The softened baseballs came out of the much worn equipment sack yesterday. On a white metal hanger hung the number 3 with my last name on it. After fitting his purple hat with the city's name and logo on it, my son took the field for the first time this year. Cub baseball is the buffer between the tikes running the wrong way after hitting a ball from a tee and the groaning of watching the coach's son walk 15 batters in a row while proud papa keeps encouraging him to hold the ball like an egg and breathe thru his eye lids. The coach seemed confident and knowledgable, especially since he'd taken his 12 year old son's team to state championship and a tournament win in Iowa the past year.
It's my hope my son decides to listen to the guy and pick up the game that carried my stick figure-self thru some tough times growing up. He's not the best nor the worst on the team, but definitely needs an upgrade from the plastic glove obtained three years ago from nana and pa.
Half way thru the practice, just as my wife arrived, my daughter expressed a need for a bathroom break. Luckily my parent's home is right behind the practice field and with a dash made the stop with time to spare. After picking some "flowers" on the return trip she bounced back to the mini playground aside from the barren ice rink and elementary school. The son was dilgently learning the alligator method of covering up grounders while his partner decided to give his best impression of Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams and throw the ball in every direction that was only catchable by Ozzie Smith.
"Dave, I think you better check on YOUR daughter" said the wife.
I was enjoying the move in practice where my son got to line a few hits as his offense is much better then the glove work, but as I turned towards my princess squating under the metal bleachers, much like McD watching Teddy turn over those aces, I knew what had happened. Crying, and a very long walk ensued to clean up what could only be described as taco meat in her Dora underwear that had been left out for two weeks in the sun. After six years of this why my brain clicked on this song is beyond me:
Aside from the accident, baseball season looks to be a good one this year. But, hockey is still being played and Mr. Alex Ovechkin if I may have a word about your epic choke job. Karma is a bitch.
Showing posts with label Hockey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hockey. Show all posts
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Putting On the Tinfoil
Its a very cold November morning, per the usual around these parts. Fall exists only in the minds of calendar builders and those few weeks in October when the leaves change quickly and drop like frost crusted lead balloons (with or without reality show kiddies inside) from the sky. Waking up at 5:00am to trudge 20 minutes up the pot hole filled roads to an arena that is nothing more than four sets of tired wooden bleachers and tin siding slapped together by the care of community leaders that felt the little kids needed to play hockey indoors versus braving the metal wire fencing and frostbitten toes outdoors.
Not to say it wasn't cold inside, as the engineers of the arena streamed the frozen zamboni air straight thru to the confined space with a hand painted #2 in black on its door. You learned to dress before you got there wearing little canoe shaped socks over your blades so the gravel wouldn't burr that sharpening job received at Dave's Sport Shop on Wednesday. Heating was provided by a garage sale special that sat in the upper corner of the locker room that made more noise than provide any comfort.
But, the ice was always perfect. The glass-like smoothness, the lack of water spots, and the ability to dig those steel edges on the surface of the Elk River ice arena without worry of slush made even the newest skater streak a little faster. Sure, your breathe still waifed thru the air with every line-to-line killer and Russian Circle while practicing the rotation from front to back, back to front, crossing over without losing stride, but it wasn't the classroom where bullies picked on those things on your face or inability to hear the pig latin conversation.
This was my time.
There were no state-wide recognition, scholarship offers to any college, or even a picture as the top scorer of the week. Tall and skinny are only good if the back your hockey sweater says "Gretzky", and while there were glimps of skill with countless hours of stickhandling practice, my disablilties would hold me back to just enjoy where I was at. Standing to the side with one padded glove on top of my Christian brothers made stick watching the latest drill play out before mimicing the movements, always waiting for something to be done first so the embarrassment usually felt at school from not hearing the instructions wouldn't spill over to this tin-ladden shield.
There were lapses of course, times of defeat and hearing related blunders that would send me back to my black hole of shutting out the world. Hiding from parents and siblings under a scowl while diving into textbooks on a nightly basis. Friends were near non-existent at the time, only temporary ones popped up for sport seasons then as the participation trophies were handed out at Angeno's Pizza those temporary tattoo kinships washed off before the final station wagon drove home and I returned to the sanctuary of my parent's home.
