tepid

If I could use one word to describe the crowd at GABP Wednesday night it would be tepid. Almost 30K in the park and I could have carried a conversation with a friend sitting in the moon deck if I was in the left field bleachers. During crucial parts of the game, the top of the 6th after the Reds had taken the lead and Kyle Lohse was facing Vladimir Guerrero with two men on, I cheered like a fan should. Nothing obnoxious, no cussing, just words of encouragement for the Reds pitcher. And people were looking at me like I was yapping on my cell phone during a movie.

The people who attend Reds game have become THOSE FANS. Come late, leave early and display a general feeling of disinterest towards what is happening on the field. The only times a buzz ripples through the crowd is during the following:

1. Kiss Cam
2. The Wave
3. A clip of child baseball bloopers that has been shown for 2 years
4. If the Jumbotron specifically implores the fans to make noise

It's amateur hour at GABP and a little embarrassing. I never thought it would happen in Cincinnati.

The Pig

I did not like dogs, or any pets, until around 2 years ago. I would pretend in public, because there is a perception that people who do not like dogs are evil. I think women use a man's rapport with dogs as a measuring device. So I faked it. I would pet them and ask their names, not caring. And then I would run to the closest basin to wash the filth from my hands. To me, they were dirty complications. Company for the lonely.

I moved in with a friend who owned a dog. Her name was Chile, which I thought was awful. She looked like a boy dog. But all dogs look male to me, except for poodles and the toys. This one was medium-sized with orange-brown hair - part chow or something. She had a proclivity for defecating in my bedroom. This soured the development of our relationship. But this passed and I forgave her. And then she won me over. She was a smart dog. I could walk her in East Walnut Hills with no leash. A feat that only now I understand. I was proud to be her part-time manager.

My next position would be co-owner. I did not apply. The title was bestowed on me when I moved in with my girlfriend. The union was a package deal that included two little dogs: a white male bijon, which is a type of poodle, and a female pug.

Despite the positive experience I had with Chile, I was still the reluctant care taker. I mused about the simplicity of our household if the dogs did not exist. I dreamed of clean floors, couches and pillows that I could lay my head on with confidence. But I began to change. It was the pug. She was a little snorting pig of an animal that farted like your dirty uncle and snored like a trombone. She did not trust me at first, which I respect. We soon fell for each other and we made music and scents out of our orifices together.

She was a proper pig, who sat like a queen. She seemed almost British, and reminded me of Angela Lansbury. Her gait was a gangsta limp and she always stood as if she was leaning in a doorway. While reluctant to begin her morning jog, she would trudge along. She tried so hard and her head tilted to the sky when she ran. And she would eat everything. Even vegetables. I loved her.

She died last week. When I saw her lying still on her side I went into a panic. She was gone but I was diluted and thought I could save her. She was still warm. I made wild calls to the authorities that offered no hope. My girlfriend allowed me to spin my wheels and get through the denial. She knew it was over and that I had to figure it out for myself.

It was the saddest night of my life. I do not know if this should embarrass me. I was very close to my dad's mother and she lived with us the last few months of her life. Her body was broken and weak and she spoke in whispers. We all knew it was coming. She was ready. She was no longer herself. The end gave her peace. My other grandparents on my mom's side were peripheral. The old couple we visited twice a year. They were gone when I was young and the relationship underdeveloped. My immediate family is living strong and I have never had a close friend go down.

So the pug was a blow to my foundation. It was unexpected, which made it fierce. The transition between a living animal to a shell was violent, like a door slamming shut. I had to drive to Home Depot to buy a shovel in order to bury my little piggy. The task was cruel and my body shed liquid from my pores and tear ducts. I was a blubbering mess. My other dog pawed at the pug, trying to wake her up. It was the sweetest gesture in the world. I cradled her into the awkward hole and held her paw. She would never let me do that before.

I understand the movie 'Pet Cemetery'. This is the one where the father of a family discovers a cursed Indian burial ground and the secret that if a dead body (of any species) is buried on the grounds, it will come back to life. The catch is that the resurrected will be evil and void of a soul. The father knows this but still buries his dead cat. It comes back evil. He knows it. After his son tragically dies, he buries him. The son comes back evil. The child, or former child, kills his wife. So the father buries the wife. This movie had frustrated me because I never believed that a man could be such a fool. I did not understand loss.

I would have taken my piggy to that cemetery during those first delirious hours. I would have thought she would come back the right way, just like the father in 'Pet Cemetery'. I understand.

My head has returned and with it clarity. I am a juvenile, in terms of coping with crisis. I am now a little better. I am a self-centric, who struggled with the concept of caring for others. I am now a little better. I am a softy, who falls in love hard. That is still the same. It took the love of a pig to figure it all out.

The pig is dead. Long live the pig.

Sobe Brenneman, Septemper 2003 - 9 June 2007

Triathlon

My girlfriend and I signed up for a triathlon a month ago when it was a sexy idea. I was in trouble that morning as well so my completion of the application and payment of registration fees served as penance. The race grew closer and the idea eroded to reality. But it was not an 'Ironman' race or one that required the participants to be superior athletes. The swimming portion was swapped with a canoe or kayak ride. The swimming is what separates the jokers from the truth. We felt we could handle this version.

