Ryner's Immigrant Story Excerpt Part 2

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Chapter 28

New York and on to Grand Rapids

Once recovered from our seasickness, we all returned to the wonderful job of enjoying the journey.  Incredibly, the SS United States had suffered only minor damage during the storm, a testament to its sheer size and strength.   The storm set back the ship's schedule a bit, but in what seemed like no time at all, we spotted the coast of the United States.  Like flowers sprouting in spring, the city of New York slowly grew up from the flat horizon.  As the city came into frame before our very eyes, we were awed by how huge and prosperous it looked with its great skyscrapers.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we slowly entered New York Harbor.  We passed by famous Ellis Island, following the same journey that thousands before had taken.  In operation since 1892, Ellis Island had welcomed millions of immigrants like us to the United States.  A few decades before our arrival, immigration services and intake had moved from the island to a commercial pier in New York Harbor where we were headed. 

The great ship pulled into the dock and was tied down.  It took an hour or two to clear customs and collect our luggage. With some time to spare before our train left the city, our family of seven newcomers took the chance to shake off our sea legs and walk the bustling streets of New York.  The city seemed so jaw-droppingly massive, and the busyness made our heads spin, but did not quell our absolute elation at being in this new place, this new country that would be our home. Huge buildings that actually seemed to be scraping the sky surrounded us, and throngs of human beings walked briskly between office buildings, while yellow taxicabs buzzed up and down the streets.  We were fascinated by the myriad of clothing styles and cultures we saw. Even though we were dressed in unmistakably poor, European attire, nobody seemed to notice.  We quickly realized that we were in the beating heart of a totally international city.

After a warm meal and an ice cream cone, we headed to Grand Central Station where we would board our train to Detroit, then on to Grand Rapids.  Our ride to Michigan was a thrill.  The country we steamed through looked beautiful to us, and everything seemed so big!  We also couldn't help but notice how nice the buildings and streets looked.  We were so accustomed to the ravages of war damage written on every building face and street corner, that America seemed utterly pristine.  Before we knew it, the train had covered the eight hundred miles from New York and was slowly easing into the Grand Rapids train depot.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we pondered the incredible changes that we were about to experience.  A new country, a new language, new friends, and relatives that none of us, except Mother, had ever met in person.  We all scrambled off the train and Mother spotted Uncle Joe standing there to greet us with Aunt Marie, Aunt Marie's sister Katherine and her husband Ted.  Our welcome committee also included Ted's son Ted, Jr., a budding young photographer who snapped pictures as we greeted everyone.  We exchanged handshakes, hugs, tears and laughter, amazed and relieved to be at our final destination after weeks, some would say, years on this journey westward.  I will never forget that illumined, historical journey of ours:  out of the arms of Germany into the arms of loving relatives a continent away in the United States of America!

Chapter 29

A New World

After the excitement of meeting everybody, Uncle Joe led us to the front of the station and started loading our family's belongings into his and Uncle Ted's car.  We were astounded not only by the large size of the cars, but that both our uncles seemed to own cars of their own. I had only been in a car three times before, but this was by far the most luxurious.  In just a few minutes we arrived at Uncle Joe's house, where again Uncle Ted's son was taking pictures of us, this time with a movie camera. We relished this celebrity moment on the porch at Uncle Joe's. 

Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie's house was huge and beautiful. Its roughly 2500 square feet were average for the area, but equated to a mansion by our standards. Nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street, the home had a living room, a dining room, a sitting room, 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, a sun porch, a tile bathroom with tub, and a basement.  We were amazed as we toured each room, hardly believing there could be so much space in a single home.

That evening Aunt Marie prepared a scrumptious meal for all of us, etched in my memory as one of the biggest and best meals I have ever eaten.  We talked and laughed, fighting fatigue to absorb every moment of that first night in our new homeland. When bedtime came, we nestled into their large, comfortable beds.  Despite the seeming luxury, sleep did not come quickly that first night, for we were just too excited by all the newness (and probably a little jet-lagged)! 

The following day, a newspaper reporter from the Grand Rapids Press came to the house to talk to the immigrant family of seven that had just arrived in town.  He talked to all of us while Uncle Joe interpreted, then he took a picture of our family.  The next day a long article appeared in the Grand Rapids Press profiling our family and our long journey from Germany to Michigan.     

Ryner's Immigrant Story - Excerpt Part 1

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Today marks 60 years since my father's family stepped onto American soil for the first time.  A few years ago, I worked with my Dad to record his memoirs.   I may have posted a few excerpts before this one, but I wanted to share more extensive piece. Mostly for my family to read and remember.  

Dateline: 1953

...The SS United States was berthed in a huge dock in Bremerhaven.  We arrived several hours before departure with all of our remaining possessions packed tightly into six suitcases. I remember rounding a corner in that old port city and catching a glimpse of the huge ship.  Its sheer size and presence took my breath away.  We were all in awe, for no ship had ever looked sleeker or more inviting to a family of seven than this SS United States looked to us.  Our last hours as a family in our German homeland were spent in a local restaurant for a light meal, an interesting last respite for me since I'd only been to a restaurant a few times in my life.  To satiate our palates before the rocky voyage, Dad introduced us to a special treat there, a new drink we had never tasted before called Coca- Cola.  What a wonderful, ironic sendoff before the bells rung to call us aboard to our future.

Chapter 27

A Rocky Crossing

The hustle and bustle of the dock was Hollywood-like.  Our tickets were checked, paperwork stamped, visas inspected, and luggage loaded away.  Our excited family then joined the throng of passengers climbing up the long gangplanks. Friendly stewards dressed in black tuxedoes and white ties greeted the passengers as we boarded, leading everyone to their cabins.  All seven of our family members fit snugly into two cabins outfitted with bunk beds.  Even though they were the cheapest quarters on the ship, and Dad had warned us they would be small, they still looked great to us!  Our family's passage and those two cabins, nine floors below the ship's decks, cost $1,600  (equivalent to about $12,000 at today's rates.)  Every penny paid for those tickets came from Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie in Grand Rapids.  Dad vowed that that someday we would repay it all. 

Once settled in our cabins, we heard an announcement in several languages that departure was imminent.  We rushed back upstairs to find a place along one of the railings, nudging ahead to get a front row seat for this historic family event.  Soon the ship's horns bellowed, ringing through my entire frame, heralding our departure.  The passengers all waved with gusto to throngs of people below who had come to see off loved ones, some for just a time, others for forever.   I remember Mother and Dad's broad smiles and misty, joyful eyes as the harbor shrunk into the horizon.

Our first stop after departure from Bremerhaven was the port of LeHavre, France where the ship took on more passengers.  The next and final stop before entering the Atlantic Ocean was Southampton, the huge seaport on the southern coast of England.  At each stop, passengers flocked to the decks to see the landscape.  We also marveled at the size of our vessel and its modern sleekness when compared to other ships in the harbors.  Early on the third day of our voyage, England's green coast slowly disappeared behind us and we turned northwest toward the open seas of the Atlantic Ocean. 

