Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Monday, April 30, 2007
Baseball Better Be Berry Berry Good to Me
Remember that Peanuts cartoon where Charlie Brown is beginning to feel he's obsessed with baseball and, though he's trying to deny it, he gets the ultimate confirmation that he might be insane when, one morning, he awakes to the sun rising, only, it isn't the sun that finally bloops over the horizon, but, a giant baseball?
That's where I am, or rather, have been led.
The Littlest Jeremiah is a naturally talented young athlete and it seems that baseball is his greatest talent and interest. I've consequently done all I can to foster that and, as payback for buying the best bats, negotiating for him to get the best coaches, and being at every game, as scorekeeper, always just a glance away, he's actually become really good and really in love with the sport. We're now in the midst of the season, playing with an intense but superb, kid-oriented coach, on a great team and we've got baseball coming out of the yin, the yang, the nose, the ear, and stuck betwixt the toes. Three games a week plus practices. I don't get to sit down when I get off of work. Instead, I bounce off my house the moment I come home and I bounce all the way to the baseball field.
Vacation was a respite (though we tossed the baseball aplenty), but it was this way before then, and will be for a long time because, it seems little Jeremiah has been selected for the All-Star team. Now, add two All-Star practices a week, five weekend tournaments (two of them in distant towns, requiring weekend hotel stays) starting in late May with as many as three games a day, for three days, and, of course, on the rare off day, I'm still out on the field doing one-on-one pitching and hitting and groundering drills with him, and I get the feeling that maybe I should just clear a little space under the bleachers where I can sleep, and live on peanuts and seeds that fall through the slats. I'll sleep with my little team banner bunched up under my head, and not only will the sun be a baseball, but so will the moon, and probably the stars too.
Not that I'm complaining. Muh boy is a joy to watch. He's a great player, and he is so at home on the field that he looks like he grew there. He looks like a tiny pro in his uniform, hat cocked to the side, hands on his knees, his eyes checking out the bases. He kicks the dirt, cocks his hips, and slaps his glove just like the pros do. It's like he took classes on "How to Stylishly Idle In Baseball". He has a monster swing, he catches just about anything that comes near him, he pitched for the first time this weekend and left with two full, scoreless innings, which included catching two pop flies. He's a little star and he's gonna build daddy a big house one day.
So, sure, at random times during the day, I'll hear the words "Steeeeee-rike!" in my head. Sure, I'll start speaking exclusively in baseball metaphors ("Sure, I'll take a swing at that." "We've got deadline this week, and I'm behind now, but, when it comes down it, I bet I'll beat the throw to home!" "That last idea was a wild pitch, man."). And sure, I'll have nightmares where I'm being chased by a bunch of $200 dollar bats, all demanding that I buy them or else they'll knock me into the upper deck.
But, at the height of my insanity, when I look at the sunrise and it's actually not the son, but rather my SON, wearing his hat cocked to one side, grinning and winking, then I'll have also reached the height of my pride.
That's where I am, or rather, have been led.
The Littlest Jeremiah is a naturally talented young athlete and it seems that baseball is his greatest talent and interest. I've consequently done all I can to foster that and, as payback for buying the best bats, negotiating for him to get the best coaches, and being at every game, as scorekeeper, always just a glance away, he's actually become really good and really in love with the sport. We're now in the midst of the season, playing with an intense but superb, kid-oriented coach, on a great team and we've got baseball coming out of the yin, the yang, the nose, the ear, and stuck betwixt the toes. Three games a week plus practices. I don't get to sit down when I get off of work. Instead, I bounce off my house the moment I come home and I bounce all the way to the baseball field.
Vacation was a respite (though we tossed the baseball aplenty), but it was this way before then, and will be for a long time because, it seems little Jeremiah has been selected for the All-Star team. Now, add two All-Star practices a week, five weekend tournaments (two of them in distant towns, requiring weekend hotel stays) starting in late May with as many as three games a day, for three days, and, of course, on the rare off day, I'm still out on the field doing one-on-one pitching and hitting and groundering drills with him, and I get the feeling that maybe I should just clear a little space under the bleachers where I can sleep, and live on peanuts and seeds that fall through the slats. I'll sleep with my little team banner bunched up under my head, and not only will the sun be a baseball, but so will the moon, and probably the stars too.
