The Bipolar Chronicles

It’s been a challenging baseball season so far. The biggest challenge by far has been getting this group of players to believe in themselves.

For some, it’s because they have grown accustomed to losing. They’ve always played on losing teams so they lack confidence because they’ve never been good before. Believing is a foreign concept for them.

I have others, including my step-son, who played for teams “coached” by some truly awful human beings who did nothing to instruct and encourage their players. They’ve had the ability to believe in themselves beaten right out of them.

We also have a few kids who just haven’t had the kind of coaching and instruction their talent deserved. These kids were coached by caring individuals who did all they could for them and more, but lacked the knowledge and experience to take them to the next level. They have a hard time believing they are really as good as they are.

So our mantra this season is just this - BELIEVE!

Last Friday night I saw a glimmer of belief in these kids. Down by 9 runs going into bottom of the las inning and down to their last out they rallied for 8 runs and almost pulled out a win. And right up to the end I could tell, most of them truly believed they were going to win.

I can only hope, going into a big tournament this weekend, they really are finally starting to BELIEVE!

I grew up in a town of losers. That’s not to say the people were losers. Actually, I couldn’t think of many better places to grow up, but the fact of the matter is that our town had a losers mentality.  Bolstering this mentality is the fact that no football team has ever advanced past the first round of the playoffs in the history of the school. In fact, prior to my senior year in 1987, our football team had only made the playoffs 3 times in school history. Now they make the playoffs just about every season but year-after-year they lose to teams they have defeated in the regular season. Losing is just a hard habit to break, I suppose.

Last year my 12U baseball team went 0-19. But we improved every game. The kids who came back are playing so far above where they did just a year ago.  And the new kids we added? Some of the best in the league.  But somehow we find ourselves 3-7 about ¼ of the way through our season and almost all the losses are because we just had one inning where our team simply imploded and made the dumbest mistakes..

Losing is a habit, I suppose.  I need to figure out a way to break this bad habit.

They called themselves “The Bario Boys.”  I was 19 years-old and it was only my second year coaching a baseball team. Really, I wasn’t much older than they were. They ranged in age from 13 to 15 and they really were hard-knock kids from the wrong side of town. Of those 10 players, 7 were on probation for some kind of misdemeanor offense and 2 more required to signature to get out juvenile hall for practices and games.

In our first season together we had finished tied for first in the league. We lost in the playoffs in an extra-inning game after being just one out from victory several times. But most of my team was back the following year and there we were playing for the championship again.  

I had a rule. Every kid played every game. That included Ruben. Over the course of the season, Ruben had costs use our only two losses with errors he’d made in the outfield. Truth be told, he couldn’t catch a bag of balls if you dropped it on his head and there seemed to be no safe solution. Right field, left field… it didn’t matter. It was like the kid was a magnet for trouble. He never caught a fly ball all season long. Not in practice. Not in a game. He was indeed our weakest link.

But I had that rule… so we were going to the bottom of the 7th clinging to a one-run lead when I told him to grab his glove and go to left. He begged me; I mean, this kid literally got down on his knees in the dugout and begged me not to put him. I said, “Ruben, everybody plays. Every game.”

Reluctantly he headed out. As the inning went on we had them down to two outs but they had managed to put two people on base who were both in scoring position sitting on 2nd & 3rd. Their best hitter came to the plate and hammered the first pitch straight towards Ruben in left field.  And as the rest of us tried to prepare ourselves for loss, Ruben did the unthinkable… he sprinted toward the ball, camped out right underneath, and caught it with both hands to give us our championship.

Ruben never played baseball again after that night but it was truly one of the most clutch plays I’d ever seen and I know it’s a memory he cherishes. So I still have that personal rule even if the leagues I coach in allow otherwise.

15 years old or younger, you play every player, every game because that’s the only way they are ever going to learn the game. More importantly, that’s the only way they are ever going to succeed.

Two weeks ago I was selected to be on a new technical team at work. We’re going to start providing support for a new website and since I’m the most experienced person in the building at doing this sort of thing - in management, training, design, project implementation, and frontline support - it was a no-brainer that I should be a part of this.

But… then “our” union got involved. They decided that my experience and talent didn’t really matter at all and that these positions on this new project should only be given to people who have been with the organization the longest. Even though they have no experience providing technical support whatsoever.

