A Baseball Superstar Tried To Kill Me - Part 3

“Can I get you a beer?” Josh asked me while guiding me to the living room.

“Sure,” I said, totally not wanting a beer but feeling too nervous to turn him down.

Already, my plan had gone to shit. It was supposed to be simple. Show up at Josh’s door unannounced, tell him my story and why he owes me and how I’ll reveal his identity if things don’t go my way, ask for money, go home with cash in hand. I never figured I’d be the type of person to engage in such behavior. But when I found out it was THE Josh Hamilton, a known person of money, I couldn’t help myself. It’s like a power took control of my body and I couldn’t stop it.

Oh, sure, asshole, it’s not YOUR fault. The power of Christ compels you!

“Here ya go.”

I was expecting a fancier style beer, like one of those micro-brews from assholes with beards that wear Winter hats in the middle of Summer. Not Miller fucking Lite. I hate Miller. Even in my heaviest drinking days, if Miller was the only beer available, I’d refuse to drink it stating, “I hate fucking Miller."

“I hate to be an asshole, but I…"

As I was saying the words, Josh pulled a small vile from his front pocket, popped it open, and sprinkled the contents on the coffee table. He organized the white powder neatly into lines. He leaned over and took a huge snort, then leaned back in the sofa and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like minutes.

“Oh, hey, sorry, I need a little bump to get me going in the morning. Here, take a hit."

“Oh, no, I can’t, I…"

“C’mon, relax. You’re here for money, right? I’m going to give you everything you deserve. Let’s have some fun."

Had my brain not been malfunctioning at the site of a publicly “clean” Josh Hamilton snorting cocaine and drinking beer at ten in the morning on a game day, I would’ve turned down his mind altering offerings and executed my plan. I think it was the part he said about giving me everything I deserve that turned off my common sense and encouraged me to imbibe.

I’d never done cocaine before. It was a drug I feared because of all the propaganda in the 1980s that threatened doing drugs once made you instantly addicted. And Nancy Reagan's enormous shake head mouthing the words, “Just Say No!” But I said “Yes!”

The initial snort felt harsh, like an icy burning sensation coupled with that pins and needles sensation scattered along my nasal cavity. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Then came a rush of uncontrollable excitement and energy.

“Yeah, that’s good shit, huh?” Josh said.

“I guess. I never done it before.” I was still sniffing and fighting the need the sneeze.

“Holy shit! First time? Damn boy, we gotta do this right then."

Josh went to the kitchen and started talking to someone on the phone. I sipped my beer while alternating between standing up and pacing and sitting down and rocking. The nervous energy couldn’t be dispelled. I felt like I needed to go somewhere, right fucking now, but I wasn’t sure where. 

How do you know this mother fucker isn’t going to kill you?

Josh returned from the kitchen with a bat in his hand and said, "c'mon, let me show you something."

I followed him like a little, overly energetic puppy dog. Or rather, I followed him like an idiot. My brain was busy pumping courage to my muscles while a little voice kept repeating, "kill this asshole before he kills you. He's gonna smash your head in with that bat. Take it from him and bash his head first."

"What?" Josh asked laughing, "I'm not going to kill you. Damn, I didn't think it'd make you THAT paranoid. Ha."

"Oh shit! Run! Run!" my brain started screaming at me.

About that time, Josh walked onto his back patio, picked a baseball out of a bucket of baseballs, threw it up in the air, and whacked it with the bat. The ball sunk into a thick black net hanging from the edge of the patio covering.

"This is how I relax every morning, before the real fun starts. Here, give it a try. It'll help you relax a little." He said.

He handed me the bat and stood back a couple of feet. I picked a ball out of the bucket, threw it up in the air, and swung as hard as I could. The ball passed through the bat swing and bounced on the ground.

"It's OK, keep trying."

The doorbell rang. It sounded like a firetruck racing through my head.

"I'll be right back. Keep going."

I managed to hit a couple of balls into the net. It felt good, like I had achieved a great victory. For a split second, I thought, "I could do this better than Josh." And for a minute, I got lost in that idea. I daydreamed of blasting the game winning home run in the World Series and being showered with money and pussy and...

"A-ron, I'd like you to meet Kimberly, Kylie, aka Cinnamon, Julie Ann, Tiff, and Nikkie," Josh introduced me to his bikini clad, outrageously smoking hot guests. They said, "hi," almost in unison. I threw the ball I was holding in the air, and with a perfect swing, smashed it into the net. I thought, "this is going to be a good day."

A Baseball Superstar Tried To Kill Me - Part 2

A few years before Josh Hamilton ran a red light and almost killed me, he snuffed my autograph attempts at spring training. This was at the height of his popularity. The rangers were coming off their second World Series loss, where Josh should’ve been the hero after launching a 2 run homer in the top of the 10th after the Rangers blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the ninth in game 6[1].

No one cares about the details.

