Category Archives: Life

Baseball, Barn, Life … (and me)

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When I first started this blog one year ago (happy birthday, blog!) I thought that the slow, simple, and beautiful game of baseball reflected the same energy that I experience on my Yoga mat.

Simple on the outside, but intricate and complex and insanely sweet on the inside.

Deep, yeh?

But, now I’ve realized that the slow, simple, and beautiful game of baseball is also a lot like the barn that we are building …

the barn july 19 13

… and building …. and building.

And, the second half of the baseball season …

And, the second half of the barn building …

begins now.

Our old barn served us well. It had been a good old barn for many decades before we turned up. The previous owners probably used it as an actual barn. We used it as extra storage for items that didn’t mind that it listed a bit to the north, the wood was worn thin, the walls were porous, and it rained as hard inside as out.

It’s hard to say goodbye to a good old barn. In the same way, it’s hard to say goodbye to baseball players as their better days, their greatest games, fade.

I still miss Cal Ripken.*

Cal

But, hope springs eternal.

And, just as spring training got underway, we started a new barn.

Now you see it …

??????????

Now you don’t …

??????????

And, as the baseball season has worn on, so has the barn building.

The barn’s been slowed by paperwork and rain delays.

It’s been slowed by crew members being traded to new teams, being put on the DL, or just plain disappearing.

But, it’s coming together.

And, as the second half of baseball begins, our barn project continues, too.

Still waiting for a roof.

rafters

And, some walls.

barn july 19 13

But we saved the old barn door and it will be put up inside somewhere.

barn door

A place of honor in our barn “Hall of Fame.”

Time moves forward for barns and baseball.

We’ll have a new barn.

And, Manny Machado.  (You gotta watch this …)

Manny july 13

And, the World Series will come. And, the Orioles will be there. And, the barn will be awesome.

I’m sure of it.

My amazing Barn Dude – the Player-Manager of the Barn Building – will tell you that the barn is well beyond halfway. It’s well into the playoffs. This is good for us since it means the barn will be a real barn before October. (Barn Dude’s not a baseball fan, but he remembers seeing the Red Sox at Fenway. What is it with all these Red Sox fans in my world?)

*And, Billy.

Bhakti, Cicadas, & Jim Johnson

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OK, first off, somebody Googled “life is meaningless and everything dies” yesterday and somehow … for some insane reason known only to the Internet … was directed to my blog.

Really? Really??? I’m very disappointed in you, Google.

For the record, life is NOT meaningless (not even for the Miami Marlins), but yes, in fact, everything does die eventually.

In Yoga there is a path called Bhakti – the Yoga of devotion. It’s one of the simplest paths of Yoga because there are no special instructions to guide it. The practice is simply seeing, feeling, experiencing, and honoring the divine in yourself, in others, and in the world around you. You know, the divine (life force, meaningful goodness, or God or the Goddess … take your pick here).

Seeing and honoring the divine in a beloved friend, a beautiful flower, or a joyful cat is a pretty easy way to rock the Bhakti path.

??????????

Hi, Stevie!

But, isn’t that a bit too easy?

Seeing the divine in the heart of an annoying person, in something ugly or frightening, or in a difficult experience … now that’s Bhakti.

Here in Virginia, thousands upon thousands (upon thousands) of other-worldly cicadas have made their way up out of the ground. They’ve left their crunchy outer shells (or carcasses, if you will) all over, including dozens on my porch.

Here's a cicada, ready for anything!

Here’s a cicada, ready for anything!

After 17 years underground, they emerge like randy Rip Van Winkles to mate. Yes, finally old enough to mingle at the frat house mixer conveniently located in my elm tree.

They are known mostly for the ethereal mating song of the male – something that sounds strangely like spaceships landing in a low-rent sci-fi movie. You can listen here.

They make that sound by flexing their bellies which vibrates little bongo drums in their abdomen. (I’m not kidding. Wing rubbing is for sissies.)

The sound is considered beautiful and alluring to female cicadas. When a thousand of them get their drums going, it can get pretty loud and can go all night (which, again, seems rather frat-like). What may make a female cicada swoon can be incredibly annoying for humans.

Not to mention the fact that cicadas are rather large – 2 or 3 inches – are related to locusts, have translucent wings and enormous, kinda creepy red eyes. (They also make a terrible squishing sound when you accidentally step on one … and with thousands of them lounging on your porch, it’s bound to happen.)

