I Got Robbed (at gunpoint)

I am a very proud person. Some parts of this entry were actually difficult to write. My friends, I know I am not the most up-front and honest person, but this entire story is true...
Before getting into the actual details of what happened on April 22, 2008, I'd like to share with you a short timeline.

January 2, 2007 - I make the new year's resolution to never use racial slurs again.

April, 2007 - Neighbors that lived in the same house as myself and two friends get robbed (it was a duplex) at gunpoint. The gunmen made my neighbors lay on the floor and held guns to their heads. It was drug-related. After hearing about it, I express how effed up it would be if the gunmen went to the wrong front door of the right duplex and came into our house, demanding drugs and drug money. How effed up it would be if they didn't believe us because, after all, who would just give themselves up right of the bat anyway? And, after all, they were at the right address. Seriously, that would be effed up. Someone could have been killed.

March, 2008 - I move to Houston into a pretty nice apartment complex. I immediately begin getting ticked off at the amount of mail I'm getting from the previous resident, who we'll call "S". I ponder looking him up and letting him know how much I despise him and that he needs to inform all parties that he no longer lives at this address. If I only knew...

April 22, 2008, 10:30 PM - I'm playing poker and updating my blog. I'm wearing boxers and a white t-shirt. The TV is off. I hear someone knocking at my front door, which is unlocked.

"This is kind of weird," I think. There's honestly no reason for a person to be coming to my house at 10:30 on a Tuesday night without calling.

I go up to the door and peek through the peep-hole. I see a black man who I do not recognize and say:

"Hello?"

"Is Tony there," the man says. He seemed to be turning his face to the side.

I lock the door. I somewhat cringe as the clicking sound breaks the silence. What a racist I must be.

"You have the wrong place, I'm sorry," I tell him.

The man continues to talk and I drown out his voice by yelling, "You have the wrong place. This is T. Tony doesn't live here."

I go back to my computer and sit down. For a moment, I actually feel a little bad about the blatant clicking noise and how African Americans have to put up with those sort of little things all the time. I begin editing my previous entry "Baseball". I added fake stats at the bottom that included my 3 seasons of coach's pitch and remember having outlandish batting averages like 51/52 on the season. I'm laughing as I wonder if anyone is going to think I'm really bragging about this when I hear another knock at the door, about 10 minutes after the last incident.

"This is shady," I think to myself. As usual when I answer the door, I begin making a plan to get out of a sticky situation, should I find myself in one. I'm not sure how common this is amongst guys, but I ponder getting my 7-iron, which is usually what I go with. I decided to go up there with my fists and told myself to simply not answer the door this time.

I look through the peep-hole again. I was frustrated as it was the same guy. People like this tick me off when they don't know when to quit.

"What?" I yell through the door.

"Hey man, I got this address written down, I need help finding this place," he said. I know what you're thinking and if it has something to do with me being a moron or falling for a trick, then to you I say "shut the fuck up". Me and you are very different people.

"Sorry, I just moved here, I have no clue man," I yell through the door.

"Man, please, I'm really lost," he said. He held up the paper to the peep-hole.

I figure, "What the hell, I can help him out and he will go away."

I crack the door open and look the guy in the face.

"You ever seen this address?" The man says.

He holds up the piece of paper to me and I realize it's a receipt with a squiggly line written on it.

"This isn't adding up at all," I think, feeling weird as I realize there's something truly fucked up about to happen.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm sorry I can't help," I say, as I lean my body back inside and begin to close the door. (This is getting hard to write)

I feel a small force from his side that's pushing against the door as I close it. The gears turn in my brain.

"I'm about to get robbed," I think.

When something like this happens, your brain switches into a mode that only certain types of people can enjoy. Everything you do is instinctual. You want to live. It's completely primitive. They say survival and reproduction are the only true pieces of a primate brain, in that order of importance. Mine was set on survival mode immediately.

As I begin to push the door as hard as I can, I realize that it was definitely true. He began pushing hard, attempting to force himself in.

"Mother fucker!" I yell. "fuck no." But the son of a bitch was overpowering me. I let him in, knowing that the only ways I could get out of this was to run or fight. I wasn't winning this door battle.

