In 2019 I sold my house, sold my car, gave up my driver's license, got rid of almost all of my furniture, got two wheelchairs, and lost some more weight. And yet somehow it wasn't much different than the year before.

Remember when you could go out and see friends without them coming by to see you like a patient in the hospital? That was nice, I miss that.

0-2 (Oh-Two)

I had lunch with an old friend the other day. He reminded me of a few things that we shared as kids. The things we did that no one else will ever share. We laughed at our mutual memories, inside jokes, and long-silent slang. He reminded me of 0-2, and although the audience for the following minutiae may be small, I wanted to better remember, so I wrote it down.

0-2 was a whiffleball variant game that some of the neighborhood kids invented. It served a very specific purpose. It was created for those times when we couldn't get enough guys together for a whiffleball game. 0-2 was ideally suited for four, and could be played one-on-one, while a proper game of whiffleball required at least six. There were many times as we got older that cars, girls, summer jobs, and maybe even schoolwork pulled us (some of us more than others) in every direction, and it became more difficult to get together. And of course this was the 90s, when kids and adults could be unreachable without alarm.

For those times when, after a dozen phone calls, and talking to a number of parents (or letting it ring ten or more times and returning to the group with "no one's home"), we were frustratingly short, we played 0-2. While we played whiffleball in my backyard (Dumont Diamond!!), 0-2 was created to be played on the site of the tiny hockey rink (Foley Forum!!) they built every winter, in the Foley's backyard across the street.

It was called 0-2 because that was the count. That was always the count. Zero balls and two strikes. Let me back up a bit.

There was a pitcher and a batter, and maybe an extra fielder. Behind the batter, against the side of the garage, sat an old aluminum and canvas lawn chair, facing the pitcher with a bike tire propped on the seat. The tire was tied down or attached somehow to make a circular strike zone. 

Everyone batted left-handed. That wasn't specifically the rule. The back of the house covered what would have been the entire left side of the field, and because nearly all of us were right-handed, we had to turn the batter around to avoid peppering the house. When the occasional natural lefty batted, he would be forced to hit from the right side, often slamming liners off the house. There was nothing we could do short of allowing them to hit from their natural side, (not an option).

The count was always no balls and two strikes, the batter was hitting from his unnatural side, and any pitch to hit or go through the bike tire was strike three. There were no bases to run.

If you're not familiar with our general whiffleball rules, (and why would you be?) we used only the skinny yellow bats and non-curvy, round-holed balls (from Mills & Greer!!). We allowed a certain amount of tape (usually hockey tape) on both the handle and barrel, enough to give the bat a better grip and a bit more weight. Occasionally, following intense debate, a bat would get banned for excessive barrel tape.

A batted ball caught or fielded before reaching the low, wire fence between the Foley's and the Churchill's was an out. Hitting the fence on the ground or on the fly was a single. Over the fence on the fly was a double. A ball landing on the Churchill's camper or garage roof was a triple. Over the garage was a homer. Fair territory was essentially the width of the yard. Any ball off the house (to the left) or into the woods (to the right) was foul. The game only shared a couple of things with our traditional whiffleball: two outs per inning, seven inning games. 

We played with ghost runners. There were no bases or running the bases. There wasn't room, and besides that wasn't the point. We had all of that across the street; this was a leisurely game, more of a whiffleball version of H.O.R.S.E.  Ghost runners means that you remember who's on base. Hit a single, man on 1st. Follow it with a double, runners on 2nd and 3rd. Although it prompts a lot of "4-2, one out, runner on 2nd" verbal reminders between batters, it's very simple and is unlikely to cause an argument.

I don't remember throwing a lot of curve balls. The batter was already at such a disadvantage, I think we mostly just hucked it in there. Another oddity, strikes (outs really, the batter always has two strikes) were determined by the bike tire, regardless of whether the batter swings. This created a strange circumstance in which the batter can swing and miss a ball outside the strike zone (bike tire) and not be out.

For a few years we spent a lot of time in that backyard, playing a little game that didn't matter, and shooting the shit all the while. We didn't keep track of wins and losses, hits, strikeouts or anything else. It was just a blip, long gone and mostly forgotten.

On baseball

I watched Game 7 of the World Series the other day. Okay, it was like six weeks ago. I hadn't watched an entire baseball game in a long time. It ended at 11:55. 

I grew up on baseball. All of us in the neighborhood played and watched. I became a Yankee fan because my friend and his family were Yankee fans. In '96, when the Yanks came back from down 0-2 against the defending champion Atlanta Braves to win it all in 6, a bunch of the neighborhood kids went running up and down the street screaming. I didn't go out and join them, it was late and I was 12. My parents were asleep and would not have been pleased. 

Maybe it's a myth but I grew on a game in which the little things mattered. We were taught situational baseball: moving the runner over, the sacrifice fly, stealing bases, the hit and run, first and third plays, you know, the fundamentals. We were taught to shorten up when you have two strikes; put the ball in play, you never know what will happen. 

