How to enjoy a baseball game...

I went to the Minnesota Twins game yesterday with my three sons. We had a great time. However, if there's one thing I don't like about attending professional sporting events it's the cost of food and beverages. Cha-Ching!

So I asked the kids to eat at home before we went. This way we would not have to eat expensive (not to mention not-so-healthy) ballpark food. Everyone had a full meal and off to the game we went. It seemed like a sensible plan.

As we entered the Metrodome I could smell the sweet aroma of Dome Dogs and popcorn in the air. For those who may not know, the Metrodome is an indoor facility. Some would say because of that it's not a 'real' baseball stadium. I agree, but that's a topic for another day. An indoor stadium is great when the weather is bad. On the downside, those aromatic fragrances of ballpark culinary delights are mercilessly distributed throughout the entire building through the air handling system. It's cruel I tell you... just cruel.

I am proud to report all four of us resisted caving in to the sweet smelling assault-which is saying a lot. My stomach was growling like a rabid wolverine eyeing up fresh road kill.

Once we got to our seats... out into the area of the park that is open and expansive... the smells diminished and our senses were now consumed by all the things going on around us. The players warming up on the field... the mascot (TC) doing antics on a four-wheeler... the JumboTron TV showing baseball bloopers... an educational promo for ALS research (the disease that killed Lou Gehrig and now bears his name)... the ceremonial first pitch... the National Anthem... and "PLAY BALL!" Game on. We had been successfully distracted.

Then... WHAM! without any warning at all...

"Beer here! Get your beer here! Ice cold beer here!"

"Peanuts, popcorn, cracker jacks! They're a baseball tradition."

"Snow cones! Get your kids an tasty snow cone."

"Dome Dogs! Can't enjoy a baseball game without a Dome Dog!"

My mind started to play tricks on me. I wondered... was the beer REALLY that cold? Cracker Jacks. I remember having cracker jacks at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh when I was a kid. I bet my kids would enjoy a tasty snow cone and I would become an instant hero for buying them one. It is true... a Dome Dog would make watching the baseball game more enjoyable.

WAIT!!!!

What was I thinking? A Dome Dog would make the game more enjoyable? They are ground pig lips and knuckles-and other things we do not speak of-pressed into a sausage casing and packed with so many preservatives that you can, quite literally, eat them right out of the package with no concern for consequences.

I had successfully talked myself off the ledge. After all, we had just eaten a complete meal before we came. No one, including me, was hungry. And then came the most dreaded words a parent can hear: "Dad, can I have..." In this case, it was cotton candy.

"How much?" I asked. I don't really know why I asked the question. Reflex I guess, because I had every intention of buying it. I guess I just needed to know if a $5 bill was going to cover it or if I would have to part with a $10 bill. "Four dollars" came the response.

For a fleeting moment I thought to myself. "Four dollar! That's an outrage. You can't be looking at any more than $.25 worth of product and another $.03 for the plastic bag it's wrapped in. It doesn't even come on a paper stick for goodness sakes!" I didn't say a word. I just passed the $5 bill down the row to the vendor and back came one bag of blue spun sugar and a wrinkled dollar bill. The kids were quick to hand me the dollar... but not so quick to do the same with the spun sugar. I had to actually ASK to have some.

Ok, we've got that out of our system. Let's watch some baseball.

Quickly I came to learn that buying the cotton candy would be a HUGE mistake. It revealed my vulnerable under belly-the side of me that my kids are so perceptively able to see and exploit. Dad was willing to open up his wallet and let go of a few of his musty bills.

I swear the vendors must have some sort of secret hand gestures they use, like the ones third base coaches use when they are trying to tell the batter how to hit the ball. Only in this case, the vendor signals to let the other vendors know there is a vulnerable dad in the crowd. There had to be signals. Every one of those vendors were barking their sales pitches directly to my kids, making eye contact and smiling. It was a disgusting display of salesmanship. I thought to myself, "I bet all of you sell used cars when you're not at the ballpark."

