Notes from the Edge 10-13-23

Notes from the Edge: October 13th 2023

I thought about entitling this what the Hell is wrong with me but I
don’t like to get too dramatic. Even so, there is something wrong
with me. I just don’t seem to see things the same way as other people
do. For instance, just before I sat down to write this I turned the
channel to a movie channel to listen to movies while I work.
Pathetic, I know, but I do it every night. The T.V. Is behind me so I
have to turn to see it. So, I don’t. I just listen. But, sometimes
it’s so good that I do turn to watch for a second and I’m usually
disappointed. Well, tonight I turned the channel and there was a
sports show just ending, and one of the commentators turned to the
screen and Said “We want to thank you for tuning in.”

“Really,” I asked?

He didn’t say anything. I guess we would all be surprised if he did.
But, I continued… “I didn’t tune in. I hate your show! I wouldn’t
watch it if you paid me.” He did seem to flinch a little at that
but the T.V. Went to commercial with no further incident… Not that
there could have been one. I’m just saying…

Anyway, my point is, I do not like sports the way other men do. Several times
in my life other men have stopped and looked at me like…. “Whoaaa,
what’s up with this dude.” or “Did you play with dolls when you
were a kid?” I learned early in my life that it is unmanly to say
you do not like sports, or hint it, or not know the answer to a
sports question. It’s just not allowed. Since I was young I had to go
along with it, even so I couldn’t always keep up the facade.
Occasionally someone would trip me up…

“So, what did you think of Babe Ruth?”

“Oh… Babe Ruth… It’s a damn good candy bar,” I answered.

He looked at me funny and I knew I screwed something up, but, eventually
he laughed, I went home and asked my little Brother who Babe Ruth
was, a hockey player? (My brother is a Hockey fanatic) “Sure…
Sure… A hockey player,” my little brother tells me. That was
payback for all the mean things I had done to him.

As I got older I’d pick a little and ask guys why they didn’t just give
both teams a ball and send them home, I mean, wasn’t the point to get
the ball? And didn’t they seem to take an awful long time to get it?
And wouldn’t it be easier to just give them a frigging ball of their
own? Wouldn’t it. That didn’t win me any points, and then, in ninth
grade, I decided to not major in smoking behind the school that year
and I took Home Economics instead.

My life as a social outcast was short lived though. I got kicked out of
Home economics and went back to majoring in smoking behind the
school. Then, voila, it hit me. Maybe not liking sports was… was…
I couldn’t make the connection though. I had probably burned out too
many brain cells smoking joints behind the school instead of
cigarettes. Too bad, if I could have only made the connection I may
have been able to see that real men need sports in their lives as
much as they need to fart and burp… (Some
men, not all men.)
And sports lends a well rounded social adaptation you just can’t get
any other way. I remember so many times at work some guy would say…
“So, what do you think about those Dodgers?” And I would say,
“Oh… Well they ought to go to jail…(Then, because it’s manly to
swear and cuss), Frigging A! They ought to, those bastards!”
Another potential social connection missed. Another opportunity to be
a success in society missed.

At an early age I did decide to make a concession. I decided that I
would watch Stock Car Racing. That was a sport. That
would be my sport!
 It would solve everything. But no. Footballers, Baseballers, All those
other ballers (It’s all games where you play with balls, right? …
I’m just saying…) they don’t all believe that stock car racing is a
real sport… What? So, I had managed to like the one sport that
wasn’t really a sport. What was wrong with me? I just didn’t know.

As I grew up and went to prison I realized that I had to be honest with
myself about my shortcomings when it came to sports if I ever hoped
to break the cycle and stop going back to prison. My whole life was
in ruin. Virtual ruin. So I sat down and examined it and realized
that I was uncomfortable with the games. I paid attention, I took
notes, and I realized that I had some prejudices and hangups
concerning the way the game was played. And, I plain didn’t
understand the rules. So I took a closer look at them. And wrote down
the ones that really confused me:

#1. Did you pat the other guy on the Ass after he made a basket/home
run/touchdown or before?

#2. Did you grab your junk whenever you wanted to or only when people
were watching?

#3. Did you cry only in a strong emotional circumstance like your coach
retiring, or could you cry if you just had a bad day, or the dog
crapped on your new carpet?

#4. If you patted a guy on the ass more than once, did it mean you had to
buy him dinner?

I learned these are not questions you ask other men in prison.

After I got out of the infirmary, I tried to figure these questions out on
my own after watching my sport for awhile, but I only became more

In NASCAR, nobody pats anyone on the ass. At least not in public (Tony
Stewart excepted but he’s nuts anyway). I’ve seen dozens of finishes.
and never once have I seen the other drivers run up and pat the
winner on the Ass. Not Once. There are no balls to play with. None.
The drivers never grab their junk in front of the cameras, and if
anyone cries, why one of the other drivers will just beat him up!
Even the women drivers don’t cry, and, I’m pretty sure they don’t
play with dolls either.

After much thought I decided these things:

#1. I’m not patting any guy on the ass whether it’s a game or not, and if
one pats me on the ass there’s going to be trouble.

#2. I will only grab my junk when no one’s watching.

#3. If I feel an urge to cry I will remind myself that it could be worse.
I could be a footballer and some sweaty, three hundred pound guy
could be patting me on the ass all of the time…

Okay. That’s it for this week. Check out my book series. Visit my sponsor below too. I’ll be
back next week…

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Author: Dello

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