It’s hard to love a cicada (unless you’re a chicken; they and other animals find cicadas to be buttery and delicious).

I dedicated the Yoga classes I taught this week to the cicada – which meant lots of core work (to activate our own abdomens), deep breathing (after 17 years underground I would think they’d appreciate some fresh air) and a lot of stretching out of the earth and out of our shells. (People were on their own for the mating thing …)

I just wanted to send a little love to the cicada. Very cool little locusts, if a bit ugly. I wanted to honor the sweet divine that rests within them, in the same way it rests within all of us.

So, Bhakti for the cicadas!

And, Bhakti for Jim Johnson, beleaguered Baltimore Orioles closer.

Jim Johnson

He blew three straight saves (as part of a six-game Orioles losing streak) in recent days.

It’s no fun watching your All-Star closer toss up batting practice and lose games in the bottom of the 9th that you thought were won.

It’s 10 p.m., the game’s winding down … you have a comfortable one- or two-run lead, time to get ready for bed. And, Jim Johnson comes out to the mound, gives up a meaningless hit (just to make things interesting) and then shuts them down. Old Reliable Jim.

We turn off the TV and go to bed happy, with dreams of the World Series in our heads.

But, when things go bad for Jim Johnson, my Editor/Husband yells at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no!”  Things went very bad this week.

I’m sure my husband knows that Jim Johnson can’t actually hear him. I’m pretty much the only one who can. (Well, the cats hear him, too, but what can they do? They can’t even bunt.)

It’s when players have rough games or go through a slump that you have to look beyond an external bad day to see through to the goodness within.

So we decided (and by “we”, I mean “I” decided) no more yelling at Jim Johnson. Only positive support. (Yeh, I know, Jim Johnson can’t hear that either. But, the house is more peaceful, so … progress.)

After all, we all have bad days. We all have slumps. But, it doesn’t define who we are.

On Tuesday night, Jim Johnson came out in the 10th inning and shut down the Yankees 1-2-3. So, he’s coming around.

Even when things are bad, or when people let you down or disappoint you, or strange-looking locusts crawl out of the ground to make noise and mess up your porch … you can look for the sweetness, the goodness, the divine, within. That’s Bhakti.

Seeing and honoring the divine in your loved ones is a good start. Extending that recognition to others in your world, even the ones you don’t know or you don’t understand, takes a bit more work.

It’s worth the effort.

And, life isn’t meaningless.

This Post Didn’t Cost You A Penny.

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This word didn’t cost you a penny.

Neither did THIS one.

Just free words. On a free blog.

I like stringing words together. Some people can spend hours in their gardens, tending, and weeding, and pruning, and picking.

I can’t imagine.

Maybe this is my gardening. I love to fuss with words on a page. Move them around like a game of three-card monte. Watch the nouns and verbs grow into sentences – or into quippy fragments. Occasionally even into coherent thoughts.

When someone comments here or tells me that they read a post, it really means a lot. Millions upon millions of words crowd into the internet each day. (Sorry for the “millions and millions” estimate, I just didn’t have time to count them all.)

That you took a minute or two out of your day to read my string of words is very kind. I really mean that.

So, I sort of cocked my head sideways (yes, like a puzzled puppy seeing a turtle for the first time) when I read something recently by one of my favorite writers. He said that if someone gives away words for free online, they make it hard for the writers trying to make a living at it.

(I’m not even going to tell you who he is … but if you’re a fan of Baltimore and groundbreaking television, then you can figure it out.)

This initially upset me.

First, I didn’t realize I was making it hard for other writers because no one paid me to hit the “publish” button on this post.

Second, and perhaps more important, I don’t like people being mad at me.

(To that point: I’m still concerned that I angered some of my friends by disparaging their Red Sox in recent posts. Like here … and here. It’s not like I keep mentioning the Curse of the Andino in every post … but maybe it did accidentally slip in once or twice. I believe I have more friends who are Red Sox fans than support any other team. I’m not sure why that is, but they are all wonderful people who don’t need to be reminded every day about woeful past seasons. Really. It’s not like they lost 90 games last year. And, anyway, as they would be quick to tell me … there’s lots of room at the bottom of the AL East … and their team didn’t just drop five games straight.)

(No charge, by the way, for the bonus baseball tangent.)

Back to topic.

I don’t want to make any real writers angry. I certainly don’t want to devalue their work.

