Big Game - Small World

6 Months At A Time

2020-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

Creeping in the back of every ballplayer’s mind: what is life going to be like without the game. For a lot of baseball players who see their careers coming to an end; maybe it is right after college, maybe it is after a couple years in the minors, or after 4 years of crazy overseas adventures. Life after baseball is a mystery and you probably won’t realize what it feels like until you are 4 months into a big boy job, furthering your education or whatever it may be. In reality, a lot of players do not know what they want out of life after they hang up their cleats. For me, I always made it a priority to AT LEAST think about it. I did not think one season overseas was going to turn into 4+ years of evolving the game, becoming a national team coach, and digging roots in 3 different countries (4 if you include the best holiday of the year- Finkstonball). I hope this is a platform for everyone to give their PERSPECTIVE on how they combat moving away from the game. Hopefully nobody really has to…

I try to have a mindset of only living and planning 6 months at a time because it is the only way I stay passionately motivated. I am not saying it is the ultimate way to live but I think it is a stepping stone to conquering or simply figuring out the next move. Luckily a season naturally lasts about 6 months so I would say about mid September; when the playoffs are dragging on, the weather is starting to change, planning your return flight home, this is when I would start to get a bit anxious. Coming back home after what was a fantasy land of a summer, there is a serious mental hangover of ‘what now?’. Over the past three offseasons I have tried to grind my ass off, work two jobs and save money to start working towards what some call “the future”. October and November are always tough because there still is a looming feeling of the ride being over. People ask, “How was your summer?” and you don’t even know how to respond or where to start. The holidays offer a good little buffer to make the time go by a bit faster and then hopefully all of a sudden you are spit out in January ready to make a move. At this time in the cycle, the motivation to really work hard on your craft does not hit its peak until you truly have something to look forward to. For most of us, it is signing with a new team, in a new country, and having a send-off date.

What happens if you choose to not let this cyclical offseason whirlwind of emotions get the best of you and effectively plan so you can optimize your time at home vs your time playing abroad? It took me three offseasons to realize that during the low months of being home is when you can start laying the foundation for what you want to accomplish even after the upcoming season. I understand this does not add up to just looking at the next six months chronologically, but in fact you are setting aside that season time to focus on simply being in your respected country, soaking it all in. Therefore, the months you get back home you can hit the ground running. Being able to compartmentalize the highs of the season, and dealing with the lows of the offseason, how you control the latter is going to affect how you move forward with or without baseball. Always think ahead, but not too far ahead.

After talking about it since my first season in Australia (2015), I finally got around to applying for a masters program. I was talking about it enough over the years then I realized I needed to be ‘Bout it Bout it’…. I looked into a lot of programs at whatever big universities were in the countries I was playing in, because that is where my motivation and passion was brewing at the time. Anywhere from Masters in History, Geography, Education, even Law School (gave up on studying for the LSAT really quick). As soon as I got back home from my 4th season abroad, I finally figured out how to handle that hangover and finally finished my application. I found that I became passionate about taking this next step and all I could think about was making it a reality. Instead of just getting through the holidays and waiting for another season, which at times felt like the easy route and brought immediate satisfaction, I knew it was time to prepare for the next chapter. Everything ended up working out perfectly. I worked out a deal with my previous team that they would sign me just for two months over the summer so I could still go over and play a partial season, then come back for School in the early fall. Too bad it took a global pandemic to stop ‘Los Meros’ from playing.

I have extended my playing career virtually as far as it possibly can go. As much as I want to continue to play forever and live in every single country that has a baseball league, it is time to diversify the portfolio. Baseball will always be there. I hope someday, one of you guys reading this are 40 years old, balding, and still playing as an import in Bulgaria. Keep your options open, and be ready to explore different avenues for life after baseball. But once again, maybe that is just my perspective.

The God-Fearing Austrian Grandmother

2020-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

My time in Austria contained a number of great experiences I loved, and a similar number of shitty situations that were terrible due to our ass of a club president. One of those things happened to be my living situation. This was a club I wanted to be a part of for the entire winter, and had to be pushy for them to just write up a contract to give me, even though they verbally expressed they intended to sign me. One piece of the contract they were not able to sort out was the living situation. They had expressly stated that finding an apartment for me and the other import to share would be no issue, but months passed and nothing came about. We came to agree that if they couldn’t find a place for me to live by March 1st, I was free to find another club. This agreement was trash though, because no one finds a club after March 1st.

On the final day of the agreement the president reaches out with a solution. He sends me 3 pictures to preface our phone call and I can’t believe it. He tells me on the phone that they’ve ordered these livable shipping containers to be put at the field. I have no choice to find another team at this point, and I briefly debate asking them to purchase a van for me to live in so I can at least get around, but that was quickly shot down.

So I spent the entire summer living in a shed in a public park rented by the club, showering in the clubhouse and eating most of my meals in the bar underneath the stands. We had our fair share of drunks and homeless people coming by, and kids opening up our doors thinking they were the bathroom at 7am on game days. During Pfingstenball, I woke up in the morning to one of my gloves soaked in piss from the previous night when someone decided to piss on the corner of the container. There’s some shit you just can’t make up.

During the end of my time in Austria, we missed the playoffs by one game. This gave me a ton of freedom to do whatever I wanted for the last month and a half of the season because they had scheduled a 5-game series for 7th place in a 10 team league that I couldn’t have given less of a fuck about.

One of the activities I always wanted to do while I was there was hike up this mountain called Traunstein, which is a massive mountain you can see from miles away on a clear day. At the foot of this mountain is a beautiful town called Gmunden, where the grandmother of the girl I was dating lived.

I had spoken with this girl about hiking up one day and we eventually found a day we could make work that was the day before the game that would clinch 7th place for us. I briefly entertained the idea of having her stay in my shed, but I was genuinely too embarrassed to bring a girl I actually liked in there. Fortunately she tells me that her uncle owns the flat across the hall from her Grandma and if we want to stay there the night before we hike, we’re totally welcome. So the night before we were to hike up I took the train to Gmunden and she met me at the station.

