Here I interview Alex and Dan from Cold World on day 3 of As One Fest behind a dumpster @ Bobby Allen's in Waterbury Connecticut (During the 3rd quarter of The Celts/Cavs Game 7)
Cold World Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Interview with Trapped Under Ice/Reign Supreme
This is an interview conducted in Waterbury Connecticut at Craig Mack's As One Festival last weekend with Baltimore's Trapped Under Ice with cameo appearances by Chris Morgado's Philadelphia's Reign Supreme. I was very very drunk, 100 Demons were about to play and the camera was about to die.
Trapped Under Ice Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.
Trapped Under Ice Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Video Interview I did with Trash Talk
Trash Talk are one of my new favorite hardcore/punk bands from the Sacramento, Ca area. They ran into some troubles on the road so they ended up hanging in Boston for 5 days. I did this interview with them for World Moves Fast Dot Com after their show @ Great Scotts in Allston on Tuesday May, 6th. This is the first time I have ever done something like this but there will be more to come as I plan on contributing more interviews in this style to
www.worldmovesfast.com
Trash Talk Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.
Make sure to check the page out and bookmark it, its just starting up now but there are due to be many many updates daily down the road.
www.worldmovesfast.com
www.worldmovesfast.com
www.worldmovesfast.com
Also be sure to check out Trash Talk
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
www.worldmovesfast.com
Trash Talk Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.
Make sure to check the page out and bookmark it, its just starting up now but there are due to be many many updates daily down the road.
www.worldmovesfast.com
www.worldmovesfast.com
www.worldmovesfast.com
Also be sure to check out Trash Talk
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
http://www.trashtalkhc.com/
Friday, May 2, 2008
Jumpin' Like A Girl For Squirrels In The Name Of The Lord (vol 1)
Since I am trying to update this blog semi-regularly before finishing up The Grittier Side (vol 2.) I decided to throw a couple of pieces up from the first issue for those of you who hadn't purchased, borrowed, stole or read a copy:
Jumpin Like A Girl For Squirrels In The Name Of The Lord
There is a stereotype attached to Catholic schools about being beaten by nuns with rulers and taught to fear hell and the devil. But I'm actually going to save my tales of metal lined straight edge rulers finding their marks on my devil worshipping 7 year old wrists for a goooood therapist. Or at least someone waiting for the #1 bus at the Mass Ave. bus stop when I decide I just want to drool and yell all day at passerby.
I will share a quick tale from the nunnery for now though that has always stayed with me. A nun was walking through a forest-like section of Mission Hill separating Alleghany St. from Cherokee St. (We used to call it "The Jungle" as kids and that was where I'd later hide with friends and smoke cigarettes when I was 13. Also when I was 10 a bug flew down my throat as I barreled through the rocky dirty pathway on my bicycle. I'm actually still waiting to die from that and/or have my mommy "take it out") As she was walking through, a squirrel came scampering up to her, as squirrels do. But this squirrel happened to be rabid and promptly chomped down on her ankle and would not release it from its teeth. This Nun, who was probably Chevy Chase, screamed for help and ran about with a squirrel fixed to her ankle, causing a priest nearby to come to her assistance with a rifle and blasted the critter off of her.
I personally don't see why priests or the Catholic church in general doesn't devote the lions share of their sermons to Rabid Satan Squirrels, because this story terrified me as a kid. I feel they could really get their numbers back up. I mean come on! The devil is more played out than a backwards Judas Priest record. What about these squirrels? I have yet to hear about Rob Halford or K.K. Downing attacking nuns. Which leads to my next thought:
Has anyone ever actually played a Chipmunks record backwards?
But I've also been meaning to start a new religion anyway, so maybe I'll hold off on that petition for a bit.
I was walking to work the other day, taking the scenic route in as I usually do on a nice day. I had just picked up a tea from Tealuxe on Newbury Street and was going to cut through the Public Gardens and the Common on my way to the Financial District downtown. I had a cup of "Lady Londonberry" tea steeping and I was so proud of myself for even being able to order a drink called "Lady Londonberry" without fear of shame or ridicule. I entered the Public Garden and as I had walked maybe 50 feet through noticed a flurry of squirrels running up and down trees and over dying grass, which is a pretty normal sight for the area. However, one of these squirrels after running around on the ground for a second darted out onto the pavement. Typically these are timid animals and will run the second someone is too close, which I felt I was.
