At the Ol' Ballgame

I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents lately. I suppose that it’s only natural this time of year. Dad’s birthday was not that long ago and before that was the anniversary of my mother’s passing. With some birthdays coming up – my husband’s, my friend Cara’s (who knew my parents from the time we were both 9), mine – as well as my parent’s wedding anniversary on October 1st, how can I not reflect?

When I woke up this morning, I hopped on the internet and read the headlines on CNN, KSDK and the Post-Dispatch’s websites. I always skim and then go back later… unless something really catches my eye. One of the headlines on STLtoday pulled me in.

Today is the 10th anniversary of Mark McGwire breaking Roger Maris’ home run record of 61 in a single season.

Dad was a Cubs fan through and through. And that’s actually what led us down a strange and wonderful experience. Not the Cards, but his beloved Cubbies. He had wanted to see them play the Cards at Busch in July, but the series was sold out. Although a bit disgruntled, he settled for seats during the Cubs return trip in September.

I’ll admit that I hold players of sports up to a high level of conduct. They get paid big bucks to play a game for their career. I know it takes a toll on their bodies, but they are supposed to be playing for the love of the game. Players’ strikes in any profession leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And while I normally support anyone who belongs to a union and who feels they are being poorly treated, I want an effort to be made to reach an agreement before the contract is up. Doesn’t have to happen before the expiration date, but waiting until the contract has expired is just silliness.

Hence why I am still boycotting hockey. Maybe someday I’ll go back to the sport, but it’s going to take some doing.

It was the rivalry – the supposedly friendly rivalry – between Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire that brought a lot of fans back to baseball. I was one of them. The baseball strike in 1994 – and the resulting lockout – had left a bad taste in my mouth, but the Sosa-McGwire march towards the home run record set the world on fire. Would the record be broken? Which one would do it? Were they really that friendly with one another or was it just for the cameras?

Home run mania took over St. Louis and Chicago… and the rest of the country I’m sure. Baseball was back to what it always should have been – the love of the game. There was no trash talk between the two most likely successors to the home run crown. Sosa and McGwire said nothing but glowing remarks about each other and the late Roger Maris, something that the world seemed to realize that was late coming, but oh so deserving. And the fans filled the stadiums in droves. The great American pastime was back and the boys of summer had two marquee players. Who kept hammering them over the back wall and out of ballparks across the country.

As August began to slide into September, I joked that I was going to see the record get broken. Surprisingly, not a single soul believed me. In fact, the more people told that I wouldn’t, the more I believed that I would. After all, I was a huge Cards fan and Dad was a die-hard Cubs fan. What was more fitting?

September 8, 1998. Summer was wrapping up. Baseball season was winding down, but the level of excitement in the stadium was palpable. McGwire had tied the record of 61 the day before in an oh so fitting tribute on his dad’s 61st birthday. In a fairy tale for sports fans, could this script play out any differently? Of course the record was going to be broken in St. Louis. We are the best fans in baseball after all.

And McGwire did.

And I was there.

Okay, so I saw it on the TV while I waited in line to get my Dad a hot dog, but dammit – I was there!

Time can cloud memories and change facts, but I remember having a game plan when we got to the game – get all the food and drink we wanted before the game started because we weren’t going to move until it ended.

Except Dad wasn’t hungry when we got there.

He got hungry sometime in the 3rd inning. Dad hadn’t fallen ill yet in those days, but he still wasn’t as strong as he could have been, so I reluctantly offered to go for him. Which he gratefully accepted. And I was ever so pissed about. They have beer and soda vendors at the ballpark. Why the hell don’t they have hot dog vendors?

It’s a moot point now. I went back to my seat with his hot dog, tossed it on Dad’s lap and proceeded to pout. We fought, we made up and Dad got to see something magical before his body and mind started to betray him. And I made it just as all the festivities began. Heck, I probably saw it better on TV than if I had actually been in my seat. It all ended well.

And while I know that both McGwire and Sosa juiced, something that I think is heinous and unforgivable, knowing that doesn’t diminish the impact of knowing that I got to see the game with my Dad. I went to a lot of games with my Dad over the years, and they all have sort of blended together, but that day… that day we got something that brought Dad to the sport in the first place – and showed me a bit of insight into my father – the pure love of the game.