Looking back while carrying my kids to day care each morning as they aren't old enough yet to feel the cruelness of exclusion based on other's perceived checkpoints for inclusion into their circle of friends, I hope to teach them to be strong enough to be their own self and not let others control their feelings as I did. I know now of the sacrifices my parents made so I could feel whole if just for a 55 minute practice or for those five second of team celebration after managing to put the biscuit in the basket. It wasn't because getting up at the ass-crack of dawn was fun, it was to allow their son a few moments of normallacy in an otherwise shitty situation. Blessed I am to have such parents and only now with two of my own do I reflect and appreciate for their effort versus wallowing in self-pity because certain body parts came out defective.
While I may never completely escape that black hole, there's a light being shown by those I've chosen to surround myself with in the past few years and its with their no-strings-attached friendship that makes my decision to become a parent easier with every non eaten piece of food on the multi-colored Ikea plates and every bedtime hug that will fade as they grow.
Not to say it wasn't cold inside, as the engineers of the arena streamed the frozen zamboni air straight thru to the confined space with a hand painted #2 in black on its door. You learned to dress before you got there wearing little canoe shaped socks over your blades so the gravel wouldn't burr that sharpening job received at Dave's Sport Shop on Wednesday. Heating was provided by a garage sale special that sat in the upper corner of the locker room that made more noise than provide any comfort.
But, the ice was always perfect. The glass-like smoothness, the lack of water spots, and the ability to dig those steel edges on the surface of the Elk River ice arena without worry of slush made even the newest skater streak a little faster. Sure, your breathe still waifed thru the air with every line-to-line killer and Russian Circle while practicing the rotation from front to back, back to front, crossing over without losing stride, but it wasn't the classroom where bullies picked on those things on your face or inability to hear the pig latin conversation.
This was my time.
There were no state-wide recognition, scholarship offers to any college, or even a picture as the top scorer of the week. Tall and skinny are only good if the back your hockey sweater says "Gretzky", and while there were glimps of skill with countless hours of stickhandling practice, my disablilties would hold me back to just enjoy where I was at. Standing to the side with one padded glove on top of my Christian brothers made stick watching the latest drill play out before mimicing the movements, always waiting for something to be done first so the embarrassment usually felt at school from not hearing the instructions wouldn't spill over to this tin-ladden shield.
There were lapses of course, times of defeat and hearing related blunders that would send me back to my black hole of shutting out the world. Hiding from parents and siblings under a scowl while diving into textbooks on a nightly basis. Friends were near non-existent at the time, only temporary ones popped up for sport seasons then as the participation trophies were handed out at Angeno's Pizza those temporary tattoo kinships washed off before the final station wagon drove home and I returned to the sanctuary of my parent's home.
Looking back while carrying my kids to day care each morning as they aren't old enough yet to feel the cruelness of exclusion based on other's perceived checkpoints for inclusion into their circle of friends, I hope to teach them to be strong enough to be their own self and not let others control their feelings as I did. I know now of the sacrifices my parents made so I could feel whole if just for a 55 minute practice or for those five second of team celebration after managing to put the biscuit in the basket. It wasn't because getting up at the ass-crack of dawn was fun, it was to allow their son a few moments of normallacy in an otherwise shitty situation. Blessed I am to have such parents and only now with two of my own do I reflect and appreciate for their effort versus wallowing in self-pity because certain body parts came out defective.
While I may never completely escape that black hole, there's a light being shown by those I've chosen to surround myself with in the past few years and its with their no-strings-attached friendship that makes my decision to become a parent easier with every non eaten piece of food on the multi-colored Ikea plates and every bedtime hug that will fade as they grow.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
See No Evil, Hear Some Evil
Thank you very much for all the comments yesterday. Yes, this has improved my daily life just mere days from getting these hearing aids. But, as Otis pointed out I tend to write to a specific audience sometimes (i.e. those who know the real meaning of being wheelchair drunk) when I should be thinking on a macro level. So, if you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting myself (you’re not missing out on much except probably strained neck if you’re not at least six foot tall) let me expound a little on the before and after of getting these ear amplifiers.
