This morning I peeked at the standings for the first time in a while. Now, don't get me wrong: I know exactly how many games back (six) the Yankees are of the Red Sox. And how many games up (three) the Yankees are in the Wild Card race. It's just that I haven't lately taken a global view of the baseball season. So what did I learn? I learned that the Devil Rays have already been eliminated and that the Royals' magic number for elimination is 1. I learned that the longest winning streak (five games) in the majors now belongs to the Washington Nationals; their magic number for elimination is eight. I think the most surprising thing I learned is something that shouldn't be that surprising at all: most teams in baseball have played 140 games. That means--follow my genius-like thinking here--that there are only 22 games left in the season.
The end of the season is just around the corner. Then the real season begins: the playoffs.
But that's not what I really want to talk about today.
No, today I want to talk about the first day of school. Today Sam and Owen each had their first day of school. Yesterday, Sam had a play date with one of his friends. They went for a bike ride and when they came back, the friend had a talk with Owen about who Owen's favorite baseball team is. The friend, wearing a red Papelbon t-shirt, had clearly already made his choice.
This conversation happened outside in our front yard, not far from where I'm typing this right now. And just across the street, I can see some yellow and orange leaves encroaching upon the greenery of my neighbor's huge maple tree. In other words, fall is upon us. But the question posed by a seven-year-old to a four-year-old on the last official day of summer vacation actually took me back to the one of the first warm days of 2007, Easter Sunday. That day, I was enjoying the warm air that an April Easter can sometimes bring to New England as well as some family time with Sam and Owen and my college-age neice who was visiting from Boston. We had an Easter egg hunt in the morning and then settled into a post-sugar-buzz lethargy in the late morning. I should say that the adults were a little lethargic; the kids were anything but.
In an effort to restore a little sanity to the house, I sent Sam and OWen outside to play. They did so, happily, and peace was restored. And then a few minutes later, I noticed that I couldn't hear any play-like noise outside. I looked out of all of the windows, and didn't see any children related to me playing in the yard. I did see an Easter basket that hadn't been prepared by me or my wife, or the Easter Bunny for that matter, sitting in the grass next to our neighbor's yard, and a couple of candy wrappers marking a kind of a trail towards our neighbor's front door.
I walked outside, went across the grass and knocked on my neighbor's door.
"Do you have any strange children here, by any chance?"
"No, but we have two nice ones here," she said.
There they were, Sam and Owen, sitting on the couch next to my neighbor's brother. On his lap was a photo album full of pictures of baseball and baseball cards.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I'm showing them some of my Red Sox things. I don't know if you're a Red Sox fan or not, but I figured I'd try to get to your kids while they're young."
My first thought was one of outrage. I mean, here it is, Easter Sunday--the holiest day of the year in Chritiandom--and my neighbor is trying to convert my kids to his weird religion. How would they feel if I kidnapped their dog (they don't have any children) and somehow had it unlearn it's housebreaking?
Okay, not the same thing.
But what if I went door-to-door, say, and tried to convince people to give up their most strongly held beliefs and instead embrace whatever it is that I hold dear. Perhaps I'd even print up some literature to leave behind for those who couldn't be convinced in a minute or two.
You get the picture.
Sam and Owen didn't mind at all. The extra Easter basket, carefully prepared by our neighbor, was just another mother lode of chocolate and jelly beans and Easter-themed Red Sox swag. It was just more stuff.
But I thought about this attempt at conversion (I didn't tell my neighbor that I'd kind of given up the fight about whom my kids would root for) yesterday because Owen told Sam's friend that he hates the Red Sox.
He did use the word hate, and I don't like the fact that he said that. Call me prudish or old-fashioned or what have you, but I've been fighting this battle lately because Sam, seven years old and feeling his oats, has been saying hate as a way to declare a bit of linguistic independence, I suspect. And his younger brother, in the throes of hero-worship for his older brother, has picked up the habit, too.
"How can he hate the Red Sox?" Sam's friend asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I guess Owen's just a fair-weather fan."
A couple of weeks ago, we took a short family vacation to Lake George. A couple of days before our trip, we received in the mail the membership kits for Red Sox Kid Nation. These kits included a lunch box with a picture of Jonathan Papelbon on it, an official Red Sox Kid Nation hat, temporary tattoos and a number of other items. I gave the kits to Sam and Owen just before we got into the car for the two-and-a-half hour drive to Lake George; I figured it might be good for a few minutes of distraction. And just a few minutes is what I got. After they opened the lunch boxes, put on their caps, and leafed through the various papers inside, they immediately latched onto the tattoos. My kids couldn't understand why I couldn't put a gothic red "B" tattoo on their faces while driving 70+ miles per hour on the highway. You can guess what I had to do pretty soon after we pulled into our motel.
On our last day of vacation, we went in search of a souvenir in the shops in Lake George Village that line the lake front. After looking at the very best Lake George Village has to offer in terms of two-for-one t-shirts with various incarnations of Lake George emblazoned on them, we scored at a store that had some t-shirts done up to look like baseball jerseys. Sam and Owen got the same shirts: a blue t-shirt with the familiar NY logo on front and a number 13 and Rodriguez on the back. This meant that for the next several days--yes, the t-shirts proved just as difficult to remove as the temporary tattoos--Sam and Owen, but especially Owen, went around with a Red Sox tattoo on his face and a Yankees t-shirt on his body. It reminded me of that scene in Full Metal Jacket where Matthew Modine is inspected and the inspecting officer questions why he has a peace medallion around his neck and "born to kill" written on his helmet. "I guess it reflects the duality of man, sir" Modine explained.