I was standing at the end of a long line of people waiting for Josh to make his way to me. Being the good citizen I am, I let a few kids cut in front of me. I didn’t know they were working for their dad who turned out to be a guy who sells memorabilia for a living and was using his kids to get autographs. Evil has a way of infiltrating even the purest of souls, mine in particular.

As Josh finished signing for the last devil kid that cut in front me, I held out my baseball and pen. When he saw me, looking at him eye to eye, he froze. His face fell blank where before there was a forced smile, like he was thinking about taking a hit of crack, or whatever.

Bad joke , asshole! 

I smiled. He turned around and ran back on the field. I was literally the only one left in line and the fucker snuffed me. It would’ve taken him two seconds to sign my stupid ball, but he decided to give me the shit dick for whatever reason. Probably because he was a big time baseball star who didn't have time for a guy with a kind heart and pure intentions.

I pulled into his driveway expecting either beefy security guards or an intimidating gate, or both, to block my path. It would've been an easy out. "Oh well, there's a gate and a man wearing an ear piece on the other side, I give up." What I found was just an ordinary driveway that anyone in the world could pull up in, a neatly manicured lawn, and a modest looking suburban mansion[2].

I rang the doorbell. My palms were sweating. My heart was thumping a little faster than normal. I felt like I had crafted a pretty good plan, but we all know how plans go. They rarely survive first contact with the real world. And I'm not very good at improvising during a confrontation.

I was surprised that Josh answered the door himself. I had expected a butler or maid or at least his bar whore of the night to be the one to greet me. Already, my plan was falling apart.

“Yeah?” he said.

He was shirtless, wearing nothing but basketball shorts and oddly appealing dress socks, black with tiny baseballs as polka dots. He looked like he had just woke up, and the demons he had everyone believing were exercised had returned for comeuppance.

Right after the accident, when his insurance company was doing its best to run me in circles in hopes I'd just give up, bend over, and take the financial ass fucking like a good little boy, I had no idea THE Josh Hamilton was the one who hit me. He had some special policy I guess they reserve for celebrities and the like to protect their identity. During one of many phone conversations/arguments/shouting matches with a girl who went by the name, Aliciandro Marie, she accidentally let it slip that "Josh Hamilton is denying responsibility."

Why she used his full name, I don't know. I didn't make the connection right away. Surely there's a million Josh Hamilton's living in the world, right? What are the odds it was THE baseball superstar, newly christened multi-millionaire Josh Hamilton? Regardless, my sports dick got real hard at the possibility.

After a little bit more digging[3], I discovered that indeed it was THE Josh Hamilton, Texas Baseball Jesus himself, the maligned, beloved, hated, sympathetic, free swinging, douche bag, asshole, unapologetic. Sports dick engaged.

“Uh, yeah, hi, my name is A-ron. You almost killed me in a car accident a couple months ago,” I said somewhat regretting my decision to go through with this. It’s funny how revenge seems like a really good idea until you’re face to face with it, and how you didn’t think much about what would happen if things went wrong. Things were about to go wrong.

“Oh, man, hey, I’m really sorry about that. I had just signed the divorce papers with my wife and I was a little upset that day. Come on in, let’s talk. How are you doing?"

Oh, fuck this guy!


[1] The Rangers were up 3 games to 2. Had they not turned around and blew the 2 run lead again in the bottom of the 10th, Josh would’ve been the MVP. As it turned out, the Rangers lost game 6 then game 7, casting Josh’s bail out homer into the “oh yeah, that also happened” category.

[2] You know, two story, cookie cutter, around 3,000 square feet. Not small, but not large either. The kind of house a guy that has a decent job and a high maintenance wife might live in and barely be able to afford. Josh made $25 million a year, so this was just a place for him to flop and bang bar whores.

[3] Before discovering Alicandro Marie was no longer handling my case, she spilled the beans about it being THE Josh Hamilton and even gave me his current address. She said he was a real asshole and "I'm sick of dealing with his shit." Just a tip for anyone considering paying extra for the privacy feature. Be nice to the people responsible for protecting your identity.

A Baseball Superstar Tried To Kill Me - Part 1

Sometimes I host my own sports talk show while I’m listening to my favorite sports talk shows on the radio. If another driver were to break out of their perpetual iDevice coma[1] and look over at me, they’d see a deranged man animately talking to himself. Insanity takes many forms, like a homeless person shouting at the devil in the middle of a crowd.

If you don’t live in Dallas, you probably don’t listen to the radio. You have no reason to because all radio except 1310 AM 96.7 FM The Ticket Sports sucks big donkey balls. You might have Dingle & Donny Whacky Mornings on in the background while you scroll through your Facebook feed with your right hand and steer your car doing 80 on the freeway with the left, but you’re not really listening.

The sports hosts on the radio were talking about a hypothetical: who would score first on the other playing their respective sports, the Dallas Mavericks or the Dallas Stars? 

The Stars would win hands down. There’s no way the basketball guys would be able to skate even good enough to threaten scoring. It might take the Stars a while to get a basket on the Mavs, but they’d be able to do it. They could just launch balls from mid court until ...

