I knew what this word meant, but I looked it up anyway. I did it mostly to use my Kindle, but also as much as to refresh my memory about its meaning. It's been a word that has gets used when talking about the subject of religion. OK, as a former English teacher, it was good to confirm that the term, and it's various iterrations, are being used correctly. I just don't get the philosophy behind it's use with regards to a group of people.
My wife tells me that someone told her that they did'nt believe in Organized Religion because it is full of hypocrites, and they don't want to be associated with hypocrites, lest they be deemed by others to be hypocrites. At least that's what I got from my wife, talking about a conversation she had recently. I couldn't believe my ears! I looked at her and said, "What?" To say that this excuse is la caca de vaca on a number of levels, is being kind. How stupid, how ignorant, how self-idulged is that outlook?
First of all, we are only allowed to call ourselves "hypocrite," no one else. Very few people are given the authority to judge others, so the whole excuse is hypocrisy. If you're going to sit in my congregation, and put your judgements on me, I'd just as well that you stay at home, thank you. I fought that battle years ago, and it wasn't a whole lot of fun. I have no wish to go through it with anyone ever again.
Unfortunately, people pass judgement on others every day, it's almost become automatic. It's wrong, way wrong, but it's become a form of self defence. Yes, we make thousands of "snap judgements" every day, but when we start making them about other people, we need to consider by what authority we are acting as judge. "Judge not, that you be not judged." Matt 7:1. Personally, it tells me that I need to be more accepting of others; I've got my own stuff to account for. In other words, I'm only responsible for my self. Others may appear to be hypocrites, but who am I to make that call?
Yes, I'm probably as guilty as anyone; it seems to be a human social thing. Usually, however, the only one who gets hurt by my judgements is me. Its a sado-masochistic thing. I deprive myself of a possible friendship because of something said, or done, or beleved about the other person. When I think of how great life really is, how much better would it have been expanded by one more ally? So, yeah, I take the brunt of it.
I go to church because I want to. I go because my Heavenly Father says I'm supposed to. I go because I feel better, more uplifted, when I do. The last thing I care about, in church, is what someone else thinks of me. I am what I am, and I make no excuses for it. I have reached a peace with what I've done, relying on the Attonement to know that that part of my life is over, and that I have been forgiven for my past. The fact that I know this of a surity is testemony of how much better my relationship is with Heavenly Father. I am only responsible for me, I go to church for me. Screw everyone else.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
An Important Election
I claim to be politically neutral, albeit a registered Republican. I'm in the middle on most things, as are most people, I would be presumptive and claim (not the party affiliation part). We are considered Moderates, Middle-of-the-road, "Joe Sixpack," and a host of others. Somehow, although we are reasonable people, we allow the extremists from both the Left and the Right to dictate to which extreme we wish to have. Obama on the Left, the far-Left; a host of characters who quote Ronald Regan, and try to step the furthest Right. What about the majority of us?
So far, on the Republican-side, Mitt Romney has been able to keep some of his Moderate plans for the country, things most of us want to see happen in government. Newt Gingrich gets weirder every day with stuff like settlements on the moon, and kids working at their schools. Ron Paul wins the "Candidate Who Most Resembles a Corpse" award, and works very hard at making himself irrelevant. Santorum? I don't know... he doesn't do much for me. I have trouble envisioning him as a leader, but that's just me.
I'm going to hang with my boy Mitt, pray that people can get over his religious affiliation, and move on. We cannot afford to give Mr. Obama a second term, and trust me, I mean "afford." Some how, our elected officials have to learn the basics of accounting, and who better to teach them than a buisinessman?
So far, on the Republican-side, Mitt Romney has been able to keep some of his Moderate plans for the country, things most of us want to see happen in government. Newt Gingrich gets weirder every day with stuff like settlements on the moon, and kids working at their schools. Ron Paul wins the "Candidate Who Most Resembles a Corpse" award, and works very hard at making himself irrelevant. Santorum? I don't know... he doesn't do much for me. I have trouble envisioning him as a leader, but that's just me.
I'm going to hang with my boy Mitt, pray that people can get over his religious affiliation, and move on. We cannot afford to give Mr. Obama a second term, and trust me, I mean "afford." Some how, our elected officials have to learn the basics of accounting, and who better to teach them than a buisinessman?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Voter ID Issues
Several states are requiring a photo ID to be presented at the polls. What is the problem with that? Is it because 50 years ago that was used as a tactic to prohibit people from voting? Those days are long past, it's time to move on.
