Bat Wars

Yesterday, while checking roll in my 4th period P.E. class, something flitted by me. I just assumed it was some sort of flying insect and didn’t pay much attention to it. Within seconds, however, it happened again. I looked up just in time to see a small bat dip and dive right over the heads of the girl’s P.E. class across the gym. Bedlam quickly ensued. I am quite sure that this country has not seen panic like that since Orson Welles’ infamous War of the Worlds broadcast in October of 1938. As the day progressed five more bats made appearances. Each time they appeared total chaos would break out. I managed to catch and remove three of the little buggers and figured it was only a matter of time before I caught the rest. I went home yesterday afternoon figuring the days’ incidents were a fluke and things would get back to normal by the next morning.



Last night the phone rang and the caller ID showed it was a pre-recorded message from my school district. I picked up and the voice of my principal came across the line saying, “There were bats in our gym and school today and that steps were being taken to take care of the problem.” She also added, “if your child came into contact with a bat they need to be evaluated by a physician immediately.” The overall impression was that our campus was overrun with hordes of blood thirsty bats that were attacking everyone in sight. I rolled my eyes as the message concluded. I couldn’t help but chuckle at how this whole deal had been totally blown out of proportion. Shortly thereafter I turned in for the night.



I had not given the bats a single thought as I drove into work this morning. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by a gentleman in a hazard suit who was busy putting a “closed” sign on the door of the gym. He identified himself as being from the, I’m not kidding here, “environmental unit”. “The environmental unit of what?” I asked. He just finished putting up his sign and told me, “This area is off limits until further notice.” He then walked into the gym where he joined five other guys in hazard suits who appeared to be studying the ceiling of the gym intently. They were no doubt plotting how to rid the gym of the potentially disease ridden and rabies crazed bats. Six hours later, as I was leaving school I peeked into the gym. The same six guys were inside still staring at the ceiling. I guess they haven’t figured out exactly how they are going to rid our school of the flying mammal menace.

I’m not sure how this is going to play out tomorrow. I know the gym will still be “on shutdown”. All I know is that I’m taking my camera to work. I have this vision of those six guys in their hazard suits running around the gym with butterfly nets trying to capture those six tiny bats. You can bet those pictures will end up online somewhere. I will keep you posted.

My best…

Dogs and Cats

I recently received one of those forwarded "funny" emails. As we all know, most of the time these emails aren't really funny at all. However, this time was the exception. The email highlighted the differences between dogs and cats via "diary entries". I really thought it was funny and pretty much hit the nail on the head. The "diary entries" are below...enjoy.

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary....

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk Bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary…

Day 983 of my captivity...

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets.

Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet.. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now.....

My best...

Red Belly Day

School started up again this past week. I watched with amusement as the 7th and 8th graders wandered into the building on the first day. It is as quiet as they will be all year. They were just one big bleary- eyed hoard. The 6th graders, on the other hand, came in with a different sort of look on their faces. The look was a mix of confusion and fear. They really don’t have much to be worried about. They have their own hallway and don’t mix with the older kids much at all. However, you can’t convince them that they have nothing to worry about. You see, they’ve heard “stories” about what sometimes happens to 6th graders in middle school. I can relate to their fear as I, myself, as a 5th grader getting ready to make the jump to junior high once feared the dreaded “red belly day”.

All 5th grade boys lived in fear of the red belly. The story was that 8th graders from the junior high across the street would get together two or three times a year and venture over to the elementary school to administer the standard initiation for all soon to be 6th grade boys. That initiation was the much dreaded red belly. According to the legend, the older boys would grab a helpless little elementary kid and hold him down. One of them would then lift the little kid’s shirt up and slap him on the stomach repeatedly thus creating the “red belly”. This may sound ridiculous now but let me tell you there wasn’t a 5th grader in school who wasn’t terrified of the thought of receiving a red belly. Hazing was still very much alive back in the late 1970s and early 1980s so it seemed plausible to us.

Several times during the year the rumor would be whispered that it was red belly day and we had better all watch out. It didn’t matter that nobody actually knew anyone who had received a red belly (we assumed nobody had survived) as the mere mention of this being “the day” would send scores of 5th grade boys into a panic. All the proof we needed that this was a real phenomenon was the fact that our elementary school let out 15 minutes earlier than the junior high. The reason for this, it was surmised, was to give us a head start on the blood-thirsty belly busting 8th graders. Lingerers who failed to take advantage of this head start risked being pounded. I’m willing to bet that nobody hated red belly day more than the school nurse. Without fail, 5th grade boys would become “ill” en masse and need to go home early. I wonder if that nurse ever knew what was really behind these miniature epidemics? Red belly day was also the day we all decided to run, not walk, home from school. We weren’t scared, of course, we just needed some extra exercise.