First, let me take you into the world of hearing loss.
/cue dream scene .wav
If you want a self-experiment of how someone with a significant hearing loss (not deafness, as that's a subject I hope to avoid) goes thru a normal day, take your good Bose or other noise canceling headphones and put them on for a good portion of the day or maybe a family dinner plus prepping the dinner. Sound should be muffled but not gone. The only way you know people are speaking to you, or understanding their voice is if they are facing you and you to them.
They embarrassed me in elementary school with a similar experiment with a spelling test given on a tape to my class with someone speaking with their hand over their mouth after 750ml of Mad Dog 20/20. I already hated the extra attention towards my disability yet these feel-good educators felt the need to shine the spotlight on something I learned to just live with. There were unheard taunts on the baseball field, hockey rink, and in the classroom. Maybe better that way versus growing up jaded towards those who didn’t wish to comprehend my lack of fluent conversation wasn’t due to inability to snipe off a joke or voice an opinion on Doc Gooden’s curveball being better then Clemens, but rather to not being able to hear the subject in the first place. This of course brings many cat claws on chalkboard moments when I would try to take three of 15 words in a conversation that I did hear and try to work off its context and end up talking about the Geography test versus coked and roided up pitchers.
And if I may, asking a chick in bed to repeat her passionate pleas four times in bed has the effect of trying to get off while wearing a bakers dozen box of Magnum condoms with a three inch dick after drinking all night. May have to ask the wife for some extensive experimentation on this point, and I’m all for the advancement of science and sex.
Now… with the bionic ears I hear 12 to 15 of those 15 words. Whispering no longer sounds like someone blowing air or Milli Vanilli attempting to wow an audience. Just this morning I listened in as my mom was telling Wyatt about making some of her semi-famous mouth watering oatmeal chocolate chip cookies this afternoon. She was whispering AND had her hand over her mouth, yet I caught it and got a bright smile on my son’s face when I told him to set a few aside for me.
Sure, its not foolproof, I still don’t have perfect hearing, and never will. There will still be times I miss something, but it pulls that sound closer and since this is a poker blog, these aids give me a +EV on whether or not I’ll hear the conversation in its entirety.
Best of the rest… if you have glasses with a strong enough prescription you see things but they’re distorted to the point that a naked Playboy centerfold standing 20 feet away might as well be Mama Cass. Sounds like a door shutting had a dull thud, versus the thud plus the click of the doorknob. A pen hitting the desk had no sharpness to its sound. If you’ve seen or read Stephen King’s: The Langoliers when the passengers are in the grey world where time had already past, and the pop was flat and the food had no taste, that is what sound was to me. There was no extra pop when I kissed my wife, no squeak of a new shoe on tile, no flavor to the speech I heard at the poker table while check-raising the G-Vegas crew this summer. Sure I could hear the southern twang, but the spice within the sound of Wes telling me about the Gamecocks and the history of Columbia or Shep describing these delicious homemade grits I could enjoy should I return to Greenville while at the Waffle House wasn’t there.
Upon my return to G-Vegas or Key West or Chicago or Vegas or home, those trips will have a little extra color to them now that my ears have been opened up to a new life. As stated its only been a few days and there are some adjustments to be made (all office visits are completely free for the life of the aids), and I’ll be keeping these new rose colored glasses for my ears because much like sex, once you’ve had a good time you’re going to want to have it all the time.
-----
If I may say something, while listening to Mike and Mike this morning on the commute in, the discussion was fighting in hockey. They were lauding over emails from CALIFORNIA with opinions on the subject.
Let’s get this straight. Hockey in California =! Real hockey
Would you ask my Nordic ass about volleyball? Despite playing the sport at a fairly high level for a while, my knowledge of the sport would be small compared to say a middle hitter from San Jose.