We walk to the building her Grandma lived in and go inside. She had been having a few glasses of wine with her, and intended to just grab the key to the flat next door and call it a night. Her grandma opens the door, sees me and says hello, and motions for me to give her a hug.

I should mention that months later, the girl tells me that she had to explain to her grandma that I’m just a friend of hers who will be sleeping on the couch in her uncle’s place. Being the protective, catholic grandmother she is, she expresses her concerns that she’s going to wake up to screams in the middle of the night because I’m this murderer from America. It takes some serious prodding to make sure she accepts the fact that I’ll be staying there overnight.

Alright, back to the story.

So when she opens the door and asks for a hug, the girl relays to me that she’s asked me to come in for a glass of wine with the two of them. I can’t say no, so the next thing I know I’m sitting in the apartment of the grandma of the girl I’ve been seeing for only a month. We are not on a “hey you should come meet my grandparents” level yet. Mind you that this woman doesn’t speak a lick of english so I’m essentially sitting there listening to them speak German to each other in a heavy Austrian dialect. Every few minutes the grandma turns to me and says something because she forgets I don’t speak german.

The girl is fortunately patient enough to translate for me, and we exchange a few sentences in German that I can barely piece together. The only one I remember is her saying and understanding was “Traunstein ist ein schon Berg”, and I just nodded and repeated the same sentence back to her. Despite the serious language barrier I seemed to have played my cards well because she at least seemed to think I was a nice young man. She did express some serious concern though that I only had shorts to hike up the mountain the next day though.

After we finish a glass or two of wine, we tell her we should probably go to sleep and she agrees. We’ve got to get to the trailhead by 7:30am or so. As we’re leaving, her grandma insists that we come back over for breakfast in the morning and she would love nothing more than to make breakfast for us before we get on the trail. The girl tries to tell her that we’ll pick something up along the way and eat at the trailhead, and the grandma eventually gives up and says ok.

We go next door and get into bed. At around 6:15 or so, the girl gets a call though and walks out of our room. She briefly comes back in and says she’ll be back in a few minutes. I start to get my stuff together for the hike and hop in the shower. She comes back in a bit and says, “alright, so my grandma made us breakfast anyways, you don’t have to come over though”. But I thought it would be incredibly rude to pass up on that, so next thing you know we were back in her dining room having breakfast and coffee. Unfortunately it took us 2 hours till we were an hour into the hike that it was actually decaffeinated coffee.

When we were about to leave the Grandma expressed some concerns that there would be no parking at the trailhead because there was a new route that opened up that day. The girl tried her darndest to tell her grandmother no, but she insisted. This woman was not to be stopped with anything she set her mind to.

We finish eating and get all of our stuff together. The grandmother leads us outside to her car, which happens to be parked in a precarious spot. The car is parked in an area that is the width of two cars sandwiched between the apartment building and a hill that’s held back by a cement barrier.

On this particular day, another apartment was getting a new kitchen, and a maintenance van was parked next to the nearest entrance which was about 25 yards behind the car we were about to drive in. So there is a space that is marginally wider than our car, which would be fairly easy to get out of going forward, but is a tall order if you’re backing out.

She acknowledges that it’s going to be tough, but reckons she can do it and gets in the car. Before she starts the engine though, she gets a phone call and answers it. It’s the girl’s mom on the other end saying she’ll stop by around midday and the call lasts a minute or so. When she hangs up though she starts the car and chucks it in reverse with the confidence of a nascar driver.

We start going back at about 15 miles an hour and it becomes apparent that this woman has completely forgot about the maintenance van and cannot see it in her rear view mirror. She didn’t even bother to turn her head around. Once I realize what’s about to happen, I let out an audible “Uh-oh” and we smash into the maintenance van and stop about halfway down. She then has to put it in first, and drive back, causing more damage to both cars.

We all get out of the car and one of the maintenance men pokes his head out of the second story window and says “Oida”, the Austrian equivalent of a casual “Fuck me”.

This grandma is unbelievably embarrassed and we check the damage. The van has a small dent in the door and some scratches that will rub off, but the grandma’s car is good and messed up. There are a couple massive dents & scratches, the gas cap is caved in, and the passenger door handle is partially broken off. The girl is also clearly embarrassed but the both of us are also looking at each other and this nervous wreck of a woman and trying to hold back the laughter at her expense.

The maintenance company and grandma exchange insurance cards and contact info, so there’s nothing more to be said. The entire group of tradesmen is standing outside at this point and the grandma gets back in the car to continue backing out. We’re giving her the best instructions we can, but this woman was not blessed with much spatial awareness and proceeds to drive straight back into the van once again.

She was so flustered by the second run in that one of the workers just got in the car and backed out for her. I did my best to not make her feel any worse about the scenario and told her in broken German that all was ok and there was nothing to be ashamed about.

We got to the trailhead and got out of the car, and said our thank you’s and goodbye’s. The grandma calls her granddaughter back after I’m a little bit away from the car, and says a line that completely exemplifies her as a god-fearing catholic Austrian; “You know, that wreck was Jesus punishing me for insisting I drive you to the trailhead, I’ll pray that you’ll have a safe hike as soon as I get home”.

When we get down from the top of the mountain at the end of the day, we organize to make our way back to the apartment by ferry because we have no car. But before we can purchase tickets, the girl gets a call from her Grandma saying that her mom is on her way to pick us up about 10 minutes away.

When I got on the train to Gmunden the previous day, I had no intention of meeting the majority of her family, which I thought was far too early in our relationship to happen. Apparently though I had already met her brother (a housemate I had run into that she didn’t tell me was her brother), and I was far deeper than I ever could have imagined.

Year of No Fear

2020-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

My toughest time while living abroad was undoubtedly my first time living abroad. My first season I was young, broke, going through a quarter-life crisis, and really didn’t know the ins-and-outs of the game yet. I swung at Barcelona with my eyes closed and luckily I made decent contact. What I hit was the opportunity to live across from a hostel. I was timid still at the time so I wasn’t necessarily eying to take the next base, rookie mistake. Occasionally though the Gods would reward me and I would come around to score. One of the times began with me sitting on my window sill (as I normally would), having a beer and looking out, when a group of around 10 people walked out of the hostel. They were a friendly bunch. When they looked up and saw me they initiated conversation and invited me to drink with them at Placa Del Sol, a place where (mostly) locals sit on the floor and drink what they brought themselves. I had zero reason to say no so off I went to join them.

