This is my favorite breakfast joint in the Mission. Since I never repeatedly went to this restaurant while I lived in San Francisco, I almost always order the same thing: chilaquiles. They’re the best I’ve ever had. Mi papito swears they taste like ones made in Chilangolandia. If I’m feeling indulgent, I’ll order a side of their grubbin’ casamiento to complement the chilaquiles. (Thank you, Carlisle, for introducing me to this place, and this yummy side dish.)
But The Red Café didn’t make it onto my list of fantasmas en San Pancho because of its food. Over the past four years, I have an evolving history there. A most cancerlicious one.
Shortly after I was diagnosed, I met there with my friends Judy and Carlisle. I had shared The Bad News with them a few days before. They wanted to see me as soon as they could. I remember sitting in a booth with them one weekday morning. Once I gave them a quick recap of my prognosis, I told them I was going to personify my disease. I was going to call my mortal adversary Mr. Hodgkins. To my delight, they thought it was cute that I chose to personify my disease. We laughed in our booth while we imagined what Mr. Hodgkins must be like. Though it was an unusual conversation, not one you would want to have with anyone, I am grateful that together we were able to create some light-hearted fun about my dis-ease. And I felt grateful that my friends cared. I knew I would need all the love I could get then.
A few weeks later, I returned to The Red Café with my parents after our first visit to my oncologist. I seethed in our booth, glaring off at a spot above my parents’ faces. They sat opposite me. I was fucking pissed they had to sit through a meeting scheduled for 9:45 a.m. that didn’t start until an hour later and then dragged on and on, well past noon. I was pissed because my stomach was grumbling—and I imagined my parents were hungry, too. I was pissed because now I had to rush to make it to school on time. I felt like a huge burden to my parents. And it was all my fault although I knew it was not my fault I had gotten lymphoma.
For a minute, I couldn’t say a word to them. What could I say to them after such a meeting? (Gee, who wants a drink? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!) They snuck glances at me until I shook my head and snickered and said, “I just can’t believe that I would ever in my life—let alone when I’m thirty—have to seriously consider if I should freeze my sperm.”
My mom and dad sat quietly, hanging their heads. They looked like kids getting punished for doing something wrong.
Half a year later, my parents and mi hermanita, Carmen, and I returned to the cafe. We had a much more pleasant breakfast together before heading over to UCSF to meet my Radiation/Oncology doctor. And then three months later, right after my oncologist told me my lymphoma was in remission, I celebrated by eating a chilaquile breakfast at The Red Café. I remember sitting at the counter, reading from our Fiction class reader when a stream of wonderfulness via text messages came to my phone; they were congratulatory messages from a few friends and loved ones I had texted to tell them I could add “cancer survivor” to my resume.
A month ago, my girlfriend, Maria, accompanied me to one of my check-ups at the old oncology ward. It was wonderful to return there con mi enamorada who actually wanted to know that part of my life, my past. After we received las buenas noticias that my lymphoma remained in remission (swish!), we walked through the east side of el barrio Mission to the Red Café. It had been years since I had eaten there. All those memories still wafted there. The same kind waitress who tended the counter was still there. I ordered my usual: chilaquiles with casamiento for Mari to try.
It was one of the most magnificent meals I could have ever bargained for.
So the 2012-13 NBA season has come to this: a Finals showdown in Miami between the Heat and perennial contenders, The San Antonio Spurs. Whoever wins will have to accomplish something out of the ordinary—at least from the past few weeks—in order to hoist the iconic Larry O'Brien Championship Trophy.
For the Spurs to win, I believe they will have to snap Miami’s perfect 7-0 record in the 2013 playoffs in games coming after a loss. Game 6 has to be Game 7 for the Spurs, so they have to win tomorrow night if they want to win the series; I just can’t seem them winning a Game 7 on the road (plenty of historical statistics to support that as well). And for the Miami Heat to win a second championship in a row, they will have to accomplish two unusual feats, along with one unprecedented one:
1) Win two games in a row, something they have not done in the past twelve games against the Spurs and the upstart Pacers
2) Break the Spurs respective undefeated 4-0 record in these playoffs in games after a loss, and—The Big And,
3) Become the first team to beat the Spurs in the NBA Finals
Which team will break these trends to win the championship?
