SCORE!

Ceci made the High School Junior Varsity girls volleyball team as a freshman.  That statement, standing alone is, is not particularly remarkable.

But the back story is pretty, pretty cool.

Ceci has always been an amazing athlete, excelling at ninja and gymnastic activities.  The world was her obstacle course that she conquered on a daily basis.  She has always been competitive, but only with herself.  Ceci always wants to be the best that she can be in athletics, academics, creativity.

A couple of years ago, Ceci played volleyball for her Junior High team, her first venture into team sports.  Truth be told, she wasn't one of the stars of the team. I'm not sure she gave it her all, but she showed up for games and practices and tried to help the team.  I don't think she enjoyed it much.

So it surprised us all when she said she planned to play the next year.  Unfortunately, that was not the only surprise.  For reasons unknown, Ceci did not make the team!

Ouch.

I suspect Ceci was disappointed, maybe even a little insulted. (I was exploring the possibility of a lawsuit.) She didn't pout, complain, or lash out.  Rather, I suspect she had a plan.

Ceci was going to show those clueless coaches what she was made of.

Unbeknownst to anyone beside her immediate family, Ceci went to work, practicing and drilling in as many ways as she could.  Volleyball was her new obstacle, and we all know what chance obstacles have against Ceci.

So, yes, her making the volleyball team is in fact remarkable!  No surprise, we expect remarkable things from Ceci.  She always delivers.

FIELD OF DREAMS

 I got my first baseball glove when I was 5 years old.  It was plastic and shabby, but I loved it.  I remember making some pretty flashy plays, catching with my dad, my first best friend.  Of course, I no longer have that glove.  That would be ridiculous.

I got my next glove, a leather one, when I was 7.  That one is displayed, quite inconspicuously, in our New Milford bedroom.  It, 2 statues of Willie Mays, and a picture of "The Naked Truth," are my only decorative contributions to our living space.

Two more gloves came in my twelfth year, when I started playing organized baseball with kids 10 to 12 years old. (Twelve year olds were not supposed to pitch in that league, but my team was so bad, and I was so small, that I was allowed to pitch.)

You get my drift; baseball, and especially baseball gloves, have always been important to me.  So when I see an 11 year old boy without a baseball glove, I basically see a boy without a limb.

That was Henry, until just 10 days ago.

Henry started a new school this year.  I was concerned for him.  I had to start at a new school for the seventh grade, and it was brutal.  Sports, especially baseball, helped, somewhat, during that transition.  I just wasn't sure that playing the cello was going to be enough for Henry to create a bond with his new classmates.

My concerns were totally unnecessary.  Last March, Henry's dad sent me a video of a class assembly.  The speaker was explaining that an award was being given to one of the students for basically being a well rounded, good kid.

When Henry's name was announced, his classmates burst into spontaneous cheers and applause.  Goosebumps rising, eyes swelling with happy tears, my first thought was that I couldn't imagine how proud Sara must have felt.

Then I quicky realized that I knew exactly how Sara felt.

I am so proud of my kids, who they have become as daughters, sisters, spouses/partners, parents, pet owners, nieces, cousins, friends.  And, as I have said before, I think my grandchildren have the greatest aunts in the whole world. My children are my blessings, my legacy.

But back to Henry.  He now has a baseball glove, a new tool in his toolbox.  It may not be his favorite, and it may not consume his entire adolescent life like it did mine.  That's okay, that's better than okay. Henry's toolbox is filled with charm, humor, and grace.  He is a great kid, and he even has a brick to prove it.

For the time being, at least, I don't have to worry about him.  I can simply love and enjoy him.

HURRICANE IAN

When I count my blessings, which is often, I thank God for my senses, including common and humor.

Sooo, who often arrives in Florida during primetime hurricane season?

This guy.

The auto train took us here September 18, just in time to prepare for Ian.  Supplies were purchased with the intention of hunkering down.  But on Monday we were told to evacuate.  We had options; family to the north and south, friends to the east.  Tuesday morning we departed.  Defying conventional wisdom, we headed south.

Maybe I should be asking God to provide me with common sense, rather than assuming I have some. 

We left Indian Rocks Beach because it was expected to take a direct hit in just two days.  We drove 2 and a half hours to Cape Coral which, because of a change in direction, was now expected to take a direct hit the very next day.

