won decisively last year, marking their third title in eight years, which is the closest it gets to a dynasty lately. Five-time champ Gentleman Chris Scott sulked his way to a third MVP—and first in 18 years—smacking ten dingers while just avoiding having his nickname changed to “Diaper” in the National Wiffleball Registry. He should be $100 richer come game day (see below). Four-time champ McSpriggan brothers Mikey, a two-time MVP, and team marplot Brian “Bottom’s Up” Mac put aside familial and philosophical differences (“Let’s get drunk now!” “Maybe later”) to help their team triumph. Key question: This team has shown it can win, but can they return to the form that made them the idols of a generation of Berlin Auction-frequenting youths by embracing both kegdom and wiffleball supremacy?

Chris Matt’s Team has now been to the finals three straight years, so it’s no fun even talking about their overachieving and all that. They’re good now. In fact, even jejune Kurt has to deal with throngs of adoring fans; alas, his musical career did not prepare him for this. Chris “Chuck Howley” Matt may be rusty, as instead of training he spent countless hours writing on the InterWeb about the “tarts.” He covered all angles of this fascinating topic, including copious musings about makers of tarts, whom he calls “tartists.” Speaking of not training and pastries, Hayseed Butch will again use the tournament as a place to declare his commitment to fitness. Handsome, mysophobic Jason hit eight homers last year; he has reportedly mastered his “I know you’re watching me” wink while also perfect-ing a move with the bat, saucily slashing the air rapier-like. Key question: Are they better wiffleballers than tartists?

Uncle Mike’s Team, champs in ’04, were only a one-run semis loss to the champs away from the finals after a lackluster roundrobin. Dashing Uncle Mike spent the offseason merrily refining his translations of chess strategy to wiffleball. He promised a complex “castling” maneuver to enhance his team’s fielding. Failed vocal tartist Dat “Reno” Moore has continued his quest for personal development and self-control, although this castling/chess thing will push him over the edge: “Up two over…two? Argghh!” What fun global adventures has budding heartthrob Little Mike had this year? Tormented wiffleballers will surely know come Saturday night. What they didn’t know was that Little Mike hosted his own wiffleball tournament a few weeks ago: Nice of him to call the older players. Stalwart Uncle Bud will further his irenic mission in the face of all this madness. Key question: Can rook to f8 translate to wiffleball gold?

Three-time champs John Jr.’s Team won the longest game ever in last year’s quarters, an 18-inning victory over Paul’s. They are still tired. John Jr., who can be a little tetchy, reportedly will bring a claque of Berlinites misplaced through the decades by the removal of the peach orchards to cheer his team on. The return of Chris “Dino-Mutt” in 2010 helped this team immensely. He hit nine homers, pitched great, and somehow never lets anything bother him—including his own teammates’ tepid play. Ryan may struggle this year, not only because of his Sissyphean (sic) efforts to spout witticisms and parce qu'une partie de ce bulletin est en français, but also he must somehow come up with $100. Last year it was documented on the tournament chart for God’s sake that he bet Chris Scott against the Eagles winning the NFC East. Key question: Will Ryan pay up?

Paul’s Team, the winningest and most aged franchise, in 2010 solved their long-standing problem of losing in the finals: they lost in the quarters. If John Jr.’s is tired from winning the longest game ever, imagine this withered team’s state after losing: They are still limping and coughing. Ten-time champ and four-time MVP Pete, who is rumored to have once known how to hit home runs, could only gasp “Frankly….” Frankly, nothing came after. Paul, five-time champ and only Yard of Fame member, is looking forward to again rooting against his team in the tourney and criticizing Uncle Mike’s chess strategies. Andrew, who moved to Washington D.C. to be closer to John Runyan, was MIA until moments ago. He may not pitch, as he has tendonitis in his shoulder from waving at politicians. Speaking of being injured, eleven-time champ, four-time MVP, and 25-time cockalorum Scott follows last year’s hernia—which itself followed a torn tricep—with gout and a pulled hamstring. Key question: People say they’re done. They look done. They smell done. Are they?