I’m going to go out on the proverbial limb and say the Spurs will win Game 6. It’s a gut call—more intuition than anything. The root of this prediction started for me after the Heat’s Game 5 when LeBron James said, “We’re going to see if we’re a better team than we were our first year together,” alluding to their Game 6 loss in the 2010-11 NBA Finals to the visiting Dallas Mavericks. The Dallas Mavericks, up until that Dirk Nowitzki/Jason Kidd/Jason Terry/Tyson Chandler-led team, were not exactly the team you would equate to having playoff grit—not like, say, the Gregg-Popovich-coached San Antonio Spurs of the past fifteen years. Will the Heat blow another two-game homestand at American Airlines Arena? I think “Yes” simply because—though this can hardly be quantified or measured—I just can’t help but think that the Spurs want this championship more than the Heat.
I see a lot of similarities between this Spurs team and the Mavericks that upset The Decision-built Miami Heat. That Mavs championship team was lead by a 32-year-old Nowitzki, a player slowly entering the twilight of his Hall of Fame career. His window to win a first championship was narrowing. Ditto for Jason Kidd who had reached the finals twice with those Nets team who were always overmatched by their Western Conference counterparts. But that 2011 Big D team also had Jason Terry, a dynamic shooting guard who had never whiffed championship air before joining Mark Cuban’s Mavs, and they also had Shawn Marion who had been on those great D’Antoni-coached 2004-2008 Phoenix Suns teams who were on the cusp of winning a championship. Between those four players alone, there was a grand collective desire to finally win a championship. That kind of emotion has a way of percolating through a locker room, further infecting and pushing the other players to win for their teammates as well as for themselves. (Just think of the Ravens Super Bowl run last season with Ray Lewis retiring.)
Now let’s zip back to the present series: Heat versus the Spurs. One of the predominant storylines of these finals has been Tim Duncan and Manu Ginoboli, stepping into the sunset of their careers. When the Spurs lost to the new young guns in the Western Conference last year, the Oklahoma City Thunder, Duncan seemed to think that was their last best chance to win it all. At 37, the greatest power forward to ever play the game is very much at the end of his career. Without a doubt, this will be his single greatest opportunity to win a final championship. You can probably say the same for the 35-year-old Ginoboli—and I think you could argue that this might also be the best championship-winning opportunity left for Tony Parker, who still has a few good years in his tank. But at thirty-one, without The Big Fundamental, without Obi-Wan Ginoboli, this might be the best chance he has left to win with the Spurs, the only NBA team he has ever played for. I think these three stellar, Hall-of-Fame-bound players know this. And their teammates know this.
Because of this, I just think the Spurs want this championship more than the Heat, which features a nucleus of players mostly retained from last year’s team. James, Wade, and Bosh—barring any trades—will have one final year left together before that team is likely blown up. Sure, they have urgency to win as well. LeBron has a legacy he’s playing for here. He does not want to be an un-Mike-like 1-3 in Finals appearances. But they should still have one crack at it next year while this is really probably fucking it for the Spurs.
Now think of the Spurs key role players: Gary Neal, Boris Diaw, Kawhi Leonard, and Danny Green. What do they have in common? None of them have won an NBA championship. In fact, there are only four players left from the 2006-07-championship Spurs team: Duncan, Ginoboli, Parker, and Matt Bonner (who lucked out and won on his first year with the Spurs). These players must want to win badly, too, especially Boris Diaw who I see in the Shawn Marion, 2011-Dallas-Mavs fold as that talented role player who played on some great teams that knocked on the championship door but never broke through. Diaw played 27 minutes in Game 5, the most he played since Game 1 of their series against the Warriors. Popovich essentially divvied the ineffective Tiago Splitter’s minutes between Diaw and Ginoboli in the last game, and I see no reason why he won’t try the same in Game 6 at Miami. Splitter & Duncan are no Hibbert & West hydra that can pummel the Heat’s small-ball lineups inside. (In fact, Splitter had a terrific series against the rugged Grizzlies but struggled mightily against the Warriors, who played similar small-ball lineups like the Heat in this series.) Even if he contributes less than double-digit points, I like the Spurs’ Diaw/Duncan line-up more than one with Splitter. The Spurs won’t shoot so well again in Game 6, but I can’t help but think that their offense will be more difficult to stop than one with Splitter in the middle. And remember, Diaw played on some very good Phoenix Suns teams that could almost lick the championship but never did. You know he wants this game badly, which is why I wouldn’t be surprised if he pops off and has a huge game. Ditto for Gary Neal, who is one of those wonderful undrafted players who will always play with a chip on his shoulder. Between Green, Neal, Diaw, and Leonard, I can see one, maybe two of those players having a significant impact on Game 6. And if Duncan, Ginoboli, and Parker play even a little off from their Game 5 performance, that just might be enough for them to steal a game in Miami—if they can limit their turnovers, which is a big question.
