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Feel Good Hit Of The Summer

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  “I hate her. I wish she was dead!” I blurted out those words in reference to my Mother. At the time, I was sixteen, apparently the age during which confrontation with any real emotion leads to a one way street where only exclamations worthy of a Degrassi Junior High script reside. I shamefully spat out that sentence while standing next to a beach volleyball court located at a bar in my hometown called Suds. Yes, I was sixteen years old and at a bar; a bar that was called Suds. At the time, it’s possible the median age of their clientele may have been around eighteen years, three hundred and sixty four days old. So, in comparison I wasn’t THAT young, plus, I didn’t drink alcohol anyway. Still, it was at that establishment filled with “adults” when I said it. “I hate her. I wish she was dead!” I did. I KNOW those were the exact words I said, because I remember the whole event vividly, as well as the isolating humiliation that followed after I realized how childish that must have so...

The Mystery Of George William Smith & Everything Else On The Planet.

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George William Smith. My Father’s Father’s Mother’s Father. Got that? Until 2017, when I descended into the endless plummet known as genealogy, his existence was unknown to me. I was not aware his daughter, Myrtle Marie Smith was my Great Grandmother. You see, within two weeks of signing up for a genealogy website, I acquired more information about my paternal Grandfather’s family than I had learned in 39 years prior. I also learned that family secrets, they are plentiful. That if something is made quiet long enough, it might just die within a generation, and the next generation will in theory be left oblivious, all the while wondering “What the hell was that? "Why is this happening?” Quick example, my Mother’s first cousin was unaware that she suffered from schizophrenia until I told him. Four months ago. He’s 76. Also, keep in mind, four months ago was sixteen years after she passed away. Hell, even I didn’t learn about my Mom’s diagnosis until my Dad and I w...

SPORTS FOR THE PEOPLE

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Enter Jurassic Park.    Inoculate yourself, for the sickness is Raptors fever.    Please everyone, enjoy the moment, but understand I have no horse in this race.    I grew up a Detroit Pistons fan.    In high school, as my love of baseball faded into childhood memory it was immediately replaced by basketball.    I haven’t watched a NBA game since I moved to my “new market” in 2002.    I had zero interest in my only basketball option, which was subscribing to cable so I could watch the 2002 Toronto Raptors.  I let it fade away. As it was with baseball when I moved north, I met no basketball fans.    It took little time to realize that I had moved to Hockeyville, and I was completely content with that.    So, as the Raptors currently near the apex of sports accomplishment, I can’t help but be reminded of summer 2015, which in turn reminds me of our recent political history. In the Spring and early summer ...

"Number 41. Designated hitter, Victor Martinez."

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 In 2011, the simple fact that my internet speed could finally handle the workload of streaming MLB.TV meant that I could watch the baseball playoffs for the first time since I was a teenager.  Baseball is one of the first things I remember being good at.  I could draw well.  I had a penchant for above average mimicry. Then baseball, well, it made sense to me from the first time I played it, and as I grew older, I became pretty darn good at it.  The first year I played, I was five years old.  My Mom was the coach.  My babysitter, her assistant.  “Paging Dr. Freud.”  I had no interest in what professional baseball players were doing, I only wanted to play it.   At age nine, the Detroit Tigers installed a foundation that has yet to crumble, even if the structure built above it collapsed. In 1987, the American League East division had seven teams.  Wild Cards were still seven seasons away, and the first place team from the East, p...