Damn you, Facebook Chat!

When deployed 7,000 miles (at least) from friends and family, Facebook is monumentally wonderful.  Being able to interact with those I care about makes being out here somewhat bearable.  Even though I'm 8.5 hours ahead of East Coast time, I typically have 10-40 people online at any given moment whom I can catch up with.  All that is absolutely fantastic.

Facebook Chat is not perfect.  I know that.  Even under perfect conditions, it is well behind Gchat.  Gchat is sensitive to the internet fluctuations out here. It's annoying, but bearable.  Facebook Chat screws me repeatedly

For instance, say there's a Hawt Chick™, I've met some place or other during my various travels:

Now, I barely know Hawt Chick.  From what I gather, she's Hawt.  I'll occasionally comment on her status if something amusing comes to mind, and vice versa.  Otherwise, it's mostly "Happy Birthday!" when FB reminds me or her it's that time.

Now, suppose that I see Hawt Chick on FB chat.  I've seen something she's posted so I start a conversation.  I like to think I'm good with the written word. I'm in my element.  This should be fine.

Except Facebook Chat screws me

It starts out easy enough:

(My Screen)

I'm a verbose S.O.B.  I get that.  However, when I chat, so I don't wear out the person I'm talking to, I type in clauses.  It's short, convenient and easy to follow.  Unfortunately, it gives FB the power to wreak havoc. 

Below is what she got because my internet connection sucks and FB isn't nice enough to just say "Hawt Chick did not receive your chat" like Gchat does, so I keep typing away, clueless.

(Her Screen)

She tries to brush it off, even though that's really weird coming from anyone, let alone a guy she barely knows who's a little "unusual" in that he willingly lives in a war zone and looks like a maniac.  She changes the subject. I sense I've somehow bombed already but have no idea that I've been edited into perversion.

(My Screen)

 (Her Screen)

Now I'm thinking.  "Huh? She seemed pretty cool that time I met her.  More than just a pretty girl.  She does Tai Chi and bungee jumps off bridges.  Maybe she's distracted. It happens."

 I try to change the subject. 

Multiple subject changes on a brief conversation are not a good sign, by the way.

(My Screen)

Fortunately, she gets that chat.  Admittedly, not my best material, but she's game.  Hopefully it's just a matter of her thinking that I'm a little odd from having lived over here for 16 months and not that I'm just weird.  She throws it out there.

(Her Screen)

I thought I was bombing a simple conversation, but woohoo!  I respond.  Sense my over enthusiasm.  Subtlety with excitement is not my forte.

(My Screen)

I wait and she doesn't respond.  Apparently my idea sucked.  I throw out alternatives.

(My Screen) 

Still nothing.  I guess she stepped away from her computer.  She responds after a few minutes.

(My Screen)

Then it dawns on me. I hit refresh on my entire facebook page and this is what comes up on our chat window.

(Her Screen)

I immediately freak out.  I go to her wall and post: "I swear to God I'm here! It's not posting my responses!"

I reply to her chat repeatedly. Damn you, Facebook chat!!!!

(My Screen)

 

It started working fairly well again after that, but the damage was done. We finished up the conversation. I think she figures I'm a crazy guy who blew her off so I sent her a message later asking her something trivial just as a "I was serious about my internet sucking. I wasn't blowing you off or playing some weirdo mind game." No response.
 

Then a couple of days later, she was on chat again so I popped on and said something silly again and, again, no response.

The craptastic thing about Facebook out here is that a) she might not have gotten any of those messages from me so I'm tempted to keep trying but b) if she did and I keep pestering her, then I really am going to look (be?) psychotic.

Damn you, Facebook Chat!

Iliad Schmiliad

At my new(ish) FOB, we get incoming rockets and mortars often.  This camp's nickname is "Rocket City."  Some Talib or some such will lob in a round and our radar will pick it up.  What's supposed to happen is that the radar detects it in flight and triggers the warning system to give people some time to get in bunkers or seek other cover.  What's supposed to happen has only happened once that I can recall.  The three short bursts of the siren went off and the "Giant Voice" reported "INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!" in its monotone/slightly robotic manner and four seconds later there was a BOOM!  That was just enough time to start making a move for cover, but not enough to get there.

