Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".

I am sickened, but not surprised.

My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.

Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.

What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?

Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.


Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07

The Bohemian's Travels

Speaking of soccer ...

The Bohemian is back from China. Yes, she went to China, and no, that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. Don't rush me, I'm getting there, ok? So the Bohemian went to China with a small group of singers from her University choir, sponsored by the State Department. Ten cities. That child has been more well-traveled than I am for about 8 years now. She was in Ghana over the summer, and now China. She's also been to Venice, Belgium, and Toronto without her dear mother. I'm hoping she'll move to Costa Rica one day and buy a house with an extra bedroom, but hey, that's just me.

Anyway, she and the rest of her singing crew were such a hit that they bagged an invitation to sing at another venue.

South Africa, 2010.

Yes, the World Cup, people - the friggin' World Cup.

The Bohemian is beside herself. Naturally.

Seattle Sounders FC: Real Sound Football

Seattle steps up with some real football. Fußball, fútbol, foci, fotbal, or - as we Americans insist - soccer, it doesn't matter what you call it, "the world's game" has finally come local.

Actually, I lie. I do care what you call it. I hate calling it soccer. I think it should be "football" and "American football" or "US football". Are we the only country in the world that doesn't recognize it as just football? OK, never mind, that's another rant. I'll call it soccer so everyone will know what the hell I'm talking about, and so I won't look like a pissy, purse-lipped grammar-control-freak pain in the ass. Even though I pretty much am.

Soccer is here, and in the big leagues, too: a brand spanking new MLS expansion team. For you US football fans, that's Major League Soccer. Pretty much analogous to an NFL team. Yeah, baby. That's right.

So I'm pretty excited.

I remember the '06 World Cup, not so long after I moved here. I was using vacation hours to go home and watch those matches. And I didn't have that much vacation time saved up back then, either. I was stoked. I was also floored that no one seemed to know what the hell I was talking about! I got comments like, "World Cup, what is that, sailing?" or "Oh, I didn't know soccer was that popular." What? Sailing? Are you serious? You didn't know it was that popular? Um, the World Cup final is THE most watched sporting event ever! It's actually US football that's "not that popular", in the big scheme of things, people. Jeez. Some perspective, please. Don't get me wrong, I love American football too. Go 'Hawks.

In fact, what is it with this either-or thing with US football fans? The whole soccer v. American football thing? It's like you can only like one or the other. If you ask someone whether they like soccer, the reply is likely to be, "Nah, I like real football." Yeah? Me too. I like real football and American football. What does one have to do with the other? US football is not a replacement for soccer. It's not even similar. It's not like baseball and softball, for Pete's sake. You might as well say, no, I don't like golf, I'm a croquet man myself. Or, nah, I'm not much into tennis, ping pong is my game! Oh, that sounds silly? Yeah, well that's about how related soccer and US football are, people. You don't have to choose. I've always thought that was some kind of weird sports dichotomy.

Anyway. They won their first regular season game 3 - zip against the New York Red Bulls. Hell yeah.

They're apparently the first football club to have their own marching band, Sound Wave, which is pretty friggin' awesome.

They've already sold more season tickets than any other MLS club. New as they are, too! That's impressive. Apparently the fans did Qwest field proud, rivaling Seawhawks fans in noise level, and standing practically the whole time. Yeah, baby. Hoo-ah.

Anyway, MLS in Seattle, folks. Next game is this Saturday. Bring beer.

The Underdogs Pull It Out!!!

Whoooooooooooooo-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


Eli and his boys pulled it off! A Wild Card team now, a team no one thought had a chance, came up to pick off the Perfect Season Patriots. Hell yeah baby.


And to those of you who told me it couldn't happen, who were even a little cocky about it ........ nah, I won't go there. Sorry, all you Pats fans, I feel for you; I know I'd be ready to bang my head into a brick wall if it were my team. But don't do that. That would feel almost as bad as Tom Brady feels after all those sacks.


And credit where credit is due, Teen Demon's been saying all season he'd win the Superbowl. You called it, baby.


They won't be calling Eli "little brother" any more. Go Giants, you guys deserve it.

Assdad's Testosterone Surge

Where to begin? Today's thoughts range from assholes to playoffs to presidential candidates. Yes, actually I am thinking of separate situations.

I only caught the last portion of the 2-party presidential debates this evening. More about the debates in a minute. The son's wrestling tourney, for some insane reason, fell on the same day that Seahawks played - and WON - Game 1 in the Playoffs (hell yeah) Who schedules these things?! The Bohemian and I, along with some of the other dads (ha) stayed on the run between the gym and the hospitality room, where they had a TV set to the game. Male Offspring had 4 matches. We'd run to the gym to cheer him on, then run back to watch the Seahawks take another step toward the Superbowl. (No, RG, I don't have any illusions. But I sure would like to stomp the Packers next week.)

Something happened at the tourney today that really bothered me. Actually it pissed me the hell off. One of the son's teammates was wrestling. The guy is a good wrestler, but lost this particular match. His father was sitting behind me in the stands acting like a complete ass. I don't know the dad all that well, but from what I'd seen previously, I didn't like him. He's the type of guy who talks big shit about how his kid can kick the ass of any scared little pansy on the mat. Dude, seriously, no "I" in TEAM. I once heard him say this shit to Male Offspring:

Yeah, so [his son] was standing there, right, this was back in 7th grade man, and the other kids were looking scared. They thought he was in high school, man, I mean, he already had a beard coming in! 7th grade! So he's standing there, his arm's in a sling, he couldn't even wrestle, so the JV guy had to step up and wrestle in his place. The JV guy sucked, [his son] could've beaten that kid with only 1 arm! We were really pissed that the JV guy lost the damn match for him.

