EASTER AT THE IN-LAWS

Subj: Talking baseball, Easter nachos and the in-lawsl
Date: 04/15/98

Well, it wasn't a sure-fired thing, by any means, but we made it back from Easter at Ma and Pa Kettles'.

They're my East Texas in-laws. DEEP East Texas.

Scariest thing was my 15-year-old son practicing his driving on some East Texas two-lane. I'm really concerned about our educational system if his driver's ed teacher is any indication. We could be just an eyelash away from total nuclear destruction.

Least that's how close I was to the pickup truck next to us when the farmer inside moved over to the shoulder to let us pass. I don't know if he gave us a one- or two-finger wave. I believe if I'd a turned to look, my nose might have rubbed off on his truck door. Somebody SHOULD have told my very own Joey Chitwood that just because the dude you're passing is kinda pulled over doesn't mean you can't cross the center lane just a little, specially if there's nobody coming and you're drivin' your daddy's Honda love machine at 75 and the farmer you're passing ain't completely out of your lane. I saw the reflection of my life passing by my peripheral vision right there on the polished side of that F-10.

So's we make it to the wife's folks too late to see Saturday's Masters golf action, but just in time for my nephew's Little League game. Ma Kettle wants to see Junior drive, so he's behind the wheel as we go to the park. Only Ma Kettle doesn't know where to turn for the park. So we have a 10-minute detour as the lady gets us lost in the town she has lived in for 50 years!!!

But there's one good thing. So much backseat driving (Turn here, no there, or is it there?) that I think Junior will never again take the wheel -- or so I hope.

And we ultimately found the ballpark, one of those multi-field jobs that is a veritable anthill of busy-ness. We're searching all the diamonds at the park looking for someone familiar when my sister-in-law's voice rings out, "Hay-u Day-uv! .... Wanna key-up scor-uh?"

(You see, in DEEP East Texas anything with more than two letters can't be pronounced with only one syllable; translation: Hey Dave, Would you like to keep score?)

Sure, that's just why I drove 200 miles. So it turns out the start of the game has been waiting for a scorekeeper (I'm not sure if it says something that this town of 15,000 or so needs an outsider to count to three (strikes or outs or the minimum number of beers I require to handle life in this town) but I'm happy to do it) and I've got 30 seconds to write out the rosters of both teams, half of whom are named Bubba.

Then there's Boomer. Sis-in-law asked me if I could pick out Boomer without an introduction (I'd quote her here but it's too much work spelling out that drawl). Not too difficult. Ummmm, I'd guess he's the one who looks like you'd imagine Chris Farley or John Candy did as a 10-year-old. Big. Round. Doofus.

Well, once again, sis-in-law offered me the town mayor job, because I'm so incredibly smart. (And she can deliver, too, because my brother-in-law, since he had one semester at junior college, pretty much runs things in town.) But once again, I had to turn her down.

Well, Little League hasn't changed much. The homeplate umpire, a high school lad, looked like he was trying out for a Michael Jackson video with all his gyrations when he'd call a strike or an out. The coach-daddies were all screaming and hollering about every close play and Boomer was out there where a real second baseman would stand -- if they had a real second baseman. But they had Boomer.

He was in his own world. Cap on backward. Shirt tail not quite coming down to meet his stretched-too-tight pants. The game was going on right in front of him, but he didn't seem to notice. He was playing "air" baseball, going through the motions of swinging a bat, or fielding and throwing the ball. His own coach-daddy was too busy yelling at the kid-umpires to notice Boomer corking off.

Every 30 minutes or so, I'd have to wake from my dream world, too. They'd actually make an out, something for me to write down in the book. Actually my biggest concern was the weather. Pretty darn cold considering they dragged me out of the house in my shorts and T-shirt for just a courtesy "Hi, Bye" trip to the park and instead I end up perched 20 feet in the air ... cold and getting colder all the time ... behind home plate and I'm not allowed to leave til the game's over.

Not even to go to the bathroom. Those beers REALLY want to go to the bathroom. And I shoulda worn some jeans, brought a jacket. I don't see how people sat through that. Most people didn't. My wife and kids and Ma and Pa Kettle didn't. They went home after 10-15 minutes. Too cold, they said. Imagine freaking that!

Finally, after I could stand the cold no more, I asked sis-in-law to go get me some food. I figured maybe the digestive process would create some heat. So here she comes with a big paper basket full of round corn chips drowning in yellow cheese goo and accented by a half-dozen slices of jalapeno peppers -- ballpark nachos, another fine Texas tradition which I helped bring into the world back in the 70s at Arlington Stadium when the Rangers were the first in the world to serve this crap; you can look it up; and I was among the first in the world to eat 'em (but I was a kid then and didn't know better).

Well, the food worked its magic. Since the chips were drowning in cheesy goo -- and right out of the microwave -- you couldn't help but get some of that yellow napalm all over your hands and face (and on the roof of your mouth). Can you say burns? And the scorebook was quickly becoming smudged and unreadable, and that was after only three bites. I could have cleaned it off, but apparently somebody used the rest of the Sears & Roebuck catalog for other purposes -- napkins, what's a napkin? -- and I simply refused to wipe my face on my shirt, as appears the custom in this town. I ain't getting no cheese on my Pawless Guitars T-shirt!

The good news was the game ended abruptly. The bad news was I was left with a tub of goo and chips. Fortunately, my brother-in-law got involved with somebody's momma in a dispute over how many innings somebody else's little darling had pitched this week, and I had time to finish my lovely ballpark snack.

And I had time to find the ballpark garden hose and spray all the cheese off me.

And I had time to make a baby with all the ballpark concession stand ladies -- though, regretfully (yeah, sure!) I passed on that opportunity.

And I had time to hear a play-by-play of BOTH of my nephews' games from that night.

And I had a lot of time to wish I'd stayed home and worked on my taxes this weekend like I started to do.

And finally my brother-in-law got through with his highly technical Little League disagreement -- the lady's husband's shift at the nearby munitions plant ended and he came and picked her up -- and my brother-in-law and his family took me to my loving wife, who was already snoring in her childhood bed. When I crawled in beside her, she mumbled something like, "What took you so long, Bubba?" (Apparently this was some kind of dream-state childhood flashback to when she and my brother-in-law slept in the same bed.)

Next morning we went to church and I found out what happened to that Sears & Roebuck catalog. All the women ordered their dresses from it. This was supposed to be a Catholic church, but with the dresses, the hair piled up on top of the ladies' heads and the sideburned men in their bus-driver outfit suits, I half expected us to celebrate Jesus' Resurrection with live snakes or something.

Fortunately, about that time, all the beer I had for breakfast kicked in and I passed out.

Had a religious awakening, though.

I woke up face-down in a puddle of puke right there in the church pew -- and I swear, Lord, if you ever give me the chance to do it over, I'll probably do it just the same damn way.

No shit.

Dave