Chapter 17: Sonic, Interrupted

The Corbett Report is now taking requests! Over the course of the last month or so, I've had a number of requests for the URL to this blog as well as requests to jot down some additional stories that I missed along the way.

This one here is from my new friend Jamie, who unbeknownst to me is a big fan of my blog. I never know who out there on the interwebs is following along, but I'm glad that people seem to be enjoying it. During our conversation, she also revealed to me that she used to play on one of A-Wol's softball teams.... the one that split up mid-way through the year and led to the so-called "Mutiny Team". My immediate response was, "I've always wanted to meet one of you!"

Anyways.... apparently around the time of September 11th, while the nation was still mourning, the wheels of commerce were continuing to turn. For it was at that time, that one young engineer decided to purchase a plush Sonic the Hedgehog toy (doll? play-friend? dare I say cuddle-buddy?) off of eBay.... from China or some other far-off land.

By the time Sonic the Hedgehog arrived at it's intended destination, it had been decapitated. That's right, our good friend Sonic was given a full body cavity search by customs.... through it's cotton-y little neck. Apparently, they were on the lookout for some contraband (drugs? explosives? bootleg rap tapes?) and figured that S.T.H. was a prime candidate for searching. Many might view this as overkill, but I would like to applaud these brave souls for being extra cautious and performing their due diligence.

After all, when a grown man orders a plush doll for himself, well, you just have to double-check it.

Chapter 16: The Rebirth of Slick

Just when you thought it was safe to play softball again... then this happens.

This past summer, I discovered that our mutual friend and my personal muse Mr. Wolan was playing and "chronicling" a softball team out in the Boston area. I know this because he emailed me about it and send me a link to *gulp* his new website.

When he left our place of work a couple of years ago, he had visions of working in his father's machine shop and doing some flash programming in his spare time. Flash programs of what remain to be seen. Sonic the Hedgehog possibly? Animations of the 2005 corporate basketball trophy? Who knows?

Anyways, like any other year, he ended up on a softball team where they were willing to put up with his dog-and-pony show. So it was official.... 5 years and 5 different teams. Last year, he cracked the roster of a team of veterinarians. At least that's what the name of the team implied... they were the Pittsfield Vets... I assume from their collective age that they were not veterans of foreign wars.

I checked out the site due to the fact that I was morbidly curious, perhaps bored. It was painfully familiar in format and obsessiveness. The very first headline read "A-WOL Inks Deal with BWCS, Joins HardBallers", as if he really had to sign a contract to do this crap again. (By crap, I mean running around the field doing victory laps and writing about it). I was a little worried for him, to be honest. Playing in the greater Boston area and being on a team called the "Hardballers"??? He could get eaten alive. That act would wear pretty thin pretty quickly over there.

The one obvious exception to the site was that my old gig "The Corbett Report" was missing. Hooray for that, I thought to myself. Perhaps he was settling down. Finally, the prescriptions may have been working. And then I learned the following....

The softball "coach" as it were, had the last name Corbett.

Oh.

No.

Except for this time, the "he" (me) was a "she" (she). Her name was Nicole Corbett and apparently she must have the patience of a high school teacher, because she invited that influence onto her team.

I couldn't resist.... I thought I might have some fun with this. The site once again had a message board. I decided to post to it:

Ahoy there!
I was googling "hardball" on line (I’m a big fan of the Chris Matthews show) and stumbled across this site. And since, I’m addicted to bulletin boards, I thought I would weigh in and let you know that this is a cool site. I was going to put in a request though that you have a regular ongoing interview series with the coach of your team... kinda like they do with Terry Francona on the radio. Maybe you could even call it "The Corbett Report". Just a thought.

I'm evil, I know. But the bait worked. Here was the response:

I spoke to Coach Corbett and she has agreed to participate in this "Corbett Report". We will begin by releasing her post-game analysis from games 1 through 4. In addition, for future games we may also mic Coach Corbett and get her immediate post-game reaction from the field after each game as well. We’ll see how things go.

So, it looks like the Corbett Report will live on for another year. The same knock’em sock’em hard-hitting analysis of the team in question, but this time from the coach’s perspective.

YES!!! I'm surprised that he found nothing suspicious at all about this. Nothing suspicious whatsoever. So I had instigated a variant of the Corbett Report. But I was going to keep pressing the issue... mostly because I'm an asshole. Here's what I wrote:

I am well pleased that you plan to update your website in such a manner. That Nicole seems like quite a catch. Any plans to get together and consummate this softball chronicler/manager relationship? I’d make a move myself, but I am 83 years of age with failing health. Regardless, I look forward to reading your "The Corbett Report" feature.

