Tall tales; Also, the Not-So-Humble-Brag Thread

I put it in Literature because the description fits - "Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury". I plan to be an idiot, and I'm telling a story. And it sure will be full of sound and fury =)

The Discomfort Thread got me thinking about all the things which, well, have made me experience discomfort. It's brought back a lot of memories, most of them quite awesome (IMO). And hanging out with gramps so much has exposed me to so many "back in the day" stories, that I, too, am a "back in the day" storyteller. And I always fancied a biography, but I'm not really on the track to have done anything worthy of one. Since this is as close as I may get, I figure what the hell =)

I find y'all interesting, so maybe you'll share. A wild ride home where you almost died, that crazy hunting trip that no one believes, that time you fought the law and you won. Whatever it is, I guess this is the place for it.

The Discomfort Thread spin-off. Let's see where it goes...

I saw my girlfriend screwing another guy
when I was passing by a motel window,
does that count? I stopped in my tracks,
unable to move till they were done. I don't
think I ever got over it.

The knot in my hammy reminded me of this one...

It was baseball season, had to have been '00. And you really have to know the team to get all these stories. We were complete and utter assholes. There's no other way to put it. We were the type of team that, at a glance, you would bet that 95% of us would be in jail by season's end. And that would've been a good bet. We were just rough. No class, no honor, we were in that magical time when we had no responsibilities, no school, no bills, no cares, no worries, and at the absolute peak of testosterone fueled madness.

We rolled to the games in two cars - the drunks and the stoners. 5 guys in the drunk car, all brown bagging 40's of Blue Light and Colt .45. The stoners (with me at the helm), rolled with a two and a half foot tall bong stuffed into the middle console. We'd sync up our CD players to blast the same tunes out of our cars in stereo (DMX, always), and show up to the field in a cloud of disaster. Guys pouring out of the drunk car, clouds rolling out of the stoner car; it's a baseball field pregame. It's birds chirping, it's wind sighing. Then, from afar, the thump of bass and the rattling of car parts. Oh god... here they come.

This was a 21 and under league, mind you. And it wasn't exactly "for fun", it was a serious league. The opposing team dressed to the nines, all the gear, tucked in shirts, doing legit drills. And then there was us. Ridiculously tight pants, short pants with striped tube socks, old and tattered "Atari" t-shirt, a ratty old "John Olerud" helmet our first baseman wore... the Bad News Bears didn't have s#$% on us. For real.

And we were assholes! We didn't "chirp". There was no "chatter". We berated our opponents from the moment we all poured out of our cars to the moment we peeled out of the parking lot. All of us, and loudly. The very first person throws their very first warm up toss... "HE'S OUT OF GAS! HE CAN'T FIND IT! HEEEEEEE'S RATTLLLLLLLED!!!" 11 madmen screaming at the top of their lungs from start to finish. What a row. It actually got so bad that upon arriving to one of our games, the umpire met us on the way to the field and forbid us to taunt the other team. He met us in the lot! Our reputation had preceded us. So what did we do? We did the exact same thing we had been doing all year; we just did it to each other XD Screaming at our own pitcher, taunting our own errors; we were more loud and more boisterous than we had ever been (and that's saying a lot), but we followed the ump's decree to a "T". Man... we were so bad.

But we were good. We'd f#$% around the entire game, showing off, using poor form, and every time, we'd go down. Come the fifth inning, we'd have a pow-wow, say "It's time to get the oat-bag, gotta get that oat-bag now. OAT BAG ON THREE! One, two, three, OAT BAG!!!" (Seinfeld reference), and we'd go to work. No matter what, those last two innings we went on a tear, each and every time, and come back to win. Never missed the playoffs, were always the top of the standings. We were legend.

