Don't you hate it when you wear boxers and all day you have that feeling like your tallywacker is hanging out? The only thing that sucks worse is when it's really hot and your sac sticks to your legs like sweaty velcro. Both things are happening right now to me and my trousers are a total disaster area.
I heard on the radio that beer can prevent Prostate cancer. While I didn't need an excuse to drink beer, but I'm glad to have one.
Last night, Robin and I were being cute and I told her if we have twin boys, I want to name then Tomax and Xamot, after the evil twins of Cobra, leaders of the Crimson guard. She said she'd think about it. While having kids something I come and go on, I'd love to have a kid and give him a good name. I imagine my dad and my grandfather would want my first born to be named Earl, spelled correctly and everything, but to stray from tradition, we'd give him a different middle name. Grandpa was named after his father, so he's a junior. Dad was named after grandpa and great grandpa and Grandma's brother James. I was named after my dad, my grandfathers and my mom's dad Wayne. Earl Gregory sounds weird. So I dunno. Earl Wayne junior. Even though I hate the terms junior and senior.
This morning, I was on the front page of the Free Press that Tiger's stadium is going to be demolished in the fall. It's been unused for a baseball game since 1999 and since then, hosted Snoop Dogg for his Super Bowl XL show in January (which I have to imagine was just.... Brrrr). I got nostalgic and did a search for Tiger Stadium and found digitalballparks.com and looked at the pictures they had for Tiger Stadium (which is actually called Briggs Stadium, I didn't know that). I saw a picture of a plaque they had for Ty Cobb, my favorite ball player. Now, if you do a little research on him, you'll find he was not the nicest guy. Matterafact, he is probably the nastiest guy in baseball ever. He makes the owners who bucked the free agency system, the Black Sox eight, Barry Bonds and Pete Rose look good, really. He resisted and resented racial integration to the game. Put his spikes up in to players when he slid in to bases. He was not liked at all in his day or for the rest of his life. He was a miserable person... but a good ball player. One of the best the game ever saw or will ever see. He held many records including career hits, which was broken by Pete Rose in his prime. Pete Rose didn't face the same scrutiny Roger Marris did when he broke Babe Ruth's regular season home run record (which he face because Marris had eight more games than Ruth did per season) or Mark Macguire did when he broke Marris's record. Nor did he face the incredible scrutiny one of my other favorite players, Henry Aaron (who I like because of when he broke Babe Ruth's career homerun record of 715, two guys in Atlanta ran on to the field and patted him on the back in one of my favorite American images, right up there with the sailor kissing the nurse in New York City at the end of World War II) did or Jackie Robinson did. But I'm not going on about Pete Rose.
why am I (or, why was I) going on about Ty Cobb? Especially when I was talking about names I want to name kids? Isn't it obvious? I'd name a boy Tyrus after Cobb. Why? I mean, I just stated a bunch of reason why not to. Here's why: for one thing, it's a good strong sounding name and I like it. He's a hero to the Tigers and I like that too. But most importantly, the other night, dad and I were watching part eight of the Ken Burns baseball series when Cobb died in 1961. He died lonely. He said to a friend "If I could do it all over again, it'd be different. I'd've had more friends." My dad remarked "what a sad man" and he's right. Cobb was a sad man. In his old age, he was charging for autographs, he carried a gun a million dollars in a paper sack and was swallowing a quart of Bourbon and milk to dull the pain of the cancer than was consuming him. A constant reminder to a child of how not to live by having a name like Tyrus would be good for him. Don't resist change. Don't be miserable. Try to make friends. Don't be disagreeable. Be gracious. Be friendly. Be all the things Cobb wasn't.
