Willing

There are seven letters available to play every turn on Words With Friends. The other day I was shuffling them to find a word, and it stopped on VALERIE. Val is Mike Tambornino’s mom, and I realized that it was the day they would be moving up north, and it would be my last chance to communicate with them. I called, but got no answer, and there was no machine on which to leave a message. But I tried. Making amends starts, most importantly, with being willing, and I have shown my willingness even though it is now unlikely that I will ever see them again. I don’t know why she never called me back, but I’m not the most important thing in their lives right now, and I can accept that and move on.

I had some plans for a road trip to Wisconsin this weekend, and I have modified them to include more time in Madison, and only the Brewers game in Milwaukee. I am going to spend some time with an uncle whom I have not seen in possibly two decades, and his family. I’m branching out more and more as time moves on and away from those terrible cold, dark days of prison and addiction.

 

When I was just a boy, maybe 15, my friend Nathan and I somehow got invited to a New Year’s Eve celebration at a fraternity house in River Falls, Wisconsin. We weren’t new to the party scene, but we were used to carousing with people our own age, with a tolerance to chemicals similar to ours.

I remember very little of that evening except for a few sketchy details of finding Nathan passed out in a chair in the unfinished basement, and enlisting the help of some college boys to duct tape him upright and securely to the chair. He was safe. I continued to drink bottled beer and if I’m not mistaken, that house is where I first experienced Jägermeister. I remember liking it because it wasn’t as strong as vodka or any of the other hefty solutions I had tried before, and I remember pretending not to be sick before I went to the bathroom to throw up the concoction I had brewed in my young stomach.

If you’re unfamiliar, throwing up is an important part of drinking heavily. It makes room for more, because isn’t drinking the best? I made it until roughly 11pm before I was fated to the same basement where I found Nathan with one arm free, covered in his own vomit. I laughed, and flopped on the floor on what I recall to be something of a gym mat. We were woken up at midnight by somebody telling us it was officially the New Year. I pumped my fist in the air and squealed out a muffled, “woo hoo.” I was finished.

I don’t remember how I got home, or if my mom was there, or any other facts. I’m not even sure if what I have written is all fact. But I do know that I think I had fun, and I knew that someday I would be big and strong enough to party like those boys did.

Someday I did party like those boys. All of them combined I think. There were months at a time I would drink myself into blackout twice per day, even when I was working. Completely incapable of taking care of myself, I would slide quickly into oblivion, ignoring all of the warnings from my friends and my body that I was destroying myself inside and out. I would never learn anything valuable about myself or my problem while I was drinking. I had to wait until I was done. Even then I had to wait until I was free from chemicals for about a year before I could seriously look at myself and what I had become.

Now, 23 years after the party in River Falls, I can see what the attraction of alcohol is: it makes you feel good. I had to fix everything in my life to know that I can feel good without it, and really I love it this way. There’s never any hangover. Never do I have to hear what I did the night before from an irritated friend. And never do I worry that I’m going to lose everything I have, yet again, because of some stupid mistake I made at work while high on meth.

And now here are some pictures of sunrises from my front yard in St. Paul.

Over Now

Quite the opposite of my schedule over the past half-year, the past couple of weeks have been mostly away from the bedlam of the Xcel and the varied entertainment held within. Between five-day segments of R&R, I worked a maniacal 24-hours in a 32-hour period, during which I prepped for and cooked for all of the guests that would enter my restaurant while attending the Def Leppard & Guests concert, and the final playoff game for the Wild who flailed and faltered, despite a strong third-period bid for contention. And now it’s done. The season is Over Now and I have time to sit down and process a few things before I go back to some scattered events and Lynx games while receiving seasonal unemployment.

Will I go back to the laminating factory? Probably at some point it will become necessary to put in a day or two, here and there, to supplement my mediocre summer of already subsidized government-based income, which only nets 50% of my salary. So, What I will do is stay away from both jobs as much as possible for about a month because I can afford to do so, and then weave my way through the hot season hopping from job-to-job until the Wild start preseason again in October.

 

Not all of you read that recently my relationship of nearly six months fell apart as I only shared that post on my Facebook Blog page. I appreciate all of you who have sent me words of encouragement, and I want you to know that even though I am down (although I may not show that outwardly), I have many tools, resources, and friends and family to help me through this and come out of this emotional slump. I also appreciate you, Heather, for all you have given me, and all we have done over the course of our relationship. I love you, and I care for you, and I hope you will always remain my friend.

