Cousin Monica's Words

Charity: THON

2012-01-22T09:32:00.001-07:00

I had planned to write this morning about Penn State's yearly nonstop two-day dance marathon (THON) to kick off my series on charities.

As many of you know at this point, Joe Paterno has passed at age 85. According to the statement released by JoePa's family, instead of flowers or gifts, the Paterno family has requested donations to Special Olympics of Pennsylvania or THON. JoePa leaves behind a legacy: the millions of us he entertained, the football players he educated and turned into men, Paterno Library on campus, funding a wing at the hospital, and his yearly donations to the university (yes, even after he was fired).

THON started in 1973 and raised $2,000. Almost 40 years later, THON is the largest student-run philanthropy in the world, having raised about $78 million for The Four Diamonds Fund at Penn State Hershey Children's Hospital. The Four Diamonds Fund supports pediatric cancer patients, their families, and the PSH staff treating them.

My aunt, cousins, sister, friends, classmates, and coworkers have all been involved: dancing, canning, security, morale. Each will tell you these efforts top their lists of all-time Penn State memories.

THON's local fame is thanks to canning and tradition — THON's national fame is thanks to its online presence and proud, well-traveled alumni.

JoePa is often quoted for his THON remark: When they say 'We are Penn State,' this is what they are talking about.

(Right before the 25-second mark you think Joe's going to miss the little girl holding out her hand to him; see what he does instead.)

Head here to donate — in Joe's memory or just because you're a good, caring person.

On Charities

2011-12-27T14:00:00.004-07:00

I've decided that in 2012 I'm going to add another category to the posts you see here: charities. I don't have a lot of discretionary income (like most people my age), and my schedule tends to be a little nuts (...like most people my age), but I do have plenty of things near and dear to my heart (and age is not a factor there).

My generation frequently catches flak for its need for connectivity. "Did you see his Facebook update?" "Is there free wifi at our hotel?" "Can I push my work e-mail to my phone?" That is until our parents realize that we can check their football scores instantly and "see" each other on phone calls, anyway.

But this connectivity not only lets us play virtual Scrabble but also stay on top of headlines and work remotely.

So many charities out there have Web presences and include ways to donate online. We can make one-time or recurring donations with simple clicks on the train on the way to work. I will highlight one charity each month that gets my extra cash -- and I hope you will consider contributing, too, via your time, money, or simple word of mouth.

Remember the childhood pet you had? There's a charity for that.
Remember the cancer that killed your grandmother? There's a charity for that.
Remember living in your car? There's a charity for that.
Remember the older sibling you wish you had? There's a charity for that.
Remember relying on Ramen and school-sponsored pizza parties? There's a charity for that.

If you have suggestions, please feel free to send them my way. I have a few ideas percolating, but it would make my heart happy to dig in, learn about other organizations' missions, and share them with readers.

(Bonus points if you're reading this on your phone.)

On "peruse" and context clues

2011-12-11T12:55:00.003-07:00

Ordinarily, I believe Merriam-Webster can do no wrong. M-W makes me want to be a lexicographer. And the contradicting definitions of peruse are no fault of M-W, per se — after all, you are not much good at compiling meanings if you ignore the ones you don't like.

Can context clues save us here? I think the answer is "maybe."

I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

Straight up, there is nothing in this sentence to help us.

Searching for just the right references for my paper, I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

This version does suggest close attention. And this next one?

With four hours to kill until Aaron would be ready to walk home with me, I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

Certainly, the phrasing above leads readers to believe peruse is meant as a leisurely look-through.

So, as your English teachers suggested for years that you use the text surrounding a troublesome word to help you ascertain its meaning for yourself, you can help everyone else "get you" by wording your sentences carefully and arming your readers and listeners with tools of understanding.

On "comprise" vs. "compose"

2011-12-08T18:30:00.004-07:00

You'll inevitably find incorrect usage of comprise-compose in any kind of medium, but you'll also find the pairing in every style guide's list of troublesome words.

Comprise sounds a little more formal, doesn't it? In fact, it's just a one-word way to say "is made up of."

The exam comprises seven questions.

The bill, comprising legitimate regulations and obvious riders, was popular in the House.

The formula is this: [The whole] comprises [the parts]. Avoid using "of," and avoid putting the parts first.

Compose, however, does have several meanings. Mostly, we mean it as to create/put together, but it can also mean to settle and even to reduce to a minimum. If you mean it in the first way, the "composed of" construction is valid.

The exam is composed of seven questions.

She composed some of her best stories at 4 a.m.

His hands were shaking, but he composed himself and approached his boss.

They tried to compose their differences to make the holidays less awkward for the children.

Apparently, it's American to be wrong about this, but the Brits know their English. Don't be a stupid American.

On the Penn State scandal, part II

2011-11-10T06:05:00.026-07:00

Most of what I copyedit is science and sports. One of those topics would have had me sobbing in a newsroom last night.

The journalist's questions:
Why didn't the BOT let Joe Paterno finish the year as coach?
Is Mike McQueary still employed by Penn State? Why?
Is Tim Curley still employed by Penn State? Why?
Can you please confirm that Gary Schultz retired from his temporary post on Sunday, November 6, 2011?
What will the university do to facilitate investigation by the U.S. Department of Education?
Will the university be paying lawyers' fees to support Curley and Schultz, as promised by former president Spanier?
What kind of reports or notice did the State College Police, state police, university police, and Centre County DA have on the situation, and when did they get them?
[Insert can of worms about Ray Gricar here.]

The alumna's questions:
How can BOT refuse to comment on McQueary and Curley without facts but outright fire Joe Paterno without facts?
Why wasn't Jerry Sandusky hauled off in a squad car 10 and 15 years ago?
Why didn't Joe, Mike, and Tim tell the police as soon as they heard something might have happened? AGAIN?
WTF happened to Ray Gricar?
How can you continue to call and ask me for money?
Will my previous gifts be used to defend some lying malcontents?
What do non-Staters think forfeiting a football game will solve?

The human being's questions:
Why didn't McQueary beat the living hell out of Sandusky?
What kind of sick, sick man does that to a child?
Who with authority deserves our trust? And that of our children?

On the Penn State scandal

2011-11-09T19:05:00.010-07:00

I was born in 1986, the year of an undefeated season and a national championship. I have a teddy bear named Bear J. Dozier; it's as old as I am.

Daddy taught me the words of his alma mater; my mother's alma mater; my aunts' alma mater; my uncle's alma mater; what became my cousins', my, and my little sister's alma mater; and that of the place where my engineer grandfathers worked. To which we pledge allegiance and always cherish dear, my 3-year-old self sang. Occasionally goofing on my L's is a little less cute now.

I spent a lot of time in State College as a kid, as my grandparents, aunt, cousins, and family friends lived there. Then I attended Penn State. Then new little cousins-once-removed arrived, and they needed to be snuggled by me, of course. Now I'm six months away from having a PSU brother-in-law and a PSU father-in-law. Penn State is my lifeblood.

To say I am shocked, saddened, horrified, and disgusted cannot capture the emotional roller coaster. Why didn't huge, strong Mike McQueary rip Sandusky off the boy? Why didn't JoePa, of such stature and power, follow up to make sure reports were taken seriously? How is Don't bring kids here again, Jerry an appropriate course of action?

And, despite Sandusky's heinous affront, his name is conspicuously absent from articles. Joe Paterno's name is being used for clicks and page views. SEO over the facts? Media, do your jobs.

Jerry Sandusky, Tim Curley, Mike McQueary, Graham Spanier, and Gary Schultz aren't Penn State; the rest of us are. My friends were fullbacks, pitchers, teaching assistants, reporters, musicians, and engineers. My family danced for two days to raise money for The Four Diamonds Fund. I photographed Cherenkov radiation at the nuclear reactor.

Whipple Dam isn't the same as when I was 5. Kerry Collins doesn't really throw a football anymore. The Creamery moved.

But we can't go home again.

On Facebook's casual serial-comma use

2011-11-07T05:50:00.006-07:00

It does use it! I have the proof!

This showed up in my notifications section this morning. It surprised me, as Facebook's preference for some bastardized form of AP style had always been applied.

And then we scoot to the post cited, where true Facebook reveals itself.

But this means there's hope, right?

On civil disobedience and birth order

2011-10-14T11:20:00.000-06:00

Everyone knows by now about the Occupy [Insert city here] movements. We have one in Denver, a mere two blocks from my and Aaron's apartment.

While I disagree that the problem is one with capitalism (it is clear to me that the main focus should be the government's missteps in terms of bail-outs, wars, and education), I am compelled to join the protesters in one way or another. AW and I had designs on going down tonight with our tent. Questions I'd never had to consider before were at the forefront of our conversations: When should we go down? Will we simply leave if we are asked? What happens to the dog if we get arrested?