Surely now he'd be suspicious. Nope. Here's what he wrote back:

Expect the Corbett report to come online sometime soon, hopefully before Memorial Day Weekend

Awesome! Still as trusting as ever. And that's how the Corbett Report lived on into 2007. And A-Wol survived the year. And the team actually won some games. And the memory lives on....

Chapter 15: End of an Era

When the "Corbett Report" project started, I was providing commentary of softball games that I never attended. It became a big joke. "Have you seen this man?" became a running joke at games that I was never present at. "Who's this guy writing these funny articles? Did you make him up?"

Nope. I was always real. Always lurking in the background. Always willing to poke Andy with a sharp stick in the back to point out how damn goofy he was. The funny thing was, it never seemed to phase him. So I'd kick it up a notch, and another notch, and another.

I guess there was a prevailing theory with Andy that there's no such thing as bad publicity. He ate it right up. He loved it. He kept asking for more.

In the end, I gave him a whole season's worth. Hell, it was fun. I loved to write. Andy loved to act out. The articles became less about the game and more about what absolutely insane thing he did at the game the night before. It got to the point, that before I could even log into my computer in the morning, his teammates would come up to me and say "Ask Andy about what happened at the game last night!" Of course, at that time, Andy would roll in around 1pm, so I would have to wait a while for the full story... or one of his tragically misspelled "Game Summaries".

So it was that the "Corbett Report" project transitioned from covering softball to covering one person. And, in the end, that one person provided the bulk of my material.

After the 2004 season, however, I stopped providing commentary. I had been given more and more responsibility at work... hell, at life, and I didn't have time for such things anymore. Also, due to my realized fear of creating a monster in 2004 (lord knows I heard the term "Corbett Report" a reported 8,157,602 times), I thought it would be best to let things cool off between Andy and the "CR". Maybe they could just be friends now.

However, Andy would keep asking for "Special Edition Corbett Reports" here and there, but I would have to turn him down. He took polls on his website as to whether or not I should write an end-of-season, 2005, final report. Didn't happen. He put out feelers, early in the 2006 season, as to who would be willing to replace me. No takers. Andy would go close to two years without hearing from me in that capacity.

But something inspired me to fire up the engine one more time.

Andy no longer works at General Dynamics anymore.

I came back to my cubicle one day this week to find the following note:

"Contact Andy when you get back."

After several failed attempts to reach him, he finally visited me. He broke the news. He had finally had enough. This place had gotten the better of him, and he was going to pull up stakes and take his travelling circus on the road.

In the stories he told me of why he wanted out, he told me that Friday would be his last day. He didn't make it that far. I know now that as of Thursday morning, he was escorted out of here by security (standard procedure, really), presumably to begin a career working in his father's machine shop.

Before he left though, he had one dying wish.... one last "Corbett Report", for old time's sake. Normally, this is followed by a "no", a "hell no", or a "shit no". I didn't feel like I could say no this time. After all, there will be no more after this. This will be his, and by extension, my swan song. If this were the Bible, this would be the book of Revelations.

And all he really wanted mentioned, in all of his insane legacy, was that he played in 49 consecutive softball games between the seasons of 2003-2006, finally missing a game for the first time last Sunday. That's it. That's all he really cared about. Wierdo. But I'll oblige him.

So it is that the Corbett Report comes to a sudden, abrupt end. Andy was quite the character around here, famous to anybody who saw him running at a full sprint through the hallways, carrying his Subway bag, opening his box of Yankee Candles back at his desk in order to diffuse some of the smell of onions emanating from his sandwich.

Now he's gone... hopefully on to bigger and better (and possibly crazier) things.

Happy Trails, Andy Wolan. We'll miss you!

Chapter 14: A Less-Kind Less-Gentle Softball Season

As March turns to April, so does basketball season turn to softball season. And 2005 was no exception. As the weather got warmer and warmer, Spam Boy got crazier and crazier, and the lure of the sport he so loved became greater and greater. Another tradition also continued in the Spring of 2005... Andy once again had to look for a new softball team.

*Insert Flashback Moment*

If you remember, a year earlier, Andy was kicked off of his last softball team. Claiming too large of a roster to play with, his last captain gave him the news that they were splitting the team in two and that he was going to have to make his own way. At least that's what he was told. Of course, what really happened was that 80% of the team was being kept intact and a few players were being jettisoned. I'll let history be your guide as to why YOU think he was on the chopping block.

