The Maverik Station....

I don't know what it is about the Maverik Station, but I keep going back time and time again.  Maybe its the service?  Could be the coffee.  It might be all of the weird shit that happens to me there. 

Take today for instance.  Traditionally, Sunday's are weird for me.  Because of my work schedule, I don't get a lot of sleep on Saturday night so it's pretty important that I get properly caffeinated on my way back in to the office. 

Anyhow, I walk through the door this morning and I walk pass 2 women having a conversation near the hot chocolate machine.  I hear one woman ask, "So where about are you from in Colorado?"  The other woman says, "I'm from a little town named Meeker but my husband and I currently live in Pagosa Springs."  The first woman chimes in, "Oh, its so beautiful there.  One day I plan on touring all of Zion National Park." 

I kind of cocked my head like a dog does when he hears a high pitched noise, and I reeled around to get a look at these women.  Much to my delight, the woman from Colorado had the same look on her face.  Her brow was slightly furrowed, eyes squinting, and her head was tilted just enough that sip of coffee she just had partially ran out of one corner of her mouth.

It didn't stop there.  Before the Colorado woman could correct the other lady, the other lady said "I hear that Bryce Canyon is beautiful as well."  I turned and faced both women.  I had to listen to the rest of this conversation, but I couldn't do it where I was standing.  I'm sure I had a look on my face that screamed, "I lick car windows."  I stepped to the side and moved around the two ladies.  The Colorado woman says, "I think you are naming landmarks in Utah.  I am from Colorado."  Now the first woman has "the look".  Her brow, slightly furrowed.  Her eyes are squinting like she is staring at the sun, and the left corner of her mouth is drawn slightly up towards her nose. 

"What?" she asked.  At this point, I shot a sip of hot java through my nose and quickly reached for a couple of napkins.  Now both of these women are staring at each other.  It was perfect.  Neither knew what the fuck the other was talking about. 

When the Colorado woman broke the stare down by saying, "Anyhow....", I cracked up.  The store clerk asked me "Are you all right?''  I nodded and said that I would be in just a minute.  The first ladies husband walks past me near the front door and says, "what are you doing?".  She explained that she "just met this nice woman from Colorado" and  "they were having a nice conversation about Zion National Park".  He said, "Zion?  Zion is in Utah" and the woman got that face again.  I lost it....

Maybe it wasn't that funny, but I had never in my life been more lost in a store than I was in the Maverik station that I go to every day.

Paint ball guns....

Paint ball guns.  I never really got into them.  I don't know why, but it just wasn't my cup of tea.  But years ago, a buddy of mine spent a boat load of money on some of the gear and was trying to get me interested.  His initial investment was a lower dollar, previously owned unit that frankly couldn't send a round down range much further than 50 feet with any accuracy.

I don't know if any of you grew up with a Red Rider B.B. Gun, but they weren't that accurate either, but what you could do is learn the arc and or the wind-age and make corrections that would allow you to consistently hit a half dollar at about 20 paces.  Not this hunk of crap paint ball gun my buddy bought.  Each time you pulled the trigger, you were in for something new.  To me, it wasn't worth the aggravation.  For him it was a new hobby.

I walked out about 40 feet and had him fire a few at me.  He shot 4 times and one of the shots almost grazed my pant leg.  There was no proof, mind you.  I just gave him the benefit of the doubt.  He allowed me the same privilege, to send a few rounds his way and the gun gummed up because paint balls were falling apart in the barrel and again I assumed this thing was more of an aggravation.  Naturally, he came over and informed me that I was "doing it all wrong" and began to discuss the finer intricacies of this particular equipment.  Basically what I came away with was knowing what I already knew.  This thing was a hunk of shit.

Fast forward about 2 months.  This guy had gone out and actually purchased some good equipment.  I kind of laughed not taking him seriously.  He fired off a couple of rounds and those things were smoking out of the barrel and down range!  Me being the mental midget I am walked down range about 50 feet and let him squeeze off a few rounds at me.  I was smart enough to turn around and expose my back side to him, thankfully.  Blap! Blap! Blap!  He let 3 rounds loose and all of them found their mark.  Right ass cheek took two rounds in a spot the size of a silver dollar.  The third round was special.  It was the kind of special that is not so special... catch my drift?  It hit my right under the right ass cheek and more towards the inner thigh.  Its a part of the body that never even sees sunlight, so it felt like the thing ripped right through me.

