B - Bizarro - #AtoZChallenge

Gren's hands were shaking as he stepped into the the butterfly pens. There was only three hours until the championship game and he was nervous. He came to the pens early to dust his butterfly's wings one more time and clean her antennae. Coach always said that cleaning the antennae doesn't make any difference, but it was a practice Gren learned early from his father and couldn't give it up. Plus, Spicy seemed to enjoy it.

Spicy was a Giant Spicebush Swallowtail (papilio troilus giganticus) Gren had raised from a caterpillar larva. Gren's grandfather gave him the egg for his seventh birthday and told him this one would be special if it was cared for properly. Gren had always taken that seriously. He even rubbed a family-secret vitamin oil compound on Spicy's chrysalis every morning and night when she was in her pupa stage. Gren was so thankful when Spicy went pupa. Caterpillars are notoriously hungry and can be quite aggressive. She had grown to a little over four feet long and was getting difficult to control. Gren knew half a dozen kids at school who had lost fingers to their ravenous pets.

When Spicy emerged after four months of metamorphic coma, the new butterfly had a wingspan of almost seven feet. The vitamins had done their work. Gren started her training immediately. He had been excited to be the first to use a swallowtail at his school. Swallowtails weren't as colorful as some of the more highly preferred species for this sport, but her size was often intimidating to the other fliers and she was fast.

Gren checked over all the straps on the saddle to ensure everything was in working order. Regulations stated they were not to be fitted until immediately before the match and supervised by those officiating. This being the championship, these extra details were more strongly enforced. Once satisfied with the saddle's condition, he tried to get his head in the game. Gren had earned his spot on the team and had fought hard to make it this far, but the pressure was immense.

Butterflies in some of the other stalls started stirring around as more of his teammates trickled in. Everyone was getting ready and giving their butterflies nectar treats to calm them. Wings were dusted, thoraxes rubbed, and saddles oiled. Everyone seemed ready to go.

Butterflies are easily excitable, so in the confines of the stables talking and fast movements by the riders were forbidden. The quiet time before a match was a treasured time for Gren. As long as they were still in the stables, no one could give him a hard time about Spicy. Everyone else had bought their butterflies from a breeder or trainer. One of his teammates only acquired his a week before the start of the season. Only one of his teammates was even present when his butterfly emerged from its cocoon. It is common practice for people to buy well-bred, pre-trained fliers. However, Gren was very proud of the fact that he had raised Spicy from birth and trained her himself. No one else seemed to be impressed though. And the dull colors of his butterfly did not help to curb the teasing when most of his team rode butterflies with bright orange, yellow, or blue wings.

None of this mattered right now. Gren had proven that he and Spicy were valuable members of this team and had helped in getting the team to the championship. In fact, one of Spicy's maneuvers was instrumental in securing the win to reach the playoffs. He needed to stop being so unsure of himself.

The flower bell was rung to signal it was 30 minutes until game time. Everyone led their butterflies out to the edge of the field to saddle and harness in front of the officials. 

As Gren was waiting to secure the saddle, the official inspecting Spicy for any illegal contraband pointed out that she was in heat. NO! Butterflies in heat are primary targets in the third period when the breeders are released onto the playing field. Gren was going to really have to be on his game tonight. Playing a low-game would have to be his strategy. Stay close to the ground and let the breeders harass the colorful fliers higher in the sky.

After inspections were approved and everyone saddled up, the commissioner stepped out to the field for the ceremonial spinning of the hazard wheel. This was only done for championship games. An extra hazard would be added to the field to further test the skill of the players.

Gren had his fingers crossed for a sonic hazard. He had worked with Spicy for years training her to react to his shadow paddles. She was skilled at ignoring audio stimuli and allowing Gren to steer her.

The commissioner spun the wheel and the players waited to hear the announcement. The wheel slowly came to a stop and the head official declared "FROGS" for all to hear. Six cages each holding 12-foot long bullfrogs were wheeled onto the field.

Gren dropped his head. Staying low to ground to avoid the breeders would no longer be an option. Being swallowed by a bullfrog would be much worse.

The countdown timer began as both teams mounted the saddles. Gren let out a long breath. This would be the game of his life.

