Up

A great quote from eight year-old Russell to Carl Fredricksen in the movie Up: "It might sound boring but I kinda think it's the boring stuff I remember the most."

In the backyard...

I wrote this in June of last summer. It was the start of something bigger that never got bigger. Perhaps it's the constant Wisconsin snowfall that makes me wax nostalgic for baseball, back porches, and fastballs, but I thought I'd post.

Our yard is a forty-five minute yard. Since the summers of my high school years when I spent hours—if not days—behind the mower, I’ve calculated yard size in terms of minutes it takes to cut rather than acreage. Each afternoon and evening, however, the forty-five minute yard transforms into a major league ballpark, complete with bases (flimsy rubber Franklin squares), a PA system (outdoor speakers pumping the Sandlot soundtrack), a monstrous centerfield wall (the swing set), a dugout (the porch steps), a backstop (the bushes and shrubs fronting the porch) and luxury seats behind the plate (the back porch). The participants are usually Dodgers, sometimes Pirates (Caleb and Owen) and the pitcher is a former Cy Young Award Winner (me…okay, the 1989 Latrobe Little League Pitcher’s Award Winner.) Mama, in typical fashion, serves several roles: sometimes a vendor peddling wares from Freeze-Pops to Chex Mix and Apple Juice, sometimes a left-fielder, sometimes an umpire, always a fan.

Some ground rules and memories:
1. If a pitch is outside and Caleb swings and misses, it can still—and usually is—a ball.
2. I have several pitches: slow ball, heater, and super-fast heater.
3. Caleb always knows the count, the number of outs, and the score. It is not uncommon for me to be down 20-0 at the end of the first.
4. “Low and outside, just like I like it,” said by the famous Hamilton Porter, has been quoted hundreds of times on Schall Field (ordinary name—still awaiting corporate sponsorship) this summer.
5. Occasionally, Caleb plays the field against Owen. And despite being tagged multiple times by his turncoat brother, Owen will continue to run.
6. Caleb tells Owen to stop at each base, presumably to pad his RBI total. Last week, Caleb’s base running instructions to his wayward teammates was, “Stop at second, Owen. Listen to me, please!” Owen prefers triples and finds few things funnier than being chased with the ball.
7. Eye black is used regularly by the Dodgers, er, Caleb and Owen.
8. Weak ground balls back to the pitcher are often inexplicably ruled foul balls.

This Week's Top Plays
6/24: I blew two fastballs (read: underhand tosses, or slow balls) past Owen today. After coming up empty, Owen looked at me and said, “I love you, Daddy.” Batters rarely show this much affection for the pitcher, with the exception of opposing batters’ joy of seeing Ian Snell and his feckless fastball.

6/22: Monday night’s game came to a sudden but temporary halt when poop was discovered near first base. Caleb reported “cat poop” on the field after legging out an infield single. Upon inspection, I would have guessed a deer or thirty-seven cats defecated near the first base line. Caleb insisted the game must go on without the pesky delay of clean-up. When I told Caleb to get away from there, he incredulously said, “But that’s where first base is!” I never quite seem to see the big picture.

Caleb gets the stuffing knocked out of him on Thanksgiving

Turkey Trot 2009

The First Annual Turkey Trot was run Sunday, November 29. The Kids' race featured seven athletes and was run from the Schall mailbox to Caleb's buddy's house (with a water break in the middle). The Old People's Run featured three former athletes venturing through Settler's Walk's three-mile course. (For the feeling of accomplishment, we like to round that up to 16 miles.) The race began with a pep talk, calisthenics, and the music of Archie Eversole ("We Ready," recorded--not live because of a booking glitch). The race concluded with a coloring contest. Thanks to Teri for this video.

Happy Birthday, Teri

Story Time

Not many three year-olds can read. And neither can Owen. But he thinks he can. And that creates much more interesting video footage.

The Batting Stance Kid

Back When Mustaches Roamed the Infield

Caleb and Owen were watching the Pirates tonight.  Yeah, I don't why either.  To illustrate the "team's" current futility, the other night when Caleb and Owen attempted to don their professional ball player personas for the backyard slugfest, Caleb--after announcing they would be the Pirates (Yeah, I don't know why either) quickly called, "I'm Andrew McCutcheon."  Owen, who months ago would have jumped at the opportunity to be Nate McLouth, Nyjer Morgan, Freddy Sanchez, or Jack Wilson, was left befuddled.  He said, "I'm--uh--I'm...Daddy, who can I be?"  We settled on Lastings Milledge, which prior to three weeks ago, I would have bet was a) a law firm, b) a souvenir shop in New Hampshire, c) a minister in Lancaster County.  But since we clearly thought Lastings Milledge best fit Owen's skill set,--okay, since we couldn't name another Bucco, Owen was Lastings Milledge.  But back to the first sentence.  The boys were watching a lesson in futility: the Pirates vs. the Cardinals.  

