Baseball, Life, and Other Stuff

Why Did the Man Throw His Watch Out the Window?

Remember that old joke, posed in the title of this post?  The answer, of course, is because he wanted to see time fly!  I almost threw my watch out the window recently to exact vengeance upon it.  In fact, I almost stuck it in the vice just to hear the satisfying crunch that would signify an end to my attempt to convert the display from 24 hour time to 12 hour time.  Mind you, I hadn't set it to 24 hour time in the first place, but somewhere along the line when I set it back an hour to return to Standard Time, it suddenly started displaying 24 hour time.

Obviously, I errantly hit a wrong button sequence.  It's easy to do since the little "S1, S2, and S3" buttons on the watch are of a size as to lead one to believe that it was manufactured by tiny little pixies, who designed these buttons in proportion to their tiny little fingers.  As it is, setting the time involves a sequence of button pushing more complicated than that required to launch a Minuteman missile.

I was not worried, however, since I still had the instructions, which I consulted.  I put them under an electron microscope allowing me to see the tiny printing and read the following:  You have the possibility to change from 12 to 24 hour system, when adjusting the hours of the normal time (description, please see above) one after the other the hours are displayed in the 12 hour system, then in the 24 hour system and then again the 12 hour system, i. e. please push S2 so many times, that the hour is displayed in the required system.

I would be willing to venture that the author of those directions is either not familiar with the English language as a native tongue or is a graduate of the Washington County Public School System, one or the other.  In any case, I apparently didn't push S2 "so many times" as I should have to make the display change, but I cussed it enough to make the display blush.  Indeed, I was headed to the vice, when Martha intervened and discovered that if you set the alarm, then somehow, the display would change from 24 hour to 12 hour display.  We're not sure how.  Or why.

Now, of course, I'm afraid to even wear the watch because I might bump the S buttons and inadvertently set the alarm, or change the display to Greenwich Mean Time, or have a calendar from 1963 suddenly appear.  No matter; I know what time it is.  Time to get a new watch.

Happy Birthday, Becky!

Happy Birthday to Becky, who turns 22 tomorrow, November 10th!  She has certainly had a momentous year, graduating from college in May, getting married two weeks ago, and of course, a birthday.  When I was young, it annoyed me that old people were always saying "Where does the time go?" because as a child, it never seemed to go fast enough.  Now, all I can say is, "Where did the time go?"  Allow the following two photos to illustrate:

 

This is Becky and Sarah's first trip to Winchester, VA.  They are standing in front of Stonewall Jackson's headquarters.  I think this happened some time last week.

 

This is Becky and Sarah's most recent trip to Winchester.  They are standing in a courtyard at the George Washington Hotel immediately after Becky's wedding.  I think I might have dreamed this.

So, to Becky:  I can't wait to see the photo of you and Sarah 10 years from now--but there's no hurry, all the same.

To all parents out there:  Go stare at your kids.  Lock into your brain what they look like on this, No Particular Day.

To all kids out there:  Just humor your parents.  They probably stare at you a lot as it is.  And not just because you did something incredibly stupid, either.

Happy Birthday, Becky!

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of the World Series

Oowee oowee oooo Waa waa waa!  Since I have no sound effects for this blog, that intro will have to do!  It's the good, the bad, and the ugly from this year's just concluded World Series.

Good:  The swings of Hideki Matsui and Chase Utley.

Bad:  The hitting in general.  The Yankees hit .247 as a team, while the Phillies hit .227.

Ugly:  All-Star first basemen Mark Teixeira and Ryan Howard hit a combined .155 with 2 home runs and 6 RBIs.  Their combined 2009 salary is $35,625,000.00.

Good:  A. J. Burnett's first start.

Bad:  Brad Lidge's appearance in Game #4

Ugly:  A. J. Burnett's second start.

Good:  An old-fashioned complete game by Cliff Lee and the Yankees using an old-fashioned 3-man rotation.

Bad:  Little League base running by Major League players.

Ugly:  The umpiring.  It's not just that they got some close calls wrong; they appeared to not even know what was going on during some plays.

Good:  Spring Training is only 3 1/2 months away!

Bad:  It's November 6th and the World Series only ended yesterday.

Ugly:  At the rate that MLB is dragging out the playoffs, within a decade the World Series will end two weeks before Spring Training begins.

Good:  Wikipedia already has an unbelievable entry on the 2009 Series and baseball-reference.com has the Series totals posted.