 

Spicebush Swallowtail

---

 

All this month, I am participating in the A to Z Challenge. A new post will go up every day (except Sundays) using a letter of the alphabet as the starting off point. My theme for the month is literary genres. I am writing in a different genre of flash fiction each day. Today's letter is B for Bizarro.

Turf Wars with Bieber Fans

No need to comment
on my white legs.

As I mentioned on Monday, summer is here and I could not be more excited. One of the many activities I have planned for the summer is participating in our church softball league. I know that I have bemoaned my disdain for sports, but I really enjoy this. It not so much about any love for the game. It's a physical activity (which I need) that allows me to hang out with the guys. I haven't played for the last couple of years due to my job and being out of the area for a while, but couldn't wait to join this year. Our first game is next week.

The girl in the center was their power hitter.

We had our second practice on Monday night and I was the first to show up at the field. As I got closer, I began to notice that the people already on the field appeared to just be getting started. It looked like a 10 year old girls' softball team. There were also many parents and a few coaches present with more people showing up as I approached.

This field is behind a public park and can be used by anyone at any time, but I was under the impression that we had reserved the field for our use. Had the park double booked the field? I approached the coach to see what was going on.

She said they had practice on the field from 6 to 7:30. I commented that the park office must have double-booked the field and she quickly apologized. Apparently, they had practiced there the entire summer before and had never had a conflict despite never officially reserving the field. Not being the guy in charge of our team and not wanting to run off a bunch of little girls, I opted to wait for the rest of the team to show up so we could decide what to do.

My first thought

As the guys started to arrive, we spoke with the other coach and she challenged us to a game. She said it would give the girls a bit of a challenge before their first game, we could get our practice and maybe we could help the girls in learning how to field the ball.

We quickly decided that we didn't want our church to be known as the one that broke a child's face with a hard line drive and agreed to practice in the outfield. A similar situation happened a few years ago with an adult women's' team. It ended with our pastor breaking the wrist of their third baseman when she misjudged the ball he hit.

Occasionally, their ball would fly into our area, but we were more worried about our ball taking out one of them. There was one close call, but it all worked out without injury.

I don't know why he was so mad at me.
It was his daughter that couldn't catch a ball.

Realizing this could be a good post for my blog, I instructed Kirsten to get a picture of the girls practicing. She objected because she thought it would be creepy to go take pictures of kids. I explained that I wanted this shot and it would be much less creepy for her, a 16 year old girl, to get the shot than me, a 40 year old man.  She walked over to their area to get the shot, but never lost her nerve. So, I had to be the creepy old guy with the camera. I don't have the stealthy ninja photography skills of Misty at Misty's Laws, so I just raised my camera and took the pictures. I got the shots I wanted and was only cursed at by two sets of parents.

In the end, we all got to practice and they are now educated on how to properly reserve the field for their future practices. Everyone was happy and we didn't have to be shamed by getting beaten by a bunch of little girls. Or shamed because we were the mean old men that beat a bunch of little girls. I believe our forfeit to the outfield was the only winnable option.

March Madness Madness

All the talk of March Madness is driving me insane. I have been forced into dozens of conversations about this topic that I know nothing about. It reminded me of an old post which I believe explains my stance.

Originally posted October 22, 2010

After a long, hard week working in the tire factory, it is finally Friday.  I could not be more happy for the weekend.  I just got paid, I have two days off, I just got the news I have been waiting for about a new job, and the Eagles are playing the Titans on Sunday.

So, guess what I will be doing on Sunday afternoon.  I will help you.  I may be reading a book, walking around the mall, or wasting time on Facebook.  I will not be watching the Eagles game.  I also will not be watching the Saints, Patriots, Bills, Cowboys, Jaguars or Steelers.  What do I have against these teams?  Nothing.  I just don’t watch football.  What do I have against football?  Nothing.  I just have no interest.  None.

I have never had any interest in football.  Or baseball.  Or basketball.  Or any other sport.  I just don’t care.  Sports do nothing for me.  When I see those big emotional documentaries on Babe Ruth, Joe Namath, or Mickey Mantle, or footage of the Immaculate Reception, I can’t help but think, “It’s just a game.”  What’s the big deal?