As the ship set off into the expanse of the sea, we settled in enjoying the delights of life on board.  The food was absolutely heavenly. We received meal service three, and sometimes four times a day.  Such indulgence was just what we needed after all the post war years of food shortages and constant skimping.  And the best part was that Mother didn't have to cook any of it, she could just enjoy being served for once.  Our fate seemed too good to be true: this family of poor refugees seated at a big round table covered with a fine linen table cloth, sitting in comfortable chairs on expensive carpeting.  Smiling, efficient angels stood by in this gilded heaven, waiting to serve us all the good food we could eat!  The table steward would even give me second portions of dessert if I so desired. Besides eating great food, there were plenty of other activities to enjoy, like billiards, ping-pong tables, shuffle boards, lounges with live music, and on and on.  As passengers in the "cheap seats," we could only wonder what first and second-class passengers might be enjoying! It seemed that nothing could dampen our joy.

On our second day in the Atlantic, the wonderful, sun-kissed weather we had enjoyed began to change.  The sky turned dark and ominous and soon the giant ship began to move up and down in a precarious manner.  Dad assured us that all was normal, telling us that the oceans may roil up a bit, but everything would be fine.  His assuring words made us feel better because we knew he had been at sea often, and surely had endured worse than this.  However, no sooner had Dad calmed us with his words than the storm's turmoil grew.  With alarming speed, the weather worsened as dusk fell.  A few short hours later the ship was rising and falling with incredible force, digging its bow so deep into the dark, heavy seas that the triple screws propelling the ship in the stern would come clear out of the water and shake the entire ship.  Soon everyone realized that we were being gripped by a mighty and dangerous Atlantic storm.   Herman, Bernie and I, who had been walking topside, were told to go below.  We took one more look outside before our descent and could see only huge ocean waves all around, boiling to heights nearly as high as our enormous vessel.  It was an awesome, frightening spectacle.  The ship's crew strung ropes along stairs and hallways for passengers to hang onto since attempting to walk up or down stairs was like boarding a county fair ride with constant jostling.  The dining rooms cleared as people ran to their cabins as quickly as possible.  With the constant rocking and rolling, rampant seasickness was unavoidable, and it struck with the same fury as the seas!  With the exception of most of the crew and a handful of passengers like my Dad who had been at sea before, all became very, very sea sick.  I have few memories as miserable as those sixteen or so hours being cooped up in our cabin, all of us expelling every last bit of all the magnificent food we had indulged in to that point.  The cabin stewards would knock on our door offering food and anti-seasickness pills, but nothing helped.  Our insides were losing this battle to the raging Atlantic.  We could only pray that the boat would hold up better. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the seas began to calm.  What we didn't know at the time was that the SS United States, its passengers and crew had just endured one of the most violent storms ever observed in the Atlantic Ocean.  In fact, that same storm front continued eastward towards Europe, gathering even more strength.  It struck the coasts of England and the Netherlands with awesome fury killing almost 3,000 people and doing incredible property damage to both nations.  The great Atlantic Ocean Storm of early 1953 was one of a kind, and I still marvel that our family went through it.  But it is also unsurprising that my gallant father had yet another sea survival story to tell. 

Go to Part 2

For Annie

Today one of my favorite authors was in Atlanta (which is saying something since I"m not exactly a prolific reader...or maybe it doesn't say much since I can count on one hand the authors i "like").  Anne Lamott was in Decatur. Across the street from Corey's apartment. It could have been so easy, so inspiring and cool and spiritual. But alas, life called and left me little margin for enjoying an evening out. We leave tomorrow for thanksgiving in highlands, the kiddoes needed baths, Jeff needed a run, Buckley needed the run. I knew the venue would be jammed and I'm too old and too much a mom to have much tolerance for traffic or large crowds.  All of which, on paper seems a slim excuse for skipping out on the event, but I have more and more excuses these days.  The tension between wanting to live, really live and do shit apart from being a wife, mom, housekeeper (which I'm bullocks at anyway), and the inherent stress that accompanies whatever that "living" is. Bottle prep, shower (I know, right...hassle city..), timing, trying NOT to leave wonderful husband with too much to handle. I'm often weighing the stress versus reward. Plotting little pro/con charts in my head. Too often (maybe?) I fall back to the easy, the home route, the sweatpants option.  

I hope some of it, a shred at least, is because I love my family desperately. Love them enough that another blasted evening of chasing a naked near-three-year old around to wrangle her pajamas on, wrapping up a fussy baby who may or may not sleep more than 3 hrs., baths, cleanup, all that is enough to keep me here, or at least not want Jeff to suffer it alone.

So with all that said, I write now for them, and for her, for Ms Lamott whose books have inspired me to be a better writer, a more open person, a better parent and have made me laugh, and even cry.  If I couldn't go see her tonight, she'd want me to write once all the Life was worked out and done for the night.  She'd not want me to watch Monday Night Football or No Reservations (though maybe that because something tells me she and Bourdain are sassy kindred spirits), but she'd say: butt in chair. write something.  

Right now the only story I really know how to tell is my own.  I can tell you about my baby boy's chubby cheeks. How everyone, I mean EVERYONE comments on them and how edible they are and pinchable and all sorts of other horrible action words that shouldn't be done with babyflesh. But I grin and nod. And when I grin they probably realize where those chubsters came from.  Maybe I seem nonplussed by the showers of affection because I secretly fear for him looking in future mirrors, wishing he didn't have chubby cheeks, just like I did when I was younger (okay, and sometimes now).  Using my veiny hands to stretch back and up the flesh around my mouth to just see, for an instant what it would be like to have visible cheekbones and an oval face.

But he is a he, and chances are he won't gaze in mirrors obsessively like have have, and its likely that those adorable cheeks, and all the other rolly parts of him will evaporate into his toddler jeans and he starts moving around in this world and I'll long for all those rolls again.  

He says "mah, mah, mah." Yep. No hint of "dada" but when he's sad he says "mah!"  Melts me.  He laughs with this breathing-in cackle and gummy smile that is out of this world.  Like when I accidentally learned that he is really ticklish under his arms the other night while changing him.  His mouth went agape and he breathed in this deep cackle and sigh and I smiled so big my (big) cheeks hurt.

I haven't had a moment when I wanted to throw him out of window yet.  I'm sure it's coming, or maybe just my adorable little female child will have that kind of rage-inducing effect on me.  Maybe I'm just okay with a cranky babe once in a while. I was not with her.  Okay, I've had frustrating times with him when the crying seems inexplicable, and So. Damn. Loud. Does he know its 2 am, I JUST woke up and I REALLY am trying to get you milk asap.  That's frustrating. And its frustrating that he's reverted from those nice long sleeps he had as a newborn, snuggled next to our bed. He'd hit a 7 hr clip here and there. Not so anymore. We average about 4.5 at night. He goes down about 8.30, which is nicely in rhythm with Hadley but also means if I don't also go to bed at 8.30 then I'm not getting much consecutive sleep.



