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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I think I missed my calling. Sure, I enjoy my day job. And tinkering with standup comedy and writing a few hundred words a day are a lot of fun — it’s not keeping me in beer and Twinkies money, sadly, but I get a kick out of it. Still, I think my dream job passed me by.
I should have been a knuckleball pitcher.
The idea came to me a couple of nights ago, as I was watching the Sox’ own Tim Wakefield pitch. I’ve been a fan of Wake’s for most of his career, dating back to the late ’90s when we were both in Pittsburgh — him pitching and me… well, spending money on beer and Twinkies, mostly. I’m damned consistent with my priorities, yo.
On the night I watched, Wakefield didn’t fare so well. He gave up five hits and five runs — three earned — before coming out in the sixth inning. He even walked four batters; hardly a stellar pitching performance.
But you know what? You can’t blame the guy. He’s a knuckleball pitcher.
If it were any other sort of pitcher on the mound, you’d be justified in booing his candy-armed ass all the way to the bench. If David Wells or Matt Clement stepped up for the Sox and allowed five runs — and they do; dammit, do they ever — they’d hardly be pleased with the outcome. Questions would be asked. Uncomfortable, pointy questions with sharp edges and ominous undertones. Eyebrows might even be raised, or brows furrowed.
But Wakefield’s a knuckleballer. The bulk of his job description involves walking to the mound and throwing balls that go places even he can’t predict. Ask a flamethrowing fastballer where the next ball’s going to end up. He’ll say something like:
‘Hard and away, at the knees.‘
If the next pitch is too far outside, or too low, or right over the heart of the plate — I’m looking at you, Lenny DiNardo — then it’s back to the bullpen drawing board for more mechanics and practice. If the pitch really is low and away, great. See if the kid can do it under pressure a hundred times in a row in front of thirty thousand fans, with live batters, an aching shoulder, and an itchy jock strap. That’s baseball, for most pitchers.
But ask a knuckleballer where that next pitch is going to be. If he’s at all honest, he’ll tell you:
‘I dunno.‘
“Whatever happens after that is up to physics, gravity, and whichever god(s) the team’s pitching coach happens to worship.”
And he’s right. Could be low and away. Could be high and inside. Might hit the batter. Or the umpire. Or a kid in the third row. The knuckleballer’s job is simply to set the ball in motion, dancing unpredictably in the general direction of home plate. Whatever happens after that is up to physics, gravity, and whichever god(s) the team’s pitching coach happens to worship.
Now there’s a job for me.
Think about it. If you do just a tiny fraction of your job as a knuckleballer — that is, actually throw a knuckleball — you can make a compelling argument that whatever happens next is out of your hands. And mostly, all you have to throw is the one pitch. All the other pitchers are working their asses off, learning sliding-this and curve-that and screwy twisty dipsy-divy nonsense pitches. Meanwhile, you work less, pitch longer, and can’t be held responsible for most screwups.
It’s like a surgeon opening up a patient and saying, ‘Whatever happens, happens.‘ Or a cop climbing into the patrol car and claiming, ‘I got us this far; after this, it’s all fate.‘ What’s not to like?
Sadly, I’m several beer- and Twinkie-soaked years too late to consider a lucrative knuckleballing career at this point. The best I can manage is to capture the spirit of the knuckleball pitcher, and apply it to my own job. So if I get to my desk on Monday morning, and a power nap, a three-hour liquid lunch, or a trip to the nearest strip joint breaks out, then I guess it was just ‘in the cards’.
At a certain point, it’s all up to physics and gravity. And if that point also includes cold beers and a pastied pole dancer or two, what are you gonna do? It’s fate. You can’t argue with fate.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’m at the age where many of my friends — my high-sperm count friends, apparently — have children. Many have had kids for a few years now, so the former fetuses are walking and talking and running around higgledy-piggledy, as former fetuses are often wont to do.
Also, they’re answering the phones. And that’s where my issues start.
See, I’m your average thirty-something middle-class childless guy. I like to drink beer, watch sports, and gab about the game as though I actually had a clue about NFL draft needs, the virtues of a box-and-one defense, or the origins of the infield fly rule. These are things that I can’t do at home — my wife has her own shows to watch, and the dog just stares at me when I start a game of ‘Name That AFC Defensive Lineman‘.
(I mean, you’d think the mutt could at least get Dwight Freeney. It’s a frigging gimme! Bah.)
“It’s like negotiating a hostage release with a cocker spaniel. And involves approximately the same amount of drooling.”
So, I’ve got to leave the house to have my fun. And if I can drag my thirty-something middle-class child-rearing friends along, so much the better. First, it gets them out of the house — and you know they need the break. How many flailing tantrums and pooped-in diapers can one man watch his wife deal with, anyway? It must be exhausting.
Also, since the guys are mentally drained from the rigors of kid wrangling, I tend to win all the sports-related arguments. You take a toddler’s dad, move him away from the kid, sit him on a bar stool and hand him a beer, and he’ll agree with anything. I made ten bucks the other night on a bet that aluminum bats are bad for baseball, then doubled my money arguing the other side. Sweet.
