HOW I SPENT MY SPRING VACATION

On Wednesday, I attempted to go running. That didn't work. Weeks ago when I started, I was doing an "old man shuffle" that replicated jogging. Now, I was unable to do that. I don't like pain. It's uncomfortable. I can bitch and moan about the slightest alteration in the fabric of life, but when it comes to actual pain, I simply become annoyingly reserved. Kidney stones and a trip to the Emergency Department? Walk home and then head into work for a few hours. A bout with some gastrointestinal virus? Just another reason why laptops are such a boon. Torn ACL? Prop me up and don't call any plays that involve me changing directions or rolling out. Wisdom teeth pulled? It's moving day and there's too much to do.

It was windy and I went into the fully stocked gym replete with three exercise machines. Two of which worked. I got on the exercise bike thing. Not the same as running, but I brought in the weighted bouncy ball and did some things with that. Basic overhead motions and some hand grip stuff. Amazing how weak my hands are compared to when I was playing football.

It was probably better that I was crippled. My gait is not secure and stable enough to put up with gusts and gales and puppy dog tails. I went into the "gym" and peddled and pumped for about an hour. It's just not the same as being outside and having a visible, tangible target or goal. I suppose it can go under the banner of "boring."

I showered and dressed what I thought was appropriately: shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. It never got above 55 degrees that day, and my nipples paid for it. I was at the Muni and the A's were going to go through another five inning stint of an infrasound game. I wandered around the perimeter, limping, and shooting long range shots with the camera. Good close-ups of Dan Meyer. A few shots of Travis Buck.

I ended up talking to a family who recently moved to Phoenix from Tracy. They took their kids out of school that morning. Can't say that I approve. The father wasn't setting the best example for them. They were the family who found a World Series ring on eBay belonging to a long time Oakland A's employee. They purchased it and eventually returned it to its rightful owner. Bully for them.

The difficult part was having to get them up to speed on who's who out on the field and why such-and-such isn't everything they'd read in the traditional media. We did agree that Bobby Crosby is a jerk and doesn't deserve the attitude he walks around with. Even when he played a full season Swisher wasn't worth the adulation he received. The excuse was that he was a 'rookie'.

The father was gushing over Nick Swisher and what a great guy he was because he stood around and signed autographs for "almost an hour" last year. Of course he did. Nick Swisher might be the most self-centered human being on the planet. Last year, he was trying to garner attention to justify [removed "him"] being on the roster, because he flopped so badly in his first season. Swisher is in the Spoiled Prick Hall of Fame.

Following the 2004 Season, there was a lot of ballyhoo because Swisher was going to have surgery on his thumb. The idiot general public soaked up the traditional media puff piece: "Wow, think of what a great season he would have if he wasn't injured." The same media hacks busied themselves with articles on what a "big kid" Swisher was because he played video games all the time. His Sacramento teammates confirmed the bullshitocity of the hype, "Funny, his thumb didn't seem to bother him when he was playing X-Box at my house until 3:00 in the morning, waking up my kid."

Swisher was a regular at crying to the wives of older players because they were so mean to him. Locker room talk in sports can get very nasty when the barbs fly back and forth. The slightest weakness is exploited and exaggerated, just like in real life in secret. In baseball, there's a lot more time and a lot more downtime to perfect your craft. All it takes is one person to take a swipe at another person and then, "it's on," as you kids would say. Swisher would weep to the wives, but they always responded, "Nick, you always start it. Just keep your mouth shut for a change."

While the team split up for the game, I looked over my left shoulder.

Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick.

The Keebler Elf, the asshole from Cisco, and some other crony were about three rows behind me. I gathered I could make a 20 foot leap, leaving five to seven feet left to scale. Since I didn't have a sharp object, I wouldn't be able to swiftly execute the bastard. Only having blunt objects and not willing to rely on my knee to deliver the necessary repetitive stress to beat a 77 year-old parasite, I just turned back to the field.

Later, the family was getting a lot of mileage out of the World Series ring story with Wolff. The father was thanking Wolff. For what exactly? He hasn't done anything but create havoc and panic. Further, he's not the majority owner of the team. He's just the face, and that face isn't worth looking at. Wolff's plan is to make a ton of money as a minority owner of a professional sports franchise for a few years, and then get out. My question is: at age 77, haven't you made enough money? Doesn't philanthropy take hold after 50-70 million dollars and age 65?

The action on the field was rather tame. There were a few good performances. Marcus McBeth striking out Mike Piazza. Travis Buck's at-bats and Daric Barton's approach at the plate. Watching Jason Kendall was painful. Eric Chavez looked at three pitches for a strikeout from Jay Marshall.

