Wow! I can't believe the month is now winding down. Just as some of the stories feel like a snapshot of something much larger, this one feels more like a character sketch. One thing Norton Juster discussed the other day was how hard it is to start writing. He often will do things to start like write a dialogue between characters that he will never use just so he can hear the character's voice and get a sense of who they are. He also spoke of a magic moment that happens when you realize you're not writing a story but, rather, eavesdropping on one.
Anyone who is a writer will tell you that his discussion is not so much an aha moment, but is more of, "Hey, that's a nice way of describing normal for me...."
This story is one of those "conversations" that will probably get tossed aside. A bit of a character study of someone who would be involved in a situation that what is written here. Jeremy is a nerd coming to a level of self-realization. I'm not sure what his story is going to be yet, but I suspect it will be a bit of a hero's journey. In the meantime, meet Jeremy as he gets ready for the MCAS and fantasy baseball season.
*******
Jeremy’s book shelves weren’t just stuffed, they were overstuffed.
As one of those kids who read before he could speak because he didn’t start speaking until he could speak in complete paragraphs. He looked every bit the nerd with his big glasses, braces and shaggy hair cut. He tended towards Hawaiian shirts and khakis over the more popular t-shirts and jeans his classmates wore.
He pretended not to notice when kids tended to avoid him on the playground but wanted to partner with him on research projects. He knew the ones who were (not so) secretly grateful for not having to sit at the peanut allergy table with him, because he knew the truth was he’d be the most popular kid when it came to fantasy baseball picks.
Little did they know it was, in part, because of those overstuffed bookshelves that his fantasy baseball teams were always the strongest.
Jeremy was fascinated by Bill James, the man who changed how baseball was played by looking at numbers differently. Bill James made it guys like Jeremy a valuable commodity when it came to talking sports in general and baseball in particular. He filled his bookshelves with magazines, books and almanacs and studied as if they were religious texts and he was a monk.
He once heard Bill James say, “I learned to write because I am one of those people who somehow cannot manage the common communications of smiles and gestures, but must use words to get across things that other people would never need to say.”
It was probably one of the times that it really hit him why he gravitated towards Bill James the way the moon was a satellite of the Earth. Too often Jeremy felt that he didn’t have “the common communications of smiles and gestures,” the way other kids did.
He knew he was the odd man out, and that seemed to be the story of his life.
But the recent words that he returned to over and over again were from an article about talent when Bill James wrote, “It is my very strong belief that there is talent everywhere and all the time.” While James was arguing why we have so much talent in baseball and sports instead of great writers, those words inspired Jeremy every time he sat alone pouring through old extracts, almanacs, magazines and player guides. As he read through those things, he felt like he was reading the writings of a kindred spirit.
Jeremy had committed most of the words to memory at this point. Now if only they would come in handy at just the right moment, then he’d be OK. Today was draft day, so there were plenty of kids who would have peanut free lunches. He’d have company for a few days and he supposed he should be happy about it, but why couldn’t he have been a cool kid instead?
Well, he’d have to feel good about being the cool kid even if it was only for a couple of days. He supposed if it weren’t for draft day, then he’d be eating alone all year long instead of just most of it.
He took a deep breath and headed out the door to school.
It didn’t take long for the more popular kids to start attaching themselves to him for advice. He was glad to slowly work through his morning work to have some time to think things through before he was the most popular kid in the class.
Because they were coming up on the MCAS, the Massachusetts version of No Child Left Behind testing, there was a lot of teacher nervousness and more serious work instead of the usual sorts of instruction. But nothing could have prepared him for the writing prompt they were given that morning.
“OK cats and kittens,” Mr. McGarrett started with a hand clap, “today’s prompt for you to work on today. As you write I want you to remember the basics: tell them what you want to tell them, tell them, tell them again and then tell them what you told them. On today’s menu is: why do we pay more attention to professional athletes than academic geniuses?”
Jeremy smiled and began to write.
Tell them what you’re going to tell them: There is always an abundance of talent around us. Talent, genius, whatever you want to call it, is around us every day no matter where you look. It may not always be obvious and you may not always know you’re looking at it, but it is there and it is always present. What we look at and for genius and talent depends on what we need at the time.
Tell them: Four hundred years ago, London had more writers of talent and genius than the world has ever seen to the point where we still study the works of William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, the poets of the Romantic era, John Milton and more. While some people argue that our focus on sports figure is superfluous and inferior to the focus on great minds, I would argue that we are in a situation where we need to appreciate the beauty and grace of athletic talent and genius. According to Bill James, the developer of Sabermetrics, which changed how we value and view athletes, we don’t need great writers at this time. In a recent piece in Slate, he stated “We need new athletes all the time because we need new games everyday.”
Tell them what you just told them: Since we are still studying centuries of great literature and have growing need for great athletes, who have much shorter careers, we focus on the athletes. This does not diminish the need for great authors, only that our focus needs to be elsewhere at this time. By changing the focus, we ask the questions differently which leads to looking at information differently. By looking at objective evaluations of players, rather than the traditional method that was based on emotional and intuitive guesses, the questions are asked differently which forces our perspective to view circumstances differently.
Tell them what you told them: Because the focus on genius shifts on the needs for the time in which you examine for traits of genius, societal needs change. In the end our current focus needs to be athletic genius, but as the objectivity of time prevails and that genius is no longer necessary, the discovery genius beyond athletics will be revealed as needed.
He read through the short essay and felt good about it. Not too much, not too little. Should be just enough to score as he needed it to.
With a smile, he leaned back and looked around the room at the kids he could tell were panicking. Most of those panicking were the kids that only brought peanut free lunch during draft time.
He thought a bit about the question again. This week his genius would be recognized because it was a necessary genius. In a moth or so, it would be as necessary, so it would be overlooked yet again.
With a smile, Jeremy thought, “Bill James was absolutely right. Genius is recognized as it is needed and necessary.”
It was OK for him to have a set of overstuffed bookshelves and memorizing the work of Bill James. Jeremy would be recognized as a genius for the week or so as he did every year at this time. He needed to be a genius to the world around him as kids began thinking about baseball for real. Next week, a different genius would be needed for this particular world. That’s how it worked. It’s not that his perspective or knowledge wasn’t needed or desired, only that it wasn’t necessary for that particular slice of time.
“It is my very strong belief that there is talent everywhere and all the time.”
There is talent and sometimes he needed to remember that other talents were just as genius as his. His day would come. Maybe it would be in the next few years, maybe many years later, but his time would come and it would be for more than a week at the peanut free table. Perhaps one day he would be Bill James’ intern. Maybe he would be his replacement or maybe even his competition at a different team.
It would happen and it would all happen in good time. But for now he would need to settle what he had. He may not be Shakespeare or Dickens, but he still knew how to ask the different questions and look at the problems from a variety of angles.
Tonight he would go home to his overstuffed bookshelves. He’d check on line for any new articles. He would spend some time looking over stats, making his own picks and registering his on line draft that, in the end, would probably In the end it would all work out, but for now he would have to learn to be content with the limited time that he would be recognized until his real day came.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Story Nineteen: Science!
"There is nothing more terrifying than a blank sheet of paper and how to begin." - Norton Juster, author of "The Phantom Tollbooth"
Yesterday I had the wonderful opportunity of seeing Norton Juster speak about "The Phantom Tollbooth," creative life and writing. One thing he talked about is how, at the end of the day, he often stops in the middle of a paragraph so when he sits down the next day, he's not picking it up from scratch.
It made me chuckle through my sleep deprived haze as that was this story.
Because these stories are here for to help students understand the process of writing, there are things posted that are not necessarily stories I would normally make public. This particular story to me was the sign I needed to go home at 3 am during the 24 hour write in (there was something about the sentence "aI anct ‘stay ai=ke" that was enough to say that I had crossed into gibberish mode). This is one that started strong, faded as I did and came back a bit as I came back as well. Since I am committed to not editing this month, I can see the part that is "OK, so here's where I'm going to write about...." place holders. I look at this and see another much larger story here that will go on the white board under "developing."
Now that I no longer have sleep deprivation to blame, it's time to focus on the home stretch and get the last 10 stories written.
*****
Danielle hated science.
She was never going to be a scientist, not like the news was always talking about a whole lot of women who were scientists to begin with. Also, it wasn’t like she was going to do much more in life than be a teacher, sales clerk or mother. If she stuck with retail, then science wouldn’t ever be a factor in life. Anything else would take too much work and work was not something she really wanted to do. So why did she have to do a science fair project if she wasn’t going to do science? What good did it serve by having her do a science project?
But there was Mrs. Duggan telling her she had to challenge herself and stretch her wings.
“Dare to imagine something different Danielle. We now live in a world where women can do whatever men do and still lead a fulfilling life.”
“Whatever.”
“Think about great women before you: Marie Curie, Amelia Earhart, Amy Johnson, Joan of Arc…”
“Died from radiation poisoning, lost over the ocean someplace, drowned in the Thames, heard voices and burned at the stake. Yep, that’s certainly a crew of women to look up to all right.”
Mrs. Duggan looked like her head was going to explode.
“Danielle, you’re missing the point.”
“No I’m not. I’m not a science girl. I’m a sports girl and to ask me to do science is as crazy as asking Joan of Arc to take up knitting and raise llamas.”
“Which is not a bad thing.”
“It is when you have a direct hotline to heaven while trying to kick the future king’s backside to the throne.”
Mrs. Duggan sighed. Then she thought of something.
“What is Tommy John surgery?”
“It’s when a pitcher undergoes surgical reconstruction of an elbow ligament.”
“Go on.”
“They take a tendon from the knee and then use that to fix the elbow. It has an 85-92% recovery chance, you take off a big chunk of the year in rehab while gradually ease themselves back into the game. Why?”
“That’s science for you, you never know when it might come in handy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can do your science fair project on Tommy John surgery.”
“Huh?”
“It’s sports science. That is, unless, you’d rather write about the physics of a slap shot or home run ball.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“So you’re saying that if I write and present a report about Dice-K and John Lackey, that you’ll call it science and let me present it at the science fair?”
