Backwoods Baseball, Part 2

Forsaking the warning signs on my dashboard, I make the turn towards the baseball diamond, unsure of where the road would take me. There are some things a man can replace, such as gasoline, but you cannot barter the trust of one's teammates.

Bounding over a couple of hills like an ant traversing the fringes of a checkerboard patterned tablecloth, my car arrives at another intersection: One path leads back to civilization, while the other heads off into uncharted territory and a playing field. I chose the latter, and in a short while I enter the quaint, unmapped town of Kilbride.

From what I could tell, the only prominent landmarks are a street leading to the main residential area of town, the fire hall that consists of relaxed firefighters enjoying the dusk of a summer day, and the school. The Kilbride Public School, which represents the door out from sleepy town Ontario to the big, busy world, is the place where my baseball dreams of grandeur and heroism lead me. My thoughts, as I pulled into the parking lot, turn to the meter measuring my gasoline, and a pool deep enough for a flea to drown remains. I made it.

Alas, as I find the teammates, a few more straggle in before we begin to wonder aloud: Where is the other team? o_O No sooner does the thought cross our minds then the sound of big motors and pickup trucks pull into the school disturbing the quaint peace of the valley. Their numbers are large, their choice of bats is stellar, their size is towering (well, a few of them, still...! O_O), and the odds are not in our favour.

As the game progresses the score gets wider, the breaks are beating us, and the grounders are a little further away from our grasp. Finally, the worries about gasoline are the last things I am thinking about as I head to the dugout for the final time after flying out to left field. The misadventure into the lovely town of Kilbride taught me a valuable lesson: Be prepared (DUH!), and what is more to enjoy the journey. If you don't stop to notice the Mom & Pop restaurant, the manicured rose-laden park, the old-time railroad crossings and street lamps, and the strawberry farm along the way then you will wonder how you arrived at your destination, place in life, or age in the first place!

An excursion can last thirty minutes, but the stories within that journey are limitless. ^_^

Backwoods Baseball, Part 1

I play baseball three times last week, each game for a different league in and around my hometown. My third game last week, however, was not in a usual, well lit part of suburbia, but out in the agricultural, rolling hills, and backwoods of Canada without the banjos.

First, there is my hometown of Mississauga, then a little west of there is Oakville, Burlington, and then a town called Guelph. This game I was about to participate in started almost immediately after work ended, so I not only had to get my gear from home and change clothes, I had a fair amount of driving to do. I'm a product of the 1990s, so when I need directions on how to arrive at a destination I print them out on 8.5"x11" paper, place the directions on the seat next to me, and drive the route the direction tell me to travel. No GPS, no ambient female voice telling me I made a wrong turn, and no room for error!

The major road to the diamond is a "line": The Guelph Line. Effectively, it's the border between urbanization and suburbia, and agriculture and secluded, sleepy towns like Lowville, Churchville, and Inglewood. Like the childhood home of NFL quarterback and future hall-of-famer Brett Favre, you can't find "Kilbride" on a conventional map. Google found "Kilbride Park", which is behind the elementary school, but Google believes the road to Kilbride is a straight line. Ladies and gentlemen, the Guelph Line is not a straight line; it's a border, and borders are never simple.

I took many slights and curves to stay on the Guelph Line burning the last of precious gasoline as I left, obeying traffic signs, and annoying the locals behind my automobile by doing so. I wasn't lost - I was...taking my time. As the clock indicated, throughout my journey through the Ontario backwoods, I had to put the pedal to the metal, yet it was during the many twists and turns I discovered I was only halfway to my destination when I arrived at Twiss Road (no pun intended).

Guelph Line & Twiss Road: I reached a cross roads. As the little Chief Engineer Scotty cackled in my head that "the engines aren't going to last much longer!", I eyed the little Esso gas station across the street. There was no telling how much longer the journey would last, and there was only enough gas left over for a few more kilometres.

If I get gasoline for the car, I would be late for the game. If I drove on ahead, I could be lost in the Ontario underbrush and thickets armed with baseball bats and a Los Angeles Dodgers hoody I purchased from the online store for $51 after discount.

What would I do? What would I do?

Dat Voice: My Life and The Four Seasons

We had a radio station that played nothing but oldies music when I grew up. Those were good times.