Positive, photo-identification should be required in every state. The argument is weak, that college students would not be able to vote. If they can't figure out how to arrange for absentee voting, maybe they aren't smart enough to be in college in the first place. As for the racial implications, we've gotten way beyond the Jim Crow-days. Everyone, according to most local, state, and federal laws, is supposed to be able to positively identify themselves to any authorities when requested. What, I ask again, is the problem with that?
It's always the Democrats, screaming about disenfranchising people, and suspiciously quiet when it's reported that voter fraud is on the rise. Did we learn anything from the ACORN debacle? Hello? There are, literally thousands of registered voters who do not exist. If this, and this is only my theory, has been "business as usual" for voter registration over the years, there could be millions. What stops people from using them? Positive photo-identification.
Even then, it's a crap-shoot. People enter this country on fake ID's all of the time, it's just that TSA, and Homeland don't make a big deal out of it. My dad, a former correctional officer, said that most convicted felons had multiple ID's, mostly drivers licences. In California, we give State ID cards to illegal aliens, so they can get on State assistance programs. So, again, what's the problem with showing ID's? You get them to show to people, why not the nice folks at the polling station?
Positive, photo-identification should be required in every state. The argument is weak, that college students would not be able to vote. If they can't figure out how to arrange for absentee voting, maybe they aren't smart enough to be in college in the first place. As for the racial implications, we've gotten way beyond the Jim Crow-days. Everyone, according to most local, state, and federal laws, is supposed to be able to positively identify themselves to any authorities when requested. What, I ask again, is the problem with that?
It's always the Democrats, screaming about disenfranchising people, and suspiciously quiet when it's reported that voter fraud is on the rise. Did we learn anything from the ACORN debacle? Hello? There are, literally thousands of registered voters who do not exist. If this, and this is only my theory, has been "business as usual" for voter registration over the years, there could be millions. What stops people from using them? Positive photo-identification.
Even then, it's a crap-shoot. People enter this country on fake ID's all of the time, it's just that TSA, and Homeland don't make a big deal out of it. My dad, a former correctional officer, said that most convicted felons had multiple ID's, mostly drivers licences. In California, we give State ID cards to illegal aliens, so they can get on State assistance programs. So, again, what's the problem with showing ID's? You get them to show to people, why not the nice folks at the polling station?
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Who'd Have Thought...
I've never made any bones about it, I love books. I love the feel of them, the smell of them, ruffling the pages with my thumb, all of it. I started reading at a young age, encouraged by my mother, and unappreciated by a number of my teachers. The first book I ever read was The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain, when I was five. I didn't get much of the humor, back then, but I was able to figure out the 'slavespeak' that Twain used to describe the speach of black characters. Having been a high school English teacher who taught the book, I can tell you that it's more than high school juniors can do today.
To me, books always seemed like a doorway. All one had to do is open a book, and an entirely different world was available. It was a way to escape one's problems; to get away for a while. Sometimes, while reading, I've discovered new ways of looking at my problems, and actually solve some things.
Reading requires an imagination, otherwise it's just words on a page. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've told a student that authors go to great length to describe things, but it's just words on a page if the reader cannot "see" it in the mind. Students used to laugh at me, when they ask, "Where's the furthest place you've been from here?". I always answer, "Istanbul, on Earth, but I've been to Mars."
Okay, it's a hokie joke, but at age 12, I found my dad's stash of Edgar Rice Burroughs books, and through his Martian Series, I've seen what life might be like on the Red Planet, at least in my mind. It's sad, but kids are losing the ability to imagine. Sure, for a few years we let them play with their toys, using their imaginations to decide how to use the toy. Then, almost as soon as they can sit up and feed themselves, we stick a joystick in their hands, and start providing all of the images for them. Maybe it's not so much as kids are losing the ability as it is atropy; not having to use it, it becomes unusable.
When the Kindle first came out, I thought it was pretty cool, but I still wanted to have the actual book in-hand. I saw one while waiting at the hospital, and the woman who had it was really "hip" to the Kindle-thing. In retrospect, she had probably just gotten it... Not me, however, I wanted "the book," paper, binding, pages. As time wore on, though, and bookstores started closing; books got harder and harder to get, and I started thinking about getting a Kindle, or something like it.
