Gentile Summit 2010: Power Rankings

Another year of midwestern debauchery has come to an end, along with any ill-idealized dreams I had of ever being good at golf, apparently, such was the brutal nature of my swing. I may as well have teed-off with a log washed up on the shore of the muddy Mississippi.

But fear not, great fun was had in Minneapolis and environs, all thanks to the good people below.

1. Chad and Molly.

The top spot could go to none other than our esteemed host and hostess, who planned much of the agenda without complaint (audible complaint, anyway), allowed random socially awkward n'er-do-wells into their home and, burying the lede, provided ample alcohol and cigarettes.

The gem of the weekend had to be the second "floor" of their swank downtown loft, which also happened to be the roof of the building. A frequent gathering place for us, as well as assorted lesbians (who are apparently as excited by DonkeyPuncher as they are by Indigo Girls), the site featured awesome downtown views, the full gamut of offerings by Surly Brewing Co. and ample room for rousing, if one-sided, games of cornhole.

Chad also came through with best suggestion of the weekend, deep-fried chicken wings (drummies only!) at Runyon's. This is the best late-night food ever and he hardly batted an eye when he walked into a nearly closed bar and asked for 72 of them, which seemed excessive at the time, even downright gluttonous, until we got back to the loft and they disappeared in under ten minutes.

2. Emet

Tough choice for the silver medal, as Drizz put forth a monumental effort, but I don't have to sleep with Drizz every night (at least not since the summer of '07), and Emet had a stellar week as well, culminating in her doing all the packing for the trip home on Sunday morning as I moaned and sweated in our concave hotel room bed with a flu bug that can only be described as "sinister."

Emet travels great, of course. This is no surprise. She's a go-with-the-flow type, which is the perfect counterpoint to my plan-everything-down-to-the-millisecond style, so we end up getting to do a whole mess of stuff, while also finding unexpected crevices. We always remember to pause in our journeys, which provides vivid reminders of just how damn much we enjoy each other's company. Whether it was getting caught (and drenched) in a thunderstorm at Minnehaha Falls or hitting four balls into the water on #2 (me only), her good cheer never wavered. Also, she's looking really hot in her new Purple Jesus jersey.

3. Drizz.

Forget the two hours he was unaccounted for on early Saturday morning (hours he semi-recounted later), Drizz was tireless and tenacious. His finest moment was perhaps getting us to and from Canterbury Race Track/Card Club while driving at night in prescription sunglasses, having forgot his regular sunglasses at home. In the interim, he hit a straight flush at the Pai-Gow table.

But that can't be all. This is Drizz we're talking about. At one point on Friday night, he was into the water, but staged a furious comeback after running into an old volleyball acquaintance with a third nipple. I managed to get him drunk enough at Edinburgh USA to pillage his wallet on the back 9. This after he awed both me and our random playing partner (shout-out to Jack from Athens, GA!) with 300-yard drives down the middle on the front. You could actually hear the ball scream at impact. He took all that money back at cornhole (if there were a Drinking Game Olympics, Drizz would be on Wheaties boxes) and prop bets on the futility of A's hitters and the Saturday round at Theodore Wirth and probably some place else I can't remember. All I know is that Drizz is probably the first person to ever profit from a Summit, though those aforementioned two hours probably cut into the take a bit, $20 per song at a time.

4. StB.

He was lower than DonkeyPuncher at one point (I was using these Power Rankings to bend people to my will), when he said, "He's not even here!" True statement. Late (late, late) night at Cuzzy's, the kind of bar where you go when you've drank yourself entirely out of pretension and dignity, and StB continued going strong.

Extra bonus points for bringing along a case of Lager (by which I mean Yuengling, a name which I butchered so many times and in so many ways during the Bash at the Boathouse '06, that Terri the bartender finally told me just to ask for a "Lager" and so I continue to do to this day).

5. DonkeyPuncher

Docked for the rookie mistake of not arriving until Friday, especially since the fam was gone on Thursday night, and also robbing himself of crucial points by not once going to Sex World (as far as I know). Even so, he did entice a lesbian to kiss him by the sheer force of his personality and brown-ness.

