Porter participated in a golf camp last week as Bill and I continued our search for the physical activity that’s going to rock his world. His shorts were a good five inches longer than the other players’, as was his hair, and for the first couple of days he insisted on wearing his John Lennon sunglasses on the course. The total effect was like dude, I think I’ll check out this thing called golf.
I look like Tom Petty, but I’m off to play a gnarly round of golf.
If you drove to the course and only watched him for a moment you might have thought Hey– he looks like he has it in him to be a golfer! I bet Tiger Woods started out just this way, or Sergio Garcia or Phil Mickelson.
But if you watched for a little longer you would have seen this
Tra la la. I’m so deliciously excited that I found these magic walking sticks.
or this
The chair I invented fits snugly on each butt cheek.
Then you would have been thanking God that you ordered him a unicycle for his birthday.
The annual Foosball tournament is Bill’s pet project, and he applies the same concentration and diligence to creating the teams and brackets as he does in crafting a legal brief.
None of the moms play foosball on a regular basis during the year, what with raising children and all, and the kids who are saddled with a mother as a teammate struggle to hide their disappointment.
I was paired with Kimberly’s husband. I was counting on his innate athleticism (he runs and plays tennis) to at least get us through the first round. Finn and Drew were having none of it, though, and beat us before I was completely sure the game had started. Maybe I should have worn my reading glasses to better track that tiny ball.
Although her husband’s tennis skills weren’t helpful, Kimberly is even better and plays at level AA1. I don’t understand the ranking system, but in practical terms this means she must play with the tennis pro or someone who was on the tour in order to find decent competition. And she’s all about competition.
I’m thinking it was her insane competitive drive that carried her and the Voice of Reason’s son through to the finals against Finn and Drew. It was a ball-buster, and Drew was visibly nervous that he would let Finn down.
It was best 2 out of 3, and after the first game Finn and Drew did a few exercises to keep their wrists supple.
Finn was encouraging to Drew and put on a fabulous big brother act: “Way to save the goal, Drew. Good defense. Dude, that point was all you.”
It was sweet to watch, but his act was diluted when Finn them turned around and kicked Porter in the shins, saying, “Quit crowding me! You’re always in my way!” When I counseled him on his attitude toward Porter, he said, “I’ll be his brother, but I won’t be his friend if he keeps acting like such a baby all the time.” He has a point. Porter is socially immature, but the solution is not a kick in the scrotum, as far as I’ve read.
Finn and Drew emerged victorious and pleased with themselves, and there was much high-fiving throughout the house.
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This morning the boys were headed to the beach.
“Have you buttered the boys?” I asked Bill, who was loading his backpack with his newly purchased kite, another of his favorite beach activities. He really should have been a camp counselor.
“No, but if it’s eating you, butter them yourself,” he said.
“It’s not eating at me,” I said, and I let them go.
Our Memphis friend shook his head at the whole exchange. “I know a bunch of Yankees who’d need some serious translation for that.”
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I’m traveling with people, including my husband, who “don’t get” blogs. Bill insists I’m living in Second Life, although where he picked up that term I don’t know. He also says that writing on a blog is like putting earrings on a pig. You can call it what you want, but it’s not “real” writing, he says. He’s no different from Richard Schickel in this regard.
They’re both wrong, of course. Why should the quality of the writing be based on whether it’s published in print or on the internet?
Genital matters have come to the forefront in the barracks at Cooperstown.The coaches realized that they had more than baseball to deal with yesterday when several players complained that they were itchy underneath their baseball pants.It’s no wonder; they wear sliding shorts and play in the hot sun, then head to the barracks and trade pins and eat lunch before they shower.
They’re required to wear their bathing suits in community showers, and apparently the lack of privacy and nudity has hampered their bathing efforts.The buildup of dust and sweat in such a tender area has resulted in a condition that Bill bluntly calls “crotch rot.”Regardless of its true name, once a couple of players contracted it, the disease became a badge of honor.It’s become widespread, so although some of our guys are walking a bit gingerly, they’re holding their heads high.We’re hopeful that the tutorial on scrotal cleansing and the ointment our team doctor has administered will lick the problem.
Tuesday morning we played the North Carolina Riptide.Before the game we were warned that the Riptide had a “troublesome parent” among their fans, who would be escorted away by security if he had another outburst.This was heartening, as we had missed the holiday fireworks due to baseball, and we felt we deserved some.We spent the game leaving men on base at the end of each inning and scanning the opposing team’s fans for the offender.Could it be the man in the red polo? The one in the orange and white T-shirt?Sadly, we lost the game, the fan behaved himself and we left the game feeling we’d lost twice.
Losing doesn’t affect the spirit of our cheering section, which appears to be one of the strongest at the park.We haven’t seen another team sing the ESPN theme in harmony, act out a riptide, namecheck the players in order, or yell, “Let’s get up in their kitchen, Blaze!” or “Tag the bag!” with such fervor.We’ve recently added “Shake and Bake!” to the repertoire, which hasn’t helped the team but cracks up the stands.
Tuesday afternoon we were surprised when West Pines Florida’s high school football team showed up in baseball uniforms ready to play.The Guinness Book of World Records needs to head down there when updating its entry for “World’s Largest 12-year-old,” as the team had fourteen contenders.Finn pitched and I tried yelling, “Give ‘em your easy greasy, baby!” but he shook me off, and I reverted to more traditional forms of encouragement.
