On Bending It

So Beckham mania has landed in the U.S. Couldn't be more thrilled except that he's playing for the MLS. I was excited years ago when the MLS began. When the Revolution became New England's contribution to American soccer. Then I watched a game. Yup. The Revolution were certainly contributing to American soccer.

I've played soccer since I was five. And there are videos to prove it. Videos that show me slide-tackling the other team at 7 years old. As my sister point out, "You were playing dirty at 7!". And there's some suspect audio of me yelling at a ref. Proud moments on the pitch, let me tell you. The highlight coming when I slid at the ball, over-slid and locked my arm around the ball, rolling over with the ball, and continuing to bring the ball up-field. That's a handball. It's illegal in soccer.

I watched those videos upon my trip to Maine, having heard about their existence for a couple of years. It was thoroughly entertaining. That, along with the running commentary my brother and I provided, critiquing both of our pre-pubescent abilities on the pitch.

There's not much difference between the talent in those videos and the MLS. I represented the future of soccer in America at one point. Proudly, too. But 20 years later, the future of American soccer is still as murky and unclear and as woefully unsteady as my attempt to sell that handball. Beckham will steady the ship. Generate some buzz. And be thoroughly entertaining to watch. Even if he is washed up. Even if this stint with the Galaxy are not much more than Jordan's allegedly playing with the Wizards (I contend that never happened).

My hope is this will bend things for American soccer. Bending it around a wall of mediocrity. Extending the metaphor, this shot doesn't have to even be close to scoring, doesn't have to hit the post or go in, it just needs to bend around the wall.

The future of American soccer is on the other side.

NOTE: My attempt at joining the legions of EPL fans fell miserably short this year. My new cable system gives me La Liga games, primarily only those featuring Real Madrid. But expect more posts on soccer in the future.

A Moment To Brag

By nature, I'm not a proud person. Not one prone fits of grandeur. Quite aware, under normal circumstances, of my limitations. No self-delusions. Not necessarily humble. But not proud either. So indulge me for a moment.

I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.

It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.

Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.

All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.

I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".

On The Small Goodbyes

Now that we've officially moved to the other side of Columbus, I'm getting used to new people. The people who are infused in our lives but we don't give much thought to. Of the places I frequent, there is a new Blockbuster, Tim Horton's, Starbucks and Subway that I must familiarize myself with. I must find a new Sam, Norm and Cliff.

But in all the moving, I never officially had my last Frappe, Spicy Italian, Donut or rented my final movie from the places I spent the last two and a half years visiting. And I will miss those people. I will miss Karen, the Blockbuster owner who knew me by name. Who gave me a hard time because I never wanted to sign up for Blockbuster Online because I got movies for free via Discover Card. Who always had an opinion on the movie I was renting. Who got mad at me when I knocked over a shelf. I'll miss one of her managers, Todd who shared a similar taste in movies and who's opinion of movies I came to value.

Then there's the Subway guy. When we talked, he talked about high school basketball. I just listened. Mostly we shared bemused glances because there was always something or someone weird every time we were in there together.

I won't really miss the Tim Horton's people. Every time I got a Boston Creme Donut they took little care in giving it to me. Throwing it into the bag and that inevitably resulted in the chocolate, the best part, getting stuck to the inner linings of the bag. It was a sigh of relief when this morning, from my new TH, I received the same donut in a box. Resulting in an unspoilt layer of chocolate.

I'm not sure what it is or was about these people, but I've come to miss them. Miss that I never got to say goodbye. That I just stopped showing up. Stopped being able to enjoy a conversation with them. They were like characters in a novel I got to know. Then the book ended. There was no final episode. No highlight show. So grand send-off.

These are the small goodbyes. The trifle things that are no more and really weren't much when they were. But in the loss there is a loss of sorts. A loss of the way things were. And that's the toughest of goodbyes.

On The Little Wonders That Still Remain

They've, or, apparently, we've named the new 7 Wonders of the World. Congratulations. You have chosen wisely.

I disagree little with this list. In fact, I don't think I disagree with it at all. There's no denying the architectural masterpieces. Indelible contributions of the genius of man to the sustenance of the human race.

My nomination for this list is Machu Pichu. Though I also like Petra -- as referenced earlier -- but not the group.

But why is it limited to 7? Seems a rather arbitrary number. One for each day of the week? Why not 13? Or 22? Or even 1? If the latter is to be the case, the Pyramids win, hands down. Though the Great Wall has a 'dog in that fight'.

I have been intrigued by architecture since I read The Fountainhead. Awed by it's genius. Fascinated by it as an art form -- an idea I never considered before I read the book.

And while I think it rather sophomoric that we should in some way belittle the other masterpieces on this list because they are the geeks at this architectural prom they just had online, I do believe that voters got it right.

But honestly, how could you get it wrong? It's like being in a room of every flavor of ice cream and asked to pick the best. It's ice cream! There's no such thing as bad ice cream.

Things like this are subjective. I grant you that, beauty in the eye of the beholder and all. But, like Plato posited: beautiful things are beautiful things. And not just because we say they are. But is there a more beautiful sight than this? I say not.

On The Fog

Coming in this morning there was just about every shade of blue imaginable filling the sky. Including the color of my kitchen in the northwest part of the atmosphere. There was also a thick layer of fog settling down around houses, street lamps and baseball fields.

"Ah yah, it was as thick as a pea soup, it was, ah yah."

That's the saying, anyway. Not quite sure how it came about. Pea soup, if you've ever had it, is not exactly a breakfast food, which is the time of day your most likely to come across thick fog. But I can see why other soups aren't used. Wedding Soup, Chicken Noodle Soup, even Broccoli and Cheddar, just don't quite describe the thickness of the fog, nor do they have the same ring to it. 'As thick as Lobster Bisque?' No. Maybe Campbell's could advertise the thickness of their Chunky's brand by trying to re-invent the expression.

We always describe things in terms of other things. Like fog and pea soup. Like the morning sky and my kitchen. But I'm not entirely sure how to describe things as they intrinsically exist.

Besides, my grandfather's expression wouldn't have resonated with me had he waxed on about the opacity and the paradox of the magnificent translucency of the morning fog, dense with vapors of a coming day, yearning to burn off and reveal the hours before us, hours that were hinted at by stray rays of sunlight here and there, sunlight already searing through an otherwise wall of whiteness. One that disappeared the moment you tried to touch it. The future comes to us, we must wait for it to reveal itself. Ah yah.

Pea soup says it much better.

A Self-Titled Day

Picked up a new CD yesterday. Not a common practice for me these days. Especially since I've discovered the Library -- where I can get all the music I want, for free, and rip it to the computer. I'm very particular about music -- as many of you know. But truth be told, my musical taste reflects my taste in clothes, most notably my penchant for wearing the same jeans over and over again. All this to say, I don't go for much more than what I already have.

But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.

That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).

Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.

Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.

One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.

On Playing Catch

There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.

There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.

But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.

A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.

They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.

Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.

We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.

Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.

On Having A Home

The move is complete. At least, the part that involved the transfer of everything we owned into the largest thing we've ever owned. There's still much, much work left to be done. "So little to do, so much time." Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. All apologies to my readers, but the blog takes a backseat to that.

It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.

On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.

Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.

Some Flightly Observations

Sitting in an overcrowded airport shuttle this past weekend with a child and car seat and luggage, you can't help but notice other people.

First off, it's pretty clear from body language that people don't like the thought that you and your kid may be on their flight. I'm not sure what kid traveling gave other kids a bad name, but that's pretty much par for the course.

This country is quite coddled. Pulling up to the Columbus International Airport -- one not much larger than Portland, Maine's airport -- no one moved on our overcrowded shuttle. Instead, they yelled out their airlines. The shuttle had stopped at the first airline in the terminal -- the only terminal at the airport. A couple people filed out. We were at the back and unable to move. Many remained seated or stood in the aisles. Then a couple more people made the effort to get out, forcing others to disembark the shuttle. We seized the opportunity and also got off. Electing to walk the less than hundred yards to where our airline was located. More than a few people got back on and decided that that hundred yard walk to the end of the road where their airline was, was too inconvenient. It would be more beneficial to get back on board the shuttle, wait for traffic to clear so the shuttle could pull out and then park less than a hundred yards further down the road and then they could still walk across the road to their airline.

