Anyhow, to mark the occasion, there were several events around the area highlighting this milestone. Most of the activities were held at the fairgrounds so, Saturday night, I took my two oldest kids with me to check things out.
The big “draw” was that they were rolling back the prices of the carnival rides to 5 cents per ride. However, every vagrant and dirtbag within a 20 mile radius was there to get in on the action so the lines were quite long. It's funny though, even though the rides were only 5 cents, it appeared that you actually got a better breed of carnie working the ride. It goes against all logic when you think about it. They didn't have the same rat-like features of your typical carnie such as: small hands and the distinct body odor of cabbage. They were actually pretty nice.
Is it me, or have you ever noticed that most of your drifter dirty-butts tend to flock toward theme parks and/or fairs? They’re like moths to a porch light. If you’re having some mechanical rides of any sort, I guarantee you some toothless hobo and his/her spouse will be there in their dirty tank tops and a travel mug of Mountain Dew just chomping at the bit to get back on the Log Ride (marking their closest attempt at bathing for the month) or the Tilt-a-Whirl “Honey, catch my smokes when they fly back by ya!”
Also, and I was not aware of this until recently, a theme park or county fair requires that 75% of it’s attendees MUST have at least one tattoo on their person. I’ve got nothing against tattoos, let me be the first to tell you that. But I do have a little problem with overly large, unattractive folk donning body art and, not only that…but wearing the appropriate (or inappropriate) clothing to show off their artwork.
Even better is the waterpark at King’s Island. It’s like a watering hole in the middle of the arid African plains only this time, instead of elephants and zebras getting a drink of life-sustaining water, you’ve got Amber smacking her kid in the wading pool as the water suctions her Nascar t-shirt close to her portly, swollen body while husband Ricky holds his 58 ounce commemorative cup of soda high in the air "so it don’t git water in it”.
I’m not sure I even want to think about the water-borne viruses that are lunging off them and into the water, searching for another host to latch onto. I can almost visualize the sheen, the film, forming on top of the water...comprised of a litany of spirochetes and bacteria that seem to have risen from the fiery depths of hell, destined to wait for the perfect moment to hop onto me and enter my bloodstream through some unsuspecting orifice.
I feel the same way about hot tubs. Oh sure, they provide relaxation with their warming effervescence and their bubbly, calming tentacles of water reaching out to say “Take it easy, J-Bird. Relaaaaxxxx”. But what I really see is this tepid pot of boiling stew, cooking up for me a hot concoction of some rare, unusual virus that can only be found when you combine scalding hot water, wayward pubic hairs, someone else’s body oil, and some other unmentionable secretions. I could probably only really enjoy myself in a hot tub if I were clad in some submersible Haz-mat suit armed with a spray bottle of bleach. Only after I swallow a couple chlorine pool cleaner tablets and skim the top of the water with cheesecloth in hopes of catching some mutated microbial pathogen would I be ready to relax.
But I digress, the Miami County celebration was pretty nice. One building housed some of the remnants of the old Eldean covered bridge before it was recently refurbished. That entire display was very impressive. They also had a little display of restored tractors and I particularly appreciated seeing that. I asked a friend of mine the other day, “Does it make me an old man because I’m excited about spending part of my weekend looking at old tractors?” He simply replied, “Absolutely”.
