Sit Back. Watch Poetry.

Tennis, World Cup, Baseball, Poetry. And, I buried the lead. Again.

Poetry is said to be emotion set to words.

Which, if the poetry is good, is deep and satisfying and stays with you like the memory of those crazy-good chocolate-chipotle and salted caramel gelatos from Splendora’s that I just started thinking about … and now I can’t shake.

gelato paradise

Gelato Poetry.

Not all poetry is good.

But, good poetry doesn’t need to be long or deep or hard to cut through.

This is good poetry. It’s one of my favorite poems that I recite to myself nearly every day.

Righty-tighty.

Lefty-loosey.

See, poetry can be beautiful and useful, too.

(I might argue that “Suckity, suck, suck” which sometimes slips out of me when the Orioles go bad at about the sixth inning is poetry, too. Not beautiful, but there’s a certain rhythmic honesty to it, don’t you think?)

Most important, poetry must be just-so. Just the right amount of words and rhythm and voice to convey an emotion or a thought.  And, nothing more.

One of my clients was at the French Open and when I asked him how it was he said simply, “Roger Federer is poetry.”

Federer is nearing the end of his career and was defeated early on in the Open, but, I knew what he meant.

Poetry in writing and in athletics and in Yoga … is when you don’t do too much, but you do just enough.

It appears effortless, even when you know that it isn’t.

You can see here, that my client is right about Federer.

 

And, here’s World Cup poetry. Guillermo Ochoa is the goalkeeper for Mexico. During this week’s game against heavily favored Brazil, they played to a tie, and Ochoa did this.

ochoa3

But, a tie, strangely enough, leaves the story untied, untidy, and unfinished.

A good poem, like a good baseball game, will always end. On Tuesday, it took the University of Virginia Cavaliers 15 innings, and nearly five hours, to defeat Texas Christian University in the College World Series.

UVa Shortstop Daniel Pinero had two errors in the game, including one that led to an unearned run for TCU.

But, poetry has a habit sometimes of wrapping things up neatly, forgiving the sins of the past, and making things just-so. Like this.

pinero 15

Pinero Poetry.

A good poem will hold you. It’s too beautiful to turn away.

Watching LA Dodger Clayton Kershaw pitch is always poetry. Seemingly effortless and beautiful to watch.

Listening to longtime broadcaster Vin Scully call a Dodger’s game, something he’s been doing for 65 years, is poetry, too. The rhythm, the words, and the beautiful silence that stretches between. Just right.

To see Kershaw pitch a no-hitter this week, with Scully sitting beside you … forget the rest of this post. THIS is poetry.

“And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit back and watch it with you.”

kershaw

_________

_________

And, here’s Part 2 … Fauxetry In Motion.

 

Picture This, Dad

gnome

I’ve lived in Virginia for decades now.  (If you add up the decades I’ve lived in Virginia you will discover that I am somehow much older than I think I am.)

My dad came to visit once. (Which, to be fair, is one time more than my mom, but she had her reasons.)

They lived in North Dakota and I was very excited when my dad decided to fly out.

I had just bought my first place – a condo on the Virginia side of Washington, DC.  He came to paint the walls and do the fix-ity things that dads do with their amazing certainty and rightness of purpose that is unique to dads everywhere. Every dad project was a teachable moment, but, really, all I wanted was to make sure the pink walls in the bedroom were painted over.

And, I wanted to show him around and show off my world.

Which didn’t really turn out all that well.

He wasn’t impressed by Washington, its Capitol or White House. He was annoyed by the traffic and all the people. He wasn’t impressed by any of the historic buildings all along our day drives. Blue Ridge Mountains? Sure, OK. He was moderately impressed that the Cuban restaurant offered Philippine beer.

He was truly impressed by only one thing. The trees.

trees

“Damn, kid, I’ve never seen so many trees,” he said as I drove him around.

He said it as if I was somehow responsible for covering up a lot of otherwise good farmland with all these unproductive trees. He wasn’t disappointed. He simply thought it was funny, in the same way he thought a lot of my life choices were “funny”, as in “Well, I would never do that, kid, but it’s your life.”

When he got back to North Dakota, the only thing he told my mom and his friends was that we sure had a lot of trees in Virginia.