The leader of the group went by the name of ’Toast’ (no idea why), a Hostel worker whose job was to take guests to mini local drinking tours. Toast was from some european country, and he was your stereotypical ‘I live and work and hostels in foreign countries’ type, which to clarify I have absolutely no problem with. He was a chill dude. While at the Placa we talked and expressed how cool it was to go out with them and be able to meet more people, and girls, and blah blah blah. Being an immediate teammate, he lets me know there’s a pitcher tipping pitching and I should step into the box and take a hack (That’s absolutely not what he said because he’s european and doesn’t know shit about baseball). He points towards one of the girls, Cobra, and lets me know that he heard she’s looking for ‘it’. Like a normal dude, I thought and responded something along the lines of, ‘yeah, cool, thanks dude, I’ll see what’s up.’ From there I can’t honestly say if Toast had anything to do with it or not, but who did I eventually find myself chatting to? Cobra.

Cobra was 26, born in Canada to Afghan parents, and to say the least a chill girl. She was traveling solo through Barcelona as part of a much longer trip around Spain. She explained how the trip was the first time she was really stepping out of her comfort zone, but she was determined. I admired that, as I was immediately able to relate. I then explained to her how I ended up living across the hostel. How I was there playing baseball and occasionally teaching English. How I had recently graduated, had absolutely no idea what to do with my life, hit a quarter-life crisis, then said ‘fuck it, I’m moving to Europe’ (something like that). She found that admirable. I explained how I was nervous about it, but it was a move I felt I strongly needed to make for my own personal development, which she felt related to the theme of her trip.

While at a bar she buys a round, then I buy a round. During one of these times she kissed me and said something like ‘I wasn’t sure if you were going to’. I tried explaining that I probably would have, but that I appreciated the straightforwardness (luckily for me that would continue). Eventually she waved her arm and we rounded third and she proposed we head home. The drinking tour was in the local neighborhood so my place/the hostel was only a few blocks away through the narrow streets of Gracia. We laughed as we walked out of the bar and off we went. During this walk Cobra explains how much of this is new to her. Explains that she doesn’t party much, works often, and definitely doesn’t sleep around. Lots of this was new to her, but it was part of her purpose. She had even gotten a small tattoo of Spain as a symbol of it. I thought it was cool that she was making a conscious effort to do things differently than she normally would. I was happy to be the target of her current motive. As we approached my place she told me a story about a recent night. She was about to give our boy Toast a blowjob, but he had some issues with his erection. We laughed (sorry Toast), and went into my bedroom as I did my best to assure her we were good to go in that department.

The next morning Cobra woke up early and went next door to the hostel to pack because she was off to her last city before heading back to Canada. She thanked me for being cool about the whole scenario, to which I thanked her. We exchanged numbers and instagrams and I wished her well as she continued on. Later I would check that instagram page (naturally) and find a link to a website and follow it. It was a blog she had started and it was called ‘Year of No Fear’. It was small with just a few posts, but the message was clear. Though I felt her vibes and found her explanations the previous night to be genuine, they made more sense to me now. Going home with me was just one aspect of a much larger purpose for her. She basically used me, but I respected that because I respected the idea of personal growth that motivated it.

My first season abroad was undoubtedly my toughest one. In reality my biggest motivation for going was not to pursue baseball, but to develop as a person by placing myself in a completely new environment. I too was actively trying to take different courses of action than I ‘normally’ would. A few of those actions have stuck and become part of my current personality (like actively enjoying the dance floor). Before leaving I was naturally nervous. I was fearful. But, like Cobra, I was committed to make a change. She might have pieced it together when I explained how I ended up in Barcelona, or maybe she didn’t, but I too was attempting to live a ‘year of no fear’. Part of that personal pact included saying yes, without hesitation, to every group of strangers that asked me to drink with them after catching me looking down on them with a beer in hand from my window sill.

The Creator made Italy from the designs by Michaelangelo

2020-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

The Alligators regular season ended a couple weeks ago. We are in third place with a 19-9 record which is incredible given how much of a roller coaster the season has been. Every day there is new drama with the board, our centerfielder nearly broke his ankle striding out for first, our catcher dislocated his thumb twice, one pitcher thought his throwing hand could punch through a brick wall and another turned into Rick Ankiel in 2000 NLDS three weeks in a row. It doesn’t feel like we should be in the top four, but here we are.

This playoff format is completely new to me. The top four teams make it to the first round of playoffs. Then, to determine the two teams that will represent the north division in the semifinals, each team plays the other three playoff teams four times – two home games and two away games. After those twelve games, the playoff win-loss record is combined with the regular season record and the new top two teams advance. For now we are winding down a three week break.

The long break was perfect for getting back to traveling. My European travel wish list consists of England, Greece, France, Croatia, Spain, Portugal, Czech Republic, Iceland, Sweden, Switzerland and Italy but this time around I was only able to check off one from that list. With perfect timing my friend from Linfield, Molly, who has been teaching in Barcelona for the past year texted me about meeting up. When her teaching ended, one of her high school friends was coming over to do a three week European backpacking trip. They were starting in Iceland, moving down to Amsterdam, spending a week in Italy and then finishing the trip back in Barcelona. Their three days in Rome worked perfectly with my schedule.

