ShamWow! Poor Timing

A hurricane just left the southeast Texas coast. Ike was a monster.

Thousands of people have been displaced, millions inconvenienced, and at last count a handful have been killed. But, despite the catastrophy commerce must go on according to some telemarketers and online pitchmen.

One day after the storm a co-worker received a phone call at the office that went something like this.

"Hello."

"Uh, this is Ms. Totallyoblivious calling from T-Mobile regarding the contract on your cell phone."

"Excuse me . . . but, you're not from Houston are you?" he asked.

"Why, no. Why do you ask?"

"We've just had a HURRICANE here," he said.

To which she responded, "I'm sorry to hear that. Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said.

"Good. Now back to your T-Mobile contract!"

He hung up.

Before the wind gusts had dropped to 65 miles per hour, similar corporate boneheads were firing off emails into areas around Houston with no phones, no water, limited gasoline, impassible roads and no electricity.

Though clearing the yard of debris was my priority, the Blackberry constantly buzzed with messages from marketing webmasters who thought otherwise. A website called flowgofun.com wanted to let me know that I could hear a puppet named Sally explain why puppets don't fart and the dangers of photocopying my butt. Awesome!

Something called Pedipaws, "the incredible pet nail trimmer", wanted to let folks know that with their product and the equally incredible Shed-Ender, they would never have to worry about pet-scratched furniture again. I'm sure that is great comfort to those along the Gulf coast who no longer have any furniture or pets.

e-Toys had a great free shipping offer on more than 500 items. Unfortunately, UPS and FedEx are not currently delivering to all areas of metro Houston, but what the heck! It's still a great offer.

Redenvelope.com will let me save 20% on my next order, if I order online by Tuesday, September 23, 2008. Think about this. More than 99% of southeast Texas has no electricity, so . . . No power + No working computer = No online shopping. Guess who is not smarter than a 5th Grader?

Now I know where to order a "Wishing You A Speedy Hurricane Recovery" bouquet for all my friends with collapsed ceilings, fallen trees and flooded cars. Proflowers.com will give me "24 roses perfect for any occasion" and an extra 25% off TODAY! How did I get so lucky?

According to the e-ad, had I only used Tarot.com before the hurricane I could have learned to decode my dreams in order to find the shortest lines for gasoline, decide how much propane to buy for the grill and what day heavy trash pick up would be. Am I a loser or what?

Underground.Biz.com offered me the opportunity to start earning "between $200 and $900 a day working from home!" Why would I want to work from home? I have no air conditioning, no phone and the ice chest is alarmingly low on Shiner Bock. But, with "no experience necessary" tagged to the bottom of the page . . . I just have to give it a try, don't you think?

I should have probably forwarded the email from ShamWow! to my neighbor across the street, but I didn't. This amazing product promises that "You'll say WOW everytime with ShamWow! as it holds over 20 times its weight in liquids and is "perfect for household spills". It seems that neighbor left town before the storm without securing his front door. He got nine straight hours of blowing rain and debris throughout the first floor. All I can say is, ShamWow! Poor timing.

The Junk Drawer

Tonight I decided to clean the junk drawer. You know, the drawer where things end up when they have no other place to go. A sort of Bermuda Triangle for $.34 stamps, paper clips of all sizes and colors, scissors and brick-like red Ruby erasers, and souvenir coins from places like the Winchester Mystery Museum.

I found a rubber ball with a chunk ripped out of its side and five different calculaters: A large Mickey Mouse version with easy to read numbers, a small black one that runs on solar power, a credit card sized one that my fingers couldn't manipulate, and two in-betweeners. Only Mickey was operational.

I have never seen so many ballpoint pens of different races, colors and creeds in my life. There were retractables in green, blue and red. Some with big barrels and others were slim and trim. There were waitstaff pens from Outback, Champs, Willie's Icehouse and other eateries where my daughter worked during the restaurant period of her life. In fact, there were more loose pen caps than there were pens to cap. How does that happen?

Try to image how many designs are printed on pencils? Standard #2, dayglo, flowers, teddy bears, Texas A&M, University of Mary Harden Baylor, Chase Bank and Klein Bank... Klein Bank has been gone for five years. There was even a pencil sharpener that was missing its catch-cup . . . pencil shavings were scattered throughout the back of the drawer like sawdust on a tiny honky-tonk dance floor.

I found marbles and money, stamps with birds and Santa Claus, a small vending machine-type plastic globe with a gold ring . . . it was quite lovely for a something costing a quarter.

There were books of return address labels, and an envelope with photos from the past ten years. Another small envelope had expired drivers licenses for the entire family dating back to when they were 16-years-old, and assorted other forms of picture I.D.

