I’m not trying to keep ya hanging about the outcome of the game last night; I haven’t been home much today. It was not a good night for the Raiders. I wish I had better news to report, but the 13-3 thrashing by Pearland Maroon was b-a-d bad. The boys in red were off in just about every possible way, but the concession stand at West U has 25-cent snowcones, so at least Macy was happy.
Tonight it’s do or die for the boys in red. We face the All Star team from the Heights, and plan to bring our game faces.
I spied him the other day at Town Square and spent a good little while wondering who he was meeting and where he was going in those oh-so-fine kicks. It also made me think about my own pair of super-fine cowboy boots, and how much I’d love to wear my boots every single day if not for my blasted plantar fasciitis and my aching feet. Sigh.
Those black & white cowhair boots and I go way back. I bought them at a kitschy little shop on South Congress in Austin in the early days of my editorial career. I paid cash for them from my hard-earned paycheck, and I loved them dearly. Still do.
I love how there’s just enough white to set off the glossy black hide. Or hair. Or fur. Or whatever it is. Don’t tell PETA, but I love the hide/hair/fur. I’m as nutsy-kookoo for animals as always, but that poor cow was doomed anyway, so that fact that his/her hide/hair/fur ended up on a pair of boots is a part of life. If I thought for one second that that cow had a shot at living a long, bucolic life eating grass into his/her old age somewhere in the great state of Texas, I’d say thanks but no thanks on the boots. But we all know the cows around here are destined to end up on someone’s grill or smoker; this is Texas after all. Funny how I wouldn’t think of eating that cow, but wearing it doesn’t bother me one bit.
Oh well. Thinking about boots is a nice distraction from last night’s agony of defeat.
I mentioned in a previous post that Payton got his baseball skills from my dad, and then I remembered that my dad made Payton a scrapbook for his 8th birthday of his (Dad’s) athletic memories. It’s pretty cool. My dad is a good writer, and he has an amazing memory. He remembers things like the score of a particular game in 1956, and all the names of his teammates from high school. It may be a few years more before my kids appreciate the heritage that my dad has presented them, in the form of his narrative, photos and press clippings, but it will be there, when they’re ready.
P’s baseball lineage is the real deal. I wish we had home movies of my dad playing baseball, because I’m guessing his body language and motions looked a lot like Payton’s. In fact, there are certain ways in which Payton stands or walks that really remind me of my dad.
In the cover page of the scrapbook, my dad wrote a letter to Payton in which he said, “I cannot begin to tell you how much fun, excitement, pleasure and enjoyment I had as an athlete. Also, I met many new people who have remained my friends all my life. I know how much you love playing, and I hope you continue to play and that when you conclude playing, that you have as many fond memories as I still have today.”
And my favorite part of the cover letter is the P.S.:
And that’s the truth.
My favorite article in the scrapbook is the one entitled “Hard-Hitting Katapodis Adapts to ‘Bad Luck’ Breaks.” There’s no date on the article, but it was his junior year so it was in the late 1950s. The article starts by saying “The Aggies better watch out. At least that’s the prophecy given after hearing Golden Hurricane baseballers such as right fielder Leon Katapodis say, ‘I’d give anything I’ve got to beat the Aggies.'”
Now I know where Payton gets his trash-talking skills, too.
The article goes on to say “Probably wielding one of the heaviest bats as he has in other games this season will be Katapodis, who pounded out three singles and two doubles in eight tries agaist Northeastern State Saturday.” Sounds a lot like my son.
How about this for continuity among generations: ” ‘Kat’ as he is generally called has a long baseball history just as most other Hurricane diamond-men. After spending three years in the pee wee league and one in junior play, he graduated to Legion ball. Both his legion teams ended up in the state finals.”
Assuming Payton’s team emerges victorious from the sectionals tournament that begins tonight, he too will get going to the state finals.
We’re ready, but not assuming anything. We’re superstitious, like most baseball folks. The boys on the team each collected a sample of dirt from our home field last night, scooping the dirt into baggies, empty water bottles, and even an empty Altoids tin. They’ll sprinkle the home-field dirt on the field where they play tonight, bringing a bit of local mojo to the game.