“Absolutely.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Now that’s settled, you have until the end of the week like everyone else.”
“Gotcha,” Danielle said as she turned to leave the classroom.
“Danielle.”
She turned and faced Mrs. Duggan.
“You need to put together a poster and full presentation.”
“Don’t worry Mrs. D, I’m on it.”
The day of the science fair arrived and Danielle was thinking of throwing up and going home.
The report was done. That wasn’t the problem.
It wasn’t hard to find reliable information on the internet about he surgery. Almost every major league site along with the CDC and AMA sites had plenty of information. On the baseball pages there were great debates about what all this mean to the Red Sox pitching staff. There were even reports of pitchers who had undergone the surgery and their stats before and after surgery.
The presentation board was easy. There were great diagrams, pictures, trading cards and things. Typing up a sentence or two to explain the illustrations, not a big deal and the layout was easy. The problem wasn’t even the five page paper that had to go with her presentation. She wrote that shortly after all the research.
The problem was the presentation.
In a crowd, Danielle could be the loudest voice. With her friends she could joke and come up with the perfect zinger that would make everyone laugh. But when she stood up there all by herself facing the room full of people, her voice got small and her throat got dry. Not only that, after the speech, she would have to stand by her poster and explain it, answer questions and pretend to be an expert.
So not only was science not her thing, but now she had to pretend to be something she really wasn’t: smart.
At least she had managed to convince her mother to let her dress comfortably instead of in the dress and fancy clothes, she convinced her mother that if she went dressed as herself she’d be better able to give her speech.
But walking into the school gym, it was taking everything she had not to run out the door and back home to hide under the covers.
“Danielle!”
It was Mrs. Duggan. She waved to get Danielle’s attention and Danielle realized she couldn’t escape. She had been seen, recognized and now she was being summoned. She took a deep breath and moved towards her teacher.
“Your board looks absolutely fantastic. I’m sure it will generate a lot of conversations. So I have you set up over there,” she pointed to a spot under the basketball hoop near by. “Basically the drill is just explain the board, answer questions and when the judges come by, they’ll ask you about what you did and what you learned. Just relax and be yourself and you’ll do just fine.”
Danielle rolled her eyes but dutifully took her spot. She wore a red t-shirt that had the words “Dice-K” on the front. The K had the rising sun image that is associated with Japan, but the center of the sun was a baseball. On the back it said something in Japanese with the number 18.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for the next two hours.
People filed through the gymnasium, stopping and looking at boards, flipping through her printed report, asking questions and leaving comments on the clip board that was attached to the tables at each station.
When the judges came through, she recognized one of her old teachers. He was a big Red Sox fan and he talked to her about what she thought about the team’s chances were for the upcoming season. It was so easy to explain how Tommy John surgery worked and what she thought would happen for Dice-K as he came back this year and the prospects for John Lackey.
“I have to confess,” her teacher dropped his voice, “I hear this term all the time but had no idea exactly what was involved. It’s pretty big stuff isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Personally, I think it’s kind of cool that they tendon from the knee to repair the elbow. Of course it makes me glad that our pitchers don’t have to run for bases or master batting the way they do in the National League. On the other hand I’ve never been a fan of the designated hitter rule. I mean if Josh Beckett can hit home runs in inter-league play, then maybe it’s time for Bud Selig to acknowledged this is a 40 year fail.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said with a smile. “Good job here. I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised with the work you did here. Nice work indeed.”
Time flew past and before she knew it, the principal was on the stage and the horrible, screeching feedback that she seemed to use to get everyone’s attention at the start of all school assemblies.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” she announced before everyone cringed at the second round of feedback.
“While all of our students did a wonderful job, the judges have decided some kids did an extraordinary and… or…. Exceeded all expectations.
There was a polite round of applause from all the parents who were Iining the room.
She announced the honorable mentions, then the third and second place winers. She applauded like everyone else and watched as they ran up to the stage, grabbed their certificate and run back down to put the shiny, sati ribbon on the desk in front of their project.
It was then she heard the announcement.
“By unanimous agreement, the judges felt that this particular student has really gone above and beyond the scope of the project. Let’s hope her predictions hold true for this year’s Red Sox and congratulate Danielle from Mr. Mahoney’s room! Danielle, come on up and get your prize.
She stood there, shocked in the moment before one of her friends have her a push and she ran up to the stage to accept the certificate and ribbon.
Staring at the ribbon, she heard Mrs. Duggan whisper, “did you get radiation, disappear, drown or burn?”
“I’m good,” she whispered back.
“Good.”
Danielle still didn’t think of herself as a science girl, but maybe if she looked at the blue ribbon long enough, she’d change her mind about that.”
Yesterday I had the wonderful opportunity of seeing Norton Juster speak about "The Phantom Tollbooth," creative life and writing. One thing he talked about is how, at the end of the day, he often stops in the middle of a paragraph so when he sits down the next day, he's not picking it up from scratch.
It made me chuckle through my sleep deprived haze as that was this story.
Because these stories are here for to help students understand the process of writing, there are things posted that are not necessarily stories I would normally make public. This particular story to me was the sign I needed to go home at 3 am during the 24 hour write in (there was something about the sentence "aI anct ‘stay ai=ke" that was enough to say that I had crossed into gibberish mode). This is one that started strong, faded as I did and came back a bit as I came back as well. Since I am committed to not editing this month, I can see the part that is "OK, so here's where I'm going to write about...." place holders. I look at this and see another much larger story here that will go on the white board under "developing."
Now that I no longer have sleep deprivation to blame, it's time to focus on the home stretch and get the last 10 stories written.
*****
Danielle hated science.
She was never going to be a scientist, not like the news was always talking about a whole lot of women who were scientists to begin with. Also, it wasn’t like she was going to do much more in life than be a teacher, sales clerk or mother. If she stuck with retail, then science wouldn’t ever be a factor in life. Anything else would take too much work and work was not something she really wanted to do. So why did she have to do a science fair project if she wasn’t going to do science? What good did it serve by having her do a science project?
But there was Mrs. Duggan telling her she had to challenge herself and stretch her wings.
“Dare to imagine something different Danielle. We now live in a world where women can do whatever men do and still lead a fulfilling life.”
“Whatever.”
“Think about great women before you: Marie Curie, Amelia Earhart, Amy Johnson, Joan of Arc…”
“Died from radiation poisoning, lost over the ocean someplace, drowned in the Thames, heard voices and burned at the stake. Yep, that’s certainly a crew of women to look up to all right.”
Mrs. Duggan looked like her head was going to explode.
“Danielle, you’re missing the point.”
“No I’m not. I’m not a science girl. I’m a sports girl and to ask me to do science is as crazy as asking Joan of Arc to take up knitting and raise llamas.”
“Which is not a bad thing.”
“It is when you have a direct hotline to heaven while trying to kick the future king’s backside to the throne.”
Mrs. Duggan sighed. Then she thought of something.
“What is Tommy John surgery?”
“It’s when a pitcher undergoes surgical reconstruction of an elbow ligament.”
“Go on.”
“They take a tendon from the knee and then use that to fix the elbow. It has an 85-92% recovery chance, you take off a big chunk of the year in rehab while gradually ease themselves back into the game. Why?”
“That’s science for you, you never know when it might come in handy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can do your science fair project on Tommy John surgery.”
“Huh?”
“It’s sports science. That is, unless, you’d rather write about the physics of a slap shot or home run ball.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“So you’re saying that if I write and present a report about Dice-K and John Lackey, that you’ll call it science and let me present it at the science fair?”
“Absolutely.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Now that’s settled, you have until the end of the week like everyone else.”
“Gotcha,” Danielle said as she turned to leave the classroom.
“Danielle.”
She turned and faced Mrs. Duggan.
“You need to put together a poster and full presentation.”
“Don’t worry Mrs. D, I’m on it.”
The day of the science fair arrived and Danielle was thinking of throwing up and going home.
The report was done. That wasn’t the problem.
It wasn’t hard to find reliable information on the internet about he surgery. Almost every major league site along with the CDC and AMA sites had plenty of information. On the baseball pages there were great debates about what all this mean to the Red Sox pitching staff. There were even reports of pitchers who had undergone the surgery and their stats before and after surgery.
The presentation board was easy. There were great diagrams, pictures, trading cards and things. Typing up a sentence or two to explain the illustrations, not a big deal and the layout was easy. The problem wasn’t even the five page paper that had to go with her presentation. She wrote that shortly after all the research.
The problem was the presentation.
In a crowd, Danielle could be the loudest voice. With her friends she could joke and come up with the perfect zinger that would make everyone laugh. But when she stood up there all by herself facing the room full of people, her voice got small and her throat got dry. Not only that, after the speech, she would have to stand by her poster and explain it, answer questions and pretend to be an expert.
So not only was science not her thing, but now she had to pretend to be something she really wasn’t: smart.
At least she had managed to convince her mother to let her dress comfortably instead of in the dress and fancy clothes, she convinced her mother that if she went dressed as herself she’d be better able to give her speech.
But walking into the school gym, it was taking everything she had not to run out the door and back home to hide under the covers.
“Danielle!”
It was Mrs. Duggan. She waved to get Danielle’s attention and Danielle realized she couldn’t escape. She had been seen, recognized and now she was being summoned. She took a deep breath and moved towards her teacher.
“Your board looks absolutely fantastic. I’m sure it will generate a lot of conversations. So I have you set up over there,” she pointed to a spot under the basketball hoop near by. “Basically the drill is just explain the board, answer questions and when the judges come by, they’ll ask you about what you did and what you learned. Just relax and be yourself and you’ll do just fine.”
Danielle rolled her eyes but dutifully took her spot. She wore a red t-shirt that had the words “Dice-K” on the front. The K had the rising sun image that is associated with Japan, but the center of the sun was a baseball. On the back it said something in Japanese with the number 18.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for the next two hours.
People filed through the gymnasium, stopping and looking at boards, flipping through her printed report, asking questions and leaving comments on the clip board that was attached to the tables at each station.