I’m conflicted.

Am I cheapening words by just typing and posting willy-nilly on here?

Or, is this blog like zucchini? (Note the clever continuation of the gardening logic.) Every summer I have gardening friends who grow way too much zucchini. (Why is it always zucchini? Why can’t they grow too much chocolate? Or, coffee?) They give their bounty away. Some of it to me.

Did they cheapen the work of farmers by growing some vegetables and giving it away?

I could go on, but let me just say this …

I’m a massage therapist. People rub each other’s shoulders for free all the time — it doesn’t devalue what I do. I just have to do it better than they do.

If you’re a professional writer and you’re worried about bloggers cheapening your writing and taking your livelihood away … write better than we do.

A sportswriter (who gets paid to write) said this weekend (on a program where he was paid to give his opinion) that baseball bloggers can say whatever they want, without worrying about anyone calling them on factual errors. Unlike professional sportswriters, baseball bloggers also can complain about a team’s performance or decisions without compromising their relationship with the team or enduring any repercussions.

Here’s what I heard:

1) I, the lowly blogger, am fortunate to be able to speak my truth because I don’t have to worry about Oriole Manager Buck Showalter ever … ever … returning my call, (wow, lucky me), and

2) When push comes to shove, apparently, this sportswriter’s going to tow the party line when it comes to covering the Orioles or Nationals (his main beats). For him, writing something negative – even if true – would compromise his relationships and sources on the team. If that’s his worry, can we actually depend on him to write the cold, hard truth when the truth is unkind?

I think he meant to say … Twitter and Facebook and blogs are unfiltered mediums.

But, fans with opinions have been yelling at umpires, smart-mouthing players, and rudely second-guessing managers since the game began. Now, there are new ways to send those rants out to the world – by just hitting the “send” button.

And, in the same way fans ignore the drunk, noisy shouters at games, we also tune out annoying, know-it-all online ranters.

To be fair, he did allow that there are “some” good baseball bloggers out there. (Please, pick me, pick me!)

And, that thing about making mistakes? I try to fact-check everything I post, but I make mistakes. I recently posted a factual error that was kindly corrected by a reader within just a couple hours of posting. So, I think the thoughtful blog world does police itself.

Some writers get paid to put their thoughts, ideas, and stories into words. I will never begrudge them a penny. Writing good, not easy. Writing well, even harder.

For the rest of us – who struggle to make sense of the world through words – we must find our compensation in other ways.

As long as I can make my Editor/Husband chuckle from time to time … and as long as I can help ensure future generations know about the Red Sox Curse of the Andino … I guess I’m gonna be good with that.

Always Cheer The Underdog & Other Good Advice From Mom

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My mom would be delighted that this Mother’s Day post is early.

For her, being on time was as bad as being late. If you couldn’t be early, why bother?

I’m usually on time with things. Occasionally late. Never early. This drove her crazy.

If my mother were here she would never have seen this blog. She wouldn’t really have cared about it, except for one thing.

My dad has already been mentioned a time or two. But, she hasn’t.

And, that, to my mother, is as bad as being late for an appointment. I can turn from the beloved only child to utter failure with just a single unintentional slight.

So, today, I’m making things right. I’m early.

Here’s one for mom.

My dad didn’t care much for baseball. My mom didn’t either.

But, there are these two things …

FIRST, when I was about 10, it was her idea to make a birthday cake for me with a San Francisco Giant player made of sugar sitting on top of a Los Angeles Dodger “sugar man” that she had pushed into top of the cake.

“My” team squished my dad’s team right there in the frosting.

It was pretty funny.

The next year she did the same thing with a San Francisco 49er football “sugar player” sitting on top of a Los Angeles Ram. The joke was a little old by then, but since “my team” had defeated “dad’s team” yet again, it was still funny.

SECOND, and probably most important, she always, always, always rooted for the underdog.

Underdogs were golden and her reasoning was indisputable. If the underdog lost, well, it was pretty much expected. What can you do? But, if they won, then she had something she could lord over dad and the rest of the world for days.

This led to an out-of-the-blue decision one year that she would root for the New York Mets in the 1969 World Series. I was still pretty small. (However young you think I was at the time, I’m sure I was even younger.)

Mom decided that she and I would watch the Series, although, aside from “hit the ball, catch the ball, throw the ball,” neither of us really knew what we were watching. But, by golly, we were going to cheer the underdoggy Mets to victory.