Needless to say, I never received a red belly nor did any of my friends. Of course, once I reached junior high safely I perpetuated the legend of the red belly by telling my younger brothers what was waiting for them on an, as yet, undecided date. I know my friends did the same with their little brothers. To the best of my knowledge, the legend lives on to this very day in my hometown.

As far as I know, the legend of the red belly was confined to my little corner of Southeast Texas. However, every now and then I will catch a glimpse of a 6th grade boy running down the street away from our campus for all he’s worth and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, he isn’t running for “extra exercise” but because of his fear of having his mid-section beaten on like a bongo drum.

As the 6th graders came into school this week I tried my best not to chuckle at their stuttering voices and big as saucers eyes. After all, I understand their fear. Even now, once or twice a year I will have a dream where I am running down Helena Avenue away from a pack of torch bearing pitchfork wielding 8th graders who want nothing more than to slap my belly until it turns fire engine red. Rational? Maybe not, but what if there is a list of the "one's that got away" out there somewhere? That is why,even now, I always sit with my back to the wall when we go out to eat. After all, those 8th graders are relentless.

My best…

Whiffle Ball Wars

As a P.E. teacher/coach, one of the activities I most look forward to during the school year is the annual whiffle ball unit. My enthusiasm stems partially from a life long love of the game of baseball. However, the main reason I love the whiffle ball unit is that it takes me back to the summers of my youth when my two brothers, our friend Erik, and I would wage many a whiffle ball war in our front yard. I played organized baseball as a kid, of course. I went from Pee Wee League, to Little League, to Babe Ruth League ball. While I was successful and enjoyed my time in these leagues, I don’t think I ever enjoyed the game more than when the four of us got together and battled with that plastic bat and ball in the yard.

We didn’t start out playing whiffle ball. We had played ball using real bats and a tennis ball in a vacant lot down the block from our house. It was really a great set up until some greedy contractor had the nerve to build a house on that lot. I still remember the morning we walked down to play and saw that foundation work had begun. This is still a sensitive topic in my family. Whenever it is mentioned, if you look closely at my brother Greg, you can see tears welling up in his eyes. Poor Erik wore black for weeks he was so upset. It is rumored that he toyed with a voodoo doll that looked a lot like the contractor responsible but to no avail. Each of us still makes it a point to spit in that yard whenever we are in the old neighborhood.

Fortunately, we discovered whiffle ball. A whiffle ball is a baseball sized plastic ball that has a lot of holes in it. It looks just like those practice golf balls only bigger. The great thing about it is it won’t fly too far making it ideal for smaller areas like a gym or our front yard. We couldn’t really play true baseball as there were only two people per team but we adapted our rules and came up with a true hybrid game. Balls that were fair and hit the ground were ruled singles, balls that landed fair and rolled across the driveway were doubles, balls that landed fair and then rolled into the street and along the curb were triples, and balls that cleared the driveway on the fly were homers. Any ball caught in the air was an out. A batter could also be put out by tagging him with the ball, or hitting him with a thrown ball, before he reached base. We enjoyed this violent aspect of the game immensely. We also had to employ the ever popular “ghost runner” quite a bit.

My brother Steve was the best pitcher. He didn’t throw hard but could make that whiffle ball dance and dart like you couldn’t believe. He would not only strike you out but embarrass you as well. I remember once taking a mighty swing at what must have been a screwball. It looked like a strike until it broke sharply into my body. You haven’t been humiliated until you strike out swinging at a ball that ends up hitting you in the crotch. That, my friends, is pain on several different levels.

We took these games very seriously. We would keep stats and standings and the losers would endure a lot of trash talking. We even wore those plastic MLB batting helmet replicas. It was probably cute for a while but it got a little embarrassing as we entered late junior high and early high school. We would keep a sharp eye out for anyone coming down the street that we knew (especially girls). If we saw anyone coming we would “take a break” and get out of sight until the interlopers passed. Despite the potential for social catastrophe that was always present when we donned the plastic helmets and went to battle with the plastic ball and bat we kept it up until I (the oldest) was a junior in high school. Were we nerds? A thousand times yes. Would I love to go back just one more time to get another crack at Steve’s breaking ball? A thousand times yes, again.

I came across two of my old plastic batting helmets in the attic a couple of weeks ago. I will admit to you that I tried them on. I didn’t have a mirror up there but I knew I looked good. For just a moment I was back with the guys waiting for that one fat pitch that I could deposit over the driveway for a homerun. Then my wife called to me from the garage below. I quickly removed the helmet before she saw me wearing it. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed, I just, like in the old days, needed to “take a break”.