Meanwhile, his son (who is really a good kid, who isn't big or brawny, and who doesn't have the Beard of Sasquatch) was kind of digging his toes into the floor and looking down at the ground. The next time Assdad cornered Male Offspring for more testosterone tales, my son actually sent me a text message (without the guy even noticing) that read, "Help!" so I'd come rescue him.


Anyway, back to today. Assdad's kid is wrestling. Hard. He's a good wrestler. Assdad is cheering his kid on. But this guy is getting angry. I don't mean worked up in the excitement of the match, I mean actually angry. Not at the refs, not at the opponent -- he's getting angry at his son. Now, I was sitting directly behind the team area, so most of our wrestlers, including a large number of freshmen, were right in front of me. Assdad was directly behind me, and yelling loudly. His diatribe went something like this,

Hook that ankle! Aaaww, no! NO! Goddamn it, get your points! There ... get it ... get the ankl----he didn't get it! What're you doing? You're giving away your points!!!! What the hell are you doing out there?!

OK ... now stretch it out ... stretch!!!! Aaaw! How can you be so stupid? He's not ... I told him to ... goddamn it! OK ... now get it ... you little di-------- damn it!!!

This went on, for a very long 6 minutes. At one point I blatantly turned and gave him a very nasty look. He wasn't expecting it, and met my eyes, full on. There was no question he understood. He looked away, quickly, and toned down for about 30 seconds before he couldn't take it any more.

His son lost the match, only by a couple of points. At this point, a female family friend cuts in, laughing, trying to lighten the mood, "He tried! Come on, it was a tough match, you'd better be nice to him!" Assdad really went off then:

It's his own stupid fault!! How could he lose that? He didn't even try for his points, he just gave it away! Goddamn it. The dipshit!

What? Are you kidding me? I'm sorry, but when you call your own son a dipshit within earshot of his team members, you are truly an asshole. In fact, you're such an asshole, you could have your own bumper sticker. "Have You Called Your Kid a Dipshit Today?"

The Bohemian leaned over and said she hoped the kid wouldn't come over. But, of course, he did. Assdad couldn't even talk to him for a couple of minutes. Then he launches into an encouraging pep talk, with supporting thoughts like,

If you don't care about the points, why are you even going out there?

Don't ever, ever go out there if you don't really want to win.

Didn't I tell you to get that ankle? But you stepped wrong, you didn't listen.

Wasn't I the one who told you stretch it out when you're in that position? But you didn't do it. You didn't do it, and look what happened.

You handed your points over yourself. Why in the world would you do that?

There was a lot more, but that was the gist. At least he didn't call the kid a dipshit to his face. I can't imagine how his son felt. If I could hear all this, I know his teammates, at least the row in front of me, could hear it. And writing it here doesn't begin to convey the disgust and anger in this guy's voice.


Hey, Freakshow, newsflash for you: your son is going to feel the sting of your inexcusable behavior much longer than he'd feel the agony of defeat from one lousy match. And if this is the way you act every match, your son is probably going to feel queasy every time he remembers high school wrestling in the years to come. I'm pretty sure he felt bad enough about losing a match without any help from you.

You're there to support your son, not to relive your own failed glory days, assclown.

Your son took 3rd place out of 8 schools in his weight class -- his coach and his team was proud of him. You should be too. You should be proud of him whether he placed or not. Our school won the damned tournament, and your son had a part in that. How about giving him some credit for that?



I hate asshole sports parents. I was ashamed of how our school's fan group looked today. And we were the hosting school. Nice. I found Teen Demon afterward, and filled her in. She made sure the Yell Leaders found the kid and told him what a good job he did (It was a tough match, seriously). Even if your dad is a total assfreak, it's got to help at least a little when 5 hot Yell Leaders hunt you down to say you did a great job, right? Especially when they come bearing snacks.

Anyway. I know I do tend to wax bitchy about these things, far longer than may be interesting, but it upset me.

Anyway.

So, Male Offspring got 6th place out of 8 in his weight class. He did fantastic. A freshman, wrestling his first varsity high school tournament? Hell yeah. He pinned his first opponent in the first round, lost the other matches, but they were close, and he wrestled hard, and learned some things. Got a purple ribbon to hang in his room.


I'm done. Thoughts on the debates (the part I saw, anyway) tomorrow. Goodnight all.

Pay No Mind to That Earlier Unpleasantness.

Why hello, darlings. Feeling much better now, thank you. It's a wonder what that extra three hours of sleep can do for a body! Of course, three hours of exercise and housecleaning would've done it more good, but then I'd still be bitchy. It's a trade off.

I wrote about wrestling here last season, the son's first season ever, how brave these kids are to grapple around in shiny, spandex suits in public while in the throes of puberty, the intricacies of wrestling a female opponent, and how much I respect these young people. It ain't for sissies, and I don't mean just physically either. There's something about the way team connects and looks out for each other, too.

Looking for the link, I realized I missed my first blogiversary, or whatever you call it, which was this insightful, erudite post:

So, this is my fancy blog. Testing, 1 2 3...

Not even kidding. Lame.

Anyway, this is the son's first year of high school wrestling. There are two other guys in his weight class. They challenge each other for the right to wrestle in the one varsity slot for each weight class. There's an older guy who's pretty good, and if the son does manage to get past him, guess who he ultimately has to challenge for that varsity slot?