 

I’m sitting at my new coffee hot-spot, J&S Coffee on Randolph and Saratoga in St. Paul. All at once, everybody in the establishment—save for the employees and people in line out of my view—turned and stared at me. I thought, perhaps, that it was because I’m wearing a controversial shirt, but it is more likely that they witnessed the arch of coffee exit my mouth and spray the entirety of my computer and remaining table space.  It’s the closest I’ve come to drowning since my cruise through Grand Cayman over a decade ago, and these people had the audacity to sit and watch me wane. Naturally, if I were one of them, I would have probably laughed at the situation. I simply waved at them all and mentioned that I chose the wrong tube to swallow with, and cleaned up my mess: real life, folks.

 

Yesterday I went to another Twins game. It was the fourth of the season that I’ve attended, but the first that I went to alone. It’s not that I couldn’t find somebody to go with; it’s that I wanted to be there alone because, like a trip to the river to find agates, I find serenity and peace at the ballpark. The Twins didn’t do very well, losing 13-4, but I found the silver linings and enjoyed myself throughout.

Today, I have been to the gym to lift, and to run. I have been to the coffee shop to drink, spit on my computer, and write this post. I will go home and take Willie for a walk, and likely continue to watch the new MST3K on Netflix, and chill. It’s been a while since I have put meat on a grill for personal consumption, but today could be the day I experiment with that in preparation for a BBQ I plan to have at home within the next 30 days. These events of mine take a lot of prep, care, and consideration. I’m proud of what I produce for my friends, family, and guests of guests, and it excites me to know that the grilling season is nearly here. It should excite you, too, if you know me well enough. I’ll write more tomorrow.

 

Finale

It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

                                                                                                -Some asshole

 

Although frequently mistaken for a line from Shakespeare, it is an excerpt from a poem by Alfred Tennyson called “In Memoriam A.H.H.” And it is in reference to a man—his best friend—who passed away tragically while travelling abroad. Thanks, Google.

Recently, the final straw had been placed on the proverbial camel’s back. I haven’t written specifically about the ails of my relationship, because I don’t think it’s fair to point out the troubles of other's, and I still don’t believe that any of my behaviors warranted the actions taken against me. I really want to write extensively, but it’s not appropriate to do so. All I can say is that what we had, what I thought was going well, came to an abrupt halt two nights ago. And that’s as far as I’m going to sew that thread. It's over.

 

I have to work today for the first time in a week. It’s been enjoyable to say the least, and productive to say the most. Back into action, I will be prepping for and cooking for the Def Leppard concert tonight which will keep me there until approximately 10pm, then I have to be back by 6am to prep and cook for game 5 of the playoffs, which the Wild have somehow managed to secure, which starts at 2pm. I will be working 23 of the next 30 hours.  

If the Wild do lose, there’s going to be a lull for a while until the Lynx start their season and a plethora of summer concerts roll through the Xcel Center. I’m looking forward to more time off.

This post is going to be short, very short.

7 Hours and Sixteen Years

On April 15^th, 2001 I was admitted to the residential treatment facility of Hazelden Center for Youths and Families. It was Easter Sunday, 16 years ago.

I was in rough shape at the time. I was heavily addicted to crack-cocaine, and used alcohol as my main source of caloric intake. That’s no joke. I’ve written extensively on that preceding winter in a few posts, and referenced it countless times. I would go for days without eating anything other than canned gravy and stale keg-beer. When I did eat, it would be something I had stolen from Rainbow Foods in the soon-to-be-demolished-for-a-sport-that-can-go-for-three-hours-and-end-in-a-tie-of-zero-Midway Shopping Center. I lived on the couch of a reluctant friend who was also addicted to crack and who was squatting in the home of his mother who had just died. When I couldn’t take the scene—every few days—I would go drink and sleep my sorrows away on the train bridge that passes over Snelling and Marshall Avenues in St. Paul.

Desperately, one day I had had enough and I reached out for help in the form of a note to my mother I left in her mailbox. She offered to help, and two days later I was in the intake unit at H.C.Y.F. in Plymouth.

