OH AND THIS TOO

I played lacrosse in high school but I wasn't very good. This meant I spent a lot of time on the sidelines watching rather than always playing in practice. And in games, too, for that matter, but I digress. A fun way to keep the mind and body active during inactivity in practice was for us not-very-gooders to take turns hitting each other full on in the face. Facemask, that is, with a gloved lacrosse hand. It hurt like a mother, jerked your neck back and made your head ring, but no blood/no foul = no problem, right? All fun until Coach makes you stop, which happened when Simon Lassel and Justin Flynn took it too seriously and had to be pulled off of one another. Being so creative, we called the non-violent-Simon-and-Flynn-version "helmetboxing."

I learned today that what I thought was pure chemical-free enterainment back in 1997 is a "dangerous new craze for teens" in 2007.

Behold!

From the story, by CBS-2 in New York City:

Helmet boxing is an underground sport that's just beginning to surface, especially on Internet video sites such as YouTube. To play, each individual dons a helmet with a face mask, along with a pair of gloves, and then each hits each other in the head until someone passes out, a helmet gets knocked off, or someone simply throws in the towel.

Fearless journalism, this.

While the American Academy of Pediatrics has no "official stance" on helmet boxing, (Doctor Guy They Used For the Story Doctor) Gregory said they do consider it to be on the "same playing field as regular boxing," which has been deemed unsafe for "young children with developing brains."

Blah blah, right? Well, not exactly. I found this on YouTube (and it looks a little bit too much like BC for comfort):



These dudes are too serious to be helmet boxers. These animals are more helmt pit fighters, methinks.

There was also a YouTube made by some 13 year olds, with entrance music and etc., about their fights but it's kind of sickening to watch "BRADY, 5'3, 100 LBS" do battle with "KEITH, 5'4, 95 lbs."

Forget helmet boxing. I think YouTube is the dangerous new craze.

Addendums: "Oh....right" & "Batteries"

Also, when I sat down to write finally at around 10:10 p.m. I found that my voice recorder ran out of batteries. That is to say, no quotes from players and coaches in my stories except for what I could remember. That is to say: dammit.

I see the irony in this -- another thing I forgot to mention is how bad it is for the end result when something like a story is crafted under such crappy conditions: rushed, stressed, haven't eaten for nine hours, I know that sounds whiny, but you get it, surely. Your mind is still working fast just to process stuff as you put it down in writing for other people to take as "Truth." Eesh. You forget stuff. You read it when deadline's over, you want to change stuff.

This means A LOT OF WHAT I WRITE IS ERROR PRONE.

Just today for example.
1. In my baseball story, I said Justin Evans made a "backhanded" catch. He made a really ridiculous catch while running full on to his left, reaching across his body. Does that mean backhanded? I'm dumb.

2. I'm sure there's more.

When Things Go Really, Really Bad: Section Softball Edition

Hi.

So today was Day 2 of the Section softball tournament; the annual prize for high school softball's elite, the second dsy of tournament play way up in the scenic North Highlands of Ye Olde Sac-Towne. What is exactly the reward for a season's labor? Bake in Suicide Saturday heat, then play two more days of double elimination game-in-the-sandlot-where-the-bases-are-a-lot-closer against fearsome 16 year old girls with "a mean riseball." Intense.
True, the naysayers may say, "Bah, it's only softball," to which I reply, "No, it's also covering softball."

OF WHICH IS THE CONTENT OF AND IMPETUS FOR THIS BLOG ENTRY

Covering softball meant a long but rewarding day Saturday, where I got to work on my photography and not write a story, the Tracy Press not publishing until Tuesday, which means the story doesn't need to be in til Monday (though it really ought to be written before then). Here are some photos I took that didn't get published.


West's Caitlyn Girard against Modesto.


Taking photos is much different than writing. "Duh," you say, but they're both forms of expression. Is what I do normally with words any different artistically than what photographers do with a machine?

Tracy's Jessica Riconscente. This picture is much bigger for some reason.


Tracy coach Greg Smith's head. Around when I took this is when I thought to myself, "What a weird thing it must be, to try and play a softball game while some dork takes pictures." I felt creepy.


West's Stephanie Tornio batting.


Like most of the things I cover, I've never actually played softball like these girls do, so I have no idea what exactly their athletic feats entail. I have a fairly good understanding of what it means and what it takes to run fast, tackle somebody or shoot a basketball. Not so much here. How fast these softball are thrown and how hard they're hit can surprise you. All in a really small infield, too.

Another West hitter, not sure who this is.


In softball, it seems, a pitcher is vital much more so than in baseball. You pitch the whole game, strikeouts more common, a hit so much more dangerous. This is the face of one of the Section's most dangerous pitchers.


Tracy High's Jenni Holtz.


On Suicide Saturday, real reporters -- that is, reporters with deadlines every day, instead of almost-every-day like me -- have to suffer through the heat AND file a story all in the same daily cycle of the sun. This is a real reporter:

The San Joaquin Herald's Dave Campbell.

Who is the subject of my Really, Really, Really bad story. He and I, that is.

So Dave and I are both covering Monday's games, so he offers the day before to drive us both up to Sacto. I'm like, "Yeah." Smaller environmental footprint and all, you know? So I agree.

On Monday, as usual, I'm running late. Didn't get everything written, didn't meet Dave in time to not beat traffic, laptop battery dead so can't work on stuff in traffic, getting to 5 p.m. games -- of which there are two, that is, two games going on simultaneously for which I am responsbile -- around 5:15 p.m. No problem.

The plan was to use the wireless internet at a nearby Denny's -- the same place I used to emergency-file-in-a-hurry during the 2006 playoffs -- to e-mail all the stories in by 10 p.m. at the latest. Eat some awful food while doing it, get home by 11 p.m. with all the work done. Easy.

So 5 p.m. games end, both teams lose, which means they play again at 7 p.m. Two games, again, at the same time. No problem. I can't use the laptop in between games to work on stuff because it only works with an AC adapter. No problem. One goes to extra innings. Also, no problem.

9 p.m. rolls around. We are done, finally. Time to go to crappy restaraunt and e-mail stories in so we can have a sports section. Denny's no longer does WiFi. Didn't check on that beforehand. Ok, so let's try this motel parking lot. Free WiFi there. No, the nice man behind the counter says "Go away, we close at 10 p.m." even though it's 9:30. Won't have lots of time to work on stuff now, but alright. It's been worse. Go back to softhall field to use their hookup, nice softball people are closing and going home right now. Sort of a problem. Actually, big problem. How am I supposed to send my story in now? And as a real reporter, Dave's in a worse predicament: his deadline's 10 p.m., while I have as close to 11 p.m. as I want. In short: we're fuct.

But somehow Dave knows of an office -- in Rancho Cordova -- we can use. Ok. So I drive his car down Watt Avenue, looking for Highway 50, while he bangs furiously at his laptop in the passenger seat. Lots of construction. Onramp closed. It's 9:50.

Somehow we get to this medical office in the middle of nowhere right before 10 p.m., he files by 10:05 and sits and stews while I cram what should have been 2 hours worth of work into 40 minutes. Somehow, it all gets done. No problem.

More softball tomorrow. I've been working alot. See you later.