Short Circuits and Garden Shears

I spent a lot of my high school days inside the cramped garage of Joe's family. Joe was allowed 1/4 of the garage to play host to a veritable mini-man-cave for him and his friends. There we had an extremely small TV, an old couch, a beat up recliner, and dreams. We'd gather together many days to play video games and forget what time it was. One day, though, all that would come to an end after a misplaced snip by yours truly.

There were five of us there that day. I believe it was Joe, Kevin, Kevin's sister Lauryn, and occasional d'Artagnan Steven. We were playing the shooting game Perfect Dark which only allowed four people to play at a time. While we cycled through rounds of the game, one person had to sit out. During my turn to sit out, I set out to find things to do. I was in a garage, and as such, was able to find a lot of things to do. There were many random implements to stupidly amuse myself with, and the flavor of the day was a pair of gardening shears. As my friends played, I snipped. I didn't snip anything in particular, I just snipped the air. Don't ask why I was doing this, for there exists no such rhyme or reason. During the match, though, my snipping would go awry. Without realizing it, an errant controller cord moved itself into the path of my blades, and with one movement of my arms, the cord was cut.

Instantly, all the lights in the entire garage went black. The lightbulb at the ceiling; the LED lights from the Nintendo; all lights went out. Within a few seconds things came back on, but the Nintendo did not. It was fried. We tried a lot to resurrect that poor system, but it was all for naught. Joe, in shock from what had just occurred, simply uttered to himself, "Well, at least this will give me a chance to play Chrono Trigger" (on a different gaming console.) I thought to myself, though, that the Nintendo 64 shouldn't have been fried. I didn't understand, though, why cutting a controller cord caused such a power surge as to total the gaming console. As it turns out, there was an answer for that, too. Joe's Nintendo 64 plugged into a power strip. In that power strip was also plugged a TV, a Super Nintendo, a fan, and a game boy charger. That power strip was plugged into another power strip, which housed a similarly full array of devices. That power strip was plugged into a single socket which stemmed from the garage door motor, and the collection of strips dangled from the ceiling like an eerie skeleton hung in a closet. The resulting monstrosity was so fragile in its wiring that one link anywhere in the chain (in this case, a controller plugged into the Nintendo 64) was enough to cause a veritable grenade explosion inside the tubes, with the Nintendo 64 valiantly diving on top to save its electrical brethren.

The moral of this story, kids, is don't plug too many things into a single socket outlet. Otherwise, idiot kids will come over with garden shears and break everything, and you'll only have yourselves to blame.

Barry Bonds: Dreamcrusher

When I was about 10 or so years old, I was a member of Foster City Little League. I was on the Cardinals; a AAA team with my newfound friend, Trevor. The league held a contest, as they did in other years, to sell tickets to a San Francisco Giants game. The league got a portion of the ticket sales, and the Giants kicked in prizes for the highest sellers. Trevor and I pooled our collective sales and won that contest by selling 125 tickets to that game; pretty remarkable when I look back on it, but really most of the credit goes to my parents. We each won a bat autographed by Shawn Dunston and, along with the eight other highest selling kids, got to go down to the field before a Giants game to get autographs during batting practice.

I had a blast. Each of the players that took practice graciously came over and signed autographs for us and took pictures. I remember kids yelling out the name of each player that came over to talk to us, and I remember Stan Javier giving me the bat he cracked during practice (what a nice guy; I still have that bat, Stan.) I remember one other thing from that day; Barry Bonds dodging us. While we were getting the autograph of the aforementioned Shawn Dunston, Bonds snuck in behind us, into the locker room, to continue his pregame. In the video of that day that my Mom took, you could actually see Bonds sneaking in behind us, and me catching a quick glimpse of it. I look back on that now and try to think of what was going through his head; I guess he didn't want to deal with the kids that day. It was a pretty jerkish move, for sure.

That said, I think a lot of people take this sort of stuff into account when evaluating players like Barry Bonds athletic ability. Barry will be coming up for Hall of Fame Eligiblity soon enough, and he almost certainly won't get in now, and quite possibly ever. There's a fair case against him that he did steroids, and I can at least buy the argument for that. Unfortunately, though, I think the fact that Barry Bonds was not a real likable guy clouds people's judgment. The thought that Barry Bonds is not one of the greatest players of all time is patently ridiculous; he's verifiably the greatest hitter of all time, and only the second best player of all time because Babe Ruth was also an above average pitcher for half of his career.

This isn't a quality exclusive to Barry Bonds; I hear people talk about other athletes the same way. So and So is holding back the team because he doesn't have a winner's heart, etc. You might also hear them called a Clubhouse Cancer. The idea is that their jerkishness outweighs their ability to put runs on the scoreboard, or whatever the applicable stat is for said sport. I find it really hard to believe that someone could be a big enough jerk to make the greatest hitter of all time not valuable to a team.

What this boils down to, for me, is that athletes shouldn't be role models. We need to stop looking up to professional athletes as anything but excellent physical specimens when they don't care to be anything more than that. Some athletes do try to be more than just athletes, and in such cases, awesome. Many athletes, though, such as Bonds, just want to be awesome baseball players. I think that's just fine. We even have an awards show and museum dedicated to such players. The idea that people think he should be kept out of such a museum because he was a jerk seems pretty irrelevant, and this is coming from a guy who basically had his dreams crushed by Bonds.

