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.

Summer In The City

The first day of summer is my favorite day of the year. Yes, better than my birthday, better than Arbor Day.

As a Leo, the astrological sign ruled by the sun, I thrive in summer. I am not really big into astrology, but it might explain why I love the warm, long, hot days of summer and why the summer solstice is a big day for me.

So it stands without saying that I try to make the day extra special. We usually stay outside longer than normal, eat ice cream, listen to happy 60's rock and catch fire flies. This year though, it was a little more smashing than I expected.

The Carnegie Science Center has Snowball Day each year on the first day of summer. People are encouraged to bring snowballs from winter for 'name your own admission price' and then you can chuck them into the Mon River. I made a few snowballs after our late March snow and kept them in our freezer.

The kids and I schlepped down to the big city with our little Spider-Man cooler and got ready for the big splash. I was a little disappointed as the instruments the kids chose to launch their snowballs did not give it the air time I expected. Both snowballs landed splat in the dirty river just inches from where we were standing.

No problem. We were still able to enjoy our day at the science center followed by a trip to Rita's for their Italian Ice sale. By the time we were headed home everyone was bushed. The car was quiet as I listened to the summer song tribute on local radio station WYEP. I was immersed in the sounds of Eddie Vedder's 'Hard Sun' as we were in a line of cars, slowly about to enter the Route 30 detour through East Pittsburgh, when all of a sudden BAM! The van was pushed forward by the impact of the car behind.

For a moment I was alone. I was startled and a bit disoriented. Then I remembered all three kids were in the car. My youngest was in the farthest seat back and would have sustained the greatest impact. I became a little hysterical repeating "Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?" as tears streamed down my face.

I then wanted to call the police but knew we had to pull over first. I wasn't sure where that was going to happen since we were stuck in traffic with no where really to go. There was a little gravel area ahead and I set my sights on getting there as I tried to calm myself down not wanting the driver that hit me to see my emotion running down my face.

The driver pulled up next to me and very calmly told me to pull down the street. He said his business was not far and I could follow him. Once we got down there I looked at the van and amazingly, there was no damage. The driver's car also had no damage. He described the accident as a 'kiss' which I didn't understand at first. I thought maybe, like my husband does at times, tries to steal a kiss at a stop light or in traffic. I thought maybe that was how the driver got distracted, but he meant since our cars "tapped" and not crashed.

We both inquired if the other was ok and he asked about the kid in the car. I corrected him and said, "All three of my children are in the car and they are ok."  He told me his soda bottle fell on the floor and the short time it took him to bend down and pick it up was enough time to lose track of the traffic flow. Although he was at fault, his calm and friendly personality really diffused my anxiety and took a sad song and made it better.

He told me if I needed anything to contact him and then he proceeded to direct traffic so I could back out onto the road. I drove away thankful that no one was hurt, thankful that my van was ok, and thankful that the driver that hit me was who God chose to put in my path.

I don't think my kids and I will ever forget our first day of summer crash. As we pulled away we recounted other minor accidents we were in. Each of us had a few to recall except my little guy. He proudly said, "This was my first one!" and I said, "Buddy, I hope it's one and done and this is it."

Nolan fires his snowball toward the Mon.

Tell The People What She Wore

Just in time for beach season Ms. America has decided to eliminate the swimsuit competition. Now I will be at a loss for what I am supposed to aspire to while at the pool, beach, or spray park.

To be honest, I never felt the swimsuit competition was that bad. I was raised on Ms. America pageants. My mom and I would watch the televised show, dress my Barbies for the evening gown segment and then guess which state would win. We always were rooting for Ms. Pennsylvania on the side, in solidarity, even if we thought Ms. Georgia was a knockout.

But now, I guess even someone like me could have been a contestant. This bone came a little too late for this ol' B-eauty.

Let's face it. Women are always going to be judged on their looks. I am not saying that is right or acceptable but them's the facts. Removing the swimsuit competition isn't going to change that. The women who compete in Ms. America have signed up for that. They know the environment, they know what they are in for. They should be respected for their extreme hard work, sacrifice and dedication because that is what it takes to look that good.

Now if a young gal was going to an interview for a teaching job and had to parade in front of the school board in her finest swimwear before they would decide if they would hire her, that is a problem. But the Ms. America pageant is a beauty contest, pure and simple. You take away the swimsuit and the evening gowns and focus more on the contestants’ talents, intelligence and ideas and it seems to me you are left with something more like Shark Tank. So for me, I'm out.

I didn't care that I would never look like those ladies in the pageants. I was a painfully shy kid, who transitioned to a shy 'painfully modest' teenager. I wore long t-shirts to cover up my swimsuit when my family went to the beach. My dad would tell me to be proud of my Olive Oil physique and get some damn sun.

