Alex Bain's Blog

The only foul ball I ever caught

Every word of what you're about to read is true, no matter how ridiculous it sounds:

In the summer of 2002, the Red Sox played the Braves [complete boxscore], and I flew back from San Francisco to catch the game. I brought 3 friends from Bain & Co, and it was their first time at the ball park.

In the top of the 7th inning, Julio Franco came up to bat with no outs after Rafael Furcal's leadoff double. The Sox then replaced starter, Frank Castillo with relief pitcher, Rich Garces. This at-bat would be interesting enough, because Franco would go on to become the oldest player in baseball history, and Garces might well have been the most obese.

It was at this moment that Franco fouled a ball into the stands, and one of my friends thought to ask me if I'd ever caught one. I was ashamed to say (and this is as close to verbatim as I can be 5.5 years later):

"No, I've never caught a ball. I've been to more than 200 games in these exact seats, and dozens more in other seats, and I've never been closer than 5 feet to a ball. I'm getting to an age where, if I do catch one, I'll have to give it to a nearby kid, which will kill me. My life will be truly incomplete if never catch one of those things."

Now, if there weren't witnesses, you wouldn't believe what I'm about to say, but there are people that can vouch for this: THE NEXT PITCH WAS HIT FOUL RIGHT NEAR ME!

It gets better. The ball is a screamer flying right at the girl in the seat next to me. She wisely ducks out of the way, the ball hits the back of her seat, and starts to sail back over the rail and away from us. I reach over the rail and pick it out of the air.

Now, I'm not only just happy about catching the ball, but I'm flabbergasted by the timing, and so is everyone that just heard what I had said. We all start jumping up and down, and screaming things like, "Are you kidding me?!?!?!"

Here's the funny part: Because the Sox were playing the Braves, whose games are always on TBS, it was televised across the nation. I start to get phone calls and text messages from people in California, Montana, and Florida.

I get home to San Francisco, and my friend, Jeremy, has saved the broadcast of the game on his TiVo. I watch it, and I see that the announcer, who obviously hadn't heard what I'd just said before catching the ball, watches me freaking out, and says, under his breath, "It's just a foul ball kid."

Now, the next season, the local cable station that televises Sox games decides to make a commercial about how our team has the best fans. They run a montage in this commercial of enthusiastic fans, and cap off the clips with the one of me reacting to the foul ball. This commercial played all year, once a game. It got to the point where even I got sick of seeing me jumping around like a buffoon.

[I have to track down a picture that was taken of me shortly after I caught this ball. I'll post it as soon as I find it.]

Not to toot my own horn, but...

.. I'm unbelieveable at packing a suitcase. I think it goes back to when I was 9 years old and went through a big origami phase. I had my tallent confirmed a few years back when I was a business traveler.

I was on a consulting project in Denver, flyin back & forth each week from SF. In 31 trips I hadn't once been chosen for the "random" security screening. On my 32nd & final trip, I got the nod. The SSS ticket. I stepped over to the crack security team, & a surly old woman unzipped my overnight rolling bag. She looked up at me at once, & smiled.

It was so neatly arranged, & I had fit so much in so little space, she told me she'd never seen anything like it. I remember this line specifically: "This is the best packing job I've ever seen."

I figure that this is high praise from a woman who looks inside strangers' luggage all day. I didn't ask for these powers, but I'll try to use them responsibly.

Meeting George Bush, Sr.

While celebrating our 4th dating anniversary in Kennebunkport, Maine we met the town's most famous resident. We were dining at the restaurant our Inn assured us would be appropriate for our occasion. Part way through our first course, the former President, George H. W. Bush, Sr. walks in with Barbara, about 5 other people, and a few Secret Service Agents.

We didn't want to bother him during his meal, and we couldn't subtly take a picture because we'd need to use the flash. We decided that we would make sure our meal lasted longer than his, and, because he'd have to walk by our table on the way out, we'd say hello on his way out.

When the time came, and he was nearing our table, we popped up, and I said, "Mr. President, it's my fourth anniversary with my girlfriend. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking a picture with us on this special occasion."

