Happy Birthday Hoss!

Today is my friend Hoss' birthday. And even though he's no Colin Firth, he still deserves a Happy Birthday post (especially since I forgot to buy him a present)!

Poncho-No

You see them everywhere lately. Seemingly normal women walking down the street or through shopping malls wearing--wait for it--PONCHOS! Inside! Where it's neither cold nor rainy! Now, I'm no fashionista, but it doesn't take a Versace to know that not everyone is cut out for this new poncho craze. In magazines or on television, people like Sarah Jessica Parker or Heidi Klum can throw a poncho over a tight cami (or less) and manage to look sophisticated. Why? Because Heidi and Sarah could wear anything and look sophisticated. They're those kind of women. Give them a dirty tissue and a piece of Christmas ribbon and they could turn it into an evening gown.

But sad news for the Plain Janes out there like me: this look does not work for everyone. Just last weekend, I passed a woman in the mall wearing a baby-blue crocheted poncho with an enormous sweater under it. Yikes! She was closely followed by yet another crocheted poncho, but this one in baby pink over a camisole top that didn't cover at least three inches of beer gut. Double yikes! Both of these women looked like they went to leave the house, looked longingly at their favorite blanket and, instead of leaving it at home, just cut a head-hole in the middle and took it with them.

I don't understand the poncho craze. They cover your arms all weird-like and make you look like you have an upside-down bowl hanging from your shoulders (or, quite possible, a really long hanky). They have to get in the way when you hit the bathroom and I can imagine getting all those frilly edges caught in my car door, attempting to walk away and being yanked back like a dog on a choke chain.

My advice? Unless you're a turn-of-the-century Mexican freedom fighter who knows all the words to La Cucaracha, steer clear of the poncho look. Unless, that is, you have a really runny nose. That hanky could come in handy.

Dead Letters

Since I have baseball on the brain, I thought I would post a letter I wrote to one of my favorite players two years ago (before it was cool to like him). He never ever wrote back to me, but I like to imagine that he keeps it in a shoebox somewhere and reads it when he gets depressed. But I also just wanted to share it. Sometimes you write to simply communicate, or to release pent-up energy. But other times you write to celebrate. And those celebrations should be shared with as many people as possible. This letter was one of those celebrations.

Dear ____,

One of the things I have always loved about going to a baseball game is watching the people sitting around me. It always amazes me that an elderly couple, a biker and his girlfriend, and a family of four can all be sitting within three rows of each other and find some common ground in America’s pastime. Of course, I watch the game and look out for foul balls, but during inning breaks I can't help wondering what makes the people around me tick. Tonight I finally got an answer--baseball itself is what keeps some of these people going.

I sat in the outfield reserved seats at tonight's game behind two mentally challenged men and their chaperone (or friend...maybe both), and it was probably one of the most amazing games I've been to. Not because of the quality of the game itself (which was undeniably good), but because of what I saw in one of the disabled gentlemen throughout the whole game. You could tell from his enthusiasm that he was a true fan, someone who obviously loves baseball and watches almost every game on TV. He knew the line-up and cheered for every hitter. He seemed to catch every detail of the game and put it away to watch over and over again at some later day, in some other circumstance. He did every cheer, sang every little song, and clapped every time the organ prompted him to.

And he cheered for you. I know you can't really see the fans from the mound, but I wanted to tell you how he clapped and yelled and poured his heart out for the game you were pitching. Every fastball, every change-up, every strike and every ball, he was smiling and wishing you the best.

At the end of the game, you brought him joy--a palpable, honest, genuine joy that doesn't happen every day in our modern world. His smiles and his cheers were contagious, and he made me remember why I love baseball so much. The expression on his face during most of the game reminded me of how I felt the year I was 12, before baseball broke my heart and the Braves won the NL Championship in Game 7 (and it finally hit me that Jay Bell was too old for me). This man has so many disadvantages in life, but going to a baseball game was all it took to make him genuinely happy. He wasn't worried about what he was going to do tomorrow or if the nachos he ate had too much saturated fat. He just lived the game and took the happiness of it home with him. It was that easy.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this, and the reason is simple. If I brought someone that much joy by doing my job and doing it well, I would want to know. When you step onto the mound, people cheer--they cheer because deep inside they will always love baseball. Your pitching makes them remember why.