Mom’s attention span for things like baseball turned out to be pretty slim.

Not only did my mother not watch an entire game, I’m pretty sure she never made it out of the first inning. As she would get up to have a smoke and move to other tasks, she would say, “You watch and let me know what happens.”  So, I guess, I became her personal Curt Gowdy. My memory of this is pretty dim.

When the Mets won the Series, they lost their underdog glamour. They lost my mom. She never rooted for them again.

But, I wonder if at that moment, the Baltimore Orioles – who fell to the Miracle Mets in that Series – creeped into my bloodstream.

Perhaps it was that decision by my mom that led to my own decision 19 years later. When the Orioles themselves couldn’t have been a sorrier team of underdogs, they became “my team”.

Like mom, I clearly have a soft spot for underdogs.

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

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

But, while baseball wasn’t her thing, good advice was. So, to make things right on this blog and to give my mom a well-deserved online “I love you”, here’s some sweet guidance she gave me:

  • When making pie crusts always use vegetable shortening and ice cold water. Use a metal tablespoon to measure the water.
  • When making pancakes always use an electric skillet.
  • When your hands and/or feet are cold, heat your belly with a hot pack. The heat will radiate to your fingers and toes from the inside.
  • When using your grandmother’s recipes, remember that she often left out “secret” – and essential – ingredients when she shared them. On purpose.
  • I named you for Jackie Kennedy, there’s no need to have holes in your jeans.
  • It’s never too early to start coloring your hair. You won’t look so obvious when you’re covering up the grey later on.
  • Don’t scrimp on nice clothes, nice shoes, and anything you put on your face.
  • Pets are the best friends you’ll ever have.
  • Don’t ever get a pet, they’ll break your heart when they die.  (She gave good advice, but that’s not to say she didn’t contradict herself from time to time.)
  • If you leave for church 40 minutes early you’ll have time to say your prayers before Mass. “Can’t I say them from here?”  “Come on, let’s go.”  Corollary: If you arrive early for Mass, you are entitled to leave early – directly after Communion.  Just keep walking and don’t make eye contact.
  • If you arrive for your doctor’s appointment 30 minutes early they might be able to take you early. They never did and this was one of the few pieces of extraordinarily rotten advice she ever gave.

Flash to April 14, 2013.

Editor/Husband: “Why are you working on this now? It’s three weeks until Mother’s Day.”

“Because, I don’t want to be sitting up at midnight on the Saturday before Mother’s Day trying to get this finished.”

“Oh, you will.”

No, I won’t. And, I didn’t. And, here it is.

Early.

Happy Mother’s Day to my mom up in heaven … and to all moms everywhere!

Free Baseball: Chilly Spring Edition

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Today, a sweet Dodger, some Giants recreate a historic Delta House moment, nine cubs (the real kind, not a Chicago lineup), and the latest on the Squirrel Uprising.

“Free Baseball” refers to games that go to extra innings. You only paid to see nine innings … so, the extra ones are free. On here, it refers to the videos, stories, and online stuff I stumble upon and love, but that don’t quite merit a post of their own. Hence, they’re extra.

Enjoy!

10th Inning  Matt Kemp is a LA Dodgers superstar.  I will, on occasion, make snarky wisecracks about him.  But, that ends today.  Because, I just saw this sweet video of Kemp visiting with a young fan.  It’s a short clip, genuine, and it made me cry.  It wasn’t overwrought.  It was just Matt Kemp doing something amazingly kind and precious.  I will never utter a bad word about him again. Ever.  Click here.

matt kemp

11th Inning Have you ever wondered what a squirrel would do if he had to go out and get a real job? Well, I hadn’t, until today.

Apparently squirrels in Arizona have been scamming humans and passing themselves off as “service animals.” You know, seeing eye dogs … so, seeing eye squirrels? I have no idea what exactly the squirrels are up to (except they are clearly planning to use this to their advantage in a Squirrel-Human war).

The squirrels became such a threat that Arizona found it necessary to pass a law forbidding them from ever again being hired as “service animals”. If they gotta pass a law, you know those squirrels were up to something. Squirrels may be wily, but they can’t make laws.  So, count this as a win for humans.

Click here for the story.

What’s next? Will the squirrels try to take over our baseball games too? What? They already did? Watch this squirrel infiltrate a college baseball game just last week. Click here.

squirrel chase

Prepare yourself for the Squirrel Uprising. It’s begun.