And when me, my dad, my kids and Robin go to Comerica to see the Tigers play, We can take a picture with the Ty Cobb statue and my dad can tell my kids who he was. We'll then find our seats, the kids and Robin with sodas, over-sized Tigers hats on their little heads and oversized gloves on their little hands in hopes of catching a fowl ball, my dad and I with a beer. Dad'll explain to the little ones what's happening. He'll sing too loud, like he always does, the national anthem. The kids, with their hands over their hearts, mine behind my back. All of us standing up good and straight. Dad'll explain why the other team bats first. Robin will take the kids to the bathroom every other inning or so. Dad'll explain balls, strikes, fowl balls, pitches, positions, batting, calls, counts, hits and runs. In the seventh inning, we'll all stand, stretch and sing "Take me out to the Ball Game", my arm around Robin's waist and my dad holding our kids and our kids around my dad's shoulders. Dad and I will sing loud and hold the note as long as we can for the last word, which, if you don't know, is "Game". The last time we went to the ball park and saw the Yankees beat the Tigers, we did that and I got the feeling we'll do that every game we go to from now on. We'll sit in the sun with hats on and watch. My kids will have binoculars to see the faces of the distant players and they'll probably think like me whenever I see a rock star or an athlete in the flesh: "It can't be him. He lives in TV." Maybe Ivan Rodriguez, my favorite player who's currently playing, will still be in Detroit. They'll see him cross himself like he does every time he steps in to the box. They'll see him adjust his helmet, take a few swings before the pitch and then they'll see the pitch and then they'll see the ball sail high over the out fielders heads and the crowd erupt as Pudge smacks one in. They'll see him trot around the diamond as everyone claps Detroit's favorite son (even though he's from Puerto Rico) home. They'll see him cross himself once more before he steps on the plate and point and look to the sky, his crucifix around his neck showing. He'll step on the plate and turn toward the dugout where his teammates will pat his back, give him high fives and "atta boys" as he makes his way back to his spot on the bench. They'll see him trade his helmet for a hat with a beautiful white old English D, clap his hands a few times as the next Tiger in the line up goes up to try and make like Pudge.
I guess I wish I was more in to baseball when I was littler. All I can remember about back then was being angry and hating sports. I can't remember why nor can I remember when exactly I turned the corner in to when I liked them and watched them. I think Hunter S. Thompson and his final book Hey Rube had something to do with it. I want baseball to be part of my kids lives, I don't want things to be like they were in "Field of Dreams" where the only opportunity to play catch with your dad is after you've put in jeopardy everything you have to build a ball field that brings the Black Sox eight back, who, according to Shoeless Joe Jackson (played by Ray Liotta) hated Ty Cobb also. See I reckon that's why I cry when Kevin Costner asks his dad if he wants to have a catch in the end. We waste so much time with so much stuff that's not important that we miss the little things that are. And I want to be the kind of dad that misses nothing.
Sometimes, I wish things were different. Sometimes I wish Robin were here and we were making money and we had a house. I wish we were married and had a bun in the oven. I wish I could see her with a big tummy that I could touch and feel a little heartbeat. She'd put her hand on my face and we'd kiss and the baby inside her would be the most beautiful thing ever. I wish it were five years from now. And I wish that in that time, Pudge would still be with the Tigers. And we could go to a game.
I heard on the radio that beer can prevent Prostate cancer. While I didn't need an excuse to drink beer, but I'm glad to have one.
Last night, Robin and I were being cute and I told her if we have twin boys, I want to name then Tomax and Xamot, after the evil twins of Cobra, leaders of the Crimson guard. She said she'd think about it. While having kids something I come and go on, I'd love to have a kid and give him a good name. I imagine my dad and my grandfather would want my first born to be named Earl, spelled correctly and everything, but to stray from tradition, we'd give him a different middle name. Grandpa was named after his father, so he's a junior. Dad was named after grandpa and great grandpa and Grandma's brother James. I was named after my dad, my grandfathers and my mom's dad Wayne. Earl Gregory sounds weird. So I dunno. Earl Wayne junior. Even though I hate the terms junior and senior.
This morning, I was on the front page of the Free Press that Tiger's stadium is going to be demolished in the fall. It's been unused for a baseball game since 1999 and since then, hosted Snoop Dogg for his Super Bowl XL show in January (which I have to imagine was just.... Brrrr). I got nostalgic and did a search for Tiger Stadium and found digitalballparks.com and looked at the pictures they had for Tiger Stadium (which is actually called Briggs Stadium, I didn't know that). I saw a picture of a plaque they had for Ty Cobb, my favorite ball player. Now, if you do a little research on him, you'll find he was not the nicest guy. Matterafact, he is probably the nastiest guy in baseball ever. He makes the owners who bucked the free agency system, the Black Sox eight, Barry Bonds and Pete Rose look good, really. He resisted and resented racial integration to the game. Put his spikes up in to players when he slid in to bases. He was not liked at all in his day or for the rest of his life. He was a miserable person... but a good ball player. One of the best the game ever saw or will ever see. He held many records including career hits, which was broken by Pete Rose in his prime. Pete Rose didn't face the same scrutiny Roger Marris did when he broke Babe Ruth's regular season home run record (which he face because Marris had eight more games than Ruth did per season) or Mark Macguire did when he broke Marris's record. Nor did he face the incredible scrutiny one of my other favorite players, Henry Aaron (who I like because of when he broke Babe Ruth's career homerun record of 715, two guys in Atlanta ran on to the field and patted him on the back in one of my favorite American images, right up there with the sailor kissing the nurse in New York City at the end of World War II) did or Jackie Robinson did. But I'm not going on about Pete Rose.
