The First 12 Memories That Make Me Smile

by G. Sax

One: Listening to my Sony Walkman cassette player while I delivered newspapers, particularly one sunny day on the front stairs of 1054 Norton Street while flipping to Side 2 of the Talking Heads’ Little Creatures.

Two: Crossing University Avenue at Victoria in St. Paul at the age of 6 when I missed my school bus home from Maxfield Elementary but missed it with some other kids who were older than me. Mind you, Maxfield was K–3. Whoever these mystery kids were, they were just babies themselves. But I still remember how exhilarating it was to cross that busy street without an adult present.

Three: Ditching Murray Jr. High on a snowy winter day with Cameron Blackmore. I rarely ditched school, but that day sticks out as a singularly great event of junior high. It was probably one of the only times I did anything alone with Cam. We went to the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul Campus Student Union and ate vending machine food. We walked all the way to Bandana Square, which was still a viable mall at the time. Then we went back to his house near Como Lake. I eventually made it the extra couple of miles home, all on foot. Cam’s dead now and has been since high school. But I have that day as the one memory of me and him when it was just me and him.

Four: Feeling the wind in the air as I digested burritos in Novato, California, on a semi-busy street while realizing that I was in love. I wasn’t supposed to be in love, but I couldn’t help it. The food was so good, and the company was so exactly what I wanted my company to be for the rest of my life. I can only hope that every day is exactly like that day, and, guess what? It usually is. My happiness continues to be a curse to my better writing instincts, but it is the antidote to my being. And I can’t write at all if I can’t be.

Five: Singing “It’s just another one of those boring days…Dragon Snake, Dragon Snake.” This lyric will make sense to only one person in my life. He is Jon Lewis, and I spent the most formative moments of my youth with this cat. And then 30 years later, I took his wife to the Minnesota State Fair and we judged horse-and-carriage shows rather well for a couple of admission fee cheats.

Six: Reviling Mr. Muller, my uncle-bad-touch 6th-grade teacher who took me and Anthony Dent and Cory Cox and Roger Lynch to the Science Museum of Minnesota’s omni theatre to see “Genesis” on a school night. We ate dinner at his house, and the entire proceedings felt semi-formal. The other three boys were black and I was still white, and I got the distinct feeling that this weird man took pity on us as “underclass” although I already knew that I possessed superior intellect, that Anthony and Roger had superior talent, and Cory had superior cuteness. We would all be fine in life. At least until death. I don’t know what Cory and Anthony are up to these days, but Roger is gone as of 2003. I just found this out a few months back, and it really fucking bummed me out. Roger was my yang for a few years in elementary school, and I will always miss him, even if we hadn’t spoken in 20+ years and will never speak again.

Seven: Watching “The Benny Hill Show” with my great-grandfather. Watching “The Love Boat” with my great-grandfather. Watching “Fantasy Island” with my great-grandfather. Listening to an Angels-Twins exhibition game on the radio with my great-grandfather. Playing frisbee on the side of the house on Charles Avenue with my great-grandfather. Putting random bits of metal in the vise in the workshop of the basement of my great-grandfather. Playing Rummy 500 in the kitchen of my great-grandfather. Being mesmerized by the compass bobbling around on the dash of the vehicle of my great-grandfather. Quietly watching the thermostat from the hide-a-bed in the living room that would inevitably be changed in the middle of the night to a different temperature by my great-grandfather.

Eight: Enjoying rainy, dreary days in Milwaukee. Bike rides and car drives with Hunter S. Sax to parks on the East Side, playgrounds on Lake Michigan, cheap food places on North Street and Oakland Avenue, zoos in Racine, and wherever else our adventures would take me and my 3-year-old son.

Nine: Working “The Night Shift” at the snow fort on Mackubin Street, which I romanticized as far more than the snow-plowed pile across from a second-tier frozen lake and third-tier apartment complex. Oh, the way the light hit the shining snow at 9:30 p.m. on those rare, quiet nights as I sat sentry prior to the inevitable vandalism.

