The Beginning

A couple of years back now, I was standing there trying to lift my left arm from its resting position at my hip, upwards and away, so that it might become parallel with the ground and perpendicular with my torso. Two days before I had smashed the back of my left shoulder into a tree while sliding uncontrollably down the side of a mountain I had hoped would be entirely covered with snow. Before I hit the tree I had a rather distressful impact and landed directly on the same shoulder. This occurred about one second after ejecting out of my skis. Skis are supposed to stay on your feet while skiing, but it’s hard for them to do this while speeding over rock. Normally I try to avoid rock while skiing; instead snow is a much better friction limiting surface that you can dig your edges into. Evidently the place I chose to ski was too steep to hold all of the snow (that thin layer of snow dust sure looked convincing) and I realized this mistake as I hurdled down the mountain unable to stop myself. Although my field of vision was screened by the cloud of snow I created from clawing furiously but frivolously at the mountain side, I knew that the area was littered with boulders and spruces. They would surely be able to slow me down. Balling up, protecting your head and waiting for an impact is a hell of an experience. Just when you get to thinking about all the things you still want to do with your life...WHAM! And now I couldn't get my left hand more than a foot from my left hip without a grimace, a groan, and - like a jackhammer in your pillow at 3am - a shot of pain that prevents you from realizing any imaginable thing but it.

Years later the arm hasn't fully healed and I can't throw like I used to. I'm pretty sure I won't ever be able to. Throwing a baseball, one of the things I used to like to do more than anything, now saddens me. Oh I can throw it around and get it from one place to another, but the zip is gone. You see, I never realized that it wouldn’t be there. It’s not something to think about.

The thing is that I'm not a major leaguer, a minor leaguer, or any kind of leaguer and it still pisses me off (frustration comes before the sadness). What must it feel like for Mark Prior? He was a phenom from USC that was drafted by the Cubs and went 18-6 in 2003 leading them to a fantastic season, bringing them within five outs from the World Series (it would have been their first series in 58 years). Soon after he injured himself and now he no longer pitches in the major leagues. I bet he relives that eighth inning all the time. What if Alou caught that foul ball? Or what if Gonzalez hadn’t booted that grounder?

There was another player in the late 80’s named Dave Dravecky. I remember him being a very good pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. One day cancer was discovered in his left arm. Dave was a left-handed pitcher and it was surmised that his pitching days were done. The drive to not give up was so great in Dravecky that, after a surgery removing half his deltoid muscle, he fought his way back to the majors. In his first game back he defeated the Los Angeles Dodgers 4-3. I have trouble imagining just how sweet winning that game must have felt after defying cancer, painfully battling back and rehabilitating from a circumstance that most everybody thought to be career-ending. Whatever feelings he had, they only lasted five days. In his second game back Dravecky’s arm snapped in half while delivering a pitch. He never threw another major league pitch and his left arm was eventually amputated.

If given a glimpse into the future would these men change anything? I don’t know. What I do know is that the future isn’t predictable and sometimes things don’t work out how you expect them to, especially if you leave them sitting around directly in chance’s line of fire.

This summer I had an opportunity to take trains across the country, see friends and family I miss, meet people I never knew, watch baseball, and write all about it. Goddamn, it was a chance for the adventure of a lifetime. I’d always wanted to do this and I was horrified by the thought of one day wondering what it would have been like. I thought and thought about how it could be done. I surely didn’t have the resources to be able to pull something like this off. Knowing full well that it wasn’t a very responsible way to spend my summer I pushed on, refusing to acknowledge there wasn’t a creative solution.

I came up with the idea that I might be able to get sponsored. But who would sponsor a guy going to baseball games? Well, I figured if I could make my trip worthwhile and was visible enough (facebook, twitter, newspaper stories, etc.) I might get a few takers, especially if the trip revolved around a meaningful issue. Why not alternative transportation and its many benefits? I could ride the trains around, take my bike with me to get places once off the train, and write down my experiences for people to read. I would take pictures of all the people I met, tell some stories and do my best to generate interest in something very important, while having fun. Bikes, trains and baseball games? No. Summer training? Maybe. But the spark was there.

I contacted kickstarter about my idea so folks could donate to my cause. I thought - perhaps naively -  that this was something people could really get behind: a young man’s journey around the country touting high-speed rail, bicycle riding, friendship, cooperation and baseball. All of it would be in the form of a blog full of written words and photographs. Because I was wary of people thinking it was just a long vacation I set a target date well into the future. Possible contributors could watch as the trip progressed and decide if it was worthy of their support.

