Too High In The Sky

During my most recent vacation, I became sicker than I've ever been in my life. It was a very bad and scary experience. Travelling to so many different places the last ten years or so has been awesome, but it appears there are some places that are not for me. At least I think the environment is what struck me.

My wife and I went to Mexico City in January, and I was very hyped for it. I read about the city center in Mexico City during my college Spanish classes and how bustling it was. I'm always glad to go to bustling areas because they remind me of growing up in Chicago. We were also going to go see Lucha Libre, and of course as a lifelong pro wrestling fan I was looking forward to that. What I remembered after we got to Mexico City was that it's a very elevated city, some 7,300 feet, which is 2,000 feet higher than Denver. And I really had not even experienced the elevation of Denver--on a church bus trip to Los Angeles when I was eleven, we went to Pike's Peak, but that was for one day, and I don't remember any adverse effects. This was a five-day trip to Mexico City, and I'm a carrier of sickle cell trait, which was another complication of extreme elevation that I wasn't aware of before the trip. The stage was set for a disastrous trip. I just didn't know it.

The first day was fine. We ate with my wife's travel party outdoors at a restaurant a few hours after we landed. The next day, we took a very long van ride up the mountains into even higher elevation to visit ancient pyramids and ruins. One poor woman in our party couldn't stop throwing up. We had to pull over twice to let her out. We assumed it was just car sickness, but hell, that may have been the elevation striking her the way it would strike me. My wife and I, being not in great shape, didn't walk around too much at the ruins, but we were still exerting and short of breath. After lunch, we had some time to lay in bed before going out to the wrestling match, which was more exertion because there was some walking around the Arena Mexico neighborhood and also a lot of stairs up to the second level where our tickets were. Still, we got back to the hotel in one piece.

The third day is what took me out. We walked around a stuffy market for a while, then we were on our feet for about two hours waiting to get into and then walking around the Frida Kahlo House, then we walked around a park eating ice cream and churros, then we had lunch at a very wide flower market that had all kinds of other shops and merchandise, and I was so dry that despite having water waiting at the hotel, I had to buy bottled water on our way out of the flower market. Our bathroom at the hotel had what's called a water closet, which is when they close off the toilet from the rest of the bathroom behind a door. Great for privacy, awful for smells if the ventilation sucks, which it did at this hotel. I had always felt a little nauseous every time I went in there, but after this long day and after the wife used the toilet, I went in and felt very sick from the smell, and instead of using the facilities as I intended, my stomach cramped and I hurled. I was not happy. Throwing up is very high on the list of things I hate experiencing. Like, top three easy. But it happened, so I laid down and tried to relax. But maybe ninety minutes later, I felt a heartburn-like sensation, which I never feel, and I got nauseous, and I had to barf again. Ninety minutes later, I barfed again. Two hours later, I barfed again. This went on into the morning. I lost count of how many times I got up after nodding off and threw up again. It was either six, seven, or eight. I wasn't eating or drinking anything during this time, so those last few trips were more heaving than barfing because I no longer had anything left to barf. My breathing was also becoming very labored. Every breath was a struggle and was accompanied by a deep grunt that really worried my wife. The only thing that made me feel a little better is when I put on my CPAP mask and was able to start getting some oxygen. Once people from our travel group got word of my illness, they brought items that were useful like electrolyte-infused powder to stir into my water and anti-nausea pills and ibuprofen. The first time I tried to throw down some ibuprofen, though, I was trying to keep the nausea pill under my tongue and let it dissolve. The water and ibuprofen immediately came back up, and that was also the end of the nausea pill.