Owen couldn't care less what his fashion statement reflected. He was happy. What was interesting to watch is how people around him, almost all of them adults, reacted to what they saw. More than one tried to explain to Owen how he can't root for both the Yankees and the Red Sox. With only 22 games left in Owen's first full season as a baseball fan, he can name virtually all of the players on the Red Sox and many of the players on the Yankees. With the help of baseball cards, he also knows players on many other teams. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to name more players than he can. But Owen at this stage is not a fan of a particular team, which is why he can accurately say that he "hates" the Red Sox. He is instead a fan of baseball. Just this afternoon he spent more than an hour in the yard, by himself, playing baseball with a mitt, a tennis ball, a batting helmet, bat, and pitchback. No one else was allowed in the yard because the whole thing was being used for his field. He likes everything about baseball, from the umpires--which he calls "vampires," to the locker room to, of course, Big Papi. He's happy when anyone makes a good play, hits a home run, or scores. What I'm wondering is how long such innocent fandom can last, with all of the pressure out there to choose sides. And, of course, soon after you've chosen sides, the pressure comes to not just root for your team, but to actively root against--to "hate"--the other team and everything about it. And that hate, unfortunately, can become real hate all too often.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Choice
I like it when I wake up on Monday mornings and remember that the day before, Tiger Woods won a major. I don't know why his victories in major championships give me such a feeling of satisfaction, but they do. When he wins a major, it's like predictability and order have been restored to the universe, if only briefly.
There are a lot of reasons why I could root against Tiger Woods. The way he marches around a golf course like an automaton at times, devoid of emotion. How he has become his own corporation and brand, with clever marketing campaigns that build upon his remarkable skill and bring him many more times more money than his winnings on the golf course do. That he has been groomed for success his entire life and that he's been able to put that plan into action. That he has a plan at all. That he's so perfect. The list goes on and on. But I don't dislike Tiger. I root for Tiger. And I like it when he wins. I think one reason why I like Tiger Woods is because he respects Jack Nicklaus and Nicklaus was, and still may be, my favorite golfer. Nicklaus was the guy my father talked about when it came to golf, and while I was too young or not yet born for much of Nicklaus' career, I was a stone's throw from Baltusrol in 1980 when he won the U.S. Open. In my memories, I can hear the roars from the crowd, even though there is no way I could have, being five miles or so away at the time.
I guess I root for Tiger because I like the guy.
I guess I'm realizing that who we root for is kind of like who we fall in love with or lust after, and just as chemical and largely inexplicable.
How else to explain my love of Phil Rizzuto?
Phil Rizzuto died yesterday. Depending upon which report in the press you might have read, he was either 89 or 90 years old. He won 9 World Series with the Yankees in the 1950's, and he won the Most Valuable Player award in 1950. Ted Williams said that Rizzuto was the difference between all of those Yankees Championships and the Red Sox's maddening runners-up finishes. In other words, Rizzuto had a good life.
I smiled a couple of times as I read the various newspaper accounts of Rizzuto's life because I was reminded of all of the time I spent as a kid listening to Scooter cover all of those Yankees games. I'd forgotten what it was like to listen to Rizzuto, with his constant commemorations of birthdays and anniversaries, his references to his wife, Cora, and his signature calls of "Holy Cow" and "huckleberry," as in, "he's such a huckleberry." While covering the action on the field, he would often get lost in his stories, so much so that on his scorecard he'd often write down "ww", which stood for, "wasn't watching." And he would often famously forget who was on the field. Once when covering a game, he watched a hard foul ball go into the Yankee dugout. "Boy," he exclaimed, "I hope that's not (Ron) Guidry in the way." Frank Messer, Rizzuto's broadcast partner at the time, told Rizzuto that Guidry was on the mound, and not in the dugout at all. "You know, Frank, you're right?" Rizzuto replied, completely unashamed.
He was the polar opposite of so many of the broadcasters we suffer through today, the experts who know so much about the game that they'll even tell you what players are thinking while they play.
I got that chance to meet Phil Rizzuto once. I was in Newark Airport waiting on a flight to Chicago for a party for my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary when I spotted the Scooter. I'm not a big celebrity stalker or autograph guy, but I asked him for his autograph. There was just something about the fact that he was a Jersey guy (at the time, at least) and that I'd listened to him so much on television, I had to approach him. Plus, Phil Rizzuto had always reminded me of my own grandfather, also a diminutive gentleman of Italian descent with a shock of white hair, a broad smile, and a booming voice. Mr. Rizzuto couldn't have been more warm and genuine. He asked me where I was going, and I told him where I was going and why. I didn't have the nerve to ask him to wish my grandparents a happy anniversary on his broadcast, which would have been fitting because he was heading to Chicago himself to cover the Yankees-White Sox game that night, but I like to think that he did. And it wouldn't surprise me if he did, indeed, wish Paul and Eleanor his best.
Rizzuto was one of the good guys. I can't imagine that there are many people around who would dispute that. Sure, some people might disagree, but no one would really actively dispute that the Scooter was a good guy. And when it comes to people in sports these days, it's getting harder and harder to figure out who the good guys are. I was going to spend a little time talking about Barry Bonds, but now I just don't see the point.
As a father, I spend a lot of energy trying to make sure that my kids make good choices. I understand, of course, that my performance can legitimately be called into question at this point in light of the fact that I'm writing about having to root for the Red Sox, but that merely serves to illustrate my point: the really hard part is when you have to sit back and let your kids make their own choices and see what happens. Right now, Sam and Owen simply love baseball. Owen especially will watch just about any baseball game that's on television, from the Little League World Series to Minor League baseball to the Sox. Sam roots for the Red Sox because his friends do (right, bad choice: giving in to peer pressure and all) and because he likes to stick it to his old man. Sam and Owen's devotion to baseball has paid off so far in the sense that they can now name every player on the Red Sox, but what's still hanging out there is The Choice, the one (of many) that I'm worrying about: who will they choose as their Favorite Player?
I can't guide them in this choice. I can try to force them to watch Tiger Woods on television, but so far the sentiment among my boys is that team sports take precedence over individual sports when it comes to rooting interests. I can also tell them stories about Phil Rizzuto, like when he described his experience of getting a facial and explained how they "rub your eyeballs," but they don't know who Phil Rizzuto was and frankly they don't care.
And here's where I can see some benefit from this experiment so far. By putting my knee-jerk hatred of the Sox on hold, at least for the time being, I've been able to learn the players in kind of the same way that Sam and owen are, without preconceptions. And, I can say that there are Red Sox players that I actually like (though I'll save that for a later entry.)