If you’re organizing a baseball team, it helps to have a parent who owns two gourmet restaurants with you.After three days of pizza and chicken fingers, parents and players were getting grumpy.We gathered at a house and worshipped at the chef’s altar as he directed the preparation of grilled chicken and flank steak, guacamole, Greek salad, and four cheese macaroni.Our able bartender Ephraim (his choice of pseudonym) continued his winning streak, serving beer, wine, and exotic mixed drinks.
Although we thought this was going to be a family vacation, I haven’t spent much time with Bill at all, as he’s staying in the barracks with the team.We’ve resorted to kissing through the fence at the start of each game.The cookout gave us time to sit down together and talk.That’s when I learned about the itch.I also found that this is many of the boys’ first experience dressing and undressing in front of others.Bill said he stripped down the other night while our pitcher looked on and said, “That just don’t bother you none at all, does it? “
I also discovered that the Cooperstown laundry service, while highly praised, hasn’t been so dependable for our team. The Blaze has sent off the correct number of uniforms but received only partials back, and Bill’s underwear is AWOL in the Park, rather than on his derriere.
We appreciate all your well wishes. Our team isn’t nearly the best here, but we’re set on having the best time of any group, and so far we’re succeeding.
Sadly, I write this missive from the Cooperstown Dreams Park infirmary where Finn is being treated for dehydration.He’s sleeping well, and this isn’t the first time I’ve posted from a medical facility.
The Birmingham Blaze has made it to the birthplace of baseball, and we’ve already survived checking into the Cooperstown Dreams Park with 97 other teams, (chaotic lines of traffic, tired travelers; nightmare), the opening ceremony, (captive audience forced to listen to unknown cheesy songs and facts about baseball for three hours before the baseball teams appeared; nightmare), and two baseball games. We won one and lost one, but counted both as wins. We lost the second game by only 11 runs and went all six innings, while the team that played them earlier lost 33-0 in three innings.
All of the players and coaches are staying in barracks within the park, and the families are staying around Cooperstown. “Around Cooperstown” should be defined broadly in the Glamore’s case, as our “resort” (more about which later) is certainly closer to Canada than Cooperstown. The “resort’s” website led me to believe that it was located much closer than it is, but that will be a different post altogether.
This is the first time that all the Blaze families have been forced to hang out together for an extended period of time, and I’m happy to report that so far there have been no fisticuffs. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies on every team, however, including one from Michigan. Word is that their coaches are fighting with each other, one parent has told another that her kid sucks at baseball, and a player got thrown out of a game for unsportsmanlike conduct.
In contrast, the Blaze fans are coming together like Jello.Our appointed Social Chairman has a well-stocked bar at the HoJo, where we report each evening for a nightcap and to rehash the day’s events.Our photographer bravely ventures over to the other team’s stands each game, so that the Blaze is photographed from every possible angle.As a bonus, she then reports on our opponent’s state of mind, and whether they are well-mannered or sending jeers and cusses our way.
Several Blaze families have high school kids, and they make up the bulk of our cheering section.When we’re not at games, “the big kids” hang out together and play a variety of intricate card games.Drew hovers at the periphery of the group, soaking in the rules like oxygen, so that he’ll be prepared the next time the cards are dealt.His highest goal for the week is to join the card game and prove himself worthy of the club.
Drew particularly idolizes one boy, a six foot two specimen named Scott.Drew shadows him, laughs hysterically at his jokes, and watches him adoringly as he goes through life in a body three times as big as Drew’s.We’re planning on a rip-roaring game of mini-golf this afternoon, and Drew is determined to be Scott’s partner.If it’s not clear by the end of the week that “the big kids” refers to the actual big kids AND Drew, it won’t be because of lack of effort on Drew’s part.
Porter, who is completely oblivious to the big kids’ innate coolness, is unknowingly foiling Drew’s plan, and Drew is growing increasingly frustrated with him.Porter acts like an inquisitive nine-year-old, which he is, while it’s obvious to Drew that mature behavior is required to hang with the big kid club.Drew is linked with Porter by blood and twinhood, but he’s resentful that Porter is spoiling his mojo.
I‘ve received word that this morning’s game was a loss (I spent the last three innings in the infirmary) and that Finn will be needed against the team we play next.That game is in a couple of hours, so his recovery will need to be mental as well as physical, and I’m better than Bill at the former.
Update: Finn is recovering nicely, so we’re off to prepare for more baseball.
I’ve about had enough of the bad jokes. Yesterday I told my friend in South Carolina that I was stopping in Greenville on my way to pick up Drew from camp, and that I thought I’d find a Jazzercise class there so I could work out after the butt-numbing ride. She wrote:
Jazzercise? Are you serious? That is SO 80’s. I thought you were so much cooler than that, but I guess I was wrong. If you can’t find a class I might have an old VHS tape of a class hanging around here, but you’ll have to bring your own leg warmers.
Ha ha. I’d put my arms up against hers any day. I’ve been Jazzercising for eight years now, and my only complaints are that our current teacher has a fondness for playing “Freeze Frame” and that every teacher feels compelled to bring out “It’s Raining Men” every single time it rains. Other than that, though, we kickbox, dance, run, and generally sweat to cool music– they even added an Amy Winehouse arm routine.
But you don’t have to take my word for it. The Jazzerladies were on the CBS Early show a few days ago, and I dare you to watch the video of these pulsating legs and locate a single legwarmer.
To Use the Pickle Player: Click the show you want to hear, press play, sit back and enjoy. To read the show notes click HERE.
In "It's Natural" I will tell your kids about the birds and the bees, but YOU must stay in the room and perform the coital finger movements.