He never saw the farm where we ended up.

trees yard

And, damn, he’s right. We do have a lot of trees.

front yard

We have so many trees that I wonder how the sun even reaches the ground some days.

pecan tree

We have three pecan trees. (Yes, they DO grow in Virginia, people, so stop telling me they don’t.)

japanese maple

This Japanese Maple that came as a sapling from Montpelier, James Madison’s home.

rose of sharon

And, a Rose of Sharon. (More bush than tree, I guess. I thought it was only a girl’s name in Grapes of Wrath until I moved here.)

The winter did this to one of our magnolias …

dead magnolia

I know, I know, they’re not supposed to grow here either.

Is it dead? I don’t know, but look what I found on one of its branches this morning …

new mag

Editor/Husband plants trees like many people plant marigolds. This is his “Tree Garden”:

tree garden

I think I’m much more like my mom than my dad.  But, there are a couple things about my dad that carried into me.

My dad loved basketball and football with the same passion that I love baseball.  (“You didn’t get baseball from me, kid.”)

He gave me a love of politics and beer. Bad puns, bawdy jokes, and Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons above all others.

And, he loved taking pictures.

He had a couple cameras that were good enough. He would take and develop so many photos that he was probably the reason the little camera store in Devils Lake, North Dakota lasted as long as it did. When my father died a few years ago, I went by the store to tell the owner and he seemed truly sorry. The shop closed not long after and I think the loss of my dad’s business was part of the reason why.

My dad wasn’t a very good photographer, but it made him happy.

He liked to take pictures of tractors …

tractor

farmyards …

hail

squirrels …

squirrel

and, his kid …

me

Now, come to find out, I carry that gene, too. I’m not a very good photographer, but it makes me happy.

And, it reminds me of my dad.

dad2

Free Baseball: Hoos, Ostriches & Vultures Edition

When the game is tied after nine, baseball goes to extra innings.  Free baseball!

Here are some extras that I have lying around …

10th INNING ~ Go Hoos!

If you’re shopping for baseball players, the first round of the Major League Draft was last night. Three members of the University of Virginia Cavaliers were chosen in the first round: Nick Howard, RHP (Cincinnati Reds), Derek Fisher, OF (Houston Astros), and Mike Papi, IF/OF (Cleveland Indians).

But, before heading off to their new paying jobs, there’s still this business with the College World Series to attend to. Good luck this weekend in your games against Maryland. Go Hoos!

Would the #1 ranked college team please put your glove in the air?

daniel pinero uva.jpg

Thank you, UVa Freshman SS Daniel Pinero.  (Hey Susie, he’s Canadian!)

(Watch the University of Virginia Cavaliers vs. the University of Maryland Terrapins Saturday and Sunday at noon, EDT on ESPN2. Game 3, if necessary, is Monday at 4 p.m.)

??????????

11th INNING ~ Ostriches

I thought it couldn’t be real. They call it an Ostrich Pillow, a napping, pillow-y, cave-like thing that makes you look kind of dead. It creeps me out and mesmerizes me all at the same time. It’s real … sweet apple cider, it’s real!

ostrich pillow

Orioles Fans, Is your starting pitching falling apart again and it’s only the second inning? Tuck into Ostrich Pillow!

NFL, Still refuse to acknowledge your ugly concussion crisis? Here, stick your head in!

Editor/Husband, Wondering how much longer this game can go on? Answer: MUCH longer. How about a half-inning snooze?

Endless meetings. Dinner party guests that just won’t leave. Mind-numbing political rants from the drunk uncle who gets all his news from Fox.

Ostrich Pillow.

ostrich pillow2

I’m so glad it’s real!

12th INNING ~ Keep Calm & Carrion

Buttercup is a black vulture that lives at the Wildlife Center of Virginia.

buttercup photo

Buttercup

Vultures – or buzzards as some people call them – are one of the world’s greatest recyclers. They eat the rotting meat of dead animal carcasses lying on roadsides and in fields that would otherwise spread disease and kill us all. Vultures are our great protectors.

Vultures are also misunderstood.

It is ok to dislike the New York Yankees because they upset the economics of baseball with their pocket-change millions. It is NOT ok to dislike vultures because they’re a bit wrinkley on the outside and like to fly around around in circles overhead looking for a snack.

(And, yes, they do pee on their legs sometimes, but really, who doesn’t?)

They are sociable creatures with amazing stomach enzymes. (I’m talking about the vultures here, not the Yankees.) Thousands of humans might go down, but a vulture would never succumb to food poisoning on a cruise ship.