A Cardinal, Brendan Ryan, appeared on the screen.  Caleb said, "That guy looks like he's from 1986!"  Brendan Ryan was looking very Backman-like in his newly grown mustache.  See below.

I then remembered that Caleb (the only five-year old to have done this this summer) had watched games 5 and 6 of the 1986 NLCS between the Mets and Astros that aired on the Major League Baseball Network.  Back in 1986, Wally Backman and Keith Hernandez were doing their best Magnum P.I. impersonations.  (See below.)  A pretty sharp observations for Caleb.  I would expect him to start growing his mustache any day now.

(Yes, Hernandez is smoking a dugout cigarette.)

Two Wheels

Owen is a couple of years younger than Caleb.  At the time of this post, Caleb is 5, Owen 3.  Owen models Caleb's every endeavor and expects the same result as Caleb despite being two years his junior.  Often this leads to frustration, but sometimes--like the other night--he shocks us with what he can do.  Here is Owen, leaving both his training wheels and fear in the garage, as he hops on Caleb's bike and takes to the sidewalks of Pioneer Drive.

Amish Cowboys

If you know Teri, you know that she loves—in no particular order and to varying degrees—her family, sweat pants, Jesus, TLC, and Amish people. It’s been said that she and her mom once successfully stalked Central Pennsylvania on the hunt for the Amish. So it was a joyous event when, on the return trip from Cape May, we saw some Amish folk at a Somerset rest stop. (They presumably have accepted fast food pizza and Cokes into their lifestyle...if not yet zippers.) Owen shared his mother’s fascination with the Amish, but did not share his mother’s tact (tact--like the time when I had to snap a picture of her as she was strategically placed to maximize the Amish people-filled background at, ironically, a different rest stop). Owen—always at maximum volume—this time while pointing, quizzically asked, “Who’s that cowboy? Who’s that cowboy?” Straw hats, cowboy hats—close enough.

Number Three

The title wasn't meant to raise the hopes of anyone wishing for Caleb and Owen to have a younger sibling, nor was it to cause consternation for anyone who shirks at the idea of Owen as older brother. You'll see.

Owen picked this past week to take the plunge into underwear. That's great and all...but we were at the beach, hundreds of yards from the nearest toilet. Seeing how such advice would lead to a lifetime of confusion, I fought the urge to tell Owen that it's okay sometimes to pee in the ocean. To compound matters and to increase the frequency of our beach to hotel shuttle service, Owen was suffering from, what is known in medical circles as, diarrhea. So Teri and I took turns lugging the kid back to the hotel for him to take care of his newly found business.

The first time this ritual took place, Owen--with his volume at its max--excitedly re-appeared on the beach scene with this proud proclamation: "DADDY, I POOPED ON THE POTTY AND IT WASN'T DIARRHEA!" The Jersey shore, no doubt, shared our joy if not our embarrassment.

A couple hours later, Owen informed us once again that he had to make another pilgrimage. Teri once again accompanied the bladder-challenged boy (so I exaggerated the "took turns" part mentioned above).

When the pee-clock (the clock that sounds an alarm when the time it takes to pee has ended and suggests more formidable business) had expired in my head, I said to Caleb, "It sure has been a long time. I hope he didn't have to go number two."

Caleb, with the sincerity of Hamilton Porter eating a s'more while reflecting on a conquest of the beast, said, "Yeah...or number three."

I knew one. I knew two. Three? I thought there were only two.

(At a whisper, since most at the beach was aware of Owen's situation) I asked, "Caleb...what's number three?"

(At a whisper, taking my cue and perhaps still embarrassed by his brother's declaration) Caleb stoically responded, "Diarrhea."

How high does this numbering system go?

Taking the Last Shot

When I got back from a run today (I'm just telling the story, not "subtly" boasting that I ran, as seems to be the norm on Facebook), Owen was in the driveway and Caleb was serving a Napoleonic exile in a timeout chair in the garage.  

After minutes (four years in kids' years), the outcast ashamedly emerged from his prison making eye contact with only his Crocs.   

"Caleb, what happened?" I asked while I, along with a jury of his peers, perched on the driveway wall.