*End Flashback Moment*

Then, of course, the stories of Spam Boy's 2004 season were well documented. I don't have to remind you about the running of victory laps around empty diamonds after games, the website, the incessant chanting of "Corbett Report". While his team did not lead the league in wins that year, he led the leauge in terms of number of people who would refuse to shake his hand after a game. And when I say "people", that number also includes umpires. Oh, and also people trying to hit line drives at his head.

In retrospect, those were easier times.

Because Spam Boy curried enough ill-will in the Pittsfield league that he couldn't play in a game without being recognized as "that crazy guy", and because the level of play was well too competitive and aggressive for his tastes, he decided to try his hand running a team in the more laid-back Dalton league.

The inherent problem with the league switching was that it meant finding players who were willing to join him in his transition to the new league. The irony was that a good chunk of his team was in fact already switching over to the new league due to some of the very same reasons Spam Boy wanted to transfer. The kick in the groin however, was that they were starting their own team.. without him. Spam Boy would once again have to hit the recruitment circuit.

To his credit, in very little time at all, Spam Boy had a new roster put together. (I guess people just really like to play softball!) It should be noted that some of the positions ended up being filled by loyalists from last year's team.

Now, allegedly, the Dalton league was for people who were interested in just having a good time, actual competition was minimal, and the rules were more relaxed. Also, allegedly, Spam Boy was going to clean up his act. Which one of these two sentiments was going to have to give?

The 2005 troubles started early, before the season even began. While scoping out the new grounds that he'd be patrolling once the season started, he noticed that the field conditions were not up to snuff. These were not like the Pittsfield diamonds that he was used to... these had little pits and mounds and other "gotchas" here and there that could cause an injury during the course of a play. What if somebody turned an ankle rounding third? What if somebody collapsed on their way to the plate? Surely, this could not be allowed to stand.

So he did what any responsible softball aficianado would do... he called the head of the Dalton Parks and Recreation department.

After explaining all of the softball complex's hidden dangers to the commissioner, he received basically a "thanks for caring" answer in reply. As issues with towns and money go, some things are just not a priority, and re-grooming the park's softball diamonds was not high on his list of things to do.

In the weeks that followed, SB started reading up on some of the new rules (or lack thereof) he'd be dealing with for the coming season. He had always had a problem with the Pittsfield rule about how walking a male player who was batting in front of a female player would result in an automatic two bases instead of one. He wanted to see if he could have an effect on policy if he could get his requests heard before the season started.

So he did what any responsible softball aficianado would do... he called the head of the Dalton Parks and Recreation department.

Trying to get clarifications on some of the rules, and trying to get some of the other rules changed, he was not met by the same "thanks for caring" reply that he got before. Instead, he got:

"If you do not stop calling me with these requests, I will be forced to shut down your softball team for the season."

Ouch.

Spam Boy's 2005 season was off to a rollicking start.

It was about this time that Justin and I were working on a new phone prank for SB. Catching wind of this story, we decided to come up with the following script for the phone call:

"Hi, is Andy Wolan there? I’m “Big” Jim Callahan, President of the Dalton Community Recreation Association Board.

Are you related to Jim Wolan? I served in Vietnam with him.

Andy… that’s a pretty name.

I got your message that you’re interested in entering a team in the Dalton CRA co-ed softball league this summer.

Are you planning on attending our informational meeting on the 27^th?

It’s at 7:30, and we’ve decided to have a costume theme.

Come as your favorite major league baseball player.

This year, we’re doing something a little different.

Due to all the concern about performance-enhancing drugs in sports, we’re asking everybody that signs up to provide a urine sample to the CRA.

We’re going to be checking for certain “red flag” items.

Do you think that you would be able to provide us with a sample?

We’ve heard some complaints from the Pittsfield co-ed league about you.

Are you the guy who got into a few arguments with a couple of different umpires during the course of the season?

We want you to know up front that that kind of behavior will not be tolerated in our league.

This league is not as competitive as the Pittsfield league and we want our participants to have a good time without having any escalated situations or having their safety jeopardized.

I’m sorry I have to cut this conversation short… I have an anal fissure that’s starting to act up again."

This promised to be a killer phone call, much like the Best Buy attempt, but this one fell by the wayside. After attempting to call a couple of times and getting his voice mail, we decided to give up on it. Oh, what could have been!

It didn't take long after the start of the actual season before things took a turn for the worse...er. (Is that a word?) After 1 game (that's right, 1 game!!!!!), half of his team mutinied (Spam Boy's own words) and left the team. Rumor had it that it had something to do with the way he was managing the games. Go figure. I mean, he had already held several practices by that point, and was managing the first game of the season like it was the seventh game of the World Series. Maybe that whole laid-back thing wasn't rubbing off on him like it should have.

So it was, without ceremony, that 9 players would quit Andy's team after the very first game of the season. One more would quit after game 2. Another day at the office for Spam Boy.