Kickstarter said no to giving me a spot on their site to raise money. I was confused. What did they have to lose? Was my idea not as good as I thought it was? Friends I talked to about it praised me for my creativity and social consciousness. Strangers thought it was fantastic and urged me to go for it. Kickstarter, on the other hand, told me that the idea wasn’t based on creative output and that nobody would support the thing because it hadn’t begun yet. I wanted to ask them why they didn’t regard the written word as creative output. I also wanted to ask them to change their name to “safe bet”.

So I set out to see if I could generate support in a different way.

There was never a doubt that the majority of the trip would be done on Amtrak. To spend the summer riding the rails from city to city sounded exciting to me. As far as modes of transportation go, trains are my favorite and I don’t understand why our country hasn’t made more of an effort to imitate other countries and implement high-speed rail. Are we really so out of it that we don’t understand the effects of our oil addiction? Regardless of our national mindset, I thought Amtrak was a prime candidate to support a happy, well-spoken, enthusiastic advocate of their future.

I started researching the advantages of rail travel, the cost of our national oil dependence, where the oil Americans use comes from, figures on public support for high-speed rail, Amtrak’s sponsorships and marketable areas of interest, etc. I wrote papers, gave speeches and engaged in as many conversations as I could about the topic.

I had visions of throwing out the first pitch at Wrigley Field in an Amtrak t-shirt (rides trains on the front, sees games on the back). More reasonably I thought my idea to combine different spheres of interest (my friends and family, the hundreds of people I met along the way, train enthusiasts, fans of baseball, fans of the environment, fans of a healthy economy, fans of adventure, etc.) around one central theme was worthy of a conversation. With a little support I knew I could turn my trip into a topic of discussion amongst quite a few people. Essentially I was prepared to work for Amtrak for peanuts and it would have been my pleasure.


No dice. My great American adventure hadn’t even begun, I had no support and my efforts to get a little help had me exhausted. It became clear to me that if I was to have a successful trip, by successful I mean enjoyable, some things were going to have to change. Just looking at the twitter page increased my blood pressure, so I decided to forget about that. Then I read a story about a guy bicycling from stadium to stadium.  I was deflating. Right or wrong, this combined with my previous disappointments to discourage me from contacting any newspapers about my journey. To be a mobile, high-profile proponent of alternative transportation I was going to have to do it through my actions and my blog.

Hope, Errors and Game Six

"This rabid loyalty also lends itself to opportunities for swelled hope. Although they are not officially eliminated from the hunt, St. Louis is not going to the playoffs this year. By looking and listening to the fans in the stadium it'd be hard to tell. They were adorable the way they clung to post-season hopes, watching and rooting for their team. While they carefully observed the happenings on the field with one eye, they kept their other eye on the out of town scoreboard, jeering the Milwaukee Brewers. I'm sorry to break you the bad news St. Louis, but not this year."

I wrote these words after the St. Louis game on September 11. That was foolish of me. I love the game of baseball and following and playing it over the years has reminded me time and time again that, in the immortal words of Yogi Berra, "it ain't over 'til it's over." This very true statement, that wobbles in the waves of its own simplicity, was hardly more evident than in game six of the 2011 World Series played in the very place where I had previously left hope for dead, scoffing at its persistence: St. Louis, Missouri.


Last night I sat on the edge of my chair for more than three straight hours as the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals played one of the most thrilling baseball games I've ever seen. The St. Louis Cardinals for Pete's sake. I kept thinking, as the camera panned the often breathless crowd, about how I had dismissed the Cardinals and their chances for October baseball as hopeless during my visit to their home stadium. This same ballpark, surely filled with many of the same people as on September 11, was now hosting one of the great World Series' games. A game that acted as a transition, for fans and players alike, from the brink of certain despair to pure, incredulous joy.

Of course I didn't know at the time that it'd end up all hugs and kisses for St. Louis in the end. During the game however, I could easily recognize the wrap of hopelessness at the door. I watched on television. I found myself ignoring the knocks and, just like those people in the stands, hoping for a miracle. All of those wonderful St. Louis fans were inspiring me now and I thought about how beautiful it'd be if St. Louis came from behind to win. After all, they'd already come from 10 1/2 games back to improbably catch the Braves and squeak into the playoffs. Once in the playoffs they'd squarely defeated the two teams holding the best records in the National League. Why couldn't they come from two runs down with two outs and two strikes in the bottom of the ninth against the Texas Rangers?

They did just that. David Freese, down to his (and the Cardinals) last strike tripled to deep right, just over the outstretched glove of Texas rightfielder Nelson Cruz. Incredible. The drama was palpable. Alas! Texas is a very good team too and when Josh Hamilton hit a two run homer in the top of the 10th it seemed that all of our previous hoping was now in vain. A comeback couldn't possibly happen again, could it? I imagined that even the strongest of Cardinal fans was finally ready to succumb. Of course it did happen again and perpetuated, as I already said, one of the most thrilling games I've ever seen.

