Tornado weather, Jim Thorpe, red kicks and zombies
It's midnight, the moon is full, and there's a storm nearby. Storms here are beautiful acts of nature and I always love to stand outside just before one hits. The wind swirls around me as if it can't decide what to knock over before the rains rush in behind it. I appreciate it's thoroughness as I watch random objects fly across my backyard. It's busy high in the night sky also, because the moon flickers light onto my face like a light bulb going bad from the plethora of clouds darting across its path. I don't want to go in yet, so I grab my basketball and shoot ten-footers until I'm chased inside. The sound of the wind and the net making it's metallic swish fills my ears, but my brain is far away from this place.

I was thinking of Jim Thorpe (1887-1953). He was a famous American Indian athlete who was an Olympic gold medalist in the decathlon and pentathlon, played major league baseball, and pro football. He is said to arguably be the greatest athlete of the 20th century, but I don't see why there's an argument. There was no athlete in the entire century besides him that was an Olympic gold medalist and played two sports on the pro level. Writers who witnessed his feats have said that there was no sport that he wasn't good at if he desired to play it. I appreciate that kind of moxie and I can relate to that kind of athletic diversity. I've over scheduled my own sports calendar this year, because in the spirit of Jim Thorpe, I just want to play. I feel as if I've been watching life go by without jumping into the middle of it and running as fast as I can. We've only got a few good years on our bodies and most of us waste them on eating badly and watching too much TV. I decided to change that last year and I've been having a blast.

My first thought was to get red shoes. I showed up at my second softball practice in brilliant red cleats. The ooh's and ahh's were deafening and I inspired half a team to buy new cleats. I had 45 year-old men telling me "Nice kicks!" I didn't know middle-aged men knew what a "kick" was, let alone appreciate the value of El Rojo! People love a great pair of shoes and I love the feeling when I put on a pair of red shoes. Maybe I was meant to be a clown, but I don't feel circus-y when I put them on. I get a rush like I've just slipped into a sports car. I also just got new tennis shoes and as you can tell by the above picture, I went with another pair of sports cars. Christian just said, "Of course, they're red..." when I pulled them out of the box. He understands that side of my personality, but he's a dyed in the wool Chuck Taylor black hightop man and I appreciate him for his footwear integrity. I wish everyone possessed that typed of integrity, especially zombies.

I know, I know...what? I only came inside tonight, because I realized that in the middle of that storm, thinking, "WWJD (What Would Jim Do)", and wearing my red sports cars, I was waiting on a zombie that would never show up. I know consciously that zombies are a fabrication of religious folklore and the Golden Screen, but in my preadolescent fantasy mind that won't mature for some reason, zombies are to me as windmills were to Don Quixote. I couldn't think of a better time for a zombie to show up than midnight in the middle of a storm, with me wearing my new red kicks. I know, you still don't get it.

"Men crave battle" is the only way I can think to explain it. In the same way that women crave the smell of a newborn baby, men crave conflict and we crave it most in the times when we feel most confident. I love storms and red shoes and playing sports. In that moment, I was everything I needed to be and I wanted battle, but zombies having no sense of responsibility or corporal existence in anything but preadolescent brains, were not going to appear, and thus my disappointment.

I did just watch something which sort of scratched my zombie itch the other day on the Bravo network. I've never understood my fascination with zombies and why I see them as my ultimate antagonists until I saw George Romero speak. Mr. Romero made the cult classic film, Night Of The Living Dead, the movie which begat all zombie movies since and he summed it all up for me. His lead in the movie was an African American male and it was almost unheard of at the time, because the movie was made n the late sixties. He said that the horror in the movie and the zombies were symbolism for what was taking place in the American culture at that time. The zombies represented everything he saw American culture becoming: a thoughtless automaton of consumers, devouring without thinking, destroying everything in their path to satiate their own desires. Placing a black male in the lead was just a natural conclusion, because Mr. Romero saw them as the group most affected by this thoughtlessness. He said if he would have been a fan of any other genre, then he would have created a different film, but with the same message.