So as I await for The Choice, I imagine it frought with pitfalls in the form of trades, free agency, and off-the-field jerkdom. And in true Boy Scout fashion, I'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Kind of like when we get to the time when I'll have to worry about their first crushes. But at least then, I won't have to spend a lot of money on hats and personalized jerseys.
There are a lot of reasons why I could root against Tiger Woods. The way he marches around a golf course like an automaton at times, devoid of emotion. How he has become his own corporation and brand, with clever marketing campaigns that build upon his remarkable skill and bring him many more times more money than his winnings on the golf course do. That he has been groomed for success his entire life and that he's been able to put that plan into action. That he has a plan at all. That he's so perfect. The list goes on and on. But I don't dislike Tiger. I root for Tiger. And I like it when he wins. I think one reason why I like Tiger Woods is because he respects Jack Nicklaus and Nicklaus was, and still may be, my favorite golfer. Nicklaus was the guy my father talked about when it came to golf, and while I was too young or not yet born for much of Nicklaus' career, I was a stone's throw from Baltusrol in 1980 when he won the U.S. Open. In my memories, I can hear the roars from the crowd, even though there is no way I could have, being five miles or so away at the time.
I guess I root for Tiger because I like the guy.
I guess I'm realizing that who we root for is kind of like who we fall in love with or lust after, and just as chemical and largely inexplicable.
How else to explain my love of Phil Rizzuto?
Phil Rizzuto died yesterday. Depending upon which report in the press you might have read, he was either 89 or 90 years old. He won 9 World Series with the Yankees in the 1950's, and he won the Most Valuable Player award in 1950. Ted Williams said that Rizzuto was the difference between all of those Yankees Championships and the Red Sox's maddening runners-up finishes. In other words, Rizzuto had a good life.
I smiled a couple of times as I read the various newspaper accounts of Rizzuto's life because I was reminded of all of the time I spent as a kid listening to Scooter cover all of those Yankees games. I'd forgotten what it was like to listen to Rizzuto, with his constant commemorations of birthdays and anniversaries, his references to his wife, Cora, and his signature calls of "Holy Cow" and "huckleberry," as in, "he's such a huckleberry." While covering the action on the field, he would often get lost in his stories, so much so that on his scorecard he'd often write down "ww", which stood for, "wasn't watching." And he would often famously forget who was on the field. Once when covering a game, he watched a hard foul ball go into the Yankee dugout. "Boy," he exclaimed, "I hope that's not (Ron) Guidry in the way." Frank Messer, Rizzuto's broadcast partner at the time, told Rizzuto that Guidry was on the mound, and not in the dugout at all. "You know, Frank, you're right?" Rizzuto replied, completely unashamed.
He was the polar opposite of so many of the broadcasters we suffer through today, the experts who know so much about the game that they'll even tell you what players are thinking while they play.
I got that chance to meet Phil Rizzuto once. I was in Newark Airport waiting on a flight to Chicago for a party for my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary when I spotted the Scooter. I'm not a big celebrity stalker or autograph guy, but I asked him for his autograph. There was just something about the fact that he was a Jersey guy (at the time, at least) and that I'd listened to him so much on television, I had to approach him. Plus, Phil Rizzuto had always reminded me of my own grandfather, also a diminutive gentleman of Italian descent with a shock of white hair, a broad smile, and a booming voice. Mr. Rizzuto couldn't have been more warm and genuine. He asked me where I was going, and I told him where I was going and why. I didn't have the nerve to ask him to wish my grandparents a happy anniversary on his broadcast, which would have been fitting because he was heading to Chicago himself to cover the Yankees-White Sox game that night, but I like to think that he did. And it wouldn't surprise me if he did, indeed, wish Paul and Eleanor his best.
Rizzuto was one of the good guys. I can't imagine that there are many people around who would dispute that. Sure, some people might disagree, but no one would really actively dispute that the Scooter was a good guy. And when it comes to people in sports these days, it's getting harder and harder to figure out who the good guys are. I was going to spend a little time talking about Barry Bonds, but now I just don't see the point.
As a father, I spend a lot of energy trying to make sure that my kids make good choices. I understand, of course, that my performance can legitimately be called into question at this point in light of the fact that I'm writing about having to root for the Red Sox, but that merely serves to illustrate my point: the really hard part is when you have to sit back and let your kids make their own choices and see what happens. Right now, Sam and Owen simply love baseball. Owen especially will watch just about any baseball game that's on television, from the Little League World Series to Minor League baseball to the Sox. Sam roots for the Red Sox because his friends do (right, bad choice: giving in to peer pressure and all) and because he likes to stick it to his old man. Sam and Owen's devotion to baseball has paid off so far in the sense that they can now name every player on the Red Sox, but what's still hanging out there is The Choice, the one (of many) that I'm worrying about: who will they choose as their Favorite Player?
I can't guide them in this choice. I can try to force them to watch Tiger Woods on television, but so far the sentiment among my boys is that team sports take precedence over individual sports when it comes to rooting interests. I can also tell them stories about Phil Rizzuto, like when he described his experience of getting a facial and explained how they "rub your eyeballs," but they don't know who Phil Rizzuto was and frankly they don't care.
And here's where I can see some benefit from this experiment so far. By putting my knee-jerk hatred of the Sox on hold, at least for the time being, I've been able to learn the players in kind of the same way that Sam and owen are, without preconceptions. And, I can say that there are Red Sox players that I actually like (though I'll save that for a later entry.)
So as I await for The Choice, I imagine it frought with pitfalls in the form of trades, free agency, and off-the-field jerkdom. And in true Boy Scout fashion, I'll hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Kind of like when we get to the time when I'll have to worry about their first crushes. But at least then, I won't have to spend a lot of money on hats and personalized jerseys.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thoughts from the Windy City
I've spent the past few days in Chicago staying at the Amalfi Hotel, where my room overlooks Harry Caray's Chicago Restaurant. We're officially a few days into summer and the Cubs are in town. One of the people I'm here to work with--who lives near Wrigley Field--told me that he heard the biggest roar he's heard in years the other night when the Cubs came back to win a game in the ninth. Right now they're riding a six-game winning streak.
The White Sox won last night after rallying in the eighth.