I did sip some water and keep down some chicken and rice later on, and I saw a doctor who made a house call and prescribed me some drugs for my high sugar and blood pressure. The heavy breathing wasn't present by the time he got there, so he didn't think I needed more serious attention, but he did say I should get to a facility if the nausea or breathing issues returned. They didn't, not until the fifth day when it was time to leave. I had been feeling better and not throwing up, and then I walked outside to catch the van to the airport, and by the time we got there, the shallow breathing was back and I was feeling dizzy. My wife made the smart decision to have airport workers bring a wheelchair and take me to the gate instead of hoping that I made it on my own. The walk through the Mexico City airport would not have gone well for me. It was a very, very long walk to our gate, at the end of the airport as it turned out. The walk to customs after we landed in Houston would not have been fun either, but I really was fine by that point because I was out of the elevation in Mexico City. By the time we landed in Memphis that night, I didn't use the wheelchair at all.

The illness was a trauma on my body. I didn't have my normal appetite for a couple weeks. I felt burning every time I drank something for the next couple weeks. I still feel occasional nausea. I had no energy. I even had hearing issues for a couple weeks. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm telling you, every piece of music I heard, commercials, my iPod, the radio, you name it, sounded like it was at a lower pitch. That really scared me because I couldn't fix it and didn't know if it was permanent, but it went away eventually. Everyone had a joke about the water in Mexico being the real culprit for my sickness, but no, this travel group was not small, maybe a dozen or more folks, and were all drinking and eating the same stuff, and most of them were fine (the woman throwing up in the van notwithstanding). I really think it was the elevation. There was a specific spleen affliction that occurred being in elevation with sickle cell trait, and I had all the symptoms with the exception of a sharp left abdominal pain. So hopefully it wasn't that, but the constant barfing, the nausea, the cramping, I really had never been through that, so I'm thinking it was the air. We were also told that this time of year, the pollution is really bad in Mexico City due to the atmospheric pressure, so that probably didn't help matters. The bottom line is, I can't just go anywhere. I have to research before I visit new places, and my wife and I had fantasies of retiring to Mexico City and living in a more affordable part of the world than here in the U.S. That won't be happening. But I wanted to share the experience in case others have gone through this and wondered why they got so ill. I don't blame the food, the water, or anything else in Mexico City. I think it was running around and going too hard in that elevation having never experienced being that high. It ain't for everyone.

50 Years Of Nerfect

I made it to the big 5-0, and after work tonight, I will mark the occasion at my local tattoo parlor. I have known for maybe six months what I want to get for a tattoo, but I had not decided where to put it. I think I'm going to have two words put across my chest so that I can see them (backwards) in the mirror every morning before I start my day. They're two words that I have needed to know my whole life, but I just saw them a few years ago when I started my scorekeeping job with Major League Baseball. And they're two words that...aren't real words.

"Pobody's Nerfect."

MLB sends weekly emails to those of us in data operations, and there's a section of the email pertaining to mistakes that we as a group are making too often that need to be focused on and cleaned up. They call that section "Pobody's Nerfect" because they always start the section by praising the good work overall that we're doing and reminding us that we all make mistakes from time to time and that the criticism they're about to give is not a plea for perfection because that's not realistic. I really appreciate that tone. It's what I've always needed to realize about this thing called life, but didn't want to see: I can't be perfect. No one can. As hard as I try, I cannot be flawless at any of my sports side hustles or even at my data entry day job, where I really do get upset if I get an error. I've always felt that giving up the pursuit of perfection meant that I was a failure and I didn't want to be the greatest at whatever I did. That was never true. Once I saw that phrase in the MLB emails, it started to dawn on me that perfection is not attainable, and as much as I tried, I never got there, so maybe stop expecting that out of myself. And the result of that mind shift is I've enjoyed my gigs much more, because the stress of being perfect is lessened, not gone, but I don't fret about mistakes as much as I used to. Just yesterday I was working maybe the dreamiest of dream gigs, entering the plays of an NFL game live from TV in the comfort of my bedroom. A fourth down play happened where the refs ruled a completed catch at the sideline, then like twenty seconds later they decided it was actually an incomplete pass as the receiver didn't get the second foot down inbounds. I couldn't go back easily and change the play because it was a fourth down play and the resulting change of possession made it impossible to delete and re-enter, and my support person had to call me and walk me through how to fix it. Normally I would have internalized the "mistake" of not waiting until I was 100% sure that the play was over and I could enter it, but #1, I'm not perfect, pobody's nerfect, and #2, who would have scored that play differently under the circumstances? When the ref runs in and indicates good catch, then the players start lining up for the next play, why would I think anything other than "good catch"? I refused to let that play ruin my mood for the rest of the game, and I might still get charged with an error by the data company, and it's OK. I did the absolute best I could given the situation, and I don't think I could have done it differently because if I wait too long on a play thinking it might get changed and it doesn't, now the next play is being run and I'm behind because I'm still trying to put in the prior play that I thought might get reviewed. In this gig, at baseball, at my day job, outside work, I just breathe and do the best I can. It's so much less stressful than always trying to be perfect. And there are so many things I didn't attempt over the years because I didn't think I would be perfect so I didn't even try. But those opportunities are gone. All I can do going forward for the next fifty years is do my best and keep it moving. It won't be perfect, but that's fine. Pobody's nerfect.

