World Series

Sunday, November 1, 2015, was one of the most exciting, nerve-wracking nights of my life.  That evening, my brother, Tony, my sister-in-law, Mary, and I sat in my brother’s living room and watched game 5 of the World Series.  Our hometown team, the Kansas City Royals, was up three games to one against the New York Mets.  As the courageous players on the field sweated, shouted, batted, and ran around the field, Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cried, laughed, cheered, bit our nails, passed around a bottle of Tums, and held our three dogs as if they were comforting, broken-in stuffed animals.

Though the dogs were part of our nervous ritual, they seemed oblivious to all of the excitement as they slept through the majority of the game.  The dogs finally roused themselves into a frenzy during the 12^th inning when the Royals finally broke the 2 runs to 2 runs stalemate and took charge of the game.  Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cheered, clapped, and jumped around the room as the dogs barked and yelped as they ran around our legs and nipped at our heels.  The whole surreal scene became even more erratic when a third strike was called on the batter at the plate, which created the third out for the New York Mets in the bottom of the 12^th inning.  The final score was 7 to 2.  The Royals had just triumphed in game 5 of the World Series and clinched the title of World Champions by winning four out of the seven scheduled games.  Tony, Mary, and I stood in the middle of the living room.  All three of us were welded together in a deep hug as we jumped up and down and continued to scream.  We laughed and cried simultaneously as we watched our favored team racing out of the dugout and onto the field as the players yelled, hugged, and danced in victory.  Then the first loud boom filled the air.

“The fireworks have started,” Tony shouted as he untangled himself from our embrace and ran across the living room to the front door.  Tony pulled the door open and all three of us stepped out onto the porch.  We listened for a moment as the fireworks boomed all around us.  Even our elderly neighbors across the street got into the spirit of the moment.  The senior couple opened their front door, tossed out two firecrackers, and then shut the door, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

But the celebration wasn’t over.  Tony, Mary, and I continued to listen to the booming until the night suddenly grew still.  Then, out of the darkness, we heard voices loudly screaming and shouting.  “WWWOOOOOO!”  The echo of the voices reverberated all around us.  I was surprised that the voices were coming in the direction of the next neighborhood to the north of us.   The sounds were so joyful and crystal clear I imagined a thousand angels were rejoicing.  Tony, however, was not going to be outdone on such a joyful night.  He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered a loud “WOOOOO!” of his own into the starry night sky.  Within seconds, there was a response.  The disembodied voices shouted again.  “WOOOO-HOOOO!”  Tony, Mary, and I laughed uproariously before Tony once more sent out a cheer of his own.  “WOOOOO!”  Two seconds later, the answering “WOOOOO-HOOO!” came back to us from out of the darkness.  Tony, Mary, and I laughed again as I thought about Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  Our shouts into the night reminded me of the back and forth “do-do-do-do-do” music when contact was made with the aliens.  Some unseen, unknown living creatures had just made contact with us in the overwhelming joy of the Kansas City Royals wining the World Series.  The whole neighborhood and the brilliant night sky seemed to be joining us in celebration.  The whole effect was silly, funny, and incredibly thrilling.

“Let’s go back inside,” Tony finally suggested.  “Let’s watch the Royals celebrating their victory.”  Mary, Tony, and I went back into the house and once more gathered around the TV in the living room.  With tears and laughter, we watched the celebration from Queens, New York, for a few minutes before deciding that we really needed to get some sleep.  It was already after midnight and the exhilarating fatigue from the stress and excitement of watching the game was finally crashing down on us.  We all hugged each other one more time before retiring to our bedrooms.

I couldn’t sleep though.  I was still too excited.  I laid awake for a half hour more thinking about the game.  I was excited for my team, my family, and my hometown.  After just returning to Kansas from California two months ago, I felt connected once more to my community.  I lay in bed and thought about the games that I had watched over the last few months.  I suddenly realized that my attraction to the games was not about sport but about spirit.  All of the skillful players had proven themselves consistently on the field, but it is the team’s ability to rally back up to fighting mode even after a rough play that attracted the most attention.  The Royals have an amazing ability to come back fighting hard and putting in every effort even as they fall behind.  The team’s Never-Give-Up attitude kept them in the game long after many others may have already counted them out.  The players never lost focus of their goals or dreams even when the odds seemed stacked against them.  Their drive and determination never faltered even after losing the World Series to the New York Giants last year.  The Royals returned to the field stronger, faster, and better even after that downfall.  The loyalty and dedication the manager and players showed to each other created an steadfast foundation that could not be shaken.  The team was truly a “Band of Brothers” that stuck together during tough times.  The Kansas City Royals deserved the win!

