When I was a kid I used to throw like a girl. I blame that fact on the lack of a solid father figure while I was growing up. My dad was in the military, so he was away for most of my younger years. It seemed that he volunteered for the assignments that took him places where he couldn’t take his family. At times I used to think that maybe it was easier for him to deal with the military than to be a father, but that’s just speculation on my part because I really never knew what he was thinking.

The closet person I had to a father figure was my uncle who would tell me that he loved me every time that he got drunk. It’s good to be loved and to be told that you’re loved, but when you really thought about it, it wasn’t so great because he used to tell everyone that he loved them when he got drunk including the dog, as far as I know he still does that to this date. I’d like to think that I outgrew that throwing like a girl thing, - yeah I’m sure I have. Put it in the record - I don’t’ throw like a girl anymore! Throwing like a girl was not my only problem, I couldn’t catch anything either. When you’re a male child you want to be able to throw and catch otherwise you might as well spend your entire recess on the corner of the blacktop playing tea party with the girls. For a kid who can’t catch or throw the only fate worse than death itself is to be forced to play little league baseball - and the only thing worse than playing little league baseball when you can’t throw or catch is being on the same team as your older superstar cousin who can throw and catch.

I don’t even remember how I ended up on the little league team. All I know is that my cousin was going to sign up for baseball and somehow he convinced me to go with him and before I knew it … parental forms were signed and I was a member of the White Sox little league baseball team. From the beginning I had a feeling that the coaches were disappointed that I was on the team, but at least they had my superstar cousin so if I stayed on the bench everyone would be happy, including me.

I think the only person who in their heart really didn’t believe I sucked at baseball was my mom. She was at every single one of my games, cheering the team on, cheering me on. Once I figured out where right field was I would stand there and watch her cheer. On those rare occasions when I was allowed to bat everyone else moaned or yelled things at me, but not my mom. She would cheer me on just as loud as she would cheer my superstar cousin, maybe even louder. Now, that’s unconditional love.

If I have to be honest, I didn’t really take little league baseball too seriously. I was content to sit on the bench and pull boogers out my nose, then stick them under the bench, adding to a collection of dried nerd boogers from past little league games. As the year progressed I got better at the game. We found out that I had bad astigmatism so with the addition of thick plastic glasses I was able to actually see the ball when it came my way so I was better prepared to catch it - and for the record, I did catch it a few times.

I remember how excited and scared I was when I found out that my father was going to be coming in from overseas in a couple of weeks and would be at one of  my games. I was excited because I wanted him to see me play, but at the same time I was scared because I didn’t want him to see how bad I actually was at America’s pastime. I asked my superstar cousin for help in doing all the things a good little leaguer should know how to do, and he agreed to help me. Every day after school we would go to the park and practice - queue “Rocky” music here – my cousin and my uncle set out to help me become a better little leaguer. They would pitch the ball to me, slowly at first, and help me to correct my swing so that eventually I was able to hit the ball. I wasn’t going to hit it out of the park, but at least I was going to hit it. They spent countless hours throwing or hitting the ball to me, giving me encouraging words when I missed it and cheering loudly when I caught it. That’s when I realized that my uncle really did love me, even when he wasn’t drinking. In the end I wasn’t a great player like my cousin, but I was better than when I started and that was good enough for me.

On the day of the big game I was ready; ready to hit the ball, ready to catch the ball, and ready to win the game for my father. He was going to be so proud of me. I looked out into the crowd expecting to see my father in his military uniform sitting with my mom and little brother, his chest puffed out with pride. I saw my mom, and I saw my brother, but my dad wasn’t there. His plane must be running late, I wasn’t worried because in my heart I knew that no matter what he would be there. He had promised me he would and he never went back on his promise. I was still scared and nervous, but I had worked so hard every day after school so no matter what was to happen I was ready.

“Please coach,” I begged. “Can I bat?”

The coach was not one of those coaches you see in little league baseball movies who believes that every kid should play no matter how bad they were. He was the coach who wanted to win even if it meant keeping me and all the other bad players on the bench.

I think that on that day the coach was caught off guard by the fact that I wanted to try and hit the ball because he knew I was happy to just sit on the bench and add to the booger collection. He told me that I might be able to bat later depending on the score. I knew then that the only way I would bat would be if we were winning by so many points that the other team had no chance of catching up.

I didn’t care. I just wanted to go out and hit the ball so my dad could see me. I didn’t care if I were the last kid to bat in the game, all I cared was that I had a chance to make him proud of me.

