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Belly Itchers Have Feelings Too, You Know!
If you play or even watch sports, you know there is small a risk of injury. As someone who has played football, soccer, basketball, baseball, Ultimate frisbee, and even raced bicycles over the years, I've managed to injure myself in every sport I've ever played.
I've been hit with baseballs, hit with bats, power tackled by guys twice my size, kicked in the shins, kicked in the head, whacked in the groin, sprained both ankles several times, wiped out on my bike on a number of occasions, and even limped through an entire soccer season with tendinitis.
In the past, thousands of people have been injured playing baseball. They've been hit by pitches, hit with cleats, hit by other players, hit with bats, and even hit with balls smacked back at them. Jose Canseco, the Oakland A's outfielder, was once bonked on the head with a flyball, causing it to bounce over the outfield fence, resulting in a home run.
And every baseball player knows any of this can happen. Well, maybe not the Jose Canseco thing, but it would be pretty cool if it did.
So if baseball players know all this, why is Daniel Hannant of Pittsfield, Illinois suing the maker of Louisville Slugger bats for over $1 million?
On April 18, the Chicago Tribune published a copy of a lawsuit filed in the Cook County Circuit Court by Hannant's attorney against Hillerich & Bradsby, the makers of Louisville Slugger.
According to the lawsuit, on April 1, 2000, 17-year-old Hannant was pitching ("we want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!") for his high school baseball team, the Pittsfield Saukees, against the Calhoun Pioneers.
The Calhoun team was using an "Air Attack 2 Model BB 12 [-5] Louisville Slugger TPX Bat," a high-tech aluminum bat. The batter hit one of Hannant's pitches and nailed him right in the head, causing "serious and life-threatening injuries."
There is no word whether Hannant's belly itching abilities were affected, although he did win the Saukee Pride award that year.
According to the lawsuit, "Due to H&B's design and construction of the Bat, the exit speed of the baseball from the Bat was so great that Hannant was unable to react to the baseball so as to protect himself from being struck, and the baseball struck him in the head."
First, let's forget that it should be "Owing to" or "Because of" H&B's design. Since we're talking about serious injuries, I won't quibble about the attorney's grossly incorrect usage of "Due to."
Second, he could have said "The ball flew so quickly, Hannant didn't have time to protect himself," but that doesn't sound very lawyerly, and isn't worth $200 an hour.
Instead, let's look at the assertion the Bat was purposely designed and engineered to hit a baseball harder, faster, and farther than a traditional wooden bat.
No kidding! That's called a "competitive advantage." Baseball players and coaches are constantly looking for ways to hit baseballs harder, faster, and farther, and the easiest way to do this is with a high-tech bat.
Bat manufacturers would have a hard time selling bats made of foam rubber and baseball would be more boring than it already is if baseballs weren't hit harder, faster, and farther.
For those of you who didn't know high school players can use aluminum bats, let me point out that only professional players use wooden bats. College, high school, and even little league players can use aluminum bats, as can men and women softball players.
Why? So players can hit a ball harder, faster, and farther. It says so right on the bat. That's called a "marketing feature." Another bat manufacturer actually boasts an exit speed of 115 mph.
Although people use high-tech bats for this reason, Hannant says that H&B had a duty to design the Bat so it was not defective or "unreasonably dangerous" when it was used for its original purpose.
He also asserts that H&B failed to place warning labels that said the Bat, "could cause the baseball to be propelled with such velocity that when hit directly towards a pitcher it does not allow the pitcher sufficient reaction time to avoid being struck."
Hundreds of pitchers have been hit this way, and it has nothing to do with the bat. It has everything to do with where the pitcher is standing.
When I was 12, I was pitching in a 3-man sandlot game with my friend Michael and his 19-year-old brother Jimmy.
Jimmy whacked a screamer that nailed me in the thigh, and I cried and rolled around on the ground for ten minutes while they waited for me to finish. That's what happens when you stand right in front of the batter and throw balls at him.
So why doesn't Hannant sue the batter for hitting him, or the Calhoun Pioneers for using a dangerous bat? Or even better, why doesn't Hannant sue the Illinois High School (athletic) Association for allowing teams to use aluminum bats in the first place?
Because none of them have $1 million, that's why. Hillerich & Bradsby does.