Maybe my worst disappointment of the evening is realizing that the zombie is already here, in me, devouring, consuming, and destroying to satiate my own thoughtless desires. It would be the most fitting conclusion to this trite little tale of irony and the Modern Man. Where's Rod Serling's lazy ass when you need him to put his little disparaging conclusive remarks on the evening and don't give me that, "He's dead," crap either. It hasn't stopped Tupac from releasing four CD's, two movies, and three TV specials.

Deathball 2K5
I recently joined my church's softball team because I have a childhood Redemption Issue and remain on the team, because apparently, I am brazenly stupid in regards to my own safety. We had our first game this past week and I think the swelling and bruising won't allow the hellish nightmare to pass into the region of the brain that holds fond memories. I would like public record to show in the event of my demise while participating in Deathball (my name for this sport) that I believe that the word "softball" is a complete misnomer for this hour-long, testosterone-induced cacophony of controlled violence that I participate in every Monday night. I think of the word "softball" and it conjures images of a recreational activity played by those lacking the skill and ability required to play a physically demanding sport, such as baseball. In my feeble mind, it is an activity limited to picnics and family reunions, suitable for all ages, and is played with a ball which is, well, soft. It's in this transgressive thinking that I forgot that fully-grown males possess the ability to make even a game of badminton a physically painful act. This reasoning extends naturally to Deathball and my five games in organized baseball as a youth and the occasional pickup game of softball as an adult haven't prepared me for the rigors of The Big Round Death. I lack something our coach reminds us to play every week: "fundamentals".

Fundamentals apparently teach you things like how to keep your head down during a night game. I didn't possess this particular knowledge during our first game and happened to look over third base and directly into the lights just seconds before my shortstop rocketed a routine throw to me. In that moment of self preservation, I threw both hands out in front of me. The result was me picking the index finger of my throwing hand up off the ground just in time to watch the blood vessel inside explode and blossom in vibrant colors of blues and purples.

Playing good fundamental baseball prevents errors, both on and off the field. I've discovered that my grossest errors have taken place long before I ever stepped on the field. I believed that because most of the players are a little out of shape, that their skills would be equally negligent. I forgot that adult male softball players have played baseball half their lives and softball the other half of their lives. They know how to hit, field, and run bases. I'm a poseur. Even the most unimposing over-fifty softball player can pull a ball down the firstbase line and allow me just enough time to get my beloved shins out of the way. They're kinda mean that way, but I'd hit to me if I were them too.

I also naively believed that these men play Deathball for the fun and camaraderie of the sport. Again, that's just crazy talk, because I've had guys who have wanted to kick my ass in a bar fight who haven't stared me down as hard. I had to keep reminding myself that this was a non-contact sport. I think I actually saw some members of their team trying to urinate on the bases to mark their territory.
Fundamentals extend even to the equipment that you use. I never seriously considered the difference between a fielder's glove and a first baseman's mitt. Hold your hand up like you're going to wave to someone. Notice how your fingers extend up into the air? That's how your hand sits in a fielder's glove. Playing first base with a fielder's glove is the same as playing bare-handed when a 19 year-old throws a ball from third base at 70 miles per hour. Firstbase and catchers play with a mitt. Now mimic holding a cup and that's how your hand is positioned inside of a mitt. Your hand sits lower in a mitt and you won't feel the knuckle in your index finger shatter when you catch the softball thrown from the aforementioned third baseman.

Deathball has been a very educational experience for all of the bruising and torn muscles. I've learned more about the nuances of this game in three weeks than I've learned over a lifetime. I like the sport so much now that I now watch baseball! I think that's one of the signs that Jesus should return sometime soon, or at least that Hell has officially frozen over.