Leave hockey discussions to those who know who Don Cherry, Bobby Orr, the original six, and what near frostbite from outdoor practices feels like after trekking to the rink thru the snow with your skates hanging from your stick.
First, let me take you into the world of hearing loss.
/cue dream scene .wav
If you want a self-experiment of how someone with a significant hearing loss (not deafness, as that's a subject I hope to avoid) goes thru a normal day, take your good Bose or other noise canceling headphones and put them on for a good portion of the day or maybe a family dinner plus prepping the dinner. Sound should be muffled but not gone. The only way you know people are speaking to you, or understanding their voice is if they are facing you and you to them.
They embarrassed me in elementary school with a similar experiment with a spelling test given on a tape to my class with someone speaking with their hand over their mouth after 750ml of Mad Dog 20/20. I already hated the extra attention towards my disability yet these feel-good educators felt the need to shine the spotlight on something I learned to just live with. There were unheard taunts on the baseball field, hockey rink, and in the classroom. Maybe better that way versus growing up jaded towards those who didn’t wish to comprehend my lack of fluent conversation wasn’t due to inability to snipe off a joke or voice an opinion on Doc Gooden’s curveball being better then Clemens, but rather to not being able to hear the subject in the first place. This of course brings many cat claws on chalkboard moments when I would try to take three of 15 words in a conversation that I did hear and try to work off its context and end up talking about the Geography test versus coked and roided up pitchers.
And if I may, asking a chick in bed to repeat her passionate pleas four times in bed has the effect of trying to get off while wearing a bakers dozen box of Magnum condoms with a three inch dick after drinking all night. May have to ask the wife for some extensive experimentation on this point, and I’m all for the advancement of science and sex.
Now… with the bionic ears I hear 12 to 15 of those 15 words. Whispering no longer sounds like someone blowing air or Milli Vanilli attempting to wow an audience. Just this morning I listened in as my mom was telling Wyatt about making some of her semi-famous mouth watering oatmeal chocolate chip cookies this afternoon. She was whispering AND had her hand over her mouth, yet I caught it and got a bright smile on my son’s face when I told him to set a few aside for me.
Sure, its not foolproof, I still don’t have perfect hearing, and never will. There will still be times I miss something, but it pulls that sound closer and since this is a poker blog, these aids give me a +EV on whether or not I’ll hear the conversation in its entirety.
Best of the rest… if you have glasses with a strong enough prescription you see things but they’re distorted to the point that a naked Playboy centerfold standing 20 feet away might as well be Mama Cass. Sounds like a door shutting had a dull thud, versus the thud plus the click of the doorknob. A pen hitting the desk had no sharpness to its sound. If you’ve seen or read Stephen King’s: The Langoliers when the passengers are in the grey world where time had already past, and the pop was flat and the food had no taste, that is what sound was to me. There was no extra pop when I kissed my wife, no squeak of a new shoe on tile, no flavor to the speech I heard at the poker table while check-raising the G-Vegas crew this summer. Sure I could hear the southern twang, but the spice within the sound of Wes telling me about the Gamecocks and the history of Columbia or Shep describing these delicious homemade grits I could enjoy should I return to Greenville while at the Waffle House wasn’t there.
Upon my return to G-Vegas or Key West or Chicago or Vegas or home, those trips will have a little extra color to them now that my ears have been opened up to a new life. As stated its only been a few days and there are some adjustments to be made (all office visits are completely free for the life of the aids), and I’ll be keeping these new rose colored glasses for my ears because much like sex, once you’ve had a good time you’re going to want to have it all the time.
-----
If I may say something, while listening to Mike and Mike this morning on the commute in, the discussion was fighting in hockey. They were lauding over emails from CALIFORNIA with opinions on the subject.
Let’s get this straight. Hockey in California =! Real hockey
Would you ask my Nordic ass about volleyball? Despite playing the sport at a fairly high level for a while, my knowledge of the sport would be small compared to say a middle hitter from San Jose.
Leave hockey discussions to those who know who Don Cherry, Bobby Orr, the original six, and what near frostbite from outdoor practices feels like after trekking to the rink thru the snow with your skates hanging from your stick.
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