Stone Hands, Monsters, and Baseball

On the two-hour trip to watch my nephew, Tate play baseball, I sat between an almost two year old squawk box and a five year old that talks until your ear falls off.

Here are some highlights from the trip...

- I told a "scary" story about a brother and sister that thought Frankenstein was in their attic.

- Connor turned my hands into stone hands and ice hands.

- At one point all three of us were reading magazines. Fitness for me, Playmobile for Connor, and Fisher Price for Addie.

- After a drive-thru run at McDonalds, Connor plugged his nose and said, "It SMELLS!!" He was referring to my cheeseburger. I was laughing so hard that I couldn't eat it. He told me to throw it out the window, because it smelled so bad.

- Later Connor asked us what monsters we wanted to be. He was the Headless Horseman, Addie was a witch, I was a vampire, Grandma was a mummy, and Grandpa was a zombie.

- On the way home we played the no talking game. The silence lasted for about ten minutes, then Connor whispered to me, "When is it over?"

The baseball game: Tate did a wonderful job playing ball. It was his last game of the season, so he received a medal too! He looked pretty proud. I watched him play catcher and complete two outs, hit the ball and run the bases, and play defense in the field. Pretty basic baseball stuff ;) I've watched a lot of kids play baseball in my years, and I have to say that Tate is a pretty good ballplayer. He listens to his coaches and really pays attention to the game.

Tate batting

Me and my little nephew Easton (I think he's going to be a ballplayer too)

"Juuuust a bit outside!"

I know that's a quote from Major League, but it's all things baseball to me.

Here's the shirt I made for the Brewers game on Saturday. I decorated it with fabric paint. The logos are from 1970 to present. I hand drew them all...outside...while getting a tan (burn, actually, but now it's a tan).

Front


Back

Baseball Season is Almost Upon Us

I love the smell of a baseball game. Dirt, sweat, leather gloves, popcorn, hot dogs, beer, cotton candy, peanuts, the list goes on. Nothing is better than a good baseball game. I come from a family of ball players, and at any given moment you can find us throwing a ball around in our front yard.

We all started playing in organized baseball/softball in grade school. My parents coached my siblings and me over the years, and I thank them for that. I thank them for showing me how great the game really is. With Opening Day only 10 days away, I just had to blog about baseball.

One of my favorite memories involves baseball. Last semester I was sitting in the library trying to read for my British Literature class when I decided to get off topic (of course) and write a poem. If you know me at all, I'm not a big poetry person. I don't do emo poems, or romance, or death stuff. It's very conversational, like I'm talking with a friend. Anyway, this is what I wrote.

---

To My Dad

The floor lamp glows over him
on the couch. It's the only light in the room.
I walk past with my hair loosely dangling
in a ponytail and softball socks unevenly pulled up
on my twiggy twelve year old legs.

The newspaper crinkles and there he is, my dad - my
coach, in shorts and no shirt. Perched halfway down his
nose are his glasses. He bends down the paper to view the television.
The game is on - Milwaukee Brewers versus
some other team, it doesn't matter.

An announcer's voice and the crack of the bat
mumble quietly from the speakers of our television. Someone
hit a double, or a triple, someone popped out, someone
slid into home plate. We invite "Mr. Baseball's" smooth calls
from our garage radio into our home, because he is baseball.

The summer breeze sneaks through the front
screen door trying to cool us as night begins to take
hold. My mother's voice sings from the kitchen as she
talks with a friend or a relative over the phone.

I find the chair and sit with my sweaty shirt
sticking to my skin. My black ball cap lined with mocha
colored field dirt rests over my cold forehead
and damp hairline. The game is still on me. It lives on me.
We won. We lost. But that doesn't matter.

There we sit. Without words. This is my summer.
This is what matters. Just a father and his daughter
sharing a night of ballgames.