This is our country.

Paying for food on an airplane isn't that bad a deal -- especially if it means you're going to get something other than peanuts. Ironically, doesn't cost peanuts though.

If you check something at the foot of the plane, it's a reasonable assumption to think someone's going to notice and check-in a large, un-aeroplane object sitting in front of the plane. That's reasonable. Until it almost doesn't happen and you get apologized to.

Walking on to the tarmac feels, sometimes, like staying up past your bedtime. Not everyone gets to do it. Of course, when that means walking up a ramp into the plane that's shaking, well, that's like staying up past your bedtime to watch C-SPAN.

One couple on the return flight casually remarked aloud they didn't want to sit "near the children". There were a few of us with kids in one area so they moved to the rear of the plane where there was only one child. That kid screamed the entire flight.

Also, don't pay for privileges to board an airplane first. Have a kid.

And I remain convinced that Bob Dylan is the perfect music for an airline flight. Like Annie Lennox and Natalie Merchant are to elevators, Dylan is to that moment the plane rises above the weather to see the oranges, reds and purples fading into a field of clouds. It's not dark yet... but it's getting there.

On Comings and Goings

For years I've made trips back home. Back to my grandparents' homes in the ever-growing beachfront that is Old Orchard Beach, ME. Back to see the most important thing in my life: my family. And OOB has been a rendezvous point for my immediate family. For my brother and sisters and parents. A point where we can sit in the shade of pine trees and traces of sea breezes and reminisce and remember and remember what we've forgotten.

For Isaac, it was his first trip back to this idyllic location. His first conversations about torque wrenches and the sharpening of lawn mower blades. His first, covert attempt to ruin the cranberry sauce. His first discussions over national league pitchers. His first taste of rhubarb. His first looks upon my nana, my grandpa, my grammie and my grandpa.

Isaac handled it well. Laughing at his second cousin. Falling asleep in his great-grandmothers arms. Staying an evening with his nana and grandpa while the Mrs. and I ate pizza and fried dough and held each other on the darkened beach around the pier. Responding to coos and ahhs and "Mr. Isaac's" that seemed to fill his every waking moment. And fighting sleep whenever he could because he didn't want to miss an instant of this experience.

But I'm not sure he realized he's gone. That that experience, his first, is over. But it was not lost on me, on the Mrs., on the family who clamoured over and around him. His coming was marked with joy. A happiness I've never seen in the eyes of those most dear to my heart. And it echoed louder as we left. Isaac is a blessed child. Blessed with the love of so many.

The hardest part of coming is going. But more so, the hardest part is staying away. Staying away from instant coffee (well, maybe not instant coffee). From the raw rhubarb growing out back. Staying away from the tangible and unrelenting love of my grandparents.

That's the thing about coming and about going. It's about not staying away.

On A Trip To Maine

Taking my son on a trip to Maine...

We're excited. He's grown so much in the past week. Already he's starting to crawl. Well, really he just raises his backside in the air and pushes with his feet, trying to crawl. He ends up pivoting around in a circle because he hasn't figured out how to reach out with his left hand. It's pretty funny and at the same time truly amazing.

I find myself unfamiliar with the position of my family this weekend. With the exception of my parents, no one has met him yet. And even my folks only met him in his first few hours of life. Now he is filled with so much life. Not knowing Isaac is something I can't comprehend. Isaac's infused with so much vivacity that I'm sure after this weekend, we all have something in common.

It's also one of the first opportunities I'll have with Isaac to share a part of me with him. Not that he'll remember it, but I will. I'll show him the ocean. The Pier. His family. Nana and Grammie's house I spent summers in. He'll hear Grandpy's stories and probably get directions to somewhere too. While he may not get any Strawberry Rhubarb pie this weekend, he'll hear about why it's so good. He'll meet someone who looks just like his dad and someone who speaks another language entirely.

Oh, Mom and Dad, Nana and Grandpa, Grammie and Grandpa, know this: I'm not changing diapers this weekend. Not a one.

On Accents

She answered the phone and, for a moment, I thought I was talking to my grandmother. Her voice was disjunct, cacophonic and rythmic. She spoke with a striking Maine accent. Imagine my surprise, living in Columbus, in the parts of the country where everyone sounds alike -- where there is nothing distinct in their voices. Nothing that hints of experiences or of places and times other than the present. And as she told me I'd have to "Come down here to the store", I grabbed Isaac and headed over to the Man Store (read: Lowe's or Home Depot) to finish ordering my carpet for the new house, but mainly to meet this woman.

I spotted her immediately. Staring at a computer screen in the flooring section. A little old lady surrounded by laminate floorings and carpet samples. Looking a little worn out by the years. Slightly hunched at the shoulders. Once blonde hair graying in just about every area. But a smile that reminds me of my childhood and a voice that, as she began to speak, became the narrator of my past.

Dispensing with the carpet business, I struck up a conversation with her. Asking her where in Maine she was from. She smiled, pondering aloud how I knew she was from Maine. I replied with a smile. I'm from Maine. That was all she needed to know before she launched into her story. And it was a wonderful story. Featuring details of her looming retirement sprinkled with her history living in the Portland area some 25 years ago. Living there long before the Maine Mall was a glint in anyone's eye. When Congress Street was filled with little shops. When time was much different than it is now.

It had been awhile since she had lived in Maine. I complimented her on her lovely accent. How reminiscent it was for me. How it brought me back to trips to Nana's house and to Grammie's house in the summers at Old Orchard Beach. And how it warmed my heart to know in just a few days I would hear the voices, that, just like hers, were near and dear to my heart.

To the untrained ear it sounds English. In fact, she even told me that many people in this area assume she's from England. Maine isn't even an option to them. But the people from Maine, she said, know she's from Maine. From there. Not from here. The ingredients in the elixir were there.

That's the Maine voice. A voice filled with experiences. Filled with summer afternoons and cold winter nights. With days spent looking at an ocean, and hours grieving over the tragedies of the ever-rescinding tide of life that pulls those things away. Of catching and cooking lobsters. Of the silences of listening to baseball games. Of spending Saturdays at yard sales. Of Sunday's at church and those afternoons at picnics in the churchyards. Of bitter cold mornings shoveling snow. Of the rustle of fall leaves cascading through a yard. It's a hardened voice. Filled with rich layers. A voice you can't nail down or imitate. An accent that is only picked up by experience. It's the voice of life.

As she told me how she hoped to get home for the fall this year to visit with her daughter and take a trip to the White Mountains, in the colloquialisms of that glorious accent she had me hanging on each word, each a needle poke, repairing a worn and too oft-forgotten tapestry of my past.

Towering over us were carpets, area rugs and just about everything a person can use to make a home their home. But a home is about the accents.

A home is in the voices.

As I told her what a pleasure it had been to talk with her she said she hoped we'd run into each other.

"Hopefully we will," I said.

"And maybe we can share some pier fries."

"With vinegar. From Bill's."

She smiled and said nothing more.

On Father's Day

It's my first Father's Day. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to today and, actually, to this post. I've immensely enjoyed fatherhood. Loved being a dad. My entire life I've always wanted to be like my father. To model myself, my approach to life, my marriage and everything else I do on the example my father has and continues to provide for me. Something of which, Dad, I am forever grateful for. And this Father's Day, I am again, like my dad. I'm a dad.

There are moments to come that I will treasure. First words, first steps, first hit, first day of school, etc. But there has been one moment that has stood above it all for me and represented my favorite part of being a dad and also, the toughest and most imposing aspect of fatherhood.