Last year Blair and Billy/Rich were going to combine as The Blair Rich Project. Then they weren’t. Then they were. Then they finally did. This captivating drama was the most interesting aspect of their 2010 Cup. Building on that blandness, they’re back. Blair “Jacques” caused the Cup date to be moved. Now he won’t miss the event for his recipe-sharing tour of France: “La première étape, ouvrez la boîte de Spam." The six-time champ, who hasn’t hit more than quatre homers in nearly dix ans, can’t schedule a vacation around the one worthwhile obligation he has all year. Nah, we’re not bitter about it. The empty-headed micawber re-assembled a group of pierrots, including ’95 grotesque aberration title members Rich and Billy “Dirty Girl” Brown. 1995. Some current players weren’t even born then, and 98% of those who were around can’t remember that far back (Uncle George has a great memory). Rich was officially disinvited in 2010, honored that, but now rebelliously returns, so we do get to watch his uxoriousity-induced etiolation again. He supposedly spent the year weaving a jersey out of his wife’s hair. Eww. Further damaging U.S. international relations, “Dirty Girl” also went to France in the off-season, picking up grooming tips at the Paris Zoo, but even the French couldn’t help his wiffleball game. He too was hopeful, sadly, saying, “We're gonna try to try and do our best.” A friendly guy named Mike who’s in the family somehow is the fourth. Odd man out is Jim “Ichabod” B., who brings a fresh-scrubbed pleasantness to this team and wears goofy hats. He hit twice as many homers as the rest of the team combined last year, but he’ll sit the bench. That’s managing for you. Key question: Ce qui est là pour dire?

 Al G’s Falcons won in ’06 but have mainly struggled since. Al “Blue Falcon” G. was terrible at everything wiffleball-related last year. This comment is not driven by meanness, because Al is nice. Pulchritudinous Rob “Pinkie” Spackleface fared well against any little kids in 2010 but was less effective against real players. After spending years fielding balls with his eye and other parts of his face, this year he will attempt the amazing feat of put-out by philtrum. The last two years they have gone with “Uncle” Ed and then Dave “The Stork” as their third. If you combine the two of them together and throw in some mud, you will be left with some mud. Key question: Can they find a third player to go deep in the tournament?

We will not talk about how Uncle John’s Team’s might do better if not for panjandrum John Sr.’s obsession with claims of his team’s unfair vilification by the media. (That’s called apophasis, in case you’re keeping track.) We will thus, as a good publication should, lead opinion in a more positive way. First, this team has a great runs/effort factor: They put so much into that one run last year! Uncle John serves as a custos morum in the face of the Cup’s excesses. People like that. “Uncle” Ed oozed onto their team last year, and he is a happy, well-built guy whose day will certainly come. Chris R. has transcended the destructive competition of the tournament. Red and blue state icon Uncle Bill “Brownie” is a beloved pitcher. Key question: Can they triple last year’s run total? (If so, and we believe they can, that will give them three runs.)

The winners get to keep the Cup all year—if they remember—and can wax thrasonically about their skills while opponents must, by rule, sit and listen. #

Handy Glossary

pharisaical: hierophant’s emphasis on strict observance of rituals.

diktat: an order or decree imposed on all by a hierophant.

taradiddle: pretentious nonsense.

sitzfleisch: the ability to tolerate something boring.

periphrasis: using more words than necessary.

pleonasm: using more words than necessary.

calliopean: piercingly loud.

ululate: to howl or wail.

gasconade: boastful talk.

hircine: a strong, goat-like odor.

miasma: noxious emissions; an unpleasant atmosphere.

marplot: one whose interference compromises an undertaking.

jejune: dull; insipid.

mysophobia: an irrational fear of dirt.

 irenic: promoting peace or conciliation.

tetchy: easily annoyed; oversensitive.

claque: a group of people hired to applaud at a performance.

