Still In The Game

“Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.”

― Babe Ruth

While it’s true he did not leave our city under the best of terms, and yes, that curse did some damage, you have to love Babe Ruth for his contribution to the game.

Babe Ruth, Fenway 1934. NB: My family seats were right where the guy on the dug out is squatting down. I grew up on hallowed ground

 Recently the topic of sports came up in our house, but specifically youth sports. My children were given every opportunity to play any sport that interested them. We had Saturday mornings of soccer and hockey, afternoons of basketball, field hockey, and, my personal favorite, badminton. With my boys, they were “One Season Wonders.” They tried one season of more than a few games and then, by about 4th grade, they were done. Neither of them found that playing an organized team sport was for them, but they both are active, fit, and enjoyed boxing, skateboarding, and biking.

My daughter, however, really bloomed in high school sports. She joined the track team, both winter and spring, as well as fall cheer, and will graduate in 2020 with at least two varsity letters. This is pretty amazing for our family because I had so little experience as a sports mom. Oh, and for the record, yes, cheer is a sport. You try doing backflips down the entire length of a football field, and tossing teammates into the air (and catching them too.) When I went to a track meet, thankfully a friend from high school, who had a child on the opposing team, was able to tell me what was going on, because honestly, from the stands, I had no idea. There were javelins, and heavy disks, and people running around and leaping over things. I was expecting it to be all dreamy, like Chariots of Fire when they all run on the beach, with a crisp musical score. It was really fun, but definitely not like the movies.

I didn’t get to every game or meet my daughter participated in, and the same was true for her brothers. While I was often the driver and got everyone to and from most practices and games, there was no way I could go to all of them. Honestly, there were some I never even tried to get to, like the football game on a wicked cold Friday night, in the rain. When I picked her up I had hot chocolate, so that has to count for something, right? Well, in the discussion on sports, some parents said they made it a point to go to EVERY. SINGLE. GAME. I was asked, “Why would you not go to the game?” Um, did you not hear me about the rain? Someone even sent a link to an article by some “expert” that implied that going to every game was critical, and your kids are not telling the truth when they say it doesn’t matter. It matters. Capital “M” matters, like, it’s a huge deal if you don’t go to every game.

Hell’s bells people, I am THISCLOSE to having gotten my last child to adulthood. You’re going to tell me now that some 2nd-grade soccer scrimmage that happened while I was browsing the shoe aisle of Marshall’s will have my kid in therapy? Trust me when I tell you there’s lots more material than that. I’m not buying it, not even a little. I’m so over the ever-changing criteria of what constitutes a good parent. Let’s not even start about how mothers are held to a different standard than fathers, that’s whole other column. It’s insane, and it needs to stop. You know how the statistics show that children and teens today are experiencing unprecedented levels of stress and anxiety? It’s real, and while anxiety, OCD, depression, and other mental health issues are all neurobiological medical conditions and certainly nothing to laugh about, you have to wonder if some of the everyday stress that we all experience comes, in part, from other parents. 

We all know that one SpongeMom JudgyPants on the sidelines, taking mental attendance of who is there and who is not, and who didn’t take their turn bringing the orange slices. There’s always at least one Frat Dad screaming from the stands because he’s clearly smarter than the coaches, the umpires and the rest of the dads who didn’t show up. Stop it already. A parent’s presence at a game is a beautiful thing, except for that time when a bunch of angry baseball parents stormed the field and a 13-year-old umpire had to break up a brawl. At least a few of those “sports fans” should have stayed home. I might not have been at every field, but I haven’t struck out yet, and I’m still very much in the game.

The judgment has to stop. No one should be scanning the bleachers and making assumptions about why so-and-so isn’t at the game. Some random Internet child expert doesn’t know me, my kids, or our lives. I will be in the stands when my daughter is recognized at Senior night, even if it rains, but if you don’t see me at some other game or meet and you think that makes me a bad mother? Blow it out your seabag, as my mother used to say. Remember, when you point your finger at someone else, you still have three more fingers pointing right back at your own face.