We no longer have to consider such things, as assembling is only permitted from 5 a.m. to 11 p.m. and Lincoln Park is now "closed indefinitely" -- Colorado State Police and Denver Police Department swept through last night. In the spirit of giving credit where credit is due, the police issued a 3 a.m. departure deadline and yet did not make arrests until 6 a.m. today. Both sides showed restraint.

On top of being a relatively cautious (in the legal and professional senses) kid of an attorney, I'm not very good at protesting.

Monongahela and I headed down to the dismantled base camp on our morning walk. I was dressed for a typical day at work: jeans, sweater, black North Face jacket, hair straightened and pulled back. In no way do I look like a dirty communist hippie. Lots of us don't, actually. Little Mon and I made our way to the west side of Broadway, which was recovering from being closed. (Keep in mind that prior to last night the movement had never closed major roads or affected commutes in the area, aside from supportive honking from travelers.) I stood with "the folks with the signs," held Little Mon, and cheered at the solidarity honks -- and then I had to head home, because I needed to get to work. Yes, I am an employed, tax-paying, fiscally conservative 25-year-old woman with no student loan debt -- and I support Occupy Denver.

On my way home, I noticed droves of policemen (in full riot gear) leaving the area, too. I took out my phone to snap some pictures.

What came next was disconcerting: "Be careful with that camera, miss." Sound threatening to any of you? I am a law-abiding citizen. There is nothing wrong with my photographing police. My response came as such: "I trust that wasn't a threat." I mean, I'm sure they were just concerned about my brand new iPhone, right? The sweet, calm, leashed hound sitting on my foot definitely had me worried that I might drop my new toy as I photographed you. Don't worry, Dad; I didn't sass the police.

And here's where we get into the birth order stuff.

I'm sure my parents have always seen me as their little rebel, and I'm sure anyone outside the family chalks it up to my being the middle child. Mom and Dad would never, ever tell you it's because of birth order -- and, by the way, I'm the center child, not the middle child. Not once did I consider myself neglected, and the attention I got was because I'm brilliant, hilarious, and modest. (See what I did there?) Truthfully, though, my relationships with my parents and sisters are not strained and, I suppose, are atypical for how birth order "works."

Although I am the most likely of my siblings to get involved in these kinds of things, it's because, somehow, I'm wired this way.

I studied journalism and copyediting not because I wanted to be a watchdog but because I believe in access and accuracy. I moved to Colorado without a job not because of some dramatic thing in Pennsylvania but because I wanted, for 20 years, to be here. I got a tattoo not to stick it to conservative family members but because it means something to me.

And I stand with Occupy Denver not because I'm Daddy's Little Rebel and not because I want to be able to say decades from now that I was involved in a protest in my 20s -- but because the government is not listening.

When friends get drunk and annoying, we can take them home, put them to bed, and know that in the morning they'll feel like jagoffs. What are we supposed to do about our government?

On heartrending crashes and heartwarming texts

2011-09-28T19:15:00.002-06:00

I had two tremble-worthy things this morning and three life-affirming things today.

Around 10 a.m., I was on US 6E, on a mission to scoot north to retrieve my resized engagement ring(!). As I cruised in the left lane toward the Sheridan exit, going between 65 and 70 mph, I heard and saw a gut-wrenching car accident. Car 1 and Car 2 were stopped where the on-ramp meets 6. Not the best place to stop, but there was space on the right and it's better than the traffic lanes. Car 3 came barreling through at a speed comparable to mine and slammed right into Cars 1 and 2. Car 1 was damaged and pushed to the right. Car 2 had its tail and left-rear side smashed in. I'm not sure the driver of Car 3 lived; the front of his SUV shattered into smithereens.

I spent the next 20 minutes to Westminster shaking, crying, and suppressing the urge to vomit. Had I seen the end of someone's life? There is no way the driver of Car 3 was paying attention as he sped toward the highway. Everyone involved was someone's something: a brother, a husband, a father, a friend, a coworker. It was hard to shake the idea of the sudden end of a life as I perused symbols of a planned beginning of a new life.

On my way back to work, on US 6W, I saw the aftermath of another accident, near the same exit on the same highway, just going the opposite direction. One of the vehicles looked like what my colleague GS drives. What if, this time, it was someone I knew and cared about?

As I pulled in at the lab, I saw a text from AW: "We are getting married!" I was soothed; he is my happy thought. But upon parking-lot inspection, I noticed GS's car was gone. Brief but intense panic set in. Communique from GS a few minutes later assured me he and his car were safe.

As though she knew what was going through my sensitive bridezilla brain, my Boston-based younger sister shot me a text this evening: "This sports bar is playing 'Bennie and the Jets.' Makes me think of you and 27 Dresses. :)" Little did she know that the amalgam of family, sports, beer, a favorite song, a favorite movie, inside jokes, and my nuptials was just what I needed. (Mal, you were just what I needed.)

Just in case we all needed a reminder: Life is precious.

On the many and varied uses of "I"

2011-09-27T19:20:00.001-06:00

"Witzig, what are you thinking?" your mind plagues you. The title is tongue-in-cheek; I promise.

I is used for one purpose only: It is the subject. Nothing is ever given to I. You don't go anywhere with I. And, certainly, nothing is I's. I is not an object of a preposition, a direct object, an indirect object, or a possessive form.

Saying You should come with she and I isn't formal; it's wrong. You should come with her and me is the sentiment (and the syntax) you seek.

We should all be thanking our lucky stars that we don't have to sit here and try to go through nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, and ablative cases as we compose our thoughts. (Who doesn't love a good declension, though? I know my sisters and fellow former Latin students do.)

Instead, if I need to pause, I can think of it this way: If I am doing something or feeling some way, I will use I, the nominative case, the subject. If something is being done for me, toward me, with me, to me, etc., I will use me, the objective case. If something belongs to me, I will use my or mine.

Myself is used as a reflexive pronoun or an intensifier. However, it is never the subject: Aaron and myself went to the store. Nope. I don't see myself going to the grocery store today. Yep. And it's never solely the object: You can give your fantasy football money to myself is incorrect. I myself will contact the commish displays the intensive property of myself. Hint: Double up! If you don't hear yourself using another matching first-person form in your sentence, it's not right. Don't be afraid to use me!

Beatles fans, I Me Mine has nothing to do with declensions.

On writing headlines

2011-09-22T19:37:00.002-06:00

This is an honest-to-[pick your deity] Denver Post headline. There are a few things wrong with it, with respect to both conventional English and news judgment. You can see the article here, too.

1. That's direct address you're seeing. It should be "Relax, Denver metro area." I have seen such a problem with DP a lot lately, in several of its online presences. Another example I saw this afternoon was "Look out Iowa."

2. "Relax, Denver metro area" and "it's just a drill" are both independent clauses. They should never be separated with solely a comma; that's a comma splice.

3. Notice that this is regarded as breaking news. Notice also that the headline is playful. Breaking news about a terrorism drill isn't playful, and combining the two is inappropriate. It is the second paragraph that supplies what should be in the headline.

What do other journalists and news-consumers think?

Let me be clear that I in no way am hating on the Post. Because it is the news source I read the most and because I am hyperaware of "the little things," it stands to reason that I will notice goofs and gaffes. I have no doubt my friends at the Post will not take this personally.

On Witz & Wams

2011-09-22T19:00:00.000-06:00

I'm sorry, Internet.

I was going to have another grammar post for you on Monday, but what I thought was Date Night turned into Engagement Night. I trust you will forgive me for the delay in posting and for the non-grammar topic that follows. (The banner at the top there does say I might talk sports 'n' love sometimes.)

On Saturdays, Aaron and I wear our white and blue, shriek as Penn State runs it up the middle on third-and-long, and roar heartily when our defense pounces. On Sundays, he dons his Cunningham shirt and I my Polamalu jersey. The dog is smart enough not to choose sides — given her name, though, I think we know her leanings — and we constantly check our fantasy teams' stats.

My name is Monica Witzig, and my fiancé is an Eagles fan.

And we tag-team dinner. And we read in bed. And we scream-laugh at Archer. And we put whiskey in our tea. And we find General Sherman look-alikes at baseball games. And we go hiking. And we sing to Metallica in the car. And it's perfect.

On abbreviations, initialisms, and acronyms

2011-09-12T08:40:00.002-06:00

Abbreviation, initialism, and acronym are frequently used interchangeably, but the terms are not identical in meaning and function.

If you abbreviate something, you shorten it. We see this most often in addresses: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue becomes 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Your old basketball coach, who was an admiral in the Navy, is Adm. Lippert. You probably abbreviate Latin terms every day, with et cetera used as etc. Abbreviation can refer to any shortened form, so initialisms and acronyms are also abbreviations.

Where it can get hairy is in distinguishing initialisms from acronyms, but this is because most people were never taught the difference. When you use a letter from each word of a lengthy organization or term (Young Men's Christian Association, chief executive officer) and actually pronounce each as a separate letter (YMCA, CEO), you have an initialism. An acronym is the word resulting from combining the letters of the abbreviation: NASA. Sometimes, these acronyms become so commonly accepted that they are recognized as words, e.g. scuba.

