I got a call from Nemo this morning at about 9, and I assumed he was just returning my call from last night and firming up plans for the weekend. I had been out enjoying the beautiful morning, missed the call, and listened to the message on the way to work.

It sounded like the call was made from an elevator or a raquetball court, and I thought I heard him say, "I'm sure you've read the terrible news. It's a pretty sad day." And I hadn't read the news, and I didn't know what was terrible. So I thought the worst: A national disaster of some level; an attack, or an assassination or something like that. Couldn't be, though, though I hadn't really turned on a television or a radio this morning. Then I thought - sarcasm - and thought the best: The Cubs have fired Dusty, because he earned it.

So I put it out of my mind, sang along with the CD for the rest of the 15-minute drive to work, and greeted my coworkers as I arrived.

And I open my work email - subject line "Terrible Loss" from a previous coworker, and reference to the news. And then I open my personal email, and my dad sent one a message with the subject line "Randy Walker," and above that, Nemo's message, "Randy Walker - Dead at 52."

Shock. Sadness. Shock. Shock. Stunned. Intense, intense sadness. Sadness that can ruin a weekend, or a week. And I don't think that's an exaggeration.

- - - - -

For one four-month stretch, Randy Walker was a very big part of my life. It was a wild part of his life as well, as Northwestern football rose from afterthought or joke or "those cute little boys from Chicago" to one of the biggest stories in college football. At the start of the season, with no expectations, I had a half-hour appointment with him, every Friday morning. We were to record a 10-minute interview, and take off. Inevitably, this session would become a half-hour of small talk, a 10-minute interview ("Uh, coach, as we always do, we'll start by asking, How was this week of practice?"), and another 20 minutes of small talk. Small talk was sometimes football- or player-related, but it was mostly life-related. His philosophies on working hard and being persistent.

He was a man who practiced what he preached, never a man who would have to resort to the lame phrase, "Do as I say, not as I do."

Anyway, late summer turned into early fall, and Northwestern toppled number seven Wisconsin (you can still hear the sound of Nemo gasping, and of the Badger fan cursing in front of him), and then they destroyed number 17 Michigan State and then, as late fall hit, they won the greatest regular season football game the Big Ten has ever seen, 54-51 over Michigan. And suddenly, demands on our humble football coach from Central Ohio were greater. A national interview here, a TV interview there, but, always, without fail, a spare hour for the squeaky-voiced, arrogant college radio dweebs on Friday morning.

When you're a college student whose life pretty much centers around yourself, you don't realize what a burden you are on "real adults." When you're a "real adult," you realize how self-centered and arrogant most college students are. Randy Walker had time for the self-centered, arrogant college students, and that's reflective of his personality.

Northwestern University has lost - I'm sure - its best ambassador. A man who spouted every cliche in the book, and believed every one of them. He was never the most colorful or interesting, but he was the most engaging.

I'll miss Randy Walker for several reasons, and certainly the success of the football program is one of them. But I'll miss him because he was a true believer in collegiate athletics - he believed in the importance of Sport as an avenue to develop young people into better adults. He didn't just believe in the importance of victories; he believed in the importance of improving young people.

Mostly, I'll miss him because he was a great face for the football team, for the athletic department, for the Big Ten, and for Northwestern University. One of the most passionate, wonderful, engaging people I've ever had the chance to meet.

Thanks for your 52 years, Coach.

My off day was everything I hoped for. Both soccer matches were entertaining, I ate a few mangoes, I got a good (though slightly slow) run in, and I stopped by the eye doctor. (Still no proper fit but, hey, the visit was free and the doctor was friendly.) I also used a paper towel and some scrubbing bubbles to clean my K-Swisses. They look pretty hot.

No doubt, though, the highlight of the day was my maiden visit to the ring fingernail public library. Built in 1998, it is a gem. I had gone in expressly for one thing - any Haruki Murakami novel, at Gurs' recommendation - and made a cursory stop by the CD racks. Wow!

Among the things in the CD racks:
- At least three Elf Power releases
- Something by Guadalcanal Diary
- A few Public Image Limited things
- Guided by Voices releases Do the Collapse and Mag Earwhig!
- No Pavement records

Lots of impressive stuff, really, in a variety of genres.

So, I settled on three things as I browsed:
- Four Tet's Rounds
- Cee-Lo's "Cee-Lo Green and His Perfect Imperfections"
- Elf Power's Walking With the Beggar Boys

Is it good? Yup, the Four Tet is fascinating to listen to and the Elf Power record is tremendous. Or, at least, I like it as much as I liked their A Dream In Sound when I picked it up in 1999. Point is, nothing bad can come from an expansive and odd selection at the local public library, right? Free, dude, free!

I checked out Murakami's Kafka on the Shore. I cruised through the first 60 pages last night, and that's worth something. Very breezy and entertaining, it seems.

- - - - - - - -

Pitchfork published a report that Neutral Milk Hotel's Jeff Mangum is planning, maybe, on releasing music again. This would be about the greatest news ever.

It could suck, and it could not happen, and it could be a hoax, but it sure would be great to hear him wail into a microphone again. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and On Avery Island and Jeff Mangum Live at Jittery Joe's and the 1996 Aquarius Records bootleg are almost equally amazing. Wow.

I'd settle for Jeff Mangum just yelling, I think. It'd be meaningful yelling.

- - - - - - - -

So I yelled at my boss today. He was spouting nonsense ("Major League Baseball is going to install a 21-year-old age minimum for draft picks") and I was feeling ill and had a headache and he was interrupting some work that I was doing and then he said, "The average major league baseball rookie is 29 years old," to which I said, "[Boss], you're wrong!" And then I stated facts and he stated misinformation for about five minutes, and I got all riled up. And then, like I always do after conflict, I felt shaken.

