It's a parallax - you dig?
 
Well, reader(s), once again I have been . . . I have been . . . well, I have been immersed (it's time to just face it) in the morass of writer's block, so much so that I couldn't think of a suitable way to describe how lazy I have been about this blog.  I actually stared at the sentence for about a minute before I realized that my vocabulary has, somehow, when I wasn't looking, been reduced to about 45 words (about half of them adverbs).  I am no longer eloquent, funny or insightful.  But, I have been in this situation before; I just need to ride it out for a little while.  As I usually do in these situations I have been busying myself with a number of interesting things.  Here's what I've been "into" lately:
 
Music: TMBG (as always), Rush, Wire
Book: lots of Terry Pratchett
Film: I saw that movie about the fat dude who hates the President.
Base Ball: I have come to realize that you shouldn't expose yourself to the Phillies for extended periods of time.  Protective gloves and goggles should be worn at all times when watching the Phillies and ideally, the Phillies should be handled with tongs behind protective glass.  Wear a breathing mask to safeguard against any and all noxious fumes that the Phillies may be emitting.  If you experience lightheadedness, dizziness, heart murmur, loss of appetite, tingling in the extremities, or feelings of "hopelessness" or "lack of interest in life" while watching the Phillies, contact a physician immediately.  Remember, if your teenage son or daughter expresses an interest in the Phillies, it may be a cry for help.
Writing: My book is plodding along slowly but surely.  I'm hoping to really, literally have it done by the end of '04.  I've set that deadline for myself knowing full well that I've never kept to any deadline I've ever set for myself, ever.  But whenever I think the book sucks and is going nowhere, and whenever I least suspect it, ideas have a tendency to spring out of nowhere and appear in my notebook.  Meanwhile, people don't really know this about me but I have this very grandiose plan to someday write a giant series of books (about seven or eight of them, or something), all of them slightly different but connected in strange ways, and I have tons of notebooks and Word files filled with notes for them.  Well, whenever Analog is stuck, I tend to come up with more ideas for those other books, so that's what I've been up to.  Lately, as you may have noticed, I've shied away from baseball and have been posting short stories and things to this blog, including an excerpt from the in-progress novel in question (and thus making the title of this blog a vicious lie).  I hope you'll check them out, if you haven't already.  I hope to put up more of them, as well as some of the insane cartoons I used to draw back in high school, if I ever get around to scanning them.  So, there's that... creativity continues to abound, in its own way, though not necessarily in baseball-blog form.
 
A shout out to my friend Carly F., who specifically requested a shout out.  Hey Carly, what's up?
 
A further shout out to my mom, who went through some grisly-sounding eye surgery yesterday, but is recuperating nicely.  Get well soon, mom.

From Analog (rough draft)
(c)2004 Jeremy Rosenberg

            One rainy Sunday afternoon, a few years before, Colleen had sat hunched over a book and a pile of papers at a study table in one dark, lonely corner of the library.  She was all the way at one end of the library, near the outer wall of the orphanage.  A few feet above her head was a dusty window, shut and locked against the rain – it probably had not been opened, in fact, in many years.  The rain was thundering hard against the window, and the wind crashed into it every few seconds, sending it rattling, and creating an incessant, overpowering rumbling noise that Colleen, like all the girls, had managed over the years to tune out completely.  From where she was sitting she could see through just a corner of the window.  She had deliberately chosen this angle so that she could watch the raincatchers on the building a few levels distant as the rain drained endlessly into them.  A small section of a railcar track was also visible, and she had been at the table for many minutes before she finally saw a railcar clicking along it, plowing through the rain, its electric lights gleaming dimly inside; the clicking and ringing sounds that would normally have been heard were completely drowned out by the rain and howling wind.
            The railcar disappeared from her field of vision, and as if the sight of it was some kind of cue, she immediately dipped her head and turned her attention back to her book.  She picked up her pencil and began shading the drawing of a rock she had sketched a few minutes earlier.
            Her book about the ground was spread out next to her drawing, open to the picture of the Mask at the foot of a mountain, and she flicked her eyes between the book and her drawing, her tongue sticking out slightly as she struggled to get the shadow just right.  Underneath the drawing was a sheaf of more drawings and notes she had compiled from the text of her book and from a few other and much dryer books she had found elsewhere in the library.  Peeking out was a drawing of a Mask family which she had painstakingly copied from the book.  She had been able to draw the bodies and the background fairly well, if rather uncreatively identical to the drawing, but she had not yet managed to get the faces right, and had abandoned it, leaving the two Mask children headless.  She had made a few attempts to even draw a few scenes from the ground from her own imagination, without the help of the books, but none of these had come out very well and she had a separate pile of sheets of paper with primitive and hesitant drawings of people and rocks and shacks and, of course, sheep, from various angles and standing in a backgroundless limbo.
            She could hear a creaking metallic sound over the rain, which quickly stopped; she couldn’t see anyone nearby, but she was used to this, as the library was so dense that dozens of girls could prowl its aisles for hours without ever seeing each other and only distantly hearing the others’ footsteps or coughing or the sound of dropping books.  She could only guess, vaguely, that the sound had come from a few rows of shelves away.  But then it started again, and then quickened, and then she realized that they were footsteps and they were heading toward her, and she realized this at exactly the same moment that the source of the footsteps, a tall girl with long blond hair, appeared at the table and said “Hi, Colleen”.
            Colleen jumped a few inches out of her chair with a gasp, and then quickly started snatching at her books and the sheets of paper scattered across the table, attempting to gather them all into one large ungainly pile while simultaneously keeping one arm all the way around them so that the girl couldn’t see what any of them were.  She could hear the girl giggling at her, but with a rush of excitement she could hear no malice in the giggle, just gentleness, soft like an apology.

