First Post

Quick correction - turns out we're nine and a half hours ahead. Oops.

In a world of spoilers, from The Sopranos to Harry Potter, there’s a general feeling that knowing what’s to come somehow takes away from the experience itself. I hadn’t thought to draw the parallel before I came to India, even though everyone who had been here would heap upon me descriptions of what it would smell, taste, feel, and look like to be here. Not only that, but all advice was premised or suffixed with the comment, “but you can’t even know till you get there.” Save for that last piece of advice, I had every reason to believe that the feeling of newness upon arriving would be, well, spoiled.

Not true. Not even close. India swallows your pen. Shows up on the scene and boisterously steals your lunch money. Nods her head knowingly and suggests, amateur writer, that you crawl before you walk; speak images before impressions, observations before conclusions, conclusions never.

The airport smells of gasoline and sweat. Green Parrots circle above and disappear into the crevices of a large stonewall. I watch, exhausted, from the backseat of our parked taxi as our driver steps onto the hood of the car and walks up the windshield to hoist our luggage to the roof, the soles of his shoes expanding on the glass like silly rubber faces. When finished, he walks back down and hops in the car. The five Americans in the car exchange looks, but the driver never so much as acknowledges us. What was remarkable about this and much else that day was how the maneuver seemed wholeheartedly un-self-conscious. It seems as though there are too many people, 1.1 billion in space 2/3 the size of the USA, for anyone to care or judge. There’s a problem? Luggage needs hoisting? Driver climbs the windshield. Why not? No sweat.

Driving, as I’ve witnessed it thus far, looks like a lawless and utterly absurd fire drill. That traffic actually moves means there must be some underlying order which I am not able to understand. A handsome bull stands along the road. Well-dressed men with brief cases dart through throbs of highway traffic. Bulging trunks are snugly suspendered by bungee chords. Busses look like overstuffed charters from a prison work yard. They’re full, mostly of men. Pedestrians use the sides of the highway as if it were a sidewalk. It’s all a massive game of chicken between people, rickshaws, cattle, cars, busses, monkeys, and toddlers. I saw a young child carrying a naked infant through moving traffic. I had to do a double take when I thought I saw a smile on the older boy’s face.

It begins

6am. First thought? Duct tape. Family. Passport Photos. Family. More sleep. Short Sleep. 8am. Wal-Mart. Eckerd. Wegmans. Family. Bed Bath & Beyond. Wegmans again. How do I still have errands to do? Why am I feeling emotional about Wal-Mart? Why did they slim down the NYTimes? I will. I promise. I love you. Check weather. Check mail. Check in. I've never been happier just to sit at home and be with my family.

So it begins, tomorrow being the two year anniversary of my return from Costa Rica. 5pm flight out of State College. 9pm flight out of Philly. I'll have good company. London to Delhi sometime thereafter. When do I brush my teeth? I'll be in Delhi Monday morning 6am local time. Eight and a half hours ahead of the east coast.

We're heading north to Mussoorie for orientation, and I may not have access to email for 10 days, but you'll hear from me soon after. I'll miss you all.

I'm ready.

Minor League

As young athletes, we are taught to focus on what we can control, nothing more, nothing less. This is the essence of mental discipline. An elite athlete cannot afford to be distracted by extraneous circumstances, but when he is, it can be helpful to choose a focal point somewhere in the field of play - a place he can look, and with a deep breath, release extraneous stresses and regain much needed control.

For the unfortunate members of the single-A Lowell Spinners baseball team, who, tonight, chose a focal point on or near the multi-million dollar scoreboard at Lubrano Park here in State College, PA, their efforts were met with the laser eyed, furrowed-brow stare of pure, uninhibited animal intimidation.

As any one of the 1,000 or so fans who braved the once-a-decade local tornado warning to support minor league baseball and/or have a chance at the dizzy bat contest can attest, the marketing division of The State College Spikes let loose a legendary intimidation tactic in the cartoon form of Pennsylvania's most notorious predator: The deer.

That's right. Seen during the second inning in heavy black font, flashing one at a time across the piercing round eyes and fluffy, almost-pettable face of this notorious herbivore, were these words: FEAR THE DEER.

And boy, the effect was devastating. Surely it was fear of the deer ("Spikes" apparently referring to a deer's antlers) that caused Lowell's starting pitcher to give up a 420 foot second inning blast which sailed into the foggy darkness between the fence and Mount Nittany. How any athlete, or fan for that matter, could have remained focused under this type of Tom Ridge style fear mongering is beyond my comprehension.

Without a doubt, FEAR THE DEER accounted for the 5-0 lead the Spikes had amounted by the time the fam and I left for ice cream in the 4th inning. There's a chance, of course, that it was all just a cute little rhyme to make the 750 children in attendance stand and cheer. Really, who am I to say? I may have only been paying partial attention anyway, as I found myself continually glancing up, past the minor league action, through the mist, and into the hypnotizing white lights darting toward me from seemingly every direction.