4th of July

Aboard the Staten Island Ferry

Staten Island Yankees vs. Jamestown Jammers.  Jamestown?

Alice loved the mascots, Scooter and Red

Alice with Red.  She was enraptured and terrified

Highlights of the game: ice-cold plastic bottles of Bud Light on a hot evening.  Someone near us fielded a foul ball and gave it to Alice.  All of our neighbors were tickled to hear Alice cheer, sing, and yell "Charge!"  The game ran 12 innings, followed by fireworks.  At one point the mascot Scooter was squatting down trying to "lift" a "heavy" barbell and the sound guy let loose a loud brrrrip, prompting Alice to note, "Scooter tooted, like me!"  We hustled to catch the 11 pm ferry home.  Alice was quiet and thoughtful on the long subway ride back.  Bedtime for her at 12:30.  Cold showers late at night to break the heat and end the day.  Happy birthday America. 

Independence Day weekend

We had a wonderful weekend.  But right now I am sitting at the table in our godforsaken apartment as the ceiling fan shoves great glaciers of hot air around the room and as beads of sweat gather at my temples.  It is so hot.  The heat bundles itself in these rooms and starts weighing down.  I expect the bed to buckle at any moment.  And it's 11 o'clock at night.

Friday:  We took the D and Q trains out to Brighton Beach and Coney Island.  Brighton Beach is the home of a large Russian population, and we ate lunch at a boardwalk Russian cafe, where we tried borscht for the first time.  Pretty darn good!  Like a weird gazpacho!  The quiet of Brighton Beach and the width of the boardwalk there reminded me of Rehoboth.  We walked across the hot sand to the water -- the sand of course being riddled with broken glass, because since this is New York City every nice thing must have an edge to it, which means that your typical idyllic beach will be liberally sprinkled with shrapnel -- and found the ocean to be freezing cold.  We continued up the way towards Coney Island, where we fought the urge to buy fried things and took in the spectacle.  I appreciated the history -- the parachute tower from the 1939 World's Fair, the amusement park rides from the same era.  Following our beach tradition, we had some photo booth pictures taken, and were happy to include Alice for the first time.  Later we ventured out onto the pier, passing fishermen and families and men cat-calling the women.  Looking back towards the beach, seeing the Wonder Wheel and the housing towers and the train snaking through it all, I was struck by the vastness of New York City.  Here we could feel ocean breezes, hear the caw of seagulls, see the wide blue sky over the water.  How many worlds, how many places this city contains.  (Walking along the beach, I was also struck by the sheer brazenness of people -- the  wildly inappropriate bathing suits, all those swathes of unrequested flesh -- that actually made me feel embarrassed for them, on their behalf, but I preferred to focus on the breadth of the City, thanks very much.)

Brighton Beach

Sunday: I started out Independence Day with a nice long run in the morning through Riverside Park.  As the heat settled on our skin and in our clothes, we walked down to Lincoln Center to watch a movie, baby in tow.  Here is our thinking: we did this last week with a matinee of "Toy Story 3," where the theater was empty and Alice was as well-behaved as one could reasonably expect.  L would jump out of her seat as soon as the baby started to fuss, and there was no issue.  Sunday we figured we would go see "Sex and the City 2: A Big Mistake" (see the pun there!) because (a) it's long, (b) it's playing in a place that's air-conditioned, and (c) everyone knows it's horrible, so no one will be there and it won't be a big deal with the baby.

Well, apparently the bitter old women of Manhattan did not get that memo, because they were out in full force.  Why were they seeing this movie everyone hated, six weeks after it originally came out?  Worst of all, the theater was configured in such a way that you entered by the movie screen, which means all the other patrons see you as you come in.  I could feel a collective wave of feminine disdain overtake us as we entered with our stroller, so we hustled to the back row to suffer the withering gaze of some freedom-hating old hag.  When I came back from getting popcorn, I actually took off the hat and sunglasses I had been wearing, so people wouldn't think I was the jerk who brought a baby to the movie.