Naturally he laughed his ass off, because he just blew my ass off!  I asked if I could fire a few at him and was promptly put off.  "Hell no, dude!  That shit hurts!".  He wasn't lying.

So, I told you that in order to tell you this.  As some of you may know, I'm a bit of a "hard learner".  I think another buddy of mine knew that when he employed me and a couple other guys to be "bad guys" for the SWAT team to practice on.

The scenario we were to be playing out was a hostage situation, so they had the negotiators there, snipers were set up and the SWAT Team had all of their goodies.  The good news was, we were armed with .40 caliber hand guns loaded with simunition rounds.  The bad news was, SWAT was armed with the same thing plus semi-auto .223's with simunition rounds.  At the time, that didn't bother me.  For a split second I remembered that I had to fill out a release form that said I was there of "my own free will" and that I "would not sue, in the event of an accident".  I reverted back to the thought that these guys were professionals I knew and I had good relationships with most of these guys.  Besides that, I had protective gear on... what could possibly go wrong?

I'll tell you would could go wrong.  Most of the protective gear didn't fit.  I looked like 10 pounds of shit stuffed into a 5 pound bag.  The chest protector left my chest on either side past the nipples exposed.  There was not a good way to actually wear the cup to protect the family jewels.  I asked for advice and was told to wear it and the jock strap on the outside of my clothes.  Bad idea.... the leg straps broke and the cup just kind of flopped around leaving little protection for said family jewels.  The gloves fit like the gloves from the O.J. Simpson trial.  They were so tight that I'd never be able to get them on, let alone be able to defend myself with the gun they gave me.  The shin guards, the helmet, eye and ear protection did fit so I felt slightly better assuming that I would be leaving that days "exercises" with at least my sight and hearing.

So there we are... the bad guys, holed up in the basement of a condemned dentist office.  It was hot as hell and we are wearing all of this protective gear, cracking jokes and awaiting further instruction.  My buddy comes down and tells us that they are getting things in place and that we would be in action before too long.  He also described the first drill as some kind of special entry and told us that he was going to send down the guy who was helping train these guys.  This particular guy was one of the leaders of the L.A. SWAT team, so he knew his shit and it was kind of a big deal to have him and his knowledge available for our little town's police force to be able to take full advantage of.  This guys name was Cervantes and he looked like a frigging SWAT team dude.

Cervantes goes on to say that when the event begins, "they may or may not employ "flash bangs" so if you hear something that sounds like a hair spray can hit the floor, don't look at it".  We all nodded, like we understood.  He then asked, "where will you all be" because he had to know, not so he could tell the SWAT team, but so he could monitor the entry and make sure they were clearing the building properly.  So one guy was going to be in a big closet, another was going to be behind a half wall in the corner of that particular room and I was going to be in the hallway.  Cervantes said, "the event will kick off in a couple of minutes, so hang tight."

We kept holding and holding.  As I mentioned, it was hot as hell and we were sweating like dogs.  There was no air circulation, so we all had out helmets tilted back trying to get some air and for some dumb reason making fun of old Cervantes....  We wait, and wait and all of a sudden I hear something that sounded like a hair spray can hit the floor.  What do I do?  Look at it and about the time I was going to say, "what in the fuck is that", the thing exploded!  I tried to run but ran face first into the wall that was right behind me.  Next thing I know, I have a cop standing above me with his foot on my throat, his rifle pointed at my face, screaming "don't move mother fucker".  I wanted to laugh because I think I was looking at the dude through the ear hole of my helmet.  I hear some shooting, some guys yelling as they clear the room, and all of a sudden I am rolled over, cuffed and being escorted out of the room.

