Take me out to the ballgame

Our seats were in a field box right on the first baseline. The Red Sox were playing the Kansas City Royals, and it was my first visit to Fenway Park.

You have to realize that I am a Tiger's fan through and through-- although until the World Series last year, I hadn't followed baseball since Cecil Fielder was breaking records for Detroit.

These tickets were given to us though along with a free pass for parking in a lot right next to Gate A on the corner of Yawkey Way. I took Jared and two of his friends.

After all, I have lived in New England long enough to consider splitting my allegiance. Just a little. Maybe. And, who couldn't love Fenway Park?

There is something about a stadium, be it on the east coast or in the Motor City, that gets me right in the gizzard. The green, green, green of the grass. The fans bedecked in their caps and jerseys. The smell of beer and hot dogs and peanuts and cotton candy. And, all the excitement of a major league sporting event under the wattage of the field lights on a summer evening.

It was a good game even though they lost. Poppi, Ramirez, Veriteck, CoCo. The lineup was all there in their hometown glory.

The Boston fans surprised me in the bottom of the first inning when they "boooooooed" Red Sox player #20 after his third strike at the plate. Bad form. Bad, bad form. The jeer surely must have been aimed at the ump's call, I thought. Then the next inning the same player hit a ball to right field and got on base. It wasn't a home run or even a triple, but it was a decent hit. I thought. Yet, the crowd still called, "Booooooooooo."

Imagine 50,000 fans booing you. I wasn't at all okay with the lack of respect for this player. I was indignant. We might "blawg" in Michigan, but we would never boo a Detroit Tiger no matter how badly he played. Never.

It took one more roar from the stands before I realized that they were, in fact, saying "Yoooooooooooouk," and not "boooooooo."

Kevin Youkilis, #20. Nickname: "Yoooooooooooouk."

Doh!

For Paige

Light a light for me...

Dear Diary:

Today I made Jared laugh.

Maybe it was the greasy magic of melted cheese or the influence of caffeine after 9 p.m. Maybe it was neither. In any event, I made my 13 year old son laugh in public. He laughed in front of his friend, Matt. He laughed so hard that soda came out his nose. He even allowed his laughter to carry him out of the booth onto the floor where he gulped and gasped in spasms of mirth.

I need to point out that he wasn't laughing at me. Well, technically, he was laughing at me, but not in the usual way. I could try to write out what it was that I said. I might even attempt to phonetically include the accent that I used to deliver my lines, but it would lose something in the translation. You would say, "Yeah? And?"

What I said was beside the point. That he laughed--matters.

Jared and I have always shared a unique style of humor. Sometimes I think we are the only ones who "get" each other. He has a running shtick about Woody Allen that astounds me with its nuance. He is irreverent. He jokes about Hugh Heffner's kneecaps, W's foibles, teacher's styles, minister's meanderings, and most of all himself. He is not afraid to laugh at himself.

I sort of like this kid. I do.

I think we both sense that he is growing up. I understand the boundaries that leap up between us in the presence of others, but lately...

Find a good thing

"English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alleys, knocks them over the head, and goes through their pockets for loose grammar."

(I wish I could attribute this quote, but I can't seem to find a reliable source.)

So, I was thinking about words...

Mark Twain once said, "When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear."

With all the words available in the English language, it is a sad lack of imagination that relies on common four-letter words to spank the offending party. There is nothing like the overused F word to reveal a withered IQ.

The other day my children, who are angels, were in a heated dispute. The best they could come up with was "you are such a bitch." It pained me, but not in the usual way. How could my offspring, conceived on a bed of lexicons, have become so atrophied that they couldn't rain all the demons of the English language upon each others heads?

I remember when Jayna could take someone off at the knees with "subbarena" and "sandbagger." These were her word daggers. The only swear word she knew was "shut up." Jared was slow in language acquisition, but I knew he caught up when he likened someone to "a worm without any eyes." He was four. (I personally haven't seen a worm WITH eyes, but that is beside the point.)

When we were growing up, Charlie and I would tell our younger sister that we found her in a frog swamp. I think we heard a shtick like that and applied it to Janelle with glee. We would chant, "adopted, adopted" whenever we felt she needed to be put in her place. That one word, selected with intent...

The power of life and death are in the tongue (or pen.) The words we choose choke the spirit or set it free. He who finds a word, finds a good thing.

Negotiations

I remember when my daughter was young. She had a friend who lived up the little hill past the stone wall. Laura and my daughter were as thick as thieves. (and just how thick is that, I ask?) The two of them were as opposite as any two could be. J's dark ponytail and chocolate-brown eyes stood out bold against Laura's white-blond curls and blue eyes. J was quick with her words and quicker with her wit. Laura was faster than a bunny rabbit when she dashed across the lawn. J wrote poetry and played a guitar. Laura jumped higher than anyone on the trampoline.

Still they were best friends. They ran themselves ragged as they climbed the cherry tree. Celebrated un-birthdays. Built forts. Rode bikes. Did the things that kids do. They picked blueberries and tried to sell them to the neighbors. They mixed lemonade and sold it one warm cup at a time to anyone who happened by. There were times in my kitchen they made cookies that only a mother could eat. They were inseparable except...

When they played, J always was in charge until Laura wanted to go home. Laura was not shy about playing the "I am going home" card to her advantage. With the utterance of those four words, Laura tipped the power in her direction every time. With Laura's deliberate steps toward the door, J began to offer anything to make her stay. I remember watching J follow Laura out the door and up the road negotiating all the way: "I will give you one Barbie...okay, if you turn around now, I will give you two Barbies."

I stopped her. I had to. It was her lesson, her relationship, but I couldn't bear to see her bend over so far that she lost herself. Her dignity. It was too raw. Too real. I might have been a good mother that day when I held her back. Or I might not have been, but I wouldn't let her give herself away all the way back to Laura's house.

I guess the human need to hang onto that which we deem valuable plants its roots in the playground of our youth. The friendships. The approvals. The confirmations. The affirmations. And the fear of losing them all. We still reach for those in our own way even if we are adults. Yet the neediness is as transparent and painful as the pleading child offering her toys to keep the friend who is walking away.