Take a number.

For Starters
Today, I salute you, Mr. Major League Baseball Scout. Sirs, I'm not fans of yours. Not all of you, of course -- those of you cut from the Jim Fregosi cloths are actually pretty neat -- I'm talking about those of you with the slicked-back hair and the Hawaiian shirt/dockers combo and the holier-than-thou attitudes.

Many of you believe that just because you critique talent, that you possess a smidgen of your own. Perhaps you think that writers are the same way. Maybe you think that because we report daily, that we labor under some grand delusion that we are, in fact, capable of doing a better job than the players. You're wrong on both counts, and you can all bite me.

Most of the time, I can tolerate when I walk into the press room and some douchebag or another singles me out to ask where copies of something are, or whether there's hot coffee around anywhere. I'm no dummy, those are "girl" questions. But I'll take it in stride while you sit with your fellow slick-headed friends and discuss conquests of old.

It's when you critique my driving that I get pissed.

I'm pulling in the parking lot today, and the attendants like us to park as closely together as possible, so that they can fit as many cars as possible in the rows. I'm not gonna lie, I thought for sure I was going to have to back up and reposition to avoid rubbing bumpers with the car I was parking next to, but as I inched in, tiny bit by tiny bit, I was clear and threw it in park.

There was a man in the car, so I rolled down my window and asked him if he had enough room to get out, or if he'd like me to move over a bit.

"No, you're good, but I think you bumped me coming in."

To read the words is not to understand the ridiculous assholiness of the voice. It was not kind, it had no soul. The guy was a dick. I apologized for pulling in so close, but told him I knew I didn't "bump" him because I was hanging out of my window to make sure that I didn't.

So he rubbed a smear of birdcrap from his quarterpanel and looked at it skeptically. "Well, I guess it'll be OK. I drive a nice car, though."

Was he waiting for a blowjob? What the hell? Congratulations on your Dodge Avenger (which, by the way, isn't really all that worth bragging about).

I contented myself with watching him wipe the birdshit on his excessively-creased khakis. Fucker.


Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit's Tourney Time!
Selection Sunday has long been one of my favorite days of the year, and this one was no different. I got my AP story submitted just at the stroke of six, and watched my beautiful Sparties take the No. 2 seed in the Midwest, just like I said they would.

And then I compulsively researched everything, and filled out a million brackets.

I picked up interesting tidbits along the way. These names are among the most fun to say out loud: Luka Drca (Utah); Mezie Nwigwe (Robert Morris); Uche Echefu, Deividis Dulkys, Luke Loucks (Florida State); Arinze Onuakau (Syracuse); Chinemelu Elonu (Texas A&M).

And that's all. Boy, am I tired. Luckily, my boss loves me enough to not force me to drive to Bradenton tomorrow and experience what I can almost positively say would be a setback of biblical proportions along the path to stopbeingsodepressed-iveness.

So I've got Monday and Tuesday to relax, sleep in and write my story on Jeromy Keen, cover the Rays on Wednesday and Thursday, and have Friday and Saturday off before tackling the Rays again on Sunday. I'm still taking suggestions on how to fill that weekend. I HATE not having anything to do.

/yawns

I guess that's it for now.

True story

As much as some of you may disagree, it's never been any sort of pleasure to enter a locker room filled with half-naked men. At first, it was really embarrassing, but that was 10 years ago and I was 17. I'd like to think that we've all grown a little since then. Once you're there for a while, they get to know when you're coming in and avoid, err, nakedness in your face until you've gone. There's always the new kids, though, that maybe either don't think of me as a human being yet, or haven't thought too much about exposure and what it leads to.

So in conclusion, thank-you WontNameYouHere, for the unabashed full frontal today. You know who you are, and you also know the only way I could've avoided it was to hop into the shower, which would've caused its own set of problems.

You're shorter than I am, dude. You don't scare me. Let's fight.

Are you there, Vodka? It's me, Dawn.