This deep into the playoffs, I think it comes down, more and more, to who wants it more. Popovich himself said it in his Game 5 postgame comments when he said, “At this point, it’s about competing. Players playing well, and people competing.” Who should know better than Popovich who has coached four championship teams and fifteen consecutive teams into the playoffs? Thus far, simply because he’s up 3-2 to Spoelstra, I think he’s winning the coaching battle. His small-ball lineup change in Game 5 might be one that the Heat—despite a second straight strong offensive performance from their Big Three (and Ray Allen)—will not be able to counter.
I see a Game 6 that will be similar to Game 1. The Spurs just have to keep it close for four quarters and I believe they will be able to outplay them in the final quarter for a fourth out of six games. But the beauty of these playoffs, as always, is the crapshoot element, so we’ll see if my gut is right.
My first household in the foggy city was a flat on the east side of the Mission. It was an all-dude operation. There was Herman (a.k.a. Chaos, a.k.a. DJ Chaos, a.k.a. Punk Rock Herman, a.k.a Chiflas—Spanish for “whistling” since he liked to do just that to chubby chicks with pretty faces or skanky punk rock floosies), Roberto (a.k.a. Robbie, a.k.a. DJ Tozz Grave), and Ace (a.k.a. Hace Frio, a.k.a. Ace of Spades). Our band of hermanos were all in our early to mid-thirties then. Our flat was like a post-frat pad with heavy dabs of punk rock, Latino ska, and reggae/rocksteady to accompany the clouds of Maria Jane that swirled around the turntables in our living room. Their friends dubbed our house “Casa Pacheco”; pacheco is Mexican slang for “stoned,” which is what we often were in that flat, mostly due to the ginormous amount of marijuana that Robbiecito smoked every day, and almost always shared with whoever was around (like me!)
A typical night in Casa Pacheco—weekday or weekend—often consisted of two or three or all four of us hanging out in the living room/kitchen, drinking some beers, passing one of Robbie’s joints around, getting stoney baloney, maybe even rowdy (usually me or Herman), and taking turns playing some musical sets on DJ Chaos’ turntables. We were all fairly godless. The closest we had to religion was good music, potent joints, and greasy Mission burritos. Our altar was our turntables in the living room, The Clash’s London Calling poster looming over us. Sometimes the spirit that infuses everything—the birds chirping outside, the music these musicians created, the joy and emotion their songs would induce within us—would beat mightily within us during those nights. Sometimes DJ Chaos, Ace, and I would stay up past one in the morning on a weeknight, listening to an epic DJ set. Our poor neighbors somehow tolerated us even when Chaos and I would hoot and holler to a song that fit perfectly into the one that preceded it. It was a holy exchange.
During these nights of immaculate stoniness, I would often, of course, get the munchies. I would announce a liquor store run and ask the guys if they wanted anything. We all reciprocated in this way. Being the little ball of energy I am I would sometimes put my fuzzy slippers on and say that I would be back in five minutes. And I would make it back in that time, no matter what I wore. If it was late into the night, it was not unusual for me to already be in my pajama pants wearing my blue bathrobe over it. I would scurry out the door, down the winding stairwell, and then out into the dark night to Ricci’s Market Foods a block from our home. This was like my Latino Duderino act—minus the long hair, goatee, and sunglasses. Once I collected my munchies of choice—Twinkies and Twix with some delicious strawberry Nestle milk to chase it—I would dart back down York Street to our flat. Once I pulled this act a few times—something I never did in Fremont—I got brazen and would stroll over to Ricci’s on the corner of 24th Street and York, hands in my bathrobe pockets with only my chonies underneath. I would parade past the beer-swilling patrons at Pop’s with this great big smirk on my face, my mind lost in the music playing through my iPod headphones (usually The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, or early Van Halen). The Middle-Eastern men who worked and probably owned Ricci’s never paid me any mind.
