I have a hard time watching baseball teams like the Yankees and Red Sox, not just because they are evil AL East empires with vast (and unfair) payrolls, but because I never know who the players are, since they don’t imprint players’ names on the backs of their jerseys. In reading John’s gospel you’ll discover that he never mentions himself by name.
Usually I post here on Thursdays about music I’m listening to, whether a mini review of a CD or some playlists Pandora or Rhapsody picked out for me. I thought today I’d share what podcasts I like to listen to, considering I split my drive time and gym time between music and podcasts.
A couple weeks ago Micah and I got some crayons and a coloring book out. He liked scribbling/coloring for a little while but found more joy in rolling the oversized crayons across the table — sort of like table hockey. It was while we were coloring that I recalled something from childhood.
What a week to be a fan of baseball. … There have been some great games in the opening round of this year’s postseason. Three of the four match-ups will be decided in five of the possible five games. My team, the Arizona Diamondbacks, looked expectedly pitiful in their first two games in Milwaukee, only to outslug the Brewers in their games at home.
He was Mr. Automatic, so I left the living room and went to bed. “They can do it,” Cindy in her naiveté tried to convince me. I would have nothing of it. It was Game 7 of the 2001 World Series. …
Not much of a player in his nine years in the Bigs, Papa Garagiola found a home in the broadcast booth, where his warm, folksy demeanor these days makes you feel like your grandpa is sitting next to you, calling the game. Except unlike my grandfather, Garagiola shares first-hand stories of old timers like Yogi Berra and Stan Musial.
We might have stranded a runner. Some pastors and I used to quip every week how we might need some help scoring. The preacher knew he was off, so he’d say, “I need you to drive me in.” The response song would need to be extra syrupy. Or I’d say, “We’ve searched under every speaker but can’t seem to find our groove today. We’ll just try to get on base. Maybe take a walk.”
Well, my formerly hapless D-backs are hanging in there. Eight games above .500 and just four games behind the NL West leading Giants, winners of last year’s World Series. It’s fun watching budding sluggers Justin Upton, Chris Young, and Miguel Montero, and young dart throwers Ian Kennedy and Daniel Hudson all come into their own, guided by manager and former Fall Classic hero Kirk Gibson. But I have to say, I’m a little irritated that I’ll be losing more of my blow money.
I love that my boys are interested in baseball. At three and almost two, they’ll turn anything into a bat. Cindy prefers to give them paper towel rolls, the cardboard part that will itself yield to whatever they might hit with it—instead of the opposite. Sure, they like to play with balls (ball may have been for both of them their fourth or fifth word), but they also like watching baseball too, something the women in my house are loathe to do. I was watching a game earlier this week and was reminded about a difficult aspect of parenting: discipline.
Despite the cold temperatures and yesterday’s flurries, today marks the beginning of summer for me: Major League Baseball’s opening day