Best wishes from Bowling Green
It's 45 degrees outside with 15-20 mile per hour winds, scattered showers, and Ryan is somewhere out there playing disc golf. I wish him the best of luck. I have chosen to quietly tuck myself into an Internet cafe just off the town square in Bowling Green, Kentucky and from in here, it looks really cold out there. I was out in that mess earlier and it was wet, cold, and cold some more. I'm also entered in this tournament, which is the second largest tournament of it's kind, but I'm a fair-weather sports participant.

To me, anyone who would pay good money to stand in the rain, play a sport, and complain about the weather the entire time falls into the category of Doesn't Have The Sense That God Gave a Goose. My grandma used to say that and I think it applies in this type of adversity. If pride comes before the fall, then foolish pride must come right before the head cold. I don't know if it's just because I'm older now or the region of the country that I live in now, but I hear the words of my elders from a forgotten childhood much louder and clearer now.

And as romanticized as I remember those seemingly-arbitrary colloquialisms, all they were really saying was, "Don't be a dumbass Shawn, use that hat rack sitting on top of your shoulders every now and then." I think my dad may have actually said that to me at some point. Grandma would have approved of my decision today. Screw the opinions of those 449 guys out there walking around in near-freezing rain to prove to each other who has the grandest genitalia, Grandma lived to be 95 years-old for a reason. I knew that I've always appreciated wisdom.

The universal sign for dumbass
"What a bunch of jerks." Ryan and I were walking off the last hole of a very boring disc golf course and it was his decisive manner which caught my attention. I'm used to him being generally positive about his disc golf experiences, so this statement caught me rather unawares.

"Who do ya' mean?"

"Those guys. I just waved and said hi and they just totally blew me off without even looking at me."

I told him that I've found most disc golfers exclusive and predominantly, arrogant nerds and just as we were about to launch into a really great rant, Ryan noticed an MP3 player sitting beside a lamppost. I told him it would really suck to lose my MP3 player and he wondered aloud if it might belong to the last group we passed. We didn't like their behavior, but no one deserves to lose their MP3 player. We had already backed out when the group walked up to their cars, so I rolled my window down to yell to them.

They were apparently deaf or incredibly apathetic about talking, choosing to communicate by waving their hands about in a vicious, hurried manner. "I'm such a jerk," Ryan mumbles. "You are," I say, "but what's your point?" "Dude, they're deaf." I could see his reasoning. We had just spent the entire walk to the car casting disparaging remarks to the wind regarding this group and now we find out they're deaf. "Dude, you are a jerk," I say as we both start laughing nervously at our own callousness.

I should have just driven away at this point, but as I watched them pack up their cars, signing to one another the entire time, I started babbling without missing a beat. My hand shoots up and I'm waving and words are pouring from my mouth. Why am I asking this guy if he's lost an MP3 player? He motions to his ear that he can't hear me and I say louder while making the universal hand-cupping motion for headphones over my ears, "Did you lose an MP3 player?" I point to the lamppost and he obediently grabs the MP3 player and starts back towards our truck. I stop him like he's the idiot, waving him off and yelling, "They're not yours?" No, he shakes his head and then it hits me...the entire group is deaf.

I've just asked a deaf man if he's lost his MP3 player.

I can feel my stomach churning with a nauseated embarrassment. I wave to him weakly and mouth that I'm so sorry as I skulk away with my head barely showing over the top of the dashboard of the truck. "I'm the biggest asshole in the world." I hear Ryan's near-hysterical laughter, then I notice that I'm laughing, but it's the laughter of a man who sees the irony of laughter in the face of death, but can't fathom his own demise. It's a fool's laughter and it frightens me, but it feels oddly comforting.I've just asked a deaf man if he's lost his MP3 player.

"Dude, don't sweat it," Ryan croaks out amid his dying laughter, "it's not like he can tell any of his friends about this."

"How do you figure?" I say.

"Get it? He can't tell anyone."

"Your're sooo burning in a special place in Hell for that one."