A couple of things I've noticed being on the road. First of all, I find it almost impossible to completely cut myself off from the sporting world. I don't say this because I'm some kind of a super fan; in fact, I just had to check the standings to see how the Cubs and the White Sox are doing this year. I say this as a person who just goes about his normal routine. Yesterday for lunch, I stopped by a pub for a burger and was served by a bartender wearing a Cubs t-shirt. She paused in mid-conversation with me to give some kind-hearted grief to another patron who had the audacity to suggest that the Cubs were going to lose their next game. And of course, there were four televisions on in the bar, with sports on each of them. The USA Today paper that gets delivered to my hotel room every morning has sports highlights on the front page, as do the news websites that I glance at when the meetings grow boring and stale. I know it's not a huge revelation, but sports is all around us. Let's face it: if it weren't for sports, would Harry Caray's name be used to brand a restaurant chain?
Another thing I've noticed here in Chicago is the different attitude the people have towards their local sports teams. As everyone knows, the Cubs haven't come close to a World Series title in years, and even though they're on a six-game winning streak, they're still below .500 on the season. Yet, I haven't heard anyone complaining about how they're doing. Of course, a true Yankees fan would tell you how that attitude plays a big role in the losing: if you expect to lose, you're going to lose. That sentiment can certainly be applied to Red Sox fans. But I'm not saying that everyone is happy here in the heartland. Yesterday at lunch, for instance, I read through the sports section of the Chicago Sun-Times and read one columnist who was looking forward to the time when the Cubs won't be owned by the Tribune corporation anymore, seeing as how their incompetence has only served to extend the already interminable wait for a championship. And at the airport, I heard some typical fan disgruntlement regarding poor management of the relief pitchers and disbelief that one guy's slump can last so long. So, the criticism, fair or not, is there. What's not there is the venom that goes along with that criticism that is so common in Red Sox Nation. If a Cubs fan is like Eeyore, just waiting for the black cloud to pour down rain, then Red Sox fans are like the compulsive gambler who craves the high of winning but deep-down inside expects to lose, and when the losing begins, he'll be the first to mock himself and those around him with the most bitter phrase he can think of: I Told You So.
My neighbor, when I told him that I was going to try and root for the Red Sox asked the perfect rhetorical question: Why would anyone want to root for the Red Sox. Turns out he was just the first person to say that to me.
So, as the baseball season advances towards July 4th, it's safe to say that I have not been completely successful in embracing the Sox. The other night, for instance, when the Red Sox lost to the Mariners in the 11th, I have to admit to feeling satisfied and elated rather than bitter. But I have made some progress, if I can call it that. Most importantly, perhaps, I've managed to convince Sam and Owen that I'm rooting for the Red Sox. Is it right to lie to my children? I don't know. All I know is that a large part of fatherhood, I've found out, is becoming adept at managing the world of parental half-truths and strategically withheld information. We do it for their comfort; we do it for our own sanity.
The White Sox won last night after rallying in the eighth.
A couple of things I've noticed being on the road. First of all, I find it almost impossible to completely cut myself off from the sporting world. I don't say this because I'm some kind of a super fan; in fact, I just had to check the standings to see how the Cubs and the White Sox are doing this year. I say this as a person who just goes about his normal routine. Yesterday for lunch, I stopped by a pub for a burger and was served by a bartender wearing a Cubs t-shirt. She paused in mid-conversation with me to give some kind-hearted grief to another patron who had the audacity to suggest that the Cubs were going to lose their next game. And of course, there were four televisions on in the bar, with sports on each of them. The USA Today paper that gets delivered to my hotel room every morning has sports highlights on the front page, as do the news websites that I glance at when the meetings grow boring and stale. I know it's not a huge revelation, but sports is all around us. Let's face it: if it weren't for sports, would Harry Caray's name be used to brand a restaurant chain?
Another thing I've noticed here in Chicago is the different attitude the people have towards their local sports teams. As everyone knows, the Cubs haven't come close to a World Series title in years, and even though they're on a six-game winning streak, they're still below .500 on the season. Yet, I haven't heard anyone complaining about how they're doing. Of course, a true Yankees fan would tell you how that attitude plays a big role in the losing: if you expect to lose, you're going to lose. That sentiment can certainly be applied to Red Sox fans. But I'm not saying that everyone is happy here in the heartland. Yesterday at lunch, for instance, I read through the sports section of the Chicago Sun-Times and read one columnist who was looking forward to the time when the Cubs won't be owned by the Tribune corporation anymore, seeing as how their incompetence has only served to extend the already interminable wait for a championship. And at the airport, I heard some typical fan disgruntlement regarding poor management of the relief pitchers and disbelief that one guy's slump can last so long. So, the criticism, fair or not, is there. What's not there is the venom that goes along with that criticism that is so common in Red Sox Nation. If a Cubs fan is like Eeyore, just waiting for the black cloud to pour down rain, then Red Sox fans are like the compulsive gambler who craves the high of winning but deep-down inside expects to lose, and when the losing begins, he'll be the first to mock himself and those around him with the most bitter phrase he can think of: I Told You So.
My neighbor, when I told him that I was going to try and root for the Red Sox asked the perfect rhetorical question: Why would anyone want to root for the Red Sox. Turns out he was just the first person to say that to me.
So, as the baseball season advances towards July 4th, it's safe to say that I have not been completely successful in embracing the Sox. The other night, for instance, when the Red Sox lost to the Mariners in the 11th, I have to admit to feeling satisfied and elated rather than bitter. But I have made some progress, if I can call it that. Most importantly, perhaps, I've managed to convince Sam and Owen that I'm rooting for the Red Sox. Is it right to lie to my children? I don't know. All I know is that a large part of fatherhood, I've found out, is becoming adept at managing the world of parental half-truths and strategically withheld information. We do it for their comfort; we do it for our own sanity.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
It's In the Blood
I gave blood last night. I give blood every few months because I've found it's just about the easiest way I can help other people while not inconveniencing myself too much, which is the true motivation for charity, after all.
Kidding.