Ten: Getting ready before my TRUE night shift at Clean Power, a janitorial service company in Madison, Wisconsin. I generally worked three jobs at a time throughout my college experience (in bare feet, uphill both ways!), and for a time I would pump myself up for the night job with one of two polar opposites: Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” or Public Enemy’s “Brothers Gonna Work It Out.” Either way, I’d pump that shit loud and sing it louder, and then I’d vacuum and trash like a fucking demon.

Eleven: Smoking cigarettes on the windowsill of my apartment-with-a-view in Montreal, Quebec. I don’t smoke as a rule, but as an American living in Canada, I smoked my share of Du Mauriers while watching the twinkling lights of my new downtown. Then I’d go read The Trilogy ’til I fell asleep.

Twelve: Driving on I-95 in Baltimore while listening to a lyric in Q-Tip’s “Vivrant Thing” that mentions I-95. Feeling like I had it all. Feeling like I was starting a brand new day. Hearing Sting’s “Brand New Day” while driving the same stretch of I-95 and thinking Sting and I could be pals in optimism. Thinking I could write an award-winning screenplay at the Royal Farms on Key Hwy long before some chick did it in a Target in Crystal, MN.

I got memories, yo. They’re all up in here (pointing at left temple). And if I did my job, you love the way I wrote about them, even if you don’t know them. But maybe they pinch something similar in you and you stop and think and remember a piece of your life the way it should be remembered—not in crisis but in private, otherworldly elation.

An Open Letter to Ron Mexico

by G. Sax

Another football season is just around the corner, which means so is another fantasy football season. I’ve been doing this thing for more than 20 years now. I don’t have a whole lot of personal success to show for it, but I think my league is far and away more organized and historically sound than any I’ve ever come across.

Over the last few years, I’ve had some trouble getting up for fantasy football. I didn’t really watch any games last year, the year before that I was trying to coax my sports-uninterested son to enjoy the game. I’ve relentlessly pushed the league to include girlfriends, wives, pseudo-friends, children, and even hardened criminals. It’s all played out like decent drama over the years, but I think I’m just going to try to have some fun with it in 2007.

But I also think that one person has contributed to my recent lackadaisicals more than any other distraction over the years. I have had one underachieving poison on my team ever since I can remember the proliference of bad times. And he happens to be the only QB I have right now.

Just thinking of him makes me want to kill dogs. Or maybe take on a fancy alias like, oh, let’s say, Ron Mexico, and go out spreading herpes to all the little girls. Then on my way home from a date where I pass on an STD, I’ll put dope in my water bottle and try to pass through airport security.

Micheal Vick. Where did you go wrong? I know you’re a superb athlete. I know you have a heart and that you’ve stepped up for Virginia Tech. But you’re killing my spirit like you kill puppies that won’t fight for your amusement. I love it when you run for 100 yards, and I’m no fan of pitbulls, but puppies? How can I condone that. I traded away Hall of Famer Michael Irvin for so much less. Why couldn’t you just snort coke off of hookers? That’s almost charming in comparison to your hellfire.

I haven’t kicked you off my team yet, Michael (Ron), but I think I have to. I know the NFL isn’t a Boy Scout camp, I know I’ve tried to run my team like a good citizen’s brigade in an era when the criminals seem to perform best, but I see no evidence to contradict the fact that you’re too ignorant to manage yourself wisely in the NFL. And you can’t throw for 300 yards.

Metrodome Highlights

by G. Sax

Twins vs. A’s on Opening Day. Twins vs. Cubs on a rainy Friday night. Twins vs. Indians on a blistering Sunday afternoon. Twins vs. Blue Jays on Garza’s miserable MLB debut. Twins vs. Indians on a surprise Tuesday behind-homeplate ticket package from Carly’s work.

I got Santana for three of those games. C.C. Sabathia, an old Vallejo favorite, was on the field for the Indians during the Sunday game, and so was I.