Stephanie McMillan's cartoon displays "The Initialism Of Wretchedness." (And don't call it an acronym!)

On "verbal" vs. "oral"

2011-09-05T08:30:00.001-06:00

We see this everywhere, most especially in job descriptions: "We seek someone with excellent written and verbal communication skills."

What the employer really wants, though, is someone who can both write and speak well: "someone with excellent written and oral communication skills."

The difference between verbal and oral is this: Verbal involves words, as opposed to actions, photos, substance, etc.; oral involves the mouth, speaking.

[If you want to talk about the noun "verbal," we can do that some other time when we're diagramming sentences. In the meantime, you keep your gerunds to yourselves.]

Remember, on your SATs, that you were graded separately on the math and verbal sections. The math was, well, numbers — and the verbal was reading, writing, vocabulary: words. I'd be willing to put money on it that you didn't talk during your exam. This section was aptly named. Good on ya, SAT.

Anything to do with words is inherently verbal, but if you specifically reference speaking, make sure you recognize that it is oral. That said, saying someone is funny is an instance of verbal, but laughing is not —although laughing could be considered an oral response. Have I confused you yet? Laughing didn't involve words, written or oral, so it was not verbal. It is almost one of those "a square is a rectangle, but a rectangle is not a square" situations: "You're so funny!" is verbal because it's words, but if you send that as a text to Dad instead of saying it to Dad, it is only verbal and not oral.

[Thanks, Towson, for the image.]

On "feel bad" vs. "feel badly"

2011-08-31T17:00:00.002-06:00

Thanks to a well-publicized grammatical mistake by the head of the U.S. Department of Education, I've been fielding quite a few inquiries about "feel bad" versus "feel badly."

I understand the penchant for "feel badly." It sounds formal, making sure you use the -ly adverb. It's wrong, though.

It comes down to if feel is a linking verb or an action verb in your use of it.

I feel badly.

This use is an action verb, requiring an adverb, literally meaning there is something wrong with your sense of touch. You are having trouble putting your fingers on someone. A little awkward, I know.

I feel bad.

This is what you probably mean. Feel here is a linking verb, requiring an adjective. This is about your state of mind, your emotions. Something upsets you. Maybe you feel sorry for the schoolchildren in Texas. (Yes, this is what Arne Duncan meant.)

"Grammar, schmammar," Duncan said, but you all know better.

As an aside to journos out there, should this misstep by Duncan have been such a focal point of articles? Did reporters have to use that quote? What about letting the public notice it in the oft-accompanying video instead? Isn't the substance of his remarks more important than one grammatical gaffe?

On being "young and an Oriole": a tribute to Mike Flanagan

2011-08-25T11:53:00.004-06:00

I read last night that Mike Flanagan passed away. I'd heard the name at home, from the man who raised me to be a baseball fan. I decided to leave initial commentary to Dad, knowing that he'd be happy to ply me with stories once I asked. I didn't have to ask: I found in my inbox this morning a delightful essay e-mailed to our family, penned by Daddy on his lunch break.

I think each of you reading this will agree that Dad's account is both heartfelt and encyclopedic. To me, he embodies the loyal, passionate, attentive baseball fan. I asked his permission to share with all of you his piece, and he humbly agreed. (What follows is Dad's original message; I did not edit any part of it.)

On Thu, Aug 25, 2011 at 10:35 AM, Marc W. Witzig wrote:

August 25, 2011

Hello, everyone.

Reading the newspaper sports section this morning I was stunned and audibly gasped when I read the news that Mike Flanagan had passed away.

Here is a link to an impromptu memorial made by Jim Palmer at the conclusion of last night's Orioles/Twins telecast:

http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20110824&content_id=23719698&vkey=news_bal&c_id=bal

Baltimore Orioles fans -- especially those who followed the team in the late 1970s and most of the 1980s -- remember Mike Flanagan as "Iron Mike". It took an awful lot to cause him to miss a start. Heck, even though a knee injury caused Flanagan to miss three months of the 1983 regular season he still went 12 - 4 and won a game for the Os in the World Series that year.

No. 46 was not your usual "soft tossing" lefty. He had a great fastball with movement. He took to heart the mantra of Os pitching coach, Ray Miller: work fast, change speeds, throw strikes.

Mike Flanagan had a wonderful, dry wit. He won the Cy Young Award in 1979. In 1980, as fellow Oriole Steve Stone enjoyed a superlative season, and was on his way to post-season awards -- back then Baltimore baseball fans liked to think of the Cy Young Award as being given to the best Os pitcher of the year -- Mike Flanagan commented on the stages of a pitcher's life. Mike was Cy Young. Jim Palmer was Cy Old. Steve Stone was Cy Present. Storm Davis was Cy Future. (Notice we have not yet even mentioned Mike Boddicker.) And if a pitcher suffered an arm injury, he was Sayonara.

In 1984 Mike Flanagan again suffered a knee injury. The defending World Champion Os floundered while the Detroit Tigers started the year 35 - 5. (Look it up.) The Tigers went into Bal'mer for a critical series. Flanagan shed the brace and pitched a wonderful game that the Os won. (Alas, the Os lost a doubleheader the next day but not before Thomas Boswell wrote "the brace is off, and the race is on".)

In 1987 Baltimore Orioles traded Mike Flanagan to Toronto. He pitched fairly well there, having become something of an "innings eater". The regular season came down to a one game face-off between the Blue Jays and the Tigers. Mike Flanagan vs. Jack Morris. As I recall, the Tigers won 1-0.

Flanagan was with Toronto during the Orioles' magical "Why Not?" season of 1989. The regular season came down to a three game set between the Os and Jays in Toronto. Flanagan did not have to start a game. Good thing: the tension already was incredible, and how could I have rooted against Flanagan?

If you watch the Os 1989 highlights video, you will see assorted players and coach "write letters" as something of an in-season diary. Cal Ripken Jr. wrote his "letter" to Mike Flanagan. "Dear Flanny", he starts.

Mike Flanagan ended his career as a reliever. He returned to the Orioles and pitched there in 1991 and 1992. You may recall that the Os played in Memorial Stadium in 1991 and at Camden Yards in 1992. Long before the 1991 season ended Flanagan asked Os Manager Johnny Oates to insert Flanagan in the ninth inning of the final game, so that Mike could be the last Oriole to pitch in Memorial Stadium.

Eric, Barbara, Christie and I had the honor of being at Memorial Stadium that sunny October afternoon. (The Detroit Tigers were the opponent.) In the ninth inning Oates came to the mound, took the ball, looked to the bullpen, and conspicuously tapped his left arm. As the crowd roared Flanagan jogged to the mound. He got the out. (The Tigers won. When the game ended their starter, Frank Tanana -- a lefty -- stood on the mound and, with the fans, gave a standing ovation to the ballpark.)

Flanagan called it a career after the next season, but only after he got to pitch on a staff that included Rick Sutcliffe, Mike Mussina, Arthur Rhodes, and Ben McDonald. (Last I looked Rhodes was released by the Texas Rangers earlier this month and is looking for a club that might want him for the pennant drive. Rhodes is -- of course -- a lefty who can bring the heat.) Mike Flanagan went on to coach for the Orioles, to serve as general manager of the Orioles, to provide telecast commentary for the Orioles, and to be a good will ambassador for the Orioles every day. He learned, and played, the game The Oriole Way.

I believe it was Mike Flanagan who coined the phrase -- and repeated it often -- "it's great to be young and an Oriole". And that is how his teammates revered him.

Tonight I will try to find some old Thomas Boswell columns commenting on No. 46 and, in reading them, bid adieu to beloved Mike Flanagan.

Mike, be at peace.

Bro/Papi/Unc/Marc/Fella who knew it was good while it was good

On shared space

2011-08-24T19:08:00.002-06:00

We don't live separately anymore. It's not even "two of us in my place" anymore. Goodbye, bachelorette pad. Hello, truly shared space.

I think it's really coming along. In fact, I think it's really looking good. My assessment of looking good, though, involves being thrilled with the IKEA, REI, and Urban Outfitters got drunk together and forgot to clean up vibe.

It's amazing what a simple rearrangement (the kitchen table is actually in the kitchen!) and a summers-off-teacher-boyfriend (stuff's built by the time I'm home from the lab!) can do for a place. And, yes, those exclamation points were totally necessary.

The rumors are true: We do now have a futon, a TV, and a food processor, in addition to some other exciting acquisitions that include a table for the fish tank, a desk and chair, a bureau, a wheeled kitchen island, and bunches of extension cords someone so skillfully hid around the apartment. It all seems so basic, right? How did we not have these things before?

It was pretty easy to clear my laptop off the dining table when it was time to eat. I don't really watch TV, so MLB.tv on my computer on the coffee table was perfect. One couch was all I needed. The problem, really, was pesto. I got tired of using a hammer to make it. (You all really, really hope I'm kidding about that. I'm not.)