He said, "I'd be happy to, but we need to find someone to shoot it, and my [Secret Service] agent can't do it."

Someone rose from a nearby table. "I'm a photographer. I used to work for your son, Mr. President."

He took our picture, and just as I was thinking that I hoped we all looked ok in the one picture I'd have from the moment, the President said, "Why don't you take another one, just for fun?" Very thoughtful of him.

After the second picture, I told him what an honor it was to meet him. He congratulated us on our anniversary and said, "I think Barbara and I have you beat by 57 years." What a guy!

[Most posts in "Stories from my past" are written years after occurrence, but this story happened just last night. I wrote it so quickly so I wouldn't forget the details. I forgot my camera on this trip, which is like someone else forgetting to bring a lung, so I had to take the picture with the President on a disposable camera.]

My first car

Sometimes you ask a person a question and they just light up because they have a great story as an answer, and they can't wait to tell you. I love that moment. When you know a person really, really well, you come to know their interests and it's like child's play to get them going. When you're speaking with a relatively new acquiantence, there's a few reliable questions to go to:

• How did you meet your significant other?
• What's the best/worst/funniest job you've ever had?
• What did you like to study in school?
• What was your first car?

The last one is funny, because the stories you get are sometimes more about the great times the person had when they were 17 than they are about the car. Your first car comes at a time when you've been starving for independence for a few years. You've felt like an adult for a while, but you still need to get a ride from Mom or Dad to a concert from your favorite band or a big dates. All of a sudden, along comes this enormous machine, worth 10x as much as anything else in your life, and you're free. If you're lucky, it comes right around the end of high school. I had had a series of summer jobs, which made my first car nearly affordable, and my Dad took me the rest of the way as a high school graduation present. The year was 1997, and the wheels were a white, 1993 Saab 900 S. I named her Saabina.

Saab is owned by GM these days, and their cars look as generic as everything else out on the road, but 1993 was the last year that their cars had charisma. They were 4 years used by the time I was buying, which made them a possibility to me. I was in heaven. This thing had leather seats and a sun roof, and it might as well have been a Bentley as far as I was concerned. It didn't matter to me that the driver's side door knob was quirky. I was unphased by the fact that you couldn't downshift into 2nd gear. It didn't bother me that snow would blow into the car if you turned on the heat in the winter. I didn't even mind that condensation would gather on the engine in the summer when you ran the AC, and then drip on your toes, freezing your feet. These were small problems, and it was nice that my car was idiosyncratic in college, because no one wanted to borrow it.

I picked Saabina up right before graduating high school, and sold her right after graduating college, so the car was with me to mark many important milestones. It also linked me to my recent past, b/c the car was equiped with a tape deck and car phone about 10 years after each of those had gone out of fashion. Of the hundreds of priceless memories which endure from that car, one stands out as my favorite. It was late in the Spring of 1999, my sophomore year at Brown, and my lacrosse season had ended, but school was not quite over.We had just wrapped up pledging in my fraternity, and I was eager to go have some fun with the newest brothers and show them I wasn't a horrible guy. I invited 5 of them to go bowling with me, and told them to pile into my car. Well, Saabina would fit 5 normal guys like Star Jones fits a tube top, but these weren't normal guys. I was in Brown's football fraternity, and these were offensive lineman (for reference, see the shot below of me with my buddy Berte, who weighed ~300 at the time, and note that I was not a small guy). It was a good thing Saabina didn't have a voice like Kit from KnightRider, b/c she might have used some pretty blue language that evening. Miraculously, we did cram all the guys into the car (which serves as my example of the classic college piling-into-the-phonebooth prank). As we pulled out of the university parking lot, I had to clear a perfectly innocent speed bump, but Saabina had other plans. We got the first set of wheels over the hump, but the engine was wheezing and I could hear the undercarriage of my car scrapping the ground below. It sounds hard to believe, but I actually had to let a few of my friends out of the car momentarily to get the vehicle the rest of the way over the bump.