When the judges came through, she recognized one of her old teachers. He was a big Red Sox fan and he talked to her about what she thought about the team’s chances were for the upcoming season. It was so easy to explain how Tommy John surgery worked and what she thought would happen for Dice-K as he came back this year and the prospects for John Lackey.
“I have to confess,” her teacher dropped his voice, “I hear this term all the time but had no idea exactly what was involved. It’s pretty big stuff isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Personally, I think it’s kind of cool that they tendon from the knee to repair the elbow. Of course it makes me glad that our pitchers don’t have to run for bases or master batting the way they do in the National League. On the other hand I’ve never been a fan of the designated hitter rule. I mean if Josh Beckett can hit home runs in inter-league play, then maybe it’s time for Bud Selig to acknowledged this is a 40 year fail.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said with a smile. “Good job here. I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised with the work you did here. Nice work indeed.”
Time flew past and before she knew it, the principal was on the stage and the horrible, screeching feedback that she seemed to use to get everyone’s attention at the start of all school assemblies.
“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” she announced before everyone cringed at the second round of feedback.
“While all of our students did a wonderful job, the judges have decided some kids did an extraordinary and… or…. Exceeded all expectations.
There was a polite round of applause from all the parents who were Iining the room.
She announced the honorable mentions, then the third and second place winers. She applauded like everyone else and watched as they ran up to the stage, grabbed their certificate and run back down to put the shiny, sati ribbon on the desk in front of their project.
It was then she heard the announcement.
“By unanimous agreement, the judges felt that this particular student has really gone above and beyond the scope of the project. Let’s hope her predictions hold true for this year’s Red Sox and congratulate Danielle from Mr. Mahoney’s room! Danielle, come on up and get your prize.
She stood there, shocked in the moment before one of her friends have her a push and she ran up to the stage to accept the certificate and ribbon.
Staring at the ribbon, she heard Mrs. Duggan whisper, “did you get radiation, disappear, drown or burn?”
“I’m good,” she whispered back.
“Good.”
Danielle still didn’t think of herself as a science girl, but maybe if she looked at the blue ribbon long enough, she’d change her mind about that.”
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Story Eighteen: Denied
This little bit came out last night during a 24-hour write in. I didn't write for 24 hours, I joined up with the group around 5 pm after spending the day with my FIRST Lego Robotics team. My fifth graders (last year's 4th graders) built, programmed and competed head-to-head. Our two rookie teams did exceptionally well, one team finishing in 6th place overall and receiving an invitation to the state tournament in the spring and our other team finishing in 11th place and receiving an alternate spot to the state tournament (if someone can make it to the state tournament... we're in). Our top ten team also won the teamwork award.
I joined up with about 30+ folks from Boston around 5 pm where we wrote, got silly, wrote some more, got sillier, ate a lot of junk food and traveled from the Back Bay to Cambridge to Watertown via public transportation attracting lots of stares for lots of reasons. Like the robotics stuff earlier, it was all in great fun. If nothing else, I was able to sort through some of the writing prompts I have left with some of the folks I tend to get together to write with so I could sort and think through what the kids were thinking and how to make those stories happen.
So this small entry was really a case of longing that I hope catches some of the dramatic lens kids see life through at times.
*******
Bobby supposed he should be embarrassed. Given his age and his status, to have to admit never going to a Red Sox game for real, to have only seen a game on TV or the occasional game on the radio in the car just didn’t cut it in this new town or this new school.
All the kids in his class had parents who either had season tickets or worked in jobs where they were getting “wicked excellent” seats from bosses, co-workers, clients and other types of folks. He was stuck with a dad who had a regular job and a mom that was a stay at home mom and no tickets to a game at Fenway Park.
Every day he’d watch the games, studying the dents on the left wall known as the Green Monster. Bobby knew the park layout as well as the layout of their house. He longed to sit in the oaken seats that everyone claimed were too narrow for a regular sized person. He could almost smell the hotdogs as the vendors carried them up and down the stairs yelling, “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here.” When he closed his eyes, he imagined being awash in the green that seemed to be everywhere in the park.
He even knew every angle of the Citgo sign from most locations in the park between camera shots and searching the internet for photos from different locations inside the park.
It was one thing to have never been to Fenway when you lived in Delaware. In Delaware you had your choice of National League games in Philadelphia or Washington DC. You could go to Camden Yards to watch the Orioles maybe when the Red Sox came to town. If you were one of the lucky ones, maybe you got to go to Fenway when visiting family or on vacation in Boston.
But now Bobby lived just down the Mass Pike from the iconic landmark and he suspected he would never be able to convince his parents to spend the money to take him to a game.
Sometimes he would open the window in his bedroom and try to listen to the sounds over the noise of the cars zipping down the Pike. If he really strained his ears, perhaps he could hear the cheers of the crowd over the noise. Unfortunately, he could never really be sure that he was hearing the crowd noises, he could only imagine. With a sigh, he’d close the window and turn his attention back to the TV to continue watching the game.
It was almost a curse to be the only person in the house to not only love baseball the way he did, but to also be the only one to love the Red Sox even more than loving baseball. Sure his parents would take him to Little League and sometimes even cheered in the right spots.
This lead him to the thought, even if he could get his dad to go to a game, that his dad would end up cheering for the wrong team. What if he accidentally cheered for A-Rod or Johnny Damon? If they were in the bleachers, they’d be beaten to a pulp by crazy bleacher creatures.
With a sigh Bobby realized it was probably better this way. On TV the games were safe and when his new friends talked about the EMC club or State Street Pavilion, he could smile, nod and listen to their stories.
Someday he would make it to Fenway and sit atop the historic Green Monster. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, he could see the ghost of Duffy’s cliff below them as he watched for home run balls heading his way. It would be glorious when it finally happened.
But for now, for now he had NESN show him the pictures.
It didn’t seem fair that this was his destiny and yet, there it was.
Perhaps he had been a Yankees fan in a previous life and the Universe was now punishing him for that tragic character flaw.
There, on camera, was his friend Elijah holding up a sign. Damn! He had no idea his friend would be there tonight and come tomorrow, it was all he’d hear about. He’d have to pretend to be excited and happy for him. Let him know that it was so exciting seeing him on TV with his “wish my mother a happy birthday” sign.
In the end, there was no way around it. He was stuck at home, his friends were not. He would have to live with his secret shame and hope beyond hope that his friends would never catch on.
I joined up with about 30+ folks from Boston around 5 pm where we wrote, got silly, wrote some more, got sillier, ate a lot of junk food and traveled from the Back Bay to Cambridge to Watertown via public transportation attracting lots of stares for lots of reasons. Like the robotics stuff earlier, it was all in great fun. If nothing else, I was able to sort through some of the writing prompts I have left with some of the folks I tend to get together to write with so I could sort and think through what the kids were thinking and how to make those stories happen.
So this small entry was really a case of longing that I hope catches some of the dramatic lens kids see life through at times.
*******
Bobby supposed he should be embarrassed. Given his age and his status, to have to admit never going to a Red Sox game for real, to have only seen a game on TV or the occasional game on the radio in the car just didn’t cut it in this new town or this new school.
All the kids in his class had parents who either had season tickets or worked in jobs where they were getting “wicked excellent” seats from bosses, co-workers, clients and other types of folks. He was stuck with a dad who had a regular job and a mom that was a stay at home mom and no tickets to a game at Fenway Park.
Every day he’d watch the games, studying the dents on the left wall known as the Green Monster. Bobby knew the park layout as well as the layout of their house. He longed to sit in the oaken seats that everyone claimed were too narrow for a regular sized person. He could almost smell the hotdogs as the vendors carried them up and down the stairs yelling, “Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs here.” When he closed his eyes, he imagined being awash in the green that seemed to be everywhere in the park.
He even knew every angle of the Citgo sign from most locations in the park between camera shots and searching the internet for photos from different locations inside the park.
It was one thing to have never been to Fenway when you lived in Delaware. In Delaware you had your choice of National League games in Philadelphia or Washington DC. You could go to Camden Yards to watch the Orioles maybe when the Red Sox came to town. If you were one of the lucky ones, maybe you got to go to Fenway when visiting family or on vacation in Boston.
But now Bobby lived just down the Mass Pike from the iconic landmark and he suspected he would never be able to convince his parents to spend the money to take him to a game.
Sometimes he would open the window in his bedroom and try to listen to the sounds over the noise of the cars zipping down the Pike. If he really strained his ears, perhaps he could hear the cheers of the crowd over the noise. Unfortunately, he could never really be sure that he was hearing the crowd noises, he could only imagine. With a sigh, he’d close the window and turn his attention back to the TV to continue watching the game.
It was almost a curse to be the only person in the house to not only love baseball the way he did, but to also be the only one to love the Red Sox even more than loving baseball. Sure his parents would take him to Little League and sometimes even cheered in the right spots.
This lead him to the thought, even if he could get his dad to go to a game, that his dad would end up cheering for the wrong team. What if he accidentally cheered for A-Rod or Johnny Damon? If they were in the bleachers, they’d be beaten to a pulp by crazy bleacher creatures.
With a sigh Bobby realized it was probably better this way. On TV the games were safe and when his new friends talked about the EMC club or State Street Pavilion, he could smile, nod and listen to their stories.
Someday he would make it to Fenway and sit atop the historic Green Monster. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, he could see the ghost of Duffy’s cliff below them as he watched for home run balls heading his way. It would be glorious when it finally happened.
But for now, for now he had NESN show him the pictures.
It didn’t seem fair that this was his destiny and yet, there it was.
Perhaps he had been a Yankees fan in a previous life and the Universe was now punishing him for that tragic character flaw.
There, on camera, was his friend Elijah holding up a sign. Damn! He had no idea his friend would be there tonight and come tomorrow, it was all he’d hear about. He’d have to pretend to be excited and happy for him. Let him know that it was so exciting seeing him on TV with his “wish my mother a happy birthday” sign.