Christmas, my wife, who received one herself, gave me a Kindle for a present. I had bought her Bill O'Reilly's Killing Lincoln for hers, which I knew she was getting. I didn't expect mine, so it was a genuine surprize, and since it was registered on the same account, Killing Lincoln went over to my Kindle, too (score). I spent a short period of time getting a couple of favorites from the Free List, Les Miserable, and Twain's Roughing It, later that evening. Monday, I had to force myself to get out of Amazon, because I had downloaded about 2GB worth of classics, including some of the Martian Series.
I'm a fan. I think it's pretty cool to be able to sit down and have a choice of a good number of books to chose from. For the past two days, however, I've been spending time on Mars.
To me, books always seemed like a doorway. All one had to do is open a book, and an entirely different world was available. It was a way to escape one's problems; to get away for a while. Sometimes, while reading, I've discovered new ways of looking at my problems, and actually solve some things.
Reading requires an imagination, otherwise it's just words on a page. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've told a student that authors go to great length to describe things, but it's just words on a page if the reader cannot "see" it in the mind. Students used to laugh at me, when they ask, "Where's the furthest place you've been from here?". I always answer, "Istanbul, on Earth, but I've been to Mars."
Okay, it's a hokie joke, but at age 12, I found my dad's stash of Edgar Rice Burroughs books, and through his Martian Series, I've seen what life might be like on the Red Planet, at least in my mind. It's sad, but kids are losing the ability to imagine. Sure, for a few years we let them play with their toys, using their imaginations to decide how to use the toy. Then, almost as soon as they can sit up and feed themselves, we stick a joystick in their hands, and start providing all of the images for them. Maybe it's not so much as kids are losing the ability as it is atropy; not having to use it, it becomes unusable.
When the Kindle first came out, I thought it was pretty cool, but I still wanted to have the actual book in-hand. I saw one while waiting at the hospital, and the woman who had it was really "hip" to the Kindle-thing. In retrospect, she had probably just gotten it... Not me, however, I wanted "the book," paper, binding, pages. As time wore on, though, and bookstores started closing; books got harder and harder to get, and I started thinking about getting a Kindle, or something like it.
Christmas, my wife, who received one herself, gave me a Kindle for a present. I had bought her Bill O'Reilly's Killing Lincoln for hers, which I knew she was getting. I didn't expect mine, so it was a genuine surprize, and since it was registered on the same account, Killing Lincoln went over to my Kindle, too (score). I spent a short period of time getting a couple of favorites from the Free List, Les Miserable, and Twain's Roughing It, later that evening. Monday, I had to force myself to get out of Amazon, because I had downloaded about 2GB worth of classics, including some of the Martian Series.
I'm a fan. I think it's pretty cool to be able to sit down and have a choice of a good number of books to chose from. For the past two days, however, I've been spending time on Mars.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Some Vacaville Memories
I've been around the City of Vacaville, CA, for a number of years. We moved to Vacaville from Vallejo, CA, in the Summer of 1965. My sister (the younger of the two) had just graduated from Hogan High School, and I would have been a 9th grader at Springstowne Junior High. Instead, I became a freshman at Vacaville Union High School, trying out for football, and starting to meet people prior to the start of the school year. It was a good idea, but I was lousy at football, and made a pretty lousy impression on the only people I knew on the day after Labor Day, so I got off to a pretty crummy start.
I started making friends among the other "new people" that year, finding myself pretty much ostricized by high school society as it were. It was tough, in the mid-1960's, to be a "new kid" in Vacaville, particularly if you appeared to stink at sports. All I had was a bad performance at football, I mean, in retrospect, I just wasn't made to play football. That Fall, I probably stood 5 ft. 4 in., and may have weighed as much as 120 pounds (dripping wet). I took the pounding, though, and got through the football season without injury, or playing time. I was pretty disillusioned about my athleticism, and baseball was three months away. I figured to be a "lock" in baseball, so I turned my attentions to playing catch, and getting warmed up for the try-out's.
