The Box Collector

Here are most of the boxes I used to move into my new home recently. (This picture doesn't tell the whole story, since the bigger boxes have multiple smaller boxes inside them.) For the past two years, these boxes had been stored in my brother's crawlspace.

When I went into the crawlspace to collect my boxes in preparation for the move, I had to admit something about myself:

I'm a box collector.

I've done it for years now, probably because I move so often. Because every home is a temporary one, I want to hang on to the boxes that were so helpful to me during the last move. Meanwhile, I buy new stuff and keep the boxes it came in, in case I'll need them for my next move. (In my latest move I probably had at least a dozen shoe boxes, for example.)

Some boxes have been in my life a long time. I got the one above when I left my first public library job in 1994. It's a nice big, sturdy box, with handle-holes, made for transporting books. For 15 years, through 11 moves, I've filled it up with my oversize books-- atlases, coffee table novelties, and large comic books-- and lugged it to my new place. It's been with me longer than most of the people in my life.

My predilection for keeping boxes was really just a symptom of my transient nature. But now that I've bought a house, I'm putting down roots and don't anticipate another move. And so it's time to deal with my "problem." I need to let go of my boxes. The first step was letting my brother throw out a bunch of empty ones that were not even employed in this move. There was a pile of them left in my empty apartment and he wanted to throw them out. I grit my teeth and said, "I'm going to look the other way. You do what you need to do."

Then a friend of my brother's family was looking for boxes because she was moving. I reluctantly agreed to let her at my beautiful, beautiful box collection. It's time to let go. So I piled all my boxes in the corner of my spare bedroom and let her take what she wanted. I was a little offended when she rejected some of them. In other cases, she took the box but left the lid! How can you disrespect the sanctity of the box like that? Why, a moving box without the lid is like...like...like... well, I can't think of a better metaphor than a box without a lid!

I was secretly thankful that, before I let select her boxes, I had put a few special ones in the closet. Like the library box above. It's been in my life too long to be discarded like that.

Now let me tell you about my bag collection...

Language Stickler Buys a House

During the hectic final days before the closing on my new awesome house (which successfully happened last week-- woo-hoo!), I received an email from the assistant to my mortgage loan officer.

Before the mortgage holding company could process the loan, they needed some documentation to explain why my W2's show my annual income so much higher than my (so far) biweekly paychecks would indicate. (There's a clear, but long, explanation for this-- having to do with my summer contract-- but it did require another flurry of paperwork to sort out.)

But they didn't explain it quite that way. The mortgage company told my loan officer they needed following: "Satisfactory explanation from employer why borrowers YTD and W2 income is so much higher then his bi weekly pay [sic]."

This is a professional correspondence between a mortgage company and a loan officer, and they can't even exhibit a basic grasp of possessives and comparative phrases? Plus, who are they calling bi?

And these are the people who will be in charge of hundreds of thousands of dollars of my money?

Is this why the mortgage industry crashed?

...mortgagor owe's more then there income...

What Part of STUPID Do You Not Understand?

I know I don't have to worry about calling her stupid on my blog, because I know she will never, ever read it.

This is, after all, someone who refuses to turn on a computer. Even during a college class. That meets in a COMPUTER LAB.

The old lady in the front row of class was very attentive during my PowerPoint introduction. She took notes and asked questions about library catalogs and indexes. I should have known there might be a problem when she asked about the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature, an obsolete print magazine index that I have never used in six years of librarianship. (All of the indexes are online now.) But it was the first time I've ever had a student bring up the Reader's Guide and I was impressed. Wow, I thought, she really knows her library stuff!

Trying to put her at ease about the online indexes, I told her how much of an advantage she would have using our databases if she already was familiar with the Reader's Guide.

But when I passed out the worksheet for the class to acquaint themselves with library resources, she said, "No, thanks" as if I was offering her a chocolate turd. While the rest of the class got busy looking up books and articles on our online catalog and databases, she just sat there and stared at the wall. Her computer remained turned off.

After a minute I asked her, "Would you like me to help you get started?"

"No," she said. "I hate computers."

A few minutes later I came back to try again. "Um," I said, "there really is no other way to look up stuff in a library. If you want to know how to do research, you have to use a computer."

"What part of no don't you understand?" She said. Well, I guess it's the part where a student can simply refuse to participate in a class assignment.