I wanted to see more than just Rome so I booked my flight a day early to Venice. Once we got below the clouds, all I could see was the Adriatic see out the window. Then out of nowhere, like the whole city was set up on pontoons, Venice just sat there on the water, unmistakable with its colorful architecture, canals, bridges and gondola operators. As I got off the plane, all the awe that had hit me twenty minutes early turned into mild apprehension as I realized I had no idea how to get to my hostel. I sat down outside and pondered my options. A taxi could get me there quickly, presumably without hiccups, but that would put a serious dent in my budget for the rest of the week. Confusion looks the same in every language. The couple sitting next to me was speaking frantic French, like they needed to get into the city before some impending catastrophe foiled their only opportunity to see Venice. I thought it was a safe assumption that anyone trying to find their way out was probably going where I needed to be, so when the guy threw his hands up in exasperation, with the classic “screw-it, let’s just hope for the best” look on his face and headed for the first bus to pull up, I decided I may as well follow. If it took me the wrong way, so be it. It was an adventure. Luckily, this bus took me to the main hub which was just two minutes from the hostel. After checking in, I hopped back on to make my way into Venice. There was a long stretch of road, running maybe three quarters of a mile, with train tracks, lanes for cars and buses, and pedestrian walkways, that connects the island of Venice to the main land. Along-side the bridge, the Venetians maneuvered their small motor boats through the buoys that line the waterway to the island. The day itself was leisurely; a measly 25,000 steps got me into each of the six “neighborhoods” of Venice. I walked over the famous Rio Alto Bridge and took in the view of the Grand Canal, pondering the tourists that seemed giddy to hand over an arm and a leg for a fifteen minute gondola ride. As the clouds rolled in, I tried to made my way out.

Within minutes those clouds were dumping the heavens on everyone. The next hour made me appreciate my Seattle roots. I’ve heard not all who wander are lost, but my wandering of the small residential side streets had turned me around faster than a dog chasing its tail (a wet dog at that). Poncho people appeared everywhere surrounded by armies of umbrellas as I calmly hunted for a café, taking note that my once royal blue shirt was now a dark navy. Thirty minutes later, I was creating puddles under some Venetian café chair as I drank a beer and filled my belly the Italian way – with pizza and tiramisu. The next day, I made my way to Rome. I got in an hour before Molly and Ali but luckily had no trouble finding them in the massive train station. We dropped our bags at the hostel and hurried to our first attraction: the Colosseum. When we exited the subway, I had my “wow we are actually in Rome” moment. The Colosseum was right there. The broken walls and arches were actually there in front of us and I quickly realized the pictures don’t do it any justice. The rest of the day consisted of taking pictures at the Trevi fountain and Spanish steps, and marveling at the thorough work put in to make a horse sculptures balls and sphincter look so realistic (Molly and Ali’s decision, of course, but I too was impressed).

That night, after a couple cheap drinks at a gay bar across from the Colosseum, we made our way back to the hostel where a group of Deutsch students were waiting on travelers to drink and talk with. I walked around the block to the 24 hour market in search of Italy’s cheapest bottle of wine. A man popped out of a crawl space behind a refrigerator. “This is it”, I said, showing him a twist off sauvignon Blanc. Either his English wasn’t good or his store wasn’t getting enough business, either way he kept pushing a second bottle on me. “You buy two”, he said, “I give you good deal. Two bottle, seventeen euro.” The bottles were eight-fifty each. “No dude that’s not even a good deal.” “Two for sixteen.” “I only have twenty euro man, I need to eat tomorrow.” “Two for fifteen.” “Dude, I’ll do two for the price of one,” I said jokingly. I was intrigued to see how low he would go. He shook his head, but still went lower, “two for fourteen.” “No. I’ll give you two for eleven.” “No, no, no. Eleven too low.” He sat down and started the till for fourteen. At this point I felt forced into buying it so I was a little angry, but I knew he really needed to sell it so I called his bluff. “I’m not buying two for fourteen. Two for eleven is my final. Or I’m just buying one.” He glared at me but started to put both bottles into a plastic bag. “Gratzi”, I said with pride and nine Euros left in my hand.

Being able to barter isn’t something we Andrews do well (Mom’s cringing because she knows what’s coming). Last December, Dec, Dad, Mom and I had gone to Bali for a week with Jafar and Rini. One day we went into the town of Ubud to experience some Balinese culture and try our luck at bartering in the crowded tourist trap stores. A scarf hanging on the wall caught Mom’s attention. In the bat of an eye one of the ladies working in this shop was next to her, showing her how she looked wearing it and all the different designs she could choose from. The Balinese woman set her price at 200,000 Rupiah (this might seem crazy but really that’s only about $14 USD). Rini and Jaf had given us the rundown about shopping in Bali – barter for everything and no matter how high the seller starts, you start low. Mom didn’t quite have the hang of it. She started at 150,000 and immediately the women agreed. Rini nearly fainted when she heard mom had spent an outrageous $11 on this scarf and scurried back over to the worker to bargain mom into a better deal. Even with Rini speaking Balinese, the sale was final. The four boys poked jokes her way for the rest of the trip and obviously she hasn’t lived it down yet.

I must admit I don’t have a proud history in bartering either. On the last day of our trip, I tested my skills for a bow and arrow while on a beach in Kuta. The guy selling it started at 300,000. After a few back and forth offers, I ended up paying two-thirds of his original asking price. I thought I had done well. As we left the beach though, another guy selling the same bow approached me and after I said no a couple times his price dropped all the way down to 30,000. I was left hearing the same jokes that I had been throwing mom’s way earlier that week but if you’re going to dish it out, you have to be able to take it.

Gelato, The Vatican, gelato, The Forum, gelato, The Pantheon, gelato, gelato, gelato, is a good way to describe the last two days of our trip. I think the three of us concluded that mango was the best flavor. Had it been allowed, we would have brought gelato into The Vatican but there were strict rules against it, almost like the place has some historical/social importance. The three of us went through our gelato withdrawals together as we packed our things and headed to the airport. We said our goodbyes as they headed back to Barcelona. They were so easy to travel with, always looking for adventure, and made the three days as fun as it possibly could have been. I have to agree with Mark Twain that “The Creator made Italy from the designs by Michaelangelo”.