Next up... sunflower seeds. "How much?" Just $3 for a bag. Not bad. I like sunflower seeds and these were 'Jumbo' sunflower seeds-definitely a bargain. This one was not a hard sale. Down the aisle went more of my hard-earned money and back came the bag of seeds. The seeds may have been Jumbo, but the bag sure wasn't. We each got a couple of handfuls.

Ok, we got that out of our system... Let's watch some baseball.

As the sunflower seed vendor walked away, my suspicions were confirmed. I watched him run his right hand down his left sleeve. He pulled on his right ear. Then he put his left hand on the top of his head and finally he reached down and scratched his right knee. To the untrained eye, someone might have thought he was swatting a fly or he had an itch. I knew better. It was a signal. It was definitely a signal!

When the dust settled on the afternoon, we had bought cotton candy, sunflower seeds, soda pop (several times), ice cream, snow cones, and Cracker Jacks. We even bought preserved lips and knuckles pressed into sausage casings. Oh, excuse me... Dome Dogs.

But I resisted paying $6.25 for a beer. That was an outrageous price and I refused to pay it. I now regret that decision. When I got home and did the inventory of my treasury notes, I realized I had parted with over 40 of them so the youngins would not starve at the ballpark. And I denied myself perhaps the greatest ballpark experience of all-washing down my lips and knuckles with an 'Ice Cold Beer Here.'

The Twins won, 4-3 and amongst all the eating that was going on we managed to watch some if it happen.

There's a deer on my street!

I was standing in my driveway in the middle of the day and I heard the clopity-clop of hooves that sounded like horses. As I turned to look, there was a whole herd of deer walking up the middle of the street. This is not uncommon to see in my neighborhood, but I am usually in the house looking out the window at them-not standing in the driveway just fifteen feet away.

I had to chuckle as I thought about those days when I used to deer hunt. I would spend weeks before the season started going through the woods looking for the best place to make my stand. I'd look for deer paths, rubs, and scrapes. I had religiously read all articles and advice in my monthly issue of North American Whitetail Deer Hunter magazine.

I recall one opening day. I enthusiastically woke up at some God forsaken hour of the morning to ensure I would be in the woods and arrive at my stand well before the first whisper of day light graced the horizon.

As I stood there, I employed all my senses... watching... listening... and smelling. I don't exactly know what I was supposed to be smelling but I figured that since I had to breath anyhow, I might as well try to smell something. Then I heard it coming... from a distance... the faint sound of rustling leaves. My heart was pounding. I became hyper vigilant as my eyes strained to see through the moonlight-illuminated brush. My mind played tricks on me as I thought I saw a deer moving. Did I? No, it was just a cluster of dead leaves on a branch blowing in the early morning breeze.

The rustling sound intensified, telling me this trophy buck was getting closer and closer. The seconds passed like minutes. The anticipation was excruciatingly painful. How big would he be? How many points would the rack have? Would I get a clear shot? Then he came clearly into view.

It was a squirrel. A squirrel!! Noooooo! I waited all this time in anticipation of a huge trophy buck... with visions of my kill gracing the cover of a magazine. I wasn't anticipating being confronted by a squirrel. I went from exceedingly excited to exceedingly disappointed-and ANGRY! I was duped by a forest rat. Now what? My adrenalin was dumped. I left my stand and just wandered through the woods for the rest of the day.

I never saw another deer that day. I don't know if it was because of my aimless wandering or if it was because I shot every squirrel I could lay my cross hairs on. Ok, that was a slight exaggeration. I didn't shoot EVERY squirrel I saw. I ran out of ammunition after 16. (I trapped and stabbed four more after that.)

I never went deer hunting again. The following spring I sold my entire collection of North American Whitetail Deer Hunter magazine (27 issues) in a garage sale for $2.00.

And that... officer... is why I shot this deer from my driveway.

Cabbage...Coon's Tails... and Code Brown

Cabbage and Coon's Tails... are those good things or bad things when you're fishing. I have no idea. I went fishing yesterday with my good friend and confidant, Ken Olson. In addition to being a career firefighter, Ken is also the owner of Just Add Water (JAW) Baits and he is a professional fishing guide. (http://www.jawbaits.com/ if you want to learn more.)