Sissyphean: when spelled right, an endless, unachievable task.

cockalorum: a self-important or boastful person.

micawber: an eternal optimist.

pierrot: a buffoonish character in French pantomime.

etiolate: to become pale, weak, or stunted.

philtrum: vertical groove below the nose and above the upper lip.

panjandrum: important or, and this is crucial, self-important person.

apophasis : allusion to something by denying it will be said.

custos morum: a guardian of morals; censor.

Handy Glossary Glossary

hierophant: chief priest of a mysterious cult or group.

thrasonical: bragging or boastful.

Ralston Cup Champs                                     MVPs                          Home run leaders (1998-2010)
1987-Pete, Scott, Blair 1988-Pete, Scott, Blair        1989-Pete, Scott, Blair 1990-John Sr., Chris R., Uncle George, Chris Scott 1991-Pete, Scott, Blair    1992-Al, Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott 1993-Paul, Pete, Scott                        1994-Paul, Pete, Scott   1995-Blair, Jim, John Cane 1996-Billy, Bill Sr., Bill A., Rich, Dan 1997-John Jr., Ryan, Rob 1998-John Jr., Ryan, Rob 1999-Paul, Pete, Scott, Andrew 2000-Paul, Pete, Scott 2001-Paul, Pete, Scott 2002-Blair, Jim, John Cane 2003-Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott, Scott 2004-Uncle Mike, Little Mike, Pat                   2005-Pete, Scott, Andrew, Uncle George 2006-Al G, Rob S, Greg C 2007-Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott 2008-John Jr., Ryan, Chris Dino-Mutt 2009-Chris Matt, Kurt, Butch, Jason 2010- Mikey, Brian, Chris Scott	Scott (unofficial)              Pete            Blair            Chris Scott            Scott        Chris Scott        Scott         Paul        John Cane        Rich        Ryan        Rob         Pete        Pete        Pete      Blair       Mikey      Pat      Scott      Rob S      Mikey      Chris Matt      Kurt     Chris Scott	1) Scott                 87                      2) Chris Scott        70                      3) Rich                   51                      4) Mikey                51                      5) Pete                    50 Home run leaders 2003-10 1) Scott                  52 2) Dino-Mutt        43 3) Mikey                35 3) Greg C               35 5) Rich                   33 5) Spackleface     33

               

                                      Team records (1998-10)

                                      overall        r. robin       tourney       r. robin runs

Paul (98-)                       86-36-3       63-27-3       23-10                389                 

Al Classic (98-)               75-40-1       62-30-1       13-10               381     

Al G Falcons (05-)           33-23          26-18          7-5                  145

John Jr. (98-)                  59-49-3       52-38-3       7-11                  265

Blair (98-08)                   54-40          42-31          12-9                  268

Chris Matt (98-)             56-58-2       45-46-2       11-12                 269

Blair/Rich (08-)              10-15          9-12            1-3                    69

Billy (98-08)                   40-44-3       36-34-3       4-10                  187

Bud/Mike (98-)              38-73-1       31-61-1       7-12                   193

John Sr. (98-)                13-86-1       8-78-1         5-8                      80

Yard of Fame Inductees

2006-Paul

Players not invited back

2009-Rich

25 Years and Going Strong

This year marks a quarter century milestone.  There is a group of you who will be thinking, “Oh, Pete’s going to give us remembrances of our high school glory days.”  Indeed, this summer was my 25 year high school reunion.  It was great to see folks from a life almost forgotten, even if just for a brief time.  Having so many recognize me while I stood, slack-jawed, because I just couldn’t place the face with a name was interesting.  Have I changed so little in 25 years?  Personally, I feel like a completely different person, but that’s not really the case at hand.

This is about a much richer anniversary.  It is a landmark in time that I marvel at every year.  2011 is the 25^th Annual Ralston Cup Invitational Wiffleball Tournament. 