These last two weeks has been crazy. Go, go, go. Traveling, more traveling; weddings, more weddings. Right now I am in the middle of the more traveling phase on my way back to the states for Riley’s wedding. I am sitting in the Las Vegas airport’s Carl’s Jr. dining area, with the aroma of Western Bacon Cheeseburgers accompanying the rings, tings and dings of airport slot machines. My skinny wallet is playing the angel on my right shoulder, saying “you’re too poor to gamble right now” while also trying to convince me I have the touch that could turn five Euros into 10X my monthly pay from the Alligators. I’m writing, so at the moment the angel is winning this battle. There’s still three hours left in this layover though and I don’t know how much longer my jet lagged zombie mind can say no to those colorful machines.

A Round of Applause

2020-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

My first experience playing overseas was in Barcelona. I was a young buck at the time. 22 years old, fresh out of college. I was never able to study abroad (baseball made that impossible) so this was also my first time living in another country. Though I was nervous, I found comfort in that I was going to be greeted by the club and its community, and they would help me throughout this ‘big’ transition. The club had set me up with a relatively inexpensive living situation. I would rent a room in an apartment walking distance to the baseball field. This apartment belonged to a mother of two young teenagers, one of which played for the club’s cadets (kids team). Another american player had previously lived there as well. Needless to say, the family was involved within the baseball community (you meet a lot of these, they’re everywhere).

Now, I don’t know how important it is to describe the mom, whom we will call Maria, but I am going to do it anyways just in case. Maria was a Catalan woman who was going into her middle ages, but not quite. She still took care of herself and was clearly conscious of keeping a nice appearance. She very much had that european mother body. In addition, Maria also possessed a certain level of sex appeal which radiated from some thickness in just the right areas. I think you understand, so I will move on.

I wish that I could tell you that I spent my time living in that apartment fucking my milf host mother, but I am definitely not that cool. There is however someone else who was pretty cool, Maria’s boyfriend at the time, Javier. I don’t remember if I was told before moving in that he was also living in the apartment, but I honestly didn’t care. Javier was a Spanish baseball legend. Though he was now mid-aged, you didn’t doubt that he was the first Spanish player to sign an MLB affiliated contract by looking at him. He had that grey haired athletic look that I pray to have two decades from now. It almost felt like an honor to sleep in the room that shared walls with him.

I don’t have very many memories of Javier (I ultimately only lived in that apartment for two months), but I will share two of the few. The first is more a compilation of events, but all very similar, almost identical even. Oftentimes at night when it was time for bed I would begin to hear some activity in the room next to mine where the grown-ups slept. It sounded like some high heart rate type of activity. Now Javier was a pitcher, so we can say he was trying to close out a ball game. Okay, so bottom of the ninth, here we go. Our man gets through the first two hitters handily. It was probably one off of the hands to shortstop, and a strike-out deep in the count. Honestly, I don’t know, but I could hear the hitters moaning as they made their way back to the dugout. With two outs now Javier is really starting to ramp it up as he feels victory in sight. I can hear him start to grunt. Strike one! He’s a veteran so he steps off the mound and takes a deep breath before firing the next pitch. Wouldn’t you know it, change-up, swinging. Strike two! At this point the crowd can feel it, you can definitely hear them. Javier passionately fires a heater in there. Strike 3, ball game! Time to hit the showers.

It wasn’t long that our sleeping quarters were separated by thin walls, but I swear this man had a 60 save season throughout that time. Eventually while stretching at practice I told a few of the guys about Javier’s late game performances and how loud it got. Everyone knew who Maria was and the qualities she possessed so they chuckled, some making jokes about it. As I continued to try and describe my regularly scheduled nightly program our team captain looked at me and said, “So you could hear the round of applause?” Like a confused 12 year old I looked at my hands and then began to applause…

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap! (Javier wins another one!)

I look back at our captain with a genuine “ahhhh” after his poetic description. The captain then looks at Max, the American who lived there the previous year, who immediately spits out “pshh, man, that’s absolutely nothing…”

I understand that two adults have to do their thing. After all, I can only hope that I will as well in my middle age. I actually give them credit for blatantly not giving a fuck and getting after it. Throwing some headphones on didn’t bother me.

As for the second memory of my boy Javier, it was this. Towards the end of my stay with this family I came back to the apartment to find Javier a little flustered. He happened to be packing his bags to move out as well. Javier looked at me and said something along the lines of ‘I can’t with this woman anymore’. He then offered to give me a ride to the baseball field, which I quickly accepted. He dropped me off and we said our goodbyes. What did I learn from Javier?

No roar of the crowd is worth a bad contract.

Just A Passerby

2020-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

While living in Barcelona I went on a road trip with two other American ball players. In 7 days we went down and around the Iberian Peninsula, hitting 6 cities across 3 countries. Lots can be told about the trip, much of which would unravel into stories of their own. As you can imagine on a trip like this (lots of places, little time) the days are pretty action packed. However, it is maybe the least memorable day of the trip that led to one of the more memorable scenarios of my time in Spain. On day 4 we stopped in Cadiz, an old city in the southwest of Spain that feels like it’s made entirely of cobblestone. Also the city where I met Giulia.

Our night in Cadiz wasn’t relatively noteworthy, and it would probably be lost somewhere deep in my memory if it wasn’t for the fact that this is where I met Giulia. It was a simple night, one in which we went from little Spanish bar to little Spanish bar. In one of these bars I spotted a girl sitting in a large window cutout having a drink with herself. She was cute, petite, wore those baggy yogi pants, and sat there in an attractive manner with her legs kicked out. I was about it. Now I don’t remember how we began talking (because god knows I’m terrible at approaching girls, moreso younger me), but we do. It turns out Giulia spoke British english because she spent many years studying there. However, she was Spanish and coincidentally was also currently living in Barcelona, she just so happened to be in Cadiz for some travel. The conversation continued and it turned into Giulia spending the night with us going for location to location. By night’s end we exchange numbers, the idea of one day meeting up in Barcelona, and nothing more before we go our own separate ways. The next morning my road trip with the guys continued on to Lisbon (beautiful place).