Finally, toward the end of the game the coach called my name and told me to get ready. I would be batting next. My heart was racing and I wanted to run to the restroom. I hated myself for not going to pee before the game because now I felt the urge and it was bad.

The batter before me, his name was Morris, hit the ball out toward left field and made it to second base. I walked out to the plate and was too nervous to look over to where my mom and dad were sitting. I tried to focus on the ball and remember everything that my cousin and uncle had told me during those hours after school. It didn’t even bother me when the whole outfield took three giant steps forward when I stepped to the plate. I was going to show them.

The pitcher went through his windup and whoosh before I could even think of hitting the ball the umpire was yelling “Strike!”

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe. I don’t know why I did it, but I’d seen a professional player do it in a game once, so I figured it could only help me. I can’t be for certain, but at that moment I thought I saw the umpire roll his eyes.

I thought about using The Force, so I tried to clear my thoughts and tune everything out except the ball.

“Strike two!” I didn’t even see the ball fly over the plate.

Apparently, The Force wasn’t strong with me.

I wanted to do something really cool, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of doing was spitting. I don’t know why but as a kid spitting seemed really cool to me, almost as cool as covering one nostril and blowing a booger out the other. I didn’t spit because I knew that if I did all I would do was get a big, slimy loogie all over my shoes, and that would not be cool at all.

I squinted against the sunlight. This was all I needed, the sun. How was I supposed to see the ball if I was looking into the sun? it was bad enough when I could see, and so much worse when I was blinded by the sunlight. I knew then and there that God liked messing with me, how else could that be explained? I closed my eyes for just a second, just to shut out the sun, the other team’s chants of “batter can’t hit”, and the ballpark smell of hot dogs, popcorn and car exhaust, which was making my stomach feel funny. I wanted to throw up and I probably would have if it weren’t for the fact that my father was there watching me. I didn’t want him to see me throw up all over home plate.

In that second that I closed my eyes the pitcher threw the ball. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing that registered in my mind…I swung the bat. I didn’t see the ball, but I did hear as the ball hit against the bat and then I heard the voice of Coach Rodriquez yelling, “run! Run!"

I threw the bat and ran to first base as the other team members just stood there transfixed by the ball as it bounced twice then rolled out into left field. Morris ran to third base and I ran to second. I’d like to say that I ran all the way home, but things don’t always turn out perfect in real life like they do in the movies. I never made it home. We were struck out and all I got to was second base, even so, it didn’t matter because I had hit the ball and in the end we won the game. As we left the dugout all the other team members ran to the concession stand where the coach bought us each a snow cone. I ran the other way toward the spectator stands to find my mom and dad.

Coach Rodriquez stopped me before I got too far. “You did a good job out there,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “Here I want you to have this” He handed me a dirty, old baseball. I turned it around in my hand looking at it, not knowing what to do or say. No one had ever given me an old dirty, baseball before. Coach Rodriquez smiled and said. “It’s your ball, the ball you hit out to left field.”

I smiled a big cheesy smile. I know that if I could have seen the smile on my face at that time I would have smiled even harder because when I see someone with a big smile on their face it makes me happy. I don’t know why it does. I think it’s because I get the feeling that they’re happy and their happiness makes me happy. One time I saw an old man walking out of the Mexican bakery with a white bag full of sweet bread. He had this big ol’ cheesy smile on his face and watching him made me smile. He was happy with his sweet bread and I was happy for him. I ran past the other kids who were running the other way toward the snow-cone stand. I ran, with the ball in my hand, and the big cheesy smile on my face toward my mom and dad. I held the ball up in the air, a trophy of all that I worked for, all that I was proud of, all that my father had come to see.

“Daddy,” I yelled. “I got this for you. Are you proud of me? I hit the ball”

My mom went to her knees and hugged me. I remember that as she hugged me, my baseball cap fell off  my head and the wind blew through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.” She had the same cheesy smile on her face as I did. “You were so good.” I hugged my mom, but quickly pulled away from her. I wanted to show my dad the baseball and share with him everything that it represented to me.

I looked around for my dad, but didn’t see him. When I looked at my mom something in her eyes confirmed what I was trying so hard to hide. “I’m sorry.” She began. “Your father couldn’t make it for your game.”

I know she said more, but I didn’t hear anything else she said after that. I let the ball drop to the ground then turned around and slowly walked away, dragging my feet and kicking up dirt as I walked to the car. I turned and watched my cousin as he ate his snow-cone and excitedly told his dad about the homerun he hit during the game. I watched as my uncle put his arm around my cousin’s shoulders and started to walk to their car. I know that if I had run up to him he would have put his other arm around me and told me how proud he was about my accomplishments, but somehow, I knew that just wouldn’t be the same.