Pounding the Pavement Pays Off

“It’s not what you achieve, it’s what you overcome. That’s what defines your career.”

---Carlton Fisk

Ah, a quote from a Red Sox icon, Carlton Fisk. He was always my second favorite player, right after Fred Lynn. I loved watching Lynn bounce himself off the Green Monstah when he made a catch, and from my father’s season ticket seats on the Red Sox dugout, I would wave at both Carlton and Freddy when they came in from the field. One day, Fred waved back at me, and I am pretty sure I swooned. I'm still waiting for Carlton to notice me.

The careers of both of these players were epic and made our team and our city a better place. I’m no athlete, and my career has included precisely zero home runs, diving catches, or stolen bases, but it’s been quite a ride, especially lately. My career path since graduating from college has been similar to the old Family Circus cartoons, where the little kid goes to get something in the house and takes the most circuitous route possible, stopping at every little distraction. 

My father called me “Brenda Starr, girl reporter” because I had red hair and green eyes like the comic strip character, but it wasn’t until I hit my 40s that I actually became a journalist. With the demands of raising my kids and still making sure we can, you know, eat and wear clothes, there have been very few opportunities to earn money that I haven’t explored. Hollywood has yet to call, I can’t sing, or dance and math remains a mystery to me, but I’ve made a decent enough living so far. For the last ten years, it’s been all freelance. Working remotely from home has served me well, but it’s a challenge to stay on task some days. Recently, one freelance gig ended, and another blew up in my face, and it was back to pounding the pavement. Fortunately, I found something, but it’s been yet another “whole new world” for me.

In my early career, I was a Boston commuter. I had Reeboks that matched my big shouldered 80s business suits, a briefcase for my fancy shoes and my not so fancy brown bag budget lunch. I knew the best place to stand to get a seat on the Blue Line, I knew the cheapest bars to go to after work for happy hour, and on my lunch break, I knew where the hottest construction guys were. Knowledge is power, my friends. When the Big Dig was in full swing, I was happy to leave the commute behind and be at home for a while, but I’m back to the Boston trek and boy have things changed.

Subway tokens? They don’t exist anymore. Now it’s Charlie tickets, train passes, and bar codes. I’m a reasonably tech-savvy person, so I got the MBTA app, found the right train and only needed the help of one conductor and two fellow passengers to figure out how to pay for my ride. Which, not for nothing, is way more money than it used to be. City foot traffic is different too. I can navigate a crowd quickly, but I stepped off the train at North Station to walk to the new office and was nearly run over by some slouch capped hipster zipping around the station on a longboard. Seriously, he was a full-sized adult and everything, grow up and walk like the rest of us, hippy freak! OK, he was probably a lovely person, and I saw three more boarders that day, so apparently, it’s a thing.

It wouldn’t be a true Brenda experience if I didn’t have a wardrobe crisis leading up to it. What is appropriate office attire now? It’s definitely not suits and sneakers. It’s like the first day of high school; do you go all “jeans and kicks” cool or do you dress up? I could have asked the person who hired me, but then I’d look like a dope, and I usually try to keep that from happening until I’ve been somewhere for longer than 15 minutes. Worrying about it was a waste of time, that I know of no one at the new gig pointed at my slacks and sweater and laughed at me, so that’s a win.

 

The new job involves marketing and knowing lots of buzzwords about retail analytics, brand awareness and “verticals,” and it’s quite something to learn new skills and work in a different environment than my home office. Going into the city won’t be required every day, but I’m looking forward to more adventures in the work world. Oh, and the modern office has changed too. No more cube farms. It’s about collaboration areas, quiet pods, and a fully stocked snack kitchen. All that and a paycheck too? I’m a happy girl in this new adventure. I may still need a little technical assistance since I somehow managed to lose the parking ticket for the train station garage and the guy in the office had to come out to my car and lift up the bar so I could exit, but other than that, it’s going pretty well. The bumpy road of the last six months seems to be smoothing out, and I’m ready for the next big thing, bring it on!