Indeed, I’ve been hosting a tournament to play wiffleball on the same weekend every summer since 1987.  The fact that it has moved this one year to accommodate a single player, and you know who you are, is astounding and gives some insight into the event and the players.  First a quick history:

It was summer in 1987 and my friends and I from high school had just finished our first year away at college.  Most of us hadn’t seen each other at all and I was lamenting not seeing the guys in so long.  So my dad suggests a day playing wiffleball.  Invite all the guys over, pick teams and play.  “What a great idea”, I thought.  So, I made some calls and got half dozen 3-man teams together.  It was a great group of friends, uncles, and cousins.  We played in my back yard in Berlin as we did for years growing up.  We got a trophy, a box of balls, some new yellow bats and a keg.  It was a great day, enjoyed by all.

Since that fabled day so long ago, the field has grown to nine teams.  Players have come and gone, but the tournament vibe has been consistent.  It’s been amazingly consistent.  This is a group of men (there are no women allowed in the yard this day) that come together for what could be considered the purest reasons.  We gather to verbally hammer each other all day while sweating in the sun with a beer in one hand, a cigar in the other, munching chicken and peanuts, and scratch and claw our way to be last winner of the day.  It’s shocking how hard men will play in order to have their names inscribed on a 25 year old piece of plastic.

We play on a field that gives even the best players fits.  There are no bases to run, but rather hit for “distance” to get base hits.  Home plate is about 45’ from the back of my parent’s house.  The higher up the house you hit, the more bases you get.  The roof is a home run.  There are two patios; one screened, one glass, with a large garden in the space between.  There are bushes, rocks, and chunks of drift wood around which to navigate.  Home plate itself is an 8” wide piece of twenty year old wire shelving that I tore out of my closet one year.  One strike and you’re out.  One foul and you’re out.  A ball caught anywhere, even off the house and you’re out.  And to top it, it’s slow pitch…and the pitcher is only 23 feet from the batter, so better stay on your toes.  Because of the incredibly close quarters, I’m sure there is some cheesy hyperbolic reference to Thunderdome to be made here, but I’ll allow you to fill in that blank.

We have been playing so many years that there are now a handful of kids playing that were not even born when we started.  The oldest player is near seventy, and is still dangerous.  His physical game may have slipped a little in twenty five years, but by most is considered the penultimate heckler.  He can drive lesser players to madness, effectively changing their game.  And this is an important part.  Generally any player not active in a game is seated inches from the foul line armed with the aforementioned beer and food.  From that vantage point, the verbal assault is launched.  It’s exhausting for both assailant and assailed.

Men have lain flat out on beds of rock to catch a ball.  I personally put my hand through a window in one attempt…caught the ball, thank you.  Ribs have been cracked diving through fences.  There has been at least one trip to the ER for a split knee.  We played through rain so hard one year; the entire yard/field was 3” deep of mud.  One player tried to have his young brother play, but the little guy couldn’t take it and was reduced to tears halfway through the day.  I tried to award a sportsmanship trophy the first year, but there were no good candidates, so we switched to MVP along with the championship cup…that works out a bit better.  I once heard my own father, after hitting a game winning home run for our team, call one twenty-something player on the other team a dog dick after enduring the younger mans jibes for a whole game.  Yeah, it really is as great as it sounds.

It’s hard for me to convey the utter joy, excess, competitiveness and camaraderie that go on through the first Saturday in August each year.  It’s one day in a year that we look forward to all summer.  I suppose that someday a summer will come and go without a Ralston Cup, but I can’t see that far forward.  I started this when I was only nineteen.  I’m forty three now and my oldest son is twelve.  He is chomping at the bit and will be ready to endure the day in a couple years, with his younger brother not far behind.  I can only pray that when that day comes he and I and my dad will be able to play as the first three generation team.  I look forward to seeing all four Ralston names etched on that glorious decades old plastic cup.