Games so incredible and filled with such dramatic moments can only occur in baseball. That's my belief and it's because there is no artificial time limit telling you when it'll be over. In fact, as the suspenseful games draw nearer to their finish the play seems to slow down and the contest between pitcher and hitter becomes magnified by the pitch-to-pitch anticipation. Additionally, without a clock a team can presumably bat forever as long as they do it well enough. Or a team can be stuck in the field forever if they can't pick up the ball. Of course these things don't even happen in Little League, let alone the World Series. But that is not the point. What is the point is that the game truly isn't over until it's over. And sometimes, sandwiched between those thoughts, is when a memorable experience can be shared.

As I hooted and hollered along with the other patrons at the Greeley Avenue Bar & Grill I thought about some of the other great baseball games I knew of and wondered if this one could possibly compare. Although there are many great baseball moments (Kirk Gibson's 1988 home run off of Dennis Eckersley for example), there are few games that can be hailed as classics. Interestingly, the two that first came to mind were also game sixes: 1975 Reds vs. Red Sox and 1986 Mets vs. Red Sox.

In a post-game telephone discussion with my dad we observed that a few specific circumstances must be in place in order for a game to be so dramatic: the game must be a World Series game, it has to be late in the series and one team (if not both) is facing elimination, the team facing elimination must come from behind, and as an added bonus: the come from behind team must be the home team. 

All three of the aforementioned games met the conditions. Now within those conditions there must be, among a variety of other scenarios, questionable managerial decisions; timely hitting; strong pitching; memorable plays and a dramatic finish. I wasn't around in 1975, but I've heard enough stories and seen enough highlights to know that all of these things happened. I'm of the opinion that the game between the Red Sox and Reds is still the greatest game ever played. From everything I've learned it was a perfect game. A hunch tells that is due to the glorification of reminiscence retold. I don't care.

Unfortunately last night's game and the one in 1986 were marred by errors and this is what generates a distinction. The memorable play in '86 was Mookie Wilson's grounder rolling under Bill Buckner's glove to give the Mets the victory and Buckner a life filled with suffering. In 2011 the memorable play was David Freese hitting a home run. Of course this is the very same David Freese that, in the top of the fifth, dropped a pop up that my sister could have caught; the most memorable of the five (five!) errors during the game. 

But reflecting on these three games and David Freese's transition from goat to hero, I realized something about errors and the very real opportunities they can create. For instance, I made an error in judgment when I wrote off the Cardinals back in mid-September. I could have easily gone back into the blog and erased what I had written; pretending that it hadn't occurred (not that it would matter to anybody but me), but I didn't. Why? Because it had occurred. Now, I realize that sitting and watching the Rangers vs. the Cardinals carries an added point of interest for me. I'm more connected to the World Series and the St. Louis Cardinals than I had previously thought. Sitting in a bar in Portland, Oregon I can easily remember those fans I talked to and how remarkably loyal and hopeful they were. Say what you will about the merits of sports spectatorship, but those fans are real people and I have very real memories of dismissing their hopes as fantasy. Here's the point: the sixth game of this year's World Series was extremely entertaining but, because of my error in judgment, I had a better time watching it than if I hadn't have erred in the first place.

More to come

I've finished my trip. Now, I'm back in Portland doing a mix of reflecting and readjusting. Some people probably call it decompression, but I call it feeling weird.

At this time I still have plenty more to write about. I want to catch up on all of the games I've seen, places I've been and people I've met. Over the last month I got pretty far behind. As the trip wore on it became increasingly difficult for me to keep up with the blog. I seemed to meet more people and have less time to write. It's also very true that I tired of writing on a daily basis. But all of this doesn't mean that I'm not looking forward to finishing, I am.

I plan on adding the rest of my adventures to the blog over the next month or so. For now I'd like to say thank you to all of the lovely friends, family and strangers that helped me along my way. The trip was a huge success only because of so many people's generosity and incredibly enjoyable because of my shared experiences. I'd also like to thank all of the people that have been following along with my blog, leaving comments and encouraging me to continue. It's been an unreal summer, incredible from start to finish.