The first day they did all of the paperwork, medical history, drug test (mine came back positive for T.H.C and Cocaine), and a few other interesting tests like spelling, reading, and some weird science stuff. It was the next day, they said, that they would need to draw my blood. Shit. (Sorry for the language, Mrs. J.)

My temporary roommate and I were equally terrified of needles and we stayed up all night laughing and joking around about licking the alcohol off of the wipes they use to sterilize the arm before penetration. He was from Green Bay, WI and had an equal tolerance for chemicals. We would become close friends for a while after treatment, and I went to visit him in New York a couple years later where he had moved to stay sober. At the end of that trip, our mutual friend told me that he had not, in fact, been sober, and he was spiraling downward quickly. I never saw or talked to him again.

After a four-month stay in treatment, I moved to Florida for a one-year aftercare plan in a half-way-house in Palm Beach Gardens. The aptly named Freedom House had a picture of the beautiful blue ocean on its web page, but when I arrived, it was miles away from any beach, and separated from train tracks by only a small stream. Every time a train went by, the house rattled, and only the shriek of the horn overpowered the earthquake. But everything else was groovy. I made some great friends, found my way through the rooms of Narcotics Anonymous, and enjoyed a warm winter.

I constantly refer to the serenity of those golden days because I think it was the first time I actually gave recovery a shot, and maybe the first time in my life I felt good about myself. I made it nearly five years and decided to test myself with one beer. I failed and suffered for roughly nine years before I finally was given a chance to rebuild myself through a stay in prison. I had really hit bottom again.

The thing about the bottom is, it can always be lowered. There’s a lot of damage I haven’t done yet, and I’m fully capable of going on another bender, using up all of the resources I have accumulated since my release from prison, and starting down the alleyway of certain death. I know I can go back out and use anytime I want to. I don’t know if I can pull myself back out again. It’s been 16 years since I hit my first bottom, and I have done it a few times since. Each time is a little worse, and it’s a little tougher to find my footing. If there is a next time, if I ever do go out to do more research on addiction, I think I will find that the only hole I will be digging is my own grave.

How to go on a Date Good Too

This is the second of a two-part post that starts here.

We had already had enough fun for two dates, but we carried on anyhow to part two of the day-date spectacular, or as I like calling it, spectacudate. Microsoft Word does not like my term.

It’s tough to top mini-golf and pinball, but we had both wanted to see the Sportsology (another Microsoft Word favorite) and Mythical Creatures exhibits at the Science Museum of Minnesota for quite some time, and we agreed to go.

The first part of the date, I should mention, was a surprise. I always like to add a certain measure of secrecy when it comes to the planning because I think it’s fun. After that, the day is open, so we make decisions together at that point, and away we went to see the mysteries of our planet, past and present.

Sportsology: Located on the lower floor of the museum, this exhibit featured several options for proving athleticism. I was first up. My goal was to beat both a Tyrannosaurus Rex and a ten-year-old girl in a foot race. I’m not going to go on and on about who got a better start or why the floor was more uneven on my side, I’ll just say that everybody tried their hardest, and dinosaurs are extinct, not me.

My favorite part was a three-cage process, through which we were given the opportunity to practice some sort of sports move, implement that move, and then watch it in slow motion after being recorded by a high-speed camera. I chose to pitch a baseball; Heather chose to serve a volleyball. In slow motion, both of us looked as if we could have been on professional teams. I discovered rather quickly that I could slide the progress bar back and forth on the touch-screen where the replays were shown and make Heather do a little dance, to which I added my own music. I had fun with that for a while, and then we meandered on.

This may well be out of order, but either before or after the Sportsology exhibit, we wandered through the Mythical Creatures which was pretty cool. It’s a science museum, so there’s going to be some level of practicality in the explanations of these fairy-tale beings, and I liked that. My favorite was the story of the cyclops, whose skulls were once discovered on Malta and Sicily. It’s believed that the skulls of dwarf elephants were seen as oddly-shaped human heads, and the hole in the middle where the trunk goes in, sort of does resemble a human eye socket. The elephant’s eye sockets are so far to the side, they may have appeared to be ear canals, or holes, or whatever. I don’t know science terms good. Anyhow, it was all pretty cool.