Saturday, June 3 was the Little Miami Triathlon. I prepared by working on a row machine, a stationery bike and running across the bridges downtown. Urban training. I ran at noon so my body had adjusted to the misery of humidity. I was ready. I knew winning the race was not a reasonable but I wanted to beat people. Whomever. Hopefully jerks.

My girlfriend and I were in the male/female division. The race began with a 6 mile duo canoe ride, then a 5.5 mile run and then an 18 mile bike ride. Our times would be added to calculate our team's result. I was not concerned with our team. I wanted my time. And one third of that time was dependant on our performance in the canoe. Cooperation was a necessary evil.

On the drive north from Cincinnati towards the town of Morrow, I told my teammate our motto: "don't fail me." The spirit of sport was alive in the car. My doomed friend tried to listen to the radio as I waxed strategy. She feared the worst. The worst would come. My frenzy was at a pitch so that I almost struck two people while parking. I labeled them 'tourists' under my breath. Wrapping a bandana around my head I told my canoe mate that she was witnessing a "switch" and I was now in battle mode. A painful smile was volleyed back. It was her last smile of the day.

At 10:20am we stood on the edge of the Little Miami holding a clunky aluminum canoe. I surveyed our group, five other teams of two, with arrogance. I knew I would be the difference, being of pure mind and body. A good start was key. At 10:24, our vessel was in the water and we were off. Before that minute was over, our boat was upside down. My river-soaked girlfriend flailed her limbs to recover the oars. In a frenzy for position, I had wielded my rowing stick like a prisoner on a Viking ship; rocking my whole body back and forth. We went over like a fat man on ice. The other canoes zipped down the river in defiance of my superior water skills. I knew at that moment the race was over.

I tried to assign blame while my teammate tried to right our ship and collect our supplies that were floating down the river. She shouted encouragement and I cursed the river gods. I was special. We got the boat upright and it was a bathtub of brown water. I had to flip the boat back over to dump the excess as the current pushed against the backs of my legs. I was delirious with rage. We managed to mount the canoe again. My moans of woe muddled her constructive advice. We capsized again a minute later. The group we had started with was out of sight. The group which started 4 minutes behind us was taking maneuvers to avoid our carcass as I stood dripping with dirty water and anguish. I was ready to quit.

My dear, sweet teammate could see that I was useless and assumed her rightful position as captain. I was ordered onto the canoe and told to paddle with controlled movements and not to move my ass from side to side. Pouting, I obeyed. I had lost. My rivals were long gone, laughing presumably. I took to my new position as row mule. It did not last and a mile later there was mutiny. The drunk captain had emerged from his slumber to guide the ship to the end. I grunted with every paddle stroke and navigated us into other canoes. I cursed the teams that had been given fiberglass canoes. I spotted short cuts that were not there - these mirages were shallow passages that grinded our craft to halt. We flipped again. It was a debacle.

And we fought like dogs. Old wounds, long healed, were reopened. I was told that I could not handle adversity. I told her that her face smelled. I was told that I was hyper-competitive and lacked maturity. I told her to wash her butt. This was the couple's retreat, where each pair takes part in activities to strengthen and foster their relationship. We were the couple that failed.

The canoe ride ended. We dismounted and trudged to a fallen tree in order to replace our soaked canoeing shoes with our soaked running shoes. My sealed plastic bags had proved ineffective. I put on my shoes to the sound of 'SPLOCH'. My broken teammate, forever with dignity, offered words of encouragement as I set off on the running leg. I grunted back.

I ran angry. I had to catch everyone that was in my original canoe group. I knew what they looked like. I caught them all by the third mile and sneered as I went past. Nobody saw or cared. Most ran with their teammate and chatted. I was alone. I can say with confidence that the running trail cut through beautiful county side but I did not see it. I was counting down quarter miles. The run ended with a steep climb of about 300 yards through the woods called 'killer hill'. I emerged from the wood and found my bike.

My girlfriend's father had lent me his old mountain bike. I don't know anything about bikes but it seemed like a solid vehicle. It could have used a tune up, or whatever bikes get. I had tested the bike in a parking lot the day before and deduced that I would only have the use of 7 of the 21 gears. This was good enough. My legs were jelly from the run so I started the ride as fast as I could before they could shut down. The wind felt good.

For this leg of the race, it was all equipment. I had strength left and labored on the pedals of my borrowed bike. Chumps with pricey Treks glided by me with half the effort. I cursed them as yuppies. At mile 6 a part from my bike fell to the road. I looked back to see an unidentifiable piece of metal jumping on the pavement and wondered out loud "I hope that's not important." I pressed and finished the triathlon in 3 hours. I calculated all the time I left out on the course due to hardware and circumstances. I came up with 15 minutes.

Somewhere in my fat head I knew I should stay at the finish line and wait for my wonderful friend to cross. That place is hidden by a layer of gluttony. Instead I went to the post party shelter to eat pulled turkey sandwiches with strangers. I was a no name guest at a table of friends. After two plates my girl rode by on her bike. She could not stand to look at me. I could feel her disappointment, which is worse than any anger. Exercising my only wisdom of the day, I shut my mouth and drove us home in silence.

Sometimes I can feel myself being an asshole. I know it is happening, while it is happening. And I just can't help myself.