Several boys on the team got mohawks after clenching the District championship, and several of the moms got baseball-inspired pedicures. I’m not generally a fan of publishing photos of toes, as most of them are pretty weird looking, but you gotta see this:
Here’s hoping that the treasured lineage, home-field dirt, good-luck haircuts, and spiffy toes combine to create an air of victory for the First Colony Red Raiders tonight.
Lyle Lovett said it best:
I understand too little too late
I realize there are things you say and do
You can never take back
But what would you be if you didn’t even try
You have to try
So after a lot of thought
I’d like to reconsider
If it’s not too late
Make it a cheeseburger.”
I don’t eat cheeseburgers, or any burgers, but I love Lyle Lovett, and his clever and playful lyrics have been running through my head all day as I contemplated my latest visit to my cutie-pie oncologist. Last time I saw him, we discussed whether I need yet another surgery, to remove my ovaries. See, those little suckers pump out estrogen, and estrogen happens to be fuel for the type I cancer I had. So the theory is this: cut off the fuel, starve the cancer and ensure it has nothing with which to reconvene. Since I wasn’t physically well enough to undergo the oophorectomy because of the post-mastectomy infection, we put that surgery on hold, but in the meantime I began getting a shot of Lupron once every 3 months. Lupron essentially does the same thing as removing the ovaries, which is to shut off the supply of estrogen.
I thought the plan was set: continue the Lupron shots until I was deemed well enough to undergo the oophorectomy, which would likely be in the fall of this year. Get the kids back to school, recover from the August 17th reconstruction revision, and get rid of the ovaries. I like having a plan. I like sticking with a plan. I’m not a fan of changing the plan.
Today, Dr Cutie Pie said he didn’t think I needed to keep getting the Lupron. I’ve been getting the injections for nearly a year now, so even though I was scheduled to get one today and was planning on getting one today, he thought I was done. The plan had changed.
Granted, I had complained to him about the major side-effects of Lupron: hot flashes and sweating like a pig in heat. It’s summertime in Houston. Not just regular old hot-as-Hell summertime in Houston, either, but record heat and record drought summertime. I can tell you with 100 percent certainty that hot flashes and Houston summertime are a wretched combination.
Do I think the hot flashes and sweating like a pig in heat are sound enough reasons to discontinue the current path of hormonal suppression? No. I haven’t murdered anyone (yet). Dr CP said there’s really not that much difference between hormonal suppression from Tamoxifen alone and suppression supplemented even further with Lupron. A year of Lupron injections seemed to be enough, in his opinion. The daily Tamoxifen will go on, though.
Disclaimer: I did not beg, whine, or persuade him to make that decision. Not like I did last summer with Dr S when trying to sway him to release me from yet another hospitalization or disconnect me from the dreaded wound vacuum, Sucky. I did not employ any such tactic with Dr CP today. He came up with the idea to cease & desist all on his own.
He also said maybe that oophorectomy isn’t necessary, either. While I’m completely in favor of eschewing yet another surgery, my gut instinct tells me to rip those ovaries out (gently, though, and with lots & lots of morphine).
Life is so uncertain. What’s the right choice? How does one make such a decision? Stop the Lupron or not? Pursue the oophorectomy or count my blessings that I won’t need another surgery? Where’s the Great and Powerful Oz to tell me what to do?
That’s the problem with cancer. One of the many problems. Big-ass decisions need to be made; life-and-death decisions. And while there’s research aplenty and resources available, there’s no clear answer. I like clear answers. And unchanged plans. Neither of which prevails in one’s “cancer journey.”
Nonetheless, we moseyed along through the rest of the check-up with the usual and quite popular assertions from Dr CP that my cancer is not coming back. I like that part. He says this at every visit, and I really like hearing it. He told me that my reconstructed chest looks fantastic, and I really like hearing that (even though I think he’s shining me on, because there is definitely some tweaking and fine-tuning that needs to be done). I still like that he says it, though, even if he’s shining me on.