Often during the summer months, the blood supply drops to critical levels. There is usually a reluctance on the part of most people to give blood at any time of the year, but during the summer, when there are so many other things to do, it becomes even harder to find donors. That's why, in addition to the signs the Red Cross posted all over town announcing the blood drive and explaining that there is a critical need, this particular drive had special gifts for all donors: Red Sox t-shirts.
Sam, now a proud graduate of first grade, saw the signs around town and began lobbying to go to the blood drive. I've taken him when I've donated blood in the past because I think it's good for him to see that donating blood isn't a big deal. He now knows that giving blood doesn't really hurt, that the people who take the blood are generally friendly, and that there's always cookies and juice when you're done.
Since it's been more than 56 days since I've given blood, and since both of my sons are now hooked on the Red Sox, I decided to take both Sam and Owen with me while I donated a pint.
Giving blood is a fairly formal procedure which befits the serious purpose, I suppose. You walk in and the first thing the greeter has you do is read a big poster on the wall that outlines the dozen or so reasons why you can't give blood. Once you've read through that list and decided to press on, you're handed a packet of laminated sheets of paper that repeat some of the same things that were on the poster, but also add many, many more things to the list, such as recent tattoos, coming into contact with someone else's blood, taking certain medications, and spending any time in prison. I'll be honest here and say that even though it was only yesterday, I don't remember everything, because there are so many questions and because I find it hard to concentrate when I have two kids hanging all over me and when I've just been asked if I've ever had sex with a man for money, even once.
Anyway, once you make it through the questions, the medical portion of the donation begins. First, your blood pressure is taken. Next, the nurse takes your pulse and temperature. Finally, the nurse uses a special device to stick your finger hard enough to draw blood. The idea here is to get enough blood onto a pipette so that it can then be dropped into a solution of copper sulfate. If the drop of blood sinks within 15 seconds, your iron level is satisfactory for giving blood. And then you're ready to lay down on one of the folding beds and give blood.
I mentioned that giving blood is a fairly serious procedure. I suppose blood is always serious business, and things get even more serious when there are a lot of people in white coats walking around. Add to this the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom, which meant that the place was big enough for everyone to have plenty of room to sit far apart from one another, and that the acoustics were not great for light conversation. This meant that the mostly solitary process of giving blood was kind of magnified. Let's face it, blood drives are not really places to be sociable. You're in a big room with strangers, you're about to be stuck by a big needle, and the only things running through your mind are, "God, I hope I don't faint when I'm done," and "I wonder how many of these people lied when they answered those questions about all of those crazy diseases and risky behaviors?" You pass the time waiting for your turn on the cot by wondering why the people who walked out before making it as far as you have couldn't donate today.
But it seems that the Red Sox are the one thing that can break through all of this tension and formality. First of all, it seems that the idea of free Red sox tickets proved to be intriguing enough to bring people to the blood drive. Then, when I was reading though the first packet of material, I overheard one of the workers explaining to one of the "customers" that one of the other workers was Doug Mirabelli's cousin, though the worker had not yet been successful in bringing Mirabelli to one of the blood drive events. The Sox, it seems, was the only topic of conversation that wasn't related to blood, allergies, and other health issues. Of course, the prize for most people who gave blood was a Red sox t-shirt. Honestly, that's why I was there. Not that I am ready yet to actually wear a Red Sox t-shirt, but to get one for my kids. Nevermind how one t-shirt would satisfy two young baseball fans; I was taking things one step at a time.
Owen was the one most interested in the t-shirt. At every step of the process, he asked, "Now can we get the t-shirt?" I explained to him each time that we wouldn't get the t-shirt until after I'd given blood. You can imagine how confused he got after the iron test when we still didn't get a t-shirt.
I guess the newness of the situation kept Owen's frustration at bay, but there was no way that was going to last indefinitely. Once Daddy got poked in the arm with a needle and blood began filling the bag beneath the table, Sam and Owen decided to take matters into their own hands. One minute, I was concentrating on squeezing the rubber ball in my hand every few seconds as I listened to Sam explain to Owen how the blood had to fill the bag, and the next minute, Sam and Owen had disappeared. Then they were back at my side, each holding an adult XL t-shirt.
"Can we put these on?" Sam asked.
"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."
Once the shirts were on, the game of imaginary baseball began. "I'm Big Papi," Owen declared. He then took a big swing with his imaginary bat and began running the imaginary bases. Sam, playing the role of wise and protective older brother, shook his head at his little brother's antics. Then he looked at me and pointed one finger at the side of his head and made a circular motion: the international sign for "he's crazy." But then he leapt off of the chair and ran over to Owen to correct some transgression of the rules and before I knew it, they were both playing.
The nurse came over and began untangling me from the needle and tubes. "Did you see the game last night?" She asked.
"What game?" I said. She looked at me for a second like I had two heads, but then she must have realized that I'd just given blood and might be a bit woozy and took a measure of pity on me. "The Red Sox game," she said. "Big Papi hit another one. They're looking good."
I read once that everyone talks about the weather because it's one of the few things in life that affects everyone. The same can be said of the Red Sox in New England. Whether you like them or hate them, the Red Sox affect you, if only because they affect everyone around you.
As Owen and Sam continued their game, I went over to the cookies and juice table to recover. I looked into the faces of the other donors to see if my kids' antics were bothering anyone. I didn't see anyone glaring, but I did see quite a few smiles. And while I'm biased because I am the Dad, I think it was good way to break the tension in the room.
That's the closest I've come to wearing a Red Sox t-shirt, or any other type of paraphenalia. I asked Owen when I got home if I could wear my t-shirt, and he told me that Sam was wearing mine. You can guess what Sam told me when I asked him the same question.
They wore those shirts to bed that night and put them on again after school the next day when they went to visit their grandmother. The shirts were so big, it looked as if they were wearing graduation gowns. In a sense, I guess they were, because with those t-shirts, the ante has been upped, I'm afraid. Now everything will have to be Red Sox and the next shirts will have to be real jerseys with a player's name on the back.
See what happens when you try to do something nice like give blood? It comes back to haunt you in ways you can never predict.
When we got home after the blood drive, Carrie asked Owen if he had fun. "I like giving blood," he said. "From you," pointing to me.
I liked giving blood, he said. From you.
.
Kidding.