The squirrel, dead center in my path, turned around and looked towards me real quick, almost like a wildlife Peter Venkmen and his Slimer.
It then began racing at me.
Still walking, I was saying to myself "Eh, it will run off." But it actually got about 2 inches away from my ankle. You know, what? I'm bullshitting.I don't know if it was 2 inches away. I didn't have a ruler nearby, because I'm still terrified of them from parochial beat downs. In any event this evildevilbeast was close enough that its tail had actually touched my jeans.
This resulted in me jumping in the air like a frail old woman. Or at least a semi-professional hackey sacker determined to do that jester and get the full hack.
My headphones and blood pressure were up high enough that the laughter of those nearby didn't even phase me. I picked up the pace and kept soldiering on. You know, like a solider. I was about to cross the footbridge and from out of nowhere, another squirrel loomed in front of me. Maybe it was the same squirrel. I don't care if you think I'm racist. Because They all look alike to me.
And they all want to kill me.
Again, this squirrel came running towards me. Again I said ".....it will pass?" And again I found myself jumping in the air like a 12 year old girl on a trampoline because I am a pussy. I couldn't believe it.
This actually wasn't the worst case of a rodent attacking me. Two others come to mind.
1) Twenty one years old and sleeping on the couch at my parents house, I awake to feeling something on my foot. My eyelids bearing the weight of sleep pull back enough that I can see a mouse on my foot. This caused me to pull off some sort of move that you will never see in a kung- fu movie without million dollar effects. It was a kicking, sweeping move that somehow had me levitated for a second and then on my feet for more jumping and panicking. As an aside, I feel this would be a much better way of waking someone up than a simple alarm clock. I would like to invent a clock that doesn't beep or buzz but actually lets a mouse out attached to a rope and jumps on you, or perhaps sends a spider free falling down from the ceiling as some sort of snooze button. I think tardiness due to oversleeping would be a thing of the past.
2) 20 years old. I had just worked a long shift at De Lucas Market on Newbury Street. It was the weeknight when all the new groceries had come in and we had to stay and price them and put them on the shelves. We usually ended up getting out around 1 in the morning, or usually too late to catch a bus. I love to walk so I'd usually make the walk back to my apartment in Mission Hill from Newbury Street, weather permitting. I'll try to sound as hip as I can, but I had just....you know...."done weed"? And that obviously made for a bit more of a paranoid walk alone at night. I had my headphones up loud enough to be aloof to everything around me. I was walking down Mass Ave. right where the Christian Science building is.
As soon as I walked past a trashcan.
A rat jumped out of it seemingly from out of nowhere, blindsiding me.
This huge rat landed right on my chest and then ran down my leg and into the darkness.
You could have put me on ice skates. You could have put me in spandex. You could have put me in front of a high jump. I could have won the gold medal in every Olympic division from the maneuver I did. Because I was determined to jump to the sky (like a girl) and then plummet to my own death.
To make matters worse as I continued home I could "feel" the rat still on me. I twitched my way up Huntington Ave., and around Mass Art saw a man with a huge cast on his leg lying on the sidewalk with his hands outstretched. I turned my walk man off, curious to hear what he was saying. He was laying there whimpering, asking for help in a real broken, battered voice. I was freaked out from the rat and was always cautious to help a shady stranger in the middle of the night on an empty street. I think I had just sheepishly said "Sorry." as I walked by.
Right as he was out of my vision, I could feel a whoosh of air behind me. The man had leapt to his feet and although I should have wondered "Gee, I wonder of a mouse just landed on his foot and woke him up too?" He screamed "YOU WHITE MOTHAFUCKA! GIMME YO SHIT!" and began running at me. Unfortunately for him the cast, though brilliant in theory, really slowed him down. The irony of me running into the Mission Hill projects at 2 in the morning for safety is a whole 'nother story I suppose.