12th Inning Two things you should know …

1) The World Series Champion SF Giants came back from the brink of defeat in the National League playoffs last season. They attributed part of their amazing comeback to the inspiring cheerleading of their right fielder Hunter Pence.  (He’s been on this blog before with his special brand of crazy … click here).

2) Animal House is the greatest movie ever made. Really. I’m not just saying that so you can roll your eyes and beg to differ. I can offer up great chunks of that movie line-by-line (movie-quoting is usually a trait reserved for men, but on this count I can quote up against the best of them).

Here’s what happens when you put a bunch of Giants in a room and ask them to recreate the greatest scene from the greatest movie ever made.  (Interesting side note, these Giants are so young not one of them had ever even seen Animal House. Which is a tragedy.)

Click here.

Giants

And, here are the two scenes side-by-side.  Click here.

side by side giants

13th Inning And, finally, bear cubs … lots of bear cubs … courtesy of the Wildlife Center of Virginia (where my husband works). They are currently caring for nine cubs – the same number as a Chicago Cubs lineup, but, with apologies to Chicago, these fellas are much cuter.

Feeding Time, click here.

feeding time

Medicine Time, click here.

medicine time

P.S.  Good healing vibrations are going out today to Toronto Blue Jays Pitcher J.A. Happ who was badly injured last night by a line drive that hit him in the head. It’s a reminder that even a simple game can change everything with just one pitch. He remains in the hospital as of this writing.  Wishing you a quick and full recovery, Mr. Happ!

And, thank you to the Toronto Blue Jays broadcasters who were incredibly respectful during last night’s incident. They did not replay the injury over and over, did not become animated or overwrought. They simply described the unfolding situation quietly, and with respect and concern.

It’s Still Early. Unless It’s Too Late.

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May 2013A couple days ago, a local baseball broadcaster said, “In April we say, ‘it’s early’. But now it’s May.”

This is poetic because it references baseball, but it could apply to anything. Or nothing. It could be incredibly deep and thought-provoking.  Or it could be stupid. For all I know it’s just meaningless gibberish.

So, it’s May and it’s no longer early (unless you’re a basil plant in which case … ok, you there, basil, it’s early. Pipe down and stay inside a few more days.)

Since it’s no longer early, I should be able to tell you who’s going to the playoffs.

But, I can’t. Because it’s still early. Unless, it’s already way too late.

Who knows?

(The Orioles are going to the playoffs by the way, but it’s too early to be saying that. Except parenthetically, of course.)

If you’re the Angels of Anaheim, it is early. You may be doing poorly (which leads to much mocking at your expense), but you’re one of baseball’s big spenders, one or two of those millions of dollars must surely pay off eventually. (You might want to have a little get-together with the Dodgers and talk all this “money well spent” thing out.)

If you’re the Red Sox … you are doing very well. You are doing better than anyone, and better than anyone expected. You’re off to a fast start.

(There, Red Sox fans, are you happy now? I said something nice. It’s not like I am always sitting here reminding you of the Curse of the Andino every time I mention Boston.)

But here’s the thing. The Red Sox are like the couple who shows up an hour before the party starts. (And, they’re usually the people you didn’t really want to invite, but felt you had to, because they would eventually find out they weren’t invited, because everyone else was, and it’s going to lead to some awkward moments on Monday. So, just to make things easy you invite them and hope they have other plans  … and then, dammit, they show up an hour early. But, they do bring spinach dip, so that’s nice.)

Anyway, the Red Sox often get off to very fast starts. They love early.

The Yankees just lean against the wall, fold their arms, tap their feet, whistle tunelessly, and wait. Eventually, the Red Sox’ early runs out. Then the Yankees slowly step over the smoldering wreckage and into first. I hate that.

The Yankees know it’s still early because most of their stars are on the disabled list. So, it’s too early to know how good or how bad their season will be, because they’re not even playing yet.

And, the Dodgers keep getting hurt, so it’s impossible to know how early or late it is for them.

If your team is off to a shaky – but not horrific – start (hi, Baltimore!) then it’s still early. Sure, the Red Sox are smokin’ hot, but you’re only 3.5 games back.

The Red Sox are going to fold like a massage therapist on laundry day. (Inside joke there for my fellow therapists.)

