DH

In baseball, pitchers tend not to be good hitters.
In the American League, they have a designated hitter.
Instead of the pitcher batting, they have someone else bat for him.
Players who don’t field well often are designated hitters.
In the National League, they make pitchers bat.
Or a pinch hitter bats for them, and then another pitcher has to take over pitching for them.
Major League Baseball saw that pitchers were an easy out or would bunt a runner along the bases.
So, they decided to relieve all pitchers of hitting duty.
By locking all of the players out.

No

The biggest word I’ve ever used is no.
When Enron collapsed and they were taking down the giant letters over the scoreboard at Enron Field in Houston, I was the IT Manager of a television station.
And there was a project to run fiber from the station to the stadium for video and data.
I convinced the crane operators to put the N and O together and I stood in front of them with an angry pose.
Someone took a photo for me, and it looked hilarious.
But over the years, I lost that photo.
I still have the memory.

Carry the load

I don’t pry. I don’t ask.
I find it to be rude to ask too much.
But it’s strange… the less you ask people, the more they trust you with.
Some things are small. Other things are big.
And then there’s the things that are huge.
Too big for them to carry.
So, they tell you, to help them carry.
You might think that the more people who carry, the lighter it is for everyone, that isn’t how it works.
Trust doesn’t work that way.
It’s a lot to carry.
But you will. And they will help you carry yours.

Patton

A simple white cross.
Just like thousands more at the cemetery.
Far, far away in a distant land they gave their lives for.
His name. His rank. His hometown.
And the date of his death.
That’s all. Nothing special.
Sure, it is set apart from the others.
A low chain fence, some flagstones.
Some bushes around a small plot of grass.
But no statues of angels, no lights.
No wreaths or flowers.
No cannon.
And no flags.
Just a soldier with his men.
In eternal rest.
Not killed in battle, like so many here.
But a drunk driver, turning left.

The robot umpire

People call it a robotic umpire, but it’s a combination of radar guns, cameras, and computers.
The system gathers up all the data and tells the guy behind the plate if it’s a strike or a ball.
It doesn’t scan whether a swing goes around.
It doesn’t judge foul tips.
It doesn’t call safe or out on bases, foul or fair balls, or other important calls that umpires mess up.
Nor does it sue the league for accusations of racism because it gets passed up for promoton.
Which is why it’s still in the minor leagues, calling balls and strikes.

Got to get into a fight

I paid fifty bucks for the pay-per-view fight.
Ordered a bunch of pizzas and picked up a keg.
Moved the big TV to the patio, dragged out the sofa and chairs, and rented some more.
Put out some lawn games, cornhole, that kind of thing.
Put up a chalkboard for anyone who wanted to make any wagers.
Winner. Loser. Round. Knockdowns and knockouts.
People parked in the driveway, the yard, along the street.
Neighbors came over, too.
The fight lasted twenty-six seconds.
But the party lasted all night long.
Help me get everything back inside and take back the keg?

Simulation

There’s no such thing as a good car wreck
All my money couldn’t change the past.
But it could buy a future of a sort.
After some experiments with holograms and robots, they worked up a simple screen simulation.
“It will be like talking to her over the phone or on a Skype,” they said.
And there she was. On the screen.
My princess.
“It was all my fault,” my daughter said. “I’m so sorry. Stop beating yourself up.”
We cried for a while, said we loved each other.
Then they shut me down and went back to their experiments.

Terrible Twos

My mother said that when I was a little kid, my terrible twos were truly terrible.
Where my brother was an absolute well-behaved saint, I was a holy terror, and she broke a kitchenware store’s supply of wooden spoon on my ass from all the spankings.
However, the beatings happened long after my twos, and more often for my mother’s transgressions, not mine.
Many years later, my parents came to Texas to manipulate and blackmail me into supporting them.
I disowned them both.
If my terrible twos were terrible to my mother, then my terrible fifty-twos are a well-deserved nightmare.

Unbalanced

My washing machine makes a lot of noise.
The repair guy came by and said that it’s unbalanced.
He gave me an estimate of two hundred dollars, but I told him to go away.
I can fix it myself.
You see, my therapist said I was unbalanced.
And he prescribed some pills, yoga, and meditation.
They work for me, so they should work for the machine.
I put the machine on a yoga mat.
And toss in some of my anti-anxiety pills.
It didn’t work.
Why?
I didn’t take it to my therapist.
Sadly, he doesn’t make house calls.

Belushi

Looking back at the talent and the box office returns, one can easily say that the wrong Belushi died.
John Belushi was a force of nature, producing cult classic after classic.
And his final two films, while not smash hits or cult classics, still brought in money.
James, on the other hand, started awful and took a nosedive from there, ending John Hughes directorial career along the way.
His sitcom was unwatchable, filling a timeslot until something better came along.
Jim retired to run a cannabis farm a few years ago.
For all our sakes, let’s hope he stays there.