snowboreding

I don't care who invented snowboarding. I don't care what sort of doped-out hoodlums enjoy it as a pastime. What I want to know is how the hell I got tricked into thinking that it was some sort of cool, non pain-inducing activity. I'd like to blame hallucinogenic drugs or Nazis, but I haven't had contact with either for some time. So it seems I can blame only myself.

The only thing I don't have a complaint about is the fashion. I love snowboarding fashion. Those huge, obnoxiously colored boots and snow outfits? Fabulous. Unfortunately, I quickly found that fashion self-esteem is not enough to shield you from pain.

That’s because snowboarding is probably the only activity that you don't care if you fall. You don't even care if other people see you fall. That's because everyone falls and falls all the time. That's right; repeated failure is not only acceptable, it's expected. It’s like public high school. More often than not, falling now is preferred to falling later because you're only going to pick up speed. And when you eventually fall - and I as I said, you will fall again - it's only going to hurt more. So you might as well clench your fists, heave your body to the ground and taste artificial snow. Tastes like confetti.

So fall I did and I fell early, often, late and everything in between. With each fall, a new part of my body ached. It got so bad that I hurt in places I couldn't identify on an anatomy chart. Eventually, I ran out of organs to hurt and eventually started hurting in phantom body parts that evolution had discarded from the human form thousands of years ago.

After one of the many, many, many meetings between my face and the mountain, one fellow (probably a pedophile) offered some advice - which incidentally included no help whatsoever: "Hey. No pain, no gain. Right, buddy? Hehe. Keep at it."

Ha... ha... haha... Ha. In case you can't tell, that laughter was both sarcastic and insincere. No pain no gain? Call me crazy, but can't we just leave it at 'no pain'? That would be preferable for me. Given the choice of pain and no pain, I'd probably lean towards no pain 75% of the time.

And gain? Who the hell cares about gain anyway? No one says what kind of gain is expected from the unspecified pain. Gain isn't necessarily a good thing. You could gain a brain tumor. You could gain a reputation for being a sexual deviant. You could gain a 15-year prison sentence and a cellmate named Trent/Debbie. I'm no lawyer, but I simply can't agree to this no-pain/no-gain clause until I am assured the amounts and details of both pain and gain.

Probably the most insulting sight was that of a child of 10 weaving his way down the mountain like Betsy Ross on a Singer. As if I needed any further frustration: it did very little benefit to witness a fetus tackling the task with great ease while I tumbled down the mountain to the sound of my own cracking bones.

Nature helped my endeavor very little as well. My supposed friends and I picked to hit the mountain on a day with 20mph winds... which were blowing UP the mountain! The longest I stayed up all day was when a particularly strong gust slowed me to a halt and then blew me back up the mountain for about 15 feet. Even though this is probably the exact opposite of achieving the goal at hand, I still felt proud of the achievement: "You snowboarded 15 feet up a mountain?" That's right. Jealous?

As if submitting to gravity weren't hard enough, I think I found greater difficulty in trying to move around on level ground - i.e. from the end of a run to the ski lift and from the ski lift to the beginning of a run. Imagine that you were a duck; attach a wooden plank sideways to only one foot. Step onto ice. Now walk 50 feet. Good luck.

Dejected and battered, I hobbled into the lodge to sulk where I found an acoustic duo that was playing Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer." Oh yes, my friends. The fighter still remained. As I sat at the bar, my Disney-saturated upbringing left me half-expecting a quiet stranger to appear out of nowhere and impart words of infinite wisdom upon me. As the afternoon passed, no one appeared, but my confidence was steadily increasing. Then again, it may have been due to my four rounds of Samuel Adams, the closest thing to a silent stranger I was going to find.

I found myself surged with newfound energy as the chorus of a Chumbawumba song thumped in the background: "I get knocked down... But I get up again... You're never gonna keep me down... I get knocked down..." Mostly that last part over and over again.

Fortunately, I didn't seriously injure myself or anyone around me, but the ski lift looks to be out of commission for some time. In my drunken state of mind, I somehow switched up the proper order of operations. Specifically, when you're supposed to ride the ski lift and when you head down the mountain. To put it in a more positive sounding light, I learned the lesson that a snowboard should not be used as a grappling device when attempting to hijack a downhill moving ski lift chair. Yeah. Musta been the booze.

Pharewell Veterans Stadium

Thirty-three years ago a concrete structure was erected at the corner of Broad and Pattison Streets in South Philadelphia. It was a dual-purpose stadium for the masses, to house the many future championships long entitled to the City of Brotherly Love.

The masses, oh how they came, but those championships did not and within just a few months of the dedication ceremony, fans 'round the city were calling for the demolition of this "concrete cereal bowl," a building for which only tears of frustration could ever be shed. Come 2003, the city has finally been granted its wish as the Phillies season finale saw the final game played at Veterans Stadium. And what a fitting tribute it was.

As a life-long fan of all things Philadelphia, I could think of no better way to close the stadium than on a dreary Sunday afternoon with a three hour long, meaningless contest in which the Fightin' Phils showed more spunk and energy getting into their cars to go home than they did on the playing field. And where else could one expect to see a daytime fireworks show? At least I think it was fireworks. I couldn't tell because it was DAYLIGHT!