I let her stew in her own juices while I made a pass around the room to check on the other students. They were all working diligently, filling out their worksheet. Hers lay untouched in front of her. How could she expect to pass this class, a composition class that meets IN A COMPUTER LAB, if she wouldn't even turn on a computer?

The old lady snagged me as I walked around the room. "Can I ask you something personal?" Sure. "What do you think of all this technology?" Instead of waiting for my reply, she launched into a diatribe against all things cyber. She railed against cell phones and email and twitter. You can't do anything these days without a computer. It's so unfair that kids these days don't even have the option of saying no to technology. If they don't go along with this fad, if they don't like computers, then they're left out.

I had no idea how to respond to someone who thought computers were a fad, so I said, "Well, you know, there was a time when people thought the telephone was..."

"...an instrument of the devil?" She said, laughing. How crazy people were back then!!

She told me I could take the worksheet back, because she wouldn't be filling it out. This is a challenge of being a guest speaker. I don't have any authority to make her do the work. The class instructor is a young lady who's kind of passive. But surely you can't just sit in class and refuse to participate?

I was dying to ask the instructor what this lady's story was, but I couldn't do that within earshot of the student.

So I asked the instructor, "Um, how many times has the class met so far?"

Instructor: "This is the fourth meeting."

Me: "And is this the first time you've used the computers?"

Instructor: "Yeah, actually, I think it is."

The instructor, however, did not pick up on my signals and did not elaborate further.

At the end of the class the old lady tried to give me the worksheet back, and I told her to keep it in case she wanted to fill it out later. "Oh, you're really persistent. You won't take 'no' for an answer. You're just like all these other people trying to get me to use cell phones and internet and email...Oh, you can send pictures to your grandchildren! I have a better way to send mail: pen and paper!!"

"Okay," I said, "just keep it as a souvenir."

After she walked out I approached the instructor, because I was dying to know what this lady's deal was. As it turns out, she was just auditing the class (not taking it for grades or credit) so she could refuse to do work she didn't want to.

It still begs the question, if she wants to audit a class, why take a composition class that focuses on academic writing and research? You can't do academic research without turning on a computer. And how is she going to complete written assignments? By hand? I don't know any college instructors who accept hand-written papers anymore.

Again, not the belabor the point, but what the hell is she doing taking a class IN A FUCKING COMPUTER LAB if she refuses to turn on a computer? That's like going to an orgy and then refusing to look at any naked people.

I don't call her stupid for being afraid of technology. A lot of people are. But the whole point of education is to learn new things, even if it means facing your fears. If you think you can participate in the academic world by refusing to engage with the most basic tool of writing, research, and communication, well then, you're stupid.

What part of that do you not understand?

I Have Found Me a Home

I bought a house.

The story of how and why I bought one is long and involved, and I'm so busy with homebuying details right now that I don't have the time to tell it properly. Here's a quick summary:

On May 12th, I found out that my apartment had been rented to someone else for the next year. I would be getting kicked out in two months.

On June 12th, I made an offer on a house.

By July 12th, I will be moved in.

The field was strong, the competition fierce. I looked at 50-60 online listings. I made a spreadsheet of the top 25, drove around to see them from the outside, then ranked the top 14 that I wanted to see in person. Of the 14 ranked candidates, three made the final cut.

After bringing my consultants to look at each of the finalists a second time, I was ready to make an offer on one of them, but I couldn't get the offer together before my trip to New York. When I came back, it was sold.

Back to the drawing board. Round two consisted of about 5-7 more houses. I quickly narrowed this field down to two: a small cheap bungalow that seemed a good fit for me, and a more expensive, but a better valued brick home that needed some minor work.

All four of my consultants agreed that the latter house was the better choice. So I chose it.


The Good

• This is the largest 2 BR house I've ever seen: 1400 square feet.
• Large-ish room off the living room could be nice office. (Can't be called a bedroom because there's no closet-- but there is a fake fireplace.)
• There is new carpet in half the house. Love that new carpet smell. (When I come home to my apartment and see that one of the cats has barfed on the carpet, I tell them, "Get all of it out of your system now, kitties, because you WILL NOT be barfing on the new carpet in the new house.")
  
• The living room is large and sunny. Has a gas fireplace.
  
• The hall and bedrooms have hardwood floors.
  