Recently we moved to a brand new, built from the ground up, clinic. It’s a state of the art building, and has almost everything you could ever want in a clinic. The only thing that is not new is that fact that people are still going into the refrigerator and eating other people’s lunch. It was soon after we moved into the new building that someone went in and ate my leftover pizza that I had brought in for lunch.

The stealing of the lunches doesn't end there. The other day I walked in the break room and I saw the following note:

 

We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

My cousin, “Boy” didn’t hurt himself when he fell over the bag of onions, but the red, mesh bag they were in split, spilling huge yellow onions across the carport. It was then that my cousin, Dorothy, who was the pretty one in our little group of misfits picked up an onion and threw it at JC. She may have been the pretty, girly one but boy could Dorothy throw. She could throw a ball like a boy and she could fight like one too. The onion splattered all over the floor in front of JC spraying him with onion juice and little pieces of onion some of which may have landed in his eyes because it looked like he had begun to cry. In all the years I had known him, I never saw JC cry until that day, so I imagine it was the onion juice that made him cry, but even so we still laughed. He rubbed his eyes and he cried harder - we laughed harder. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea for what we did next. I’d like to think that it was me because I like to think that I was and still am the misunderstood genius of the group, but I’m pretty sure that it was one of my other cousins who came up with the idea.

“You boys find the bottles and then do what you got to do.” Sara ordered as she pulled out a huge switch blade knife from her pocket. Now that I think back on it, it may not actually have been a huge switch blade knife but more like the little file thing that comes with a fingernail clipper. She picked up an onion and cut out a cap much like she was carving a pumpkin for Halloween.

We didn’t have to be told what to do, we knew what had to be done and we did it. We each took a bottle from my grandfather’s recycling can and went behind the big tree. We were bad but we still had our dignity. We weren’t going to show our penises to the girls, we were still too young for that. We pulled them out and began to piss into the bottles, each of us trying to fill them up. That was our little machismo way of determining who the Alpha male would be in the group since we were all pretty close in age.

“Have a Coke and a smile,” I said holding up my Coke bottle that was a little more than halfway filled with the warm yellow liquid. I smiled a little smile and I could feel the evil glint in my eye because I knew   what we were going to do next was bad and deep down I liked being bad. Hey, I’m the grandson of southern Baptist preacher – there is a bad streak in me.

We all laughed when “boy” filled his bottle and still had to pee. He peed into my grandmother’s rose bushes, that would be the thing that would later get us into more trouble than actually throwing piss filled onions at the enemy would.

“He’s full of piss.” My cousin Ruben said.

“That’s not all he’s filled with,” my cousin Patricia said. “He’s full of shit most of the time.”

We all laughed because at that point of our lives it was funny whenever anyone said the word “shit.”

The younger kids were tasked with the chore of filling the onions with the warm urine and putting the caps back on them to make sure nothing spilled until they found their target.

It was our turn to sacrifice one of our own. My little cousin Eddie walked out into my grandma’s yard and started prancing around on the ground singing at the top of his lungs:

“JC is gay
He throws like a girl
He fights like one too
And he cries like one, boo, hoo, hoo.”

When that didn’t work we sent out my cousin Velinda who had what called a “white girl” voice. We never told her she had a “white girl” voice and she probably never knew it either, until she reads this. What it means is that her voice would change when she talked to grown-ups or people in authority, so that to us she sounded more sarcastic, but the grown-ups thought it was cute. She pointed her butt toward JC’s house and taunted them in her White Girl voice:

“JC and Mark sitting in a tree
First comes love,
Then comes marriage
Then comes Japo in a baby carriage”

That worked. JC and Mark both came running out, their judgment clouded by anger. They didn’t even get close to my cousin Eddie or Dorothy because Sarah was waiting in the shadows for them. She stepped out and let loose with two piss filled onions. Mark got hit on the chest and JC got hit on the side of his face. If I live to be a hundred years old I will never forget the look of shock, anger, and humiliation on JC’s face. I have to admit that when I saw the look on JC’s face I felt bad. We had done something bad, something terribly bad, but it was war and people did terribly bad things in war.

 We weren’t the first and we wouldn’t be the last.

