Me: I should really write something for tomorrow.

Matt Holt: Just write the AM/PM story.

Me: (Sigh) Okay.

First off, scroll down the page and read the articles I wrote last week. They’re better than this article, and judging by the site hits over the holiday weekend, you may have missed those pieces. So please, have a look and return.

All right. Now that that’s over with, here’s the AM/PM story.

So Matt Holt (@TheMattHolt on Twitter…ladies) and I are making a quick stop at AM/PM, when I notice that ARCO offers a $25,000 reward for reporting shoplifters. Yes. Twenty-five-thousand American dollars. That’s absolutely ridiculous.

In case there’s any doubt about how serious they are about this reward, the little sign tacked to the door reads something like the following:

“Crime doesn’t pay here…BUT STOPPING IT DOES!!!!”

It’s almost like a game show, I start thinking to myself. You’re a winner if you capture a petty thief. It’s like hitting the $10,000 slot on Plinko twice. Then hitting the $5,000 slot on top of that. And if you’ve ever watched The Price Is Right, you know that sh*t never happens. Ever. It’s akin to stopping the yodeler from yodeling his way off the cliff in Cliffhanger. It’s impossible. I swear to God that little Swiss man is suicidal. If I got selected to play that game, I’d probably just walk right off the stage. It’s not even worth it.

“Eff it, Drew, I forfeit. Take me to spin the wheel. Let’s go. This is some bullshit. That little jerk was gonna kill himself, anyway.”

So I say to Matt Holt, “You know what, it doesn’t seem worth it to pay someone $25,000 to turn in a shoplifter. In fact, that might just increase the chances of someone shoplifting.”

Think about it. It’s not even debatable. If you knew you could get $25,000 at the back end, it would be worth it to arrange for some sort of misdemeanor candy bar heist.

“You could get ten friends to steal candy bars,” says Matt Holt, “then go halfsies with each of them after you turn ‘em in.”

“And you could cover all their court fees and bail money, too,” I surmise.

Which begs the question of why no one does this.

Now, of course, there is no guarantee that you will receive $25,000. ARCO pledges to pay up to that amount. Very sneaky with their language is ARCO.

But there has to be some sort of range, right? Really, what kind of shoplifting endeavor could ever warrant a $25,000 reward.

“Sorry, boss. I came into work this morning and everything was gone. The cash registers, the ghetto ATM, all the food, the gas pumps, the squeegees. Oh, and they siphoned all the gas from our tanks, too. And they stole all the toilet paper rolls from the bathroom. They stole the foundation, in fact.”

Now in that instance, yes, you would certainly want to award twenty-five-grand for the effort of tracking down the perp. Makes sense.

But what do you get for snatching up some kid that tries to sneak off with a Caramello?

“Sir, I found this child with this Caramello about to leave your store. You’ll notice it’s a King Size. That’s probably worth at least ten-, fifteen-thousand to your establishment. I’m prepared to take a check.”

Where do we draw the line? And is this just a big trick that ARCO’s playing on us? We need answers!

If you’d like to be a part of my posse that attempts to test the ARCO rewards program, here’s what we need:

-A lookout

-A squealer

-A grease man

-A gymnast, like the Chinese guy in Ocean’s Eleven

-A runner

-Someone who knows a good lawyer

-Someone who’s handy with pyrotechnics

-Three hot chicks (for no real reason)

Once the crew is assembled, I think we’re ready to collect our rewards. No hostages. No prisoners. This will be a peaceful, non-violent mission.

And when it’s all said and done, we’ll all be financially better off for it.

Ready…break!

Because there isn’t always enough on room on Facebook or Twitter to tell an entire story.

If you could hire a mildly-successful-but-currently-washed-up band to play your wedding at an affordable rate, would you do it? I would, and I’d hire Hanson. Then, I’d make them cover Bruce Hornsby all night.

“Look, bro. We don’t even know Bruce Hornsby. How are we supposed to cover him?”

“Don’t ask questions! This is my wedding! I’m paying you $20 an hour to be here! You’ll play what I tell you to play!”

I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t you just hire Bruce Hornsby? Well, for one thing, I’d wager he’s more expensive for events like this. We’re working on a budget here.

Plus, there’s the whole appeal factor. Hornsby’s not nearly as recognizable or exciting as Hanson. He just isn’t. Hanson could walk into a room and everyone would be like, “Holy crap! How does this guy know Hanson?” Whereas with Hornsby, the only people who’d be impressed would be churchgoers over age 50. That’s not a knock on the guy. I still like his music. But I’m weird. And I get that. So it’d have to be Hanson.

Speaking of musical groups past their prime, I’ve gotten around to thinking that if you’re trying to get laid and you can’t find the right line to make the magic happen, quote 98 Degrees. Just do it. It’s worth a shot. If nothing else, it’ll make the person you’re with nostalgic. Don’t underestimate the power of nostalgia. I sometimes wear Polo Sport simply because of the nostalgia factor. “Oh my God! He smells like my first kiss back in middle school!” Hell yeah, girl.