Buckle Shoed Killjoys

I'm sick of America being a country so rooted in puritanical stupidity.  Drugs are bad.  Sex is bad.  Language is bad.  Freedom is bad…whoa, whoa, whoa…freedom is bad?  It certainly seems that way lately.  In a country as great as this one, a country whose very essence is built around the idea of independence, it’s baffling that we seem hell-bent on being the biggest wet blanket on the planet.  For god’s sake, a couple hundred years ago we started the whole nation with the Declaration of INDEPENDENCE.  And then promptly started telling each other what we are not allowed to do.

So let’s have a look at where have we landed?  We’re not allowed to have alcohol until the age of twenty one.  Really?  Alcohol is actually verboten to someone legally able to enlist, get married, drive or hold a job.  Do our pilgrim lawmakers really think that a sixteen year old is going to burst into flames the moment a bit of lager hits his lips?  Is young Jimmy going to lose his mind and spiral into a Wild Turkey flavored oblivion if he has a drink at his high school graduation?  Doubtful.  We should be teaching our kids that responsible consumption is just another part of life.  We are not going to build little chug machines just because our young adults have a beer now and then.  If anything, I believe we would be easing them into that part of adulthood better equipped to handle it.  I guess I should be grateful we’ve opened up this much.  We all know how well prohibition worked out.

Recently, in some states across this great land of ours, there have been laws passed banning smoking in privately held buildings.  I’ll repeat that.  There have been laws passed banning smoking in PRIVATELY HELD BUILDINGS!  Are you fucking kidding me?!?  How in the world can it be justified that a bar owner may not allow his patrons to have a cigarette with his beer?  We have devolved so far that we’ve allowed the government to dictate what happens in areas NOT controlled by the government.  That’s just great.  It needs to be our choice to smoke or not to smoke, depending on the owner’s policies.  If you don’t want to smell smoke while you eat, then don’t choose go to places that cater heavily to smokers.  There’s that pesky freedom of choice again.  I don’t even smoke and I hate that law. 

Technically, I can’t walk on the sidewalk in front of my own house with a bottle of beer.  It’s a crime to be drunk in public.  Having a single joint because I’m in pain can get me arrested.  Stopping at a red light at 4:00am in the middle of nowhere with no cars in sight then rolling through the intersection gets me a ticket.  I need a permit for even the slightest alteration to my own home.  I’m responsible for keeping someone else’s kids out of my pool. 

My wife cannot sunbath topless in our backyard.  Whether she would or not is a different story, but shouldn’t she have that right, that CHOICE?  Where is the harm in that?  Someone might actually see a breast – gasp!  Guess what, they’ve seen them before.  I understand the need for clothing in general, but in your own little piece of the world how can the powers that be require what you wear?  It can’t be the kids.  Hell, most of them started life by feeding from the dreaded teat, let alone having seen one.  And isn’t nudity so scary in America because we as adults teach the youngsters that it is?  I know it’s a fine line between my argument and an all out nude fest.  Believe me; I wouldn’t want to see me in the buff walking through the local Acme.  But there needs to be a point where it’s not seen as disgusting.

We seriously need to loosen our ties a little.  I sense a tipping point coming where we will begin to strangle on our own uptightness, and it doesn’t feel good.  Excess is not always bad.  Marching to your own drummer is not always bad.  We just need to learn to embrace what is not the norm.  Live and let live.  It’s the only way we’ll progress as a society past the tight asses that came here in the first place.

The Once and Future Parent

     I am not, or ever have been, perfect.  I'll take a moment to let you recover from that....

     

     Way back when in school, brilliant as I may have been, I was not always the most studious.  Sadly, there was a time when even subjects in which I was very interested could not hold my attention when forced to study them.  I had athletic talent, but certainly did not apply myself as much as I should.  The drive to overachieve is something on which I never really had a handle.

     Also, knowing that hindsight is 20/20, I can see clearly now that even a modicum of application on my part may have alleviated one of my biggest "regrets".