Most of our battles consisted of each of us throwing dirt clogs at each other, but as with every other rivalries in history there came a day when our weapons were escalated and things would never be the same again

This particular war started like most of our other wars before. We were outside playing when we saw Japo walk onto the driveway of his house. He saw us and did the worst thing he could have done. He threw the middle finger at us, laughed, and then ran back under the carport. We were kids and for us throwing the middle finger was the worst thing you could do, it was even worse than saying that your mama was a female dog. Throwing the middle finger was something that adults did to each other, not something elementary school kids did to other elementary school kids. It made us mad, but none of us were as mad as my oldest cousin Sara. I think that even as a kid she had anger issues because she was always beating up someone whether they were enemies, friends, or just family. I know she gave me my share of bloody noses growing up and that sucked big time. You could almost see the steam coming out of Sara’s ears when Japo ran back out and started making faces at us. It was a bad move on his part and I think he realized that when he saw my cousin Sara pick up the dirt clog, but by then it was too late. She threw it as hard as she could. A cloud of dirt exploded as it smashed into Japo’s right thigh. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

Japo fell to the ground and began to cry. We ran out to watch him cry because that’s what we did when we saw the enemy fall and start to cry, that’s when we realized that they had sacrificed one of their own…it was a trap. JC and his rag-tag team came out yelling as they threw dirt clogs at us. The sky became brown as dirt clogs rained down on us and for a second it looked like JC and his team were winning. We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

When I was a kid, my arch enemy was a tall, skinny boy who lived two houses away from my grandma’s house. His name was JC. I never knew what the initials “JC” stood for and I really didn’t care, all I cared about was destroying JC. I don’t know when or even how we became enemies. We just were. I don’t think he even knew what my real name. He only knew me as Peewee, but that was ok because arch enemies don’t need to know your real name, especially when you’re both only eight years old.

It wasn’t that we were two boys that hated each other. We were each a part of a larger group that hated each other. I had my group that consisted of my cousins and myself and he had his group that consisted of his best friend, Mark who also happened to be my friend. When we weren’t having wars Mark and I would hang out on account of our mothers were good friends. I have to admit that when we threw dirt clogs at each other I would intentionly try to get as close to hitting Mark as I could without actually hitting him and I suspected that he did the same when he threw dirt clogs at me. Aside from Mark and his other friends, JC’s team also consisted of his freaky little brother.

We were kids, so we weren’t politically correct at that time. I don’t think most people were. It was a time when people said what was on their mind and didn’t care about the repercussions or about hurting anyone’s feelings. Things were the way they were, and that was that. We didn’t even know what political correctness was. All we knew was that according to our grandfather the Japanese  were the enemy because they bombed him and his friends in a far-off land called Pearl Harbor many years before any of us were born, and since JC’s brother had little, slanted eyes and looked Japanese we called him “Japo” and he was the enemy.

Most of our battles consisted of each of us throwing dirt clogs at each other, but as with every other rivalries in history there came a day when our weapons were escalated and things would never be the same again


To be continued...

As most of you who follow me on facebook know, Tuesday was wing night – every Tuesday is wing night. Most times the conversation starts with catching up on what went on during the week and then the talk can turn to anything at all. Last wing night the conversation took a sudden turn when my friend David asked, “have you guys ever heard of ‘butt chugging and vodka tampons’?”

I looked at him as my brain tried to process what he had just said, after thinking about it and coming to the only conclusion that I could come up with, I asked, “Is that when you lay on your stomach and someone puts a bottle of vodka in your butt?”  

“No,” He said not even surprised at my answer. David has known me for so long that I don’t think anything I say or do surprises him anymore.  “A vodka tampon It’s when you take a tampon and soak it in liquor and then you shove up your butt.”

The first thing that went through my mind was what the hell are kids thinking these days? Sticking a tampon up you butt to get drunk? I don’t know which visual was worse; laying on a table with a bottle of vodka sticking out from between your butt cheeks or shoving a liquor soaked tampon up your ass. I shook my head lightly like an etch-a-sketch trying to rid my brain of both visuals.

“You’re kidding,” Tamika, a former co-worker and friend, who had joined us for this particular wing night took a sip of her drink and said. “You’re making that up.”

At that point her high school age daughter and the foreign exchange student she is hosting excused themselves and went to the rest room. 

“You can youtube  it” David said as he chugged on his beer.  For the record, he wasn’t butt-chugging his beer, he was just chugging like any regular person would – through his mouth, not through his butt. Although at one point during the night he said he was having his last drink and acted like he was going to pour it in his butt.

“Hey, the girls took off suddenly” Tamika said a little concerned, “You don’t think they’re doing it. Do you?” 

I sucked the meat off a chicken wing, took a drink from my iced tea, wiped my mouth, turned to her and said the first thing that came to mind, “if she farts and it smells like vodka, then that means she’s butt chugging.” We all laughed.

"Why would anyone do that?" She asked, trying to see if she could see her daughter and the foreign exchange student through the door that lead to the restroom.