That's what's supposed to happen.  What usually does happen though is that the radar doesn't detect the projectile or it doesn't trigger the warning system.  Thus our notification is all backwards.  We'll hear a BOOM! or THWUMP! and then five minutes later, the siren and Giant Voice go off.  Even though the danger has passed, we have to go to the bunkers and wait the 5-30 minutes it takes to hear the Giant Voice tell us "ALL CLEAR! EMERGENCY TERMINATED! RESUME OPERATION ACTIVITIES OR RECOVERY AT THIS TIME! ALL CLEAR!"

Since, a) even if you hear the siren before the impact there's not enough time to get to the bunker, and b), the vast majority of the time, the round landed some time before, there's not a huge sense of urgency to get to the bunker.  Especially when it's the middle of the day and you must leave your air-conditioned office to swelter in the 120+ degree heat.

"INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!" wailed away the other day.  I got up from my desk and headed for the door, but paused, turned back around, and grabbed a book off the desk so I'd have something to do other than stare at the gravel floor of the bunker.  I'm not much for the jabbering of the tradesmen who filter into the bunker.

To most, if not all, the fact that my favorite book is The Iliad is slightly to completely pretentious.  I know this.  Doesn't change the fact it's my favorite book.  I've several editions to include the Lattimore paperback I first read in college to my prized hardback Everyman's Library Fitzgerald.  I bought the Fitzgerald at a bookstore outside of San Francisco when my brother and I were doing a roadtrip after I'd completed my 19 week Field Artillery Officer Basic Course in November of 2001.  I knew I was heading off to Germany and thence to war, be it in Afghanistan or Iraq (indeed, the first question I asked my commander when I arrived in Bamberg was when we were going to Iraq; invasion was fairly obvious from the moment of 9/11).

I've carried my worn, salmon-colored, cloth-bound Fitzgerald all over the world.  Alexander the Great not only took a copy of The Iliad with him as he conquered the known world, but slept with it under his pillow.  I don't sleep with it under my pillow, but I have carried it to five continents.  It'll be with me when I get to the other two.  Every year or two I'll read it afresh.  This past year in Afghanistan, I've not put a complete reading in, but have gone in fits and starts.  My bookmark is halfway through.  

Thus it was that I sat on the bench in the bunker and opened up my tome of grisly killings.  I'd barely made it a few lines (for those who do not know, The Iliad is a poem) when an hispanic tradesman (plumber/carpenter/electrician or some such) said, "Wow. You read all that so far?"

"Oh yes," I said, offhandedly, "though not all at once.  I've been picking my way through it."

"You must read a lot. What book is it?"

"The Iliad," I said to unmistakable incomprehension.

"Oh," he said, clearly not interested but wanting to carry on the conversation, "what's it about?"

I'm always struck when people have absolutely no idea about such things, even if I understand that I'm rather peculiar in my love of classics.  I tried to frame it in a way that would get across, in a facile way, my interest.

"It's the foundation of Western Literature," I said.  His eyes glazed at the word "literature."  (I don't consider Gilgamesh western lit; I don't have a particular reason why other than I refuse to cede the title to someone other than Homer).

I regrouped.

"It's about the Trojan war."  Surely that would spark some comprehension.  Nope.  I got the cow gaze.

"Um. It's about ancient warfare between the Greeks and Trojans.  It has fighting and heroes.  Helen of Troy.  Achilles..."

If I were a comedian, this would be called "bombing."

"Um, you've heard of The Odyssey?" I offered.  

"Nope."

"Sure you have.  You know...Odysseus.  The cyclops..."  I was struggling.  It was not working.

"Oh, yeah. Maybe," he offered out of pity.

"Anyway," I said, "it's my favorite book.  It's got gods and heroes and fighting."

"Yeah. That sounds good, I guess.  But I wouldn't pick it up.  Not with a name like The Iliad, you know?"

I tried to be amenable.  "Oh sure. I can understand that."  I couldn't really.

His attitude subtly went from trying to be agreeable to being condescending to the egghead.  Maybe I'd somehow unconsciously put out the vibe first.  I've no idea.

"How'd you even hear of that?"

"Well, like I said it's the foundation...my dad's a college English professor and when I was little he'd tell me stories from Greek mythology and Beowulf and..."

I didn't tell him that I met Robert Fitzgerald when I was a small child.  THAT clearly would have been lost on him.  His eyes glazed again and he looked away and semi-smiled to himself.

