Coffeehouse Chronicles …and Fly Balls and Brickdust

Let's go!

Whatcha doin, Chroniclers? Gotcher cup?

We’re in Arizona. Spring Training, baby! That magical time of year when hope springs eternal, pitchers lie about being “a little tight,” and I remember why baseball is the thinking person’s sport.

Meanwhile, The HB and Cmdr McCroc thrive in the fall and winter, commiserating over how their teams heroically achieved a 3–14 record, or how someone’s squad “barely missed greatness” at 9–8. I, on the other hand, cannot for the life of me figure out why it takes six months to play 17 games.

Six months. Seventeen games. That’s not a season — that’s a hostage situation.

Last week, I was at a fundraiser, showing love to my pal Joe Nanquil, when I was suddenly surrounded by half a dozen old patrol partners as I wandered into a retirement flash mob.

“Hey! You comin’ to the Roundup?” “You gonna be at the Roundup?” “ROUNDUP???”

The Roundup, for those unfamiliar, is the annual sanctioned‑but‑don’t‑ask‑too‑many‑questions gathering of Department retirees. Rank disappears. Ego goes into witness protection. Everyone meets up in Nevada for four days to hug old friends, exchange side‑eye with the suck‑butts and slaps, and tell war stories that have aged like gas‑station sushi. Some of them are even true.

I had to gently break it to each of my homies. “Nah. The HB says either the Roundup or Spring Training.” Then I’d smile real slow and ask, “Which one do ya think I picked?”

Correct.

So here I am, two games in the pocket, two more on deck, wondering where my BFF Cmdr McCroc is. Yep. I made the pilgrimage in the mobile coffeehouse to the Mecca of baseball without my sidekick.

Why?

Because Cmdr McCroc hates joy.

He didn’t say that — he said, “Baseball is boring.”  But let’s be honest: that’s just hatred in a cardigan.

This is a man who can watch football games that include six hours of commercials, three reviews, and a punt fest, but nine innings of chess with pine tar is “too slow.”

Whatever.

I bet you’re all wondering how I managed to extract The HB from the tax office and away from her slave‑driving, soul‑siphoning tax boss, Lupe.

Simple.

I installed a life‑sized cardboard cutout of The HB in her office chair. Then I rigged a kite string to the door so every time Lupe peeks in, it yanks the cord on a Toy Story doll, while a battery‑operated toothbrush vibrates the entire operation.

I have no idea what Lupe’s going to do when Woody yells “REACH FOR THE SKY!” while The HB appears to be having a full‑blown seizure as she filing a Schedule C.

Lupe runs that office like a North Korean parade. I’m convinced she sleeps under her desk, rises only on the smell of fear, and feeds exclusively on deductions and employee tears. Lupe had The HB so shaken that on our drive through the desert, she wouldn't even talk to me. I had to subsist on podcasts while she worked on someone else’s tax return.

None of you believe me when I tell you that I am a tax widower. That’s fine. I’ll see The HB again in mid‑May. Assuming she hasn’t been depreciated.

Now, there is an upside to Spring Training without McCroc. The West Coast Obamas stepped in to DH for him (designated hitter — that’s baseball jargon — Google it).

Mr. WC Obama is an even bigger baseball fan than me. While he and I are arguing batting averages and debating who Dave Roberts should pull before the bullpen lights itself on fire, Mrs. WC Obama and The HB are quietly redesigning our kitchen and bathroom.

And by “redesigning,” I mean pricing me out of my own house.

They’re passing phones back and forth with AI mockups that look exactly like my home — except now everything has circular ceiling doohickeys, toe‑kick lighting, and backsplashes that scream, “Who the HECK do you think I am, Jeff Bezos?!?”

There is, however, one downside to hanging out with the West Coast Obamas.

I’m pretty sure Mr. WC Obama does not believe in sleep. Or night. Or the concept of “later.”

Yesterday he says, “Let’s go to Sedona tomorrow.”

Sedona.

That is Coffeehouse code for: I’m going to pretend I’m interested until I can escape.

I smiled politely and looked to The HB for help.

She offered me none. ZERO. Betrayal, plain and simple.

“Oh BOY!” she said. “That sounds kinda cool!”

NO. IT. DOES. NOT.

“What time should we start?” she asked.

“Well,” Mrs. WC Obama said, doing math like she was cracking a safe, “it’s about a two‑hour drive, so maybe seven or seven‑thirty?”

“IN THE MORNING???” The HB finally asked a question I found extremely appropriate.

Then Mr. WC Obama dropped the hammer. “Oh no, dear," speaking directly to his bride, "I was thinking more like five or five‑thirty.”

My lip quivered. I turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears. These were not metaphorical tears. These were real.

Mrs. WC Obama lit up. “That’s right! We like to see the sun come up!”

All I could think was, “Isn’t it still there at ten? It’s not a comet, for Pete’s sake.”

Even The HB blanched at the mention of waking before sunrise. I’m convinced Mr. WC Obama still thinks he’s in the Corps.

What is it with jarheads and sleep deprivation?

I’m still dealing with PTSD from my Oregon trip a couple of years ago with my favorite jarhead, Jesse — a man who woke me every morning at ZERO FOUR HUNNID, standing at the foot of my bed (he called it my bunk), fists on hips, bent forward, campaign cover tilted just enough to look like a recruitment poster for fear.

I’d wake up with a start, and there he’d be, staring at me like I owed him money.

By day three of the conference, I had finally adapted to that.

What I never got used to was his coffee rules: double‑strong, no cream, no sugar — and before I could drink it, I had to give him my War Face.

At five in the morning.

In pajamas.

I don’t know what expression I gave him, but he nodded approvingly, which means it was either acceptable or deeply disturbing.

Bottom line:  The West Coast Obamas saw the sunrise. They explored Sedona without us.

I was far too busy dreaming about brick dust, fly balls, and a world where people sleep like God intended.

You know what to do.

Drink ’em if ya got ’em!

#coffeehousechronicles