At the grandstand, the Ohio State Alumni band was there. The girls and I grabbed a seat at the top row, sat back and enjoyed the show. They really sounded great. Obviously, they were once members of “TBDBITL” (the best damned band in the land…for you non-Ohio folks) so their sound was so crisp and intense. They ended by playing “Carmen Ohio” and went straight into the fight song, which was really awesome. But earlier, they did two neat things. They played “Hang On Sloopy” which really got the crowd going as Anna, Sophie and I stood with everyone and did the “O-H-I-O” moves. But the highlight of the whole thing for me was when they explained they were going to play a Big Ten Medley. This medley consisted of the fight songs for every Big Ten team and, when you heard the song from your alma mater or your home state, you were asked to stand up. Well, they played Wisconsin’s song, and a few people stood and clapped along, then they went into Purdue’s song. A few more people stood up as everyone looked around. Eventually, they got to Michigan’s song. Within three notes, the place erupted into a wave of “Boooooooo” while nearly drowning out the band. It was absolutely fantastic! You have to remember, the crowd was not a “football” type of crowd. It was mostly older folks and people who were just out to enjoy a little evening of music…but when that Michigan song started playing, I fully expected to see cups of beer flying, a UM flag being stomped on, and a Bo Schembechler doll being burned in effigy. Boos were raining down on the band like a flood until they jumped back into the Buckeye’s fight song and order was restored. It was beautiful. As I sat there wiping the tears away from my moist eyes, my loving daughters looked up at me and thoughtfully asked, “Daddy, what’s the matter?” To which I quietly replied, “I hate f***in’ Michigan”. Then they hugged me as if they completely understood the evils of Wolverine Nation.
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One our favorite things to do on a weekend morning is load up the family truckster and head into Tim Horton’s for some breakfast. The kids love it and I certainly enjoy it too. We generally just chat and talk about the weekend and such. Sometimes, I’ll grab the sports page and go over some of the headlines with the girls while throwing nuggets of information in like, “Adam Dunn is a horse’s ass!” or “If you see a person walk in with a Steelers’ shirt on, kick them in the nuts.” You know…special times when I like to impart some wisdom onto the little darlings.
Anyway, the reason I bring Tim Horton’s up is because they’ve got a good thing going over there.
With all this talk about eliminating trans-fats from your food, no smoking in a bar, and every other evil you can't enjoy anymore because someone out there feels the need to take care of everyone...someone better turn their watchful eye toward our supposedly "friendly" neighbors to the North. The Canadians that founded and operate the Tim Horton's franchise are behind the latest attempt to take over proud Americans everywhere. What am I talking about? I challenge you to try a refreshing and delicious iced cappuccino and not feel the need to go in tomorrow and have yourself another one. I don't know what prompted me to try one...but I can tell you with complete certainty that Tim Horton's is adding something to this heavenly concoction made up, remarkably, of ice...and...well...cappuccino. Personally, I think it's laced with crack or crystal meth. Pretty soon I will be ripping the aluminum siding off my neighbor's house to support my cappuccinno habit. That stuff is liquid heaven. Something must be done!!!
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Barry Bonds is on the verge of breaking the all-time Home Run record and personally, it makes me sick to my “gawddamn” stomach. First, he is without a doubt a cheater. The book “Game of Shadows” has essentially given actual data and facts proving that he has used and is possibly still using performance-enhancing drugs.
Secondly, he is a jerk. His surly attitude, his apparent indifference toward the fans, and his total lack of respect for the game that has made him a millionaire, only adds to his legend of being an ass.
I watched him play the Reds last night and sat there disgusted as he came to the plate. There was a large amount of the stadium giving him a hearty “boooo”…but what disgusted me was that there was a smattering of applause and cheers. As the camera panned through the crowd I saw fathers standing next to their sons giving a polite clap. What? You’re applauding a guy whose career is a total farce AND you’re teaching your kid that this is acceptable? Rooting for him is like inviting O.J. Simpson to your home for dinner with your family.
A couple of years ago, I took Anna to a Reds game. They happened to be playing the Giants and Bonds was in the starting lineup that day. When he first came to the plate, I taught my daughter that it was o.k. to “boo” a player like Bonds. So we sat there, peanuts and cracker jacks in our laps, as I bellowed a deep, long “BOOOO” while my little innocent daughter cupped her hands around her mouth and let out the cutest “booo” you had ever heard. Priceless.
Later in the game, she had to go to the bathroom. As I stood by her in the stall, the broadcast was being pumped into the bathroom so one could stay abreast of the action on the field. Just then I heard, “Deep drive…gone! Barry Bonds home run!” For all of the bitterness and hate I have toward this jackass, I did at least want to say I saw him hit a home run. Instead, I was standing over my daughter as she took a crap…at which point I thought “How Fitting”. Bonds homers and my daughter poops. That’s symbolism, folks.