My best…

The Ballad of "Baggy"

Coaching middle school boys is…well, very different than coaching high school boys. My main duties as a middle school coach are to teach solid fundamentals and do all I can to keep as many boys as possible in the program. I’m expected to send as many players as I can up to the high school football team. The theory is that the more kids they have to pick from, the more good athletes they will be able to find. It makes sense if you think about it and it is good for me as it lessens the pressure to win every game on the middle school level. The drawback is that I’m expected to keep pretty much everybody. It is true that some kids who can’t walk and chew gum at the same time in middle school will blossom into good athletes in high school. However, I’ve found that 99.9% of the time a middle school spaz will grow into a high school spaz. This is the true story of one of those kids I had to endure knowing full well he would never play a down in high school.

“Baggy”, the nickname his fellow students bestowed upon him, was actually kind of a cute kid. He was very short and pudgy. He wore round glasses with black frames that made him look like a cross between an owl and Harry Potter (Sort of a mini Larry King). The lenses were very thick. The kid had the eyesight of a mole. He was a very poor athlete and, possibly, the slowest kid I’ve ever coached. I could have timed his forty yard dash with a sundial. The other kids picked on “Baggy” unmercifully. They were terrible to him. I don’t think a day went by that somebody didn’t pull “Baggy’s” underwear up to his neck. I really felt bad for him and tried to protect him as best I could. Then a funny thing happened. I realized that “Baggy” was a horrible little kid. He was rude, obnoxious, crude, and a general dill weed. The other kids didn’t pick on him because he was some little helpless nerd. They were just retaliating for some terrible thing “Baggy” had said to them.

As the season went on I still had to protect “Baggy”. This kid could not keep his mouth shut and all my other players wanted to kill him. I was often tempted to put “Baggy” into some sort of practice drill where he would get what was coming to him, but I didn’t. I’d like to say it was my superior morality that prevented me from doing this but it was more my fear of lawyers. Anyway, the season progressed and I managed to keep “Baggy” alive. I even managed to get him into each game for a play or two.

Our second to last game was against a team from across town. I hated away games that year because I had to sit next to “Baggy”. I had to do this to protect him from the horde in the back of the bus that wanted to do him much bodily harm. I REALLY did not enjoy his company on these bus rides. Well, we arrived and the game began. Needless to say, “Baggy” did not play early in games when the outcome was still in doubt. He typically played one play a game toward the end of the fourth quarter once it was clear which way the game would go. This game was different, however, as we were a lot better than our opponents and got out to a big lead in the first half. So, I put “Baggy” in at cornerback for the last play of the second quarter (CB is a good place to hide a bad athlete in middle school as most teams don’t throw often). The opposing coach took one look at him and called a sweep to his side of the field. Their running back was a big guy and took dead aim at “Baggy” in the flat. Now the poor kid was terrified and completely frozen in his tracks. Their running back could have easily gone around him. However, he lowered his shoulder and collided head on with “Baggy”. At the point of contact their seemed to be some kind of explosion. Small colorful objects flew in all directions. I really thought “Baggy” had blown up and his innards were being propelled all over the field. As “Baggy” lay on the field like a slug, I saw he was, in fact, completely intact. However, Smarties, Sweettarts, and Butterfingers surrounded his limp body. It seems “Baggy” tended to get hungry during games and had stuffed candy in his uniform pants to snack on while waiting for his one play. The referee never even blew the whistle to end the play. He just stood over the prostrate body of “Baggy” and softly said, “Unbelievable.”

The quality of football might not be as good in middle school as it is in high school. Nor do we play in huge beautiful stadiums. But I do know one thing. You will never see a fourth string cornerback blow up like a piñata on a Friday night in Texas. That sort of fun is reserved for Tuesday afternoons only.

My best…

Wimbledon, Pigeons, and Barn Swallows

Officials at The All England Tennis & Croquet Club, home of the Wimbledon Tennis Championships, are coming under fire from PETA for the shooting of some pigeons. It seems that the pigeons are pretty numerous and have been a problem for some time. As a matter of fact, the club actually employs two hawks whose express purpose is to discourage pigeon patronage. I’m not sure how you “employ” a hawk. Do they pay taxes? Are they unionized? Ah, but I digress. It seems the hawks turned chicken and stopped putting up a defense against the pigeon menace. The pigeons began dive bombing players at Centre Court and dropping little “gifts” on patrons at the club restaurant. This, understandably, was deemed bad for business. So, marksmen were hired to plug a few of the offenders. These pigeon punishers took out a few, winged a few (pun fully intended), and told the rest to spread the word of what would happen to them if they showed their beaks in the vicinity again. Shortly, and predictably, thereafter, officials from PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) issued a statement condemning the action and notifying the police. So, it is quite the mess over there (pun fully intended, again).