There is a movie called Little Big League where a kid tries to prove his baseball knowledge by answering questions like "runners on 2nd and 3rd, one out, Jackson at the plate, what do you do?" In fact, I found the clip, watch it yourself. It seems that these questions no longer exist. No one plays situational baseball. The answer is always "swing for the fences." 

There are just so many things that we learned in high school baseball, the fundamentals, the little things, that I rarely see in a Major League Baseball game. The game is so much more interesting with runners on base; for the pitcher and catcher, for the infielders, for the fans, and even for the outfielders. Without runners on base you may as well put a backstop, or a net behind the plate because you sure don't need a catcher. 

Without going into statistical geek-mode, there are more strikeouts, walks, and homeruns than ever before. And I don't know that I can argue with its efficacy, but all of it means fewer balls are being put in play, and the defense does even more disinterested standing around. Whether on the field or in the stands, runners on base turns up the excitement. Just to work in a hockey reference: defending with runners on base is like defending a power play, there is a nervous energy and the hope that you'll just get through it.

Why is this happening? Part of it is the Moneyball approach. And I don't think that's necessarily the appropriate name but it seems to have legs. Don't even think about swinging at the first pitch; work the count, a walk is as good as a hit. Stealing a base is not worth the risk of making an out. Make the pitcher throw as many pitches as possible. Tire him out; get him out of the game. Live by the mantra: outs are precious. Don't give away outs with sacrifice bunts, flies, or otherwise. 

That approach takes so much of the athleticism out of the game. It's like watching a quarterback that never throws deep, or the NBA eliminating the dunk. I want to see a play at the plate. I want to see the runner try to take the extra base, force the outfielder to make a perfect throw, and then tip his cap if it happens. Watch an old clip of Jackie Robinson leading off first and listen to the announcer's excitement. Every eyeball in the park is watching Jackie dance off first, hoping he goes.

Pitchers all throw hard. Everyone seems to want to be a strikeout pitcher, a Roger Clemens. Is anyone trying to be Greg Maddux? Would anyone with an 88 mph fastball and pinpoint control even make the major leagues? 

It's the same with the hitters. There was a time when middle infielders were known for their gloves. Ozzie Smith, and many before him, made the Hall of Fame for his glove. It seems that now, just to get a shot in the majors you have to hit 400 foot homers. Fans still love and revere Derek Jeter.  Derek Jeter was primarily a singles hitter who was not opposed to lining the first pitch out to right. 

NBA people sometimes say that everyone has become obsessed with drafting that superhuman athleticism. That's the Jordan effect. Skill level becomes an afterthought because "you can teach skill" but "you can't teach size, or quickness, or jumping ability". I imagine it's the same in baseball: flash gets noticed. Unless you're a catcher, fundamentals don't count.

Ramblings of a Sane Person

I googled "do women have less freedom than men?" not because I didn't know the answer, but because I wanted to see what the internet said on the subject. I read a few things, but nothing seemed to zero in on the areas I was looking for. Quickly, there is an episode of Master of None called "Ladies and Gentlemen" that is in the same vein.

A while back, amongst my ongoing ruminations, I began to think, How would my life have been different if I were a woman? And I don't mean in all of the obvious, surface level ways. 

I have a hard time believing that the male brain and the female brain are all that different. But I have realized that the way I would see the world, would be very different.

I used to revel in my independence. I think it was a big part of my identity for years. I never felt comfortable asking anyone for anything. So often I told myself you're strong, you don't need to lean on anyone. 

I've seen this referred to as an aspect of toxic masculinity. Which of course sounds like a new-age liberal, quasi-feminist man-hating label. But is most definitely a real sociological occurrence that can be partially described as "be a man" mentality.

When I was in college I walked everywhere; I've mentioned this and it is certainly not unusual. I walked to class, to work, to friends' apartments, to parties, to the bars. Most of the time I was alone. I don't know how many times I walked across town from a friend's place or a party, or walked home from the bars, just about always after midnight and often after 2. Again, I am definitely not alone in this, and I never gave it a thought. 

I was walking back to my hotel from a brewpub in Syracuse at maybe 10. It was Empire Brewing; I had a flatbread and a nitro stout. I would've had a second beer but it was packed and the bartender was too busy ignoring me and sneaking sips of vodka. This was the spring of 2012, post-diagnosis. 

I'm midway through the mile or so and a guy yells to me from a distance, asking for some change, saying he has to make a phone call, asking to use my phone. I looked up at first, startled, but didn't acknowledge him and kept walking. He was walking towards me from behind and to my left, and repeated himself, annoyed that I had ignored him. I felt scared and I didn't look back. I was very aware of the situation: if this guy wanted to rob me or cause me any sort of harm, I could not prevent it. If I tried to run I would fall. If I didn't fall I would be moving so slowly that he would easily catch up. In my mind, my fate was being handed over to him.