We chitty-chatted about his new baby, my tennis game, and other pleasantries. He said he’s started playing tennis and is thinking about taking some lessons. When he told me he plays once a week, I told him he’ll never get better that way; it’s not often enough. He got all puffed up and said it’s enough for him because there’s such a thing as talent.
In the immortal words of Steve Martin, “Well, excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!”
He even strutted down the hallway a bit, then turned to say something about how he’ll be ready in about 6 months to kick my butt on the tennis court. I said, maybe in about 60 years.
How on Earth do I manage to find such cocky doctors?????
We parted ways, him to daydream about beating me in tennis while I headed to the infusion room to get my port flushed. For the last time. Ever.
Yipee! That makes me very, very happy. I’ll get my port removed next month, when Dr S does my reconstruction revision. Can’t wait to bid adieu to that little guy (the port, not Dr S).
But while in the infusion room, I started to second-guess the decision to stop taking the Lupron shots. It didn’t feel right to me. The instant-gratification-girl inside me said, “Hell, yes, let’s forego the shot — that sucker hurts and leaves me bruised for weeks.” But the more-measured-approach-taking girl inside me said something doesn’t seem right with this decision. What’s the harm in continuing the Lupron therapy (besides the obvious, 20-gauge needle harm, that is, and the hot flashes and sweating like a pig in heat harm)?
Dr CP walked by a few minutes later, as I was discussing the pro’s and con’s with my patient advocate extraordinaire, Amy Hoover, and we grabbed him to say I’m not sure about the Lupron decision. He listened intently as we reviewed the pro’s and con’s and said there’s no harm in getting the shot. So I got the shot. Still not sure if it’s the right choice. No idea if it’s the right decision. My gut says yes, and my gut usually is right. However, the fact that it took 3–count ’em–3 tries to get the shot makes me wonder. The needle went in, but the Lupron wouldn’t go. Ow! 3 needle sticks with a 20-gauge needle could easily make a girl question her decision to question her decision. But, as Lyle Lovett says, “Life is so uncertain.”
Today is a very good day, for 3 reasons, maybe more. #1: Macy started two weeks of Fine Arts camp, which she loves (and I’m rather fond of having a few hours to myself while she’s off doing fun projects that someone else cleans up, and by “someone else” I mean anyone but me). While she hasn’t gotten quite this messy in a while, she’s definitely still got it in ‘er.
#2: I did push-ups at the gym this morning. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do them, and there’s a bit of pride on the line since I was working out with my 12-year-old son. I wasn’t about to let him see me doing “girlie” push-ups with bent knees, so I tried the real thing, and while it didn’t feel great, I did it. Pre-cancer, pre-mastectomy, and pre-infection, I used to be able to do 50 push-ups like it was nothing, and while I’m not there yet, I’m getting closer.
#3: The article for which Payton and I were interviewed was published in our community newspaper. Corey the reporter was nice, and I think he’s a good writer. He has covered the district All Star games for all the ages, and he’s made the games come alive in his stories. P really enjoyed being interviewed; I like the drama of the article, especially the part in which I’m portrayed as “fighting for my life” (cue the dramatic music here).
It’s a good reminder to be careful what you say, too, because I joked with Corey about P having gotten his mad baseball skills from my side of the family. While it’s true–my dad’s baseball career started with PeeWee ball in 1948 and ended with him playing for the University of Tulsa–I was being smart-aleky, and Corey not only took it seriously but also included that in the article! I certainly don’t want to sound like one of “those” baseball moms. I think my kid is a good player who happens to have some natural athletic ability and a body built for taking some hard knocks. However, I’m under no illusion that he’s going to play ball for a living when he grows up, and his *$#& most definitely stinks.
While I can take or leave the publicity, reading the latest article did make me realize that a whole lot has changed since this time last year. And most of that change has been good. Really good.
This time last year, Payton’s All Star team was preparing for the sectional tournament, which they totally dominated, BTW. But I was fighting another battle against that damned nosocomial infection and was back in the hospital. Again. So after P’s team swept the sectional tourney, they were preparing to go to the State Championship in the lovely Tyler, TX. I remember thinking on that Monday, the day I was admitted to the hospital–again–that we’d get the infection under control, pump in some more vancomycin and I’d be on my way to Tyler.
