It didn’t involve tequila and a tattoo. There was a speeding taxi, and missing pertinent immigration papers. There was a busted suitcase and even worse, a broken bottle of rum. I stood in the immigration office reeking of rum, with the attitude of an ugly American.
With temperatures plummeting into the upper 20s here the Carolinas overnight, it’s hard sometimes to think about spring.
Unless the topic is baseball.
I know many people consider March Madness the sports world’s harbinger of spring, but to me, it’s that February time when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. And spring training is the main reason I wish I was a ballplayer (that, and the free lids).
I feel like I would have excelled as a spring training ball player.
Geese are to blame for the first big-league bad word I said in front of my mom.
I was 15. And taller than her. I was taller than her at age 7. No, it was at least 8. Maybe 10.
We’d just moved to Charlotte, N.C., from Greeley, Colo. Schools were on winter break, and we stayed in a Hilton until our house was ready (this was pre-Suite Life of Zack and Cody, so I didn’t know I could smart off and trick people and terrorize the front desk and not get in trouble.
As we walked around the lake, my mom, my sister and me, we dodged goose bombs all over the sidewalk. Geese, it turns out, poop more than toddlers. Like, 57 times more.