#PlayBall!

              The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love. ~Bryant Gumbel, 1981

Football. Basketball. Soccer. Lots of sports in the headlines right now. Never a lack of something to watch for your average sports fan. It's only natural we turn off ESPN to watch the 18-hour Ken Burns documentary on...baseball. If you haven't seen it, and you're missing the crack of the bat and the comfort of a juicy hot dog, search it out on Netflix now.

Before I met my husband, I barely knew a thing about baseball. Three strikes, you're out. That was about the extent of my knowledge. But with marriage, comes appreciation for other passions. Admittedly, I was mostly impressed with how my boyfriend (future husband) donned a baseball uniform. (Our early dates consisted of a few town team games.) Now, twenty years later, I can honestly say I've grown quite a fondness and fascination for the past-time.

Strategy is still a bit beyond me. I get there's some psychology, but usually I need to ask a bunch of pesky questions to the expert in the room. Shifts. Pitches. Suicides squeezes–whatever that really means. Once in a while, I'll surprise Doug with a statement like, "he's probably gonna throw a sinker, huh?" Usually though, I'm fairly clueless. HOWEVER...I'm not too bad at identifying heros. And I do believe hero-spotting is one of the most fun parts of this game. Ask any kid.

Much of baseball is the same story. But the story is great. And it never gets old. An unlikely kid from a common family becomes a baseball legend. The hapless team with an unsavory history rises to the top. Fill in the blanks with your favorite player/team. Babe Ruth. Lou Gehrig. Joe DiMaggio. Jackie Robinson. The St. Louis Cardinals. The Brooklyn Dodgers. I'm not allowed to give space to any other New York baseball teams. Except of course, the Giants and the Mets. Anyway...

Ted Williams once said:

"Baseball is the only field of endeavor where a man can succeed three times out of ten and be considered a good performer."

One journalist noted that perhaps baseball is really more about losing. I've given some thought about that statement. While I get that the long season can involve scores of losses and that a batting average includes a heckuva lot of strike-outs, I'm not sure I agree the game has more to do about losing. I think the game is about democracy and opportunity. Once Jackie Robinson began to break the color barrier, reflecting an overdue shift in our nation's sentiment, baseball seemed to carry on its roots as being the the great equalizer...granted this didn't happen overnight. But eventually, it did happen.

It seems everyone knows of someone who had their shot in the majors. The game offers individuals, with any background, opportunities.  And the game never runs short on hope. Down by ten runs in the bottom of the ninth? No problem! There's an entire half an inning left. And guess what? No time clock! The game might go past midnight...or for three more days. And the faithful who watched the entire game would wear the honorary badge for not missing one single play or nuance. These stories tend to brighten spirits in the room when discussion eventually magnets to...baseball. How can they not, with themes of opportunity and hope?

Three months until opening season. Enough time has now passed since the World Series as I watched the excitement bubble in my diehard Royals fan–only to be heartbroken in the bottom of the ninth on the seventh game. It's time to kindle hope and begin the search for more heros.

In Memory Of

It’s been nearly thirty years since I stepped into the church where I attended Sunday School and was confirmed. While I live a mere fifteen minutes away from that quaint place of worship, I feel I’ve journeyed a thousand miles from it–and my childhood.

As I rode along with my parents to a funeral for a family friend, I began to sense a settling of my past and a regret that perhaps I had forgotten who I was and where I came from. We entered through the basement of the church where the musty smell wrapped around me like a favorite blanket. When my eyes set upon some of our oldest, best friends, I couldn't hold back my smile–despite the sad circumstance.

When we took our seats in the pew, my dad had to tap me on the shoulder to inform me he’d be sitting by my mother. Apparently, I had fallen back into my childhood, when I always took center seat between my parents. And as I listened to the tribute being given to the cheerful woman who died too young of Alzheimer’s, I decided to be thankful for my own memories. A crocheted Lord's Prayer, still hanging behind the alter. The Christmas programs, arranged by the ladies of the church. The potlucks, which ended in unfortunate gastric events from my inability to stop eating.