Yes, I was that delusional.
Instead of the scenario playing out the way I’d envisioned, it went something like this: I was admitted on a Monday and didn’t get out until Thursday. An area that started as a red, streaky site on the mastectomied right chest wall had to be opened up, drained, excised, and packed with gauze. Repeatedly. The packing part was particularly brutal. See, there was a bunch of fluid inside my chest wall from the infection. Dr S cut a track–sans anesthesia, I recall–to open and elongate the drain hole, to let the fluid out. Once the track was there, though, it had to be packed with gauze to soak up all the nasty fluid. It wasn’t a quick process, because the hole and the track were small but had to be completely filled with gauze, for maximum soaking. Thus, a lot of shoving in an already sore, infected, and aggravated area was required. As was a lot of xanax. At one point, after Dr S shoved the gauze into the open wound, my blood pressure was 212/65. That’s a little high for me.
I survived 4 days of intense wound-packing and hard-core IV antibiotics. But just barely. I missed the entire State Championship experience, then put my kids on a plane for summer vacation, that I didn’t get to attend. I did manage to stay out of the hospital for 2 and a half weeks, but had IV antibiotics at home and a home health care nurse packing that wound. I was hoping to have turned a corner after all that (and more than once wondered what it would take to finally kick that infection) but was back in the hospital again the week before school started.
It was not a good summer, to say the least. This one has been much, much better. While the bar wasn’t exactly set very high after last summer, this one is pretty sweet.
Betty Ford died yesterday at age 93. I’m so glad it wasn’t the breast cancer that killed her. As a young(ish) cancer-chick myself, it’s depressing as all get-out, not to mention terrifying, to learn of other women’s death from the disease we share. When this damned BC menace claimed Elizabeth Edwards, I was saddened and more than a little sick to my stomach at the stark realization that this disease does kill, young or old, healthy or not. The fact that this dreaded disease claims some 40,000 women a year brings into sharp focus the loss of maternal love that comes with each BC casualty. Knowing how much I miss my own sweet mama, the idea of the motherless Edwards children weighed heavily on my heart for weeks after her death.
I was a kid when Betty Ford was in the White House, so I don’t have much of a reference point for her. I do recall a grade-school chant of “Ford, Ford, he’s our man; Carter belongs in the garbage can” during Ford’s bid for re-election, but like the other kids on the playground, I chanted that with virtually no knowledge of politics. I’m sure I knew that Richard Nixon had been president, but was much too busy riding my bike and playing cul-de-sac games to realize that Gerald Ford became president in August of 1974, taking the place of a disgraced Richard Nixon. Now I know that Ford had been vice president less than a year before being “called up”; he’d been chosen to succeed Spiro Agnew, who also left office in disgrace amidst accusations of tax evasion.
I’m sure I didn’t realize that Betty Ford went from a “regular person” to wife of a Congress member fast. Really fast. She married Gerald Ford a month before he was elected to Congress; in fact, he was late to their wedding because he was campaigning up to the last minute. When JFK was president, the Fords became friends with the Kennedys and attended several parties at the White House. When JFK was assassinated in 1963, Betty Ford lingered at the burial and was the last woman at the gravesite. Two years later, Ford was elected minority leader of the House, and was away from home a lot. That’s when her heavy drinking began, and it continued for more than a decade before her family intervened. After she conquered her addiction to alcohol and pain pills, she founded the Betty Ford Center, which opened in October 1982. Since then, some 27,000 people have been treated there, including celebs like Elizabeth Taylor, Mary Tyler Moore, and Mickey Mantle.
I didn’t think much about Betty Ford once I was an adult, either, since her time in the spotlight had more or less passed and she endeavored to live as a private citizen. She apparently shunned the spotlight yet was returned to it in December 2006 when the country entered a 6-day mourning period upon the death of President Ford.