It would get even better.

After treading water in their second game of the season, Andy's team would immediately be taking on the so-called "mutiny team" in game 3. Of course, Andy wrote a report about it. I'll let him take it from here, with all text set in context:

"The mercury was high and the field was dead silent at game time. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The police were on the scene with riot gear… well, not really. Yes, these two team, once a united, powerful force had degenerated to become two bitterly contested rivals.

The umpire was overheard calling the A's "a bunch of assholes" during the game.

The umpire almost started a brawl between Tony of the A's and several "Team 13" players after the umpire insulted players on the A's bench for refusing to shake their hands. Given the disrespect that "Team 13" had shown to the A's, the A's had every right to return the favor."

Yep... now it was fighting time! We're not even going to have the pretense of niceties now... it's motherf***in' go time!

It would all be neat and lovely if I could tell you that this "rivalry" existed only on the field. But alas, all stories involving Spam Boy are not that cut and dried. Things got so ugly in this case, that it spilled over into his work life.

First, there was the issue of Andy not having collected team dues from all"mutiny" players before they left. That was causing some financial issues with having to foot a large part of the team entry fee himself. Chasing down players who didn't want anything to do with him and asking them for money provided the suspected result... nothing.

Then, I'll never forget Andy coming by my cube one day and telling me that one of his former players was actually harrassing him at work. He was a douche bag that hailed by the name of Dan. And when I say harrassing, I'm talking about getting in his face in person in the workplace. Totally not cool. Andy told me how much he felt threatened by Dan... like he didn't know what he was going to do to him. I imagine Andy must have some sort of pheromone that he emits that causes this reaction in people. I can't explain it any other way.

From there, it spilled over to all places, ugh... the team's website message board.

Here were some of Dan's postings:

"Very sad to see the retirement of annette, she was one of the best talents on this team. Not quite sure those stats are what you would call "accurate." Lucky 13 strikes again. Hard to have a mutinty without ever having control. It was much more like a purging of excess dead weight; only more like a money laundering scam. Nice to see the trademark Athletics symbol being displayed on a public web site. Wonder if permission was obtained for that? I know, I’ll ask their media relations people. Shout outs to Slappy, steve with the granny, the recently married and the soon to be married. Everyones a sucker in life, deal with it!"

or

"The Avengers FORFEITED this game, pursuant to Rule 4 which states: ൒ Players in the field - 4 must be women. If you do not have four women to start a game, you must forfeit. You can play the game but it counts as a loss." I notified the coach of the GD Team that your team had forfeited since you only had 2 women on the field."

And then there was an expletive-laden response by one of Andy's teammates:

First of all, I am not a [expletive deleted, i'll give you a hint... it's a female body part] and reveal who I am when writing this.

Second of all, we [expletive deleted, rhymes with "sucking"] won so get over it. You didnt even have enough players so you called up those [expletive deleted, rhymes with "bass holes"] from Lucky 13.

Thirdly, [expleteive deleted, pretty much means "screw"] you and if you got a problem come and see me. I am sure we can resolve it. I am tired of this [expletive deleted, something a farmer handles lots of] over some [expletive deleted, again with that "sucking" sounding word] stupid softball game. You are all a bunch of winers and complainers. One more thing, go [expletive deleted, "copulate"] yourselves and write on someone elses bulletin board. Your probably jealous because you dont have one. I will be in the parking lot at 4 at row 13 if you want to talk like men; I must act like a high school punk just like you.

One more thing: [expletive deleted, and it's not "love"] you, Antonio

Later that day, I get an email asking me if I have a camera. Now, based on the fact that cameras are outlawed here (if cameras are outlawed only outlaws would have cameras), it was a pretty ludicrious request. I opted not to respond. Hoping it would go away. Quietly, go away.

Turns out that request to fight in the parking lot was real. Turns out Andy wanted to borrow a camera to take a picture of this Antonio guy waiting in the parking lot for Dan to show up. Oh, I'm so glad I was not a part of this in any way. They never ended up getting that camera, so I never saw a picture. But if the rumors were true, there were a few people up there waiting, and no fight to be had. Oh well.

Guess we're not in high school anymore. Thank God.

The physical hostilities cooled, and the "Avengers", as Andy eventually named his team, would play out the rest of the season and finish 4-9. That's a final tally of 4 victory laps, 9 dejected losses, and 1 avoided instance of fisticuffs.

Whew!

Chapter 13: March Madness: Catch It!

I've wanted to write this one for a long time now. Of all the stories I have to tell, this combined "epic" really takes the cake. It's why for the duration of this "book", while it's been in electronic format, "The 2005 Company Basketball Tournament Champion" has been mentioned in the title.

