Batter Up

Baseball has always been a part of my life...whether I liked it or not.

As a child of a man who once tried out for the Pirates, it was inevitable.

My first recollection of baseball is hearing We Are Family by Sister Sledge, when our Buccos were unstoppable for the final time...when they won the World Series back in 1979. Now I don't remember any games or plays. (I was all of 5 years old), but I do remember the excitement and the names of the players. John Candelaria, Ed Ott, Kent Tekulve, Manny Sanguillen and who can forget Willie Stargell? These guys were in my brother's baseball card collection and in some ways actually seemed like family. The way people page through old photo albums of loved ones from days of yore, we would look through stacks of Topps baseball cards.

I'm embarrassed to say that I recognize more names from the 1979 team than from today's current Pirates roster. But that is partially because I've got a new team I've been following -the EA Wildcats.

Yes, my 7 year old is playing baseball for the third year in a row, but something happened this season to make this go around a little bit different. I have been a reluctant fan all my life because I was kinda forced into the baseball scene. I had to go to my younger brother's games and while I really enjoyed the Happy Meals after a win, (one of his teams was sponsored by McDonalds) I wasn't so much into the game. I liked when he got a hit and made it on base but the rest was bore -ing.

My oldest son tried baseball for a season and that was just painful. He ended up hating it, but because he had made a commitment we made him finish it out. Our favorite memory was when he played catcher and hid from the ball. I guess if you put it in perspective - it is scary to have a fast object coming at your face and your job is to stop it and you are all of 3 ft. 10 inches tall.

While my three children are talented in their own ways, my youngest is Mr. Sporty. He is in constant motion and has not met a sport he doesn't like. From hockey to football to frisbee, he can do it all. Prior to this year, he played baseball, but I don't remember being that into the games. The ball was still being hit off of a tee and my son was still a little immature and liked playing in the dirt and had separation issues, so the games were a bit of a hassle. But this year the games were good.

Don't get me wrong. The season started slow, but with each game I started to see the kids' potential. A good play here, a good hit there, glimmers of hope kept coming and the kids were showing they were understanding the game. By the end of the season, the team had really gelled.

Last year, I would do anything to get out of a game. This year, I wouldn't miss a game for anything and I never regretted juggling my schedule to make that happen. (Except that one game when it was really cold early in April and I ran out of hot tea.  It was a night game and I was tired and cranky.)

I have tried to pin down what made this season so special. Was it because the kids are getting older and understand what they are supposed to be doing? Was it because the kids are older and want to be better? Was the coaching staff a cohesive unit that worked well together thus were able to get the kids to do better?

I'm thinking it was a combination of all three. But I do have to hand it to our coaches. These guys work hard and truly care about teaching these kids the fundamentals of baseball. They work all day at their regular job and then a couple days a week have to report to a game or practice. There were plenty of weekend games too, but they always seemed to enjoy what they were doing and took their role seriously.

I admire people who coach because, it is not easy. It is time away from family, dealing with parents and sometimes watching kids make a mistake after you have told them 100 times not to watch the ball when they get a hit, not to slow down when they are running to first base and not to swing at bad pitches. I'm sure there are frustrating times when these guys asked themselves why they still do it, but then there are times when a kid makes a good catch, gets their first in the park home run or slides safely into second. Yes, those are good days.

Last Saturday, my son's team played in a tournament. They got clobbered the first game but the second was full of excitement and just plain good baseball. There was even a controversial call at second when a kid forgot to call time out when he tried to stand after sliding into the base. He was tagged out and I watched as the coaches tried to argue their case. The umpire made a good call but was it fair in game filled with 7 and 8 year olds?  Yes, it was frustrating and that call in the end may have cost us the game (we lost by 1 run) but the staff used the play as a teaching tool and celebrated the kids performance in what was probably the best game of the season.

I am starting to love baseball not because I have to or because it is in my DNA, but because I love watching kids get it. I love when a little guy throws the ball to first with only a second to spare to get that out. I love watching kids run with all they've got to get to make it safely to first base. Who knows, the next Tim Foli or Omar Moreno may be on deck. Sister Sledge better be working on a sequel.

Ooo La La

I always thought Millvale was on the other side of the world.

Growing up in McKeesport, my family stuck to an area within a ten mile radius. When I was little, downtown meant downtown McKeesport. We didn't go to Oakmont or Allison Park or Etna. In fact, I didn't know anything about Munhall until I was in college and I started dating a guy whose mom happened to live there.

My first trip to Millvale was shortly after we moved back to Pittsburgh 2006ish. I went there to buy pastries at the French bakery on North Street for Mother's Day. I had heard over the years about the flooding those poor people have had to endure. The worst came when Hurricane Ivan struck back in 2004. (Since then the Army Corp. of Engineers dredged Girty's Run in the hopes of removing built up sedimentation to prevent serious flooding from happening again.) The town was nice, but kind of out of the way for someone who lives in North Versailles.

That was the last time I was there, until last Friday.

On the 4th of July, I was talking to a friend of mine about recent flooding in the North Hills. The summer storms were not discriminating anymore and instead of just plaguing the South Hills area it was now affecting the northern streets of McKnight Road and Babcock Boulevard. During our conversation, I said, "You don't hear much about flooding in Millvale anymore since they took care of Girty's Run." Then the morning of July 5th happened and the town was back in the news. Quickly water rose, due to a slow moving storm, creating a river in the streets. Many homes and businesses were flooded.

