Southern Girls and Sports

From 1947 to 1949, the Cardinals reeled off three straight second-place finishes in the National League, mainly because they had injuries they couldn’t overcome or the fact that they lost to teams they should beat.

Fifty-nine years later, I enter the final week of my first year in North Highland Park with a good chance to getting a crush’s number, which in a way seems like a pennant race.

Now mind you, I don’t believe in stalking or annoying a girl to get their number. If they don’t give the digits, I move on with my life.

But unlike past mishaps, most notably what happened when I went to Kentucky and used my flirting to get a girl’s number while traveling with the basketball team, this one is a bit different.

As I have said on a couple of blog entries about this, everyone around me said that she was and indeed a nice girl to know and that while it was normal for guys like myself to be very shy around nice pretty girls, I on the other hand, hasn’t made an effort to try.

“I don’t know why we give you advice on how to talk to her without being nervous,” one of my friends said to me on Saturday afternoon, “cause you don’t never listen.”

Very true.

“It’s time for you to stop hiding behind your columns on southern sports and hotties,” my second mom said to me Friday morning, “Don’t think about it on your behalf, think about it on her behalf. From what i can tell she thinks you’re a cool person but you need to stop acting like a goofball.”

The advice trail even led to one of the cashiers to quote former U of M president Lane Rawlins later that morning.

“There are three types of people in this world,” she said to me, “People who take advantage of chances, people who sit back and complain, and people who do absolutely nothing. You just got elected SGA Senator by being confident and now you’re relegating yourself to chicken status. Just say something.”

While this was going on, I quickly thought about what my boss would say.

“Mental intensity, son,” he would say, “You have to be confident.”

And now I have five days to do just that.

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about dealing with my fears of asking a girl I like for her number and how after using a Pujols against Lidge analogy I managed to blow it.

The following day after I blogged on that subject, one of my readers wrote in so many words, what everyone has been saying for the longest.

“Make it happen, kid.”

Right now, I have six days, including a whole week next week to try to overcome my fear of getting her number and cutting my time researching on how to do this.

This isn’t brain surgery.

I said from day one when I decided to run for SGA Senator that this campaign would be to benefit the students here in North Highland Park.

Of course, when you live in a city that thrives on political corruption, most notably the Tennessee Waltz shit, then you have to take whatever these politicians say with a grain of salt.

With the elections being four days away, I have prepared my speech, shook hands and urged people to vote me into office even going to the point of covering every nook and cranny of our campus with flyers.

Thankfully, once this is over, I can sit down and get to work on what I want to do for North Highland Park.

As most of my friends know, I am and will always be a huge Cardinals fan, although in essence I was named for a Chicago Cubs legend, Ryne Sandberg.

Recently, I’ve taken my love for the Cardinals to a new level as with the possibilty of being elected to SGA here in Highland Park.

On Monday morning, I urged all my friends to paint the campus red by wearing anything red to school as I campaign for SGA Senator.

While the whole idea is unorthodox for a guy that has very little time as a sophomore, should I pass all my classes with relative ease, it also brings a message of hope and togetherness here at school.

Hopefully, that sea of red will be the ticket for me to become SGA Senator.

Tuesday night, my friend and fellow Cardinals fan and I discussed my plan to talk to a ridicioulsy hot girl that as many of you know, that I like.

One of the many analogies that he used was that picture that in so many words, rattled Brad Lidge’s career in Houston, a person that as I write this, is doing well in Philadelphia with the Phillies.

“You’re Pujols facing Lidge,” he said to me via text message.

“Who’s Lidge?” I asked.

“She [referring to the girl] is Brad Lidge,” he replied, “Her friend is Brad Ausmus [the catcher at the time for the Astros]”.

“And who is LaRussa?” I asked.

“Coach Jeremy,” he said.

While for the most part this was an easy analogy to use, on Thursday night during our break, I managed to look more like Ernie Broglio after leaving the Cardinals in 1964 than Albert Pujols silencing a crowd in Houston.

During part of last weekend I had spent time googling ways to cure my shyness around certain girls, and I figured one of the steps that needed to be taken from my research, forcing myself to spend time around girls, would work.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

During our break on Thursday night, I along with two of her friends and a big buddy of mine sat at a table in the student center here in Highland Park trying to get to the heart of my Coke-drinking problem.

At the same time, three of my friends, including one that will be my assistant next basketball season, made me find my inner Hank Hill while I was trying to say something.

“Why do you drink a lot of Cokes?” the girl and her friend asked.

“Well, because I have a large crush on you [in a good way] and when I do see you, I get very nervous,” I said.