In the end, there was no way around it. He was stuck at home, his friends were not. He would have to live with his secret shame and hope beyond hope that his friends would never catch on.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Story Seventeen: Life Lessons
Here's today's story: Life Lessons. The advice Bill Lee gives the main character is actual advice he gave to my son at a book signing a number of years ago. Words my son took to heart and I suspect will live his life by. Today's prompt was: foul ball in a beer cup (why do kids think that one is easy or fun?) and I was asked by a kid earlier today: who is the one baseball player that influenced you the most.
I don't have just one player, but I will say a major one during my formative years was Bill Lee. I loved how smart and free he is and that he really just lives his life the way he does. So, yeah... I guess I had to write about the Spaceman because, well, he's the Spaceman and he gave my son advice.
*******
If you asked Tater about his mom, he’d tell you she was never that wild and crazy mom that could make an award winning halloween costumes out of a paper lunch bag, handkerchief and glittery pipe cleaners that she just happened to have on hand.
She was never the PTA kind of mom either. The one who was organizing speakers and events at school, writing newsletters and putting together impressive bulletin boards of recent classroom activities.
She was just Justin, Evelyn and Tater’s mom.
The kids knew her because she often had on a Red Sox or Bruins jersey (with the name and number of Jason Varitek or Tim Thomas) and was always the first parent at Little League to be able to step in and hit grounders or pop ups at practice, show a kid how to throw a ball or cheer the loudest for the team. She was the person who found a lucky charm for the team if they were losing or understood not messing up the mojo if they were winning. When other parents would make fun of the misfits that made up their team, she’d be the one to go toe-to-toe and make them apologize.
“We lose with pride,” she told one particularly obnoxious hulk of a baseball father, “and if you’re team can’t do that, then I feel sorry for you because your kids are going to be working for mine some day since the nerds are finally claiming the world for themselves.”
The guy didn’t know what to do with the short, feisty woman that wouldn’t back down. So the team cheered as loud as they could when he just looked at his shoes and left the field to “wait in the truck.”
In short, she was the cool sports mom who made it easy to just be the mediocre sports kid who loved to play ball but knew this was as good as it got.
So the day Tater was going through a box of old photos he found, he was surprised to see a faded color photograph of someone that could have looked like Evelyn and then realized, it was a young version of his mom. In the picture, a vaguely familiar man had his arm around her shoulders and the two of them were grinning ear to ear.
He looked at the photo and brought it out to the porch, where she sat on the wooden swing, swaying gently in the breeze while she read a book.”
“Mom, is this you?”
She took the photo and looked. A slight smile crossed her face as she tenderly touched the glossy surface of the old photo.
“Oh my, I had totally forgotten about that day.”
“Who is that with you?”
“Bill ‘the Spaceman’ Lee.”
“No way, you know Bill Lee?”
“No, I met him one day when I was at the old Elliot Lounge back when I was in high school.”
“What were you doing there if you were in high school?”
“Something I’d ring your neck for if you ever tried it.”
Tater smiled. He knew his mom had a lot of fun as a kid and let them make their mistakes too but also was pretty strict about breaking laws and stuff.
“I was in there with a friend. The Elliot was pretty loose about things and we were young, pretty girls who looked old enough to pass for 18.”
“Eighteen?”
“When I was a kid, the age for being able to do stuff was 18, not 21. Which is why I expect you to wait to do things.”
“Right…” Tater replied.
“So, here I am with my friend at the Elliot and Bill Lee walks in. He had just pitched a day game and was coming in to have a couple with some of the other players on the team. We knew that some of the guys from the Sox went there and we were hoping to meet a couple.”
“Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and full of day dreams of baseball players falling in love with us because we were so young and beautiful.”
“That’s kind of stupid.”
“No, it’s a lot of stupid.”
“How did you know baseball players would go in there?”
“Because at one point, in 1975, a reporter asked Sparky Anderson the REd’s chances against Bill Lee. He said, ‘No matter what happens, my pitcher is going to the Hall of Fame.’ When Bill Lee heard that he replied, ‘No matter what happens, I’m going to the Elliot Lounge.’ After that, Auntie Jill and I wanted to sneak into the Elliot to meet a real live baseball player.”
“How did you meet him?”
“So there were these really obnoxious guys from BU or Harvard that would leave me and Jill alone.”
“You were with Auntie Jill?”
“Yeah… I probably shouldn’t have told you that. At any rate, these two guys kept using cheesy pick up lines on us. Stuff like, ‘Are you a parking ticket because you have fine written all over you.’ Then there was the ‘Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?’”
“That’s pretty cheesy.”
“Yeah. So they tried to buy us a drink not realizing that we were drinking soda water so everyone would think we were drinking. That’s the funny part, we’d sneak into these places but we still couldn’t bring ourselves to break the law.”
“When did Bill Lee come in?”
“When obnoxious guy number one asked if heaven was missing an angel since I was sitting right there.”
“What did he do?”
“He looked at the guy and said, ‘If you want to make time with a lady as beautiful as this, you don’t go for stupid lines like that. You recognize she’s an obviously intelligent class of human being who would rather argue if Shroediger’s cat is dead or alive than hear something she obviously notes every time she looks in the mirror: she’s a gorgeous woman who is way too young to be here and should be treated with respect.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes he did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said thank you and while I was not willing to argue the hypothetical of if the cat in the box was alive or dead, I wouldn’t mind discussing why Frank Lloyd Wright’s stuff looked so cool but was either entirely uncomfortable or leaked.”
“What did he do?”
“He laughed. He shooed the obnoxious students away and Auntie Jill and I had a lovely evening with the Buffalo Head club.”
“The Buffalo Head club?”
“Basically the Red Sox pitching staff at the time that hung out at the Elliot. At some point, Auntie Jill took a picture and made sure to take it to some place in Boston to have it developed so Grampy wouldn’t see it.”
“Did you talk about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Not really, but he gave me some advice that I have lived my life by pretty much ever since.”
“What was that?”
“Keep reading and don’t stop. Read in different languages, take chances and always enjoy life. If you can’t enjoy life, it’s not worth living.”
“Do you enjoy life?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do OK.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you really meet dad at a Red Sox game?”
“Yes I did.”
“Did he try to use a cheesy pick up line on you?”
“Nope. He gave me the foul ball he caught.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. He was in the row behind me and Auntie Jill when a ball went foul and landed in his beer cup. I got splashed and he kept apologizing and gave me the ball and asked if he could take me to dinner to make up for spilling beer on me.”
“I thought he was kidding when he told me that story.”
“It’s the truth.”
He looked at the photo in his mother’s hand.
“Does he know about Bill Lee?”
“Yes he does.”
“Does that mean we can frame this picture?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Tater sat on the swing with his mom.
“Where’s your book Tater?”
“Are you trying to make me read again?”
“If it was good enough for Bill Lee to tell me to read, it’s certainly good enough for you to do as well.”
“I’m kind of between books right now. Any recommendations?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a couple of books on Frank Lloyd Wright but they don’t talk about why his stuff is uncomfortable or leaks.”
“How about any books about Bill Lee?”
“I know just the book. It’s not about Bill Lee, but the main character reminds me a lot of Bill Lee and it’s not the type of book that most 12 year olds would read. But the guy who wrote it is one of my favorite authors and I wanted to write like him when I grew up.”
“That sounds good. What book?”
“‘The Curious Case of Siddhartha Finch’ by George Plimpton.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a Buddhist monk who throws a fast ball that’s so fast that they have to get the catcher ready by dropping balls out of the Good Year blimp.”
Tater thought for a minute.
“Is it true?”
“What do you think?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Why did you want to write like George Plimpton?”
“Because when I was a little kid, I read his book ‘Paper Lion.’ Plimpton was a journalist and he spent some time in training camp with the Detroit Lions so he could he write a realistic book about them. I thought that had to be the coolest job in the world, to be able to play football with a professional team and then write about it.”
“Can I read that some day?”
“Absolutely, but keep in mind, it was written in the 60’s and the world is a whole lot different today than it was back then.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“I think so too.”
“Hey mom.”
She looked at her son.
“Thanks for telling me the truth about stuff. Some parents would be all blah about doing stupid stuff when they were in high school and stuff.”
“Tater, you know that if I tell you something, I mean it. So when I tell you that if I ever catch you trying to sneak into a bar to meet a baseball player, I will find a way to lock you in your room and embed a GPS tracking chip in your body to make sure you never do anything that stupid again.”
“I love you too mom.”
He gave her a hug and got off the swing. She suspected he was heading straight over to her bookshelf to find a book to read. Looking at the photo she thought how much her daughter Evelyn looked like she did at that age. She’d have to remember to have a talk with her after dinner tonight.
I don't have just one player, but I will say a major one during my formative years was Bill Lee. I loved how smart and free he is and that he really just lives his life the way he does. So, yeah... I guess I had to write about the Spaceman because, well, he's the Spaceman and he gave my son advice.
*******
If you asked Tater about his mom, he’d tell you she was never that wild and crazy mom that could make an award winning halloween costumes out of a paper lunch bag, handkerchief and glittery pipe cleaners that she just happened to have on hand.
She was never the PTA kind of mom either. The one who was organizing speakers and events at school, writing newsletters and putting together impressive bulletin boards of recent classroom activities.
She was just Justin, Evelyn and Tater’s mom.
The kids knew her because she often had on a Red Sox or Bruins jersey (with the name and number of Jason Varitek or Tim Thomas) and was always the first parent at Little League to be able to step in and hit grounders or pop ups at practice, show a kid how to throw a ball or cheer the loudest for the team. She was the person who found a lucky charm for the team if they were losing or understood not messing up the mojo if they were winning. When other parents would make fun of the misfits that made up their team, she’d be the one to go toe-to-toe and make them apologize.
“We lose with pride,” she told one particularly obnoxious hulk of a baseball father, “and if you’re team can’t do that, then I feel sorry for you because your kids are going to be working for mine some day since the nerds are finally claiming the world for themselves.”
The guy didn’t know what to do with the short, feisty woman that wouldn’t back down. So the team cheered as loud as they could when he just looked at his shoes and left the field to “wait in the truck.”
In short, she was the cool sports mom who made it easy to just be the mediocre sports kid who loved to play ball but knew this was as good as it got.