Run or fight? If any of you truly know me, there's really only one option for me. I'm a runner. And when I'm scared, there's no chance of catching me. Ask the Officer from BPD. No chance.

However, upon further review, there was really nowhere to run. I was trapped in my own house and the door was blocked by the very thing I was running from.

So, I chose fight. The man came through door and I grabbed his neck as hard as I could and wrestled him into the wall. He went about 6'2", 190, according to my description to the police.

"I have a gun mother fucker, I'm going to kill you," he said.

I went into shock. I sort of blacked out at this point, but the next thing I remember I was on the ground staring at my Rawlings baseball bag. I didn't have a gun mother fucker. But I would have killed him.

So I'm on the ground with this tall, black man on me. I feel the gun on my head. Round, metallic hole.

"Where's the money mother fucker," he said. The word 'the' struck me as odd.

"In my wallet. You win. I'll give you whatever you want. FUCK.," I tell him. He lets me up and I go over to my wallet.

I open the wallet and pull out a "measley" 25 dollars and hand it to him.

"That's it?," he says. I wanted to explain to him the law of Beggars and Choosers, but now really wasn't the time. I also notice his neck is all fucked up. I look down at my finger nails and see muck and greasy mire spread throughout, the likes of which have never been seen. Atleast I got something.

I was scared to look at his neck for more than a split second, I didn't want him to get more mad. He was already appalled by my lack of money. I know, I'm so poor. I offer him my credit card and debit card and whatever else was in my wallet.

He eyes my TV. My brand new TV. My 36" plasma flat screen Olevia brand fuckin' new $700 TV.

"Start unplugging that TV. Hurry."

"Unplug it?"

"Yeah mother fucker, unplug that shit! Do it fast and you better not fuck it up."

At one point, I had given up. That was the point when I woke up with the black guy above me with a gun to my head. But for some reason at this point I decided this wasn't over. Maybe it was the way he was tearing through my wallet and casting these "useless" items to the ground in disgust as I was unplugging my TV. Leaving them there for me or whoever was cleaning up my body to pick up later. Maybe it was the fact that this guy was in MY house, telling me what to do with MY new TV. "Not fuck it up". That's what got me.

"I can't unplug this shit," I told him, getting up from behind the TV. I had spent some time frantically tugging on wires from behind my TV after he told me to "unplug" it. It's hard to do when your hands are shaking and a dude is standing there with a gun, throwing crap from your wallet onto your ground that you pay for.

"Shut the fuck up and hurry," he said.

I eyed the door.

"You can have the TV," I said, and I meant it. "Fuck this. I'm not unplugging my own TV."

I eye the back door and take a quick step towards it. Trust me, since he first started pushing on my door, I was looking for any type of exit strategy. Once I got to running, I'll be gone and he can do what he want with my house. I just needed to go for it. That's when I got what I can look back on and say was "pistol whipped".

As I said, I took one quick step. Then there was a flash (this was the pistol whip). I figured I got punched.

"Now you better go unplug that TV. And quit yelling, mother fucker."

Looking back, I believe I was saying a lot more things to this guy as he was digging through my wallet, standing in my house because he kept telling me to quit talking and to quit yelling, but I'm just really not sure.

Just then, another black man came through the door. Shorter, a little fatter, a little more clean cut.

"Don't worry about that mother fuckin' TV," he said, "Where's the dope?"

Before the "where's the dope" comment, I was 50/50 in my mind about my chances of dying. There were several moments with the first guy that involved him pushing me around and sticking the gun in my face, threatening to kill me, but I can't place them in proper order in this story. Just know it was happening, and I gave myself a good chance of getting shot.

After "where's the dope", I upped it to 75/25. I flashed back to what happened to my neighbors and how weird I felt knowing it could have been me. Now it was me, and I knew a misunderstanding was about to happen.

"I don't have any fuckin' drugs. I don't do that shit man" I told him.

"Don't fuckin lie. You owe some people a lot of money, so you better give us the drugs or the money," #2 said.