“Think of other ways to calm yourself down,” her friend said to me, “Do 10 pushups or paint a picture.”

“I can’t paint,” I said, “Used to be when I was growing up I would shoot 100 free throws.”

90 minutes after class ended, I talked to my neighbor again about what happened.

“She’s just a girl like I am,” she said to me, “You have no problem talking to me, so you shouldn’t have any problems talking to her.”

Except if that does happen, we’re going to have to use some other Cardinals analogy.

Maybe it would have to involve Gregg Jefferies or Darren Bragg.

Last night, Atlanta Braves pitcher John Smoltz collected his 3,000th strikeout, becoming the 16th pitcher in baseball history to reach that milestone.

After he accomplished the feat, I talked to a friend of mine about who are the likely candidates to reach that milestone in the next decade or so.

After ten minutes of discussing, we both agreed that Jake Peavy, who already has 1,000 strikeouts on his career, will be in the discussion as well as a few others.

1. Roy Halladay, Toronto Blue Jays-At 30 years of age, Halladay already has 1102 strikeouts in ten years. Although he isn’t considered by many to be a strikeout artist, should he remain healthy, he will be a good candidate to join Smoltz in the next years if he averages around 180-200 strikeouts a year.

2.  Johan Santana, New York Mets-Big lefthander with a lot of power behind his fastball. At 29 years old, he already has close to 1500 strikeouts in his career.

3. C.C. Sabithia, Cleveland Indians-Has 1,142 strikeouts in career, another big lefthander.

4. Barry Zito, San Francisco Giants-29 years old and pitching in what I think is one of the best ballparks for pitchers, AT&T Park. He just needs to continue his career there.

If it takes a small village to raise a child, then somewhere along the line, a small town or better than yet, a small school, to counsel a sportswriter who has a huge crush on a ridiculously hot girl in his class.

Since I last blogged on here, which would be last Thursday, I think I have asked almost everyone that had brains about what the girl was like (see the picture for photo evidence from April 17th) and from the looks of things, no one had a dissenting word to say.

“Yeah she’s super sweet,” said one of my neighbors after Sunday’s softball doubleheader, “It’s normal for guys to be shy around nice pretty girls.”

On Monday night, I spoke with my neighbor again and said that while I wanted to say something (I did say something two months ago, but she had somebody at the time), I just wanted to make it sound like I had sense instead of wanting to just do nothing more than hop in bed with her.

“That will only push her away if you did that,” she said, referring to the advice that a few members of the basketball team gave me when I said that I was trying to talk to her.

This morning I spoke with one of my professors, the same one who asked me a couple of weeks ago about my eye about what I needed to do concerning her.

“Just be patient with it,” he said, “In the end you’ll know what to do.”

I hope so.

For three days, the talk around North Highland Park has not been the baseball team’s win over crosstown rival Christian Brothers nor the possibilty of Andre Allen, who I had a pleasure of interviewing six years ago when I wrote for a newspaper here in town, coming to play here in North Highland Park.

But a phony eye injury that has for all intents and purposes been the talk of my friends since last Thursday night, all because of the fact that I, like many of us guys, am very shy around a ridiculously hot girl that I like.

The whole eye ordeal started when I along with a couple of friends were sitting in class and for some reason, I decided the best way to pay attention to my schoolwork and not her was by closing one eye alternatively, meaning that if I turned around to the left the left eye would be open and if I turned to the right the right eye would be open.

While this was going on, one of my professors, who happens to be the soccer coach here in Highland Park, caught on to what was going on.

“What’s wrong with your eye?” he asked.

“Well a softball conked me in the eye, giving me periphial vision,” I said.

Although it was a game try, everyone within three seats of me were fully aware that the eye injury, regardless of how I tried to make it seem like I really had a problem, was a lie.

Something that as time progressed, became something that my cronies knew was a joke.

“You can see perfectly out of the eye, Ryne,” one of my friends said to me earlier this morning as I ate my lunch, “Stop trying to fake it.”

Since we had practice postponed, it gave me and others free range to shootaround in the gym prior to volleyball practice.

And lo and behold, my friends, many of which know for a fact that it was a ploy I had cooked up as well as the girl came into the gym.

“Fire it up,” one of them said, which I obliged by shooting with one eye and airballing.

“Stop faking,” the same friend said to me, “Nothing’s wrong with your eye, you’re just chicken to say something to BD.”

After she said that, she then decided to mimic what I tried to do by shooting a basketball with one eye open, actually almost making the shot.

“Mine’s hit the rim, yours didn’t,” she said.

Well that’s because I had the wrong eye closed.