Yes, and because of the dedicated pesto hammer, Aaron and the rest of his stuff moved in, and now I have a TV. That may not quite be the precise cause-and-effect, but it makes for a good story, anyway.

A couple months after taking the plunge and living in sin, we've actually made our little Cap Hill apartment downright homey.

On homemade dog treats

2011-08-21T21:18:00.000-06:00

In an act that (I'm sure) surprised no one, I've ventured into homemade dog treats.

And, yes: I used organic free-range low-sodium chicken broth. I may not shell out for such morally good and healthily good stuff for myself all the time, but hell if my dog doesn't eat like a tiny Colorado princess.

It didn't take long (no more than half an hour, including prep and bake time), and most of the ingredients were already on hand: wheat flour, rolled oats (you know it as your instant oatmeal mix), cinnamon, chicken broth, water, and jam. I have this habit of altering recipes ever so slightly, so please feel free to ask if you're interested.

Admittedly, part of it comes down to money. Yeah, it might very well be worth your time and your money to grab Fido (Fideaux, you fancy pup) some gourmet treats at that overpriced but impressive store in [insert the trendy, expensive part of your city here]. I do like these places, and I would love to own a dog bakery someday. As a young couple, it is much more fun and affordable for AW and me to make treats for Tiny Hound.

Part of it is knowing I'm giving my beagle something made especially for her — and not mass-produced or questionably produced. I know: I undoubtedly sound like a mother here, but her 18 pounds of loving sweetness is a priority. You dog people and parents get me.

Part of it is my own selfishness. I like to bake, so here's a great "excuse." How embarrassed am I to not have jumped into this sooner...?

Who has suggestions? Requests?

In which I attempt to cope by reading about cuprate superconductors

2011-06-13T06:00:00.000-06:00

Many people block out the exact date of traumatic events, can't tell you the day someone close to them died. I have the opposite problem.

I remember the date. I remember the time. I remember the way I stayed up for hours wailing, pleading with any deity willing to listen—and how everyone was instructed to keep it from me until my father drove the hundred miles to see me the next day.

The gut-wrench even translates to Mountain Time; it's as though something is biologically imprinted.

In my attempts to process the day differently, I am instead hyperaware. I have read and re-read the article on electron pairing in cuprate superconductors in Grandpa's last issue of Science, trying to make sense of it, trying to connect, trying to get one more answer out of him. I shake. I feel physically ill. I fight with my tear ducts, begging them to not betray me and give me away.

The psychological analysis might suggest I haven't fully grieved, but I think I'll just always miss Grandpa. It's hard, in my line of work, not to think of him often. That doesn't mean I'm sad each time I think of him. There is no doubt he had a hand in landing me this new job months ago. Sometimes, I imagine my grandfather as an engineer in his mid-twenties, like my coworkers, telling me about combustion ratios for my report on the latest experiment.

Grandpa was my Einstein. Maybe it's the German heritage. Maybe it's the physics. Maybe it's the hair.

The smiles are frequent in connection with Warren F. Witzig. I am beyond comfortable in my Rensselaer sweatshirt, and my tattoo provides security in remembrance.

"Life is good," Grandpa said.

Madeline and Ava meet baseball

2011-05-29T08:15:00.004-06:00

Proponents of baseball often proclaim family ties, defend the pace as methodical, and cite the statistical side. We go to outrageous lengths to be able to watch our teams. (Recent grads don't have much money, but we can sure scrounge up the dough for MLB.tv.) We recall games from early on in our love affair with the sport. (July 1993: I was 7. It was Seattle at Boston. We had seats down the third baseline, and although I don't recall just how close we were, one must assume "pretty close," as I still have in my memory the sickening thud of Randy Johnson's fastball meeting Mike Greenwell's head. The game ended with a dramatic Red Sox comeback.)

And I think those of us who grow up baseball fans always presume we'll share the sport with our own kids someday.

I got to practice last night with my nieces.

Frankly, it took all my strength not to tear up a little when 8-year-old Madeline, in a Pirates hat, went up the stairs to Section 207 at Coors Field and leaned over the railing to take it all in.

The usher gave Madeline a "My First Game" pin that she proudly wore (and protected as we swooped through the concourse during the third inning to see Dinger). Another usher busted out his older (circa 1994) baseball cards and gave her two of them, in honor of her rite of passage.

I'm not surprised that Madeline was the one who began to take in the rules and workings of the game. Once she was taught that runs and hits were good (for the Rockies, anyway) and that errors were unfortunate, she kept her eye on the scoreboard to keep me updated. I think she was getting the hang of balls and strikes at one point, too. Can't throw too much at someone whose parents didn't raise her in The Church of Ripken. (I recognized the limit when I mentioned a ground-rule double.)

It was a rough night for St. Louis. Ava, jokingly, predicted a 16-2 Rockies victory. She wasn't too far off, as the final score was 15-4. (My favorite player—the catcher, Chris Iannetta, of course—had two homers.)

The girls lasted through all 8.5 innings—no crying, no whining, no begging to leave, no annoying other fans. I think we all know people two and three times the girls' ages who can't do that.

Madeline: "I hope we watch the baseball game all night!"
Monica: "Be careful what you wish for. It could be 18 innings."
Madeline: "That would be awesome!"

I love baseball. It makes me happy. Sharing the game with a 5-year-old and 8-year-old gave me happiness I was unaware of and had been totally without until last night.

I wonder if they understood what they saw—that 15 runs is rare, that the rookie pitcher got a W in his ML debut, that Albert Pujols looked old... I'm glad they'll have photos to help them recall the evening.

"For it is money they have and peace they lack. ... The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. ... It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again."

On homophones and homonyms, "Cousin Monica's Words"

2011-04-03T14:15:00.002-06:00

There is a game I play with my niece Madeline. She calls it "Cousin Monica's Words."

(Madeline and her younger sister Ava are my cousin Heather's children. I have about 20 years on them, so for ease of introductions they are always "my nieces," but the official title the two of them have given me is Cousin Monica.)

We have been talking about homophones and homonyms. Madeline laughs that "so silly!" laugh when I tell her people mix up two, to, and too, among others. She comes up with lists on her own of words that sound the same but are spelled differently (homophones) and words that are spelled the same but have different meanings (homonyms). If a soon-to-be-8-year-old can do it, so can the rest of us.

I think it's pretty clear that a second-grader will come up with sun and son; eye, I, and aye!; bear (the animal) and bear (to support); and bud (the flower) and bud (the friend). What she might not come up with for another couple of years follows.

discreet/discrete: Discreet means careful, circumspect, maybe even "under the table." Discrete means separate, distinct. A good way to distinguish is that the E's in discrete are separate. Too cutesy? Perhaps, but it might help your writing.

pour/pore: Pour is to cause to run. Pore is a tiny hole. But you pore over your books, gazing intently.

premier/premiere: This one gets messy. Premier means first or most important, and a premier is a head of government, like a prime minister. A premiere is a first showing, and to premiere is to give a first performance of something.

Are there any common misspellings/mistakes you see because of homonyms and homophones? Any really funny ones I should tell my nieces?

On the nuclear crisis

2011-03-20T10:46:00.007-06:00

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

...And the Japan nuclear crisis.

It's so easy to jump on the MASS HYSTERIA! train.

"Nuclear power is so, so bad," you say. "It's dangerous, and it's killing so many people. We can't let the plants in our country continue, and we can't build new ones."

"By the way," you mutter to the person next to you, "Have you seen the gas prices?"

But where are you getting your information? Did you study nuclear engineering? Are you relying on the journalists who didn't have to pass reactor design in college? Have you even seen "A is for Atom" or "Our Friend the Atom"? (I admit you must also take the videos in context of their times, by the way.)

That burning oil refinery CNN showed while it told you about nuclear power and the Japan disaster was misleading. And wrong. And embarrassing for anyone with more than half a brain.

This is not Chernobyl; this is much closer to Three Mile Island. You can hear Dr. Motta, the NucE chair at Penn State, talk about it here, on WPSU. Students at Penn State last week were able to get some straight talk at a discussion led by the university's chapter of the American Nuclear Society. An attendee, a graduate student of environmental engineering, said that this discussion cleared up some of his questions that Japanese news did not answer. Dr. Jack Brenizer, a friend of my family and a distinguished NucE and MechE professor at Penn State, referred me via e-mail to ANS and NEI for trustworthy sources just before his plane door closed. Dr. Brenizer (who always insists I call him Jack) has been my go-to for science questions since my grandpa's passing. Thanks, Jack, for your guidance and patience.

But lest you think I rely only on Penn State for my news and analysis, let me provide a few more links for news and commentary, from opposite sides of the aisle and no side of the aisle.

From The Washington Post, "Japan crisis: Glossary of nuclear terms"; "Japan's nuclear crisis";
From Townhall, "Talk About a Meltdown";
From NYTimes, "Japan Says 2nd Reactor May Have Ruptured With Radioactive Release";
From the esteemed xkcd, a radiation dose chart (one of the few serious things you'll find on the math/science/humor site);
And, if you're on Facebook, International Atomic Energy Agency provides frequent updates.