It was San Francisco, after all.
I was just another nutball in that wacky parade.
Now when I walk or cycle past Ricci’s Market— usually on my way to or from San Francisco General for an oncology check-up—I remember those youthful antics, my Casa Pacheco Bros (especially Herman who bequeathed me with one, if not the most treasured compliment I have ever received when he said, “You’re more punk rock than anyone I know.”), and the craziness we manufactured. Inside I always smile, wrapped in that cocoon of memory. I remember those times with fierce fondness though I could never be that version of myself again.
This is the first entry in a new blog column I’m going to call Fantasmas de San Francisco. It’s an exercise in personal writing that I thought would work dandy within the confines of a blog where pictures and links can help to illustrate these cuentitos.
The premise of this column is simple: we all have ghosts. We all have memories tied to a specific place. It could be a house, a park, a corner store, or a neighborhood. But these memories reside within our minds, which is how they are akin to ghosts since no one else can look at, say, a particular street corner and remember, ah, yes, I used to walk by here every morning when I was so and so, or I had my first date with so and so there. I am interested in these memories bound to physical spaces. I am interested in mapping out these mental-emotional geographies we all contain inside.
I am going to focus mine on San Francisco. I figured the right place to begin would be in the beginning of my prolonged stay in that city…
First stop: La Victoria Bakery
This is a photo of my mom and pop. It was taken in early February 2005. We were standing in front of La Victoria Bakery en el barrio Mission, corner of 24th Street and Alabama. They had just helped me move out of our home in Fremont to my first pad in San Francisco, a few blocks away. I was 25. It was the first time I moved out on my own. I was the last of my siblings to leave the proverbial nest.
I remember suggesting we stop by the bakery. We were walking over to the 24th Street BART station so they could return home. Since we were in the Mission, I figured it would be a shame if they left without getting something distinct to the neighborhood. I figured a few sweet Mexican pastries would do the trick. I remember feeling a concoction of emotions as we walked down 24th Street, including a sense of guilt for leaving them, for finally making a home without them. After we finished hauling my belongings up to my room on a third-floor flat, I could sense that my mother, in particular, felt somber.
All these memories flood me whenever I see the signs for La Victoria. Now I don’t feel so sad when I look at it. For me, the bakery reminds me of the newfound freedom I felt at living on my own for the first time in my life. Oftentimes, it reminds me of the crazy first year and a half I spent living at the flat we called “Casa Pacheco,” the punk-rock, vinyl-record-spinning household I am proud and honored to have shared with my Casa Pacheco brothers. It was a thrilling, eye-opening time in my life—living in a city beautiful like the ones I saw in Europe, a vibrant neighborhood that was the antithesis of the depressing, yawn-of-a-suburban neighborhood that my restless spirit wasn’t meant for.
Buried beneath all those fuzzy memories, I still remember the sadness I felt in leaving home. In coming through a front door where my mom and dad would not greet me. It has been the opening chapter of a wild, unpredictable six and a half years I have spent in the city.
Look at me mama, doing my first response blog piece! This ditty is in response to my homeboy, Justin Goldman’s piece on Ray Manzarek that you can check out aqui on his kick-ass blog.
It’s safe to say that when most people think of The Doors, the fleeting image that first comes to mind is Jim Morrison: The Lizard King; the white-boy shamanic, baritone-voiced, dead-in-a-bathtub-in-the-city-of-cities-at-the-age-of-27 lead singer who now lives eternally through the recordings this band left us (“We had some good times/but they’re gone”). But when I think of The Doors, I think of great music to get high to. Or music that makes you feel like you’ve shared a spliff with The Old Fart Upstairs ("Cancel my subscription to the resurrection / Send my credentials to the house of detention"). And the primary culprits for this sensation are the recently departed Ray Manzarek, and guitarist Robby Krieger—one of my favorite duos in all music. (The only other guitarist whose playing makes me feel like I’ve hit a four-foot bong in Santa Barbara is Jimi Hendrix.)