Not A Total Loss

The Toyota Camry that I fretted over buying more than four years ago, and in which I invested four new tires and a new battery last year, and a full tank of gas the day before that cocksucker hit me, is no more. The body shop found more than $15,000 worth of damage once they disassembled it, most of which was from the crash but some of which may have been there through incidents prior. Whatever the origin, the damage was too much for my insurance company to bear, and they declared it a total, which means they are paying off the balance of what I owe, giving me the rest of the current value of the car, and destroying it. Because one kid who shouldn't be driving hit me so softly that my air bags didn't even deploy, my first car is dead. I'm not happy, to say the least.

I got a paper clip out of the car when I cleaned it out today. That was big. Let me explain. My wonderful wife bought me a tablet for Christmas, but the first instructions when I opened it was to install a memory card which was not included. Since when do computers not have everything you need right out of the box? So I went on the Walmart website and set up a grocery order, adding in a MicroSD memory card, which they informed me only after I picked up the order would be delivered to my house separately. A few days later, there it was. New problem: I didn't know how to open the slot on the tablet to insert said card. Researching the dilemma, two options became clear: Buy some tool that is used to open these types of slots, or use a paper clip and hope for the best. Walmart didn't seem to have this tool, so instead of looking at other purchasing options, I mentally settled for the paper clip option, but with all of our office utensils, we didn't have any paper clips. There's a million of 'em at my job, but I kept forgetting to steal one. I got the call that my car was declared a total and that I need to get to the repair shop to clean out my belongings. So I did just that, and searching under my seats for anything of value, there it was: a single paper clip. Guess it was meant to be. And yes, it did the trick. One last gift from my ride to me before it's crushed. My car deserved better. 

49 Years Of Ambition

Some cocksucker decided to make a right turn from the far left lane and smashed into me on November 19th. I was driving to work, but my mind was on my task upcoming the next day: my first time as clock operator for the NBA G-League Memphis Hustle. I was so nervous. I had been trained to operate the clock one time, and I was told that due to staff shortages, I would be the man in charge of the clock by myself the next time I came to Southaven, MS, where the Hustle play. It was thrilling but a little stressful that I would have such a responsibility so early in my newest sports occupation on the stat crew of the NBA Memphis Grizzlies. That worry and stress got slammed out of me by the Mexican kid who sideswiped me. I mean, he didn't even slow down when I hit my horn, just kept turning as if no one was there and hit me so hard that I had a bump on my head. I let out a loud "Fuck!", pulled over to the side of the intersection that the moron presumably was trying to turn down. He had to U-turn and come back, and when he did, he and some young girl, maybe his sister, got out of the car. The girl was in tears, probably scared shitless because she was in the passenger seat and got the brunt of the crash. I asked them for insurance information, and the girl showed me her cell phone and a man's name texted out, which is not what I asked for. Finally, their parents or whoever arrived and showed me insurance information, which had three names listed under insured drivers, none of which were the name that the girl showed me on her phone. So I kind of knew I was fucked. The father had the nerve to try to laugh it off, saying to me, "Ay man, I'm sorry about what happened. But hey, stuff happens, right?" I had been doing well holding my tongue, but at that comment, I had to say to him, "Tell him to watch out." He's lucky I'm a different cat, because someone else may have had a different reaction.