But back to the present, I was making fun of myself for these girly acrobatic movements I treated a lunchtime crowd to and crossed over to The Commons.
I ended up behind a NASCAR family clad in....what else? NASCAR windbreakers, Asics, (I didn't see if they had the gel, but the husband did look like a provider) sweat pants, and stone washed jeans out for an afternoon stroll. Their son, who looked well fed from his breakfast of powdered drinks and powdered donuts ran off onto the grass off of the cracked, jagged concrete walkway and began chasing.... Anyone? Anyone?
A squirrel.
A squirrel that was headed right towards me.
After coming down from the air and landing on a bench with Lady Londonberry splashed against my jacket, I could only help but think.
"Man, they should really send that kid to a Catholic School."
Jumpin Like A Girl For Squirrels In The Name Of The Lord
There is a stereotype attached to Catholic schools about being beaten by nuns with rulers and taught to fear hell and the devil. But I'm actually going to save my tales of metal lined straight edge rulers finding their marks on my devil worshipping 7 year old wrists for a goooood therapist. Or at least someone waiting for the #1 bus at the Mass Ave. bus stop when I decide I just want to drool and yell all day at passerby.
I will share a quick tale from the nunnery for now though that has always stayed with me. A nun was walking through a forest-like section of Mission Hill separating Alleghany St. from Cherokee St. (We used to call it "The Jungle" as kids and that was where I'd later hide with friends and smoke cigarettes when I was 13. Also when I was 10 a bug flew down my throat as I barreled through the rocky dirty pathway on my bicycle. I'm actually still waiting to die from that and/or have my mommy "take it out") As she was walking through, a squirrel came scampering up to her, as squirrels do. But this squirrel happened to be rabid and promptly chomped down on her ankle and would not release it from its teeth. This Nun, who was probably Chevy Chase, screamed for help and ran about with a squirrel fixed to her ankle, causing a priest nearby to come to her assistance with a rifle and blasted the critter off of her.
I personally don't see why priests or the Catholic church in general doesn't devote the lions share of their sermons to Rabid Satan Squirrels, because this story terrified me as a kid. I feel they could really get their numbers back up. I mean come on! The devil is more played out than a backwards Judas Priest record. What about these squirrels? I have yet to hear about Rob Halford or K.K. Downing attacking nuns. Which leads to my next thought:
Has anyone ever actually played a Chipmunks record backwards?
But I've also been meaning to start a new religion anyway, so maybe I'll hold off on that petition for a bit.
I was walking to work the other day, taking the scenic route in as I usually do on a nice day. I had just picked up a tea from Tealuxe on Newbury Street and was going to cut through the Public Gardens and the Common on my way to the Financial District downtown. I had a cup of "Lady Londonberry" tea steeping and I was so proud of myself for even being able to order a drink called "Lady Londonberry" without fear of shame or ridicule. I entered the Public Garden and as I had walked maybe 50 feet through noticed a flurry of squirrels running up and down trees and over dying grass, which is a pretty normal sight for the area. However, one of these squirrels after running around on the ground for a second darted out onto the pavement. Typically these are timid animals and will run the second someone is too close, which I felt I was.
The squirrel, dead center in my path, turned around and looked towards me real quick, almost like a wildlife Peter Venkmen and his Slimer.
It then began racing at me.
Still walking, I was saying to myself "Eh, it will run off." But it actually got about 2 inches away from my ankle. You know, what? I'm bullshitting.I don't know if it was 2 inches away. I didn't have a ruler nearby, because I'm still terrified of them from parochial beat downs. In any event this evildevilbeast was close enough that its tail had actually touched my jeans.
This resulted in me jumping in the air like a frail old woman. Or at least a semi-professional hackey sacker determined to do that jester and get the full hack.
My headphones and blood pressure were up high enough that the laughter of those nearby didn't even phase me. I picked up the pace and kept soldiering on. You know, like a solider. I was about to cross the footbridge and from out of nowhere, another squirrel loomed in front of me. Maybe it was the same squirrel. I don't care if you think I'm racist. Because They all look alike to me.
