BB&R # 29

TIS THE SEASON-

After a very windy night I was informed at my morning rise that our Chistmas Snowman in the front yard had toppled. I looked out the front window, and Old Frosty was face down in wet turf. Oooooooohhh! I didn’t want the neighborhood speculating that I was one of those slackers that lets the lights on the snowman come on that evening with our decoration looking like a hit-and run.

I went out and straightened up the Snowman and noticed his left hand had taken a pretty deep dive into some mud, so I started to clean him up. A couple neighbors wandered by and talked about how the winds had sent most of their decorations into their pool. Across the street from me, my neighbor had five snowmen in his front yard and all of them were down.

I drove out to pickup some coffee and saw that the wind had wrecked havoc all over town ; scattering Santas, reindeer, elves, and bits and pieces of decorations in all forms. It looked like tornado country, but, oddly, no one seemed too upset. By the end of the day, most of it was back in place, lit up and functional. Mine had five more stakes securing it and I knew the high wind advisory was in effect for another couple days.

And as the days passed and the winds returned , the scenario replayed and Christmas decor went airborne. My neighbor’s snowmen went down like bowling pins again. But not my snowman. Sure, he was wobbled around during the winds but stood tall and proud the next day. An enduring symbol of the toughness it takes to get through the holidays. Kind of like when someone gives you fruitcake. Yeah, you smile and endure.

THE HAT TRICK-

So. Last year Deb and I took a trip to Nashville. First time, never been, lots of history and legendary figures in music. And if you’ve been there you probably wandered into a bar at some point and watched a a band of wannabes sing songs they wished they’d written, and reminded you they had dreams of stardom, and those dreams had a shot at reality if you would please toss something in the tip hat with requests.

So- they passed the hat. Some of the bands were ok, most s0-s0,and none were famous. But they smiled, played the same songs, and met the needs of tippers by announcing requests. It sounds like I’m leading up to that hat. Well, sort of.

We wandered into a bar with wannabe singers, playing the same tunes, asking for the same support, passing the same hat. BUT- when they were passing around the hat, we were on the second floor table, above the bar with a classic view over the railing of the bar and the band. AND THEN —-(dramatic pause here to build up the suspense) - I WENT DOWNSTAIRS TO GET THE DRINK ORDERS ! (Gasp! right?)

As I am headed downstairs, the tip jar lady came upstairs and Debbie’s attempt at a tip goes awry. The tip bill goes past the hat and between the railings, and heads downstairs. (Cue the dramatic music here) and LANDS ON A GUY’S HAT!

Naw, I’m not making this up. A guy with a Stetson, standing at the bar directly under the upstairs railing where we are seated, has caught the bill in his headgear, and does not realize it.

Now, if you’re from California, you’re thinking “what are the odds of that happening?” And, sure, if you’re a Tennessee local you’re thinking ”How many times can I wear my lucky hat under this railing before the yankees catch on?”

Picture me, clueless as to the above mentioned tip catcher, walking right past him and up to the bar to order for my beloved spouse. Now picture Debbie from the railing above, yelling and waving her arms to get my attention as I drifted past Mr Lucky Hat. Couldn’t hear a thing as the band was wailing out its third request of “Red Neck Woman”. Man, was that song ever the most requested. So, still clueless, I headed upstairs with drinks in my hands.

Meanwhile Debbie heads downstairs after noticing Mr Lucky Hat had leaned down to pick up his drink, and the bill had floated off his hat and onto the bar. Mr Lucky Hat’s drinking buddy then pointed to the bill, thinking it was Lucky Hat’s. Debbie arrives, explains the surprise appearance of the money from heaven, and Mr Lucky Hat, amused, graciously returns the bill.

The moral of this story? Find the bar in Nashville with the upstairs railing over the bar and park yourself directly under an occupied table. WEAR YOUR BIGGEST STETSON. When the lady walks upstairs with the tip jar, say you’re buying the next round. If the band is playing “Red Neck Woman”, you are golden.

THE CATCH-

From the day Kari was born I was picturing what I could teach her about baseball. She had no interest in it, wanted to play soccer with her friends. For eight years I asked, encouraged, suggested, and hoped someday I could get her to at least try another sport. At the age of 8, I made my last effort by signing her up for softball, suggesting it would be an experiment in deciding. She said ok.

As I took her to practice and watched her games, I realized that, unlike me, she had no older siblings to learn from, and most of her friends were as reluctant as she was to try it. The girls on her team could barely throw, rarely catch, and few understood the rules of the game. Many were afraid of the ball coming towards them. Most would let it drop to the ground before even considering moving to it. The families always clapped encouragement. The umpires were always patient.

As parents on the sidelines cheered hope, it was often amusing to watch the young ladies attempts at fielding. I think I sat through 3 games before I saw an inning with no errors. Anything hit past the pitcher usually wound up being thrown WAY past the infielder and into the dugout or stands.

But, on the plus side, the young ladies never payed attention to the score, and usually asked at the end of the game ,who won? (when the score was 11-0). It was an age of innocence and a learning curve for Dads. And four games into the season, every fly ball in the outfield was either dropped, allowed to fall, or run away from by the player closing her eyes and holding her glove over her head.

And. Then. Game 5! Kari got stuck in left field. She didn’t want to be there, every kid on the team wanted to be in the infield somewhere. But there she was, and the game was against the team that her best friend Lisa played on. Lisa’s Dad was on the other side cheering them on. Second inning and a kid at bat swung at the first pitch and hit a line drive into left field. Uh, huh, right at her.

I stood up and started to say something and in that second-and-a half moment as the ball sailed her way, Kari stood there, motionless; arms at her side as the ball closed in. Everything seemed to go in slow motion after that. The coaches started to yell, a couple softball moms stood up, the shortstop watched as the ball looped over her and headed towards Kari. And I, of course started to lean forward in anticipation, remembering that in practice this entire team had only caught about 10% of the fly balls hit. Maybe 8% ?

As the ball angled towards her, Kari almost statue-like, raised her left hand up and turned her mitt over a split second before the ball dropped into it. And, to the amazement of everyone on the sidelines, the ball stayed there! Kari blinked, paused for a second, and then threw the ball back to the shortstop. I started breathing again.

I talked about that moment for months. I especially liked rubbing it in to Lisa’s dad. And yeah, after the game Kari asked me what the score was. Gotta love softball.

When Kari came home for Christmas this year she showed us the mark where she sprained her ankle playing softball a couple days before (27 years after the big catch). She explained that she had twisted it while lunging to the right for the ball at first base, and then her foot caught awkwardly as she changed direction and stumbled awkwardly to the base in time for the out. Picture my jaw-dropping expression. But hey, she remembered the score in THAT game.