Remember, it's only Major League Baseball that uses wooden bats. Everyone else can use all the high-tech bats they want.
And that's where the problem lies. With all the documented cases of teenagers and kids being killed or seriously injured after being struck by a ball hit with one of these bats, organizers, school administrators, and coaches are still using them.
If anyone is more responsible for Hannant's injury than Hillerich & Bradsby, it's the adults who allowed the high-tech bat to be used.
I don't propose the banning of aluminum bats altogether. They're great for adults, whether it's city-league softball, college baseball, or just some guys getting together to whack each other over the head. But no one under the age of 18, especially little kids, should use aluminum bats. They're dangerous, and need to be banned from youth baseball.
The bats, not the kids.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of May 3rd, 2002)
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"Happy Birthday, Dear Philosophers"
We owe a lot to philosophy, whether we realize it or not.
Philosophy is the father of all sciences, and has lead to nearly every discovery or invention we've ever made. Philosophers ask questions that cause people to look find the answers, no matter where they lead. Science, human physiology, and even psychology were created to answer philosophical questions.
We have medicine because people wanted to know how the body worked. Astronomy exists because people wanted to know what was beyond our planet. Biology exists because people wanted to know where life comes from. We even have coffee houses because philosophers needed a place to argue about these things.
And it was all started by a guy named Thales (THAY-lees), who created the first non-mystical explanation for the world, and said that water is the cause of all things.
I know all this because I received my Bachelor of Science degree in philosophy in 1989 from Ball State University (home of the Fighting David Lettermans).
I received a BS in BS, as I am fond of saying to anyone within earshot.
And although I have forgotten nearly everything I learned 13 years ago, I can still regale people with stories at parties about how Thales thought water was the source of all life.
I never get invited to many parties nowadays.
Even though Ball State has never been a major player in philosophical circles, it was voted the 18th Best Partying School by Playboy magazine in the late 80s, which resulted in some interesting philosophical discussions on weekends.
Ball State Philosopher #1: "Dude, how many angels can dance on this beer can?"
Ball State Philosopher #2: "I don't know dude, but have you ever really looked at your hand? I mean, REALLY looked at it?"
Many people are surprised when they find out I have a philosophy degree, considering my day job is in sales and marketing.
"That's easy," I tell them. "One is theoretical BS, the other is applied BS."
I hope none of my customers read this.
Needless to say, I was very interested to hear on National Public Radio's "All Things Considered" that the American Philosophical Association is 102 years old!
Never before in the history of American philosophers has anything so momentous, so wonderful, or so exciting happened! This is saying a lot, because as a group, philosophers are some of the least exciting people you'll meet.
The APA celebrated their 100 year anniversary last year, and although some may accuse me of being late in mentioning this, blame NPR for not airing the story until this past Wednesday.
The APA is a professional organization for philosophy professors and philosophers around
the world. According to their website, the group was founded, among other things, to "promote the exchange of ideas among philosophers." To become a Regular Member, you have to have done graduate work in the field of philosophy, or have distinguished yourself as a philosopher.
This means humor columnists who only have undergraduate degrees in philosophy from party schools cannot become members. Bummer.
To celebrate their anniversary, the APA released a CD of John Cleese (formerly of Monty Python) narrating 22 spots about the importance of philosophy in today's society. It's free to any radio station who wants to play the 30 to 60 second spots during station breaks.
As a fully-licensed philosopher (this means I can discuss the meaning of life in bars), I was extremely interested in the story. As I listened, I was struck by two thoughts:
1. It's great that an organization like this has existed for over 100 years.
2. There's a professional organization for philosophers?
After doing some research on the APA's website, I realized they have something that very few professional academic organizations have: their own office.
I called the national office and introduced myself to Kathy Dettwyler, the assistant to the APA's Executive Director, Elizabeth Radcliffe.
Is there really an APA office? I asked Kathy.
"I'm sitting in it right now," she laughed. According to Kathy, the office is a "funky little house" on the University of Delaware's campus. The University has hosted the national office since 1975.
Do people ever drop in?
"No, people seldom just drop in," Kathy said. Unfortunately the national office will never become a Graceland to the hard-core philosophy fans. This is a shame, considering everything philosophers have done for all of us, including Elvis.