Even then, I didn’t think much about her, until I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
See, Betty Ford was a member of the pink ribbon sisterhood, and she blazed a trail that has significantly benefited subsequent generations of women. Women like me.
I was 6 years old when Mrs Ford was diagnosed with breast cancer in her right breast. She learned the bad news on September 26, 1974, according to the First Ladies’ biographies website. Two days later, she underwent a radical mastectomy. She’d been the First Lady for a matter of weeks when she was diagnosed. She faced the situation with the candor for which she’d become known: she announced her diagnosis and surgery publicly and even invited the media into her hospital room and posed for photos. Here she is, reading a get-well card signed by Congress.
I have no idea if she realized how much of a trailblazer she was. It’s probably just how she was, and to her, being outspoken and honest about her “cancer journey” is “just what you do.” I can relate to that. I hope Mrs Ford realized the impact she had on breast cancer awareness, which is safe to say was nonexistent in the early 1970s. I think she must have, based on this quote: “Before I was ever out of the hospital, there were, on television, women checking in to have mammograms,” Ford said at the Gerald Ford Museum in May 2001. “It was kind of like, if the first lady can have breast cancer, anyone can have breast cancer.”
Mrs Ford underwent two years of chemo, and in the fall of 1976 her doctors declared her cancer-free. Someone once asked her if she felt sorry for herself after losing her breasts. I absolutely adore her reply:
“No! Oh no — heavens no. I’ve heard women say they would rather lose their right arm, and I can’t even imagine it. It’s so stupid.”
She believed that women facing breast cancer should “go as quickly as possible and [get the surgery] done. Once it’s done, put it behind you and go on with your life.”
It’s safe to say that Mrs Ford paved the way for countless women–including yours truly– who were diagnosed after her. She removed the stigma from cancer, and breast cancer in particular. Before she piped up, there was no breast cancer awareness, no public discussion, and certainly no pink-ribbon culture. Barbara Brenner, former executive director at Breast Cancer Action said that Ford “showed people that you can live with cancer, that it’s not a death sentence.” The Komen organization has similar respect for Mrs Ford. Their official statement says “Betty Ford opened the door for millions of women when she candidly acknowledged her breast cancer diagnosis at a time when we didn’t talk about this disease and untold numbers of women suffered in silence. She showed the world that breast cancer could be faced with courage, with humor and with great dignity.”
It’s also safe to say that Mrs Ford would likely be quite pleased with the advances that have been made in breast cancer treatment. Ironically, in the same year she was diagnosed, Tamoxifen was showing itself to be a wonder drug in decreasing breast cancer recurrence. Now it’s become a household name in the BC community, and it’s a daily part of my life.
I think I would have really liked Betty Ford. Not just because we’re both members of the dreaded pink ribbon club, either. Because she was smart, sassy, outspoken, and real. She was a survivor, in every sense of the word. She was beloved as First Lady, and used her role as a platform to educate the American public on controversial subjects such as abortion, marijuana use, and the Equal Rights Amendment. She made it clear that she and President Ford would share a bed in the White House (something not previously publicized, apparently), and when someone asked her about sleeping with the president, she said “I do–every chance I get.”
She was perhaps unconventional as First Lady, and I like how she shook things up a bit. I love this story about her, told by White House photographer David Kennerly. On her last day as First Lady, Betty Ford walked by the empty Cabinet Room and told Kennerly, “You know, I’ve always wanted to dance on the cabinet room table.” Kennerly said, “Well, nobody’s around.” Opportunity knocked, and the plucky First Lady took advantage.
Kennerly says she took off her shoes, hopped up there, and struck a pose. “She’s a tiny woman, really, in very good shape. Very graceful, as a former dancer with the Martha Graham company. She got up there.”
Speculating on why Mrs Ford would be compelled to dance on the table, formally set with notepads and ashtrays (yes, ashtrays!), Kennerly realized that very few women have had a seat at that table. “I bet you could count them on one hand at that point, and knowing her support for the Equal Rights Amendment”—she endorsed it—”she was tap-dancing in the middle of this male bastion. She was storming the walls of the gray suits and gray-haired eminences.”