“It's supposed to make you feel intoxicated quicker,” David explained. “The alcohol doesn’t go through your stomach, so it doesn’t go through the acid. It goes straight into your system, so you get drunk right away. If you’re at work you wouldn’t be able to smell the alcohol on your breath.” 

“but, wouldn’t they be able to smell it coming out your butt? Plus you'd be squirting vodka everytime you took a step."

“Whose going to smell someone else’s ass?” David looked at me, maybe I could surprise him afterall, because he had the surprised, disqusted look that people tend to get when they talk to me for any long period of time.  

“Who would even think to do that?” Tamika asked. "I mean who was the first person to take a tampon and decided to soak it in liquor and then shove it up their butt?"

David looked at me, “You should make a Youtube tutorial on butt-chugging and vodka tampons.” 

“Yeah,” I said pretending I was holding up a glass of spiced rum with a tampon in it. ‘I have a super absorbent tampon that has been soaking in Captain Morgan for the past 12 hours. You take the tampon and shove it up your anus so you have the captain in your ass.”

“Do you even know what a tampon is?” David asked. “You don’t need to soak it for 12 hours. You just put it in the glass and it soaks up the liquid.” he made a soaking sound with his mouth that I wouldn't even know how to type here. 

Tamika asked, “How do you know that?’

“Once, when I was younger,” he began. “My buddies and I put tampons in our mouths to see who could keep it in the longest.” 

I turned to Tamika, “that was before we were friends, I never put a tampon in my mouth.” Looking at David I asked, “Did you win?”

“No, but it soaks up all your saliva and you get…”

Tamika cut him off, “cotton-mouth.” She laughed. At that point her youngest daughter and the German Exchange Student came back to the table. Tamika looked at her daughter suspiciously, “You’re not doing it, are you?” 

“Doing what?” Her daughter asked.

“Butt-chugging a vodka tampon.” 

“Eeewwww,” she made a face like she had just stepped in dog poo in her bare feet. “No I haven’t even heard of that but it sounds disgusting.” Apparently neither of them were paying attention to the conversation before they went to the rest room.

“It’s when you soak a tampon in liquor and then shove it up your butt.”

“Eeewww.” Both the youngest daughter and the foreign exchange student said at the same time. 

I looked at Tamika and asked, “can you imagine her letter back home? ‘Dear mother and father, you would not believe what the Americans do with their tampons.'”

I have a friend named Jesse who seems to notice the strangest things and has the strangest ideas. The other day we went to eat at In-N-Out when he began to tell me about the crew.

“Did you notice how at every In-N-Out there are a bunch of white people working?” He said as he took a sip of his root-beer.

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re strange.” I hated to get pulled into these kind of ‘Jesse conversations’ but I knew that I was about to be sucked into this one. “What are you talking about?”

He began his explanation “Every time I go into an In-N-Out hamburger place I always see a whole crew of tall, young, white people working there with the exception of one black person.”

I looked at the employees and he was right. The crew consisted of one black guy and a bunch of white kids. I started to laugh. “You just made that up.” I said.

He looked at me and his face was serious, “No, I’m not making it up. It’s always the same, no matter which one I go to or when I go. The thing about these kids working there is not the fact that they’re Caucasian, it’s the fact that they’re “white” I’m talking about pale, gothic white except that instead of the dark gothic hair, they have blond hair. It’s like these kids are some sort of tall, white, blond haired breed of In-N-Out crewmembers that are intent on taking over the world - or at least the west coast with deciduous double cheeseburgers with their own “special sauce.” I’m serious, look around.”

“dude, there is something wrong with you,” I looked at him and smiled. “Seriously, there is something wrong with you.”

“At first,” he continued as he chewed on a double double, “I thought the one black employee was there as a way to avoid any scrutiny of the pasty colored crew, but the thing I’ve noticed is that not only is one employee black, but he or she is always really dark black. I’m not talking about a mocha color, beige, or even a brown color - the employee is always really dark. Look, look at the dark employee.”

“I’m not going to turn around and look at anything.” I shook my head.

Jesse continued, “Well, if you look, you’ll see that he’s the one in charge. He’s controlling the whole thing. It’s like he’s pulling the strings of the white crew, telling them what do and when to do it”

“He’s probably the boss and that’s what bosses do.”

As we ate Jesse suddenly got this strange look on his face. He had an epiphany. “I just figured it out.” He said all excited. “the dark employee is so dark because he is some sort of skin-pigment vampire and he’s feeding off the skin pigment of the other employees. That would explain why everyone else is so ghostly white.”

“Dude, you really do need some help.”