Derek Jeter

I have this Jeter card, maybe
I can retire on it some day.

I was visiting my folks and Buffy in Greensboro, North Carolina in the summer of 1993. My sister was the young mother of two kids at that point but she acted like she was 40, which I guess responsibility and children will do to you.

"Leave your emotional vampires," I cajoled, "let's go to a baseball game."

Greensboro's War Memorial Stadium

The Greensboro Hornets were a Yankees Single-A franchise at the time (they're now the Greensboro Grasshoppers and affiliated with the Florida Marlins). Everyone knows I'm a huge Yankees fan and I heard about this phenom they'd drafted named Derek Jeter. Buffy relented, we got great seats behind the plate, ordered beers and sausage dogs (they had waitress service for the "gold seats" which is what I'm hoping heaven will be like) and settled in.

Buffy turned back into my fun-loving little sister as the game progressed and we both commented on how the skinny kid playing shortstop didn't really seem that impressive but hey, the sausage dogs were great and the beer was cold.

Here it is 18 years later, Buffy is celebrating her 23rd anniversary tomorrow (and the fact that her oldest emotional vampire is finally leaving the nest) and Derek Jeter has just gone 5-5 with a home run which just happened to be his 3,000th hit.

Imagine making your living doing this. I do.

Derek Jeter has lived my fantasy life. I'm not going to lie; I still dream of playing shortstop for the Yankees. I daydream about making diving catches or throwing off my back foot even though my shoulder is now so bad I can only throw underhanded. When I played baseball I was the lead off batter like Jeter, a singles or doubles guy who played hard and ran smart (though not so swiftly).

He has nice taste.

Between the lines I am a different person, fierce and unsmiling, hawkeyed and even somewhat graceful. Okay, I was. Jeter is me with more talent. And money. I'm proud of Jeter for avoiding the steroid scandal because I'd have avoided them too. I'm happy he didn't marry, instead choosing to date models and actresses, waitresses and party girls avoiding breaking anyone's heart. (Well, I don't understand why he dated Mariah Carey, but everyone makes mistakes.) Derek Jeter's a good man in the way that I hope I am.

I'm dreading when he eventually retires because that means that Derek Jeter is old, and if he's old, what am I? My little sister could very well be a grandmother when he hangs up his cleats. Good God.

 Téa, I need a hug.

Enough with the Cult of Death

I'm very sorry that Shannon Stone is dead. I'm even sorrier that he died in front of his son doing something as innocent and good hearted as trying to catch a ball tossed to him by the Ranger's all-star Josh Hamilton. Hell, I'd love to have souvenir ball touched by an all-star. It'd be a great conversation piece. But honey, if I die doing something like that, I will haunt you for the remainder of your days if you allow a shrine of flower to memorialize my stupidity.

When did Western Civilization turn into an Egyptian-like cult of death? When did it become the thing to do to build floral shrines to people who die? I'm not knocking how immediately family members choose to grieve, but when did the general public decide "hey, I need to publicly mourn someone I never knew existed."

Why do people who die on the side of the road get tacky shrines of plastic flowers? Stop it! It's stupid. People who choose have grave sites for you to decorate and visit. People like me who choose to be cremated don't want monuments, especially not ones that commemorate the worst moment of our shortened lives.

When children die at the hands of an abuser, don't spend $11 on a bouquet of flowers or a stuffed animal to lay languishing on the ground. Do something! Donate to a shelter, volunteer anything but some meaningless public display of your inappropriate grief.
So Shannon Stone, as nice a man as I'm sure you were, I sincerely hope the Rangers acknowledge your death in a dignified way and the Ranger fans don't feel compelled to build you a memorial of empty beer cups and Ranger caps.

As for your son, I sincerely wish you could unsee that.

Ringtones

Téa got me into ringtones. Before that my Blackberry was as dull as my sock drawer but then I learned the art of self-expression through music. Specifically the music assigned to the people in my life.