This particular game was the same ol story. Everyone blazed or hammered out of their mind, acting a fool. Playing in the city, went went down immediately. Come the fifth, it was time for business. We were down by 6 or 7 and our first two batters got on base. Now I'm up. Cimma (the catcher), says "C'mon Fisk, we need a homer!" I laugh right in his face. I wasn't ever, wouldn't ever be, and had never been a home run hitter. I hit lasers, dug it out, then stole all the bases to get into position. That's what I did. And not only did he request a homer, the left field fence was an absurd 580' away. Center field was like 630'. I have no idea why they even had a fence, but they did and it was labeled. It would take me three hits to hit it that far. So I laugh in his face and he eggs me on. "C'mon, you can do eet!" I shake my head and turn to walk to the plate when he hits me with it - "Hit a homer or HomeSlice isn't real!.

Ah, the legend of HomeSlice. HomeSlice was a 35yr old part time bus driver who lived with his parents. When we were age 14-16, he would see us playing hockey in the lot and come play, too. And, being 14-16, we teased the hell out of him. Nothing against him; we teased everybody. But he could not take it. One day I called him HomeSlice and he lost it. By the time I called him it two or three more times, he flipped his s#$% and stormed off in a tirade. But he'd always come back, and always acted like nothing ever happened. And, of course, I'd still call him HomeSlice and he'd continue to flip out. Soon, all the kids called him that; I even heard kids still call him that to this day. So he became just another legend in this land of losers I call home.

Well, when Cimma challenged me with the legitimacy of HomeSlice, it stopped me dead. I looked right at him and told him no. He just shrugged. "Then he ain't real". I stared right at him and pointed behind me with bat in hand, exasperated. "580'!" Cimma just shrugged. "Ain't real". I pointed dead in his face and told him, "HomeSlice is REAL!", and with that, turned and headed for the plate.

Now, I was a stroker. Gods, but could I stroke that puss. No signs for me, no strategy with Fisk at the plate. First pitch? 3-0 count? Men on 1st and 3rd? None of it mattered. Fisk was gonna stroke that puss and s#$% was gonna go down. So when he threw that first pitch fastball, there was none of that "slow the game down" or "take a look at it". There wasn't even any "keep the elbow up" or "don't turn your head". I "Mighty Casey'd" that pill for all it was worth. I heard the ping but didn't feel a thing. Oh s#$%... =D

I launch from that hole so fast I screwed up my entry into first. I stumbled due to that and get my feet under me heading for second. Straight line, I would've ran a 3 second 40m. Man, but I was moving! I had unhitched the wagon and was hauling the mail. I look as I round first and the center fielder... is still in a dead run backwards. As I enter the turn into second, I look again and see the ball finally hit the ground with the fielder in pursuit.

I stutter step to hit second in stride, hit it, and as a dig to get the speed back lost by the stutter, I feel the ping in the hammy. It just went. I was young, 19 maybe. A blown hammy was a very temporary thing. Maybe I can't hit hyperdrive for the rest of the week, so what? It'll be back the week after that. As soon as I feel that ping I let up, happy to settle for a stand up triple. I look up and the third base coach is losing his mind waving me in as if he was trying to take off and fly himself. Well, f#$% to the yes on that. I dig back in, trounce third, plant to burst to home, and the hammy gives up the ghost.

I damn near fell flat on my face. I felt nothing. No pain, no tightness. The leg just didn't work anymore. Every time I planted, I dug to make up for the stumble, and every time I dug, I just stumbled again. So I'm bouncing home like Blackbeard on his peg leg, and the whole team is at home. Screaming, jumping, "DOWN!!!!". I bounce, I bounce, I see the catcher tense... here comes the throw. I dive.

I won't say he had me dead to rights. I will say that it was probably the closest call I had ever had, as I usually blow the doors off pick off plays. It was a perfect throw, a perfect tag, a perfect slide. And as I come to a stop and start to roll, the ump is looming over me going just as nuts as everyone else. "SAFE! SAFE!!"

I didn't even care. I hauled myself up with my heart thumping out of my eyes, my leg a numb, useless stump. My best friend came over for our requisite jumping chest bump; I tried but I couldn't even get off the ground. I took his balls to my chin and he just bowled me right over. Cheering, chanting, our whole side just exploded and was continuing to explode. That ball rolled all the way to the fence. Some 630 odd feet. Two cut off men, no bobbles, no errors. It wasn't over the fence, but it went into the books as an official home run. And somewhere in the din of that row, the battle cry of "OatBag" died. From its ashes, the new one emerged - "1, 2, 3, HOMESLICE IS REAL!!!