That would be the team captain. He's a senior.

The son, no fool, said, "Well, I'll just challenge for the experience then," Smart kid. I would not want to be a freshman on varsity anyway. You'd get your ass kicked all the damn time.

Last week, Mr. Team Captain couldn't wrestle for some reason. I get this phone call:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Male Offspring: Um, Anyu? I have some news that's going to sound good, but ... it's really not.

Me: [bracing myself] Okay, buddy, what's up?

MO: So, apparently, I'm wrestling varsity tonight. Michael can't wrestle.

Me: That's great! Good for you, buddy!

MO: Um, not really. All the older guys know my opponent. He's like, a beast or something!

Me: Well, okay, this is high school, you expect that, right? Besides, wasn't your nickname The Beast last year?

MO: That was middle school. This guy is seriously a beast. I think he has a beard. All the guys look sorry for me. They told me my goal is just to try not to get pinned. What the heck does that mean?

Me: Oh.

MO: This guy went to State last year! He's like a senior.

Me: Oh!

MO: .........

Me: Well ... okay then, honey! Try not to get pinned, then! See you tonight! Good luck!

Poor kid. Okay, in wrestling, your team scores higher if you win by pinning your opponent instead of just getting more points than your opponent. That's why the son's teammates were asking him not to get pinned -- they're basically telling him, he's going to beat you, but don't give up that pin. Even though you're wrestling a beast in spandex. With a beard.

The son was right. This guy WAS a beast. I mean, like a 152-pound Tasmanian devil. But the son held on for his six minutes. He was tired as hell by the end, staggering a bit, but the guy could not pin him. I told the son that he may have just experienced his most respectable loss ever. His team mates cheered pretty loud for him. Hell, yeah.

The son, getting ready to throw Beast Boy
(That's Teen Demon cheering on the left, the one w/ the hair ribbon)

And he throws him!
(This pretty much set Beast Boy off. He went into Tasmanian Devil mode after that.)

But today is a new day. The son sent me a text message that he won his first match of the day -- got a pin in 47 seconds! Hell. yeah. I'm sure he's feeling pretty beastly about that.

Athletic Supporter

I'm sorry, but there's something wrong when you're sitting among a group of parents at a freshman football game, at 3:30 in the afternoon, and somebody reeks of alcohol.

When it's coming out of your pores? Yeah, we can smell you.

Dude, show some class; stay home. Seriously. You're just embarrassing your kid.

-----------------------

Because I have wise blogfriends who call me on my shit, I am adding the following addendum regarding Mr. MadDog: at least the guy showed up. And maybe his kid was just glad to have him there. More than I can say for a lot of parents ...

Jam the Knee at the Jamboree

In Which the Offspring Jams the Wipeout Knee and
Cowbell Waxes Splenetic on Deranged Suburban Sports Parents

Today the Male Offspring put on the pads, the cup (as opposed to the glass), and all other requisite equipment to keep parts intact on the field, and headed to the Freshman Jamboree.

So the son's first good play, he lands right on the Wipeout Knee. The skin has grown back, so the gore has morphed into a scar, but the joint is still a bit tender. The boy won't even going to make it to the first game at this rate.

Check out the sequence shots on the new camera.*

See the guy in the tight purple spandex to the far left, waiting for the ball? That's my baby:

Hike!

Ready to catch
(the ball is right in front of the guy in red, coming toward the son, left)

Bam! Clean catch.

Take off!

"You're so going down, dude"

And ... they're on him.
He got first down, though. Go, baby!

Some of these sports parents, though ... whew! It's wild. You overhear all kinds of shit at these games. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am all about my kids' sports -- I love seeing them get out there and do something they love, and it's fun.

But damn, people, they're kids, it's freshman year -- this is not the friggin' NFL.

These guys go on about why the coach doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, how things were different when they played, how good they were when they coached pee-wee ball.

And don't let a kid miss a pass or a block.

Last year, 8th grade season, a group of the dads were talking, and one of them started complaining about some kid the coach put in. "Coach doesn't know what the hell he's doing! why the hell did he put _________ in? That kid's a pansy, what's he doing in there? He expects to win like that?"

Yeah. 8th grade. WTF, people? How are they supposed to learn to play if you never put them in? And by the way, your star quarterback son? He still shits brown like everyone else, and guess what, he's dropped the ball a time or two, and the boy can't play by himself.

There's no "I" in team, asshole. What kind of coach did you have?

Some of these guys are living their glory days through their sons, while they sit behind a desk or drive a forklift all day. I tell you what dude, when you're wearing an NFL uniform, you can talk shit and I'll listen. Until then, let the kids play and the coaches coach. It's not your clipboard, jerkoff.

Anyway.

My kid had fun today. And yes, as a matter of fact, he did kick ass, but either way, it's about putting kids in and watching young men develop.

Way to go, baby.

* I had planned to do a sort of Adoption Announcement post for the new camera, to balance mourning the death of Dear Camera, but varied and sundry shit began hitting various fans about that time, and well ... I just didn't.

Game Time

Last Friday was Stadium Night at the high school. First varsity game of the season. The son did not play, he's on the freshman team. We played our rivals. One of my co-workers on the parent group has a nephew on the rival team. We sat together on the midline, each of us cheering for our respective teams.

We won. I think it was 34 - 13. Not pretty for them, but oh so pretty for us.