• There are two huge built-in closet/dressers in the hallway.
  
• Lots of closet space.
• Brand new furnace. Heating system is hot water, which is really efficient. House has central AC, which was not listed on the real estate info sheet. (Bonus!)
• Brick exterior is more efficient, sturdy, and attractive.
• One-car attached garage.
• Large laundry/utility room with deep sink. Ideal place for cat bathroom (the room-- not the sink.)
• Large kitchen with nice green walls.
  
• Good neighborhood
  
• Yard is just the right size: not too big, not too small.
• Great value. It was an estate home, and sold for 7K less than what the home was assessed at for taxing purposes. This is rare, as the tax assessment is usually well below market value. When the time comes, it should be easy to resell.
• It's vacant, so I can move in as soon as I get all the financing in order.
  

The Bad

• No dishwasher, no disposal, and an old fridge with no icemaker. This will be a step back from where I'm living now. Oh, how I love my dishwasher!
  
• The kitchen drawers and cabinets are metal, and the overhang on the range has those curvy sharp angles that makes it looks like a 1950's vision of the future, like a George Jetson house. Not a fan. I may have to redo it some day.
  
• The lone bathroom is pretty ugly. Pink Bakelite(?) tiles on the wall. It will need some work.
  
• The first thing to go will be the awning over the front steps. It keeps the natural sunlight out of the living room and makes the house look like a barber shop. Also going bye-bye is the thin brown carpet covering the concrete front steps. This is not a Putt-Putt.
  
  
• The backyard has this weird rectangular indentation that no one can figure out. There are remnants of stone around the perimeter of it, so theories range from an old garage to outhouse to bomb shelter. Personally, I think it may be an old Indian burial ground or a portal to hell.
  
  
• No basement (this is offset by the garage, the utility room, and lots of closet space.)
  
• The roof may need to be replaced in the next few years.
• It's more space than I need. I probably won't even use the second bedroom at first.
• The windows are old and some of them don't open.
  
• There are some maintenance issues that may turn out to be a real headache.
  

The Awesome

• It will be mine.
  

Humor Impairement

A One-Act Play

Characters:

• CW (Co-Worker)
• Me (Tim)

Setting: End-of-the-semester lunch at work. Very social atmosphere.

CW: There's a yankee, an oriole, a cardinal, and a cub.
Me: When you say, "Yankee" do you mean someone from the North or any American?
CW: From New York...
Me: A New Yorker?
CW: ...baseball.
Me; Oh, the Yankees! Is it a fan, or one of the players?
CW: Yeah, it's a player. [Rolling her eyes.] They're in uniform and carrying bats! Yankee, Oriole, Cardinal, Cub.
Me: Oh, the teams! I thought you meant the actual animals. I wondered what a person was doing with all those animals. Okay, go ahead.
CW: So the Yankee jumps off a cliff and says, "I'll do anything for the Yankees!"
Me: Wait a minute. Why did he jump off the cliff? How does jumping off a cliff help his team?
CW: [Staring daggers at me.] I don't know why.
Me: It just doesn't make any sense.
CW: [Undeterred] So then the Oriole says, "I'll do anything for the Orioles!" And jumps off the cliff. Then the Cardinal turns to the Cub and says, "Will you do anything for the Cubs?" And the Cub says,"Yes," and pushes the Cardinal off the cliff.
[Pause]
Me: I don't understand why they were jumping off a cliff to begin with. I mean, how does it help your team? Did the team ask them to jump off a cliff? Was it to show their loyalty?
CW: Maybe they were really terrible players. Or lemmings. Why do you have to overanalyze the joke?
Me: I wasn't overanalyzing the joke. I was analyzing it the perfect amount. It doesn't make sense.

THE END

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I ask you: which of these characters is humor impaired?

Best in Pound

Back when I had two cats, I used to say that my cats were like Sith Lords. There are always two of them, an old one and a young one. When one dies, a new one has to step in and take its place.

So my universe has been out of whack since last January, when Katya, my primary cat, died. That left Hermione, the backup one, to fill the role of both primary and auxiliary cat. It's way too much to ask of one cat, especially a psycho kitty who's spent her entire life playing a supporting role.

After four months of mourning, I'm ready to let a new Sith kitty into my life. So I went to the Humane Society to try to restore balance and order to the universe, and give a cat a home at the same time.