As for golf, well, let's just pretend that round at Wirth never happened. Let's let it disappear in the same manner in which our respective swings were lost somewhere at the Minnesota state line.

6. OhCaptain

I (rather mercilessly) taunted Rochester's finest poker blogger all weekend about his standing in the Power Rankings, which caused him to complain at one point that he was "behind people who aren't even here!" which naturally emboldened me to continue doing it. Or course, I kid, that's just the kind of jackass I am, and Tim's virgin Summit appearance was an excellent debut, the kind that will be written about in the annals. What? We don't have any annals?

Shit.

7. Minneapolis Tim

Chad's buddy and my primary Twins fan foil for the weekend, Tim's a clever fellow with a penchant for the suicide squeeze and Neuro-Physics. I am making neither of those things up.

8. The Good People of Minneapolis

There is a term, "Minnesota Nice." I found nothing in the city to abuse me of this notion. We had a jogger stop mid-run and ask if Emet and I wanted a picture together. While we rode the public bikes around town (which was awesome and if we were ranking inanimate objects, the bikes would be in the top 3, along with Surly Furious and Target Field), a few people expressed delight that we were riding them and wanted to know if we were having fun. Also, given the opportunity to run us over on two occasions, Minneapolis bus drivers demurred.

9. Humidity

We have now reached the stage of the Power Rankings where things aren't good. I figured I could rotate a couple t-shirts over the course of the five days, thereby ensuring lighter luggage, but I had to take two of them out of the rotation on the first day after bleeding my rapidly deteriorating sweat clean through them (hear that, ladies!). I can't even get into how the weather made my hair all curly, not curly like sexy, but curly like pubes.

10. The Oakland A's

Sigh. I hate them so very much. They don't deserve me. They are winless in the three games I've attended this season. Their performance at Friday night's game against the Twins at gorgeous Target Field was so egregious that it put me on tilt. Massive Tilt. The kind of tilt I usually only experience, baseball-wise, when they are actually in a pennant race. But 15 hits and only 3 runs, some ridiculous at-bats, the inability to get to Carl Fucking Pavano...

I had to take a time-out walk along the concourse. I shit you not.

*

Perhaps my favorite story from the weekend happened at the Twins-A's game. We were a little tardy (the roof is a tough place to leave), and as we filled up our row, we noticed a priest sitting right behind us. He was with his father (haha the Father with his father), his brother and three nephews, all of whom were very friendly and knowledgeable and immediately started giving me shit about my A's jersey. We talked to them frequently over the course of the game, DonkeyPuncher showing off his Catholic roots, Emet and I teasing the kiddos. Late in the game, the priest leaned down and said to me something to the effect of "We were a little concerned when y'all showed up, there being a lot of families in the section and all, but we appreciate your clean language and how y'all behaved."

Which is a nice microcosm of this group. Degenerates, yes. But considerate and decent. Even if Drizz dropped two S-bombs within 45 seconds of that conversation.

Until next year, gang.

2010: A Television Odyssey

After 7+ years, two lamps, a color wheel and countless hours of Big Screen Entertainment, the TV died. The timing could not have been worse, what with cash being eaten up at a piranha-esque rate due to numerous summer vacations and two rounds of golf per week. Emet and I even had a technician come out to see if the Old Girl (the TV, not Emet) were salvageable.

The repairman didn't have good news. No easy fix. So I said to him, "Considering the technology in this TV is obsolete and the price of a new (shiny, beautiful flat-screen high-def) TV is but 3x the price of this repair, what would your advice be?"

I knew before I even finished the question what his true answer was. His face gave it away. To is credit, he didn't dissemble. "I'd go buy a new TV," he said. He lost a repair job, but gained a customer.