Move forward a couple of weeks and we are both back in Barcelona. I exchange a few texts with Giulia and we decide to meet up that night for some drinks. She comes over to my place and we head out to Placa Del Sol, a popular plaza where (mainly) locals sit on the floor with drinks they brought themselves (typical Spanish shit). We drink, chat, drink & chat some more, and eventually start making out while sitting crisscross applesauce on the floor. Time eventually caught up to us and it was time to move. Living two blocks away we decided that the best idea was to go back to my place. After a drink in the living room (and probably a bowl) we make our way to my small room.

For details sake, I must note we were in the middle of a very hot summer and my apartment did not have an air conditioning system, nor did I even have a simple fan, so imagine all of this happening while sweating profusely the entire time. Anyways, we end up pretzeling in bed for a while before eventually having sex. I say eventually because she was a bit hesitant. She specifically asked before we began if we would see each other again, to which I genuinely and enthusiastically (I think) replied of course! We proceeded as the two consenting semi adults that we were, and that was that. Or so I thought.

Now this is where I feel the need to clarify some things. To this point in my young sexual life I had followed up with every girl that was on the short list of girls that took it further than a middle school make out with me. I never thought of myself as being too good to at least be respectful. After all, it’s not that hard to send a text. Again, or so I thought.

It was years ago, so I can’t recall exactly, but we might have exchanged a text a two about getting home safely and following up later to meet up again. Honestly, I don’t know, but I would like to make myself believe that we did in order to feel better about it. But from there, even if true, what I know for certain is that I did not text her thereafter. I knew I thought about it during that time, about how I meant to text her. I’m even almost certain that I told my best friend about it. But then his cousin showed up to visit from back home. Then at the last minute we decided to go to Pamplona for San Fermin. Then I was drinking and dancing all night in an all white outfit (if that matters) until 9 a.m. back to back nights. On top of that I was contemplating running away from some potentially deadly bulls. Yeah sending a text would be simple, but I was neither here nor there. I was at San Fermin.

Eventually things cooled off and I gained a grip of reality again while back in Barcelona. It was then, on another hot mediterranean summer morning, that I walked out of my room to find a large ball, of what I thought was initially trash, on the living room floor. It was odd because I knew it wasn’t there before, but I concluded that it must have come through the large living room window that remained open all night because of the heat. I lived on the second floor that was relatively high so nobody was climbing in, but they could definitely throw something in. After a close look at the ball of trash it turned out to be a very large paper ball that was the result of someone making it. It was crumbled paper wrapped in paper after paper. Now at the size of a melon, with a decent weight behind it, it had a postcard wrapped around part of its outer edge which was being held on by a couple of rubber bands that kept the entire thing together. It was really a well thought out concoction.

At this point I call out my best friend living with me to see this thing. He confirms it wasn’t there before. I dissemble the creation and take a closer look at the postcard. The front is of a black and white photo of the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona, and within the arch itself was a man that was blurry as a result of walking by quickly with the long exposure. I turned it around and to my surprise I found a message. It read:

“Que pena que eres como el hombre en la foto, solamente un pasajero.” -Giulia

And now in english, “Too bad you’re like the man in the photo, just a passerby.” -Giulia

I was immediately in disbelief about the entire thing. Did she really do that? How fucked up am I? What time did she come by and how many tries did it take her to successfully throw it through the window?

Aloud I thought damn, I should have text her, to which my friend replied, “Well, it’s too late now.”

Party in Bratislava, Wake Up in Zurich

2020-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

2017, My first summer in Europe. I was playing in the Swiss league and we had been in a Federations Cup qualifier in Bratislava late June. Our team was cruising and we had made it to the finals against the hometown hosts Apollo Bratislava. In this game we finally ran out of steam and played our way out of it, losing something like 7-3. It was a disappointing loss, nobody played well, but it was hell of a run… but the great part about these international tournaments, in addition to, I guess what people call SATURDAY, we were going to hit the town that night before heading back to Switzerland early Sunday morning. Win or lose, we booze.

Early afternoon after our loss, still drinking beers at the field soaking up our defeat while the home team winners are still cleaning the field… I believe our team became crowd favorites because we would dance to all the BP music every game. I was hitting fungos during BP throughout the week and putting on a show for the crowd. Dropping it low, girrating the hips, and the quick footwork, I don’t think any Slovakian has ever seen moves like this. They were playing everything from Bruno Mars to Russian hip hop…. Russian hip hop was my favorite. (just type these words into youtube and you cannot miss it - party maker diskoteka ). This song would become the theme song of the week.

If any of you know a bit about some eastern European countries, they have some special drinks of choice varying by country. Poland may be known for their Vodka, but Slovakia is known for a drink called Slivovitz. It is kind of a brandy made from plums, and it is absolute rocket fuel. Every day during the week-long tournament, we made it a point after our games to go to a new watering hole around the city and just take one shot of this beautiful local grog. The best bar we found in our short time was the one just past the fence in right field. Maybe it was the proximity to our business that made it the best, but I do not know how that quaint bar stayed open besides our business.

After we were done crushing our beers of defeat and dancing to PartyMaker shaker-shaker Diskoteka, we left the field heading back to the hotel before going to our last big team dinner in Slovakia. We continued to crush beers at the hotel, until somebody was ready to bring out the big boy. Somehow, one of my teammates bought a massive bottle of Slivovitz called Ron DeJeremy. Yes it had a picture of Ron Jeremy’s ugly mug on it, yes it was ‘DeJeremy’ instead of Jeremy, and yes it was rocket fuel. We all take a few shots before heading to dinner.

We go to a classic Slovak eatery where they were serving up some good hearty meals. Pork Knuckles, Schnitzels, their version of dumplings and peirogi’s, any type of assorted salty meat and savory potatoes. Beers are being thrown around, yelling, laughing, singing Russian hip hop, until somebody brings in another bottle of Slivovitz. We all start passing it around. Eventually one of the young players ends up getting too drunk and falls asleep at the restaurant table. Our coach takes him home and then the real trouble begins.