I didn't hate the girls who could pull off a bikini. I knew it just wasn't me. Being the product of some good Catholic school learning, I was taught tough modesty early on. (You don't see much skin exposed on any of the ladies featured in centuries' old icons.) That was ok by me though, since I was a late developer and didn't have much to show off anyway.

I bought my first two piece around age 24, (According to old photos, I did wear a few bikinis as an infant, but that was before I could dress myself.) and I rocked it for about two outings near Virginia Beach where my husband and I were living. Even though initially I was happy to be able to wear one, I didn't feel comfortable. I was self-conscious and exposed - that wrecked havoc on my Catholic subconscious so I ultimately brought my one piece back.  I still pin shirts or dresses that have a 'V' I consider too deep.

Now, don't get me wrong. I wish things could be different. I wish looks weren't so important. I wish I didn't have to dye my hair, pluck my white eyebrow hairs, or use special 'age defying' moisturizer, but that is what some of us have to do. I am too lazy to wear make-up so I don't really go the extra mile to improve my appearance because, this is me.

I stopped watching the pageants a long time ago, not as some kind of boycott but probably because 16 years ago I traded adult shows for cartoons and Pixar movies. I just wish people could stop using entertainment mediums to make a statement. Chew on this, back in 1921 the Miss America pageant started in an attempt by Atlantic City to simply extend the vacation season. It was not started to solve poverty or achieve world peace.

So get rid of the swimsuits if you like or maybe just bring back the ones they wore back in 1921 when swimsuits were practically dresses they covered so much, that might boost the ratings. But don't try to make Ms. America about 'creating an accurate representation of women'. I'm a woman and I know what an accurate representation looks like and believe me, that is not going to do Nielsen any favors.

Cause You're Starstruck, Baby!

I am not in the position to frequently meet famous people. I have met a few over the years, and mostly because of my job.

My very first celebrity encounter was Bill Clinton believe it or not. A high school friend and I went to a rally for Clinton and Gore in downtown McKeesport back in 1992. We waited forever for them to arrive, but our wait paid off. My friend got to shake Al Gore's hand and I got to shake Clinton's.

Yes, it was a big moment for us, but I was a bit disappointed. In our opinion, Al Gore was the handsomer of the two and, as high school girls can be, it wasn't all about politics for us it was also about the looks. I was also interested in Clinton's plan for financing student loans as I was about to start college. (That really paid off for me as 20 years later, I'm still paying down my debt.)

Ok, so maybe that was not an official meeting, but follow that up a few years later when I met Terry Bradshaw. I met him while working as a videographer at a television station in Johnstown. Our sports guy set up an interview and I was to accompany him. This was huge for me - growing up in a Black and Gold household, getting to meet the man whose photo was prominently placed in our family game room. I had big plans to get an autograph for my dad, my brother, myself...etc.

Well, that dream died quickly. The sports guy gave me a pep talk about how I had to act professional and not act like a fan. I was told under no circumstances should I ask for an autograph. I tried to argue my case about how the autograph was not for me but nothing I could say was changing his mind.

We did the interview and I acted professional although I was quite nervous to be in the presence of Mr. Bradshaw. He was down to earth and very polite and I suspect, me not asking for an autograph, was very much appreciated.

I did have the opportunity to meet Billy Gardell when he was in town last year. I have been a fan of his for years dating back to his appearances on the shows Yes, Dear and King of Queens. Even though I am more mature than the giggly college girl who couldn't talk to Kenny Rogers when I shared a hallway with him during a show in Johnstown, I think my Bradshaw pep talk has served me well in dealing with celebrities. I interviewed Gardell about a project he was working on and although he was pressed for time, he was accommodating.

But nothing will probably ever live up to the experience of meeting Yo-Yo Ma in Braddock last week. I knew he would be making a couple stops in Braddock and I contacted one of the organizers to see if it would be ok to bring my oldest. He has been playing the cello for seven years now and to musicians, Mr. Ma is kind of a big deal.

But even if you are not a musician or fan of cellos, Yo-Yo Ma is a pretty recognizable figure. His name is being batted about these days as he is featured in the Fred Rogers documentary "Won't You Be My Neighbor". Mr. Ma made a few appearances on Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, one alongside his young son Nicholas, who is now grown and one of the producers of the film now in theaters.

I wanted my son to just see him possibly perform, but I had very low expectations for how things were going to play out. To be truthful, my son and I were having a pretty good day spending time together, even without the possibility of meeting someone world famous.