So, not because I was shaken, but because it was the right thing to do, I apologized before I left. It was good. A handshake. A statement from him to me of, "Don't worry. [Handshake] We're pals, right?" It was odd to go through but, damn, it was frustrating to have to listen to somebody be so wrong about so many things.

- - - - - - -

Grammatical errors made in the press release I was editing when interrupted by this inanity:

Lack of subject verb agreement, in the headline
(i.e. [plural noun] "presents")
Inability to place the periods in the abbreviation "p.m."
Inability to place a comma between the day and date, on three occasions (i.e. Monday June 3, 2006)

The writer of this release is about a month of internship away from graduating college. Seems to me like she's ill-prepared for the workplace.

- - - - - - -

I don't particularly like Tyrus Thomas, though I like him better than LaMarcus Aldridge. I like that Swiss dude, mostly because he's a Swiss black dude born in South Africa.

- - - - - - -

Hilarious, or pathetic, or just sad back-to-back emails from my Dad from Tuesday night. (If this is deemed to be a breach of privacy, it will be removed.)

Sent: 10:41 p.m.
Subject: David's Wedding
[...drivel about flight plans and my brother's wedding. important drivel, but drivel nonetheless...]

Love, Dad............and MOM
[ed: that's his trademark]
P.S. The Cubs are going into the 9th with the lead!!!!!!!!

Sent: 10:53 p.m.
Subject: Cubs
Well, it sure didn't take long for the Cubs to blow the lead. Infield single, walk, error, error and sacrifice fly. So a 5-4 lead has quickly turned into a 7-5 deficit with only 1 out.

Love, Dad..........GO TIGERS!

I'm not sure there's much to this post. Catching up on a missed week. Not much really happens when the team's at home, because I'm at the ballpark all day.

- - - - -

Sunday night marked the conclusion of our first six-game homestand, and I'm tired. This is due to the fact that:
a) Workdays that start at 10 and end at 11 are long
b) The staff generally goes out for at least a beer or two after every game, and I joined in for going-out after every game but Friday's.
c) I made the ambitious but stupid decision on Sunday morning to get up at 7 to do laundry, despite the fact that Monday was a road game day (home by 6:30) and that I didn't get to sleep until about 3 on Saturday night/Sunday morning.

Part of the reason that I didn't get to sleep until 3 on Saturday was due to my friend Cookie. I think Cookie kept me on the phone for about 80 minutes on Sunday night, after about 20 minutes of drunk Saturday night conversation. Cookie's pretty fantastic, one of my two favorite Twin Citizens.

- - - - -

The good news about the six-game homestand is that we've been granted a day off this week. I'll be taking it on Tuesday.

Instead of working on Tuesday, I will:
Run in the morning.
Go to the library by 10. Check out a book.
Watch Ghana-Brazil at 11.
Go to the eye doctor at 2.
Watch France-Spain at 3.
Perhaps, run again at 5.

I think this is a pretty good substitute for work.

- - - - - - - - -

I wrote a few weeks ago about our odd ownership situation: Husband-wife owner duo, son listed as third-in-command despite lack of experience and, more importantly, lack of presence in the office for most of the offseason.

So, third-in-command is the same general age as the rest of the staff but, as you'd imagine, his position in the organization and his relationship with (son of) / proximity to (in their house) the two owners leads to awkwardness. Like, staff may be out one night, and somebody might do something ridiculous, and the wife of the husband-wife will make a joke or a comment about it the next day or two days later. Not a friendly joke, but a degrading or dismissive or disrespectful joke. (They're pretty Christian, it turns out, and don't quite approve of alcohol-fueled debauchery.) Awkward. Not fun to have a spy in the ranks.

So the natural response is that people avoid third-in-command on the way out, in an effort to not let him know where things might be happening. (Now, we only ever go to the local redneck bar, so he probably should have it figured out by now.)

This came to an awful, weird conclusion on Saturday night, when probably 90 percent of our front office staff members and 95 percent of the players went to the local redneck bar.

A co-worker of mine had gone home to shower (ridiculous) before coming out, and arrived about a half-hour after the rest of the staff. Upon arrival, she said, "Crap. [Third-in-command] was right in front of me when I pulled into the parking lot. He's coming in."

But he never came in.

What could have happened:
a) He didn't find a parking spot, and left.
b) He wrote down license plate numbers of staff or players that were there.

Nothing else, right? That's a bit frustrating because, you know, we're adults. But we were being spied on. Happens, I guess.

- - - - - - - -

Nemo's father-in-law got a heart transplant on Monday. At last check, he was doing well. Awesome. It was about the best news I'd heard ever. Awesome. Seriously. Really cool.

Nemo's also coming to the ring finernail on Saturday. Not as awesome, but pretty cool, too.

- - - - - - - -

I should clarify last week's statement about jumping on the Tigers bandwagon. This is not a permanent move, but it will sure make following baseball more fun the rest of this season. The Cubs are in the blood, and they're always my number one team. But the fact is that, for now, my focus is on what the Tiges have going on. I watched about three innings tonight. They won. I followed the Cubs on the scroll this evening; they sucked, and I've had enough.

Next year, I'm refocusing on the Cubs, until they're out of it by mid-May.

Steve Phillips just advocated the Tiges trading Joel Zumaya for John Smoltz. Even now, I think the Tiges would get the short end of that deal. Stick Zumaya in the closer's role, and watch the magic happen. He's awesome.

- - - - - -

If the first eight weeks of the NBA playoffs proved anything, it's that uptempo is back. (Unfortunately, the final four games proved that isolation and lots of fouls still win championships.)

