Let me give you the moral of the story first: You never know who's looking. And you never know how much they look up to you.
This true-life fable started last Thursday, when my wife, daughter and father-in-law went out to a restaurant. (Parker and I went home to make sure the Wii still worked.) They had been there a few minutes when a bus pulled up. The bus was hauling the Chattahoochee Valley Community College softball team from Phenix City, Ala., in town for a weekend tournament.
My daughter felt a connection immediately as, to her, anyone from Alabama surely is a Bama fan (even if they're from down near Opelika). Plus, this was an honest-to-goodness softball team. With Allie's tryouts for the 10-year-old league only a few days away, this was, to her, like seeing the Atlanta Braves walk into the joint.
She mustered up the courage to go and speak with the team, asking for pointers on what she should do at her tryout. They were more than helpful, and Allie became an immediate fan of the CVCC Lady Pirates.
On Saturday, Allie said over and over that she wanted to head to Citizens Park to see CVCC play. That, she told us, was HER team now, and she had to root them on. We finally made our way over to the fields around 3:30 p.m. The team was practicing on one field as other games unfolded throughout the park. We stood behind the fence as two players practiced hitting, one of the women hitting several balls over the fence near us. Allie retrieved the balls and took them to the fence, where the players approached. "Hey, you're the girl from the restaurant!" one said. Allie beamed. They told us they were playing in the championship game at 4 p.m. When that hour arrived, we were there in the bleachers, waiting to cheer on CVCC.
We stood out, as a community college softball team from Alabama usually doesn't have a big local following when they play in South Carolina. One mother even approached my wife and asked, simply out of curiosity, why we were there cheering them on. My wife's explanation seemed to make her proud.
As we watched the game, we saw this team was something special. They had an amazing energy. Cheers, high-fives, chants, dances. This was a team Allie was born to follow. And emulate.
As the innings played on, we noticed the team, before taking the field, would huddle at a poster hung on the fence. I slipped onto the field to see what they were all touching together as a team. It was a poster of a cherubic faced teen named Mallory Garmon. It had the quote, "No one better than you right here." In the dugout, Mallory's No. 23 jersey hung. I then saw a pink T-shirt on the back of one of the fan's chairs - it had the No. 23, and the words "In Loving Memory of Mallory Garmon."
I quickly looked her up online on my phone. Mallory, the pride and joy of Elmore, Ala., was on a softball scholarship to CVCC when she died in a car crash in October 2010. They were playing this game - and every game - for her.
CVCC started out strong, putting seven runs on the board in the first inning. The game got tight as it went on, but the opposing team never could top the spirit of CVCC. CVCC won, 15-14.
At the end of the game, they did something that made a little girl forever have some big league idols. They gave Allie the game ball. And when they gathered for a team picture, they had Allie hold Mallory's jersey. "You've gotta be somebody special to hold Mallory's jersey," one of the players told Allie.
I don't know any of the young women on the CVCC team. I doubt I will ever cross paths with them again. But I hope they know the indelible mark they left on a 10-year-old girl in South Carolina. They taught a lesson of teamwork, of sportsmanship, of loyalty.
Allie said she wants the game ball to be her "practice ball," and I think that's a fine idea. When she takes the field for her first game, I hope she will carry the spirit of CVCC with her. And throughout her endeavors in life, I want her to always have fun and enjoy the journey, the way the CVCC team did. And I want her to always remember: She will one day be the woman some little girl looks up to.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Mommy fix
Sometimes, you just need a big ol' bowl of Mommy.
The other day, my son was not feeling well. He's 7, and one of the easy ways to tell that he's not feeling well is to note how frequently he gets frustrated.
On this day, it was a lot. And I mean a lot. Little things were frustrating him. A Lego couldn't be found. His pet fish was on the wrong side of the bowl. The Capri Sun straw went in just a bit off center. You know, major league day ruiners.