Anyhow, we're out on the water and I'm having a great time. It is a little overcasted, a little breezy, and a little cool. Perfect fishing weather. Ken's cell phone rings and I'm listening in on the conversation. It's kind of hard not to listen in when you're only 15' apart. He's obviously talking to another angler because he's describing where we are fishing in terms I am entirely unfamiliar with. "We came across several patches of coon's tail and there's very little cabbage in it. Huh?!? Did I miss something? Coon's tails and cabbage. To me that sounds like something a Cajun chef would cook up in a pot.

Every vocation has its lingo, a language of its own. I remember when I was a newer EMT (oops... there I go using lingo... Emergency Medical Technician for you lay readers) and we were at the station when another crew came back from an emergency call. A member of that crew told us their patient was a "Code Brown." I had studied hard to become an EMT. Code Brown. Code Brown. I don't remember what a Code Brown is. I remember Code Blue and Code Red. I'm drawing a blank here. No Code Brown.

So after the other crew left, I quietly approached my partner and asked sheepishly and with some embarrassment "What is a Code Brown and what should I do if I have a patient who is experiencing a Code Brown?"

My partner told me to get a pen and paper to write it down so I would not forget what he was about to tell me. Fortunately for me, I was always prepared and had both a pen and a note pad in the shirt pocket of my uniform. "Go! Ready!" I said enthusiastically.

He leaned toward me and in a soft, reassuring voice said "Code Brown means the patient pooped their pants. If you have a patient with that condition, turn the vent fan on high, roll down all the windows, and drive fast to the hospital."

What is that word?

There must be a word in the English language for phrases you read that can have double meanings. It's kind of funny how my mind works because I often find myself amused by the signs I read in different places that can mean something completely different than what was intended. Take, for example, the sign I saw recently at a water park.

"Severe Weather Shut Off Button"

This sign made me think to myself... how ingenious is that? If the water park is full of people and severe weather approaches, all an alert employee needs to do is run over and depress this button... and off goes the severe weather. Think about how many potential applications there are for such a button in parks, sports arenas, golf courses... virtually any outdoor gathering place. I hope the person who invented that button got a patent for it and is living a comfortable retirement in a place so serene as to not require their invention.

9-1-1 What is your emergency?

DISPATCHER: "9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

ME: "Uh, yah... can you send the fashion police to the Caribou coffee shop on Lexington Avenue."

DISPATCHER: "What seems to be the problem there, sir?"
ME: "It's hard to describe, but I see a man wearing red and white tiger-striped shorts."
DISPATCHER: "I'm sorry... did you say red and white tiger-striped shorts?"
ME: "Yes, Ma'am."
DISPATCHER: "Does he seem to be in distress?"
ME: "No, but everyone else in the the coffee shops is gagging on their lattes. I'm afraid if the fashion police do not show up soon you're going to have a very large mess on your hands. I'm talking casualties... LOTS of causalities."
DISPATCHER: "Ok... calm down sir. You seem to be distraught."
ME: "Listen lady... you would be distraught too if you had to look at this. Wait, I'll take a picture on my camera phone and send it to you."
[pause for taking and sending of said picture]
DISPATCHER: "Oh my God! It's worse than I could have imagined. Evacuate the store immediately and we'll send out the SWAT team."
___________________
Here's a little fashion tip for Mr. Tiger Pants... If you lose a bet with your buddies and you have to wear a pair of shorts that look like these to pay off your debt... stay out of public places. If I owned a Taser gun, I would have dropped you right then and there.

Understanding the irrational behavior of teenage boys

Now there's a posting title that ought to get your attention! Parents of teenage boys (I have two) know that trying to get your little cherubs to look at things in rational ways and to make good decisions can be... let's say, a "______ challenge!" (and I'll let you fill in the blank with the adjective of your choice.)

Chances are you find yourself frustrated and wondering why they do certain things or don't do other things. It seems to sometimes defy logic. There's a good explanation for this.