I had "spirit gear", courtesy of Teen Demon. My spirit gear consisted of some beads. It could not rival hers. Here is a picture of her in full spirit gear regalia:





She won some kind of award for school spirit last year. You'd never know looking at this girlie getup that she played football not so long ago for the 8th grade team. On the line, now, as she reminded her little brother last night. (Little brother is a running back.) Took her lumps and got back up. Badass. Cute skirt or shoulder pads, she can carry that shit off. It's all about options with Teen Demon.

Digression: Here's a little aside involving Spirit Gear and the Teen Demon:
We were readying to go do our big presentation with the district. Teen Demon, a senior this year, had been at the high school for the freshman orientation as part of the "Link Crew". The Link Crew is a group of upperclassmen who connect with the incoming freshmen to help them feel more at home starting high school. In this capacity, Teen Demon had on her senior shirt and a good amount of Spirit Gear. Just beads and hair ribbons -- no tights. She wondered if this was appropriate to wear for the presentation to the district.

Teen Demon: Should I change? Do I need to dress up? The superintendents are going to be there, right?
Me (from the other room): What are you wearing?
Teen Demon: Spirit gear. And my senior shirt. From the orientation with freshies.
Me (poking head out door): No, you look fine. You're representing the student voice -- school spirit is great. They'll see you have a stake in your school, that you give a crap.
Teen Demon: Oh. (pause) Should I get more Spirit Gear?

OK. Back to the pics. Here is a picture of the son, trying to get out of my car with his football gear on. (no, he was not driving. Are you kidding me?) Actually this was the day before, but it made me laugh. This pic is actually part of a series. I think it took four shots before he made it out. It was frustrating for him, but hey, it's all about my entertainment.



And finally, here is a shot of the Army Recruiter, skulking around after the game, preying on our athletes and anyone who looks like they may need a helping hand to college. After a short side trip to the battle field, that is. Looks like Sarge is working a little overtime.



In other times, I'd have been all over a sexy boy in a beret, but stay the fuck away from the high school, Sergeant. Go do your grim reaping somewhere else.

Anyway, that was the game. The frosh team starts soon. Between that and my boys, the Seahawks, who won their last preseason game, in case any of you were interested, I am full on ready for football season. Or, as my beret'd buddy would say, locked and loaded.

Men in Tights AND Women in Pads

I. My boys are on the field. It's still pre-season, so it doesn't "count", but who cares. A game's a game in my book.

Last week ... the Packers handed our asses to us on a platter. A cheese platter. We did beat San Diego the week before though

Here's hoping the boys turn things around tonight.

I, unlike Lorraine with High School Musical, will not be live-blogging the game tonight. (except to say we've already recovered their fumble, and scored, not 2 minutes into the game.)

Hey!! The exaggerated sighs of relief are not even necessary. I can hear you from here. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am aware enough to realize that most of my readers are infinitely more interested in musicals than football games.

Punks.

--------------------------------

II. You all want to know about some badass women? Check out the Seattle Majestics. They are women football players. You heard me right. And I am not talking Powder Puff. Tackle. These girls are on the line. In pads, with helmets.

Badass.

Today they got to play a post-season (for them) exhibition game before the Seahawks game, in front of a full crowd at Qwest field. Hell yeah. They play through the Independent Women's Football League (IWFL).

I like that they're not called The Lady Seahawks. I hate that shit. Like our high school's girls basketball team is called The Lady Warriors. (Knight type, not the stereotypical Native American type, as my high school was) There's just something about that which I find demeaning. Like they're not the real Warriors. Like aw, aren't they cute, the little ladies. Fuck that.

Anyway, the Majestics have been getting more publicity, and I'm happy they got to play at Qwest today. Just like the big boys, right? Next season I'm taking the kids to some games. I'm sure they'll be cheaper than Seahawks tickets, which is another fucked up aspect of women's sports, as far as the message it sends about what they're worth, but it works for my budget.

You go Grrlz!

'Tis the Season

Football Season, that is.

First preseason game, Seattle @ San Diego.

Seahawks spank the Chargers, 24 - 16.

That's what I'm talking about.

- Coming soon to a blog near you: The wonderful world of The Hat. -

Bonfire of the Vanities

So, Male Offspring got back from football camp last night. Teen Demon had to pick him up, as I am still ensconced in my new cubicle with my colleagues, dealing with our recent relocation. Whole'nuther meaning to "close quarters". I thought one colleague was readying to give me a lap dance, but she just wanted to use the printer.

I put my dollar away.

Anyway, my daughter picks up her brother from school. Now, he'd told me he had a surprise for us once he got back. I was curious, as he could not be persuaded to spill the beanage. My phone rings:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Perky Female Friend of Male Offspring: Hi! Is ____ there!?

Me: No, I'm still at work, he's not with me.

Perky Friend: Oh. Wait! Okay! Can you please tell him that Perky Friend said, "Ohmygod, I sooo can't believe you got a mohawk!"

Me: ... (a mohawk?!) ... Sure. I certainly will. Thanks for calling, Perky Friend.

Perky Friend: OK!! Byeee!!

Oh, this was going to be fun. I live for these times. Doesn't quite make up for the stretch marks, but hey, what can, really?

I pick up the phone:

Male Offspring: Hello?

Me: You got a mohawk?

MO: ...

Me: Mmm-hmm. That's right. You can run, but you can't hide.

MO:  How do you ...

Me: Those eyes in the back of my head? Yeah. Maybe think about that next time. When were you going to tell me about this little styling adventure?

MO:  That was the surprise! That's what I was going to show you! Who told you? Did TeenDemon call you? Man! I can't believe she to--

Me: She didn't tell me.