My father's ringtone is Darth Vader's Theme from Star Wars. Obvious enough, eh? My mom's is Country Road by John Denver. At one time it was her favorite song and she, Buffy and I would sing it whenever it played on the car's AM radio. My sister's is the theme from Sex and the City, not for what you're thinking, perv; she's been married for 23 years. No, it's because she has a huge fondness for cosmopolitans.

My ex's is the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. It goes to voicemail. Enough said.

Téa's ringtone is Ali in the Jungle by The Hours. She actually made it for me when I was going through a rough time and personally I think it's the greatest "dust yourself off and get back in there" song ever performed. The irony is that she gave it to me but it's so perfect for her.

You know, Téa, you manage it all with so much grace that I forget. I have no idea how you put up with my puppyish enthusiasm on a daily basis. Good God, I annoy me, how do you handle it?

This was all brought home to me last night as I was watching the Yankees-Indians game and you called me unexpectedly when taking Miri home. Here I am glued to the TV watching the game and you're out with the flu after a long, long day taking a kid home. Ali in the Jungle startled me just as I'm having a fit that the Yankee rally fell short while you're out being the great mom.

I don't tell you enough how much I admire you. Then again, when I do you pooh-pooh it. Sigh.

Oh I'm not apologizing for trying to lure into a little, erm, "quality time" despite the fact you had a very long day and the flu. Can't help it...you're irresistible. (Stop rolling your eyes.)

Anyway, if Ali in the Jungle were to burst out of my phone around noon, I'm good to go!

Stop rolling your eyes.

Drafting a Team

"Raincoat Girl or Jean Jacket Girl?" Marc asked Ed, the manager of the Reds.

Do not dress your
child like this for
any tryouts.

We were in the last round of the draft and only two girls were left: Raincoat Girl and Jean Jacket Girl. Talent disappeared pretty quickly in our town's softball league. In fact kids who could catch were usually gone by the end of the second round. After that you filled out your roster with kids who looked like they were least likely to harm themselves and others.

Sometimes it's just
a fashion statement

We had already drafted Leotard Girl (I figured the leotard meant she took dance and thus had some coordination. Wrong. She just liked wearing leotards.) We had also selected Fat Girl in Red Coat Who Couldn't Move Her Arms. No, we weren't assholes making fun of little girls. Thirty cherubs bundled up against the coldest day of the Spring blended together after a while; you ended up identifying them by their clothes. There happened to be two chubby girls in red coats, we got the one who couldn't move her arms.

Keeping the teeth
as far away from the
ball as possible.

Tryouts consisted of each girl taking a turn fielding five ground balls, then five fly balls and taking swings at 10 pitches (notice I said taking swings, not actually hitting 10 pitches). Ground balls were usually a pretty safe event. Watching them try to catch fly balls was often terrifying as you prayed they'd step out of the way before taking a ball to the face. The batting...well, that was usually just an exercise in futility.

One of the biggest differences between boys and girls tryouts is that nine-year-old boys show up to tryouts with bat-bags and $90 bats, new gloves and at least one batting glove. Nine-year-old-girls show up after attending a sleep-over wearing a borrowed glove (they'll get their own if dad thinks they won't quit after the first practice) and some sort of footwear that may or not be ballet slippers.

After coaching both boys and girls, I can tell you hands down I'd rather coach girls. Boys show up thinking they already know everything and they bring along their fathers who are absolutely certain they know more than you.

Girls show up convinced you know more than them, and their fathers are just happy that someone else is coaching them.

So, our team that year?

Kate (9 years old) who showed up with her own glove and cleats.
Jamie (11 years old) she was tall and could catch.
Lindsay (12 years old) she was tall and couldn't catch.
Katelyn (9 years old) she had big blue eyes and rosy cheeks and caught a fly ball.
Beth (10 years old) aka Leotard Girl.
Becky (9 years old) aka Fat Girl in the Red Coat Who Couldn't Move Her Arms.
Emily (9 years old) the girl we chose because she would look cute in the team picture (that was the actual reason we picked her).
Ana (9 years old) aka Raincoat Girl.

They were joining seven girls already on the team picked by the previous coach.

We had four weeks of practice before Opening Day.