“It was a wonderful and whimsical ending,” Betty Ford wrote, “to that magical time I spent as first lady.”
R.I.P, Betty Ford.
Pagophagia sounds like one of those words Lucy spouted off in A Charlie Brown Christmas. You remember the scene, in which Charlie Brown pays a call to Lucy’s psychiatric booth (The Doctor Is Way In), and she confronts him about his prospective phobias. “Perhaps you have hycangeophobia; the fear of responsibility. Or maybe ailurophobia — the fear of cats. Or climocophobia — the fear of staircases. Or thalassophobia — the fear of the ocean.”
I remember those long, complicated names for the phobias because I played Lucy in my 5th grade production of A Charlie Brown Christmas. I remember the blue pinafore dress that was my costume, and I remember that it was kinda hard to pronounce and memorize the long words that marked the phobias from which Charlie Brown might well have suffered. Little did I know that as an adult, I myself would suffer from claustrophobia and aquaphobia. How ironic.
So the first time I heard the word agophagia I figured it must be a phobia. Nope, it’s a disorder. And I have it.
Agophagia is a form of the disorder pica, in which a person craves and is driven to ingest non-nutritious substances, usually because of a vitamin or mineral deficiency. People with pica tend to eat all kinds of weird things, from paint to dirt to chalk, and it can get really weird with people trying to eat things like batteries and feces. Gross. I must be pretty mild on the agophagia spectrum, because the idea of eating any of those things is not just weird but disgusting.
Yes, that’s right, ice.
Not even ice that’s surrounded by a good cocktail, either, but ice. Just plain ice.
I am addicted to ice.
Hello, my name is Nancy and I’m an ice-a-holic. I’m an agophagiac.
I didn’t think much of it at first, but just chomped away happily at the ice that was left in the bottom of my water glass, or the cubes that collected once my iced tea was gone. Sonic ice left me positively swooning, but I didn’t realize I had a problem until I was going through the drive-thru just for a cup of ice. Route 44 size, please. Feeling a bit self-conscious about my addiction, I did a little research and learned I am not alone. Sonic ice has a Facebook page with more than 218,000 fans.
Excessive ice chewing is a symptom of an iron deficiency. Guess what I have? Yep, an iron deficiency. I am definitely anemic. I’ve been on a prescription iron supplement, but once I started feeling so puny from the long-term antibiotic I had to take, I stopped taking the iron pills. Not a good idea.
My cutie-pie oncologist likes to blame my iron deficiency on the fact that I don’t eat meat, but the fact of the matter is that it’s yet another fallout from the nasty-ass infection I contracted after my bilateral mastectomy. I was vegetarian long before cancer dive-bombed my house, and never had a problem with anemia. Once the mycobacterium set up shop, though, the anemia gained a foothold, and the ice obsession began for real. That dadgum myco caused a whole lot of problems, of which the anemia was the least of my worries. Once diagnosed with that wretched, wily infection, one of the many sites I consulted for research stopped me dead in my tracks with this: “Disease typically chronic, progressive; rare spontaneous resolution has been reported.”
Like most addicts, I was the last one to notice that I had a problem. My girlfriends would giggle at me when my input on where to go to lunch after tennis revolved exclusively on which places had the best ice. Yes, I have them categorized much as my dear friend Amy Hoover knows which places serve the best iced tea. Some places use the same filter for the flavored and unflavored tea, ya know.
We have an ice machine outside, in the outdoor kitchen. It makes these groovy mushroom-shaped ice cubes that I adore. Not as much as Sonic ice, of course, but they’re pretty darn good. In the height of my addiction, I would consume 3 or 4 rounds of a 24-oz Tervis tumbler full of ice. Sometimes I wondered if the chomp-chomp-chomping sound was disruptive to those around me. Most times, though, I chomp-chomp-chomped away anyway, blissful in my puffy little cloud of addiction.
I’m not one bit ashamed to admit that I’ve been known to dig through the Hoshizaka to find the choicest bits of ice. Some cubes are more delectable than others; it’s a fact. And those are the very cubes most desirable to an ice-chomping addict.