Often during the summer months, the blood supply drops to critical levels. There is usually a reluctance on the part of most people to give blood at any time of the year, but during the summer, when there are so many other things to do, it becomes even harder to find donors. That's why, in addition to the signs the Red Cross posted all over town announcing the blood drive and explaining that there is a critical need, this particular drive had special gifts for all donors: Red Sox t-shirts.
Sam, now a proud graduate of first grade, saw the signs around town and began lobbying to go to the blood drive. I've taken him when I've donated blood in the past because I think it's good for him to see that donating blood isn't a big deal. He now knows that giving blood doesn't really hurt, that the people who take the blood are generally friendly, and that there's always cookies and juice when you're done.
Since it's been more than 56 days since I've given blood, and since both of my sons are now hooked on the Red Sox, I decided to take both Sam and Owen with me while I donated a pint.
Giving blood is a fairly formal procedure which befits the serious purpose, I suppose. You walk in and the first thing the greeter has you do is read a big poster on the wall that outlines the dozen or so reasons why you can't give blood. Once you've read through that list and decided to press on, you're handed a packet of laminated sheets of paper that repeat some of the same things that were on the poster, but also add many, many more things to the list, such as recent tattoos, coming into contact with someone else's blood, taking certain medications, and spending any time in prison. I'll be honest here and say that even though it was only yesterday, I don't remember everything, because there are so many questions and because I find it hard to concentrate when I have two kids hanging all over me and when I've just been asked if I've ever had sex with a man for money, even once.
Anyway, once you make it through the questions, the medical portion of the donation begins. First, your blood pressure is taken. Next, the nurse takes your pulse and temperature. Finally, the nurse uses a special device to stick your finger hard enough to draw blood. The idea here is to get enough blood onto a pipette so that it can then be dropped into a solution of copper sulfate. If the drop of blood sinks within 15 seconds, your iron level is satisfactory for giving blood. And then you're ready to lay down on one of the folding beds and give blood.
I mentioned that giving blood is a fairly serious procedure. I suppose blood is always serious business, and things get even more serious when there are a lot of people in white coats walking around. Add to this the fact that we were in a hotel ballroom, which meant that the place was big enough for everyone to have plenty of room to sit far apart from one another, and that the acoustics were not great for light conversation. This meant that the mostly solitary process of giving blood was kind of magnified. Let's face it, blood drives are not really places to be sociable. You're in a big room with strangers, you're about to be stuck by a big needle, and the only things running through your mind are, "God, I hope I don't faint when I'm done," and "I wonder how many of these people lied when they answered those questions about all of those crazy diseases and risky behaviors?" You pass the time waiting for your turn on the cot by wondering why the people who walked out before making it as far as you have couldn't donate today.
But it seems that the Red Sox are the one thing that can break through all of this tension and formality. First of all, it seems that the idea of free Red sox tickets proved to be intriguing enough to bring people to the blood drive. Then, when I was reading though the first packet of material, I overheard one of the workers explaining to one of the "customers" that one of the other workers was Doug Mirabelli's cousin, though the worker had not yet been successful in bringing Mirabelli to one of the blood drive events. The Sox, it seems, was the only topic of conversation that wasn't related to blood, allergies, and other health issues. Of course, the prize for most people who gave blood was a Red sox t-shirt. Honestly, that's why I was there. Not that I am ready yet to actually wear a Red Sox t-shirt, but to get one for my kids. Nevermind how one t-shirt would satisfy two young baseball fans; I was taking things one step at a time.
Owen was the one most interested in the t-shirt. At every step of the process, he asked, "Now can we get the t-shirt?" I explained to him each time that we wouldn't get the t-shirt until after I'd given blood. You can imagine how confused he got after the iron test when we still didn't get a t-shirt.
I guess the newness of the situation kept Owen's frustration at bay, but there was no way that was going to last indefinitely. Once Daddy got poked in the arm with a needle and blood began filling the bag beneath the table, Sam and Owen decided to take matters into their own hands. One minute, I was concentrating on squeezing the rubber ball in my hand every few seconds as I listened to Sam explain to Owen how the blood had to fill the bag, and the next minute, Sam and Owen had disappeared. Then they were back at my side, each holding an adult XL t-shirt.
"Can we put these on?" Sam asked.
"Sure," I said. "Go ahead."
Once the shirts were on, the game of imaginary baseball began. "I'm Big Papi," Owen declared. He then took a big swing with his imaginary bat and began running the imaginary bases. Sam, playing the role of wise and protective older brother, shook his head at his little brother's antics. Then he looked at me and pointed one finger at the side of his head and made a circular motion: the international sign for "he's crazy." But then he leapt off of the chair and ran over to Owen to correct some transgression of the rules and before I knew it, they were both playing.
The nurse came over and began untangling me from the needle and tubes. "Did you see the game last night?" She asked.
"What game?" I said. She looked at me for a second like I had two heads, but then she must have realized that I'd just given blood and might be a bit woozy and took a measure of pity on me. "The Red Sox game," she said. "Big Papi hit another one. They're looking good."
I read once that everyone talks about the weather because it's one of the few things in life that affects everyone. The same can be said of the Red Sox in New England. Whether you like them or hate them, the Red Sox affect you, if only because they affect everyone around you.
As Owen and Sam continued their game, I went over to the cookies and juice table to recover. I looked into the faces of the other donors to see if my kids' antics were bothering anyone. I didn't see anyone glaring, but I did see quite a few smiles. And while I'm biased because I am the Dad, I think it was good way to break the tension in the room.
That's the closest I've come to wearing a Red Sox t-shirt, or any other type of paraphenalia. I asked Owen when I got home if I could wear my t-shirt, and he told me that Sam was wearing mine. You can guess what Sam told me when I asked him the same question.
They wore those shirts to bed that night and put them on again after school the next day when they went to visit their grandmother. The shirts were so big, it looked as if they were wearing graduation gowns. In a sense, I guess they were, because with those t-shirts, the ante has been upped, I'm afraid. Now everything will have to be Red Sox and the next shirts will have to be real jerseys with a player's name on the back.
See what happens when you try to do something nice like give blood? It comes back to haunt you in ways you can never predict.