Since I sold the car back to a dealer before moving to California in 2001, I'll never know who ended up with Saabina next. She had about 100K miles on her, and would have made a great first car for some 17 year old. I just hope they wonder how the car got scraped underneath :-)

Weight control

I was a chubby kid when I was in middle school. I had a big growth spurt (12 inches in 14 months) during which I ate like a man on death row. When I stopped getting taller (I was ~6 feet tall when I was 12 years old), I kept that eating pace up for a while and ballooned. I got my act together when high school started and slimmed down. I graduated from Milton at 160 lbs, down from my high of 195 when I was in 8th grade.

I got to college and joined the lacrosse team. I wasn't especially good at the sport, so the only way I could stand out to the coach was in my conditioning. I worked my ass off for 4 years, virtually living in the weight room, running all the time, reading extensively on the latest in the science of fitness, and consulting with the school's strength coach all the time. This sounds hard to believe, but I was about 225 lbs by the time I graduated, and was only 10% body fat. This picture below was taken only 4 years after the above shot.

I say this not to brag (well, perhaps a little), but rather to point out the absurdity of the current debate about steroids in sports. I have first hand knowledge that one can dramatically change his body type without harmful chemicals. I consumed Creatine for about 3 of my 4 years of college, but that is a perfectly legal supplement (for now). I think I over did it in the weight room, and the tendons in my knees will never recover from the stress of carrying 65 extra lbs. That being said, I think it's impossible to tell from a player's physical appearence, or even from his play on the field, what measures he has taken to improve his performance.

I wish this story had a happier ending for me and my waistline, but I've let myself go a touch since school. I hit 240 at one point this past spring and freaked out. I'm back down to about 215 these days, but it cracks me up when I see people that stay the same weight their whole life. Mine has been more volatile than California gas prices. I'm a guy so I can make jokes like that. I've set a goal to be back down to 200 by my 27th b-day, March 6th, 2006. I'll let you know how that turns out.

[Update as of 12/29/2006: I never got down to 200 lbs. in 2006, though I did get as low as 207 around my b-day. I did run a half-marathon in October, and I spent the whole summer lifting weights, so it's not like I didn't get my weight under control, sort of...]

Oh God, You Devil!

When I was a little kid, my family took a vacation to LA. We hit all the tourist traps. We did tours of the stars home, and checked out the walk of fame. My dad took us to dinner at a now defunct restaurant named "Chasen's". It used to be a spot where you could count on seeing stars. Through most of our meal, we were disappointed with the celebrity offerings, until, as our main course was winding down, our luck changed.

The doors open and an entourage approaches... very slowly. We realize as it nears that it's none other than George Burns. Wow. He's got an 18 year old vixen on each arm and a small army of handlers. I have no idea who he is, but I can see that everyone around me is thrilled. As he walks past our booth, he pauses, and looks me in the eye. His group stops, and the place momentarily quiets. He gets a serious look about his face, and asks me:

"How old are you?"

"I'm 8!" I reply.

"Married?"

The question hangs in the air, and I have no idea what to do with it, but the place erupts, and he turns confidently back to his business of getting to his table in no apparent hurry.

I thought spies drank martinis?

My friend Parth played some mean jokes from time to time, not the least of which was jacking a coat from a homeless man. Cruel, cruel things. His marks weren't always strangers though. A perfect example is the time he was at a bar that was running a promotion where they'd give you a free beer in exchange for your email address. Naturally, he provided our friend Karr's (pictured below at left) instead of his own and downed the beer.