Do you remember taking a Geiger counter to Fiestaware in middle school? Folks ate off those plates (some still do).

Things you do each day expose you to radiation: using your microwave, getting X-rays, being outside, etc. (The cell phone thing is a myth: Your phone doesn't transmit ionizing radiation.)

FYI, even living here at 5280 is about twice the mrem than at sea level. Is it time to freak out about altitude, too? No: "Those people living in areas having high levels of background radiation – above 1,000 mrem (10 mSv) per year – such as Denver, Colorado, have shown no adverse biological effects."

I ask you—as a student of journalism, a granddaughter of a nuclear physicist, and a technical writer/lab rat—to research things a little bit more before hurling accusations and going on a witch-hunt.

On 25

2011-02-12T07:27:00.001-07:00

I was under my flannel sheets this morning, around 6, and so was my dog. It's normal to find her snuggled up against some part of me, even just her head on my knee (truth). When I came to this time, though, I felt her breathing on my neck and realized just exactly how we were aligned this morning: Monongahela's head was next to my own, her paws were on my shoulder, her ears were covering her eyes, and her long beagle/basset body was up against my back. After chuckling to myself, I lightly flipped onto my other side so I could spoon her instead and kiss her puppy-dog head. She seemed happy to shift herself under my left arm and into the corners of my front. Fifteen minutes later, I had her snout in my face. She crawled out from under the covers and leapt about the bed. I insisted that the bed is for sleep and not for play, but it was hard to resist when she presented her belly to me for a rub.

6:30 brought a call from a grandmother, complete with her rendition of "Happy Birthday," and—as the beaglet disemboweled her elephant toy—I pulled my favorite Penn State hoodie on over, well, another Penn State shirt. Little Mon raced to the couch when she heard the magic word: "walk."

Heading west on 14th Ave., we had a stellar backdrop: purple and orange-pink clouds against the bluebird sky, atop the snow-covered Rockies. My phone's camera can not and does not do the scene justice. I will have to rely on my mind's eye when I think of this morning, and you will have to imagine your favorite painter's canvas, lovingly and soulfully adorned with pastel splashes and the daunting, rugged, silent beasts of peaks.

Colorado for you, I guess—and exactly what I wanted.

Hyphenation Illustration

2011-01-25T17:09:00.009-07:00

Among the concepts I find myself explaining most to my writers are comma splices and hyphenation. (Don't get me wrong; fixing the errors and then educating authors is like crack.) I could go on an angry rant about comma splices, so it's much safer to briefly examine hyphenation. Compound nouns and compound modifiers can be sticky, and that's OK. That's why you have proofreaders/copy editors; we have to know these things (or, at the very least, we have to know how to look them up).

Let's illustrate puppy cuddler and puppy-cuddler. What's the difference, where's the confusion, and why?

A puppy cuddler is a cuddler who is a puppy. Puppy modifies cuddler. A puppy-cuddler is one who cuddles puppies. As you can see in the photo above, I am the puppy-cuddler, and Monongahela is the puppy cuddler.

As another example, is a "high school student" a student on drugs, or is it a sophomore? How can we clear this up? (With a friendly hyphenation of "high-school," of course!)

I think Strunk, White, and I would have been buds. (Prescriptivist power! ...No?)

On that note, one of my favorite reference books is The Elements of Style (illustrated). Instead of being stuffy and outdated, it provides a great review of typical English grammar and edification that should be embraced by anyone who writes. (And this one has pictures! And a foreword by baseball writer Roger Angell.)

Yoga, day no. 1

2010-12-14T12:52:00.005-07:00

I am not graceful. I jump off rocks, fall off beds, tackle you in the backyard. Ballet? Never my thing. Collisions at home plate? Always my thing.

In other words, yoga is new. And challenging.

There's a CorePower Yoga a block away from my apartment. I frequently imagine the women emerging from the studio (in their black spandex, toting mats, featuring bouncing ponytails) staring at me, as though it's wrong for me to not be part of their yoga cult. Wait a second; you're judging me? Don't you women work? And, as I see you striding to your SUVs in the expensive lot next door, with the stick-figure families slapped on the back windows, I realize that you might not.

But that's a gross generalization these days. Yoga is not for only rich, suburban housewives anymore. College students, empty-nesters, hippies, and dudes who try to pick up the rich, suburban housewives (or the hippies or college co-eds) can all be found at yoga classes.

I'd say it's to impress Boyfriend, but he'd probably be happier to hear me yell about encroachment than to show him the warrior pose. This one's for me.

I'm too cheap to pay for it, and Netflix Instant has my back. I did this one this morning. I'm pleased to say that it wasn't too, too hard for a neophyte—and I worked up a little bit of a sweat. The cues were helpful, and the pace was not frenetic. (But, geez, I don't bend that way!) After 40 minutes, I do not hate it, Sam I Am.

I plan to try a few other programs this week, to decide which is best. Anyone out there have a loop of yoga programs? Should I vary them so I don't get bored, or should I stick with one so I get the routines and exercises down?

Potential for YOI! and Oy. Bear with me, trusty yoga mat. I want to love you more. Really.

[Whimpering] Mother.

On 9/11

2010-09-11T08:15:00.012-06:00

Somber memories don't have to encourage a culture of hate and fear.

I'm not saying it wasn't tragic. I'm not saying I wasn't scared.

It's wrong to profile people with the idea being that they bring harm or warrant suspicion because of their features. Your name is difficult to pronounce, your skin is darker, and your destination is where? Yeah, we're going to have to ask you to step out of line for a couple minutes.

I am in debt to those who keep me safe abroad and at home; they have more guts than I could dream of having. I can't imagine the pain of losing a dear one in the attacks; all affected have my thoughts and hopes for comfort.

It is the unceasing hate towards a religion or ethnicity (insert also "sexual orientation" just for good measure and to make this sentence universal) that is a problem in our country. NEWSFLASH: Your hate for a certain group does not erase what happened or right the wrong. (And it was wrong. Anyone who says America deserved it will be promptly kicked in the teeth.) It's also not Die Hard: You can't just throw some international terrorist off the top of Nakatomi Towers and end it that way either (much to my chagrin, of course).

Today I will be thinking of the love that united my cousins in marriage 11 years ago, the courage of the victims and responders nine years ago, and the excitement surrounding PENN STATE/Alabama tonight.

With my heart so full, there is no room for hate.

On "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

2010-09-01T18:35:00.001-06:00

Instead of reading journal articles for school, this degree-bearing professional has time for leisure reading! Yeah!

Admittedly, upon examining my shelves, most of the books I brought with me from Pennsylvania or bought since arriving fall into one of the following categories: baseball, journalism, or hardboiled detective fiction. (There are, of course, some volumes on The Beatles and the latest edition of The Bluebook.) So, yes, it's almost curious I wound up with current, internationally best-selling fiction.

Amazon, friends, and media touted the novel, and one of the protagonists is an investigative journalist, so I almost had to have at it. Said journalist, convicted in Sweden of criminal libel (criminal libel!), manages to be intimate with 1. his co-publisher at the magazine, 2. a woman he interviews as part of his kind-of-under-cover work, and 3. his research assistant. The women vary in age and personality, and, well, they all immediately feel the need to jump him. Sorry. My willing suspension of disbelief couldn't wrap me up in buying that. I wasn't even remotely attracted to the fictional Mikael Blomkvist (and I love my fictional journalists), so how were all these fictional women? Fictional. Operative word. Right. And: "Write what you know." Is that how it went for you, Mr. Larsson?

Additionally, Blomkvist's journalistic and personal ethics surprised me. You do not, as a journalist (or as a good human!), hide details from the police. This just didn't sit well with me as the book moved forward, and I had, to put it frankly, "WTF?!" moments that stopped me as I otherwise buried my nose in my paperback. (Dude, there's a murderer. He's shooting at Blomkvist. It's intense.)

The book incorporates statistics about domestic and sexual violence in Sweden. Good. These are not topics to be ignored—anywhere. The crimes were horrible to read about, very Silence of the Lambs. [Editor's note: I begged my dad to let me see that movie when I was 14. He relented. I was thoroughly disturbed and declared my 14-year-old daughter would not be watching it. I learned my lesson: Listen to your folks!] I would have hoped the book could have raised more awareness of this violence toward women, though. How can you read this and not wonder what goes on in this same vein in America? Shouldn't advocacy groups be shouting, "See?!" How pervasive are these crimes, really? No one should have to live in fear of these things happening to her—or her mother or her sister or...

There are two words you should be thinking to describe perpetrators of such heinous crimes. One's a synonym for "ill." The other is a guttural, inappropriate word to use on a public blog.

