Funny, you don't look Catholic

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CatNats is an experience that has been compared by some to having your teeth pulled by a sadistic Nazi dentist with a severe case of the shakes.

The comparison is unfair to sadistic Nazi dentists.

This year we kicked off the festivities with a Brewers/Astro game at Miller Stadium. Milwaukee’s entire economy is, apparently, based on Miller beer. Everything is Miller this or Miller that, and many of the downtown buildings are topped by Miller cans the size of, but not serving the purpose of, water towers. I am told that the streets are lined with microbreweries, something I cannot personally verify (and not for lack of trying), but which sounds to me like a fifth column of the first order. Then again, if you have to have a fifth column, they might as well hand you a beer as they bore from within.

Anyhow, speaking of boring, the next day the local rag referred to the baseball game in question as “ugly.” A well-known sportsman myself, I have no choice but to agree with this analysis. I haven’t seen this many balls since Scarlett rebuilt Tara. I went to buy a hotdog (or more accurately, went to invest in a hotdog, since the amount tendered was beyond my previous wiener imaginings) and came back and found that I had missed two entire innings, complete with no runs, no hits, no errors, and as far as I can determine, no strikes, no balls and no outs. As far as the hotdog was concerned, it took me longer to put mustard on it than to eat it, so I went back and bought another one. By this point it was the seventh inning stretch, every single player was 0 for 4, I was still hungry, and I was practically broke. Still, it was fun, in some outré concept of same, and it was the last fun we were to have for the next twenty-four hours.

We all assembled at the local technical college the next morning for the seven o’clock meeting, which started punctually at about a quarter to eight. The journey to hell had begun, and our seats in the hand basket were assured. At CatNats they preset the first three rounds, if I’m not mistaken, but definitely the first two, which didn’t stop them from having another meeting between preset rounds one and two so that the conductors of this fine event could tell us what idiots all we judges were. Now, when I get bogus ballots, I yell at my tab table; I can provide witnesses to this. I do not bring the tournament to the realm of what is now a three-hour delay so that I can berate the judges, on whose good graces the entire enterprise rests. I guess I know that the problematic judges are incurable, and the non-problematic judges will simply become problematic when you tar them with the brush of problematicity. But the conductors of this event, who apparently have never been to a tournament before, much less run one, blithely set us up for total schedule disaster without any of us having to lift a finger. Ultimately meals were a hodgepodge, we were lucky to get out by ten o’clock, there was no coffee after 9:00 a.m. (!!!), and the Lexington team and I were forced to resort to playing poker for peanuts. I went all-in on two pairs, 9-10, to lose to a suited 9-10 that flushed. Damned Lexington kids! That’s all they do up there in Massachusetts. They’re notorious cardsharps, and they are now playing with Menick peanuts, except for the ones that everyone kept eating because we were all starving to death. Finally we managed to get to Benihana before the doors were locked, where a splendid time was had by all, Kate H had her first sushi (an experience she addressed with grace and determination), and no one was killed by a flying shrimp.

And, of course, Crichton McClean broke (he’s a well-scrubbed debater for Hundrick Hedson), and the New York diocese took the sweeps award, so I guess it was worth it. Plus certain smug coaches proved their infallibility in one swift, winner-take-all round of speechie bingo. This is where experience comes to the fore. Anyone who’s been around for a while will always put his money on the congressman in the orange suit. I must point out, however, that this was only earning my money back. I had put out a side pot that the first award would not be distributed until a full half hour of self-congratulations, prayer and let-us-not-forget-the-little-people had ensued, whereas in fact, the first tin traveled in less than 15 minutes. It was a bet I was happy to lose. (I later lost the quarter yet again betting on the elevators at the Hyatt. It's that kind of weekend.)

After a fine dinner Sunday at an Italian restaurant with the Monticellans, some of us supposedly went off to see if multiple viewings made the opening scene of Sith any more intelligible, while others of us went to the top of the hotel and toasted the end of the whole thing (CatNats, not Star Wars, although I’m happy to see that one ended too; the Sithers ended up bowling, by the way, if you're keeping score here). One very good aspect of the affair (CatNats, not Siths or bowling) is the renewed tribalness within the coaching world. The old farts spent a lot of time polishing the schedule, promoting the MHL, readjusting some events, etc., etc., etc. I was even invited to join an official collection of OFs in aid of preserving LD as a worthwhile event. Is this an activity that should encourage clear and reasonable argumentation, they ask. I have my doubts. I mean, isn’t it an abuse of power for the coaches to attempt to force their self-perpetuating and innately biased discourse on under-aged and socially impotent children? Aren’t all metaphors equal at the moment they become metaphors, and since all we have of reality is the metaphor, and even the concept of metaphor is suspect when examined against the hermeneutics of— Wait a minute! That’s not me! Sign me up, guys.

Anyhow, word on the street is that the new pope will be working to correct the deficiencies in the running of the NCFL tournament. If this is true, I am with him all the way.