So you're scared and maybe you're thinkin' we ain't that young anymore...

Danny Glover's acting career hit relevance again...which Hollywood execs may suggest that Lethal Weapon 5 might be on the horizon. The plot of this week's How I Met Your Mother (aka: the "Friends" of our generation...but based in Brooklyn...because, I mean if The Real World went there 5 years later, it must be cool) As Sgt. Murtaugh in the 80's police comedy series without "The Gute" or Judge Reinhold, the good officer was known for saying on many occasion as Mel Gibson would pull of stunts that proved Mad Max was no fluke: "I'm too old for this shit". Ted uses the guise of the "Murtaugh List" to then write down all the things he thinks he's too old to do. When I sat & applied the "Murtaugh List" concept to my own life, one glaring example came to mind.

How do people STILL start their nights at 10 pm or 11 pm....meaning hit their first bar or place of entertainment for the night. I mean, most of the people who do this probably prepare all day for this 3 hour installment of their social lives, which in my humble opinion doesn't make them THAT cool considering there are 21 hours left in the day. During the good ole' days of 66 College Avenue, our parties used to start at 11. And it was fine. Most of us anyway would "pre-game" in our respective code-violation bastions anyway. It was college.

Like a good Kenyan distance runner, you give me a happy hour it'll turn into quite a few "happy hours". Down the shore everything's alright because it's a marathon. Go to the beach, have a few on the back porch of the Parker House, change & shower, relax, go back downstairs to continue the fun by changing from grog-shop Clark Kent into Sea Girt Superman with salmon shorts.

Our Giants tailgates start 4 hours before kick-off, and most days we tailgate after the game as well, watching the cars stalled on the access roads surrounding that concrete masterpiece I have so many memories from. While those cars are listening to the Bob Papa post-game wrap-up and flipping off the car with Connecticut license plates in front of them, there's no sweeter feeling than chowing down on a nice crispy Thumann's hot dog on a Martin's potato roll, doused with sauce from the Hot Grill on Lexington Avenue in Clifton. As per the picture on the left, concert tailgating takes on a whole different animal. One must start at least 5 hours before the show and in the case of a Jimmy Buffett concert, one must take a half-day from work. The Far Hills Hunt? I can't even recall what time I started at...

Though I will say, when delving into a night of the Hoboken nightlife, we've started having a dinner at about 8 pm...then going out. That's honestly my cut-off. Which I think proves my point. "We're too old for this shit".

So, my friends, show a little faith, there's magic in the night....even if it starts before the sun goes down.

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On another related, yet unrelated note, the one thing that you can never be too old for is visiting your favorite bars in which you spent your formative years. We had a fraternity reunion Saturday afternoon and we all wound up on Easton Ave...and it never gets old. Going to Shortway's Barn or Bender's on Thanksgiving Eve never gets old, just like Stuff Yer Face or the Golden Rail never get old when visiting New Brunswick. The 'Backer will never tire, especially because its scheduled to become part of the ND campus. And anytime a bunch of people get together and head on down to McSorley's, no matter how many meat-heads may be there chugging mugs of dark or light ale, you're never too old for it. So go on, relive the days before cirrosis and relish in the memories that go with it.

Put me in coach....I'm ready to play...

After sophomore year of high school, I "retired" from baseball to the world of Hawthorne High School golf. (Watching Todd Delaney & Sean Garner mercilessly compete for that 4th spot, defeating Bergen County Sheriff's Officers during Hooters trivia night, and many a trip to the Wendy's on Hamburg Tpke are some of my fondest memories) I never thought I'd be back on the diamond, playing the "hot-corner" and stealing second. Especially for a team called the Blue Jays, in which I am stuck wearing the jersey of a bird from the home of Molson XXX and crappy socialized medicine.

This whole year (and a few months) has truly been a "fantasy camp": saw the Giants win the NFC Championship in -30 degree weather, I started grad school at Notre Dame (aka fat camp because I lost 25 lbs when I was there), joined the ULC, spent the rest of the summer in good ole' Sea Girt, and wake up every day truly enjoying what I love to do. Continuing with that "new Ryan" theme, after not much thought, I decided that being I can get myself around the bases, why not come out of my "retirement" and play ball?

Baseball has been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. The first Met game my father took me to, as a 5 year old in 1988, we sat behind home plate, right next to a woman named Bo, who regailed us with stories from that magical 1986 season. "Nails" aka Lenny Dykstra was (and still is) my favorite player, the man to hold the distinction of the ultimate training regimen, which individuals noticed Spring Training 1987 when he showed up with 30 extra pounds of muscle mass.....and the worst day of my young life was 2 years later when he and Roger McDowell were traded for Juan Samuel......Exactly.