Yes, I ripped that off of someone famous. No, I don't care.

THURSDAY:

Dinner last night was AWESOME, Mrs. Keen is a great cook. She went way overboard, there were like 50 different things to eat, and she sent me home with enough food to feed me until rapture. Delicious. Jeromy showed me pictures of his surgery as it was being done (as in, 'Hi! They just pulled my skull skin down over my face and started hackin' away!), it was nasty but pretty neat at the same time. I'm glad he's doing so well. And I LOVE his mom.

Our house is getting foreclosed upon, how great is that? I got home from dinner last night and there was a guy waiting to serve us with papers (well, not us, but the owner of the house). Apparently it's going to go to auction soon, which is sad. I really love my house; I wish I had the money to buy it from the asshats that can't even pay $250/month to keep their house. Ah well. Maybe it's a sign that I need to start looking to make another big move. To Hawaii this time, perhaps?

I'm getting back into better shape, I think. I went to boxing again last night and my shins don't hurt nearly as badly as they did the last time. My FACE, however, is killing me (it's killing you too, huh? save it). My sparring buddy took advantage of my slowness to pop me a good one in the jaw. You wouldn't believe how much you use your jaw until there's something to make you notice! (again...save it).

RANDOM MID-DAY MUSING: I think that Deron Williams, Jamil Walker Smith, Meghan Fox, Jesse James (the WCC guy, not the outlaw) and Michael Ealy are the hottest people ever. Discuss.

SATURDAY:

I'm in Sarasota today, covering Rays-Reds. I really like Ed Smith (the ballpark) but the press box is SO HOT until about 2 p.m., when the sun finally goes behind us. I have a bright shirt on that the guy next to me looked like poisonous mold. He's old, my feelings aren't hurt.

Thursday night was, as predicted, a complete and total disaster. The boys were already drunk by the time I got to the beach, and two of three left soon afterward. I managed to convince the third to come with me to a club down the road a ways, where I drank vodka doubles and danced with a guy who introduced himself as -- true story -- Felix the Cat. He was actually pretty cute though, so I wasn't too sorry I gave him my phone number.

The random, drunken night got me musing about how best to piece together a fun night the morning after, when most of the night is spent in a haze. My routine is to wake up the next morning and check my drunk text messages, go through my receipts and feel queasy about how much I spent on alcohol and, finally, look through the pictures I took with my camera. Although I'm still a bit sketchy on putting numerical value to this, it sort of breaks down to the amount of pictures taken of me doing something stupid, as well as the absurdity of my 3 a.m. text messaging is directly related to Bar Tab + Free Drinks + Company. 

In simpler terms: BT + FD + C = SP x TM

OK, it's not the theory of relativity or anything, but I think I'm on to something here. Take last night, for example:

My bar tab at Frenchy's: $38

My bar tab at Shepherd's: $87

Free drinks: 4

Company: Three ridiculous baseball writers

-----------------------------------------------------

Stupid pictures: Me, holding seashells over my chest (I'd like to say I was trying to imitate the Rays rookie hazing, but I think I was just plain stupid at this point); an unidentified friend (I cut his head off in the photo), laying spread-eagle on the ground, with a water trail from his crotch to his neck (did he pee himself? I don't know); Jordan, squishing my forehead in his hands; me and "Felix the Cat" ; various other full-of-nonsense shots.

Drunken texts: This exchange between my boss and I quite possibly takes the cake:

ME (2:28 a.m.): I made friends with Felix the Cat tonight!

HIM (2:30 a.m.): ???

ME (2:38 a.m.): Too much alcohol + strippers = boob forks and bad.

HIM (2:40 a.m.): That was one spectacular text, young scribe. Hydrate!

ME (2:51 a.m.): /wann play spies?

HIM (2:53 p.m.): **Online host** SteakgrowsonDmitri's cell phone has exploded.