We got outside and I was placed face first against a wall.  I asked if I could remove my helmet because it was so hot, and the guy told me "no talking" while holding his rifle on me.  I asked again and again I got the "no talking" thing, so I began to shake my helmet around in order to find some relief.  At this point, I realize that I was placed on an ant hill, and the little bastards are starting to bite.  Now, this particular cop was a guy who used to work for me in the bar business (I guess that explains his pleasant demeanor towards me).  I tried to make him aware of the ants and he kind of pushed me against the wall with his foot.  I tried again and was told to "shut up" as he was monitoring radio traffic and the likes.  He finally realized and asked if he could move me.  Permission was granted and I got to wipe about 5000 ants from my legs and groin region.  I was again placed in more ants which was an uncalled for treat and once he realized that, allowed me to stand up and go lean against the wall.  The cops finish sweeping the room, killed the other bad guys and were now being critiqued on their performance.

Cervantes was asking, "who was the lead guy" and other cop shit.  Other cops were saying what they witnessed and then they asked me, "what were you doing already on the floor?"  When I told them I had gone against direct orders to ignore the flash bang and looked directly at it, it scared the shit out of me and I tried to bolt and consequently ran smack into the wall.  The cop who had me confirmed and everyone got a good laugh.

We got to take a break between scenarios and grab a soda and a slice of pizza.  Everyone was yucking it up and having a good time and reviewing their critique.

As we set up the next scenario, we were actually going to have a real hostage!  Well, she was a cop but we got to rough her up a bit, like a bad guy might do.  (In retrospect, roughing up a female hostage might have been a dumb ass thing to do... you might pick that up in just a few minutes."  Anyhow,  Cervantes comes in and says that this scenario is going to involve the negotiators and we were to be as difficult as we could be.  For clarification, we bad guys asked if we could cuss and say whatever we wanted to the cops and Cervantes confirmed with "Fuck yes... you're bad guys so do what you think bad guys would do.".

This shit was going to be perfect!  We were going to get to run our mouths and say whatever stupid shit we could think of, demand all kinds of shit and we were told that if we saw anything like a sniper, to bust his balls....  The shit was getting better by the minute!  So us dumb ass bad guys are in this old ass building, giving each other "high fives" in preparation of the voyage we are about to embark on.

We were told to suit up with our protective gear and the shit didn't fit any better.  I still looked like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag, but to make matters worse, they send in our hostage.  We looked like the lesser known Star Wars figures, the short bus storm troopers....  Our hostage, who happened to be pretty good looking is laughing at us, which made it easier to want to rough her ass up but then it dawned on us that she could probably whip our asses.  The laughing quit when we were told, "ACTION!"  We were being coached from my friend who led the team, so we were making appearances at the different windows and doors, shouting demands.  "Get these fucking pigs out of here" my buddy Shinkle yelled!  "Go get some fucking donuts, you stupid ass pigs!" I hollered.  Of course we were giggling and goading each other.  My cop buddy was laughing at us, primarily because I think he knew that can of ass whoop that was about to be served up.

The cops negotiated us allowing them to bring us a phone, so we didn't have to yell and were told to pick it up when it rang.  So, the phone rings and the negotiator asks my buddy Shinkle if everyone's all right.  "Fuck no were not all right!" Shinkle yells into the phone.  "Were hungry, so we need some fucking pizza, we need a fast fucking car and we need you sons a bitches to clear out!".  The negotiator asks to "see the hostage" and inquires about her health.  So, I drag her to the door, shake her around and yell, "does she look all right to you, you stupid fucking pigs!".  Again, we start to giggle.  This shit was fun.  I think our hostage called us dorks, but it didn't matter.  We were handling this shit.

"Get that fucking sniper out of that fucking drift boat" Shinkle said when we caught the guy moving around in the boat.  The negotiator informed us that the guy would be gone and he wanted to be sure that we weren't going to harm the hostage.  We hung up on him, and giggled... as usual.  He called back!  Persistent little shit!  "Wheres our fucking car and our pizza, you donut eating piece of shit!" I yelled.  (More giggling and Shinkle and I are accusing the other of being the responsible party for the up coming ass kicking we were about to recieve.)  Anyhow, after about 30 minutes of pissing the cops off, our cop buddy told us to "take 5" and they were going to prepare for the take down.