"Dude, I wouldn't lie right now I'm pretty fuckin' scared yall can have whatever yall want just please don't kill me," I said.

"Shut the fuck up," #1 said, "Just know that if you're lying, we're gonna fuckin kill you."

"Scour my house," I said. It was funny, because for the first time in my life I felt like I was telling the truth to get out of trouble. Hell, I even thought there was a chance they'd let me have my TV.

As #2 went scouring the house, #1 talked a lot of shit to me. He told me to start unplugging the TV again. When #2 came back, he realized I wasn't the right guy.

He seemed very sensible and was clearly the leader of the two. "Say man, you really have no clue why we're here?"

"No fucking clue," I said, "I'm not in that shit."

"Well the last guy that lived here, he fucked with some bad mother fuckers," he said. Again, I hate S. I thought about all that mail he left in my box, now this. I even told the thugs about the mail thing and how I hate that mother fucker too, so we have something in common.

"Yeah man he fucked with the Colombians, man," #1 said. "And we just here to collect. When someone fucks with the Colombians, they send us. If we don't get what they want, they send 50 more." As he said all this he kept approaching me and waving the gun in my face.

"Yeah so we gonna take your TV," the sensible one said. "Cause if we come back with nothing, we fucked." He seemed a little sorry that this was happening. He went into my room as I unplugged the rest of my TV, not so nervous this time. This time however, when I put my hands behind the
TV, I got a little spooked as blood poured from my face onto my new TV stand. Stained wood. I was a little worried that the pistol whip was much worse than I originally thought and the adrenaline was getting me through. I touched my face and looked down in disgust at my blood soaked left hand. "This is so fucked up," I thought.

"Now pick that shit up and put it on this blanket," #1 said as I realized #2 went into my room to get my bed spread to cover my tv so that they could take it from my house with my TV getting fucking damaged. He made me carry it over to my new couch and set it down. I looked around my house in disgust, as I realized that #2 had gone through all my new shit, looking for money and drugs...

#1 was a very angry person. #2 kept leaving the room, I guess to go look-out for cops as well as bringing the TV to the car. Everytime 2 would leave the room, 1 would threaten me and my percentage of getting killed would go up in my head. #1 made me sit on my new couch. I sat, but tried to stand just out of nervousness. He pushed my back down and pointed the gun at me. God, I wanted #2 to come back inside. He kept #1 in check. #2 apologized for 1 making me bleed. He said that was unnecessary and he's gonna give him shit for it on the car ride back.

"It's all good," I said. It really was. I honestly felt they wouldn't kill me. I just wanted them to leave. It was funny, though. He kept asking if I had gold. He wanted to steal my jewelry so he could pawn it off. I said, "Do I look like the kind of guy who has gold?"

"Go get him a towel for his face," 2 said to 1. 1 walked to my room, reluctantly. 2 explained that I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time (yes, my house was the wrong place, wrong time) and that I took it like a champ. He actually gave me dap. Fuckin' tool, I thought. But I was glad he was there.

1 came back with the towel.

"Here you go, mother fucker," he threw my towel onto my shoulder, "clean yo' shit up."

I wiped my face and the side of my head and looked down at the towel with disgust. There was a lot of blood. I touched the side of my head and realized the top of my ear was cut up pretty bad.

At this point, #1 was still playing hard ass. I kept noticing his scratched-up neck and figured he was still pissed about the tiff we got into by the door. 2 continued to talk and express sympathy and explained to me how if I call the cops they will send 50 mother fuckers on me. He wanted me to be calm before they left. We talked about how I had renter's insurance and would get money for the TV. He actually gave me dap again before he left and told me to have a nice night and walked out the door.

1 stayed. He came up behind my ear, whispered some shit about how you don't fuck with Colombians (what a tool), clearly trying to scare me out of calling the cops. As he was walking out the door, I got really upset that I didn't own a gun. I slammed my hat down. Just as he walked out the door into the hallway of my building, as I still sat on the sofa as ordered, he turned around...

he touched his bloody neck and said, "You lucky my boy showed up."