Customer Service Grade: A

This was a Saturday morning, so Emet and I decided to wait a day so we could see the Sunday mailers for sale prices. In the meantime, I did my research thing and listed the Must Haves (LED back-lighting, 1080p, at least 120Mz) for the purchase. I ran down the get the paper (oh, I mean newspaper; it's this thing old people have delivered to their house and contains information) first thing on Sunday and found an appropriately priced and appointed set. I paused only to brush my teeth before I was in the car and on the way to Best Buy.

I'm not the biggest Best Buy fan, but they usually have the best prices. I have to wade through four different salespeople all trying to "help" me add-on to my purchase, but being prepared always helps. Not that I can't be diverted by other sparkling options. I texted Emet twice about a) getting a bigger set and b) getting a different set that also offered a free Blu-Ray and Surround Sound.

Despite threatening to go off the rails, I ended up with the TV I'd intended to buy, though the process took far too long and by the end I was surly and dismissive and hurrytheffup to every smiling, blue-shirted body that came my way, an attitude that was not helped when informed delivery would take nearly two weeks.

"Wait. Didn't you say you had the TV in stock?"

"Yes sir, but delivery services are backed up." Recession my balls.

Customer Service Grade: C+

I wish that were the end of it. Two weeks with our little TV perched in front of the big, ol' useless one. But now I needed a new box and dish from DirecTV to beam beautiful HD to the Speaker Compund. Now, I've been a DirecTV customer off and on for twenty years, but that off and on (due to apartment buildings that don't allow satellite dishes) has occasioned many calls to English-challenged customer service, many swarthy installers up on my roof and many man-hours lost to unraveling the mysteries of DirecTV pricing plans.

My first telephone attempt resulted in pigeon English and a number of charges I was not willing to pay. Unable to make myself truly understood, I hung up and decided to play Customer Service Rep Roulette. On my next try, the charges were the same (three additional ones on top of the price of the box) and I insisted on an explanation for each, all the while surfing the internet for local cable company rates (outrageous) and Dish Network plans (better, but no NFL Sunday Ticket, which is my primary raison d'etre).

Customer Service Grade: D

So, it seemed I was backed into a corner. I had no place to go. Was facing $200 in trumped-up charges (these were for such bullshit items as "equipment upgrade fee," "sales order fee" and "contract amendment fee,"). So, I ran a bluff. I told the customer service lady--IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS!--that I found these bonus charges to be egregious and wholly unfair and that I was inclined to cancel their service altogether. She responded that she hated to lose me as a customer, but she would transfer me to Cancellations and that maybe they could do something for me. The new Dude cut out the fees in like 90 seconds and I ended up only paying for the HD box.

Ship it.

Customer Service Grade: B+ (points deducted for trying to screw me in the first place)

I scheduled the installation for a day after the TV was set to arrive and steeled myself for another 10 days of Little TV Hell, but satisfied in knowing my long national nightmare would soon be over, if a bit pricey.

But I run so bad.

*

"It looks awfully dark, doesn't it?"

That's what I said after looking at the new TV for about an hour after I got home from work. I didn't think too much of it, since we weren't yet getting an HD signal, but my research had intimated that the LED backlight feature helped the contrast in darker scenes. I grabbed the TV's manual to investigate and stopped cold. The cover said, "LCD TV."

Shit. I grabbed a flashlight and hustled around the back of the TV looking for the model number. Shit. This is the wrong TV. And my first thought was, "I bought the wrong one."

Panicking, I located my receipt. No, I had not bought the wrong TV. The Geek Squad brought the wrong one. Same size, same brand, just the shittier, non-LED, $500 cheaper one.

Customer Service Grade: F

"Hello? Customer service?" I was on the phone again, eerily calm (perhaps because I spent a harrowing five minutes thinking *I* had made a huge mistake), but that calm was immediately tested when, upon hearing my tale of woe, the voice on the other end of the line said, "Did you accept delivery?"

Mt. Saint Speaker was poised to explode. "I didn't," I said, molten lava beginning to rise. "My girlfriend did. YOU. ARE. NOT. GOING. TO. TELL. ME..."

"No, no sir. Let me transfer you."

In the Home Theater Dept, they were apologetic. Yes, we totally screwed up. Yes, we'll send out your TV as soon as possible. Yes, we will send you a $50 Gift Card for your trouble.