Celebrate vultures and Buttercup with the Wildlife Center’s new “Spring Carrion” line of tee-shirts and tote bags. You’ll be helping a great organization and helping spread one of the best worst puns ever.

buttercup and raina

Buttercup and bag

(P.S. If you’re planning on using your Ostrich Pillow outdoors, please watch out for vultures.)

13th INNING ~ Yay!

Oh, how I love the hidden ball trick.  And, this is one of the best!

Florida vs. College of Charleston. May 30, 2014

Watch it here.

Isn’t college baseball grand?

 

Part 2: Grant Turns Four

“Never forget, there is a heartbeat in this game.” ~ Joe Torre, former player & manager (Baseball Hall of Fame, 2014)

grant

Here’s Grant.

Yesterday, Grant turned four. And, all he wanted to do for his birthday was to play some ball with his dad at the nearby baseball diamond.

We were nearby, too. We had just transported and released a spotted turtle to a lakeside just a few blocks away.

turtle1

(Click here for Part 1 and relive the spotted turtle adventure.)

Just as we were driving off, I saw the baseball diamond.

“Let’s stop here,” I said to Editor/Husband when I spotted the diamond. Or, maybe it was something more like a shouted, “HEY! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU??? STOP!!!” just to make sure we didn’t drive too fast, too far away.

And, that’s where we found Grant and his dad. Playing ball.

Grant would like you to know that he is a Washington Nationals’ fan and Bryce Harper is his favorite player.

Grant has the swagger of a big leaguer. He knows how to swing the bat,

batting

knock the dirt off his cleats, and dig into the batter’s box.

batterup

“When I hit the ball, I do want to hurt it.” ~ Bryce Harper, OF, Washington Nationals

hit

He’s got pretty good speed for being only four, and the sort of youthful stamina …

baserunner

… that runs out every home run full-tilt as if it was a thisclose inside-the-parker.

He can slide feet first whether he needs to or not.

safe slide

And, his very first head-first slide into home is documented here.

headslide1

When pitching, he has an intimidating stare …

this is grant

… an unorthodox pitching style that occasionally includes standing behind the rubber …

pitching3

… and the confidence to shake off the catcher whenever necessary.

pitcher4

“I’m really trying to be a pitcher out there. I’m not trying to light up the radar gun all the time.”  ~ Stephen Strasburg, P, Washington Nationals

As for fielding …

“A player running the bases shall be out, if the ball is in the hands of an adversary on the base, or the runner is touched with it before he makes his base; it being understood, however, that in no instance is a ball to be thrown at him. ~ The Knickerbocker Rules, 1845.

fielding

Well, they’re working on that.

“I just like to play the game.” ~ Ryan Zimmerman, INF, Washington Nationals

ballplayer

Happy Birthday, Grant.

You’re why I love baseball.

(Oh, and P.S. I know you love the Nats and all, but couldn’t you just give the Orioles a try?)

Photos: Saturday, May 24, 2014, Fawn Lakes Baseball Diamond, Spotsylvania, Virginia

(Thank you to Grant and his dad, Shane Reid.)

 ________________________________

Part 1 ~ There You Go, Turtle!

 

Part 1: There You Go, Turtle!

There are some people in my world who believe that all I do on weekends is baseball-baseball-baseball.

That is laughable.

(Not as laughable as the Orioles-0, Indians-9 game today. Really, boys? Really? It’s CLEVELAND!)

No, not everything is baseball.

Take today for instance.

I released a turtle.

turtle1

Look who came to our house!

Editor/Husband (when he is not editoring or husbanding) works at the Wildlife Center of Virginia, a wild animal hospital.

He’s often asked to cart animals around, picking up patients and, once they’re healed up, returning them to the wild. (He does other stuff there, too, but at the end of the day people only want to hear about the time a bear cub nearly got loose in his Outback.)

Sometimes Editor/Husband’s car will smell a little weird, like a possum family might still be living in there, waiting for a road trip to the Sonic.

(Fun Fact: Sonic really does put jalapeño chunks in its chocolate jalapeño milkshake. I’m still not sure how I feel about this.)

Last night, he brought home a spotted turtle, a rather rare species. It had been hit by a lawnmower about a year ago and its shell had been badly injured. Shell-healing is, not surprisingly, slow-going for turtles.

Here’s what you need to know about spotted turtles.

They can have up to 92 spots on their upper shell, head, neck, and legs. Ours is disappointingly light on the polka-dots, although I didn’t think to count.