The water reached the doorway of the French bakery on North Street overtaking the couple steps leading into the establishment, but then suddenly, the water began to recede. The proprietor posted video on Facebook saying that a miracle had happened and his business was spared. That is when I decided it was time to go back to Millvale. It took nearly a week to get the town cleaned up from the flooding, but on July 10, Jean-Marc Chatellier's French Bakery was open for business.

In honor of Bastille Day, July 14, a national day of celebration in France, similar to our Independence Day, we made the trip along with my mom.  She was very excited to see Millvale, a place she had never been. (You can take the girl out of the 'Port but you cannot take the 'Port out of the girl.) It was a scorcher, but we were determined to do it up right.

We put our tourist hats on as I parallel parked smack dab in front of the bakery. (It only took three tries, thank you.) I would liken our experience to a scene from a movie that apparently only my sister and I have watched from the 80's called Baby Boom where these rich tourists walked into a country store and started buying up all the gourmet baby food. (Bran, that reference is for you.) That pretty much was us, but without the rich part or the baby food.

My mom wanted six of these, one of those, a handful of these and, God bless us, we tried to pronounce the French names. We stood in the bakery and took photos like total tourons (tourist + moron)  and I just went with it and rode my mom's wave. She asked if I wanted some of their coffee and I said, "Heck, yeah" knowing it would rock my world once we got outside in the 90+ degree day with 110% humidity, but it was part of the experience and well worth it.

The people who worked there were good sports for sure and were probably a little sad (wink wink) to see us go when we made our way to the quaint tables and chairs outside. But seriously, once we got out there, for a brief moment, I experienced what it must be like in actual France, paying no attention to the folding chair I got out of my car since we were shy one seat. (Baseball parents, always with the chairs, am I right?) As I sat eating my chocolate croissant watching my youngest eat his macaron, we were 'oh la la' and 'oui, oui-ing' it up like champs...Elysees. (Sorry, a little French humor.) Looking at the Eiffel Tower replica in the window, I savored every last bite.

My oldest was born on Bastille Day and although we are not French, I've always admired French culture and even studied the language for six years. That really came in handy while in Epcot Center in Florida a few years back where I was able to order a chocolate croissant in a complete French sentence. I always thought he could have a France themed birthday party with French Toast and French Fries - the total carb experience but... I was never given the green light. Last Friday's pre-Bastille Day celebration was as close as I will ever come.

Yesterday I ate the last of the French shortbread and oooh it was so good. Looks like I might be headed back to Millvale sooner than I thought.

Is It Almost Over?

I have been celebrating the 4th of July since June 16.

Why June 16th, you ask? Well, that is the day my neighbors started shooting off fireworks in my neighborhood. Now don't get me wrong. I love America. I am red, white and blue through and through but seriously, three weeks of boom booms is three too many.

I have never been a big fan of fireworks. Being the oldest of three, I was cautious, fearful. My brother was the one who had a lighter and would ignite the little black snakes on the sidewalk. He was also the one who got in trouble for having his own stash of pyrotechnics. I am not sure if it is a guy thing, but I never had an interest in lighting things on fire especially after seeing those 4th of July PSA's where the dummy was ablaze after a firework went wrong.

 My dad's shirt caught fire one year at the annual July 4th party my family would attend. He was not one to ever play with fireworks, ever, but this particular day, after a few drinks, he became incredibly adventurous. For my siblings and I, this was exciting. Our Daddy was about to do something we had never seen him do before. We were jumping up and down waiting for the little plane, with a wick, to take off and explode.

 My dad lit the wick and instead of the plane flying away from him, it flew toward him. The burning hot firework went the wrong way and ricocheted off of my dad's chest. It was dark outside as we watched our overly excited dad running toward and jumping in a swimming pool. When he got out,  we saw a huge hole in his shirt. Luckily, he did not get burned, but it looked like he did his best Incredible Hulk impression and had become very angry.

That incident may be a contributing factor to my standoffishness toward fireworks. But this year, their sheer proximity to my home was more than I could handle. We have always had neighbors set off fireworks. The ones set off a few houses down from us are nice enough for us to stand on our porch and admire. This family usually gets in on the act as soon as the fireworks tents go up at area shopping centers, and they even set aside a few for other random occasions like a Thursday in August.

But this year, another neighbor got into the act. His fireworks were exploding above my house and the sound was so loud you could not stand on the porch to view them or even look out the window in my bedroom, the closest room facing the stage of ignition. It was so loud I could possibly imagine what it might be like in a war zone. Plus, the sound reverberated off of a nearby brick building, which only intensified the volume. Maybe it is because my ears are 43 now, but I prefer quiet peaceful sounds like birds chirping, water running, air conditioners whirring, and even silence.

I told myself things would probably be their worst on July 4 and until 12:15 a.m. it was pretty darn loud. Luckily, most of the other nights, the neighborhood boom booms wrapped up by 10. Not last Sunday though, it was almost 10:30.

Again, I get it. Fireworks are pretty and possibly the most popular pastime associated with the 4th of July and I am a fun person but...is this really what Thomas Jefferson and the boys envisioned for future generations celebrating this most important day of our country's history?

In a letter to his wife Abigail, John Adams wrote Independence Day should be celebrated, "with Pomp and Parade, with Shews (shows), Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more." But if I am interpreting this correctly, he meant on the 4th not the 9th or the 1st and I'm sure he wasn't talking about any days in June.

So, tonight this ol' gal is sitting in her side porch oasis. I'm hearing my favorite sounds - breeze blowing, birds chirping. My pursuit of happiness is going pretty well. Will the bombs bursting in air soon cause a freedom ring in my ears? Oh John Adams, look what you started.