But you know what, haters?  We did bring a baby, and she did great.  L had to take her out a couple times, and I had a few artificial coughing fits to camoflauge her gurgling, but she did great.  No crying. (We did note the fact that under normal circumstances, we would be part of the disdain brigade, harrumphing about how a movie theater is a completely inappropriate place to bring a baby, but thanks to the challenges of parenting and perhaps even a slight mellowing of my temper, perhaps I am evolving.)

Unfortunately, the movie was horrific.  It was really offensive against the middle east, and somehow the characters were even more insufferable than usual.  Why does Charlotte have a full-time nanny?  She doesn't have a job!  All the characters who were mothers sucked at it.  And their partners, the fathers, were simpering and spineless.  And the karaoke scene made me want to gouge my eyes out.  Other than that, two thumbs up!

We walked back to the piers on 125th Street and set up an impromptu picnic to see the fireworks.  We made friends with the sweet family to our left and watched the sunset sink across the Hudson.  The weather was perfect and the people were friendly, kids chasing each other and people eating sandwiches on their blankets.  When the fireworks started we found that our view was blocked by a clump of trees -- and then hundreds of people were shifting and jostling for a better view -- but at that point it didn't matter.

125th Street piers

Monday: Today I took my first Manhattan bike ride, after a morning stop at the local bike shop to outfit the old bike I had as a teenager, which has been dormant for about 15 years.  After pumping the tires, checking the brakes, and buying a helmet, this evening I rode down the Hudson to about 72nd Street and back.  I know it's no excuse for an actual workout, but it felt great to move, to force some air around me in the illusion of coolness.

This afternoon, after lunch, I took Alice home alone so that L could enjoy a small piece of the day.  The baby and I stayed in the cool oasis of her room. We read my favorite children's colonialist allegory, "The Story of Babar," as well as "Make Way for Ducklings," and a brief selection of "Moby-Dick," which she did not enjoy.  Then I was holding her in my lap, and we were both sitting there rocking, me relaxing in the cool air and quiet moment, feeling her weight on me, and the baby with the pacifier in her mouth, restful in my arms.  I looked at her and she was smiling sweetly, even with the pacifier, and then something happened and she was looking so clearly in my eyes, and smiling so broadly -- I started speaking to her and she would coo right in response, her mouth wide and open and happy, her eyes so intent on mine, laughing together.  At that moment I expected her to speak, to say my name or her own, or to tell a joke, or to laugh like her mother.  For a second she was not a baby, but my friend.  A brief moment of such connection.  During those moments I wouldn't have been surprised by anything.  It was so lovely.

Eventually it passed, and her adorable haze returned, clouding her thoughts, her needs.  But that moment!  My mysterious daughter.
 

It's been a wonderful weekend.  Now time for a last cold shower, and an escape into sleep, on top of the sheets, under the fans.

Redskins

One of my goals for the fall is to follow the Redskins and pay attention, as a true son of Northern Virginia should. Football is a sport I actually don't suck too badly at, but I usually don't follow the sport very closely because (a) I don't spend a lot of time watching sports on TV and (b) I'm not entirely sure that I totally understand the rules 100%. Sometimes I ask L stupid questions like, "what exactly is an offensive line?" or "remind me again how downs work," and she starts to explain it, and then I get mad because I knew it all along and then I look like an idiot.

The big difference this year, though, is that some of my colleagues at work are actually somewhat aggressive in their sports talk, and they expect me to represent for the Skins. Every Monday one of them will come lumbering into my office, where I'm very intently trying to do some work or read the internet, and launch some open-ended ambiguous question like: "So, how about your boys?" or "So what do you have to say for your Skins after yesterday?" and wait for me to respond. And I can't just flee the scene, because it's my office. There's not a lot of wiggle room there.