So the day Tater was going through a box of old photos he found, he was surprised to see a faded color photograph of someone that could have looked like Evelyn and then realized, it was a young version of his mom. In the picture, a vaguely familiar man had his arm around her shoulders and the two of them were grinning ear to ear.
He looked at the photo and brought it out to the porch, where she sat on the wooden swing, swaying gently in the breeze while she read a book.”
“Mom, is this you?”
She took the photo and looked. A slight smile crossed her face as she tenderly touched the glossy surface of the old photo.
“Oh my, I had totally forgotten about that day.”
“Who is that with you?”
“Bill ‘the Spaceman’ Lee.”
“No way, you know Bill Lee?”
“No, I met him one day when I was at the old Elliot Lounge back when I was in high school.”
“What were you doing there if you were in high school?”
“Something I’d ring your neck for if you ever tried it.”
Tater smiled. He knew his mom had a lot of fun as a kid and let them make their mistakes too but also was pretty strict about breaking laws and stuff.
“I was in there with a friend. The Elliot was pretty loose about things and we were young, pretty girls who looked old enough to pass for 18.”
“Eighteen?”
“When I was a kid, the age for being able to do stuff was 18, not 21. Which is why I expect you to wait to do things.”
“Right…” Tater replied.
“So, here I am with my friend at the Elliot and Bill Lee walks in. He had just pitched a day game and was coming in to have a couple with some of the other players on the team. We knew that some of the guys from the Sox went there and we were hoping to meet a couple.”
“Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and full of day dreams of baseball players falling in love with us because we were so young and beautiful.”
“That’s kind of stupid.”
“No, it’s a lot of stupid.”
“How did you know baseball players would go in there?”
“Because at one point, in 1975, a reporter asked Sparky Anderson the REd’s chances against Bill Lee. He said, ‘No matter what happens, my pitcher is going to the Hall of Fame.’ When Bill Lee heard that he replied, ‘No matter what happens, I’m going to the Elliot Lounge.’ After that, Auntie Jill and I wanted to sneak into the Elliot to meet a real live baseball player.”
“How did you meet him?”
“So there were these really obnoxious guys from BU or Harvard that would leave me and Jill alone.”
“You were with Auntie Jill?”
“Yeah… I probably shouldn’t have told you that. At any rate, these two guys kept using cheesy pick up lines on us. Stuff like, ‘Are you a parking ticket because you have fine written all over you.’ Then there was the ‘Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?’”
“That’s pretty cheesy.”
“Yeah. So they tried to buy us a drink not realizing that we were drinking soda water so everyone would think we were drinking. That’s the funny part, we’d sneak into these places but we still couldn’t bring ourselves to break the law.”
“When did Bill Lee come in?”
“When obnoxious guy number one asked if heaven was missing an angel since I was sitting right there.”
“What did he do?”
“He looked at the guy and said, ‘If you want to make time with a lady as beautiful as this, you don’t go for stupid lines like that. You recognize she’s an obviously intelligent class of human being who would rather argue if Shroediger’s cat is dead or alive than hear something she obviously notes every time she looks in the mirror: she’s a gorgeous woman who is way too young to be here and should be treated with respect.”
“Did he really say that?”
“Yes he did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said thank you and while I was not willing to argue the hypothetical of if the cat in the box was alive or dead, I wouldn’t mind discussing why Frank Lloyd Wright’s stuff looked so cool but was either entirely uncomfortable or leaked.”
“What did he do?”
“He laughed. He shooed the obnoxious students away and Auntie Jill and I had a lovely evening with the Buffalo Head club.”
“The Buffalo Head club?”
“Basically the Red Sox pitching staff at the time that hung out at the Elliot. At some point, Auntie Jill took a picture and made sure to take it to some place in Boston to have it developed so Grampy wouldn’t see it.”
“Did you talk about Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“Not really, but he gave me some advice that I have lived my life by pretty much ever since.”
“What was that?”
“Keep reading and don’t stop. Read in different languages, take chances and always enjoy life. If you can’t enjoy life, it’s not worth living.”
“Do you enjoy life?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do OK.”
“I think so too.”
“Did you really meet dad at a Red Sox game?”
“Yes I did.”
“Did he try to use a cheesy pick up line on you?”
“Nope. He gave me the foul ball he caught.”
“No way!”
“Yes way. He was in the row behind me and Auntie Jill when a ball went foul and landed in his beer cup. I got splashed and he kept apologizing and gave me the ball and asked if he could take me to dinner to make up for spilling beer on me.”
“I thought he was kidding when he told me that story.”
“It’s the truth.”
He looked at the photo in his mother’s hand.
“Does he know about Bill Lee?”
“Yes he does.”
“Does that mean we can frame this picture?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Tater sat on the swing with his mom.
“Where’s your book Tater?”
“Are you trying to make me read again?”
“If it was good enough for Bill Lee to tell me to read, it’s certainly good enough for you to do as well.”
“I’m kind of between books right now. Any recommendations?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a couple of books on Frank Lloyd Wright but they don’t talk about why his stuff is uncomfortable or leaks.”
“How about any books about Bill Lee?”
“I know just the book. It’s not about Bill Lee, but the main character reminds me a lot of Bill Lee and it’s not the type of book that most 12 year olds would read. But the guy who wrote it is one of my favorite authors and I wanted to write like him when I grew up.”
“That sounds good. What book?”
“‘The Curious Case of Siddhartha Finch’ by George Plimpton.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about a Buddhist monk who throws a fast ball that’s so fast that they have to get the catcher ready by dropping balls out of the Good Year blimp.”
Tater thought for a minute.
“Is it true?”
“What do you think?”
“Probably not.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Why did you want to write like George Plimpton?”
“Because when I was a little kid, I read his book ‘Paper Lion.’ Plimpton was a journalist and he spent some time in training camp with the Detroit Lions so he could he write a realistic book about them. I thought that had to be the coolest job in the world, to be able to play football with a professional team and then write about it.”
“Can I read that some day?”
“Absolutely, but keep in mind, it was written in the 60’s and the world is a whole lot different today than it was back then.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“I think so too.”
“Hey mom.”
She looked at her son.
“Thanks for telling me the truth about stuff. Some parents would be all blah about doing stupid stuff when they were in high school and stuff.”
“Tater, you know that if I tell you something, I mean it. So when I tell you that if I ever catch you trying to sneak into a bar to meet a baseball player, I will find a way to lock you in your room and embed a GPS tracking chip in your body to make sure you never do anything that stupid again.”
“I love you too mom.”
He gave her a hug and got off the swing. She suspected he was heading straight over to her bookshelf to find a book to read. Looking at the photo she thought how much her daughter Evelyn looked like she did at that age. She’d have to remember to have a talk with her after dinner tonight.
Stay Tuned!
One of the hazards of going back to school for degree work, sometimes you have to take a break for academic writing... but fear not! Today is the Boston 24 hour write in where a bunch of intrepid (I spelled insane correctly didn't I?) wrimos will travel around the Back Bay, Cambridge and Waterown from 6:30 this morning until 6:30 tomorrow morning doing insane amounts of writing.
I will miss the early stages of eating breakfast at the Pour House (I love places that know how to properly cook an over-medium egg) and the Boston Public Library leg of things, joining up with folks later this afternoon after I coach my FIRST Lego Robotics students at their first tournament this morning. I suspect that my students will come up with some interesting prompts for me this morning as we go for robotics gold.
So keep your eye on this space later and watch for tweets as I write and post stories for the time I join folks later today and write through the night.
I will miss the early stages of eating breakfast at the Pour House (I love places that know how to properly cook an over-medium egg) and the Boston Public Library leg of things, joining up with folks later this afternoon after I coach my FIRST Lego Robotics students at their first tournament this morning. I suspect that my students will come up with some interesting prompts for me this morning as we go for robotics gold.
So keep your eye on this space later and watch for tweets as I write and post stories for the time I join folks later today and write through the night.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Story Sixteen: Rivalries
As I mentioned about yesterday's horse prompt, the girl who gave it to me is obsessed with horses. Her alternate prompts were a dog getting loose on the field and biting a player and a woman with long nails breaking her nail with a foul ball and freaking out. I felt I had to write that one as well given my insistence she come up with a non-horse theme.
I admit this was a stumper... how do you get a dog on the field at Fenway to bite a player? If a player is going to be bitten, who would it be? That answer was easier, which players do I really dislike and A-Rod is always on the top of the list for me. I have always disliked mercenary players and checkbook baseball. Today, A-Rod still remains one of the players on the top of the list for me. As they say, that was a no-brainer.
This story is important as it really is a rough draft story. This is that lump of compressed coal that is going to need some serious polishing and cutting to reveal the diamond inside, which is part of this exercise this month. Characters names and things about them will change. While this is very much my New York state of mind (which is 180* different than Billy Joel's), I still need to examine, think and edit... edit... edit.
For someone like me, this exercise is even more important because this is the type of story that would go into a folder on my hard drive and sit there until I got around to it. If stories in my hard drive folders could collect dust, this would be under a pile very, very quickly with several others that have been there since 2 computers ago. Now that this is public, I really need to take the time to fix it when I sit down to edit in the coming months.
******
Anna Lee Byrne never went anywhere without her Jack Russell Terrier. Pookie was more than a dog, he was a companion and best friend. It was nice that most of the places she went to in Boston were so accommodating. The ones that weren’t, well she’d spend her husband’s money somewhere else.
She didn’t like Boston. Compared to New York, Boston was a hick town. In New York she cold go anywhere, make a few demands and look down her nose at the staff and remind them that her husband was star center fielder for the Yankees. If she was unhappy, he was unhappy. If he was unhappy, the Yankees struggled and no one in New York, except for maybe David Letterman (not that he really counted), wanted to see the Yankees struggle.
But when he played in Boston, he liked her to be on his arm. After all, who didn’t want a former model and current trophy wife to make Boston sports fans eat their hearts out. Not only was New York better than Boston, so were the wives and everything else that counts.
He also made sure that he bought seats in the box behind the visitor’s batting circle. She could sit front and center with the cameras on her and any celebrity guests that were eager to fill the seats with donations to his charitable foundation.