A turtle’s upper shell is called a carapace. Our turtle has a dark chin and brown eyes – which means he is probably a male. Some experts have described the mating habits of spotted turtles as “frantic.”

A spotted turtle can live to be 50, if he is careful and stays off of roads and out of the way of lawnmowers.

wildlifecenter

World Turtle Day is celebrated every May 23.

The Wildlife Center releases its healed-up reptile patients as close to their original homes as possible. This is especially important for turtles who have some sort of “Home Sweet Home” software wired in their brains that makes them serious homebodies.

Which is kind of funny if you think about it, since turtles carry their homes on their backs like little RV campers. Come to find out, they don’t even really like going anywhere.

Their shells hold all their worldly possessions. (Turtles travel light and their shell, some insides, four legs, a head and a tail, are pretty much it for worldly possessions, but if they had stuff, I suspect they’d just cram it into their shell, like we cram mints, spare change, keys, iPhones, and shopping lists into our pockets.)

So, we took turtle back to his original “home.”

This turtle, we discovered, like the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, had been living the good life in a very pretty gated community, filled with pretty homes ringed by perfect gardens and swimming pools and walking trails and country clubs and tennis courts.

Turtle had chosen well.  I wish someone would release me there

fawn lake

We found a quiet little side lake for the turtle …

pretty

… away from the road and lawnmowers and away from the lady who was afraid we were releasing baby geese into the lake and came running over in a panic to tell us how the geese were pooping on her lawn.

poopers

Poopers.

We showed her the turtle and she calmed down.

“Oh, I like turtles.”

Turtles, apparently, have a prozac-like effect on some people.

So we opened the box, and set turtle on the bank.

turtle on the bank

And, off turtle went.

turtle on the bank2

 

turtle swimming

All wet and swimmy and happy, I guess.  Turtles keep a pretty good poker face. But, if I was a turtle, healed up and free and back home in a nice gated community, on a lake filled with pollywogs and geese, on a beautiful sunshiney Saturday, I’d probably be a pretty happy turtle …

Even if some of the hospital stick-um from my shell-healing was still on my back.

turtle stickum

__________

 

Wait, really, no baseball?  …

And, just as we are pulling out to leave the pretty gated community with the swimming pools and tennis courts and … hey, wait a second … stop the car!!!!  What’s that over there?

home

click here for Part 2 …

 

 

An Incredibly Perfect Pie

My mom made an incredibly perfect pie.

Nearly every single one ever … perfect.

(If there was an imperfect pie from time to time, my mother was no frugal cook. She had no respect for cooks who would serve something that was a little off. When an imperfection did come up in her kitchen, no matter how small, she would dump the offending item down the garbage disposal with the efficiency of a cold, calculating hit man. Dump. Gone. She was scary that way.)

So, I thought for Mother’s Day, I would celebrate my mom’s pies.

And, as I was writing this, it struck me. My mom didn’t even like pie.

She’s not around to ask, but I’m suddenly very sure of this.

I think she found pies old fashioned and uninteresting.

I, on the other hand, loved pie.

Fruit pies, and especially rhubarb and juneberry pies, were kitschy and old fashioned and I wanted to be the interesting girl who liked the quirky pies.

My dad liked chocolate pie. No fancy chocolate pie, just the pudding-mix sort.

This must have been incredibly insulting to my mom who would have happily melted exotic chocolates in a double boiler to create a delicious pie.

So, she made me quirky pies and she made him chocolate pudding-mix pies.

But, now that I think about it, I never recall her ever eating a piece of pie, unless she was just being sociable, or to take a quick taste of what she had baked (and to ensure that she shouldn’t throw it out and start over). She was a nose-crinkler when something wasn’t quite right. And, I think I saw her take a small bite of pie from time to time and crinkle her nose the same way I do when the milk in the fridge doesn’t smell quite right.

My mom may have disliked pie, but she made some of the best.

(You may say that your mom made the best pie in the world, but this is my post and you are wrong.)

So, in honor of Mother’s Day, here’s a quick celebration of pie, with a little baseball on the side …

1) Pie-ing the hero of a baseball game is classy.

(Gatorade dumping, in contrast, is stupid and rarely hits the intended target.)

The Baltimore Orioles have made the pie game an art.

Last season, the Orioles even gave away tee-shirts honoring their pie-in-the-face fun.

shaving cream pie tee shirt

Traditionally, face-smash pies were made of shaving cream, presumably because ballplayers don’t have time to whip up a light and eggy custard pie. (And, as many players go shave-free during the season, I suppose there is plenty of excess shaving cream just sitting around.)