Customer Service Grade: C (though the make-up was an A, I'm averaging that with the 'F', which remains totally unacceptable in any context)

Funny story. All's well that ends well. Our actual TV is coming on Wednesday. Yesterday, during AJ's birthday party, the guests kept asking, "Oh, is that your new TV?" to which I kept responding, "It's A new TV." They all thought it looked fine and it does, when watching a day baseball game, though HD does take a little getting used to, especially on the channels that are non-HD, where everything is wierdly three-dimensional and reminds me of Masterpiece Theatre on PBS.
As for the DirecTV installation, we waited way too long on Friday. He said 10:30 a.m. at first, so I felt totally secure in setting a 2:30 p.m. tee time for Emet and I. Naturally, his first job of the day ran way over and he didn't get to our place until 1 p.m. I told him he was going to have to finish in an hour. He didn't. We left anyway. Despite Emet's protestations that he was going to rob our house, I trusted him. Had to. There's no way I'm missing a round of golf. Not the way I'm swinging it. And, if he did rob us, at least we had our clubs with us, so he couldn't take those, and there's really nothing more valuable in our house currently than my sticks, not in a monetary way, you understand, but in a Can't Live Without Them way.

Full credit to Juan the Satellite Dish Technician for not robbing us.

Customer Service Grade: A (non-robbery trumping late arrrival)

Teaching Moments

I didn't take much notice of the teens in front of us until we got right near the head of the line. I counted them out--five--and realized the line was now longer than I'd expected, because they'd go up one by one to buy their movie tickets, like teen-agers do. Oh well, we were early and my legendary impatience with lines and slow customer service was at bay.

Up they went. One, two, three...

I watched them closer now. I'm obsessed with the behavior of young people around me. This is a new thing and absolutely--100%--attributable to AJ's growing older (he'll be 9 in two weeks). I don't want to be out of touch. Or worse, oblivious. I need to know what the kids are into these days.

The group was four boys and one girl. Gawky age, 14 and 15. Bad skin. Talking around each other, eyes averted. Not A-Listers. Closer to the bottom of the brutal teen pecking order than to the top, I wagered.

As the fourth of them--the girl--went up, a new pack of three boys came strutting around the corner of our back-and-forth line--thirty people deep, at least--and joined up with the waiting others. One of the newbies, hair Bieber-ized, said, "What movie are we watching?"

I tossed Emet a raised eyebrow and she returned fire with that face that says, "Easy, Tiger."

The girl came back from the box office and greeted the new guys with a grin as the last of the original five went forward. The three stayed where they were, right in the front of the line. I looked around at the people behind us, some of them with eyeball daggers drawn.

"You guys aren't really going to jump right in front of all these people are you?" I said, my right arm out like a Price is Right model, appealing to their sense of justice. It's about the people, not just me.

The girl cocked her hip. "Yes," she said, both matter-of-factly and defiantly. "Yup," nodded Bieber Boy. Although, unlike the girl, he didn't turn and meet our gaze.

Emet put a hand on my forearm, though it was unnecessary. I was in no mood to tangle, despite a faraway desire to stave in Bieber's smart mouth for him; do him a favor, you know, before he mouths off to the wrong person and finds himself at the bottom of a Doc Marten.

Emet, of course, is a pro in these circumstances. She deals with preternaturally annoying 6th-graders every day at school. "That's really not acceptable behavior," she said.

"We're not acceptable," said Bieber Boy.

"It's downright rude," Emet continued.

"We are rude." (I'm guessing this is not the captain of the Debate Team.)

Still, the kid hadn't turned around. His insolence didn't go so far as to trump his cowardice. I suppose Emet sensed that, as well.

"You should be ashamed," she said, and I saw the heat start to rise on his neck. "Someone should have taught you better."

And scene. Emet wins. There was no (un-)pithy comeback forthcoming. In fact, I swear the swagger jumped right off that young man's shoulders. He went up to buy his ticket and scurried off without a look back.