Today was a good day. It was a national broadcast, the weather was perfect and she knew she looked fabulous. Having found a manicurist in this forsaken back water of a city to give her a perfect manicure with the Yankees logo complete with diamond insets and her husband’s number. Yes, she would look fabulous for the cameras today. He had already made the arrangements for Pookie to be at the game with her and life was good, even if they were in Boston.
“Anna Lee.”
She turned to see the Donald coming to join her in the box.
“Donald. Where’s your lovely wife?” she asked as she stood up to greet him. He kissed her cheek and they sat back down.
“Oh she had some commitment and couldn’t make it. Ivanka has been busy, with her husband and the baby as well as the business, the poor girl works as hard as her father.”
“Not surprising, and she does it with grace and beauty.”
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“You married a lovely woman. How’s that handsome son of yours?” she smiled.
“Which one?”
“Barron.”
“Fabulous, growing like a weed. I wish I could have brought him today, he’s really a joy.”
“So long as that joy is second to beating these Red Sox.”
He laughed, which caused Pookie to give a gruff bark.
“Oh Pookie, I’m sorry. Did I frighten you.”
The dog gave a lower ruff and then settled back into Anna Lee’s bag.
It wasn’t long before the park filled up and the game got started. In true Boston fashion, it also wasn’t long before the fans began chanting obscenities and making general fools of themselves.
The celebrities that joined them in the box all chatted with her, treating as if she were royalty. In New York, she was because she was a Yankee wife.
The game was a pitcher’s duel between Jon Lester and Phil Hughes. Both men were on fire and everyone was at a loss this afternoon. Derek Jeter, A-Rod and her husband, New York’s power trio, were hitless as were Kevin Youkilis, Dustin Pedroia and Big Papi for the Boston side of the order.
Finally, in the bottom of the 8th inning, Boston seemed to get Hughes’ timing and were starting pepper hits all over the park. No where was more vulnerable than Jeter’s hot corner. Despite his best efforts, the line drives seemed to just get past him. A few bloopers over A-Rod’s head and suddenly the Sox were leading by two runs with runners threatening. A quick pitching change held the damage there, but it would be tough going into the inning behind with Papelbon sure to come in and close.
Looking at the order due up, it the power trio.
Jeter managed to beat out a play at first. A-Rod hit a dribbler that got him to first but Jeter was tagged out at second. With one down and one one, Anna Lee’s husband stepped into the batter’s box, she had to remember to breathe.
“Your husband better knock one out of here to give us some hope,” Donald said as he leaned over.
“Don’t worry, he’s good that way.”
“He certainly is, or he wouldn’t be in New York.”
She laughed, but one thing she know, Yankees fan took their baseball seriously.
Pookie yipped, so she reached down to put her precious dog on her lap.
“We need to cheer for daddy,” she said to the pampered dog in a baby talk voice. “Yes we do, don’t we.”
The dog gave a little bark in agreement.
As he stood in the batter’s box, she proudly clapped and cheered for him. The guests in the VIP box all rose, as did she, as they applauded. She placed Pookie on the thick ledge in front of her, Pookie’s leash lazily wrapped around her hand.
Under the intense gaze of the closer’s glare, a slow smile spread across her face as she knew there was no way her husband would be intimidated by that look. The pitcher went into his motion, rearing back and letting the ball loose. The batter drew back and uncoiled the powerful swing, meeting the ball at the plate, but a second late on the wrong part of the bat barrel.
The ball went up and back towards the box where they all stood cheering for the Yankees. Jason Varitek, the catcher for the Red Sox, flipped off his mask. Keeping his eyes glued to the ball, he backed up and up to stay under it. Just as he reached the ledge, he reached up and over, the ball within reach… and that’s when it all happened.
Bumping the wall scared the small dog. The terrier leapt out of the way and onto the field, the leash running through Anna Lee’s fingers as it escaped. In the meantime, the ball and the glove met at Anna Lee’s outstretched hand, breaking the carefully adorned nails One nail bent backwards, another snapped off entirely.
Anna cried out in pain as A-Rod started toward second, then stopped. Varitek, not missing a beat, threw to first. As A-Rod tried to get back to first just beating the runner back to the base.
Pookie spooked as he heard Anna Lee’s cries and darted across the infield looking for a place to hide or escape. Jeter, face down in the dirt from his failed slide back to first saw the dog first.
“Pookie,” he called out. Rising to his knees he tried to lunge at the dog as it darted towards the Red Sox dugout. The dog stopped and snarled.
“Pookie, come here now,” he used a firm voice but the dog leaped at him. As he caught the dog, it turned on him sinking his teeth into the fleshy outer part of his hand just below his pinky.
Adrian Gonzalez, noticing the dog reached down gently calling, “How did you get out here little one. Come on,” he held out the back of his hand. The dog suspiciously sniffed the offered hand before allowing him to reach down and scoop him up. Looking at A-Rod holding his hand, he nodded towards the approaching trainer, “You better let them take a look at that man. Do you know the dog’s owner?”
“That’s my wife’s dog,” said the voice behind him. “No idea how he got on the field, but l’ll take him. Alex, how’s the hand?”
He didn’t need words to express the anger flashing in his eyes.
The center fielder scooped the dog from the Sox first baseman.
“Guess that’s why dogs aren’t allowed in ball parks,” the center fielder said.
“That and the mess,” the first baseman responded.
He walked across the field with the dog in his hands calming him down as they walked. In the box, he saw the Donald calming her down as tears streaked down her face. Security personnel surrounding them to both protect them from the crowd.”
“I need to find Pookie…”
“Here’s Pookie.”
She looked up and saw the sad look on the terrier’s face.
“Pookie,” she said holding out her arms. The pain of her bent back fingernail forgotten in the moment. As she took the dog, she kissed her husband.
“You’ll get them tomorrow sweetie.”
“We’ll see, Pookie just took a chunk out of our short stop.”
“He never did like him,” she smiled.
“From now on you need to keep the dog away from the park,” Donald said, “he may not like A-Rod, but the rest of us do.”
Giving his wife another quick kiss on the cheek, he disappeared down the dugout with the rest of the team.
Looking up at Donald, Anna Lee smiled. “Thanks again. I don’t think I’ll be back in Boston any time soon.”
“Maybe not such a bad thing.”
“Maybe not,” but for now I better make sure I can beat it out of here before Pookie and I become public enemy number one.”
“He’ll be fine Anna Lee. He’ll be more embarrassed by the Sports Center video that will get replayed over and over again. Yes he will,” he said gently to the dog.
The dog cocked his head and yipped.
“Time to go home baby.”
The dog jumped into her bag and settled in. Looking up at Donald she smiled. Are you joining us tonight or heading right back?”
“I’m joining you, I have business in town tonight. Do you need a ride back to the hotel?”
Looking towards some of the stares at her from the dugout she said, “Probably not a bad idea.”
As they were escorted from the park to the waiting limo, she finally took a good at her hand.
“This may be a back water town, but I bet I can get the manicurist back up into the room to fix my nails before dinner Pookie.”
“Ruff,” Pookie barked in agreement.
“Exactly,” she said reaching in to scratch his ears.
I admit this was a stumper... how do you get a dog on the field at Fenway to bite a player? If a player is going to be bitten, who would it be? That answer was easier, which players do I really dislike and A-Rod is always on the top of the list for me. I have always disliked mercenary players and checkbook baseball. Today, A-Rod still remains one of the players on the top of the list for me. As they say, that was a no-brainer.
This story is important as it really is a rough draft story. This is that lump of compressed coal that is going to need some serious polishing and cutting to reveal the diamond inside, which is part of this exercise this month. Characters names and things about them will change. While this is very much my New York state of mind (which is 180* different than Billy Joel's), I still need to examine, think and edit... edit... edit.
For someone like me, this exercise is even more important because this is the type of story that would go into a folder on my hard drive and sit there until I got around to it. If stories in my hard drive folders could collect dust, this would be under a pile very, very quickly with several others that have been there since 2 computers ago. Now that this is public, I really need to take the time to fix it when I sit down to edit in the coming months.
******
Anna Lee Byrne never went anywhere without her Jack Russell Terrier. Pookie was more than a dog, he was a companion and best friend. It was nice that most of the places she went to in Boston were so accommodating. The ones that weren’t, well she’d spend her husband’s money somewhere else.
She didn’t like Boston. Compared to New York, Boston was a hick town. In New York she cold go anywhere, make a few demands and look down her nose at the staff and remind them that her husband was star center fielder for the Yankees. If she was unhappy, he was unhappy. If he was unhappy, the Yankees struggled and no one in New York, except for maybe David Letterman (not that he really counted), wanted to see the Yankees struggle.
But when he played in Boston, he liked her to be on his arm. After all, who didn’t want a former model and current trophy wife to make Boston sports fans eat their hearts out. Not only was New York better than Boston, so were the wives and everything else that counts.
He also made sure that he bought seats in the box behind the visitor’s batting circle. She could sit front and center with the cameras on her and any celebrity guests that were eager to fill the seats with donations to his charitable foundation.
Today was a good day. It was a national broadcast, the weather was perfect and she knew she looked fabulous. Having found a manicurist in this forsaken back water of a city to give her a perfect manicure with the Yankees logo complete with diamond insets and her husband’s number. Yes, she would look fabulous for the cameras today. He had already made the arrangements for Pookie to be at the game with her and life was good, even if they were in Boston.
“Anna Lee.”
She turned to see the Donald coming to join her in the box.
“Donald. Where’s your lovely wife?” she asked as she stood up to greet him. He kissed her cheek and they sat back down.
“Oh she had some commitment and couldn’t make it. Ivanka has been busy, with her husband and the baby as well as the business, the poor girl works as hard as her father.”
“Not surprising, and she does it with grace and beauty.”
“You always know the right thing to say.”
“You married a lovely woman. How’s that handsome son of yours?” she smiled.
“Which one?”
“Barron.”
“Fabulous, growing like a weed. I wish I could have brought him today, he’s really a joy.”
“So long as that joy is second to beating these Red Sox.”