At this point after a big meal and a decent amount of libations, the rest of our crew kicks on to a bar close by- minus our sleeping player and coach, and maybe one or two who bowed out. After a little bar crawl of only two divey places, we end up at a strip club. With about 8 of us left, we all walk in and head to the main lounge room. There were neon lights, mirrors, and secret passageways. It was an absolute fun house you can find at any fair or amusement park, just add gorgeous eastern european women that are half naked. As we are all sitting down continuing to howl at the moon, I could honestly say nobody in our group was that wasted. We were all pretty coherent, having fun and nobody was even remotely sloppy. That would change in a matter of minutes.

As 6 beautiful Slovakian women approach our group wearing the sexiest little skin tight lingerie, they start to tell us what they have to offer. 20 Euros all you can drink, and then we can work on the dances. That was a no brainer. Bottled beers all night and we would be safe right? As soon as we all agreed, two girls at a time started picking off each of our teammates, taking them to these back rooms where lord knows what was going on. Every 3 seconds a new heavy red velvet drape was being opened and strippers were flying out like a swarm of bees. The Fun-House vibe was in full affect. I was the third guy to get taken by both hands into a room not too far from the lounge area just in sight of the bar but private enough. I sit down and before I know it, two chicks are forcing two shots down my throat without a chance for me to even breathe. In a matter of minutes/seconds, who knows, I was spinning. Maybe I was sitting there by myself paralyzed, maybe these girls were performing the duty, I had no idea. My lights were dim but no one was home. The next thing I remember I was standing at the bar with these two strippers speechless and I could barely stand, they were ripping through my wallet trying to charge my card. I could not speak, I was swaying around and my vision was similar to looking through a kaleidoscope, basically a sack of potatoes. I have the slightest recollection of my teammate coming to save me at the bar with these two soon-to-be-babooshka’s demanding money and the bartender ready to kill me. After this scene, I went numb. Next thing I know, I woke up in Zurich at my host family’s house in my bed.

WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED.

I had no phone, just my wallet and passport. I had bruises all over my knees and underarms, raspberries all over my forearms. I felt like I went 12 rounds with the Heavyweight Champ. For all I knew, I was dragged from Slovakia to Switzerland. From 3am in Bratislava, to 2 pm in Zurich the next day, I was not alive. Roofies.

I woke up with the worst hangover of my life.This was no ordinary hangover. I was trying to piece everything back together. I did not remember leaving the club the night before. Our flight was at 9:30 am back to Zurich. My bag was still packed and untouched right next to my bed. I decided to get on my computer to reach out to my teammate who I roomed with in Bratislava. He told me that he and another teammate left the club for another bar because they had no idea where everybody went, and decided to walk past it on their way back to the hotel. They found my lifeless body at the entrance of the strip club next to the bouncer. I had no shirt on, my soles were out of my shoes, and my pants were unbuttoned (for some reason, I decided to free ball it that night). They had to drag me out of there and got me into a cab. Hence the bruises on my underarms and knees and elbows from dropping me so much.

We found out that at least 3 of our other teammates got drugged that night. One guy lost 600 Franc at the club, and almost got beaten up by a taxi driver for not being able to pay his fare back to the hotel. Our team trainer had to come down to the lobby at 4:30 am to pay his fare. Another guy was puking all the way to the airport. Both of them do not remember going to the airport or flying home either. I looked at my card statement and I had 3 charges made at this place, two of them were declined for 800 USD and one was approved for 950 USD. I really wonder if I signed off on that…. I never saw the money again. I followed up with my bank and they ended up receiving a document from the establishment with a receipt of me spending the money there. At the same time, I tried to email the establishment and they never got back to me about my lost phone. GOT GOT

A couple days later, the teammate that tried to save me at the club bar, helped drag my ass back to the hotel, packed my bags, and got me down to the lobby to go to the airport in time- showed me a picture straight out of the movie The Hangover. It was my dead body hunched over while both of my teammates were dancing on me, the bouncer had his arm around me with a pistol held to my head. The real mystery is who took the damn picture.

Tent Poles and French Broads

2020-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

Swedish music festivals are a hidden treasure in Europe. I can’t consider myself much of a music festival goer myself but they’ve got it down pat. There was a music festival in a small rural town about 30 minutes away from where I was living, that was known for it’s free spirit.

The festival was situated along a river, and had a floating sauna on the river, a land sauna, an igloo made of IGLOO brand coolers, and the perfect setup for a hippie music festival. We managed to sneak in by sliding wrist bands on and off and going in and out, but we realized after that the gate guards couldn’t have given a fuck and one of them was friends with one of the guys in our crew.

So there are 4 of us, 2 swedes, and 2 imports, and enough molly for all of us to have a hell of a time. We had a couple of beers, then sat on this dock overlooking everything and took the pills. In about 20 minutes we were having the time of our lives telling each other how awesome this was and how cool everyone was. A perfect setting.

I get up to take a piss, and the trough is outside, with this unreal view of the river. A phrase I’d heard a lot as a child because it was embroidered and framed on the wall of my uncle’s bathroom came to mind, “If it were up to me, you’d go outside to pee”, and those words rang true then more than ever.

I fired off a shit ton of messages in those thirty minutes before the concert started to a bunch of people who probably weren’t expecting a drugged up message from me. Fortunately nothing detrimental but strange looking back on them. Eventually the main act starts and it’s this woman playing some old school funk hits mixed in with her own stuff. Clearly the ecstasy had an effect but I swear she tore it up. We were mesmerized and our brains were going a million miles an hour.

I stepped out of the chaos for a few minutes and had an adventurous 15 minutes. Once I escaped the mass of people and lights, I started my way towards the bar. As I’m walking along, a stream of 15-20 naked Swedes, full bush, pile out of the sauna sitting about 30 yards from the bank of the river directly in front of me. They jump in the river, climb back out and run straight back into the sauna. I feel like the entire process took about 20 seconds, but I’m sure if I were sober, I would have just been a part of a group staring at these hippes for 5 minutes. Can’t knock them though, they were probably less fucked up than I was and still having a better time than me.

After the spectacle had ended, I make my way up to the bar and order the most colorful can of beer I see. At this point I hadn’t really had a swedish beer that I had liked, so it was a surprise to me how good this one was. Either that or I was rolling too hard to notice. My jaw was probably permanently on the right side of my head. The beer was this Danish beer called “Hair in the Mailbox”, which was clearly a Danish phrase that was entirely lost in translation.