Right before I fell asleep, I thought about how the spirit of the Royals and this World Series win, thirty years after their last World Championship in 1985, united the people of Kansas City and inspired a strong, determined, never-say-die community.  But again, I am beginning to realize that that is what sets Kansas City apart from any other place where I have lived.  I thought about my family, friends, and new contacts in Kansas.  I’m surrounded by hard-working, God-fearing, America-proud citizens.  Kansas, there really is no place like home!

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Second Chances

Last October, I was living over a thousand miles away from my hometown of Kansas City, Kansas.  I had been living in Palm Springs, California, for the past ten years.  Of course, there were a lot of things I missed about Kansas: bar-b-cue, jazz clubs, season changes, and, of course, family.  But one special event last year made me particularly homesick.  My professional hometown baseball team, The Kansas City Royals, was playing in the World Series.

Though I have never been athletic myself, I enjoy watching sports.  I love going to live games and feeling the energy of the crowd as they cheer on their favorite players.  Though I hadn’t been to a game in years, I was still extremely proud of the Royals for their major field victories.

I also have to admit that I was extremely jealous.  Every day, new post would appear on Facebook from my Kansas friends about the Royals’ activities.  Every few days, I would receive emails with links to major articles that reported on the games.  Every time I spoke on the phone to my brother, Tony, he would talk endlessly about the excitement that was buzzing around the city.  My sweet cousin, Connie, sent me a t-shirt that showed the Royals in a victory pose when they won the pennant.  I loved the t-shirt, the articles, and the resonant thrill in Tony’s voice.  But I wanted to be there!  I wanted to share in all of the activities, games, and trash talk that happens during Series games, but no one in California really seemed to care.  I can’t blame them, though.  It would have been very different if the Dodgers had made it to the Series.  It’s amazing the amount of pride people can feel for a hometown team.

I was teaching most nights that the Series games took place in 2014.  On every break, however, I would grab my phone and check scores and stats.  When class resumed, I would exactly announce to my students, “The Royals are up by one point!”  My pronouncement was usually meet with blank stares.  “The World Series!  My team is in the World Series,” I would inform them.  “It’s so exciting!”  Several students would smile and nod their heads.  But after the second game, no one was showing any reaction at all.  But I didn’t care.  I still continued to enthusiastically support my team from a thousand miles away.

,,,.And then the Royals lost the Series.   They lost the seventh game to the San Francisco Giants, 3-2…

…Life went on…

My circumstances began to change in the spring of 2015.  With few alternatives, I moved back to Kansas City, Kansas, in August of that year.  The baseball season was in “full swing.”  (I hate clichés but thought this was a good metaphor for baseball!)  The Royals were winning a majority of their games…Oh, my gosh, the Royals were in the playoffs against the Toronto BlueJays!

For the next two weeks, the air was crisp with excitement and blue t-shirts, hats, and jackets were everywhere.  Bars and clubs were packed with people staring at large screen televisions, their eyes following every move, watching every play…And I was there!  I was in Kansas!  I was home!

And then, it happened!  Friday, October 23, 2015, following an hour-long rain delay during the 8^th inning, the Royals won the pennant, defeating the BlueJays and earning another trip to the World Series for the second year in a row…with home field advantage, I might add.

As I listened to game predictions and my friends’ plans for the first Series game this Tuesday, October 27, 2015, I can’t help but smile.  This year has been full of second chances.  I’m starting fresh, starting over again…I came back home after a long time away.  It had been 25 years since I lived in Kansas.  I have a second chance to renew old friendship, reconnect with family, plan new adventures, start new careers, and redefine my life.  I have another chance now to seriously concentrate on my writing career.  Who knows if I will succeed or not?  But what does it matter?  Second chances can be hard work and very scary, but it’s so much better than giving up.

The Royals did not give up on their “Road to Gold.”  It’s very rare for a team to make it to the Series two seasons in a row.  Who knows what’s going to happen?  Who can truly predict if the Royals will defeat the Mets this year and by how many games and runs?  Who cares actually?  The Royals have a second chance for success.  And it is scary and it is hard work and they may not succeed.  But the effort is so much better than giving up…

…And I’m proud to share this amazing experience with my family and friends.  I guess, even through all of my travels, I have always been a Kansas girl at heart…and I am so grateful for second chances!