Once each side ran out of pitchers, I gathered my things and headed back to the hotel. I stopped and got some things at Safeway and Trader Joe's. It's so much cheaper to stay at a hotel and eat out of the refrigerator than eat at a restaurant for every meal. Plus, baseball food is tantamount to soliciting prostitution: overpriced, overrated, and just dangerous.

On Wednesday night, I did some writing and had some marathon phone calls. I meandered a bit, and I was starting to realize how much I missed exercising, moving my body. Not having to think in a single room, but expanding my thoughts outside, in the open. Running is actually kind of cool because I W A S able to run a decent distance. I've never been able to run more than the mile they asked us to for the physical fitness test in high school. When was I going to run a mile playing football?

The running is giving way toward fixing the rest of my body. I fear opening that cedar chest laden with moth balls and an assortment of cobwebs and dust bunnies. Eventually, I might have to join an actual fitness club (QUESTION: does anyone refer to them as "gym's" anymore?) to work out with free weights and, specifically, the Smith machine; the upright bar that is on a track that you can use for squats, military press, bench press, or even power cleans, if you can master the linear plane.

I don't do well in gyms or fitness clubs. Weight rooms in high school and even college were easier. Easier in that I knew people and could kick them aside when I wanted to actually do something, rather than stand around and do whatever it is those people do.

There should be three basic body movements when in a gym: in the midst of lifting an object or otherwise exerting your body; breathing after doing the former; moving to another area to repeat the cycle in another string of movements or with other objects. Instead it's usually a gaggle of males with bad complexions and various other deep seeded emotional issues. Usually standing around talking about some girl who that they wanted to date rape (who was probably under age). I write date rape since I have a hard time believing any girl would have them. The conversation might drift to how much they could bench if they hadn't already much earlier when the other guy wasn't there. Or it could lead to current events, like what they did last weekend and how it will be different when they do the same thing this weekend.

Where was I?

I'm debating what I want to do with my body. I am not sure if I want to compete in any activities. I've always thought about racing, again. Probably not BMX, but something with a bicycle. There are a few baseball leagues I could join. I, and a lot of my family, have always wondered what would have happened if I had kept playing baseball after junior high. There's also a few flag football clubs. I don't know if I could ever go back to football. It broke my heart, and it may never heal. The game has determinate over time. Football is a wonderful game but corrupted by a jockocracy. It tests man's very understanding of life - why do they bother wearing helmets? What are they trying to protect? Even if I did find myself involved in football, things would never be the same. Not good, bad, or ill. But different. Maybe I'm just not the type of person who is able to deal with the eventuality of life.

Thursday was "Opening Day" for the Cactus League. I had an 11:00 meeting to call in for. I set up the meeting as a regular occurrence weeks before. I was adamant that our team meet at least once a week, damn the logistics. There was a long list of items that needed to be dragged out and dusted off. It's a grind. A grind.

Eventually, I got to go into the ballpark. After a few innings, I got a call from one of the A's minor leaguers whom I am interviewing this spring. Great guy. We spoke for an inning or two, and closed the conversation with his plans to go bother some of his teammates' families. We agreed to meet that night for dinner. The game went swimmingly for a few innings until the A's bullpen decided those five hours in the sun were better than four — especially when a pitcher on the bubble of making the roster gives up five runs in 2/3 of an inning. Rarely do you see a pitcher removed prior to the 3rd out in a Spring Training game.

Just painful. Trying to explain the movie Velvet Goldmine to anyone who doesn't know who Ziggy Stardust is.

I was burning up. My right arm and hand were just on fire. My nose was twitching red. I used sunblock. I used the Scout hat, but I think the burn had something to do with the antibiotics. My skin was already dry, and I was drinking 5-7 bottles of water a day and 3-4 of Vitamin Water, but to no avail. Stupid internal organs.

When I got back to the hotel, the damage was fairly extensive. Luckily, I am a big girl and came prepared with moisturizing cream for my face and lotion for my arms. Later that night and the next day, I would see what price I had paid. Seems silly that only a few days earlier I was nodding my head that I would take better care of my skin.

Sunburns — or any time in the sun — remind me of those little tablets in grade school from the hygiene segment. Well, maybe you didn't have them, so I'll explain. At least once a year, there was a hygiene/health week at school: the food pyramid, the four food groups, and how to brush your teeth were the topics. During the dental portion, it was demonstrated that you could chew some sort of colored tablet after brushing your teeth. It would leave a residue and was to show where you missed brushing. I still don't understand the concept. What if I chew on one side of my mouth? What chemicals are in that tablet? Do they react poorly with different toothpastes, fluoride, mouthwash, toothbrushes...? Can I make stuff explode if I drop it in alcohol or bleach? Are they flammable in any way? If so, can I have some more?

You always have to wait to see what the sun has done to your body, and I'm not sure that isn't a healthy reminder that if you don't know right now, then you did something you probably should not have.