Eyes were burned with shaving cream pies.

This year, Dangerously Delicious Pies in Baltimore is supplying two real pies for every home game – just for pie-ing the hero of the game. (Spoiler Alert: No pie-ing today, the Orioles lost.)

Here’s what a proper pie-ing looks like …

clevenger pie

“It tastes pretty good.”

Catcher Steve Clevenger’s walk-off RBI double wins the game for the Orioles in the 10th against the Houston Astros on Saturday night.

But, there are some players who, through their tenure and superstar status, are exempt from pie-ing.

Orioles right fielder Nick Markakis is one of them.

Here’s how you appropriately pie a superstar veteran when his hit wins the game …

Markakis 2

April 26 vs the KC Royals.

(Please note at the :50 mark when someone from the bullpen – I don’t know who – leans over and tastes the pie off of the ground. This is why I love bullpen pitchers. Because they are weird.)

When the Orioles win the World Series this year (and they will), we will look back at this magical Markakis (and J.J. Hardy) moment and think, “But, of course.”

2) My mom taught me a lot, including how to make a pie crust.

pie postcard

I’m not a particularly fast learner and it took her a few years before I got it right. My mother was not a patient teacher and I think she was, deep down, embarrassed that it took me so long to figure it out.

The trick is cold vegetable shortening and ice cold water.

My mother would tell you this about that …

Yes, vegetable shortening. (Butter has its place in this world, but not in a pie crust. Unless you make your living slinging pies, just swallow your pride and stick to shortening.)

My mother would dismissively nose-crinkle you if you miss the important nuance of the water. Tap water is not “ice cold.” Ice cold tells you right there in its name that you need ice in your water, got it?

Here’s pretty much the pie crust recipe she taught me.

You may now roll out your perfect dough and commence to making the pie of your choice.

3) This is Felix Pie.

Felix Pie

Photo Courtesy of Keith Allison CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0), via Wikimedia Commons

It is correctly pronounced “Pee-AY”, but I always called him Mr. Pie.

Felix Pie played for the Orioles, mainly in a utility role, from 2009 to 2011. He played for the Pirates last year, and seems to be playing for a South Korean team now.

I can’t think of any other reason to mention him here, except that he will always be Mr. Pie to me.

___________________

I can’t believe I just realized that my mom hated pie.

But, she made them anyway because I liked them.

I miss those pies. Thanks, mom.

Mom & me, sometime in the post-Mets years.  She could rock those sunglasses indoors & out!

 

 

This Is Sam.

sam

This is Sam.

Sam calls me from time to time … sometimes twice a day, sometimes more.

Most days I don’t answer.  (Sorry Sam, baseball season is a very busy time for me.)

But, I have talked to him.

Sam says he’s from Microsoft Windows and that he has been monitoring my computer and that I am uploading malicious things.  He must mean these blog posts.

(Hurtful, Sam. And, stop hating on baseball.)

Sam is a scam.

But, he’s a tenacious fellow and just keeps calling.

Sam called one night at 10:30.  You shouldn’t call us after 10 p.m. unless you are:

1) Baltimore Orioles Manager Buck Showalter calling Editor/Husband for bullpen advice. Editor/Husband will tell Buck, “For God’s sake, Buck, what in the world are you doing? Keep Britton out there for the ninth. He’s fine. FINE! Tommy Hunter … what the hell??  Why is he warming up?  You just want to lose this game, don’t you? Well, now we’re going to lose. Great.”

(Actually, we won and Tommy Hunter got the save.  But, Editor/Husband is still asputter.)

2) There is no #2.  Orioles Manager Buck Showalter can call after 10 p.m.  You can’t.

tommy hunter liner

Tommy Hunter For The Save!

Usually, we just let the phone ring when we see that it’s Sam.

The other day, though, I decided I would talk to him again.

I wanted to ask Sam why he had a job whose main description is, best I can tell, to take advantage of, and steal from, innocent people.

I thought it would be interesting to ask a crook why he was crooking. I figured I could reason with Sam.

“Why do you hurt people, Sam? Why are you trying to steal from me?”

My tough love question would pierce his heart. There would be an uncomfortably long pause as Sam thought deeply about what I had said. Then Sam, seeing the error of his ways, would thank me for setting him right. He would leave his job of cheating and hurting people and set off on a new course of helping people.