A few weeks later, Karr gets a strange email at work that intially appears to be spam. It's an invitation to a "Bushmills tasting", whatever that means. It's taking place on a Wednesday night at a nearby bar/restaurant in San Francisco and he can bring 2 friends. Confused, Karr consults Randall, who says that it could either be some sort of bogus event that we'd bail on, or it could be the greatest night of our young lives. We were 23, working 60+ hours a week, and desperately in need of hope and forms of release. Karr makes the call to roll the dice on this Irish Whiskey tasting, and brings us along [He never mentioned it to Parth]

The night of the event arrives, and we head down to the hosting establishment, Foreign Cinema. This place is cool. It has a retro feel to it, a big outdoor seating area, and they project old, black and white movies onto the wall of their neighbor while you eat/drink (a fun gimmick). When we first walk in, we see well dressed, young, urban, professionals mingling and sipping from fancy glasses. The reps from Bushmills are schmoozing around, and they greet us, check for our names on the guest list, and get us some tastey whiskey. I feel very important at this point. As we make our rounds, we see that there's a big buffet dinner coming our way, and the food looks amazing. all of the tables have the seats facing forward, so there'll be some sort of speaker, but in the meantime, we're just soaking it all in and grabbing an occasional glass off a tray held by one of the beautiful women of Bushmills. It was surreal, and totally free.

Mind you, at this point, we weren't aware that Karr had been invited because Parth had been handing out his contact info. For all we knew, this was a gift from the gods. I kept expecting to wake up and discover I'd been dreaming.

Shortly into the meal, a distinguished, elder Irish man makes his way to the front of the room, and addresses the crowd of about 50. He introduces himself as something like the great great great grandson of the one of the founders. He's a very interesting, compelling speaker. He takes us through the storied history of the company, then has the women of Bushmills pour us samples of other examples of whiskey (like bourbon) as he explains what makes each variety unique. I was embarrssed that I'd never even heard of Bushmills for this event came along, and certainly didn't know about the distinctions among the different kinds of drink, so this lesson was very helpful. Once he's explained how the other people make their drinks (all the while providing us with samples to taste) he starts into what makes Bushmills special. They bring out some samples. This guy was such a good salesman, he probably could have brought out wateer and we'd have loved it, but he starts us out with the cheapest whiskey they make. It's good. He then discusses the process they employ to make their premium drinks, and provides samples of them. He shows us the difference between 12 and 20 drinks. Finally, he brings out a variety that they stopped making 30 years ago, and of which they only have a few barrels left. It's like liquid gold. We were high fiving each other. I went up and got the guy's autograph on my tasting menu. He told me that he makes the floors of his house with the wood from discarded barrels. You couldn't make this stuff up.

We mingled a bit more, and called it a night. On our way out the door, they gave each of us these little gift baskets with Bushmills shirts, pins, and a bottle of some of their good stuff. As we rode home in a cab, we all agreed that, whatever they spent on us that night, they would more than make it back over the course of our lives. I feel a little in debt to their brand, and now I find myself evangelizing their goods. You'd think, for how well this worked on us, that companies would try this more often.

Dropped like a bad habit

I have an addictive personality. I get mentally hooked on things, and have trouble letting go. This explains why I saw every episode of Boston Public, or why I spent ~75 of my Friday nights in 2002/2003 at Greens and Polkers for happy hour and supper. My superstition occasionally crosses over to OCD behavior, and it's grown worse as I get older. Because I know about my tendencies, I work to stay away from anything that's actually physically addictive, because the last thing I need is my body helping my mind convince itself to endulge. The classic example is my relationship with soda.

In elementary school I observed that both my parents were big "pop" drinkers. My mom would take down a Diet Coke or 2 before 8 AM every morning, and my dad constantly sipped on Dr. Pepper, a relic of his Southern roots, like it was going out of business (and he freaked out when it nearly did). I was never allowed to drink real soda, only the diet equivalents, but I'd have a whole lot of whatever we had in the fridge. Because I had no purchasing power as a 10 year old, I couldn't really align myself with any one brand, because I couldn't guarantee that it'd always be around to consume, but I was always a big Sprite guy, when it was cold and available.

By the time I arrived at boarding school, my procrastination methods were practiced as Belichick special teams' play. I'd mess around until 10 or 11, then begin my homework. I discovered that Mountain Dew was not only tasty, but also had loads of caffeine. I'd stay up into the wee hours chugging the Dew and water. My roomate had sleep issues, so I'd study in the dorm's basement, by the boiler room in order to keep the lights on. As I developed tolerance and dependance on thses drinks, it'd take more and more to keep me awake down there, and enough of that stuff in one night would really get me spooked out. I got to a point where I'd regularly put down 10-12 a night, and couldn't stop even when I had light nights work-wise. My teeth felt like they were rotting out, I'd be taking bathroom breaks every 15 minutes, and I'd have horrible headaches the next morning.