I was determined not to make any decisions on my first visit, but two clear favorites emerged from it. Abandoning my joke about Sith Lords, I decided I wanted an adult cat, about the same age as Hermione (who's six.) That's the age Katya was when I got her, and she turned out to the be the Best Cat Ever. And I thought an adult cat might be able to give Hermy the discipline she needs. Both of the candidates, unfortunately, had fur the same color and texture as Katya. The leading candidate was a petite and adorable female named Baby Girl.

I took her into the "getting acquainted" room, and she was so sweet and affectionate, rubbing up against me and demanding affection, that I almost fell in love with her right there. The problem was that she looked and felt way too much like Katya, and I was afraid she would turn into a replacement kitty. I'd have to call her Katya II (or K2) and that would just be too creepy.

The second candidate was Lloyd, a large male who was also quite affectionate.

He's a sweetheart, but notice they don't show his body in this picture (provided on their website.) That's because he's huge. One advantage to him was that he was declawed, which would work better with Hermione, who is also declawed. (I'm ambivalent on the issue of declawing, and felt terribly guilty when I got Hermy declawed. I did it because Katya was already declawed when I got her, and I thought it wouldn't be fair to leave Hermy with hers.)

For a week I pondered the advantages and disadvantages of Baby Girl vs. Lloyd. I was also trying to think of names for them, since obviously a lame name like Baby Girl would need to be changed. ("Baby Girl" is a description, not a name. That's like calling your son "Male Child.") I wrote out a list of possible names:

• Katya II
• Onion
• Methodius (Methodia for a female)
• Butters
• Kitty Buffett
• Blog
• Quagmire
• Admiral Kitty von Sqeezington
• Dupaws O'lickity Furburger
  

Although Baby Girl seemed like a better choice, near the end of the week I was leaning toward Lloyd, because he was the greater deviation from my dear dead cat. Plus, he would be harder to find a home for because of his size. One of the many factors I was considering was adoptability. A cat with high adoptability would be likely to find a good home. Baby Girl was so beautiful and affectionate she was sure to get snatched up by someone else. I wasn't so sure about Lloyd, though.

By the end of the week I even had a full name picked out for Sir Lloyd. Since he was about as big as a battleship, I would go with Admiral Lloyd Dobler Roger d'Claude Onion von Kittyburg. The "Lloyd Dobler" is from Say Anything, which I just saw (again) recently and is a classic. A friend on Facebook suggested "d'Claude", which I thought was brilliant. And "Roger" is included because another friend suggested Rafa (Nadal), which made me think of tennis, and because I'm more of a Federer fan, I decided on Roger, which also has cross appeal to American Dad.

So I went to the Humane Society on Saturday all ready to choose the Lloydster and give him his new expanded name. But when I got there, Lloyd had been moved to a new room. It's a lounge room with a couch and scratching posts and cat perchy things where they can roam around freely. Out of his cage, I was able to experience Lloyd in all of his glory. And boy, was he huge. Like, I could hardly pick him up. I'd guess he was about 30 pounds. As much as I hate to admit it, I just don't want that much cat. I mean, a cat this big, I didn't even know if he could jump up on my bed.

While I was hanging out in the cat room, I interacted with some of the others. One black long-haired kitty hid in the corner, but when I called to him, he came out and jumped on my lap. "Oh, you really want a new home!" I said to him. His name was Jinxy:

I hated to add a new candidate to an already crowded field, but I felt Jinxy had earned his way in by sitting on my lap. And black cats are way low on the adoptability scale. I don't know why that is, but it's a fact. People don't choose black cats. (Racism!) Jinxy had been at the shelter longer than any of the others-- since February.

So then I was leaning toward Jinxy, until I went to the back room and visited Baby Girl again. She was in her cage, but kept reaching out her paw to me. "Hey, baby, come here and I'll give you some good lovin!" When I stuck my fingers into my cage she would lick and rub against them. Oh, Baby Girl, you are breaking my heart, I thought.

Then I talked to a lady who volunteers/works at the shelter. Apparently Baby Girl is not always so sweet and loving. Among the shelter workers she has a reputation for being quite difficult. I never would have guessed it, as sweet as she was with me. I guess she's like a girlfriend who sleeps with you on the first date, so you think she's awesome, but then after a few weeks turns into a crazy lady. Since I already have one drama queen cat, I think I'll pass.