One day, I have to remember, one day I will sleep for more than 4 hours at a time. And I'll feel like superwoman. I'll feel like I could bathe babies, pack for 5 days away, write, make dinner, do laundry, clean house AND go see my favorite author all in one day. But for now, I have to settle for just a few of those.  And tonight, I missed Annie, and my house is a mess, but by God, I'm writing.

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Silencio

We have a small repetoire of favorite Wittgens-family stories.  You know one of those stories that get's told at the dinner table at every third holiday dinner and several times in between. And when it's told, the details are fuzzier, yet somehow more grandiose.

It goes like this:  my Dad rented a house for us for a week one summer on the Yucatan coast of Mexico. I was still in highschool, my sister brought along her boyfriend who-would-become husband.  The town of Akumal was small and charming and about an hour south of Cancun.  The house was delightful in its concrete-block, Mexican riviera style grandeur.   Blue waters lapped on rocks, just a short walk from the door, a hammock spread under a palm tree, a blender, fresh seafood.  It was a fantastic vacation. 

One night, a couple houses down from our cozy cul-de-sac, a raucous party ensued.  In truth, I don't remember how raucous, in fact, I may have been zonked from sun exposure and swimming well before the rest of my family so not fully cognizant of the loud rowdiness.  According to lore, there was loud music playing, beer bottles crashing about, people shouting and yelling. Standard party fare that gets more embellished every year.  At some point we'll call "in the middle of the night" - whether it was 11pm or 2:30 am, we'll never know, but the revelry was late enough to draw the ire of my father, who had hoped for a peaceful vacation.  He proceeded out onto our deck and yelled, somewhat unconvincingly apparently, "quiet down!"  No quieting happened.  The party partied on.  A bit later, Dad had had enough and went back to the deck yelling at the top of his lungs "SILENCIO!!" (because perhaps these latinos needed to hear his stern command in what he guessed was their mother-tongue.)  

His wish was granted, but only momentarily.  The revelers stopped, and I can only imagine as they looked up from their Tequila shots and Norteno music.  Then the brief silencio was broken with a chorus of raucous laughter, and a series of mocking "silencio" replies. 

We recount the story with the same festive mood as those party-goers must have enjoyed, however on that night, I imagine my Dad was miffed.  In fact as the story goes, he may have even feared for the tires on our rental-car or the safety of our rented property after such an affront to the partiers.


I recount that story because I feel as my Dad did that night.  Only the racket I'm enduring here on this OTHERWISE peaceful afternoon is of my own choosing, I suppose.  We're getting a new roof, and a new screen porch and for days now the hammering, hacking, sawing, and occasional Spanish commands have been my background music. Every hard knock shakes the house just a little and I marvel how my daughter is sleeping through this.  I just want peace, silence, meditative rest. Space to pray in earnest for my friends in deep need. And yet, all I want to do is scream "SILENCIO!"  Doubtless mis amigos from Mexico up on the roof would find it entertaining as those partiers in Akumal, Yucatan. 

But for now, I'm forced to absorb the sounds and be thankful that at least my dog, and my daughter are at rest. 

Well, scratch that. Now its just the dog at rest.

A Thursday Reading

Perhaps as a sign of age, or more distinctly because I am a parent, I find myself governed too often by fear.  From the simple: what if I spent too much money on this thing and it won't yield its value? or What if this meal I'm bringing a friend turns out gross and they think less of me?  To the more serious ones that keep me up lately:  What if Jeff died in a motorcycle wreck (as did the husband of a high school acquaintance this week)?  What if Hadley was abducted like those kids I've read about in the news? 

And my mind paces back and forth between to-do lists and fears and irrational things on which to dwell while lying in bed at midnight. And suddenly it's 1am and I can find only some peace in silly iPhone games or reading other people's blog posts. 

That was last night for me, and now this morning, earth seems new a pleasantly more hopeful in the new light. 

I read from Thomas Merton's A Book of Hours this morning and found these Thursday passages helpful:

READING:
To say that I am made in the image of God is to say that love is the reason for my existence, for God is love. Love is my true identity. Selflessness is my true self. Love is my true character. Love is my name.

If, therefore, I do anything or think anything or say anything or know anything that is not purely for the love of God, it cannot give me peace, or rest, or fulfillment, or joy. To find love I must enter into the sanctuary where it is hidden, which is the mystery of God. 

RESPONSORY:
O great God, Father of all things, Whose infinite light is darkness to me, Whose immensity is to me as the void, You have called me forth out of yourself because You love me in Yourself, and I am a transient expression of Your inexhaustible and eternal reality.  I could not know You, I would be lost in this darkness, I would fall away from You into this void, if You did not hold me to Yourself in the Heart of Your only begotten Son. 


Perfect Love drives out fear.

Blessed are the Dudes

There was  a good bit of chatter on the interwebs today discussing a recent talk by the popular pastor / author / speaker John Piper.  Piper, in his talk, spoke about Christianity as truly masculine, arguing that we should work to maintain this.  He pointed to things like Bibilical language portraying God as King (not Queen), Jesus as son (not daughter), that Old-testament priests were all men, and that Christ's apostles were men.  

(Notes: I own John Piper books, he says some good things. I'm married to a man, I like him.  I do manly things like play sports, watch ESPN, drink beer and burp aloud -mostly b/c I'm pregnant right now - so I'm not anti-man.  Many thanks to Rachel Held Evans for inviting responses and curating another good discussion.)



Okay, so to begin with, Piper's arguments seem sorely ignorant in cultural understanding and theology, but other smarter people can address the original Hebrew and Greek Scripture meanings, cultural contexts etc.  And others can point more accurately to scriptures highlighting women champions of the Bible (for all those smart-people responses, keep an eye on Evans' blog or Twitter feed.)  But I feel led to address Pipers point - that Christianity is Masculine.  

It does seem an age marked by Eldridge's Wild at Heart, Driscoll and his anti-effette rants, and even Promise Keepers, which all, in some part, seem bent on reclaiming the manliness of being Christian.  “Yeah dude, you can be an awesome Bible-believing Man of God, and go bow-hunting and zip-lining and brew your own beer. But hey, love your wife, too."  Some of this dude-centric work is important. Statistics show that women are larger percentage of church attendees than men.  And I know from experience that it is often women working behind the scenes (because that’s often where they are relegated) to ensure the smooth-running of many a congregation.  Yes, men need to step up:  too many kids today have absent fathers, or Dads who are just jerks.  Christian guys still do drugs, hire under-age prostitutes and have porn addictions.  Yes, men need Jesus and the community of church.  But not to reclaim their rightful headship, but just because they need it, like we women do.