"Oh. A dork" was the conclusion that I read unmistakeably on his face.

About that time, we got "ALL CLEAR! EMERGENCY TERMINATED! RESUME OPERATION ACTIVITIES OR RECOVERY AT THIS TIME! ALL CLEAR!"

He gave me an awkward nod of his head and got up.  I awkwardly nodded and went back to my office.

http://www.amazon.com/Iliad-Everymans-Library-Classics-Contemporary/dp/0679410759

NICOLE'S POST

My friend Nicole has been super-duper helpful in getting the word out about my blog.  She said all she wants in repayment is "a prominent post and title that entails no actual work would be nice as well."  Thus she gets this.  We're even.

Blast from the Past

The new base I'm on actually has my old unit, the 1st battalion of the 6th Field Artillery Regiment on it.  I'd been told that upon the 1st Infantry Division (1ID) moving from Germany (where I served in 1/6FA) back to the US, 1/6 had been deactivated and its colors cased.  Turns out they'd waited a year or so and reactivated it.  Instead of being based out of Bamberg, Germany, it's now out of Fort Knox, Kentucky.  Now they're doing a tour out here in Afghanistan.

The army is not like other jobs in that people don't stay put usually.  It's more like high school.  You can go back and visit, but you're not going to run into too many people you knew if you don't come back for years.  You get sentimental for memories and the buildings might stir those up, but you're going to go down memory lane by yourself, usually.  Even if you do run into a teacher who refused to retire, they usually only have a fleeting recollection of who you were because they've been dealing with a rolling parade of kids, each of whom thinks he or she is the most important person ever and surely worthy of remembrance.  They smile and nod, perhaps mention the name of a class member of yours, and then politely extricate themselves to leave you on your journey with nostalgia.

So, the Army's like that. Certainly there have been changes in the six (SIX!) years since I got off of active duty, but an awful lot is very familiar.  I was tempted to stop by the battalion headquarters to see what was what, to hear the familiar jargon and fussing, to see the soldiers running around, to look at the various drawings of centaurs that are sure to be emblazoned there (military units have mascots they associate themselves with, obviously 1/6FA are the Centaurs.  The sub-units of the battalion; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Service and HHC were the Gators, Bulldogs, Cobras, Scorpions and Hawks, respectively).  I've even considered swinging by the gun line to take in my great killer beasts.  

I didn't do any of that though because my time is past.  Time marches on and it's a trifle sad and a touch desperate to cling.  You never, ever, ever want to be the 48yo fraternity alum who drops into the old frathouse and starts telling stories about "back in my day" and  plays beer pong with 20yos.  Leave the past in the past, at least insofar as subjecting yourself to people who are currently in their present.

All of that is a Ajax-patented, long-winded way of simply saying that "you can't go home again."  If you're going to be able to get anything out of it, it's not by going to a place you know and subjecting yourself to strangers, it's by reminiscing with someone who was there with you when you were going through it. 

As six years is an awfully long time in the army (people get out, people get promoted, people go to other units), I have kept an eye out for anyone I used to know, and run across a couple of people I vaguely remembered but none I shared much of a past with.  Then, at dinner one night, I looked up and sitting at the table across from me was none other than SGT Burge, now Staff Sergeant Burge.

I went over and politely reintroduced myself.  I look NOTHING like the man he once knew as Lieutenant, then Captain, Carpenter.   He recognized me nonetheless.  We chatted briefly before I left him to his meal.  I've since run across him once or twice and we've chatted about "back then", but mostly just one story that he told me when we were in Iraq that I'll never forget.

I kept a daily journal of the first 100 days or so of that deployment.  So, without further ado:

Deployment Journal: Day 33; Tuesday 16 March 2004

This morning SGT Burge, the Survey NCO, came knocking on my door at around 0600.  I got up, dressed and met him out at the gun, where he was putting down a stake to mark the position and then I led him to the other firing points.  It takes about five minutes for his equipment to come up with the right grid for each of the positions so he and I shot the bull about all sorts of things. 

I asked him about morale down at FOB (Forward Operating Base) Gabe, where the rest of 1/6FA is located and he said it was getting better.  I asked him how his was doing since during the MRE (Mission Readiness Exercise) at Hohenfels (a training center in Germany) he had told me that he was going to quit and he’d go to jail if he had to because he was tired of all the stupidity.  I have found that it is best not to crush guys when they talk like that because I have a good position as one of the only officers that the guys will talk to about anything and I have to let some things slide to keep that confidence (officers really can't tolerate insubordination).  I also was pretty sure he was venting because he was frustrated, but with SGT Burge it gets hard to tell.