A few weeks ago I returned home from work in the early afternoon. The Mrs. was upstairs with Isaac and had locked the screen door so I couldn't get in. Coming down the steps she had Isaac on her hip, saying to him, "Daddy's home, Daddy's home!" As she came up on the screen door she stopped and put Isaac up to the screen and I bent in and said, "Isaac, I'm home." All of a sudden his eyes got wide and blue. His lips curled out and he cackled, almost hiss-like, as he broke into the biggest and brightest smile. Either slightly embarrassed or extremely excited, he then buried his head right into Mom's shoulder, then put his hand on his face, looked back up at Mom and then looked right back at me. Still smiling. Still cackling. He knew I was home. He knew his Dad was home.

There are many examples of fatherhood. None greater than my Heavenly Father. There are many aspects to being a dad. But in that moment, what it meant to be a dad finally hit me. It was about recognition, for him and for me. In that moment, separated by a screen, he knew me as his Dad. As his father. And there is nothing greater, or bigger, or larger or better than being recognized as a Dad.

My role in his life was presented to me in all it's immensity and all it's glory, all it's challenges and all it's joy. I was Isaac's Dad. Charged to be a father to him, to bring to him everything I can. To teach him to throw a baseball. Teach him to respect his mother and women. To take care of everybody and everyone he can. Teach him to stand up and assert himself. To teach him to admit when he is wrong and make amends. To teach him to be a man.

In that moment, with his eyes bright and wide and blue, with his voice cackling, Isaac showed me my role in his life. Instantly overwhelming and yet exciting.

Fatherhood.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

I Blame Myself

I have everything to do with this funk the Red Sox are in. It's all my fault. For the first time all season I have failed to watch a game in the past two weeks. And in the past two weeks they have faltered. It is utterly my fault.

But in my defense, I've been busy with life. With moving, working and school -- but mainly moving. So I've not been able to catch any games. I apologize and must admit I don't see my ways amending anytime soon so I hope they can pull themselves out of this funk, lest I have to pull a Tiger Town. Seems like last night was a good start.

And on the subject of sports, something near and dear to me, did anyone catch the NBA Finals? I watch it only out of obligation to those who no longer play. For Larry, Magic, MJ. And the Spurs looked great. They're a good basketball team. The Cavs looked terrible. Is there a more inept coach than Mike Brown? I think he's still confused over why running a high pick for LeBron didn't work when the man picking was defended by Tim Duncan. Really, I think he's just confused. Clearly he didn't know how to coach a basketball team. What a miserable Finals. I think I might watch an old Celtics game on DVD to inspire my love for the game again.

Also, it's the weekend of the U.S. Open. One of my favorite golf tournaments. Immaculate courses that are ridiculously difficult. Nothing better than a round over par. At least I can relate to the the golfers in this tournament.

Otherwise it's a been an incredibly trying week. Very little sleep. And you know you're tired when you find yourself switching from Bob Dylan's "Stuck In The Middle With You" to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" and singing seamlessly between the two.

I think I'll go to Boston...

Won't You Be...

We now live in a neighborhood. Filled with the sounds of cars stopping at stop signs, kids riding their bikes, lawns being cut, wind blowing through tree tops and the distant hum of life moving at that speed that is just too fast sometimes.

We are out of that current now. Settling into our new little home. Tearing out carpet, removing hideous wallpaper, cutting the grass and scrubbing parkay floors in the kitchen (I'm trying to think of a name for the kitchen that pays homage to The Garden, but in a way other than calling it The Garden because I'm pretty sure we'll have an actual garden). There's a lot of work behind us and good deal more in front of us in the coming weeks. More trips to Home Depot -- the most manly thing I've done in some time because changing diapers doesn't elicit that Tim Allen grunt a guy needs every now and then. More yard-work, more housework and more realizing there's a whole lot more work to do.

Then there are the neighbors. Folks. Good people. I wasn't sure what to expect -- perhaps a "Hey diddily ho!" or a "Howdy, neighbor!". I've lived in an apartment complex for 2+ years and didn't know a soul other than the exchange student two doors down who frequently left his door open as he watched the EPL. But so far I've borrowed a couple of trash cans from a man who goes by Coop and have a request in for a ladder from another neighbor who's name I remembered because it was a vacation spot on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Conversations between strangers are strange in that they are pacifying. They placate the fears of safety. And at the same time they open up obligations that are frightening. Requirements to make future conversations, to offer to help, to take moments to listen to the wind-blown tree-tops and ignore that distant hum.

Superstitions

Those of you who know me, know that I can be a superstitious person. Especially when it comes to my beloved Red Sox -- or really any New England team that's making a run. For the Patriots, I have only one t-shirt. And that t-shirt gets buried at the bottom of my drawer each season. I don't even so much as touch it or even entertain the thought that it is there.

I went into full superstition mode yesterday during Curt Shilling's no-hit bid. Catching only the latter half of the game, I was shocked when the end-of-the-inning scoreboard came up 0 0 1. I turned to the Mrs. sitting with Isaac.

"You know that I'm superstitious about baseball, right?"

Only a look of sarcasm.

"Well, there are some instances during a particular game where it behooves a person to not say anything regarding a certain something during that game."

I didn't use the word "behoove". Though, in a conversation yesterday, I did work in the word diffidence.

"Yes," she replied.

"So if you should see something on the scoreboard and that should elicit a question or two, please don't ask them until later."

Again, didn't use the word elicit.

She consented and we managed to talk around the actual no-hit bid while both eagerly hoping to see one.

I have never seen a no-hitter start to finish. Neither had she. Though her first EVER baseball game she watched, a September match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees in '01, featured Mike Mussina within one-hit of a PERFECT GAME. I had never seen that either. And only with two-strikes on Carl Everett did I begin to root for the feat. Everett broke it up. The only good thing he did with the Sox.

It didn't happen for Schill yesterday. And I was crushed when Stewart broke it up. But I appreciated how the announcers for the Sox acknowledged the 'mentioning-the-no-hitter-jinx' which many announcers find dubious. Though, usually when they begin to discuss their highfalutin view of the dubiousness, the no-hitter proceeds to get broken up. I can count at least two-dozen times I've seen this happen. Anyway, props to Remy and Orsillo for talking around it.

There are some things you just don't talk about during a baseball game. Some things you just don't mention. Some things that are just too glorious that you feel too selfish to even hope for: a five-run rally in the ninth, a perfect game or no-hitter, 4 Home Runs in a game, a game-winning hit. These are things every time you turn on a baseball game you just hope for with everything you got. You pull a Tiger Town.

And sometimes talking about the hope lessens the hope. Puts it in the context of the present reality and makes it seem foolish. Hope is a foolish, foolish thing.

But without it....

Closing Time

A week after the original closing day, closing day has come and gone. The house is now our house. It is our home.

And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.

As for me and my house, today it became our house.

You Look Nice

In my job, there's not an impetus on looking nice. Very few non-managers wear ties. Walk through the building and you're more likely to see an employee in jeans than a pressed shirt. For me, it's always jeans and a polo shirt -- sometimes even a nice t-shirt.

Today I decided to dress up a little. To tuck my shirt in. To match my belt with nice shoes. To wear a shirt that spends most of it's time on a hanger and not in my drawer. To shave. To not wear a hat. To wear khaki's. I'm not saying I'm dressed to the nines, but I'm considerably dressed up from my usual dressed down look. I even drank tea instead of coffee. Drank it Jean-Luc Picard style.

And I feel better today. I feel more alert. I feel on top of my surroundings, instead of just blending into them in a pair sneakers. My roommate in college stumbled across this phenomenon and for about a month dressed up to go to classes. Even at 8 in the morning. Of course, he could've gotten A's in sweatpants, but he claims he did much better during that time. What stopped it for him? Well, I think it was the week we decided to wear an odd article of clothing around just because (one day it was headphones with the plug hanging loosely at our side; another day it was butt-cut day).

I know there are studies that say dressing up increases productivity. But I've long been of the opinion that comfort takes precedence. I don't think LeBron's doing what he did last Thursday (a top-5 all-time playoff moment behind The Flu Game and Magic's 40+ in '80) in a suit. Of course, I've used this as an excuse to get lazy in my appearance.

For the work-a-day world that's moved from suit and tie to business casual to "as long as you're not naked", I'm beginning to alter my theory on how I should present myself. That I should look my best to be at my best. I realize that's some pretty heavy stuff for a Monday.