On we went to the Omnitheater, to see a show about sharks. Like nearly everything at the museum, this presentation seemed to be designed with children in mind. As long as you’re ok with being a kid for the day, you won’t be upset with the cheesy nature of the underwater film. No animals were eaten alive, and nobody died; two things you expect when you watch a documentary on the Great White Shark. Should that have been capitalized? Either way, it’s always a cool experience to be encapsulated by a giant TV screen, and we had a good time. The gentleman in the row in front of us loved his time there, too, as he snored lightly for the full 40 minutes.

And the day was done, almost. To make a date complete, there should be some component of food involved (twice!). Both of us agreed to try The Blue Door Pub, a restaurant I had driven by nearly every day for a year on my way to the laminating factory, but hadn't been inside. I’ve never seen it slow, and that night would be no exception. We were told there would be a 45-50 minute wait, which we were willing to accept because we had been enticed by the fragrant aromas wafting out through the doors. Not even 20 minutes late a pair of seats at the bar opened up, and we bellied up and ordered a couple Juicy Lucy’s. They call them Blucy’s, but it didn’t matter, they were spectacular. It was the proper way to round out the date, and it is an experience I would like to have again.

I would like to think that years from now I am still capable of taking Heather out on dates like this. I believe it’s critical to keep things fun, and try new things. There is so much at our disposal in our big cities, and I’m sure there are many more equally hidden and exciting venues like Can-Can Wonderland that can be explored, and many old favorited that can continue to be revisited.

Next up: Heather and Vince plan a road-trip to Milwaukee.

And now some more pictures:

This guy was actually real at some point. He may have been mistaken for Big Foot.

How to go on a Date Good

To plan a date good, you must take several things into consideration. First, will your date like the thing that you are going to do? That’s a big one. It’s the main reason I choose not to murder my date; because they will not like it. Second, will there be some element of fun and excitement involved? Any of you who know me, could probably guess that there would be. And last, will there be some component of romance involved? With varying degrees, this is possibly the easiest part for me. Let me explain.

Yesterday I had the honor of taking my dear Heather on a date-day that I had been planning for some time. I had heard about the mystical attractions at Can-Can Wonderland, and even seen the advertisements on Facebook, but nothing could quite have prepared us for the adventure inside. The business itself is located in the basement of a warehouse on Prior Avenue in St. Paul: well off the beaten path. You enter the building through a series of doors and an elevator, none of which really indicate that there would be any sort of thriving business nearby. But then you round a corner.

The moment you see the giant twine-ball and the graffiti laden walls, the sound of the crowd hits you, and you realize you’ve stumbled upon something big. You keep walking until you get to a sliding steel door with a hand-written paper sign that states the business name, and that you may enter here. So you enter.

What you see before your eyes is literally a wonderland of an 18-hole, artist designed mini-golf course surrounded by carnival-like attractions, pinball machines, a restaurant, cereal bar, bar-bar, and more graffiti.

We were in awe when we walked in. First things first, we went to the front desk and were told the options. We decided to check in for the mini-golf and were told there would be over an hour wait. No big deal, we would have some coffee and a couple appetizers while we waited. So we sat down in the Warner-Brothers graffiti-themed restaurant.

As most of you probably know, I am a cook. I love food, and appreciate the work that goes into it, and love it when things are done properly. The menu was appropriate for a carnival or the state fair, and I didn’t really expect much. I was surprised. We ordered some sort of BBQ pork nachos, and I couldn’t get enough. We then split a grilled cheese that was literally stuffed beyond capacity, and dipped in some unique but flavorful tomato soup. Yum. Later, we would sit down at the ice cream bar and enjoy a Sarsaparilla root beer float, and a Reese’s Puff’s malted milkshake. Heaven.

Bellies full, we embarked upon a truly exceptional sporting event. Heather claims to be a professional golfer, so she brought her own helmet. Of course, neither of those things is true, but it looks pretty funny on paper. J As I stated above, each hole was designed by a different local artist, and there were descriptions before each tee. In an inimitable way, each hole presented its own challenge and we were baffled by a few obstacles along the way. Around us was a mixture of children, drinking adults, and drunk adults, but everybody was peaceful and seemed to be enjoying every aspect of their surroundings as we were.

After a close round, we decided to meander through the arcade where at first, I was flustered by a slow-moving change machine. I decided not to let it get me down, so I waited three minutes to get four dollars’ worth of quarters, and we played various arcade-style games—all of which appeared to be from the 50’s and 60’s—including a pretty nifty mini-bowling game that Heather was better at (for now.)

