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General Discussion => Talk Zone => Topic started by: JimR on March 11, 2008, 03:53:10 pm
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Omg, what a player.
Ok, resume the laff riot comedy routine.
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Omg, what a player.
Ok, resume the laff riot comedy routine.
Gotta love coach bustin out chat speak.
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Omg, what a player.
He didn't go #1 for nothing.
He's got to stay on the field though.
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I'm rooting for him in a big way. It's good to see someone try to bury their demons and realize their potential.
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No more platooning this year either, so insist the Rangers
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I'm rooting for him in a big way. It's good to see someone try to bury their demons and realize their potential.
I totally agree.
Glad he is in the AL, though. I felt like a closet drinker last year rooting for him. Kept peaking my head up to see who noticed I was rooting for a Red, when I had no connection to the player.
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There are few (non-Astros) that I've ever rooted for as hard.
As as aside, while I'm sure Cabrera is an outdated ESPN article, this one is worth a re-read and I thought I'd link to it nevertheless. 'I'm proof that hope is never lost' (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2926447). If you haven't read this, you should... In any event, here are some misc. passages from a very long article (don't shortchange yourself by reading the Cliff Notes though...).
When I think of those terrible times, there's one memory that stands out. I was walking down the double-yellow of a two-lane country highway outside Raleigh when I woke up out of a trance.
I was so out of it I had lost consciousness, but my body had kept going, down the middle of the road, cars whizzing by on either side. I had run out of gas on my way to a drug dealer's house, and from there I left the truck and started walking. I had taken Klonopin, a prescription antianxiety drug, along with whatever else I was using at the time, and the combination had put me over the edge. It's the perfect example of what I was: a dead man walking.
And now, as I stand on the green grass of a major league outfield or walk to the batter's box with people cheering for me, I repeatedly ask myself one simple question: How did I get here from there?
I've been in the big leagues as a member of the Cincinnati Reds for half a season, but I still find myself taking off my cap between pitches and taking a good look around. The uniform, the ballparks, the fans -- it doesn't seem real. How am I here? It makes no sense to anybody, and I feel almost guilty when I have to tell people, over and over, that I can't answer that one simple question.
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There's a reason my prayers weren't answered during those dark, messed-up nights I spent scared out of my mind. There's a reason I have this blessed and unexpected opportunity to play baseball and tell people my story.
My wife, Katie, told me this day would come. At my lowest point, about three years ago, when I was wasting away to skin and bones and listening to nobody, she told me I'd be back playing baseball someday. She had no reason to believe in me. During that time, I did nothing to build my body and everything to destroy it. I'd go five or six months without picking up a ball or swinging a bat. By then, I'd been in rehab five or six times -- on my way to eight -- and failed to get clean. I was a bad husband and a bad father, and I had no relationship with God. Baseball wasn't even on my mind.
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Every day I'm reminded that my story is bigger than me. It never fails. Every time I go to the ballpark, I talk to people who are either battling addictions themselves or trying to help someone else who is. Who talks to me? Just about everybody. I walked to the plate to lead off an inning in early May, minding my own business, when the catcher jogged out to the mound to talk to his pitcher. As I was digging in, the home plate umpire (I'm intentionally not naming him) took off his mask and walked around the plate to brush it off. He looked up at me and said, "Josh, I'm really pulling for you. I've fought some battles myself, and I just want you to know I'm rooting for you."
A father will tell me about his son while I'm signing autographs. A mother will wait outside the players' parking lot to tell me about her daughter. They know where I've been. They look to me because I'm proof that hope is never lost.
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I live by a simple philosophy: Nobody can insult me as much as I've insulted myself. I've learned that I have to keep doing the right things and not worry about what people think.
***
I woke up in a sweat, as if I'd been truly fighting, and the terror that gripped me makes that dream feel real to this day. I'd been alone for so long, alone with the fears and emotions I worked so hard to kill. I'm not embarrassed to admit that after I woke up that night, I walked down the hall to my grandmother's room and crawled under the covers with her. The devil stayed out of my dreams for seven months after that. I stayed clean and worked hard and tried to put my marriage and my life back together. I got word in June 2006 that I'd been reinstated by Major League Baseball, and a few weeks afterward, the devil reappeared.
It was the same dream, with an important difference. I would hit him and he would bounce back up, the ugliest and most hideous creature you could imagine. This devil seemed unbeatable; I couldn't knock him out. But just when I felt like giving up, I felt a presence by my side. I turned my head and saw Jesus, battling alongside me. We kept fighting, and I was filled with strength. The devil didn't stand a chance.
