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I don’t really have a nickname, but if I were to bestow one upon myself (because giving yourself a nickname is always a fine idea) I would likely be called Wart Boy. Unfortunately for Wart Boy the nickname isn’t clever or meaningful on any level. I am Wart Boy because of my propensity to host and grow warts (the boy part is fairly self-explanatory). Despite my portly appearance, I’d like to think I’m generally of good health. I rarely get sick or catch colds. But when it comes to defending myself against the virus that causes warts I’m 72-pound weakling with girlie arms.
All my life I’ve been prone to getting warts. About twice a year I’d have to see the doctor to get a wart or two frozen off. It was no big deal—I considered it part of my routine checkup. I’ve had so many warts removed from my body I consider myself to be an amateur dermatologist (or at least one who only works with warts). A wart here. A wart there. All in all: relatively no big deal.
One of my favorite wart stories (that’s right: I have more than one) occurred when my beloved cat scratched . . . . .
The Wife calls me a sports snob. It’s a term I have come to embrace because it’s true: I don’t like talking sports with most people because most people are idiots. Well, maybe idiots is too harsh of a term–they’re not as knowledgably as me (probably because they have families and lives and all that stuff). Remember that time when I went to the Angel game and I was appalled because the “fans” next to me had no idea who Mark Teixeira was (or how to say his name)? Yeah, stuff like that.
My snobbery is only part of my problem. I work at an elementary school that literally has three male employees (the AP, custodian, and me). Sure, it’s nice knowing I pretty much have a private bathroom (although messy situations become harder to deny), but it also leaves with me a sports void because I have no one to talk to. Being a sports snob and trying to discuss the read option with a pregnant fourth grade teacher isn’t exactly fulfilling. Even if I tried to dumb myself down just for the sake of talking to another human being it wouldn’t be possibly.
I’ve tried keeping an open . . . . .
Hockey tradition dictates thou must’n shave thy beard until thy team is eliminated from the playoffs. I’m not much of a fan of hockey, but I certainly like the tradition (one of many hockey traditions I enjoy including hitting guys with sticks and dating women way too hot for you). Since I am a proponent of tradition, I adopted that philosophy towards a sport I actually care about: baseball.
I don’t talk about it much, but I’m a huge Yankee fan. It’s one of the traits I inherited from my father. I grew hearing stories about Mickey Mantle and how much my father wanted to change my first name to Bucky Dent. When I was five and started playing t-ball, I was thrilled to be on the Yankees (although, three of the four teams in the league were named Yankees). Interests come and go. People drift in and out of your life. Seasons change. People get older. Life goes on. The one thing that remains my consistent is my Yankee fan love (and an unhealthy Derek Jeter obsession).
That’s why every October I wear a playoff beard. Some years, the Yanks go deep and I go a month without shaving. . . . . .
Way back when–a long time ago in the year 2000–I signed up to be a bone marrow donor. Not because I wanted to. Not because it was the right thing to do. Nope. I did it for free baseball tickets. I remember the day quite vividly. It was an August (or maybe September) and I was at a carnival or festival, or maybe the Orange County Fair (maybe I don’t remember it as vividly as I thought). Anywhos, I was there with my buddy, El Diablo, and we saw a booth giving away free Angel tickets. All we had to do was give a tiny prick of blood. They would put us on the bone marrow donor list and we could each score four free tickets. Seemed fair enough. Heck, seemed more than fair. With eight tickets and only two asses, we figure we could sell the remaining six tickets for $10 a pop and make 60 bucks off the deal.
“It’s not like we actually hafta give them anything,” El Diablo pointed out. He was right. I had no intention of ever “donating” my marrow. I knew little about it other than they had to drill into your hip . . . . .
Sorry I haven’t been around much lately–I think this cold really knocked me out of commission (either that or I’ve been too lazy to write)–but I think I’ve finally rid myself of this cough…sorta. I’ve got a couple of little tidbits and tales to tell, but nothing really great.
Maybe I shouldn’t care about this; maybe it’s just cause I’m smarter than everyone else, but I hate idiot sports fans. I absolutely despise the casual sports fan–they ruin it for genuine aficionados like myself. Because of the idiots, the local affiliate shows my region Raider games instead of the best match up because the Raiders draw a better TV rating (that’s because Raider fans have nothing to do while sitting in their prison cells). Thanks to the casual sports fan, networks feel compelled to spruce up broadcasts with animated baseballs and air-head, eye-candy sideline reporters.
Above all, I hate when the lackluster fan tries talking about a sport or team–97 per cent of the time, they have no idea what they’re talking about and have completely one-sided opinion.
Maybe it’s cause I don’t like looking like a fool, but I rarely discuss things I don’t know anything . . . . .
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