Neither one of us knew what that really meant.  That was the down side.  When it was time for action, I was told to go out and release the hostage, because it had been negotiated.  I step out and see quite a few cops, quite a few guns and release the hostage with a bit of a shove.  As soon as she was clear, all hell broke loose and all I can tell you is, I got shot about 20 times in every fucking area the protective gear did not cover.  I found that you really wanted these simunition rounds to hit you square, rather than graze you.  Both of my fat handles got shredded by .223 rounds.  It was similar to razor burn.  I tried to return fire, but it was fruitless.  I may have hit one or two of them, but in reality I would have been finished.

When the smoke cleared, my ass was done.  I would have been dead or dying, but was cuffed.  I don't know what happened to Shinkle or Campbell but assumed they faced a similar fate.  I think each one of them got shot in a soft spot.... good!  But when the smoke cleared, we were all all right and the cops got some practice.  It made me realize a couple of things.  Compliance with directives isn't a bad thing... if you have a hostage, don't be a dick to cops because they will shoot you a lot more.

We went on to be "bad guys" a few more times for the SWAT team.  The safety equipment never really did fit right.  When all of this fun came to an end, my cop buddy talked me into taking a class in which I would be sprayed with pepper spray and shot with a tazer.  How could I ever resist?

Whoopsie Daisy!

When is the last time you heard a story about someone sneezing and accidentally shitting their pants?  Well, do you have a minute?

Many years ago, a buddy of mine and I embarked on what would officially be considered as my first "road trip".  We had a 4 day weekend coming up and we thought we would head to the California coast.  We both had a pretty good chunk of change and nothing for a plan, so we just headed out and decided the road would take us where we needed to be.

When we got to where we "needed to be", we realized it probably wasn't the best neighborhood for a couple of dumb white boys, but we tried to rent a room at this roach motel about 3 blocks from some beach.  We had to knock on the office door (which was behind a real sturdy iron gate/bars which reinforced an already stout gate that was made out of iron and expanded metal) in order to rent the room.  We really should have known that this place sucked because when the guy answered the door, it smelled like he was cooking old gym shorts and feral cats.  "39 dollars" he said followed by "1 bed or 2?'' in a dialect that I was not completely familiar with.  I wrinkled up my face trying to figure out what the guy had said and then he yelled, "$39 dollars, you need 1 bed or 2?"  I shook my head and said "2" and handed him $40.  "1 dollar change" he said as he slammed the door and walked away.

My buddy started laughing and said, "what did we just get into?".  The door reopens and the guy hands me a key, a dollar and a receipt that stated 'NO REFUNDS". He pointed towards the end of the driveway and said, "Park there, room is on the right."  Now were both laughing because we just rented a room from this guy and he is yelling at us like we just stole something from him.  We park where instructed, grabbed our bags and walked to the room.

How refreshing it was to notice what appeared to be fresh cat shit on the carpet.  The beds were unmade, the room smelled of a recent homicide.... we were off on a hell of a trip.  "Hell no!" my friend said and walked towards the office after dropping his bag.  I threw both bags in the back of the truck and drove to the office.  This guy was yelling at the top of his lungs... "NO REFUND! NO MATTER! GO FUCK YOURSELF!" and then slammed the door.  We went next door to the convenience store where we were about as welcome as two turds in a punch bowl, and asked the fine establishments representative if he could call the cops for us.  We explained the nature of our situation and he told us to go stand next door.

About 10 minutes later a couple of nice officers showed up.  The female officer informed us that we were "probably in an area of town that we didn't need to be in", which by now was abundantly obvious.  We explained the situation, showed them the receipt, gave them the motel room key and the male cop began to investigate.  He came back and confirmed that it was indeed fresh cat shit on the carpet but made us feel slightly better by letting us know that there was not a recent homicide in that particular room.  He approached the gate and knocked.  He was greeted in same manner we were, with the same tone of voice and everything.  He tried to bargain for us, but to no avail.  What he did do in return was turn us on to a killer chain motel in a far better neighborhood, next to a far nicer beach!  His brother in law was the night manager and he gave us a hell of a deal... again, $40 bucks for the room but we had a balcony that over looked the freeway to the right and the beach 2 blocks to the west.

