The Mid-Life Crisis

I want to fucking die.

Really.

In the market for a fast motorcycle to kill myself in style.

Click on the 'DONATE,' button to the right to help me on my way, and put me out of my misery.

A Link

In the 90's, my brother and I had a three-piece band called Curtis Mathis.  It was named after a tv.  We wrote songs, played around for a bit, then released a split 7" with another band called Cartoon Khaki called Naked Boys, Naked Boys, Sweaty, Glistening, Naked Boys!  We pressed 500 copies, and still have oodles and oodles of vinyl leftover!

Most of the songs that my brother and I collaborated on were just childish attempts at songwriting.  We did our best to fill a live set.  Even though we released the best representation of us in vinyl form, most of the songs from our sets were never recorded.  Hell, I haven't even tried to revisit those songs in close to 20 years!

My brother recently suggested that we try and record those lost tracks.  In this day and age of technology, it would be on the cheap.  I'm still thinking about it.

Here is his attempt at revisiting those songs:

http://snd.sc/MHbUHc

We'll try to keep you updated on whether or not we go through the recording process or not.  I'm still not keen on unearthing some of those songs.  I feel that those pieces of writing were a part of the past, and feel no need to rehash.

New Lines! 2 Week's Worth!

I again apologize for the lack of posts.  On vacay with the fam-dam for a while, so the entries have been nonexistent.  Here we go:

Jesse Litsch Tells It Like It Is

Nothing much happened on the week before I took a hiatus.  Dix N Chix lost again miserably.  Awful start, clawed back late.  Way late.  By the time we were ready to play, the opposition were already packing their equipment, enjoying their easy win.

The heat was kind of an issue with all of us.  We were kind of listless when we took the field.  It was tough to care when one:  you team is losing, very badly.  and two:  when it's hot as fuck, and all you're doing when you move, is breathe fire in and out of your lungs.  Anyway, it was a bad scene.

I went 0 for 3 at the plate.  All horrible, lazy hits.

The umpire at the game looked exactly like Jesse Litsch, that fat dickskin that used to pitch for the Blue Jays.  After the game, he mentioned to me that I was reaching for every ball that I swung at.  Everything out of the strike zone.  I thought about it long after the game was over, and then I said, 'fuck that fat piece of shit Jesse-Litsch-lookalike!  I'll swing at whatever I want!'

I think maybe next time though, I'll swing the bat with my eyes open.

The Week After:  The Tie!

This week's edition of Dix N Chix were a completely different team.  We were loud, confident, and had flashes of being fundamentally sound.  I found myself growling from the outfield, and I could feel the opposition, unfortunately named The Poisonous BeeYotches, shitting their pants a little.

I hit a leadoff home run to start the game, the first of my three hits of the game.  A couple of things led to a change in my productivity at the plate:  first, during my vacation time with the family, I snuck out to the batting cages and refined a couple of things to transition me into a pull hitter.  I came into the game confident of pulling anything, including my nuts.  Second, our regular home run hitter brought in a new bat to break in.  I love using new things.  His bat had an odd weight distribution to it, where it was heavy on the end, and was hard to get the body used to it.  The bat was tailored for my swing, which was slow and lumbering.

I ripped the ball down the third base line for a triple on my second at bat.  I am now a pull hitter.

The team were showing improvement on the defensive side.  We were communicating well, defending, and even backing each other up, which I never thought would catch on.  We were pretty good on the basepaths as well, showing a lot of hustle, making the BeeYotches look like the real deal, making error after error on their throws.

My last at bat.  Bottom of the last inning, the 7th or whatever it was.  Two out.  Game tied.  Runners in scoring position.  I loved that situation.  Put me in that place every time and I'll always come through.  Not this time, though, as I hit into a fielder's choice, and I'm growling and freaking out, wanting to do it over again.

We are getting close.

Last Night's Line: No-Win Situation

Yup.  Dix N Chix are still looking for that elusive win.  Of course, I'd love for my baseball games to be as lush and crisp and green as the picture above, but alas, it's never like the pictures.  In reality, we play on a handful of fields that are poorly maintained, at best.  At least the field last night had benches and bleachers to plop our asses down on.

The picture above is how I envision myself when I'm out there, in a romantical(it's my new word) way.  Hell, we both possess the same number.

Again, there is this thing with this team.  We have the potential to be good.  But we don't tend to wake up until the late innings, when the game's already out of hand.  I think last night's score was a very competitive 14-7, but that alone is deceiving.  At one point, we were on the losing side of 7-0, then compounded to a 14-2, before we realized that we were in a ballgame.

I went 2 for 3, with some cheap singles.  The only ball I hit with authority was a lazy fly to left.  The swing is under construction.  I took some hacks at the fastball cages last week and made some adjustments.  The big home run hitter on our team referred to a dude on Youtube, maybe 5 foot-fuck-all, hitting home runs with consistency.