If you’re a union supporter, then let me show you just how wrong this is…

The MLB Players Union is arguably the strongest union in the United States. Now, imagine if you will, that this union started insisting that the only the oldest, more tenured players be allowed to suit up and the most talented and capable players would have to sit in the minor leagues until it was their turn. Well, Single A baseball would be more popular that “The Show” and people would all go spend their money watching A and AA ball instead of the big stadiums because those teams would be a complete farce.

You see… “My” union’s logic here is misplaced and misguided.  

Consequently, unions suck ass.

The three most beautiful words I ever wrote were “Fade to Black.”  

I remember the first time I actually had the chance to write those words. In the spring of 2000 I was living in Midland, Texas. A friend of mine had given me Final Draft as a present because I had always said, if I ever had a chance, I would write a screenplay. He finally told me to put my money where my mouth was by giving me a way to do it.

The only problem was that I didn’t wcwb own a computer. So I decided to sell my car so I could take some of the cash, use it on a down payment for a new one, and take about $1500 of it to buy a computer. But I had a For Sale sign on it for a month and hadn’t had a single taker.

So I sent it home to Fort Stockton, TX with my Dad so he could try and sell it there.  Two days later, it sold for my asking price. That was a Tuesday night. I drove down there on Wednesday night to get my money. On Thursday night I went and bought the computer and on Friday night at 5:15 PM I loaded Final Draft onto my computer.

By 5:30 I was writing and by 10PM Sunday night I had 128 pages done and I found myself typing those three beautiful words “Fade to Black.”

It was shit. I mean the screenplay, not those words, but I would be fortunate enough to pen those words 11 more times in the next 7 years, including three ventures that put a little bit of money in my pocket. One was rewrite I was hired to do for a script called “The Bridge” that still hasn’t made it to film. I sold a 2 year option on one of my own and acted as a Script Consultant (including some rewrites) for a film called “Wide Open.”  But when the option reverted back to me because the producer failed to get enough cash to make the film, and another of my screenplays fizzled-out in the 2nd round at the Austin Film Festival, I became so disgruntled I pretty much quit writing.

Until a few months ago. Tonight I wrote 27 pages in just 5 hours. It felt good and I really can’t wait until I get to type those three most beautiful words in the English language once again.

Fade to Black.

Tuesdays seem to be my most creative day of the week. Perhaps it’s because the rest I took from the weekend has to finally overcome the shock of a Monday but, whatever the reason, my brain seems to reach optimum performance on Tuesday.

On any given weekday, I average 15-20 tweets per day. On the weekends I tend not to tweet as much so I can spend more time with my family. And I always tweet from the hip. I don’t have a “draft folder” and probably never will. Twitter came along and replaced that journal I kept where I wrote down all the funny shit that crept into my brain each day. Now, I can fire it off instantaneously.

I know there are quite a number of popular tweeters out there who tweet only 2 or 3 times a day at most and keep a draft folder so they can tweet at optimum times to get maximum response. I get it. It ain’t rocket science, as they say. Save your tweets for times of pique Internet use, know your audience, etc, etc, etc.

I do hope there isn’t resentment out there for those of us who can just let the funny fly without constant tweeking and do so with a total disregard for when our tweet will pack the biggest punch. I’d hate to think that some have unfollowed simply because I tweet 25 times on a Tuesday because they think nobody could come with that many original thoughts in one day. My tweets are all mine. I take inspiration from the things that go on around me; nothing more, nothing less. I hope they bring joy and laughter to help people get through the day.

All too often, when we reach a pivotal moment in life, we are so taken by surprise we freeze and fail to do what needs to be done.

Take the time I got laid off 2 years ago, for example. What I really should’ve done when that scumbag VP came into my office and dropped the bomb on me was to throw-down on myself all “Fight Club” style. I would’ve made some huge bank and that shithead would be getting fucked up the ass in jail right now.

But, it’s a lesson learned. And next time I will be fully prepared to kick the ever-lovin’ shit outa me.

In 1997 I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. It sort of cleared-up a lot of things for me, namely why I had so many bouts with depression.

But it also helped me understand why I was so compulsive in my behavior. I’ve long since speculated that Madonna’s song “Borderline” was penned with this in mind because more women have BPD than men and she fits the profile to a T. And when I watched “Girl Interrupted” I felt such a connection to the main character.