98 Degrees lyrics are potent. I’m talking Travis Henry potent. It’s almost unfair how potent they are when compared to other boy band lyrics. Check this real quick. With minimal effort, here’s what I can do with My Everything:

“Look baby, I know we’ve been seeing each other for a while, and I just want to tell you that my life is yours alone. I’ve been in relationships before and all, but yours is truly the only love I’ve ever known. And I just want you to know that when I’m down, when I’m just not feeling it, your spirit pulls me through. When nothing else will do. Really, I guess what I’m trying to say, is…you’re my everything.”

Boom. Sex.

Don’t thank me. Thank Nick and Drew Lachey and those two other guys. They’re the real heroes here.

Off the top of my head, here are three of the coolest movie scenes in the history of the world:

1. The scene in Back to the Future II when the second version of Marty from the future realizes he must drop sandbags on Biff’s gang to prevent these dudes from harming the first version of Marty from the future, who is at that moment playing Johnny B. Goode on stage at the Enchantment Under The Sea Dance following the all-important kiss between his future parents, George McFly and Lorraine Baines. This epiphany by Second Version of Marty not only saves the life of First Version of Marty, it preserves temporal sanctity for the entire effing universe. Epic.

2. The penultimate scene of Love & Basketball. If you’ve seen the movie, you know it by heart. It’s the uber-climactic ending to a sports fanatic’s love story. Everything works to perfection. The hoop action, the slow motion game-winner, the line (“Hey…double or nothin’.”), the reaction, the tears, the embrace. If you can watch that scene and not feel something, you’re not human. It’s that freakin’ good.

3. The Power Line concert scene from A Goofy Movie. Here’s a visual. Because I love you guys. Now go do The Perfect Cast.

I was five years old when I lost my first tooth. My dad was hitting me ground balls on a bumpy, dirt playfield up the street from our house when it happened. My brother was there. He was two, toddling the foul line. We played here all the time. We would continue playing on this worn earth — with its bad hops and quick skips and potholes for bases — until we were in high school. We outgrew the surface. We kept coming back anyway.

We liked it here. It was our sanctuary, our space to roam. No one bothered us, no one got in the way. We were free to hit, to field, to throw. And from an early age we spent our weekends doing just that.

We’d play in the heat, in the rain, in the cold, during the day, until the sun went down on dusky, mosquito-filled summer evenings. We’d wade through sticker bushes to track down overthrows and foul balls. We’d walk away with scrapes and cuts from foolishly diving on the gravelly turf. My dad threw batting practice. We took turns hitting, my brother and I. We had one fielder to track down as many base hits as he could. Once all the balls were used up, we walked the outfield and rounded up our collection, then began hitting anew.

There was nothing we couldn’t do here. We were the best baseball players in the world in our own minds. No one judged us, no one critiqued us. We just played.

But on this day, there were tears.

I didn’t know what happened. One moment the ball was headed straight for my glove. A glove with George Brett’s name on the palm, no less. A second later I looked down and there was blood everywhere, a tooth in my hand, and a ball that had rolled off to no-man’s land after connecting squarely with my mouth.

My dad did his best Flash Gordon impression and was by my side before my eyes had welled with saline. I dropped a tear or two, then we celebrated. It was a big moment. The first sign of youthful maturation.

Everyone remembers losing their first tooth. Most people aren’t fortunate enough to lose it at the expense of their favorite thing in the world.

***

My grandma has this cane. It’s really just a baseball bat with a rubber stopper on the end and a curved handle emerging from the top of the barrel. My uncle made it for her about a decade ago.

The bat itself is a Little League-sized Louisville Slugger, thirty inches in length. Glittery letters spelling out “GO MARINERS” adorn one side of the ash canvas. The opposing facade is branded with the synthetic engraving of Alex Rodriguez’s signature. I know. Terrible, right? It’s the bat’s only flaw.

The cane, however functional it may be, is a testament to sports fanaticism. My grandma used to take it with her every time we went to a game. She doesn’t go to games too often anymore. But the cane still sits there in her living room. It gets picked up and swung every time my brother and I find ourselves in its presence.

My grandma watches every Mariners game on a 42-inch television set. Interestingly enough, my other grandma, my maternal grandma, does the exact same thing. They have matching TVs. And likewise, they’re two of the biggest Mariner fans I know. When they dial each other up, the conversation turns to baseball. When they talk with the family, the conversation does the same. They know the team inside and out. Michael Saunders won’t misplay a ball without them finding out. If the M’s lose, accountability lies with my grandmothers. Letting them down would be a mistake.

Every true blue Mariners fan wants to see this team win a World Series title. I just want it to happen in my grandmas’ lifetimes. Is that too much to ask?

***

I was 10 years old in 1995. When Edgar hit The Double and Junior slid safely into home, I remember jumping. Just jumping. For ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I had a “Refuse To Lose” sign in my hand. Everyone was standing, screaming, crying. And I was jumping.

Our seats were in the nether reaches of the 300 level, first base side, directly across from DiamondVision (aka the Big Screen), orange bleachers. It was pandemonium. Everyone was taller than me. Jumping was necessary to see anything.