Philadelphia, PA
sometime in '03, I think

The Mysterious Case of That Game I Was At

I've always had a fond memory of a game I went to years ago for which I could only remember a few details: Firstly, it was played the same day as an Eagles game. As is usual in Philly there were people all over the Vet listening to the Eagles on radios (not unexpected, as it had to be September, and the Phils were undoubtedly out of it by then while the Eagles had only just begun). At some point there was a buzz in the crowd, then cheering, as the people listening to the Eagles informed everybody else that the Eagles had won.

In my mind, I've always exaggerated what happened next: basically, as I remember it, John Kruk hit a game winning home run just a few seconds later. From that moment on, John Kruk was my favorite player. I seem to also remember that it was against the Cardinals (though I had no idea what team the Eagles were playing). But I didn't know any other details about the game; I wasn't even certain what year it happened.

Well, with the help of the Eagles' website and the stellar Retrosheet, which I only just discovered today, finally, I was able to determine when the Eagles had won in September between 1989 and 1992 (the years Kruk could conceivably have done it; he was also, of course, a Phillie beyond that, but I was sure it wasn't '93 or beyond). Then I compared these dates with the Phils' schedule on the same dates, to figure out if there were any games where the Phils won in the Vet on a Kruk home run. I found it very quickly: September 17, 1989. Taking a look at the box score reveals some surprises:

1. I was right about the opponent: Phils 9, Cards 5.
2. It was a grand slam! You think I would have remembered that.
3. It was in the 12th inning, which I didn't remember.
4. It was the first game of a doubleheader, which I definitely didn't remember at all. It's possible that (a) we just went home after the first game, which is reasonable, as I was only 13 and not the baseball fan I am now (I didn't have time for baseball in '89, I was too busy playing Legos and obsessing over Batman), OR (b) I just have no memory of a 2-0 loss to the Cardinals, which was undoubtedly rather dull and lame.
5. Side note: Todd Zeile played in this game, and also in the game I saw last night. That's insane.

I think, looking back, that it was also a Cub Scout outing, so there were likely lots of Scouts and their parents there. I have this memory of our Scoutmaster, Bill (my friend Brandon's stepdad) announcing to everyone that he was a Cardinals fan... that was probably this game. I also wonder if this was the game where they gave out Phillies lunchbags, and me and some other Scouts went back down to the gates to see if we could snag more lunchbags for the Scouts who couldn't come, and when we got there I discovered that my cousin Tim was handing out the lunchbags because he and the Archbishop Ryan band had volunteered to do so, so he hooked us up with lots more of them.

One last question: did it really happen "a couple of seconds later"? The box score says the game time was 4:22... I have no idea when Sunday afternoon games started back then. I'd be interested in seeing a 1989 media guide, if I can find one, to check that and also to determine if this was indeed the Lunchbag Game.