MO: But ... you're still at work! How do you kn--

Me: How I know doesn't concern you.

MO:  Did Coach call you!? Crap! Coach didn't call you did h--

Me:  I can't believe you did this. You're grounded.

MO:  What?!? But, why -- grounded?! Are you serious?! But ... it's my hair! What about the beach bonfire tonight? You said I could go! It's my own hai--

Me: Gotta go, things are crazy here.

MO: What? No! Wait, I need to --

Me: *click*

Of course, later he claimed he knew I'd been joking all along. Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself.  The mohawk is pretty cool.  He calls it his 'frohawk.

So I end up chaperoning the beach bonfire. The idea is to burn the last vestiges of middle school in a blaze of glory before moving on to the vaunted halls of high school.

Kind of an adolescent cleansing ritual involving fire, marshmallows, and illegal fireworks.

All week I'd tried to get the lowdown on this bonfire business. I thought he called from camp because he missed me. Or at least because he knew I'd miss him. He called to ask permission to go the bonfire. I, of course, had questions about an event involving darkness, fire, hormones, high tide and a bunch of boys fresh from football camp, pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone. (This was before I even knew about the fireworks.) I had questions like,

• Who's sponsoring the bonfire? (I don't know)
• Is it a school event? (I don't think so)
• Well, is it a city event, or just a private party? (I don't know)
• What time does it end? (Um, probably after dark?)
• Who will be there? (My friends)
• Do your friends have names? (You know. Just my friends!)
• Who is supervising? Are parents going? (Probably. I don't know)

Finally, half an hour before the big event, I am put on the phone with someone named Rachel's Mom. (None of us have names. We are all ______'s Mom.) We parents decide to pull together and start this high school thing off with a strong united front. In short, we're chaperoning.

I saw one firework go off a few inches from someone's hand. I saw a kid throw a firework into the fire, and then (get this) reach into the fire pit with his bare hand to retrieve it when it didn't go off. I saw another kid balance on the edge of the fire pit on one foot, while he kicked some logs around with his other foot to "rearrange things". I saw kids pushing each other while precariously bent over to roast marshmallows with what looked like a toothpick.

One kid shot a firework through a buddy's legs. Hello! I mean, seriously, I'm all for fun, but do they not know they could lose a hand? Or an equally useful appendage?  Yeah, Junior, you might want to hang onto that for later.  Just sayin'.

At least they weren't spraying Silly String into the fire, which can ignite the string and blow up the can, just like the warning on the side of the can says. (That, apparently, once happened when another parent foolishly left the room during a birthday party. Amazing what tidbits of information surface when parents compare notes.)

The fact that there aren't more grown men walking around with eye patches and bionic parts amazes me. I didn't see a single girl doing these things. A little testosterone is a dangerous thing, people.

Male Offspring missed all these pyromaniacal goings on, as he and New Girlfriend were sitting on a piece of driftwood, the 'frohawk silhouetted against the sky, watching the sunset. Well, they would've been, had the sun been visible. They were actually sitting on a piece of driftwood watching the various and sundry shades of grey swirl around. Pacific Northwest, people. I was actually proud -- okay, fine, smug -- that he didn't get sucked into the frenzied drama.

Next up, high school.

Naked Bikers or Drag Queen Softball?

I have a conflict this weekend.

This Saturday is the Fremont Solstice Parade, part of the annual Fremont Festival.

1) It is a Solstice celebration. Enough said.
2) Awesome food
3) Car art competition -- handpainted crazyass cars.
4) Bikers costumed only with paint.
5) Republicans usually won't get within 2 miles of it.










Also scheduled for this Saturday is the Bat-n-Rouge softball game, to kick off Pride.

Drag Queens v. the Dykes. Enough said.


How the hell is a person supposed to choose? What the hell were the softball teams thinking? The Solstice Parade? Are you kidding me? What group would play opposite that, other than the Young Republicans?


Dammit.

Some Serious Shit About Coaches

(In which I bow down to coaches and use the word "blessing")

This is important, even if you aren't into the whole sports thing. This is about coaches, and how important they are to kids growing up in this country.


Young people need role models. What with Dubya, Paris, R. Kelly, movies and MTV, the future leaders of this country need some real-life folks to point them in the right direction.

Coaches are bringing it, every day. I can literally see a difference in the way my son carries himself this year. Much of that came directly from sports. Good coaches are a blessing, y'all.

Those of you who know me just now choked to see me use the word "blessing", didn't you? (Please, I could hear the what-the-hells from here.) Well, the only other word I could come up with on the fly that conveyed what I'm thinking was "godsend". So yeah, coaches are a blessing. Goddamn right.

They don't get paid much, and some are straight up volunteers. They give so much more than just instruction. They are mentors for these young folks. They are modeling good sportsmanship, responsibility, commitment, and teamwork.

Life skills, here, people. Skills we actually use day to day, unlike sophomore algebra.


I appreciate that several of my son's coaches in particular have been wonderful models for healthy male-to-male interaction. For those who think sports coaches must be big into that stereotypical, macho bullshit, I have not seen it here. These guys have been hands-on with the kids; they hug these kids, put their arms around them, hold their faces and look them straight in the eye while telling what they've done right and what they can work on. They say things like,

I love you man; you pulled it out today!

I couldn't ask for any more from you.

I am so proud of you!

That's okay; you know you're still my boy. You'll get it.

You gave your best; that's what we do.

Way to apply what you learned!

You had good form out there today.