However, I did start to suspect I had a problem when the only thing I wanted to pack for a long evening at the baseball field in 98-degree heat was ice. No water, just ice. And when the only thing I purchased at the baseball field concession stands was ice. Again, no water, just ice.
The pivotal moment in my addiction came a couple of weeks ago, when I was on my girls’ trip with my Duke friends. When it came time for the beverage service on the plane en route to the beach, I requested ice. No water, just ice. And more than one cup, please. Once at the beach, I realized the ice-cube trays in the freezer of our condo would not suffice, so I had to run out and get a cup of ice. Every day. I got smart and ordered 2 cups so I could put one in the condo’s freezer (alongside the worthless ice) for later. Each night at dinner, I asked for a to-go cup of ice. In the past I’ve been known to request a to-go cup, but I can assure you it wasn’t just ice. These were unchartered waters I had entered.
After becoming seriously worried that I was going to crack my teeth on all the ice I was consuming, I decided it was time to start taking that prescription iron supplement again. Within days, my ice obsession had waned. Weird.
While I still covet really good ice and will still pick through my ice machine for the best cubes, I’m not driven to chomp cup after cup of it. In fact, I realized this week that I’d gone 2 whole days without chomping any ice. Today while watching Macy’s tennis lesson, I got a cup of iced tea (extra ice, natch) and actually left most of the ice in the cup.
I’d like to think that my waning obsession with ice is a harbinger of my return to normal life, after a protracted cancer battle. I’ve had my share of complications on this “cancer journey,” and the idea of things turning around for real is pretty sweet. I relish the thought of being able to put that “cancer journey” on ice and getting on with my life.
I know, I know, I’m behind in my blogging. I’ve been busy. No idea what’s keeping me so busy, but suspect it has something to do with drinking Malibu black in the Cremers’ pool; time seems suspended there. Must be something in the water. (I’m all about full disclosure here.) The Sox were in town this past weekend, and we went to see them; the fact that I’m just now getting around to posting about it is wrong, just wrong.
Minute Maid Park is a gorgeous ballpark, if I do say so myself, and I hope the Sox enjoyed their visit as much as we did. The retractable roof is pretty cool, and the glassed-in views of downtown Houston show off our fine city in all its corporate splendor.
The outfield wall is capped off with a train full of giant orange blobs. I’m not the only person who wondered why in the world there was a train-load of pumpkins at the ballpark only to realize that, duh! they’re oranges. Minute Maid Park. Get it? If an Astros player hits a home run, the train chug-chugs along the length of the outfield wall. Suffice to say that train has been pretty dormant lately.
The picture below shows you what the stadium looks like with the roof open. There are little tiny motors that turn as the giant walls of glass slowly, slowly slide apart before your very eyes. At first the movement is so slight as to be nearly undetectable. But before long, the chink between the seams of the walls becomes wider.
Before the game, we did something I’ve always wanted to do, and now that we’ve done it, I feel like a true Houstonian. We ate at Mama Ninfa’s–the original one on Navigation, very close to the stadium. Ninfa’s is a Houston institution, with franchises all over the city, but the one on Navigation is where it all started. She’s credited with creating the beef fajita, which is now a mainstay in most Mexican restaurants.
I can’t vouch for the beef, but can safely say that the michelada was delicious. There’s a section on the drinks menu devoted to micheladas, with the opportunity to choose which beer will be mixed with the addictive array of spices. There are 15 choices. I have no idea what the spicy salt was on the rim of the glass, but my lips burned for 2 days after consuming every last crystal.
The seafood cocktail was out of this world. Gulf shrimp and sea scallops tossed with avocado chunks and a spicy, lemony cocktail sauce. Yum.
As tempting as it was to get a 2nd michelada, it was time to scoot on over to the ballpark. Ninfa’s offers a shuttle from the restaurant to the park, and we happily jumped on. The passenger van was perfectly pleasant for the short hop on the way to the game; coming home, with at least 40 people crammed into that same van, was a different story. Wooshegaga, that’s a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare: tight quarters, hordes of people and Houston traffic. Yikes.