Oh yeah, and the Eagles beat the Redskins 42-37, as well they should.

And I have added this game to my stats, until someone proves I was thinking of a completely different game.

***

More fun from Retrosheet: on the day I was born (4/24/76) the Phils beat the Braves, 10-5; Luzinski went 3-4 with a grand slam and a double, and Schmidt had a home run too. I don't know when they started Saturday night games back then, but I was born at 7:36 PM, so it's very possible that this game and my life started at roughly the same time. Think about it, won't you?

It’s Wolves
(c)2004 Jeremy Rosenberg

“It’s wolves,” I said.

“You think so?”

“I do.” His questions were making me uncomfortable, and had been since leaving Laredo. Questions so pathetic and lamentable, they can only be whined. “Where are we going?” was one. “Why didn’t you bring any food or provisions?” “Are you sure we don’t have any flares?” “Are there wolves in this part of the forest?” “What is that sound? The one that sounds like wolves: what is that?”

“What are we going to do?” was his latest.

“I don’t know.” As always, I answered his question in the clearest, calmest, steadiest, most unemotional voice I could muster.

“You don’t know?” he asked. Gable was truly a stupid man, I realized at that moment. Actually I had first realized it a few months before, and it was not at all a rare occurrence for me to be thinking it: even now, it was the fourth or fifth time I had realized it in the last half hour. But Gable’s stupidity was so intense, so unrelenting and bothersome in its purity, that every single time I considered it, it seemed like a new thought.

“No I don’t know,” I choked out, refusing to let my emotions take over: the emotions that told me to lash out at him, to yell and scream and inflict pain, to make him feel bad about himself, about the fact that his mother had shat him out so stupid. My hatred of him was growing steadily, swelling slowly and uniformly like a balloon being filled with helium, but I would not let this on.

“But wolves, Stanton,” he whined at me. “Wolves,” he added, stupidly. He looked grotesque. Every muscle in my body cried out for me to strike him down with my superior intellect and wit. But I would not relent: patience was the name of the game.

He was so stupid. I wanted to spit on him. I recalled meeting him for the first time: this was, oddly, not an unpleasant memory. It had been a beautiful summer day, the kind of day that appeared occasionally throughout my life: on such days, nothing bad has ever happened to me. I remember all summer days with fondness. Summer, indeed, is a gift from the universe. Summer is why we suffer through the rest of the year; summer is our reward for being alive. A pat on the back from Mother Nature, an ice cream cone to send us on our way. Dusk at 8:00 PM, fireflies, an air conditioner or fan in the window, humming away, happy to oblige. A beer, a hot dog, a slice of watermelon, children playing tag and laughing. Shorts. Crickets. A baseball game on the radio, if that’s your sort of thing.

In fact, I had been eating an ice cream cone at that very moment, I recalled. Death By Chocolate, a most unusual flavor that I rarely select. But it was that sort of day.

I do not drink alcohol, so I regarded the wine bottle and the four glasses before me with a mixture of condescension, amusement, and contempt. Our host was kind enough to indulge this quirk of my personality, and asked me to name my afternoon treat of choice: whatever I wanted, the kitchen would provide. The answer “ice cream cone” leapt from me immediately and excitedly, as if my body was demanding ice cream as a necessity to survive this unspeakably perfect weather. And as I was feeling mischievous, I further requested the unusual flavor, just to test the kitchen. They stunned me by producing the heaping cone just two minutes later.

I ate it slowly and happily, letting it join my still-digesting lunch, and I looked out across Laredo’s polo field at the pyramid-shaped bath house peeking out between the palm trees. An enormous orb of a lamp was perched on a giant pole nearby; this would be illuminated later that evening, lighting up the pool behind the shrubs, where our host would cavort with his numerous guests. The palatial estate and resort of Laredo had been built decades before by our host’s grandfather; our host had made a point to explain this to us, patiently and firmly, as if we were children in a museum and this was the most important information we would ever hear.

Gable sat to my left, looking like a giant misshapen lump of mashed potatoes, his face already twisted into a stupid grimace which I would quickly come to find depressingly familiar. I had been introduced to him two hours earlier, at the start of lunch, and already I despised him like nothing and no one else I had ever encountered.