He laughed, which caused Pookie to give a gruff bark.
“Oh Pookie, I’m sorry. Did I frighten you.”
The dog gave a lower ruff and then settled back into Anna Lee’s bag.
It wasn’t long before the park filled up and the game got started. In true Boston fashion, it also wasn’t long before the fans began chanting obscenities and making general fools of themselves.
The celebrities that joined them in the box all chatted with her, treating as if she were royalty. In New York, she was because she was a Yankee wife.
The game was a pitcher’s duel between Jon Lester and Phil Hughes. Both men were on fire and everyone was at a loss this afternoon. Derek Jeter, A-Rod and her husband, New York’s power trio, were hitless as were Kevin Youkilis, Dustin Pedroia and Big Papi for the Boston side of the order.
Finally, in the bottom of the 8th inning, Boston seemed to get Hughes’ timing and were starting pepper hits all over the park. No where was more vulnerable than Jeter’s hot corner. Despite his best efforts, the line drives seemed to just get past him. A few bloopers over A-Rod’s head and suddenly the Sox were leading by two runs with runners threatening. A quick pitching change held the damage there, but it would be tough going into the inning behind with Papelbon sure to come in and close.
Looking at the order due up, it the power trio.
Jeter managed to beat out a play at first. A-Rod hit a dribbler that got him to first but Jeter was tagged out at second. With one down and one one, Anna Lee’s husband stepped into the batter’s box, she had to remember to breathe.
“Your husband better knock one out of here to give us some hope,” Donald said as he leaned over.
“Don’t worry, he’s good that way.”
“He certainly is, or he wouldn’t be in New York.”
She laughed, but one thing she know, Yankees fan took their baseball seriously.
Pookie yipped, so she reached down to put her precious dog on her lap.
“We need to cheer for daddy,” she said to the pampered dog in a baby talk voice. “Yes we do, don’t we.”
The dog gave a little bark in agreement.
As he stood in the batter’s box, she proudly clapped and cheered for him. The guests in the VIP box all rose, as did she, as they applauded. She placed Pookie on the thick ledge in front of her, Pookie’s leash lazily wrapped around her hand.
Under the intense gaze of the closer’s glare, a slow smile spread across her face as she knew there was no way her husband would be intimidated by that look. The pitcher went into his motion, rearing back and letting the ball loose. The batter drew back and uncoiled the powerful swing, meeting the ball at the plate, but a second late on the wrong part of the bat barrel.
The ball went up and back towards the box where they all stood cheering for the Yankees. Jason Varitek, the catcher for the Red Sox, flipped off his mask. Keeping his eyes glued to the ball, he backed up and up to stay under it. Just as he reached the ledge, he reached up and over, the ball within reach… and that’s when it all happened.
Bumping the wall scared the small dog. The terrier leapt out of the way and onto the field, the leash running through Anna Lee’s fingers as it escaped. In the meantime, the ball and the glove met at Anna Lee’s outstretched hand, breaking the carefully adorned nails One nail bent backwards, another snapped off entirely.
Anna cried out in pain as A-Rod started toward second, then stopped. Varitek, not missing a beat, threw to first. As A-Rod tried to get back to first just beating the runner back to the base.
Pookie spooked as he heard Anna Lee’s cries and darted across the infield looking for a place to hide or escape. Jeter, face down in the dirt from his failed slide back to first saw the dog first.
“Pookie,” he called out. Rising to his knees he tried to lunge at the dog as it darted towards the Red Sox dugout. The dog stopped and snarled.
“Pookie, come here now,” he used a firm voice but the dog leaped at him. As he caught the dog, it turned on him sinking his teeth into the fleshy outer part of his hand just below his pinky.
Adrian Gonzalez, noticing the dog reached down gently calling, “How did you get out here little one. Come on,” he held out the back of his hand. The dog suspiciously sniffed the offered hand before allowing him to reach down and scoop him up. Looking at A-Rod holding his hand, he nodded towards the approaching trainer, “You better let them take a look at that man. Do you know the dog’s owner?”
“That’s my wife’s dog,” said the voice behind him. “No idea how he got on the field, but l’ll take him. Alex, how’s the hand?”
He didn’t need words to express the anger flashing in his eyes.
The center fielder scooped the dog from the Sox first baseman.
“Guess that’s why dogs aren’t allowed in ball parks,” the center fielder said.
“That and the mess,” the first baseman responded.
He walked across the field with the dog in his hands calming him down as they walked. In the box, he saw the Donald calming her down as tears streaked down her face. Security personnel surrounding them to both protect them from the crowd.”
“I need to find Pookie…”
“Here’s Pookie.”
She looked up and saw the sad look on the terrier’s face.
“Pookie,” she said holding out her arms. The pain of her bent back fingernail forgotten in the moment. As she took the dog, she kissed her husband.
“You’ll get them tomorrow sweetie.”
“We’ll see, Pookie just took a chunk out of our short stop.”
“He never did like him,” she smiled.
“From now on you need to keep the dog away from the park,” Donald said, “he may not like A-Rod, but the rest of us do.”
Giving his wife another quick kiss on the cheek, he disappeared down the dugout with the rest of the team.
Looking up at Donald, Anna Lee smiled. “Thanks again. I don’t think I’ll be back in Boston any time soon.”
“Maybe not such a bad thing.”
“Maybe not,” but for now I better make sure I can beat it out of here before Pookie and I become public enemy number one.”
“He’ll be fine Anna Lee. He’ll be more embarrassed by the Sports Center video that will get replayed over and over again. Yes he will,” he said gently to the dog.
The dog cocked his head and yipped.
“Time to go home baby.”
The dog jumped into her bag and settled in. Looking up at Donald she smiled. Are you joining us tonight or heading right back?”
“I’m joining you, I have business in town tonight. Do you need a ride back to the hotel?”
Looking towards some of the stares at her from the dugout she said, “Probably not a bad idea.”
As they were escorted from the park to the waiting limo, she finally took a good at her hand.
“This may be a back water town, but I bet I can get the manicurist back up into the room to fix my nails before dinner Pookie.”
“Ruff,” Pookie barked in agreement.
“Exactly,” she said reaching in to scratch his ears.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Story Fifteen: Horse Sense
One girl gave me a bunch of prompts with horses on the field running over players. She loves horses and we always tease her about how everything is about horses with her. In fact, I refused to accept her prompt until she came up with a non-horse one. She she gave me one about a dog getting loose on the field. So it goes.
But, as promises, since she came up with a non-horse prompt, here's my horse story for her.
*******
“What would it take for you to like baseball?” Paul asked his sister.
Charlotte thought for a moment, “horses on the field.”
“Wouldn’t that be polo?” Paul replied.
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him.
“Seriously,” Paul challenged her.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte responded. “I guess I just like horses. Baseball doesn’t do a lot for me.”
“Why do you like horses so much?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Why do you like baseball so much?”
Paul thought for a moment.
“What’s not to like?”
“Um, it’s slow paced, boring and doesn’t have any horses.”
“You never know if there’ll be a lot of home runs or a no hitter until it happens. A lot of times it’s starts off one way and then it changes just like that,” he snapped his finger. “Why do you like horses so much?”
“They’re so powerful. When I’m riding, I feel like nothing can stop me. I feel free.”
“When I play baseball and get a solid hit or make an amazing play, I feel the same way.”
They ate their snack for a bit, just thinking.
Paul remembered something.
“Did you know that the Boston police mounted unit used be at Fenway Park for crowd control. In fact, when the Sox clinched the AL East title in 1986, the mounted unit was on the warning track around the field to keep people from running onto the field?”
“I did not know that,” Charlotte replied.
“In fact, there was a photo of Roger Clemens in the paper of him jumping up on the back of the horse with one of the police and riding around the edge of the field. He wasn’t pitching that day, so he had t-shirt on with a bunch of K’s on it because he holds the record for the most strikeouts in a baseball game.”
“So you’re telling me there was a horse on the field.”
“Yes, yes there was.”
“Hmmm,” Charlotte though for a second, “that’s pretty cool.”
“In fact, a couple of years ago when the City of Boston decided to cut the budget of the mounted police, the owners of the Red Sox said they were willing to pay for them because they spent so much time doing crowd control and protection around the Red Sox.”
“I did not know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes I do.”
“So you’re telling me the Red Sox are horse friendly.”
Paul thought for a second. “I guess I am.”
“Cool.”
“The City of Boston said, ‘no’ and the mounted unit is mostly in New York now protecting the Yankees and Yankees Stadium.”
“That’s not so good.”
“But at least they’re still doing what they know.”
“That’s true,” Charlotte said, “it’s always good when horses get to do what they like to do. If the horses like being around people the way police horses do, then it’s good they’re still doing that.”
“Knowing that, would you give the Red Sox a chance? I mean, they tried to keep the police horses in Boston.”
“Maybe. I mean,” Charlotte shrugged, “it’s the whole baseball thing that I have to get past now but the Red Sox seem kind of cool.”
“But, now that you know the team is horse friendly and used to allow horses on the field, does that make it easier to like them.”
“Well that and they’re from Boston.”
“OK, so you now have three things to like about them…”
“Four if you count that some of the players are…” dropping her voice to an embarrassed whisper, “kind of cute.”
“I guess, I mean, that’s not my thing.”
“No duh!”
“I’m just saying, you now have some reasons to look at the Red Sox in a way that let you find things you can like about them.”
“I guess.”
“OK, so let’s watch an inning of the game. Think about how these guys are horse friendly and see if there’s something you like. I’ll even explain it to you.”
“If I do that, will you watch a horse show with me?”
“I already have to go to your shows.”
“And I have to go to your Little League games. But if I watch an inning of baseball with you and you explain it to me, then you have to watch a jumping match with me so I can explain it to you.”
Paul scrunched up his face the way he did when he thought.
“Make it two innings.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and made a face.
“I guess.”
“Deal.” He stuck out his hand, “shake on it.”
She took his extended hand and shook.
“Hey, has a horse ever run over a baseball player on the field?”
“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be good.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Not it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’d have a hurt player and that would sort of not be good.”