Though I’m no groupie with pictures and posters of Las Puertas all up on my walls (I’ve always enjoyed calling “The Doors” by their exact Spanish translation, though my Peruvian posse always call them “The Doors” with a cute accent), this is my favorite picture of yet another monumental band from Los Angeles.
In this photo, Manzarek is the one who commands the viewer’s initial attention. Those studious-looking glasses, those piercing eyes. What is this bookworm doing in a rock band? He should be a professor, right? But in a way, I think it can be easily argued that he occupied a similar position within The Doors. While everyone focused on Jimbo’s onstage antics, his dreamy-hot looks, or Krieger’s solos and phenomenally-diverse chops, Manzarek was The Wizard of Oz for that band. He provided the foundation for the sonic tapestry that allowed those two to reach peaks that captured their listeners. When Manzarek passed away over two weeks ago, the other member of their rhythm foundation, drummer John Densmore, said via Twitter: “There was no keyboard player on the planet more appropriate to support Jim Morrison’s words…. It was like we were of one mind, holding down the foundation for Robby and Jim to float on top of….” And as we’re finding out here in the San Francisco Bay Area, you can’t build a pretty and stable bridge without some sturdy bolts and mighty pillars to hold that baby up.
Like my buddy Justin said in his blog post, “People won’t dress up as Manzarek for Halloween.” And they won’t dress up like John Densmore or Robby Krieger with his forehead made for Happy-Gilmore-style headbutting. But yet, those two, Manzarek and Krieger, are why I continue to listen to The Doors now that I’ve mostly outgrown my hard-boozing, Morrison-felt-the-pain-I-feel phase. Manzarek and Krieger—forgive me for bringing ice skating into this (I didn’t know this was going to happen when I started to put my fingers to keyboard, believe me)—were like a pair of lyrical figure skaters who deftly painted musical tapestries of many shades and graduations. (Just think of the range encompassed within “Roadhouse Blues,” “Alabama Song,” “Strange Days,” “L.A. Woman,” and “Not to Touch the Earth.”) Think of Krieger’s slide guitar solo on “Moonlight Drive” and Manzarek’s subdued chords layered behind it. Let’s stay on “Strange Days”—my favorite Doors album; listen to the underrated “My Eyes Have Seen You” and the way that 2:30 song just continually builds on a simple but mildly frenetic riff from Krieger’s Gibson SG; the way Manzarek and Densmore build the song up to a peak for Morrison and Krieger to take the song out on. Listen to “Love Street”—how beautifully Manzarek and Krieger play simple piano and guitar melodies to conjure this idyllic soundtrack to accompany Morrison’s lyrics. Listen to their organ and guitar solos on “Light My Fire.” Or one of my favorite tiny moments—all twenty seconds of it—on their epic “When the Music's Over.” It’s that part from the 5:47-6:06 mark where Manzarek’s organ and a few atmospheric notes from Krieger’s guitar produce a sound that sounds like the “scream of the butterfly.”
I could go on and on.
These two, along with Densmore’s underrated drumming and The Lizard King, were one of those once-in-a-lifetime kind of bands. (And you can thank transcendental meditation for it!)
People may not dress like the three non-supernovas in The Doors, but their music will always live on—as long as our iPods and computers will have enough juice to play.
For years, I have theorized that the swiftest, most profound way to know someone is to hear the music they listen to and know what each song means to them, or how it makes them feel to listen to it. Then a few months ago, I concocted a personality theory based on team sports. I figured it would be insightful to know what position a person would play in the major team sports (at least in the United States of Advertising), no matter their height, weight, or general lack of athleticism in real life, along with their reasons for why they would play that position. For brownie points, I thought it would be further insightful to list what players at that position said person would wish to emulate.