Perhaps it is a fitting testament to the fans of Philadelphia, regarded around the country as the roughest, most difficult-to-please bunch of S.O.B.'s in sports. You're damn right we are. After all, it was Philadelphia that booed Santa Claus. Santa Claus? Yes, Santa Claus. We booed and hissed the man who has dedicated his life to bringing joy and happiness to all the children of the world (offer not valid for non-Christian children).

But can you really blame us? I don't recall getting the Transformer action figures I requested for Christmas that year. As paying customers, we owe it to Santa to let him know when he screws up, rosy cheeks or not.

We're also the bunch of hooligans responsible for pelting the Dallas Cowboys with a barrage of snowballs during a football game. I see nothing wrong with enjoying the childish delights of winter while rooting for your favorite football team. Plus, it was the Cowboys. I dare you to find any other town that wasn't jealous that they didn't do it first.

Another quirky aspect to the Philadelphia fan is the tendency to boo our own plays just as much (okay, more often) than we boo the other team. Yeah, we booed our very own beloved Mike Schmidt. Well, we pretty much booed any other guy on our team that struck out twice in one game, so why not him? I don't care how many homeruns you've hit so far. Go hit me another one.

Granted, most cities have rivalries with other cities or teams, but not so much with specific players. You should have no problem guessing which town it was that cheered with unfettered joy when star receiver Michael Irvin lay motionless on the stadium floor after an explosive collision. That's right, chalk up another one to us.

Perhaps we weren’t excited about the potentially crippling injury, but for our team’s hard work. The philosophy in this town is that a boo is louder than a cheer and all that matters is making noise. Then again, maybe we’re just jealous that Michael Irvin is so darn good at pulling off a mustard colored suit. Whatever the reason may have been, is it so wrong for the little guy to revel in a temporary setback of his own personal Goliath? Wait, David actually won at some point. Forget that one.

In keeping with the Irvin episode, Philadelphia was armed and ready for the return of J.D. Drew, the Phillies 1996 draftee who refused to play for the team, despite a $10 million offer. The nerve. What reason could he possibly have to not want to play here? Well, we sent our response loud and clear by hurling batteries at him upon his return. Batteries, you ask? Yes, batteries. Duracell, Energizer, you've got it. Freaking ouch is right.

Even that act is justified in that it was simply our way of saying...hmm. Well, you see...um... Okay, there's no way to sugarcoat it, we did a terrible thing. It's just that we, as Philadelphians, have always been rebellious by nature. Throughout history we've counteracted accepted culture in liberating defiance. Maybe you can think of a couple times. Yet, somehow I don't think that pelting some spoiled brat with AA's is going to go down as a revolutionary act in the course of history. But we still got our point across, whatever the hell it was.

Even if you’re not native to Philadelphia, you’ve probably heard of the Vet before. You may know it as “The Worst Stadium in Baseball,” or “The Stadium With the Worst Playing Surface in Football.” Yeah, that’s our home. Many professional athletes have seen their demise at the Vet as it has caused more career ending injuries than any other building. Except for Chuck E. Cheese’s. I hear Babe Ruth loved the ball pits. Poor bastard.

The Vet was also the first sports arena in the country to staff a judge and install a courtroom system in the basement to swiftly convict the mass of lawbreakers guaranteed to commit some sort of felony during the course of a game. That’s how much we love our sports, never letting a petty thing like organized law deter us from supporting the home team.

So it was with these fond memories that Philadelphia set to close the door on the storied and often misunderstood history of Veterans Stadium. Over sixty former Phillie favorites came back and marched around the field, recalling all the fond sport-related memories that occurred within that concrete structure. Oh yeah, they played sports here, too.

Tug McGraw even reenacted his 1980 World Series winning pitch. As he did so, the trumpets of the orchestrated soundtrack seemed to pull the clouds in the sky apart, as the sun broke through at that very moment and shown onto the 59,000 screaming fans for the only time that afternoon. Nice touch.

As I left the Vet, I looked back on the building that was never-to-be-missed and overhead someone remark, “It’s just an empty landfill. Always was.” Though every one of the 60,000 seats was vacant, I couldn’t help but think that the place was far from empty. Throughout the afternoon I walked around the Vet, for one last inspection of the joint. From the concession lines to the infamous 700 level, I overheard countless recollections of first trips to the ball game, Eagle’s games and other cherished memories that occurred within those walls. Empty? I think not.

Walking down those concrete ramps for the final time, I casually noticed some of the symptoms overcoming my fellow fans: hoarse voices, blistered hands and yup, even a few moist eyes. It seemed that the City That Doesn’t Give a Shit actually cared. For the building we’ve hated and the country has hated for 32.5 years of its 33-year lifespan, it appears there will always be an empty space in the shape of a concrete bowl in the hearts of Philadelphia.

Take Me Out... Please!