I never used to feel that way. Granted, walking alone at night in an unfamiliar city played a big role. But I had never felt so vulnerable. And that fear made me paranoid.

As time has passed and I have become less capable, I have encountered these feelings more. I have been shown all of the freedoms I had not considered.

And I began to think about all of the people who don't feel they have those freedoms. I remember a Dave Chappelle story about the time a gangster (drug dealer, whoever) paid him 5 grand and he rode the subway to Brooklyn at 4am with a backpack full of cash. This was when he first moved to the city, was 17, 18 and knew that people would kill for that backpack. The punch line is something like, "So that's when I learned what it's like to have a pussy." I would say, "be a woman" but I'm sure that's not what he said. 

That bit struck me: he had never felt that vulnerable because he never had anything anyone wanted. And by his logic, women always have something men want. And so the fear must creep in. And so you must do your best to avoid those situations.

And so I think of my own life, in this one little area of independence, and I know how different it would've been. It is just assumed that women don't do those things. Walking alone, at night, you're just asking for trouble. And I'm not saying that you should, or that anything will change. I'm only saying that I recognize the privilege of that freedom.

If the next time you ask how I am, or how my parents are, I say "shitty", will that be the end of it or will you ask more questions? 

It's almost inconceivable that my right arm was ever good for anything. For a long time it has been dangling at my side with little purpose. 

But I have pictures, and if I really try I can remember long-tossing with Perch at Smalley Park, (that's throwing a baseball for those unfamiliar; playing catch from as far as you can), or muscling a 3-iron within inches of a hole-in-one on #10 at BCC (that's 230 from the black), or spending all morning on the slicer doing everything from tomatoes and mozzarella, to ham and pastrami. I remember squatting down to pick up a tray of iced-tea highballs complete with lemon wedges and full to the brim. 

I'm really not sure that I can remember. I know that I did all of those things, but I can't imagine what it felt like. 

It wasn't me doing those things. I'm only watching someone else's memories. 

When I was diagnosed I was prescribed antidepressants; I didn't ask for them, that's just part of the deal. I took a couple different ones for a while, a year or two I guess. I don't really know what they did. One, and maybe both of them, when combined with the other drugs I was prescribed, messed with my gait, the way I walked. I remember feeling a little woozy when driving, like, Is this real? Am I really driving? Several years ago I stopped taking them, weened myself off of them if I recall. Or maybe that was something else; doctors are all about weening.

Over the years my doctors have asked me, "Are you depressed?" to which my best and most honest response has been, "Shouldn't I be?" And that is the distinction no one seems to make. And I know that it's an impossible, and with the way things seem to work unnecessary determination. How do we determine who needs these medications? Are we going to give them out like candy until all of us can't function without them? Maybe need isn't even the right word.

Whatever the problem is in your life, antidepressants aren't going to fix it. Maybe they help you get through the day, or maybe you take them because a doctor prescribed them and now they've become a new normal. Or maybe they make you feel better and I'm way over-thinking it. I don't know all of the answers, and sometimes I do need to hide from reality, but it seems I shouldn't be hiding all the time. Or maybe I'm just jealous of all those people with seemingly fixable problems who can't find their way out of the dark. And at times in my past I've been that person. And I'm jealous of myself.

I saw Ford versus Ferrari last night at the Marquis in Middlebury. I'd never been there; I like it. 

In the process of buying tickets we were informed that the showing was upstairs, and this being an old building in downtown Middlebury, there is not an elevator. So I had a look at the stairs, and we discussed how we might get me to the second floor, (in the wheelchair or on foot with some assistance). Then the guy behind the counter, seemingly without checking with anyone, offered to change the theater for us. Minutes later both chalkboards were being erased and rewritten. And that's how it came to be that all of those Frozen 2 patrons had to use the stairs.

The movie was at six and we showed up early to get some food first. Yes, they have that, real food from an actual kitchen. It's Mexican. And by the way there is a full bar as well. There is also a dining room, complete with a projector on this night showing an episode of The Simpsons. Quick sidebar, just before leaving the dining room for the movie, presumably at six, in walked a woman who fiddled with the projector, or maybe the laptop it was attached to, and the next thing I know Christmas Vacation is about to start. Oh man I almost didn't want to go into the theater. There is a bar, as I said, and food and drinks are allowed in the theater. I know this isn't completely uncommon, but I find the idea of stepping out mid-movie to grab a fresh beer to be both unheard of and glorious. 

So I guess what I'm saying is that although most multi-plex theaters have no character, charm, or reason to visit over any other multi-plex theater, this one is different. I like different. 

Oh and the movie was good. I'm not used to sitting in a movie theater seat, (how do tall people sit in those seats?) for 2 1/2 hours without interruption, but I survived.