Actually, I tuned it to Oldies 1150 AM out of Hamilton, and 1050 Chum from Toronto, and from there I bounced back and forth. Every Sunday, Oldies 1150 would play nothing but Elvis Presley from 8am to 9am, and then nothing but Beatles music the following hour. That was some sweet music to listen to as you're putting on your Sunday best, leaving your room, being told by Mom and Dad (mostly Dad) to wear something else, returning to your room to change, and trying again.

I did have one pet peeve with Oldies radio stations: Mmm-bop music. At least four times a day, I could count on both radio stations to play The Four Seasons, and each time I could feel my eardrums liquify under the mind-numbing shrill. I'm sure Frankie Valli is a nice guy, and the Four Seasons are a lovely bunch of guys, but the plastic mmm-bop music of the fifties drove me insane. Why is my foot tapping to "Sherry"? Since when could I sing the words to "Big Girls Don't Cry"? Why do I love what I hate so much?! AHH!



Perhaps I should write a 50's mmm-bop song to exorcise my childhood demons? At least I would become part of the madness that engulfed my pre-teen to teenage years, and my song would live in the memory and liquified eardrums of another young soul.

"Sheerrrr-rrrrrr-rrryyyy ba-aa-by, Sheeerrrryyy, won't you come out tonight...? Oops, turn off speech to document application...!"

As you can see, I'm a tad conflicted, if not confused. Some of my fondest memories growing up revolved around Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons: My first day at high school, my first car, driving to the Dairy Cream to hang out with friends are all great times and the "Jersey Boys" were involved in some way. Maybe mmm-bop music isn't all bad; compared to today's stuff, I would prefer the Four Seasons for its originality, harmonies, and lack of auto-tuned wackiness.

Play it again, Frankie ^_^ Wait, what did I say? o_O

Speaking of music, I launched another YouTube channel this spring. I upload nothing but music videos on it, and so far the reception was pretty good. It's called "Philhazmusic", and if you click on the link it will take you to the channel page where you can listen to what I posted so far and SUBSCRIBE for more updates. It's not on the level of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, unfortunately, but I hope you enjoy it.

My First Racism Experience

Alright, let's try something completely different...

Preface: I will be the first to admit I said many STUPID, prejudicial things growing up. As multiculturalism and urbanization grew and developed in my neighbourhood, what I lacked in understanding and narrow-mindedness showed up in my actions, but more often than not in my speech as well. There was forgiveness from God and others, and enough opportunity to rebuild friendship and trust with my friends and cohorts in school and in the neighbourhoods of the suburbs.

With all that said, I knew I was different from most people growing up. There were not a large assortment of black students, never mind black males, growing up in the suburbs of the Greater Toronto Area in the 1980s and 1990s.

• A toddler called me the N-word in a shopping mall.
• One of the organizers of a video game tournament in my hometown on Canada Day refused to enter me because I was black.
• A city bus driver ordered each black male boarding her bus to show student identification.

With the exception of the middle one, those don't bother me much anymore. I was a kid, so I took everything that happened to me to heart, and playing the race card for every little thing was a popular thing at the time (I mistakenly linked Malcolm X: The Movie coming out in theatres and everyone being angry with everyone else for different reasons, but I digress.)

Artist's representation of my cruise ship in 2009 o_O

In 2009, I went on vacation alone. I needed a break from everything and everyone: I wasn't sleeping properly, I had nightmares about work, nightmares about worst case scenarios at work, nightmares about going to work, and I was snapping at family and friends. I was on the verge of my second mental breakdown (first occurred in England in 2004). The solution, which coincided with graduation from university, was a two-week cruise of South America. Overall, it was what I needed, and I could regale you with many stories about my experience that were positive reminders of God's mercy, majesty, and sovereignty. Onboard the cruise, most of the people were friendly, and the staff was especially nice and courteous and wonderful. There was, however, one ongoing "problem"...

Avery Brooks, the actor who played Captain Sisko in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, says it best in a quote from the episode "Badda-Bing, Badda-Bang": 

You want to know? You really want to know what my problem is? I'll tell you: Las Vegas, 1962. That's my problem. In 1962, black people weren't very welcome there! Oh, sure, they could be performers or janitors, but customers? Never!