Somewhat across from me was our host, Milburn, clad only in swim trunks. His hair was thin and graying, and his upper torso, glistening slightly with sweat, looked weak and empty. But Milburn looked powerful, carrying himself in such a way that rendered his aging body and physical imperfection meaningless.

Sitting on either side of Milburn were two astonishingly gorgeous women, a redhead and a blonde. I had no idea who they were, as they had never been introduced to me or Gable during the entire luncheon, and they had never said anything at all, but I discerned, correctly, that they were Milburn’s companions and would be retiring to his room that night. I found it inconveniently difficult to take my eyes off of them – stealing any of Milburn’s possessions was an enormous and generally fatal mistake -- and tried to distract myself from them by focusing on Gable and allowing my newly born hatred of him to grow and mature. This was not easy. They looked like models, or movie stars, with the obvious difference that they had no apparent skills or talents – at least, not any talents that I would be permitted to see, or enjoy. If the sun and fresh air and giant bedrooms of Laredo were not enough, these two women were reminders that I should be plotting, at all times, to someday rise to Milburn’s position.

“Did you enjoy your lunch?” Milburn inquired.

Gable nodded idiotically. Gulping down a mouthful of ice cream, I did likewise.

“I’m glad.” Milburn was unfailingly polite, even though he didn’t have to be: a class act all the way. “You have both done so much for me these past few months, it was the least I can do to let you experience some of the things Laredo has to offer.”

“Thank you for having me,” I replied.

“You’re welcome, Stanton,” Milburn said. He looked out across the polo field and gazed wistfully at his six tennis courts, which were arranged around a gigantic lake filled with swans. “You’re welcome,” he added quietly.

There was a long pause. I had learned long before not to interrupt Milburn during his wistful reveries.

“And how appropriate,” Milburn said suddenly, “that you two should finally meet. Both of you have served me so well for so long, and yet this is the first time you have had any contact. I find that fascinating.”

I said nothing, and neither did Gable. I glanced at him with distaste, and saw that he was already gazing at me uncomfortably.

Milburn didn’t wait for us to respond. He turned to one of his companions: “Girls – perhaps you would like to take Gable over to the pool.” He turned to the other. “I need to speak with Stanton in private for a moment.” He looked over at Gable. “If that’s all right?”

“Of course, sir,” Gable replied.

My hatred for Gable swelled suddenly to a level it would never drop beneath again. I doubted they were going to do anything with Gable that would give me any reason to be jealous, but the idea of it was almost too much for me to bear anyway.

Gable was led away by the two women, whose reactions appeared to be limited solely to smiling, giggling and agreeing with Milburn. I laughed inwardly. Where did Milburn find these women? Did they come like that or did he have to train them?

“Stanton,” Milburn said casually, in a tone I had heard before. Immediately I sat up at attention, the last piece of my ice cream cone pinched between my fingers. I froze, waiting. Milburn did not mince words and I knew that what was about to be said would be brief and would be said exactly once.

“I need Gable disposed of,” Milburn continued.

Glaring intently back at him, unblinking, I placed the end of the ice cream cone on my tongue, drew it into my mouth, and swallowed it smoothly.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Good. I won’t go into why. But I can tell you are not adverse to the idea.”

I shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“You don’t seem to like him.”

“I don’t,” I replied with another shrug.

“Good. Would you care for a swim?”

“Yes. But I will need to wait forty-five minutes first.”

“Naturally.” Milburn smiled as he stood up. It was a warm, inviting smile, the kind he didn’t usually seem capable of. The kind that he might have used on his son. “I can always count on the Judge,” he added.

Now, many months later, the time was right. We were in the woods and Gable had taken a seat on a log in a clearing, eyeing me suspiciously.

“What are we doing here?” he whined.

I said nothing and just stared at him. His questions, I decided, no longer needed or deserved answers.

He stared back. A long time seemed to pass, during which I wondered exactly what Gable had done to Milburn, if anything: Milburn was known to have such things done for no specific reason at all.

It was cold, and I watched Gable shiver for a while. He seemed to do this stupidly as well. I recalled walking over to the pool with Milburn and finding the two women sunning themselves on deck chairs while Gable bobbed stupidly up and down in the shallow end. He had smiled suddenly as he watched us approach, like a child or an excited dog. His smile reminded me of dozens of others before him, who were too stupid to deserve anything they had, too stupid to deserve Milburn, and I was tempted to do it right there, to let my hatred of him flare, to swiftly and cleanly destroy him. He didn’t deserve that either, in a way; it was too good for him.