That hammy hurts to this day. Maybe 2, 3 times a year it just knots up for no reason. But it's one pain that every time I feel it, all I can do is smile. Smile with the knowledge that HomeSlice is real =)

good story!

Quote: odiousgambit

good story!

Glad you enjoyed it. I was wondering whether to continue =)

That team, tho... man, we had some good times. So many stories we retell every time we see each other, so many memories. We were so bad, but so good on top of it, that I can't pinpoint how I feel about it. Shame? Pride? Regret? Thankfulness? Yes on all counts lol. You just couldn't believe some of the things that happened in that summer league...

My best friend (Colon) wound up with access to equipment in college. One day, he showed up with a bag full of stripes. You know, referee jerseys. And you're damn right, we all grabbed one two sizes too small and sported them for the game. An entire team of screaming referees, all of the fatter kids with their guts showing on account of the too small shirts. A total clown show wherever we went. We got cussed out by the refs for that one and had to change.

Another time, Colon... I shit you not, he went up to bat without a bat. And I don't mean he feigned it or pretended to. He was the lead off batter. He went to the other side of the plate just outside the box, and as the pitcher threw his warm up pitches, Colon took his warm up swings. You know, to get the timing down. All with no bat in his hands! Catcher called coming down, everyone got set, and Colon steps into the box. Christ almighty, I ain't never seen nothing like it. He hikes up his pant legs, "reaches out" to tap the plate with his invisible bat, and then readies up for the pitch. The pitcher just stood there, like "wtf?" and shrugs to the ump. The ump signals to come on with it, and the pitcher begins tossing. And if that wasn't bad enough, the next pitch Colon took a check swing which was called a strike, and starts arguing that "his bat never crossed the plate"! OMFG, we were all dying. Cimma chucked him a bat after that and he hit a single XD

The best one, before I end the baseball portion, was against Springville. For whatever reason, we created a bitter rivalry with these guys. And by bitter, I mean f#$%ing bitter. Which was weird, as Springville was like our "sister city". We all hung out there, had friends there, partied there... but man, we hated these guys. Most of all we hated "Pretty Ricky", their star pitcher. Taunting these guys was a given. Getting them pissed was a given. But the overwhelming goal was to bean Pretty Ricky every time he came to the plate.

The story starts with that concept. We're playing away, game just started. They're on their first ups, lead off batter is at the plate. Pretty Ricky is batting third. The very first pitch, Colon throws the "girl pitch". Colon is an amazing pitcher, was throwing 80mph at age 17, had a curve that broke like a Chinese ratchet, and an actual effective slider. The "girl pitch" was just another way to mock. The exaggerated wind up, the wrist flick, the floppy hand at the finish... you know, a girl pitch XD What made it even more hilarious was that it actually worked. Everyone knew Colon threw fire, so when one comes floating in at 45mph, it f#$%ed everyone up. And this time was no different, but while the leadoff had to stutter and put a hitch in his swing, he did make contact and eeked a single out of it.

Now, again, the game has just started. It's the bottom of the first. Their first batter just hit the first pitch thrown to them, and it was the girl pitch. So when Colon yells "TIME OUT!" and turns to his infield for a strategy session, we're already just about having fits. It... it was all just so f#$%ing absurd XD

So we run to our leader and he says to us, he says "I didn't mean that. We need a double play here." That's it. That's all he needed to say. The rest didn't need to be said, and we all understood it anyway. "We need a double play to get the bases clean so I can bean Pretty Ricky".

I run back to third and set up, turn to Bif on shortstop and ask him if he's ready. Through barely contained laughter, he confirms. Colon steps to the mound. There's no muss, no fuss. No signs, no curves, no sliders. Every pitch is just a "warm up" fastball on the inside. Nice and straight, easy for the batter to hit. Just the way we wanted it.