I'm not going to run around, hawking The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo as miraculous writing (dear God, won't someone make the comma splices stop?), but it offered up a world with which I (of a healthy, middle-class, suburban, nuclear family—complete with a dog and siblings who get along) was totally unfamiliar.

So read the book. Enjoy the thrill of the mystery. And then hit up the National Center on Domestic and Sexual Violence's site.

On Grays and Torreys

2010-08-29T08:40:00.002-06:00

I've noted to my family that in Colorado people get up earlier to play than to work—early being 3:30 a.m. this time.

The pup and I left Denver around 4:15 to head out to Bakerville (out I-70W past Georgetown), where we'd bag Grays and Torreys to make it a four-14er summer.

Again I must stress that one should not believe everything she reads. Although I'm sure the dirt road leading to the trailhead is vicious because of snow from October through April (maybe even May?), snow is not a problem at the end of August. The problem for two-wheel-drive passenger cars (Orion is a trouper) would be attempting to go at speeds above 5-10 mph. Low clearance vehicles + rocks + normal speed = DANGER! I also must caution that there's no cell reception out here, so if you get a flat you better be able to fix it yourself. ..Or, you know, don't drive like an idiot. I promise you the mountains aren't going anywhere.

However, my last sentence there reminds me of another important point: Grays and Torreys aren't going anywhere, but they're very popular. Arriving later than 6 a.m. means you're going to have to park along the side of the road (yes, the treacherous, dirt one) and hike up to the trailhead, because the lot right at the gulch will be full.

The moon was still up when we hit the trailhead.

That obscene timing means setting out at an appropriate hour requires a flashlight or head lamp or torches or a glow-in-the-dark puppy or something. I suppose you could arrive while the moon's still out to get a sweet parking spot and then have breakfast while you await daylight, but why waste the time when you could be climbing? Plus, you get to see the sunrise from the mountain. Win-win, y'all.

You'd think with all these notes and precautions that I actually hiked these mountains yesterday!

Yeah. There's a letdown.

I had my flashlight. I was prepared for cold and cool-ish on the way up and hot on the way down with these awesome convertible hiking pants. I even brought a winter hat this time!

At the bridge that crossed the gulch, I felt... not right. I chalked it up to waking up at 3:30 a.m. after a long week at work.

Then I hurled.

I sputtered: "No pulling" to my dog as I regained my composure—but when I looked down I noticed she was doing that doggy convulsing thing they do after they eat grass. I crouched down to hold back her ears. (No one wants vomit ears!) Yep, dog puked too. I was glad it was dark enough that few people saw what happened. I couldn't even ask Monongahela to brainstorm with me in case we both ate something bad the night before. (No, by the way, we didn't eat the same things on Friday.)

We sat by the car for a bit, eating, drinking water, seeing perhaps the most beautiful sunrise of our lives. And it was gorgeous. Really. It was so pretty that it lulled me into thinking everything was OK... until I stood up. Disappointing to feel too crappy to appreciate the looming giants, as though they know I want to conquer them and they opt to tease me instead. Listen, peaks; you're kind of being jerks right now.

I made the sound decision to go home. I know lots of people who would have tried to push through, because, hell, they drove down to Bakerville and were going to bag those 14ers! I think I might have tried if my ill self planned to climb alone, no similarly sick puppy. ...I also doubt I'd admit that I got sick at the trailhead.

She's bummed, too.

Cars lined the dirt road as we descended from 11,000ish feet. Dramatically, I vowed to be back next summer. (I shook my fist.)

This was our view on the way back down to I-70.

I couldn't bear the idea that Little Mon and I wouldn't get to play outside in the mountains, even for a short time, so on our way home we stopped at Lookout Mountain and Buffalo Bill's grave in Golden.

In the spirit of the day, shortly after that shot, my camera died! And the backup batteries in my backpack? Dead. I would not have been satisfied with phone pictures of the 14ers, so maybe it was all for the best that our mission failed.

When we got home, I tossed my trail shoes on the living room floor, and Monongahela immediately headed for my bed. Good idea, kid. We slept until noon.

On "number": a grammar lesson

2010-08-27T16:45:00.007-06:00

Warning: This post contains a grammar lesson.

On Twitter this afternoon, I was pulled to the Washington Post's article "Baby tiger found stuffed in bag at Thai airport" by AP.

There are, of course, pictures. Go look at the sweet baby tiger so you're not distracted while I get to my real point.

...

Awww. I know. Ready?

As I read this paragraph, bells went off in my head:

Wildlife experts say the number of tigers in Asia have plummeted over the years due mainly to habitat loss and poachers who sell their skins and body parts to booming medicinal and souvenir markets, mostly in China.

Little tinkling: "due... to." I had a journalism professor who might have slapped his students upside the head if we used "due to" when we meant "because of." "Due to" does not answer the "why," as it's adjectival. Let's correct it: "The number of tigers plummeted because of habitat loss." If you want to read more about "due to"/"because of," go here.

Handbell choir you can't get to shut up: "the number of tigers... have plummeted." No.

"The number [of something]" takes a singular verb. The AP/WaPo article should say: "Wildlife experts say the number of tigers in Asia has plummeted..."

Alternatively, if the desire to use a plural verb is really that strong, "a number [of something]" requires a plural verb. This section could say: "A number of tigers have been poached" blah blah blah, but that's passive voice, so we want to avoid that, too. :)

The easiest fix here is to just give it the singular verb.

This site is helpful for remembering which pesky terms ("either," "neither," "the number," etc.) require singular or plural verbs.

On fantasy sports

2010-08-26T22:25:00.005-06:00

For a lot of people this post would be quick and one-sided, regardless of what side you're on—and that line is drawn almost down the middle by biology.

Come on; you know it's true.

Is it too much of a generalization to say guys seem to have something to prove? For all their yelling at TVs, perhaps it's a form of validation. Yes, baby, you're smarter than [insert manager/GM/coach/etc. here]. [Ladies, how do you deal with the yelling, p.s.? I'm in no way a mitigating factor, but this could be because I'm probably yelling, too.]

I know very few guys who are in it purely because they rock at statistics and take a wholly objective approach to it. My friend "Tall Mike," with his master's in applied statistics, could probably make the A's and Moneyball blush with his expertise. I disagree with his subjective loyalties, but sports teams would be lucky to have him in-house.

Women, even if they punt you into oblivion with their knowledge, tend to be goaded into fantasy whatever by their boyfriends. [Note: I said "tend to." This is not so for all of my sex.] I was goaded into fantasy baseball last year by boy friends; I'm counting it. This year, somehow, I have three(!) fantasy baseball leagues and now a fantasy football league. If anyone finds my willpower, kindly return it.

Putting it out there: I'm bad at fantasy baseball, and I don't pretend to be surprised by this. Laughing at a friend's painful lack of knowledge about the infield fly rule has nothing to do with managing a roster. But a league rule dictating that you can only edit your roster once a week? What's up with that? If my short stop is hurt on Tuesday, I am screwed until Monday morning. On top of this, I'd rather play outside in my free time than stay inside to adjust my roster. (I'll pay attention enough, though, to refuse to trade you Ubaldo Jiménez.) ...Also, I have a little bit of a loyalty problem. Garrett Jones, don't make me look stupid for trusting you.

Oh, and guys who "help" their girls draft their teams by pretty much doing it for them? You're not helping them learn; you're using them as proxies for your other roster choices. If she wants Johnny Damon because he rocked the caveman look six years ago, let her pick him. If she wants Larry Fitzgerald despite your concerns that his numbers will be down this year without Kurt Warner, leave it alone. However, if she's looking at a guy you know is injury-prone, there's nothing wrong with telling her that.

In defense of fantasy baseball, I know the sport I love so dearly even better now. I have to, really. It involves exposure to players from both leagues, maybe names I hadn't even heard before but who popped up because I needed relief pitching. Who's hurt? What no-name turned out to be a real boon for my outfield? Which jagoff on your team had an obscene number of extra-base hits to win you that category and help you maul me this week?

Must give credit for the creativity I see in the team names, too. "My Brown Uggla Boots" and "Inglorious Bastardos" are among my favorites.

The increased knowledge is why I bit the bullet and agreed to play fantasy football. I simply don't know pro football as well as I know baseball. Yes, I root for the Steelers, and, yes, I shudder when someone refers to the entire defense as the secondary, but it's time to know more than how fat Andy Reid is and how Big Ben's passer rating doesn't make up for his indiscretions (or brain damage, however you want to spin it).

So, uh, do I go after Larry Fitzgerald? I don't have an overly zealous boyfriend to draft for me.

On Brad Hawpe

2010-08-19T12:00:00.021-06:00

The Rockies are releasing Brad Hawpe. [Update: little bit of a weird DFA situation, with release waivers.]

Those who don't follow the Rox won't care, and those who do follow the Rox but have the amazing ability to be completely objective won't blink, either.

In fact, I pride myself on my evolution over my years as a baseball fan: I went from being startled in Fenway Park in 1993 (I'm not sure I'll ever forget the sickening THONK of Randy Johnson's pitch meeting Mike Greenwell's helmet) to reading Baseball Forecaster 2010 on my flight to Arizona for spring training this March.