We were at an intimate gathering at the Free Store when a moment presented itself and I seized the day. Mr. Ma was accompanied by an entourage which included national recording artist Valerie June, who was in town for a show at the Three Rivers Arts Festival. She performed an impromptu song and once she was done, the cellist walked around the small crowd and was shaking hands while waiting for his cello to be retrieved. He happened to be right next to me and although I was happy to shake his hand, this was not about me.

I immediately directed his attention behind me, where my shy son was standing, and promptly made an introduction. The warmth he showed my son was true and genuine. There was so much going on in the moment - fist bumps and finger magic that I forgot I had a camera hanging around my neck. At one point Yo-Yo said, "Let's get a picture."

The photo is one of the best photos my son has ever taken. His smile is sincere. Comfortable in the presence of an unquestionably talented individual, but what is more remarkable is how the two are standing together. Yo-Yo was half embracing my kid - one arm around my son's shoulder and his right hand rested on my son's other shoulder like the two are familiar, friends, might I even say, kindred spirits.

This chance opportunity, for me, was one of life's extraordinary moments in a sea of routine. I am a bigger fan of Yo-Yo Ma now because I've met him. Anyone can have talent, but not everyone (famous or not) can be truly nice to others.

Although I never had the chance to meet Mr. Rogers, I think I know what that would have felt like thanks to my encounter with Yo-Yo Ma - and it's a good feeling.

Not Sew Simple

I have a problem. Maybe you, like me, have the same problem. I have a hard time saying no to new projects.

 Hopefully I am not alone. There must be quite a few 'Yes, I Can' people out there and that is a good thing, but sometimes our plate overfloweth. I have wild admiration for people whose plate of life is proportionally fixed.

 My husband's plate is proportionally fixed. He cruises through life with a realistic approach - helping when he can, don't get me wrong, but not spreading himself thin.

 I, on the other hand, am like Welcome Back Kotter's Arnold Horshack when a problem arises and a volunteer is needed to fix it.  Ooo, ooo, ooo, Mr. Kotter, pick me, pick me!

 I am not sure what makes me tick and why I am that way. Truth is, I genuinely like to help people, but often I need a few more hours in the day to get everything done. And more often than not, some things just don't.

 My recent undertaking has been a sewing project. A few years ago, a fellow Tamburitzan dance group mom found a bag of Beanie Baby dolls and accessories in our costume storage room. (Obviously a project of another 'yes' person who had a vision but for one reason or another, never reached completion.) The dolls were going to be donated or thrown out, but when I made eye contact with these red headed dolls I knew throwing them out was not going to happen. Not on my watch. I was going to see this project through.

 The dolls were going to get the extreme ethnic makeover they needed to make some little kid happy and hopefully make the group a few dollars toward our general fund. One problem, I am not a crafter. I make little things here and there, but not seriously. I don't measure. I only sew by hand and there's the lack of time issue.

 Well, the doll discovery was two years ago. They got moved around from shelf to shelf in my house. Once I moved them for the fourth time I got motivated. No doll left behind was my new mantra, but I knew I needed help.

 A couple things happened this year that created a perfect storm of get 'r done. My daughter offered to help me and a fellow dance mom was willing to put her superior crafting skills to the test and spearhead the design process. We wanted to create Eastern European looking dolls - girls and boys - in costumes that we would make.

 This would be a challenge because neither my daughter nor I knew how to use the sewing machine we were recently bequeathed, but our enthusiasm and determination made up for our lack of skill. Luckily, our fearless leader was able to give us a few pointers before sending us off with our part of the project: the doll skirts and aprons.

 During the next couple months our task proved a little more challenging than we anticipated. Our deadline, luckily, was pushed back to the first week of June, due to timing issues, which gave my daughter and I more time to discover we were probably in over our heads. But she is stubborn like me and we weren't going down without a fight.

 After buying some sewing do dads, downloading the sewing machine manual and utilizing the crucial help of a friend visiting from out of town, our portion of the project was completed. Six skirts and six aprons - done. I cannot wait to see these dolls on display this weekend at a local ethnic festival. I hope I get the satisfaction of seeing just one little face light up as her parent allows her to chose one for her very own. (I don't mean my daughter either who has already picked out one she plans to buy herself.)

 I have wanted to make clothes since I was in high school and even bought my own antique sewing machine, just for that purpose. In college, I hand sewed a pillow case dress, which ended up being way too short, and the dream went into hibernation. Although the dream was resurrected in doll form, who knows what it might have inspired for my daughter.

 Sometimes my plate of life doth runneth over and sometimes it can be overwhelming, but with a little help from my friends, along with making adorable dolls, I made incredible memories. I am proud of what we accomplished and I am also happy to have tried something new and have something amazing to show for it.