*

I'm sure later they laughed about the hippie and the schoolmarm in line. Straightened their spine and how they got what they wanted. For my part, I searched my memory banks for similar scenes from my adolescence (found one; okay two) and thought about ways to make sure no adult ever said something like that to MY kid. I've given variations of the same speech a hundred times to AJ. Something along the lines of, "I don't care if you grow up to be a firefighter/situational reliever/janitor/lawyer, I just want you to be kind, to show courtesy, to learn empathy and compassion."

You know, the things that parents say that kids never listen to. But maybe, if you say it enough times, it worms its way in there.

And yeah, "Inception" was tremendous, even if my attention was diverted at times while shooting spitballs at a Bieber-looking kid down in the second row.

My Job

It was not yet 9 a.m., but the sun was already beating down as I reached for my iPhone. It wasn't there. Lovely. Emet would have to figure out for herself why what I thought would be a 20-minute exercise would be three times that, at least. I couldn't even see the front of the line.

Twenty minutes later, I'd moved halfway up the hill when a familiar face walked by. I coached her son last year and the two of us had commiserated during the Little League season about the less than nurturing attitude of baseball coaches (as opposed to my egalitarian methods on the pitch). She asked about Friday night's playoff game between AJ's D-Backs and the Yankees, since the loser would play her son's Rockies later in the afternoon. We talked about how the playoffs seem to have "ratcheted up the stupid" among the adults. Finally, she asked if I was going to coach soccer again. I sighed and said yes.

"What made you decide to do it?" she asked, knowing I'd been on the fence for some time.

"I didn't want AJ's coach to be a dick," I said. Then, in near unison, we said, "Like baseball."

*

I've learned over the course of the baseball season to settle my ass down. For a while there, I was hawkish, tunnel-focused. As much as I tried to stay outwardly calm, my son perceived the stress. And it had a negative effect on him. He dreaded games. He complained about umpire calls, the unfairness of it all, always having to play the outfield. I wanted to fix it for him. That's what I'm supposed to do, is it not? And so I obsessively looked for holes in his game.

When all I really needed to do was relax.

In our first playoff game, we met the Phillies, losers of all 17 of their regular season games. I was keeping score for the game alongside another parent with whom I'd struck up a friendship during the year. We'd talked about the competitiveness of the league. Of the coaches (we've all heard of the near-fight between two of them one level up). Of the parents, like the one who came up at the end of one game to ask me the score--it was 19-0, this particular dickface for some reason needing to know the exact total of the drubbing.

At one point, the Phillie second-baseman made a play. His face lit up like Fourth of July. "That's why we should be out here," the parent said.

Right. The next inning, our coach was screaming at an umpire.

*

The line was moving at a decent clip. I talked with a guy on my soccer team as we waited to register as coaches. I told him about a kid I had last year who cried at the end of the season. He was sad it was over. The kid didn't have any real skill, was chubby and slow. But, by the last game, he was an asset. He was aggressive. I could count on him to give his last breath. And I'd managed to make it worthwhile for him, a positive experience.

Look, I'm no saint. I'm competitive. I got yelled at twice by a referee last year. I would like my team of 8- and 9-year-olds to win. But I will not treat them poorly in pursuit of such a thing. I will not leave sportsmanship and teamwork out of the lessons I teach them. I will not focus only on the good players, while letting the others fend for themselves.

I think the best trait a coach has to have is to remember the kids are infinitely more important than the coach. To take delight in the slightest improvement and to make sure the children know they are valued, regardless of their ability. They don't need me to tell them they are awesome soccer players when they are not. They know plenty about where they stand in the pecking order. No, what they deserve is simple regard, to know their coach is on their side.

*

AJ's D-Backs beat the Phillies and matched up with the Yankees in Round Two. Last time the teams met, the Yankees won, and the D-Backs were deemed to have played so poorly, the coach sent them on a run after the game.

There would be no repeat. I was late, but showed up in time to see AJ single in his second AB (after a walk in his first). I saw him hustle to a ball hit down the right field line, hit the cut-off man and hold the hitter to a single. He was happy, confident, like he has been the last half-dozen games or so, once his Dad stopped telling him what to do all the time.