By the time lacrosse season rolled around, I was in a real bad place. As a goalie, I didn't have to run around a whole lot, but I needed cat like relexes, and they don't come easily when you're getting 180 hours/month of sleep, mostly on the weekends. Right after the season started, I had the opportunity to go to Italy for my Spring Break that year with my buddy Drew.

Drew was a very healthy athletic friend of mine, who never drank booze and rarely drank any kind of soda. While roaming around Florence one afternoon, I mentioned to Drew that I had this problem getting over caffeine, but that it was more than just that. It was the habit of cracking open a soda, the cold feel of a can in my hand, the fizzle you'd hear, etc. I loved the experience, having grown so used to it, but saw that it was awful for me. Drew said he thought it'd be easy for him to quit, and bet that I could just quit, too. While walking to the Duomo and hiking its stairs that day, we made a bet. We'd see who could go the longest without having any soda products. Diet or regular, caffeinated or otherwise, didn't matter. We didn't bet money, and we didn't put a time limit on the deal. This was simply about self-improvement.

I quickly discovered that there's a lot of times when it's inconvenient not to be a soda drinker. When you're under 21, it's handy to be able to get drinks with free refills at restaurants, but that basically went out the window for me, because only a very few places included lemonade or iced tea on the refill list. Also, at Fenway Park, it seemed downright un-American to have a hot dog in my right hand, but no Coke in my left.

The Final Four that month happened to coincide with a huge snow storm in Boston (literally the most snow the city had ever received in 24 hours). My Milton friends gathered to watch at a Houlihan's/Chili's/AppleBee's type place right as it started coming down. As we looked out the window and saw that we might be stuck in this place over night, we all decided to enjoy a huge dessert and then roll the dice on driving home. Drew and I mutually agreed to temporarily suspend the bet and enjoy some root beer floats. As a result, these days, when I'm offered a soda at a catered business lunch or from a friend's fridge, I often respond with, "No thanks. Haven't had one since March 31st, 1997."

Competitive eating

I was sitting at my desk at Bain & Company one day a few years back when somebody noticed a news item at ESPN. Takeru Kobayashi had eaten 50 hot dogs. What stood out about the article, aside from the eating feat, was that the event had been sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating. The bay of cubicles in which I sat was chuckling all afternoon at the thought of eating contests requiring a governing body. I thought the only thing funnier than imagining the organization would be joining it. I check out their website and they had a membership application. Prominently placed was a section on something like relevant accomplishments. It occurred to me that I actually had a couple of items to stick on the list. In college I'd downed a bunch of dogs at a local specialty shop called Spike's Junkyard Dogs. They had a long standing rule about putting up a picture on their wall of any customer who cleared a certain threshold. It was difficult, but hardly impossible. On vacations in school, while staying with my father in Naples, Florida, I frequented a terrific burger joint called "Cheeburger Cheeburger". There, too, you can get your mug on the wall if you take down their 20 oz. "serious" burger.

So I filled out my gustatory resume, sent it away, mentioned it to my co-workers, and got a few yuks. A week later, I get a call at my work number from a guy who introduces himself as one of the co-founders of the "IFOCE". I'm half convinced it's a prank being played on me, but I decide to treat it with the respect I would a 20 oz. burger. The man asks me about the bullet on my application regarding Cheeburger Cheeburger. I begin to tell him, "It's in Florida and they have this 'serious' burger..." Before I can get any further he interrupts with, "Sir, I'm familiar with the establishment. I just wanted to know if you're on the "one-timers" wall or the "repeat offenders" wall?" When I reply that I'm a repeat offender he lets me know that my applciation is a little light, and that his brother, the other founder, probably wouldn't approve of my admission, but that he liked some of the ideas I'd written about in my essay, particularly the one about bringing the "sport" to colleges. I'm now officially in the Federation.