Due to this fact, I want the Bulls to draft either Brandon Roy or Adam Morrison, and run like hell next year. The recipe the Suns used - 6-8 Boris Diaw at center, and a bunch of shooters - is a recipe that matches the Bulls personnel.

A Duhon-Gordon-Hinrich-Deng-Nocioni lineup could absolutely win in the NBA. Run, run, run. Envision Deng in the Marion role, and it works perfectly.

Who I don't want the Bulls to draft:
LaMarcus Aldridge, who is big and not much else.
Tyrus Thomas, who is a prospect because of four games.

Who I wouldn't mind them drafting:
That Italian dude, because I like Euros and I like guys called "The Next Dirk."

I don't usually read ESPN Magazine, but my free copy arrived today. There's a Mock Draft in there...and then the writer badmouths every mock selection that he's just made. It's absolutely awful.

- - - - - - - -

R/DS update: I'm pretty sure he doesn't like me; or, at least, I'm pretty sure that he completely resents me now. Though I'm pretty sure it's the first. He's taken to avoidance methods, leaving our shared office and heading to the broadcast booth by noon for a 7:00 game. I usually head down to the booth at about 5 and, by the time I get there, we're pretty much always moving to different rooms or conversing with different individuals. Works fine for me.

Related to last week's WIDiRViFOW:
During a broadcast this week, a runner was at second.

He: "Good hitter's count here. Do you think about the hit and run?"
Me: [I forget how I responded]

End of the inning:
Me: "I really don't think there's such thing as a hit and run with a runner at second?"
He: "Sure there is."
Me: "I disagree. You understand the strategy of the hit and run. You open up the opposite field - - "
He: "Yeah, of course I understand. With a guy at second, the batter aims towards the hole the third baseman leaves."
Me: "That's a pretty small spot to do it."
[pause]
He: "If I don't know something as simple as that, what right do I have to be doing this at all?"
Me: [looks to field, thankfully noticing that action is about to resume and our commercial is almost over]

At some point in the conversation, I said, "Please don't ever ask me about a hit-and-run with a man at second, because I don't think it exists."

Later in the broadcast, during a commercial, he cursed and declared me right. He never answered my question, "Why the change of heart?"

- - - - - - - -

The R/DS likes rooms to be completely freezing. He sets the apartment wall AC to 64 degrees. 64 degrees, which is, you know, cold. At the ballpark, he sets the hotel-style wall AC unit to "High Cool," which is also very cold.

So, on Sunday, I arrived at the office before he did. Doing advance damage, I turned on the office AC to Fan (rather than High Cool), and turned the temperature gauge to just to the blue side of the Red-Blue diagram.

R/DS walks in about 10 minutes after I did.

Before he could say "Hello" or "Good morning" (he never said "Hello" or "Good Morning"), he said, "IS THE AC SET TO 'FAN'?" "Yes." "DO YOU MIND IF I TURN IT TO 'COOL'?" "Go ahead."

And he did, and it was very cold.

- - - - - -

WIDiRVoFOW

This Week's Reason: He's got a whole bunch of never-used crap in the fridge.

List of Unused Items Jamming the Refrigerator (all since I arrived in mid-April...no joke!):

An unopened bag of Ida Red apples, in the crisper
A half-eaten two-pound bag of carrots, now sprouting
A unopened jar of cherry juice
A half-consumed pitcher of instant iced tea
One bottle of locally-produced wine
At least four bottles related to a beer home-brewing kit (both of these despite the fact that he doesn't drink)

Also, on top of the fridge, a five-pound bag of potatoes purchased at the end of April. Lots of sprouts on that one.

No further description needed. He sucks.

In my previous post, Wednesday night, I wrote about "not getting reps" and feeling pretty bad about my on-air performance in the early going. However, I had a real nice, confidence-building (maybe just heartwarming, or warm fuzzy-y) moment before the game Thursday.

I've spent a lot of time making small talk with one of the guys who works in our suites. He's a high school coach and teacher, and he's a pretty good conversationalist, and we both have time to kill at times, and he's not the R/DS. So, Thursday, about 90 minutes before game time, he stops by the booth.

He wants to know about my background, where I was before this and the like. So I talk about radio at NU, and about my time in the 'Port, and about leaving the 'Port, and about how nice it is here, being a member of an organization that the communicty seems to really appreciate and value. And we talk about the similar benefits of coaching and teaching in high school - having a positive impact on people.

So the conversation continues along those lines for eight or ten minutes, and he gets ready to head out. And he says, "Well, I just wanted to let you know that you do a really good job. Listeners get a sense of what's going on, but also of your optimism and your enthusiasm. And it's real nice to listen to."

So I brush it off, and give him an, "Aww, shucks," smile, but it really did mean a lot and it really did resonate. Sometimes, you need an ego-stroking, and it was a good time to get one.

(Whether or not he was right is another question. Answers will start to develop during our six-game homesteand, starting Tuesday.)

- - - - - - - - -

The Gimme Indie Rock is down to the Round of 16, and both GbV's "I Am a Scientist" and Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" remain. Get your vote in by Wednesday. Dayton's finest and Ruston's most deranged each send their gratitude.

- - - - - - - - -

U.S.-Italy on Saturday afternoon was absolutely thrilling. I watched the first half alone, squaling at every shot and gasping at every hard tackle. (Lots of hard tackles.) I watched the second half on the phone with Gurs, doing the same thing. My squeal on DaMarcus Beasley's (later disallowed) goal was a pretty good one.