The room was a suite and we settled in quickly but realized we were short about a case of beer short for the start of the trip.  Couple of problems... first off, neither of us were 21.  Secondly, not a fake I.D between us, so we had to "go fishing" for beer.  So, we went to the front desk and asked our new friend "where can we find a case of beer?".  The guy directed us around the corner so I just walked in and acted like I knew what I was doing.  I plopped a suitcase of extra cheap ass beer on the counter and reached for my wallet.  I pulled my I.D. out like I was going to hand it to the guy and he just rang us up!  SCORE!!!!  We went back to the room, drank some beer and laughed about how the night had started.

We wake up the next morning and head to the beach.  Now, home was full of freaks and circus acts but this place had home beat!  We found a diner to get something to eat and then screwed around on the beach for hours until we were sunburned to a crisp.  We'd been drinking beer all day, so the plan was more beer and maybe trying to find something for dinner.

We make it to a Mexican cafe and the food was fantastic!  Better yet, there were a ton of people about our age partying it up and we just kind of blended in.  Next thing you know, we are invited to a party at a condo right on the beach, so naturally we showed up.  All kinds of debauchery was at our disposal.  In fact, this was the first party I had been to complete with half naked girls.  That made the party a winner in my book.  Actually, I believe we discussed never leaving.

As the night progressed we got more drunk by doing beer bongs with margarita shots in them.  It kept going and going until I needed a break.  I walk out onto the beach with a beer and am officially greeted by some of this particular municipalities finest.  Pretty causal for cops really, wearing shorts and all.  They asked me what I was up too, so I confessed my sins.  "I'm fucking drunk...."  I had the where with all to know that they knew I was not old enough to be drinking.  "Where are you staying?" was the next question I knew the answer for.  "Uhm, shit.... I forget..." and I start pulling things out of my pocket.  I find a motel room key and handed it to the cop.  He tells me to do my best and find my way back to the motel as fast and safely as possible, or I'd be crashing with them.

That wasn't an invitation I was interested in, so off I went.  I got halfway there and realized I was a guy short, so I went back towards the party... just in time for it to be getting busted up by none other than my new found friends.  The nice officer I spoke to earlier looked at me like I had brain damage and I remember him saying something like, "Didn't we just meet?".  I explained I was looking for my riding partner and couldn't leave him behind.  Next thing I knew, I was cuffed and sitting on the curb.  I sat there for what seemed like 2 hours, watching everyone leave but saw no sign of my buddy.  Eventually my cop buddies walked me to the motel, explained that I had used up my "get out of jail free card", and that they didn't want to see me until the next morning.

I wake up from a nice sleep, face down in the bath tub when my buddy walks in and pukes his guts up in the sink.  The sound, the smell and the violent retching of course made me puke, being the sympathetic puker I am.  After that episode, I headed to a bed for a proper hang over nap.  I woke up about 2 hours later and we decided to go find some hang over food.  We managed to find a greasy spoon and were doing our best to try to choke something down.  Both of us were experiencing the worst hangovers of our young lives and discussing the fact that we'd both sworn off drinking for the rest of our lives.

As the kind soul that we knew as our waitress dropped off the check, my friend sneezed and promptly shit his pants... it was obvious by the dumb yet terrified look on his face.  The odor added to his nightmare.   He looked at me and said, "Now what do I do?" to which I replied, "Well, unless you can un-shit your pants.....". 

Honestly, I felt bad for the kid but I kept laughing at the thought of him trying to un-shit his pants.  I think he tried it.  He stands up and starts to make his way to the bathroom.  I damn near fell out of the booth, laughing hysterically, because it looked like he sat in someones chili surprise omelet. And the way he shuffled... it was a cross between the "walk of shame" and the "squeeky cheek shuffle"  It was too much to handle! Then the irony of him not being able to control himself and the subsequent loss of my ability to not laugh at this poor bastard was just too much.  He was in the bathroom for 10 minutes, and I used every bit of that 10 minutes to quit laughing and to try to come up with an exit strategy that would allow my buddy the opportunity to get out of there with a shred of dignity. 

As I walked towards the bathroom, I had no idea that I was going to bear witness to some real ingenuity.  I walk in and see him facing one of the two toilets, bear ass naked, washing his shitty swimming trunks in said toilet.  I took a peak into the adjoining stall and it looked like an atomic shit bomb went off.  He wrung his swimming trunks out, took his shit off and soaked it in the sink and then put the whole ensemble back on.  Without saying a word he walked out of that bathroom, straight to our waitress and said, "You have a horrible plumbing problem, one that frankly made me sick...."  She apologized profusely and gave him our money back and he hit the door as proud as he could wearing shitty swimming trunks.