This is another reason why I continue to be a Ken Griffey Jr. fan. His arrival was supposed to mean numerous winning seasons in Cincinnati, championships, countless highlights. Injuries took their toll and never gave Reds’ fans what they had hoped for. But all through it, Griffey remained classy and, it has been told, one of the greatest teammates a guy could hope for. What I will say about Griffey is that he is the greatest “natural” home run hitter of his era. Which means that in the era of Bonds, McGwire, Sosa, Palmeiro, etc…Griffey was the only guy who consistently performed at a high level without the benefit of illegal drugs. He is the one that we should be celebrating, not Bonds.
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Recently, the wife mentioned that we should get a hammock. “Why not?” I said. Who doesn’t like to be cradled precariously in a net of rope, swaying in the warm summer breezes while dodging the precisely dropped turds from passing birds flying high above?
Actually, the hammock is as much a symbol of American leisure-time as, say, a barbecue grill or a baseball game.
Part of me sees myself coming home from the office, setting down my briefcase and climbing out of my three-piece suit as I muss up the little tike’s hair. My wife, clad in a light blue dress and white apron takes time from her supper-preparation (it’s roasted duck tonight!) to bring me my slippers, the newspaper and my pipe. I head to the hammock in the back where my kids bring me a cool glass of lemonade.
But there’s also a part of me that sees myself more like Gilligan. Stumbling back to the hut after completely screwing up the Professor’s well-devised plan to make a communication beacon out of coconut shells and Ginger’s high heels, I prepare to settle into my hammock for some rest. Hilarity ensues as I hop into the hammock, only to be spun around and spit out the other side. The Skipper looks on in disgust and then hits me with his sailor’s hat and calls me a “numbskull”
The truth is, we have a perfect spot to place a hammock. In the back yard, between two nice trees with lots of shade. Sweet! So I take out the hardware and get everything set up correctly. I stretch the hammock as far and as tight as I can, eventually looping that final hook over the other one. “Done! That was easy,” I say to myself as I stand back and admire my work.
The only thing left to do was to try it out. I gingerly leaned back against the rope and began to take the weight off my feet and enjoy this cradle of comfort. It was then that I recall reading in the directions “some stretching of the rope is natural”. This was quite apparent as I quickly found myself resting nicely on a hammock…which was laying flat on the ground like a placemat. I jumped back up and kept tightening and tightening until, at last, the hammock looked more like a shrimp net stretched taut, straight across from tree to tree. It didn’t look too comfortable, that was for sure. I again started the process of trying to lie down in this leisure-filled comfort machine. Just as I slowly placed my entire weight into the contraption, I quickly had to fight to keep the hammock from spinning me out the other side. Steady…steady boy…deep breaths.
So I’m laying there, teetering inches from the ground as this rope net envelops me and I can feel the grass tickling my back while I gently sway from side to side. I’m concentrating so hard on not moving as one slight shift out-of-center will lead to me being wrapped up in a cocoon of rope. The paramedics would have to cut me out of the tangled mess like a fisherman chops up a dolphin caught in a tuna net.
Minutes pass and I start to sense some of the relaxation that the hammock lobbyists have been touting for years (don’t cross the hammock lobbyists…they’re powerful You saw what they did to the folding aluminum lawn chair industry, didn’t you?) Suddenly, my thoughts change back to things like me imagining the two sturdy trees slowly bending inward, unable to sustain the weight that is pulling their mighty trunks. I also think about the screw-bolts, red-hot under such intense pressure, firing out of the tree like a bullet and hitting me in the head, or worse, the nuts. At one point, I fully expected a coconut to fall out of the tree and hit me square on the noggin. It never happened, but the thought of it was enough to make me get up.
Yeah honey, those hammocks sure are relaxing.
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As you may know, we receive tons of reader’s letters and emails at the J-Bird’s Blog corporate headquarters. Most of them are requests for 8x10 black and white glossies of yours truly but some of them are just questions and comments. So, for the first time, I’d like to share with you some random samples in this segment called “The Mailbag”
From John in Spokane, Washington:
J-Bird, if you could go out with two famous chicks, who would they be?