So, Orioles fans, lots of time left. It’s still early. It’s also never too late to find a fifth starting pitcher, so you just keep looking, ok?

If you’re woefully dreadful, because your owners have sold off all your stars, pocketed the profits, and still think they can stick you for an $8 hotdog and 25 players you’ve never heard of, then yes, for you Miami Marlins fan, it probably is too late. But, you still have the Bobblehead Museum, so there is that.

(Observation: why do the Red Sox and the Yankees get to feast on poor Houston’s bones all through April? Don’t they have to play anyone else?  And, you just know Houston’s going to have a magical little mini-surge in there somewhere, and it better not be when they’re playing the Orioles.)

So here’s where we are as May kicks off.

Every division has two or three teams playing better than .500 ball. They’re doing well. They had good early.

And, every division has two or three teams playing sub-.500 ball. But, never count a late bloomer out. (See, Astros … I got your back.)

Maybe it’s not too early or too late. Every day brings new possibilities.

A pitcher down in some Triple A town last night might have finally figured out how to pitch, rather than throw. He may be ready for a June promotion.  He may save a team’s season.

Or one night, a star’s knee buckles on a routine play and suddenly everything changes.

So what’s the Yoga lesson?

For those who say it’s still early. They’re wrong.

For those who say it’s no longer early. They’re wrong, too.

For those who say it’s not too late. You might be right.

And, for those who say it’s too late. Just you wait.

It’s just right now.

Or, as baseball legend Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

My husband/editor would like to add that of the teams that led their divisions on April 30, 2012, only one (the Nationals) went on to win their division. So put him down as a vote for “it’s still early.”

In other baseball news, Orioles first baseman Chris Davis is, sadly, no longer on pace to hit 162 homeruns this season. He also hurt himself during last night’s game. One wonky knee can spoil things for everybody.  (Get well soon, Mr. Davis!)

As for me, I cracked my head against the wall in the bathroom this morning. I’m not sure how or why this happened, short of the wall reaching out and just smacking me for no good reason. While I’m probably going to be ok, if you never see another post here from me, you’ll know why.

The Wisdom of Mr. Spammy

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I have a blog.

You already knew that because you’re reading it right now.

(Stating the obvious is something I’m pretty good at.)

I try to write well. I write on this blog as a way to find my voice again. Because in 5th grade I decided I would be a writer. Because I eventually got a journalism degree (back when journalism was something that was mainly done on newsprint). And, because I keep thinking I ought to write more.

It was too lonely to do it alone. So I badgered a lot of you into reading this. (You guys are great!)

In recent weeks though, for no good reason, this blog has picked up bunches of new followers. All sorts of random followers. Many don’t speak English; many deactivate their blog accounts just as soon as they follow. I try not to take any of this personally.

Maybe they really do care about baseball and Yoga. Maybe I can turn them into Orioles fans. (Go O’s!) Maybe my thoughtful posts have warmed their hearts.  Maybe they really ARE reading me. (Are you?? Are you really there???)

I’ve also gotten a good amount of odd comments on my posts recently. All sorts of weird spam that the kindly Word Press Spam Checker grabs and holds for me to go in and tick-tick-tick-tick-tick “delete all.”

For the most part, spammers don’t really try. I’m pretty sure I could be a better spammer than these guys. Their spelling and grammar is atrocious. Many don’t even bother to spoof a comment, they just run their spam URL a couple dozen times. Lazy.

It’s insulting actually. If you want to spam me, at least put some effort into it.

But, then a classic emerges from the spam heap. A brilliant spam that might not be perfect, but comes pretty close.

I showed it to a friend and she said, “Wow, you got a comment from James Joyce!”

And, she is right. And, so I share Mr. Spammy’s comment with you, because he tried. He really did. And, no one’s ever compared ME to James Joyce.

“I often tried this device as soon as we left for your Enhanc. I have been making my foot or so using the drink station of your bar stool I have been sitting on and also had no idea about I have been flexing a number of the sequins, I have been upset on me. If only were being knee levels.”

I’m not quite sure I completely understand, but I’m sure there’s a message here for all of us. Thank you for your wisdom, Mr. Spammy!

#2: Look It’s Me! The Orioles in St. Petersburg

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When I started this Spring Training series, I had my Top 5 list ready to go.

But, my editor/husband insisted that the Spring Training I attended should be included.