Who do you think he was referring to when he sang "Wise men say only fools fall in love," house painters? No, philosophers!
According to Kathy, who also holds a Ph.D. in anthropology from Indiana University, there are 11 people in the APA office, including Elizabeth Radcliffe, Kathy Dettwyler, a receptionist, a computer expert to maintain the website and databases, two membership people who handle the 11,000 member database, two people who work on the publications, and two finance people who process member dues, orders for publications, and even sales of APA T-shirts.
What about the CD? I asked. Can anyone get it?
"Wait a minute, Elizabeth is sitting right here," Kathy said.
I heard some mumbling over the phone, and then she came back. "Elizabeth said we're selling them for $4 for members, and $6 for non-members. Contact Sue Timko at the APA office for one."
Wow, I just heard Executive Director Elizabeth Radcliffe talking in the background!
Then I asked her about the American Philosophical Society, "an eminent scholarly society of international reputation" (translation: we're smart and snobby and the whole world knows it).
Any big rivalries?
Kathy assured me there weren't, which was disappointing, because I was hoping to hear some great stories about how some APA members got into a drunken brawl with some APS members at last year's softball game.
Most people have never heard of the American Philosophical Association and can't name one of its members to save their life. So people may be surprised to hear that Indiana University president Myles Brand is also the chair of the Status and Future of the Profession Committee.
But George Lucas, chair of the Career Opportunities Committee, isn't George Lucas the filmmaker? I asked Kathy.
"No, he's George Lucas the Philosopher."
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of May 10th, 2002)
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But I'm Still the World's Strongest Humorist
I've been writing humor columns for over five years, and I've met, corresponded with, and even become friends with other humor columnists around the world. Some of them are extremely successful, some became successful while I've known them, and some are just beginning their writing careers. I've even helped a few aspiring writers get published for the first time.
We've traded laughs, tips, and ideas over the years. I've co-written a column with Jennifer Layton of J Street fame, traded name placement in columns with Joe Lavin, and critiqued pieces for a number of different writers.
I've met Garrison Keillor of Public Radio International's "A Prairie Home Companion" on two different occasions, I have an autographed photo of Dave Barry on my office wall, and I am in the same humor writers group as Bruce Cameron, author of "Eight Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter" which made the New York Times Bestseller's List.
I hate them all.
Okay, maybe hate is too strong a word. How about despise, detest, or loathe.
Don't get me wrong. They're all wonderful people, and I even consider a couple of the non-famous ones my online friends. But I would think much more favorably about all of them if they weren't humorists.
But how can this be a problem, I ask myself? Garrison Keillor is a kind man who offered me some advice in the early stages of my writing career ("Write about current events," he told me). Dave Barry sent me his autographed photo after I asked him to join another humor writers group. Jennifer Layton and I email each other on a regular basis, and I've corresponded with Bruce Cameron on a number of occasions. He even politely declined an invitation to join a humor website I was creating.
Even with all these good feelings running rampant throughout the humor community, do you think I'm alone in my professional envy of other humor writers?
Hell no. We all hate each other.
It's true: every humor writer everywhere hates every other humor writer.
Oh sure, we all admire each others' creativity and talent, and publicly state how much we love each other's work. But beneath the surface, every humor writer is dripping with envy. It oozes out of our pores. Despite all our well-wishes to our fellow humorists, we secretly despise each other.
We're tired of hearing about everyone's book deals, book tours, and requests to write screenplays. I've even heard a rumor (which I started) that one humor writer is even being interviewed personally by Disney chairman Michael Eisner to be his office coffee table. We want these successes to be our own, and we hate each other for getting what we think should be rightfully ours.
So late at night, when we're alone, our jealousy bubbles to the surface, and we're consumed by our loathing. We draw grotesque pictures of our competition being eaten alive by weasels. We whine and cry at our computers, "Why him? Why not me?!"
At least the others do. I'm not so melodramatic. I just sign them up for subscriptions to book clubs and porn magazines.
Why do we do it? Why do we look at our fellow humorists as competition rather than teammates and friends? Why can't we be truly happy for them?
Because we're all afraid everyone else is funnier than us. All of us. Even the top professionals suffer from a deep-seated envy of other humor writers.