It was November 1965, I was in Tom Zunino's Frosh/Soph PE class, 1st period (back when PE was required all four years). We had been "shoe wrestling" for a couple of weeks, and I noticed that Mr. Z had been commenting on my performances, because I was winning them all. I knew how to shoe-wrestle, a guy who lived down two houses in Vallejo, a guy who was and athlete, taught me how, and we'd do it all the time on the floor in the dining area. He was four years older, ran about 6 ft. 3 in., and about 190 pounds. Eventually, I beat him, and again, to the point where if he beat me, he'd worked his butt off, and would be sweating heavily. When Z put me up against guys my own size, it wasn't even close.
After a week, I found myself facing guys a lot bigger than me. From the start of school, I grew two inches, and gained about five pounds. By Friday, I had worked my way up to the heavy weights, 212 pounds and up. We had one guy, whom I won't name, that was wrestling JV's that year, behind Marion Boykin. He was maybe 6 ft, 220, but Marion was much bigger, and he was my opponent that Friday. I had on a pair of Converse, canvas, low-tops; he had on high-topped wrestling boots. I remember being told of the pairing, prior to class, and I watched this huge guy go through the jumping jacks, and "burpies," and the whole routine. I did not see a man who entered the gym through the SW doors, and sat in the bleachers; all I could see was my terror. This guy, my opponent, was going to get my shoes by pulling off my legs. I was absolutely convinced of the fact.
When it came time for our match, no one in that gym -- students, teachers, my opponent, or me -- gave me any chance of winning. I used to give up a bigger weight difference with my neighbor, so I thought that my only chance of keeping my legs would be to use my speed. It actually worked. I'd attack his shoe, and just try to keep out of his grasp, taking shots at the shoe as I went. Eventually, I got his shoe off, but he could have easily pulled mine off if he'd ever gotten a chance at it. I stood up, my classmates and coaches "Oooh"-ing at the sight of his shoe in my hand. I dropped it on the mat, and collapsed next to it. The next thing I knew, Z was taking me into his office, and we were talking about Wrestling. I heard, "Blah blah blah, PRACTICE, blah blah blah SEASON, blah blah blah, MR NELSON." I said "No thanks, Coach, I just got done with football."
I couldn't get over how quickly he turned on me. "OK, Mr. 'Cool Guy,' but you ain't passing PE if you don't go out for Wrestling."
I said, "You can't do that." Said it indignantly; with a great deal of emotion; just like I meant it.
He laughed. "We'll see."
On the following Friday, right before Thanksgiving, the TA, Curtis Rice, whose parents were managing the apartments we were living in, stops me, and shows me the gradebook. It has "F" written in for each day since the previous Friday. "I think he means it." Curtis confides. "You better do what he wants." I distinctly remember thinking "Duh." The funny thing is, that wouldn't come around until years after that, "Duh." I went out for Wrestling. Duh.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got to meet Larry Nelson, and get to know both him and Tom Zunino better than anyone else at the school. I learned a lot about myself; what kind of person I wanted to be. Without a doubt, my Wrestling experience that year helped to cushion the crushing blow of not making one of the baseball teams. When the JV coach learned that I was playing in another league, he asked me to come back. I won't tell you what my answer was. I had a shot at a winter league in San Diego once, but was involved with a Navy career, and never persued it. One more boy's "professional career" dream evaporating. Another "If only..." As good as I was at Wrestling, I was better as a baseball player. much better.
I started making friends among the other "new people" that year, finding myself pretty much ostricized by high school society as it were. It was tough, in the mid-1960's, to be a "new kid" in Vacaville, particularly if you appeared to stink at sports. All I had was a bad performance at football, I mean, in retrospect, I just wasn't made to play football. That Fall, I probably stood 5 ft. 4 in., and may have weighed as much as 120 pounds (dripping wet). I took the pounding, though, and got through the football season without injury, or playing time. I was pretty disillusioned about my athleticism, and baseball was three months away. I figured to be a "lock" in baseball, so I turned my attentions to playing catch, and getting warmed up for the try-out's.
It was November 1965, I was in Tom Zunino's Frosh/Soph PE class, 1st period (back when PE was required all four years). We had been "shoe wrestling" for a couple of weeks, and I noticed that Mr. Z had been commenting on my performances, because I was winning them all. I knew how to shoe-wrestle, a guy who lived down two houses in Vallejo, a guy who was and athlete, taught me how, and we'd do it all the time on the floor in the dining area. He was four years older, ran about 6 ft. 3 in., and about 190 pounds. Eventually, I beat him, and again, to the point where if he beat me, he'd worked his butt off, and would be sweating heavily. When Z put me up against guys my own size, it wasn't even close.