Why does any family need more than two rulers, or one tape measure? I discovered that at some time this family needed six. There was a 3-inch ruler in pink, a 6-inch ruler in yellow, three 12-inch rulers in assorted colors and part of another ruler that could have been any size over 10-inches at one time. . . it had been broken off, probably to make it fit in junk drawer.

There were thumb tacks, push pins and map pins mixed in with loose nails and screws, and shreds of beef jerky and M&Ms wrappers.

I even found a knife from a place setting that we had tossed out ten years ago. How? I don't even want to go there!

Cleaning the junk drawer is insightful; an exploration into the mind of those who live by the saying, "A place for everything and everything in its place" ... that place being the Junk Drawer.

My Little Buddy In Pull-ups

My three-year-old grandson has a nightly ritual. Gramma reads to him about Brown Bear, Thomas the Tank Engine, or Clifford, then Pops puts his little buddy to bed with a few songs and some guy talk that girls would see as silly.

Tonight started out no different from the many bedtimes that we had shared in the past: upstairs to brush teeth with Sponge Bob toothpaste and a yellow brush, one last pee-pee in the potty before stepping into the Toy Story pull-ups with Cowboy Woody on the front, and then into bed as the last rays of twilight dissolved into night.

As he settled beneath covers printed with images of Lightning McQueen and Mater, we talked about school and the Astros and his new Slip'n'Slide. He has the slip part down, but the slide is going to take some practice.

The talk soon led to our sing-along that we enjoy each night where Pops takes the lead and then he fills in the blanks when Pops pauses. "Take me out to the" ... "BAUH GAME". "Take me out to the" ... "CRWOWD".

We sang our way through the entire library of tunes from I've Been Working On The Railroad and Five Bottles Of Milk On The Wall, to the Beatles' When I'm Sixy-Four and Do Your Ears Hang Low?. I rubbed his back as we sang and before long his breathing led me to believe that he was asleep.

It was then that he slowly rolled over and nudged his forehead into mine, saying "Pops?"

"Yeah, buddy," I replied.

"You make me happy..." he said, and then drifted off to sleep.

I was stunned by these four simple words, unsolicited, and totally unexpected. I make this little guy happy and he wanted me to know that before he went to sleep. They were spoken from the heart. The sweetest four words that I've ever heard from my little buddy in Pull-ups.

Good Eats Along the Gulf

Sampling the food at mom and pop eateries while on the road can be an adventure. Will it be bland and tasteless, or too spicy to stomach? Will it be under cooked or blackened to a charcoal consistency? But based on the advice of the locals, maybe . . . just maybe you'll find a spot or two where the meal will be served up as a unexpected treat worthy of a blog. Welcome to my vacation at Dauphin Island, Alabama.

Wrapped in a nautical theme of wall mounted trophy fish, nets and a large jewel tank aquarium, the Island's Barnacle Bill's offered a good assortment of tasty seafood and po-boys, but it was the jalapeno hushpuppies that rated them a spot in this posting. Golfball-sized and golden brown from the fryer, the hushpuppies were soft and moist on the inside and loaded with an onion-peppery punch.

It took two visits to Bayley's Restaurant in Theodore, Alabama to feed our fix for seafood at this coastal landmark. Just a short drive north of the Island on the Dauphin Island Parkway, Bayley's mid-week specials beckoned and we answered the call. Thursday night was their famous "All You Care To Eat" fried mullet and cheese grits night. They had me at the mention of cheese grits. The mullet was crispy and surprisingly light for a fried dish, and the cheese grits were the best that I can remember . . . sorry Waffle House. The encore presentation on Friday night was Bayley's famous "All You Care To Eat" fried shrimp night. Again the meal was very good, the wait staff was friendly and phrases like, "more sweet tea hon?" and "where y'all from?" could be heard throughout the dining room.

Saturday night was a belly buster as we dined at the Pelican Reef, not too far from Bayley's. It was a nice setting along the river, pleasure craft and commercial fishing boats came and went at the adjacent marina, and again, the seafood was excellent. We finished off a full pound of sweet crab claws to start; 62 golden pinchers. But what came next took dinner to another level; Wild Alabama Shrimp that had been netted earlier in the day. These mega jumbo shrimp were lightly battered and fried to create the perfect Gulf Coast delicacy. Combined with the twice baked potato filled with onions, garlic, cheese, bacon and other goodies, we went home totally satisfied convinced that no better edible treat would be had on this trip . . . we were so wrong!