So, apologies Limestone League – the World War II-era years when teams held Spring Training north of the Mason-Dixon and east of the Mississippi. French Lick and Terre Haute. Bloomington and Muncie.

You’re off the list. (Maybe next year.)

Number 2 on my list of amazing Spring Trainings is the one I attended in St. Petersburg, Florida. 

Many people believe that attending Spring Training is the mark of a true baseball fan.

They’re wrong.

To be a true baseball fan is to watch a 17-inning game, start to finish … and then watch it again when the local sports network replays it on Thanksgiving Day. (It will take six hours and seven minutes, in case you’re wondering. And, yes, we won.)

To be a true baseball fan is to sit – or, more correctly, stand – through a freezing two-and-a-half hour rain delay during the playoffs only to have your team go down in bitter defeat in the 9th.

To be a true baseball fan is to watch your beloved team lose more often than it wins and still love them. To watch them lose 100 games in a single season. To watch them lose 21 in a row. And, still love them.

To be a true baseball fan is to say, “We’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” no matter the odds. And, mean it.

Spring Training, on the other hand, is just a lovely way to spend a vacation in Florida (or Arizona) during the chilly, waning days of winter. Sandwiching ballgames with a little beach time or tee time or margarita time.

For a few years in the 1990s, the St. Louis Cardinals shared St. Petersburg, Florida and Al Lang Stadium with the Baltimore Orioles.

There's a lot of milling about at Spring Training.

There’s a lot of milling about at Spring Training.

So, in 1992, I went to Spring Training by myself. I was much younger of course (12 would be a good guess, but since I was driving a rental car and drinking beer, though not at the same time, perhaps I was a bit older).

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The Season Before The Season

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I told a friend that if I got a lazy snow day at home this week, I would definitely write about baseball and Spring Training – the season-before-the-season.

I forgot the part about having electricity.

So, what began as a rare and beautiful snowy “off day” in a winter that hasn’t had much in the way of snow …

dotty snow

Quickly morphed into a brutal and ugly struggle for survival as a heavy, wet snow took out nearly every tree and power line in Central Virginia. (I’m estimating here, but we had either 10 inches or 8 feet of snow … I couldn’t tell for sure.)

snow day2

The Day After — the slushy, muddy, messy road to our house, after all the tree limbs were cleared away.

No power means a couple things. No heat. No light. No flushing. No internet. Clearly this would not be easy.

It would be a difficult struggle. Our very lives teetered on the brink.

I wore mittens, for God’s sake. IN THE HOUSE. Do you know how hard it is to turn the page on your Kindle wearing mittens? It is impossible.

Yes, we struggled. For six long and torturous hours.

(For point of reference, six hours is like sitting through a 17-inning game. Now, imagine it while wearing seven layers of clothing. And, then your team loses.)

Then, the power came back on.

(My husband and trusty editor would like you to know he napped through most of it.)

The lights lit. The water ran. The house toasted. Why are we more civilized than squirrels? We flush.

I’ve been easing my way into baseball this season. Just like the players, the umps, and the broadcasters, Spring Training is a time for fans to find our rhythm, too. Time to figure out who’s playing where. Time to choose the lucky tee-shirt I’ll wear during must-win games (Manny Machado, #13, don’t let me down).

mannytee

Time to block off the calendar. You’re getting married/having a baby/throwing a party when? April? June? July? September? No, no, I’m afraid I can’t, I’ll be watching baseball.

Time to dissolve into an easy, loping pace. Because easy and loping is the only way you’ll make it through the season without burning out or giving up.

And, if I can get my easy loping skills down (and, as I said, I’m still in spring training) it might be an equally long blog season here. So, settle in …

Sitting in a dark, cold house – mitten-clad – on a wet, snowy, powerless day made me ask myself, “What Spring Training places would be preferable to sitting in a dark, cold house during a March snowstorm in Virginia?”

The correct answer is: all of them.

But, why should I simply plow through all 30 Spring Training locales on this blog when you can just turn on MLB Network, probably right this very second, and catch a game beamed live out of Florida or Arizona?

Ed Smith Stadium, Sarasota, Florida. Spring home of the Baltimore Orioles. Go O's!

Ed Smith Stadium, Sarasota, Florida. Spring home of the Baltimore Orioles. Go O’s!

That’s when I came up with my list of the most amazing Spring Trai… …

… …

Well, that’s enough for today.