The accident situation is still in limbo. I filed a claim through their insurance, but it's been almost a month and they don't want to continue the investigation until they communicate with the guy who hit me, and it appears that family isn't interested in talking. So I went ahead and got my car into a repair shop, which I didn't want to do because I have to pay a $500 deductible to get the repairs done through my insurance. I wanted that guy's insurance to pay for everything because I wasn't at fault, but if they're going to drag forever, then I had to go forward getting my ride fixed because my wife and I spent a week using only her car, and it was very, very, very difficult on both of us. I'm going to wind up paying for that deductible and also for the difference between the actual repairs and what my insurance company quoted, and while that completely sucks, it wasn't realistic that I thought I would come away not paying anything. This was my first accident, so I didn't know the other company would screw me around so much. Lesson learned.

Now that I got that nightmare out of the way, I can proudly report that, yes, I am now an employee of the NBA in addition to Major League Baseball. The Grizzlies put a lot of job listings out there before this season began, but none of them pertained to my specialty, which is statkeeping. So I went on the Grizzlies official website to look under their job listings, and lo and behold, there was an opening for stat crew that they had not made public on Indeed.com, but there it was, right there with all the other jobs they had listed such as maintenance and security and usher and food court. I can't believe this is my life, but the day they called to set up an interview, it was my first day in Montego Bay, Jamaica, on vacation with my wife, so I had to set it up for a week later. But we finally talked, and they explained to me that the stat crew job wasn't something they publicized because they had a lot of people come in who thought they could work on stat crew but were mostly just fans who wanted a job with the Grizzlies and weren't really qualified to do what it takes. That explanation made perfect sense. It's why I take such pride in my scorekeeping duties with baseball and with the company that hires me to work college football. I know how difficult it is to be still and pay attention and do those jobs efficiently, and my experience (along with having someone already on the Grizzlies stat crew vouch for me because they also work in the Redbirds press box with me) made the right impression, and I was hired. Look at me, kinda sorta networking!

This being my rookie season, I have not worked any actual Grizzlies games yet. I was told that I would work G-League Hustle games almost exclusively in my first year until I proved that I knew what I was doing. I had no problem working my way up. I was only supposed to be clock operator for one game after being trained, and afterwards, I would start training to be a stat inputter, which can be hectic and difficult but presents a challenge I want to conquer. But someone on the scorer's desk got sick, and in all of the scrambling and moving people around to replace her, they gave me three more games to work the clock, which I took as a good thing because if I wasn't doing it right, they wouldn't give me more games. I actually love working the clock because there's a sense of controlling the game that appeals to me, and once you know the timekeeping rules to which you have to adhere, it's a pretty easy gig. It's a lot less stressful than stat inputting. The morning that I worked my first game, they kept asking me if I was nervous, and I kept telling them, hey, some doofus just hit me yesterday morning, so whatever happens today won't be anymore horrifying than that. The accident really did knock the stress out of my first day as timekeeper. It was a morning game, so there were lots of schoolkids in attendance on class field trips. My favorite part of the day was sounding the horn indicating the end of halftime and the start of the second half, which the kids clearly were anticipating because the shrieks they let out were piercing. I was like, wow, I've never had this much power in my entire life.