I was feeling pretty punky myself, so I decided the best cure for both of us would be to lounge on the bed and watch some television. That, as you can guess, frustrated Parker. He said he wanted to lie on the floor and play a game on my phone. Fine. Whatever.
This was about 5 p.m. After only a few minutes, I fell asleep. I woke up around 6:30 p.m., and by now it was dark outside. I glanced around the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I couldn't see anything. But I could hear the soft, rhythmic sounds of a tiny log being sawed. The Dude was crashed out, asleep on the floor.
I don't recall him taking a nap in years, so it was clear he needed some shut-eye. That said, I knew he hadn't eaten supper, so I decided I would get him up long enough to get something in his tummy and then get him back to sleep (probably just setting him back on the floor, because, hey, he looked comfy).
In retrospect, I probably should have just left him on the floor. He has averaged three meals a day for his entire life, so I am guessing skipping one dinner was not going to result in his demise.
But the damage had been done, and I had him up and was carrying him downstairs as he started to come to. "Do you want some mac and cheese?" I asked? "Uh-huh," he replied groggily.
I made him some mac and cheese, which takes a whopping 90 seconds. During that minute and a half, The Dude had retreated to the stairs and wedged himself on a step and fallen back asleep.
"Parker," I said, "your dinner is ready."
And cue the frustration.
"No." he said.
"Yes," I said, "it is."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. You said you wanted mac and cheese. It's ready."
"I ... don't ... want ... mac ... and ... cheese."
Now, mind you he was not being defiant just for giggles. He was half-asleep and already in a funk. I picked him up off the stairs, figuring the delicious aroma of warm mac and cheese would get him going.
He sat at the table. "I don't want mac and cheese. And will your turn on Curious George?" he asked. It all started making sense. Curious George is on PBS in the mornings before school. He was partially out of sorts because he thought it was morning and that, quite frankly, a big ol' bowl of mac and cheese for breakfast was kinda odd.
"Parker," I said, "it's not morning. It's still nighttime. You only took a nap."
"Yes, it is!" he insisted.
This was going to be a tough argument to win. OK, new strategy - carry on like it's morning, get some food in is tummy, and tell him he can sleep a few minutes before school.
"Hey, how about a bowl of oatmeal?"
He looked up at me. "How about a bowl of Mommy?"
That was not on the menu, as Mommy was at the store. He stuck to his guns, insisted a bowl of Mommy would make it all better. I assured myself he was speaking metaphorically.
When Mommy got home, it was as if she had returned from a four-year voyage. He was in bed soon (even having downed a bowl of oatmeal).
But two very important lessons were learned: (1) Sometimes it takes a bowl of Mommy to make things better, and (2) just let 'em keep sleeping on the floor.
The other day, my son was not feeling well. He's 7, and one of the easy ways to tell that he's not feeling well is to note how frequently he gets frustrated.
On this day, it was a lot. And I mean a lot. Little things were frustrating him. A Lego couldn't be found. His pet fish was on the wrong side of the bowl. The Capri Sun straw went in just a bit off center. You know, major league day ruiners.
I was feeling pretty punky myself, so I decided the best cure for both of us would be to lounge on the bed and watch some television. That, as you can guess, frustrated Parker. He said he wanted to lie on the floor and play a game on my phone. Fine. Whatever.
This was about 5 p.m. After only a few minutes, I fell asleep. I woke up around 6:30 p.m., and by now it was dark outside. I glanced around the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I couldn't see anything. But I could hear the soft, rhythmic sounds of a tiny log being sawed. The Dude was crashed out, asleep on the floor.
I don't recall him taking a nap in years, so it was clear he needed some shut-eye. That said, I knew he hadn't eaten supper, so I decided I would get him up long enough to get something in his tummy and then get him back to sleep (probably just setting him back on the floor, because, hey, he looked comfy).
In retrospect, I probably should have just left him on the floor. He has averaged three meals a day for his entire life, so I am guessing skipping one dinner was not going to result in his demise.