After the service, we had lunch in the basement where I attended my Sunday Schooling. I tempered my food choices this time. But I also felt an enormous amount of gratitude as I ate the open-faced sandwiches and cookies, staring at the paneled walls, listening to my father and his cronies. They still made me laugh, now poking fun of their age and reflecting on their wilder youth. I had heard the story of the pony in the basement of the church before. But there's nothing quite like listening to people share stories during those moments when we really appreciate our lives.

As I got up to refill my glass of lemonade, I noticed how many of the same ladies from my youth were providing lunch, with the same generous, loving spirit. I never would've pictured myself having such an engaging conversation with my old my old Sunday School teacher. But I did! I would've, should've  visited with her longer, actually, but everyone in my family (including me) has an incredible itch to always leave gatherings early. There are always tasks to be done.

Needless to say, I no longer belong to that sweet, little church. I've converted to Catholicism, even teaching religious education and serving as a lector in my new parish. But when we left the funeral at the Methodist Church in Kirkman, I not only felt sad about saying goodbye to our friend who had passed away, but I was quite sentimental about walking out of the church and driving out of town. There's something very peaceful about visiting the  place where much of your identity is formed.

Memory is precious. Memories should be cherished. And most of all, we should share them for as long as we can.

Sick and Tired? Or Tired and Sick?

How do #sick kids cope with mothers?

The flu and cold season has spread through the region/nation, leaving behind tragedies, stress, and exhaustion. Illness, the topic, does tend to consume–especially in a world which does not have time for it. Preventative measures dominates office chatter. Home remedies. Dropping hydrogen peroxide in the ears, apparently where most germs infiltrate. Setting a sliced onion on your counter top to soak up the germs that permeate your house, if you can tolerate the odor.

My daughter was sick this weekend. And once again, the fabric of my maternal-being was tested. Methinks I teeter on failing in this aspect of momhood. Rather than fall into the role of compassionate nurturer, I feel myself become...what's the word? Impatient. Let me back up a few years to give you a hint of my predisposition toward this issue of sick kids.

Shortly after Alex had started the third grade, she began to complain of a stomach ache. She acted kind of whiny, tired–like she didn't want to go to school. I kept asking her what was bothering her. Was somebody being mean? No. Did she like her teacher? Yes! Was a subject too hard? No. Well, then she needed to tough it out. After several complaints, I finally threatened her. "Ok. I'm taking you to the doctor." She was horrified. She asked the question I knew she would. "Will I have to get a shot?" I responded in my none-too-comforting tone, "Maybe." I distinctly remember being just a bit irritated by the whole ordeal. Until...

The test results came back. Strep and mono. Yes, my daughter was sick. Really sick. And I had just brushed her aside for three weeks, telling her to toughen up. Needless to say, I was quite disgusted with myself. And you'da thought I would've learned my lesson.

When my 17-year old woke up Sunday morning, not feeling well and not wanting to attend church, I just didn't buy it. I told her to get ready.

Then I listened to her cough all day. And complain about her chest pain. Then prove her fever with a thermometer reading.

Poor kid. The thing is, Alex isn't one to fake it. She'll push herself when she shouldn't. So, why do I continue to be the horrible parent, almost refusing to believe she's sick?

I DON'T KNOW. Maybe I'm not willing to accept the facts when one of my kids comes down with something. Perhaps because I should've done something to prevent it. Yes, ridiculous. But much about motherhood is ridiculous. Like how hard it is. And hard it is to know what to do at times.

Last night she asked me if she should go to the doctor because she's still coughing. I immediately said I didn't think so. Then I stopped myself! What was I saying? So, I asked her if  she was running a temperature. She said no, but the cough was persisting. I said she's probably fine. 

Probably! Probably?

When I heard her hacking away after we had gone to bed, I was overcome with worry and guilt. I went downstairs with a glass of water and cough medicine. She seemed a bit surprised by the gesture, but appreciative. And I felt like I was finally taking care of her, just the way a mother should when their kids are under the weather.

She feels better today.