Things that build a kid up. I see my son and his teammates hug each other, and walk with an arm over the other's shoulders. I see them stick together off the field, help each other out.

Female athletes are still working on equal sports status with the men. They still have to deal with being called "The Lady Muskrats/Wildcats/Pelicans". They don't get cheerleaders or assemblies. Coaches don't give a damn about that; they're coaching athletes, not girls. I see the difference in my daughter, because they actually have a high jump coach this year, one who really cares about the kids. It means a lot to her. I hope he's here again next year. (Cross your fingers that he gets that teaching job ...)


And may I also add, while I'm at it, that I especially appreciate the African American men who are stepping up to mentor these kids. Kids of color in our district do not have many mentors who look like them. The images they see in the media and in their own school environment are mostly White.  Well, the positive images are, anyway. African American males face a lot of issues unique to them. That's a whole'nother post, but suffice it to say that when puberty hits and these kids don't look like little boys anymore, people react to them differently. They need positive role models who look like them and who have an awareness of what they're experiencing. The White kids need to see positive Black role models too. Again, another post. Anyway, to the African American men in our community who take time out of their lives to purposefully guide these kids, I appreciate that. Very, very much.

Coaches make a difference.

They show up.

As a single mom, I appreciate the hell out of that.

Up and Over!

(In which I contemplate the sports gene, and Teen Demon kicks high jump ass)

TeenDemon nails 5'1" at the high jump bar.

Up and OVER, hell yeah!

Track season is over. And I'm like, "What? Already?" I should be relieved -- it's a hell of a schedule. I never thought I'd be one of those "sports parents." I always thought I was lacking the sports gene. My sister and I didn't do organized sports growing up. Neither did my parents as kids. Neither did my ex.

The Bohemian's sport is the piano. Girl has some buff fingers.

I remember playing H-O-R-S-E with my dad. That was fun. It was also the extent of my sports experience. Let's just say the Army was a rudeass awakening for my behind. In hindsight, my sister and I really missed out. I think I probably would've been some crazy sports chick, had it been encouraged as a kid. I have discovered a wildass competitive inner bitch, even while just spectating. (Yes, watching the Seahawks is a sport in and of itself.) I guess I had latent sports genes.

Who knows, I could've been an Olympic Curling Champion.

Anyway, track season is over for the two younger offspring, and I'm sorry to see it end. There's something about seeing your kid accomplish something physical, seeing them interact with their teammates, seeing the coaches interact with your kid.  Seeing them feel proud of themselves.

There's also something about seeing your kid friggin' trample every other kid out there, and come out The Champ, The Beast, Yeeaah, GoGoGo, It's All Yours Baby, You've Got This, YES, HellYeah, What Now, Bitches, WHAT NOW ....... oh. So, anyway, yeah, great for a kid's self esteem and responsibility and all that.

Kickassery at the high jump bar:  the 5'0" & 5'1" jump sequences:

5'0" run up

5'0" jump

5'0" landing

5'1" run up

Up & Over, 5'1"

5'1" landing (What now, bitches?!)

Did I say she kicked ass? She was so happy! Her smile was brilliant. So she ended the season as 1st in District, 2nd in League South, and came close to qualifying for State, which is her goal for next year. Her coach says she'll do it, too. (Watch her.) Hell yeah!

She was selected for one of the team's Athlete of the Year awards, which was a very cool surprise for her, and she'll be a Captain for next year's team. You go, baby!

And (rubbing hands gleefully), she got her first letter from a college actively recruiting her based on "recent athletic achievements"! Now that's what I'm talking about, that's where it pays off. She's writing her own ticket, right there. Combined with the letters she's already getting for her grades, she'll hopefully snag a nice scholarship package.

Damn right I'm proud of that shit -- kid works her ass off.

Jump your way right into university, baby, hell yeah.

Okay, that's enough parental bragging for now. Next installment: Dear Son's 400-meter-relay photo finish.

Raising the Bar

Second Born Daughter is in the midst of track season. She does high jump, and also runs in the 4 x 200 relay.

Yes, this blog includes bragging about offspring. I've got the stretchmarks, I'm goddamn well bragging.

Track meets last a long, long time. It was friggin' freezing this time. How is it possible to jump over that bar when you're shivering like Jell-O? I don't know, that's why I'm a spectator, not a participator. Meets are fun when it's warm and sunny. On colder (or rainier) days, spectating requires coffee. Lots of coffee.

Shots from the latest meet:

Got the perfect camera shot, but at the starting height, 4'4".

Nice shot, though, eh?

Next, 4'6"

Nails 4'8"

And out at 4'10"
("But I jumped it twice in practice ... when it was sunny ...)

You go girl!

Gatorade A.M. and The Smiling Milkman

Am I the only one wondering what the hell is up with the new Gatorade A.M. commercial?

So last night, I look up to catch a commercial featuring a smiling Black milkman à la 1930, resplendent in his spotless white uniform, cheerfully delivering bottles of new Gatorade A.M. to customers in a manicured subdivision, all to a jolly tune reminiscent of ice-cream-truck-sounding jingles.
(watch it here.)

I quickly unmute the TV, causing Firstborn Daughter to look up, annoyed at the sound of a dreaded commercial.

Me: Are they kidding? What is this?
FBD: Wow ... what the hell?
Me: Is it just me?
FBD: Um ... seriously, what the hell?

The final line of the commercial goes like this:

Gatorade A.M. -- same science, different time.

And how, Spanky!