But to drink with the suckers guys, I’ve got to call the guys. And more and more frequently, that involves getting through a small, sugared-up child screening the calls. So I’d often have conversations like this:
Toddler: HELLO?
Me: Um… yeah, hi, Davey. Could you put your Dad on th-
Toddler: HELLO! Hello. Hellohellohellohello. Helllllllllloooooo!
Me: Hi. Hi there, Davey. It’s ‘Uncle Charlie’. Remember me? Is your Daddy home?
Toddler: Yep! Hey — I’m fwee years old!
Me: Yes, I know, Davey. Very nice. I-
Toddler: And a HALF!
Me: Right. Good for you, kid. Now-
Toddler: I like cheese. Cheesa cheesa cheeeeeeeeeeese.
Me: Okay, then. Great. Can I please talk to-
Toddler: Okay, I have to peepee now. Bye! *click*
Damn. It’s nearly impossible to get through that sort of random-access defense. It’s like negotiating a hostage release with a cocker spaniel. And involves approximately the same amount of drooling.
Finally, I found a way to get through. It’s all about channeling the right energies. Finding a common ground the kid and I can both appreciate. Now, these conversations go more like this:
Toddler: Hi! I’m Davey!
Me: *sigh* Hi, Davey.
Toddler: Wanna see my trick?
Me: Um, not right now. Hey, Davey! Wanna know a secret?
Toddler: Yay! A secret!
Me: First — is your Daddy in the room?
Toddler: Uh-huh.
Me: Good. Here’s the secret: ‘Daddy’s got a ti-ny pe-nis. Daddy’s got a ti-ny pe-nis. Daddy’s got a-‘
Toddler: DADDY’S GOT A TI-NEE PEE-NIS! DADDY’S GOT A TI-NEE PEE-NIS!!! DADDY’S GOT A TAH-NAY PAY-NIS!! DADDY’S GOT-
Daddy: (getting closer to the phone) What in the- who is that? Gimme that phone! WHO THE HELL IS THIS?
Me: Yo, Gary. We going out for beer, or what?
Daddy: Dude, I cannot believe you would-
Toddler: TI-NEE PEEEEE-NIS! DADDY’S GOT A-
Daddy: Davey, hush up. Daddy’s on the phone now.
Toddler: Daddy, what’s a penis? Peeeeeeenis! Penis! Penis! Penis Pay-nissssss!!
Me: C’mon, let’s go.
Daddy: No way. Now I’ve gotta talk to the kid about-
Toddler: PENIS! PEEEEE!! NASSSSS!!
Daddy: … about that. I’m out.
Me: Fine. Suit yourself. *click* Needledick.
See? Much better. If the guy’s not coming out for beers and a ballgame, he should have to pay for it, dammit.
Of course, you have to be careful what you say around these kids. Not that I mind warping young minds — that’s for their parents or eventual psychiatrists to worry about — but saying the wrong thing can come back to bite you in the ass. Consider this exchange I had last week:
Toddler: Hullo? Is this Santa Claus?
Me: Hi. No, Billy, it’s not Santa. Say, is your Dad in the room?
Toddler: Nuh-unh. I think I made a boom-boom.
Me: Yes, charming. Um, how about Mommy? Is your Mommy there?
Toddler: Yeah.
Me: Oooh, really? Heh. Your mommy’s got a nice rack. *pause* No, wait. Oh dear lord, don’t-
Toddler: MOMMY’S GOT A NICE RACK! MOMMY’S GOT A NICE RACK! NIIIIIIICE!! RAAA-AAAAACK!!
And my half of the rest of that conversation:
“Um… yeah, hi, Amy.”
“Uh… you’re welcome?”
“Yes, but-”
“No, I wasn’t-”
“Yes, you’re right. Highly inappropriate. Yes.”
“Never call again. Right. One thousand foot buffer zone. Gotcha.”
“Okay, bye — oh, wait. Amy?”
“Yeah, when you see Gary, tell him to meet me down at the bar in twenty minutes. Thanks, sweettits. Yerapeach.”
You’d be surprised how little sense of humor some parents have. I know I was. I thought raising kids was supposed to make you mellow. Jeez.
Permalink | 1 CommentI started this entry last night (Thursday), as indicated by the date above. Actually, I technically started it around two-thirty in the morning on Friday — but I hadn’t finished with my Thursday yet, so I took a little leeway. The time on the clock has never affected my plans much.
Except.
As I sat down to write after a long, full day of my usual doofuness, I grew a bit tired. Woozy. Fuzzy-headed, and I’m not talking about my stupid haircut. I’d squeezed every last drop out of that poor Thursday and licked the bowl clean — and it had taken its toll.
At three am, I was flagging badly. Here’s what I’d written so far:
(No, there’s nothing there. I’m not screwing with you, writing in teensy font or all-white text to be a smartass.
Or am I?