“But think about it. Here’s this baseball player standing in the field and suddenly,” she brought her hands together in a slapping collision, “here’s this horse on the field and it knocks him over. Tell me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Well… I might. It depends.”
“Then every time you turn on the news or a sports show, what do you see for the next few days? A baseball player getting run over by a horse. You know someone’s going to put in sound effects or that they’ll make fun of it on Saturday Night Live or something. Then the player would be kind of famous for getting run over by a horse.”
“Why would you even think something like that?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“I don’t know. It just sort of jumped into my head.”
“You’re weird. Are you sure you’re my sister?”
“Are you sure you’re my brother?”
“Point taken.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Actually it would.”
“You know what wouldn’t be funny,” she said.
“What?”
“If a horse slipped on a baseball and got hurt.”
Paul thought for a minute.
“I can’t think of anything funny about that,” he agreed. “In fact, it would be really sad because the horse would probably have to be put down, wouldn’t it.”
“Probably,” Charlotte said. “Even if it was able to recover, it would never be able to compete or work the way it would before being hurt. That would make me really sad.”
Paul thought for a second.
“So think about that for a minute. A baseball player unexpectedly getting run over by a horse and getting hurt is funny, but a horse getting hurt by a baseball isn’t.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Charlotte nodded.
“It does to me too, but I don’t know why.”
“Probably because we expect people to recover from being hurt, but not horses when stuff like that happens.”
Paul looked at her.
“For a little sister, you’re pretty smart when you want to be.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
“For an older brother, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Paul smiled and laughed. “And don’t you forget it.”
They both laughed.
“So… the game’s on in an hour. Are you really going to watch the first couple of innings with me?”
“I said I would.”
“Cool.”
“And tomorrow, there’s an event on ESPN. Are you really going to watch with me?”
“If you watch baseball with me today.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Maybe,” she said, “if I understand baseball better, I won’t spend all of your Little League game reading and being bored.”
“And maybe I won’t spend your events pretending to sleep and going to the snack bar every two seconds.”
“I can live with that.”
“If you decide you like baseball, would you want me to teach you how to throw and hit?”
“I guess it would be a good thing if you taught me those things. I kind of need them for gym and stuff. So yeah, you can teach me how to throw and hit.”
“Cool. Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime.”
“Are you serious!”
“None of that jumping or silly stuff. I just think it would be kind of cool to know how to ride a horse. Then if we ever go someplace with horses, I’d be able to keep up instead of having to ride the baby ponies in a circle sort of thing.”
Charlotte hugged her brother.
“So we should clean up before the game or mom’s going to be kind of mad,” Paul said as he broke from her embrace.
“I’ll clean up. It’s not that hard you know. Maybe I should teach you how to do the dishes.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“I know how to do the dishes. I just don’t want to do the dishes.”
Charlotte shrugged, “Except for big things like Thanksgiving, it’s not that hard.”
“I know. I just don’t like doing dishes.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Are you sure we’re related? Maybe you were switched at birth or something.”
“I was just thinking that about you.”
“Let’s clean up together and then we’ll watch the game.”
“Just don’t expect any horses on the field today.”
Charlotte laughed. “I won’t.”
But, as promises, since she came up with a non-horse prompt, here's my horse story for her.
*******
“What would it take for you to like baseball?” Paul asked his sister.
Charlotte thought for a moment, “horses on the field.”
“Wouldn’t that be polo?” Paul replied.
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him.
“Seriously,” Paul challenged her.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte responded. “I guess I just like horses. Baseball doesn’t do a lot for me.”
“Why do you like horses so much?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“Why do you like baseball so much?”
Paul thought for a moment.
“What’s not to like?”
“Um, it’s slow paced, boring and doesn’t have any horses.”
“You never know if there’ll be a lot of home runs or a no hitter until it happens. A lot of times it’s starts off one way and then it changes just like that,” he snapped his finger. “Why do you like horses so much?”
“They’re so powerful. When I’m riding, I feel like nothing can stop me. I feel free.”
“When I play baseball and get a solid hit or make an amazing play, I feel the same way.”
They ate their snack for a bit, just thinking.
Paul remembered something.
“Did you know that the Boston police mounted unit used be at Fenway Park for crowd control. In fact, when the Sox clinched the AL East title in 1986, the mounted unit was on the warning track around the field to keep people from running onto the field?”
“I did not know that,” Charlotte replied.
“In fact, there was a photo of Roger Clemens in the paper of him jumping up on the back of the horse with one of the police and riding around the edge of the field. He wasn’t pitching that day, so he had t-shirt on with a bunch of K’s on it because he holds the record for the most strikeouts in a baseball game.”
“So you’re telling me there was a horse on the field.”
“Yes, yes there was.”
“Hmmm,” Charlotte though for a second, “that’s pretty cool.”
“In fact, a couple of years ago when the City of Boston decided to cut the budget of the mounted police, the owners of the Red Sox said they were willing to pay for them because they spent so much time doing crowd control and protection around the Red Sox.”
“I did not know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes I do.”
“So you’re telling me the Red Sox are horse friendly.”
Paul thought for a second. “I guess I am.”
“Cool.”
“The City of Boston said, ‘no’ and the mounted unit is mostly in New York now protecting the Yankees and Yankees Stadium.”
“That’s not so good.”
“But at least they’re still doing what they know.”
“That’s true,” Charlotte said, “it’s always good when horses get to do what they like to do. If the horses like being around people the way police horses do, then it’s good they’re still doing that.”
“Knowing that, would you give the Red Sox a chance? I mean, they tried to keep the police horses in Boston.”
“Maybe. I mean,” Charlotte shrugged, “it’s the whole baseball thing that I have to get past now but the Red Sox seem kind of cool.”
“But, now that you know the team is horse friendly and used to allow horses on the field, does that make it easier to like them.”
“Well that and they’re from Boston.”
“OK, so you now have three things to like about them…”
“Four if you count that some of the players are…” dropping her voice to an embarrassed whisper, “kind of cute.”
“I guess, I mean, that’s not my thing.”
“No duh!”
“I’m just saying, you now have some reasons to look at the Red Sox in a way that let you find things you can like about them.”
“I guess.”
“OK, so let’s watch an inning of the game. Think about how these guys are horse friendly and see if there’s something you like. I’ll even explain it to you.”
“If I do that, will you watch a horse show with me?”
“I already have to go to your shows.”
“And I have to go to your Little League games. But if I watch an inning of baseball with you and you explain it to me, then you have to watch a jumping match with me so I can explain it to you.”
Paul scrunched up his face the way he did when he thought.
“Make it two innings.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and made a face.
“I guess.”
“Deal.” He stuck out his hand, “shake on it.”
She took his extended hand and shook.
“Hey, has a horse ever run over a baseball player on the field?”
“I don’t think so. That wouldn’t be good.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Not it wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you’d have a hurt player and that would sort of not be good.”
“But think about it. Here’s this baseball player standing in the field and suddenly,” she brought her hands together in a slapping collision, “here’s this horse on the field and it knocks him over. Tell me you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Well… I might. It depends.”
“Then every time you turn on the news or a sports show, what do you see for the next few days? A baseball player getting run over by a horse. You know someone’s going to put in sound effects or that they’ll make fun of it on Saturday Night Live or something. Then the player would be kind of famous for getting run over by a horse.”
“Why would you even think something like that?”
Charlotte shrugged.
“I don’t know. It just sort of jumped into my head.”
“You’re weird. Are you sure you’re my sister?”
“Are you sure you’re my brother?”
“Point taken.”
“But it would be kind of funny.”
“Actually it would.”
“You know what wouldn’t be funny,” she said.
“What?”
“If a horse slipped on a baseball and got hurt.”
Paul thought for a minute.
“I can’t think of anything funny about that,” he agreed. “In fact, it would be really sad because the horse would probably have to be put down, wouldn’t it.”
“Probably,” Charlotte said. “Even if it was able to recover, it would never be able to compete or work the way it would before being hurt. That would make me really sad.”
Paul thought for a second.
“So think about that for a minute. A baseball player unexpectedly getting run over by a horse and getting hurt is funny, but a horse getting hurt by a baseball isn’t.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Charlotte nodded.
“It does to me too, but I don’t know why.”
“Probably because we expect people to recover from being hurt, but not horses when stuff like that happens.”
Paul looked at her.
“For a little sister, you’re pretty smart when you want to be.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes.
“For an older brother, you’re kind of a jerk.”
Paul smiled and laughed. “And don’t you forget it.”
They both laughed.
“So… the game’s on in an hour. Are you really going to watch the first couple of innings with me?”
“I said I would.”
“Cool.”
“And tomorrow, there’s an event on ESPN. Are you really going to watch with me?”
“If you watch baseball with me today.”
Charlotte nodded.
“Maybe,” she said, “if I understand baseball better, I won’t spend all of your Little League game reading and being bored.”
“And maybe I won’t spend your events pretending to sleep and going to the snack bar every two seconds.”
“I can live with that.”
“If you decide you like baseball, would you want me to teach you how to throw and hit?”
“I guess it would be a good thing if you taught me those things. I kind of need them for gym and stuff. So yeah, you can teach me how to throw and hit.”
“Cool. Maybe you could teach me how to ride sometime.”
“Are you serious!”
“None of that jumping or silly stuff. I just think it would be kind of cool to know how to ride a horse. Then if we ever go someplace with horses, I’d be able to keep up instead of having to ride the baby ponies in a circle sort of thing.”
Charlotte hugged her brother.
“So we should clean up before the game or mom’s going to be kind of mad,” Paul said as he broke from her embrace.
“I’ll clean up. It’s not that hard you know. Maybe I should teach you how to do the dishes.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“I know how to do the dishes. I just don’t want to do the dishes.”
Charlotte shrugged, “Except for big things like Thanksgiving, it’s not that hard.”
“I know. I just don’t like doing dishes.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Are you sure we’re related? Maybe you were switched at birth or something.”
“I was just thinking that about you.”
“Let’s clean up together and then we’ll watch the game.”
“Just don’t expect any horses on the field today.”
Charlotte laughed. “I won’t.”
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