For Love of the Game

The contrast of red and green brings to mind Christmas. And even though it's only mid-October, St. Louis seems to be wrapped in a holiday atmosphere. The fans' excitement reaches a fevered pitch on a 3-2 count, so loud that the announcers have to scream to be heard over the cacophony echoing in one of the game's last 1960's-era stadiums. The crack of the bat, seemingly stronger in the crisp autumn air; a long drive to dead-center that finds its way by luck or fate into the homemade mitt of cupped hands. The goosebumps rise on my arms and all of my being tingles with the energy of post-season baseball. I love this game.

Like flat feet and curly hair, love of the game is embedded in my DNA. My earliest memories are of my grandpap pitching to me or playing catch in the yard, listening to games on the radio, making the special trip to see a real game live and in person. And though I never developed any talent for baseball (I can't catch and, the way I run, I need a double just to chug into first base), part of my soul slinks away into a corner and begins to hibernate every October. I lose my focus, I find myself more annoyed and depressed. The meaning of life evades me and I stumble through the world each day, counting the weeks until spring training.

"Lame," you'd say, and maybe that's true. I'll be the first to admit that other things in life should be more important to me. I should be trying to meet a nice young man and settle down. I should be living it up, partying like it's 1999. But on any given evening during the summer, you'll find me wearing headphones, listening to my perennial-losing team take on opponents they have no chance of defeating. Here's the thing, though: on any given night, they might win. And that's what makes baseball so amazing.

Being a baseball girl in a football town, I'm always asked why I insist on following my team. The truth is that it’s the hope of baseball that keeps me going. It's that fact that on a random Tuesday in April or June, bats, gloves and base-running will harmonize in a symphony of absolute baseball perfection. Down 3-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning, the team will somehow load the bases for the power hitter who steps to the plate, stares down the pitcher and launches a 0-2 fastball into right field. Despite their professionalism, the team mauls the hitter, the hero, as he crosses the plate. In that moment, they're playing the game--the money, the fame, are all forgotten. It's America's Pastime, a sport that according to W.P. Kinsella, has been "the one constant through the years...It's a living part of history, like calico dresses, stone crockery, and threshing crews eating at outdoor tables. It continually reminds us of what once was."

Maybe that's what I love about it, the tradition that accompanies each slider, each stand-up double. To know that for generations people throughout the nation, from greats like Ruth down to kids on sandlots, have picked up a bat, felt the grain of the wood in their hands, played until it was too dark to see the ball. Fans have rejoiced at miraculous wins or cried late on a school night when their team dropped the NLCS in the bottom of the ninth on a bum throw from a would-be champion left fielder. The partners change, but the dance is the same year after year. Like an old friend, it's there to welcome the spring and walk you through the summer. That dependability--year after year--is one of the things that makes baseball so lovable.

In my worst moments in life, I've buried myself in baseball. To forget pain or heartbreak, to ease fear and panic, I've memorized statistics or taken refuge in the beautiful simplicity of a no-hitter. Regardless of whatever happened to me, if it was sometime between April and October, I could always count on baseball. People might hurt me, life might let me down, but somewhere a pitcher would take to the mound, throw the opening pitch and the game would give me solace. Maybe in that way it's like a religion, something to believe in when the rest of the world threatens to destroy you.

But above all, baseball unites people. It's the only thing I know that can get my grandpap, aunt and I in the same building without annoying each other. It's one of the few things my mom, dad and I all agree on watching with little deliberation. "Is there a game on tonight?" Dad will ask. When there's not, we search in vain for something else on television. At 81-years-old, my grandpap still watches every game and calls me to rehash the good and bad the matchup had to offer. It keeps my family together.

Now that the season is almost over, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Maybe write more, maybe spend more time at the gym. No matter how I attempt to compensate, though, baseball will be missing until catchers and pitchers report to spring training in late February. And there's nothing I can do about that except wait until next year. The Cards might be the team to beat now, but who knows what will happen when snowflakes are replaced with sunshine in 2005? It's that question, more than anything, that keeps me coming back for more.