A few pitches go by, and sure enough, dude unloads on one. A screaming line drive, just to my left. I take two steps, dive, and catch the damn thing. As soon as I hit the ground, I open my glove and let the ball fall out. I snap to my feet and pick it up with my bare hand, you know, so the ref sees it's a live ball still, and rifle it to Bif on 2nd for the force. He pivots and fires it to first. DOUBLE PLAY!!!

JUST AS WE F#$%ING PLANNED!! Half the team cheered. 4 of us in the infield damn near fell out laughing. You just can't make this stuff up. We were so bad, but GD, were we good XD And do I need to finish the story? Pretty Ricky got to the plate, Colon showed him two junk balls, then he beaned him so GD hard, I swear on my life, the ball ricocheted off him and rolled all the way to the first base coach.

Mission. Accomplished. God, but I miss those days =)

I'd write about my one and probably only home run, but I can't write dem sporting words so good. Suffice to say, knowing the rules better than the other team helps...

I had so many from back in college. People used to tell stories back and forth but my crew and I would be telling them and eventually anyone else would just listen, often shaking their heads, wondering how we managed to live. It could have been a movie. One I remember was the ultimate April Fool's Day gag.

The five of us were splitting apartments. The two wrestlers were going their own ways and the other three of us were getting another place. This was because they were closer friends and the wrestlers lived like swine. It should also be stated that things were such that this apartment had by now basically became a lunatic asylum. The Super Bowl when the Bills played the Redskins had almost all of that wrestling team at a party. There were 17 orders to the pizza joint across the street. I had to look at the paper to see the final score. I was worried as could be about the cops coming because this wrestling program was the level of Notre Dame football at the time, to have half the team caught at a speakeasy would have been a very bad thing.

So three of us are getting a nicer place. Signing deadline was April 1, but it was typical corporate BS. You had to take your place by March 31 or it went on the market. We wanted a nicer place because where we were was trashed beyond trashed. A series of parties with 50+ people will do that. So I say I want to sign for this one but upgrade if I can. Landlord says no can do. We back and forth until I get him to promise to hold it but I had to be there at 0900 sharp to take my pick of the places that were in better shape.

I get there at 9 and by 9:05 I have picked the new place. He asks if the others are staying and I say not sure but I will send them right over. I go back and tell the one about three of us moving. I say, "Bro, you better get over there, he is giving away this apartment as we speak!"

Guy gives me an "Ohmygod!" and runs, I mean RUNS, across the parking lot.

He gets back and asks what on earth I was talking about, so I say, "April Fools, dummy!"
Guy thinks a second, realizes he was punked, and says I got him so good he will not even bother trying to get me back.

Now, this might be the end of it, but it is not. Seems the guy was having major problems. He more or less got cut from the wrestling team and as if that is not bad enough his dad was a HS wrestling coach and rather disappointed. I think his GF was near dumping him and a few other things.

So two or so days later he goes to the next door neighbor's and kicks in the door, tells them he hates his frat and is joining theirs, takes one of their jackets, and leaves.


Oh, did I mention he was naked at the time? It was the kind of thing that happened so fast the neighbor needed a few seconds to digest it before reacting. Guy came over shall we say very upset. We knew them. Other wrestler told him to leave it alone, go back and finish watching TPIR, and he will get the jacket back.

His parents came and got him. He thought enough of me to tell his mother I was one of the two other roommates to settle up with on the bills. He never moved back though he did commute the next semester. I guess the night before he told his GF about bad things all happening to him and "people pulling April Fools Jokes on him." Later I felt kind of bad.

What is it about making someone else lose their s#$% that guys find so funny? I can't put my finger on it or explain it. I just know it's hilarious XD

OK, this one I've told before (in Aye's WoV thread "Certain Injury... Or Take a Chance?"), but this time in full detail. The worst ATV wreck I ever had.