The cruise was Vegas; and I went to Vegas! Sure, there was a little casino below deck, but that's not the point. I knew the world was not a happy-go-lucky place; my parents taught me that, so as I progressed from high school to university to graduation to almost thirty-something I knew my first experience dealing with the unfairness of the world would come sooner than later. When I stepped on the cruise, it did not hit me like a ton of bricks like I thought it would, no. Instead, it hung in the air like a wisp of Air from an air freshener automatically set to spray at random times o_O

There were many "single, black men" on the cruise. If they were not singing or performing on the grand stage in the ballroom, they were either standing by the doors in black ties and frilly sky blue blazers holding trays or cleaning rooms. For the first week, I received looks and double takes from other vacationers because I wouldn't take orders, perform on stage, or look like I was doing something. I could hear the whispers and feel the palpable awkwardness whenever I entered a room, and eventually it limited where I could go on the cruise: I couldn't eat at the high-end restaurants, not because I was broke, but because when I dressed up I kept getting asked about food and orders. I looked forward to disembarking at each port of call just to avoid those situations time and again.

Finally, it happened...

I'm a big ice cream guy, as my friends will attest, so one day I grabbed a soup bowl, filled it with orange sherbet, and sat down at a small table in the lunch room facing the port side windows. I received a few looks already, but nothing too obvious that day. I did, however, notice a familiar old lady staring at me from across the hall. I turned away and ignored her glare, but all of a sudden she stood, marched the length of the room, stopped a few inches short of where I sat, and in a loud voice said the words I would never forget for as long as I live:

"SHOULDN'T YOU BE WORKING?!"

Jesus instructs each of us to "love our enemies", and if it occurred right when the vacation began I probably would "open the gates". Like her, the only "single, black men" I saw on the cruise were cleaners, waiters, and entertainers. All the others had people, for lack of a better word, to "vouch" for them. She noticed me "not working" and "being lazy" for days and days and days, and finally had enough. Naturally, everyone within earshot was either thinking the same thing or mortified by her assertion, so I did my best to respond as calm yet loud enough to answer the question on everyone's mind.

"No, because I am on vacation just like you."

Almost a moment later, the same woman flipped from accusation to embarrassment. She sweated apologies all over the floor, and sheepishly walked away. Now, I don't share that story to beef me up, and say "LOOK AT ALL THE HOOTS I'M WORTH! WOOO!" I shared because you probably felt the same way, although our circumstances are different.

You feel pushed aside, generalized, marginalized, hurt, abused, teased, insulted, embarrassed, lonely, or ready to explode over various misgivings. There are loads of evil in the world, as you know, however in expecting the absolute worst to "COME AT ME", I should not expect my response to bring the absolute worst out of me. One should be able to handle anger and every other emotion with care keeping things in proper perspective, and remaining humble. It's not going to be easy, as it wasn't for me in 2009, and it isn't easy for me now. I just manage my emotions a little better since then, that's all, at least I hope I did.

Yes, so don't get me wrong; my cruise experience wasn't all doom and gloom. It was quite nice, I suppose. Cruises are nice vacation boats, I guess ^_^ I met some nice people onboard, and perhaps in time I can share some stories about them with you. In the meantime, it's late, and I should sleep.

Help Someone (NOT ME) Get Into Art School!

I don’t do this often, if at all, but the story of the person I linked to below is a familiar one.

When I was eighteen, I had to choose between university life and going to school for animation. I like to draw, and occasionally do nowadays. The funds were there, but the confidence was not, so I chose post-secondary education to increase my chances of getting “a real job”. The story of Emily Carson, who is ‘emilythebravee’ on Tumblr and YouTube, struck a chord with me. However, while she has the talent and confidence to succeed in art school, she needs help paying for it. That’s where YOU come in…

Right now, Emily is enrolled in a $10K scholarship contest. She wrote an essay about her life and how much she loves working in animation. All you need to do is click on the link above, read her essay, and vote for her. If she receives enough support from YOU and readers like YOU, then they will consider her for the scholarship! :D

I voted already, and plan to do it again! I’m not secretly a backer or getting residuals for doing this, and I’m sure she doesn’t know who I am; I followed her and her friends on YouTube for the past year, and I’m doing this because she is a genuinely nice person and an incredibly talented artist.

Thanks for reading and taking the time out to support her cause ^_^ I appreciate it, and I’m sure Emily does, too!

Here is her post via tumblr:

So I’ve entered a scholarship essay contest for up to $10,000!

The first part of the contest relies on voting so if you could take a minute to read my essay and vote I would be eternally grateful! 

Oh also, the site says where I live and I can’t change it which is super annoying so like, please don’t be creepy. I trust you guys with this. Don’t blow it.

ANYWAY HERE IS IT WOOHOO! 