Not that I'm complaining. Muh boy is a joy to watch. He's a great player, and he is so at home on the field that he looks like he grew there. He looks like a tiny pro in his uniform, hat cocked to the side, hands on his knees, his eyes checking out the bases. He kicks the dirt, cocks his hips, and slaps his glove just like the pros do. It's like he took classes on "How to Stylishly Idle In Baseball". He has a monster swing, he catches just about anything that comes near him, he pitched for the first time this weekend and left with two full, scoreless innings, which included catching two pop flies. He's a little star and he's gonna build daddy a big house one day.
So, sure, at random times during the day, I'll hear the words "Steeeeee-rike!" in my head. Sure, I'll start speaking exclusively in baseball metaphors ("Sure, I'll take a swing at that." "We've got deadline this week, and I'm behind now, but, when it comes down it, I bet I'll beat the throw to home!" "That last idea was a wild pitch, man."). And sure, I'll have nightmares where I'm being chased by a bunch of $200 dollar bats, all demanding that I buy them or else they'll knock me into the upper deck.
But, at the height of my insanity, when I look at the sunrise and it's actually not the son, but rather my SON, wearing his hat cocked to one side, grinning and winking, then I'll have also reached the height of my pride.
Labels: the sporting life
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Plop!
Hey.
Just got back, well, on Monday, from an extended Northwest Canadian getaway on the famous "Sunshine Coast" so-named, I think, because the shade of grey there is much lighter than the shade of gray a couple of hundred miles south of there down where I live.
Once I summit "email mountain" (you office folks know what I am referring to), I'll slap up a short photo and music (!) review of my trip.
Sorry for the absence. We were in a place with unreliable access to the things that make us modern and sick with convenience, like the webanet and the ability to talk on a cell phone without sounding like a bad edit.
Just got back, well, on Monday, from an extended Northwest Canadian getaway on the famous "Sunshine Coast" so-named, I think, because the shade of grey there is much lighter than the shade of gray a couple of hundred miles south of there down where I live.
Once I summit "email mountain" (you office folks know what I am referring to), I'll slap up a short photo and music (!) review of my trip.
Sorry for the absence. We were in a place with unreliable access to the things that make us modern and sick with convenience, like the webanet and the ability to talk on a cell phone without sounding like a bad edit.
Labels: travel
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Cutup
I'm getting older, or knives are getting sharper. Knife sharpening technology has reached its zenith as my surehandedness has as slipped its zenith. I know this because we just got a new set of knives, like the Ginsu ones I used to see on TV. Except, Ginsu knives have edges like ball bearings compared to our new knives. Our new knives cut with a frightening efficiency and quickness. I can slice a carrot by just waving the knife edge about a centimeter above the carrot. I even think I hear the blade whistling as I move it. You think I'm kidding. I'm not. I may be exagerrating, but, I 'm NOT kidding.
It is all fine, though, for knives to commit cruelly precise acts of slicing upon carrots, but don't try washing the knives. And, don't be Jeremiah. I have hand-washed these knives a total of four times. My hands, as of today, have a total of FOUR new, clean, long, smiley faced-shaped slashes in them. Not a one of them even hurt. All I felt, as I was dutifully washing the blade, like I've hand-washed every single blade of every single knife I've washed in my 30 or so years of dishwashing, was the tell-tale "Slice of Uh-Oh", similar to how you feel when you get a paper cut, except, paper cuts kind of sting. The cut of the EvilSharpKnife is much more like a razor kiss.