The section of their brain known as the prefrontal cortex controls the process of rational, logical thinking. Unfortunately, research has show that the prefrontal cortex does not fully develop in teenage boys until around the age of twenty one. So when you're struggling to understand how your teenager sometimes acts like they have half a brain... in some respects... they do.

The good news is, most of them will develop a healthy, mature prefrontal cortex by their early twenties and start acting mature and making rational, logical decisions. However, as you can attest, there are some people who seem to suffer through life with an abnormally underdeveloped prefrontal cortex and suffer a long, painful existence of immaturity and poor decision making. Most of them probably carry the label "ex-husband."

We've gone over the edge

Recently I had the opportunity to attend field day at my son's school. Lots of fun and frolicking in the sun by fifty third grade kids while parents root them on from the side lines. Fifty yard dash... hurdles... tennis ball toss... kick ball... sack races... good stuff. We have been attending field days for almost ten years and every year the festivities concludes with a Tug O'War between the classes.

But not this year. The physical education teacher announced that this year the event was going to be called Tug O'Fun... "We're not using the word 'war' anymore" he explained. Oh... My... God... I thought to myself. Political correctness has gone over the edge. We are no longer allowed to use the word war? Good thing this political correctness stuff wasn't around at the turn of the century or that famous race horse Man O'War might have been renamed Man O'Fun... which would have taken on a whole new meaning and spawned countless jokes, no doubt.

There is a place for some political correctness in our lives, for sure. Replace "Firemen" with "Firefighters" but leave Tug O'War alone.
'

What's the hurry?

As I have aged I now find myself driving more like an "old man" than a "young man." That is to say I drive the speed limit more often (and sometimes even under the speed limit). Maybe it's because I spent 30 years as an EMT and paramedic and I saw too much of the aftermath of careless, reckless, hurried driving. Or maybe as I've aged I have realized that there's no place I have to be in that much of a hurry. If you're late, just tell the person waiting for your arrival that traffic was brutal. Where can you drive today that you're not going to encounter some traffic? It's a plausible excuse that will earn you forgiveness so long as you don't abuse it.

It's not worth the risk of driving aggressive. Slow down... enjoy the scenery. Muse at the person who seems to be in a tremendous hurry to get somewhere... knowing that their high-stress (and potentially high-consequence) driving is going to result in them reaching their destination just a few minutes ahead of you.

Stay out of the fast lane... Life's too important to rush through it and it's too valuable to risk losing it in an accident.

You mean the world to someone. Don't let them down by risking your life with careless driving habits.

Reinventing Baseball

Ok, so I'm sitting at my son's baseball game... in the rain. It's cold and windy. I suspect that most of the parents, like me, enjoy watching their sons play baseball... when the sun is shining. Even a cloudy day is ok. As I'm sitting there under my umbrella (which only keeps my upper body dry as the water runs off and drenches my pants) I'm thinking to myself... there has got to be a way to improve the efficiency of baseball. Every time a team takes the field there are warm-ups. Each warm up takes about 5 minutes. This particular game has seven innings. That's FOURTEEN warm-ups. At five minues a warm-up, they spend seventy minutes(!!!) just warming up.

Ok, time to reinvent baseball. In a seven inning game each team will have seven times at bat and each time at bat they get three outs. That's twenty-one outs. If each team only batted once, the first team batting until they amassed twenty-one outs and then their opponent batting until they amassed twenty-one outs (or outscored the opponent), then baseball games would take much less time.

Maybe this could be become a "foul weather rule." I'm ok with spending the extra hour+ enjoying good weather but when it's nasty out, the kids aren't having fun, the coaches aren't having fun, the umpires aren't having fun, and the parents aren't having fun. So why prolong the agony. It's time to reinvent baseball.

Welcome to Woppy Jawed

This posting is the official launch of Woppy Jawed, a place where I will share my musings on the lunacy of life and leadership.

I'd sound the trumpets but my wife and kids are still in bed and if I woke them up, they'd beat me like a pinata. So I'll just put on some coffee, walk the dog, get the morning paper, and contemplate how my life is going to change now that I have a blog.

Dr. Richard B. Gasaway
www.RichGasaway.com