It was all worth it, though, to see my favorite team and my favorite player. Ells wasn’t in the line-up for the Friday night game because of the flu he picked up from Josh Beckett. He rallied with the help of some IV fluids, though, and sparkled in center field and dazzled as the lead-off hitter. Here he is, at his first at-bat. I know, the pictures are terrible. I finally got a new camera, since the iPhone camera leaves much to be desired, and forgot to take it to the game. Sheesh.
He’s in the middle, with his hat off for better close-ups. One of the Boston papers ran a headline today that says “Ellsbury displays All-Star form” and I think it refers to his play, but could just as easily refer to his form.
He got his 500th hit today, and was selected for his first All Star game on Sunday. All that, plus a mention on this blog? He’s in tall cotton.
Now all he needs is a mohawk, like the All Star player who lives at my house:
Here’s the link to the latest newspaper article in which Super P was interviewed. I’m so glad the sports editor didn’t include Payton’s answer to his question about the best thing about going to the State Championship last summer: “The hotel was pretty nice.”
It was do-or-die for the mighty First Colony Red Raiders last night, and the cause of my nervous stomach all day yesterday. I would love to keep everyone in suspense about the outcome, and bury it at the bottom of a long, blabbedy-blab post, but that would be mean, and while I’m not above being mean, I do believe in the great karma wheel and want it to spin my way.
So, without further ado….RAIDERS WIN!!!
The stands were packed, the tension was high, and the mighty Raiders were pumped. Lots of non-Raider First Colony families turned out to support the boys in red. That’s one of the great things about our league (besides our utter dominance thus far in the All Star tournament, with the American League 9, 10, and 11-year-old teams winning district); we support each other. We hear comments from teams we pummel into the ground about our league having a “A” team and a “B” team, but it’s just not true. Nothing but sour grapes. Our league is divided into an American and a National league based on geography, pure & simple. Where a player lives in relation to the dividing line determines whether he (or she) is on an American or National team. No gerrymandering at FCLL.
And now, back to the game…
We had our starting pitcher on the mound, fresh after a day of rest and reset pitch count. The West U team did not. We faced the same pitcher who started for the boys in green on Monday, in which we delivered a 7-4 victory.
Our starting line-up remained unchanged: Max, Cody, Payton, Mark–ready to slug it out. Then comes Gus, Kyle, Camden, Taylor, and Carl. Cooper and Anthony are ready to assist at a moment’s notice. The bats were hot and the Raiders took an early 5-0 lead. No sloppy errors last night, as our boys delivered some first-class fielding and shut the West U team down seamlessly.
Final score: 12-2 in a run-rule (for the uninitiated, in this tournament, it’s considered a run-rule if one team leads by 10 runs after the 4th inning. What it means is the other team can’t catch up, so the game ends early. It’s rather demoralizing for the team who is behind, and exhilarating for the team with the big lead).
Celebration abounded as the Raiders and their parents whooped with joy at the victory. If the baseball gods had not smiled upon us, we’d be done with All Stars for the summer, and a certain gamer at my house would be in a foul mood for the rest of the summer. All Star families pretty much plan our summers around the idea of going all the way in the tournament, which means daily practice from the first week of June to the State Championship at the end of July. I am so very glad I don’t have the entire month of July to fill. It will be baseball, baseball, and more baseball — just the way we like it.
Apologies for the crummy photo quality — the iPhone is a wonderful device, but even with all the improvements the camera still doesn’t handle motion well. You get the gist, though, even with less-than-stellar pics.
Close-up of the district pin, which is quite an honor to wear. And a mighty fine profile, if I do say so myself!
Getting congrats from the West U team and coaches (who were very nice throughout, by the way, and that’s not always the case with opposing teams. A couple of their players cried in the field when they realized their run to State was ending, but the parents and coaches were quite civil).
Payton being interviewed by a local sports reporter. And yes, of course I will link to the story when it comes out. See this, though, for a previous game’s story.
Proudly displaying the district banner, which will be on display at our home field, hopefully surrounded by that of the sectional tournament and finally, the State Championship!