Before we knew it, three hours had passed by, and it was time for phase two of three: the Science Museum. 

More on this date on the next post, I will leave you with a few pictures. Hopefully, Heather will include some interesting pictures of me on the Facebook link. Before I go, I should quickly elaborate on something I skipped: romance. Yesterday it wasn't flowers, or a candlelit dinner. It was the simple stuff. I held her hand, opened doors, and stole a kiss every chance I had. I made it obvious to everybody that I had chosen her, and that I liked her very much.

It’s a beautiful day, people. Go enjoy it!

A seven-stroke hole for me, this water curtain was the devil.

 



The ball goes in through the frog's mouth, and comes out of it's butt!

 



The giant pink elephant gave us both trouble, so we putted around it.

 



My favorite hole: musically inspired, there were hundreds of possible routes for your ball.

Entitled Grandma's Livingroom, this hole was full of antique obstacles.

Oh, Heather.

Chills

Two nights ago, I awoke from a dream that has been on my mind ever since. I dream a lot, and 98% of the time, I don’t look too much into them, because I don’t want to waste my day trying to figure out what the fuck it could all possibly mean, because I have better things to do with my time. Every now and then, though, something in a dream strikes me as relevant to my life or my recovery, and I have to act on it. This was one of those dreams.

It started off innocently enough: Me and another guy—I knew who it was in the dream, but there was never a face. I knew I was comfortable with him—were lying in bed together. Now, it’s much more complicated than that. We weren’t naked, we were just chiilin’ and there were other people in the room. The room itself was a bit odd, as it was a mixture of indoors and outdoors, as if Jan Brueghel the Elder had painted the landscape for me. There were trees interwoven and rooted in carpet, campfire smoke filled the air, and vacationers unknown were sitting in their Coleman camping chairs, happily chatting the day away. We all had one thing in common; we were waiting for something. I don’t know what it was that we were all expecting, but I knew that we all were going to be a part of it, and it was going to be big.

Suddenly, a telephone in my pocket rang. It was an old flip-phone, and the ring was that of an old rotary dialer: loud and sharp. I answered. The voice on the other line sounded metallic and grainy, but I knew who it was. I also realized at that moment that the ringing noise had sounded familiar as well. I was now alone in a room, and I was talking on the phone that was in the kitchen of the house that my late friend Mike Tambornino grew up in, and that I lived in for a while. It was Mike on the phone. He was calling to tell me that he was sorry he couldn’t make it, he was okay, and that he would see me someday. And then I woke up. The sound of the voice I had heard gave me chills.

The significance of this dream is astounding. It was around the time that I started doing my 8^th and 9^th steps that he died, and he was on my amends list. At the memorial service, I told his parents that I would call and come see them once the dust settled, and have a talk with them. They didn’t know it, but I planned on making my amend to him through them, because they were the closest people in the world to him, and it would mean a lot to them. And I never called. I think about it a lot, and I talk about it when I think about it, yet I remain inactive. I’m writing this so I can be held accountable for my indolence, and take action. In fact, I’m going to call right now. Stay tuned…

 

 

I’m in complete shock. Sometimes things happen in life, not just in dreams, that make you question your own beliefs and life itself. Mike’s mom answered and she was so happy to hear from me. Before I could get into details, she told me that people had been calling her recently saying Mike had been in their dreams, and he was telling them that he was okay, and that he was moving on.

I choked back tears as I told her of my dream, and I pondered my thoughts of an afterlife in just moments, all while I was sitting on the toilet. It’s a strange place to have an epiphany, but it wasn’t any stranger than the dream.

His parents have both retired since I saw them at the memorial, and they’re planning to move to Bemidji on the 21^st of this month, so I had called just in time. We don’t have solid plans yet, but I will be going over to their house for dinner one of these nights so we can talk, laugh, cry, and share stories of one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I never knew how much I missed him until he was gone. It’s time to make this amend, and move on.

Opening Day 2017

Somewhere within the fog of the smoke from the grills, and the clamor of the excited crowd, was a child. This child had been waiting for this day much like he was awaiting Christmas or a birthday party. He was young at heart and in mind, he was the child within me.

Yesterday my inner child came out to watch the other kids playing the game that they love, and that I have been fascinated by since I actually was a kid.