See what happens when you tuck in a shirt.

On Learning New Things

Isaac is learning and, in some ways, that makes me the teacher. I've already taught him when you should swing at a 3-0 count. When to throw the sinker. When to take a jumpshot falling away just inside the three-point line and when to dribble the clock out. I don't think he's grasped my lessons yet. But he is learning in other ways.

The Mrs. bought a fun toy for him last week. Now I'm of the opinion that we should just give our child a cardboard box and let him use his imagination. In fact, I'm excited about our new house because there are several places where a productive imagination could yield some interesting afternoons. But he's not quite there yet. And this toy is a pretty neat thing. Neat in the sense that I can already measure it's effectiveness. Basically, the toy let's him lay on his back with things to grab onto over his head. It's working. In the past week, he's gone from barely being able to focus on something in front of his face to being intrigued by his index finger and reaching for it with his other hand and grab and hold objects at will.

You don't think about teaching these things. You think about teaching right from wrong. Curveballs from sliders. Times tables. Words. Not grabbing things like a plastic ladybug or a rotating toy mirror. Not how to focus and reach for something. Or even putting things within their grasps.

But that's my role as a Dad. To teach him to reach for things over his head, or right in front of him. To teach him to focus, grab and hold on to whatever he can. He starts, I'm learning, with a toy that makes noise, it progresses, eventually, into dreams and goals. From tangible objects to intangible desires.

I guess this is as easy as it will get for me. Because, right now, I can hold the desired object for him to grab on to. I won't always be able to do that.

But when the time comes to teach him how to hit a fastball, rest assured, he's not going to be able to hit my fastball.

200

For those of you keeping score at home, this is my 200th post since I started this blog 13 months ago. That averages out to some 13 posts a month; about 3 posts a week. In that time I've had more than 10,000 visitors to the site as well. Not bad. But in comparison to, say, ESPN.com, that total is, well, close to nothing at all. But then again I'm not trying to be the world-wide leader.

But there is cause to celebrate. The thing of it is (yes, I'm breaking that out): the 200th of something is a rare cause to celebrate. Off the top of my head, 200 is recognized as a milestone in television, with the 200th episode of a show. It's usually considered the ultimate goal because it takes about 8 years or so to reach and means the show's got staying power. 200 is also a significant number in baseball: 200 hits in a season; 200 wins in a career for a pitcher.

That covers quantity. As far as time goes, well, 200 isn't a popular anniversary. And if there were an Idiots Guide to Celebrating Anniversaries, I'd want it to address the topic of what anniversaries to celebrate. Clearly, the 1st and 2nd years following the date are important. After that? Do we really need to pay such close attention to 3 and 4? 5, sure. Then 10, 25, 50, and 75. Of course there's 100. Maybe 125 like baseball did a few years ago. 150? Not really. 200, maybe. Like the bicentennial in '76.

Along those lines, here's some 200 year anniversaries you should put in your calender over the next few years. Moments you're going to want to remember later this year.

August 17th: The first launch of the commercial steamboat. The world was never the same.

That's about it. But there are more 200-year milestone's approaching in the next five years. So mark these down.

February 12, 2009: Births of Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln. There's evolution for you. Two great minds born on the same day. And they both later died. So much for survival of the fittest.

December 30, 2009: Boston bans the wearing of masks at balls. I'm not sure this law has ever been repealed.

March 25, 2011: The great comet discovery. Great balls of fire and all.

February 11, 2012: The invention of gerrymandering. Love that word.

June 1, 1812: The War of 1812 begins. Hopefully it'll be over by 2012. And don't forget to remember Dolly Madison's heroic efforts in your celebrations.

Happy 200th everyone.

On Reading Faulkner

For those of you unaware, I'm back in school. Accepted to the University of Dayton to begin work on a Masters in English, emphasis in Creative Writing. Of course, it's conditional enrollment meaning I've got to get 3.0's in two upper-level English courses to be officially enrolled this fall (or whenever I should complete them). So I'm in the midst of my first class at the moment, courtesy of the Internet and Ohio University: American Literature 1918-present.

It's a post-WWI literature survey course featuring the works of John Barth, Flannery O'Connor (a personal favorite) and Saul Bellow -- to name a few. And then there's William Faulkner. Known for his work in As I Lay Dying and Absalom! Absalom! we get to sample none of that. Instead, chosen for me, was "The Hamlet". A 400+ page introduction to the Snopes family, featured in other works and later, as part of a trilogy - this being the first one. I completed it this afternoon and was thoroughly impressed.

There's no way to describe Faulkner as a writer. No way to assess his adroitness with words, punctuation and syntax. But you know it when you read it -- and you know when other readers have read him and been influenced by him (see O'Connor's body of work). While this work was no where near his best, it was quintessential Faulkner. Not his apex as a writer, but what him being a writer was all about. Just like you could point to a Monet and say, "That's clearly Monet -- but not his best". You do that with "The Hamlet". If you can get through it.

Meandering through long sentences filled with prose and romance, punctuated by short sentences of statement, The Hamlet takes some patience. And perseverance. A lack of a DaVinci Code plot surely leaves the modern reader in want. But it's a character study the whole way.

I liken it to a Sunday drive. Or those old Sunday drives people used to say they were going on when they ran into folks in the atriums and lobbies of churches. People don't go on these drives anymore. They don't trek with windows down and squint through fading suns and sunlights dancing through trees. They don't stop for ice creams and share in the colloquialisms of flea markets and little league baseball games. It's one of those things though, that when done, you're glad you've done and wished it could have been longer. But before you began, did not expect to spend as much time doing it or enjoying it like you did. And you're not really sure what it was that made you spend the hours before dusk trucking around.

Faulkner is, perhaps, the best writer I've ever read. And I know why. Like I know a Sunday drive.

Some Bathroom Reading

One week from today the Mrs., myself and Isaac will be the possessors of our new home. Needless to say it's been a stress-filled, yet exciting time for us. Between closing on a house and planning for the move into a home much larger than our current residence, we have been busy. Thankfully, our new home provides me with that needed respite. That longed for and welcomed moment of the day when no one wants to be around you and you won't no one around. Where it is just you and your thoughts. And sometimes some reading material.

A friend of mine has a book that provides summaries of all the greatest novels. Each books' summary can be read, well, in one sitting. The sports page is also common reading. My new home has something of the former adorning its walls. The previous owner, who gets major points for being clever here while having them deducted because of the location of the hot-tub filled gazebo, decided to paste pages of exceptional authors' works on the walls. All within plain sight. All easy to read. It's a rather ingenious idea, to post authors like Faulkner, Spinoza, Shakespeare, Bacon, Whitman, et al on the walls. And suddenly, these walls can talk.
I'm not sure where I'll start. On which wall. But I know I'll look forward to those chances I'll get to, well, sit and think. I'm just not sure how to reference them in footnotes on my graduate papers.

On The Draft Lottery

Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please.... pretty please with sugar on top... Please.

Please.

Also, ever write a word so many times it doesn't look right?

Please.

On Quality

It occurs to me: we live very convenient lives. Especially these days. People speak of the "modern conveniences" in vague, generic terms. But it's rather true. For instance, yesterday the Mrs. and I headed to Cincinnati for the day, listening, the entire trip down, to Damien Rice on the iPod.

Now I love the iPod. I love it's convenience. How I can store my entire collection of music on a piece of technology roughly the size of an index card. Not only that, but I can access it anywhere -- like in my car. And if I hear a song I like, I can own it. I hear also that there's a new device, aside from being a phone, that you can put up to a speaker, it will identify the song for you and offer to download it. These are the lives of complete convenience we lead.

Thing of it is, MP3 is a huge dent on the quality of music. It's not even close. Audiophiles, and I'm not quite one of them, rant on degeneration of sound that is the MP3. And they're right. CD quality is much better. Vinyl is even better than that. But we sacrifice it all for the ability to bring it with us.