Here are some pictures from one of the craziest weeks of the unreal summer (NYC on Sunday to Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, Chicago and finally Detroit on Friday):

The Pennsylvanian

Blogging in the lobby of the William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh

Wet Labor Day parade in Pittsburgh

My daily acceptance of the rain

Pittsburgh Pierogies (found at PNC Park)

PNC nestled up to the Allegheny

I took pictures of Chicago during a layover

Chicago River

Nice sky, hills, the Mississippi

 Me, Aunt Margo on the shore of Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis

The Chicago Skyline from the White Sox ballpark

Jay and Cory at the Tigers game

Comerica Park has a ferris wheel

Good Food

I'm hungry as hell. I remember saying that 16 hours ago. I was on a different train then, the Texas Eagle, which was taking me from Fort Worth to St. Louis. Since then I've eaten a pocket-sized snack pack of s'more flavored almonds and a very dry bagel with far too little cream cheese. 16 hours ago I was craving enchiladas, which is odd because I had mexican food, very good mexican food, the previous two nights in Texas. Although it is a tough task in our homogenized world of Wendy's, Chili's and Applebees, I like staying as true to the areas that I'm visiting as possible when I have a meal. In Fort Worth that meant mexican food.

Now I'm on my way to Kansas City, so that means barbeque. I couldn't be more excited to dive into a rack of tender baby back ribs smothered in way too much sweet and sour Kansas City barbeque sauce. I'm starving. I have Toto playing "Rosanna" live on my headphones and I'm too weak from hunger to change it. Okay, that's not totally the case. It's playing, I just don't want to change it. I have a soft spot for Toto, but they're no Huey Lewis and the News. So as long as I'm at my computer getting my 80's fix and famished I thought I'd mention some of my favorite meals I've had:

Al Franken's walleye - when I was in Minneapolis my aunt and uncle took me out to a place called the Green Mill. I noticed that there was an awful lot of walleye on the menu. I asked if that was a common meal in these parts and was met with a resounding affirmation. It wasn't like a Stuart Smalley Daily Affirmation, but I did learn that Al Franken comes into the Green Mill on Fridays to order the very same walleye dish that I had just ordered. I don't always agree with Senators, but it was fantastic.

El Farolito burrito - see the blog post "My Mission in the Mission"

*Burger in L.A. - Burgers are very American and I've had quite a few on my very American tour of baseball stadiums across the country. The name of the joint escapes me, but the best of the bunch was in L.A. with Blue and Tess. I don't know what, if anything, L.A. is known for in the cuisine world, but this was fantastic and I'd kill to have another one right now.


*Thanks to Blue's input for reminding me the name of the restaurant: Father's Office


Benny's chili relleno - The first thing I did when I got to Denver was drag my sister and brother-in-law to Benny's. It's not the healthiest option on any menu anywhere, but the deep fried relleno, stuffed with melted cheese and covered with green chili is arguably the reason for human existence. Once you've had this dish the meaning of life becomes clear: to enjoy it.

Pizza on the grill - My stepdad Dennis told me he was looking fo more flavor and purchased a charcoal grill when I was in Florida. The day after that he bought a grilling cookbook. We both identified the pizza as something we had to attempt. We coated the sides not stuck to parchment paper of our homemade pizza crusts with olive oil, and cooked them briefly. They stiffened above the heat of the charcoal enough to add our sauce and topings of cheese, mushrooms, peppers, onions, and whole cloves of garlic. We withered under the heat of the Florida sun enough to polish off a Yeungling every five minutes. I have a suspicion that pizza on the grill is now a new family tradition.

Indian food in the East Village - So four men stand on a set of steps that lead to four separate Indian restaurants, each gesturing and hollaring to passers by why their restaurant is the best. I was the guest so Holly and Ryan let me choose which one I thought would be best. "Ours is best!" "Look at our safety rating!" "I'll give you free wine!" "Free wine for all three of you!" I chose the one at the upper-left of the stairs. For a very affordable price we had more than a tablefull of traditional Indian delights: Samosas, Saag Paneer, Mango Lassi, Chicken Tikka Masala, and some things I've never had before.

Cheese enchiladas at Joe T Garcia's - Josh took me to a great restaurant in Fort Worth. As far as I know there are only four things you can order here: margaritas, cervezas, enchiladas, and fajitas. We sat outside in the comfortable courtyard full of fountains, trees, and yucca plants. There was no menu. I said that I had never been there before and inquired about enchiladas. I was told that the cheese enchiladas were excellent and that they'd been serving them since 1935. How can you argue with that? Along with the enchiladas came tortillas, rice, beans, guacamole, beef tacos, chips, and salsa. I would go back to Fort Worth someday just for this meal.

I am still hungry. We are slowly approaching the Kansas City station and I am beginning to ready myself for an attempt to assault a plate of ribs. There are more meals to mention, but I'm afraid that if I talk about food anymore I could harm myself by inflicting irreparable psychological and physiological damage.

Picture Pages IV

Mom mastered Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Tampa Bay with a barely visible Tropicana Field left of center

Dome sweet dome

Everglades

Dennis and I grill pizza. Yes, pizza. It was great.

