Diamond Darling

For those of you who have known me for a long time probably know at some point that I dreamed of playing professional baseball. Those dreams fizzled out quicker than my fastball transformed into a change up by the time it reached home plate. Nevertheless, I never let those dreams keep me away from the game.

On Friday, I took Faith to her first baseball game, mostly because I'm having withdrawal from not covering the Braves this spring. And while I have no intention of being one of those parents who tries to live out his dreams through his kids, I thought it would be fun to take her to a game and see how she reacted.

Trying to keep Faith in one place for even short periods of time is like trying to catch wind in a jar. Just when you think you've got her ... BAM! She's gone! But she was complacent for about a half an inning, which lasted forever because the poor kid on the mound was serving up beach balls that forced his outfielders to run sprints.

Once the final out was finally made, Faith's face lit up when she heard the warm-up music blaring over the loud speakers. Faith immediately climbed out of my lap and found an area in the bleachers that was unoccupied. She looked around to gain an audience (something that's easy for a red-headed toddler) and found a few willing to give her their attention. Then she began dancing.

While we don't have a lengthy baby-sitter list, taking Faith to a public place where there are many teenage girls is almost always a sure fire way to have people come over and volunteer to baby sit her. Sticking with our baseball theme, we struck out. But not before Faith managed to get three teeny boppers to oogle over her for about a minute. (Seriously, any of my single friends are more than welcome to take her to the park. I'm sure she could attract 20-somethings, too.)

After that, she darted off for the bullpen, the perfect place to keep her corralled for a few moments. Then it dawned on me that Faith's penchant for cleaning off surfaces makes her the perfect candidate for an umpire. Here she is in action, dusting off home plate.
After she cleaned off home plate, she needed a ball. So, she raced toward the batting cages to pick up a few. However, she wanted to give it to the players on the field, whom she managed to distract from the game as well. Of course, who could blame them? When you're getting shelled 13-1, watching a toddler dance during the coach's trips to the mound is much more entertaining that figuring out what cut off man you're supposed to hit after the next batter bangs a double to the alley. Here's Faith trying to throw a ball onto the field ... and getting frustrated.


Of course, she's just not tall enough nor does she possess the arm strength necessary to pitch the ball over the fence, the latter of which was an unfortunate "skill" she inherited from her daddy. So, she did what any smart toddler does. She asked her daddy to do it.



All in all, it was a fun day at the park. Faith got a little taste of America's favorite pastime, and she still got to dance. What's not to love about the ball park?

It Snow Problem!

I know that many of you have been worried about me coping with the cold weather out here in the great Northwest and probably went from yellow to orange alert status if you happened to see today's forecast. Yes, snow--and lots of it. How would I ever make it to work on my bike in the snow?

Well, I wanted to allay your fears and let you know that I arrived safely without any major incidents, although there is a minor one that bears repeating. While the city of Boise plows the Green Belt which I ride each morning, the wooden bridges remain untouched. As I approached the first wooden bridge in my six-mile trek to work in front of one of only five pedestrians I saw this morning, it dawned on me what those signs near bridges in the south meant.

One of the biggest waste of tax payers money in Dixie are the signs that read, "Bridge ices before road." Given the fact that it gets cold enough to ice over a bridge about as often as the Cubs win the World Series, the signs might as well read, "Bridge wet when raining." However, as I approached the bridge, my back tire started sliding furiously to the right while my front tire disagreed and insisted left was the best direction to go. Then there was me, caught in the middle of a petty little tire fight with nothing to do but hold on. Fortunately, the two came to a resolution before I ate the bridge for breakfast.

For all of you out there expressing your concern, thank you. However, I'm re-adjusting just fine. Remember, there was a time in my childhood when I lived in jolly old England where my dad and I built igloos in the backyard for fun. Three inches of snow is nothing. :)