Truthfully, there was no fog from any grills. I happen to know how stadium concessions work and all of the food is grill-marked the day before, and reheated before the event. Heather and I both ordered some ballpark food and were wildly disappointed, save for some free cheese curds we received in the beginning due to a malfunctioning cash register. I liked the idea of me walking around in a mystical fog; oversized clothes, glove, and hat, and a look on my face of astonishment as celebrities pass us up in the hallways like Roy Smalley and Tim Laudner. Writer’s liberties: some of my work has to be fiction, because every so often the truth is a little macabre or boring.

I wrote in my last post that the season opener last year was a fairly uneventful event. Well this year was dissimilar in every way. First, and most noticeably, we scored. Again, in my last post I referenced last year by saying that we had only scored one run, but I was wrong, we were shut out. This year we scored one in the third, then six more in the seventh in an inning full of walks (one of which was intentional, and under the new rule, no pitches needed to be thrown.). I lost my voice temporarily as I screamed and shouted and the bases were full and three runs were walked in. Two run-producing singles followed as the Twins batted around in the inning, and the crowd came to life.

As always, we were surrounded by people who know how to be managers of sports teams at a professional level, all of whom had imbibed a “professional” amount of alcohol before shouting out such helpful suggestions as, “Throw strikes!” and “Hey [pitcher], You’re stupid!” Maybe I joined in with them and shouted out other helpful advice like, “Also, don’t forget to wear pants!” I think Heather liked that one.

The weather was not pleasant. The internet claimed that it was 52 degrees at game time, which it may have been, but it was also windy and very moist, making for a much cooler feel. We were given Twins pull-over hoodies upon entering the stadium, and they came in handy. There was no sun, but it never really rained, and we all survived.

Overall, it was a great day. Heather and I were on a date, and it went well. We laughed, and smiled, and took cute pictures. And we will go on another date in the near future, and continue to find ways to make things work, as we discover new fun things to do as the weather finally begins to cooperate.

And now for some pictures:

 

Moved

It’s been a long year. Around this time last year, I was still dealing with the Department of Correction’s strictest level of supervision, and living with my mother while on house arrest. I was stuck in a dead-end job that I hated, with no real opportunities in sight. But I was making the most of it, and things were looking up in a number of ways.

I do a lot of these posts where I reflect on some aspect of my life—or all of them—as it relates to my life a year ago and what I have accomplished since then. I like doing it because it shows me improvement and gives me hope that if I keep doing well, the following year is sure to be even better.

About a year ago I moved out of my mother’s nest for hopefully the last time. I moved into a small house where there were already two grown men living, only one of whom I knew. It was kind of rough at first, because I like to have alone time, privacy, and quiet, and none of those things exist in a house with three guys, unless you shut yourself in your bedroom with headphones on, which I frequently did. After a while, that got old, and for some unknown reason, my social anxiety started to dispel, and I became more communal, in and out of the home, probably in part due to my heavy work with a sponsor and the 12-steps. I got out of my head, and started living the life I hadn’t been able to since my incarceration and, let’s be honest, for years before that.

I started writing all of that last night, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I’m off of work today for only the second time in three weeks. I have big plans. I’ve already been out for a run, and gone to the gym. I have laundry in the washer and coffee in my cup. At around noon, Heather and I are leaving for Target Field to join a few associates in watching the Twins on opening day. You may or may not recall a post I published last year around this time in which I wrote about my cold adventure to the home opener with my friends from prison. Well, this year it’s the same idea, but we three are bringing our significant others this time around. (For you passionate readers, a side note; Heather and I are working on things, and it seems to be heading in a positive direction, more on that later.)

Last year the temperature was in the lower 30’s and the wind didn’t let up for the entirety of the game. The Twins were able to score a run. (The second game I went to last year yielded zero runs which was upsetting because I had purchased them a run rack. They didn’t even score a run, let alone many runs which would necessitate an entire rack.)

This year, the temperature looks fine, but at 3:10pm—game time-the forecast calls for intermittent showers. Being from Minnesota, weather doesn’t really ruin any plans, but for fuck sake it would be nice to catch some sun.

I suppose that’s about all I have for this post. Unsurprisingly, I will be bringing my camera with today, so you can look forward to some great shots of the field from about 100 feet in the air where our seats are. Until then…