You can doubt me, but I swear to you I dreamed it. When I woke up, I felt at peace. I wasn't scared. To me, the lesson was obvious: Alone, I couldn't win this battle. With Jesus, I couldn't lose.
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But there is one story that sticks with me, so much so that I think of it every day. I was driving out of the players' parking lot at Great American Ball Park after a game in May, with Katie and our two girls. There's always a group of fans standing at the curb, hoping to get autographs, and I stop to sign as many as I can.
And on this particular night, a little boy of about 9 or 10, wearing a Reds cap, handed me a pen and something to sign. Nothing unusual there, but as I was writing the boy said, "Josh, you're my savior."
This stopped me. I looked at him and said, "Well, thank you. Do you know who my savior is?"
He thought for a minute. I could see the gears turning. Finally, he smiled and blurted out, "Jesus Christ." He said it like he'd just come up with the answer to a test. "That's exactly right," I said.
You see, I may not know how I got here from there, but every day I get a better understanding of why.
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I'm rooting for him in a big way. It's good to see someone try to bury their demons and realize their potential.
Having been there personally, I'm really pulling for him. Addiction is a bitch of a disease that kills people.
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Having known him as the most disgustingly arrogant little cocksucker I'd ever met at the time he was drafted, I'm not pulling for him as hard. Still, I'm glad to see he's got his life back in order and his priorities straight. He is a fantastic talent.
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I found this article a few years ago. (http://www.sptimes.com/News/102499/Worldandnation/Greener_than_grass.shtml) It is a good read and talks about Carl Crawford as well (imagine if those two had made the same outfield together) Reminds us of the expectations. The micro managing parents are too much.
Parents usually drove in for a weekend game, watched their son play, took him out for a steak and then vanished the next morning. The Hamiltons checked into the Ramada Inn in Princeton and showed no signs of leaving.
"This is the time to step into manhood," said Charles Armstrong, a Princeton pitcher. "What are they doing here?"
The Hamiltons showed up for daily batting practice at 4 p.m., lone figures in the sun-beaten stands. Ramos figured they'd lay off after a week or so.
As the team was boarding the bus one afternoon, the pitcher Scott Vander Meer tucked a pinch of Copenhagen in his lip and spat a brown stream to the pavement.
"Don't spit close to Josh," Linda Hamilton reminded.
"Yes, ma'am," Scotty answered, feeling bad.
While the other guys were half-starved and wearing dirty clothes, Josh had a full stomach and clean shirts. He was kept strong and ready.
Bobby Ramos didn't like the idea of one of his players getting special treatment. All things had to be equal to test them equally.
On the other hand, Hamilton was the bonus baby from the home office.
You could say this about the kid: He worked hard. Always the first one out of the clubhouse, trotting toward the grass with his chin up and heels high. And that beautiful swing.
So when Linda Hamilton fussed with the hem of her son's uniform, asking, "Don't they have any better than that?", Bobby Ramos looked the other way.
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It's tough to see that talent shine so bright for another team. He really put the Rays (among many other people in his life) through the wringer during his struggles and they were as patient and helpful as any team should have been. I'm glad to see him get his life together but it's bittersweet.
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I found this article a few years ago. (http://www.sptimes.com/News/102499/Worldandnation/Greener_than_grass.shtml) It is a good read and talks about Carl Crawford as well (imagine if those two had made the same outfield together) Reminds us of the expectations. The micro managing parents are too much.
Worse than helicopter parents. We call them Blackhawk parents, and they drive us absolutely insane.
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Worse than helicopter parents. We call them Blackhawk parents, and they drive us absolutely insane.
just curious, whom do you mean by "we" and "us"?
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just curious, whom do you mean by "we" and "us"?
Biggio's mouse moved into Jacksonian's pocket after last season.
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just curious, whom do you mean by "we" and "us"?
My co-workers.
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Biggio's mouse moved into Jacksonian's pocket after last season.
Squeak. The mouse, I mean we, needed a new outlet.
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just curious, whom do you mean by "we" and "us"?
In case you, or anyone else, were wondering, "helicopter parents" is a term used by educators to refer to overinvolved parents, those who "hover" over their children, effectively stunting their maturation. "Blackhawk parents" are particularly bad, as they usually are the ones who demand immediate action. I hear it's become a particular problem at the college level.
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I hear it's become a particular problem at the college level.