On the trek home to Houston the next day we opted to stop for lunch at the famous Crawfish Town, USA in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. After the entre' of Catfish Melee', a breaded then pan fried fillet topped with seafood etouffee, came the sweetest surprise of the entire trip; a bread pudding like no other. The thick and hearty square was covered in a hot buttery sauce and sprinkles of powdered sugar. Having spent more than a year in Savannah, Georgia, I've had good bread pudding, but nothing to compare to this Cajun creation. When pressed for the secret to this bayou delight, the waitress said only, "We use a lot of bread."

If food makes the vacation, this trip was the best ever . . . it was a getaway of good eats along the Gulf.

I Liked That

He walked into the McDonalds at lunchtime. Standing around five-foot-ten, the young man was an impressive figure in his dark slacks and tie, starched white shirt and polished black boots. On his hip was a holster where an automatic handgun was cradled, and on his head sat a white western-style hat. It was the kind that the good guys always wear.

In the small town of Giddings, Texas people come and go, and everyone seems to know one-another. The modern-style McDonalds was filling with fresh-faced high school students ordering Big Mac meals and 12-pack McNuggets before heading back for afternoon classes. The scene was chaotic on both sides of the counter as a mix of top 40 tunes played from the ceiling speakers. Orders were taken and then filled by the small staff with military precision.

As the man in the white hat made his way to the counter, students stepped aside and nodded while continuing their conversations about what teens tend to talk about. Then after placing his order he turned and walked in my direction to wait with for his call.

I noticed that the expression on his face had not changed since stepping into the madness of Mickey D's at high noon. It was a pleasant look. Not quite a smile, but pleasant, as if he were above the frey and shielded from the craziness.

A group of three young girls stood next to me jabbering about some guy, and some girl, and some issue . . . but, they paused when the man passed close by and tipped his hat saying, "ladies". They froze mid-sentence to acknowledge his act of Texas courtesy, then giggled as girls that age tend to do. I heard one quietly whisper, "wow!".

Weaving his way through the crowd he stepped past me. As he passed I looked down at the round silver badge pinned to his shirt. Within the circle was a star, and engraved around the star were the words, "Department of Public Safety - Texas Ranger". He wasn't a Walker Texas Ranger, he was a real Texas Ranger; quiet, business-like and polite to the ladies. He was minding his own business, but with a "don't mess with Texas or me" attitude. I liked that.

Pitcher Perfect

It's been close to 50-years since my last visit to a Minor League baseball game. It was the Atlanta Crackers back in the 1950s.

I remember going with my dad to the old Ponce de Leon Ball Park on Memorial Drive across from Sears to watch what would one day be known as one of the best ever in the Minors.

Since that time I've stayed a fan of the game giving my heart to only three teams: the Pittsburgh Pirates because I played for the Pirates in Little League; the Braves because I was a fan of Hank Aaron and Milo Hamilton; and the Houston Astros because now I'm old enough to respect the talent and character of men such as Craig Biggio, Jeff Bagwell and Lance Berkman.

Recently, my wife and I took in a game at Dell Diamond in Round Rock, Texas, home of the Astro's Triple-A farm team, the Round Rock Express. Talents such as Houston pitcher Roy Oswalt, and outfielders Hunter Pence and Luke Scott have passed through that franchise on their way to the "bigs" in Houston.

The ball park was first class, a far cry from what I remember the Ponce de Leon park looking like near the end of its run. Turf to rival any major league field was surrounded by several thousand seats of green. Foul ball dinged brushed aluminum panels lined the walls of the upper deck, and there was seating for hundreds on the grassy outfield berms and in the glass-fronted box seats for fans with connections.

We paid a mind boggling $12.00 a ticket for two great seats behind the dugouts along the first base line. It was a perfect night for baseball in central Texas, and as the sun set one could feel the excitement; the excitement of small town baseball being played by young guys hoping to make their dreams come true.

Former Astros Jason Lane, Umberto Quintero and Matt Albers were in the line-up joined by a dugout full of fresh faces awaiting their chance to someday take the field at Minute Maid Park in Houston.

Sitting among hundreds of retirees, school kids, families and longhorns from the University of Texas, we had expected to have fun, but never to have become a part of Minor League baseball history.

The game was close as the Nashville Sound's pitcher Manny Parra pitched his game. Strike outs, ground outs, fly outs continued to mount, inning after inning until the last history-making pitch.

The local newspaper reported it like this: "ROUND ROCK - He's been good all season, but on Monday Manny Parra was perfect. The 24-year-old from Sacramento retired all 27 batters he faced in Nashville's 3-0 victory over Round Rock, completing the eighth perfect game in Pacific Coast League history in just his second Triple-A start."

In the bottom of the ninth Parra clearly had the Round Rock fans in his corner. With each pitch they cheered, with each out the anticipation grew . . . imagine, a perfect game. One out . . . it couldn't have been scripted any better. Two outs . . . everyone was on their feet shouting encouragement to an opposing pitcher. Then came the pitch to clinch the game. A pop-up to second base and it was done.

