Tag Archives: Baltimore Orioles

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!

#5: The Yankees Go To Shreveport

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The game is full of subtlety,

Of science and of art,

Where mind and brain

Beneath the strain

Must carry out their part.

 

But when it comes to climax stuff

Beyond the final scoff,

Give me the bloke

With mighty poke

Who tears the cover off.

~ Grantland Rice, New York Tribune, March 15, 1921

 In today’s installment of “Spring Training Is Way Better Than Sitting In A House Without Power During A Freak Snowstorm In March” … let’s head to Shreveport, Louisiana.

 March 1921.

Spring Training with the New York Yankees. (And, you know this better be good if I’m going to spend a post talking about the Yankees.)

See, Spring Training wasn’t always Grapefruits and Cactus.  Georgia, South Carolina, Texas, and Alabama were all popular destinations in the early years of baseball.  Teams just seemed to wander around.

Spring Training over the years has evolved into a structured program to polish up one’s skills with weight training, fielding drills, batting practice, and conditioning programs.  (Even, most happily, Yoga. Big shout out to the Oakland A’s and Baltimore Orioles who have mentioned their Yoga programs in recent weeks.)

Back in early 20th century however, Spring Training was really just a time to get everyone back together, detox from the excesses of the off-season (mineral hot springs were especially popular), burn off winter weight, toss around a medicine ball, and try to get back into some sort of playing shape.

After a few rowdy Spring Trainings in Jacksonville, Florida (highlighted by more than a few “drunken orgies”), the Yankees moved their spring headquarters to Shreveport in 1921 because of its isolation (and because it was, ostensibly, a dry town).  Safely away, they hoped, from the devilish temptations of booze, broads, and brawling. 

Shreveport – in the midst of its own crazy oil boom (and not very “dry” at all) – would be a place where Babe Ruth and the rest of the team could focus on baseball.

Oh, did I not mention Babe?

George Herman Ruth.  Baltimore native.  The man who bestowed one of the most successful and enduring curses on the Boston Red Sox.  He did some other stuff too, hit some homers, changed the face of baseball, you know, that sort of thing, but I think I hit the high points.

New York Yankees, Spring Training 1921. Babe Ruth is there in the center.

New York Yankees, Spring Training 1921. Babe Ruth is there in the center.

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From Here On In, This Blog’s For You …

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What is it about blogs that so many of us feel that we have something new, unique, magical, and quippy to offer the world?

I’ve discovered in writing this that I’m just one of hundreds — probably thousands — of people with the same love of baseball and the urge to share it on blogs, on message boards, in tweets.  And, sadly, most of them have far more interesting insights than I do.

This annoys me.   Even though no one is reading this … except for my husband, who serves as Editor and Yankees Fan for this blog (Hi, Honey!).  Still, I was hoping to channel some amazing Dorothy Parker moments here.  (She’s buried in Baltimore, you know.)

Then, in talking to a friend about her important role in my baseball education — she taught me to score games — she sent me a story about HER love of baseball.

And, dammit … HER story, and how her love of the St. Louis Cardinals was kindled, was way more interesting than my baseball background …

“As a teen, I would grab my brother Jim, who cared nothing for baseball, we’d head out to Northland shopping center and catch the Tri-State Bus down to the old Busch Stadium — pay $2.00 each for a bleacher seat and I, at least, would buy a program and score card. I was a geek — sitting with my pencil behind my ear and scoring each at-bat.”

Then she proceeded to tell me about the amazing bond that baseball was between her and her father.

And, so now I think … I’m not very interesting … and I probably don’t have anything much interesting to add to the baseball mix.  (Well, aside from an unshakable loyalty to the Baltimore Orioles and the fact that I became a true baseball fan in 1988 not in spite of the fact that the Orioles started the season 0-21, but BECAUSE of it.)

But, while I’m not very interesting,  I have some VERY interesting people in my life.   And, some of them love baseball, too.

And, maybe this blog might be better used, if I share some of their stories, too.

Oh, don’t worry … I’m not that humble.  I’ll still give my story.  But, I think I’ll be overshadowed by my friends.  There’s Amy, who loves the Cardinals, and Jim Johnson (not the pitcher) who is either a Twins fan or a Red Sox fan, or both.  And, lots of other folk who have that same kind of passion.

So, this blog might be a treat for me — a chance to write about baseball.  But, from here on in, I rag nobody.  Whooops, wrong baseball line.  From here on in, this blog’s for all the baseball fans in my life.  (And, who knows, I might even give them the link to the page … some day.)

Do I Tweet, Do I Call, Do I Just Watch?

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I was watching an Orioles game the other day.  On television.  And, after a couple innings I went and got my Droid (no iPhone for me, I like to be a contrarian), and started following the comments from people who were at the game and “tweeting” about it.

And, I wasn’t sure.  Was that a good thing?  Or just a noisy distraction?

After all, some of the tweeters had some nice observations.  Some were even based on statistics and facts.

So perhaps it made my game-watching experience a bit richer.

Still, it’s always so strange to look out into the crowd and see so many people with their heads down.  They aren’t even watching the game.  They’re watching their emails, texts, and tweets.  They’re talking on their cellphones.

Oh, sure, a few hardy souls are scoring the games, counting pitches, and creating their own pencil-marked treasure trove of statistical data.  They’re allowed to have their heads down from time to time.