You see, this story has a little bit of everything. Much like the tales of crazy softball hijinks, this also centers around sports.... a true underdog story about a man who gets picked last to play and somehow ends up driving the championship trophy around the city of Springfield, Massachusetts.

Here's how our story begins....

It was the time leading up to the NCAA College Basketball Tournament... the real one... the one where the players aren't huffing and puffing after running only 10 feet. The one where the atheletes are in much better shape and wear cool uniforms. The one where the players don't have a steady career in engineering to fall back on. Yes, spring was soon to be in the air, and with it, basketball.

Where I work, we've recently started to commemorate this event by staging our own March Madness Tournament.... in our old factory area. Years ago, detemining that we as sedentary creatures might require some excerise now and again, lest our muscles atrophy, the company decided to paint some "walking" track lines on our factory floor. To call it a "running" track would have been asking too much, as well as being too dangerous. You see, the floors were still filthy, and as a result, somewhat slippery. Time and again, maintenance has gone out there to attempt to clean it up a little bit, but let's face it, sometimes you just can't polish a turd.

But the key thing was that people were using it. Every day at lunch, there were people out there walking around the track with their headphones on, getting a little exercise.

Due to the success of the walking track, the company then opted to put in a basketball court. That's right, two hoops, and all of the requisite lines drawn on the cement floor. This was a very exciting development for those of us who were basketball aficianados, although it provided the same problems in that the track lacked proper ventilation and the floor was still dangerous. There was also the added bonus that handling a basketball in there made you look like you had been working in a coal mine all day long.

But soon, there were after-work pickup basketball games and the momentum kept growing and growing. Finally, some of the employees got together and organized a March Madness tournament complete with a handful of teams, a schedule, a timekeeper, referees, you name it. We were big time now... well, as much as we could be.

Fast Forward two years to last March's tournament, the third inaugural company basketball tournament. Two great novelties would be added to this particular tournament... the institution of a player draft, and the emergence of Spam Boy onto the scene.

To make the teams fair, all of the team captains were asked to show up in the conference room one afternoon, so that they could look at the list of available players and create their teams. People who were on the list of interested players could also show up and observe the proceedings. I, as many others, opted to stay at my desk and attempt to get some work done. Spam Boy decided to see which team would draft him and when. Of course, Spam Boy had no known basketball skills. Nobody had ever seen him play before. Everybody only remembered him as "that crazy guy that ran that softball team". So, the prospect of him getting picked at a high spot in the draft was terribly unlikely.

An hour later, an email comes out announcing the results of the draft. Immediately my friend Todd stopped by to revel in our new team's roster and to scrutinize the draft order. This was going to be fun! We were already getting excited about what looked like to be a very promising team. We worked our way down the list and then moved on to see who made the other teams. I kept scanning and scanning until I got to the very last name on the sheet.... Andy Wolan.

Soon after the email came out, my friend Jason came back from the meeting. I had to ask him how it all went down.

"So am I interpreting this correctly? Did Wolan get drafted last???", I asked.

"Yeah.... hahah.... he was THERE too!", said Jason.

"What? Why on earth did he go?"

"I have no idea. He just sat there and watched the whole thing."

"So he had to sit there and watch as everybody passed on him? Oh man!"

(much laughter)

"It's funny too...", Jason continued. "We got to a point in the draft where we had to make sure that every team drafted at least one female player."

"Really?", I said. "So not only was he drafted last, he got drafted only after all of the available remaining women in the draft were placed on teams?"

"Yeah. We actually all forgot he was there."

(uproarious laughter)

It was then that I did something I'm not terribly proud of. (Hey, sometimes shit happens.) Andy had left his work badge (complete with his first-day-of-work photo) in Jason's desk drawer before he had moved to a new location. At one point, while Jason wasn't around, I taped it up to his white board, drew a frame around it and wrote:

"Last player drafted, 2005 March Madness Basketball Tournament."

I knew when Jason had finally noticed it when I heard a cackle from next door.

"Oh man! That's terrific!", he said.

A day or two later, team captains were already trying to wheel-and-deal to pick up some of their friends, old teammates, etc before the tournament started. Jason was trying to pry his old teammate John from one of the other teams, and was willing to give up one of his own players to do so. So he writes Lenny, John's team captain, and proposes a deal.

Here's what Lenny wrote back:

"I was thinking about this deal... and I REALLY don't want to break John and Andy up. They're sorta like my Malone-Stockton combo. I really don't think I can give you one without giving you the other. Take it or leave it."