Bad:  Now we'll have to listen to how, for his next act, Derek Jeter will walk across the Hudson River to heal lepers in New Jersey.

Ugly:  The New York Yankees are champions.

Happy Trails

Tomorrow marks the 98th anniversary of the birth of Leonard Slye, whom members of my generation know better as Roy Rogers, the "King of the Cowboys."  One of the vivid memories of my childhood was watching reruns of "The Roy Rogers Show" on our black and white television on Saturday mornings.  Roy and Dale with sidekick Pat Brady in his jeep (that he named "Nelleybelle,") Trigger, and their dog Bullet roamed the range making wrong right.

It is a bittersweet thing to me to remember those days of my youth, because those days seem to be as long gone as the Middle Ages.  Roy Rogers and the other cowboy heroes were the embodiment of the American ideal.  They were independent, respectful, resourceful, and they instinctively knew right from wrong.  Today, we respect nothing, we increasingly depend on the government, and we need 8 lawyers and 4 psychologists to tell us what is right.  They in turn, will remind us that "right" is relative.  And the last thing many of the elite leaders of this country want is a bunch of independent people who work for themselves, protect themselves, and scariest of all, think for themselves.

We have no heroes such as Roy Rogers anymore, I suppose because we believe that no one is worthy of that status since no one can possibly live up to the American Ideal.  And since no one can live up to the Ideal, then we have cynically abandoned that, too, and so we lower standards in all kinds of endeavors and wallow in our mediocrity.  As long as there's beer in the fridge and something on TV, we're all happy.

Except we're not.  We spend money on trinkets that wouldn't entertain a monkey for more than 10 minutes in an effort to fill our empty souls.  We drink until we pass out for at least we're oblivious to the emptiness when we're unconscious.  Our kids do drugs, because we haven't taught them that the sunset reflects as beautifully off the windows of the alms house as off a rich man's mansion.

We've lost sight of the fact that doing right makes a person happy, but doing right is hard and we can't have that.  We need things to be easy.  Easy credit.  Easy classes.  Easy living.  Happy trails aren't usually the easy trails.  Gene Autry once sang in "Back in the Saddle Again":

Where you sleep out every night

And the only law is right

Back in the saddle again.

The morality of a civilization is inversely proportional to the number of laws that it enacts.  Simply lifting our tax code would give a strong man a hernia.  We better get back in the saddle again before it's too late.

I like to think that Roy Rogers would be pleased with this entry, knowing that he is still inspiring the little boy who used to watch him on Saturday mornings.

Baseball is Hope

In all the sporting world, only the game of baseball nurtures the practice of hope on a moment by moment basis.  The Dodgers' Game 2 victory over the St. Louis Cardinals in the NLDS produced this observation.  If you'll recall, the Dodgers trailed 2-0 with none on and two out in the bottom of the 9th when left fielder Matt Holiday dropped a fly ball that would have been the third out.  Every baseball fan in Los Angeles, St. Louis, and every where else had the same thought:  "Uh-oh!  Is this the start of something?"  And it was.

Think about it:  Your team trails in the bottom of the 9th by a couple of runs with two outs, just as the Dodgers did and the third batter quickly falls behind 0-2. . . .  "Ball one" and hope, however faint, is still alive.  Maybe he fouls a couple off and you begin thinking that he's starting to catch up to the pitcher's fast ball.  He works the count full and now your hope is even higher.  One more ball and the tie run comes to the plate.  Ball four.  Fans begin to look at each other.  Maybe?

The next batter falls behind and the hope ebbs, but he lines a single to left and now the tie run is in scoring position.

The next batter walks after a 10 pitch at-bat; every pitch eliciting a groan or a cheer.  Hope now runs through the crowd like the wave.  The bases are loaded when the sixth batter of the inning runs the count full.  The crowd is in a frenzy, yet, one more pitch could end the game as if the rally had never occurred and all that hoping would be for naught.  It doesn't matter.  It's the hoping that counts.  Hope is a human function that needs to be exercised just like one's muscles.

These things don't happen in football.  If your team trails by three touchdowns with 2 minutes left, you've lost!  You might even score two touchdowns, but you're not going to score a third.  Even if you trail by only one touchdown late in the game and the quarterback drops back for a bomb downfield, your hope will be rewarded or dashed in an instant.  No one moves to the edge of his seat in anticipation because the halfback was sent in motion before the snap.  Baseball fans, on the other hand, will cheer the fact that the pitcher has stepped to the back of the mound, removed his cap, and wiped his brow.