Observations:

- Keller is awesome.
- Onyewu was fantastic.
- I had always thought Clint Dempsey was Clint Mathis. I hadn't seen Clint Dempsey play until Saturday. I love his aggressiveness, and the fact that he wasn't afraid of the Italians. I'm not saying that the U.S. would have gotten a point against the Czech Republic if Dempsey had played, but I will say that the Czechs wouldn't have been so thoroughly dominant.
- Bobby Convey was great. He would have been better if he could serve a decent cross every once in a while.
- I sure wish Eddie Johnson had gotten in the game in the final 15 minutes or so. But, with the 3-4-1 (?) alignment, I guess Arena couldn't risk a defensive lapse. A loss hurts you more than a win helps you there, I guess.
- I think Bruce Arena's probably gay. This is based on his tantrums after cards. For the record, I have no problem if Bruce Arena's gay.
- The Mastroeni card was complete crap, and hurts far more than the legitimate Eddie Pope cards.
- Donovan was a different player for whatever reason. Maybe he's finally no longer afraid of playing in Germany.
- Dave O'Brien is an idiot, but we already knew that.

The U.S. certainly has an uphill battle in getting through to the knockout round, but at least there's hope. The Czechs looked broken during the Ghana game, and the Italians have incentive to play for the win (win the group, avoid Brazil in the round of 16). Of course, the U.S. also looked broken on Monday morning, so a completely different Czech team could come out Thursday.

Anyway, the U.S. was the better team, but I'm happy to get a point. And, had the game gone eight more minutes, the U.S. would have lost. Keller, I repeat, was awesome.

Also, I'm making my debut as a soccer analyst on the radio station that carries our games Monday morning. I won't give you a full report.

- - - - - - - - - -

Running officially became a "hobby" today, as I invested in an actual pair of "running shoes."

The tab was about 90 bucks, but I left feeling like I had made a good purchase. Per Gurs' suggestion, I purchased the shoes at an actual running store. I probably could have bought the same shoes across the street at the sporting goods store for 15 bucks less, or at the Kohl's down the street for 30 bucks less, but I left feeling good about the purchase.

Put three miles on them at about 5 today, then 2.2 more at about 8:50. I like late sunsets.

- - - - - - - - -

I got home from the running store this afternoon at about 2:20, having purchased my shoes, along with The Raconteurs' Broken Boy Soldiers (eh) and the Evangelicals' So Gone (on pitchfork-approved special order, and possibly really good), and in time to flip on the top of the first inning of the Cubs-Tigers game.

A Carlos Guillen three-run homer and a Chris Shelton two-run blast (both against Prior) later (I had missed Granderson's solo shot to start the game), I was calling a coworker, Michigan born and raised.

"Hey pal."
"Hey."
"I'm watching the Cubs-Tigers."
"What's happening? Can't get it on the cable out here."
"Prior's allowed three homers in the first inning."
"Oh yeah, I forgot Prior was going today."
"Sucks."
"Not really."
"Listen pal. I'm calling because I need your approval."
"Huh?"
"I'm done with the Cubs. They're terrible. I can't handle being a fan of theirs."
"O...K?"
"I need your approval. I'm now a Michigan native. I'm going to adopt the Tigers as my team the rest of the year. They seem like a fun team to support."
"You're jumping on the bandwagon, then?"
"Yeah."
"There's plenty of room. Welcome aboard."

What this means:
Instead of suffering through Len "Here's Another Meaningless Stat" Kaspar, I get to listen to Mario Impemba, a pro. And instead of cheering for Juan "I've got one tool, and I can't use it because I can't get on base, and I'm old" Pierre, I can cheer for Curtis "I've got between three and four tools, and I'm great and - hello - I'm young" Granderson. Plus, Verlander is awesome. And Zumaya and Rodney are, too. And there's this fat dude, Humberto Sanchez, who needs to join the rotation soon. I love Humberto Sanchez.

And I love a chain-smoking manager. Leyland, yes!

- - - - - - - - - - - -

WIDiRVoFOW

This Week's Reason:
He's a professional baseball broadcaster, but he clearly doesn't understand baseball strategy.

Two instances, within about four innings of each other on Thursday.

Situation one:
Road team leads 4-1. Runner at second. He's a big, slow, lumbering runner. One out. 1-1 count. On the 1-1 pitch, runner gets a great jump, breaks for third. He wasn't being held on at all, and he took off. Batter fouls off the pitch.

R/DS says, "If [runner] is trying to steal, you know it's a hit-and-run!"

Of course, there's no such thing as a hit-and-run with the guy breaking for third. Defeats the purpose of the hit-and-run. Idiot.

Situation two:
Home team has tied the game, 4-4. Two outs, bottom nine. Number two hitter at the plate. Number three hitter has been removed due to injury, and a scrub is in the on-deck circle. Winning run at second.

R/DS says, "Don't be surprised if [batter] tries to bunt for a hit here. Even with two outs, I've seen him try to bunt for a hit before. Sounds crazy, but I think he might do it.

Of course, this would be awful baseball. Two outs, one hit wins it. Bunt hit doesn't win it, idiot.

It's one thing to misidentify a pitch or a player, or to miscall the action itself - those things happen - but it's something completely different to flat-out not understand why players bunt or why a runner would go on his own or any other strategic maneuver.

Worst Part of This: There's no tactful way to correct him, either on air or off. Oh well. Lost cause.

Sixth grade girls wear the oddest shirts. I learned this today when, dressed as our mascot at a grade school appearance [the final one of the year], I presented a sixth grade girl with a gift pack.

Her shirt...green, I think, with navy text. The text, just simple block letters, read, "MAYBE, IF YOU WERE IN A BAND."

Good advice for dudes aspiring to have groupies, I guess, but a bit uncomfortable across the chest of a sixth-grader, don't you think?