Any professional writers that have a hall of fame vote out there? Vote Bonds. I don't like the guy from the one encounter I had, but he's too good of a baseball player to not be in the Hall of Good Baseball Players. We don't even need an asterisk or any such nonsense; everyone knows that Barry Bonds played in the steroids era, and if you think he did steroids, then you don't need an asterisk to tell you that. Heck, vote McGuire, Palmeiro, Rose, Jackson, and just about anyone else who is being barred for such things. We need to take the era for what it is. Plaques of players from 1890 don't have asterisks for dead balls, lack of black opposition, or anything else. We don't need this arbitrary steroid talk keeping these great ballplayers from earning their due respect.

Near-Death Experiences and Baseball

I have a lot of memories of A's games. I can remember walking down the aisle to check out the seats I would have all season in 2006 (I won them in a card-game tournament.) I remember seeing Justin Duchscherer throwing a no hitter into the 8th inning. I think my earliest memory though, along with my most traumatic one, came from when I was younger than ten years old.

I can't even precisely remember the year, to be honest. I was a kid, and that's all I remember. It was my parents' anniversary and they decided to go to an A's game and let me tag along. Perhaps back in the day my parents alternated anniversary activities every year and it was my Dad's turn. Perhaps also my parents rotated which kid would accompany them on said activities. Regardless, I was at an A's game with my parents. It was a beautiful weekend day during late June, and I was just a little kid enjoying the game. Like most kids, I probably had no real idea what was going on in the game, other than I wanted to see the A's win and a lot of balls to go over the fence. As I contemplated the complexities of the game, I leaned in to get some soda out of the cup. After taking a sip, I leaned back into my seat. Mere moments after I put the soda back into its cup, a baseball sent from the heavens decided I should be content with the amount of soda I'd already consumed, and flew down right into the soda cup.

We sat there perplexed. Where did the ball come from? It didn't come from the field; we obviously would have noticed that. It must have come from above. We were sitting along the first base long about 20 rows back or so. Maybe someone had dropped it from above? Man, that would be some rough beats. I mean, dropping a ball from that high onto a kid's head could seriously hurt him; we're talking at least 100 feet or so. There's no way whoever did that would show their face. We hadn't taken into account, though, that the mind who would lose such a ball would probably be just as oblivious to the consequences of such an action. Suddenly, a young child not too much older than myself came down asking for the baseball back. He didn't fool around with pleasantries; he simply asked for his ball back. The logic probably all worked out in his mind.

It did not work out in my Mom's mind, though. She lost it on that poor kid, and with good reason. She almost saw her child's head get seriously hurt by a stray baseball tossed down by a goofy kid, and now this kid had the gall to come asking for the ball back without so much as a "Whoops, my bad, bro." She let the kid know what she thought of the whole situation; how dangerous it was to let a ball fly like that, why he should apologize, and the huevos it must have taken to come down there and ask. After giving him that lecture, I believe she ended up giving him the ball back. She got her peace of mind, I got to keep my head, and that kid got his ball back. Like any good Mom, at the very least I know I can count on her to go to bat for me, in the face of overwhelmingly oblivious children hellbent to leather on allowing my head to be caved in. Thanks, Mom.

I Stink at Fighting Games

In lieu of a new post this week, I'll simply point you to minute 51 of this video, wherein I get to be on internet TV. Here's the short version:

1) This is my third fighting game tournament. There's typically one match at a time being streamed to the internet for people to watch and take potshots at. This is my first time being given such treatment.

2) I get matched up a well known pro player, who is the primary impetus for this match being streamed.

3) I'm playing the sumo wrestler, and the game is Super Street Fighter IV: Arcade Edition.

4) The announcers simply refer to me as "some white guy" because they don't know me.

5) I don't do too well.

Enjoy!

Watch live video from IPLAYWINNER on Justin.tv

A Letter to Bud Selig

Hello Mr. Selig,

My name is Andrew Patrick. I'm 25 years old and I live in Foster City, California. I've grown up my entire life rooting for, attending games, listening to, and following my beloved Oakland A's.

I write to you today to plead the case for the A's stadium. I was just three years old when the A's won the World Series in 1989, so its safe to say I have no recollection of the A's winning it all. Since then, I've witnessed the ups and downs of the Bash Brothers years, Rickey Henderson, The Big Three, Eric Chavez, Frank Thomas, and everything in between. I've loved going to games at the Oakland Network Associates/McAfee/Overstocked.com Colosseum, and some of my best memories are of that stadium. That said, the stadium is no longer fit for the dynasty which it houses. The Oakland A's are too storied of a franchise to waste away in a stadium with a closed upper deck, an outfield ravaged by a football team, and none of the modern luxuries other teams enjoy. Every year that goes by, as the team tries to repair its struggling offense, another Free Agent spurns the team because of the awful stadium situation and the waning fan base that it begets. With the lack of big free agents, the team loses more fans, and the vicious cycle continues, as it will, until the unthinkable happens.