And they all want to kill me.
Again, this squirrel came running towards me. Again I said ".....it will pass?" And again I found myself jumping in the air like a 12 year old girl on a trampoline because I am a pussy. I couldn't believe it.
This actually wasn't the worst case of a rodent attacking me. Two others come to mind.
1) Twenty one years old and sleeping on the couch at my parents house, I awake to feeling something on my foot. My eyelids bearing the weight of sleep pull back enough that I can see a mouse on my foot. This caused me to pull off some sort of move that you will never see in a kung- fu movie without million dollar effects. It was a kicking, sweeping move that somehow had me levitated for a second and then on my feet for more jumping and panicking. As an aside, I feel this would be a much better way of waking someone up than a simple alarm clock. I would like to invent a clock that doesn't beep or buzz but actually lets a mouse out attached to a rope and jumps on you, or perhaps sends a spider free falling down from the ceiling as some sort of snooze button. I think tardiness due to oversleeping would be a thing of the past.
2) 20 years old. I had just worked a long shift at De Lucas Market on Newbury Street. It was the weeknight when all the new groceries had come in and we had to stay and price them and put them on the shelves. We usually ended up getting out around 1 in the morning, or usually too late to catch a bus. I love to walk so I'd usually make the walk back to my apartment in Mission Hill from Newbury Street, weather permitting. I'll try to sound as hip as I can, but I had just....you know...."done weed"? And that obviously made for a bit more of a paranoid walk alone at night. I had my headphones up loud enough to be aloof to everything around me. I was walking down Mass Ave. right where the Christian Science building is.
As soon as I walked past a trashcan.
A rat jumped out of it seemingly from out of nowhere, blindsiding me.
This huge rat landed right on my chest and then ran down my leg and into the darkness.
You could have put me on ice skates. You could have put me in spandex. You could have put me in front of a high jump. I could have won the gold medal in every Olympic division from the maneuver I did. Because I was determined to jump to the sky (like a girl) and then plummet to my own death.
To make matters worse as I continued home I could "feel" the rat still on me. I twitched my way up Huntington Ave., and around Mass Art saw a man with a huge cast on his leg lying on the sidewalk with his hands outstretched. I turned my walk man off, curious to hear what he was saying. He was laying there whimpering, asking for help in a real broken, battered voice. I was freaked out from the rat and was always cautious to help a shady stranger in the middle of the night on an empty street. I think I had just sheepishly said "Sorry." as I walked by.
Right as he was out of my vision, I could feel a whoosh of air behind me. The man had leapt to his feet and although I should have wondered "Gee, I wonder of a mouse just landed on his foot and woke him up too?" He screamed "YOU WHITE MOTHAFUCKA! GIMME YO SHIT!" and began running at me. Unfortunately for him the cast, though brilliant in theory, really slowed him down. The irony of me running into the Mission Hill projects at 2 in the morning for safety is a whole 'nother story I suppose.
But back to the present, I was making fun of myself for these girly acrobatic movements I treated a lunchtime crowd to and crossed over to The Commons.
I ended up behind a NASCAR family clad in....what else? NASCAR windbreakers, Asics, (I didn't see if they had the gel, but the husband did look like a provider) sweat pants, and stone washed jeans out for an afternoon stroll. Their son, who looked well fed from his breakfast of powdered drinks and powdered donuts ran off onto the grass off of the cracked, jagged concrete walkway and began chasing.... Anyone? Anyone?
A squirrel.
A squirrel that was headed right towards me.
After coming down from the air and landing on a bench with Lady Londonberry splashed against my jacket, I could only help but think.
"Man, they should really send that kid to a Catholic School."
The Ying And Yangs Of Opiates And Gravity (Vol 1)
Since I am trying to update this blog semi-regularly before finishing up The Grittier Side (vol 2.) I decided to throw a couple of pieces up from the first issue for those of you who hadn't purchased, borrowed, stole or read a copy:
The Ying and Yangs of Opiates and Gravity
I was standing at Downtown Crossing getting ready to sip at a cup of Tea I had been steeping since Harvard. (I'm a mutant) I go to take a sip and immediately have a waterfall of Chaider cascading down my chin. Thankfully my shirt and jeans were there to catch it. Thankfully two other people chuckled at me, and thankfully it happened again. Frustrated, I threw the top away and decided to sip with extra caution.