Of course, first the "pertinent info" lead in. I had broken my wrist in hockey, had to sit out all damn season. They gave me a soft cast for a solid month, not actually casting it until I was very nearly set to be released from care. The cast wasn't the typical cloth and plaster, it was more like a plastic and epoxy. Well, I couldn't f#$%ing stand it. Being restricted like that? Drove me nuts. On the second day, I had the wire cutters out and cut the damn thing off. I still used it when I needed to - showering, working, sleeping, you know, times when it was at risk of being bumped or hit. But when just sitting on the couch or at my work desk, ahhhh. Relief. Plus it allowed me to go through range of motion so as to lessen atrophy pain, which is by far the very worst part of any injury.

So I show up to the ortho, he says I'm good to go and he just needs the saw to cut it off. I laught and tell him I just need a pair of scissors. I had zip tied the thing back on and he hadn't noticed. I got some funny looks and comments for that one, but whatever, it healed without incident.

It still hurt like hell, though. I missed perfect atrophy, but there was still enough present to mess me up pretty good. So... what better rehab than hitting the motocross track? =p

We started off trail riding. I had been in a cast doing nothing for 2 months, and this was the day I got my cast off. I did take it easy... for a bit. And it hurt like hell, but after a few hours of putting around, then driving around, then f#$%ing around, either it started to loosen up or I was just too into the activity to notice. So when they mentioned the track, I was all for it.

The track was decent. No whoop-de-doos or moguls or any of that crap I hate. Just a few singles and doubles, a very technical, twisty lay out, and one high speed section with a monster of a table top. Really, this thing was more suited to trophy trucks than motocross. Just a huge pyramid of dirt, had to been 25' tall and 70' long, and it was almost immediately after a paperclip hairpin.

So I'm messing around, working the doubles, messing around with my cousin on his giant Can-Am Renegade 800, and I just can't nail this table top. I kept shorting it and landing on top. I eventually adjusted my entry into the hairpin, giving up the speed through it to maximize my speed out of it. Finally, topped out in second gear, I landed right on the edge. Still on the top, but now I've got it figured out. All I need to do is get more speed out of the corner so I can get into third gear. Mid third gear will be perfect.

I rip around the track again, ready to bomb this damn table top. I came flying into the hairpin way hot to give me the momentum I needed. Basically, I wanted to "lose control" so it slid a full 180*, and then pin it so I could carry some speed and not lose any sliding on exit. Sure enough, I didn't have any powerslide on exit eating up my speed as I wasn't trying to turn. I had already turned and was straight hammer down toward the table top.

As I just about hit the rise, I think "Pah, if mid 3rd is good, balls out third will be great". This thing was so huge that a 7 mph difference wasn't going to matter. I'd just land mid transfer instead of the very beginning. So from the moment I spun into the hairpin to the moment I left the Earth, I pinned that f#$%er and never let up.

What I had missed was that in all of the nonsense that was sliding and spinning and whatnot to get the thing turned in the hairpin, I short shifted and never dropped into first gear. So when I came ripping out, I was already in second. When I topped out in that and had to shift to second, I really shifted into third. And when I shifted into third for the approach, I really just put it into 4th. So what started out as a mid third gear hit to "nail it good", unbeknownst to me, had turned into a fourth gear rocket job that I was not expecting in the least.

I railed up that face so hard I compressed my suspension to the max. So when I squatted to pump it, it bottomed out. The instant I left the ground, the rebound sent me skewed waaaay past center. It yawed so hard I was instantly aware that I wasn't going to land "a little off". I was going to land at about a 70* angle off true ><

My first reaction, and by "reaction" I mean physical reaction, as there was not yet time for thought, was to lift my leg over the seat. Before I could even comprehend my actions, I had already just about completely bailed out. I had a split second to think, and GD, but does the mind work fast when it needs to! Before I even started descending... I'm still on the way up, mind you... my brain was able to recognize the options. Saving it wasn't one. I was never really good at mid air adjustments unless I knew before hand I'd need one, and even then, they're more "suggestions" than "adjustments". And really, Ricky Carmichael wouldn't have been able to save this one. It was too far gone. I knew that if I bailed out, there was zero chance of walking away unhurt. I was some 35' in the air doing 50mph. You don't just walk that s#$% off. So I knew I had to sit there and take it. Stay on the wheeler, let the suspension soak the big hit. I'm gonna wreck, and it's gonna be spectacular, but that first hit is the killer. Remove it from the equation.