Membership gets me a year subscription to their newsletter "The Gurgatory", as well as access to some of the "members only" events. This cracked us up at the office to no end. I was determined to see how far I could take this gag, so I looked into upcoming contests. There was one in July, a hot dog eating contest. It was a qualifier for the 4th of July Coney Island contest, the biggest single event of the year. This would also give me an good excuse to visit my brothers who lived down in SoCal. They were psyched to see me in action, too. I'd have 12 minutes to eat as many hot dogs as I could, in front of a live audiance, against tough competition, with no idea of what I was capable.

My preparation was minimal, consisting only of eatign a lighter than usual breakfast the morning of the showdown. My brother, Adam, filmed the pre-game festivities, including me working through my jitters and havign my blood pressure taken by the registered nurse on hand. [Once I get a chance to digitize this footage I'll have it up on the site, it's hysterical]. The announcer at the event, the brother of the co-founder who first permitted me admission into his selective club, made his way through the 25 competitors, megaphone in hand, interviewing each eater for the audiences benefit. The crowd started to gather as game time approached, some had planned to witness this, others were simply curious pedestrians in the area. When the starting gun went off, I went to work and quickly realized this was nowhere near as easy as it looked. My previous experience was of little help, the only thing providing me any strength was an article I remembered from a Gurgatory issue about how all eaters must push through the "wall" reached at the 5 minute point. I hit this wall hard, but maintained focus and confidence, knowing it would pass. The last 2 minutes were some of the longest of my life. I knew I would win, Steve Kobe, 2 seats to my right was several dogs ahead of me and neck and neck with a UCLA lineman to my right. I was just hoping to place third. The gag reflex was smacking me around and calling me names, but I managed to supress it. When the final whistle blew, I'd finished 4th. I honestly don't remember my exact total, but it was ~10. I felt full but basically ok for about 20 minutes. Then the pain came. It was horrendous. I was convinced I was dying a slow death for the next hour, and it hurt to stand, sit or lay down. It subsided after a while, but I was not about to have a big dinner or anything.

A few months later, I officially announced my retirement from the sport, at a small press conference, sparsely attended. I was sad, but noted that I needed to spen more time with my friends and family. Since then, I've become a champion for the sport, endorsing the thrill of competition found at the events and the values they promote. I keep an eye on who's winning the 4 majors (hot dogs, cheeseburgers, buffalo wings, ice cream) each season, and any other big stories that make main stream news, like the emergence of Sonya Thomas. For the most part, though, my eating has been exclusively recreational for the last few years. Hopefully the rush of the sport, the thrill of downing that first dog, won't drag me back. I fear it might. Many of the competitors in this sport fail to stay retired. Something about a lack of self-control...

The first time I got hypothermia

My coach didn't need to make a rule against skiing, since a Division I lacrosse team practices so often that a player wishing to ski couldn't find the time. We didn't need a formal rule, but we had one. And I once broke it.

My sophomore year, Coach made a decision to give us Sunday and Monday of President's weekend off from practice if we beat UMass on the road. I discussed how to enjoy the rare freedom with my fraternity brothers who were out-of-season football players in February with plenty of time to get away for the weekend. They wanted to road trip and I suggested my mom's sweet condo in Stratton. Bad idea jeans.

The correct answer to a bunch of crazy football players that want to crash your mom's cabin is "No." Instead, I developed "Plan A" with my buddies:
All the guys who'd be coming to the cabin come to my game at UMass, which was in Amhearst, MA. (halfway between Brown and Stratton). We beat UMass, I tell the coach I'm getting a ride back to school with my old Uncle Shelton (pictured at right) and as my team heads back to Providence, we continue onto the promised land. Plan A hinged on my coach believing Shelton was my uncle, when in fact he was 1 year ahead of me in my frat. You're wondering about "Plan B", the one for if my team loses and I don't get the weekend off? Didn't exist. Of course, we lost.