Even though they're friends, Garrison Keillor grinds his teeth, cries out "I'm not making this up!" in his sleep, and dreams of the day he can dunk Dave Barry in a vat of boiling oil.
And Dave Barry weeps nightly as he delivers "the news from Lake Okeechobee" on a second-hand karaoke machine, and throws darts at Keillor's publicity photos, while he downs slug after slug of homemade beer.
It doesn't matter who supports us, tells us we're great, or that we're funnier than anyone else they've ever read. In addition to envy, we're all have self-esteem issues that makes us believe the only people who find us funny are the people who are supposed to: our parents, spouses, and close friends.
In the past, I've been compared to Dave Barry and Lewis Grizzard, as in "Gee, you're much bigger than Dave Barry is," or "Wow, you're not quite as dead as Lewis Grizzard." Some people have even gone so far as to say they like me better than Dave Barry.
And these are always great to hear. My head swells as big as Rhode Island when someone says my name on the same day they mention Dave Barry, let alone making a direct comparison to him.
Trust me, any comparisons to Dave Barry and Lewis Grizzard are like gold to any humor writer, and they're always vastly appreciated, because we need our egos stroked constantly. But there's a part of us that always thinks "This person must have forgotten his insanity medication. There's no way I'm as funny as those guys."
We humor writers are a neurotic lot, because we worry about everything. We make jokes about anything, but worry that we make them about the wrong thing. We try to push the envelope on what's funny, but worry that we'll offend and insult our readers. We love comparisons to "the Big Boys" -- oh man, do we love comparisons to the Big Boys! -- but worry that we'll forever be in their shadows.
But don't cry for us. This is the path we've chosen: making other people laugh in the face of adversity, for little or no pay. So if you ever meet a humor writer, just pat him or her on the shoulder, give a knowing nod, and say, "I understand how you feel, and I appreciate what you do."
And slip him 20 bucks, you big cheapskate! It's not like we get rich doing this!
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of May 17th, 2002)
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Where Do You Think They Get the Fudge?
I recently took a vacation to Mackinac Island (official motto: That last C is silent), which is right above Michigan in Lake Huron. If you ever ask a Michigander where that is, they'll hold up their right hand and point with their left hand to the appropriate spot. This is because Michigan is shaped like a right hand wearing a mitten.
As a result, all Michiganders have the annoying habit of showing where they live by holding up their right hand and pointing to the location with their left hand.
I really hate it when they do this.
I'm from Indiana, which is shaped like a painfully-pointed boot. So when Michiganders show me where they live, I point to the part of my state that will kick them in their Florida if they don't stop.
Originally called "Michilimackinac" by French missionaries in the 1600s, the name was later shortened to Mackinac. However, because the French never spell things the way they sound, Mackinac is actually pronounced "Mackinaw."
This is something the island residents take very seriously. It's a major faux pas (pronounced "foe pah" -- see how that works?) to mispronounce the name of their home, and they get very annoyed whenever anyone is crass enough to call it "Mackinack."
Although Mackinac Island has a rich and colorful history, a relaxed, friendly atmosphere, and is known for its world-class fudge, the thing that sticks out in everyone's mind is the lack of cars on the island.
"How's come there's no cars on this here island?!" first-time visitors gawk.
With the exception of a couple emergency and maintenance vehicles, there are no electric or gasoline powered vehicles anywhere. Anyone who wants to get around the island does so on foot, by bicycle, or on horseback. But you will see dozens of teams of horses pulling carts or taxis throughout the day. This also means the horses will stop in the middle of the street, and treat it like a paved toilet.
"What is that SMELL?!" the first-time visitors shout, wrinkling their noses.
Although horse deposits make crossing the street an adventure in itself, it adds an extra level of excitement during high-speed bicycle police pursuits.
Walking is free, of course, but in the true spirit of island entrepreneurship, visitors can rent bicycles for the day or horses by the hour. When my wife and I visited Mackinac Island a few years ago, we went horseback riding for the first time. We loved it so much, we decided to try it again on this trip.
I'd like to point out that I will not name the stable we used. While I only had a couple extremely minor complaints on this trip, I don't want them to read this column and assign me a horse named Thundering Death the next time we're there.