Yesterday I was listening to an Orthodox podcast about Holy Week (note: it’s called Our Life In Christ. Only the archives are available online, but it’s great.  I’m not Orthodox, just an interested voyeur. ) The podcast highlighted one of the Orthodox services of Holy Week that focuses on the woman who annointed Jesus with expensive perfume, and washed his feet with her tears and hair.  In the services and readings, this beautiful passage is juxtaposed with Judas’ betrayal.  He who had been one of Jesus’ closest friends, yet poured nothing out at the feet of Christ, but sought his own gain at Jesus’ expense.  Is it the man in this story who exemplifies the spirit of worship or the woman?  (And to Pipers point that Christ’s appointed disciples were men, was is they who stood by in the vital hours before and after Christ’s death and resurrection?  They betrayed, doubted, and ran.  And the risen Christ’s first revelation was to whom?  A woman.)   But I digress, and my snarky rhetorical questions are a good segue to what the progam hosts explain as the point of the services.  Highlighting these two stories during Holy Week is not to give Judas a bad rap, but to illumine the participant to the fact that the capacity to act as either character lives in each of us.  We can be the annointing woman in one breath, and Judas in the next.  God have mercy.  



Spaghetti Western

 
The notion of manly Christianity just seems so Western, so Davey Crockett American.  I just can’t imagine it has always been thus.  Again to the Orthodox Holy Week, which are probably the oldest recorded services in Christendom, miraculously consistent with Christianity’s earliest days. And here we see great honor bestowed on a woman, a woman who teaches us how to worship.   And the veneration of women does not stop there.  Several of the feast days that follow Easter are dedicated to women.  And, of course, the Protestant-dreaded Marian doctrines of Catholic and Orthodox faiths were of huge importance in the life of the ancient church, as they are today.  

Has Western, Protestant Christianity REALLY gotten back to the true manly meaning of Christianity by wiping itself clean of the Mother of God, highly honored from the earliest breaths of our Faith?  A Faith that was so entirely counter-cultural as to list Christ’s geneology through his female ancestors in one Gospel.  So as to say there is no male or female in Christ, that all are welcome.  So as to say we should come to Jesus as Children, who at the time were seen more as nuisances than Facebook photo ops. 

This peculiar, liberating, counter-cultural, enduring thing that I’m a part of, by the Grace of God, mustn’t be masculine or feminine.  It is Trinitarian, cosmically relational, a Mother Hen and a scrawny shepherd.  A caring Father and weeping Mother.  It is I AM.  

There seems so much more to say than this on the subject.  Maybe I’ll follow up with some more later.

The Greatest

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali.  Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad.  Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.


....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali.  I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone.  However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone!  Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry.  He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown.  Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there. 

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer.  A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento.  Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway.  Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left.  But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving.  He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me.  He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons. 

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta.  He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame.  The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.  

A Collapse and a Clumsy Stumble

I stayed up last night watching my Braves as I have a hundred times before.  I was tense, but perhaps not as tense as I may have been in years past, or in different circumstances.  See, when a team like the Braves goes into a win-or-go-home game like last nights ended up being, but they have zero momentum, the game loses it's edge.  Given the way they have played in the last month, I had little confidence that even should the Braves advance past the best team in baseball with a fluke win, that they'd have anything left in the tank to battle St. Louis.  Once the game went extra innings, I began to think maybe it would just be better to end the suffering now rather than prolong the struggle of September. My wish was granted.  The game shaped up to be so emblematic of the last part of this year's Braves season: little offense with runners in scoring position, a key error here, too many walks there, a blown save, a squib hit by the other team and suddenly the season was over. 

I was sad for Atlanta, especially after such a close, competitive game.  My small glimmers of hope that they could get back into an upswing just in time just didn't materialize.  The old guys looked old (that's you, Chipper), the young guys looked tired and nervous (that's you Venters and Kimbrell).  They just had nothing left in the emotional or physical tank,  so they stumbled clumsily out of the playoffs.  Meanwhile the team with the hot hand did their job with an exclamation point - big run total, complete game shutout from Carpenter. 

At the close of the Braves game, I quickly turned to the other baseball, needing distraction.  And thank God I did.  I got to witness the other parts of what ESPN's Tim Kurkjian called one of the greatest nights of baseball he can remember.  The Rays stormed back, the BoSox looked sure to close it out.  So eerily similar though has their track with the Braves been this September, one had to wonder if their 3-2 lead...like Atlanta's...wasn't quite as secure as Papelbon's steely gaze.  And indeed, it was not.  And perhaps their 9th inning debacle was worse than the Braves' for they had 2 outs, and gave up both the tying, and winning run.  Not to mention that they gave them up to a team that, unlike the Phillies,  haven't seen the playoffs in years. 

I posted on Facebook when the O's tied the game. 
sorry Sox nation...but your misery is kinda making me feel better. kinda

At the time, I referred only to surrendering the tying run, and to their dismal September.  I had no idea that about 3 minutes later the O's would score the winner, then a few minutes after that, the Ray's would score their winner.  I had no idea the true misery that Boston would suffer within minutes.  But to be honest, as a sad Braves fan, it helped lift my spirits.   Like the same way that people with sad, hurt-filled lives watch sad, hurt-filled reality television because it makes their lot seem not quite so crazy.  Or how I feel when I watch Hoarders.  "Oh, well my house isn't THAT messy."

So, thank you Boston, for giving Braves fans the space to say, "Oh, well at least our team isn't THAT shameful."

Sure, my Bravos lost a big playoff lead, but with half the payroll of the Sox, with 2 starting pitchers injured for much of the season, other solid players nagged by injury, a young team and a new manager.  I will not write them off, just like I haven't all the previous years of enduring dissapointing post-season losses, or like I never did after the 80's Braves were laughable in their awfulness.  I still watched and cheered.  And I will still look forward to those four beautiful words that signal the advent of Spring Training.  "Pitchers and catchers report." It's not so very far away. 

In the meantime, Go Phils (that's for Jeff) and Go Tigers (that's for my Michigan family...and all of Detroit really). 

Worth a Look

Somehow between my daughter's first day of "school," a girls weekend to Miami, the U.S. Open Finals, restart of Premiership and the 10th anniversary of 9/11 I've managed to have nothing profound or exciting to write.  Or perhaps I've just been busy and satisfied at reading other people's thoughts. 

So on that note, I would encourage readers to visit Rachel Held Evans' blog and peruse the "Ask a _____ " series.  I haven't read all of them, but I have read enough to have great respect for both the readers kind, well-meaning questions, as well as the respondents honest answers.  It's not a perfect tour of a variety of viewpoints, but a nice entree into conversations.

Here's the link to the most recent iteration, "Ask a Gay Christian." You'll find links there to all the other participant Q&A's.

