Pitching the American Game

As the movie 42 swept the nation, even I made the effort to go see it. Granted, I did have a free movie pass, so that only further motivated the hopelessly frugal side of me. I had been thinking a lot about the American game in the past months before I saw Chadwick Boseman's fabulous bat at Jackie Robinson's character. Boseman hit it home. This would be a good time to warn my reader of the terrible baseball analogies to come throughout this post. However, if you are in a cheesy mood, you're in the right place.

My cousins are a baseball family, six boys and one girl, with a total count of nine teammates. Recently, my sister and I have been to a couple of the boys' games at Long Beach State and Orange Coast College. Let me tell you, sometimes it takes someone close to heart to understand something otherwise you would never really appreciate: baseball.



Long Beach State game

What caught my attention was the silent moment before the pitch. Filled with tension and the unknown, the pitcher and catcher subtly communicate with funky signs and hand motions. On the mound after shaking off a pitch a few times, the pitcher and catcher come to agreement and decide on what is to come. Then, the tension before the pitch sets in: stomping feet like a bull, slyly checking on the runners, and winding up with one knee to the sky. In scientific terms, the potential energy peaks at this moment.

As I see it, baseball is a game of patiently waiting for action, quick decisions when the action comes, and then assuming the position of patience yet again. From what I remember of my first and only(laughable) season playing softball in 8th grade, staying in the game was all mental. It could drive you mental, too, if you didn't play it right.

That being said, the other day my dad made an analogy to baseball and the game of life sitting with his aging dad. It was a few weeks ago when we were visiting our grandparents in Florida at their senior living center, a relatively new situation for the couple. Grandpa Palmer, an 89-year-old WWII Purple Heart Veteran and former Chicago cop is a tough guy and is used to keeping busy. Now, he has a grumpy old man attitude about selling the house and living in this new place. I can't blame him- they take care of everything for him so he is left with nothing to do.




Grandpa Palmer and son on the Gulf

After a few days of visiting with my lovely grandparents, my dad's baseball analogy came out of left field while conversing with Grandpa the night before our departure. It went something like this: "You know Dad, some may think of life as a baseball game; that last pitch can be just as important as the first, the game winner even. The last inning could change everything." Grandpa kind of grumbled over the point, saying something about counting his blessings, and moving on to the topic of organizing his investments before his passing. But the message struck home for me.

The message I heard was that of making progress in every pitch, before every play, after every error, and through all the tense moments. Making progress we play the American game every day up to our last, awaiting moments of action and appreciating the tension in the silence. How is that for some cheesy food for thought? I believe Jackie Robinson would agree that each moment matters, for a homerun is just a pitch away.

Gaga for Good, Not Great

We know of the world's greatest: Steve Jobs of Apple, Messi on the pitch, and Sasha Fierce at the Superbowl halftime show. But I know good. Here's a poem dedicated to my Grandpa McWeeney, who has known the two sure things in life being death and taxes, and has lived with the other uncertainties one day at time. Now arriving at 97 years old, three cheers to the good man:

He was great at it all.

From making sandwiches to making smiles
From riding his bike to walking miles
Cook lemon chicken, that he'd do
Pasta primavera, indeed that too.

He was a classy man.

From head to toe, no denying it.
From shoelace to collar, the perfect fit.
White hat and green jacket
We'll never forget.

A family man.

He combed their hair
A 20 minute nap, back into the lair.
For every special date,
Memorizing the license plate.

A true Renaissance man.

Yet to pull a boast from him-
More likely you'll get toast with jam,
With all your might, I doubt you could.
The best of his greatness, he was so good.

You've Got Mail, Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Who doesn't love the feeling of getting a soulful piece of mail? Not the bills or advertisements; rather the thoughtfully written, sealed and sent letter from a good friend. I have a few nostalgic tendencies, and snail mail is my favorite by far. Whenever I am feeling down, these notes grow a smile and all my pearly whites see the break of day. Sometimes, I'll admit, revisiting past letters can draw out tears as well. When I studied abroad in Spain, nothing comforted me more than receiving a few gems from home including my "Happy 21st Birthday" chocolate cake shot from my bartending brother, wrapped in a bandana (1 part kettle one, one part kahlua, sugar on the edge, lemon to chase and it tastes just like a piece of chocolate birthday cake). Amazing that it even made it overseas, unharmed. Other good mail gems I've received over the years include Anne's stationary from Berlin; Jenny's handpainted card from India; the singing birthday cards I got in college every year from my mom; and a cat-shaped letter from Cate in Italy. If you could capture the joy of mail in a jar, it would surely make fireworks and then explode once you tried to put a lid on it.



Patiently waiting for the mail, courtesy of Creative Commons

For every yin there is a yang. The downside of snail mail is the waiting game. Void of modern speed and delivery assurance, there is a certain mystery to the mail you send. Will they recieve it? When? How? When will they respond? How long do I wait for a response? These are some parallel feelings to the macrogame of life that we are all playing together, as really I find our patience is always being tested. We wait to get test results, anticipating the best and preparing for the worst. We wait to be accepted into a dream graduate program, unsure of where we may be placed. Our patience is tested as we wait 9 months for the baby to come, hoping everything goes well. We anxiously apply to jobs as we wait to see where we may land. In the anticipation, though, we learn patience. We must. And behind patience is hope, as hope is the only thing that can make the waiting game endurable.

A lot of our lives is a test to our patience, up until our final breath. We don't know what path our life might take, as much as we try to plan for and pursue certain opportunities, careers, and lifestyles. Thus, we become patient people, hoping that we will get that neatly wrapped package with the pretty bow on it soon, and yet fully prepared for a mangled disheartening package as well. Knowing that we are all in it together, I believe we should make it easier on each other whenever possible. A smile, a lift, and a thank-you go further than you'd imagine. And hey, why not take a moment out of worrying about the future and spend some time frolicking in the fields. Okay, maybe there is no field to be frolicked in near you, but a park will do.