why am I (or, why was I) going on about Ty Cobb? Especially when I was talking about names I want to name kids? Isn't it obvious? I'd name a boy Tyrus after Cobb. Why? I mean, I just stated a bunch of reason why not to. Here's why: for one thing, it's a good strong sounding name and I like it. He's a hero to the Tigers and I like that too. But most importantly, the other night, dad and I were watching part eight of the Ken Burns baseball series when Cobb died in 1961. He died lonely. He said to a friend "If I could do it all over again, it'd be different. I'd've had more friends." My dad remarked "what a sad man" and he's right. Cobb was a sad man. In his old age, he was charging for autographs, he carried a gun a million dollars in a paper sack and was swallowing a quart of Bourbon and milk to dull the pain of the cancer than was consuming him. A constant reminder to a child of how not to live by having a name like Tyrus would be good for him. Don't resist change. Don't be miserable. Try to make friends. Don't be disagreeable. Be gracious. Be friendly. Be all the things Cobb wasn't.
And when me, my dad, my kids and Robin go to Comerica to see the Tigers play, We can take a picture with the Ty Cobb statue and my dad can tell my kids who he was. We'll then find our seats, the kids and Robin with sodas, over-sized Tigers hats on their little heads and oversized gloves on their little hands in hopes of catching a fowl ball, my dad and I with a beer. Dad'll explain to the little ones what's happening. He'll sing too loud, like he always does, the national anthem. The kids, with their hands over their hearts, mine behind my back. All of us standing up good and straight. Dad'll explain why the other team bats first. Robin will take the kids to the bathroom every other inning or so. Dad'll explain balls, strikes, fowl balls, pitches, positions, batting, calls, counts, hits and runs. In the seventh inning, we'll all stand, stretch and sing "Take me out to the Ball Game", my arm around Robin's waist and my dad holding our kids and our kids around my dad's shoulders. Dad and I will sing loud and hold the note as long as we can for the last word, which, if you don't know, is "Game". The last time we went to the ball park and saw the Yankees beat the Tigers, we did that and I got the feeling we'll do that every game we go to from now on. We'll sit in the sun with hats on and watch. My kids will have binoculars to see the faces of the distant players and they'll probably think like me whenever I see a rock star or an athlete in the flesh: "It can't be him. He lives in TV." Maybe Ivan Rodriguez, my favorite player who's currently playing, will still be in Detroit. They'll see him cross himself like he does every time he steps in to the box. They'll see him adjust his helmet, take a few swings before the pitch and then they'll see the pitch and then they'll see the ball sail high over the out fielders heads and the crowd erupt as Pudge smacks one in. They'll see him trot around the diamond as everyone claps Detroit's favorite son (even though he's from Puerto Rico) home. They'll see him cross himself once more before he steps on the plate and point and look to the sky, his crucifix around his neck showing. He'll step on the plate and turn toward the dugout where his teammates will pat his back, give him high fives and "atta boys" as he makes his way back to his spot on the bench. They'll see him trade his helmet for a hat with a beautiful white old English D, clap his hands a few times as the next Tiger in the line up goes up to try and make like Pudge.
I guess I wish I was more in to baseball when I was littler. All I can remember about back then was being angry and hating sports. I can't remember why nor can I remember when exactly I turned the corner in to when I liked them and watched them. I think Hunter S. Thompson and his final book Hey Rube had something to do with it. I want baseball to be part of my kids lives, I don't want things to be like they were in "Field of Dreams" where the only opportunity to play catch with your dad is after you've put in jeopardy everything you have to build a ball field that brings the Black Sox eight back, who, according to Shoeless Joe Jackson (played by Ray Liotta) hated Ty Cobb also. See I reckon that's why I cry when Kevin Costner asks his dad if he wants to have a catch in the end. We waste so much time with so much stuff that's not important that we miss the little things that are. And I want to be the kind of dad that misses nothing.
Sometimes, I wish things were different. Sometimes I wish Robin were here and we were making money and we had a house. I wish we were married and had a bun in the oven. I wish I could see her with a big tummy that I could touch and feel a little heartbeat. She'd put her hand on my face and we'd kiss and the baby inside her would be the most beautiful thing ever. I wish it were five years from now. And I wish that in that time, Pudge would still be with the Tigers. And we could go to a game.