Two years ago you set up a committee to look into the issue; the viability of Oakland, San Jose, and all surrounding areas. I applauded your resolve and determination to help sort out this very complicated issue. Since then, I have yearned for the day to hear your conclusions and to hear what the fate of my beloved A's would be. I have waited, and waited, for some sort of tangible plan to stop this cycle which prevents our team from taking the necessary steps to improve the on field product. Now is the time for action, Mr. Selig. Every day that goes by without resolution on this issue further condemns this team to mediocrity, a declining fan base, and reduced profits. The tepid waters we lay in hurts the league as a whole, as it has already caused nigh irreparable damage to the reputation of a team which, especially after the Giants' recent world championship, plays second fiddle in the area.

I implore you, sir, to please hasten your decision and devote as much of your time and resources as possible to find a solution. Every day is precious to this team and this problem, and you have the power to stop this nonsense from continuing. I eagerly await your decision, and long for the day when my team can play in a stadium which suits their legacy.

Respectfully yours,

Andrew Patrick

New Satisfaction

God's done a lot for me over the years; understatement of infinity. One of the more tangible things I've noticed recently is how much happier I am when things go poorly at the end of the day. Just the other day, for instance, circumstances went awry. I was sent home from work early without pay because there was nothing to do, my TV broke, and I was given a jury summons. That said, I can't say I was cursing the world or panicking, as I would have done in years past. To be honest, I felt a little bit of bad luck, but I just sort of shrugged and went on with my day each time. The question is: Is this because God's plan has given me different standards for happiness, or because my emotions have dwindled in general since my depression in High School?

If you're an avid reader, you know about my depression in High School. For that time period, and a few years following it, bad times would get me real down. Whenever something went abnormally awful, I'd beat myself up inside. I'd focus on the things I was trying and failing at, and would magnify them to the point that I'd consider myself the nut low. I'd surround myself with depressing music, push the world out, and then victimize myself to the point that nothing seemed to be my fault. This would happen when I got bad grades, if I didn't get invited to a party (even those I didn't want to go to,) etc.

These days, though, that rarely happens. Even on days when something beats me to the point of self-indulgent pity, it only lasts the night. I always wake up infinitely refreshed and satisfied in God's plan. I remember that, as a Christian, I don't have to prove myself to anyone. My identity is not my own. When God made me, he made me the way I am for a reason. He purposefully put every hair on my head, and gave me the gifts and faults I have so that I could serve a very unique purpose in his Kingdom. When Jesus died for me, he went on that cross to show the world that he's my identity now. He knew I'd screw up, but he wanted me to lean on him and let the world decide my worth by what he's done.

I don't think that a lessened sense of self-pity is caused by an overall numbness in my spirit. Rather, I believe my emotions have been heightened by God's love, and furthermore they've been put on a different scale, so that I can't punish myself too much for my own faults. When Satan tempts me into thinking that I've screwed up God's plan, God's always right there to correct that lie. I'm not quite sure what I'd do without God; I'd probably be living a much more, fitting a theme here, pitiful life. Thank goodness God is here.

My Siblings' Music

Growing up as the youngest kid of four has its ups and downs. The downs are that you're constantly thought of as the baby, you're expected to remember your siblings' friends whom you haven't seen since you were four years old, and you always have to sit in the middle on long road trips. The ups are that you get to hang out with, and ask advice from, a lot of people. You also get the trickle down benefits: clothes, toys, etc. One of the greatest gifts my siblings have given me is my taste in music.

I had to share a room with my brother for many years, was babysat by my oldest sister for just as many, and drove to/from school with my other sister nearly my whole young adult life. Having these people above me meant one thing above all else; I had to acquiesce to their taste in music. Whenever I was in their car, room, cheerleading practice, birthday party, or whatever, I had to listen to whatever music they wanted to listen to. This resulted in me growing to like a pretty eclectic selection.

I could tell you about the pool party where Sarah's friends taught me the hand signs for 2 Legit 2 Quit. Or I could tell you about the time that I asked my brother, totally ignorantly, what his ONYX tape "BACDAFUCUP" meant (he wouldn't tell me, and I was angry.) I could tell you of the many times I pleaded with Stephanie to put on something, anything, other than another Steven Malkmus or Pavement album. The fact of the matter is though that these weird moments helped shape my tastes as an adult. I remember a friend of mine I was driving with once was amazed at how I seemed to know the words to every song that came on the radio, and I explained to her that this is what happens when you are forced to listen to everything that is on the radio; you grow to like most of it.

While I can't say I've gone out and bought any of the albums my siblings loved, I will say that there are certain things I've made my own. Since Stephanie was around, I was able to steal her copy of The Bends by Radiohead and never get it back, and it still is an album I listen to fairly often. If Doug wasn't around, I never would have become interested in Hip Hop, and would have never been turned on to some of my favorite acts, like The Roots. Arguably the greatest contribution though came from Sarah; because of her girlish love for George Michael, I was introduced to Faith, which I absolutely kill with at Karaoke Night. Thanks guys.