I bring my leg back over the seat and brace for impact.

What a fecking disaster! Landing at damn near a 90* angle from direction of travel... imagine doing 50 in your vehicle and just stepping out of it. It's not pretty. It yawed to the right, so I got thrown left. The wheeler soaked the big hit, just as I planned. But my weak ass broken wrist couldn't hold on and got ripped off the bar. My right leg likewise got pulled over the seat as I spun off. As the wheeler rebounded from the impact, I suppose I was technically still on it. My left hand was on the bar, my left leg was on the footpeg. But my whole right side was off and I was facing backwards, right side floating in the air.

At this point I knew I had to bail. No sense in getting run over by the damned thing. So I separated from the wheeler, put my feet down, and round two started. My feet hit, still going probably 40mph now, and rocket in the air out from under me. Next to hit was my upper back / shoulder area. I bounce from that, do a complete backflip, and land on my upper back / shoulders again. One more bounce and backflip from that, land sort of on my knees. Momentum's still at play, though, so I continue to roll from knees, to butt, to back, to shoulders, up and over to my feet... and I finally stopped. On my feet, standing up.

I just stood there for a second. "Not dead" is about what I thought. Hunched over, I hobbled off the track and collapsed onto the berm. I sat and tried to feel, trying to see how many things were broken and how bad. I couldn't feel anything but the adrenaline sizzle. Hands worked, fingers worked, arms worked... I took off my helmet. I could hear the v-twin scream of the Can-Am getting louder. I pulled out a smoke.

My cousin skidded to a stop wide eyed and almost panicked right in front of me. That sort of threw me because he's a gruff badass, that one. "Ambulance?!" he practically yells at me. Lol, that's it. Just "Ambulance?!" It was so unlike him I actually laughed and it made me confused. Ambulance? For what? He started jabbering a hundred miles an hour, again, something so very, very unlike him. "Dude! Are you OK?! You were over the trees! Everyone saw it! Are you OK?!" Now I can hear the thump of the other guys tapped out and on their way.

He was so scared it made me scared. I got up to show him I wasn't dead, and that's when I could finally feel pain. Back hurt pretty good, but my wrist was just a mess. I just kind of stood there, taking inventory. I hurt, so that's good. Not dead or paralyzed or anything. Legs move, shoulders move, wrist hurts, but I can even move that.

By the time the rest of the party screamed over, I was already in the shrubs retrieving my wheeler. Fecking thing didn't have a mark on her. It just rolled by it's onesies, down the straight, off the track, and buried itself in the scrub. Never flipped once, the bastard thing. I pulled it out, and to show I was just peachy keen, hopped on it and returned to the "start line" where all the gear and trucks were.

Everyone was still going bonkers. Now, I'm not exactly a stranger to wrecks, and especially my cousin is no stranger to seeing me wreck. So seeing the emotion they all had weirded me out a bit. And that's all they kept saying "Dude, we saw you from here. You were over the trees. We heard it from here. We were sure you were dead. No one's ever hit the table like that!" I looked, now that I was there, and I could see why. The track was in the middle of an old apple orchard. And you really couldn't see any of it but what was right in front of us. And you could hear the braking zones, accelerating zones, when someone took to the air. But you couldn't see nothing. I could tell when some of the younger hot shots hit the table, and nope, you couldn't see nothing. I knew how big they went when they hit it, and even they were invisible. For them to have seen me... that was a bomb.

And that's it. I had a few more smokes, took some water, and let the sizzle settle. Once it did, I did a sort of inventory, saw that nothing was seriously injured, and hopped back on my wheeler. Rode for a couple more hours, too, though certainly without the same gusto as before lol.

Just another day for the Mad Bomber ;)

wow, Face, this stuff is just pouring out of you now. I'll try to catch up.