How about those Phillies, huh? It seems like the Fightin' Phils have been making things interesting lately, doesn't it? Last week I decided to take a look at these guys to see whether or not they were the real deal before they reveal themselves to be a giant fluke, which is only inevitable with any Philadelphia sports team.

I ended up attending the fireworks game over the July 4 weekend. Best fireworks these eyes ever saw, might I say. However, here's what kept an itch in my brain throughout the whole experience: setting tons of pounds of pyrotechnics (complete with violent explosions and loud bangs) over a parking lot filled with automobiles armed with gallons upon gallons of combustible fuel. How safe is that? Upon exiting the stadium, I half expected to find a scene resembling the Apocalypse waiting in the parking lot.

Speaking of safety at the ball game, one aspect of baseball that has long since perplexed yours truly is the brawl. A pitcher by definition has the responsibility of standing 60 feet from a man with a bat whose goal is to hit a ball right back at him. Yet if the pitcher hits him with the ball, all hell breaks lose and riotous combat ensues. Dude, he's been throwing the ball in your general direction all season, why are you so upset when he finally hits you? They act like they never saw it coming. Don't get me wrong, fights are exciting to watch. Baseball just doesn't strike me as a game of such high intensity and unbearable tension in which a fight can break out at any moment. Instead of a brawl, it would seem more suitable to find players of such a tempered and slow paced game as baseball to engage in a civil discussion of how to better avoid such an undesirable situation in the future.

Before I even got to the game, I noticed something else that confuses me. As we approached the stadium, I noticed this guy with a sign that read, "I Need Tickets." About 10 feet behind him was another guy who was trying to sell the 18 tickets in his hands. What I don't understand is why these two don't get together and solve each other's problems in one shot. It would make things a lot simpler. That's just one of the many changes that would be in effect if I ran the world. The most prominent change would be the invention of forever-puppies, which would subsequently be issued to every man, woman and child on the planet.

However, the true spirit of a day at the ball park is found in kicking back and enjoying the food. The mere thought of a stadium hot dog, cotton candy and a pretzel larger than my head brings a tear of joy to my eye and a hunger ache to my stomach. How can you not love the food service as well? Personally, I don't like to be bothered with having to get out of my seat and walk 15 feet to stand in a line for as many as 3 minutes in order to get a bite to eat. That's far too much of my time and effort to expend, and as we all know time is a precious commodity in a baseball game. I wouldn't want to miss the umpire dusting home plate like he's looking for fingerprints for the millionth time. Somebody watches too much Law & Order: CSI.

To resolve this lazy hunger dilemma, they actually have people walking around bringing food to you like some sort of royal banquet. Except that you have to pay them for this luxury. That, and they'll give you odd looks for demanding "another round of freshly slaughtered meat and hearty brewed ale for the Royal Court." Last game, there was this one old man with a cottony white beard roaming the stadium selling sodas off of a tray on of his belly, which was covered in a t-shirt of that bright Phillies’ red color. How could I possibly resist paying $4.00 for a soda delivered by none other than Father Christmas himself? I’ve been a good boy this year, so I thought I deserved it. Papa Noel seemed to agree with me.

The best part about going to the ball game has to be the fans. And by the best, I mean the worst. The absolute pits. Whether it's some five year old brat waving his plastic glove in your face for 9 innings or a large man who has to push past you as he gets out of his seat and moves to the aisle every seven minutes; the people have to be the least fun part of the game.

Actually, that isn't really true. Most people at the game are great. It's nice to high-five a complete stranger without exchanging a single word or awkward stare. Sharing an experience like that gives me the tiniest of hopes that mankind truly can exist in harmony.

It's the moronic bastards that see fit to tell everyone their bloody thesis on what's wrong with the game that leave me prodding my eyes with a used straw. I had the terrible misfortune of sitting in front of a pair of these jerks who felt a pressing desire to debate this topic through the back of my head for the duration of the game:

“They should let the fans decide how much each player makes.”

“No, no. The players should donate all that money to help clone Babe Ruth. They can really do it now!”

It was like having stupid in stereo.

Another problem I have at the ball game (not to sound like a big whiner, but...) is the public restroom system in place at the stadium. I just find difficulty in trying to urinate while there are thirty guys staring at my back and the sound of a roaring crowd in my ears. Reminds me too much of summer camp.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure the inability to urinate with onlookers is a vestigial behavior held over from humanity's days in the wild. It's a safety mechanism, really. Imagine prehistoric man out in the wilderness and having to tend to nature's calling. He had to make sure there wasn't a jaguar lurking in the brush, ready to pounce on him once he starts doing his business. Because once you start going, there's no stopping, even if you're leg is getting gnawed off by a ravenous beast. So humans, by nature, require a feeling of security before subjecting themselves to such a vulnerable activity and, therefore, I believe a new system is in order.

All in all, I would have to say that my day out at the ball game was well worth it and full of fun. Our national pastime still offers an excellent summer escape and entertainment for all. Though, come to think of it, I cannot quite recall the final score, the winner of the game, or the teams involved. I guess that means that other than the actual baseball part, you can take me out to the ball game anytime.