When we got home after the blood drive, Carrie asked Owen if he had fun. "I like giving blood," he said. "From you," pointing to me.
I liked giving blood, he said. From you.
.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Marketing, CVS, and the NBA
I'm in
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Calling Dustin Pedroia
The other day, as I dropped the kids off at school, I was walking down the hallway when I heard one second grader say to another second grader, "Did you know that there's an actual GUY named Ripken?"
I knew exactly what they were talking about. Here in Northampton, we have Little League and Cal Ripken League when it comes to baseball. And now, as the flowers are in bloom and the weather has finally become seasonable, all of the leagues are in full swing, pun fully intended. For the younger kids, baseball means t-ball. Owen had his first game a few weeks ago, and on the way to the game, he and his brother had a philosophical debate in the backseat about whether T-Ball is, in fact, baseball. His older brother, full of Farm League hubris, insisted that T-Ball is not baseball, mainly because there is no pitching and no catcher sitting behind the plate. Owen, not entirely sure since he was on his way to his first game, gamely and loudly disagreed, just to be disagreeable.
In the middle of Owen's first game, as he stood on third base, he turned to me and his brother and declared loudly enough for every parent in attendance to hear: "Dad! T-Ball IS baseball!"
Cross that philosophcial conundrum off the list; the question has been answered.
While the organized baseball leagues are great, as is true with many things when the kids are seven and four, the vast majority of baseball in my family happens in the back yard. We have one of those Pitchback nets, a dozen or more safety baseballs, a couple of plastic balls of various sizes and shapes, and numerous bats. We also have landmarks, like an old stump and a sandbox, and backyard detritus, like empty flower pots, that act as bases. The organization is admittedly pretty loose, just as is the line between a "practice" hit, i.e. a weak grounder back to the pither, and a "real" hit, i.e., one that flies over the pitcher's head.
One thing that doesn't vary much is who Sam and Owen choose to be when they're batting: Big Papi, Daiske, and "Tek," Jason Varitek.
The Red Sox have invaded my back yard.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, I tried to prepare myself--on an intellectual level, anyway--for the various ways my attempt to root for the Red Sox would move me from my comfort zone, which is going through life comfortable in my hatred for the Red Sox. As I dreamed up this experiment, I was okay with the idea of my children rooting for the Red Sox as a team. I didn't anticipate their rooting interest taking such a personal turn. Now, looking back on it, I should have known that this would happen. But when I was a kid, I didn't spend a lot of time pretending to be the popular athletes of my day. Sure, I may have pumped my arm like Joe Morgan, he of the Big Red Machine (I know you know what the Big Red Machine is, and that I didn't really have to say that Joe Morgan was on the Big Red Machine, but I just felt like writing, the Big Red Machine) but that was about it. I was more interested in playing the game than I was in pretending to be someone else while I played.
Yes, I know: times have changed.
And with this increased awareness of the Red Sox players, I've had to become more aware as well, so that I can answer all of the questions. It wasn't until the other day, when Sam asked me who plays second base for the Red Sox, and I dutifully answered "Dustin Pedroia" within earshot of my Yankee-fan wife, that I realized that I'm being sucked in deeper myself. "Wow," she said. "I would never have been able to answer that question."
There's just something in the New England psyche that makes it almost impossible to not know at least a few Red Sox players. Even Owen, at four, knows enough to pretend to be Big Papi when he bats. And I have to admit that I like the inherent innocence and optimism that comes along with this awareness when it's in children. It's hero worship in a pure form, totally free cynicism or suspicion. I lost that a long time ago, and that's why the challenge I've laid out for myself is so difficult: I can't just root for a player or a team without considering all of the baggage--my baggage, too--that goes along with that choice. I mean, I understand that I'll have to watch Fever Pitch at some point, for instance, and I am NOT looking forward to that. Let's face it: I'm forty years old, and I've lost my sense of wonder.
And it's that wonder that I heard when I heard that second grader exclaim to his friend that there actually used to be a Cal Ripken.
I knew exactly what they were talking about. Here in Northampton, we have Little League and Cal Ripken League when it comes to baseball. And now, as the flowers are in bloom and the weather has finally become seasonable, all of the leagues are in full swing, pun fully intended. For the younger kids, baseball means t-ball. Owen had his first game a few weeks ago, and on the way to the game, he and his brother had a philosophical debate in the backseat about whether T-Ball is, in fact, baseball. His older brother, full of Farm League hubris, insisted that T-Ball is not baseball, mainly because there is no pitching and no catcher sitting behind the plate. Owen, not entirely sure since he was on his way to his first game, gamely and loudly disagreed, just to be disagreeable.
In the middle of Owen's first game, as he stood on third base, he turned to me and his brother and declared loudly enough for every parent in attendance to hear: "Dad! T-Ball IS baseball!"
Cross that philosophcial conundrum off the list; the question has been answered.
While the organized baseball leagues are great, as is true with many things when the kids are seven and four, the vast majority of baseball in my family happens in the back yard. We have one of those Pitchback nets, a dozen or more safety baseballs, a couple of plastic balls of various sizes and shapes, and numerous bats. We also have landmarks, like an old stump and a sandbox, and backyard detritus, like empty flower pots, that act as bases. The organization is admittedly pretty loose, just as is the line between a "practice" hit, i.e. a weak grounder back to the pither, and a "real" hit, i.e., one that flies over the pitcher's head.
One thing that doesn't vary much is who Sam and Owen choose to be when they're batting: Big Papi, Daiske, and "Tek," Jason Varitek.
The Red Sox have invaded my back yard.
I've said it before and I'll say it again, I tried to prepare myself--on an intellectual level, anyway--for the various ways my attempt to root for the Red Sox would move me from my comfort zone, which is going through life comfortable in my hatred for the Red Sox. As I dreamed up this experiment, I was okay with the idea of my children rooting for the Red Sox as a team. I didn't anticipate their rooting interest taking such a personal turn. Now, looking back on it, I should have known that this would happen. But when I was a kid, I didn't spend a lot of time pretending to be the popular athletes of my day. Sure, I may have pumped my arm like Joe Morgan, he of the Big Red Machine (I know you know what the Big Red Machine is, and that I didn't really have to say that Joe Morgan was on the Big Red Machine, but I just felt like writing, the Big Red Machine) but that was about it. I was more interested in playing the game than I was in pretending to be someone else while I played.