Mom knits hats for the soldiers in Afghanistan

The Alters: from NY to Hawaii and back to NY

Riding on the Train

Rolling along through Wisconsin's sand counties and thinking of Aldo Leopold I surpass the 10,000 mile threshold for my summer tour of all the baseball stadiums. At this point of my trip the train has become a second home for me. As I move from city to city and from friendly couch to hotel bed, everything about my situation is constantly fluxing: the interesting people I meet; the strangers I rely on to not steal my laptop or food; the wonderful friends that take me in for a night or two (I wouldn't have made it halfway without you); the stadiums I see; the seats I choose to watch the game from; the teams that are playing; the transportation systems of the different cities... I realize that all lives are constantly changing, but usually there is a constant in those lives aside from the changing. For me it usually comes in the form of my place of residence and the people that I live, work, and play with. But now, for two months I've had only two constants and one of those is just a game. The other, of course, is the train. I thought I'd use this blog post to talk about the train and why I like it so much.

The sun is starting its descension into the western sky. Not quite dusk and no longer mid-afternoon, it's the time of day where the shadows begin to grow towards noticeable, just like the thoughts of scrumptious dinners. If the time was a month it'd be September: a time that's as full of the promise of the beauty ahead as it is full of reflections on the fun recently had. If it was a picture it'd be a polaroid out of the camera but not yet developed. If the time was a human it'd be trying to blow out all 50 candles, with gusto. And lucky me, I get to sit in the observation car of the Empire Builder at this time, to watch the beautiful Wisconsin countryside pass by.


The observation car is among the few different cars on every train, and not all trains are the same. Generally on the long, double decker, cross-country trains like I'm on right now there is a dining car where meals (breakfast, lunch, dinner) are served to those passengers that make reservations after boarding; an observation car that has chairs facing the large windows and where people come to hang out and socialize; a cafe car which is usually found below the observation car where riders can get drinks and snacks; sleeper cars where those with money spend nights in beds; and coach cars that seat the majority of ticketed passengers, two on each side of the aisle. Each of these cars provides an experience unique to train travel.

I like to spend most of my waking hours in the observation lounge. There are a number of different activites that I enjoy in this car based on how I'm feeling. Listening to music and staring out the window at the landscapes whizzing by is chief among them. The seats in the observation car are situated to provide easy viewing. I like to choose a music that fits both my mood and the scenery before kicking back and letting the senses take over. Some of the more memorable music/landscape combos have been: Yo la Tengo/NYC; Air/Sierra Nevadas; Neil Young/Canada; American Analog Set/Pacific Coast; Bob Seger/Iowa; Sonic Youth/NYC.

Other times I'll read or write. Although lately I've spent most of my time doing the latter. I started out excited to read books set in the different areas of the country that I was to pass through. For instance, I read Steinbeck's In Dubious Battle while I was in California traveling up and down the San Joaquin Valley. But as I journeyed on I found that I needed to devote more time to keeping up on my blog. Between writing about the different games and trains, the people that I've met, the bike rides I've taken, daily updates, ridiculous fiction, and the extent to which I enjoy listening to music and looking out the window I found that reading has slowly been getting squeezed out of the rotation. But, I still write frequently and the tables in the observation lounge act as excellent desks. Does that make my computer a desktop? A tabletop?

The other activity that I like to take part in is meeting new people. Although this can occur anywhere in the train, the lounge is where the talkers head off to and is really your best bet. There is usually no shortage of characters for the lone traveler to strike up a conversation with. In fact, since I've started typing this I have had two separate conversations. The last included two gentlemen on their way to Whitefish, MT from Buffalo, NY. They are meeting their wives, who decided to fly, for what sounds to be a fantastic vacation in the rockies of Montana. Just like that conversations pop up. Sometimes you can end up spending the whole rest of the trip meeting an interesting person and other times it's just a short Q & A then back to your business. I've met dozens of terrific folks that I'll have the pleasure of remembering for the rest of my life. And I hope that they remember me too.

When I'm not in the observation car I'm usually in the seat assigned to me in coach. The term coach has a negative association for most people because of airplanes. It is evident that comfort is not the number one priority for the airlines. Of course the speed and efficiency with which commercial jets transport people are the main attraction and they don't need to cater to their passengers' leg or elbow room. Trains, however, most certainly do and I'm a big fan. Amtrak puts two seats in the same amount of room an airplane has three. Often times the chair next to overnight passengers remains unoccupied thanks to the help of the conductors that assign the seats too. This is nice and can allow a rider that wants some shut-eye to spread out and doze undisturbed. But I've been on a few overnight trains with a person seated right next to me and it hasn't been too much of a problem because the seats are roomy and the leg room is more than adequate. Other nice features are that most chairs recline substantially, have leg rests to prop up your feet, and are equipped with foot rests on their backs totally tasked to take tired toes.