What the fuck happened? What was I saying?

While I was unconscious, which felt like days, not minutes, I dreamed about this nude guy in the park who was psychopathically going around and knocking guys out. He sort of resembled a guy I used to hang out with all the time in high school, Tommy. Short, blonde hair, long monkey arms, flat face, scar under the right eye, and a bad temper triggered by the slightest perceived injustice. Why he was nude, who knows? Tommy didn’t have a penchant for fighting nude. Why he was intent on beating the shit out of every guy around? Well, that sounds like Tommy.

The cop told me after I regained consciousness that I was lucky. The guy who ran the red light and slammed into me, had he been going slightly slower or had I been going slightly faster, would’ve probably killed me. I didn’t tell him that I should’ve been paying attention instead of trying to make my sports point to an audience of zero. Even though it was the correct sports analysis.

They released me from the hospital and told me to take it easy for a few days. Which I took to the extreme by not doing a damn thing. I sometimes like getting a taste of what infinite unemployment coupled with non stop eating and non stop not leaving the couch feels like. After a day, this giant ball of fear wells up inside me that snaps me out of it. The fear is that I’m close to the point of eating myself into the bed. Like, one more bag of Cheetohs and I’m going to have to call the fire department to come cut me out of my house because I’m so fat I can’t walk any more.

A couple months later, I would come face to face with the asshole who almost killed me. A popular, much maligned, former crack addict baseball player named Josh Hamilton.


[1] Our eyes are glued to our phones. Driving is an annoyance, a distraction from hash tagging that picture you’re trying to post of yourself sitting in your car driving to see some dumb movie about an awkward girl who has the hots for some athletic stallion. I’m sure it works out for her. #MovieNightWithTheGirls #YOLO #MyLifeIsWayMoreAmazingThanYoursAndThisIsTheProof

Whatever The Hell You Want

“Let go A-ron, and do whatever the Hell you want. Stop trying to tell people what you’re going to write about. Stop trying to think your way to being different. Stop dissecting and analyzing and worrying about what people are going to love and what they’re not. And just, fucking, write. Whatever the Hell you want. If you want to write about how much you hate the Texas Rangers for continually breaking your baseball heart, write about that. If you want to write a fictional story about a kid who was sexually abused by Nazis and later gets horrific revenge, then write about that. If you want to rant and rave about how your life sucks and you hate everyone, then write about that,” I said to myself.

Let go. Start fresh. Be yourself even if it feels like you’re a fraud. Tell the stories you want to tell, not the stories you think people want to hear, not the stories you think people will laud you as a genius for. Write what you want to write, even if you think it sucks bloody penises. Write it, release it, and start over.

For about 3 months now, I’ve been wrestling with what to write about here on this “blog.” I’ve let a lot of things get in the way of simply writing. Mainly all the things in the previous paragraph. I want people to love and adore me. I want people to shower me with fame and fortune. I want to be their creative hero, their inspiration, their greatest influence, and I want them to open up their wallet and give me money, the great validator that what I’m doing is worthwhile.

A more abstract problem I have, not just creatively but with pretty much everything I do, is trying to get it right up front. When it comes to creative endeavors, I know better. Yet, it doesn’t stop me from trying to formulate the perfect formula. “Ok, I’ll write about sports, deliberate practice, and software development,” is something I might say to myself. Then the following week, “Ok, now I’ll write stories on objects and make witty observations."

I’m screaming inside my head right now, because I know better. I know there is no right answer to writing. There is no golden subject. There is no way to instantly hook a reader based on a generalized description. People don’t read because someone tells them what they’re going to write about. People read stuff that is already written. “I wrote this thing that compares Lebron James to an octopus, wanna read it?"

I’m at my best when I’m not writing for anyone but myself, when I can create anything I want to create without worrying whether or not someone will want to read it or buy it. Applying pressure in the creative domain doesn’t work.

And it certainly is easy to say, “OK, this time is going to be different. I’m just going to force myself to write even if I think it sucks.” Next week I may have a million project ideas that I want to pursue and I’ll be saying, “fuck this ‘letting go’ crap, I’m gonna do this instead. This is THE answer."

So here’s what I’m doing about it...

  1. Delete everything on my website and start fresh with a single page. No menus. No choices other than what I’ve written that appears on the first page (it’s a blog style page).
  2. Create a single blog.
  3. For up to two hours Monday through Saturday, write. About anything I feel like. About nothing, my life, a story from my past, sports, whatever who cares. No structure. No rules other than writing something every session that I can publish on the blog.
  4. Publish whatever I write on the blog, categorize as best I can. Repeat for at least the rest of the year.

In 2009, I started a blog called “So I Quit My Job.” It was about my experiences quitting my job. I wrote in it almost every day. It felt effortless. That’s what I want this to feel like. Effortless. Like, it doesn’t matter if it sucks or if no one ever cares. Just keep writing as if it’s all you’ll have to read when you’re dead.