"It's a sign he's in trouble!"

As for the hypothetical baseball game which I just described, if you're a baseball fan, you already know what happened.

The Music of Love

We will get back to baseball on Monday, but as I am still basking in the glow of Wedding Week, I thought that I would share an observation inspired by Becky and Jesse's wedding.  The music that they selected for the reception was a wonderful blend of eras and moods.  Their first dance was to "Lucky," a current love song for lovers of any age; and indeed, there were lovers of many ages at the wedding from Becky and Jesse up to Martha's Aunt Alice and Uncle Jack, and Aunt Jo and Uncle Bob who have been married 51 and 52 years respectively.

What was interesting to me was that when the DJ played Rod Stewart's version of the classic "These Foolish Things," I looked around the dance floor to discover that it was Martha and me, and the 5 groomsmen and their dates.  Just us and the kids!  There is something about the songs, particularly the love songs of the '30s and the WWII era that command attention from the grandchildren of the vets who fought that war.  I think it is the fact, that so many of those songs were written for adults.  They contain images and suggest moods that only those who have lived some and loved a great deal can truly appreciate.  We can continue this discussion of music in the future.  For now, however, let's end Wedding Week with that classic song to which I referred and dedicate it to lovers of all ages, most especially the newest pair, Becky and Jesse.

As I Looked Into My Angel's Eyes

I've never seen my little girl look so happy.  "Stunning" is a word often used to describe the appearance of brides, and I was stunned all right, but not by her beauty.  Her beauty is familiar to me on a daily basis.  It was the happiness that radiated from her heart and through her eyes and her smile that made her so stunning.  I'm still in awe and so grateful that she found a man who makes her feel this way.

Never was her happiness more apparent than when the officiant reached that part of the ceremony that began with the words, "And now by the power vested in me by the Commonwealth of Virginia . . ."  As these words were spoken, Becky's smile broadened even further, which seemed impossible, and even more light came into her eyes.  She seemed to rise up on her tiptoes anticipating the words that would follow, signifying the very moment that she would become Mrs. Jesse Dice.  It was as if--and I know she will appreciate the analogy--she had risen to watch a soaring, game-winning home run; the kind that you know is going out, but is hit so high it takes a bit longer to leave the park.  The kind that allows you to enjoy a moment of anticipation before the moment of joy.  I've never seen that reaction in a bride or a groom before.

I had said in an earlier entry on October 9th that I didn't think that the ceremony would be emotional for me, but that the traditional father/daughter dance might be, especially since the song we chose was "The Riddle."  I didn't want to become overwhelmed on the dance floor because I wanted to stay in that moment.

The batter swings and the summer flies

As I look into my angel's eyes

And I did, as those words floated through the hall.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the look that Becky gave me at that moment was worth a million.

Of course, reflecting on that moment and so many others from the wedding is a different story, and should "The Riddle" start playing on the radio when I am driving down the road, I'll need windshield wipers for my face.  And they won't be set on intermittent, either.

Then there was Sarah's toast, telling her sister that she loved her and telling Jesse that he is the big brother that she always wanted.  I could go on and on, but here.  I probably should have just posted the following photo with no commentary.  It says it all:

Photo courtesy of Aunt Terri.

The Fisherman

Good morning, faithful readers!  There has not been any time (or energy) to put down any reflections about Jesse and Becky's wedding yet; expect them in my next entry.  Suffice it to say it was wonderful and while I remember very little about my own wedding, I'll recall a thousand moments from theirs.  Therefore, I'll present something that I haven't presented, heretofore:  a poem.  If you like it, I did indeed, write it.  If you don't, the author is anonymous.

The Fisherman

Cigar, solitude, and a day off work;

The fisherman had it all

Except a fish.

I watched him as he cast his baited hook into the languid Potomac

And I realized that he was, indeed, a wise man

For clearly, he didn't care about the fish.

Game 4 Goofiness

Yes, Becky is getting married tomorrow, but there are still many important world events taking place that deserve to be blogged about.  Of course, by "important world events" I mean the baseball playoffs and if you were watching, then you know that Game #4 of the ALCS deserves special commentary.