My nickname is not "Einstein."

Really, our thought process brought us south of Ian before it hit land, ignoring the fact that the cone of the hurricane is called the "cone of uncertainty."

Our stay in Cape Coral lasted only about an hour.  Another day, another mandatory evacuation.  A call was made, another destination was determined.

We traveled east (we're getting smarter) to a cousin's home.  We were met by open arms and a warm heart.

Also arriving that day were a brother and a sister-in-law.  Oh, and also a ninety year old woman; an acquaintance of the brother, but a complete stranger to our hostess.  Comfortable and accustomed to living alone, our hostess now has to prepare for a hurricane and accommodate 5 people in some fashion.

The guest bedroom for brother and sister-in-law, two couches for cousin and myself.  Ninety year old woman gets our hostess's bedroom; hostess sleeps on a yoga mat in her office.

What's wrong with this picture?

Day 1 was filled with quiet, cordial apprehension.  Day 2, not so much.  Ian, a most unwelcome guest, arrived.  Heavy rain, gusty winds, power lost by midday.  An early grilled grouper dinner, provided by the brother, is described, ominously or hopefully by our hostess as "the last supper."  Hmm.

Seems that suggestions were made, not for the first time, that our hostess neither requested nor welcomed.  We are now dealing with a hurricane and a cold war.

Ouch.  An early bedtime.  Our hostess ends up sleeping outside, on the lanai.

Day 3, the physical storm as passed.  A short journey around the neighborhood displays little evidence of significant damage. Our hostess is optimistic; there is packed luggage at the front door.  Brother takes a scouting trip to see if he can reach his house.  He cannot; the water is too high.  The luggage stays at the door.

Our lifelines to the outside world, spotty cell phone service and an old fashion transistor radio, tediously provide updates.  Mid morning we learn we are allowed to return to our island home.  Still later, we learn a restaurant in our neighborhood has electric power.  Mid afternoon we finally learn that the major bridge that will lead us home has opened.  We pack up and leave rather abruptly.  We excuse ourselves for this social misstep; at least now our hostess will have an indoor couch to sleep on.

This is basically where our story ends.  We return to our home, with power and no damage other than some lawn debris.  We celebrate with Chinese takeout.  Life is good.

Very unfortunately, other sad stories continue.  Our hostess remains without power for several more days.  She ponders selling her home.  Brother, sister-in-law, and 90 year old acquaintance no longer have homes to return to.  Life is not always good, not always fair.

My prayer line is extended.  Fron now on, when I count my blessings, Diane our hostess, will be among them.  I will pray that her brother, Richie, her sister-in-law Barbara, and their ninety year old acquaintance Helen, will have the strength and fortitude to carry on.  I will pray that their hearts are not hardened, their faiths not compromised. Their hurricane continues.

 

MILES

 (To the tune of "Hey Milesy...")

HEY MILESY, MILESY, MILESY.  YOU ARE MY MILESY, MILES.

HEY, MILESY, MILESY, MILESY.  YOU ARE MY MILESY, MILES!

Mema wrote a nice post about us on Facebook a couple of months ago.  It was as much fiction as it was nonfiction, but she got the gist of the story right.  The final game of your regular High School baseball season, you hit an over-the-fence homerun, to help your team win!  (It was spectacular.)

Mema's post suggested I started practicing with you when you were seven years old.  Fact is, I started much sooner than that. 

 I started before you were born.

As soon as your mom announced she was having a boy, I started tossing a baby toy softball to her belly every time I saw her.  You caught it almost every time.

I hope you still have that toy ball, and I hope you plan on bringing it to college with you.  It's a heartwarming story that you may someday want to   share with a special friend.

I also hope you will mention it during your acceptance speech 

to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But this isn't about your accomplishments on the ball field; it's about your prowess in academia.  Your graduation.

I had very little to do with that.  That was all you, nothing but you.  (Maybe an occasional boost from your mom.)

But is that really true?  I don't often quote Hillary Clinton, but maybe it does really take a village to raise a child.  I like to think your whole family helped in some way, even if it was just having patience as we waited for you to become the young man you are today.

Congratulations, Miles.  You did it.

We did it.  (But it was mostly you.)  Very proud.