Yes, I know: times have changed.
And with this increased awareness of the Red Sox players, I've had to become more aware as well, so that I can answer all of the questions. It wasn't until the other day, when Sam asked me who plays second base for the Red Sox, and I dutifully answered "Dustin Pedroia" within earshot of my Yankee-fan wife, that I realized that I'm being sucked in deeper myself. "Wow," she said. "I would never have been able to answer that question."
There's just something in the New England psyche that makes it almost impossible to not know at least a few Red Sox players. Even Owen, at four, knows enough to pretend to be Big Papi when he bats. And I have to admit that I like the inherent innocence and optimism that comes along with this awareness when it's in children. It's hero worship in a pure form, totally free cynicism or suspicion. I lost that a long time ago, and that's why the challenge I've laid out for myself is so difficult: I can't just root for a player or a team without considering all of the baggage--my baggage, too--that goes along with that choice. I mean, I understand that I'll have to watch Fever Pitch at some point, for instance, and I am NOT looking forward to that. Let's face it: I'm forty years old, and I've lost my sense of wonder.
And it's that wonder that I heard when I heard that second grader exclaim to his friend that there actually used to be a Cal Ripken.
Monday, April 23, 2007
It's Not Enough to Win
Sunday was the first day of practice for Sam's Farm League team. This marks a shift in a baseball experience that had been defined by balls on tees, a strict hour time limit, and no score keeping. While this year there still won't be any scores kept, Farm League is decidedly more intense than what Sam's done previously; after all, this was his first baseball practice, ever.
His coach began the practice by having everyone introduce himself and state who his favorite player is. That caused a bit of a stir, because more than one of the kids said that it was too hard to pick one favorite player. So, the coach relented and everyone felt better about being able to name their three favorite players.
Not surprisingly, most of the kids named the same players: Big Papi, Alex Rodgriguez, Daiske Matsuzaka, etc. When it came time for Sam to answer, he said Big Papi, Dice-K, and Jason Varitek, which was a bit of a surprise. Of course, it also happened to be the same favorite players as the kid who went before him. So, I asked him afterwards why he mentioned Varitek, and he explained that he's always like Jason Varitek, and that he also likes A-Rod and Johnny Damon, because Damon used to be a member of the Red Sox.
I thought Sam's inclusion of Damon on the list was really interesting, since most people in Red Sox Nation have seemed to turn their backs on Damon for precisely the same reason that Sam has decided to embrace him. And I have to admire that innocence. He likes the players he hears about, the players his friends talk about and he hears about on the radio and TV. While he enjoyed the fact that the Sox swept the Yankees in their first series of the season, he's just as happy when A-Rod does well. In other words, he's missing that essential element that defines most Red Sox and Yankees fans: schadenfreude . In other words, while it's good when your team wins, it's better is your team can beat its bitterest rival. It's even better when your team beats its rival while doing something that's remarkable, like hitting four home runs in a row. And better still is when your team can beat its rival while at the same time humiliating a key player, as when the Sox beat Mariano Rivera in the first game of the series.
So I realized over the course of this first Red Sox-Yankees series of the season that shadenfreude is another reason why this project of mine is so difficult. I've spent years not just rooting for the Yankees, but rooting against the Red Sox, as a team and as a group of individuals. While I can see coming around to the point where I can root for some of the Sox as individuals, like Dice-K for instance, I've realized that it will take me longer to actively root against individuals on the Yankees, the ones I've been rooting for for so long. I have to face the fact that a lot of my reactions are so deeply ingrained that they're simply automatic, like when A-Rod his his second home run in the series opener, the one where Coco Crisp went over the wall in his attempt to catch it, and I found myself shouting, "Go, Go!" to the ball.
How does it get to that point?
His coach began the practice by having everyone introduce himself and state who his favorite player is. That caused a bit of a stir, because more than one of the kids said that it was too hard to pick one favorite player. So, the coach relented and everyone felt better about being able to name their three favorite players.
Not surprisingly, most of the kids named the same players: Big Papi, Alex Rodgriguez, Daiske Matsuzaka, etc. When it came time for Sam to answer, he said Big Papi, Dice-K, and Jason Varitek, which was a bit of a surprise. Of course, it also happened to be the same favorite players as the kid who went before him. So, I asked him afterwards why he mentioned Varitek, and he explained that he's always like Jason Varitek, and that he also likes A-Rod and Johnny Damon, because Damon used to be a member of the Red Sox.
I thought Sam's inclusion of Damon on the list was really interesting, since most people in Red Sox Nation have seemed to turn their backs on Damon for precisely the same reason that Sam has decided to embrace him. And I have to admire that innocence. He likes the players he hears about, the players his friends talk about and he hears about on the radio and TV. While he enjoyed the fact that the Sox swept the Yankees in their first series of the season, he's just as happy when A-Rod does well. In other words, he's missing that essential element that defines most Red Sox and Yankees fans: schadenfreude . In other words, while it's good when your team wins, it's better is your team can beat its bitterest rival. It's even better when your team beats its rival while doing something that's remarkable, like hitting four home runs in a row. And better still is when your team can beat its rival while at the same time humiliating a key player, as when the Sox beat Mariano Rivera in the first game of the series.
So I realized over the course of this first Red Sox-Yankees series of the season that shadenfreude is another reason why this project of mine is so difficult. I've spent years not just rooting for the Yankees, but rooting against the Red Sox, as a team and as a group of individuals. While I can see coming around to the point where I can root for some of the Sox as individuals, like Dice-K for instance, I've realized that it will take me longer to actively root against individuals on the Yankees, the ones I've been rooting for for so long. I have to face the fact that a lot of my reactions are so deeply ingrained that they're simply automatic, like when A-Rod his his second home run in the series opener, the one where Coco Crisp went over the wall in his attempt to catch it, and I found myself shouting, "Go, Go!" to the ball.
How does it get to that point?
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