There are other things we've given up too in these "modern times". Given up quality, prepared food for microwavable meals. Handwritten letters that show time and effort for short emails. Phone calls even for text messages. Cross-country road trips in cars, itself a modern convenience, for quicker airline travel. Walks in the park for the treadmill and athletic clubs. Actual sports for something called the Wii. Full-length content for highlights and summaries . Newspapers for webpages.

It's amazing and frightening how in 100 years we've stopped doing the things that civilizations for thousands of years were doing. And it's all in the name of convenience.

What will be left for the poets? For the writers? For the singers? Songs that employ those binary words that have become part of our lives? Poems that rhyme MP3 with me? Stories that describe turbulence and jet-lag? I worry for them. For how they'll have to make stories out of modern life; a life that is, in places, cold and austere, efficient. Where there is no quality, only convenience.

On Leaving Early

Inspired by a post on a blog I've occasioned, I was reminded about a story I once wrote. Of course it involves baseball. All my stories involve baseball. Also, it's a particularly good time to write about baseball as the Red Sox are playing some outstanding baseball right now.

Remember my first ever 'live blog'? Well, if you get through it you get to the point where we attend the Red Sox game in the pouring rain (and also what humorous events happened to us at the game which were even funnier in lieu of everything that happened that horrible, no good, very bad day). One of the things I love about my wife is she gets me. Completely and, sometimes, inconceivably. Despite the rain, despite the events of the day, she did not once consider or broach the idea that we should leave the game early. And more than that -- and this is why I love her -- she did not want to leave the game early.

You don't leave a baseball game early. Especially if it's the Red Sox. Especially if it's at Fenway. It is my belief that those people, and there are many of you who choose to leave, for good or for lame reasons, a baseball game before the final out, are the same sort of people who would leave church in the middle of the altar call (Been reading Faulkner, sorry about that sentence).

The altar call is the whole point (usually, but it doesn't have to be) of the sermon and church on the whole. Staying for the final out is the whole point of going to a game. Only then is the final outcome determined. Only then is the victor the victor and the loser the loser. And that's what you go to games for. For one team to win and another to lose. Sure, things may not change between the time you leave your seat and that final out. But the whole point is that they can change and so you need to stay.

My brother and some friends once attended a Red Sox game at Fenway. It was a few years ago and it was a night game in the middle of the summer. Well, like any fan going to a game's dream, it went into extra innings. Around the 14th they made an announcement that the last train was leaving at a certain time readily approaching. That train would have taken them across the city to where they had parked. Sara, one of the friends at the game, as street savvy as she is in Boston, said she knew how to walk the two dozen city blocks so they could stay. They put it to a vote. It was unanimous. They stayed.

In the bottom of the 18th the Red Sox won it on a Shea Hillenbrand home run. And they walked back. He still tells that story.

What story can you tell if you left early.

Catch-22: An Emmy

So I've been nominated for an Emmy award. Not the real Emmy's, mind you. These Emmys. It's for a 30-minute special I wrote and produced last year on a local restaurateur named Cameron Mitchell. I poured a lot of time and effort into it -- especially in the pre-production stage where I laid out my plans for the piece. Of course each idea I had was shot down. They weren't all fantastic ideas, but they were ideas that made the piece something more than the "newsy" type piece I knew my (now former) bosses wanted from it. I didn't want that. I wanted a documentary feel. I didn't get that and they got what they wanted. I didn't want it submitted. They did. I don't want the Emmy. They do.

So who should I thank if I win? God? My wife? Cameron Mitchell? David Ortiz? My fifth grade teacher who always believed in me?I'm not up against anybody so chances are pretty good I'll bring home the hardware. And I must come up with something very cliche to say. The last video production award I won was in 6th grade. It was on a new school being built for junior high students. We entitled it "A Dream Come True". The award we won, I gave the speech for, thanking everyone, including my teachers for "making this a dream come true." I'll need a speech to top that.

Truth be told I'm not thrilled about this thing. While it will benefit me professionally, and it will, it's not the piece I would have liked to be recognized for. It wasn't something I would watch so how should I expect someome else to watch it? My wife hasn't even seen it and I show her everything I do. I didn't even want it submitted (mostly because of the $75 admission fee. It was paid for "anonymously"). But professionally, an Emmy goes a long, long way.

And therein lies the rub.

To My Mom

Take another look at me
Oh breaker of my heart
Take a look and you will see
How beautiful you are
Even when I walk away
I could not go very far
Before the child in me would say
Home is where you are

In the tapestry of time
I cannot imagine where
I could find someone as kind
On the ground or in the air
I have heard that angels fly
And they never show their face
So I suppose that from the sky
One landed in your place

Did you know right from the start
When you first held me in your arms
That you would always hold my heart
Where you are

You make the mornings seem so light
With coffee in the air
But to be a mother and a wife
Is a heavy load to bear
And so you gave your life away
Like the God inside your heart
And even though we've gone away
Home is where you are
It's where you are

-Bebo Norman, "Home is Where You Are"

On The Theotokos

It's Mother's Day. The Mrs'. first Mother's Day. Isaac and I both got her gifts and I think she liked mine better. His involved his footprints (ooooohhhh!) while mine involved something called decoupage.

But today I was reminded of another idea that has never really gotten any play in church on days like today. Usually today Ephesians is quoted about honoring your parents and, perhaps, what that means. Yet especially on the Protestant Branch of the Church I have yet to come across an idea involving my favorite Greek word: Theotokos.

I came across it Theology class years ago. Apart from it's meaning, and I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here, it always sounds like something Robin would say. As in "Holy Theotokos, Batman! The Riddler's done it again!" And for awhile I tried to implement it in moments where I was, also, astounded. Never really caught on.

It's a term used to identify Mary, the Mother of Jesus. It means, and Eric will probably correct my Greek, "God-bearer". I've long been affected by the idea of Mary we find in Scripture. She is given a prominent role by the authors of the Gospels. Yet doesn't ever seem to receive much praise or wonder in Protestant theologies. Don't get me wrong, Marian Theology in the Catholic Church has gone a little overboard. But her role in the Gospels is interesting and undeniable. How this one woman, this teenager, was charged to give birth to the Christ.

All that being said, today we honor our bearers. Those amazing and powerful and graceful and loving and astounding women who have given us life. We are endlessly thankful for your bearing of us. As for how you were able and are able to do it -- all you Moms out there -- I have one expression I use: Holy Theotokos!

On Life Without A T.V.

For the past three and a half weeks we've been without a television set. It's being "fixed" -- but not in the Bob Barker sense-- because of a loud hum that annoys everyone in the Greater Columbus area. And there are downsides to not having a television. But we've managed despite these negative qualities.

My uncle, as I was growing up, never had a T.V.. And this was before the Internet. I never thought one, especially me, could manage. But a person can. I remember thinking people without cable were weird, too. But I've been without cable for 4 of the last 5 years and gotten along just fine. I'll admit I'd go crazy if it weren't baseball season because I can watch the Red Sox via the Internet and faithfully do every night. And I also watch the occasional movie on the computer.

Life slows down a little when you don't have a T.V.. No more are your days timed in 30 minute increments and commercial breaks. When it's eight o'clock it's eight o'clock. It's not time for My Name is Earl or How I Met Your Mother. Afternoons are filled, not with reruns and news, but with coffee and books and playing with my son. Early evenings are occupied with walks at sunset to pet stores and for ice cream and along riverbanks. And mornings, especially Saturday mornings, are filled with full breakfasts and short naps.

Sometimes life gets a little too slow and you wish you could just kick back for 30 minutes. Because of that I do look forward to the return of my T.V. -- especially because I can watch sports on the weekends which I miss most of all. But I've learned life doesn't give itself to you to be spent going the bathroom during commercial breaks. And that Isaac doesn't laugh because there's a sitcom on. And that the NBA playoffs aren't really worth the time (except for when Golden State's playing).

Life is about moving pictures and entertainment -- only it's going on all around and shouldn't be confined to my 30-inch wide screen. I always knew this. But it's nice to be reminded once and awhile.