To my defense, I STILL spelled everything correctly ("/wann" is correct, as per The Dugout). I have NO IDEA what a boob fork is, and neither does anyone else I saw that night. There were NO strippers involved, although there was some talk about going to Mons at one point.

/shrugs

It was fun evening, though. :)

NEWS: I'll be in Saginaw from April 2-12. I'm already taken on Saturday the 4th (thanks to T. Shells and his party-promoting business!) but would like to see as many people as possible. Of course, I'll be making a trip to East Lansing (two, if the weather's nice), and one down to see the Wifey, and I'm obviously out of the running if MSU makes the Final Four because I've already got tickets in hand, but other than that, I'm up for anything.

Please entertain me. At this point it's quite possible that I'll never come home again, so make this one count, friends. :)

Rainbows and puppies

I always feel a lot better when the sun is shining. It's almost impossible to be depressed when the sky is ... well, sky blue, for lack of a better description. Being at the ballpark makes it even better, because the grass is emerald green and the infield dirt kind of an orangey burnt sienna, and the three colors provide a great contrast to each other.

I have a day off tomorrow, which I'm rather dreading. I can't find my bathing suit so it'd be kind of a waste to drive to the beach. I've got dinner with the Keens at 7 so I can't go fishing too early in the day or else I'll be long gone by 7. I definitely could use the sleep, so maybe I'll just stay home and catch up. But I haven't been real fishing in sooooooo long, and I heard the snook are really moving now that the water's heating up. Tough call.

I wonder how many times I'm going to have to tell these assbags that I don't write the headlines on top of my stories. I walked in yesterday and got my ass handed to me because Matt so thoughtfully made a giant deal out of the story I wrote about one of the Rays' top prospects, Wade Davis. I wrote something to the effect of Davis living up to the hype surrounding him so far and maybe even surpassing it, so when the wheels fell off a little bit during his third start, no one was really concerned. My wonderful Matty put a picture of Davis as the paper's cover with giant, screaming words, "When the wheels fall off."

To Davis' credit, I'm sure he wanted to say something to me and didn't. But hey, everybody else on the team did so I guess he didn't have to. I get that if you don't work in my industry, maybe you just assume I write everything right down to the captions. Once I explain to you that I have no power over headlines or anything past what appears UNDER my name, I think that absolves me of shit-taking. Plus, you dicks make fun of me all day every day. I hear the things you say when you think I can't hear you. I don't whine because I know I've drawn this lot in life and that's part of the job description. You're a professional, too. So grow some thick skin. Besides, do you really care what I think of you?

Part of me feels bad, because I'd be pissed if someone who never played in the majors (or the minors, for that matter) was critiquing me, which is why I try my hardest not to sound like a know-it-all. The reasonable part of me says that to be fair to both Wade and myself, he did suck (6 earned runs in 2 2/3 innings) that day. My story was objective if not damn sympathetic. The other reporters ripped him, but their copy editors know enough to not write shitty headlines, so I go down. In flames.

Ah well.

Maybe next time I'll tear into a pitcher because their shortstop bunted into a double play. If I'm responsible for everyone else at my work, surely he is too?

Blah. Whatever.

How out of shape am I? I went and saw the trainer yesterday and I have shin splints -- from boxing TWO TIMES. I laughed. What happened to tuff girl? Granted, it's been about four months since I broke my hand and lost the ability to hit anything, but still. I need some serious work, haha. Besides my shins, I'm sore in the oddest of places: the inside of my elbows. When you're little, your coach teaches you how to hit without fully extending your arm which surprisingly takes more conscious thought than you'd think. Apparently I forgot all of that in less than half a year. Cheers for the old lady, eh?

I'm sleepy. It really shouldn't be 8 p.m. already. I'd say these 16-hour days need to stop, but I will definitely miss them as soon as they're gone. What else do I have to look forward to in my days, if not work?