An aside for a moment, if you please.  I feel the need to explain that when pushed, I would assert that nothing in my past is truly a regret.  I see how I could have done certain things differently, but dwelling on the “what if’s” is my road to mental torture.  I do not believe in fate.  I feel strongly that everything we do shapes the path of our lives and our current situation is whatever product comes from our history.  I am quite happy.  My boys are fantastic, I love my wife now as much as when we married fifteen years ago, and my circle of friends couldn’t be greater.  My family in general is more than I have a right to ask.  If my past was not as it was, then maybe my present would not be what it is, and maybe I wouldn’t be happy, maybe my kids wouldn’t be as special, etc.   Maybe, maybe, maybe…but that’s all I have.  So…

 Recognizing this shortcoming, but liking the life that I have, is it right to attempt to make my kids have a childhood any different than mine?  HELL YES!!  But, that comes with some caveats.  As adults, I think we can look back and see what our parents tried that did not work.  We also need to be aware of why our parents made certain choices.  I also know that I have absolutely wonderful parents.  I always thought so.  Even to this day I see them as mentors, friends and an example of how I’d like to live my life.  However, I do think I can build on the great foundation that they created.  I don’t know if I can improve on it, but my most important job as a parent is to try.

I see parts of me in both my boys.  Most parts I love, 'cause there's a LOT about me to love.  But there are times when I see bits of myself shining through that need squashing.  Whenever one of them doesn’t want to do his homework I find myself bristling because I know to what path that leads.  Whenever one of them slacks off at practice, more bristling.  When they let required effort stifle some creative en devour, I cringe.  When I realize they’ve been watching way too much TV on a sunny afternoon, bristling (unless it's something we're watching together - hehe).  I bristle because I want them to be the super me.  I think it’s because I also want to correct things about myself.  I want to distill my shortcomings out of them.  I want them to be perfect.

The most important thing in life is to be happy.  I've always been told that and I've always believed it.  Ultimately, that is everyone’s goal.  The problem is that when you are growing up, the being happy part is a here and now thing and not a life goal.  As an adult, I see overall happiness in a different light.  To achieve it, there needs to be things incorporated into life that don’t always make us happy.  Work (you may like your job, but you know what I mean), bills and time spent away from family are just a few, but we know they are only bits of life and not the entirety.  We know that by enduring the bits that are not so wonderful, life for us and our family will be that much better overall.

About now you are asking, “So what the hell is your point?”  Well, it’s this; be more thoughtful than you think you need to be when it comes to your kids.  You think you’re doing the best job you can, and you may be.  But when it comes right down to it, somtimes preparing them for life is what needs to take priority over their "here and now " happiness.

Annoucement

Folks,

There's a great new web site out there...www.themadranters.com.  They host a weekly podcast, and have been gracious enough to allow me to co-host a few times.  It's great fun hearing the streams of ranting about whatever subject is in their heads for the week.  It's smart and entertaining.  Best of all, is that they've given me a second place to post my blog entries so even more readers can benefit from my insight.  There's also book, TV and movie reviews that I and others contribute.

Have a look.  You certainly won't be disappointed.

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

The Difference a Day Can Make

This time it was an Ashton, a pint glass of Beefeaters and tonic, and the company of three gentlemen whose presence make any leisure activity better.  These are the things that helped to reboot my weary psyche.  It’s something that I had needed for a very long time.  Until it was over, I wasn’t even aware of how much it was needed, but by-god it feels great.  Such simple things can give us a massive shot of psychological and emotional adrenaline.   

As we sat at the bar, exchanging tales of yore, sipping our drinks and reliving the days exploits on the golf course, I wondered how I could have missed such a simple solution.  Up early, first off the tee (and not playing as badly as expected) a great cigar at the turn and five hours of nothing existing but this outing with friends.  If there is a better recipe for a great day I don’t know what it is.