I feel like I am finding ambition now that I have worked my way into positions in all three of my favorite sports. I recently saw a clip of President Obama discussing how unimpressive some people are who have very high status in society. He got to meet all of the heads of state, very powerful people, very rich people, highly educated people, and some of them made the impression that they're not all that intelligent or talented, but got placed in positions of prestige due to connections. And I felt that. It reminded me of my days in junior high school on the Gold Coast of Chicago, rubbing elbows with kids whose parents were very rich and powerful. Some of those kids were really bright, some of them were not the sharpest bulbs. But when you have a leg up socially, you feel like you're entitled to anything. I have felt very not entitled to anything in my life, and I was feeling especially low a couple years ago when I tried to find other work and got scammed. But then the college football gig came along, then the baseball, and now the basketball, and it doesn't stop there: there's a new data company hiring for college basketball, and their compensation is about as high as one could imagine, and they desperately want someone for Memphis Tigers games. You damn right I applied for that as well. I don't know where my limit is as far as how much side work is too much, but I feel like I might shortchange myself if I don't go for every opportunity that I can. And I have passed on some potential gigs because the timing didn't feel right or the pay. But I don't think it would be too much to work some pro basketball games and mix in some college games, and then when those seasons end in April, it will be time for baseball again. Some people who work these gigs do way more games than that, because they also do college and youth sports. I really don't feel like I'm biting off more than I can chew. If anything, I'm making up for the previous 49 years in which I didn't feel good enough to try for any of these hustles. I am motivated, I am determined, and most of all, I am grateful as hell to have these chances in sports. My uncle texted me: "So proud of you. You're living your dream!" And he's right. That fat black boy from the West side of Chicago could never have seen these opportunities in his future because he didn't have the connections of the rich and powerful or any other connections. Took a minute, but I'm finally making it happen.

Respect

On Tuesday April 9 I am going to work my first game as data operator, or scorekeeper on a laptop instead of a scorecard, at the Memphis Redbirds game. This is different from the Baseball Info Solutions gig I worked for eight years before the company stopped sending people out to live games. This is for Major League Baseball, although it's still minor league games at the AAA level. I've been running hard collecting data for BIS in their new iteration as Sports Info Solutions, getting stats at ten college football games this past autumn and the six March Madness college basketball games here in Memphis a couple weeks ago. I decided to have some job opportunities e-mailed to me automatically by Indeed.com even though I got scammed by some fuckers last year, and out of nowhere this gig with MLB came up, watching baseball and putting in every pitch and every play, and I decided that I had to apply for this even though it almost felt like a scam, felt too good to be true, and they sent me a test of baseball rules which I aced, and they set up a Zoom interview the next day and I aced that so well that they offered me the job on the spot. I've ran the gamut of emotions about it in the past month since it happened: pride, awe, shock, worry, fear that it's a scam which won't go away until the moment they let me into the press box to do the job Tuesday night. And I didn't know when I would post here about it, but I knew I had to because it's such a major moment in my life--the fat broke loser Negro from the West Side of Chicago is an employee of Major League Baseball. Still a wow just to type that.

Then today another major moment happened, a moment I had been waiting for and a moment that I knew was probably coming soon but still came as a total stunner. I checked my phone after work and saw a missed call and voice mail from the Chicago Teachers Pension Fund, and I knew exactly what that meant. Finally, at long last, my father is dead.

There has, predictably, been no reaction from me because that's just how I handle everything. Yes, lots of thoughts and memories (mostly bad) and racing emotions, but nothing to make me physically exert any kind of feeling outwardly. There was something I thought to do out of respect for him, I don't even remember what, but I stopped stone cold when that word popped in my head. Respect. That's what my enmity towards him is all about. I have co-workers who don't understand how I could go years not speaking to him. No matter what he did to me, he's still my father, they'd say. I won't offer this explanation to them because I don't want to get that deep into it. But it's a matter of respect. He did not have respect for me as a person. He's my father, so obviously there's a level of authority that says he didn't have to show me respect, he just had to raise me. He didn't do a good job of raising me, but way more important than that, he didn't treat me like I was a Goddamn human being. It's more than the beatings, the airplane spinning me and threatening to slam my body to the concrete, the choking my mother in front of me, the cheating on her in our apartment while I was there and she was not...etc. I took all of that and continued to talk grudgingly to him as an adult, but he never treated me as more than his son, and he never apologized for his behavior, and he reminded me of Donald Trump in that he never even understood that the things he did hurt other people badly. He couldn't see anything other than what affected him. He didn't respect me other than when what I was doing may aggrandize him. When I won the spelling bee in 1990, he said to me in front of other people, "I want you to win nationals so I can go on Arsenio!" Not we, he. Always.