Still Believing? (A Sports Post)

 Hey, remember when I enthusiastically heralded the Klinsmann era, and revealed my not-so-secret crush on the U.S. Men's National Team coach?  It seems so very long ago.  Two losses later, I guess I'm still Krushing on Klinsmann, but with a firm dose of reality.  See, two losses and zero goals later, I'm realizing that no matter what kind of magic Jurgen can conjure he can't make up for the fact that our crop of players just isn't that good.

He was hired for this reason, and for that, I say give him time.  The naysayers will bark about formation, style, personnel, but let's face it, some of the Belgian subs looked more active and threatening than the U.S. starters.  Yes, we have our Donovan (whose impressive goal tally is largely PK's and who probably wouldn't start for a top-tier premiership team), Dempsey (won't dog him because he went to Furman and I like him), Boca and Cherundolo, and big supply of world class goalkeepers.  But the supporting cast just aren't good enough. 


Take the Belgian case.  While the Flemish and Walloons squabble about language and frites, immigrant kids are busy playing pick-up in Brussels parking lots and parks.  And they're the new national team.  Still a young group, and by no means a European powerhouse, but that Belgian team showed players with individual skill that far outmatched most of what I saw from the Americans.  And their team play wasn't too shabby either.  Was it a "dominant" performance, as one writer called it, by the winners?  No.  Was it only a friendly, meaning result is less important that experience? Yes.  

But it's a loss.  And in watching the last two losses, I'm seeing why and how past teams have featured the defend-big and boot it forward method. Because we're just not there yet with the possession, slick passing game.  Trying it with players that make poor first touches or innacurate passes can expose the team much more than the bunker-down, boot it forward method.

At the end of the day, I'm less annoyed with Jurgen, than with America.  Maybe there's a someday when our immigrant kids who grew up kicking the ball around tennis courts and dirt patches will become the next hope.   I think Klinsmann is looking to that day (hence his insistence on playing an outmatched Edgar Castillo), but it does not seem quite here.  With the possible exception of Texas-born Jose Torres.  I've always been a fan, and am excited that Klinsmann sees what he can add. The potential of a Da Silva like playmaker with good skill, hustle, and poofy hair.

But for now, we may have to be patient with the good German, hopeful for a future with better players, kids who are hungry for success.  Who eat, breathe and live the game.   Maybe the recent results are unimportant if Coach he has been just weeding out the no-go's to find the top tier.  And maybe, when that top group all comes together for games that actually mean something, they'll figure out how to score goals.  How to hold a lead.  How to look dominant.  Time will tell.  But in the meantime, perhaps that open International Friendly date in November should be with some small island nation that we can easily trounce.  Just a thought.

Dead Things in My Yard. For Real.

Buckley dog was doing that terse, unsure barking last night.  The kind that says, "I've got prey. I want to play with it, paw at it and such, but it's not moving."  Bark. Bark.  "MOVE, you stupid thing."

Our big Maglite is out of batteries, and missing.  I was in pajamas and barefoot so wasn't going to wander into the backyard to inspect what Buckley was hunched over.   I firmly yelled for him to come in immediately and to my surprise, he obliged.  I made a quick mental note to check the yard in the morning before letting him back out.

I forgot to check in the morning.  I wandered out on the back porch this evening with Hadley, then I saw it.  The prey.  Mouth agape, tiny teeth glowing, it's body rolled in red clay, and covered in flies.  I dared not touch the baby possum, and thankfully, Buckley was disinterested now that it was dead and unmoving.  With Hadley by my side I decided to return immediately inside and remove the carcass once she was in bed.  I should note here that Jeff is out of town all week, so I'm Weaver Animal Control this week. Dangit.

Tonight, as the light faded, I shoveled up the body.  Baked by the sun, eaten away and fly infested, the smell was putrid.  I quickly headed for the back of the yard, intending to hurl the little wretch into our neighbor's yard.  Yep. I'm that neighbor.  I mean, not usually, but in this case I felt my reasoning sound:   A. They're renters. B. the back corner of their yard is thickly overgrown and I'm sure no one goes back there since their children are older and they don't have pets.   C.  Since we have a clumsy dog who roams our yard looking for things, I shudder to think of the smell of his paws were he to accidentally step on the carcass, or God forbid, try to nuzzle it some more to try to bring it to life.

One flick of the shovel sent the little guy flying toward the neighboring underbrush.  But he hit a branch mid-flight and landed in thick ivy, on our side of the fence, in the very area where Buckley likes to roam around.  See, if Jeff would have been here, I would not have dealt with any of this.  As it was, my dead-possum juice covered shovel was making me gag already, and now I would have to go dig the thing out of the ivy for a second attempt.  Well the dang shovel kept snagging in the ivy, flinging the crumpled little beast here and there, spraying his stink around the edge of our yard.  Finally a clean pull, a furtive flick over the fence and the pest was gone.  But his odor lingered.

I sure hope Jeff is happy.  All his frolicking around Utah's canyons while I'm dealing with stinky dead things.  Blech.  I much prefer the sight of a dead zucchini plant to that grossness.

What would you have done with the dead possum?  Should I bring the neighbors cookies, just because?

Passive Aggressive Notes - Home Edition

This is a spray bottle of cleaner that I use around the house.  I mix it from a concentrate, but have marked the bottle so we know what it is. It has a lovely fresh lemon scent.

I have a habit of leave the bottle out on the counter instead of putting it away.  Most often this is because I intend to use it again somewhere, then forget or get distracted by another pressing issue, say, a toddler falling down the stairs or something.  Or its because I'm too lazy to pry the child lock off the under-sink cabinet.  My propensity for leaving out the Meyers spray frustrates Jeff.   I'm sure it's in an endearing way, like, "aww, that silly Katie always leaves the cleaning spray and aluminum foil out.  I'd sure miss that little quirk if she weren't around." Right? I'm sure it's endearing... 
One day I came home to find that Meyer's cleaner had a new label: 

Poor Spray, feels so abandoned on the counter, must have note instructing user what to do when user is finished.   I now refer to the Meyers as "Put Me Away Spray."  With this new moniker and new directive, I have gotten better about actually putting Spray away.  But clearly I've not been good enough.  My sickness must run deep, for I recently found this NEWER label written on the bottle:

Such high stakes now, with this new (passive?) aggressive note.  I like to think I put Spray away even more often now.  But my record is not peerless. Now, if Jeff sees "IfYouHateJeff" Spray out, he just lets out a beleaguered sigh. 

The bottle is running out of room for labels, but what note would you leave to get the Spray put away?

Dead Things In My Yard

Call me what you will, "Brown Thumb," "Agent Orange," not in touch with my inner-Eve...er, I mean, can I even use that one now? Now that apparently she's not real anymore?  Regardless of the metaphor, the end result is that I don't do well with caring for the earth's bounty.  I wrote about my battle with the earth in more detail a few months ago, and THAT was when the weather was bearable.  So here I am, nearing the end of summer, still wanting to be an uber-spiritual, in-touch with the earth, steward of God's creation, but confessing that I just tend to kill things.