After a time of reflection, Sam would start a volunteer-run food pantry in his village … his small way of giving back to humanity. One day – a year or two from now – Sam would call me again.  “Thank you,” he would say softly.  “You have changed my life.”

You may think I’m making this up for the sake of this post. I assure you, I am the idiot you think I am. I really believed this would happen.

I had it all planned out … I had my dialogue and Sam’s.  (Although in the movie version Sam’s English, while still fractured, would be much easier to understand.)

This could not go wrong.

I did my part just right.

I interrupted his spiel, “Sam? Sam? Sam, wait, can I ask you a question?”

Pause. Then “Yes.”

“Sam, I know that you’re not with Windows. I know that there’s nothing wrong with my computer. I know that you’re being dishonest. Why would you do that? Why would you try to hurt me and other people by lying about who you are? Why are you trying to steal from me?”

Then I waited for the long and remorseful pause from Sam.

And, this is when he started yelling at me.

Sam was yelling about my computer doing malicious things. And, my Windows ID number that he had, but that I did not.  He started yelling a long string of random numbers and letters.

“There! There! That is your ID number. You do not know your ID number! Do YOU???  DO YOU??? Tell me your ID number! You can’t!  You do not know it! I do! I have your ID number! What is it? Tell me! TELL ME!!”

This was crazy talk. Sam was ruining everything.

“Stop yelling at me. I don’t like to be yelled at.”

I told him I was going to hang up. (I’m exceedingly polite at times.) “Sam. I am hanging up now.” And, I did.

I’m sort of sad about Sam, but I know that he is so far up in the crooking business that it would take more than one person to pull him out.

I’m also mad at Sam for being a crook and for ruining my plan and ruining this post.

Sam called again the other day. But, I didn’t take his call. My heart just wasn’t in it.

All I can do is ask you this.

If some day soon you get a call from a U.S. Cellular number somewhere in Maine, it might be Sam.  Please tell him “hi” for me. Maybe you can reason with him.

Free Baseball ~ i can haz baseball edition

Sixty-two percent of Americans today live with a pet – a cat or a dog or both or a bunch.

In short, most of us. (Goldfish and gerbils aren’t even included in this statistic … so that must account for the rest of you.)

I live with four cats (invited) and an increasing number of gangster attic mice (uninvited). (I’m hopeful the mousies haven’t brought plague into the house.)

(That old saying “quiet as a mouse”? A lie. That old saying, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play”? Also a lie. Cats today no longer care.)

Isn’t it odd that we spend so much time on the Internet looking at pictures of cats …

stevie is tired

Stevie is bored with this post already.

 … and dogs …

ruby in the snow

My friend Ginger’s new pup Ruby discovers snow!

… when we already have one or some or a bunch at home we could be looking at instead?

Here’s a video of a cat who has learned sign language for “feed me.”

My cats also know sign language for “feed me” (extend claws, swipe). While they couldn’t care less about chasing delicious mice, they will bray like billy goats when hungry. If that doesn’t work, they’ll smack you.

It snowed today.

Which means some time for me to post my first Free Baseball of 2014 … i can haz baseball edition …

(I had my first “Free Baseball” of the season when the University of Virginia went to extra innings against Boston College on Saturday afternoon. UVa won 3-2 in 12, after Nick Howard who started the game as Designated Hitter came in during the 10th and pitched 2.1 scoreless innings. He struck out the side in the top of the 12th and then singled home the winning run in the bottom of the 12th.)

Ok, back to the critters …

10th Inning ~ Rookie The Retriever

Last summer, I wrote about Chase, the golden retriever “bat dog” of the Trenton Thunder, a Yankees minor league team. Sadly, Chase, who was 13, died of cancer last year.

But, Chase was good with the lady dogs and left a number of puppies as his legacy.  A Chase grandpuppy, five-month-old “Rookie,” will take over his grandpa’s bat-retrieving work for the Thunder.

rookie

Apparently, there are trainers who will teach dogs to fetch bats. So, Rookie will get some schooling before he takes over the job full-time in 2015.

11th Inning ~ Hank the Brewer

While Rookie figures out the finer points of bat fetching, baseball has already begun for Hank, a stray pup who turned up last month in Phoenix, Arizona at the Milwaukee Brewers’ spring training camp.

hankphoto

They named him Hank in honor of Hank Aaron.

The  Brewers announced last week that Hank’s now officially part of the team and he has already arrived in Milwaukee where he’s been adopted by a local family.