"All about swing mechanics," he says.

Before the change in my swing, I was asking him what he was doing while he was in the batters box before clobbering the ball.

"I'm thinking about everything.  My wrists, my grip, where my feet are, where the bat head is placed.  Everything."

And you wonder why my swing got messed up?  Talking to team's slugger butt fucked everything.

The fielding was relatively okay.  We held the opposition a few times.  We played some fundamentally sound baseball for a few innings, but the errors through the overthrows, getting burned in the outfield, and just good hitting from the opposition did us in.

I made one out on a liner to shallow left.  I also took an awful route to a grounder to the outfield, and the ball squibbed through my legs.  The picture below illustrates.

Next week we'll be better.  Unless we're not.

NOTES:
- If anyone knows that YouTube guy's name, please scroll to the right and email me.  God knows I could use the direction.
- Just finished The Art Of Fielding by Chad Harbach.  Got through it in a day and a half.  As I keep telling my wife, "I don't read anything except baseball books and vintage porn."  I don't count gay erotica as porn though, so sorry Chad Harbach, you only met 1 out of my 2 requirements.  Good try.

Last Night's Line

Team lost 15-5.  At the beginning of the game we finally received our shirts.  Baby blue with 'DIX AND CHIX,' in hot pink.  At least now we can say that we lose in a colourful manner.

I went 0 for 2, lining out hard both times.  My swing is fucked.

Caught a ball hit on a line, and I nonchalantly got it.  I made an outfielder's motion to indicate the outs, and some guy on the other team called me Colby.

I prefer Cletus, myself.

My Team This Year(with Last Night's Line)

So, I'm weeks into my new slo-pitch team.  It's been years since I made MVP of the league in Hamilton.  I was so meticulous with stats then.  Now, I don't even bother.

I know this year, I've hit a grand slam, 2 triples, lots of legged out singles.  This year, is about fun.  I stress 'fun,' every game, since losing isn't at all part of my makeup.  And all we do is lose.  I think we're 0-8 this season.

I'm patrolling either right or left center in the outfield, and can run anything down.  When I first started playing at a late age, I didn't want anyone to hit it my way.  I prayed at every at bat that nobody would hit the ball to me to expose the flaws of my defence.  I really prayed until I tried to catch a lazy fly ball with my chest.  I remember playing the rest of that season with what felt like some cracked ribs.  These days, I can't wait for chumps to hit it my way.

Last night's game was the worst night to play, with the day's heat just lingering on.  It just felt like my cleats melted on the grass.  I made a boneheaded groundball play where it went between my legs.  A lazy fly ball that I got to, trickled off my glove.  I finally made a play for the year with a line drive putout.  I felt like Cletus Rasmus at center, making it look routine, which I may say, is not a bad thing.  The mercy rule was put upon us, 20-5.  Yuck.

I'm also a pesky baserunner.  I run hard at everything, because the coach on my first team would have my head if I didn't hustle and use my speed on the basepaths.  Last night, I slid hard at 2 bases.  The guys on the other team liked the intense way I played.  I'm the only one out there getting dirty.  Maybe I should have hooked up with them.

 My batting swing this year is totally fucked.  I'm usually a straight line drive hitter, but this year I feel totally out of shape, and it feels like I'm not hitting with any authority.  There's this guy on my team that hits huge home runs, and after talking with him and what he goes through in his head at every at bat, my swing is as worse as ever.  He recommended that I quit going the opposite way and start extending my arms and pull the ball.  The results are brutal.

Anyway, dear readers, I'll keep you posted.  This is supposed to be 'fun,' right?

Sweet Dream . . .

I made it.  I was freaking out on Kelly Johnson and maybe Luis Perez over the major league level showers.  I was jumping up and down in front of them and they were giggling.  I was in awe.  

My role was to cover Colby Rasmus at center.  I was shagging flies with him out on the field and was amazed at how much ground he covered, his glove was a magnet to all those fly balls.  It was impossible for me to do what he does.  Just last week, I misjudged an easy fly at softball.  Nevertheless, John Farrell said, "if Colby's out, you're in," which was a great boost for my confidence.

After warm-up, the guys decided to have a round of  'bieber my balls,' where we all gathered in a circle and knee'd each other in the crotch, crane-style.  Extra points were given to the guys who got both knees in.  Jason Frasor was my partner, and he was easy to bieber.

After my turn, I realized that it was close to game time, and I was out of uniform.  I was sitting on a bench in front of the lockers watching Colby Rasmus hurriedly getting dressed.  Right beside his locker was mine, getting restocked, I just sat there marvelling over my last name in blue and white.