Archive: October 2008

Although I am hardly a sports person, my lack of interest in baseball knows no bounds.  Yes, America’s pastime has no hold on me.  I feel like the game could be exciting if the players just threw, hit, and ran as hard as they could, but it seems like a whole lot of sitting around.  I might begin to like baseball if:

• There were fewer innings.  Nine?  Come on, now. I say that five could do the job.
• The pitcher made a habit of throwing the ball to the batter, instead of first base.
• I received recognition for a success rate comparable to a decent batting average.
• The season was not eight months long.
• Players didn’t feel the need to hurl saliva all over the place.

Admittedly, I may have some unresolved issues because I still remember that feeling of helplessness when I managed to hit that softball in gym class only to have it speed toward first base ahead of me.  I have never been to a major-league game* (just a handful of minor-league ones), and I know my first-hand experience level is low.  Feel free to wax poetic about strategy, probability, the festive atmosphere of the ballpark, and the nostalgia of playing in Little League, but the fact remains that I do not like watching baseball.  I can only just tolerate baseball highlights.

Last night, JG and I had an exchange at the end of the World Series that absolutely typified my indifference toward the sport.  He invoked the “sports history clause” to break the Wednesday night TV ban, and we watched the last inning before bed.  JG spouted quick commentary as I shuffled through my routine.

[In the top of the ninth with two outs]

JG: Oh, two strikes — that guy is way behind.

(No word from RA, now blind without contacts.)

JG: Strike three!  The Phillies did it!

RA: (squints at fuzzy outlines of a Phillies pile-up) Oh.  They’re not going to do the last part?

JG: The rest of the ninth?  No, they don’t have to because the Phillies were ahead.

RA: Oh.  Yeah, that makes sense.  I probably could have put that together if I had thought about it.

JG: I didn’t think that was something you would need me to explain.

RA: No, you shouldn’t have to.  If I had realized that could have been the end, I might have cared a bit more.  Or at least put my glasses on.

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* November 18, 2008: I just remembered that I went to a Pittsburgh Pirates game in college.  It obviously had no lasting impression on me.

On Saturday, JG and I stopped by our neighbors’ Phillies-centric open house, and one of the people we met there asked how long we’d lived next door. I paused before I answered, startled, “Almost three years, now.”

Yes, three years ago today, our friends arrived at our apartment, where we waited with juice and donuts. I had arranged all of our things according to where they could be packed (the piles were marked, “heavy,” “okay anywhere,” and “fragile”), and each red Staples box was labeled with contents and future destination. We loaded up the various vehicles and carted everything across the Pennsylvania border and to the new house. Our one-bedroom place barely needed any furniture, and the job was done in less than three hours. JG’s parents graciously provided lunch for everyone, and we plopped in front of our little 12-inch television, rabbit ears and all, to watch the Penn State game.

I went back to the apartment with one girlfriend to gather up the last few items while JG let our capable friends loose in the house with the vague directive, “Unpacked is better than not!” Uh, what? Things ended up hither and yon, so by dinnertime, we were basically “unpacked,” although not exactly organized, much to my chagrin. Regardless, one of our friends painstakingly organized all of the books, and my mother-in-law washed the newspaper-wrapped dishes. I had little reason to complain. That night, we all went to a local pumpkin-carving contest, and I had a little thrill at being a real local.

I guess we’ve accomplished a bit in our three years. JG painted six rooms one summer, we bought a couch and a guest bed, we spent a Saturday organized the laundry room, JG installed an invisible fence, we introduced a dog without destroying our major pieces, we inherited a dining room set from my in-laws, and we bought matching bedroom furniture. To the casual onlooker, our house looks pretty composed and intentional.

But, oh, I can’t help but focus on the vertical blinds on every window and uncomfortably thin carpet in our bedroom. The house is this ever-demanding mistress of repairs, upgrades, and tweaks. I might enjoy it if I were halfway decent at design, but I’m not, and there is never enough money.

Despite that, when I have my fair share of perspective, I love our house. I love our green room, the kitchen island we found for $15 at a yard sale, and the picture ledges that are miraculously level. There were times of heartache, like when my lovely big clock fell off the wall and shattered, or when a pipe burst under the sink on a Sunday, but figuring out how to handle our little homestead has been an adventure.

When JG and I bought this house, we knew it wouldn’t be what we call our “forever house.” But it’s okay if our “for now house” ends up lasting us a long time.

I have committed to write an “alumni retrospective” for the UD English department newsletter. Apparently, my professor didn’t realize that she had asked little, twenty-something me. I am panicking. What the heck can I say about being an alumnus?*

In my mind, a self-respecting representative of the English department will be able to look back on her years in the department with misty-eyed nostalgia. There will be vignettes of studious discussion groups in the hallowed classrooms of Memorial Hall, and maybe a tweed jacket with suede elbow pads. Perhaps there is an insightful word of wisdom about how following the call of literature and rhetoric makes one’s life more peaceful and fulfilled, or something. Most importantly, there is time elapsed. My measly few years out of student life barely qualify me to remember anything! Shouldn’t I have at least gone through my ten-year high-school reunion before I’m allowed to write anything like this?

But, no. My professor contacted me through my boss (also a graduate of the same program), and she was in dire straits for a piece to publish. I edit the department newsletter at work, so I empathized, and now the deadline is looming.

I am afraid that a crusty, old graduate of the department will see my graduation year and pass off my whippersnapper piece as flighty or superficial, just because I have not been loosed upon the real world for very long. I am afraid that the old guy will conclude that I do not actually have something to add to the alumni retrospective viewpoint. I am afraid that this hypothetical geezer will be correct.

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*One of my biggest pet peeves** is when a graduate of whatever institution refers to oneself as “an alumni.” No. Singular: alumnus (occasionally, alumna). Plural: alumni.

** See also: criterion/criteria.

Recent good things:

• Delaware beat Hofstra on Saturday for their first win in three games.  Oh, and our starting and back-up quarterbacks were out with injuries, so a tight end and a wide receiver shared the duties.
• We hosted the third annual Penn State football get-together with a handful of camp friends.  Mm, chili.
• Ted was the darling of the party, and one of our friends even admitted that a smaller dog might not be annoying to own.
• Penn State beat Ohio State to remain undefeated and pave the way toward a big bowl game berth.
• Whether it was from all of his socializing during the football game or two days of sick-day snuggling, Ted slept like a log on Sunday.  On my lap.  The cuteness was almost too much.
• My cold dwindled to a nagging, infrequent cough.
• I took advantage of the free flu shot at work today.
• Best of all, after the nurse put a circus-themed bandage over the injection site, she pointed to a box and said, “Help yourself to a lollipop!”  Ooh, Dum Dums!  I tried not to appear too eager as I rummaged for my coveted root beer flavor, but I totally scored.