Allegations and Congressional meetings have stolen some of the thunder of my return to baseball games, but walking out of the stadium with my father that day is something I’ll regale to my kids someday although I’ll fall short on words to explain how special it was.

Kinda like right not.

But although the world cheered, it was a moment in my life with my father that stood out. Yeah, McGwire broke the record, but I couldn’t have witnessed it with anyone else. Because if it wasn’t for my Dad’s love of the game, I don’t think I would be a baseball fan. He tried to force football on me – a sport I came to on my own – but baseball was something more transcendental.

I got it that day.

And seeing my Dad as more than just my Dad, but rather the child that played his beloved game for the sheer adoration of the sport was something that I hold close to my heart.

And a small aside, but still a baseball related note… I know the Cards are out of the running in the playoffs. I’m fairly certain that statistically they can’t even make it for a wild card spot.

But the Cubs… the Cubs are having a stellar season. I follow my Cards during the season pretty religiously, but only as to where they are in the standings compared to other teams. I don’t do individual stats of players. I don’t follow other teams. I’m a fan, but not a fanatic.

However, it’s impossible for those who follow baseball not to take note of the Cubs. The laughing stock of the National League – of all of baseball – they are riding a wave of incredibility. Who woulda thunk?

I, for one, hope that they go all the way to clinch the World Series.

And I know that my Dad will be somewhere – up, down, somewhere that none of us know about – and he’ll be dancing a jig, singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,’ and crying tears of joy.

If they make it, I know Dad will have had something to do with it. I just know.

And so I wear one of his most prized t-shirts to bed tonight. His Cubs shirt that says ‘If It Takes Forever.’ Some might say that I’m a traitor for not better supporting my team. I say, blood runs deeper and that although he might be gone, my Dad’s reach is still strong.

I had hoped the Cubs would do it the season my Dad would pass away. Close, but not quite. I just think that it ended up taking my Dad a little bit longer in the haggling behind the scenes.

Dad always did like to talk. A lot. Maybe he just finished up his negotiations.

Go Cubbies!
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Me Thinks I See My Father

As I watched the Democratic National Convention last night, I smiled at the awe and adoration the different candidates’ children bestowed upon them. I was always proud of my parents. My mother overcame terrible illness to become the best mother a girl could ever ask for. And my father… he adored me completely and totally. And while he sometimes missed the mark in his over-protectiveness, I knew that it wasn’t for lack of caring. And I am very lucky in that he not only left a legacy of love, but also a legacy of physical reminders by means of his profession. Dad was an aerospace engineer whose mark today can still be seen.

Several years ago, I was in Los Angeles and saw a screening of Black Hawk Down. Certainly not a feel good movie, but one that everyone needs to see. After the helicopter crashed – hence the title of the movie – my friend whispered in my ear, Why didn’t the helicopter explode?

I knew the answer to this! Despite the somber mood of the film, I beamed at my friend and cheerfully told him – because of my Dad!

My Dad designed crash-worthy fuel systems for the Black Hawk and Apache helicopters when he worked at Army Aviation. His team also designed the seats so that when there might be a crash, the passengers don’t end up with broken backs. I wish I knew more about what else they might have worked on with the Army. Not so I could brag on him, but so that I know a little bit more about his legacy.

My Dad had a tendency to talk. A lot. Whether or not I – or whoever was in earshot – was able or willing to listen.

I wish I had listened more.

Today would have been my father’s 74th birthday. And as an ode to my Dad, I thought I’d trot out some of his favorite poems.

My Dad was rather puritanical during my growing up, but his taste in rhymes was not. I think I would have rather heard bawdy limericks than this favorite of his that, if I remember correctly, he read in a rest stop on his move out to Santa Monica.

Well here's to the fool who writes on shit house walls
May he roll his shit into little balls...
And he who reads these words of wit
Should eat those little balls of shit.

He loved it! I can still see him shaking with laughter as he recited the words. It never got old to him.

And no, I did not memorize the poem. Behold the power of the internet. Apparently those little verses made quite a few appearances in bathrooms across the country – even the world.