Just like the players, who ease in by playing a few innings here or there, or knock off at noon so they can get in some golf, or just skip the bus ride to the away game entirely, I’m gonna wrap up for today. Can’t push too hard, too early, or risk injury.

But, I’ll be back tomorrow … or the next. Because we’ve got lots of Spring Training ahead, before the real season even begins. (And, don’t forget the World Baseball Classic. Oh, so much to do! Oh, so much to watch!)

It’s Spring!

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“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.” ~ Rogers Hornsby (legendary 2nd baseman from 1915-1937, .358 career batting average)

Waiting For The Ball, by Clinton Helms

Waiting For The Ball, by Clinton Helms

There’s a moment that comes, long about February, when the need for the spring becomes more than just a gentle, sweet longing.  It becomes much more urgent, almost primal.  As though you’ve gotten so chilled to the bone … there’s no telling if you’ll ever thaw out.

It’s in that moment of urgency that you know that finally – finally! – you can begin to count.

Five, four, three, two …

Not the days ’til spring.

The days ’til Spring Training.

For those whose calendars failed to remind them, pitchers and catchers report in Florida and in Arizona on Monday.

And, while February 11 isn’t spring. It’s close enough.

Because baseball is there to remind you that spring will come, despite the cold and the snow and the dark.

Here in Virginia, it’s still winter. Sure, there’s no snow on the ground (sorry, New England) and today was almost pleasant (apologies, North Dakota). (And by pleasant, I mean I bundled up snuggly in a wool sweater, extra long scarf, and fully buttoned winter coat, but the kid playing outside at the grocery store was in shorts and a tee shirt.)

But, it’s still winter.

Photos of Minor League Baseball, by David Deal at the Arts Center in Orange

Photos of Minor League Baseball, by David Deal at the Arts Center in Orange

Until, you walk into a room filled with baseball.

And, the sun is shining through the windows at just the right angle, and you swear it’s the bone-warming sunshine that comes in May. And, the room is brighter and more golden than any room you’ve been in for months. And, you look all around and you’re surrounded by spring … and summer and baseball.

Even here, in Orange, Virginia, where the Orioles Spring Training camp is – by Mapquest’s calculations – 14 hours and 40 minutes away, and the first day of spring is farther still.

Even here, like even everywhere, baseball brings the promise of new life and the hopes of spring.

This week, the Arts Center in Orange, in downtown Orange, Virginia, opened a warm and sweet multimedia exhibit called Spring Training.  All things baseball, by a talented group of local artists.

Right here, in my little town. Baseball.

If that don’t beat all.

And, it made my heart jump alittle. And I felt the promise of springtime seep through the lining of my coat, through the scarf and wool sweater.  Right into my bones.

Finally. Warm again.

“That’s the true harbinger of spring, not crocuses or swallows returning to Capistrano, but the sound of a bat on a ball.” ~ Bill Veeck (20th-century baseball owner & innovator)

For some, baseball is history …

Ball Park Blessing by Susan Harb

Ball Park Blessing by Susan Harb

For some baseball is youth …

By John Strader

By John Strader

“Don’t tell me about the world. Not today. It’s springtime and they’re knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball.”  ~ Pete Hamill, journalist & author

For some, baseball is memory …

Memories, by Chee Kludt Ricketts

Memories, by Chee Kludt Ricketts

For some, baseball is a game …

Venus Flycatcher by John Strader

Venus Flycatcher by John Strader

For some, baseball is religion …

By Susan Harb

Baseball Candelabra by Susan Harb

For some, baseball is life …

"A Very Long Season" by John Corrao

“A Very Long Season” by John Corrao

“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” ~ occasionally attributed to Yogi Berra (Legendary Yankee, #8) … and sometimes to an 8-year-old kid.  But, hey, let’s give this one to Yogi.

You should wander your way to Orange and check out the Arts Center.  (Lots of cool other things besides baseball, too.  Yes, there are other things besides baseball.  A few things anyway.)

SPRING TRAINING

On Exhibit at the ARTS CENTER in ORANGE

129 East Main Street, Orange Virginia

February 7 thru March 30, 2013

Monday thru Saturday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.

No charge, although donations are gratefully accepted

www.artscenterinorange.com

All images are the copyright of the artists.  Images used with the kind permission of The Arts Center in Orange.  A special thank you to Laura Thompson, Arts Center Executive Director.

Ball in Hand, by David Deal

Ball in Hand, by David Deal