The milkman is the very talented (not to mention good-looking) NBA star Kevin Garnett. I don't much follow basketball, being a football kind of gal, but evidently Kevin is the shit on the court.

Gatorade A.M is a new line created for the perky morning athlete. It comes in morning-friendly flavors, like Strawberry-Orange or Mango, that supposedly won't make you upchuck its sugary sweetness while still bleary eyed and half-asleep.

Coffee is a normal morning drink. Orange sugar-water is not.

Anyway, The milkman's customers are other sports stars -- three female soccer players (one of whom looks to be Mia Hamm), and Colts quarterback Peyton Manning -- all White, all rushing out to their morning workouts.  There is one Black neighbor (Kareem Abdul-Jabbar), out watering his lawn, who nods to the milkman.

So ... the only African Americans in this idyllic production are the only two athletes not portrayed as athletes, but rather as an iconic 1930s milkman and the only guy in the neighborhood doing yardwork.  The white athletes are portrayed as the superstars they are.

So the milkman comes up the walk with his syrupy wares as Peyton Manning rushes out the door for his morning workout. The milkman calmly throws him a Gatorade A.M. while saying, "Playbook."

Oops! Peyton's forgotten his playbook! As he rushes back for it, The milkman gives a satisfied nod, knowing he's helped keep the star quarterback on track. WTF?

Now, I'm thinking, Kevin Garnett is an NBA superstar, on the same level as these happy, suburban athletes, right? He is their peer, their equal. Given that, I'm wondering...

• Why is he playing the milkman?
• Why is he serving the other sports stars?
• Why are he and the Black neighbor the only athletes not being portrayed as athletes?
• And while we're at it, what's up with the lone Black neighbor doing yardwork, instead of heading for a workout with the other athletes and some Gatorade A.M.?

Am I the only one thinking this ad is just a little too close to the ads of yore? Something a little like this, maybe?

Why did this commercial immediately put me in mind of those days when success for Kevin would've likely meant a dapper chauffeur's uniform?  Or maybe a snappy bellhop or porter's uniform.

Or a pristine milkman's uniform.

Success for Kevin in those times would not have come packaged in an NBA uniform, trust.

I did not live in those times. My daughter sure didn't. My mom barely has memories of the milkman leaving glass jugs in the secret little door at the side of my grandma's house.

Why then, did that scene immediately bring a "WTF?" reaction? Why did that scene cause my 19-year-old daughter's jaw to drop?

Because ... those images are part of American culture, and we have absorbed them in a million little ways over the course of our lives. Even now.

The earliest posters and advertising purposely depicted Black folks in ways that made White folks feel superior and safe. From the wide-eyed pickaninny, the broadly smiling mammy, and the harmless old uncle, up to the first "positive" images of the "successful" Black man: smartly attired to happily pump your gas, tote your luggage, or wait on your table.

"Different Time" indeed, Gatoraide.

I know lots of people are going to roll their eyes and say this commercial isn't racist. Golly, how some people sure do look for racism around every corner! I'm sure folks will say, "Hey, good for Kevin, do that commercial, make some bank, baby."  And of course, the usual, "If it were a white guy in the truck, you wouldn't be bitching -- you're the racist!"  Well, guess what, it wasn't a white guy in the truck. And it wasn't a non-athlete serving a diverse group of athletes. So, whatever.  

I don't know Kevin's reasons for doing this commercial, and I guess it's his business. I'd be interested in his thoughts about it. I do plan to write to Gatorade. I am really bothered by seeing this in the media in 2007 like it's nothing.

I have a 14-year-old son who's into sports. It's enough of an issue that our media loves to present athletes as the main role models for African American kids. (Yes, great role models, but they're not the only ones, okay?) Now Gatorade has gone one step farther in presenting this fine athlete not as the successful basketball player he IS, but as a friggin' milkman, in a position of servitude to his fellow athletes, complete with all the trappings from those Happy Days Gone By.

This is what my son is supposed to see as the role of a successful Black athlete? Are you fucking kidding me?

You suck, Gatorade.

I just wanted to point this out, say something, because this is not okay. Rant over.

Are You Ready to RUUMMMBBLLE?

So, the Male Offspring got a busted lip at his last match. The boy kept wrestling, too! They disinfected the the mat, and WrestlerBoy had to go stand over the "blood bucket", which is considered amazingly cool in the wrestling world. The boy got back in and wrestled two more rounds. He did not win, because the referee did not know a pin from his ass.

No, seriously, he didn't.

I know, I know what you're thinking. I thought it too: I was turning into one of those sports parents. So, before I lost my mind and pulled a Flying Insane Wrestling Dad move on the ref, I remembered that I don't actually know that much about the finer points of wrestling. Looked like a pin to me, but what do I know? The ref is the expert, right? Actually, no. My suspicion about the ref and his lack of familiarity with said ass was confirmed by the coaching staff and two wrestling parents who are Freakishly Knowledgeable About Wrestling.

Apparently, it was not the only bad call, judging by the barely suppressed outrage of the coaches and those parents freakishly in the know. Fortunately, this was a middle school match, and good sportsmanship prevailed. One coach did have a burning question for Bumbling Ref, after WrestlerBoy's match:

Coach: No disrespect intended Sir, but how long have you been at this?
Bumbling Ref: Actually, this is my first match ... please bear with me.

WTF?

What's that? You say it's only middle school? Please. Obviously you have never witnessed two young athletes battling for the title of King (or Queen) of the Mat. It's brutal. I thought football was bad. They may plow into each other on the football field, break a bone or two, but this is a whole'nuther level of brutal.