We chose Western style riding over English style, since English saddles don't have a horn, which is useful for holding on (the horn is also useful for beeping at other riders when they're being jerks). A couple stablehands brought our horses out, and gave us some important information about them. The horses, not themselves. Stablehands are very private about their own lives.
"Sandy is a good leader, so you ride in front," they told my wife. They brought my horse to me. "Jake just likes to stop and eat."
"Sounds like Jake and I have a lot in common," I said.
"No, you can't let him do that. If you don't control him, he'll think he can boss you around. Just pull his reins if he tries it."
Although we chose the unguided tour, a guide rode out with us to show us the way to the trails. As we headed out of town, she told my wife, "Make sure you keep Sandy on the right side of the road."
I couldn't resist. "If we were riding English style, would we ride on the left side of the road?"
My wife laughed, but our guide just stared blankly at me.
"No, you would still ride on the right."
I tried to explain, so she wouldn't think I was a complete moron. "I meant that in England, they drive on the left side, so English style riding would have the same--"
"Yes, I know." Too late. She thought I was a moron.
It's been my experience that horse people are members of some kind of fanatical cult. They love their animals, tolerate humans, but despise morons who crack horse jokes. And apparently I had just offended their queen. I was sure she was sending telepathic messages to Jake to throw me off and trample me.
I didn't crack another joke the whole time our guide was with us, but the damage had been done. Jake didn't appreciate my humor either, and abused me for the rest of the trip. I discovered he had an annoying habit of falling way behind Sandy and then trotting to catch up with her.
He did this because he realized I had foolishly asked for my stirrups to be lengthened, thus insuring I couldn't raise myself out of the saddle far enough to relieve any of the . . . painful bouncing . . . I felt when he trotted.
"Jake, go catch up with Sandy," I told him the first time he fell behind. "Let's go."
"Tell him giddyup," my wife hollered to me.
"That's stupid. They only say giddyup in Westerns," I hollered back.
I felt like a goober saying "Giddyup," and thought it was one of the least macho things I could actually tell a horse, short of discussing my feelings with it. Besides, real cowboys say things like "Onward ho!" or "Yoiks and away!" or something equally cool.
"Move it," I cried. "Run, Jake! Run like the wind!"
Nothing.
Jake continued moseying along at his usual pace, waiting for me to drop my guard so he could eat everything in sight. I sighed and looked around for any cowboys who might laugh at me.
"Giddyup."
Jake's ears perked up, so I said it louder.
"Giddyup Jake." He trotted up to Sandy, bouncing me the entire way. Once he caught up, he backed off again. She had "used the island" during the trip, so I couldn't blame him for wanting to keep a safe distance.
"Get up!" I tried. It was less silly than giddyup, and he actually responded to it. "Get up, Jake." It wasn't "Yoiks and away!" but at least it wasn't "Giddyup."
"I think I'm getting the hang of this," I called to my wife, three miles ahead of me.
And it was true! I was growing more confident with each painful bounce. I was one dusty trail ride from becoming a true "Yoiks and away!" cowboy, and was positive I would soon become an expert at riding horseback.
Or is that riding horsebaw?
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of May 24th, 2002)
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Dangit, I Shoulda Swum Home
There we were, sitting on the Shepler's Mackinac Island ferry, waiting to head back to the mainland. My wife and I had just finished a long weekend on Mackinac Island, riding horses, riding our bikes, enjoying excellent meals, and discussing at great length how the name of the island was pronounced Mackinaw, and not Mackinack.
Shepler's makes the fastest Mackinac Island runs, averaging 16 minutes, compared to everyone else's deathly slow 17-minute crawl. They make thousands of trips each year, and each ferry will often carry the entire population of a small rural city.
Shepler's is one of three ferry companies that make the daily Mackinac Island run. Between the three of them, they can take the entire population of China to the island and back again. So if that's the case, what are the odds that we would sit in front of a complete goober and his wife on the trip home?
There we were, minding our own business, when some Fudgie (that's what the locals call tourists) plopped down behind us with his wife and one-year-old son. As soon as they sat down, the guy started babbling with such a thick Chicago accent, he made Jim Belushi sound like Hugh Grant.