Also, I looked at a thank you card that a school group had sent to the club, as gratitude for a field trip to the ballpark. I happened to notice a girl on the extreme right side of the photo, standing in our ballpark, with a green shirt with white block lettering that read, "I'LL BE SOMEWHERE BETTER LATER."

Not as smarmy, and, in fact, pretty funny, but still pretty odd as well.

- - - - - - -

Harper was in town for the past two days or so, so inspired by the recent career-related ramblings of this humble journal that he decided following me and interviewing me would somehow make for a compelling bit of mini-documentary. Oddly, I think I did my best to prove him wrong.

In how many ways can an individual pretend to think deeply about himself? I'm not sure, but I broke some sort of record. (Longest sentence about oneself ever constructed while sorting tickets and wearing a wireless clip-on mic?) The good thing is that I contradicted myself about every 14 seconds, so he'll be able to shape it however he wants. That's worth something, right?

He also talked to one of our owners, who apparently openly talked about the R/DS being gone soon enough. (She didn't say that she was planning to axe him, but rather said, "Who knows? There's a lot of movement in the business. He could be somewhere else come next season," or something to that effect.) Yes, she talked to Harper about this. She had met Harper about 28 hours prior. Oh well.

- - - - - - - - -

Harps made me talk about whether my career choice was the right one, and I accurately stated "No regrets" about any career move thus far.

But what's interesting is that, over the past few days, I've lost all confidence in my on-air skills. A big part of that, of course, is repetition, and I'm not getting it. At this point in the season, our team just played its 20th game. Two years ago, I would have called 180 innings of play-by-play by this point. Last year, with an intern, I would have called about 150 innings by this point. This year I've called, I believe, 27 innings of play-by-play.

Point is, I'm not particularly good right now, and it's frustrating. I can say with 100 percent certainty that I was better at this juncture last year, and probably in each of the two previous seasons. (I sucked hard in 2002, I'm sure.) I don't know enough about the players' backgrounds but, more importantly, I can't notice subtle changes in a given player's approach or attitude or fundamentals; I'm just not around, and it's frustrating. And I have no sense of rhythm, when to fit pure description in, when to focus on game situations, how long I can take on an anecdote. It sucks.

Or maybe, and it's not altogether unlikely, my frustrations with the R/DS situation have affected my call. Maybe I'm less enthusiastic because he's left me downtrodden or angry or just hopeless. I don't know, but I'm not happy about it, either. (That reads like a lame excuse, and it is.)

Anyway, it was great to see Harps. He had mentioned when this crazy idea came up that he'd like to come up maybe three times during the summer and, apparently, I was so good that he'll knock it down to twice, with the other visit coming Labor Day weekend. Honestly, I wish he'd come three times, because it was fun having him.

He decided not to accept my offer of sleeping on the R/DS' couch, however, choosing instead to camp. I didn't take it personally.

- - - - - - - -

Game two of a three-game homestand tonight. I went out pretty late on Tuesday, and was up by 7:15 for this appearance on Wednesday morning. I'm tired. This is our third homestand, all three games; the six-gamers will be rough, I think. Perhaps I should, you know, not go out. Oh well.

That's all for now.

On Saturday, a group of five gathered at a local intern's parents' house. Nothing was really going on, and we had just grilled elsewhere, so, hey, why not?

The house itself was pretty standard issue. Older. Unimpressive from the outside. Sidewalk-less neighborhood. From the inside? Not much. Living room a bit cramped. Small, small entryway, hardly big enough to fit five pairs of shoes. The backyard? Stunning. Incredible. People shouldn't live like that. (But they do. Of the 25 or so houses on the lake, only two are summer-only houses, it was estimated.)

Elevated house on a lake. Dock and pontoon boats out back. (I think every house on the lake had a boat and a pier.) Covered outdoor hot tub. (Underneath the living room, that is.) Bar. An actual beach for a backyard. Unbelievable.

Of the five of us, three were local or semi-local. Myself and DOT aren't. We were amazed. "This is how my family would vacation," he said. We agreed that, "even if this baseball thing doesn't happen," it's probably worth being up here. The ring fingernail rules.

- - - - - -

However, rednecks do exist here, and lots of them. In my "epic" post from last month, I made reference to the redneck karaoke bar on the outskirts. It's also by the ballpark. It's officially a postgame hangout. Sadly, Saturday's company wasn't impressed enough with the idea of drinking High Lifes by the lake - after all, they aren't impressed by the lake - and we wound up at the redneck bar.

We'll call my favorite redneck Legs. Legs is a dude. He's not tall, but his jeans were hiked up to the navel. The belt buckle was gigantic, silver, gaudy. He wore a NASCAR cap. Gap-toothed. I'm pretty sure that he had "stylishly" ripped his jeans. Big tear on the back left pocket, and on the front right knee. The ensemble was completed by a gray, long-sleeved t-shirt, emblazoned with the slogan, "DRINK 'TIL YOU WANT ME," which isn't a bad slogan, when it comes down to it.

Legs performed two karaoke songs. Puddle of Mudd's "She Hates Me," and, even more redneck-y, that post-911, Toby Keith "boot in the ass" song.

After a poor, quiet, mumbled rendition of the "boot in the ass" song, it was my turn, and I brought the house down. Second time in three weeks. (First time, maybe ten days ago, it was the Black Crowes' "Hard to Handle." A crowd-pleaser, to be sure.) Saturday, it was GN'R's "Patience." Later on, I decided to push the audience's collective buttons. I did "Come Together." Predictably, nobody in the place had ever heard the song. I only got a positive response when I broke, during an instrumental break, into the "Patience"-closing "I been walking the streee-eeets at night" coda. Win some, lose some.