The feet do get weary from wandering around. But my mind seems to stay vital and curious. Maybe I was just born with a lively mind. Although I remember many times earlier in my life where I was bored. Not from a lack of things to do, but from a lack of personal interest. So maybe I've developed a thirsty brain. This seems to be a more accurate assessment, but I easily recall driving across country (or flying over it) and completely shutting off the curiosity engines and diverting all power to the biological drive center (eat/sleep/breathe). I say the difference is the train.

The train moves slowly from one geography to another. So does the automobile, but one doesn't have to drive the train. At all. Ever. Which, if one chooses, allows 100% of the passenger's energy to solely concentrate on the subtle changes from place to place. And you can forget about airplanes. What keeps my mind curious and sets trains apart from these other modes of transportation is the understanding, and full appreciation of, the journey as an experience rather than just a destination. It's as much about getting there as it is about where you are going. I think this can be said for a great many things and is true of life in general.

As I've traveled along I grew to know all these things individually and experience them multiple times. It's the comfort that comes with knowing what to expect (or what not to expect) that I've begun to crave. I look forward to every next train ride with all of the excitement and enthusiasm that I started my trip with, but now I've added a new dimension, that of reliable surroundings, to my pleasure. It's an interesting pursuit trying to balance the dynamism of the adventure - new, unknown and exciting - with the calm feelings of comfort that are provided by the familiar like a warm blanket. On my tour I've had no choice. I set the balance from the start: lots of adventure and a smidge of comfort. There is no doubt that returning to my own bed and a falling into a daily groove will feel nice. It's something I'm looking forward to immensely. But for three more weeks the train will continue to be my home away from home and I'm not sure if I'm quite ready for that to end.

A Story For Kate

It's not that I'm no good at tetherball, I just don't like the damn game. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh it goes. Who the hell wants to stop an old, grey, rubber ball - one that hasn't been played with in a generation - from wrapping itself around that wobbly little pole weakly cemented just under the unsymmetrical, oblong patch of woodchips that, motivated by Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign, were once placed there in a loving circle? Not me.

But sometimes you've got to do things that you aren't very keen to do in order to protect what's important to you. And that mischievous little shit was beating the hell out of me. It's not like it mattered much. There were no pretty women standing around watching me. There were no old friends nearby to rag on me like I was drinking Miller Lite. I just didn't want to lose to a ten year old. Is that wrong?

Okay, so I'll admit that I'm competitive. Maybe a little too competitive. Normally I wouldn't have a problem taking it easy on a child in a game of tetherball, or any other game for that matter. But when this "sweet little angel", who just happened to be named Damien, growled at me (growled at me!) in response to my earlier gesture of tetherball mercy I couldn't take it. I decided to let him hang around and hit the ball a bit before I turned it on and showed him who was boss. Some may think this plan is like a cat toying with its prey before it pounces for good. I chose to think of it as an example of my generous humanitarian spirit. But I ran into a snag you see. Damien was really, really good.

We started out batting the thing back and forth, back and forth, like good competitors. Honestly, I became bored with the proceedings: a volley of back and forth exchanges with neither player making any headway. So, in the interest of staying awake I "missed" and let one fly by. This provided a moment, a very brief moment, for me to understand that the was gaining speed very rapidly and becoming difficult to track. The next thing I remember is hearing a smack and seeing a giant purple dot hovering in the foreground of my field of vision. Then I heard the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of an old, grey, rubber ball wrapping itself around a wobbly little pole.

I realized that my nose was numb and I had water in my eyes before I felt the surge of pure contempt, wearing a back stage pass and advancing undetected under the pseudonym Testosterone Laced Adrenaline, racing through my veins. At the last possible second I reached up and stopped the ball from wrapping itself completely around the pole and started it on its long journey back to the other side. It's a good thing that there was a cord attched to the ball because I don't think Damien had the gumption to make it all the way to Sante Fe (which is surely where it would have finally ended up) to retrieve his stupid ball. I roared maniacally as the circles became smaller and faster until the game had ended. I grabbed the pole in my left hand and proved my dominance by ripping it from the ground. Proudly displaying my trophy above my head I bellowed to the heavens, "I am Steve, Lord of the Tether!"

It was actually a beautiful day, even with the purple dot obstructing my view of the bountiful apple orchards and peaceful magnolia trees. Damien (who's actual name is not Damien) was giggling at me for standing in place, swaying dizzily, as the tetherball wrapped itself close enough to signal his victory and my defeat. I smiled broadly at his shaggy, brown-haired head. He was a cute little guy, that's for sure. And he didn't have a malicious bone in his body. Holding his hands out, palms up and  shoulders shrugged he looked up at me and asked me to play again. I said, "Sure, I'd love to."