I didn’t grow up in a sports family.  We didn’t watch the games on TV or go play baseball in the yard.  I did play Little League when I was in grade school.  I even tried out for basketball when I has in the fourth grade, but even then it wasn’t because I loved sports.  I did it because,…well, it’s what my friends were doing.  I even had fun playing baseball in the summer, but it’s because I was a kid and I was playing.  Playing is what kids like to do, but I would have been just as happy playing anything.

As an adult, I really don’t understand the fascination with a bunch of guys who throw a ball around.  I am not saying anything against sports fans.  They enjoy it and that’s great; I just don’t understand it.  A man goes to see his favorite team play.  Let’s say the Rams, since I am so close to St. Louis.  There are some good plays, some lousy calls by the refs, and in the end the Rams win (or lose).  Now, I understand the entertainment of watching the game, but when it’s over, it’s over.  The number went up in either the W or the L column.  What difference does it make?  If they keep winning and make it to the Super Bowl, even win it, what difference does it make?  Whether they win or lose, they will be back again to play next year.  To be so into the game that arguments break out in bars and living rooms over whether the coach should be kept or which players should be traded is beyond me.

Once again, I want to state that I have nothing against the people that are huge fans, not even the ones who paint their whole body the team colors and wear crazy hats.  If this is what some people want to put their time and energy into, that is fine by me.  I am sure there are many people out there who do not understand my extreme interest in computers, reading, and photography.  Those are the things I like to do, and could easily burn an entire weekend in front of my computer or reading.  So, I have nothing against sports or the people who follow or play them.  I just don’t get into it myself.

However, there is one thing about many sports fans that makes me want to take up cage fighting so I can make them tap out.  Why is it that if I don’t know the name of the Bears’ quarterback or the shortstop for the Pirates in 2006, I am suddenly not a man, at least, not one from this planet?  I have tolerated the endless discussions about the rivalry between Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon with my best smile, but as soon as I cannot participate in the conversation with any knowledge on the matter, I feel like I am being shunned.  “You don’t follow NASCAR?  What do you do on Sundays?”  The next question is the worst one.  “So what sport DO you follow?  Football, baseball, golf, soccer, MMA fighting, dodge ball, competitive bass fishing?”  It is unheard of that I don’t follow any sport.  Once I confess this dirty little secret, there is usually several minutes of silence while they try to think of what we could possibly talk about if sports is off the table.

I first noticed this prejudice in high school.  Near the end of my senior year, my school hosted a Sports Appreciation meal.  It was a rather simple affair.  The school ordered several dozen pizzas for the sports participants of the school.  Of course, the basketball and baseball players were all there.  I walked in with my team and the partiers of the room stopped and stared.  “What are you guys doing here?”  You see, the team I was on was the Scholastic Bowl.  We competed against other schools in academic challenges.

As far as we were concerned, we should be part of the meal.  What we did was a sport.  We would compete with 5-person teams and two alternates.  There was a countdown timer and we kept score (unlike cheerleaders, who were at the meal).  Our matches had officials (like referees), we practiced three times a week and traveled to our different meets.  It was very competitive.  Sounds like a sport to me.

We hadn’t even been invited to participate, but our coach found out about it and decided we should crash the party.  We got a lot of dirty looks and nasty comments, but we didn’t mind.  We just wanted the pizza.  Maybe if we threw balls at the opposing teams while they answered we would have gotten more respect.

So, this Sunday, if you invite me over to watch the game and I say, “No, thank you,” know that it is nothing against you.  It’s just that if you want me to sit through three hours of sports talk and watching people yell at a TV then you need to have some really good snacks.

Are You Ready for Some Football?...'Cause I'm Not

After a long, hard week working in the tire factory, it is finally Friday.  I could not be more happy for the weekend.  I just got paid, I have two days off, I just got the news I have been waiting for about a new job, and the Eagles are playing the Titans on Sunday.