He closed my door and ran down my hallway. I heard him get into someone else's car and peel off.

There, still on my couch, I touched my ear and said, "You're lucky mine didn't."

I sat on the couch, in shock, looking around my house. I was somewhat scared to move.

When I finally worked up the courage to get up, I quickly went over to my front door and locked it. The click of the lock pierced the weirdest silence of my life. It was the sweetest sound in the world.

And I'm totally ok.

UPDATE:
I officially broke the lease at my apartment because I don't want anymore people showing up looking for S, who I really have a good reason hate next the whole mail thing.

I found I new place to live and will move on May 9th.

After I felt the guys were definitely gone, I SPRINTED out to my truck and drove about 70 mph down Westheimer to my sister's house. Due to the adrenaline and thankfulness of being alive, I laughed during the whole car ride. I was glad it happened. When I got there (around 11:15-11:30), I went up to her door and banged on it. She didn't answer. I went up to some random people, with a bloody white t-shirt on and a mangled ear and borrowed their cell phone. I called my sister and she let me in. Then I called the cops and filed a report.

The thugs also stole my cell phone so I couldn't call the cops. I got one off ebay today so it's all good.

Renter's isurance for me covers 10K in damage, so i'm good on that.

The place I'm moving to is really nice and I think I'll like it even better, so I'm good on that.

One last thing: If this were 2007, my new years resolution would be in absolute ruin.

I'm glad it happened. I know it's messed up for me to feel that way, but instead of convincing me that I'm not glad it happened, just be glad it wasn't you.

Hyperbole...

This was neither the greatest nor the dumbest call of my life, but I haven't played poker in over a month so it felt like it. I'm Gumby Damnit.

ANNA KOURNIKOVA!

This is both the greatest and the dumbest call I have ever made in my life. I would like to preface this hand by letting you know that I had no previous reads or tells on player 3 and I had no weird premonitions that he was bluffing. I had no good reason to think this. I made the call for one reason and one reason only: pot odds or something?

Poker Game #xxx: Hold'em No Limit ($0.25/$0.50) - 2008/04/22 - 22:05:51 (ET)

Table II 6-max Seat #6 is the button

Seat 1: PLAYER 1 ($151.45 in chips)

Seat 3: PLAYER 3 ($41.95 in chips)

Seat 4: ME ($43.40 in chips) I came in with 50.

Seat 5: PLAYER 5 ($120.55 in chips) Best player at the table; table captain; solid and pretty shrewd for a small stakes player, tends to attack blinds and limpers with raises 4 to 5 times the big blind.

Seat 6: PLAYER 6 ($50.75 in chips)

PLAYER 1: posts small blind $0.25

PLAYER 3: posts big blind $0.50

*** HOLE CARDS ***

Dealt to ME [Ac Kh]

ME: calls $0.50 Yes, I limped with AK. This has nothing to do with being a tricky and trappy player only that I was attempting to trick and trap Player 5. As I said before, he often attacks early limpers. I attempted this very thing in the previous hand with AQo (didn't show it down), and he folded, so I'm taking another stab. Also, I had been limping with a lot of cards, seeing about 40% of the flop and rarely raising pre-flop.

PLAYER 5: raises $2 to $2.50 Exactly what I wanted, I plan to re-raise to about $7.5-8 and assume he will fold. Hope he doesn't hold a high pair.