            

 He said that he hated working for his new boss, a Staff Sergeant (SSG) because the guy didn’t know what he was doing.  As is the case in the Army, many times people go long stretches where they don’t do their primary jobs and this was the case with the boss.  First SGT Burge told me how the guy had mis-surveyed in the guns down at Gabe because he didn’t know what he was doing and SGT Burge had to go behind him and fix it.  The SSG had put extra numbers, two zeroes, at the end of the grid’s easting and northing when he realized that he hadn’t had enough numbers, an altogether huge error and unforgivable in this line of work; had it not been corrected, artillery rounds would have landed miles from their intended target, most likely with catastrophically deadly effects.

            

 As for the boss’ general competence, SGT Burge told me a story about killing a puppy.  

 The dogs at Gabe are a problem as well (they attract flies which carry the flesh-eating bacteria leishmaniasis) and there was a little puppy that was near the guard shack that was coughing blood.  They talked about it and decided they had to shoot it.  SGT Burge said he’d take care of it, but the boss was very insistent he be the one to do it.   

They took the puppy just outside the perimeter (it followed them) and the SSG went to shoot the dog but it stayed at his heels.  He tried to step back but still the dog stayed by him.  SGT Burge told him to kick the dog and the SSG said he wasn’t kicking a puppy.  SGT Burge asked him what difference it made since he was going to shoot it anyway.  The boss continued to try and jump away from the dog with no success when SGT Burge, frustrated, and wanting to be done with the whole thing, booted the dog.  The puppy went flailing and lay still when it came to rest.  SGT Burge said, “We might not have to shoot it after all.”   

 The puppy started though and the boss quickly aimed his weapon and fired.  The idiot fired down the sight though and at that short distance fired just below the dog and missed it.  He did it once more before SGT Burge yelled at him to fire down the barrel not the sights.  He shot again and hit the dog in the hind quarters making it yelp.  He shot once more, again in the hindquarters, and, of course did not kill the dog.   

SGT Burge yelled at him, telling him that if he wanted to kill it he had to hit the torso or the head, in other words something vital, and not the ass.  The SSG hollered back saying he didn’t know and that he hadn’t done that before.  The boss re-aimed and this time hit it in the chest.  The puppy slumped, obviously dead.   

When it began to twitch a moment later though the SSG jumped back waving the rifle around before firing once more and “spider webbing” its head, as SGT Burge put it.  SGT Burge grabbed the SSG’s rifle and told him that if he ever waved around a loaded weapon like that SGT Burge would shoot him.  The SSG apologized and said that he had never killed anything before and had gotten excited but was glad he had done it because now he knew he had that “killer instinct.”   

He kept on, blabbering about how he needed to know if he could do it because it was much harder for him to shoot a dog than someone who could defend himself, if it ever came to that.

            

Now, SGT Burge is a good ole boy from West Virginia who looks like a biker what with his bushy moustache and shaved head.  He plays football (american) on a team with the Germans and is altogether a tough country boy.  I could see how having to work for someone like that (altogether incompetent and a sissy to boot) would drive him nuts since I do work for someone like that.

I bet you don't fondly reminisce over stories like that with your High School buddies.

My New Boss and Me

I got sent to a new camp.  The camp is close to the Pakistan border.  We get rockets and mortars.  I was not super-pumped about coming here.  I not only liked my old camp, I liked my old boss.  On my way out on my last vacation, I ran into the fella who'd be my new boss, Lester.  

Lester is a 56yo who grew up in the projects in New York who played college basketball at Missouri until he lost part of a finger in an industrial accident when he was working in the offseason.

I'm young enough to be his son...if his son were a (relatively) well-bred, if not well-heeled, Southern lawyer.

Cautious introductions over, we probed each other's personalities to see if we could work together.

We work in one of the Bhuts.  His office is on one side of the Bhut.  Mine is one the other.  

Since I've gotten here, most of our job is checking email; we don't have a lot of interaction.  Lester will liven things up.  His style has caused issues with the others that have attempted to work with him.  I, however, have no problems matching his bombastic style.  Thus, every once in a while, he'll erupt to entertain himself:

Then, he'll come into my office.

