Me: I think this sums up the entire Rockies 2011 season.
DJ: I think this sums it up better. You and I are the frog in the scenario.
Me: Can you please stop sending me inter-species rape videos? I find it weird I have to ask that.
DJ: I find it weird I have to answer that question, but the answer is “no”.
While the boy’s birthing was a marathon fight like Rocky Balboa versus Ivan Drago (minus the sweet “No Easy Way Out” montage), the Broz girl child fired her way out of the chute like a Hitler-hating Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics.
As labor approached the noon hour, my mom asked if I wanted to run downstairs and get a sandwich with her because, “You need to keep your strength up too, Matty.” The wife gave me the go ahead as her contractions were light and I was not planning on being gone for long. 20 minutes later I walked back into the labor and delivery room and the wife had gone from being dilated at 4 to 6 (for those of you unfamiliar with the cervix during childbirth, this is like hitting a thirty-pointer in basketball).
Within the hour, the girl child was being tagged and our nurse was quoted as saying, “That was pretty intense.”
The House of Broz is currently fun, crazy and full of poop. Lots of poop.
I must own this book and pass on its wisdom to the boy. Here are some of my favorites maxims with comments directed at my infant son as if he were an adult with the ability to reason:
- Surround Yourself With Smart People. You are who you hang out with. Your friends will expect you to do what they are doing alongside them. Smart people expect you to be intelligent and well read. Drug addicts expect you to pass the Guns N’ Roses coke mirror you won at the carnival balloon-dart game after snorting a line.
- It Is Not A Gang Without The Cool Girl. Be sure to always have at least one cool girl in your inner-circle of friends (bonus if she is hot). She can provide invaluable feminine perspective and is bound to bring around other cool girls. You may even marry her someday.
- Ask Your Mother To Dance. There is no better way to make your mother’s night then taking her for a spin around the dance floor and acting like it is fun and not a chore. You will do this and you will like it.
- Do Not Get All Fancy About Your Beer Or Coffee. Coffee? Black. Beer? Yes, please. It is as simple as that.
- Do Not Have A Girlfriend In College. Think of all the awesome shenanigans you can get into while attending college. Now think about doing them while maintaining a steady relationship with an average looking girl that you met in the first week of your freshman year.
- Never Sit Down On A Ball Field. Take A Knee. You do not sit down on a sports field unless you are severed at the torso and have no legs. Even then, you still take a stump.
- Always Meet Your Date At The Door. Do not be the dickhead honking the horn in the driveway. Go up to the door and ring the bell. Doing this affords you the opportunity to open the car door for her as well. Double the points, my son.
- Yes Ma’am. No Sir. No Exceptions. People that are older than you are always sir or ma’am. Even if your friends parents tell you to call them by name you still call them sir or ma’am.
- Try To Lose The Adverbs. Nothing illustrates how weak your vocabulary is more than an adverb. You are not very tired. You are exhausted. You are not extremely happy. You are ecstatic.
- Keep Your Word. Even the over-consumption of liquor does not excuse you from this one. If you tell someone you will do something, you do it.
- If You Are Good At Something, Never Do It For Free. Excluding sex, masturbating and murder.
- Walk It Off. This philosophy that can be applied to many situations including electrocution, being on fire and venereal diseases.
- Never Be Afraid To Ask Out The Best Looking Girl In The Room. Be fearless. What is the worst that can happen? She says no and you call her a lesbian? You are still in the same position you were in when you walked into the room.
- You Do Not Get To Choose Your Own Nickname. You are luckier than most as you have a sweet last name that can be shortened to “Broz” or “Brozo.” Even so, you do not ask anyone to call you this. They must do it of their own accord.
The wife and I braved freezing temperatures last night to watch game three of the National League Divisional Series in a four and a half hour affair that left our extremities numb. 50,000 faithful at Coors Field were in attendance, an impressive number considering the cold. Some highlights:
- The Rockies organization once again fucked up some form of the post-season. The game started at ten after eight. We arrived at the gates at ten ‘till eight, happy we would be catching the first pitch. We waited outside Coors Field for forty five minutes in the cold. No announcements as to why tickets were not being taken. No signage explaining why there was a delay. Chants of “Let Us In,” almost degenerate into an angry mob poised to rush the gates and get into the game. My sweet wife even mentioned to me how easy it would be to get away with kidney-punching Phillies fan in the mayhem.
