Pressing matters

I caught a rebroadcast of Everton versus West Ham Utd. last night while doing some laundry. [I'm nothing if not a multitasker.] If you haven't watched English Premier League football (or soccer), it's worth it if only for the commentary. At one point, the announcer --- and there was only one for this game --- noted a player's "impudent" move at the corner.

Beyond the high-level play-by-play (I'm sure the EPL has its own Tim McCarver somewhere), I am always amazed at just how big the playing field is. Seriously, it is absolutely enormous, and despite the complaints often invoked about low scores or lack of scoring, the game is constant motion. Which brings me to the following.

With the Chelsea/A.C. Milan friendly coming to town in July, and with it a heightened attention locally to soccer, I think the time has come for Samson and I to pick a team. Bill Simmons (patron saint of office worker procrastination) wrote a nice column a few years ago about his quest to pick an EPL team. And while I appreciate his thoughtful analysis, I feel the need to strike out on my own in this endeavor.

I'm agnostic when it comes to hockey and basketball [indeed, I find myself amazed that both of those seasons are still going on], so Samson is on his own for those sports. And I'm not an "enforcer" type of Dad who mandates his kids root for "his" team. Indeed, I grew up rooting for the Yankees (albeit in a house that was the sports equivalent of CAPE [figure it out] Catholics), but I think it's important for him to support the O's --- even if they break his heart every year for the next 20.

The Ravens, despite their awful purple and tawdry history, are, as he says "our homemade team" [I'm guessing he means hometown], so he's free to root for them heartily. Again, I tepidly rooted for the Jets but am starting to wonder if even they root for the Jets anymore.

For lacrosse, which matters more here than most places, we root for Hopkins. Or at least, I root for Hopkins and hope Samson will too. He picked Syracuse for the championship this past weekend, earning the right to pick his victory dinner. And his favorite color is orange, so we'll see.

Which brings us to soccer. Or football, if you like. He played last year and keeps talking about how excited he is for the new season in the fall. I suspect this has a lot to do with my promise of cleats, but still, he's excited so I'm excited.

Any thoughts on our rooting interest? My inclination, despite warnings from a colleague who lives in England against it, is to go with Arsenal. I get that there's a bandwagon element to it, but they have a cannon on their team shield (perhaps the only thing Samson would like more on a soccer shirt would be Boba Fett), and I like that their team is owned by its fans. Or at least some of its fans. OK, some of its wealthier fans. Still.

We've got two months before the EPL starts up again. Any and all suggestions are welcome.

Art (that may lead to) therapy

We visited the newly build National Harbor on Sunday. If you didn't know we had a "national" harbor, you're not alone. And it's not finished yet, but there's a cool beta version of a children's museum and a nice waterfront area, complete with a sculpture that is both climbable and terrifying.

The piece is called "Awakening" and is the work of sculptor J. Seward Johnson Jr.

Jane, who is afraid only of Cookie Monster [I'm not kidding], headed right toward the giant hand. And from there, of course, she headed for the water. That girl is crazy for the sea (or in this case, the Potomac).

Samson required a little more coaxing to check the giant out. He wanted to know why it was there and if the giant used to be real but was now dead. To which I answered "I don't know" and "Yes, and legend has it that one day he'll rise again from the sand and devour those who played on his grave." OK, I didn't really say that last part, but I can only imagine the look on Sam's face if I had.

Johnson, in addition to scaring small children with his work, is the guy who created one of my all-time favorite statues, The Hitchhiker, which happens to be located on the campus of my alma mater and made me smile every time I headed past it on a road trip.

If you're in the area, you should totally check out the museum. It's free, easy to get to, and you can do it in an hour or two and then go climb on the scary giant down the road. Good times.

Field of dreams

I work for a large and fairly complex organization, so I'm used to occasionally missing a directive and having to run to catch up. I did not think the same would hold true for coaching tee ball. Sadly, I was mistaken.

Apparently, we were supposed to introduce pitching to the kids at some point a few weeks back. I did not, as they say, get the memo. So we started during our last game. Which is great, as some of the kids (mine included) are used to being pitched to by their parents anyway and find the tee a little confusing.