John, good question but I need some further clarification. By “going out” do you mean going to a dinner, movie and some drinks…or do you mean…well…you know what I mean (wink, wink)?
Not that I think about this sort of thing constantly…everyday…at each passing minute or anything, but I’ve compiled a short-list of “famous” ladies I’d like to go “out” with:
To Dinner: ? Hmmm…Meredith Baxter-Birney
To..you know (again..the wink, wink thing): Pam Anderson, Sharon Stone, Jamie Gertz, Pandora Peaks, Tootie from Facts of Life, Jessica Alba, Barbara Billingsly, Natalie Gulbis, Raquel Welch, Jenny McCarthy, Eva Mendez, Beyonce, Christina Aguilera, Reece Witherspoon, Jennie Finch, Catherine Zeta-Jones. Not that I’ve ever thought about it. Oh, but wait...I'd pick my wife first, of course (whew..hope she doesn't get mad)
From Stacy in Long Island NY:
J-Bird, what weighs more, a pound of lead or a pound of feathers?
Stacy, good question…if you’re a 2nd grader. A pound is a pound idiot! Let me ask you this. If a rooster is sitting on the peak of a roof and lays an egg, which side does the egg roll to?
Stacy, your question was stupid and I want you to immediately remove J-Bird’s Blog from your “favorites”. By the way, roosters don’t lay eggs, genius.
From Robert in Butte, Montana:
J-Bird, I am going to be laid-up at home for a few days and I was wondering if you could suggest a few good movies for me to watch. Some classics.
Oh Robert, I often dream about being laid up at home with a work-related injury for weeks at a time. Nothing serious. If I could lop off my pinky or something…something that gets me out of work but still allows me to swing a golf club or go fishing.
Anyway, I’m gonna give you a handful of movies that I feel, are terrific (in no particular order)
1. Dumb and Dumber. I can quote this entire movie
2. Blazing Saddles. They couldn’t make it today. The subtle things are what makes this film classic, I think
3. The Natural. When Roy Hobbs hits the game winner at the end, if you aren’t crying, you have no soul
4. Gladiator. Russell Crowe does some serious ass-kickin’
5. Billy Madison. Adam Sandler’s best movie.
6. Tommy Boy. “I can actually hear you getting fatter”.
7. Busty Bankers #1, #8, and #19. Combining giant jugs and the fast-paced world of banking. What a combination!
8. Caddyshack. If for no other reason than to be able to use quotes on the golf course. Quoting Caddyshack on the links is as essential as knowing how to repair a divot or rake a bunker.
9. Shawshank Redemption. “Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’”
10. Old School. After I first saw it, I said “Instant Classic”. It is a classic.
From Billy D. Seattle WA
Dear Sir, what is the funniest thing you've heard someone say in the past 12 hours?
I heard a guy say today that "it's hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell" Perfect. An old guy I used to work with used to say "It's hotter than a fresh f***ed fox in a forest fire"...not entirely funny but super funny coming from the lips of this old-timer. Also: Hot as a billy goat in a pepper patch.
From Dino R in Springfield MO
Bird, listening to any good music lately?
Funny you should ask, Dino. I recently purchased some new music. Try these: Amos Lee (has a new album "Supply and Demand") His first album was incredible and although I haven't even broken the plastic on this disk, I expect the same. Stumbled across a new cd by Mat Kearney and it's very good. Also, try Ray Lamontagne. Both very likeable.
In terms of DVDs...I've mentioned one of my most cherished DVDs is Norah Jones Live from New Orleans. Do yourself a favor and get it today. If you're not a fan, you will be. If you're a fan of hers, you'll practically fall in love with, not only her dead-on singing, but her adorableness and innocence on stage. Having said that, I recently bought Donavon Frankenreiter (yes, that's his real name) Live From Abbey Road dvd. It's the most polished, featured filled dvd I've seen yet. Plus, the audio is so rich. From beginning to end, it's wonderful and I highly suggest you check him out..even if you've never heard of him. Best part, at the end he's out for his encore and kids just start coming up on stage. Before you know it, the stage was filled with people and they were just having a great time. It was unscripted and genuine.