On The Sunrise

It does not always rise over calm seas. Between mountain peaks. On breezy plains. It ascends to its heights over the austere creations of man. Over the Ayn Rand landscape of modern America. Red and orange hues do little to warm the cool gray and fading blacks of our highway system. And it is this juxtaposition that is most striking on the ascent. When the air and light is still cool. But mindlessly we drive to our places of work mainly unaware. In fact for many, the rising of the sun is an inconvenience; the stinging and squinting of eyes and drawn visors of cars are the fruits of men and women trying to hold the sun back.

The filled lanes of blue and red and black pick-up trucks and compact cars and SUVs continue on their ways to fill up empty parking lots of black concrete. Rarely a moment is given to this phenomenon that occurs every day. Painfully we notice it and try to look past it. To spreadsheets and bills; to conference calls and contracts; to breaking news and time crunches. We do not want to be reminded that we will be unable to enjoy the clear blue sky the rising sun will soon settle into. So we choose to ignore it by looking past it. By looking to what it means and not at what it represents.

It's rising signifies a new day. Not another day. A new day. Filled with rises and falls of its own for sure, but a new day nonetheless. Our days are as complicated as these highway roads filled with cars. Of twists and turns and stops and starts. As unpredictable as traffic. Yet rising above all the uncertainty is a certain predictability.

In the cool of the morning, over the empty parking lot, over the gray overpass, over the skyscraper, over this day before me, there is this rising of a sun.

On Laughter

Laughter is the best way to express love and to feel loved.

In Things Hoped For

I've been thinking quite a good deal about faith lately. Spurred by a song (not George Michael) I came across on the radio by a band I was always mocked for enjoying in high school by friends. It's called "Take My Hand" by The Kry (aged Canadian rockers; YOU album). The fact that I even heard it on the radio was astounding, seeing as how, 15 years ago when it was written, I never heard it on the radio. My estimation is that some tired DJ at the Christian Radio station here in town pulled a fast one. Either way, at 3:30 in the morning on a Saturday on 5 hours of sleep, that song still resonates deep within me.

There are many instances of faith. There's faith that your first house will be everything you hoped for. There's faith that your favorite NBA team will land one of the top two picks in the upcoming draft. Faith that your baseball team will one day win it all. And, more seriously, there's times when one's faith is tried by unspeakable and inconsolable tragedy. When only faith, the unspoken and unseen comfort and presence of faith, gets one through.

In all these cases, it's a hope in the things not yet come, the evidence of things not seen. Yet it's more than that in the latter case. It actually carries us through those times. Changes how we approach events like that one. There is a fine line between faith and hope. Hope is a good thing to have for sure. Faith is a better thing because you can actually use it here and now. You can let it affect you. You can let it drive you forward. And it's promises bring one joy, however slight, in times of great darkness.

One of the glorious things about faith is the day and moment it is rewarded. Any conception I have of that moment now is but a shadow, the faintest whisper, the slightest breeze. And it is that faith, that hope in things not yet seen, that carries me further up and further in through this life.

"Talk my hand and walk, where I lead."

Home Sweet...

Well, not yet. But almost. We're in contract on a new house. Inspections to come. Needless to say it's been a crazy week and will continue to be one. It's a charming Cape Cod: 4 Bedrooms, 2 Baths, 1300 sq feet, plus 300 sq feet in a finished basement, a hot tub/gazebo deal, privacy fence, playground and shed, hardwood floors. The Mrs. and I couldn't be more excited. Or more thankful.

I'll have pictures eventually. For now, a tease. Don't be surprised if some future posts start with: As I was sitting in the bathroom reading the wall...

Seriously, it's the Greatest. Bathroom. Ever. And only I could think that.

Why I Won't Go To Boston

Because of the media. The White-Middle-Aged Boston Media. Like clockwork, the borderline racist columnists print their "I Hate Randy Moss" columns. Character issues? A soiled mark on the pristine franchise? I'm sorry, Tom Brady hasn't been the modicum of morality this off-season but he's not a black mark on the franchise. Oh. Wait. He's not black. That's right.

I'll admit Moss has character issues. But he's also one of the best players in the game. Period. His problems are minor. He's never shot and killed someone like other athletes. So he mooned the intolerable Green Bay fans. Sorry: mock-mooned them. I thought it was really funny. Really funny. Not "disgusting". So he walked off the field 2 SECONDS before the game was over. The nerve. Larry Bird NEVER shook hands at the end of a game he lost. With Bird, that was panache. With Moss, that's a sign of bad character.

And since when did Boston seek the moral high-ground? Bill itself as the new Bible Belt? I'm not saying it shouldn't. Or that isn't something it might try doing. But that's not the issue here. I'm tired of this trade being discussed as a "What are they doing at Foxboro? What happened to all the great people concept?" type of situation. That's a way for the media in Boston to subtly discuss their racism. And maybe it's not racism. That's harsh. Maybe we can call it: their bias against an African-American player with outstanding talent with some "issues" playing for their precious little team. But that's being nice. Russell and Rice never had issues. But the media didn't like them. Same with Pedro. Same with Manny. Same with Pierce. Anson Carter? Anyone?

Me. I couldn't be happier with this trade. I love Moss. Always have. Now that he's playing for the Pats, I'm giddy. Can't wait for the season to start. Finally, Brady has a Pro-Bowl Receiver to throw to. And not just that, finally we have a playmaker. A gamebreaker. But it might not work out in the end. Maybe Moss is a troubled soul. But winning tends to change things. Let's at least give peace a chance? And if we can do that, we can say the Pats are scary good. Scary. Good.

Of course, they're not morally good anymore. But who's to blame for that?

O Brother...

There are few events in life that make one feel older. That make one realize things aren't the way they were or the way they've been. For many, and for me, one of those events is a birthday, which I had this week. Another is the announcement that a sibling is getting married. Also, that happened to me this week.

My brother is getting married. For those of you that know my brother, I'll give you a moment to get over the shock that: 1) Steve Guest is going to have a wife and 2) That feeling that you're older than you thought.

I'm excited about this. And why shouldn't I be, he's my little brother. We shared a room growing up. Later, shared two attic rooms, even removing the door into mine so we could share the experience. We watched tv shows we weren't allowed to watch together. We rigged cable into my room. My friends were his friends and vice-a-versa. We even look extremely similar. Now, we'll both be married to amazing women.

Of course, I realize how much my brother and I are not alike anymore. No longer sharing rooms or cities or states together. We're barely in the same time zone. But all this is a very good thing. I would not want my brother to be me. Or to be like me. Or to want to be like me. It's nice to dress up in similar outfits with the same sneakers in 4th grade. Not cool at 27.

I still see him with glasses. Sporting an afro. Wearing the same shirt for the 34th consecutive day (Will that shirt be worn at the wedding... we'll see). Eating Peanut Butter and Fluff sandwiches. Despising Green Beans. Dunking with authority on a 5-foot rim. Punching me in the face because I made fun of him. I see him how I have always seen him. Not crying at a funeral. Not graduating from the Coast Guard. Not going off to Iraq. Not in love with a girl. Not engaged. Not getting married. Not as a man, as my little brother.

But I am old.

I am looking forward to "best manning" this thing. If you were at my wedding, you can rest assure that all efforts to repay the embarrassment I incurred will be repayed. Ten-fold. That little punk... I'm still bitter. But happy. Very. Very. Very. Happy.

Congratulations Steve. I love you.

On Turning Another Year Older

I'm 27 today. Another year older. As wise beyond my years as I am, there are still several things I am unable to do:

1. Grow facial hair.
2. Dunk a basketball.
3. Sing.
4. Retire.
5. Run a 5-minute mile.
6. Drive a golf ball 300 yards.
7. Read Summa Theologica.
8. Use tools to build something.
9. Fly a plane.
10. Did I mention grow facial hair? Of all the things, that's my most embarrassing failure.

Sure there are things I am able to do. Like be a dad. Be a husband. Be a friend. Be a writer. Be an athlete. Be a fan. Be a believer. Be a comedian. Be a director. Be blessed. Be stupid. Be sensitive. Be witty. Be dumb as a box of rocks. Be observant.