I end up sitting across from a middle aged man in a velour running suit chewing away at a half piece of straw, while rolling his thumbs with 4 inch nails over his knees chatting away to one scatterbrained dame. She looked like she was fighting off sleep like the roots in her teeth were fighting of gravity. "Gimme my money you bitch!" bellowed from halfway down the train. A man holding a small coffee stumbled and shuffled his way up front and almost sat in the laps of a young women and her 2 little girls. This caused her to drag her children away in fear. I was sitting with a cup of tea with no top.
He had the kind of facial hair and general appearance that just makes you say "Guilty" when you see his mugshot in the Boston Herald for stealing bags of shrimp and baby formula.
Surprisingly, he soon after nodded out holding the coffee while his two acquaintances carried on their conversation on what a "degenerate" Billy is. (I never knew junkies to have such sub culture like social echelons. Remember when it was about the music?)
But I was fixated on this guy nodding out. Specifically the "small dunkies regulah" (Outside of Boston its called a "small coffee") he was holding in his bloated palm with blown out fingers cradling it. Id watch the cup tilt and just think "Man, that guy shouldn't have switched to Sanka if he was going to be chasing the dragon all day. You need your energy!" But as it would look like it was about to pour, he'd just pick his head back up and ask for money.
I started to get pissed. I had just steeped my face and clothes in tea 5 minutes prior. And I wasn't on even a little bit of heroin. This guy had a Lowell city block party parading through his veins and he wasn't spilling a drop. I actually thought for a second the MBTA could really do a lot for their image by using something like that for a commercial. What skag head is gonna want to take a mode of transportation that ends up with his coffee in his lap?
He nodded out a couple more times and still every time, not a drop hit the floor. I was so agitated I wanted to run past him and knock it out of his fingertips. When he would snap up he would see the cup on the ground and I could have yelled "What did you think was going to happen! You're nodding out with a cup containing a liquid in your hand! Hot liquid! That's what happens you asshole!"
But that's around the time it got bumpy going to Back Bay Station and as I took a sip of tea it splashed up on me like Jaws on the Orca.
However, on the other vein collapsed hand, I gotta hand it to the good people at Cingular. They really know how to make a phone that withstands multiple nod out drops by junkies. From State St to Jackson this woman dropped her phone 8 times.
Why was she holding it in her hand while she was counting china white sheep? Maybe she was in the middle of a sick game of tetris? Maybe she was sending a text message but just couldn't remember short hand for "nodding out loud"?
I'll tell you who would probably really like to know. The 17 year old school boy who was mortified when she decided to take a rest on his shoulder, mouth wide open with her over sized plastic shopping bag resting in his lap.
I am sorry I laughed at you buddy. But theres just some things you cant learn in school.
I just hope some light hearted paramedic uses the "Can you hear me now" line when he's reviving her on Centre St tonight.
The Ying and Yangs of Opiates and Gravity
I was standing at Downtown Crossing getting ready to sip at a cup of Tea I had been steeping since Harvard. (I'm a mutant) I go to take a sip and immediately have a waterfall of Chaider cascading down my chin. Thankfully my shirt and jeans were there to catch it. Thankfully two other people chuckled at me, and thankfully it happened again. Frustrated, I threw the top away and decided to sip with extra caution.
I end up sitting across from a middle aged man in a velour running suit chewing away at a half piece of straw, while rolling his thumbs with 4 inch nails over his knees chatting away to one scatterbrained dame. She looked like she was fighting off sleep like the roots in her teeth were fighting of gravity. "Gimme my money you bitch!" bellowed from halfway down the train. A man holding a small coffee stumbled and shuffled his way up front and almost sat in the laps of a young women and her 2 little girls. This caused her to drag her children away in fear. I was sitting with a cup of tea with no top.