Frank from Buffalo NY
J-Bird, please describe to me what your environment is like when you masterfully put pen to paper, or in your case, put fingers to keyboard.
Frank, this is a popular question. Seems that everyone wants a behind the scenes look at the J-Bird Blog operations and, most importantly, get inside the head of the genius behind this fabulous website. Well, Frank...I do most of my writing in my secluded den. Lined with deep, dark hardwood and stacks upon stacks of the many novels I've read, it's more of a "cave" than anything else. I first peck out my ideas on an old manual typewriter that I bought at auction while on sabbatical in Nantucket. I once met a man from there...but I digress. I'm usually clothed in a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows as listen to Vivaldi or Tchaikovsky on my old Victrola while sipping periodically from a tumbler of aged scotch that my loving wife frequently stops to freshen and top off.
Ohhh...Frank, I can't lie! I can't go on with this ruse. I'm currently sitting at my kitchen table. I've got a cup of Country Time lemonade next to me as I sit with my headphones on listening to music, oblivious to the mayhem and crazy running kids around me. I'm wearing a Nike t-shirt that is literally hanging on my shoulder by a thread and on occasion, I pick at my toenails with an old steak knife.
I hope the true images do keep you from being a faithful reader, Frank. I'm nothing without you and I'm not above begging...in fact, besides a few family members, nobody reads this crap anyway! You complete me, Frank.
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The other day I stumbled across a piece written by Bill Simmons of espn.com. I read it years ago when he first wrote it and I’ve probably read a dozen times since. http://proxy.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/030425
It is titled “Basketball Jesus” and tells about how much Larry Bird impacted the game for the writer. Simmons says, “Ever since I was little, I loved basketball more than just about anything. Randomly, inexplicably, coincidentally, the greatest team
basketball player of my lifetime landed on my team, in my formative years, and I had the privilege of watching him, day in and day out, for 13 years”
That is pretty much how I feel and it’s unfortunate that the NBA today is so insignificant and unwatchable that I, and others, won’t have the privilege to witness something like that again.
But I continue to forward this article to my Mom and wife and sister and a few friends. And they’re probably tired of receiving it again and again, but I always feel compelled to share it because I think it sums up my unhealthy love for Larry Bird and how much those games during that period of my life have stuck with me to this day.
It makes me think back about the time, a couple of years out of high school, that I was fortunate enough to travel to Boston to catch not only a game, but the last Celtics/Lakers game in the Boston Garden. I remember it just like it was yesterday.
I traveled to Boston by myself and took a taxi from the airport to downtown. I got out of the cab thinking I was close to where I needed to be and grabbed my suitcase. Little did I know that A) Boston is noted as one of the most difficult cities to travel through and B) A giant rainshower was one minute away from letting loose on me.
After what seemed like an hour of scurrying around the city completely lost during some sort of “Nor'easter”, I finally found my hotel. I checked in and sat in my room and mapped out my strategy for that night’s game. Shortly after drying off and changing clothes, I headed out on my mission to reach Basketball Mecca.
One thing I felt compelled to do was take that train…the one you always see on the opening segment of any Celtics game…where the train rolls by the Garden, usually accompanied by a big Budweiser sign above the arena… Well, I had to make that trip and I did.
I was literally 10 feet away from the Garden and I could not wait to get inside. However, the time was currently like 1 in the afternoon and the game didn’t start until 7 pm. Needless to say, I had some time to kill.
So I sauntered into Sully’s Bar or Maloney’s Pub or Scotty’s Grill…some sort of typical Boston pub..to get a cold drink and a bite to eat. If you can imagine a dank, old bar, in an blue collar town, frequented by regular working folks who love their sports teams almost as much as they love their families…then you’ve got the backdrop for where I spent my lunch.
Somehow I found out exactly what time they open the doors to the Garden and, sticking with my need to get to a game early (as I’ve written about before) I left that area for a short while to take in some of the local sites. I guess Boston had some “history” during the formative years of our country or something…I don’t know. Actually, I enjoyed seeing the historic landmarks and the sites of some of our country’s important happenings.