But I controlled myself and waited, and just stared back at him, as I was doing now.

“Why do they call you the Judge?” he asked suddenly.

There was no change in my expression but my emotion did flicker for a moment: this impressed me somewhat. I didn’t think he knew anything about me at all. I decided to indulge him, if only to pass the time.

“They say that I’m a rather judgmental sort,” I replied. “I tend to form rather intense opinions of people, and can rarely be swayed from them.”

“Oh?” Gable said. He probably didn’t even understand, the stupid idiot. I clenched my teeth to control myself. It wasn’t time yet.

“What tends to happen, is that my intense opinions will manifest themselves as equally intense emotions, emotions that will then guide my actions.” I was probably speaking in too grandiose a manner for Gable to fully comprehend, the mindless fool, but it was the way I had always described it to myself and I knew no other way to articulate it. “My emotions will slowly swell and strengthen – fester, in a sense – until they become too much for me to handle. And then I act on them. I lash out.”

Gable watched me. I doubted that he understood what I was saying at all. He just stared back, and I think he gulped very slightly, just once.

“Do you think the wolves will get us?” he asked finally.

I smiled.

“Don’t worry about the wolves, Gable,” I said calmly, almost warmly, and he seemed to be reassured.

And I took a seat on another log near him, and stared at him, waiting, waiting until the time was right.

Philadelphia, PA
12/6/02

Yeah, the war's gotten a little absurd (to say the least), all of our TV shows are horrible, and we tend to act like arrogant selfish jerks most of the freakin' time. But in spite of everything, I'm still damn proud to live in this big, strange, beautiful, baffling country of ours, and in honor of our birthday, I'd like to present...

Five reasons to love America

5. Our Founding Fathers had the foresight to declare independence in July, when the weather's nice, so we can celebrate by having barbecues and going swimming

4. We have the Grand Canyon, easily the most astonishingly, knee-bucklingly gorgeous vista you will ever lay eyes on, and I'm not even kidding

3. At the risk of sounding trite, we invented baseball

2. Not only did we invent baseball, but we invented jazz. I don't see, say, Norway inventing jazz. Try harder, Norway!

1. No matter how bad things seem, when the chips are down, you can still go to any number of quality establishments within reasonable walking or driving distance of your home and get a really good sandwich, and I, for one, think that means something, and is worth living and fighting for.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone. Be safe.

Peace,
Jeremy

SPIDER-MAN 2 (2004, Sam Raimi)
Reviewed by A Small Furry Mammal of Indeterminate Species

"With great power comes great responsibility" is the catch phrase of the now-venerable Spider-Man franchise, and it's repeated at least one thousand times in each film (one expects that all dialogue in the third film, due for release in 2007, will be reduced to endless variants on this theme). But it's true; whether dressed in a spider-themed leotard and fighting crime, or gathering nuts in preparation for hibernation, we all have responsibilities to face, and this sequel, which is marred only by its distinct lack of small furry mammals, chronicles Peter Parker's struggle to reconcile his desire to use his powers to fight evil with his equal, and certainly understandable, desire to be a regular, normal college kid and never, ever stop making out with Kirsten Dunst.

The endlessly likeable Tobey Maguire (who, unlike myself, lacks a large bushy tail) returns as Peter Parker, who, instead of living in a burrow underneath the roots of a tree, lives in a dilapidated apartment in a vaguely fictionalized Manhattan. He's grappling with trying to make a normal life for himself while simultaneously battling crime, trying not to admit to his friend Harry (played by Julio Franco, who played briefly for the Phillies in 1982) that he was responsible for Harry's bomb-wielding father's death, and trying to, as the kids say, "get with" the aforementioned Dunst (one of the more attractive human actresses). I myself often have difficulty finding time to gather nuts, dodge predators and look for mates, so I can appreciate Peter's plight.

But just as I am constantly threatened by large predators like wolves and hawks, so too must Spider-Man do battle with the villainous Doctor Octopus, played by Alfred Molina who, if I might say so, appears to have been gathering a few nuts himself, if you know what I mean. He also may or may not actually be Terry Jones. That said, he gives the role a light, airy performance, subtle and refined. No really, he does.