This amazes me. If my parents had tried any of that crap, I would have thrown them out the door before the professor/administrator could have the chance.
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In case you, or anyone else, were wondering, "helicopter parents" is a term used by educators to refer to overinvolved parents, those who "hover" over their children, effectively stunting their maturation. "Blackhawk parents" are particularly bad, as they usually are the ones who demand immediate action. I hear it's become a particular problem at the college level.
No way, college students are adults. I do rather love it when Junior/Junette tell a slight falsehood about someone else being wrong. Sometimes they are right but not always.
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This amazes me. If my parents had tried any of that crap, I would have thrown them out the door before the professor/administrator could have the chance.
My parents were just happy to have me out of their hair. I was lucky to get a phone call every couple of months or so.
What possible influence could parents have on a professor or administrator in college?
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This amazes me. If my parents had tried any of that crap, I would have thrown them out the door before the professor/administrator could have the chance.
it is scary how many of them can't figure out how to fix the problem they get themself into. Scary for the future.
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In case you, or anyone else, were wondering, "helicopter parents" is a term used by educators to refer to overinvolved parents, those who "hover" over their children, effectively stunting their maturation. "Blackhawk parents" are particularly bad, as they usually are the ones who demand immediate action. I hear it's become a particular problem at the college level.
Smooth.
New term, old problem. Those parents have always been there. Cost of education, IMO, has given them an excuse to become particularly obnoxious. FERPA drives them insane.
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Smooth.
New term, old problem. Those parents have always been there. Cost of education, IMO, has given them an excuse to become particularly obnoxious. FERPA drives them insane.
But, they pay the bill.
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What possible influence could parents have on a professor or administrator in college?
Depends on who the parent is.
It's the consumption of time dealing with them and their generally negative influences on their children that are generally the problem.
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But, they pay the bill.
And are therefore entitled to do literally anything they want, or so they believe.
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And are therefore entitled to do literally anything they want, or so they believe.
Exactly. Maybe they will sue. That will teach the college/university to mess with their kid.
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Exactly. Maybe they will sue. That will teach the college/university to mess with their kid.
Which, of course, begs the question as to why they spend the money to send their kid there in the first place.
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Which, of course, begs the question as to why they spend the money to send their kid there in the first place.
because the kid didn't get into UT and TAMU.
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If the kid is a dependent according to IRS, FERPA does not stop parents.
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If the kid is a dependent according to IRS, FERPA does not stop parents.
But lots of parents are not claiming the kids as dependents so that they will qualify for financial aid.
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If the kid is a dependent according to IRS, FERPA does not stop parents.
Law says the kid still has to waive his or her rights if 18 or over.
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I once had a 50 year old + staff person who was terminated and her 80+ year old mother called the CEO to complain. It didn't change anything. Blackhawk Down!
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Law says the kid still has to waive his or her rights if 18 or over.
Ok, I'll be the sacrificial dummy: what's FERPA?
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No, Jacksonian. Dependent is an exception.
This my area of practice, and you tell me what the law is?
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Ok, I'll be the sacrificial dummy: what's FERPA?
Google does not suck. (http://www.google.com/search?sourceid=navclient&ie=UTF-8&rls=GFRC,GFRC:2007-04,GFRC:en&q=ferpa)
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Google does not suck. (http://www.google.com/search?sourceid=navclient&ie=UTF-8&rls=GFRC,GFRC:2007-04,GFRC:en&q=ferpa)
Thanks. So, is that what did Penders in?
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No, Jacksonian. Dependent is an exception.
This my area of practice, and you tell me what the law is?
Jim,
Check your PM.
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Jim,
Check your PM.
Just FYI, not sure how able he'll be to check PM from his blackberry.
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I can, did and replied.
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Just FYI, not sure how able he'll be to check PM from his blackberry.
He's abler than you think.
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He's abler than you think.
I'll be damned... You can teach an old dog new tricks.
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Woof!
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I can, did and replied.
Ain't technology fucking amazing? I bet Coach is billing time out in the sun.
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If the kid is a dependent according to IRS, FERPA does not stop parents.
Wow, if I was a betting man you could have taken me for some serious cash on this one.
I've wallowed through innumerable mandatory FERPA training courses over the last decade, and I don't recall anything being mentioned about this. Not once. The message has always been (paraphrased): don't release information to anyone other than the student, ever.
But that's why you're the law-talkin'-guy and I'm the...
Wait, what am I again?!
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FERPA
The Wild Bull of the Pampas