Finally, I made my way back to the Garden and waited patiently outside, in the winter chill by these old metal garage doors. At first I thought I had been given bad information and felt like a giant dork standing by these roll-up doors. But eventually, a couple other weirdos like me started gathering around and I knew I was in the right place. After what seemed like an eternity, I heard these ancient doors start to shake and move. They crept up as I stood there and wondered if it’d be weird if I dove under them Indiana Jones style. It would have been kinda queer so I didn’t do it. Once the door was open, I was surprised to find that I was basically in a service corridor. The walls had probably been painted over with the same, boring gray a hundred times. But as I walked, my pace quickened as I could sense I was getting close to the actual arena. I turned a corner and then…in a vision I’ll never forget, there it was. The parquet floor, the banners in the rafters…basketball Mecca.
I don’t know if you’re like me, but when you go to, say, a baseball game and see the field for the first time…that first glimpse of the diamond, it is just the most vivid green grass your eyes have ever seen. Even when I saw the White House or the Lincoln Memorial as a kid…when you first see it with your own eyes, in person…instead of on television or in a book, it really grabs you.
So here I am standing midway up the seating, in a corridor that spills out and offers the most incredible view of the Boston Garden. I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck and my eyes watered. I remember thinking how many times, on a cold Sunday afternoon, probably with a plate of beef and noodles on a pillow on my lap, that I sat in the living room with mom and dad and watched the CBS coverage of the Celtics’ game…and now, I was here.
I blocked the aisle as I just took it all in until people started finally pushing past me and I decided to head down the stairs for a closer look at the famed parquet floor. Something emboldened me as I got closer and, uncharacteristically, I made my way past the security folks as if I belonged down on the floor. Before I knew it, I found myself inches away from the actual floor. I paused and, with great satisfaction, stepped both feet onto the court. I can’t tell you how awesome it really was but in a corny sort of way, I could envision Bird, McHale, Ainge, Parish and the likes of Cousey, Russell, Havlicek, being right in front of me.
I’ve always thought about if there was one sporting event that I could go back in time and witness first-hand, it always takes me to the Boston Garden. The year was 1986 and the Celtics were at home in the crucial Game 4 against the hated Detroit Pistons. Facing certain defeat after the Celtics lost the ball out of bounds, I remember watching that game live and turning away from the television in absolute disgust. Isaih Thomas who made a career out of trying to convince the world that he was one of the best players ever…when he couldn’t even carry the jock of Mr. Larry Joe Bird was standing out of bounds when all he had to do was inbound the ball to one of his teammates. The game would be over. As he goes to make a simple pass, here comes Bird out of nowhere to swoop in and steal the ball. Bird flips it to Dennis Johnson who makes a nearly impossible layup to take the lead and eventually win the game. I was going freaking nuts. I could have ripped the house apart with my bare hands as I was so excited!
I’ve subsequently watched that highlight 50+ times since and it never gets old and it never fails to give me goosebumps. What was so great about that play is that, once you get past Bird stealing and then dishing it off, is the crowd. Just watch the crowd and you see them rise to their feet in unison like parishioners at a sermon as Bird catches the ball. When the DJ makes the layup, you then see the crowd erupt in sheer pandemonium. That is why I would chose that one game, that one venue, that one moment as the place I would like to go back in time and watch again…in person.
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My oldest daughter, Anna, recently finished her first season of softball. The season ended with another crushing defeat but the loss didn’t stick to hard to the Lady Vikings. Minutes after the final out, the girl's main concern was what kind of post-game snack they were having and if they could “stop for ice cream” on their way home. And really…isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be? A bunch of little kids on a hot summer day, dirty from playing ball, with hardly a care in the world other than where their next treat would come from…perfect!
This season was a bit different from last season. This was softball instead of T-ball and now her team was comprised of all girls. At this age, it’s still organized chaos at best, with kids not knowing where to throw the ball, grounders going between their legs all the way to the outfield, and swinging at pitches that almost hit them in their foot. But you can start to see the transformation taking place… where you can begin seeing the girls processing what they’re supposed to do on the field.