So Jason was faced with a tough decision. Was it worth picking up John and adding in the extra headache of managing Andy? He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger on the deal, a two-for one-trade.

For days later, Jason kept trying to shop Andy around. He even started in on me, trying to get me to talk my team captain into picking him up. Here were his attempts:

1) "Come on, you know you want this guy."

-and-

2) "Think about the intensity he brings."

-and-

3) "He can be your secret weapon."

Still no takers. Jason had to resign himself to playing the tournament with Andy on his team.

So the Tournament started as scheduled with the teams finally locked in. Jason's team was the "Bronx Bombers", after his love of the New York Yankees. My team was called "Atrocious D", which was a play on Jack Black's band "Tenacious D", but since a good portion of the team was overweight, we figured that was the right way to go.

While I had to wait a few days before my team's first game, I figured I would go check out the season opener with Jason's team playing Lenny's team. The tournament really wasn't a tournmanent, but rather a "season' of six games where your team would play the other three teams twice, and the teams with the two best records would play for the championship at lunch time for everybody to see.

I arrived at the game late, but still in time to watch the amazing debut of Spam Boy. Halfway through the first half, SB subbed into the game and immediately made his presence felt. On his first attempt at defense, he ran after the guy dribbling the ball and locked him up in a big bear hug.

The whistle blows...

"Foul!", says the ref.

Lenny's team takes the ball out of bounds. Lenny has the ball in his hands for no more than a second or two when....

"Foul!", screams the ref again.

Andy had gone up and given HIM a bear hug too. Apparently, he had NEVER played organized basketball before... or watched it... or heard about it in passing.

"You do that one more time, and I'm throwing you out of the game!".

Acting quickly, Jason decides to bench Andy for the rest of the, um... game.

But the antics didn't stop there. Spam Boy, now noticing my friend Justin and I standing there watching the game, starts screaming out:

"Corbett Report! Corbett Report!"

I wave and immediately break eye contact. It doesn't stop there. After a few iterations of that, it turns into:

"Let's go Corbett! *clap*clap*clap*clap*clap* Let's go Corbett!"

Justin turns to me and says, "This guy is out of his fucking mind! Maybe we should leave."

"Yeah, I'm tempted to."

I probably should have. Long after Justin left, he was still at it. Paying very little attention to the game his team was embroiled in, Spam Boy just kept clapping his hands and chanting "Let's go Corbett!". At one point, getting mildly aggravated, I shout back, "You might want to actually pay attention to the game!".

I decided to stay all the way to the very end. Now I was DYING to see if Jason would put him in again. Sure enough, in the second half, he got another shot at it. On their first offensive trip down the floor, Andy somehow ends up with the ball in his hands. Not passing up an opportunity to see something absolutely special, all of us on the sideline simultaneously shout out:

"SHOOT IT!!!!"

Now granted, Spam Boy is about 30-35 feet away from the hoop at the time and well beyond the three-point arc. He shoots it anyways.

Airball.

Jason subs out for him again a minute or two later, at the next stoppage in play. That was the end of his basketball adventure for the day.

As the game ends, and the players are all congratulating one another on a fine effort, I finally decide to exit, stage left. As I'm walking out, I hear the chanting again....

"Let's go Corbett! *clap*clap*clap*clap*clap* Let's go Corbett!"

I turn around and say, "Dude, seriously, you've got issues."

A week later, it was our turn to play Jason's team. If Spam Boy was going to be that excited about me just showing up to watch a game, I couldn't imagine what it was going to be like to play in the same game. I would probably need some of my own mugging deterrent in order to keep him off of me, like mace, or a taser or something.

Sure enough Spam Boy showed up for the game, as excited as ever. Sure enough, when brought into the game, he opted to guard me. For the duration of his time in the game, every time I ran up and down the floor, either with the ball or without, there he would be, stalking me, chanting "Corbett Report" in my ear.

On one possession, I get passed the ball outside of the 3-point arc. Spam Boy, like a crazed animal comes running out at me. I simply dribble around him, and put up a shot off the backboard for 2 points.

"That was easy.", I thought to myself.

If he was going to play aggressively on me, I was going to use that to my advantage. A couple of possessions later, I decided to post up on him. With him completely mauling me, and probably enjoying it, I spun around and put up a shot. Swish.. and a foul. So that matchup ended up working out alright for me.

However, the game was a blowout.

With Jason's team in command, and the teams fully entrenched in "garbage time", Andy got more playing time. Collecting an offensive rebound, he was able to put it back up and in for 2 points... his first of the tournament. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pump his fist in celebration so hard, that he spun around and fell to the ground. I laughed heartily as I ran down the floor.