Sam Raimi manages to juggle all these stories deftly, and even finds time to throw in a classic "Evil Dead"-esque sequence with a chainsaw, which is a welcome return to form and is certain to frighten the more skittish small furry mammals amongst us, and amuse the rest of you. (Take that, "For Love of the Game"!) J. K. Simmons, easily the funniest part of the similarly small furry mammal-deficient "The Ladykillers", returns to deliver one-liners and comically bang his fist a lot.

In all... I don't know how to end this, and the one joke I was doing has run its course, so I'm just going to stop. Matt: this is harder than it looks, kudos to you.

Unrelated thing: Happy Birthday to Franz Kafka, who was born on this date in 1883 (the same year the Phillies began).

06/29/04 Phillies 17, Expos 7

I arrived at this one late, with Montreal up 3-0 in the top of the second. I watched the Phillies make short work of this deficit while enjoying a slice of $3.75 pepperoni pizza, during the consumption of which Andrew pointed out to me that I could have gotten a hot dog for a dollar from the special Phanatic-themed family concession stand. But I feel vaguely tacky for getting anything from there because it's ostensibly cheap food that you buy for your kid but they don't even attempt to enforce the 14 and under rule that's posted above it. It seems like I should be prepared to say "Yeah, I'm buying this $1.00 soda for my little cousin" or something. But they really don't care and they just give you the soda. But anyway. I made a note of the pizza in my notebook, which Jon spied, and he said, "Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Well, yeah, I kind of am. I'm not the sort of person who can just scribble notes while I'm watching the game, in fact it suddenly occurs to me that maybe I watch baseball to get away from writing. Maybe that's why this blog has been so difficult for me...

At one point it occured to me that they should have the World Series of Doing That Thing Where They Have A Kind Of Contest On The Screen Like A Bobblehead Race Or You Have To Guess Which Tub Of Ice Cream Has The Ball In It And You Root For The One You Think Is Right. They could have a stadium full of 40,000 people and keep showing all those kinds of things and when you get one wrong, you have to leave. Finally just one guy is left and they give him the prize. This sparked a discussion of whether or not those things are thoroughly evil. Andrew, who went up to Boston on Sunday for the final Phils/Sox game, says they don't do that stuff at Fenway, and the fans aren't idiots and they don't need to be told when to clap or cheer. Oh yeah, everything's better in Boston. Sure. Actually, no, really, he's got a point because they do all kinds of stupid crap at CBP, like that Noise Meter, I don't think that's really an actual noise meter measuring the decibel level. I think they're lying to me.

The Phils had a very excellent six-run inning which is always cool. (My big-inning record is 9 runs, against the Yankees in 1999: one of like the top five games I've ever seen, easy). A large group was sitting behind us and kept bellowing things like "YEAH JIMMY!" or "YEAH BOBBY. NICE CUT!!!" The way the dude said "CUT!!!" had to be heard to be believed. They were cool and not annoying; I've heard far more annoying things, like those drunk high school kids who were behind me not once but TWICE, and in two different cities!!!

The Expos followed with their own 4-run inning, which was then followed by a Phillies 5-run inning. In retrospect, the Expos' "big" inning seems almost cute, like "Oh, look at you guys, scoring runs! Just like a real baseball team!" I don't know why I'm being a jerk, they beat us last night and could very well beat us tonight; I'm no longer surprised by anything.

Once the game was well in hand we took a walk around the stadium for a while. I don't like to leave my seat during close games, but it was 13-7 by then and the Expos didn't seem likely to mount a rally. Due to it being a Tuesday night crowd, walking on the concourses proved to actually be possible, instead of the endless nightmare it is when it's really crowded. We paused in a number of strategic locations and took in the game from various angles... we visited the giant mersh store where they have many garish "retro" shirts, plus the same Millwood shirt my sister bought me, only nine bucks more expensive. The Phils added two 2-run HRs late in the game for good measure, and we were somewhere out in Ashburn Alley when this happened. Finally Roberto Hernandez selflessly chose not to give up 10 runs and put the win in the books... all in all a lovely night at the ballpark, with no freezing cold, drenching rain, shoddy Phillies performance, or awful fan behavior to make me want to stab someone with a letter opener. They should have those kinds of games more often.