One thing about this season that continually made me happy was that, after a game or even practice, as soon as we got home, Anna would ask me to hit her grounders or pitch to her or just play catch. It’s so great because for one thing, I know she enjoys the game and isn’t involved simply because we signed her up (It’s actually a big deal to me to not push them into too many
sports/activities. I believe there’s something to be said for a kid just being a kid. It’s good for a kid to be a little bored and then find something to do or make up their own game. I’m not sure parents should rely on organized sports to be the only activity their kids participate in) Anyway, another cool thing about Anna wanting to play catch is that every time she asks, I think back on when I would pester my dad when he got home from work to throw with me. I’m sure it was often the last thing he wanted to do but he always agreed to play. He never said “No” and I vowed to myself to do the same. It's funny how life comes full-circle. In the middle of running one kid to practice, the other to dance class and taking care of the little one, I often think about how how my Mom always drove me and my siblings to all of our events.It was a fun season for me as we transitioned from watching my little daughter last season, in a uniform a bit too big and her not knowing what an “inning” was or not understanding a force out…to Now this young, growing, beautiful girl going after the ball (even if it wasn't in her area) and fielding grounders that were shot back to her and throwing the runner out every once in a while. We’ll often watch a Reds game on tv and she takes great pride in knowing what all the numbers/symbols at the top of the screen stand for: “It’s Cincinnati 5 and the other team 3…bottom of the 7th, 2 outs and a runner on first and second.” I nearly broke down and cried the other night when she asked me, "Can we pllleeaaaseee watch the end of the Reds game?"
When we’re playing catch, I’ll throw her a knuckleball occasionally and she will call it out, “Knuckler” and sometimes I will even put a bit of spin on it like I’m trying to snap off a curveball. She instantly recognizes it and shouts “Curve!.” Glorious!
It may not last. She may decide that tomorrow is the inevitable day where she no longer enjoys hanging out with her daddy...but until that day hits, we've got a lot more ball-playing ahead of us and I can't wait!
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I hit a bird on the road a couple of days ago. Hearing this, it might elicit some sorrow-filled emotions from you. Believe me, I didn’t feel that great about it either. Anytime I crush an animal with my truck, I always feel kind of blue about it. But as I continued down the road I started thinking about that bird and my general attitude changed. No longer was I feeling sad that I just flattened a beautiful little animal…my feelings turned toward a more flippant attitude to the whole scenario.
Here is why: If you are an animal that has the ability to do extra special things that other plants/animals/humans can’t do, then it is your responsibility to utilize those special skills to keep you out of harm’s way. The last time I checked, most birds FLY. If you were a flying creature with the remarkable capacity to flap a couple of extremities and elevate skyward, leaving mere mortal earth-bound dwellers to cling to terra firma, wouldn’t you do so?
A couple of hundred thousand years ago, I’m sure this particular bird’s ancestor were celebrating the fact that they had just developed the ability to escape their land-tethered enemies and soar the high, blue skies.
I’ll bet they are looking down on this generation of birds saying “that bird just got hit by a car…on a road. What is that bird doing on the road?” And it’s not like the birds don’t have any idea where the danger lies. It’s not like many cars are veering into a wooded lot running over birds with great frequency. I liken it to the people that get hit on a railroad track and the newspaper article will undoubtedly quote someone from the scene saying “Larry didn’t know what hit ‘em”. Maybe I’m wrong, but perhaps the thundering freight train with it’s bright lights and ear-shattering horn could have given these unfortunate souls some clues as to “what hit ‘em”
Also, if some dude is sitting on a train track, I’m guessing that he has a 100% higher chance of getting hit by a train than the other guy who is parked 15 feet from the tracks.
Same with the birds…if that bird I smooshed would have simply parked his feathered-ass 10 feet or so to the right or left, he would have avoided his ghastly, untimely demise.
If some day I come back as some species of feathered creature, able to soar to the highest heights, I can pretty much guarantee you that I won’t be flying lower than 10 feet directly above a roadway. Nor will I fly into what appears to be an opening in the side of a building…those tend to be windows and I am told that they can do great damage to one’s beak.