I get back to the stage where this woman is absolutely shredding, and reunite with my crew. The concert ends and we all stand right outside discussing how fucking awesome that looked and how much we love each other. Classic ecstasy shit.

Our next stop is the rave tent, which is packed because the DJ had started just when the other stage finished. I have an extremely vivid memory of walking into the tent with the song “Moonlight” by Disclosure playing. Fuckin banger I might add.

At this point I realize that the festival organizers have probably just dreamed up the most entertaining setting to be rolling face in, because there is a guy in a full body suit covered in mirrors and another guy in the corner shooting lasers at him. Who the fuck comes up with this kind of shit? I spent 20 minutes staring at him.

We get to the back where there are hammocks, one of our crew members saw a girl that he’d “fallen in love with” and decides he loves his Australian relationship more, so the emotions start flowing. The rest of us are trying to bring him back up to our level but he’s touch and go for a while. God knows what happens over the next 2-3 hours.

We’ll reconvene as the sun is coming up at around 2am, and our crew is sitting in the stands of the main stage, and there are these two girls, one of which who is pretty cute, the other who is a tad on the large side. The large one sits in my lap. Really don’t know how I’m gonna weasel my way out of this, but the molly is wearing off and I’ve taken to chain smoking cigarettes in order to keep the buzz runnin.

I think the fellas realize that it’s time to bounce, so we get up and start looking for the afterparty, which was supposed to be outlawed, but a crew has taken some huge speakers to the tennis court where a small dance party is forming. We walk past a “relaxation tent” and one of the girls out front asks us to come inside.

I’m still not 100% sure what was going on in there, but I believe it was a mixture of tea drinking, people coming down from bad trips, and some casual group sex every so often. I almost went in but my buddy pulled me away. Who knows what would have been going on in there.

We’re sitting out on the hill trying to recapture our high from a few hours prior, when this group of French people mozy by. A French girl who was not much of a looker but had 10/10 confidence walks right up to us and says “Which one of you wants to dance with me?”, for about 3 hours now I’ve been the only single guy in the group, and the boys look at me, so I agree to go dance with her.

Being French she immediately offers to share a cig with me, and we have a sloppy dfmo (dance floor make out) while we blow smoke in each other’s faces. I’m not often a smoker, let alone a cig sharer, so she asks me what the fuck I’m doing when I’m not really sharing it with her. Clearly the english-french communication line is fractured in a number of ways. For this she tells me “You don’t look American, but you act sooo American” and of course she refuses to explain why. This continues on for maybe 30 mins or so, we lose each other, find each other, you know how the story goes.

Now it’s getting to be crunch time. It’s about 3:30 in the morning, the sun is almost up, and the rest of the crew had laid down for their naps. She keeps saying she “wishes she could have a hotel room and a bed with me”. So I offer what little I’ve got. I should note that this is a festival where everyone camps or car camps, and we’ve borrowed a tent from a junior player who is a bit of a fuck up. When we arrived to the festival grounds, we go to set up the tent, and this fuckin kid gave us a tent with NO TENT POLES. So in our possession, we’ve got 1 tent, 1 sleeping bag, and no poles for 2 guys. This is all fucked. But we’ve gotta laugh it off. Not much we can do at this point, so I take the tent, and my buddy will sleep out in the open in the sleeping bag.

So in this situation, I offer my pole-less tent to her, and specifically say, “You’re welcome to come back to my tent, but just know up front that it has no poles, and I plan on using it like a sleeping bag”. She tells me that she’d be sleeping in a car with 5 people anyways, and she might as well. So we trudge through the woods towards the tent with no poles.

I walk past my buddy who’s got his aussie girlfriend on the phone, it’s monday morning for her and she’s about to go to work, and he’s still coming down off some molly and telling her how much he loves her and that he’ll get on a flight right away if she wants him to.

We get to the tent which is laid out on the ground with my backpack and sweatshirt as a pillow, and she immediately says “What the fuck is this? Where are the poles?”, she clearly must not have been listening earlier. We have to go through the whole song and dance again about the fact that there are no poles, and she’s mad as hell, but finally says “fine, fuck it I just want to sleep with you”. She meant this very literally, and this did not mean she wanted to have sexual relations with me, but she wanted to physically sleep alongside me. Maybe I should learn some French in order to avoid this issue in the future.

We swapped some spit for a bit, she kept saying she wanted a hotel room, I didn’t know how to answer her, then we began to fall asleep. I would have preferred to be the little spoon but I digress. Our heads were poking out of the entrance to the tent, and gently at about 5 in the morning it began to rain. We slide inside to be fully in the tent with no poles.

By 6 she sits up to look around. I briefly open my eyes, but realize she is leaving and I’d rather not continue talking to her. She stands up and wanders off into the meadow to find the carr full of 5 of her sleeping friends, never to be seen again. I still don’t have my French flag.

Get ready for the dinner party.

Big Game, Small World; Chronicles of a Traveling Ball Player

2020-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

I would be lying if I said that being able to tell a good story is not one of the biggest reasons why I have decided to do this.

In fact, throughout the years, I have often said aloud ‘fuck it, at least it’ll make for a good story to tell’ either before or after “it” happened. And, as I have learned, “it” can be absolutely anything on the grand spectrum of experience.

“It” can range from playing baseball in Barcelona, to running away from bulls in Pamplona. Anything from winning the French all-star game MVP, to getting a french girl so high from an edible that she probably thought was going to die (note: it wasn’t on purpose, and I felt terrible).

The spectrum can include nights where you hit a home run, literally and figuratively, and nights where you hat trick and/or get held up by Ukrainian bouncers at 6 a.m. and get robbed for $200 (it wasn’t my idea, and we got our money back).

Regardless of the fact, the point it is, they are stories. For better, or for worse, they are stories that I will tell until my brain is no longer able to repeat them without some level of accuracy.

With that said, it is actually my hope that in some way this will help with that.