So far we're working out just fine.

I Get By All the Time (With a Little Help from My...Grandmother?)

My mother's mother, Gammie, was my favorite person.  Considering how much I moved around when I was young, I came to consider her my rock and her house my home.

Gammie had a heart episode at the beginning of my senior year of high school and she could no longer live alone.  Unfortunately, the retirement home she wanted to go to, where her friends had gone once they needed help, didn't have an opening.  She came to live with us for a few months until a spot opened up.  As she needed someone to keep an eye on her, we became roomies.  Sure, I was a seventeen year old senior, but I was a-okay with that.  I loved my Gammie.

In college, I'd visit Gammie at the retirement home about once a month.  We'd hang out, go out to eat, and watch movies.  As far as I was concerned, it was great.

From Gammie's perspective though, I think she was worried about her youngest grandson.  Yes, I was dutiful and a good kid, but I wasn't quite normal.  She became quite concerned about my dating life...or lack thereof.

Our phone conversations and visits began to focus on me and girls.  Because, objectively, it's a good sign when a grandmother becomes slightly obsessed with fixing her grandson's love life.

Gammie would tell me about all the granddaughters of her friends.  If she saw a girl in the supermarket, she'd tell me about it.  If she laid eyes on anyone with two X chromosomes who was 15-25 years old, I heard all about it.  As a nineteen year old sophomore, it was by turns amusing, endearing, annoying, and mortifying.

One weekend, when I called to let her know I was on my way, she told me to bring a coat and tie "in case (I) needed it."  I was a bit suspicious, but complied.

When I arrived two hours later, Gammie fussed at me, "You're late!  And you're not wearing your coat and tie!"

"Huh? What?"

"You've got a date in fifteen minutes!"

Yup.  That's right.  I was not on the path to marriage and babies fast enough for her tastes.  My grandmother, the general's wife, had commandeered my dating life.  

I didn't fight her because there was no fighting her.  Some poor woman had been guilted by an adorable old lady into suffering through a pity date with her loser grandson.  It wasn't right to stand her up, even though I was embarrassed.  I went into the bathroom and changed.

When I came out of the bathroom, I discovered Gammie at the door, picking out which purse she was going to bring.  I stopped dead in my tracks.  I didn't say a word.  I stared at her.

"Don't just stand there," she barked.  "Let's go."

So.  Not only had my grandmother set me up on a blind date, she was coming along to supervise.

There was nothing I could do.  This was a full-on train wreck.  Objectively, I had to follow through with it, just out of perverse curiosity.  It was good that I had that perspective because if I didn't stay detached and somewhat bemused, I'd die of shame.

Anyway, there was no way it could get worse.  

So I thought.

Boy, was I wrong.

On the way, as I drove, Gammie filled me in on my date.  Was she a pretty nurse? No.  A gorgeous heiress granddaughter of one of her rich friends? No.  It was a high school sophomore, a sixteen year old, that Gammie met and decided was "perfect for (me)" because the girl spent her Thursday nights volunteering at the retirement home, reading to the elderly.

Now, while I may not have been a catch (after all, I was a nineteen year old who occasionally spent weekends hanging out with his grandmother), at least when I wasn't doing that I was fairly normal (ie drunk).  I certainly wasn't some lame goody-two-shoes.

We got to the restaurant.  The girl was there.  She was plain. 

The table was only big enough for two.  No matter.  Gammie ordered the waiter to bring her a chair and she sat between us, which was the perfect place for her.

No, she was not there to observe the proceedings.  She'd taken charge.  She was running the show.

 She played conversation referee to ensure I didn't mess up and make things awkward.

"So, (Kid), where are you going to school?"

"Blahblah High!"

"And where do you plan to matriculate?"

"I don't know! I'm just a soft-headed child!"

Instead of volleying back and forth, she decided it was best she speak for me.

"Ajax is a sophomore at the University of South Carolina.  His course of study is Classics.  His likes are camping and hugs and smiles.  His dislikes are vulgar people, jazz, and other 'ethnic' music.  His turn-ons are anything you do.  And, please, dear God, I beg of you, please make him a man! He can't be gay!"

Okay, she may not have said that exactly, but whatever she did say was nearly as bad.