My coach mentioned in the post-game huddle that we'd now have to hold practice late Monday morning to get better as a team. At this point in my career I hadn't yet earned the title of "Most Intimidating Backup Goalie in Lacrosse History", so even I had room to improve :-)

We were off to Vermont in 3 cars as the team bus was pulling away. The guys had been boozing in the lot during the game and they were in rare form. They were developing plans to make some "killer punch" when we got to the cabin. It involved Boone's, which I'd have figured would be as valuable to a punch as Michael Moore would be to a crew team. We made gallons of this stuff and it was disturbingly good. QUICK SIDE NOTE: We were sipping it from the hot tub my mom has in the snow next to her place on the mountain when Rolf went back to the kitchen for more. Wherever Rolf was, he raised the level of entropy. He comes flying outside a minute later (where it's well below freezing) carrying a sled he's found in a closet. He's wearing a bathing suit. We see him scream something like "Cowabunga" and disappear down the mountain on the sled. We're halfway up a ski-able mountain. He returned over an hour later, near dead. So far, so good with Plan B.

My "Uncle" Shelton comes over to tell the coach that he'd like to steal me away for a dinner, and that he'll be happy to return me to school himself. Coach goes for it, which isnt' surprising because Shelton looked old enough to get air time with Williard Scott. shelton Magee was a census taker's nightmare, his age was as hard to discern as that of Latin baseball players, even for his friends.

I could have taken Rolf's example for the valuable lesson it was. I should have. Instead, when my friends woke me up the next morning, wanting me to join them skiing, I agreed. I didn't pack any ski gear, since it would have been mightily conspicuous on the team bus. I figured I didn't need any, since I'd been surviving artic temperatures for the last couple months of practice and assumed I was now immune to the cold. I hit the slopes wearing sweatpants, t-shirt, sweatshirt, and the thin gloves they make for football receivers (which I wore on the field when it got cold). It was 5 degrees below zero. At first it felt like any other cold practice. It was normal for me to lose feeling in my hands during the winter months on the side line, and my friends were well dressed for the conditions so I didn't want to slow them down. After about an hour I was getting dizzy and a bit nauseous. After 2 hours I was feeling spacy and flu-like. I told my buddies I'd make it to lunch and head in afterwards. On the next run, though, I was having trouble staying upright. It wasn't about the cold anymore, it was about consciousness. I tried to take the trail that leads back to my mom's place, but missed all the signs and ended up at the bottom of the mountain. I spent a few seconds expending what energy I had left unsuccessfully shuffling out of my skiis. Hard to do when you can't move your hands. When I realized the skiis weren't coming off, I fell over and tried to crawl for help in the lodge at the foot of the mountain 30 feet in front of me. I made it to the door of the lodge and faded to black.

The next thing I know, some young ski-patrol dude is standing over me at the lodge (god knows how long I was out, I'd guess 10-15 minutes). The guy says, "Kid, we're gonna take you to our infirmary, where's your jacket"
"I wasn't wearing one," I reply.
"Well then where's your hat?"
"Wasn't wearing one." I repeat, tired of these silly questions.
"I'm not the doctor, but I can diagnose this one: Hypothermia."
They shuttle me over to their infirmary, where I get blankets piled on me, a cup of hot chocolate, and a phone to call my friends to pick me up. They also gave me voucher to get my money back for the lift ticket I'd bought that morning, which I didn't understand because the whole thing was clearly my fault. They took my temperature and told me my "core" temp was a hair under 95. That's at least a half hour after being "rescued". I'm told a person gets amnesia at ~90. Close one. My friends back at the cabin who'd elected to drink all day instead of ski were a funny mixture of concerned and hysterical about my predicament. The one sober friend came and picked me up.

The funny thing about hypothermia is that you fully recover within 2 hours, which was handy since I had to drive back to Brown that night for practice the next day. I couldn't tell whether I should be embarrassed about how close I'd come to serious injury, or proud of having faught the cold and won. A smart kid would have learned from Rolf. Anyone else would've learned from the 95 degree core temp. I had just begun my bout with the cold, and round 2 was just 2 months away. But that's a story for another time...