I talked to Ed yesterday, and he made me smile. I talked to Jordan today, and he's Canadian. I asked Joe Maddon about taking his pants off during a TV interview, debated the true value of a "mighty badonkadonk," sat on a bee (it didn't sting me), ran in the dirt barefoot and panicked at the sight of Pat Burrell's giant brass spittoon. (C'mon Pat, really? You know if anybody trips over that and makes it spill all over the logo, it's going to be me).

Good times, people. Good times.

Three cheers for an off-day tomorrow. Anyone want to go to Busch Gardens? Bar? Fishing? Hmmmm?

My boys

No, not the TV show, my basketball boys. You know, the ones I "adopted" the summer before their freshman year at MSU in 2004. They played their last ever game at Breslin Center today, and through the wonderful thoughtfulness of the msuspartans Web site, I got to watch the senior ceremonies.

No, I'm not one bit embarrassed to say that I cried.

I wasn't particularly close to Travis, but G, ID and Quise were a special part of my last year of college. I'd get up early and get them at the dorms and drive them to class. I was with ID the first time he saw snow ("Dawn? It's beautiful but I'm FREEEEEZING!") and I have the honor of hitting him with his first snowball.

I took G to his first party as an MSU student. I also gave ID a piggyback ride on the way back to campus that night, a ride that lasted about 3 steps until my legs gave out.

I went shopping with Quise at Brick City more times than I care to admit. ID, Quise and I spent 3 hours at Meijer the day they finally got out of the dorms and into their first-ever on-campus apartment. We spent WAY too much money but it made the house look so nice. I remember Quise chasing me down the aisle with a set of kitchen knives he really wanted, and all of the old people staring at us like we were crazy.

I remember when they went to the Final Four in 2005, and G got me tickets so that I could sit with his family. I remember afterward once we were all back in East Lansing, Quise tried to give me his Final Four plaque for playing mom to those guys for so long.

I remember the first time I went back to MSU after moving to Florida. I stopped by the apartment to take ID to class and Quise was still asleep. I went and jumped on his bed until he woke up and started yelling...and then he recognized me and his face just lit up. I miss those hugs.

I miss spending $50 at the Arby's drive-thru just to feed the three biggest friends I've ever had. I remember Quise yelling at me to wash my truck, and then giving up and telling me he'd do it for me in the parking lot once the snow melted.

I remember helping G study for classes, and editing his book reports. I remember the day I got kicked out of MSU -- one semester before I eventually graduated -- climbing up in their bed and bawling my eyes out, until Quise offered to go talk to Coach Izzo for me to see if there was anything he could do to help.

They were my big, little brothers. I loved those three like you wouldn't believe, and each one of them will forever have a special place in my heart.

I hope they all go on to great basketball careers, whether that's in the U.S. or abroad. They're wonderful guys, and I'm proud to say I knew them better than most had the chance to.

It was amazing to see my guys be able to raise the 2009 BIG TEN CHAMPIONS banner to the ceiling at Breslin after they won their final home game.

I wish them the best in the tourney, but even if they don't do well, I'll love them anyway. :)

No matter how old they get, they'll always be my boys.

G's first house party!

Me, G and ID at their second house party. LoL.

At one frat or another...

Happy reunion on my first trip home from Florida. :)

Their first apartment!

Roller coaster

Last night was fun and a total mess all in one. I went and had some drinks with Matt outside. It was beautiful in the evening and I was in fairly good spirits until Christian called and made me cry all the way home. He's such a dick, I'm having a hard time understanding why I even answered the phone at all. I mean, it's been 39 days, why last night?

It's hard. I guess I hadn't realized until yesterday that most of my waking energy each day is devoted to keeping myself from crying. Since when do I cry? Seriously. I am NOT a baby. That really pisses me off, I'm SO MUCH STRONGER THAN THAT, and he wasn't good to me anyway.

So why does it hurt so much?

Aanyway, I don't want to dwell on that. Pat (my boss) has pretty much left me alone to tackle the Rays during Spring Training, which is AWESOME. I was afraid he'd lead the way and I'd be stuck on a fill-in basis only, but for the most part he makes himself scarce when I'm working. So happy. :) I'll be writing for AP come the weekend, which = extra money and another experience I can add to my resume.