After a week, I found myself facing guys a lot bigger than me. From the start of school, I grew two inches, and gained about five pounds. By Friday, I had worked my way up to the heavy weights, 212 pounds and up. We had one guy, whom I won't name, that was wrestling JV's that year, behind Marion Boykin. He was maybe 6 ft, 220, but Marion was much bigger, and he was my opponent that Friday. I had on a pair of Converse, canvas, low-tops; he had on high-topped wrestling boots. I remember being told of the pairing, prior to class, and I watched this huge guy go through the jumping jacks, and "burpies," and the whole routine. I did not see a man who entered the gym through the SW doors, and sat in the bleachers; all I could see was my terror. This guy, my opponent, was going to get my shoes by pulling off my legs. I was absolutely convinced of the fact.
When it came time for our match, no one in that gym -- students, teachers, my opponent, or me -- gave me any chance of winning. I used to give up a bigger weight difference with my neighbor, so I thought that my only chance of keeping my legs would be to use my speed. It actually worked. I'd attack his shoe, and just try to keep out of his grasp, taking shots at the shoe as I went. Eventually, I got his shoe off, but he could have easily pulled mine off if he'd ever gotten a chance at it. I stood up, my classmates and coaches "Oooh"-ing at the sight of his shoe in my hand. I dropped it on the mat, and collapsed next to it. The next thing I knew, Z was taking me into his office, and we were talking about Wrestling. I heard, "Blah blah blah, PRACTICE, blah blah blah SEASON, blah blah blah, MR NELSON." I said "No thanks, Coach, I just got done with football."
I couldn't get over how quickly he turned on me. "OK, Mr. 'Cool Guy,' but you ain't passing PE if you don't go out for Wrestling."
I said, "You can't do that." Said it indignantly; with a great deal of emotion; just like I meant it.
He laughed. "We'll see."
On the following Friday, right before Thanksgiving, the TA, Curtis Rice, whose parents were managing the apartments we were living in, stops me, and shows me the gradebook. It has "F" written in for each day since the previous Friday. "I think he means it." Curtis confides. "You better do what he wants." I distinctly remember thinking "Duh." The funny thing is, that wouldn't come around until years after that, "Duh." I went out for Wrestling. Duh.
It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I got to meet Larry Nelson, and get to know both him and Tom Zunino better than anyone else at the school. I learned a lot about myself; what kind of person I wanted to be. Without a doubt, my Wrestling experience that year helped to cushion the crushing blow of not making one of the baseball teams. When the JV coach learned that I was playing in another league, he asked me to come back. I won't tell you what my answer was. I had a shot at a winter league in San Diego once, but was involved with a Navy career, and never persued it. One more boy's "professional career" dream evaporating. Another "If only..." As good as I was at Wrestling, I was better as a baseball player. much better.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Do Something
So there I was, feeling sorry for myself, hating life because I'm now 50 days overdue for an ESI, and have 40 more days until I get to consult with an MD, to get the proceedure ordered and scheduled. Believe me, I have a pretty high pain tolerance level, but after such a long time, I'm begining to wear down. On days, like today, when I have very little to do, it's easy for me to get into a funk, climb on the pity-pot, moan "poor me's," and wallow in my depression. My tendency to do that is well know, and equally well documented. I used to take medication, but I don't anymore.
I was in my car, sitting in a park, listening to the Eagles Long Road Out of Eden CD, and reading the morning paper. It's all a part of a morning routine, except I'm usually listening to The Bob and Tom Show. The CD gets down to the tenth track, and I'm listening to a song, and all of a sudden, I'm listening to exactly what is going through my head. Although it's a song about a guy who has just lost a woman, the lyrics hit me.
"And when I feel like giving up,
And I'm ready to walk away,
In the stillness I can hear a voice inside me say,
'Do Something.'
It's too late for saving face,
Don't just stand there taking up space,
Why don't you Do Something.
It's not over,
No it's never too late."