Mind you, it also puts a lot more pressure on the coach not to strike out the side. We do three pitches and then switch to the tee. The kids don't seem to mind, but it's killing me to look into all those little smiling faces as they stand waiting for the pitch --- feet apart, hands together, back elbow up, eye on the ball --- and either swing late/early/above/below or, worse yet, get an unhittable pitch from me or the other coach.

Of course it is only tee ball, and they are only four and five years old, but as I stood on the mound looking at my son's shining face --- watching him dig in and take his practice cuts [he's nothing if not an expert mimic of what he sees on TV, right down to the batting gloves] --- I could feel the entire universe contract for a second so that there was only a narrow corridor of light by which to see and the rest faded away.

A slight breeze crossed the infield, and I could smell someone's newly cut lawn, somebody's flowering dogwood tree. I asked him: "ready?" and he nodded, tongue out, feet scuffing the dirt slightly.

I threw an arcing underhand pitch that seemed to float on the mid-May air, spinning slowly toward him. His eyes narrowed as his hands gripped the bat a little tighter. Moving his left foot up, he brought the too-heavy bat forward with a nice level swing, and I watched the ball slip just half an inch under the barrel of the bat.

The next two pitches didn't go any better, and we switched to the tee, from which he promptly hit a nice bouncer between the four infielders standing between first and second base [I did mention this was tee ball, right?].

There's no moral to this story, and I remain resolutely against vicarious living through my son. Or at least I'm trying to remain resolutely against it. But man, there are times when it feels like the whole world hangs on hearing the ping of the bat.


Crack of the bat would be cooler, I know, but we use aluminum, so it's more of a ping or a clang. Possibly a ding...

Darth Vader's theme song

Samson, as I've mentioned before, is all about the Empire. I only just remembered that I've got the Star Wars soundtrack on CD [did you ever doubt my nerd bona fides?]. So I put it in my car's CD changer for our rides to school in the morning.

There's nothing quite like looking in the rear-view mirror at your four-year-old as he rocks out to the "Darth Vader song" in preparation for his arrival at preschool. And he's very specific: I am not to start the music until the car is in motion.

Of course, Samson being Samson, he wanted to know what the words to the song are. I tried to explain to him that there are none, but he wasn't buying it. So I made some up. Feel free to use these should a similar situation arise.

I'm Darth Vader and this is my song
I'm Darth Vader won't you sing along?
Bad guys, we're really really
Bad guys, we're really really
Bad guys
In cool uniforms
Uniforms

Clearly I'm no Lennon in need of a McCartney (or even a Seals in need of a Crofts), but it's not half bad for something made up on the spot.

Fish (not the TV show)

No, this is not a post about Abe Vigoda, although his name has been invoked on this site from time to time. Yesterday Samson and Jane got a pet fish. When Vicki asked the kids what they wanted to name it, Samson answered before she'd even finished asking the question: SAMUEL.

Perfect. So Samuel the Beta fish (or the Sammyfish as Jane calls him) is now swimming in a little square bowl on the sideboard in our dining room. As far as pets go, this one promises to be a lot less work than our late, er Santa-visiting, cat.

Although it's not as easy to play with him as it was with Ishmael. And, while it seems unfair to compare our new pet to our old one, Ishmael was way better at laying on the couch with me while I read the paper. Samuel's sort of floppy and frantic in that kind of annoying pay-attention-to-me-I'm-rapidly-losing-oxygen kind of way.

I guess it will just take us a little time to get used to each other.

A day at the yard

Last Sunday was Little League Day at Oriole Park. All little league teams from the metro area were invited for a parade around the warning track. Unfortunately, it was 96 degrees in the shade that day.

Fortunately, the chance to be on the field (but not on the grass; the O's management was very specific about that) and get high fives from a few players (thank you Brian Roberts, Nick Markakis, Adam Jones, and others) made Samson forget about how hot he was.

That and a special appearance from the Oriole bird and a giant lemonade when we got to our seats.

I'm not sure why this picture looks so pixelated; maybe it was the heat waves rising from the concrete in the upper deck playing with the camera's lens?