The kids got to run the bases after that game, and I got to walk around the entire warning track and right down to the diamond. It’s not much of a stadium for ball, but the memories of 1987 and 1991 are very real to me, and it was personally moving to be down where the good things happened.

Hunter S. bounced off the same outfield tarp that T. Hunter bounces off of when stealing home runs. Anais made the same trek around the bags that Morneau has been trekking all year long. Carly foot tapped the same homeplate that Joe Mauer drips sweat from his sideburns onto. And I plopped my bare feet onto the same squishy fake grass and rubber-marbled undercoating that hundreds of major league ballplayers have spit all over.

The weather may not have always been cooperative outside, but, yo, it’s a dome. And the Twinks have been spectacular at the dome this year. All games were wins, and I didn’t miss Pac Bell one bit (okay, maybe a little bit, but I still prefer a hometeam win to a seat with a view).

Ol’ Ball Game

by G. Sax

That would be a helluva nickname, eh? “Ol’ Ball Game.” Skin all leathery from too much sun and smoke exposure. Lazy and fat like a spectator sport with lots of pauses and breaks. No matter. The Twins took 2 out of 3 from the Giants, I saw J.T. Snow launch a bullet into McCovey cove (his first ever direct hit), and I enjoyed some more quality time at the yard with the boy. This is the sort of shit life is made of. I could have done without the scalper jostling for my business on the Embarcadero (because, frankly, it scared the crap out of my son), yet it was nice to get two tix well below face value when I played like I was all disgusted by the seller antics.

Damn Y__________

by G. Sax

So I’m pouring apple juice into a souvenir water bottle from the Solano Steelheads 4th of July baseball game. Hunter was thirsty after hitting some balls down at the ballfield within walking distance of our home.

As I pour, I say to Hunter, “You know,” in that forlorn “you know” way that’s common of smiling older people on bad sitcoms and Disney Channel dramas.

“You know, the Steelheads don’t play this year. There aren’t any teams in their league at all. No Steelheads, no Yuma Bullfrogs, no Chico Heat, no Sonoma Crushers. It’s not just your dad that’s struggling in this economy. Entire baseball leagues are running out of money!”

To which my 8-year-old replied, “Not the Yankees.”

Play(off) Ball

by G. Sax

I’ll admit it: I love baseball. I’m glad that they settled the differences, and I’m glad that I’ll enjoy ball in October. I celebrated with a Friday night journey to Network Associates Coliseum to see my bloodline Minnesota Twins take on my adopted Oakland Athletics. I went as a Twins fan, of course, and enjoyed an exciting game between Tim Hudson and Brad Radke. The Twins weren’t themselves though and lost.

Not liking the result, I went back on Saturday night with my son in tow—an A’s fan, go figure. Lidle vs. Lohse. The Twins caught some action and made it look good until the bottom of the 8th. Same result as the night before and the A’s tied a franchise record with their 17th win in a row. The fireworks following the game were fantabulous, making the repeat visit well worth the price of gridlock traffic.

Work prevented me from going out for the Sunday afternoon finale, but I had the local Fox Sports Net coverage on the tube behind me. Mulder vs. Mays. (Are these pitching match-ups starting to stink of a playoff preview yet?) It was looking like another miserable day to be a Twins fan until the homer dome boys took their show outside with three dingers in the top of the 9th. But Guardado gave up a walk-off, three-run shot to Miguel Tejada (MVP?), making me glad I stayed home.

The truth of it is the A’s need the wins right now. And being around to see 18 wins in a row from a local team is pretty cool. But I do hope the Twins snap out of their funk in time for a playoff rematch. Better yet, I hope we get the Angels. Let the A’s deal with their Yankee and Giambi demons in the first round. I’d like to stay an A’s fan while in the Bay Area. An early Twins exit by way of “Oaktown Mojo” might rekindle Bash Brothers hatred from the days when we shared a division.