Perhaps, somewhere over the rainbow, we will feel something like this:

 

Profile: Mike the Bike

I wanted to share a poem I wrote for my brother on his 21st birthday. So here's a tribute to my not-so-little brother:

Mike the Bike ain't no tyke anymore.
Now he's all grown, chin fuzz his own,
And plans on his mind to soar.
Ain't no Mike I don't like,
Though some I truly favor.
Microwaves I can do without,
They rob away the flavor.
Microphones? Don't need their help,
I alone can hollar and yelp.
Microsoft, another type of monster,
Though keys and cookies ain't that gangster.
But Mike the Bike, you grass-eatin' rascal
No doubt in my mind, you win the tackle.
Ain't no Mike I could love more
Right on down to your soccer-lovin',
Bear-huggin', side-pinchin' core. 

Hidden Treasures in Optimism

Omar and Arcelia from 107.5 Superestrella radio told me that if you want to lower your cholesteral without working out, without a pill, without a diet, you could try optimism. A study at Harvard recently concluded that an optimistic attitude equates to lower cholesterol. Though it sounds like bogus, perhaps that is grandpa's old cough medicine. When it comes down to all the problems, obstacles, and heartaches we have to endure, doesn't our attitude change everything? How we handle things internally determines more than we know.

All from a grain of sand, Courtesy of Creative Commons

We can find hidden treasures even in the most desperate situations. For example, one day 6-year-old Jaylee and I went to the park looking for adventure. Imaginative Jaylee started looking for hidden treasure in the sand at the playground. Determined that the "X's" (that so magically appeared in the sand) were signs for treasure, she dug and dug and ended up finding a dollar underneath an "X". Truth be told, an inconspicuous 6-year-old was marking the sand, and an incognito 22-year-old snuck the dollar under one of Jaylee's treasure marks. And, just like that, with a little bit of improvisation, we had an adventurous day at the park complete with treasure. What we make of it, hiding a dollar in the sandbox to find a treasure for Jaylee. Turns out, our life is all what we make of it.

So next time you are worried about ordering egg whites, deciding to go on an extra-long jog, or looking at medicine to lower cholesteral, consider going the optimistic route and try changing your attitude in stressful situations. Attention: Please note this is coming from a completely unprofessional source, and that I have no medical background. But I do take the optimistic pill and have no problems with cholesterol.

Revelation Under a Book's Cover

Never judge a book by it's cover. I've never agreed with that. In fact, I learn a lot from a cover. A title draws my attention, in hopes of having me reach for it on the bookshelf. A cover picture hints at the genre; autobiography and trashy love stories have very different images. The reviews taunt me to peep inside. If I know the author, I am only more encouraged to read the first few lines. Just like that, I am hooked.

Some people are really good at covering up what is going on inside. Me, not so much. I've discovered with some past experiences that I am quite transparent and easy to read, in the most literal sense. Sad? My shoulders sink, my face droops, and I exude frowns from my pores. Even if I say I'm doing alright, there is no doubt that I'm at the tipping point of bursting into tears. Happy? My feet bounce, my hips shake, and my hair stands on ends. I can't close my mouth, nor stop moving, and purple electric waves energize the world around me. No, I am not exaggerating. 

That is why I am so impressed with how well others can conceal what is going on inside of them. There is so much pain in life, and yet people cover it up. It is more natural to stand independent and strong, rather than admitting to weakness. Understandably so, because you put yourself in a very vulnerable state when you do open the book and reveal the deep story within. We instead improvise and create; we make two bookends to keep the pages of our lives from scattering in the wind and across the ocean.

 I recently spoke with a dear friend who is valiantly overcoming a bout of depression. As she reflects on her past state of mind, I am amazed at how our mind can rationalize a situation even when our body is telling us to halt immediately. Still, we don't listen! We endure, and create what seems to be a kryptonite spine from the peripheral view. Yet that spine is bound to fall apart as soon as we open the cover. I am taking this metaphor too far, so I need to get to my point: what do you have on your cover? Do you show the true blue you or are you ambiguously auburn? Both are human ways of experiencing life, but it couldn't hurt to recognize where you are at on the spectrum and let someone (maybe it's you) look beyond that enticing book cover. 

Finding Your Inner Dog

Courtesy of Creative Commons

If you have spent enough time with me, you might remember me ranting about my jealousy towards birds. I mean look at all the places they get to go and all of the things that they get away with! Us mere humans have to follow man-made rules about monuments that birds just don't understand. I am pretty sure birds know it is not appropriate to take a dump on a Lincoln statue, but they are pretending to be oblivious.

As much as I love the idea of adventure and freedom that must come with wings, I am also learning the value in staying, rather than flying away. I found out the other day I didn't get the Fulbright grant I was so hopeful for. That would have carried me away for another year to Argentina. My instinct is to find another place to go visit; in fact, I'm itching for it. But I believe as I am in this transitional stage, I need to stay. Stay, Maggie, stay, as if commanding a dog. Dogs are obedient, loyal animals and those are virtues needed for commitment (discussed in my previous post). I never had a dog growing up; I had a turtle. But perhaps it is time to nurture the dog in me.

Dog Zen Inspiration, Creative Commons

It is not natural for me, so I accept it as a challenge. In the meantime, I find adventures within the old stomping grounds. For example, taking piano classes at an adult school with my awesome friend Aja. For example, taking my other wonderful friend Raha to visit Crystal Cove beach. Or, if I must share my dorkiest of past times, checking out the different libraries in the Orange County area. Any suggestions for local adventure are graciously welcomed!