(The goal is to really push the redneck audience's collective buttons later this summer. "She Don't Use Jelly" is on the list, as is "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite" and "Everybody Hurts" and Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" and "Do You Want To?" Every Friday and Saturday. I'd think that my parents'll do "Achy Breaky Heart" as well. Know your audience.)

- - - - - - - - - - -

I just saw this awful Budweiser commercial featuring Joe Buck and a Father's Day message. "If you could have a beer with anybody, Joe, who would it be?" the bartender asks. And he gets all sappy, talking about "the man who took me to my first ballgame" and "a person who could command a room from 100 miles away," all while images of Jack Buck and son Joe flash slideshow-style across the screen. Then he says something like, "Yeah, I'd like to have a beer with my dad," and "Here's to Father's Day" flashes on the screen, and it's supposed to be sweet.

But here's the thing: Joe is so arrogant, so sarcastic, so smarmy, that it feels like there's a punchline coming. (It feels like the Best Man speech, when you mention that you'd like to talk about "the reason we're here," and "a man of class and taste," and "someone who brightens the lives of anyone lucky enough to have met him," then say either a) "But enough about the bartender" or b) "But enough about me." J-Suk [pronounce how you will] did a) to great effect about 10 months ago.) Just wanted to say that I thought it was an awful commercial. And, contrarian that I am, I'm a Miller guy.

(Also, I don't enjoy watching games in which Len Kaspar is broadcasting. I do enjoy watching the Tigers' Mario Impemba. He's a pro.)

- - - - - - - - -

I really, really like productive Sunday mornings. I was out of the house by 7:20 this particular Sunday, laundry done by 8:58, home in time to watch the French Open final while flipping to The Netherlands-Serbia & Montenegro game. I saw the goal in the game.

Federer is really fun to watch, even when he loses. I wish I were more committed to watching tennis, or the Grand Slam events, anyway. They're fun. This was the first time I've really seen much of Nadal. He never stops moving. Never. He's also fun. He is odd-looking, however. I wish Federer had won, however. I really enjoy it when Federer wins a Grand Slam event, then cries. He cries pretty wussily. Is there a non-wussy way to cry? I've never seen one.

- - - - - - - - -

Anyone who doesn't like World Cup soccer shouldn't properly call him or herself a sports fan. The passion, and the intensity, not to mention the skill level, make it my favorite sporting event by a long shot. Mexican by way of Brazil winger Zinha scored a beautiful goal this afternoon, then had a more beautiful reaction.

I should be able to watch all three USA games in the first round. Monday, I'll sneak away to the press box, which has a TV, and do some work. Game's at noon, team's on the road, and I'll eat my lunch during that time as well. Can't miss it. The Italy game is on Saturday afternoon, so I'll make sure I'm home. The final game, against Ghana, is a morning game on the day of a home game. Again, I'll just sneak away and work from the press box. This stuff is important.

I have no idea how the US will do. Saw a bit of their game against Japan back in March, and that's about it. I love that defender with the initials OO, and I'm happy that Reyna is healthy. Outside of that, I know nothing, but I'm sure hoping that I'll be able to see them play more than three times.


- - - - - - - - - -

The moment you've been waiting for...
WIDiRVoFOW [yes, it's curiously named, but that's its name, dude.]

This Week's Reason: He's a serial interruptor. And it's awful.

This Week's Vignette: On Friday, he amazingly turned a good mood into a bad mood in a period of 11 seconds.

You see, I've got a few stats-related responsibilities that I handle every day the team plays, home or road. Friday morning, due to other things going on, I sent the R/DS email notice [better to avoid conversation, of course] that I had a variety of responsibilities and that I may or may not be able to fulfill my duties. If he wanted to do the "Trends" sheet (it's awful, and more work than it's worth), he could. If he wanted to do the "Day by Day" sheets, he could do those, too, or else I'd just get to them on Saturday or, if time existed, later on Friday. No guarantees that I'd be able to find the time on Friday, however.

I sent the email at about 9:04. Then I went to discuss my first responsibility of the day (yes, two hours dressed as the mascot) with the person organizing the appearance. Turns out, I had an extra hour. So, I wanted to call the R/DS to let him know that I could actually get some stats work done, and that I'd do whichever one he'd prefer me to do.

So, being that this was a time-sensitive situation, I decided to suck it up and call. Say hello, ask my either/or question, get either/or answer, get the hell off the phone.

"Hey R/DS." [1 second]
"Hey. What's going on?" [3 seconds]
"Hey. I've got an extra hour here. Would you like me to get started on the ----" [9 seconds]
[Loudly] "WHATEVER YOU WANT TO WORK ON" [11 seconds] "THAT YOU THINK IS BEST FOR THE TEAM. I KNOW YOU'VE GOT A LOT GOING ON, SO JUST GET DONE WHATEVER YOU THINK IS BEST."
"R/DS - No, I've got time right now. Just an hour, and I'm going to do either 'Trends or 'Day by' ----"
"WHATEVER YOU THINK IS BEST. I KNOW THERE'S A LOT GOING ON, SO JUST GET TO WHATEVER YOU THINK WILL HELP OUT MOST OVER THERE."
"Just tell me what you'd prefer. 'Trends,' or 'Day by Days.' "
"IF IT'S GOING TO BE JUST ONE, THEN I'D PREFER 'TRENDS,' BUT, AGAIN, IF YOU THINK THAT THERE ARE---"
[hang up]

Crap like that sets me off. Let me finish, dude.

(I fear this reads all petty-like. But it's not. He's a serial interruptor, and, when he's interrupting, he always needs to speak louder than the person he interrupts. Awful. Awful. Awful. Also, he talks way too fast when he's on air, and that's just annoying.)

You may know that I am a big fan of Denny's (Restaurant? Diner? Eatery?).