I still get goosebumps when I hear the call. After Dave Niehaus passed, the goosebumps bonded with misty eyes. The two reactions go hand-in-hand now. It won’t ever change.

If I could go back, I’d still be jumping. There was nothing else I would have rather been doing at that moment in time.

***

My parents made me take pitching lessons when I was sixteen. I wasn’t really interested in lessons, but they thought it would be good for me.

So I went to Stod’s, a converted grocery store in Bellevue’s Newport Hills neighborhood. Every kid who grew up playing baseball on the Eastside knows about Stod’s. The place still exists today. It’s owned by former Mariner pitcher Bob Stoddard, hence the name “Stod’s”.

The venue is far from sexy. It’s as simple a facility as you could find for baseball. The interior still looks like a 1980s Albertson’s. Same with the exterior. Instead of aisles of canned goods, you have pitching machines and makeshift batter’s boxes. The setup is crudely quaint.

Every week over the course of one winter, I trekked down the block from my grandma’s house (she lived nearby) and went to throw with Stod. He’d catch me most days. Why hire a catcher when your most affordable backstop also runs the joint?

The bullpen was constructed in what appeared to be a former loading area. A radar gun sat halfway between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, right about where sacks of potatoes once laid, I imagine. On good days, I’d hit the upper-eighties with my fastball. On bad days, I’d still hit the upper-eighties, I’d just hit Stod in the knee or the shin once or twice, too. I threw pretty hard in spite of my size, but had little control. And when I tried to maintain control, I didn’t throw all that hard. Rock, meet hard place.

I rarely pitched for my high school team. Occasionally, I’d do it in the summer or fall leagues I played in. Pitching lessons were a way to stay busy when nothing else was going on.

I’ll never forget what Stod told me one day after our weekly throwing session. I walked off the mound. He rose out of his crouch. We met halfway between the slab and the dish, the splitter’s diving point.

“Ya know,” he began, “when you first walked in here, I thought you kinda sucked. But after all these weeks of pitching, you’re not bad. You definitely have some talent. You don’t suck.”

I smiled. He was serious. I still smiled.

***

When I was little, I wanted to play baseball every single day. One time, my grandma (my maternal grandma) was watching me when I had the urge to taking some batting practice. I was maybe six or seven or at the time. I talked her into going into the yard and pitching to me.

She underhanded the ball with impressive accuracy. I made solid contact a few times before lining a shot off my grandma, herself.

She was okay. Bruised for weeks, but okay.

***

I was a senior in high school when my coach told me I’d be making my first ever start on the mound for the Bellevue Wolverines. I was a third baseman by this time. Pitching was something I did on my traveling teams. This was foreign to me.

We were slated to face the juggernaut that was the Newport Knights. Their lineup featured six or seven guys that would play at the next level. I got the honor of serving up their breakfast because my coach didn’t see the value of wasting one of our aces on a squad that could bomb on anybody.

I walked into the game with confidence. By the second inning, I walked out of the game shelled.

A gangly freshman came into relieve me. He had just been called up from the jay-vee squad a few days prior. He was a talented kid. By the time he was a senior, he’d earn First Team All-State honors, then go on to play briefly for the University of Washington. He was also my brother.

Relieved by your kid brother. Well…yep.

***

Tim Lincecum pitched for one of our conference rivals, the Liberty Patriots. I faced him three times during the high school season. He struck me out three times.

The third time I faced him, we had a runner on first, nobody out, and I got the bunt sign. I was a damn good bunter, which in turn meant I wasn’t the world’s greatest hitter. I never failed to get a bunt down, though. It was my niche.

Lincecum and I were both seniors that year. He knew enough about me and enough about the situation to know that I’d be bunting. His fastball hummed in the low-nineties. At this stage in his fledgling career, he didn’t really need another pitch all that badly. With his awkward motion and penchant for hiding the ball, that deceptive delivery seemingly added an extra five-to-ten miles per hour to his four-seamer.

I squared to bunt expecting a fastball. Curveball. Devastating. Fell off the table. I offered at it anyway. Missed. Strike one.

F**k, I thought. Who the hell throws a curveball to a slap hitter in a bunt situation? I bet he wouldn’t do it again.

I squared to bunt again. Another curveball. I offered again. I missed again. Pitch fell off the table again. Like trying to capture a firefly.

F**k! Two strikes. The bunt sign was off. He had me off-balance with back-to-back hammer curves. He’d come at me with heat here. Probably bring it up and in. Waste a pitch. Back me off a bit to set up another curve.

I dug in looking fastball. Lincecum delivered. Pitch was right down broadway. I took a monster hack. Pitch fell off the table. Curve. Dropped like an elevator.

Three straight curveballs. I walked back to the dugout shaking my head. What a dick.

In case you’re totally lacking for things to do, please feel free to click here and watch this brief informational video of KUBE 93′s Eddie Francis, esteemed Q13 Fox sports anchor Aaron Levine, and some other guy talking about sports.

You may notice that the other guy wore his clean pair of grey Chuck Taylors as opposed to the dirty pair that he usually wears…that was a conscious move. And yes, it is possible to have dress Chucks and casual Chucks…

…

…

Don’t judge me.