I'll never forget that trip, as long as I live.  I learned so much in just 2 days.  Cheap hotels are cheap for a reason.  Don't do beer bongs with margarita shots in them, and by all means, never sneeze with a hang over after drinking beer bongs with margarita shots in them....

To this day, we don't speak of the events that took place that weekend.  We found ourselves at home with a day and a half to spare.  We only took one more road trip together and it was fishing in Utah where we could find no beer and nobody to drink beer with.  That was probably for the best.

Little League.....

Little League Baseball....  Some of my fondest, most pure memories come from this time in my life.  It was a time before beer and girls, so I guess that explains a lot.  So many good people were involved from the kids playing ball, to the parents and fans to the coaches.  I was real fortunate to have had some great coaches, and there was none better than Robert Fleming!  Bob had the patience of a saint, and incredible ability to teach and I think almost everyone in the league wanted to play with us.  I played with Bob and a good core group of guys for about 5-6 years, so in a sense, we all grew up together.             

                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                       

One thing that impressed me with Bob was his knowledge of the history of the sport.  One thing that I enjoyed about baseball even before I played were some of the nick-names.  "Catfish" Hunter, "Dizzy"Dean, "Hammerin" Hank Aaron, Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry, Cal "Iron Man" Ripken, "Goose"Gossage (my personal favorite because of his kick ass mustache and his intimidation factor...) the list just goes on for days.  But Bob being the baseball guy he was, issued a few nick names.  I was the benefactor of such a nick name... Bubba.  The nick name made sense.  I was a bit bigger than everyone on the team and as Bob said, "we need a Bubba".  That was a badge of honor for me and it got to the point were I wouldn't answer to anything else.  Hell, it got to the point were I introduced myself to people as Bubba.  League umpires, other coaches and players, even local radio personalities knew me as Bubba.  Our sponsor for all of those years was a local radio station, KORK (if I'm not mistaken) and the morning guy (Jack London) always wanted to know how his guy "Bubba", "Bones", "Hollywood" and the rest of the boys did.  It was friggin awesome!

Anyhow, I said all of that just to get to 2 memories that are etched in my memory.  The first was one of 2 home runs I hit.  I think we were playing on a diamond that had 60' base paths.  I was not known for blistering the base paths, by the way.  But, after getting the sign to swing away, I stepped into the batters box.  The kid pitching was throwing them right were I wanted them, up and over the outside of the plate.  I screwed my front foot into place, kicked up a good spot to plant my back foot and then it happened.  The pitcher threw this pitch that was as big as a beach ball and I turned on it.  I took this giant cut and I heard the tell tale "tink" of the aluminum bat striking the ball.  I had to watch for a second because I hit the shit out of the ball.  I heard the crowd go crazy and I started to run.  By the time I hit first I was laughing because their left fielder and the center fielder were still running after the ball, so I round first and head to second.  Before I hit the bag I check Bob, my third base coach and he is waving me in to come into third.  Now I am laughing my butt off because I had never hit a triple before.  I check over my right shoulder (against everything Bob had ever taught me) and the outfielder was just getting ready to hit the cut off man.  I look back up at Bob and he is waving me around third.... I couldn't help but think, "What in the hell is he thinking?"  Then I thought, "Surely he'll change his mind before I get to the bag".  Nope.... he's till waving me around the bag.

Now, at this point I begin to go through all kinds of self doubt.  I look towards home plate and whoever was on base in front of me was yelling.  Things like, "Did Bob forget that I am fat, slow and have these stupid ass, little, stubby, crooked legs that are capable of only going so fast for so far" and "I hope I don't die from an asthma attack before I get to the plate", but I kept digging.  I hit the plate standing up and it seemed as if the world had gone crazy!  I"ll never forget that for the obvious reasons but there was an underlying caveat that most people didn't know about unless you were on our team.  Trudy Fleming, our coaches wife and our first baseman's mother would come over and tell me or any of the other guys, "Little Bubba?  You'd better hit a home run or I will come over there and kiss your little face."  Back then, we hated girls and we even hated the thought of our own mother's coming over and kissing our little faces.  It would be humiliating to have the coaches wife, my buddies mom,  come over and kiss all over my little face.  This was one of 2 times in my career at 3rd base were I didn't have to worry about that....