But being objective right now is a little hard, despite knowing (understanding?) better.

This is only my second season "with the team," as it were, but Brad was my first Rockies love. ...Bear with me here.

I moved to Denver on August 24, 2009. I went to my first game at Coors Field on September 26, 2009. The Rox were hosting the Cardinals, and it was a big hullabaloo because of Matt Holliday. I went with fellow Penn Stater Phil, and our seats were down the first baseline. Hawpe was playing RF and had a great night offensively.

The Rockies lost, but I decided Brad was my favorite, and I scoured the team shop after the game for a kid-sized (I'm tiny, all right?) Hawpe jersey. Nada. Well, I didn't own a Rockies shirt at all, so I bought one—with Hawpe on the back.

I own a lot (no, seriously, a lot) of baseball shirts, like the Mariners tee my Dad picked up for me when he was in Seattle. But this—this is a big deal. This is commitment. My only Rockies shirt, and I now had to stick with this guy, through any slump or trade. I'm a Pirates fan, so I can handle slumps, and it was September, so I was safe from a trade situation. However, if he fell way, way short of his all-star performance the next season, I'd still have to deal with his name on my back.

As any 20-something girl would, I took pictures of Brad at every 2010 game I attended. Shoot, even friends tracked his performace for me, too. Brad was my boy.

But after the all-star break, something was wrong. His injuries seemed to affect him, and he got less playing time. When he did play, he, well, kinda stunk. (Except for that one time when I remarked to my dad that Hawpe had been disappointing lately—and Hawpe followed up with a bomb of a home run.) I expected maybe the RF platoon would do him some good, and he'd be fine.

Nah. Dude cleared waivers and is being released.

I... But... His name's on my back...

Representing at the Titan Missile Museum.

On 14er no. 2

2010-08-17T17:57:00.005-06:00

I suppose I was indeed on it, huh?

This is the view from the mountain on the way down from the summit.

Mount Bierstadt was my second 14er. [Editor's note: If you're keeping track, Pikes Peak was my first, and I got my toes wet by doing a 13er in the fall: Devil's Playground.] Often, hikers will bag Evans in conjunction with Bierstadt via the sawtooth ridge. The ridge is class 3, requiring a lot of scrambling—not a good idea with a puppy. One peak was enough for the morning.

Monongahela and I headed southwest at 5 a.m. on Saturday, August 14. The sometimes-treacherous Guanella Pass (listen; I said bye-bye to my Jeep three years ago) was about 90 minutes away via US-285, courtesy of rockslides on I-70 near Georgetown. The trailhead is in a valley (well, you know, Guanella Pass), and we began hiking at 11,000 feet around 6:45. Bierstadt is the closest 14er to Denver and very popular among hikers of all levels on weekends. As such, we were anything but "by ourselves" all morning. (Feel better, parents?)

Websites and publications will tell you that the first part of the hike, through the willows, is a bitch. Not so. Such guides are outdated. There is a boardwalk through the very, very tame willows. My cousin Heather, who climbed this 12 years ago when she moved out here, was baffled by my pictures of this.

Slogging through a cold river at 7 a.m.—while carrying a beagle who's afraid I'll make her go in it—was not on my radar but had to happen. There isn't a bridge (as opposed to the nice segment through the willows), and the log across the river was thin and slippery. I almost felt bad for the nervous, middle-aged woman behind me who told me to be careful, because she reminded me a little of my mom. I cooed at my beagle and flounced through the current. Little Mon was happy to be back down on the dirt on the opposite bank.

Really, it was a pastoral [Editor's note: Christie loves when I use that word] hike, but the rapid elevation gain caught me by surprise, and I've lived here for nearly a year now, so I can only imagine how visitors felt. Monongahela and I shared a peanut butter sandwich to combat the headache. (I wonder if dogs suffer from altitude sickness.)

After about 2.5 hours on the trail we hit the snow just below the summit. Let me explain to non-Coloradans that 14,000 feet at 9:15 is cold, probably 30 degrees F. ...And, uh, yeah, I was in shorts (and my winter coat, Mom!).

The route to the summit involves scrambling but really isn't particularly challenging. It is less than easy, however, when you have to propel yourself over rocks while holding a pup who's just barely too small to do it herself. But anyway, we did it, reaching the summit around 9:35, and we were so rewarded. Others who summited (including Michigan and OSU alumni and people from Hershey, Greensburg, and Cranberry Township) gave Monongahela the attention and affection that she loves, and I glowed when I said it was not her first 14er.

And what a view from 14,060 feet.

The trail was much more crowded on our way down. I encountered big groups, runners, and crying 10-year-olds. Parents, please don't push your kids if they're feeling sick! Nothing is easy at altitude. Try being gentle, encouraging, and understanding. You are between two and three miles above sea level, geez. Take a friggin' water break. Eat a Clif bar.

In contrast with the freezing temperatures at the top, I was down to a t-shirt around 12,000 feet. Almost the entire hike is above tree line, so there's no shade. (There's also nearly nowhere to hide if you need to pee. Random outcropping in the middle of a field, FTW!)

Back at the start of the trail, two guys in lawn chairs were people-watching. I was amused.

See photos from the excursion here.

We were back at the car before noon, and I happily sang along to "Homeward Bound" (not the Simon & Garfunkel version) on the way home:

When adventure's lost its meaning, I'll be homeward-bound in time.

Guess I'll be here for a while. Not everywhere you can conquer a 14er before lunch.

On 14er no. 1

2010-08-16T17:39:00.040-06:00

I hiked Pikes Peak two months ago and am finally posting about it. (I hiked Mount Bierstadt two days ago and will post about that soon.)

I was up at 3 a.m. on Saturday, June 19, to finish organizing, picked up a friend between 4 and 4:15, and made it to Manitou Springs around 5:40. The parking lot at the trailhead (near the cog RR, for those who are even remotely familiar) was full, and Sara and I had to head back down the hill to find a place to park. [Editor's note: Fun fact, East Coasters: Sara's from Erie, Pennsylvania!] Then, of course, we had to take a little hike just to get back up to the trailhead. It was just barely 6 a.m. when we started up Barr Trail (the trail to the summit is 13 miles, FYI). Monongahela was bursting with excitement—so many new sights and smells and people... I was glad for her energy, as she seemed confused when we left the apartment at an obscure hour.

It took us almost five hours to get to Barr Camp at the seven-mile mark. Sara needed frequent stops and wasn't feeling fabulous. Barr Camp is a nice place for a break: You're already halfway up the mountain, and there are cabins, bathrooms, creeks, and a store to buy Gatorade, snacks, etc. I told Sara we should just head back down when she was feeling OK; it's stupid to risk your health (life?) and try to keep going. It would have been an especially bad idea because we were told the second half takes an hour longer than the first half... Sara insisted that I continue, that she was happy to stay at camp and nap and read and write and just wait for my return and my stories. (There is excellent reception on the face of the mountain, so in a few hours she'd be able to text me easily and find out exactly where I was.) I took her up on it, and Little Mon and I tackled The Mountain.

We made absurdly good time to the 10-mile mark (a mere 90 minutes), at tree line, and I thought it was crazy that this second half was projected to take me six hours. Monongahela particularly enjoyed all the other hikers loving on her and complimenting her, and, boy, was she my rock! Encouraging her with "Good girl! Great job! We'll pause in about 15 minutes. ... 14 minutes. ..." was only half for her. I needed to tell myself I could do it. Cue the Wayne's World line: "It will be mine. Oh, yes, it will be mine!" She'd crawl into my lap when we sat for water breaks, but the second I stood back up she was jumping around, eager to continue.

I think it's important to note the kind of people I ran into on my ascent. Many recognized me from camp and asked where Sara was. I explained, and they said they'd check on her when they made it back and would tell her how and where I was. How solicitous and thoughtful. Got a lot of "Yeah, Penn State!" remarks (I wore a PSU football shirt, and, well, you saw Monongahela sporting her colors) and had a chat about Nebraska with a group from Wisconsin. They encouraged me on my way up: "You're seriously so close," and I was glad to be that person for others on my way down.

A mile from the top, Monongahela and I spotted many pikas and marmots. I told her if she caught one she could eat it. No harm in motivating her, right? (She was on a five-foot leash, folks, so it wasn't going to happen unless one was stupid enough to get close to her.) I only had to carry her once on the way up, and I'm not even sure it counted. She didn't have the footing to jump across a stream, so I jumped into it to lift her from one side to the other, and shortly thereafter she kept walking. I did manage to get her muddy pawprints all over me, and I considered them my trophy. Can't be a good hike if I'm not dirty.

The last mile was the hardest physical thing I've ever done, no doubt. I was excited but aching. When would it end? I hated switchbacks on my way up so, so much. I was also functioning on very little sleep after going out Friday night. I know, readers; I know. Don't tell my grandmothers. But I still did the second half in just four hours, so...