I Am Unhappy

I wrote this at ridiculous a.m. in the morning, and after two dozen people read it I relegated it to draft mode because I felt more ashamed of me than ever. However, it does zero good to anyone to deny my feelings, and it could help someone as we are not alone in this. So, after a day's worth of prayer, editing, and fixing "which people can't see this" to "everyone can see this", here it goes...

Hi,

I think I was put on this earth to make people happy, and for a little while I managed to do that. As it turns out, I can't do it anymore because the person that should be happy others are happy is not me.

I was a comedian and scratch musician through grade school and high school, then later on in life I became a REAL Christian, and not just in name and on Sundays. Loads of people liked me, and I thought I was finally making a difference for JESUS. Things were going to be alright, from now on, I thought. Then, in 2010, things changed.

Something terrible happened to a friend of mine, who is no longer with us, and then something almost as terrible happened to me, which only one other person half knows about. That event weighed on my actions for so long that I drove away my family and friends; I even ended really good friendships over minute and ridiculous things. Years later, I overheard my Dad talking my relatives about my changes, and his "reason" for why 'the lights went out'. He wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong either.

I tried to overcompensate with heavy doses of writing, however that began to wane in recent times. My serious writing had three outcomes: (1) I deleted whatever I wrote because I believed it was terrible and not worth anyone's time, or (2) I posted what I knew lacked insight and annoyed people just for the sake of viewership, and that is stupid, and (3) Someone somewhere liked it, for some odd reason, so I decided to keep it at their insistence.

Everything I do immediately turns to dust, from structured essays to the most sincere and genuine gestures of friendship and support. When I returned to making videos, which I didn't do since the early 2000s, the urge to reference this feeling as a real live problem grew as well. I told my insecurities to a pastoral intern in Oakville named Daniel (Hi Daniel), when he posed a question on Facebook about your "Social Media Heart Check". In response Daniel, who knows next to nothing about me, told me God loves me. I really want to believe God does, but I look around and conclude things will not improve.

I am unhappy. I am expected to fill a role, and then I am expected to go home. Sometimes I feel no one cares if I'm alive or dead, unless they are compelled to tell me out of the circumstance. For example, I received my fair share of 'Dear John' and breakup letters from women that still want to be friends, and all I could think was "We were never in that type of relationship to begin with, so why do I have this, and if she doesn't want to be seen with me, why would she want me in the same room?" Then again, I can't think of anyone I know that wants to be with me, never mind in the same room. Does anyone care? Do my friends read what I write, or do they just nod and smile politely and make vague assumptions? Do they talk about me, and what do they say? Do they laugh at me, do they whisper my name in dark corners, or do they just glare and curse my existence like what happened three years ago? Is this what my friend thought before he left us? I don't want to act the fool just to get by, get laughs, and convince me and others that things will get better, like in high school and university. I would like to be happy again, if that is alright?

If you are younger than me, or maybe the same age and older, and you feel the same way about feelings then please tell someone you trust before it's too late! Don't let the circumstances, however real or imagined, decide your life. Don't let them claim your life like they claimed my friend three years ago, because...this world will not be the same without you, and it will not get better. If this serves as a way to help somebody with a similar problem, then maybe it will be worth it, but right now I feel like I did something wrong.

Thanks for reading and sticking around this long. I think this Charlie McDonnell dude explains it alot better than I ever could. The variables are different (YouTube vs Writing), but the pain is the same. You should check out this video he made awhile back.



Bye.

An Antarctic Romance

They fired the last flare into the air an hour ago. All they have left in that shabby tent are a couple ofTblankets, an empty skillet, their clothes and each other. Sitting beside each other for warmth, one turns to the other, and says…

“It’s so cold!”

“It’s alright, honey.”

“I wonder if they saw the flare? That was the last one.”

“It doesn’t matter now; we did all we could.”

“I’m scared.”

“There, there. It’s alright.”

“Sniff, you probably think I’m such a baby?”

“No, I don’t think that at all.”

“I’m sorry I brought you here.”

“Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“I didn’t imagine it would all end like this.”

“I am safest in your arms, darling.”

“How can you say that?”

“I just did.”

“Honey, I…”

“Shh, everything will be fine. Just hold me back, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.”

“Heh, for what?”

“For you; for everything.”

“Heh, thank you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

…

“Wait, did you hear that? I don’t believe it! It’s them! You’re right, they saw the flare! Hey! HEY! OVER HERE! They see us! They are coming over. Everything is going to be alright, honey. We’re safe now, honey. Honey? Honey…”