The score was 18-5, a comprehensive shellacking. The Yankees came up for their last ups and AJ ran back out to right field, as he has all season (though sometimes it's left, sometimes it's center). Earlier in the season, I'd have bristled. The game is over (teams are only allowed to score a maximum of 5 runs per inning), let the kids play a different position (not just AJ, but the other kids who've been relegated to the OF all year). AJ's been dying to play second base all year, as he did last year to decent effect. But he's over it by now. And so am I.

And then...as the pitcher warmed up, his coach made changes. The left-fielder came in to play third, the centerfielder came in to play short and AJ...and AJ...came in to play 2nd.

I'm telling you right now I nearly cried. Not because he was getting his wish, but because the smile on his face was beautiful, the excitement was beyond anything I've seen from him since he scored his first goal in soccer.

And that, right there, is the whole point, is it not? Is that not why a man (or woman) donates time to coach sports? To give a child that feeling, that experience? I don't know why it took AJ's coach so long to make a move like this. There were numerous chances over the course of the season. But I'm not going to complain. It happened for AJ and it made all the difference.

The fact he expertly played a grounder for a routine 4-3 putout made it all seem like a dream (X did begin to weep at this point). When he snatched a tough throw--in-between hop--from the catcher and put a slick tag on the base-stealer for the third out, it was like God himself reached down to touch the child, to reward him for sticking it out, to reward his father for remembering--belatedly--to focus on the positive aspects of youth sports. And when AJ's teammates sprinted over to second base to high-five him...well shoot...I couldn't begin to put the feeling into words.

Fortunately, I don't have to. I have this:



I finally got through the soccer registration line. Took almost 90 minutes and without my iPhone to entertain me, I was on substantial tilt. But that was the easiest part of the season. Now it's on to practices and games and time- and soul-sucking meetings and dealing with administrators and coaches and parents and that feeling I get abour 2/3rds of the way through the year when I just want it all to be over.

But this year, I'll carry around the picture of that perfect smile above. That smile that can't hide how proud that child feels inside. And remember it's my job to make that happen for each and every child under my charge.

I'm not saying it will be easy. We all lose sight. But I'll do my best. It should be interesting. AJ will play in U-10s for the first time this year. And unlike U-8s, the U-10s have playoffs.

Licked

I am proud to tell you all that I've licked my addiction to Little League. From frothing to 'meh' in just a few short weeks. I can't tell you from what spring this addiction welled, it remains a mystery to me, but it had become clear my total insistence on AJ "playing the game the right way," and my own grumblings about the coaching, had a negative effect on my son. He wasn't enjoying himself, was gripping the bat like a dangling limb on the side of a cliff, and seemed to be one bad call/at-bat away from a meltdown at all times.

So I switched modes--not easy to do for someone as single-minded as I can be--to the "Aw fuck it, let's just have fun" setting on my parent-o-meter which has provided me with much relief and, slowly, AJ is focusing on the benefits of play, rather than the results.

This more open-minded view has shown that the Coach is less malicious than he is oblivious, that the assistant coaches are damn fine at what they do and great role models for the boys, the players themselves are a great group of kids that AJ should be proud to call friends and the baseball, well, it's just a game. A game. And it doesn't matter. As I told AJ, "You're 8! Nothing matters!"

I will mention a single event, but only because it illustrates how awesome Emet is. We hosted the Red Sox this past Saturday, a team of genetically-engineered baseball robots, each of them clothed in the guise of 8-year-olds, but so impossibly tow-headed and blue-eyed that they can not really exist. We've seen three of their pitchers in three games and if they were three years older, you'd say, "My goodness those boys throw hard." They are, in fact, undefeated at 12-0, have dealt AJ's D-Backs losses in each of those three games (the D-Backs are 6-1-1 in their other 8 games), each by a score of one million to zero.