So here I go with mine:
Football: Middle Linebacker
Of all the positions in American football to pick—quarterback, running back, cornerback, safety, and the ever-glamorous placekicker—why did I pick MLB? Because I would rather smack people instead of be the hittee. “Lay the wood” on somebody as they say. Or "smoke" or “light” a guy up. I’d pick middle linebacker over free safety because I would also want to direct the defense. Be the defensive general on the field. Now that the NFL has become more of a pass-oriented league, middle linebackers have to be even more adept than ever at quickly reading offensive alignments in order to help direct the D. If my 5’7, 170ish pound self could morph into a 6’1, 240 pound beast (the same exact height and weight of Ray Lewis and his league-wide heir apparent, Patrick Willis), I would relish all those responsibilities.
Favorite Middle Linebackers:
· Mike Singletary (I remember being a kid, watching the ’85 Bears destroy the Steve Grogan-led Patriots. This was before I officially loved football, but I loved Singletary. Those bulging, intense eyes that could hold a candle to the Eye of Sauron. The way he flew at the ball handler, play after play after play after play. He was physically gifted, intelligent, but most importantly: prepared. And his sheer intensity was palpable through a television screen. Can you imagine how it must have been on the gridiron to be on the opposing side of the ball?)
· Ray Lewis (Other than the Bears ’85 defense, the 2000 Super Bowl-winning Baltimore Ravens defense was the most staunch and devastating defense I ever saw. And this was the man who led them.)
· Patrick Willis
Soccer: Midfielder
Futbol was the only sport I played growing up; I played for ten years. Throughout those years, I typically played fullback or midfield, with a few stints as goalie (horrible!) and forward (pretty horrible, too). I was never a great player; respectable at best. But if I could play one position again—and supremely—no question I would play midfield.
Back when I played, I loved playing midfield because of its very position on the field—el centro. Playing midfield was great because I got to run around a lot. That made me happy—and still does. (It took me 33 years to realize that I am like one of those hyperactive dogs you’re warned about adopting from a pound, the one that needs to be taken out to run around a lot in order to expend their boundless energy. That’s me.) Plus, being a midfielder was cool because it was a medley of defense and offense; I dug that variety. After being a fullback for years, after being burned a number of times on goals, I found comfort in playing midfield because you rarely earned such outright blame for giving up a goal, or missing one (as strikers do).
If I could play midfield again, I would not want to be an attacking midfielder like the great Maradona, Zinedine Zidane, or Gheorghe Hagi. I would rather be The Set-up Man, The Grand Conductor instead of The Finisher. Now on the rare occasions I watch futbol (usually only for the World Cup, because otherwise it would be another commitment to get invested in any of those great soccer leagues throughout the world; I already have a video game addiction I am trying to quell), I find myself oohing and wowing over a great pass just as much or more than an individual play of dribbling poetry and brilliance to notch a score. I love the great midfielders who set up shots on goal, or goals for their teammates. They’re like magicians de la cancha, chess masters incarnate.
My favorite such midfielders:
· Carlos Valderrama (Not only did he have the baddest fucking hair in futbol, but he was a master of the soccer field. Just check out the YouTube video below)
· Roberto Carlos (I loved Roberto Carlos because he was a short motherfucker who played with the best. And his free kicks were stunning. Like cannon shots, man.)
· Xavi Hernandez (The center piece of the great Spanish teams of recent years.)
NBA: Point Guard
Since I’m an average-to-short dude (a dwarf in a Metallica pit; tall in Cambodia), I think I’ve always had an affinity for short NBA players who are ballers on the court. Though I think the Spurs are a perennially boring team, I admire Tony Parker for being a 6’2 tall cat who has made a career of knifing to the basket whilst routinely shooting around 50% from the field. And then there was little 6’0 Allen Iverson who led the league in scoring four times and finished with 24,368 points, good for 19th on the all-time scoring list. Isiah Thomas was a bad motherfucker, too.
But like middle linebacker, like a soccer midfielder, I would love to be a point guard to orchestrate the offense. If I could actually dribble the ball, I would love to be that sleek point guard who pushes his team up the court in transition. I would love to be that guy who calmly calls the play in a half court set, then executes the play—an entry pass, or a driving play to the basket to either finish or pop it out for a three-point shot. I would love to be that player with the no-look pass to a wide open shooter; the guy who, play after play, makes the right decision and places the ball with his teammate in the best position to exploit the defense. On top of this, I’ve been particularly fond of point guards who were two-way stars—a force on offense and defense. In any sport, I have always been most admiring of complete players who could do it all.