That night, I met the A's minor leaguer for dinner at the Texas Roadhouse. The guy loves the place. I ended up getting a weird named steak thingy, but was unable to finish it. I'm getting much better at realizing when I'm full. I just keep forgetting to pick up the stuff I have boxed or bagged.

The player and I spoke for a long time. Again, great, great guy. Plus, any athlete who gets his degree in college is cool.

Thursday night I had another few phone calls and marathon sessions. It seems that dating, men and women, seeing each other and relationships are difficult. Well, for everyone else. I suppose. All of their issues seem so easy to resolve. Mine on the other hand are gigantic. In scope, nature, context and how long it takes me to explain them. Your problems are easy. Mine are difficult to impossible.

Apparently, I've come across as an unfeeling, cold, retarded idiot for the past two decades or so when it comes to my own personal life. People get frustrated very easily when you tell them they mean a lot to you but you still keep them at arm's distance. Having exponentially more friends that are female than male it really doesn't make it hard to not think if any tension is the boy/girl dynamic or if I'm just being an asshole, again.

I honestly am not being flippant when it comes to the feelings of others. I genuinely care about the feelings of those people in my life. But, having studied stuff in college, and being a good listener means asking tough questions. Often I have to run people into a wall to figure out if they are thinking or still reacting. I don't have a wide range of friends. But I do keep those I have close. And it makes me feel better to know that as the last few months of my life evolved - most of them didn't care about the issue.

There is a dichotomy between tragedy and comedy. There are a few different explanations :

Tragedy is when something bad happens to you. Comedy seems to be when something happens to someone else.
- unknown
Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.
- Mel Books
We participate in tragedy. At comedy we only look.
Comedy is my bread and butter, baby, the tragedy is nobody knows what the hell I am talking about.
Tragedy is being unable to recognize comedy.
- Me

What came out of the last two months, and the three months before that, - people were shocked and unrelentingly happy to hear that I had fallen in love.

Me.

They were incredibly unmoved, and not shocked in the least, to discover that I had blown it.

What made it worse was being unable to tell people what had happened, why it might have happened and why I can not fathom what happens next.

"I did something stupid and I did it stupidly," was my mantra.

What I cherish about my friends is that even as they saw that I had been utterly destroyed by this event that I was teetering on the edge, that they all wanted me to tell the story. "What happened?" I can take that several different ways. I would like to think I am a good story teller, but I'm really not. That is one of my aspirations; to become a better story teller.

It wasn't because I am a good story teller.

I would like to think that they are just offering an ear and if I wanted to launch into the diatribe they would feign attention for the nine hours it would take me to get out the very last, "oh, and this is the most important part - and I haven't even mentioned it, yet."

I don't think they were feigning interest.

I would hate to think that my collection of friends are sadists. "Wow, so you met a woman who you were looking for your entire life. You had given up all hope of ever finding her; and the kicker is that she found you. It was the best thing that has ever happend to you...then, you screwed it up. You must be in a lot of pain even just mentioning it. Pull up a chair and tell me all about every excruciating detail until I am a quivering ball of puss and I beg you to release me from this caged nirvana."

I don't think, at least not most of, my friends are sadists.

Maybe people were just being my friend. They felt empathy for the situation and considering the source - the guy who never wanted to get married or have kids fell in love? There's gotta be some mileage to that.

I've always tried my best to counsel friends whatever the situation. Even those I never had the perspectives or context. I just used my logic and drew out the breakdown on the dry erase board in my mind. If that, then this. If that, then this, this and this. I specifically like being blamed for not stopping friends form doing something stupid.

"This is all your fault, you should have told me I was headed for disaster"

"I did tell you."

"Yah, but not loud enough!"

Hey, you lie down with a guy and you risk waking up next to a fucking idiot.

It's not easy when there is no logic left in a situation where none really existed. There's only that scrap inside that had engulfed your very being and now is wilted and falling apart in the breeze.

Friday morning I was just spent.

If there was a Peet's nearby I would have ordered the ' Peet's to Go' - serves 15. But I haven't had caffeine since I left Peet's in Sacramento.

I lazily made it to the Muni for the A's first home game of the Spring. I sat next to two gents from Milwaukee (the A's were playing the Brewers). I made them both squirt beer out their noses at separate moments. Grown men laughing until liquid comes out of their nose. Serves them right; I had been listening to my iPod Shuffle but they kept asking me questions.

On the way back to the hotel I realized that my arms were getting to a point where they might start smelling like fresh meat on a grill. It was bad. That night I went into damage control with my skin and I can only hope by next week I don't resemble Hans Moleman. Things weren't all bad. Saturday meant time with Little Girl Kate and Jay and Christy.

. . . Continue to Part VI . . .