Opinions

So one day I was at the gym and I had just gotten on the exercise bike.  I was pedaling away mindlessly as I read my paperback book.  Suddenly, a young boy sat down on the bike next to me.  He looked to be only 12 or 13-years-old.  The boy began to pedal and then I heard him say, “Hey, how do you program this thing?”  I smiled and put my book down.  As I leaned over to help him, though, I suddenly smelled this horrible, putrid, body odor.

Oh, my gosh, I thought, this poor boy.  The smell was horrendous.  I tried to compose my face into a smooth smile as I showed him how to set the controls.  As I bit my lower lip to stop my eyes from watering, my mind was reminding me, “He’s a little kid.  He’s just a kid.  Don’t say anything.  Don’t hurt his feelings.”  I set the controls for the boy and then moved away.  I sat up straight on my own bike and tried to focus on my book.

“Hey,” the boy said again, “how do I get it to go faster?”  I leaned over again and tried to stop my hands from immediately covering my nose. I sniffed helplessly a few times.  My mind started to chant, “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.  Be kind.  Be kind.”  I forced a smile as I helped him set the speed level on the bike and then moved gratefully away.

Suddenly, the boy hopped off the bike.  As he was walking away, he looked back over his shoulder and stated, “Well, that smell couldn’t be me. I showered this morning.”  I stared at the boy as he walked out of the cardio area.

Wait a minute!  Did that boy just tell me I smell bad….Well, the little…

I sat on my bike pedaling in stunned silence as I thought about the boy’s words.  Even though the smell had faded away, I became a little paranoid.  That’s not me.  I’m sure it isn’t me…is it me?  I took several deep breaths but didn’t smell anything.  However, I was suddenly a little fearful.

I got off of the bike, ran back to the locker room, stripped out of my gym clothes, and immediately stood underneath the shower spray.  Of course, that smell wasn’t me…I had showered that morning, too.  And yet, I was amazed that the boy’s words could have such an effect on me.  As I squeezed soap out of the dispenser hanging on the wall and scrubbed away at my skin, my mind began to spin.  Why was I accepting the boy’s words as the truth, even though I knew that I was clean?  And yet I suddenly didn’t feel so fresh.

I sighed heavily as I reminded myself again.  “He’s just a kid.  He’s just a kid.”  His words meant nothing.  But they said everything.

Though there are times that I say awkward things, I always try hard to sidestep other people’s feelings.  Why do I feel sometimes, though, that my feelings get stomped on? But is that really true…or do I just allow other people’s opinions to affect me more than I should?  Why would I ever allow someone else’s words, especially the words of a young boy, make me feel that there was something wrong or unacceptable about me?  What does it matter if people make nasty comments at me or share cruel opinions?  Isn’t it more important how I see myself?  I knew I was clean and decent.  I know I try to be a good person.  Why would I ever let someone else’s words hurt me?  The boy had nothing to do with my response to his remarks.  That had been entirely my choice.

People are always going to say nasty things.  They will criticize my hair, so I get it cut.  Then they will criticize my weight, so I diet.  Then they will criticize my clothes….when does it stop?  It stops only when I choose not to listen or respond anymore.  That’s just how people are.  What people say to me isn’t about me; it’s about them.  It’s about their insecurities.  I realize that I really am just a reflection of how people see themselves.  People may praise me.  People may insult me.  Which words I accept, though, are completely up to me.

…And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  That poor kid.  Was he being laughed at, ridiculed for his situation?  Did he need someone to carry his shame for him for a while? I was suddenly pleased that I was there to share his burden with him for just a moment.

As I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I started to laugh.  I was over the initial shock of the situation and found the whole incident hysterical.  Oh, my gosh, that funny little boy.  I finished drying myself off and slowly got dressed. I felt good.  I felt happy.

I smiled now about the boy who had taught me so much. The boy was just so insecure.  I prayed that someone was taking care of him and teaching him to take care of himself.  I hoped that he would soon learn to create his armor and protect himself from the unkind words of other people.

I finished getting dressed and then walked out of the gym.  I smiled deeply.  I was feeling happy, hopeful…and deeply cleansed.