After two weeks of trying to follow along, I've been pleased with my progress. I like the Washington Post's sports coverage way more than the New York Times' (in large part because NY teams are almost uniformly vile) and so I usually read their sports columnists, which gives me most everything I need to know. And football gives you some great narratives, spread over a reasonable period of time, with only a small number of games to dissect and analyze. Right now I know enough to worry about said offensive line, to wonder if Jason Campbell will ever throw a touchdown pass, to grow impatient waiting for Zorn's west coast offense to pan out, to hate and scorn Danny Snyder for suing little-old-lady season ticket holders, and to be relieved and anguished by last Sunday's pathetic dribbling victory over the Rams.

I have an autumn fantasy where L and I spend some chilly Sunday afternoon ensconced in some bar, getting pleasantly drunk and watching the game and clinking glasses with garrulous Washingtonians and singing "Hail to the Redskins," verse and all, after a victory. The Redskins are a really big deal back home and it makes me feel good to root for them. The brash colors, the racist name, the legacy of greatness tarnished by a decade or so of mediocrity - it's all a part of it, of us. Fight on, sons of Washington.

Day at Citifield

Yesterday Ashesh, Mona, L and I braved the 7 train to check out the Mets/Brewers game at the brand-new Citifield. Everything -- the ballpark, the weather, the seats, the outcome, the Blue Smoke ribs, the time we appeared on the Jumbotron, the margaritas we enjoyed back in the neighborhood afterwards -- was spectacular. It was a great day to be a New Yorker.

Although Citifield is definitely cut from the same Venerable-Old-Timey-Ivy-and-Brickwork aesthetic now dominating most new baseball stadiums, I thought they actually showed some restraint in not laying it on too thick. For all of the masonry and elegantly arches welcoming you to the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, there's plenty of exposed piping and darkly painted I-beams running along everything. The Rotunda itself was beautiful, an exceptional welcome to the new ballpark, with some genuinely inspirational inscriptions along the walls and floor. Near the center of the floor are a giant pair of bright-blue numbers, 42, behind markings representing Robinson's footprints. This area was mobbed with people taking photos as the game ended, and it made me really happy to see it. The whole thing was reverent and historical but still accessible and human-scale, like the game itself. How stuffy can you be when you are mere feet away from a men's room with dozens of urinals lined in a row?

Food-wise, they had plenty of your typical baseball fare, and tucked behind center field, rght alongside the whiffle ball diamond, is the ridiculous foodie oasis that seemed to really capture the modern Manhattanite's obsession with normal dishes somehow made exotic or locally grown or inexplicably expensive. Blue Smoke! Shake Shack! Fancy beers! Fancy tacos! It was unbelievable. The ribs were ridiculous, although I found them really hard to eat and could have used more wet naps.

Anyways, the day was perfect -- bright blue skies, a breeze keeping the flags lining the top of the stands in full view. Our seats were right along the first base line, giving us a great view of most of the action. The game was quick, with awesome pitching by Johan Santana that made up for the general lack of batting action. I tried to take a few photos with the old iphone, but between the bright sun and the barbecue sauce smeared all over my fingers (and face, let's keep it real) it was sort of challenging.

Here's a view of the infield from our seats. These seats were so good, the first thing I thought about as we settled in was that we could be killed by a foul ball in the blink of an eye. It was exciting!
Here's everyone going crazy as Mr. Met started shooting t-shirts into the crowd:
What a great day. I can't wait to go back. It made me want to buy a whole bunch of Mets stuff, too, like a cap, although wearing a baseball hat here is like making a strong political statement that half of everyone else will find extremely obnoxious. Like if you walked around with an "I'm GLAD we're in Iraq!" hat. Not that being a Mets fan is equivalent, but I would feel pressure to be knowledgeable and ready to defend the team, especially since a lot of these smarmy corporate types I tend to spend time with these days are usually Yankees fans. I just don't know if I'm ready for that commitment. But days like this definitely push me in that direction.

Slow pitch

One of the best things about adulthood, bar none, is the fact that no one makes you participate in organized youth sports. I spent a lot of time in my formative years playing youth sports: cheering on my teammates as they charged ahead of me in the batting lineup, bantering with the assistant coaches as I sat out the inning in the dugout, winning the end-of-season awards for Most Sportsmanlike, or, even more humiliatingly, Most Improved. As a kid I would literally spend the entire schoolday dreading Little League practice, wondering what new failure or humiliation might be waiting for me there.