Some of my favorite Denny's locations:

- Bolingbrook, Illinois, where I once ate a meal at noon on Thursday, continued to St. Louis, watched a rock and roll show Thursday night, returned North to Chicago, and ate at 7 a.m. on a Friday, being served by the same waiter. Same shift, different day.

- Des Plaines River Road in, I guess, Prospect Heights, Illinois, where I drank many a Cherry Coke in high school. I was there drunk this past December, and ordered hash browns with Tabasco. It was at this Denny's where I first ordered hash browns with Tabasco, but while sober.

- Near Kansas City, Missouri, by a Motel 6. This was a memorable Denny's experience, but not for good reasons; this Denny's closed at midnight. I don't recall what I ate. The Boy and I didn't realize they were closing, so we took our sweet time and departed at 12:40, followed shortly by the manager (and, I seem to recall, her three-or-so-year-old daughter).

- West Lafayette, Indiana, the most segregated Denny's I've ever been to. I ate Moons Over My Hammy, because that's what you're supposed to eat at Denny's.

This is tangentially related to my week, but only tangentially.

On Monday morning, I reported to work at 7:10 a.m. I was to dress up as a lovable bear, visit some schools, and give a bunch of kids prizes. It's a good cause. There were two scheduled appearances, one at 8:10, and another at 10:30.

As we were heading to the first one, trip leader said, "Do you guys [myself, leader, another] want to head back to the office between visits, or do you want to go somewhere to get breakfast?"

I had eaten my bowl of shredded wheat already, but, given the options, the answer is always breakfast.

We finished the appearance; out by 8:42.

"I'm feeling like some hash browns and eggs," leader said. [Duh. What else would you feel like eating for breakfast?]

"Are there any Denny's around here?" I ask.

"Yes, I think so," she said. "Denny's work for you?" she asked "another."

"Sure," said "another."

So we wind through town, and head towards one of the major arteries west of town. As we're winding around, I think to myself, I've been this way before. Often. I've never seen a Denny's. Hmmm.

And then we cruise through a light, and then leader flips on her left blinker, and then she says, "Oh, I was thinking it was Denny's. I guess it's Big Boy."

Big Boy?! Deflating, no?

- - - - - -

I ordered only coffee. Leader ordered two scrambled eggs, hash browns "extra crispy," bacon, and rye toast, with coffee. "Another" ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and fries, with a Diet Pepsi. She really likes french fries.

Oddly, mine was the only order that had any problems. My cream was rotten. I stirred the chunky coffee with cream, showed it to the waitress, and she responded, "Oh, you got a bad one, eh?" and immediately got me a new cup of coffee and some "fresh" cream. I'd think that rotten cream would be cause for more alarm but, alas, it's not like we were at Denny's or something.

Sigh.

- - - - - - - -

It's easy to complain about doctors, because they poke and prod and generally make you do things that, while certainly potentially helpful, are sometimes painful or certainly annoying.

I have had a great experience with my opthamoligist here, though.

I've had three appointments - a vision check, a lens fitting, and a lens-fitting follow-up.

Why I like the doctor:

He shook my hand and introduced himself as "Kevin."

He has odd-looking glasses.

He was very thorough in explaining the details of what he was doing. ("That flatter lens just doesn't move enough. Your vision's right, but the fit's not.")

I've been wearing a new lens for about two weeks, and Tuesday was the check-up to see if it's fitting to his (and my) satisfaction. He decided that it wasn't. So, no charge, we'll try a different size next week, and we'll schedule a follow-up after you've been wearing the new one for a week.

I think Kevin's a good doctor because he a) had a cool suction-based tool that easily removed my left contact lens, and b) told me what he was doing, and c) said, "This lens could probably work for you, but I think we can find a better fit. You always have to consider what your colleagues would think of your work, and I think they could find fault if we kept this lens."

I think that gurs and jenny will be great doctors, too. Pretty exciting.

(Pre-reading note: I hung up with Gurs at 12:15 this evening, and I said, "I'll write a quick RedHotHalos post before bed." It had been four days, so it was time. As I type this, it's 12:58. Too late. Oh well. This also means that it's long. Pull up a chair, or print it and head to the bathroom.)

I was going to try to write something compelling and/or interesting tonight, but I can't really come up with anything. We just finished the second game of a three-game series, and we'll be back to close it out on Monday night.

I've had a couple of long days in a row:

Saturday, the team returned from a road trip, but the R/DS wasn't with them; he had a wedding to attend on Saturday night, and had "peeled off" after the final game of the trip. This meant that I had to greet the bus when it arrived to pick up broadcast gear.

Arrival: 7:15 a.m.
My arrival at the ballpark: 6:15 a.m.

That's pretty early. I was productive through the morning, escaped at noon for 90 minutes for a run and a bit of lunch, and went hard at the ballpark the rest of the day and night. Day ended at 11:30, and I'm a bit surprised that I didn't run somebody over or fall asleep at the wheel on the way home.

As for the broadcast, I was relatively happy with it. I nailed the call on a dramatic, game-saving catch for the final out. I accidentally failed to record it, however, I think. Good with the bad... life goes on.

- - - - -

Today, a pretty standard 10 to 10 day at the yard. This league plays Sunday night games, which just sucks. Previously, Sunday could be my "time off" during the season, getting home from the ballpark at 6 or so. This is early, and gave me actual time to make dinner and make some phone calls (I'm generally a Sunday night nuisance) and just wind down. I'd usually watch ESPN Sunday night baseball.

This league, though, plays exclusively night games. Always. Sunday, an hour earlier, but that's it. Doesn't offer much in the way of rest. (Though I'm not traveling this year, of course, so that's some actual time off.)