Parra leaped from the mound into a bear hug from his catcher as the rest of the Nashville Sound piled-on, bouncing in unison like some giant uniformed ball of caps and cleats. The cheers and applause of the appreciative Texans continued to grow as the celebration on the field went on.

At some point Parra realized that the fans of the Round Rock Express were not leaving, but were in fact giving him the sort of thunderous ovation normally reserved for a hometown hero. It was then that the true quality of a professional shown through. Manny Parra stepped out from among his teammates and raised his cap to the crowd in sincere appreciation.

There was jubilation between the bases and in the stands as the young pitcher shared his accomplishment with everyone at Dell Diamond that night, as as we walked to the car the last image that I saw on the giant screen in center field was Parra signing autographs for young wannabes with big league dreams of their own.

Congraulations Manny Parra. Never lose your enthusiasm for the game and appreciation of those who wish you well.

Rain, Rain, Go Away . . . But, Just For Now.

The Carpenters sang about it, Gene Kelly danced in it and as kids we recited a rhyme pleading with it to go away and come again some other day.

It's beginning to storm outside. Lightening followed by loud, rolling thunder has me thinking about similar days when I was young.

I still remember the first time that I realized rain could fall even when the sun was shining. I couldn't have been more than four-years-old. We were living in a red brick apartment on Confederate Court near Grant Park in Atlanta. I walked out the front door and stood beneath the porch cover with its black wrought-iron supports, while gripping my marbleized-plastic flintlock pistol and sporting a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. The sky was blue and sun shined brightly, but a quick dash into the nearby grass revealed the surprising truth . . . the Devil was beating his wife with a switch! That's what my mom told me. "When it rains while the sun is out," she said, "the Devil is beating his wife with a switch, and if you stick a needle into the ground you can hear it." I never tried. That Devil stuff always freaked me out as a kid.

Then there was the time after a real gully-washer that my dad took me into the backyard at our house on Beech Drive to catch worms. We found a nice, soggy patch of grass just beyond the back steps. He poured a bottle of vinegar over the lawn where we crouched and told me that the strong smelling liquid would force the slimy buggers to the surface. Then we waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. It was getting close to dark when mom called us in for supper. The worms in our backyard had been spared to do what worms do another day.

My grandaddy Stuart was a carpenter by trade. He was a master with tools in his rough hands. The two best gifts that he ever made for me were a red soap box derby-style racer with the number 5 painted on the side, and a set of wood building blocks in a handmade wood tray. Our house sat beside a cement gully that was great fun on dry days, but was fast to fill with rushing water when the rains came. A young boy would have drowned in that gully one summer were it not for the quick action of our neighbor, Betty Dean. She was a hero that day and I have never forgotten.

Meanwhile, I was in my room overlooking that gully, having just witnesses the heroics of our neighbor. As I watched the water I wondered, "would my wooded blocks float like little boats on that rolling river?" I popped the screen on the window and began tossing squares and rectangles toward the flow. They did indeed float very well and within minutes were gone, except for the few triangles and arches that had fallen short. Mom wasn't happy and grandaddy Stuart never made replacements. Even after 50-years I am sometimes still saddened by the loss of those wooden blocks in such a silly way. But you know, kids do silly things.

There were the rained-out opening days of Little League, the soggy cancelled after-prom outing to Six Flags with Mallory Smith, and the hurricane-shortened trip to St. Augustine, Florida. We did make Marineland and the Alligator Farm before turning tail toward home.

I can remember ducking beneath the water while swimming at Glenwood Springs to keep from getting wet from raindrops . . . my logic was less developed then than now, though some may disagree. I can remember huddling under a tree with friends as a summer rain passed over head, and then shaking the lower branches to bring a second shower down on us all. And, I can remember walking home from Midway Elementary and smelling the fragrance of the rain floating in the air in advance of the storm.

As a grownup there are times when I see the rain as an inconvenience to my routine or a plan-buster, but then I think back to when the rain was such a thing of wonder and delight. Rain, rain go away, but, just for now . . . OK?

Code name: Grandpa

Code name: Grandpa. I was sent into combat this Memorial Day Weekend. It had been more than ten years since my last tour. More than ten years since I had fired a weapon at another man. More than ten years since returning home with whelps and bruises that stayed with me for days as a reminder of just how inept I would have been as a soldier. I played paint ball. The Survival Game of Texas.

A group of 18, much younger, men from work had signed up for the mission. The draft was not necessary. At their age the excitement of splattering marble-sized balls of yellow paint against opponents at 190 mph was all the incentive that they needed . . . "Oh yeah, this will be fun", they were thinking at enlistment. I was thinking, "Play smart and just don't break anything!"