But, do you know how many videos exist of people catching foul balls while talking on their cell phone?  Trust me … a zillion.  But, I like these two guys best … because they’re a nice contrast.

First, meet Mr. Excited … he’s an A’s fan and had two chances at a foul ball.  A’s Fan Catches Foul Ball While on the Phone.

Now, here’s Mr. Ho-Hum … he’s a Twins fan who has somehow let a foul ball interupt his phone call.  I like the “Oh, yeh, hey, no big deal, I do this ALL the time,” smile at the end.   Twins Fan Catches Foul Ball, Keeps Talking

Part of what first drew me to baseball was the ability to cocoon yourself inside the stadium, away from the stresses and challenges of real life.  A whole new world was inside.  No one can find you, unless you want to be found.  The grass is always lush and green (and, nowadays, real!).  A perfect view of the field.  A crazy array of food and drink — and someone willing to bring it right to your seat!  A giant mascot running around.  And, three hours … or more … of nothing to do but watch a game on a lazy day.

So, it’s kind of sad to see my cozy baseball sanctuary invaded with smart phones and tablets and other distractions.

In that respect, I’m a purist.  Or, I’m boring and a bit twee.

But, then again … I’m the first person to watch a video of something zany that happened at a game and that a fan was quick to capture on their phone.  (The streakers earlier this season at Baltimore games?  Banned from television, but, yeh, I watched ’em all on YouTube.)  And, the tweeters often see things that the cameras don’t catch.

In which case, I’m a hip, techno-saavy Droidster.

Oh, and here’s one of the streakers.  Although, as you will see, the term “streaker” is fairly loosely defined here, since he neglected to take his pants off.

I guess I’ll just be happy to walk the middle way — as Yoga always reminds us, being balanced is best!  So, yay, for the purists who enjoy the true “getaway” from the world that a baseball game offers.  And, yay, to those folks who share their games with those of us on the outside.

And, yay, for that A’s fan who finally caught a foul ball!

Slumpasana

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Slumpasana.  That’s what I call the droopy pose I sometimes see my Yoga students in.  They’re sitting at the start of class, but clearly the day has worn them down.  They’re stooped over, scrunched up.  Their muscles have abandoned them and their posture curls.   Their heart sinks into their belly.  Their spine collapses.

I can’t even make eye contact, because they’re all curled down.  They look so sad — a deflated body where a person used to be.

I’ll step behind them and adjust them by drawing their spine up and shoulders open.  It’s about getting the heart to widen.  Sometimes they stay up.  Sometimes … they slump right back down … or as soon as they think I’m not looking.

Without strong, healthy muscles, the body loses its structure.  Without energy, the body loses its structure.  And, when the world weighs heavy on you – physically, mentally, emotionally – you hang down your head and slump.  It just seems easier to be curled down.

Orioles catcher Matt Wieters is in a slump.  If my math is correct (and it is sometimes) he is 1 for 27 over the past week.  Wait, scratch that.  Since I’ve tinkered so long on this, he is now 1 for 30.  Sigh.  I better post this before I have to update again.

I don’t mean to pile on here.  I know it’s only temporary … slumps always are. Aren’t they?

It’s painful to watch a batter or a pitcher in a slump as they grimace in frustration, drop their head down, stoop their shoulders and shuffle off … out of the batter’s box or off the mound.  It can just break your heart.

I endure slumps on my Yoga mat.  Unrolling my mat can feel like an invitation to fail.   Fortunately, I don’t have 30,000 people staring at me as it unfolds.

Sometimes the failure is physical.  Really?  I’m a Yoga instructor and I can’t hold this pose for a minute?  I am weak and old and horrible.    Sometimes the failure is mental.  Dammit, where is this bliss they keep talking about?  Why am I the only one who sucks at this?  Heaven knows I’m miserable now.  Really? You, too, Morrissey?  And, sometimes I just lose energy.  I slump because all the energy has been sucked right out of my bones.

Sometimes I just lie down and wonder if that can be “good enough” for my practice.  And, that slump affects every other aspect of my life.  I sigh and my body sighs and everything seems harder and heavier and more annoying.

By the way, I’m actually rocking the Yoga mat like Buster Posey right now (he’s had a good couple weeks).  I feel strong and inspired and every once in awhile I see that magical bliss sitting out there and I can just about reach out and … nearly … nearly … nearly  touch it.  I vibrate from the inside out, and things are fun and the birds sing and my heart is wide and my spine is long and my body feels strong. Everything seems so effortless.

The next slump seems so far away … although I know it’s out there, just waiting for me to get cocky and a little too comfortable.

Not too long ago, I told one of my Yoga teachers about a struggle I was having with my practice.  He sent back a brief email.  It read: “Persistence is success.”

Oh.

Just unroll the mat.  Just do it again, even if it really seems to not be getting better.  Because sometimes it’s the doing that is the most important part.  And, how will you know if a slump is gone, unless you keep at it?

So, what’s the point?  No point.  This is a blog afterall that is only a week old and really had no point at the start.  But, we all slump.  And, we unslump.  And, we slump again.

I hope Matt Wieters unslumps.  I hope that I don’t slump soon.  And, I wish non-slumps to you.