It made me think that as we work and parent and husband and coach and care, we stretch ourselves without knowing to what limits.  Like butter scraped over too much bread.  Hehe – sorry, I couldn’t resist that.  It creeps up on us, at least it did me.  As the days progressed, I was busy but not unhappy about it.  Life just churned along, but the longer things went unchanging, the long it seemed to be.  It didn’t seem to me that anything was out of the ordinary.  Those days turn into weeks and then months.  Then one night I found myself awake in front of the TV at 3am because I couldn’t sleep  - AGAIN.

As I sat watching Frasier reruns I realized that I was bone weary and mentally dragging.  Not just that night, but in general.  “Well,” I told myself, “guess I just need some sleep, things will get better soon.”  Of course things did not improve.  I don’t mean to sound too pathetic.  I was not, and am not as miserable as all that.  But life has a way of creeping in you, settling in, weighing you down and making you feel like that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Well damn it, it’s not.  I have a wonderful wife, two great sons, family I love, and the best group of friends I could ask for, so what’s up?  Why would I be dragging so slowly?  Guess what I discovered.  Sometimes you just have to do something for yourself.  Sounds simple, doesn’t it?  Sounds like something we all do anyway.  I found it was not as common as I thought.

Now, before you all start thinking I’m a big whiny puss, please stop.  Know that I realize I’m not working in a coal mine.  I don’t exactly have a hard life.  I’m generally a pretty happy guy.  But even jolly fellows like me need a shot in the arm every now and then.  If you were as selfless, generous and accommodating as yours truly you would understand.

So as it turned out, a chance to play a great golf course presented itself and I took full advantage.  I didn’t hurry right home.  We played a leisurely 18, lingered at the bar just a little, stopped in to visit my mom on the way home and once there had a refreshing dip in the pool.  It was a great day.  It was what I needed to change my general outlook.  It’s a kindler gentler Pete that has emerged and I think those closest to me will notice a difference…geez, I really hope they do, or I might just be that curmudgeon I was evolving into.

Anyway, be careful.  You think you’re being a good dad, and husband, and son, etc by keeping on the good path…and you are…but be good and selfish now and then.  As long as it’s not and expense of a loved one, you’ll thank yourself and be fortified for those long stretches when it just can’t happen frequently enough.

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

How Much Should They Know?

We all like to tell tales.  Whether they are of good times or bad, of triumph or spectacular defeat or of general youthful jackassery, it’s all great fodder.  I enjoy few things more than being with a group of good friends exchanging stories.  Some I’ve heard (and told) dozens of times, and some are brand new.  Briefly living vicariously in those spinning yarns feels pretty darn great. 

There is a point, however, that I think the stories either need to wait or even be buried completely.  And that’s when it comes to my sons.  I don’t know if I can put a finger on exactly why, and maybe the reason is different depending on the content, but my instincts tell me to either tone down, delay or completely suppress certain telling of adventures of my younger self.   And this is conflicting a bit.

I don’t want to portray my life as different than it actually was/is, but there are certainly some things they don’t necessarily need to know.  It may be obvious, but that’s the way it was with my dad as I grew up.  The older I got, the more I learned about his past.  I never felt that was anything but right.  And I think it served a purpose.  It harkens back to a previous article (Hammer Away, My Friends).  Just as you don’t need to be best chums with your adolescent kids, your children don’t necessarily benefit from knowing everything about you.  I’m not suggesting living a double life or being overly mysterious, just that little Timmy knowing your every dark secret is probably not the greatest idea until he’s old enough to understand all the necessary context.

As parents, our past is a great teaching tool.  My mistakes have made for fantastic guidelines with which to steer my boys.  Thankfully I have NO end to the list of mistakes from which to refer.  I mean, who hasn’t strapped on a ball gag and snorted a shot of tequila out of a strippers navel while being ritualistically whipped by a….oh, hehe.  That might just be me, but live and learn I say.