On the way to the battleground I stopped at Waffle House for a hearty breakfast of cheese-eggs, grits, raisin toast and bacon, and a big orange juice. I needed my strength for was to come in the next few hours.

Above the densely wooded combat site was a gray sky filled with ominous looking clouds. The Houston humidity was high and nickel-sized mosquitoes took pot-shots at the exposed areas not covered in camo bought earlier in the week at the Army surplus store. The swamp-like ground was thick with deep ribbons of mud from days of heavy rain and smelled of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. Clusters of fire ants floated undisturbed in puddles awaiting an unsuspecting combatant. Their attacks on our teammates would come soon enough.

The first battle was in a rain created bog lined with plywood buildings facing each other across an open area of no more than 50-feet. Scattered throughout the field in between were stacks of old tires, sheet metal barricades and other spots to shoot from behind, hide behind, become trapped behind. Playing smart for an old guy, I chose to lay back behind a building and provide semi-automatic cover fire for those who didn't mind a smarting shot to the head, torso or groin . . . yes, that did happen.

The referee blew the whistle. Paint balls began screaming past, some hitting their mark while others smacked and splattered on the buildings and props around us. Shouts of "I'm out," or "They're coming around the left" filled the air for the next 15-minutes. Finally came the ref's whistle and welcomed call, "Game Over!". My orange team had won round one, I had popped a few slow moving targets from the other side, and I hadn't taken a single hit . . . Let's do this again!

So, for the next three hours we fought in the mud and among the trees, in a wooden castle and and a simulated southeast Asian village. We fought in a blinding thunderstorm for 45-minutes with goggles so filled with sweat and rain that we had our own player pinned down for ten minutes before realizing that he was on our side.

I continued to play smart, so unlike my previous bout with paint ball, my wound count was minimal. I took a stinging shot to the left hand . . . non-lethal, so I stayed in the game. I took a glancing shot to the top of the head . . . the paint ball didn't break, so I stayed in the game. I took a shot to the thigh . . . again, non-lethal. And, most embarrassing, I took a shot to the butt . . . it didn't break, so I stayed in the game to the livid protests of the shooter Code name: Rambo/Dumbo . I was one lucky paint baller this Memorial Day.

Team Orange took five of the seven matches, and Code name: Grandpa was there to help make it happen. Cheers to the Orange, and better luck next time to the black and blue battered members of the Team Yellow.

I'm Proud To Be A Fan

Last night the Houston Astros saw their incredible 2005 season come to an end without winning a single game against American League challengers, the Chicago White Sox. What a monumental disappointment it must have been for the players and staff who had such high hopes as an organization. After years of trying, this was the first trip to the Series for veterans Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell. It was probably the last for local hero Roger Clemens. Then you have the rest of the team, the younger guys, the new generation of players with names like Backe, Burke and Bruntlett. They made it to the place where very few professional baseball players have ever danced, and with a bit of luck, they may be invited again. It was an amazing season scripted in reality but with no fairy tale ending. From the worst to within reach of being the best in one season. Of course the fans are disappointed this morning. I'm disappointed this morning. But, that doesn't overshadow the accomplishments of the National League Pennant winners of 2005. Despite their loss in the World Series, the Houston Astros are still Houston's team; a team with integrity, perseverance and a sense of family values. I'm proud to be a fan.

The Summer Of 1980

Sunday afternoon I indulged myself by taking a nostalgic trip back to my first summer in Houston, Texas. Knowing for months that Six Flags AstroWorld would be closing its gates for good at the end of October, I decided to revisit the place where I began my career in Texas tourism 25-years-ago. I just wanted to take a few photos, revisit old feelings, and spend a couple of hours among memories from a time before kids, 60-hour work weeks and a gray mustache. As I crossed the pedestrian bridge from the parking lot to the park I remembered how much I truly enjoyed working in Public Relations at AstroWorld during the summer of 1980. I thought of people such as Gary Dalton, Alicia Smith, and Sarah Hampton, who enjoyed each other so much that after a day on the job they would go out together for fun. They were more than co-workers. They were a family. Once through the gate I noticed that Main Street had changed very little. Merchandise shops on the left and a confectionery shop and soda shop on the right. The old Mrs. Baird's bread store with it's miniature loaves of hot, sweet smelling bread had been replaced by some souvenir stand. The spot where radio controlled boats had once cruised was now a mucky pool attached to a larger mucky pond. Coney Island looked the same and the clank-clank-clank of the giant wooden roller coaster, The Texas Cyclone, was unmistakably familiar. Oh, how I used to love climbing beneath the tracks for spectacular photos of the cars racing down toward me at break-neck speed. But not today. That was 25-years ago. The carousel with its brightly painted animals of various shapes and colors was still there and the Alpine Village was just as I remembered with its clock tower chiming the hour. As I stopped to shoot a photo of the giant loop in the coaster Greased Lightning, I realized that I had taken the exact shot from the same position during the summer of '80 as part of a media piece that I would be writing for distribution in Louisiana. It gave me goosebumps. I struck up a conversation with the engineers on the old Cannonball locomotive and they gave me a special ex-employee ride on the rails around the park, allowing me to photograph the driver's compartment, while sharing stories from the train's 40-year history at the park. Every one of the rides from my era that I visited that day knew that I had come to say goodbye as I touched a rail, snapped one last shot, or simply paused to watch the guests enjoying the final days fun at this Houston landmark. My visit was an act of closure and I'm glad that I made the effort. Now that it's done I can look back with renewed memories of how it was to have been a part of that family . . . the AstroWorld family and a legacy that will be remembered fondly for many years to come.