- By the time we get to our seats, it is the bottom of the second inning and the Rockies are up 2-1. Fucking Rockies organization. I almost don’t enjoy my Rockies Dog and refreshing beer(s).
- Our section is fun early on; good fans, good spirits and an overall good vibe. This situation changes as sobriety slips away and is replaced with stupidity. Once polite Phillies fans sitting a few sections below us become raging assholes and start picking fights. One of the fans is a fat white guy who has long dreadlocks. Insults are hurled his way. “Cut your hair, white Bob Marley,” and, “Got any weed?” and my personal favorite (because I said it), “Go home to your bottle of shampoo, hairbag.”
- The couple in the row below us are stoned out of their mind. Through out the game, the guy eats slices of salami he has smuggled into the game via his coat pocket. No Ziploc. No brown bag. Literally eating slices of salami from his coat pocket.
- The girl below us dances like she is at a rave every time music comes on. Her balance is so off I remark to the wife, “That girl is going to take a spill.” Within minutes of my comment, it happens. The crowd is on its feet after Carlos Gonzalez belts a solo shot to right field and the girl takes a head plant into the seats below her, flips over another row, lands on her head again and somehow manages to finish the maneuver with her ass in a seat four rows down. She looks confused, disoriented and possibly concussed. Her boyfriend expresses no concern and casually takes another slice of salami from his coat pocket.
- We decide to head out in the bottom of the ninth as our infant son it at his grandparents and probably needs sleep. It kills us both considering Brad Lidge has been a nightmare closing ball games this season. By the time we arrive at the the car, the Rockies have lost 6-5, unable to cash in two walks.
Upon further reflection, I should have kidney-punched a Phillies fan to make my night more enjoyable. Especially the fat one with dreadlocks.
My mom called this morning to inform me that the boy was exposed to some form of a coughing disease a few weekends ago at her house (my young nephew being the little monkey from Outbreak in this scenario). I told my mom that this weekend the boy was exposed to the drunken stupidity of my sixteenth annual fantasy football draft, his dad repeatedly calling the Rockies a “bunch of dirty ball sacks” for getting swept in San Francisco and the assorted programming of the History Channel including Gangland and one very disappointing show about prison tattoos that mostly focused on the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas. She said I should get him get him “checked out” just to be safe.
Mark: Have you heard of Art Brut? Euro-Indie rock band. Not bad. That would also be a good name for your next child other than Spilly.
Me: Did you stay up for the game and watch the grand slam?
Mark: I did not. Although I was there for Tulo’s unassisted triple play and that was dope.
Me: This was … doper? More dope? Dopest?
Super Joe hangs ’em up. One of the most entertaining, humble and classiest guys to ever play the game, Joe Sakic could have scored at a nunnery in the dead of winter. He is guaranteed to be a first ballot hall of famer no matter what snow blowers try to do to him. During the span of his twenty year career he is eighth all time in points, has won two Stanley Cups and holds the NHL record for game-winning overtime playoff goals (8). In celebration of watching Joe play regularly since the Avs landed in Denver in ’95, here is my favorite “Sakic” moment:
How do you like them apples, Gilmour?
You like to ride your bike. I do too. It is a refreshing work out as the warm wind blows on your face while you work up a sweat as your legs pump like engine pistons. I notice you have a Starbucks there. In your hand. As you ride your bike. Sipping on a be-whipped Frappuccino while you ride leads me to believe you are not serious about exercise. I could have never know that from looking at you, however. You know why? You are wearing a triple-XL spandex racing suit like you are training for the fucking Tour de France. Seriously? That is what you decided to wear while riding your bike today? To Starbucks? Squeezed into spandex like some generic-wrapped sausage at the grocery store? Where does one even find a triple-XL spandex racing suit? Is there a Bicycle Village Big and Tall somewhere around here? At least pretend you are serious about losing weight by draining that Caramel Light (I will swear on my infant son it had to be a Caramel Light) before you get back on your bike. Thanks for the fat guy pressed ham shot post-Chipotle, too. Helps with digestion. And by “helps” I mean comes back up in chunks with stomach acid in my mouth. Dick.