I still remember the first glove my father had gotten me. It was a Mizzuno and I remember not being able to touch it for 3 days as the glove sat, bathed in oil, so my Costanza-hand would be able to clench the ball. My brother and I would play home-run derby in the backyard. In Hawthorne, baseball (and softball too) are the first organized sports that kids were able to join. In the 2nd grade, they gave all the kids numbers, packed them in the Roosevelt School gymnasium, and went through hitting and fielding rotations as if it were a MLB combine. You were drafted and there in lied your identity for the next 2 years, as you proceeded to face off 18 times a year on the fields of Wagaraw and the "Pumphouse". Some kids were concerned about winning, some about "batting averages" that were somehow always inflated, and yes, some about the Cheetos and Ssips juice packs at the end of the game. While it was about having fun, it was also about earning that jacket at the end of the year. Winners always got jackets...unless the sponsor was cheap. And in a small-town, no member of the chamber of commerce could afford that reputation.

As I went to little league and my father started coaching my brother's teams (the epic moment coming in the 6th grade when during a regular season little league game, the pitcher was taken out and replaced with my brother so he would be able to face me....For the record, I did get a hitI played on a team known as Paul's Motors. Of all the organized sports I've played during my youth, those three years during 4th and 6th grade. It was nice because kids were treated fairly. There were no father's coaching their own son's on this team. It was fair. It was fun. And it was because of those 5 men.

The last game of my little league career ended in the championship game. It was Paul's Motors vs. Hawthorne Travel. (Its one of those things that has been rehashed on so many occassions by my former coach and tailgating maven, Al, that nobody forgets it...and the story never changes) The series was a "best of 3" and tied at 1-1. We were up 9-8 in the bottom of the 6th. I was having a career game (4-5 with 6 RBI, including the one that put us up going into the bottom of the 6th...Didn't I say personal statistics were for losers?) Turano flied out and we were 2 outs away....Then Mike Phillips hit a double, Casapulla hit a error-forced triple and during the obligatory visit to the mound to calm him down, our pitcher complained of arm pain. This is little league. Runner on 3rd, 1 out. What do you do? While intentionally walking was banned from the rules of the Hawthorne Baseball & Softball association, it's what had to be done.

So they bring in the righty, who really hadn't pitched all year, but they had faith. My job was to give them nothing to hit. Don't throw a strike. I remember parents complaining that that wasn't baseball...So I walk the first guy. To make it look like I was intentionally walking, I'd throw balls. Some of those balls took bad hops. One of them took an especially bad one, and Mike Casapulla stole home to win the game, ala Benny the Jet Rodriguez in the most underrated sports movie ever created, The Sandlot.

You would think that this particular event would fade from people's perception. "We're just kids." Well, like many before me, everybody remembers Hawthorne Little League. You remember who played for what team. You remember the colors of the uniforms. You remember that during "All-Stars" the pitcher from Long Hill with a hyper-active pituitary gland which i'm sure caused him to shave at the age of 12. Whether win, lose, or heartbreak, they're all cherished memories that somehow always come up when a bunch of us get together.

So, yeah. I'm back on the field. Playing 2nd base. For a guy who's taken 10 years off, forgone performance enhancing drugs and showed up at camp 30 lbs lighter than he was a year ago, I think I'm doing just fine.

Do you ever get down on your knees and thank God you know me and have access to my dementia?

I never thought I would succumb to the blogging bug. Facebook status messages were enough of a window into my life through various inconsequential observations to the occasional where I am at a particular time, as well as the random lyrical reference just to see who can pick up on it...but in a world where individuals are "tweeting" every five-seconds on the most inconsequential events and stupid daily trivialities in a few lines, I decided...."Why not blog"?

One of the things I was most proud of during my four years at Rutgers was that I spent the fall of my senior year as a columnist for The Daily Targum. There were some columnists that would write as if they were auditioning for National Review or The New Republic. I just enjoyed being able to weave my pop-culture musings and what the hell was relevant at the moment into my work to share with the Rutgers community. I miss that. It was theraputic.

So those of you who enjoy the legalized stalking of Facebook, and other work-place distractions, I hope that the musings of a 26 year-old Catholic male working in government affairs are relevant and interesting enough to make it into your heavy rotation.

Buckle up, kids. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.