The whole meal was like that.  I inhaled my food and stole food from Gammie's plate, pretending that I just had to try a bite (giant's mouthful) of whatever she had on her plate to speed things along.

Finally, we were finished.  As we were all walking out of the restaurant together, for reasons known only to herself and God (though I'm willing to bet abject pity played a part), the girl asked me if I wanted to join her and her friends.  They were meeting up to play board games.

Gammie immediately answered for me, "OH! HE'D LOVE TO..."

I cut her off.

"...But," I interrupted, "I have a very early morning and have to turn in."

"Oh! Okay then!" the girl said brightly without giving it a thought.

Gammie gave me a disappointed look.

On the ride back to her place, Gammie explained that I blew it and the girl really liked me.

I took my lumps.

That was the last time Gammie interfered in my love life, but she would often mention the "one (I) let get away."

My mother, evil harpy, if I annoyed her when we were around Gammie, or if she simply wanted to torment me, would loudly ask, "What ever happened to that lovely girl Gammie set you up with?"

Then she'd devilishly grin as Gammie exasperatingly recounted, in minute detail, how I'd blown it.

Sigh...

Field of Broken Dreams

I picked up baseball late for a kid.  I didn't do tee ball.  Basketball had always been more my thing.  One day during gym near the end of fifth grade year, we played softball.  I did well and really enjoyed it.  This was 1990.  I was eleven.

I dove into baseball.  I made my grandmama, Gammie, buy me a glove and a bat.  I started hitting everything I could.  When I couldn't get anyone to pitch to me, I'd toss the ball up and hit it myself.  If I hit the ball into the woods and couldn't find it, I'd hit pine cones or rocks.  If I could find someone to throw with me, I'd throw until their arm wouldn't throw any more (I was blessed with a rubber arm...one of the few benefits to having no muscle).  I'd throw against a wall or mattress.

To say I was deeply, passionately in love with baseball would be an understatement.  I started collecting baseball cards, scouring them for statistics.  I got to the point where I had players' careers memorized and could spot errors in stats on cards.  I would sit down and watch every Cubs baseball game that would come on WGN, which back then was nearly all of them.  I developed my very first man-crush on Ryne Sandberg, the Cubbies dynamo Hall of Fame Second Baseman. 

As I didn't know anything about baseball and hadn't played, I had mom or dad or Gammie sign me up for Dixie League (gotta love the South).  I was a right handed hitting outfielder.  For that first year, I was not bad.  I had no power because I was so little, but I could hit the ball, even though I was moderately terrified of it.  In homage to the Steroid Twins, Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, then starring for the Oakland As, a fellow teammate and myself christened ourselves "The Brothers of Bomb" even though we struggled to hit doubles in the gap.

I wasn't able to play the next year because of family strife, which infuriated me.  My parents and the custody case didn't seem to care that I wanted to play baseball, dammit.  I had to make do with having my best friend play home run derby with me over at the local tennis court. Thus it was that when I finally got to play in a league again, after seventh grade, I'd only had one summer of playing in a league.  I'd moved up to the next league because of my birthday, but I was one of the younger kids and definitely one of the scrawniest.  I didn't play much because I was terrible compared to the older kids who'd been playing for years.  When I got to play, it was as a pinch runner.  Seventh grade, 1992, was the last year of my life that anyone considered me fast.  I did manage to get one hit, out of a handful of at bats, when I blooped a ball over 1B Jimmy Sahn's head (he went to the same school I did).

Now, if my parents had understood or cared about baseball, they would have tried to make sure that I played as much as possible.  Alas, they couldn't be bothered.  Instead, as I'd been trained from birth to go for the best even if, literally, out of my league, when it turned out the small private school I went to was allowing middle schoolers to try out for the undermanned Varsity Team, I went for it.

Now, when I said I stunk as a 7th grader, that was because I hit a big growth spurt and lost what strength I had (basketball that year was a wash too).  I was still pretty freakishly coordinated though and taught myself how to switch hit.  Still, I hadn't played daily since the end of fifth grade.

Somehow, I made the Varsity team.  As I mentioned, we were woefully undermanned, so I was one of three 8th graders and even a 7th grader who made it (that 7th grader, Scott Howell, ended up playing in college).  I was mainly pumped because I knew that making the Varsity as an 8th grader meant I was well on my way to Cooperstown, regardless of the fact that my main job was keeping the scorebook (they noticed I was batty about stats).  Three or four times during the course of the year, they let me play outfield if we were being blown out.  I was happier than a pig in poop.