So fuck him. Burn in hell. Eternal apologies to my mother, and I'm forever grateful that she birthed me, but I will never understand why with him.

48 Years Of Perseverance

I'm not the "keep pushing 'til you make it" type. Anyone who knows me knows that I get frustrated and defeated when I don't get my way. This year I had occasion to apply for different job opportunities since my day job keeps losing business year to year. It didn't go well this spring and summer. I got scammed by a job posting on Indeed, and by the time I figured it out they had already shipped me a check in my name for over $6,000 that I was supposed to use to "buy" supplies for the job. That was not going to end well. I sent it back. Then I applied to a couple of different companies that were looking for people to watch college football games and do some basic scout work for them, including the company that I worked for doing scorekeeping for minor league baseball before they went remote. I was humbled by the depth of questions on the interviews and embarrassed that I didn't know certain play calls or formations or even who won the football national title last year. I don't watch college football, mostly because I worked on Saturdays. But still, when I didn't hear back from one group and the other sent me a form rejection email, I was very down in the dumps. But the group that I previously worked with when it was Baseball Info Solutions was now starting up the same type of position going to college football games. So I persevered, swallowed my pride, and applied for that one too, and I did much better in that interview because they weren't trying to drill my football knowledge for 45 minutes. They mostly wanted to know about my real life job record and responsibilities. They also said something to the effect of "We already know about your accuracy and dedication because of your work with the baseball side, we just want to get to know you here on the football side." It seemed like a formality that I would be selected to work the University of Memphis football games. Then weeks went by, all the way into the beginning of August, and I heard nothing. That was a very tough stretch. If I wasn't good enough for this gig with all of my prior experience, what would I do? Go back to applying for scam data entry jobs? Finally, finally, they one morning sent me the contract to sign for the gig. And my perseverance paid off. I greatly enjoyed working with what is now Sports Info Solutions, even accepting the chance to work Arkansas State football games 85 miles away, and now I wait for them to develop a similar program to work college basketball games. I will certainly be applying for that too. I know now that I can't get discouraged when I don't instantly get rewarded for my efforts. The blessing will come. I just have to wait for it sometimes.

47 Years Of Weirdness

I saw a random Facebook meme this morning before work and decided to share it as my theme for the day. It said: "I'm Different. And I Like That Shit." I captioned it: "Happy 47 to me. I'm learning to embrace my weirdness. As if I wasn't annoying enough." What that means simply is, I'm not trying to hide my quirks like I always used to. I am what I am. Whatever that entails, whatever social awkwardness, whatever inappropriate comments, whatever abrasive, aloof, sometimes confrontational front I put up to get through the day, it's me. Not everyone likes me. Hell, most people probably don't. And that's fine. I find that when I'm trying to be someone else, trying to fit in and be likeable, it may work and it may not, but I don't like how it feels because I'm being someone other than me. It can take years for people to feel even a little comfortable with their traits. I feel like I'm slowly getting there. And it's not fooling myself into thinking that I'm actually the normal one and everyone else is the problem. It's acknowledging that some things I do are fucked up, some aren't, but they're all MY things. When I wear my normal khakis and collared shirt to work on Halloween and declare that I'm dressing as a big fat nerd, or when I shake my considerable backside to the music at the bowling alley while waiting my turn, or when I make a bad pun joke to my wife knowing she won't find it funny at all, I'm being me, which is different from everyone else, but what would being like everyone else accomplish? Nah, I'm going to enjoy the things that make me me, and I'm going to have days where I feel down about me and wish I was better, and I'm going to have days where I feel like I'm awesome, and everything in between. It's all good. I've always been different. Finally, I'm kinda starting to like that shit.