PLAYER 6: folds

PLAYER 1: folds

PLAYER 3: calls $2 I don't know much about this player, but he has now become my target to make money on the hand. I want Player 5 out. Knowing Player 5 could have made that raise with any two decent cards to attack my limp, I expect him to fold. I also know he'll call with the right odds and if he thinks player 5 will also call, so I feel I have to bet a "high number". This is something I do to get points across at the poker table, whether in a tournament or in a cash game. The last thing that goes before a player's mind while making a call or re-raise of another person's bet is that dollar amount on the push-button. That's why I like to make bet amounts that make an impression. In tournaments it's a lot easier to do because the amounts are generally credits and are higher in number than the dollar amounts I play with at the table, allowing for more creativity. For example, if the "correct" bet amount (to me) is about 250 to 300 and I have a monster hand, I'm more inclined to bet an amount like 290 than 300. If I'm bluffing, I'm going with exactly 200 or 300.When you go to Wal-Mart, is there any item there that sells for $3.00 on the nose? No, it's going to sell for $2.95 or $2.99. And guess what, dumb people are more likely to buy it. It's the same concept. In this case, I don't want to make a sale, so I want to bet as high as I can. 10 looks like a big number, so I raise to $10 more. Player 5 will see a big, glaring 2-digit number that ends in a zero when he is trying to make this call. This is also the point in the hand where I realize I'm either going to make or lose a lot of money and I actually think to myself, "T, don't be scared to make a good call post-flop call when you don't hit". In other words, I prepare myself to make a move when no ace or king hits.

ME: raises $10 to $12.50

PLAYER 5: folds "TEN DOLLA!!"

PLAYER 3: raises $11 to $23.50 I actually don't really care about this that much, let's just see the flop and figure things out. He didn't take the chance to re-raise earlier but I figure that's mostly because I think I was coming off as being a weak player at the table and player 5 was coming off very strong. He's probably got A-x or 6-6 or KQ or something. Don't ever have a fear of flopping; the other player has just as much on his plate as you. Remember, most flops miss most hands...

ME: calls $11

*** FLOP *** [2h Tc 8s] Crap. The pot is almost 50 and each of us have about 20 left. I'm pretty much pot committed, and I pretty much know he's going all in, assuming I didn't hit this and that I won't be able to make a call with two high cards. Honestly though, my story adds up on my side as AK, Queens or maybe Jacks and his story looks about the same.

PLAYER 3: bets $18.45 and is all-in Not a bad move witih any two cards considering the pot.

ME: calls $18.45

*** TURN *** [2h Tc 8s] [9h]

*** RIVER *** [2h Tc 8s 9h] [4s]

*** SHOW DOWN ***

PLAYER 3: shows [Jd 5d] (high card Jack) The son of a bitch had J5s. I'm really glad he didn't hit a jack or a five. I think he put me on AK or AQ and knew that flop didn't hit me and that I would fold. He was right except for the last part.

ME: shows [Ac Kh] (high card Ace)

ME collected $84.65 from pot "I'M GOING TO WRITE THIS IN MY BLOG!!!"

*** SUMMARY ***

Total pot $86.65 | Rake $2

Board [2h Tc 8s 9h 4s]

Seat 1: PLAYER 1 (small blind) folded before Flop

Seat 3: PLAYER 3 (big blind) showed [Jd 5d] and lost with high card Jack

Seat 4: ME showed [Ac Kh] and won ($84.65) with high card Ace

Seat 5: PLAYER 5 folded before Flop

Seat 6: PLAYER 6 (button) folded before Flop (didn't bet)

We didn't really learn much, here. I mostly made a pot odds play. I'd probably usually fold in that spot because 20 dollars is 20 dollars. Anyways, Goodnight.

FTR- I really did feel my Ace-high was good.

Baseball

Last summer, I took an internship at a prominent pharmaceuticals manufacturing company somewhere in Texas. They paid me well and paid me by the hour, offering time-and-a-half for any overtime. My boss was a really nice guy, and you could tell he was a very shy guy. You could tell he felt bad when he gave me work to do, which worked out great because I didn't want to do any work. I wanted to sit at my desk all day long doing nothing* and get paid. So that's exactly what I did...

That is until I realized I could do something productive with my time. I began researching the hell out of baseball at baseball-reference.com. I spent 8, 9, 10 hours a day just looking up each and every player I could think of, attempting to find their rightful place in history. It all started when I became curious about how many years Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb spent playing at the same time. Often people think about historical events or figures as mutually exclusive. Turns out, Cobb hated Ruth and his home-run-hitting style. I uncovered so much information and got paid. It was awesome. By the end of the summer, I had a detailed Excel spreadsheet of every great player who ever played the game. I ranked them by several different methods and finally came up with my official list, in order. It's solid. All-in-all, I'd say I spent a good 300 hours on this, and will reveal my list in my next entry.