World Serious

What a difference two days can make. On Monday night Houston fans watched in disbelief as the Astros came within one strike of going to the World Series, only to lose it in a broken-heartbeat. But, tonight all is right with the world once again. The Houston Astros took command of the St. Louis Cardinals early in the contest and never let up. The ninth inning in St. Louis was a total turn around from game five in Houston. Tonight it was the Red Birds' fans who sat quietly watching their team try desperately to comeback, playing not only the final game of the season, but the final game in historic Busch Stadium. Two bitter loses in one night for the diehard, yet gracious fans of St. Louis. The Houston Astros are going to the World Series along with more than 4,000,000 of their closest friends. This city couldn't be more proud of the Good Guys of 2005. It's been a long time coming, but well worth the wait. Congratulations gentlemen.

I Still Bee-lieve!

Tonight they came so close. Two outs in the top of the ninth inning. The Houston Astros were leading St. Louis by two runs and it seemed for a fleeting moment that all was right with the world. Then with a single swing of the bat, the screaming and chanting of 43,000 fans ceased and the dream of a National League pennant for the home team was once again put on hold. It was an emotional ride that I can't remember ever experiencing before. From the highest high to the lowest low in the time that it took for a baseball to travel just over 400 feet. I've heard the phrase, "the silence was deafening", but never really understood it's meaning until tonight. When that ball crashed against the railroad track high atop the left field wall above the Crawford boxes, the sudden silence was truely deafening in Minute Maid Park. It was so quiet, coming off of inning after inning of non-stop thunderous noise, that one might have imagined that they had lost the ability to hear. Everyone was dumbstruck including the scattered nests of Cardinal fans decked out in their red bird jerseys and caps. No one could believe what had just happened. The Astros and their hive of "Killer Bees" (a nickname for the roster featuring players such as Bagwell, Biggio, Berkmen, Burke, Backe and the other Bs) had lost an opportunity to make history, and had lost that opportunity at home in front of a sell-out crowd of real "Bee-lievers". This team is tough. This team is not known for doing things the easy way. This team will try again on Wednesday in St. Louis, and will hopefully come home as the National League Champs. If not . . . they played the good game and are still one of the top four teams in Major League Baseball. That's an incredible accomplishment worth celebrating in itself. Oh, ye of little faith. I still bee-lieve. Now let's hope the Houston Astros still do.

On The Verge

Well, here we are. The Houston Astros are just one game from going to the World Series for the first time. This is as close as the team got last year, but they just couldn't quite make it happen. But, this year it's different. This year it looks as if there is some destiny to be fulfilled. The momentum appears to be in Houston's favor. The calls and the breaks certainly are. For weeks, a chain of good things have continued to happen on the field. When a strike is needed, the call is made. When a soft bunt can make all the difference, some youngster steps up to make it happen. When a miracle defensive play can close out the inning, it's been there with unexplainable regularity. From the terrific trio of Clemens, Pettitte and Oswalt, to the bullpen bombers with "Lights Out" Lidge, Wheeler and the rest, the pitching has been phenomenal. The Houston Astros are on the verge. The face of the team will be changing soon as names such as Bagwell and Biggio, names synonymous with Houston baseball, retire after long, powerful careers. Yes, the Astros are on the verge. A new team of young, talented, and hungry ballplayers are taking their place in the dugout along the first base line. They will be filling a roster that once carried names such as Ryan, Doran, Cruz, and Scott. And this year the Astros are on the verge of a World Series appearance for the first time. Once there were the Miracle Mets and now there are the Amazing Astros. It's late October and the game goes on. Ain't baseball great?