I'm suddenly reminded of an inspirational figure, the great Jimmy Valvano, "Jimmy V." who said, "Never give up. Don't ever give up." shortly before his death from cancer. I think of all of the times that people told me "You can't...," and how much that would piss me off. I've always told people that the fastest way to get something done is to tell me I can't do it, and yet I'm getting myself all down because I'm telling myself I can't do this, or I can't do that, because of my back problems.
"I pick up the morning paper,
And all the news is bad.
How did we get on this road we're traveling?
And when I feel like giving up,
And there's no where left to go,
That's the time I dig down deep,
To the only thing I know,
Do Something."
I have to go back, and listen to the song again, to make sure I'm not making this up in my head, and think, "No [explicative]. This is pretty cool."
"Do something.
Don't leave it up to someone else.
Don't feel sorry for yourself.
Why don't you do something?
Run away?
You can't run away.
On your honor,
For your God,
You'll sleep better knowing you tried,
To do something.
It's too easy not to care,
But you're not ready for the rocking chair.
Get up, and do something.
Don't wait too long,
Even if it's wrong,
You've got to do something.
It's not over.
No, it's never too late."
Bang, zoom, right through the heart. I get it. Quityerbitchen, get off your ass and, well, Do Something. Hmm. Quite a concept. Maybe I should try it, whatchathink?
I was in my car, sitting in a park, listening to the Eagles Long Road Out of Eden CD, and reading the morning paper. It's all a part of a morning routine, except I'm usually listening to The Bob and Tom Show. The CD gets down to the tenth track, and I'm listening to a song, and all of a sudden, I'm listening to exactly what is going through my head. Although it's a song about a guy who has just lost a woman, the lyrics hit me.
"And when I feel like giving up,
And I'm ready to walk away,
In the stillness I can hear a voice inside me say,
'Do Something.'
It's too late for saving face,
Don't just stand there taking up space,
Why don't you Do Something.
It's not over,
No it's never too late."
I'm suddenly reminded of an inspirational figure, the great Jimmy Valvano, "Jimmy V." who said, "Never give up. Don't ever give up." shortly before his death from cancer. I think of all of the times that people told me "You can't...," and how much that would piss me off. I've always told people that the fastest way to get something done is to tell me I can't do it, and yet I'm getting myself all down because I'm telling myself I can't do this, or I can't do that, because of my back problems.
"I pick up the morning paper,
And all the news is bad.
How did we get on this road we're traveling?
And when I feel like giving up,
And there's no where left to go,
That's the time I dig down deep,
To the only thing I know,
Do Something."
I have to go back, and listen to the song again, to make sure I'm not making this up in my head, and think, "No [explicative]. This is pretty cool."
"Do something.
Don't leave it up to someone else.
Don't feel sorry for yourself.
Why don't you do something?
Run away?
You can't run away.
On your honor,
For your God,
You'll sleep better knowing you tried,
To do something.
It's too easy not to care,
But you're not ready for the rocking chair.
Get up, and do something.
Don't wait too long,
Even if it's wrong,
You've got to do something.
It's not over.
No, it's never too late."
Bang, zoom, right through the heart. I get it. Quityerbitchen, get off your ass and, well, Do Something. Hmm. Quite a concept. Maybe I should try it, whatchathink?
Thursday, May 19, 2011
To Mike Krukow and Duane Kuiper
I’ve been a long-time fan of Giant’s baseball; my first-ever pro baseball game was at Candlestick, I think I was nine. It was a Giants – Pirates game, my dad rooted for Pittsburgh, I rooted for Willie (both of them), Orlando, Jim, and a passel of Alou’s. No matter where I went, and I’ve been to many places courtesy of the Navy, I kept track of the G-men. I remember the cries of "Bye bye baby” on the transistor radio I used to sneak into bed, so I could hear the night games.
I’m turning 60 this year, on July 15, 2011. My son, who is currently on active duty with the Navy (third generation Navy) in San Diego, has custody of his step-son (who I call “grandson”) during the summers. Baseball has played a huge roll in my relationship with my son, and I found out that his step-son has never been to any professional sporting event before. This was a no-brainer for me, I’ve made plans to spend my birthday with my son and grandson, at the game in San Diego. We’ll be sitting in Section 302 (right above you), Row 19, Seats 16, 17, and 18. It’s “Orange Friday,” so I’ll be flying the colors.
Please come up and say “Hi” before the game.
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