At 27 I know I'm young. But I'm another year older. Being able to say I'm still young isn't going to last too much longer.

Happy Birthday to me.

Because They Can't All Be Exciting...

Not everyday is "ex umbris et imaginibus in veritatum". So I'm blogging what has been a very mundane, banal and rather commonplace set of affairs I will remember as April 21, 2007.

3:15am: Wake up and get ready for work.

3:25am: Can't decide what shirt to wear. Definitely wearing the jeans with the sewn hole in the seat and my new Asics. Maybe a brown shirt. I go with the brown shirt.

3:40am: Stop off for some Mini-Muffins, Frappucino and Orange Juice. I've stopped drinking straight coffee that early in the morning. Doesn't tend to bode well later on.

3:45am - 12:00pm: Work.

4:15am: Finish a 10-minute recap of a dramatic Red Sox game. I hate the Yankees. I also scare my co-workers who are half-awake. They're not used to having somebody yell and scream this early in the morning.

12:10pm: Decide to stop for lunch at Subway. 2nd time in three days now. 3rd time this week. Get the Spicy Italian. Tip: Don't buy into this whole Toasted Sub nonsense. First off, Quizno's has been doing it for a decade. Secondly, it merges all the meat and cheese flavors together. It's like drinking wine in same glass as chocolate milk.

12:30pm: Get home and decide to straighten up the place. The Mrs. has been gone less than 36 hours and the apartments a mess. She's the greatest, I'm telling you. Me. Not so much.

12:45pm: Turn on Flyboys with James Franco. Watching it on my computer cause they took the T.V. to fix that high-pitched squeal that's annoying everyone in a two block radius.

1:55pm: Realtor calls. Yesterday our offer on the home was rejected. Not only that, but the seller of said home wanted to move into a bigger home but hadn't applied for financing despite having the home on the market for 4+ months. They were rejected and were going to have to take the home off the market. Today, they got the financing, but were asking list price without closing costs. A contingency because of financing. Um. Thanks for playing but no thanks. Back to square one and we begin to look for homes again.

2:00pm: Discuss my decision with the wife. We're kismet. She begins to brag about how nice it is in Florida. Yeah. It's 68 and cloudless here, so, uh, not so much. One of those slight breezes is blowing too as I talk on the phone outside. But I'd give it all away to be with her right now in Antarctica.

2:10pm: Go back to the movie which is terrible at this point and it's still got an hour left.

2:40pm: Interrupted again. For some reason I stop the movie instead of letting it play. It's the Mrs. She wants to discuss some things she's found for my sisters for their birthdays. I assure her what she wants to get them is ugly. She laughs.

3:00pm: Movie is finally over. Gosh, what a terrible movie.

3:05pm: Decide to go get my haircut. I get out to the car and realize I've forgotten my wallet so I have to walk 50 yards back to the apartment.

3:20pm: Get my haircut. Same haircut I've had for 15 years. The guy in front of me pays but forgets to use his $4 coupon. He gives it to me. Making my haircut now a whopping $7.50. Remember that movie. You know, the one with Helen Hunt and Kevin Spacey. I've never been one to adopt a movie's philosophy but now is as good as a time as any. The hairdresser gets a $4 tip. Suppose the Pay It Forward thing to do would've been the $4 plus my normal tip. It was a stupid movie anyway.

3:30pm: Decide to blog about my day.

3:32pm: Begin blogging about my day.

3:55pm: Successfully execute my plan. Kill about 30 minutes before the Red Sox-Yankees game. I'll be listening to it on MLB Gameday audio since I don't have a television right now.

Predicting the future:

4:00pm - 7:00pm: The Red Sox. A cup of coffee. A book. A slight breeze. A cloudless sky. An itchy neck. A bowl of cereal. A few streams of sunlight. My afternoon passing quietly and majestically a hot air balloon over the countryside.

7:30pm: A goodnight phone call from the Mrs. The one who has my love. The one whom I miss. Sleep well, I'll tell her. "I love you."

7:45pm: Fall asleep under the fading sunlight of April 21, 2007.

It's Not An Excuse...But...

I know it's been almost a week. I've been busy. The Mrs. and I made an offer on a house last night. A charming 4 BR/2BTH Cape Cod in the Grove City (commonly referred to around these parts as Grove-Tucky) area of Columbus (on the southwest side). Obviously we like the house. There's not much more to say about it. Here's to hoping we get it; I fear it may turn into a bidding war as we are up against another buyer.

The Kid is growing at an above average rate. Over 10lbs and 22 inches as of yesterday. He's also got a "social smile" at one one month. He smiles when he hears his Mother and my voice. And I can also make him laugh. At this point, honestly, that may be my greatest accomplishment in life. He's also made his first trip on a plane. To Florida with his Mom to visit his Aunt and Uncle. And was he ever ready to go.

Also, if there's anyone looking for a good book, I recommend the latest Oprah selection and, as it stands, also the latest Pulitzer Prize winner for Fiction: The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Not the most difficult or thought-provoking novel. But it reads quick and the writing's superb. A cross between Children of Men and A Steinbeck novel.

Finally, tonight it all begins. Red Sox. Yankees. Fenway. Here's what I had to say at this time last year. It's Baseball's opening line. Baseball's First Words. Baseball's epitaph.

Here's To You, Mr. Robinson

There are times when I am proud to be an athlete. Proud to have stepped foot on the field of competition. Proud to have fought hard in victory, and harder in defeat. There are times when moments transcend sports. Transcend the hardwood, the hash marks, the blue lines, the fairways, the foul lines. They are few. Perhaps a handful at best. Today the greatest of them is remembered and honored.

There are three things I cherish most about baseball. Running a dead sprint to center field to take my position while the other team bats. Reading the batter a split second before he connects. And Jackie Robinson.

At ballparks all around Major League Baseball today you will see tributes.

"Look around you, all you see are sympathetic eyes."

You will see his number. You may even want to take a moment and read his story. His struggle. How good he was in spite of it. The passion he played with. The love for a game that did not love him back.

"Stroll around The Grounds until you feel at home."

One man representing so much. Carrying so much on his shoulders, but fitting it all in his glove.

"And here's to you, Mr. Robinson,
Baseball loves you more than you will know.
God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who play."

Ah, The Power Of...

The media. It's unflinching, unyielding, relentless ability to make a story appear much larger than it actually is. Without regard for the merits of a story, it's "newsworthiness", the media "reports the news".

It was an unsatisfying irony that on the day the Imus controversy peaked, the Duke Lacrosse players were cleared of all wrongdoing. Both examples of a media mainstream completely overflowing its banks. A simple perusal of the Duke investigation, a once-over of the evidence, should have resulted in a braking on the story which rose to national prominence. And now that the evidence has cleared them, who are the victims?

As for Don Imus, he said a stupid thing. But he has a radio show where he can say stupid things. In context, it was, what I call, a Michael Rappaport: A white guy trying to be black. Inevitably, such attempts, never come across as such. But that's all it was. It was a stupid thing to say.

It was not national news. It did not merit the 24/7's ongoing, situation-room, 360 degree coverage. So why was it? Because the 24/7's say it was. And why would they? Because there was nothing else going on that day. Or, really, four days later. Aside, you know, from the daily killings in Iraq, Sudan and Iran. Yet this story takes precedent. This is what Americans need to be informed about. This, and Anna Nicole's baby's father.

Three stupid words, uttered Michael Rappaport style, launched the crusade of Barak and Oprah and Jesse and Al. AP articles appear on ESPN.com saying "Don Imus targeted the Rutgers basketball team -- a team that includes a valedictorian, future lawyer and several outstanding students". ESPN? Targeted? CNN, MSNBC, FOX News all parade the "victims" out for an hour long press conference. It occupies the above the fold top stories on every major news website in the country.