The Year of the Good Guys

Tomorrow night the National League playoffs begin, and for the second consecutive year the Houston Astros and the St. Louis Cardinals are vying for the title. The fact that Houston was once a farm team for St. Louis makes this rivalry somewhat personal, but knowing that the local team has become a serious contender in recent years makes the series really special. Astros fever can be felt everywhere from Galveston to Huntsville, though some folks here and in other parts of the country say that we're over reacting. How can being excited about your team be over reacting when they are now ranked among the top four clubs in Major League baseball? I'm proud to have the brick-red and black star on my cap, my truck, my cell phone and, when cool weather returns to Houston, on my jacket. I'm a fan . . . not fanatic, but a fan. I don't live and die with the Astros, but it's fun to have something beyond war, hurricanes and political scandal to talk about. It's uplifting to know that a group of guys who had been written off by most of the media and many local fans are now within a few games of the really big show. The World Series could be coming to Houston for the first time and I hope that 2005 will be that time. I hope that 2005 will be the year of the Good Guys.

This Is Where The Fun Really Begins

Back in May the nay-sayers were posting obituaries for the Houston Astros Baseball Club. At 15-games below 500, very few experts, and even fewer fans, held out hope that the "Good Guys" would post a half way decent season in '05. But, here they are on October 8, just nine innings from the Division Championship against their old nemesis, the St. Louis Cardinals. The 2005 Houston Astros have possibly found that perfect balance of veteran experience and rookiesque excitement and enthusiasm to go where many media types are now predicting; The World Series. Almost to the point of embarrassment, the city celebrated a Wild Card win as if it was a national championship, so dare we look ahead at the prospect of a Houston Astros and Chicago White Sox match-up and what that might bring? I say we do. Opportunities such as this come so seldom that we should grab on and not let go until the last out of the last inning in the last game. Maybe it's good karma for being there when Louisiana's homeless looked to Houston for help. Maybe it's because this city has dreamed of a World Champion baseball team for more than four decades only to come up short. Or just maybe it's because it's our time . . . a time when all the hard work is finally paying off and we are going to be here to see it happen. Stay tuned . . . this is where the fun really begins.

A Family Divided

Tonight I'm facing the prospect of a family divided. It's nothing on the scale of those living along the Mason-Dixon Line during the Civil War and being forced to judge the economic benefits versus immorality of slavery. It's not quite as debatable as whether the Three Stooges are really funny, or even who is the sexiest . . . Ginger or Mary Ann. But, it's still an issue that will cast my family into pseudo-turmoil for the next week. Will it be the Houston Astros or the Atlanta Braves moving on to face the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League Playoffs? You notice that I have already written-off San Diego. Too bad, too sad. I grew up in Atlanta. I lived there for 29-years before making Houston my home and adopting its sports teams as my own. I remember going to the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium and enjoying every minute of it. I remember listening to Hall of Fame announcer, Milo Hamilton, calling Hank Aaron's record-breaking home run from there. I remember seeing the Beatles perform at second base in 1964. But today I am an Astros fan. That's were the family division comes in. Mom and dad still live near Atlanta and my brother, Dave, never gave up the Braves-bug when he moved to Florida several years ago. So, tonight we are a family divided. Divided by two teams going head-to-head on Thursday afternoon within the confines of Turner Field. The battle should be intense. The Braves have been in the play-offs for 14 consecutive years. The Astros fought their way back from the second-worst record in Major League Baseball earlier this year to win the NL Wild Card behind arguably the strongest trio of starting pitchers in all of baseball. When the chalk dust has cleared on the day of the final game, one side of my family will be disappointed while the other side will be looking forward to a possible World Series appearance. On that day the family divided will again become one. After all blood is thicker than pine tar or the spit on the dugout floor.

Good Guys Don't Always Finish Last

Well, it's come down to this. It's the last day of the regular baseball season and the Houston Astros are leading the National League Wild Card race by only one game. It's not the end of the world by any means, but it is the time to take control and make things happen. If the "Good Guys" (as the Houston Astros are known regionally) win today and their rivals, the Philadelphia Phillies, lose, the Astros move on to play the Atlanta Braves in the play-offs next week. If the Phillies win and the Astros lose, there will be a one-game tie-breaker on Monday to determine the winner. If both teams win or lose, our local heroes will be flying to the Peach State after the game. It's not really confusing, but sure is nerve-racking. For better or worse, they seem to do this to us every year. Why can't there be a year where the Astros just run away with it from the start? I mean, really pile up the lead and hold on to it the way that St. Louis did this year. It probably wouldn't be as good for sales of TUMS and Corona, but a little padding would be a welcome change from the regular nail-biting end-of-season escapades that Astros fans have endured in the past. Today at work I'll be glued to MLB's Game Day Audio playing on my office computer and listening to Hall of Fame announcer Milo Hamilton call the most important game of the year. I hope to hear Milo shout "Holy Toledo!" the way he did when Hammerin' Hank hit #715 and broke Babe Ruth's homerun record in Atlanta around 30-years ago. If he does it's a good sign that the Houston Astros have taken up where they left off in 2004 on their quest for a championship. Maybe this is the year of the Good Guy. I still believe . . . I believe in this team, I believe in this city and I believe that Good Guys don't always finish last.