Hah! Made you look!)
“It was a quarter till four, and I still had nothing. My face falling on the keyboard had typed out a few letters, but nothing I could really use.”
Next thing I know, I woke up stiff and drooling — not in the good way, mind you — at my desk. It was a quarter till four, and I still had nothing. My face falling on the keyboard had typed out a few letters, but nothing I could really use. It might have been something mildly amusing in Swedish or Cantonese, for all I know, but the punctuation was all wrong. Also, ‘lapdancer’ was grossly misspelled. Like, with a ‘q’. And a ‘@’. Tsk.
So I went to bed.
It’s Friday morning proper now, and though mornings are never kind to me, I’ve at least corralled enough wits together to explain myself. And to work out what I’m going to write about today, well in advance. Waiting until the wee hours doesn’t work out so well, as I’ve found. Also, I’ve found that my keyboard tastes like finger sweat and stale corn chips.
So I guess I learned two lessons in writing this post. And that’s two more than usual. Whaddaya know?
Permalink | No CommentsI’m being eco-terrorized.
There’s this printer that I use at work, and it refuses — refuses, I tell you — to print one-sided copies.
Refuses.
I’ve tried everything. I configured it from my desktop. I futzed with it from the console. I changed prefs, I updated drivers, and I reinstalled the printer. I even read the three sentences in the manual that weren’t written in Spanish or warnings about electrocution hazards.
Nothing.
“I even read the three sentences in the manual that weren’t written in Spanish or warnings about electrocution hazards.”
In a fit of supreme frustration and wicked inspiration, I set up a VCR in the copy room, and nudged the printer meaningfully while I played that scene from Office Space over and over. Where did that get me?
A big fat bunch of double-sided nowhere. Plus a late fee on the movie rental. Bitches.
And don’t get me wrong — I’m cool with all this eco-friendly, redwood-hugging, recyclable-underpants, free-the-whales, kiss-an-ice-cap, solar-powered toothbrush talk. Really, I am. Global warming bad. Some of my favorite people are endangered species. Spotted owls and tropical rainforests should be free to marry whoever the hell they want. I’m on your side.
But occasionally — only once or twice a year, I promise! — I’d like to print something on just one side of the paper. Like a one-page handout for a meeting. Or a schematic that won’t fit on one page, for instance. Honestly, is it really necessary to make me print thirty-seven copies of a four-page diagram, because the double-sided ones are flipped and rotated around such that it’s impossible to jigsaw the stupid things together? Who is that helping?
The Hammermill Corporate Tree-Slaughtering Conglomerate, that’s who. I bet they all drive SUVs and spray aerosols at arctic glaciers just for fun, too. See what you’re making me do?
Eh, maybe the IT jocks at the office can figure the damned thing out for me. And I could always go back to the manual and try deciphering the sections in Espanol. Although, if it’s not mostly about cervezas and las cucarachas, I’m not likely to get much out of it.
On second thought, I’m thinking the Initech guys had the right idea. It is baseball season, right? And I’ve got a Louisville Slugger in the basement with ‘Konica’ written all over it. Batter up, copy boy.
Permalink | 2 CommentsHi there.
I apologize if you happened to try accessing the site earlier today and were shut out — there were a few hours of what we in the infocomputerary business call ‘unscheduled downtime’.
(Basically, that means some bit of hardware or other choked on something it shouldn’t have, and spent a while spinning its gears in protest. Usually, it’s porn. But then again — on the internet, what isn’t porn, eh?)
Anyway, it’s simply more fodder for my latest paranoid conspiracy theory — I’ve decided the web hates me.
“Get maced by hott single girlz in your area!”
It would explain a lot, certainly. The mysterious outages, the browser glitches, why I can never — no matter how hard I try — shoot that stupid iPod monkey in the ad. I don’t even want the damned iPod, or whatever sort of snake oil pyramid scheme they’re shilling. I just want that punk-ass grinning simian dead. Honestly, what is he, some sort of fricking chimp ninja? Here’s a banana — NOW HOLD FREAKING STILL, DAMN YOU!
Even my spam has gotten worse lately. Not more frequent, or higher volume, just… snarkier. Seems even the spambots don’t want to sell me shit any more. Check out some of the message subjects I’ve received recently:
‘Refinance Now!! Bad Credit? BIG PROBLEM!‘
‘Meet hott single girlz in your area! Get maced by hott single girlz in your area! Call now!’
‘Need OEM? You’re an Overweight Eggsucking Moron. There’s your ‘OEM’, sucka.’
‘Online ph@rmacy! We sell m3ds cheap… but not to you.’
‘Widow of wealthy Nigerian bank official wants no assistance from you whatsoever.’
‘Want a bigger penis? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! Loser.’
Anyway, it’s good to be back online again. Please feel free to resume your normal drivel-perusing activities. I’ll be in the server room with a crowbar, exacting my revenge. This machine is wily, all right — but it’s no iPod monkey, and I know where it lives. It’s go time.
Permalink | 1 Comment
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