Now, I’m not sure I agree with the shooting of these pigeons. It seems that pooping on tables might not warrant capital punishment. Maybe something along the lines of a fine from the health department and being forced to watch Disney’s “Chicken Little” for 24 straight hours would have been punishment enough for these foul fowls (Ok, that one was a little much even for me). However, I can sympathize with these Wimbledon officials as I have a similar problem. My front and back porches have been taken over by flocks of barn swallows.

This began several years ago when a pair of these swallows built a little nest under the eave of the front porch. They were cute, quiet, and just trying to raise a family in peace like the rest of us. So, I left them alone. Their babies hatched and they all flew away after a couple of months. No big deal. Well, it seems that barn swallows return to the same place year after year to nest. It also seems they decided to bring the extended family with them this year. The word must have spread to some of their friends as more swallows moved onto the eave under our back porch. I don’t care much for the back yard birds, as there are three of them sharing a nest. I can’t say I approve of such a living arrangement. Who knew swallows were swingers? Well, it didn’t take long before they made a complete mess of both porches. It is too bad there is no market for barn swallow “guano” as I could be rich.

Well, my little bride decided this was an unacceptable situation and told me I needed to get rid of them. Easier said than done, I’m afraid. I’ve taken a power hose to their muddy nests repeatedly. They just retreated, waited until I was finished, and began rebuilding. Being the intelligent guy that I am, I realized, after doing this daily for about two weeks, that this tactic wasn’t working. I suggested buying a couple of fake owls to place on the porch. I hoped this would scare the little rats with wings off. My little bride, however, wouldn’t have it. She felt it would make the front of the house ugly. She didn’t answer when I questioned her about what two feet of swallow poop would do for the décor (she did lovingly suggest it might be more comfortable for me to sleep on the couch that night). I suggested a couple of rubber snakes next. I could put them on the eaves of the porches and they would not be visible. Hopefully, the swallows would high tail it out of there once they saw the snakes. Who would have thought a couple of rubber snakes would be so hard to find? I looked everywhere with no luck. So, I’ve placed a couple of jump ropes up on the eaves of the porches hoping the little bird brains will think they are snakes. It seems to have worked on the swinging trio who were nesting on the back porch. The large group on the front porch, nicknamed the Waltons, don’t seem to be buying it, however. They have gathered on the far edge of the porch, away from the “double dutch snake”, and seem to be plotting what to do next. I’m not sure how this is going to turn out but I’m looking into “employing” some hawks next. Texas is a right to work state, after all, and I won’t have to deal with their union.

My best…

Golf : The Devil's Game

As a teacher and coach I am currently enjoying the best time of the school year....summer. No offense is intended to any of my students or athletes but there is something very appealing about hanging around on the couch watching ESPN waiting for the mailman to deliver my paycheck. If only I could figure out a way for that to happen twelve months of the year (sigh).

Anyway, the summer really gives me the opportunity to do some of the things I love to do. One of those things is golf. First, let's define golf. Webster's defines golf as "the perfect combination of exercise and swearing". Actually, I saw that on a T-shirt but it is the definition I like the best.

Now that we've defined golf we can get to the heart of the matter. It is simply the cruelest game ever to spring forth from the mind of man. No matter who you are you can never master the game. Even Tiger Woods hits a shot from time to time that makes all of us weekend hackers smile and snicker under our breath. Did you happen to watch the U.S. Open this last week? I think Tiger actually took out a housewife with a wayward drive on the 18th hole on Sunday (she should have been paying closer attention). The difference between Tiger and myself, other than millions of dollars, is that he has the ability to hit a great recovery shot after a stinker. I, on the other hand, tend to follow a stinker with another stinker. That second stinker is usually followed by a shot off a tree, spectator, or squirrel. That wayward shot then usually careens into whatever body of water happens to be within a three mile radius. If there is water in the county I can manage to hit a golf ball into it.

The cruelest aspect of the game of golf is how it teases you. It seems so simple. Nobody tries to tackle you, the ball isn't being thrown at you at 90 miles per hour, and nobody is chasing you or yelling at you. The ball just lays there, sometimes even teed up perfectly, and taunts you because it knows you can't hit it straight. You can almost hear the dimpled little rascal giggling at address. "You want me to fly where? Ha! Fat chance!". The good part of this whole deal is that I get to see some very scenic parts of the course that good golfers never get to see. I've become quite the expert on the different kinds of small mammals, reptiles, brush, and trees that flourish just off the fairway. It is actually quite peaceful out there. The quiet is broken only by the soft weeping of those of us who can't find our way back to the short grass of the fairway.

Despite all of this I will continue to golf. I can't stop. Somewhere, deep inside, I think that if I just practice a bit more I might still be able to make the Senior Tour. My wife says that my new meds will help with these delusions. I hope not.

My best