Just Ask Gramma

With all the preparation, evacuation and anxiety prior to the impact of Hurricane Rita along the Gulf Coast recently, a notable milestone passed that should have received some sort of coverage, but was over-shadowed by major news events of the day. Landon Michael Stowe turned six-months old on September 21. That sick little "Peanut" who almost died twice in the first two months of his life is a real life, honest to gosh survivor. He now weighs-in at more than 20 lbs and is seriously as tall as a one-year-old. The once bare patches of scalp where IVs had been inserted are now covered in baby-soft brown hair. That little throat, so sore from all the tubes that had been poked in to help him breath, now produces sounds and laughter to please the ears of all around. Then there is the smile. Landon's smile lights up a room. His fat cheeks rise as he opens his mouth wide to reveal two tiny new teeth, slightly yellowed from all the antibiotics that turned his health from critical to incredible. The rolls of baby fat on his arms and legs could make you believe that his father was actually the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. Landon, or Little Dude as I now frequently call him, is a miracle. It's a miracle that he cheated death at least twice. It's a miracle that having had such a tough start in life he is now so strong, alert and inquisitive. It's a miracle that he has made his mom re-evaluate her life and focus on her future. But, one thing's for sure . . . . it's no miracle that Landon is a Houston Astros fan. It's in his genes. Just ask Gramma!

It Will Be Interesting

This is an interesting night. All the preparations are done . . . batteries, radio, flashlights, food, water, medical supplies and first aid kit, tools. The check list is complete, yet I still wonder what Space City USA will be like at this time on Saturday night. In two hours my family will be loading up the van and driving to College Station for safety. Normally an easy 60-minute trip, the thousands of evacuees on State Highways 290 and 6 have turned the trek into an agonizing hours-long challenge of fragile tempers, overheated vehicles and no gasoline at any price. At home we are stocked and awaiting Rita's arrival. The "we" are two displaced friends from League City in Galveston County and myself. The trucks are gassed up, there are seven cases of bottled water in the dining room and another 50 gallons in Igloo containers stored in the garage. We have ice chests of chilled fajita meat and chicken, a pantry packed with canned veggies and fruit and . . . SPAM! Any processed canned meat by-products in a storm as they say. . . Though this is an interesting night, tomorrow night is obviously going take the prize. My friends and I are as prepared as we can be. They are sleeping now having spent 12 hours on the road earlier today to make what should have taken only 90-minutes to drive. Needless to say they came home with me and abandoned their plan to drive to College Station . . . the same place that my family is evacuating to tonight. Tomorrow the wind will blow. Tomorrow the rains will fall. Tomorrow. It will be interesting.

God Bless Houston

It started with just a few cautious Cajun driving into the city for a few days to escape the approaching storm. They would be staying with family members or taking rooms at one of the many Motel 6 and Comfort Inns that pepper I-10 between Beaumont and Houston. But, as the predictions of 25 to 30-foot storm surges and winds topping 150 miles per hour spread, the wave of evacuees washed into Space City full force. Hotel rooms quickly filled. Churches and YMCAs along the ship channel at Baytown and Channelview were converted into Red Cross shelters. The numbers swelled and so did the relief centers and a city was mobilized to comfort and tend to the needs of thousands. As the City of New Orleans slipped into chaos, the City of Houston stepped up to help their neighbors to the east with a kind hand, a warm meal, and the emotional support that was needed so badly. The Astrodome, once tagged the Eighth Wonder of the World, would soon be filled with more than 12,000 weary, homeless residents of New Orleans, and the neighborhood shelters continued to open. Next, word came that the adjacent Reliant Center would be converted into a sanctuary for the continuous bus loads of people, and the neighborhood shelters continued to open. Now we hear that the George R. Brown Convention Center in downtown, with its 1,000,000 square feet of open exhibit space, will become home to the homeless tomorrow, and still the neighborhood shelters continue to open. The unofficial count now tops 100,000 refugees calling Houston home. The city has opened its heart and its pocketbook to help in an unprecedented show of compassion. Many people across this country have never taken Houston seriously. They have never given Houston its due. But, this city is setting an example of how a community can make a world of difference in the lives of those in need. I am proud to be a part of this great city. God bless those coming to us for help. And, God bless Houston . . .