See, there is no context I can envision in which my kids would need to hear that story.  If they did, it would only start to break down whatever respect (stop laughing) they might have built up for me.  And it’s not even that I don’t want them to get it in their head that they shouldn’t do that.  Weird as it might be, it would be OK with me IF, and it’s a big IF they were old enough to get into such a thing.  But one, I don’t want to hear about it; and two, I don’t want them to think I would openly condone or suggest they go out and try it.  At the right age and maturity level they’ll get to those sorts of things on their own.  No good comes from putting my tacit stamp of approval on certain things until I think they are ready for it.

There is a built in filter that I have developed, distilled from years of hearing and not hearing my parent’s escapades.  I think back about my perception of them as I grew up the dynamic that was established in my home.  It worked and it was comfortable, so of course I’d like to replicate that for my kids.  I think that doling out my past judiciously is a good way to keep that dynamic within a range that works for me and the kids.  Someday they’ll get to hear the rest of the story I started above, that is if the hypnotherapy can dredge it out of my repressed memory.  In the mean time, we’ll exchange more appropriate anecdotes and hopefully make some together that they may or may not tell their kids some day.

RALSTON HAS SPOKEN

Reflections on Simple Pleasures

     As I sat on my deck after a wonderful weekend I found myself content in what I once would have considered almost ridiculous pleasures. This happens to us all, I think, as we get older and mature. Although I'm not sure that's always a good thing. Our tastes change, to be sure, but there's something to be said for one's internal consistency. Would it be so bad if my aspirations rose "only" to wings and beer? Certainly not, since sometimes that's exactly what I want. But by and large, I find myself in a more adult world. A world of leather bound books and rooms at smell of rich mahogany.
     Last night I had myself a large (nearly perfectly made, thank you very much) gin and tonic. I'll point out, since I find myself becoming kind of a snob about it, that it's Sapphire gin...just adds a bit more taste. Of course I served it in an Eagles pint glass, but that couldn't be helped. Along with my nearly perfect drink I had an Oliva Series G. That's a cigar...told you I was becoming a bit of a snob. A fantastic smoke that I relish more and more, especially with a cocktail or (more often) a good stout or lager.
     Even just a handful of years ago, I would have viewed that last paragraph as a load of pompous crap.  But the development of these different tastes has been a pleasure that I'm glad has happened.  More so because they are in addition my original set of preferences, not a replacement for them.
     Of course all this is really just common sense.  Tastes change.  Almost always will over time.  But it begs the question, "Am I happy about it?"  The simple answer is yes, especially since I derive so much pleasure from this more, I'll call it refined, palette.  However, there are a couple things I consider when pondering this about myself.
    First is that I find that enjoying the new pastime of cigars and gin comes with more alone time than I'm used to.  That's not a bad thing at all, I like it actually.  But it feels strange to choose something that may limit time with family and friends.  I suppose that says something about my true nature, but I'll let you judge me on that point.  As I imagine it, there are fewer things better than hanging at a shot-and-a-beer joint with a group of friends, playing shuffleboard and generally carousing.  Feels funny to so easily put that aside.
     Second, and harder to come to grips with, is the feeling of growing ever so slightly pretentious.  Not sure pretentious is the right word, since the feelings are genuine.  I'm not trying to put on airs, it's just the way things are.  Unless left with no other option, I can't bring myself to intentionally choose a light beer.  I find myself with a taste, generally, for cigars a bit beyond my financial comfort.  Although I haven't been able to get past paying too much for something I'm going to burn and inhale...just wrangles me a little.  Also, give me Tanqueray or better.  I actually have no idea if that is a "great" gin, but I know lesser ones when I taste them and I turn my nose up at them.  Geez, I sound like an ass-head just writing that.
     I suppose my point here (is there one?) is that it's nice to embrace these new directions.  Don't go quietly into that untested night.  When you ponder things, anything, having had these new experiences and growth, you'll have a wider perspective.  Wrap your arms around that which you once eschewed.  You don't know what you might be missing.  It'll feel unnatural at first, but you might just be finding your next favorite thing.