Top 9 Shortstops In My Lifetime

I just rolled into Baltimore and am sitting inside the train station fully excited to see Camden Yards tonight. Oriole Park at Camden Yards sparked a baseball stadium renaissance when it opened in 1992. For the decades prior to Baltimore's decision to return their home baseball games back to a comfortable and unique park the trend had been to play the game in boring, symmetrical, artificial turfed, all-purpose domes and cookie cutters. Camden Yards broke that mold and now there are only a few shitty stadiums left.

The other thing that crosses my mind about being in Baltimore is Cal Ripken Jr. The Iron Man played in a record 2,632 consecutive games and ended the streak voluntarily. He is also one of only eight players to hit over 400 homeruns while collecting over 3,000 hits. Cal played all 21 seasons for one team, the Baltimore Orioles. In today's game that is astounding as well. Ripken is the greatest shortstop in my lifetime, if not all-time. Here's a list I've compiled in the past 38 seconds of the top 9 shortstops to play during my lifetime:

1. Cal Ripken Jr.

2. Robin Yount

3. Alan Trammell

4. Ozzie Smith

5. Tony Fernandez

6. Omar Vizquel

7. Jose Reyes

8. Nomar Garciaparra

9. Jimmy Rollins


*Yankee fans might notice the exclusion of one of their favorites. To make my list players had to show up at all-star games.

From the Pool

Returning upright towards the midday sun after dipping almost to the ground, the young spiky-leaved palm tree I am watching looks like it is supporting an invisible orangutan jumping up and down on its slowly developing spine. Again it pulses down, down, and down towards the Bermuda grass. Then it hovers just above for a graceful moment as if it is smelling or inspecting the little worlds that exist between the blades. Of course there is no large and unseen animal climbing the tree, instead it is ceaselessly bending over to the sporadic commands of the gales generated hundreds of miles away by Hurricane Irene. I take this scene in, from a Floridian poolside chase lounge, with a wry smile, knowing that I am living through one hell of a summer. Bemused, I lift my Yuengling to my mouth and somehow simultaneously, I consider unforeseen things that could have gone irreparably wrong while contentedly reflecting on a couple of magical moments already experienced. I casually shoot these thoughts out at the legions of cumulonimbus, those puffy thought trampolines, patiently awaiting their seasoned return. Never does it occur to me to do anything else. After all, I am sitting poolside.

On this day, two days removed from an earthquake that rocked the very same Washington Union Station that I had been in the day before, I watched the television news break into hurricane coverage about mandatory evacuations to tell me about an Amtrak derailment. The California Zephyr, a train that I had been on just 23 days earlier, had run into a stalled piece of farm equipment left on the tracks. There were 178 people aboard and thankfully none were seriously injured. This has been the second major train crash this summer and amidst rumors of terrorism plots to bomb passenger railways on the anniversary of September 11th, I’ve become concerned, naturally.

But through the veil of concern I glimpse a multidimensional life map of my summer and realize how lucky I’ve been so far. Here I avoided train crashes, there an earthquake, and the whole recent time I’ve been playing chicken with a potentially fatal Atlantic Ocean behemoth of a storm. I’ve weaved my way between these mines of misfortune to have quite possibly the best summer of my life. Granted, I haven’t been playing centerfield for the Anthony Wayne Blue Jays, but I’ve experienced a number of cherished and remarkable events unsurpassed by nothing except the thrill of playing little league baseball.

The first that comes to mind is my great friend Jason’s wedding. On August 6 Jason tied the knot with a wonderful, friendly, stunningly beautiful woman named Michelle and the wedding was fantastic. I say this because of the day’s intimacy. It seemed that everything was arranged, performed, created, and designed by friends, family, or the bride and groom themselves. Doing this immediately transformed the stuffiness of expensive “luxury” and needless formality, too common amongst celebrations, into a warm and comfortable atmosphere dripping with care, consideration and love. I’m sure that being close friends with Jason for almost 20 years and having the privilege to be his best man added to my perceptions as well. I was able to see many old friends, including Jason’s dad for the first time in years, and my two sisters (Ali and Holly) and mom flew in for the occasion too. We had a party just like Lionel Richie would’ve wanted: All Night Long.

Jason The Groom, Jenny, Hambone, Hambone's sister Liz, my sister Holly, me, my brother-in-law John, Holly's boyfriend Ryan, Phil and Mandy

Smokin': Holly and her big bro

After the wedding my family and I took advantage of the opportunity to be together by heading an hour east of Toledo to Cedar Point (the greatest amusement park in the world). We had a strong crew that consisted of my sisters Holly, Julia, and Jen; my mom and step dad Dennis; Holly’s boyfriend Ryan; and my step mom Sue. We crushed Cedar Point, surfing our wave of family mojo from ride to ride, leaving a kaleidoscopic wake of laughter and spent adrenaline behind us. Born so close to the park, most of the family grew up roller coaster lovers. This has not been the case for Julia (who I affectionately refer to as Jules). However, on this day Jules gave most of the rides a shot, including the incredibly intimidating Millennium Force. A ride so tall, steep and fast that I was once told to “bring another set with me” if I chose to ride it. Her courage to face her fears, regardless of their importance, was endearing.