So, guess what I will be doing on Sunday afternoon.  I will help you.  I may be reading a book, walking around the mall, or wasting time on Facebook.  I will not be watching the Eagles game.  I also will not be watching the Saints, Patriots, Bills, Cowboys, Jaguars or Steelers.  What do I have against these teams?  Nothing.  I just don’t watch football.  What do I have against football?  Nothing.  I just have no interest.  None.

I have never had any interest in football.  Or baseball.  Or basketball.  Or any other sport.  I just don’t care.  Sports do nothing for me.  When I see those big emotional documentaries on Babe Ruth, Joe Namath, or Mickey Mantle, or footage of the Immaculate Reception, I can’t help but think, “It’s just a game.”  What’s the big deal?

I didn’t grow up in a sports family.  We didn’t watch the games on TV or go play baseball in the yard.  I did play Little League when I was in grade school.  I even tried out for basketball when I was in the fourth grade, but even then it wasn’t because I loved sports.  I did it because,…well, it’s what my friends were doing.  I even had fun playing baseball in the summer, but it’s because I was a kid and I was playing.  Playing is what kids like to do, but I would have been just as happy playing anything.

As an adult, I really don’t understand the fascination with a bunch of guys who throw a ball around.  I am not saying anything against sports fans.  They enjoy it and that’s great; I just don’t understand it.  A man goes to see his favorite team play.  Let’s say the Rams, since I am so close to St. Louis.  There are some good plays, some lousy calls by the refs, and in the end the Rams win (or lose).  Now, I understand the entertainment of watching the game, but when it’s over, it’s over.  The number went up in either the W or the L column.  What difference does it make?  If they keep winning and make it to the Super Bowl, even win it, what difference does it make?  Whether they win or lose, they will be back again to play next year.  To be so into the game that arguments break out in bars and living rooms over whether the coach should be kept or which players should be traded is beyond me.

Once again, I want to state that I have nothing against the people that are huge fans, not even the ones who paint their whole body the team colors and wear crazy hats.  If this is what some people want to put their time and energy into, that is fine by me.  I am sure there are many people out there who do not understand my extreme interest in computers, reading, and photography.  Those are the things I like to do, and could easily burn an entire weekend in front of my computer or reading.  So, I have nothing against sports or the people who follow or play them.  I just don’t get into it myself.

However, there is one thing about many sports fans that makes me want to take up cage fighting so I can make them tap out.  Why is it that if I don’t know the name of the Bears’ quarterback or the shortstop for the Pirates in 2006, I am suddenly not a man, at least, not one from this planet?  I have tolerated the endless discussions about the rivalry between Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon with my best smile, but as soon as I cannot participate in the conversation with any knowledge on the matter, I feel like I am being shunned.  “You don’t follow NASCAR?  What do you do on Sundays?”  The next question is the worst one.  “So what sport DO you follow?  Football, baseball, golf, soccer, MMA fighting, dodge ball, competitive bass fishing?”  It is unheard of that I don’t follow any sport.  Once I confess this dirty little secret, there is usually several minutes of silence while they try to think of what we could possibly talk about if sports is off the table.

I first noticed this prejudice in high school.  Near the end of my senior year, my school hosted a Sports Appreciation meal.  It was a rather simple affair.  The school ordered several dozen pizzas for the sports participants of the school.  Of course, the basketball and baseball players were all there.  I walked in with my team and the partiers of the room stopped and stared.  “What are you guys doing here?”  You see, the team I was on was the Scholastic Bowl.  We competed against other schools in academic challenges.

As far as we were concerned, we should be part of the meal.  What we did was a sport.  We would compete with 5-person teams and two alternates.  There was a countdown timer and we kept score (unlike cheerleaders, who were at the meal).  Our matches had officials (like referees), we practiced three times a week and traveled to our different meets.  It was very competitive.  Sounds like a sport to me.

We hadn’t even been invited to participate, but our coach found out about it and decided we should crash the party.  We got a lot of dirty looks and nasty comments, but we didn’t mind.  We just wanted the pizza.  Maybe if we threw balls at the opposing teams while they answered we would have gotten more respect.

So, this Sunday, if you invite me over to watch the game and I say, “No, thank you,” know that it is nothing against you.  It’s just that if you want me to sit through three hours of sports talk and watching people yell at a TV then you need to have some really good snacks.