I have a friend who swears she has that effect on ministries.  Her heart is so big and willing to help people and affect changed, but, as she would tell it, things just tend to die when she comes on board.  She calls herself a "Ministry Albatross."  While I enjoy that metaphor, I try to assure her that it's not entirely true (though we can chuckle and list quite a few examples of her hypothesis).  However, there is no denying my fatal effect on plantlife (and probably some ministries).  Sad green and brown skeletons litter the grounds of my home.  And now some photographic evidence that though I love the earth, I'm not the best at caring for it.  Does God redeem our intentions?

Dead Basil. Probably could revive it with water. Maybe.

This used to be an English Laurel.  Where decorative plants have languished, weeds and pesky growth have flourished.

Foreground: Zucchini Plant. Yielded approximately 2 before it's untimely death. Background: Dead carrots, and other stuff.

Dying Boston Fern. Dying other plant.  (Remaining flowering plant is fake.)

Dead flat-leaf parsley.  I came to water it the other day and it was covered with caterpillars. This was the net result. 

Streaking

Yesterday, the 2nd basemen with the awkwardly large upper body had his hit streak snapped at 33 games.  That player, of course, is Dan Uggla who plays for my home team Braves.  It's always nice to have a home-towner getting press from such a streak as his, but I honestly can't say I wanted him to break the great DiMaggio's streak.  I mean, Uggla went into it hitting under .200, his own streak of miserable hitting had earned him the name "StrUggla."   But he turned it around, and raised his average like 30 points and has helped the Braves win, but still be almost out of spittin' distance with the insanely winning Phillies.

Sports, and baseball in particular, is a stats-driven game.  What would it all be without the numbers to tell us who is good and who needs improvement?   How else would we compare athletes from one generation to the next?  For what other purpose would Fox use their over-the-top animation graphics?   Goalkeepers can have a shut-out streaks, a basketball player may make 25 straight free throws, a quarterback can have a streak of completed passes, what kind of streaks to I aim for in my non stats-driven world?   What is the measure of sucess on a day to day basis for Joe Everyman?   What could I do 33 days in a row that would be record-book worthy?

Hm....If I made home-cooked dinner for 33 days straight, that'd be impressive.  If I made a home-cooked, from scratch dinner for 3 days straight that would be a feat.  I'm thinking of the DiMaggios in this realm, the marathoners who feed their families multi-colored plates of goodness every night.  Now that's a streak.   Or what if I had a streak where I responded to all emails within 24 hours for 33 straight days.  It would be unbelievable, SportsCenter worthy, right? 


What would your streak be? What would be a feat for you to do for 33 straight days?

Oh, More Mr. Nice Guy?

Last night while watching the pre and post-game commentary and interviews surrounding the U.S. Men's National Team Friendly against Mexico, I was struck with how NICE Jurgen Klinsmann seems.  The recently hired head coach was utterly positive after a very lackluster first half performance by his new team.  He smiled comfortably, vowing that there was still time to play, saying he was pleased with how things had gone for the first 45.

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Drew Hallowell/Getty Images

(Womanly Aside)

But, oh, that smile.  Here's a little tidbit overheard in the Weaver living room last night before kick-off.  Me: "Ya know, I think I have a little crush on Jurgen Klinsmann."  Jeff:  "Yea, me too."

Hm, okay, well that was easy.  Like Jurgen is easy on the eyes I guess.  I don't know whether it's that aformentioned smile that exudes a coolness and nonplussed confidence, or whether its the physique that leads one to believe he could still keep up with the pros in a pick-up game.  Maybe it's the European tan, the steely eyes or the German accent, now heavily Americanized.

"He looks like my people," I said to Jeff last night.  And maybe that's it, strangely, that his German features are so very similar to my Uncle, Father, Grandfather and so on that they seem comfortable to me.  Not exotic, just ruggedly good looking like my Uncle was at his age.  Add to that his impressive soccer lineage, and my hopes for his impact on my home-country's national program and well, there's magnetism.

The only thing I find slightly worrisome about any of this discussion, however, is that my attractions are now turning from players to coaches.  Lord, am I getting that old?  I remember going to England in 1999 and seeing a post-card of Michael Owen in his England kit and having an instant crush on him.  I bought the postcard, hung it in my college apartment for several months after returning.  Sure, I still think he's great looking, but now I also pine after Klinsmann, Leonardo, Guardiola?  Yea, I'll admit it, I even think Mourinho is attractive.  You younguns can have your Jack Wilshere's and Chicharitos, I apparently am moving on to the old guys.  Sheesh.

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Kinsmann's smiling and positivity before, during and after the game wasn't in pure opposition to his predecessor, it just had added notes of positivity. Perhaps because he had more inflection in his voice than a Speak N Spell, something which Bob Bradley usually lacked.  But my first thought upon hearind Klinsmann during his half-time interview was how much it reminded me of Pia Sundhage, another tanned European U.S. National Team coach.

Commentators seemed often bemused by Sundage's positivity during the Women's World Cup, even in the face of poor play, or frustrating calls.  But by the end of the tournament, we all expected it, and for me personally, quite liked it.  The the key result for Sundhage wasn't to ensure that critics and fans liked her glass-half-full approach, but to ensure that her team responded to it.  And they did, in a World Cup Final kind of way.

So does all this happy-clappy on the sidelines represent a turning-tide in sport from the rough-and-tumble venom-spewing macho-men inciting fear in their players?  Are we past the days of the Woody Hayes', Bear Bryants, by God, the Bo Schembechlers ?  Sure, maybe the gridiron is different, but maybe not. Perhaps even the tough-as-nails ranks of college and professional football are falling prey to the nice guy epidemic.  Are we in for more Tony Dungy mentor-types? More Mark Richt's. Sure, they might yell at you in the locker room, but then they pass you a note with an encouraging bible verse and ask about how your sick grandmother is doing. These guys are positive, kumbah-ya coaches and players like playing for them.

Shiny Happy Players

The Wall Street Journal featured a marginally scientific inquiry into the amount of body contact done by NBA playoff teams as it relate to their success.  Wouldn't you know it that the Dallas Mavericks, the most affectionately touchy team on the court went on to win the big trophy.  Those guys were always hugging, butt-patting, chest bumping and high-fiving.  Clearly, positivity pays.  (Interesting note that one of the ring-leaders in this hug-fest was German star Dirk Nowitski. Maybe we'd all be happier if we ate more brats and drank more beer. Hm.)

I've seen this happy trend on the Braves bench this year, too.  The team is transitioning from future hall-of-fame manager Bobby Cox, one of the planets most fantastically lovable, crotchety old guys to Fredi Gonzalez, a smiley, portly, low-key latino whose first name ends in "i" (seriously? Does he dot it with a heart? ).  And you know what I've noticed this year?  More hugging.  Sure, we loved Bobby's dirt-kicking, spitting, red-faced antics, but maybe Fredi's laid-back style is bringing a new sensibility to even the dirtiest, manliest place on earth - the baseball dugout. 