He had the kind of facial hair and general appearance that just makes you say "Guilty" when you see his mugshot in the Boston Herald for stealing bags of shrimp and baby formula.
Surprisingly, he soon after nodded out holding the coffee while his two acquaintances carried on their conversation on what a "degenerate" Billy is. (I never knew junkies to have such sub culture like social echelons. Remember when it was about the music?)
But I was fixated on this guy nodding out. Specifically the "small dunkies regulah" (Outside of Boston its called a "small coffee") he was holding in his bloated palm with blown out fingers cradling it. Id watch the cup tilt and just think "Man, that guy shouldn't have switched to Sanka if he was going to be chasing the dragon all day. You need your energy!" But as it would look like it was about to pour, he'd just pick his head back up and ask for money.
I started to get pissed. I had just steeped my face and clothes in tea 5 minutes prior. And I wasn't on even a little bit of heroin. This guy had a Lowell city block party parading through his veins and he wasn't spilling a drop. I actually thought for a second the MBTA could really do a lot for their image by using something like that for a commercial. What skag head is gonna want to take a mode of transportation that ends up with his coffee in his lap?
He nodded out a couple more times and still every time, not a drop hit the floor. I was so agitated I wanted to run past him and knock it out of his fingertips. When he would snap up he would see the cup on the ground and I could have yelled "What did you think was going to happen! You're nodding out with a cup containing a liquid in your hand! Hot liquid! That's what happens you asshole!"
But that's around the time it got bumpy going to Back Bay Station and as I took a sip of tea it splashed up on me like Jaws on the Orca.
However, on the other vein collapsed hand, I gotta hand it to the good people at Cingular. They really know how to make a phone that withstands multiple nod out drops by junkies. From State St to Jackson this woman dropped her phone 8 times.
Why was she holding it in her hand while she was counting china white sheep? Maybe she was in the middle of a sick game of tetris? Maybe she was sending a text message but just couldn't remember short hand for "nodding out loud"?
I'll tell you who would probably really like to know. The 17 year old school boy who was mortified when she decided to take a rest on his shoulder, mouth wide open with her over sized plastic shopping bag resting in his lap.
I am sorry I laughed at you buddy. But theres just some things you cant learn in school.
I just hope some light hearted paramedic uses the "Can you hear me now" line when he's reviving her on Centre St tonight.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
"Today I Am The Luckiest Boy In The World"
Awkward and active are just two words that don't fit in for me. There were and are alot of activities I just didn't fit into, and Little League was no exception. I landed on The White Sox, the team that were undisputed champions a solid 8 years in a row. It was like FDR coaching the Boston Celtics of The 1960's out of a pot of gold under a rainbow. I was like the bastard son of Ray Finkle and Billy Buckner with a little league contract on the back of Babe Ruth's papers trading him from Boston to New York and by the end of my first season we were dead dead last place. I can recall many a time being the last batter up with the hope of a win for the team resting on my shaky little shoulders bearing the dead weight of a timid 80 lb frame. I can also recall striking out each and every time. That is if I wasn't purposely struck in the back, head, arms or legs by a fast ball thrown by older bullies from the neighborhood, or hulking 14 year old Dominican phenoms, who lied about their ages and said they were 10-12 years old. I am hoping that when you die you do get to see your life in an instant replay, because I would really like to see both benches laughing mercilessly at me, as I would wince in pain and hobble by limp body to first base. But at least one aspect always stayed the same. No matter if I struck out swinging at something 50 feet away from the plate out of fear, or if I had been knocked to the ground by a fast ball to the kidneys, I was always guaranteed to hear my nickname "John Poli-strike out" echoing from behind me, and I was always guaranteed to be held down and beaten by my own team for losing the game. All while my alcoholic coach, clad in what would today be an ironic Will Ferrell get up of thick moustache, aviator glasses with mesh cap, sleeveless tight black shirt and cut off too too short shorts looked the other way,or was just drinking?