It's so beautiful today, I'm really blessed to have a job where not only do I get to sit outside all day, I spend it watching my favorite sport. How many people get to say that? Sometimes I'm still amazed that I spend time complaining and feeling sorry for myself when I'm just about the most fortunate person I know. I really could be laid off, or working at Circuit City again. If my job is all that I have, then I'd better make sure to do as well as I can with what I have to work with, and move somewhere fabulous and far away as soon as possible.

I've really got to get my mind right again. I'm going to try to think of one thing I'm thankful for each day instead of whining about crap I can't control. There WAS a reason I got the tattoos, after all.

Jeromy Keen's mom just called and invited me for dinner on Wednesday. (He's the H.S. soccer player that fractured his skull at one of the games I covered). She makes me smile, and she's going to feed me so all is well.

I think I'm going to drive to Miami on Friday for the second round of the WBC. I'm off that day and don't want to sit at home and think too much so maybe that'll help. Plus, I've never been to Miami. I could buy a new bathing suit and read on the beach for a day, just like I used to do all the time when I was upset. The water always made me feel better. :) Yeah, I'm in.

Shannon's in Orlando tomorrow, too. I've got to cover a game in Fort Myers but I'll probably go up there for the night, anyway. It's not often I get to see the wifey.

There's three days of activity to keep my mind occupied. ... now how about the rest of my life? Heh. I'm up for suggestions, what's a good time-waster? Road trip, perhaps? Anything to get me out of the house...and I'd prefer it to be cost-efficient. :)

Mi espanol necesita mucho trabajar.

I just got back from a week spent with Team Venezuela, which was its own beast. Due to International (read: World Baseball Classic) rules I was not allowed in the clubhouse. The public relations man was friendly but didn't speak English. I could only request to speak to one player each day, which made it rough goings on the features I was supposed to do.

There was a flat tire somewhere between Lakeland and North Port, a hotel room straight out of Boyz in the Hood and an extremely awkward reunion with a guy I dated for a summer in college who somehow, inexplicably found his way onto the Venezuelan roster. I motorboated a grown man, saved a cockroach's life and got stranded at a bar far, far away from any of those things previously mentioned.

Oh, and my Spanish sucks.

####

I commuted for the first three days of camp Venezuela, which was probably not the smartest idea time- and money-wise but I've always been happier in my own bed. On my way home from Day 1 which was a nightmare by itself, I had a blowout on the highway and had to drive 55 mph for the next hour until I found a place to buy a new tire. Good times.

Days 2 and 3 were uneventful; I wrote what I could considering I didn't know what the hell I was doing anyway, got kissed by more old Venezuelan men than I could count and headed to Tampa for a night of drunken debauchery with Hoch (Yanks) and Bastian (BJays).

I decided it was probably best to just get a room in Tampa rather than abstain from drinking. I wanted the cheapest hotel possible, since I was only going to use it to shower and sleep in for a few hours anyway, and settled into a Days Inn off of Dale Mabry in Tampa. For $79 +tax I got a room with a mini fridge, microwave, cable TV ... and the biggest cockroach I've ever seen in my life on the bathroom floor to greet me when I walked in. (I'm not exaggerating, I waited for it to rise up on its hind legs, produce a top hat and cane and belt out an opening number. You know..."Hello my baby, hello my hunny, hello my rag-time gallll....").

That's when me and a love for cheap hotel rooms parted ways for good. I shook out all of the towels in the bathroom, inspected all of the drawers, tapped the pillows and vowed to get out of there as soon as I could.

Sitting on the bed and waiting for Bastian to come and get me, I noticed an inordinate amount of activity occurring in the room next to me (and I could "notice" this because the door to my room hung 2 inches above the ground, leaving a convenient gap for, say, giant singing cockroaches to stroll right in). In the next hour I witnessed four drug deals through the peephole, which excited me to no end.