The other time probably isn't as warming as my "Corky" story above.  I had the perpensity to get "plunked", and I got plunked a lot.  Most of the time it was either in the left love handle because I would turn in towards the plate or somewhere on the left leg.  My thinking was, it was too high to jump and too low to duck so I would just give it the "Ole!" move and hope it wouldn't hit me.  It did, nearly every time.  The time I am speaking of now is a bit different.  The ball was headed right towards my left hip and I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of the way, so for some dumb reason I pull my left shoulder out which left me facing the pitch.  This left me and my genitals directly in the path of this kids fast ball.

Instead of doing anything, I did nothing.  I didn't stick a hand out, didn't try to move... just froze up, and the ball hit me square in the nuts!  Not a little bit either...  In the above story, the crowd went wild... in this story, everybody any where near the ball field knew what happened.  "OOOOOOH" is the last thing I heard before I landed on the ground head first, with my hands grasped firmly on the family jewels.  I don't remember but the ump may have said, "Oh shit!".  It was an "oh shit" moment, and Bob knew it right off the bat.  I heard him call "Time!" 

Now, I've been hit in the head before and didn't get this much immediate attention.  As I sat there in an inverted fetal position, Bob crouched down to me.  I heard their catcher ask, "You okay, Bubba?" then Bob asked the same question.  For those who don't know the finer intricacies  of getting hit in the nuts.... you can't talk.  I think its because your balls run and hide right behind your voice box.  But as I am laying there, I hear Bob say, "We've got to get you up...."  He and the ump are trying to get me up, but my knee's wont leave my chest area and my hands won't come off the place that used to house the jewels.  I manage to get my legs straight and Bob asks, "You all right?".  "NO" was the proper answer but I didn't say that.  We kind of kept hobbling down the first base line and Bob patted me on the shoulder and told me, "Rub some dirt on it..." 

I look at the man like he'd lost his damned mind.  He kind of gives me his nob of approval, scooped up a hand of dirt and hands it to me.  I figured that the man had never steered me wrong, so I grabbed the hand of dirt, jammed it down my pants, rubbed it all over my nuts and Bob then said, "That feel better?"  I said "No, not really..."  He patted me on the shoulder, looked at the ump and said, "Play ball".  The ump called it, and there I was on first base with dirty balls and feeling for the first time that I got conned into feeling better.  I looked across the diamond and Bob was smiling.  I looked into the bleachers, and parents were laughing and smiling.... shit, I did feel better.

Afterwards we all laughed about it... especially after I got to put some ice on them.  But its little lessons like this that I learned in Little League that I got to bring with me for the rest of my life.  I am fortunate enough to have a couple of boys who played a bit of ball, and one of them was just like me.  Frigging ball magnet!  I was an assistant coach and Wade took a fast ball right to the right of his left love handle.  The ump called time, and I ran over.  He was about to cry and I had a flash back.  "Rub some dirt on it, son" and I gave him a hand full of red clay dirt and he looked at me, just the way I must have looked at Bob.  "Is this even going to help?" he said.  "Nope, but its kind of funny isn't it." My son started laughing and asked me where I came up with that "witch doctor" stuff.  "Play ball, son." I said.  The ump hollered "take your base" and we all lived happily ever after.

I can't imagine my life without those times and without those people.  Bob and Trudy are still involved in Little League in Las Vegas.  And even though it wasn't their district, another district from Vegas just missed the finals of the Little League World Series.  It's not a mystery.  Good things happen around good people.  Get good people involved and better things happen. 

I've thanked Bob and Trudy before, but really there is not a way to thank them enough for their dedication to not only their kids and ball players but to everyone they have touched through the years.  They have to have been involved for nearly 40 years, and that involvement means so much to so many.  Not many can give like this, so it's truly a gift I will be forever grateful for. 

I've "rubbed dirt" on a lot of things through life and I never would have known that little secret if it weren't for these folks.