I started my Sunday with a record-length run of 2.2 miles. Just under 20 minutes, which isn't particularly good time, but I felt good when it was done. The iPod was cranking GbV's Under the Bushes Under the Stars, and it was a perfect soundtrack.

You can do a lot worse than 68 degree temperatures in which to run at 9 a.m. Awesome.

- - - - - - - - - -

Monday morning will bring a very early call to work. 7:10 a.m., so that I can throw on a mascot suit and give prizes to a bunch of little kids. It's rewarding, and the program is neat, but, gosh, it'll be another long day. It'll be followed by several 8:30 to 6 days, which are longer than 9 to 5 days, but shorter than 7 to 11 days.

- - - - - - - - - -

I should mention that the R/DS [ed: For those that missed it, "R/DS"="Roommate/Direct Supervisor] returned this morning. Within four seconds of his arrival, I remembered how awful he is to be around.

Me: "How was the wedding [of your best friend, that you were Best Man for]?"
R/DS: "There were a lot of problems, but it was okay, I guess. I'm exhausted. You would be, too, if you had only slept in a bed for 4 hours over the last two days."

He's not a real positive guy, and it's aggravating to everyone. I wonder what his blood pressure is.

- - - - - - - - - -

The Walkmen have always been a band that I wanted to like more than I actually liked. Maybe it was the artsy tendencies and wailing vocals that sometimes got to me. In a mood, they've always been great. But their records have so many plodding, plodding songs, and sometimes I can't handle it. Anyway, A Hundred Miles Off, their recently-released and, from what I can tell, worst-reviewed record, is awesome. All mid-tempo, with some rock, and Hamilton screams a lot. I love it so much.

Another great album that's been getting played quite a bit in Rud-land is the Sunset Rubdown album, Shut Up I Am Dreaming. It's from one of the Wolf Parade guys, and Wolf Parade's album was my number one selection from 2005. (Though Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and The Hold Steady both have made runs for the spot.)

Anyway, I'd highly recommend both, not that you care.

- - - - - - - - - - -

I'm really, really proud to be a Northwestern Wildcats fan. College World Series best-of-three championship series against Arizona starts Monday at 8:00 p.m.

Where does college softball rank on the college sports hierarchy, in terms of coverage, participation, prestige?

Let's think:
1) Football
2) Men's Basketball

3) Women's Basketball

Baseball/Softball/Hockey

I don't think that's an unreasonable ranking. Are there other sports that would compete with the third tier listed here, in terms of coverage, participation, and prestige? Women's soccer? Volleyball?

Except for the SEC until recently, just about everyone was playing softball. The SEC has joined, and is becoming quite good. More play softball than hockey, certainly, and certainly more big schools. Baseball is inherently bigger.

Softball coverage: Got some ESPN morning coverage during conference season. Several Super Regionals were televised. Every game of the WCWS has been on. (They even pre-empted The Best of Mike and Mike In the Morning.) That's lots of coverage.

So, can I say that softball is probably the fifth-biggest collegiate sport? That'd be accurate? Am I wrong?

Translation: This is pretty big. Go Cats.

- - - - - - - -

Again, 2.2 miles isn't much for a career-long run, but it's something. In almost seven weeks here, I've dropped, officially, nine pounds. This brings my grand total to somewhere between 70 and 73 pounds lost, which is probably about my greatest accomplishment ever. (Though, of course, it was set up by years of non-accomplishment.)

I think I'd like to lose a total of 12 to 15 more, bringing the total to 85 pounds. Then I'll try to gain 30 back.

My BMI remains right at the edge of the Overweight category, which indicates what awful condition I was truly in December of 2004.

The Good:

- I feel better than I have in years.

- I felt comfortable going shirtless with people that I don't know that well last weekend. Judging eyes, that is.

Bad:

- I still had the biggest gut, by a long shot, among the beach group last weekend. (Granted, two were former D1 athletes, one is a weightlifting fiend, and one is a tall, skinny dude who played D3 basketball.)

- The Tony Danza shirt is far too baggy now. The solution is not to get a new Tony Danza shirt, but to simply wear the original Tony Danza shirt in its baggy beauty. Even more ridiculous, you should know.

- - - - - - - -

WIDiRVoFOW
[ed: For those that missed it, "WIDiRVoFOW"="Why I Dislike the R/DS Vignette or Foible of the Week." It's the only weekly feature on RedHotHalos, and it's grown quite popular.]

This Week's Reason: It's not that he's fat (though, as they said in The Usual Suspects, he's 'Orca Fat'), it's that he's such a freakin' glutton, and still acts like he's trying to lose weight.

Supporting Evidence: Again, he pays lip service to Weight Watchers points and says things like, "I like apples and cucumbers. They're the fewest points-per-ounce, and I don't mind eating them." But, today, he said to me, "Actually, I'll bring [ballpark-related item] downstairs. I've got a hankering for some pie a la mode, so I'll stop by the ice cream shop [which is located downstairs]."

Then, ten minutes later, he returned. I said, "Looks good." He said, "It is good. I'm going to try to try every pie-ice cream combination possible this summer."

[Note: There are at least three types of pie, and I think ten kinds of ice cream. It seems like this goal would be contrary to dieting.]

Additional Bit of Hilarity: My first week in town, he actually used the phrase, "The diet starts tomorrow," which is what my dad used to say while indulging - and indulging some more, and some more - during the holidays. It's funny, because it's the joke you make when you have no intention of actually commiting to anything. Like the "Free Beer Tomorrow" sign you see at hilarious restaurants throughout the country.

I understand that "Compulsive Overeating" was categorized as an eating disorder in seventh-grade wellness class, and I understand he must be afflicted but, dude, don't freaking talk about it all day!

Don't tell me about the pain, just show me the baby. Garsh.