Post the First.

Ah yes. My very own blog. Here I will wax eloquently on such subjects as frisbee, frisbee, maybe teaching... I will endeavor to match the stellar work of such blog legends as Idris N. and Jim P. who have flooded the ether with , well, maybe pith is the right word.

Where to begin. At the risk of 'going to the big guns too soon,' i.e., moving Smoltz back to the starting line-up, let's set the way-back machine to 2001.

My first season with Seattle Sockeye was a lot of fun, but ended dismally. And I'm not referring to the 2nd round pool play loss to the Portland team. I'm actually referring to the loss of a Seafood dinner to D'Arcy Gholston as the Cardinals defeated the Atlanta braves in (I think) the NLCS.

With little to play for but some consolation tripe, I prepared to suffer an hour or so of suffering. As we approached the door to the restaurant, I reached for my pocket and realized...

(now lets go way back to around 12:00 P.M).

Having just lost at golden goal to Portland in some version of a Hurricane (upwind downwind game, no upwinders scored), I went to the grocery store for a deli sandwich, a gatorade, and a 4 pack of Guinness. Wearing a pair of flipflops and my game shorts, and I tossed my wallet in with the goods, and sat down to watch some kind of play in game. That portland promptly choked on. As evening fell, we made our way towards the cars, and it became apparent that I would be forced to pay up for the Fish Food for D'Arcy.

(back to 7:00 P.M.)

With a blinding flash of comprehension, I immediately realized where my wallet was.

Somewhere, at the now darkening fields, soon to be home of some kind of party that I had no intention of attending, was my wallet.

In a White Plastic bag (From the only local grocery store)
With a piece of crumpled butcher paper.
And with 4 empty cans of Guinness draft.

The only Hurdle: This one small piece of Jetsam was awash in a sea of trash unleashed by the players, fans, and just general hangers on that make up a 64 team national tournament.

Finding that needle, in that haystack, was going to take brains, talent, or luck.

I was going to need some help in this.

And I was stuck with John "Kid" Hammond.

-----Part 2

The kid and I rolled out, headed back to the scene of the crime in a late model dodge P.O.S rental. Low on gas, with the sun well below the horizon, the prospects were grim. But as had been proven on more than one occasion, the corrollary to 'crazy beats big' is 'better lucky than good.'

The stakes had never been higher. As I said, the year was 2001. The days of having the baggage handler check your bags, casual arrival times... not to mention pleasant long stays in the load/unload zone...

These days were gone forever... additionally, I was frisked on every leg of my flight out, I'm sure to catch the famed strike leader of 'norsemen jihad'... in any event, it was somewhat important that I get my wallet back.

We arrived at the fields and start w/ a quick sweep. The fields were clean, and the trash cans were empty. We turned our attention to the 'big green monster.' Literally overflowing with garbage bags, chairs, etc...

It was 45 minutes of dumpster diving. It was not the most pleasant time of my life, but luckily, the 'fresh' nature of the garbage, and the fact that it was mostly paper, and cans, made it bearable.

Three lessons.
People throw out a lot of weird stuff at a tournament. Shoes. Chairs. Childrens toys. A tire.
It is astoundingly easy to guess the contents of a tied up publix grocery bag, with practice, and a limited number of distractors (no head fakes, no tricks, just trash).
It was amazing how many people had been to publix, and purchased 4 packs of Guinness cans.

Our search was thorough. No bag was left untouched. A sense of mild depression began to set in... as I realized that
1) I might be stuck in Sarasota forever, like the man who never returned.
2) I had just spent 45 minutes in a dumpster.

Dejected, I paused to reflect. A brief search of the area around the pavillion was conducted. No additional trash, BUT, a small piece of good news. From an old man who could only be described as 'grizzled' we learned that there was a 'back-up' dumpster, 1/4 mile away.

Off we went. As we rounded the bend, and the 40 yard dumpster emerged into view under the harsh halogen headlights, I felt ice in my veins. I viewed that dumpster, not as an enemy to be fought... but as a victim... I was a steely eyed killer.

I was a garbage hitman. A trashassin, if you will. And nothing would stand in my way.

Tommorrow... part 3...

Part 3...
In what can only be considered a stroke of luck, kid drew bin duty, while i worked the perimeter of the dumpster, analyzing contents. The dumpster, while only partially full, was awash with tied up Publix bags... many with empty cans (remember, bottle caps bad for horses at the polo grounds, so almost no glass at all to contend with)...

the keys... the distinctive shape, and most importantly the RATTLE of an empty Guinness can with it's nitrous widget...

Suffice to say, from the outside of the bin, I heard a explosive gurgle of air... a growl, and then a triumphant AHA!, as kids hand rose into the faint light over the rim, brandishing the wallet...

Victory. Sweet Victory.

The End.