"Lookit what I got," he told his wife, even though they had stood in the same line for 20 minutes. "Lookit this. It was on sale. I got it for $4.95."
"Yes, that's cute," she answered. Even with the engines warming up, I could hear them. Everyone on the boat could.
"Lookit! It was $4.95. He'll look good in it."
I couldn't help eavesdropping, since the guy was all but shouting in my ear. I glanced out of the corner of my eye, and saw the thing she was supposed to "lookit" at was a denim baby jumper.
"What size is it?" she asked.
"It's a 12."
"It's too small for him. He's almost outgrown his 12s. He's almost ready for 24s."
"Dangit!"
The guy really didn't say "dangit," he said the real D-word. But he said it so many times that journalistic standards and my own sense of decency make it necessary to write "dangit" instead. He said it so often that even if I knew his name, I'll always think of him as "Dangit."
"Dangit!" he repeated, not being able to think of any other swear word. "I shoulda got the 24. And I can't go back."
His wife tried to reassure him. "It's alright. He can still wear it a few times."
"Dangit! I shoulda got the 24. They were right there. It was only $4.95. I shoulda got the 24!"
"I know, but he can still wear it a few times."
"Dangit! I even looked at the 24s. It looked huge. The 24s looked HUGE! Dangit! I can't go back."
Dangit's wife didn't say anything. I glanced back over my left shoulder and saw that she was just staring out the window, watching the people get on the ferry. Something told me she was used to this, and was just waiting for him to shut up. Something also told me she was going to wait for a long time.
But Dangit would not be deterred. He was going to obsess over this for hours. Gravity was going to change before this guy did.
"Dangit. It just looked so cute. Dangit. I can't go back. I shoulda got the 24. It was only $4.95. I shoulda got them both for that price."
She still stared out the window. The engines gunned, and we moved away from the dock. I thought I would have to strain to hear the guy, but I didn't have to worry. His misery penetrated the rumble of the engines.
"Dangit. I told you we shoulda left at 2:00. Dangit. Now I can't go back. I shoulda got the 24." After several minutes of this -- I'm not kidding, I counted it! -- Dangit realized he wasn't getting any sympathy, so he tried a different tactic.
"Lookit!" he commanded. "Look at it. Look at what it says."
"Yes, I see." She talked to him like he was the one-year-old.
"Look at what it says. It says Mackinac Island."
My jaw dropped when I heard Dangit pronounce the name correctly. Then, in case his wife forgot where she had spent the entire weekend, he repeated himself. "It says Mackinac Island on it."
I wanted to turn around and shout: "Really? You found a clothing item that has 'Mackinac Island' on it? That's so odd, because a large tourist trap like this RARELY has anything with its name on it. I'm absolutely stunned that baby jumpers sold on Mackinac Island aren't emblazoned with large red letters that say Burp Holler, Oregon! I mean, what are the odds?!"
But I didn't. I could only listen and give my wife looks that said, "Can you believe this guy? This is better than television!"
As the ferry pulled away, Dangit only got madder and madder.
"I told you we shoulda left at 2:00. Dangit! I shoulda got the 24. It was only $4.95, but it just looked huge!"
As Dangit raved on about what he shoulda done, I pulled out my PDA and took notes for this column. I tapped furiously on the pad to keep up with every “dangit" and “I shoulda got the 24" he uttered.
His voice was finally muffled as the engines reached their peak RPMs and we raced across Lake Huron, but I could make out bits of the one-sided tirade.
"Stand him up. Let's see it. Stand him up. It'll fit him. Stand him up and lookit. Stand him up," Dangit said during one of the quieter moments.
But as we approached the dock, Dangit finally realized his wife had not paid attention to one second of his ranting since we left the island.
I heard "Are you listening to me?" as the engines geared down. "Are you listening to me? Hey, are you listening to me?"
“Yes, all 93 of us are listening to you! Here's five dollars, now shut up!" I wanted to shout. My wife placed a calming hand on my arm.
After we got in the car, I asked my wife if she wanted to have lunch at our favorite pizza place before we drove home.
"No!" she nearly shouted. "Dangit and his wife said they're going there."
We decided against pizza, and went somewhere else. The last thing we wanted to hear all through lunch was "Dangit. I shoulda got the pepperoni."
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of May 31st, 2002)
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