But the damage had been done, and I had him up and was carrying him downstairs as he started to come to. "Do you want some mac and cheese?" I asked? "Uh-huh," he replied groggily.
I made him some mac and cheese, which takes a whopping 90 seconds. During that minute and a half, The Dude had retreated to the stairs and wedged himself on a step and fallen back asleep.
"Parker," I said, "your dinner is ready."
And cue the frustration.
"No." he said.
"Yes," I said, "it is."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. You said you wanted mac and cheese. It's ready."
"I ... don't ... want ... mac ... and ... cheese."
Now, mind you he was not being defiant just for giggles. He was half-asleep and already in a funk. I picked him up off the stairs, figuring the delicious aroma of warm mac and cheese would get him going.
He sat at the table. "I don't want mac and cheese. And will your turn on Curious George?" he asked. It all started making sense. Curious George is on PBS in the mornings before school. He was partially out of sorts because he thought it was morning and that, quite frankly, a big ol' bowl of mac and cheese for breakfast was kinda odd.
"Parker," I said, "it's not morning. It's still nighttime. You only took a nap."
"Yes, it is!" he insisted.
This was going to be a tough argument to win. OK, new strategy - carry on like it's morning, get some food in is tummy, and tell him he can sleep a few minutes before school.
"Hey, how about a bowl of oatmeal?"
He looked up at me. "How about a bowl of Mommy?"
That was not on the menu, as Mommy was at the store. He stuck to his guns, insisted a bowl of Mommy would make it all better. I assured myself he was speaking metaphorically.
When Mommy got home, it was as if she had returned from a four-year voyage. He was in bed soon (even having downed a bowl of oatmeal).
But two very important lessons were learned: (1) Sometimes it takes a bowl of Mommy to make things better, and (2) just let 'em keep sleeping on the floor.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Farewell, oatmeal
Dear Quaker Oats,
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I have decided to see other oatmeal.
No, no, don't cry. Stop. Listen to me.
We have been together for a long time, some 30 years, by my count.
I remember when I was little, and you came into my life. My mom would often make us regular oatmeal. Like most children, we would try and hurry through the regular oatmeal because, let's be honest - that container made an awesome drum.
But there were times when a quicker path to a nice warm breakfast was needed, and that is where you came into play, with your delicious Instant Oatmeal. (It was not instant, as you well know, as you still had to heat water, put it in a bowl, etc. But I suppose your marketing crews decided Really Quick Oatmeal or It Will Be Ready Before the Toast Oatmeal didn't have the same zing.)
As a child, I normally had three packets of your delicious maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal. Oftentimes, my mother would buy the variety pack. I would sometimes suffer through the cinnamon and spice or apples and cinnamon. Some mornings, I would pick up the box to see the only thing left in there were a couple of the regular packets. And there they would stay, as no one in the history of mankind has eaten the regular packets of oatmeal from the Variety Pack. They are like those packets of silica that comes in an electronics box.
But for the most part, I stuck with maple and brown sugar. You were my comfort food. Most mornings growing up, that was my breakfast. I took you to college with me. You came with me to my first apartment after college. I even passed my love of you onto my children. Yes, for three decades we started most every morning together, even though I have since throttled back to a mere two packs each morning.
Quaker, I would love to say the old cliche of "It's not you, it's me." But I gotta be honest with you here - it's you. You changed.
It started a year ago or so, when I served up my morning ritual bowl of oatmeal. I took a bite and immediately noticed it tasted different from my normal bowl. I went to check the box to make sure I had not inadvertently served up those silica packets.
Turns out, Quaker, you got yourself on a little health kick and are now producing a maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal with 50 percent less sugar. Hey, good for you for offering healthy alternatives, but I gotta tell you, to me - it was 50 percent less enjoyable.
But you still had the old standby instant oatmeal, so we could stay together, even if you did package the midlife crisis oatmeal in a box remarkably similar to my usual offering.