One of the games where I got to play was against my big cousin Dave's school, Hammond.  Dave was a senior and played outfield.  Hammond was much, much better than us.  They had a first baseman who hit the ball so far that he basically walked around the bases (no fence at our field).  They scored a bajillion runs against us.  They also were no-hitting us.  The closest we came to getting a hit was when someone hit a line drive to Dave and he tripped and fell on his face, the ball flying past him for a two or three base error.

As we were being absolutely annihilated, the coach found pity on me and put me in the game.  I was even going to get an at-bat!  I'd been practicing and practicing hitting left-handed.  This was going to be my debut.  Unfortunately for their pitcher, even though he was throwing the no-hitter, they had taken so long hitting and scoring those bajillion runs that his arm had tightened up.  They had to bring in a reliever.  A lefty.  I had to bat righty.

Since hardly anyone throws lefty, I really didn't practice batting right handed.  My big chance, in front of Dave and my aunt and uncle [my dad didn't waste his time going to my games since a) he didn't care and b) I was mired on the bench] and I'd have to hit righty against a high school kid.  Dangit.

I guess my pathetic frame and the fact the bat was nearly bigger than me didn't intimidate the lefty.  He pumped a fastball down the middle.  I'm not sure I knew what happened, if I even saw the ball or realized I swung, but *PING* I made contact.  I was fairly well amazed, so I put my head down and ran like hell for first base.  No throw!  I'd hit it to the outfield! A single! I'd broken up a high school no-hitter!

I got wiped off the bases by a double play and that was the end of the game.  I was beaming.  We'd been rotating any and everyone through right field, except for me, and I was the first one of the young'uns to get a hit.  I just knew I'd be getting a start!  The coach was pretty ticked about being one-hit though and he probably made us do sprints.  Whatever, I was finally gonna play!

As I walked home (the field was nearby) visions of starting for the rest of the season and the next four years flashed through my head.  I was well on my way to being drafted.  Sure, I was skinny then, but that would change.  I would fill out.  I could already make contact; it would just be a matter of hitting with authority.  I could hear the crowd at Wrigley calling my name.

The next morning, I scoured the newspaper for the box score of our game that always got published.  I wanted to see my achievement in print.  Nothing.  Wasn't in there.  Later that day, I stopped by the coach's office and asked him.  "I'm not putting the fact we got blown out in the newspaper, kid."

I'm not sure if I pissed him off asking about it, or, more likely, I just wasn't good enough, but I did not play again.  I sat on the bench as the other two eighth graders and even the seventh grader got to try to play right field.

Another custody case emerged, and I was off to a new town, so I didn't play in Dixie League again.  Ninth grade was at a much larger public school so I only made the JV and because I was pressing so hard to show I was a future major leaguer and I hit another damn growth spurt, I sucked again and was on the bench. Even so, I tried out and made the American Legion team as the only freshman.  Of course I rode the bench.  As a sophomore, I made the varsity and looked like I was going to start, but then I put too much pressure on myself since I was finally on my path to stardom and slumped my way to the bench.  Same deal with junior year.  Finally, senior year, I filled out some and was an honorable mention for All Region.

When I got to college, I finally finished filling out and could hit the ball a mile, but it was too late.  Even though I knew there was no way I'd make the team, I tried out for USC during their yearly walk-on tryout.  Each year, I'd get a hit during the scrimmage when their pitchers would throw to get some work in.  Each year it was the same thing.  I'd hit a 90mph+ pitch and one of the coaches would say "Great job, Carpenter.  See you next year."

By my last year, while I could hit, I hadn't touched a glove in four years and was pretty much worthless on defense.  The coaches playfully asked, "This going to be the year Carpenter?  Gonna hit a homer?"

Nope, no homer.  Yet another line drive up the middle and a sloth-like jog to first base. 

Then it was off to the Army and then to war. Then to law school.  Then out here to Afghanistan.

I've done many things in my life, none of which I've particularly felt passionate about.  The only thing I've ever wanted to do with every ounce of my being was be a baseball player.  That, clearly, was not in the cards.

Still, for 1993, I led the team, league, state, country, planet, galaxy and universe in batting.

So take that, life.

Yeah, I'm wearing Ryno's #23