The highlight of the game was seeing Umpire Tim McClelland's version of "Who's On Third?"  In yet another example of atrocious baserunning, the Yankees Jorge Posada was being chased back to third as teammate Robinson Cano made his way there from second on a comebacker.  Posada had broken for home on contact, which was fine, and it was fine that he allowed himself to be put out while Cano advanced a base.  However, it was definitely NOT fine when Posada overran third base and Cano pulled up short, so that no one was occupying third.  Angel catcher Mike Napoli, who had been chasing Posada, alertly tagged them both.  McClelland, who was all of 5 feet from the play called Posada out, but Cano safe, saying later that he essentially just figured that Cano was on the bag.

Of course, earlier in the game, McClelland ruled that Nick Swisher had left third too soon on a fly ball, when the replays showed that 1) he in fact, did not and 2) that McClelland wasn't even looking at Swisher during the play!  For his part, Swisher shouldn't have even been on the bases because a couple batters before, he had been picked off second by a wide margin, but was ruled safe by second base umpire Dale Scott.

Major League Baseball issued a statement yesterday, saying that McClelland would not be allowed to yell, "Hey Abbott!!!" rather than "Play ball!" to start the game.  Neither McClelland, nor his seeing-eye dog, Polyphemus had any comment.

The umpiring errors which have occurred throughout the playoffs demonstrates the need for instant replay in baseball--to evaluate umpires at the end of the season.

And speaking of umpires, why was it up to Napoli to adjust his crouch behind the plate to allow home plate umpire Jerry Layne to see the pitches?  Hey, Jerry, how about standing up straighter so that you can see over the catcher?  How about losing 60 pounds so you can see your feet?

Posada wasn't really with it during the whole game either, as later in the contest, he headed for the dugout after the Yankees turned a double-play.  The only trouble was that those were the first two outs of the innning and there was still a runner on third.

While nauseating to see the Yankees win, it was refreshing to watch C. C. Sabathia throw 8 excellent innings on only three days rest.  Attention MLB owners and general managers:  Everyone used to do it this way.  That's one of the reasons pitching was better 40 years ago.

It was also nauseating to watch Scott Kazmir pitch.  Requiring 80-some pitches to record 10 outs, Kazmir kept launching balls into the dirt and running up full counts while taking forever between pitches.  Napoli had to make so many trips to the mound, and block so many balls with his body, that it's a wonder he didn't collapse from exhaustion by the 5th.

Did anyone else spot Pat Sajak and Kurt Russell in those dugout seats behind home plate?  Those have to be the worst seats in the house because the only view those folks have of the plate is the southern end of a north-facing umpire.

Finally, I do have acknowledge Tim McCarver for providing insight in a way that gave credit to his audience for being both observant and knowledgable.  Glad you dropped that, "I'm the only person in the stadium who knows what's going on!!!" approach, Tim.  Keep it up.

The Moment Arrived Last Friday

I walked out through the back door and up the driveway to get the morning paper last Friday, just as I do almost every morning and it hit me:  Becky's wedding is in a week and a day.  Perhaps it hit me because the quiet of the morning reflected the quiet that had descended upon the house last week.  All the planning and worrying and running around on the part of the bride (and, therefore, the groom) that has been taking place since graduation in May ceased last week.  In this time immediately before the wedding, even the smallest part of life's routine--such as getting the paper--does not seem routine at all.

For example, yesterday, I got a hair cut because, well, I needed a hair cut, only this became my haircut for the wedding.  The next time I get a hair cut, Becky and Jesse will be back from the honeymoon and establishing their own routines and I suppose, we'll be adjusting ours.  The spotlight that we shine on big events also illuminates the fact that every event, even little ones, take place in a single moment that is connected to all the other moments big and small.  To remember that is to remember that all of life, therefore is "momentous."

It is interesting how people at weddings and other similar occasions will say to the featured party, "Oh, I'm so happy for you!" which does not indicate at all how they feel for themselves.  Well, I am happy for Becky and Jesse, immensely so.  I am happy too, but this wedding also leaves me bewildered; I'm bewildered because I can't get over the fact that the further downstream one floats on the river of time, the faster the current.

Perhaps my bewilderment stems from the fact that there are no more moments to be gathered from the Time Before the wedding such as taking Becky to the bus stop for first grade to packing up all her stuff and moving it home from Roanoke College.  I know that there are many wonderful moments yet to be collected--I can imagine many, and I can't wait for those delightful ones that I can't imagine, but right now, I'm in between and it is very quiet around here . . .