Jules, Holly and Ryan walking towards Cedar Point

Jen and Jules feed me dippin' dots (the ice cream of the future)

It was with feelings of endearment and brotherly love that I embarked on the next part of my trip. Jules was to accompany me to Cleveland on the train and watch the Indians versus the Tigers with me. Because of the way the train and baseball schedules were laid out I was able to spend a day in Cleveland with Jules. We arrived on the scene at six in the morning and promptly took a nap at Jules’ biological grandmother‘s (my step grandmother) house after some tasty scrambled eggs and toast that really hit the spot. We awoke, ate again, and headed to the lake. Julia’s aunt (my step aunt) Mary, Uncle Todd and her children Robert, Addison and Evelyn live a five minute’s stroll from Lake Erie. The Great Lake - the most temperamental of the five - was in rare form. Because of the powerful waves, humans were discouraged from swimming at the beach. We enjoyed the extreme conditions and walked up and down snapping pictures, looking at the water-worn rocks, pocketing found sea glass, and simply admiring nature before we headed out for dinner and drinks with Mandy and Phil. Mandy is my sister Holly’s best friend from elementary school which makes her an old friend to me as well. Jules and I visited with Mandy and her husband Phil, touring their up-and-coming neighborhood, chatting away and laughing often before making our way to the stadium to pick up our free tickets courtesy of the lovely young couple I just mentioned.  We watched the Indians scorch the Tiger pitchers for 10 runs on 18 hits before strolling through downtown Cleveland and eventually catching the long bus back to our beds for the night.  Spending the day with Jules left me impressed by her curiosity, envious of her youth and overwhelmed by her remarkable maturity. It was a day I will always remember.

Jules and her camera, Diana, ready to capture the approach of the Lake Shore Limited

Lake Erie

A blurry Mandy, Phil and Jules

I am brought back to poolside by the postulations and pontifications of retired men, who mid-float, really should have nothing to complain about. But old habits die hard: “Water‘s pretty warm today. Too warm I‘d say.” “Went golfin' yesterday. Ralph shot an 88.” “Are you kidding me? He’s broke, doesn’t have a pot to piss in and I‘m supposed to pay my taxes so he can golf?” “No, no, no, he made all his money through Radio Shacks in Ecuador.” “I’ve been  listening to you fellas since ten after and I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” “I don’t know why nobody listened to me fifteen years ago when I told everybody on the board…” Hearing the gripes I decide to zone back out and continue my reflections. I leave my week in Ohio behind and move on down the line…   

From Spring Training to Summer Training

So I was tying up this polar bear a couple months ago, well, let me back up a little.

I was interviewing for a job with the World Wildlife Fund and really wanted to impress the staff there.  I had snooped through some of their records and found a polar bear adoption order for one Kathryn Wrigley and thought to myself, "This is my chance to shine!"  So between my fifth and sixth interviews I hightailed it up to Churchill, Manitoba in search of orphaned polar bears. (It is important to note that I was not employed by the WWF.  Not for legal purposes, but because I believe that this circumstance is partially responsible for the reason that I was unfamiliar with their adoption policies.  In fact I was under the impression that when somebody adopts a human or some other animal that he or she takes it home and provides for it.  Much to my chagrin, it wasn't until a couple days later that I learned this is not always the case.)

So there I was, tying the legs of this polar bear together to get it ready for delivery to Vermont, when Tampa Bay Rays manager Joe Maddon approached me. "Say there son," evidently he was on some spiritual excursion seeking guidance for the upcoming season from the aurora borealis, "you sure look like you know what you're doing.  You tie up polar bears like Millard Fillmore passed legislation...without even thinking about it." A statement that was especially funny to me because I was thinking the exact same thing. "We could use a man like you roaming centerfield this year. Whaddya say you come on down to Port Charlotte and try out for the team?" I told him that I only wanted to play for the Cubs, but he offered to buy me a grouper sandwich when I arrived, so I said sure.

Rays' Manager Joe Maddon

After getting out of the Winnipeg jail I made my way to Florida and actually beat out the new phenom, Desmond Jennings for the starting centerfielder position.  But Rays' management and I couldn't reach agreement on a suitable contract so I decided to hang up the cleats.  However it wasn't a total loss because during my week down there I read several books about trains and decided to tour the country on the rails.

Down in Florida taking some cuts against the Yankees' Joba Chamberlain