Watch Hank run in the Brewers’ Sausage Race.

hank

(I mean it. Watch this video.)

12th Inning ~ Big O

Big Orange the cat showed up one day at Phoenix Municipal (Muni) Stadium, spring home of the Oakland A’s, and never left.

big orange

Unlike Rookie and Hank the dogs, cats cannot be bothered with retrieving bats (stupid) or running with men dressed as bratwurst (demeaning).  (Cats are funny that way.)

One of the stadium employees takes care of “Big O.”

“The stadium manager kind of cut me some slack with running her off because she was kind of taking care of the rat population and the squirrels,” Jim Folk told Sports On Earth last spring.

“She’s definitely got a little attitude,” he said. “Like in the morning, when I quit petting her, she’ll swat me and then chase me down and grab onto my leg.”

The Oakland A’s are leaving the Muni for Hohokam Park next spring, and stadium employees are working to find a good new home for Big O.

*    *    *    *

smokey jo

This post is in memory of Smokey Jo (1998-2014).

A tough little missy who showed how diabetic cats can live long, normal, and happy lives with just a little bit of human help.

Five Things You Should Know About Curling

It seems that I still have a few friends here in Virginia who don’t know that I curled.

This is less a factor of me being modest and unassuming, and more of a factor that I increasingly blot out entire chapters of my life (most of them spent in North Dakota).

For the record, I have curled. I was a good sweeper, but a lousy curler. I couldn’t slide a rock to save my life. (They’re 40 pounds, those rocks.)

But, I could sweep, although I would often get so engrossed in my sweeping – back-forth-back-forth-back-back-forth-forth – that I wouldn’t hear the thrower or skip yelling directions to us sweepers down past the hog line.

(I just wanted to say “hog line.”)

The Olympic curlers are so loud they’ve been heard outside the Sochi arena barking orders to their sweepers.

Curling

Photo by: Otchampery via Creative Commons.

There are no photos of me curling, so stop asking.

I looked forward to curling days in high school gym class.

If it was basketball or volleyball day, it was simply an hour in the gym running around or getting whacked by the bigger, more athletic girls.

We played indoor soccer in the gym, too. That was more fun, and occasionally the tough girls would kick their rivals hard in the legs intentionally, and then blame the ball for the accident.

But, curling was great, because we had to take the school bus to get to the curling rink. (Devils Lake, North Dakota didn’t have much, but it had a curling rink … like a bowling alley only icier. And, colder.)

DL Curling

You thought I was kidding about the “Satan” thing in yesterday’s post?

Shuttling a bus load of high school students to the curling rink … and back … absorbed a good amount of the school day, or at least the daily gym requirement.  Ergo, curling was great.

And, every four years, come Olympics time, I have to defend the sport (and, yes, non-believers, it is harder than it looks, and it is a sport).

Curling_on_a_lake_in_Dartmouth,_Nova_Scotia,_Canada,_ca__1897

public domain image

Curling on a frozen Nova Scotia lake in 1897. Look how popular it is!

As a public service, here are five things you should know about curling.

5) That ice is not smooth.

At the elite, Olympic level, they manufacture an uneven icy surface – known as the sheet – by spraying water on it. At the beer-drinking levels of the sport, the ice just gets dinged up and scuffed on its own.

(I always thought this rough-ish surface was to keep us from falling down. But, the curling gods care less about the safety of its players and more for the maneuverability of the rock.)

4) Curlers wear special shoes.

Sweepers today have special slip-slidey shoes that have Teflon soles. The thrower wears one Teflon shoe (on his front foot) and one non-slip-slidely shoe on his back (hack) foot.

While novice curlers can get cheap “slip-on” soles to turn their normal-people shoes slidey, Olympic curlers will pay upwards of $450 for the perfect curling shoe.

3) The word “curling” has nothing to do with the movement of the rock.

The “currrrr” is the sound the rock makes while it slides on the ice. (I wrote a paper on the history of curling in high school, I know this stuff.)

2) The Beatles curl in the movie “Help!”

If there ever was a reason why I would love curling when I was in high school, that was it. (Spoiler Alert: The bad guys in “Help!” replace the curling rock with a bomb!)

Help

If the Ramones had curled, I’d have Olympic medals by now.

1) A weekend round-robin curling tournament is called a “bonspiel.”

This is one of the greatest, most beautiful, and most underused words ever. Please use “bonspiel” in conversation today.