Predictably, the game was out of hand early, but coaching must still go on. One aspect that still annoys me, despite my more Christian Attitude, is the coach teaching the kids to throw the ball back to the pitcher. Once the pitcher has the ball on the mound, runners can't advance. However, by instructing, nay demanding, throws from the outfield go directly to the pitcher, rather than the base they are supposed to go to, the kids aren't learning how to play the game. I understand that whinging the ball around the diamond at this age promotes mis-plays, but you can at least make the first correct throw, yes? My two cents.

Anyways, we're down a quarter million or something to zero, Red Sox with a runner on 2nd and no outs. A grounder is fielded flawlessly by our 3rd baseman and the runner is caught halfway. The 3rd baseman runs him back a little and fires to 2nd. A little high. The runner tears for third and rounds the bag, heading for home. AJ, doing a decent job of backing up in center, fires a one-hop strike to home, a seriously perfect throw, that, alas, arrives at the same time as the runner, who demolishes the catcher and scores. The batter, running all the while--as he is programmed to do in a small industrial park adjacent to Van Nuys--ends up on third.

There is a brief period of silence as the dust settles. Then the coach bellows, "Throw the ball to the pitcher!" The last syllable is hardly out of his mouth when Emet--who teaches 6th grade, so you know she has a voice that carries--yells,

"Great throw AJ!"

She has not yet attained my level of zen.

*

Missed last night's freeroll in favor of golf and beers with Emet. Congrats to longtime reader April for the TOC seat. April and I broke into this blogging bidness together and my delight at her victory is not dulled by my hangover or my atrocious putting.

I've come to the conclusion that my putting woes are almost entirely mental. This highly-scientific conclusion came to me yesterday after I three-putted seven holes on the front for a grand total of 24 putts against a score of 48, which is pretty decent considering the putting. Then, on the back, I had only 16 putts, just a single-three putt (with an excuse) and three up-and-downs.

The difference? I was drunk on the back nine. Go out of my head and just started stroking them.

It's been awfully frustrating, but tomorrow's another day (yes, I'm playing again tomorrow). No beer, what with another Little League tilt on tap in the evening, so no yip-helpers in little 12 oz. cans.

On the plus side, I'm driving the ball like a champ. And now I've just jinxed that.

*

I do believe I will take advantage of tomorrow's day off with the Poker From the Rail tourney tonight. My almost complete absence from the series so far has been due to time issues (and I suppose the fact I already won a Bracelet Race and have booked my spot in Event #24--June 12-16, c'mon down!), but I've been itching to get back into the ring with my fellow degens, so look for me this evening.

BBT5

I was in the Oakland Airport when BBT5 kicked off last night, at the tail end of a three-day bender that included wine tasting in the Livermore Valley (where I grew up), dive-bar shenanigans with Emet, Kool Breeze and Shot and a glorious afternoon at the Coliseum (marred only by the home team being pelted by the Orioles).

I originally thought I'd be home in time to participate in the maiden event, but that's only because I thought it started at 7 p.m. PST. Incorrect. I'll miss the rest of this week's tourneys due to further life issues, like attending Game 4 of the Kings-Canucks series on Wednesday, but hope to play in as many of the events as possible.

Good on Al for his continued hard work and awesomeness and good luck to all of you out there.



The Events

Tournament: Poker From the Rail
When: Monday, April 19th through May 24th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $24+2 (or token)*
Password: 2010WSOP

Tournament: The Mookie
When: Wednesday, April 21st through May 26th starting at 22:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: $10+1*
Password: vegas1

*Winner also receives ToC entry

Tournament: Battle of the Blogger Tournaments Invitational
When: Sunday, April 18th through May 23rd starting at 19:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Restricted freeroll**

**$2,000 Prizepool + 1st and 2nd place receive ToC entry

Tournament: Blogger Battle Royale
When: Sunday, June 6th starting at 14:00ET
Game: Deepstack NLHE
Buyin: Freeroll for BBT participating bloggers

Shipped

Remember how I mentioned I was mulling playing a $1K WSOP Donktastic Event when I was in Vegas this June?

I believe you can book it.