Muscle Bound Dreams

One of the trainers threw me out of the gym one day.  “You can’t be here every day and work out as hard as you do,” she told me.  “Your muscles need time to rest.  Go home…go now..you can’t work out today.”

Well, it is true…I am an official gym rat.  I love going to the gym.  I am at the gym at least 2 hours a day five days a week.  Not only do I like to stay toned, strong, and healthy, but the gym is my stress reliever. When I finish my workout, I always feel emotionally better and completely at peace.  Well, most of the time I do.  I admit there are days when I am at the gym and feeling grumpy.  My crankiness is the result of encountering oversized, overbearing “he-men.”

“He-men” are the insanely-muscled, large men who have biceps the size of my waist.  Their calf muscles are twice the size of one of my thighs.   They are the athletes, the sportsmen, the professional players who live by the impulses of their bodies instead of their brains.

Though I am small and somewhat uncoordinated, I’m comfortable working out in the same gym with the “he-men.”  I’m not intimidated in that way.  However, I get angry when they don’t clean up after themselves.  It makes me mad when they don’t put away their weights when they finish with a machine.  I also hate it when they are circuit training and I accidentally stumble into their path, using machines they claim they were using even though they had been on the other side of the gym.  Several of the men have chased me right off the machines.  Though it is upsetting, I don’t let it bother me and I return to the gym the next day, prime and ready for the next workout.

This morning I was at the gym again.  Sundays are usually quiet and I can exercise without any interruptions.  But this Sunday was different.  I had just sat down and adjusted the weights at the shoulder press machine when a young, heavily-muscled man walked up beside me.  I started my exercises as I watched him draw closer.  Oh, no, is he going to tell me to get off the machine?  He probably was in the middle of some circuit training and, once again, I was on a machine that was supposedly already in use.

As I finished my first set, I watched the man out of the corner of my eye.  He suddenly stopped walking and stood about 3 feet to the side of my machine.  Was he trying to intimidate me to leave?  I glanced shyly over at the man.  Oh, gosh, I thought, he is so much bigger than I am!  The man was about six feet tall with short dark hair, extremely broad shoulders and well muscled arms and legs.  I couldn’t see his face…and suddenly I realized that the man wasn’t even looking at me.  Instead, he was staring up at the TV monitor that was hanging from the ceiling beams right in front of the shoulder press machine.

I glanced up at the TV.  The Sunday edition of Good Morning, America was silently playing on the monitor.  With the sound turned off, I couldn’t exactly figure out what this segment was about, but images of Spiderman leaping off of tall buildings and fighting “baddies” was playing across the screen.  I leaned forward in my seat and then looked back at the muscle man who was still standing beside me.  I swear the man was totally mesmerized by the images on the screen.  He stood beside me with his muscled arms crossed over his large chest and a huge silly grin on his suddenly boyish face.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing.  Why do Superheroes and Star Wars turn every grown man into an 8-year-old boy?  I am not being sarcastic.  Instead, I ask the question with complete fascination.  This man’s obvious enjoyment of seeing Spiderman was honest, pure, and very touching.  I looked around the gym then at all the muscle men working out around me and suddenly smiled at the little boys they must have been.  All these grown men were once little boys who played war games and dreamed of being superheroes.  For the first time, I suddenly saw beyond the muscles and witnessed the hopes and dreams of the little boys within.  Suddenly, they weren’t “he-men,” but flesh and blood human beings with endless desires and aspirations.  As I watched them work out their muscles, I realized that some of their goals will be realized and others, like becoming Spiderman, will be locked somewhere in the imaginary “what if” section of their minds.

I was so grateful that this beautiful young man, and all the men at the gym today, reminded me how important it is to unlock that “what if” section and let the child within out to play.  I watched the men around me working out and realized how important it was to hold on to childhood dreams.   I thought about the reality of crushed dreams when things don’t always work out the way we planned.  These men are never going to be Spiderman, and I will never become Barbie.  But in the comprehension of childhood dreams, we find our humanity.  I watched these young men around me and witnessed their dreams with every grunt, breath, and lift of the weights.  They were setting goals and displaying enormous discipline….and who’s to say which dreams will come true.

I looked up at the man beside me as the segment ended.  He turned and shyly smiled at me before walking away.  I finished working out with the heavy weights.  My muscles felt tight and strong, but my heart had grown incredibly light.