I gave Jinxy a few more tests, like a brushing test and a purr test. He passed the first but failed the second. I decided to go home and sleep on it, since it was a pretty big decision. I've never adopted a cat from a shelter before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I came back on Sunday determined to adopt Jinxy. When I walked into the room, however, Lloyd was the one who ran up to greet me. I sat on the couch and he jumped up on my lap. (So he can at least jump that high.) Oh, Lloyd, you're breaking my heart. I've already decided to get Jinxy!

When I told the lady at the counter I wanted to adopt Jinxy, she gave me an application to fill out. I understand the rationale for making me fill out an application. They don't want to give the cats to just anyone. What if I'm on the Registered Kitty Offenders list? What if I'm running catfights out of my basement? But there was a section on the application that felt a whole lot like push polling. Questions like, "What will you do with your cat when you go on vacation?" and "Do you know that your cat may live 10 to 20 years?" These are certainly good things for people to think about when they adopt a cat. But these "questions" are not really soliciting information, are they?

The hardest question was, "Can you imagine a situation when you would give the cat up?" Hey, I can imagine a lot of stuff. What if I become an invalid? Or homeless? Or nuclear armageddon causes a worldwide famine and I have to eat my cat to stay alive? In those cases, I might not be an ideal cat owner. But they don't really leave that much space on the form to explain all that. So I lie: No, I can't imagine anything.

I thought the questions were so interesting that I wanted to blog about it, so I asked the lady if I could have a copy of the application I filled out. She was very suspicious and said, "We've never had anyone ask for that before." I waved it off and said, "It's not important." I didn't want her to think I was from a rival shelter trying to steal all their secrets.


While I was filling out the application, sitting on the couch in the cat room, a family burst in. A little girl ran toward Lloyd and said, "There's Lloyd! There's our cat!!"

I asked them, "Are you adopting Lloyd?" When they said they were, I was elated. "Oh, that is so great!" I said. "I wanted to get Lloyd, but I didn't think he was right for me. I'm so glad that someone else is giving him a home!" It was almost too good to be true, as if I were in a Hollywood movie. A movie where all the cats get adopted and all the single people end up coupled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I gave them my application, and they'll run a background check on me and stuff. If I don't hear anything, I can pick up my new cat on Wednesday. That gives me three days to finalize a name for him.

I'm currently at Roger Jinxy Methodius d'Claude Onioncat. The problem is I hardly ever get a chance to name something, and I have too many great ideas for names. Most of them, however, don't pass the "vet test." When I first found Hermy, as a stray, I wanted to name her Krustybutt. However, when I took her to the vet, I found that I couldn't bring myself to tell the vet I'd named my cat Krustybutt. So I went with Hermione, which sounded much better on a vet file. Her full name is Hermione Krustybutt Psychokitten Kitty.

I haven't decided if the new cat's vet name will be Roger or Jinxy. He came with Jinxy, and I kinda like it, but I have a history of naming cats after hobbies that I'm into at the time. My first cat was named Walter, after Walter Payton. My second cat was Bob, named during my Dylan period in early college. And Hermione got her name during my Harry Potter craze. Roger would certainly be consistent with that trend, since Tennis is my new obsession.

We'll have to see what sticks. These things tend to have a way of working themselves out.

Mystery Player

My last opponent in the Silver League this season was very elusive. Not on the court, but in avoiding my attempts to schedule a match with him. By our last week, he'd only played two matches (out of six), and I'd heard stories from other players that he was impossible to get a hold of.

On the Sunday of the week our match was to be played, I emailed him to set up a match. He didn't respond. There was a phone number next to his name on the league roster (labeled "work phone") but every time I tried to call it, the phone just rang and rang and rang. What the hell is this guy's deal? I wondered. Why would you sign up to play in a league, pay $90, and then not bother to schedule your matches (or even respond to attempts to schedule)?

He had an Asian name, so I wondered if it was a language/culture thing. He did finally respond to my email on Friday, to tell me he could play on Sunday and to ask me to schedule a court. So I did and told him what time to be there. (He neither confirmed nor denied this was a good time for him.)I showed up at the scheduled time and waited. I'd never seen him before and had no idea what he looked like, and none of the people I talked to had any idea who he was. Most people have to either win their way into the Silver League (like I did) or have some proven qualifications to get in. But it was a complete mystery where this guy came from. From the looks of the two matches he did play, he didn't appear to be qualified. He'd lost both of them badly.