I should supplement the story about being "productive" at work with this tidbit of information: I am a freaking baseball nut. I used to be an addict. At any given time since I was 8 and obtained a subscription to Baseball Digest (my mom supported my habit at the time), I've pretty much known too much about baseball for my own good. I really do know a lot. I'm talking about real baseball. The game and the players. I don't care about contracts, trades, or what percentage of the league is or isn't white, Latino, or African American. I don't care about too much that has happened to the sport since 1970 except for my stellar little league career that was cut short by growing pains in the ankles. I care about who's playing and how they play it. Before my first little league game, my mom told me to "be aggressive". She probably gave me this advice because I was a passive little kid who really didn't even want to play. I didn't even play the first year I was old enough. I was too scared and apathetic. However, when I stepped between the lines for the first time, something changed. After getting the meaning of the word clarified, all I thought in my head was "be aggressive". And aggressive, I was. Like everything else in life, I took a mile when I was given an inch. I was given a small piece of information ("be aggressive") and turned it into an entire playing style. A style the likes of which probably has never been seen before and will never be seen again (unless I have a son someday). I turned aggressive into maniacal (pronounced muh-nye-uh-kull not maniac-ull). Keep in mind, I'm still talking about a 7-year-old. Before going any further, I just want to let you know I'm not making this up. I have the memory of a field lark. I remember all of these things. When I first began playing, they had me at third base. This is coach's pitch, where your coach tosses you the ball under-handed. One issue is that none of the little kids want to play outfield. Right field was the worst. Left field was the second worst player on the team. The best player on the field must be your pitcher. This is because the entire game centers on fielding the ball and getting the ball back to the pitcher, who has to catch the throw and make sure he's inside of the circle where a pitcher's mound would normally be. He must be able to catch the baseball. The second best player plays first base. This is because your first baseman must also be able to catch the ball. Some teams even had the best player at first base (mostly the case when the coach's son wasn't the best player on the team and wanted to play pitcher). When you're 7 and playing baseball, there are two types of people: those who "can catch" and those who "can't catch". Those who "can" are fewer and far between and have to be utilized efficiently on the field. Well, when I was seven, I "could catch". I was capable of catching a baseball. I caught the ball when it was thrown to me. Some kids just move out of the way, some kids stick their gloves out and close their stupid eyes and most of them stiffen up and simply miss it. I caught the son of a bitch. The team I was on was the Yankees. Three kids on the team could catch: Brian, Jason, and myself. This kid Rich was pretty good, but he was white trash and was completely ignored by the coach. Brian and Jason were the assistant coaches' sons so they occupied pitcher and first base, respectively. At the time, there was much debate around coaching circles about the placement of the "third kid who can catch". You know the top two are playing pitcher and first. It really helps to have two or three extra kids who can catch so you can stick one and shortstop and one at third or second. The Yankees didn't have this luxury. So, us having 3 created somewhat of a dilemma. Where will his catching skills be most utilized? They decided to stick me at third base. It was a pretty smart choice. 7-year-olds aren't going to be throwing anyone out anyway unless it's hit to the second baseman. Some theories suggest you stick your third best "kid who can catch" at second base. However, not enough pop-ups are hit in this direction. Even a mediocre kid can field a slow-rolling baseball and toss it over to the first baseman. This is why a coach with a son who can't catch will more than likely stick him at second. Damage control. However, the kid is playing infield and gets to make plays so he won't whine too much. This was the case with the Yankees. Therefore, with studies showing that a few more little league fly balls are hit to third base than short stop, I would have to agree with the decision at the time that third base was the least poor choice to stick me. Having never played or cared about it before, I was perfectly fine where ever. I wasn't really aware that I "could catch". I just didn't want to screw up. I played two or three games at third and, by then, had worked my way up to the lead-off spot in the order (the fast kid who doesn't hit home runs but gets a hit every time). Somewhere in the middle of the third or fourth game, a light bulb went off in our coach's head. We were getting shelled by the Astros. Hit after hit was dropping in left field. This is common in little league. The coach is willing to give up this part of the field, as most kids can't hit pop ups all the way to the outfielder, and a 7-year-old's ability to catch decreases with every inch of height and distance that the ball travels. Besides, 7-year olds aren't fast and don't have the mental make-up to dive for a ball in the outfield and still make a catch. You stick your second worst player on the team there to take up space and swat flies, and leave your good players to make the easy outs when they come. That is unless your third best player is a freaking madman. That's where I came in. As I said, midway during the game, a routine fly ball was hit to our left field. Of course, he missed it (keep in mind, one of the great moments of any little league season is when your worst player on the team makes a lucky catch in the outfield. The moms love it. Your team gets an out. Everyone wins.) Our coach called time out and ran out to me at third base. The conversation went something like this:

