Who You Know

One of the things that I have really grown to appreciate about baseball is that the players are accessible. If you get to the ball park early, you can go right down to the rail and watch the players warm up. I am not sure why the ushers are so cool about this, but I have found it to be true in several ball parks - your seat doesn't matter. You can get right up next to the field before the game. Sometimes you get ignored. Sometimes you get a wave. Sometimes you get a practice ball thrown up in the stands. And sometimes you get autographs. Frank has a nice collection of balls that he's gotten at games this way.

When I took Frank to Kansas City to see the Royals and Yankees play, our plan was to put the boys in Husker shirts with a Royals and Yankees hat. We beelined for the Yankee's bullpen and waited patiently. I saw Joba walk out and sent Frank into action. He went right down against the rail and held his hand out with a ball and pen for an autograph. As soon as the crowd realized it was Joba, there was a swarm around the railing in front of him. Joba gamely signed all sorts of things, but he didn't see Frank, because he was surrounded by adults who were much bigger and more aggressive than him. Joba walked to the dug out and the crowd thinned. A Yankee that we didn't recognize saw Frank's ball and took it from him and signed it. (We have no idea who it is - we can't read his name and the number was not in the roster.) Frank though, was delighted with the whole thing. He almost got Joba's signature and he did get a Yankee signature. Well alright then.

I figured we would try again at another game. Or get an opportunity in Lincoln someday.

But Joba's not just from Lincoln, he's from Kearney, too.

My Grams told her neighbor the story about Frank's Yankees game. And her neighbor happens to be the UNK baseball coach. He went home and came back with an autographed ball for Frank.

It came in the mail while I was out. Frank opened it right up and knew exactly what it was. He had already changed his display of baseballs by the time I got home. (I meant to get a picture of the self-forged Babe Ruth ball.) We'll get a case just for the Joba ball, which I think is a good idea, but until then it will sit with the Buck O'Neill ball and the Mystery Yankee ball.

From our trip in September 2007:

"There is no such thing as a bad boy."

Yesterday I was talking about Boys Town with my paralegal. She had just gone out to visit a kid client of ours there and she innocently asked, "Who was Fr. Flanagan?"

It's times like those that I feel a deep chuckle and I sit back and say, "Come here, yungun and Uncle Remus will tell you about the founding of Boys Town." Actually, I said, "You should rent the movie!"

"There's a movie?" she said.

"Oh yeah!" I said. "Spencer Tracy and Mickey Rooney were in it."

"Micky Rooney? That short, old guy?"

As you can see, my work is sometimes legal and sometimes it is just schoolin' these younguns about their pop culture.

"Yes, that's Mickey Rooney, but he was also a famous child actor. He starred in National Velvet with Elizabeth Taylor," I began.

For some reason, Boys Town was a favorite of Kate's and mine when we were little. I don't even know how many times we watched it. I think it was a frequent late night movie on the local tv channel.

We drove by Boys Town on our way into Omaha and when we would approach the front gates, we would start moaning, "Oh, oh, oh! Here! Here is where PeeWee died!" We would lean against each other in the backseat and comfort each other as we shed fake tears. Of course, we also shed real tears, but just when we watched the movie. The famous line from this movie is Mickey Rooney's of course: "He's not heavy, he's my brother." But Kate and I prefered the Spencer Tracy line, "There's no such thing as a bad boy." We would tease each other with that line when one of us got in trouble. It has a nice note of irony to it when said to a child who has just been punished for a small transgression.

I should rent this and watch it with my kids. I wonder if I can even find it at the neighborhood Blockbuster where "classics" are Indiana Jones movies from the 80s?

I Hate Snakes

"This looks like the guy who is a driver in that Star Wars movie," said the Anna, as she handed the DVD box that I picked out to the kid at Blockbuster.

"Yeah, it kinda is," I said.

"It totally is," said the kid at Blockbuster. "Harrison Ford is the pilot of the Millenium Falcon and Indian Jones. He's a really good actor."

"So he's the guy that loves the sister of that guy?" she said, looking at the Blockbuster Kid.

"That guy? You mean Luke Skywalker?! The savior of the galaxy?!" I said.

"Your classic movie is due back on Monday," the Blockbuster Kid said, diplomatically.

"Why Skywalker when he flies jets?" the thirteen year old asks me as I pick up a DVD and receipt.

So if you saw a middle aged mom banging her head against the car in the parking lot of the Blockbuster Video? That was me.

She Who Will Not Be Ignored

Immigration Hosts

"You guys look so nice this morning, can I get a picture of the two of you?"

"I'm proud of you, Franklin."
"I didn't do anything, Mom."

I did not expect to cry, but when the kids came into the church in their processional, they were an amazing combination of child and adult and I felt overwhelmed by their youth and possibilities. They each possessed confidence that shone through at the same time with nervousness.

Our church has many different immigrant groups. The white kids are the minority, actually. I see a charming formality and piousness in new immigrant groups. The girls' dresses were incredible. Floor length. Rhinestone tiaras. Huge veils. The boys were in suits, not just sport coats and khakis. They carried their prayer books and rosaries and posed for pictures with a seemingly endless supply of family members who wanted to get their picture taken with the First Communion child in front of the Virgin Mary.

We're a little more casual. After our traditional family pictures (I won't even post the one that someone took of the half eaten cake), we went out for spaghetti and Mary had a soccer game.

I wonder about my Irish Catholic ancestors, who were once immigrants and wonder how they dressed their kids for First Communion. (Incidentally, it reminds me of the only time that I ever met an Irish Protestant. When I commented on that, he joked, "Why would the Protestants leave Ireland?")

This is a free country and you can be any religion you want and raise your children in any religion you want. I feel grateful and overwhelmed by that. We create our own traditions and ceremonies and I have tried to help the children understand that this is part of who they are and will always be, and by that I just mean it is part of the ritual and memory of their childhood, like it is for so many. They can do with it what they want. And although Mary wore a dress that she claims that she hates, I did not make her wear a floor length gown and a tiara. I don't think there is enough spaghetti in the world for me to bribe her with to get her into something like that.