This is hand-to-hand combat, people, this is some serious shit. No shoulder pads or helmets on the mat, just your shiny spandex singlet between you and your grunting opponent.

And I'll tell you something else, these young athletes have already stepped up to the mat just by putting that singlet on.

Think about it, these are adolescents fresh in the throes of puberty. They're either smack in the middle of a growth spurt, trying to figure out their new body and how to hold the damn razor, or they haven't hit the growth spurt yet, and are feeling self-conscious around the guys who already have leg hair, an Adam's apple, and a six-pack. And you want to wrap all that up in some spandex and send them to grapple around with -- omg -- another guy? In front of an audience?

Please. These are some tough motherfuckers before they even hit the mat. You put that singlet on and grab another guy's ass while your face is buried in his sweaty armpit. Now try it at age 14 and do it in front of a screaming crowd.

And that does not even address the possibility of wrestling a girl.

Yes, I am all for girls kicking ass on the sports field. Or mat. Three years ago, Teen Demon was the first girl to play on the middle school's football team. She was on the line, people, not kicking field goals. The next year, two more girls followed her. Way to break barriers, baby. Now she cheers for her high school wrestling team and kicks ass on the track team. It gives guys pause to know she can likely kick their ass. While in her cheerleader skirt. So yes, Title IX all the way.

That said, coed wrestling brings different issues. Again: 14, puberty, shiny spandex, grappling around together on the ground in front of an audience. Try these scenarios on for size at that age:

• You get beat by a girl.


• You beat a girl.


• You wonder where it's okay to grab.


• You have a physical reaction to being wrapped around a real live chick. In front of your parents. In a spandex suit.


• The reality of straddling a girl and physically forcing her into submission, when she's desperately fighting to get away freaks you out and just feels wrong.


• The idea of letting her up just because you can't handle her girlness seems disrespectful to her as an athlete.

You see what I'm saying? These are some tough young men and women. We don't have any girls on the middle school team, but there is a young woman at the high school who absolutely rocks. She went to State this year. Hell, yeah!

Anyway, Male Offspring's lip is still looking mighty rough, but he didn't need stitches. He's still drooling a bit. There was much grumbling about Bumbling Ref, but the coaches coached, did the post-meet locker room talk, modeled good sportsmanship. The guys know how they wrestled.

As for the parents, I did hear tell of a covert take-down plot, but that was just a baseless rumor.

Trot on Over to Colt Town

I am in a hostile work environment today. Three of my colleagues are Bears fans. Chi-town transplants. They are also sore losers.

Last Friday we needed boots, there was so much shit-talking up in here. Office deliveries of stuffed bears, Bears propaganda on the white board (with my stolen orange marker), Chicago style pizza delivered, posters of Brian Urlacher, and all manner of emails flying. My colleagues planned a support group in the court yard for today, offering grief counseling for Colts fans. They threatened to forward my GO COLTS email to All Campus, so I would ... how did they put it? Oh yes, "hang my head in shame."

No support group today.

In fact, I didn't hear much of anything for most of the day. I actually got an "Out of Office Reply" from the ring leader, informing me that he would be out of the office until Feb. 3rd, 2008.

I am not actually a Colts fan, but I am currently anti-Bears. The Seahawks lost the NFC championship to the Bears. They were predicted to slaughter us. They didn't. We dragged their mighty mighty defense into sudden death overtime with a tie, and they made it to their end first for a field goal. So we lost, but were not slaughtered.

We played hurt and broke all season. I think we set a record for the number of main starters with serious injuries. Our QB, RB, and then the whole offensive starting line. Then, once those guys started limping back, we lost our star cornerback, his backup, and his backup. We ended up hiring a loan officer off the street to play at CB. I'm pretty sure they had to hot-glue his name and number on the jersey, he was so last-minute. We brought over one of our safeties to cover the other side.

So they kicked ass to get to the Conference title game. They did us proud.

After that game, I was counting on the Saints to avenge us. When I lived in Hungary, I dated a die-hard Saints fan. I guess you could say the Saints are my 2nd team. In Hungary, the games were broadcast live from the States, so after midnight for us. We used to drive to the army post and huddle up in the plywood satellite shack on a cot next to the space heater, watching a tiny TV so he could see the games. He lives in Cali now. We have a date next fall to attend the Saints @ Seahawks game. I can't wait. Anyway, the Saints were supposed to beat the Bears. They didn't. Too bad, because they had a great season, especially after all the mess of Katrina last year. Gotta give those guys serious props.

So, vengeance was all up to the Colts on Superbowl Sunday.

Today, the local Bears fans are feeling foul. They have threatened to give me a "Windy City Welcome". (One guess what that is. Hint: it's foul.) I am working on my Out of Office Reply.

If the Seahawks didn't get back to the Big Bowl though, that's OK, because these 2 teams making it together was more important. Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy. Forget the "first" black coach making it to the Superbowl, how about first and second. How about shattering the hell out of that glass ceiling. With authority. About damn time. I've heard lots of people saying "It shouldn't matter", or "It's about the coaching, not skin color", but that's bullshit. Right now it most definitely does matter.

I haven't heard a Black person yet say it doesn't matter.

It only doesn't matter if your color is the one reflected in the leadership positions at the Superbowl (coaches, most quarterbacks), or other places like, for example, the Presidency, Congress, and most other places high up on the chain, and you've never had to think about that.

Anyway, you go Tony and Lovie, good for you.

Oh, and for all you Bears fans: Neeiiiiggghhh.