Another poem, this one my father swore up and down that he and his friends composed, was of a more… classic theme. A tale as old as time, you might say. However, I didn’t believe him them and, once I found it on the internet, I realized that I was unable to find the author, so who knows…?

In days of old, when men were bold
And women not particular,
They lined them up against the wall
And screwed them perpendicular.

Yup, my Dad was a prude for all intents and purposes, but his tastes in verse ran a little more blue.

When I looked up the prose, I happened upon other versions. I figured that I found ‘em, so I might as well share ‘em… despite my father never mentioning them.

In days of old, when knights were bold
And rubbers were not invented,
They would wrap a sock around their cock
And babies were prevented

In day of old, when knights were bold
And paper not invented,
They used tufts of grass to wipe their ass
And were very well contented.

In days of old, when men were bold
And cast-iron trousers wore,
They lived in peace, for then a crease
Would last ten years or more.

In the days of old, when the knights were bold
and the women chased the men
The men like fools got out their tools
and chased them back again.

In days of old when knights were bold,
And cared not for such trifles,
They nailed their balls upon the walls,
and shot at them with rifles.

In days of old, when men were bold
And toilets weren't invented,
They laid their loads upon the roads
And walked away contented.

In days of old when knights were bold
And penicillin wasn't invented,
Venereal drips ran down from their hips
And their toes were all cemented.

Does anyone wonder why I turned out the way I did after these?
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On the Threshold

I’m addicted to home improvement shows. I think it’s because I like to live vicariously through people who have actually taken the step of either demolition of their living space or at least have taken steps to make their homes more livable. Call me a weenie, but I think I would rather rearrange my living space than to make the final leap into altering my physical surroundings. Gads, but I love to rearrange furniture.

However, I see-saw back and forth on being gung ho about doing home improvement or wanting to bury my head in the sand about things that need to get done. Namely, I hate doing projects on my own – except when I don’t. When I had first met my now husband, I was in the process of ripping up the hideous green carpet in the front room. He came by one night after work – he was working until midnight in those days – and we talked for what seemed hours while I slowly peeled back nasty carpet and padding thicker than some mattresses on the market these days. Thank God the hardwood floor beneath was absolutely pristine. My grandmother must have put it down the day she and my father moved in.

Let me clarify…

I inherited the home I grew up in. Yep, the same room that I sit in now, typing away, is the same room where I learned to walk. And where I used to do indoor Easter Egg hunts when it was raining. And where I studied at the dining room table, despite it not really being a dining room. And so many, many more memories that I won’t ramble on about.

And it’s f-ing hard some days. But other days, there’s nothing more awesome than thinking about raising kids in the same house I was raised in. Plus, it’s paid for. I suppose I am very lucky in that regard. In today’s housing market, I don’t have to worry about a house note. And the house is pretty nice, although five animals and two reluctant homeowners make for a less than showcase presentation.

But it’s a three-bedroom ranch-style home that butts up to a creek on the back side of the property. Meaning, no neighbors behind us. Which ROCKS! Not to brag, but I don’t think I could have done much better if I had made the attempt myself. My father bought the house in the late 60’s. I think I recall him telling me that the realtor showed him three houses and he picked the cheapest. Regardless, I’m near major shopping, Intersecting interstate highways, and while I didn’t enjoy my tenure in the school district, it nonetheless is highly ranked. Someday the housing market will improve and I think I’ll do well if we ever decide to sell.

But only if we update the bathrooms and the kitchen. I have gold-flecked white Formica countertops and faux wood grain Formica cabinets in all three rooms. Be not jealous.

Tonight, I recovered the seats of the two bar stools that go with my kitchen table. I suppose it’s really the cats’ table, as their food sits high above the dogs reach. But the fabric that covered the seats was extremely light in color. And solid to boot. So any stains were very visible.

Not any more.

And while it’s certainly not going to increase the value of the home, it is but one step in the right direction of making this place Barry and my own. Someday, we’ll truly – and literally – carve out our own niche here. Until then, lots of little changes can, over time, add up to something big.

Or so I keep telling myself.

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