Through the years I sort of improved: my hand-eye coordination got better, and I learned the value of hustling. Even if you are truly bad at something, if you really hustle, you can generally get by all right. (This is true of everything.) In basketball I was able to snatch rebounds and really thrash the ball around to shake off other players, and I was tenacious at defense, keeping my eye on my opponent's midsection so he couldn't fake me out. In baseball, after I would completely miscalculate a line drive or a fly, I would run extremely quickly to wherever it landed on the ground and hurl it back towards the infield. There was a real upward trend.

Now, of course, I'm a grown-ass man, with a wife, an advanced degree, a professional career, my own apartment, copious student loan debt, and the freedom to fill my leisure time as I see fit. Rarely in the last decade has this included organized sports, save from individual efforts like running, which doesn't involve catching things. Yet tomorrow, dear reader, I will be playing on the firm's softball team, as we face some other corporate team at a ballfield on Roosevelt Island. That's right -- it's time to play Little League for adults, except now, rather than play with random kids from other elementary schools, I get to play with my coworkers! Awesome!

Obviously I am not going into this unprepared. Last Monday, when I found out that I would have to be playing softball in a little over a week, I promptly went to Sports Authority and spent about $60 on miscellaneous equipment. I also spent another obscene amount of cash to rent a batting cage at Chelsea Piers on Saturday. Anna, John, Mona and Ashesh, who were very good sports about everything, accompanied me. It was actually a lot of fun, even though we were surrounded by children's birthday parties. As I stood in the cage, my body ratcheted into the familiar position -- knees bent, shoulders cocked back, forearms tense, breathing steadily, whimpering slightly -- I felt the same good old sense of panic. Blood pounding in my temples, queasiness in my gut, the whole deal.

By the end of the hour (at which point we had all thoroughly lost interest in batting) I was feeling a lot better. After a couple of tragicomic whiffs at the beginning, I was making contact with every single slow, loping pitch, knocking the softballs into some solid line drives and a few angry grounders. I realized that I made better contact if I stepped a little farther back from the plate. I felt confident, even though most of my hits felt ugly against the bat, giving me that ringing feeling in my hands, like I was batting with a piece of rebar.

So that's where things are. Tomorrow night is softball night, unless it rains or something, which would obviously be horrible. In the evenings I have been oiling up the new baseball glove I bought, which feels cheap and plasticky on my hand, and there was a moment the other night when I smelled the leather, and I threw the ball into the pocket and held it there, and I realized I was actually kind of excited to get out there and see what happens. Not that this is redemption, or that I even need redemption, but maybe I will surprise myself. It could be something good, you never know. Batter up...

Nationals Park

Yesterday, L, Hank, Henry, and I went to see the Nationals play the Brewers at Nationals Park, the latest jewel in the crown of Southeast DC. I was very excited to check out the new park, and it did not disappoint. Rather than old-timey brick and wrought iron of Camden Yards and its imitators, this park was spare and basic, a simple limestone-colored structure wrapping around the diamond. Each concourse was open to the field; anywhere inside the building you could see the grass, hear the crowd, feel the breeze. We entered from the Metro and walked towards the main entrance at center field, where you make your way through a lively promenade with plenty of options for food and drink. Between the roving crowds, and the cloudless sky, it felt like a day at the beach.

My favorite part of the experience, though, were the mascots. They had enormously-headed versions of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt blundering all around the stadium. They were taking photos with student groups and making a few little kids burst into tears; at one point they were racing around the outfield, and Abe Lincoln came tearing through to take first place. I found the whole thing funny and irreverent, but not disrespectful; like the new park itself, there is a sense of levity that doesn't detract from the strong sense of history, civic identity, and even some good old Washington pride. There was a surprising number of Washington caps and shirts worn throughout the ballpark; I was really glad I had mine, too.