When the game ended, we lined up to shake hands with the other team. I received my obligatory "Good game, Corbett Report!" as I reached Spam Boy in the line.

Terrific.

While the tournament did not amount to much for my team, Andy got to play in the championship game. And while he may not have gotten as much playing time as before due to the fact that there was much more at stake, his team still won it all. And not only does such a victory come with the bragging rights of winning it in front of a large chunk of your colleagues, but it also comes with a trophy. And if I remember correctly, and I don't because I've never won it, they engrave it with the name of the winning team. Also, as part of the tradition, they would let each member of the team get to keep the trophy for a little while, you know, just to keep it at their desk.

Andy took the celebrating a bit further.

Weeks after the tournament was over, he sent me an email with the subject "Trophy tour: Springfield Area". The Boston Red Sox had done this in 2004 after their World Series victory when they attempted to bring the championship trophy to every city and town in New England. I was curious to see what the email contained. Included was a message that stated the following:

"The team's championship trophy went for a tour in the greater Springfield area this past weekend. Attached are some photos of the trophy's adventures.

photo 1 - Trophy tour party in Chicopee
photo 2 - Watching a movie with the trophy.
photo 3 - Trophy in front of the b-ball hall of fame.

Photos of the rolling rally through Springfield and me singing karaoke with the trophy at a bar in Chicopee sadly were not taken."

Attached were three pictures, the first of which was a picture of the "party" that was held to commemorate the big victory, complete with his mother and sister in the background and a pizza, a bag of chips, some party cups, a tray of brownies, and of course, the trophy, in the foreground:


The second picture was of the trophy sitting alone on a 1970's era lime green couch. (Well, alone if you exclude the stuffed animals).


Lastly, the third picture was a picture of him posing the trophy outside of the Basketball Hall of Fame to make it look like the trophy was shooting the ball into the museum:



I immediately forwarded the message onto Jason.

"You'll never believe what one of your players is up to.", I said to him over the wall as I was sending him the message.

After perusing the message and the pictures, his immediate response was, "Is this guy for real?"

Yep, he's for real alright. A real 2005 Company Basketball Tournament Champion.

Chapter 12: Fun with Merriam-Webster

I'm always surprised in life when I find out something that I believe to be common knowledge, well... isn't. I'm sure we've all had those experiences, where you're standing around telling a joke, with everybody in the audience nodding in approval as the joke progresses towards it's climax. As you scan the crowd, you can always pick out that one person in the crowd who just simply isn't getting it. When the joke is over, they'll give you that half-hearted laugh, but their eyes will tell a different story.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

And it is here where I learned about some shortcomings in Spam Boy's education. It was time for me to give him his miseducation.

For you see, one day as we were discussing our favorite Saturday Night Live sketches of all time, the Colonel Angus sketch was mentioned. Of course, it was mentioned. It was one of the best things they've ever done in the history of the show. And it starred Christopher Walken to boot. It doesn't get much better than that.

Scouring around online for a copy of the video so we could watch it again and again from the comforts of our cubicles, we turned up nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch.

Bummer.

A few minutes later, my friend Ryan tracks down a transcript of the sketch. This relieves the pain slightly, as it is still a funny read, but it's just not the same as watching it acted out. I mean, I can imagine in my head as the cast works their way through those oh-so-tricky lines, but to hear the way they pronounce "Colonel Angus" over and over again in their southern accents... well, you've just really got to see it for the full effect.

Nonetheless, I laughed out loud upon reading the transcript. Spam Boy swings by my cubicle to ask me what all the fuss is about. I tell him it's the Colonel Angus sketch from SNL and ask him if he's seen it.

"No, never heard of it."

"I'll send you the link... you'll enjoy it."

So I email him the link to the text. I can hear him in the next cubicle over reading it to himself.

No reaction.

Five minutes later, he's back in my cube with the following assertion:

"I don't get it."

"What???"

"I don't get it. What's so funny?"

"Oh.... do you not understand what 'Colonel Angus' means?"

"Ummm... no."

Now I'm in an awkward position. Like the first time I had to ask somebody what "69" meant and why it was so funny when the teacher would mention that number in class.

Not wanting to cause a big scene, I simply write on my white board,

"Colonel Angus = cunnilingus"

and wait for the recognition to wash over him.

"I still don't get it.", he says.

"You mean you don't know what that word means?"

"No."

"Well dude, I'M not going to tell you. Why don't you look it up on Merriam-Webster's site?"

Spam Boy retreats back to his cube. I can hear him furiously typing away, trying to find the answer to his query. After he types it in and hits enter, I can tell that he finally understands the joke.

"Ewwwww.", he says.