Favorite Point Guards:
Oscar Robertson
Jason Kidd (Never a great shooter or scorer but back in his heyday he could do it all.)
Gary Payton (The Glove!)
MLB: Center Fielder
Since this piece is getting long, I’ll cut to the chase like the way these center fielders used to chase down a long fly ball; this is why I would love to play center field (if I could actually make contact with a pitch): I love to run. I love how the best defensive outfielders run with a reckless sense of abandon to grab a fly ball, even if it means crashing into a wall at full speed. I love speedy outfielders who could blaze around the diamond, turning singles or walks into doubles because of their base-stealing prowess. I love how a dangerous base runner can rattle even the most cold-blooded closer in a tight ballgame. (I always think of Red Sox pinch runner Dave Roberts rattling Mariano Rivera in the tide-turning Game 4 of the incredible 2004 ALCS.) And I love outfielders who led off the batting order, batted for a high average and got on base to serve as the catalysts for their offense. Though he wasn’t a center fielder, my favorite baseball player of all-time was Rickey Henderson because he did just this. (#24’s ridiculous 1990 season—.325 average, 28 HR, 65 SB, and a .439 on-base percentage—will forever live on in Nintendo’s R.B.I. Baseball 3.)
Favorite Center Fielders:
Kenny Lofton
Willie Mays
Jim Edmonds
Hockey: Right Wing I like hockey far more than baseball yet I never watch it. But if I could skate with grace and power and deftly handle a puck with a stick, I would play right wing. In hockey, unlike futbol, I would relish playing the striker position because in hockey a goal-scoring wing can also be a physical force like tough guy Cam Neely. Flying shoulder-first to check a defenseman into the corners must be a constant adrenaline rush. And like football, it seems like hockey games can turn on a huge hit that can charge a team up.
Besides smashing hulking dudes into the glass, I would love to be a wing because oftentimes the speediest skaters play that position. I’ve managed to ice skate a few times. (Emphasis on “managed.”) Though I don’t viscerally know, it must be a rush to soar down the rink at speeds near 27-29 miles per hour. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of that tiny thrill.
Favorite Right Wings: · Pavel Bure (The Russian Rocket, man. That dude could fly. And shoot. At times, it looked like he operated at a speed that other players couldn’t touch. For whatever reason, I always dug that he played right wing even though he was a lefty. It just made him that much more unusual and extraordinary.)
· Theoren Fleury (The epitome of scrappy motherfucker. A 5’6 powerhouse who scored over 1,000 points in his career. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a thing for love-or-hate-him athletes: players who are villains if they’re pitted up against your team, but players you love when they play for your team. Fleury was one of those dudes.)
· Cam Neely (He was a bad ass. Like the Hines Ward of hockey forwards.)
After a long frustrating day, enduring a job that is just about as bad as going to church (in some ways, far more depressing), getting low-balled for a job at a nonprofit that I used to badly, badly, badly want—an escape I have longed for and worked toward for MONTHS—what does this 21st Century motherfucker do? I drank some slim Russians (Caucasians with soy milk), clipped my 6th generation iPod shuffle to my shirt, told my sweetheart I would be listening to some loud music in the kitchen in case she called and I didn’t respond, then proceeded to blast a triple-shot of Slayer’s “Postmortem,” “Raining Blood,” and “Seasons in the Abyss” through my headphones while I stood at our sink and violently headbanged (and I mean violently; think Jason Newsted onstage during the ’89 Damaged Justice tour; Mari tells me she can hear my neck bones popping while I whip my head around; she describes it as “alarming”) as I washed our dishes.
This is what we’ve come to, folks.
This is evolution.
My 33-year-old neck already pulsing with tranquil pain, I couldn’t help but think about what my ancestors used to do to get their aggression out in their times. Maybe kill a woolly mammoth? Beat their ugly kids (that still happens; and of course they don't have to be ugly)? Or maybe my ancestors who were on Noah’s Ark fucked a kangaroo in the ass to release (because we all know every single creature was piled onto that Carnival cruise ship, right? Wink wink.) Or maybe our Neanderthal predecessors went Jackson Pollack with black tar on a bonfire-lit cave wall when they're thinking something Grimlock-like: "She not spread her legs for me. Me destroy!"