Wednesday night at the U.S. - Mexico game, there was an awful lot of hugging. Coach on coach hugging. Player on player, coach on player etc.  Klinsmann's first reaction in the post-game interview: "I really had fun." What coach says that? And after a tie no less.  But you could tell he meant every word of it.  That positivity seemed to trickle down to his players, even 11 days in.  I'm pretty sure I saw him tell sub Ricardo Clark (who plays in Germany) to "Mach SpaB" (that means "have fun" in German) as he ran onto the field.  Macht SpaB, eh? Naturlisch.

So, whether or not we are in a new Nice-guy era of sport, U.S. soccer is at least in a slightly upgraded version of that with Herr Kinsmann.  And I'd be happy and proud to find myself in the middle of that hug-fest.  Ja? Bitte?

In Georgia Augusts, I Dream of Seattle

Nothing makes me long for the Pacific Northwest more than late summer in Atlanta.  By this time of year my patience is worn thin with sticky mornings and evenings, and unbearable afternoons littered with thunderstorms that seem to do nothing to break the humidity's stranglehold.  But yet, every third day or so by this time of year, you catch a fleeting breeze that cools, that doesn't carry the burden of 70% water.  It sneaks in, cools your face and sends a reminder of what summer in Seattle can feel like.

Three years ago, in an August much like this one, Jeff and I headed west to visit family, soak in nature, and cool our internal temperatures a few degrees.  We hiked, strolled, boated, ate and played frisbee in beautiful places.  We had sun, drizzle, downpours, fog, sometimes in the same day.  We loved it. 

While I toil to till the parched earth of our fledgling garden and rue the damage that critters have wrought on everything but the zucchini (it just died from lack of water.  Sorry old boy.), I think of my uncle's garden in Kent.  How plump and delicious the blueberries were as I picked hundreds of them, my mouth watering in anticipation of eating every one.  I think of how awestruck I was by the massive, "pesky" weed of a blackberry bush gone rampant across from Uncle Bernie and Aunt Karen's house.  I had to run back to the house for buckets, tupperware, whatever I could grab that would hold the bounty of those deep purple blackberries.  My Aunt and Uncle seemed indifferent to my collecting the sweet fruit, while I acted as if I'd never seen a bush nor tree bear anything but leaves in my life.   That is Seattle, bountiful in rain, thereby bountiful in beautiful flowers, summer fruits and vegetables and rich green grass.  The reward of the gloom I suppose.

So as I wallow in the heat of Georgia's August, I dream of Seattle, and Vancouver and the San Juans, and how one day I'll show Hadley these places because they are so stunningly beautiful.  

Points if you can name where each of the following was taken. (and if you guess "Katie's Uncle's back yard" on that last one, you're genius)

 

Stages of Conversion

I'm completely lifting this from someone who lifted this from someone who lifted this.  I'm not sure what the blogosphere / social networking term for all that is, but it may involve more hat tips than a debutante ball.

I picked it up from Pithless Thoughts, a very funny, honest blogger who I check in on once in a while.  He is an Orthodox Christian, and I believe perhaps the original poster is as well;  however, I'm sure that believers of all shapes and stripes have seen this process, at least a few stages through. I know I have, probably several times.  Have you?

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(from Steve at Pithless Thoughts )

Stages of Conversion

I don't think I have ever lifted a complete blog post from someone else's blog (though I've quoted and recommended a few... very few).  Silouan posted this on Facebook and I read it. It is about the process of "converting", something many or most of us have done.  I'm posting it because I don't want to take the chance that you won't take time to click the link.

Wisdom, let us attend!
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It doesn't seem to matter what version of the Christian faith you join, because this seems to be a near-universal process:

Phase 1: The Cage Phase
So you've found your new tradition, and you've finally discovered all the answers to life's problems encompassed within it. You've also read a few books that explain how every other Christian tradition (especially the one you just left) has absolutely ruined the piss out of the Christian faith as a whole. As God's apostle to the unconverted, it now falls upon you to save the world (especially your friends and family in the old tradition) by enlightening them as to just how perfect everything is about your new tradition and how stupid and wrong everything about their current tradition is. It is very important for you to have a blog during this time so that you can enlighten as many people as possible.

Phase 2: Addiction
After having ruined all your relationships from your past life, you are now disillusioned with the willful ignorance and impiety of all those outside your new church. Let the heretics stew in their heresy. It is now time to busy yourself with drinking as much religious Kool-Ade as you possibly can, preferably until your skin becomes the same color as Purplesaurus Rex and your body's pH levels are completely thrown off. You need to read every theological or devotional book you can, buy lots of the assorted trinkets associated with your tradition, and make lots of pilgrimages to either theology conferences or monasteries, depending on how your church rolls.

Phase 3: Apostle of Renewal
You've recently noticed that most of the other people in your church are not nearly as obsessed with it as you are. They aren't reading those books, and they aren't buying all that crap you've strewn your house with. They're more concerned with paying the bills than why those awful sectarians are wrong. They even have friends outside the church! Many of them are not aware just how right and perfect their church is, or how great their lives would be if they would just fling themselves with total abandon into the kind of obsession you yourself have. This is clearly a problem that must be fixed, for it threatens to destroy the purity of the faith. As God's chosen agent of change, you busy yourself with trying to whip up everyone in the congregation into the same frothing devotion you yourself exhibit.

Phase 4: Beaten by Reality
You've finally faced the harsh truth: The people in your new tradition are, at their core, a whole lot like all those people from your old tradition that you despised so much, with all the same foibles and failings. You give up on saving the world, on restoring your tradition to its purity, and have lost your confidence that God himself has appointed you to fix everything. You've discovered that your new church in fact has a lot of ugliness in its history, has a lot of jerks in its power structure, can't solve all of life's problems, and isn't always all that consistent or believable in what it teaches or what it does.

Phase 5, Option 1: The Rat Leaves the Ship
Clearly, you were had. You thought you had found the One True Perfect Tradition, but you were deceived. You know what you must do--find the tradition that really does get it all right, because it must be out there. Back to Phase 1 for you!

Phase 5, Option 2: Complete Disillusionment
You have realized, perhaps after going through this cycle several times, that you are perhaps the only sincere, thinking Christian in the world. Everyone else is a hypocrite or a dunce, and all these corrupt denominations and hierarchies have ever accomplished is completely screwing up everything. Completely embittered at the idea of organized religion, you isolate yourself in order to go be a true follower of Christ without all those awful other people screwing things up. If you meet some like-minded folk, you start meeting up with them in order to transcend organized religion by organizing a religion. It's very likely that you eventually realize that all religious people are deluded fools and become an atheist or agnostic.