Bastian and I took off and drove around a fair bit before landing at the Green Iguana because he's Canadian and therefore unable to understand simple directions given to him by his navigator (me). We had a few drinks before Hoch & Co. showed, added a few more once they settled in, and took off for Bar Louie.

Which was dead, so we went next door to Blue Martini against my protests. That's where I motorboated Hoch, made fun of the ridiculously hot girl dancing with the incarnate of Jerry Garcia and drank more and more.

There were a couple of Rays players there which I managed to successfully avoid until I went to pay my tab. They offered to pay (definitely cool of them since I'm...well, broke) but I had it handled until I turned around and all of my friends were gone.

This is when a mild panic set in, because I had neither a) car, nor b) transportation nor c) cell phone (my battery died sometime earlier). Rather than use this opportunity to search for my amigos, in my semidrunken state I decided that this most certainly was the best time to sit down and make friends. God, forgive me.

Before long, I was stuck with WeirdCreepyPolkaDotShirtGuy, who sucked my hand and begged me to come home and sleep with him. ("No, no, it's OK, you don't have to worry. I'm married, see? *shows wedding ring* I have a wife. I just want to lie in bed and hold you.") WCPDSG did, however, pay my tab, so he was forgiven. And then my friends came back to save me.

I crashed on Bastian's couch not long after and when I woke up I was still drunk, which led to this amusing exchange:

Bastian: /typing on IM
I just told Hoch you were still drunk. He said, "LLL, I love Dawn."
Me: /laughs
Tell him, "laugh laugh laugh. she loves you too."
I have to make potty.
/tries to get off the couch, something pops, falls off couch while Bastian laughs
Owww, my butt is broken. Did you hear that? My butt cracked! Help!

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day nursing a serious hangover and writing Chapter 1 of the Life and Times of Orber Moreno (or, if you prefer, La Vida y Tiempos de Orber Moreno. That much I can bilingualize). I fell asleep IMMEDIATELY upon re-entering North Port.

####

Today I spent the day in Bradenton, not anything I was looking forward to since the ballpark is right down the road from Luck-e's apartment and even getting off at the exit gave me a serious complex.

It was made MUCH better by a reunion with my Pittsburgh writers, Rob and John, PR guy Jimmy T. and MLB on-air superstar Trenni. One of the Rays players that I saw at Blue Martini came over to say good morning, which erased all oh-god-he's-going-to-think-I'm-an-alcoholic feelings I might have had.

I'm insanely jealous of Trenni, who not only has a long-term, long-distance relationship and is making it work just fine, she now works for MLB Network meaning she has someone to do her makeup and hair. Really. She doesn't even have to care about what she looks like any more (she'd look fabulous even if she didn't care, by the way). She blow-dries her hair, heads to the studio and lets someone else do all the work (I hate her. heh.).

But there's more, and this is when I really began to hate her for being so cool: she gets a clothing allowance from the network AND -- AND -- a personal style consultant that goes with her to the stores and tells her what makes her look hot and what doesn't (umm Hello? where the hell were these people when I was buying black-and-blue plaid stretch pants? ugh). AND she gets to live in New York City. And her boss knows his shit. I SO want to be Trenni "when I grow up." Haha.

I'm thinking about working out the WiiFit way, but I miss my beer buddy Matt (aka ShittyPoopPantsII for reasons beyond my comprehension even though I'm fairly certain I gave him the moniker) dearly. I haven't seen him in a week and told him I'd go grab a beer. So hey, off I go.

The L.A. Times had a story about Shane in today's paper. I doubt he knows what an honor it is to have a 2.5-millionish circulation newspaper care enough about his career to write a feature all about him, so I'll say it -- it's a big deal. I wish people would stop talking about what a cool story his is, I was supposed to be the one to write a book and shock everyone who didn't know what he's been through. Stupid media, always ruining everything. *sigh*

Beer time. Seacrest out.