Coach: You feeling like playing some left field for us.
Me: (Shrug and muttered the little kid "I don't know")
Coach: Good.

(Side note: You see, Coach had something up his sleeve since the first day of practice. We were taking infield at the beginning, and I was stuck at catcher. I was getting frustrated that after the infielders made plays, they would throw it to the assistant coach who would either roll it by me to the bucket or throw it to the head coach at home plate, who had a glove on one hand and a bat in the other. Throw it to me, damnit, and take your huge glove off. Finally, I had enough. The assistant coach tossed one in over my head right into the glove of Coach. When Coach looked down, my glove was inside of his with the ball resting peacefully in my glove. I had jumped up and reached back, catching the ball just before it landed in his glove. He laughed. He had his eye on me. I was a shy kid, but once it was my turn to do something, I did it all out...)

The coach called in the poor little bastard from left field and stuck him at third base. I ran out to the outfield. There were two outs. On the very next pitch, a ball was crushed right to me. I caught it. I ran to the dugout as fast as I could as the moms yelled their crazy asses off. I forgot to throw the ball back to the umpire, I was so pumped. Someone mentioned, "He doesn't want to let go of it." Like I was surprised and so happy about my catch. No, I was excited. Not at my catch, but at the ability to make people yell when you do something good. No one knew, except the coaches from practice, that I could do that. Very few balls had been hit to me up to that point.

"They thought that was good?" I thought. "I'm gonna like this shit."

For the rest of the season (until the last game), I did everything I could to dive for every ball that came anywhere near my parameters in the outfield. Oh, and I caught every last one of them. Sometimes, I would run all the way into the infield and completely lay out for a ball that was supposed to be the third baseman's. Eff him, he had his chance. I caught balls all the way in right field. I jumped the fence one time in attempt to catch a fly ball. I would run out of the way of balls that were right to me so that I could run back and dive. That's the point in my life where I officially became cocky. By the end of the season, everyone knew what was up. On the last game, the situation came to a head when Brian "went out of town" and "couldn't make it". Go figure. The Yankees needed someone to play pitcher to go above .500 on the season. It was my time now. There was a buzz all week at practices as word spread that I would be on the mound and as I was taking a few of Brian's reps during infield. When game time finally came, and I took my rightful spot in the middle of that diamond, I decided to take my game to another level. By the end of that game, my entire uniform was officially one big grass stain. My pants were tattered from a season of head-first dives, cop-style body rolls, slides at the plate and fence-climbs. After the game (which we won), as many of the fans would be seeing me for the last time (until next Spring), they were offering their congratulations on a fine game at pitcher. Things like "Well, I guess we didn't need Brian!" and "You did a great job." My favorite one, however, was when Jason's dad came up to me, put his arm on my shoulder and said, "You should have been playing pitcher the whole season." No hard feelings. Hearing these things was worth it. Besides, it felt really good as I answered each of these comments with "I know."

*In the early stages of the internship, I went so far as to set up an elaborate and detailed Excel spreadsheet which included things like my time in to work, my time out, what I did that day (usually N/A was filled in to this cell) and it calculated how much money I was earning in real time, right down to the penny. It was awesome. Some days I literally sat there, chuckling, and typed in the minutes as they went by, watching the total earnings cell go up. The spreadsheet accounted for time over 40 hours for the week. Typing those minutes in were the most fun.