Phase 5, Option 3: Partial Disillusionment and Accommodation
After facing the harsh reality in Phase 4, you've further realized that phases 1 through 3 ought to be renamed "Jackass," "Nutjob," and "Know-it-All," respectively, which suggests that you are, for the most part, much worse at being a decent human being than all those people too stupid and impious to realize how awesome your new religion is. While many of the reasons that you had for joining your current tradition remain, and thus so do you, you decide it's time to cut yourself, your church, everyone else's churches, and rest of the world some slack.

Instant Replay

Last night's 19 inning marathon of a baseball game between the Braves and the Pirates not only gave baseball fans something to talk about for it's longevity, but gave way to a fresh new debate on the use of replay in baseball.  Fortunately, my team, the Braves, were on the lucky end of the questionable (okay, flat wrong) call, but as a game-decider it is unfortunate it had to come down to one man's split-second decision based on eyes that must have been tired after over 6 hours of calling balls and strikes. 

So what is baseball to do with this quandary.  Always one to hold out in the wake of technology's onslaught, America's game still holds to it's traditions. But when a call can mean a win or a loss, is it worthwhile to use technology?  Before I speculate further on whether baseball should go 21st century, I"ll comment briefly on a few other sports and use of replay.

Football.  The use of instant replay is so annoying in football, particularly the NFL (I can't even think of what the CFB rules are on replay).  That is not to say I don't think it's important, but more that I value my Sunday afternoons too much to have games last for 4 hours because guys in stripes are huddled under dark hoods for 15% of the time.  Maybe, just maybe, replay adds to the suspense of the game, but it also adds on precious minutes to a game that last for hours but where only a small percentage of those hours are actually people playing football.  The challenge system is a decent way to reign in the chaos of having open season on every close call, so for that I'm thankful, but in a game like football, you win some, you lose some, just let  them play.

Soccer.  For being as pitifully (at least according to most American sports fans) low scoring a sport as soccer is, it is inbelievably intense for that same reason.  One goal can make the difference in a game, and often does.  For this reason, I am wholly in favor of using technology for goal-line calls.  That soccer has lagged on this for as many years as it has when similarly goal-scant sports like pro hockey have had it for a while is puzzling.  Perhaps the fear is that using replay would interfere with one of soccer's greatest strengths, it's predictable time-frame.  Games last 2 hours. That's it. Tournament games can have overtimes, but even then, the utilization of penalty kicks still puts a firm end to the contest (different argument for a different day).  Since goals are so scarce, I feel that simply adding goal-line technology would do little to slow the pace or tempo of the game.  Were technology to be expanded in soccer, the next logical tiers would be to add off-side "invisible lines" which could simply buzz a line-judge if he missed a call. That's do-able right?  The second use, which would likely involve replay, would be on corner vs. goal kicks.  Because set pieces can change games, and who kicked a ball out of bounds isn't so much a judgment call (as it would be with say, a trip or a handball), I can see an argument for using technology there.  But in all, I like the flow of soccer without over-teching it, save on goal-line calls.

Tennis.  Love technology in tennis.  Those nifty shot-spots are quick, conclusive and truly can affect match outcomes.  Allotting a certain number of challenges to players means its not a line-call free-for-all, but that at key stages, a player can question the ability of a line-judge standing 8-10 feet from where a 130mph serve hits the court. 

So back to baseball.  As America's game loses traction to college and pro football, both of which have replay, adding some technology could help with fan rapport.  Plus, games are already long, so what's a few extra minutes to ensure a call is right.  From an umpire's perspective, while the use of replay may be a ding to my pride, ultimately it would also take some weight off my shoulders.  Don't you think that 1st base ump who missed the out call, thereby thwarting a kid's no-hitter chance would have liked some back-up?  If last night's umpire knew that replay technology was part of the game, he might not feel so bad this morning. 

I have the utmost respect for officials in every professional sport (Women's World Cup officials not withstanding), and particularly for baseball umpires.  I find it astounding that over more than a century of close calls, those guys have gotten it right about 90% of the time, maybe more.  But they get it wrong a few times, which is why I think I'm in favor of replay for base calls. Balls and strikes, no way, lets keep SOME drama in the game. But because of the importance of runners on base, allow managers challenges, just like in the NFL.

I would only hope that said challenge system would not do away with portly guys over 50 in tight pants waddling out of their respective dugouts to get in the face of umpires.  Because that is a classic part of baseball that no gentleman (or lady ) would want to lose.

What are your thoughts on instant replay / technology in baseball ? 

Perspective

My love of sports is both a blessing and a curse. 
Most acutely on days like today.  

Let me explain.  The U.S. Women's soccer team has given soccer a front page billing for the past few weeks and given me a reason to delight again and again in the joy of sport.  Their 11th hour comeback against Brazil, their thorough defeat of a resilient French team; it all seemed to be a perfect segue for a championship.  But they lost, after dominating the game against a smaller, overmatched Japan team, somehow they lost.  I left the house with 15 minutes to play, the girls up 2 goals to 1 in the second overtime.  I headed to a tennis match. And while the fate of the US soccer team unravelled, my tennis-playing fate soon followed.  Up 5-0 in the decisive 3rd set, my partner and I somehow then lost 5 consequetive games, ultimately losing in a tie-breaker.

I wanted so desperately to throw things, storm off, because really I made too many errors. Just tooooo many errors particularly down that stretch.  Ugh, it's so massively frustrating because of the high respect and love I have for sport.  That when I fail, choke, crumble. It's devastating.  

I returned with great hope, to finish out the rest of the recorded soccer match and at least have something to celebrate.  But another collapse played out in front of me.  I suppose the blow was not so harsh watching it on tape, but the message was clear.  Sport deals harsh blows as much as it deals great glory.   Now I think back on the 2 sporting collapses tonight and feel gutted. Betrayed by the thing that I love so much. But I suppose that's what love is, and what it means sometimes:  failure, redemption and everything in between.

But while I feel depressed by losses, I'm reminded of friends and family whose life has dealt them anguish that sport has only temporarily inflicted on me today.  Broken marriages, illness, the loss of loved ones seem to abound when you've walked this planet long enough, and most particularly of late.

When sport, or even life deals me blows that leave me scowling or frustrated, I can't help but look to the things I'm thankful for.  As I came in the house from my match, my precious daughter was there smiling and saying "Mommy!"  She had been well-cared-for by my dear husband while I was gone.  And this made me very happy.  I held her tight and felt the rush of anger and aggression I had experienced moments earlier just dissipate. 

The U.S. lost to a Japan team whose nation still reels from loss, destruction and heartbreak wrought by the spring tsunami.  If anyone has perspective on sport, it is that team.  I'm glad that for these moments and days to come they can celebrate with their teammates and countrymen the joy and unity of sport. I'm sad it's at my teams expense, but that's the way it goes sometimes in life and in sport.