I felt the slice, and, each time, I knew instantly what I did. And, each time, I reacted the same way. I winced, said a dirty word (twice, with feeling), and I looked at my finger, which, on first glance, looked just fine. Then, about two seconds later, blood rushed out of my skin like kids coming out of school when the final bell rings. I washed a few teaspoons of blood down the drain before I wrapped the finger and then band-aided it. And, of course, I picked up the blade to look at it, then to touch that evil edge, as if to make peace with it, and I shook my head, thinking, wow, if I had been washing this thing with any more vigor, or with any more martini in my system, I might now be thinking of new ways to type.
Hey, dummy!, you say, just stick them in the dishwasher! Yeah, tried that. Got a spanking from my wife. "Those are my best knives! Don't put them in the DISHWASHER!," she said, as if I had tried to put a toaster in the garbage disposal. We have this discussion a lot when I try to do stupid things like use the "wrong" washrag to wash my face ("Those are our DECORATIVE washrags! Don't wash with those!), or pour wine in the "wrong" wine glasses ("Those are my GOOD wine glasses! Don't drink out of those!").
So, anyway, here I sit, a cutup man. My wife suggested we just get rid of the knives, not because I've lost about a pint of perfectly good blood, but because the kids might get ahold of the knives, which would surely be a tragedy seeing that they've managed to end up in the emergency room only because of the unfortunate, strategic placing of silly putty, so a sharp knife might end up getting them taken from us.
I'll keep on washing them, but I'm going to try to be careful (this makes the fourth time I've told myself this). But, if those knives are actually out to get me, as I suspect they may be, then it is only a matter of time before I'll need to have a prosthetic middle finger. Which, actually, wouldn't be too bad, if I could get one about a foot long. Nose-picking and giving traffic "signals" would be much easier. When you get old like me, you'll take help in the form of anything.
It is all fine, though, for knives to commit cruelly precise acts of slicing upon carrots, but don't try washing the knives. And, don't be Jeremiah. I have hand-washed these knives a total of four times. My hands, as of today, have a total of FOUR new, clean, long, smiley faced-shaped slashes in them. Not a one of them even hurt. All I felt, as I was dutifully washing the blade, like I've hand-washed every single blade of every single knife I've washed in my 30 or so years of dishwashing, was the tell-tale "Slice of Uh-Oh", similar to how you feel when you get a paper cut, except, paper cuts kind of sting. The cut of the EvilSharpKnife is much more like a razor kiss.
I felt the slice, and, each time, I knew instantly what I did. And, each time, I reacted the same way. I winced, said a dirty word (twice, with feeling), and I looked at my finger, which, on first glance, looked just fine. Then, about two seconds later, blood rushed out of my skin like kids coming out of school when the final bell rings. I washed a few teaspoons of blood down the drain before I wrapped the finger and then band-aided it. And, of course, I picked up the blade to look at it, then to touch that evil edge, as if to make peace with it, and I shook my head, thinking, wow, if I had been washing this thing with any more vigor, or with any more martini in my system, I might now be thinking of new ways to type.
Hey, dummy!, you say, just stick them in the dishwasher! Yeah, tried that. Got a spanking from my wife. "Those are my best knives! Don't put them in the DISHWASHER!," she said, as if I had tried to put a toaster in the garbage disposal. We have this discussion a lot when I try to do stupid things like use the "wrong" washrag to wash my face ("Those are our DECORATIVE washrags! Don't wash with those!), or pour wine in the "wrong" wine glasses ("Those are my GOOD wine glasses! Don't drink out of those!").
So, anyway, here I sit, a cutup man. My wife suggested we just get rid of the knives, not because I've lost about a pint of perfectly good blood, but because the kids might get ahold of the knives, which would surely be a tragedy seeing that they've managed to end up in the emergency room only because of the unfortunate, strategic placing of silly putty, so a sharp knife might end up getting them taken from us.
I'll keep on washing them, but I'm going to try to be careful (this makes the fourth time I've told myself this). But, if those knives are actually out to get me, as I suspect they may be, then it is only a matter of time before I'll need to have a prosthetic middle finger. Which, actually, wouldn't be too bad, if I could get one about a foot long. Nose-picking and giving traffic "signals" would be much easier. When you get old like me, you'll take help in the form of anything.
Labels: self-mutilation
