Despite having a firm grasp of the offsides rule, I'm not your typical soccer dad. I'm not too excitable on the sidelines. I don't cheer too loudly, if I can be heard at all. I don't yell out unsolicited advice, partly because I have none to offer. I feel bad when kids on the opposing…
Not much of a player in his nine years in the Bigs, Papa Garagiola found a home in the broadcast booth, where his warm, folksy demeanor these days makes you feel like your grandpa is sitting next to you, calling the game. Except unlike my grandfather, Garagiola shares first-hand stories of old timers like Yogi Berra and Stan Musial.
Well, my formerly hapless D-backs are hanging in there. Eight games above .500 and just four games behind the NL West leading Giants, winners of last year’s World Series. It’s fun watching budding sluggers Justin Upton, Chris Young, and Miguel Montero, and young dart throwers Ian Kennedy and Daniel Hudson all come into their own, guided by manager and former Fall Classic hero Kirk Gibson. But I have to say, I’m a little irritated that I’ll be losing more of my blow money.
I love that my boys are interested in baseball. At three and almost two, they’ll turn anything into a bat. Cindy prefers to give them paper towel rolls, the cardboard part that will itself yield to whatever they might hit with it—instead of the opposite. Sure, they like to play with balls (ball may have been for both of them their fourth or fifth word), but they also like watching baseball too, something the women in my house are loathe to do. I was watching a game earlier this week and was reminded about a difficult aspect of parenting: discipline.
Despite the cold temperatures and yesterday’s flurries, today marks the beginning of summer for me: Major League Baseball’s opening day
I've seen only a handful of NFL games this year and hardly any college games. Cindy loathes football. The crowd noise alone irritates her. For the most part our girls aren't too fond of football either. So I'm waiting for our boys to get a little older, when we can overtake the remote.
Since music is my day gig and not a hobby I can set down and take up when I have time, I haven’t ever stopped playing music long enough to know whether you can forget your skill. Do learned physical movements cease to be learned? Can you forget how to play a chord or a scale you’d memorized? Do notes on the page become like a foreign language?
Hedonism, the pursuit of satisfaction and happiness any way possible, doesn’t satisfy. Neither does religion, which is like stagnant water. Religion convicted her of her hedonistic lifestyle, providing her with ample guilt to keep her devoted her entire life—and empty. But the reality of guilt and the emotion of guilt must lead somewhere other than religious exercises. So she brought her guilt to Jesus, and he overturned the verdict and began the process of eradicating her burden of guilt.
Perfect games are indeed rare, and there have only been 20, sadly not 21. Galarraga, whom I remember seeing as Mud Hen when I charted games at Fifth Third Field, didn’t pitch the 21st perfect game. Simply the 28th one-hitter in Tigers history. His game was nearly perfect, tarnished with two outs in the ninth inning by a blown call by first base umpire Jim Joyce, who was prior heralded as a fantastic umpire. Galarraga received first basemen Miguel Cabrera’s toss then clearly stepped on the bag ahead of the runner. Replays were obvious. The call wasn’t that close. Joyce flat missed it.
I started playing tennis as a 12 year old. I spent summers at the public tennis courts in Yuma, Arizona, drinking water that tasted like felt. We would fill up tennis ball cans with cold water from a drinking fountain. That felt water was how we endured the 110+ degree heat.