It's called Wagging the Dog. Or Dawg in this case. The 24/7's need something to generate viewers. So they pick up on something that journalism 101 tells them is not newsworthy. They run with it because it has some bite, arguably. Even though it happened four days previously. They create a media blitz. They make fancy graphics. Bring on experts. Throw up the words "Breaking News", even though, again, it had happened four days earlier. They pull sound bites of inflammatory guests, whether or not they're right in what they say, or justified (irony, anyone?). And they yell across tables and satellite feeds. My God do they yell.

And don't get me into why he was even fired A WEEK later. Media pressure anyone? Advertising money being pulled? (which gets into who determines content, advertisers or the company? Remember Quiz Show?) CBS clearly doesn't have a pair.

I work in news. I did anyway, for five years. I changed jobs recently because I could no longer tolerate this penchant for "running with a story" when the facts of the story don't call for it. I prided myself as not going ape over the death of Anna Nicole, even though some of my bosses wanted to call it breaking news. For not going crazy over Duke Lacrosse. For having some objectivity, some critical thinking skills to weigh the merits of a story. But I couldn't do it any longer.

"I don't have the power."

Pining For The Fjords

The Mrs. and I have been doing some house shopping. From Condos to Ranch Homes to Split Levels to Cape Cods. We've given just about everything in our price range a once over. It's interesting what you can learn about a person by going through their house. A process which includes opening refridgerators, closets, and cabinets.

We've found a house we like. Two of them actually. Houses that we'll hope to re-visit and perhaps make an offer on by the end of next week. All-in-all we visited almost 20 houses over the course of two days.

My favorite house was the one with a dead bird in it. It was a vacated condo in a housing community. In the corner of the empty living room was the bird. It's neck contorted. Probably from flying into the window it lay beneath. And it was most certainly dead.

Our realtor mentioned that we could negotiate the bird in our contract if we made an offer. If we didn't and the bird stayed, I imagined it would go something like the following.

Two Things I'll Never Forget

It's not often in one's daily life that before 9am you learn two things you will never forget. And I'm not being hyberolic(?). These two things will I carry with me as long as I live. Forever.

If you don't feel like learning anything new today; anything that, while not going to change your life, or make you smarter, or make you feel better about your life, is something nice to know, then stop reading right now. I'm about to blow your mind.

1. One of my co-workers has driven around the entire perimeter of Ohio. Seriously. 1,000+ miles. Country roads, highways, byways. Starting in Cincinnati. Ending in Cincinnati. Look at the state of Ohio. He outlined it in a car. He and two friends. Fascinating stuff.

2. There's apparently a place in Kentucky completely surrounded by Missouri and Tennessee and not Kentucky. It's called Kentucky Bend. Look for it on Google Maps. Tell me you wouldn't want to go there.

On The Dawn Of That Day

There has been one thought, one saying that has resonated in my mind this Easter Sunday morning.

"On the third day the friends of Christ coming at daybreak to the place found the grave empty and the stone rolled away. In varying ways they realised the new wonder; but even they hardly realised that the world had died in the night. What they were looking at was the first day of a new creation, with a new heaven and a new earth; and in a semblance of the gardener God walked again in the garden, in the cool not of the evening but the dawn."
-G.K. Chesterton, The Everlasting Man

I've always been amazed at how one breath could bring forth so much. In Genesis it brings forth creation. In John, it brings forth the new creation. And what word then could have said so much. Could have carried so much weight? There are several possibilities, words that seem to reveal a great depth behind them. Words Christ could have uttered in the garden that morning. For example, "Behold" and "Amen". But there are other options, more current: "Booyah" and "Yeehah".

Christ could have taken the moment to be poetic. To be philosophical. To be theological. To utter a word that forever could not be spoken again. To retire a word, if you will.

Here was all of creation, waiting for the complete and full power of Christ to be revealed in the spoken word and Christ, forever the poet, forever the philosopher, forever the theologian, chose his word very carefully:

"Mary."

Christ chose to be personal.

Good Morning? Or Good Night?

Started my new job this week (more on that to come). And with it comes the possibility of being called into work early. Like today. At 3:30AM. No problem. Nothing a large cup of coffee and some donuts can't fix.

But it was an unusual morning at Tim Horton's. Maybe because I'm tired do I find this humorous. I pull up to the drive thru. I hear: "Please take a moment to look at the menu and I'll be right with you." Seems I've caught the lone worker at a bad time. I choose not to focus on those possibilities. But "please take a moment to look at the menu"? It's 3:30AM. It's 29 Degrees out. Is that the time of day you'd expect a person to need time to decide between a 12 seed bagel and the Wal-Mart version of the Mocha Frappacuino? You're the only coffee shop open this early. What else would I be getting? The worker was nice, though. She apologized for the wait and as she handed me my donut, suggested pleasantly that I have a "Good Morning, Sir." At what point during the night does it switch over to morning? I've got to tell you, at 3:30AM it still feels like the middle of the freaking night.

Another funny anecdote involving those in the service industry:

The wife was at Wal-Mart getting pictures. She asked the attendant at the photo desk if they were ready. He said they weren't. The Mrs. replied that the order was supposed to be filled today. He said they usually don't come in until 4pm.

Mrs.: "It's 10 of 4 now. Any chance they're here already?"
Attendant: "What time is it?"
Mrs.: "Uh, 10 of 4."
Attendant: "Shoot!"

At which point the gentlemen grabs a bag under the counter and takes off running towards the entrance, leaving my wife standing alone at the desk. She used the time to "Take a look at the menu."

Also, there was another incident with Isaac yesterday. I know he's already embarrassed by his old man here on the blog, but it was the first time he soaked me. Cleared the top of the tub and a direct hit all down the left side of my shirt. I handled it like a pro. But he timed the hit perfectly, waiting until I had turned to shut the water off. That's my boy.

On Opening Day

Yesterday was the day I had looked forward to since last July. Not only because it was Opening Day, but because it was my first Opening Day with my son. Growing up we always celebrated Opening Day as a family. Either we got out of school early, or we raced home to see the game (one time I snuck head phones into a last period Communication class to listen to the game against the Twins. The game the Sox won on an Opening Day walk off grand slam). It was a holiday at our house. Complete with everything you'd find at the ballpark: hot dogs, soda, ice cream sandwiches, Italian sausages.

I've carried on that tradition since I moved out of the house. Yesterday: hot dogs, soda, mac & cheese (which I think they probably serve at stadiums now). I have every intention of keeping the tradition intact (unlike the naming of first sons and second sons in my family. Sorry Grandpa). Even the Mrs. was excited she'd be home in time to see the game when I told her the start time changed.

Baseball is a good thing.

Anyway, it wasn't a particularly good game. A 7-1 loss to the Royals. The Royals. Whatever. But even the youngest member of Red Sox Nation knows it's a long season, so there's no reason to get worked up.


Me, however, I'd be lying if I said this picture didn't get me a little worked up.

EDITORS NOTE: THIS IS HIS SECOND RED SOX OUTFIT OF THE DAY. THERE WAS AN INCIDENT WITH HIM AND HIS FIRST OUTFIT.

On The Dignity Of Fools

Today has been April Fools' Day. There's an interesting history behind it if you have the time. Also, I enjoyed the Wikipedia lock on that information. I've not been much of an April Foolser myself, other than the saran wrap and Vaseline tricks on toilet seats and door knobs. One time, my parents thought they'd get us all and short-sheet our beds. It didn't work, and I still don't see how that's funny anyway.

In honor of today and yesterday's OSU win, our church secretly played a video of our pastor making a complete fool of himself during an OSU game. The entire service witnessed his dancing like a lunatic. Of course he tied it in to 2 Samuel, but the damage had been done, and it took a little while for the congregation to settle.

It got me thinking about foolishness. Is there an element of dignity in the foolish? Leads one to define dignity. Of course, there's the dignity that you can't take away from Whitney Houston. There's the dignity of Britney Spears. There's (supposedly) a dignity in winning at something and also at losing at something (I disagree with that. I'm from the Larry Bird school of thought). The dignity of the martyr. The dignity of the soldier. There's the dignity of King David.

In some sense of dignity, I suppose there's the element of doing something someone would consider foolish.

Today is also Palm Sunday.

There is another image of dignity I'm left with.




A dignity unto death.