(Bonus Fun Fact: In bonspiels, teams win “stuff” like tee-shirts, and curling shoes, and brooms, and, possibly, beer. If there’s money involved, then the tournament is called a “cashspiel.”)

Now, go watch curling … and impress your friends!

“The One Foul Blot on Dakota’s Map”

I was going to post this on Friday. But, instead, we shoveled snow away from our cars and plowed down the pasture road and out to freedom. 

Freedom being the paved road about a mile away that was completely clear and dry. Ten inches of snow on Thursday; sunny and 52 degrees on Friday.

So, Editor/Husband and I went out to lunch. And, shoveled just a little bit more, but mostly out of guilt because everyone else seemed to be shoveling, so we thought we probably ought to, too.

Snow Day Feb 14

Nice walkways, yes?

This post should have ended up on the scrap heap. That’s where most of my posts end up. You get only the very best ones. You might now be thinking, “Good god, what kind of crap doesn’t make the cut?”

(That’s very rude and hurtful, by the way.)

Some of what doesn’t make the cut is stuff like this:

“Skdjkl sj;lagja ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp”

This was a guest post from Stevie who paws her way across the keyboard from time to time. Every cat is attracted to a keyboard at least once. My cat Squeekee once stepped on the “enter” key and sent an unfinished, typo-filled email to a consulting client. Always a plus when you’re charging to edit their copy.

I was going to scrap this post because it’s mostly about (me). Writing about (me) simply means there isn’t good baseball or Yoga to write about.  And, there’s always good baseball and Yoga to write about.

For those of you still reading (as you wait for the Olympics or tonight’s Downton Abbey), here’s the post I should have scrapped:

When I was in Junior High, my parents uprooted me from California to return to their original home – a farm in North Dakota (a few dozen miles from the geographic center of North America; a good 10 miles from the nearest paved, two-lane road, and 15 miles or so from the nearest grocery store).

It was cold and flat. It was very, very cold and very, very flat.

I had the foresight to keep this newspaper article.

windchill

I went outside that day, but I am not the person jogging. Needless to say, that was my last winter in North Dakota.

The eastern half of North Dakota is so flat that from our farmhouse, I could easily see the town lights at night 14 miles away … except when the snow blotted them out (which was more often than you can imagine).

I lived in a town called Devils Lake.

In 1883, a local newspaper editor wrote this about there:

“If they persist in their infernal mobs, shooting scrapes, shanty burnings, etc. people cannot but be convinced that the Devils Lake country is inhabited by a band of roughs and that a decent man’s life is not safe there. … All respectable people regret to see the settlers of Devils Lake … the one foul blot on Dakota’s map.”

The Devils Lake high school sports teams were called the Satans and no one there thought it odd when a gym full of high school students yelled, “Satans spirit never dies! Never! Never! Never!”  (After nearly 80 years, they changed the name to Firebirds in 2002, but, they’ll always be the Satans to the locals.)

yearbooks

High School Yearbooks were called “The Satan.” And, how about that artwork?

It was far too cold and far too snowy for the high school to have a baseball team and no one there thought that was odd either.

Curling

No baseball. But, we did have curling. I was an awesome sweeper.

My years there was time spent, I guess, as the foundation for saying “I’m much happier here in this better place” ever since.

(If you think I’m being tough on that old town, you are right, although I’m being far kinder than I would be if you and I were to sit down together and have a beer. For the record, I recently checked the school’s alumni pages, and I am not included with my graduating class. It’s as though I never existed. This, at first, pissed me off. But, now it just gives me validation in rehashing many not-so-kind memories. It also makes it much easier to lie about my age.)

Finally sprung from both high school and college, I came east, happy to find much warmer weather, far better music, Yoga, and, yes, baseball.

I never looked back.

In North Dakota when it snows, the snow sticks around, often for months. In Devils Lake, the main streets in town have a permafrost layer of packed down snow, ice, and gravel throughout the winter. You just live with it.

Snow? -100 wind chills? You just live with it.

Here in Virginia as soon as there is a threat of even two inches of snow, everyone panics. The store shelves are emptied and schools are closed, often for days on end.

It snows.

And, then the sun comes out and the day turns warm.

The snow melts.

Baseball has come. Spring Training’s underway in Florida and Arizona. College games are being played.

Enough about (me). It’s baseball season!

(Want more curling? I’ve written more curling! Click here.)

Snow Cat