This rookie took all the could take and though I didn't give a Lou Gehrig "I am the luckiest boy in the world" speech at Killelea Field on Parker Hill Ave, I quietly retired at the end of the season. Or so I thought. As next spring would roll around and baseball fever again gripped the lives of Mission Hills youth, I would duck out of sign ups until Mrs. Curran who held the trifecta of being mother to my best All Star Best friends growing up, in charge of Little League sign ups and secretary at Mission Grammar School on St Alphonsus would find me in the hallways and say "Hey John, I didn't see your name on the Little League Registration yet, did you miss the sign ups?" I was too timid, shy and afraid to say I just wanted to live, and would find myself hesitantly signing on the dotted line like I had a young hand full of Lou Gehrig's Disease. This went on for 2 more years. Many strikeouts followed, many more fastballs peppered my body and my self esteem. Even more cries of "Policastro you suck!" and "You're dead if you lose the game again." Too many times I was trying to bury myself in deep right field praying the ball would never come to me, only to have it come to me right in time for me to hide my face under the glove and drop the ball, or humorously enough, bean me on the head. Another quiet retirement followed by reluctant sign ups.
My luck finally changed for me in my last year in one of the final games. Still dead last with no chance of advancing I took to the batters box to face off with a 13 year old pitching phenom, which I was excited about because it just meant I was going to be able to strike out quicker than usual and go back to sulking on the bench. But then the most unexpected thing happened. As the opposing teams coach, who sounded like he had gotten his tongue stuck in a paper shredder full of rum and bumble bees was cryin out "Go on Thluggah thee what you can do....nevamind, hes jutht lookin for the walk......jutht lookin for the walk" I took a swing and I hit the ball! I had connected! Roughly three years without a hit and I had finally done it! I saw it headed towards short stop and felt it was going to be caught quick for an out, but I excitedly ran for first base for the first time ever. As I watched, I noticed the shortstop hadn't really been paying attention, as it was John Poli-Strike out at bat anyway. The ball reached him but he hadn't been ready, fumbled it in between his hand and glove, and then lost it into the dirt. I had just gotten some sort of good luck bestowed on me and received my first hit in Little League. To make it an even sweeter moment for me, he was frustrated for bobbling it and hurriedly threw to first base, but it went soaring over the first baseman's head and I had such adrenaline surging through me that I didn't even stop and went running for second, where I safely landed. I remember one of the assistant coaches cheering me on and giving me a thumbs up screaming from across the field: "You did it! And you flew too! " It made me feel really good, so good that I wasn't too bothered when my usual hecklers found a new outlet to mock me in the way I ran like a girl and would be almost kicking my own ass as I frantically hustled along.
Later on in the game, I was sitting on the benches, replaying that moment over and over again, yet somewhat bummed that my parents weren't there to have seen it or document it. But my little league career wasn't really one to brag about. The boasting of your children's successes to others via home movies wouldn't have sounded as gleeful if it was "Oh, and here's our John striking out again, but almost hitting the ball...oh, oh and wait here, here you can see his teammate trip him when he comes back into the dugout! See how he learned to fall into the fence instead of on his face?! That's our lil' All Star!"
Soon after a batter for the opposing team popped up a foul ball headed our way in the dugout. "Heads up everyone! Heads up comin' our way!' as was the norm to say. I got off of the bench and moved down a few feet to the left, foolishly eyeing the motion of the coaches hand from across the dugout. As soon as I saw his face light up towards me, I'm sure I was thinking "Yeah.....looking for the walk, huh, asshole? Did you see that double?! Did you!?" but he was actually saying "Watch out!" and before I knew it, I got cracked in the head with the baseball and it sent me crashing back down to the bench. It also sent up uproarious laughter among both sides of the field. Who else would move out of the way of a ball only to get hit by it? I suppose the same kid who a few years later would catch footballs and basketballs off the back of my head in freshman gym, and most certainly the same kid who would manage to even later get shit on by birds three years in a row.
I thankfully was able to leave Little League behind after that season, as I was too old, and became more attuned to writing poetry, listening to music and learning the guitar, essentially just being a hermit. But to prove that I still held that shred of luck, the first year without me my team was back at the Number 1 spot.
What luck.