I was hoping, indeed counting on it, that I would beat him to avoid getting last place for the third straight session. Ever since my amazing run of 12 straight victories to win the Bronze League last fall, I'd been in a slump. The Silver League offers much tougher opponents, and although I was fairly competitive in most of my matches, I had an overall record of 2-15 so far.

In the first session I went 0-4, which should have sent me back down to the Bronze League, but since they didn't have enough people to fill out the Silver, I got to stay. The same thing happened after the second session, when I went 2-5 but still got last place because the other two guys who went 2-5 beat me. (In a fluke of epic proportions, both my wins were against the top two players.) So far, in my third Bronze League session, I was 0-6 and playing to avoid the cellar three times in a row.

But I was confident that, whoever he was, I would take the mystery guy.

After keeping me waiting in suspense as to his true identity, he finally showed up about five minutes late. He walked up to the guy at the counter and said in a tiny voice, "Tim?" (Like the guy at the counter would be opponent.) Two things struck me about him immediately:

1.) He looked to be about seventeen years old.
2.) He had a glassy vacant look that made me wonder if he was high.

During warm-ups it became apparent that he had no business being in the Silver League. Part of me resented that he was even allowed to play in it, since I'd had to win my way into it. Another part of me was thrilled with the prospect of an easy, unambiguous smack down. After the season I'd had, I really needed a win like that.

But the actual match didn't start off according to plan. Although he didn't move well and his shots didn't have much power, he got everything back. His style was so different from what I was used to that I got impatient and made lots of stupid errors. We had some long games and points, but his consistency, my erratic play, and a few questionable calls on his part gave him a big 4-0 lead to start off the set.

Despite my slow start, I was still 100% sure that I would beat him. I don't know why, but I just refused to believe that he could beat me. I was still on track to a 6-4, 6-0 victory. With that plan in mind, I won the next three games easily, only losing two out of 14 points. At 3-4, we had a long deuce game. At one point I hit a shot down the line that landed at his feet. He put his hand up, indicating that it was wide. I thought the shot looked in by a good six inches, so I walked up to the net and I asked him to clarify, "Did you call that shot out?"

He immediately changed the call and said it was in, then mumbled that he didn't feel well. He said "4-4" and started to throw me the balls for my serve, but I told him that I hadn't won the game yet. I'd only won that point, and we were still at deuce. After a few more points I won the game, and then won the next game easily to go up 5-4. By this time he was hardly moving around the court at all.

At the changeover I asked him, "Are you OK? You don't look so good." He didn't answer me, but just kept that stoic, drugged-out look on his face. I repeated the question four or five times. He spoke so softly I could barely hear him. His behavior was so bizarre I entertained the thought that maybe he was autistic.

I would have suggested we stop playing, but I was one game away from winning the set, and I'd be damned if he was going to take that away from me. The next game was ugly. He could hardly get his serve over the net, and when he did and I returned it, he wouldn't even try to hit it back. When I won the set, 6-4, it was obvious he couldn't play anymore. I walked up to the net and asked him if he wanted to continue. He said he wanted to stop.

If I were playing anyone else, I would have suggested we reschedule the second set for another time when he felt better. But it had taken so long to schedule this match, and I knew he had three other matches to schedule, I wanted to be done with him. It was like playing tennis with a zombie: no fun and a little frightening.

He said I could write 6-0 for the second set when I recorded our match result, but that didn't feel right. So I treated it like a "retirement", which is what the pros do when someone can't continue a match due to illness or injury. I wrote "6-4, ret."

Even though I won, it was a profoundly disappointing victory. I never got to really prove that I was a better tennis player. I was annoyed at my opponent for being so out of it, being so uncommunicative, not giving any effort during the warm-ups, winning the first four games, and then just giving up once I started to turn things around. Lest I come across as an asshole, I don't believe for a minute he was actually sick. I think he was just out of shape (or maybe on drugs) and couldn't handle the strain of a real match.

Afterward, I saw him in the parking lot smoking a cigarette. That douchenozzle had no business being in the Silver League.