Love, Pop

THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY SUMMER

 Despite the chaos and turmoil that is the reality of 2020,  I did manage to have a mostly delightful summer.  It started in Florida; a virtual birthday dance party to celebrate my entrance into my 8th decade.

Sweet.

Upon returning to Connecticut, most of our quiet and un-social weeks ended with family pool days, including birthday parties for Henry and Ceci.

Nice.

A few off-hour outdoor restaurant meals broke up some of the monotony, as well as attending numerous Miles' baseball games.

It's all good.

One day, early August, Landon is outside with his friend Ryan.  Nothing unusual about that, but Miles is outside too.  A tremendous storm the day before has left us without power.  No power, no video games; Miles has left his man cave to seek boredom relief.

They ask me to play a game of touch football. Landon and Ryan against me and Miles.

The game remains scoreless, primarily because Miles keeps intercepting passes on defense, and I keep failing to reach an often wide open Miles on offense.  "I don't have the arm strength,"  I confess.  "Okay, I'll quarterback," says Miles.  "You don't understand," I reply, "I can't run either."

But we agreed to switch positions.  I run a simple (and short) down and out.  Landon cuts in front of me, going for the pick, but Miles' pass zips to me before Landon gets there.  I catch it, spin and "race" towards the end zone.  Alas,, Landon tags me just before I reach the goal.  Exhausted from my sprint, I return to quarterbacking.  A short pass under Ryan's flailing arms; TOUCHDOWN!

Was the highlight my dynamic catch and run?  Nah.  The exquisite TD pass?  No...

They asked me to play.

DEAR DAUGHTERS...

Historically and traditionally, I am greeted by a picture of one of my grand children when I open up my laptop or cell phone.  Not that I need to be reminded, but these pictures awaken memories that provide joy, pride, and love.
I recently changed pictures.

Does it remind me of a simpler time?  Well, not really.  We didn't exactly skip through your adolescent years.  Not that I need to be reminded, but this picture awakens memories that provide joy, pride, and infinite love.

P.S.

This is the picture that greets me when my laptop is unlocked.  Miles has just tied a tournament game with a double to right center.  He is roaring with pride and joy.  I remember roaring too, with pride, joy, and love....

How Do You Get To Carnegie Hall?

Big sports day Sunday; Miles has Fall Ball opening day double header.  They win both games easily.  Miles goes 4 for 4 in the second game, with a 2 RBI double!
Landon has a football game, and his team wins handily as well.  He makes no catches.
This is about Landon.

After a touchdown early in the game, Landon is lined up for an extra point play.  He runs into the end zone and cuts towards the middle of the field.  The ball is thrown slightly behind him.
He twists, gets one hand on the ball, but can't bring it in.
It would have been an acrobatic catch, but it wasn't.
Later on, Landon is sprinting down the sideline; he has his man beat.  The quarterback finds him,
and throws a nice spiral just out of the reach of the receiver's out stretched hands.
It would have been an amazing catch, worthy of a highlight reel, but....it wasn't.

Towards the end of the game, the winner already determined, Landon is again line up for an extra point play.  There is confusion on the defense and Landon is uncovered.  Our coach notices this and alerts the quarterback.
This is going to be easy.
But it wasn't.
Landon dashes into the end zone and turns.  The QB delivers the ball to him, right on the numbers.
Landon cradles the ball with his entire body, then.............drops it.
I can only imagine how he felt at that moment.  Helmets are worn for safety purposes, but they also serve as a mask for emotions.

A referee pats Landon on the back.  Several teammates console him as he walks off the field.
After the game, one of his coaches is talking to Landon in what looks to me like a grandfatherly way. During the raucous jubilation of victory, Landon is sullen.  The ride home is quiet, with me in backseat with Landon's friend, Lyla.
I find I have a new signature move to fill awkward silence.  I tell the story of how I got run over by a golf cart last month.  I can't see Landon, but I can feel his slight smile.

When we get home, I expect Landon to go inside and brood, or lose himself in his video world.
But he doesn't. Instead,  Landon has the perfect response to his day.
He asks me to stay outside and practice with him.
It is a knee buckling moment for me.
We toss the football back and forth, and every catch he makes is highlight reel worthy.


P.S.  Let the record show that number 12 did get to Carnegie Hall.  Landon scored a touchdown on a glorious catch and run, during a thunderous victory in his very next game.