We all fall out laughing.

It was in a similar fashion that we had to describe to SB what a 'taint' was. This one was not my fault, at least not to begin with. Apparently, his web site had been hacked by this group called "Rebellious Fingers". And when I say his "web site", yes, I mean the one with all the Sonic the Hedgehog crap on it (See Chapter 3).

They had wiped out his front page, and left a message in it's staid. I wish for the life of me I could remember exactly what that message said. But the one memory of it was that it had the word 'taint' in it. And not as in to 'contaminate morally'. Even Merriam-Webster was not going to help with this one.

Spam Boy comes out and asks me:

"What's a taint?"

(Here comes the patented response...)

"Dude, you don't know?"

"No."

"It's the part between your testicles and your anus."

"Ewwwww."

Funny how they both evoked the same response from him. Maybe it's just because he doesen't know some of the more risque stuff. I guess if you're just never exposed to it, you never have a reason to know. Anyway, he knows now. And I'm sure he won't forget anytime soon. As a matter of fact, I still remember when I finally found out the answer to that "69" question.

"It's when one person has fish and the other has a hot dog."

"Ewwwww."

Chapter 11: Grazed Anatomy

With the recent heat that's on James Frey for his book "A Million Little Pieces", I decided to take the time to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this chapter. IT'S ALL TRUE! I wish I were making this shit up. When Oprah has me on her show to discuss her latest book club entry, I will be able to confidently say "Yes, I once saw Spam Boy pump his fist so hard during a basketball game that he fell down on the court."

So there, that takes care of that. Now on to business....

Over the course of my interactions with Spam Boy, I've had to consult on a number of medical issues. The experience was kinda like being Spam Boy's own personal WebMD.

"Let's punch up Mr. Wolan on the WebMD report, and... oh my God, is that an injury to his....."

Yep, the wanger.

I don't even remember how this conversation got started, but one time when I had (let's say) blacked out and wandered into SB's cube, I heard the following:

"I was out yesterday because I had to get a pee-pee probe"

I turned around and walked away. Well, not really, but part of me wishes I had.

"Excuse me?", I replied.

"Yeah, I had to get a pee-pee probe.... I was having blood in my urine."

"Sweet Lord!"

"Oh yeah, I've also had anal fissures."

I don't remember anything after that.

In a way, I'm torn. I guess I feel flattered that I'm being opened up to like that. He must have felt comfortable going to me and telling me this. Surely this is a good thing right? But whoo-boy, is that too much information. Out of the blue no less! Somebody has to give me some sort of warning when something like this is coming up.

And so it would happen from time to time that Spam Boy would come to me with a medical issue.

One time, I was rocking out to some music in my cube while staring intently at an Excel spreadsheet. I hear a knocking on the wall behind me. (Side Note: My cubicle location sucks. It always has since I started working here. I have an uncanny knack of being put in high traffic areas where people stream by behind me all day long, whether it's on the end of an aisle or right by a major conference room or hallway. I've moved cubicle locations several times now and every time, it's the same thing, despite my pleas to the contrary. Over the years, it has made me very jumpy when I see somebody walk by in my periphery.) I turn around and when I see SB signalling me, I jump a little bit.

"What's up?", I asked.

"I keep stabbing myself in my hand with my mechanical pencil.... is that bad?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so. Why do you keep stabbing yourself with your pencil?"

"I don't know. I just keep stabbing myself in this same spot. (showing me the injury)"

"Well maybe you should stop that."

(End scene.)

Wow. Now I'm no doctor, nor do I play one on TV. But I can't imagine it's a good thing to jam yourself in the hand with a lead pencil repeatedly. I didn't even ask what he was doing that caused that scenario to happen repeatedly. Juggling maybe? Tossing it up in the air and trying to catch it? Writing so hard that not only does the tip break, but the remaining portion of the pencil flips around and stabs you in the hand? Having one hand deliberately stabbing the other one, like something out of the movie "Body Parts"? The possibilities are endless.

To prove that I'm not just making this up, I have another scenario for you in which I have a witness who would testify in a court of law that this happened. My friend Todd and I were both looking over some very critical business information (i.e. the results of the company "March Madness" Basketball Draft) when Spam Boy interrupts us and gets my attention.

"What is it, Andy?", I asked.

"Do I look unusually tan to you?"

"Um, no.... why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm on this antibiotic and one of the side effects is a change in skin coloration."

"Nope, you look fine to me."

"Okay, thanks!"

Todd and I look at each other in amazement. Spam Boy was the best at dropping one liners on me. I'm just glad somebody was there to confirm I wasn't crazy when it happened.

Get well soon, Andy!