Caleb, speaking into his chest, mumbled, "Aiden (his seven year-old pal) won two basketball games in a row.  And I cried" ("threw a tantrum," in the words of his mother who is often a better judge of such reactions).

"Caleb, you can't cry because you lose two games in a row.  Think of the Pittsburgh Pirates."

Mom then informed me that he and Aiden were actually on the same team; they were playing against, well, no one.  (As an aside, I used to demolish those same guys too in the same way that the Globetrotters thrash the Generals.)  Aiden, however, hit the game winning shot in both games.  Caleb didn't drain the game-winner.  And not since Scottie Pippen has there been such a reaction to this situation.

"Caleb, that's okay.  Some teams have certain guys that always shoot the big shots.  Like Kobe or LeBron.  But they have teammates, like..."  Somehow I knew Cal was not going to be impressed with "Luke Walton" or "Wally Szerbiak" completing this sentence.  Dead end.  Abort.  After all, I think I did just call Aiden Kobe and my own flesh and blood...Luke Walton.

I continued..."Or Caleb, in volleyball when the setter...Owen, who's NA's setter?"

Owen, seated next to me reveling in the fact that his brother and not he--for the first time since February, 2007--was getting in trouble, answered "Michael Krepp."  

Stunned at the accuracy and quickness of the response, I paused, then moved on, "Yeah, Michael Krepp, has to set the other guys.  He doesn't get to hit (not true, and I was waiting for one of the twerps to point out the fact that Michael can turn on the second ball as well as anyone...but they did not.)  He has to set the other guys.  So Aiden made the shots but you got the assists."

We all reflected.  I felt satisfied in my analogous teaching.  Caleb likely felt confused that he now has to set the ball to his teammate on the basketball court.  And Owen, at three, felt the dual joy of not getting in trouble and knowing who was setting for the NA Tigers.

Cape May, 2009

A collection of pictures and video from Cape May.

Light Reading

I’ve gotten into the habit of reading something at the dinner table.  It’s not an anti-social act, and I certainly don’t cut myself off from the family with an iron curtain stock page.  But since the eight minutes of dinner are some of the few that I have to read, I commonly position a section of the paper to the left side of my plate as I eat dinner to steal a glance or skim an editorial. 

The other day, I found myself as the chef and server as Caleb and Owen were bellied up to the table for their grilled cheese.  As I was bringing the soup from the stove to the table, I noticed that Owen (almost three and firmly planted on the stool) had found reading material and placed it—you guessed it—to the left side of his plate. 

Just after an emotional tug at the heart and a moment of “that’s m’boy” pride began to swell, I noticed what he was reading.  It was the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue that had been delivered earlier that day.

Sales pitch, hypnosis, or brainwashing?

Billy Mays, salesman  extraordinaire, was peddling the "Big City Slider Station" on television the other day. Occupied in games when they first heard Billy's introduction, Caleb and Owen immediately stopped in their tracks, turned, stood in front of the television, and watched the entire commercial.

Owen: I like this one.

Caleb: I do too.

Not another word or movement for the commercial's entirety.  Be mesmerized.

They Said It

A few weeks back, I came upon the realization that I don't quiz Owen like I quizzed Caleb when he was Owen's age. For instance, I can recall asking Caleb the location of his arm, his knee, his esophagus, and his hamstring. And erring on any would make me question whether he was progressing as he should for a child his age. Whether it's neglect or the understanding that most people eventually figure out the location of their body parts, Owen has gotten a free pass on many such quizzes. But as a check for understanding I decided to test Owen.

Me: Owen, where's your heart?
Owen: Downstairs.

I should probably start quizzing; I don't think Owen is progressing at the rate that he should for a child his age. Which unfortunately leads to the next point, which occurred as we were driving from Pennsylvania to Wisconsin over the break.

Me: Hey Caleb, what comes after Ohio?
Owen: (stealing Caleb's question) Nine.

Owen's often a good punch line, but the kid is pretty with it. Anyone who has been around kids marvels at what they know. When the words "cup-holder," "wonderful," and "shaving cream" come out of the mouth of a two year-old, it's impressive. So while Owen may not yet have the gifts of biology, math, or geography, he is a wordsmith. Marveling at this fact...

Me: (to Teri) Owen has a really good vocabulary?
Teri: Yeah, he does.
Caleb: (overhearing the conversation) I do too.
Me: Yes Caleb, you have a very good vocabulary.
Pause.
Caleb: Daddy, what's vocabulary mean?

Maybe not that good.