This rookie took all the could take and though I didn't give a Lou Gehrig "I am the luckiest boy in the world" speech at Killelea Field on Parker Hill Ave, I quietly retired at the end of the season. Or so I thought. As next spring would roll around and baseball fever again gripped the lives of Mission Hills youth, I would duck out of sign ups until Mrs. Curran who held the trifecta of being mother to my best All Star Best friends growing up, in charge of Little League sign ups and secretary at Mission Grammar School on St Alphonsus would find me in the hallways and say "Hey John, I didn't see your name on the Little League Registration yet, did you miss the sign ups?" I was too timid, shy and afraid to say I just wanted to live, and would find myself hesitantly signing on the dotted line like I had a young hand full of Lou Gehrig's Disease. This went on for 2 more years. Many strikeouts followed, many more fastballs peppered my body and my self esteem. Even more cries of "Policastro you suck!" and "You're dead if you lose the game again." Too many times I was trying to bury myself in deep right field praying the ball would never come to me, only to have it come to me right in time for me to hide my face under the glove and drop the ball, or humorously enough, bean me on the head. Another quiet retirement followed by reluctant sign ups.
My luck finally changed for me in my last year in one of the final games. Still dead last with no chance of advancing I took to the batters box to face off with a 13 year old pitching phenom, which I was excited about because it just meant I was going to be able to strike out quicker than usual and go back to sulking on the bench. But then the most unexpected thing happened. As the opposing teams coach, who sounded like he had gotten his tongue stuck in a paper shredder full of rum and bumble bees was cryin out "Go on Thluggah thee what you can do....nevamind, hes jutht lookin for the walk......jutht lookin for the walk" I took a swing and I hit the ball! I had connected! Roughly three years without a hit and I had finally done it! I saw it headed towards short stop and felt it was going to be caught quick for an out, but I excitedly ran for first base for the first time ever. As I watched, I noticed the shortstop hadn't really been paying attention, as it was John Poli-Strike out at bat anyway. The ball reached him but he hadn't been ready, fumbled it in between his hand and glove, and then lost it into the dirt. I had just gotten some sort of good luck bestowed on me and received my first hit in Little League. To make it an even sweeter moment for me, he was frustrated for bobbling it and hurriedly threw to first base, but it went soaring over the first baseman's head and I had such adrenaline surging through me that I didn't even stop and went running for second, where I safely landed. I remember one of the assistant coaches cheering me on and giving me a thumbs up screaming from across the field: "You did it! And you flew too! " It made me feel really good, so good that I wasn't too bothered when my usual hecklers found a new outlet to mock me in the way I ran like a girl and would be almost kicking my own ass as I frantically hustled along.
Later on in the game, I was sitting on the benches, replaying that moment over and over again, yet somewhat bummed that my parents weren't there to have seen it or document it. But my little league career wasn't really one to brag about. The boasting of your children's successes to others via home movies wouldn't have sounded as gleeful if it was "Oh, and here's our John striking out again, but almost hitting the ball...oh, oh and wait here, here you can see his teammate trip him when he comes back into the dugout! See how he learned to fall into the fence instead of on his face?! That's our lil' All Star!"
Soon after a batter for the opposing team popped up a foul ball headed our way in the dugout. "Heads up everyone! Heads up comin' our way!' as was the norm to say. I got off of the bench and moved down a few feet to the left, foolishly eyeing the motion of the coaches hand from across the dugout. As soon as I saw his face light up towards me, I'm sure I was thinking "Yeah.....looking for the walk, huh, asshole? Did you see that double?! Did you!?" but he was actually saying "Watch out!" and before I knew it, I got cracked in the head with the baseball and it sent me crashing back down to the bench. It also sent up uproarious laughter among both sides of the field. Who else would move out of the way of a ball only to get hit by it? I suppose the same kid who a few years later would catch footballs and basketballs off the back of my head in freshman gym, and most certainly the same kid who would manage to even later get shit on by birds three years in a row.
I thankfully was able to leave Little League behind after that season, as I was too old, and became more attuned to writing poetry, listening to music and learning the guitar, essentially just being a hermit. But to prove that I still held that shred of luck, the first year without me my team was back at the Number 1 spot.
What luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