“The Catcher in the Rye” is a novel that comes close to capturing the essence of depression. JD Salinger seemed to give us a glimpse into what the depressed mind does. But while it is no doubt a classic, I’ve always felt he wrote it as an attempt to try understand and empathize with somebody he knew, rather than giving a first-hand account.

Elizabeth Wurtzel’s “Prozac Nation,” on the other hand, is a dead-on, first-hand account of depression. It was like seeing inside her brain and I felt an immediate kinship to her even though she didn’t seem like a very nice person.

And I wondered how others see me? Maybe I’m not a very nice person. Maybe I am selfish and inconsiderate; overly emotional about trivial things and non-emotional when it really counts.

The sad answer is that I am selfish, inconsiderate, and emotionally distant. My sister says I’m the hardest person to get know. Perhaps she is right. But I do love people and always TRY to put other people first so maybe it’s all just part of the struggle of life.

So… enough about me. What about you?

Artists, by nature, are fuckin’ crazy.

You need look no further than Vincent Van Gough for proof of that, but it’s not just limited to guys who drink turpentine, whack off their ears, and paint pretty pictures. Can anybody say with a straight face that Michael Jackson and Elvis were really all there? One hung his kid off a balcony and the other shot-up televisions. Actors? Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I give you Tom Cruise as Exhibit A. Not enough? For Exhibit B, I give you Angelina Jolie. Need I say more?  And writers? Please. Don’t even get me started on writers.

And what about comedians? Think about how many funny men and women were just this side of the nut house - Robin Williams, Margaret Cho, and Jim Carey come to mind. Sam Kinison, John Belushi, and Chris Farley left us far too soon, in no small part due to their mental state.

I wasn’t exactly the class clown growing-up. Not by a longshot. I mean, all my friends were snappier with their comebacks, quicker with the put-downs, and told better jokes than I did. And although my first job was as a sports writer for the local newspaper, I didn’t really have much going for me in the way of creativity other than delusions of grandeur.

At 21 my first bought with depression hit me. Right smack in the middle of my Junior year at the University of Texas at Austin.  My grades plummetted. Socially, I began cutting everybody out of my life and pretty soon I was sitting in the dark, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle, while listening to Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits Volume I.  I was in a very dark place. This lasted almost a decade. And it got worse.

Yet somewhere along the way… I started being funny. And I started getting all these great ideas for stories… and it’s like a well of creativity was about to burst. Writing became second nature and being funny became a past-time. Friends used to ply me with drinks just so I would do my impersonation of Sean Connery in the Untouchables in Spanish again (And I don’t even remember doing that) or any number of the stupid bits, stories, or rants I dive into.

My Dad once said to me, “Son, you’ve always been a little off.”  Truer words have never been spoken.  I’m just a few good meds away from the nut house myself.

Like I said… artists, by nature, are fuckin’ crazy.

I’ve loved my wife for 22 years.

We met in college when I was 19 years-old. I was a pitcher on our college baseball team; she was our scorekeeper. When I started trying to “woo” her, there were a great many people who warned her off me. I can’t say I blame them. No woman had ever captured my heart and I was pretty notorious when it came to moving on quickly.

There was just something about my “Babe” that drew to her. There was a sadness in her eyes at the time that moved me and after a great-bit of wooing, I managed to land a first date.  On that first date, she must’ve told me fifty times she didn’t want to kiss but with each “No” she drew closer and closer. Leaning. A LOT!

That first kiss pretty much sealed the deal. She’s still the best kisser I’ve ever known. Which at this point, you’re probably saying to yourself, “Well, yeah. You were 19. How would you know?”

But I do know because as life would go…. we were torn apart.  Torn apart by events and tragedy and things that should not even be spoken.  For almost twenty years we lived apart, each of us trying to forget the other and each of us desperately seeking something close to the love we shared all those years ago.

And along came Facebook… and I can’t say that it was easy but there we found each other again and all those feelings and emotions of that first kiss remained.

We’ve been together for about 2 1/2 years now and the baggage we carry from those 22 years is heavy, but I hope she knows just exactly how much I love her and how my heart - now, then, and forever - will always belong to her.