And then, Quaker, you have become someone I didn't even know any more. One morning, I took a bite of ... something different. On your website, you boast that you've added "bigger oats for a heartier texture." You even tell us, "We're making our oatmeal better, starting with some of your favorite flavors, so you can be amazing."
You know what was amazing? Thirty years of eating the same breakfast and looking forward to it every day. If I will consume around 10,000 bowls of something, here's a thought - maybe it doesn't need to be better. Maybe it was already pretty darn good.
But, alas, you have decided to turn yourself into something different. And so I must move on. I have tried a few other oatmeals, and none have quite hit the bullseye like you did for so many years. I will keep searching and maybe find a new morning staple.
It is sad to close this chapter in our life, as you were a good and faithful oatmeal. I hate to see you go. But you do what you have to do.
Love,
Mike
P.S. If you have a few dozen crates of the old stuff lying around, I'll take them off your hands.
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I have decided to see other oatmeal.
No, no, don't cry. Stop. Listen to me.
We have been together for a long time, some 30 years, by my count.
I remember when I was little, and you came into my life. My mom would often make us regular oatmeal. Like most children, we would try and hurry through the regular oatmeal because, let's be honest - that container made an awesome drum.
But there were times when a quicker path to a nice warm breakfast was needed, and that is where you came into play, with your delicious Instant Oatmeal. (It was not instant, as you well know, as you still had to heat water, put it in a bowl, etc. But I suppose your marketing crews decided Really Quick Oatmeal or It Will Be Ready Before the Toast Oatmeal didn't have the same zing.)
As a child, I normally had three packets of your delicious maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal. Oftentimes, my mother would buy the variety pack. I would sometimes suffer through the cinnamon and spice or apples and cinnamon. Some mornings, I would pick up the box to see the only thing left in there were a couple of the regular packets. And there they would stay, as no one in the history of mankind has eaten the regular packets of oatmeal from the Variety Pack. They are like those packets of silica that comes in an electronics box.
But for the most part, I stuck with maple and brown sugar. You were my comfort food. Most mornings growing up, that was my breakfast. I took you to college with me. You came with me to my first apartment after college. I even passed my love of you onto my children. Yes, for three decades we started most every morning together, even though I have since throttled back to a mere two packs each morning.
Quaker, I would love to say the old cliche of "It's not you, it's me." But I gotta be honest with you here - it's you. You changed.
It started a year ago or so, when I served up my morning ritual bowl of oatmeal. I took a bite and immediately noticed it tasted different from my normal bowl. I went to check the box to make sure I had not inadvertently served up those silica packets.
Turns out, Quaker, you got yourself on a little health kick and are now producing a maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal with 50 percent less sugar. Hey, good for you for offering healthy alternatives, but I gotta tell you, to me - it was 50 percent less enjoyable.
But you still had the old standby instant oatmeal, so we could stay together, even if you did package the midlife crisis oatmeal in a box remarkably similar to my usual offering.
And then, Quaker, you have become someone I didn't even know any more. One morning, I took a bite of ... something different. On your website, you boast that you've added "bigger oats for a heartier texture." You even tell us, "We're making our oatmeal better, starting with some of your favorite flavors, so you can be amazing."
You know what was amazing? Thirty years of eating the same breakfast and looking forward to it every day. If I will consume around 10,000 bowls of something, here's a thought - maybe it doesn't need to be better. Maybe it was already pretty darn good.
But, alas, you have decided to turn yourself into something different. And so I must move on. I have tried a few other oatmeals, and none have quite hit the bullseye like you did for so many years. I will keep searching and maybe find a new morning staple.
It is sad to close this chapter in our life, as you were a good and faithful oatmeal. I hate to see you go. But you do what you have to do.
Love,
Mike
P.S. If you have a few dozen crates of the old stuff lying around, I'll take them off your hands.
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