At the top, we took in the view, and I snapped pictures galore. The people who took the cog RR up (or drove!) probably laughed at us, because their legs weren't going to fall off, but I got the glory, suckers. Tourists loved petting my little girl and were amazed at what she did. "She's my little mountain dog," I replied. I'm sure I was beaming.

It took me about two hours to get back down to Barr Camp, and I hugged the snot out of Sara. I didn't want to get caught in the dark for too long on our way down, so after a brief rest we started the descent of Lower Barr Trail. Here's where Little Mon showed she was tired. She "quit" twice, but it was cute: She'd just stop and lie down, once propping her head up on a rock and just staring at me. My own legs felt like Jell-O, but what's 18 more pounds? She's only a baby, and I would be lying if I didn't say I was completely satisfied with a sleeping puppy in my arms for the last mile of the 26.

When we made it back to my car (about 9:15 p.m.), I found a note tucked under my windshield wipers. It was from a hiker I talked to about Sara on his way down! He had asked about her at camp and wished us a safe return. I was really touched—and only a little confused as to how he knew it was my car. (He'd gone to grad school at Penn State and spent some time in Pittsburgh as well. My car is marked with a PSU plate frame and a small Steelers emblem.)

We stopped at a McDonald's off I-25, and it might be the best fast food has ever tasted. Once back to my apartment, I dropped my backpack on the floor and flopped onto my bed, not even bothering to get the dirt out from under my nails and not even attempting to get my puppy in her crate. No, she slept with me, her body up against mine and her head on me. I'm not convinced either of us moved at all during the night. We were exhausted.

You can check out our escapades here.

Monongahela was still visibly tired Sunday morning, as I honest-to-God couldn't get her to do anything before 9:30, and would follow me around only to find new spots to nap. If I was in this corner to take things out of my pack, then she was sleeping on a pair of my shorts two feet away. If I was in the kitchen cleaning our water bottles, then she was snoozing on my feet. I have no doubt she spent the afternoon napping on the couch while I went to the Brewers/Rockies game.

I spent 15 hours on that mountain. Hell of a first 14er. ...And I'm hooked.

On Chipotle and random acts of kindness

2010-08-05T13:58:00.003-06:00

Here's the story that accompanies this tweet.

During the week, I spend my lunch break hustling to my apartment to walk my puppy and hustling back to the office. I either have a quick sandwich at home or stop in somewhere along my route back to Wheeler Trigg O'Donnell. That "somewhere" tends to be Mad Greens or Chipotle; today's choice was Chipotle.

I walked in and ordered my usual: chicken bowl. The young woman behind the counter told me I'm always in a good mood when she sees me and that she hopes it rubs off on her. I said I'd just have to keep coming back and we'll see if that helps.

When I got to the register, the cashier refused my card and said the kind employee took care of it. I'm sure I got all wide-eyed and stammered about something, and then I thanked the (apparently awesome) girl who made my lunch. She wished me a wonderful day.

Wow.

I picked my pace back up again for the last two blocks to my office and came upon a raggedy-looking guy I see frequently, asking for change. Seldom do I carry change, but some has been building up in my wallet, so I dug in to find it. It probably only amounted to about $3, but I handed over every coin.

I hope I find a way to continue to pay it forward.

Maybe you do something that affects someone's day, and you have no idea.

Reconciliation

2010-08-04T17:03:00.002-06:00

Cold,
calculating,
copy-editing,
corporate.

Bases loaded,
bat splintered,
beer spilled,
cheering, seething, feeling.

Mountain-climbing,
puppy-cuddling,
cookie-baking,
content.

Hey, Dad, wanna have a catch?

2010-07-21T17:21:00.010-06:00

It's been almost a year since I've played catch with my dad—purely because of distance.

"Have Daddy pack his glove!" I texted my mother about their visit to me.
"Bring your glove!" I ended an e-mail to my dad.

I wasn't expecting the substance of Dad's response. Without directly saying so, his e-mail suggests (reveals?) that we'll likely never have a catch again.

I'm not being dramatic with that language. It's the truth, and it caught me off-guard.

Dad hurt his arm a while ago, the rotator cuff. With no kids at home with whom to throw the ball, he's functioning well otherwise. He hopes to avoid surgery (understandable—what good would surgery really do for a 55-year-old?), which means he's gotta give the throwing motion the axe.

I figured I'd be older when this happened. I figured he'd be older when this happened.

Let this be a lesson.

Throw the ball with your dad. Maybe throw it harder than you usually do. Maybe throw it from farther away than you usually do. Maybe a few more show-stopping antics as you dive for the ball or dance a little to avoid a root in your backyard.

God, enjoy it. And say so.

I had no idea it was our last time.

On superstition and seemingly meaningless statistics

2010-07-10T18:41:00.034-06:00

It was that typical Friday afternoon office banter with Coworker: "What are you up to this weekend?" Outdoor movie, housewarming party, ballgame, you know.

But it was Coworker's response to my Sunday plans, the baseball game, that threw me: "What are you going to wear?" How is that pertinent? No question about the opponent or pitching matchup? The weather's not supposed to be crazy. I didn't call it a date. I stared at Coworker, probably with a raised eyebrow, and said, "I don't know."

What Coworker had no idea she'd started in my brain was examining the Rox' win-loss record with my attendance—and what I wore those days. This was coming on top of the last line of a text I'd received from a friend earlier this week, too: "You are SO lucky!!" I won't argue with him; I've seen some pretty fabulous games. ...And I'd begun analyzing them. Now, with Coworker's question, I'm forced to face The Little Things. As a superstitious baseball fan (and anyone who actually cares about baseball is, even a little bit, because no one can survive on solely the sabermetric approach), some things have become clear.

For the sake of simplicity, I limited my analysis to 1) only Coors Field and 2) only this season. (That lets me ignore spring training, different levels of play, and countless East Coast afternoons and evenings.) Let's break them down by league factors, start time, my companion(s), what I wore (erg...), etc. Plus some commentary, of course.

The links are to ESPN's recaps.

April 9, 2010, Padres at Rockies: Home opener, a game everyone in attendance hopes is just magical. And it was: perfect weather, a 2:10 p.m. start, a great performance by Jorge De La Rosa, and backup from his offense to blank San Diego 7-0. Historically, I've laughed at the Padres (except that one time when I saw the Pirates lose to them), but now I have to pay attention, as they're a division rival for the Rox. I remember in the eighth inning mumbling something about how "this could be big" to Lauren (fellow transplant from the good ol' P of A) and grabbing my camera, shaking in anticipation, attempting to zoom in on what became Clint Barmes's home run swing. Jeans and a purple short-sleeved shirt, because I know you care.

May 12, 2010, Phillies at Rockies: Boy, talk about rooting interests. I was stoked, though, to get to see Roy Halladay battle Aaron Cook. Perhaps what made this more fun was not simply that it was nearly freezing at 1:10 p.m. in the middle of May (I am sadly not exaggerating) but that I was there with a Phils fan. Transplants from the mid-Atlantic, Dan and I are both Rockies fans by default—except when our East Coast teams are in town. I know we took glee in each other's frustrations. Tied at 3 at the end of nine, it was the Rockies' catcher Miguel Olivo who ended it in the 10th with a walk-off homer. This, of course, was ideal... for me, the catcher-loving Phils-loather. Sorry 'bout that, Dan. (But the Pirates lost that day, too! Psh, how does that not make you feel any better?) Under my winter coat and hat: jeans and a blue sweater.

June 20, 2010, Brewers at Rockies: This. Was. Terrible. OK, that's not completely fair: The weather for the 1:10 p.m. Sunday game was beautiful; I was surrounded by a bunch of friends, new and old; and Aaron Cook was fine-ish through seven innings. It was tied at 1 going into the top of the ninth, so I was rooting for extra innings, of course. Then Manny Corpas blew it when he took over for Joe Beimel. I'm not kidding. Blew it. Giving up five runs in less than a third of an inning is the worst pitching performance I've ever seen. Brew Crew won it, 6-1. It was abysmal. I had donned a new Rockies shirt for the occasion, and its record was now 0-1.

June 23, 2010, Red Sox at Rockies: In one word: stressful. If you let me add a couple more adjectives, I'll go with amazing and rewarding. As kids, my sisters and I spent our summer vacations on Cape Cod and so have an attachment to the Red Sox (I have no doubt the Cape Cod League is where my affinity for minor leaguers began, as well). I suspect this is part of why, when my youngest sister finally made the leap into extreme fandom, she picked Boston. But as for me? I live here now, The U was pitching that evening (cue my excitement!), Big Papi is apparently a cheater, and who doesn't like a little sisterly rivalry? I had the pleasure of attending with Dan The Phils Fan and Mal The Sox Fan. With the exception of college football, I don't think I'd ever screamed this much at a game. Ever. The Rockies scored first and scored often, but the Sox had a big top of the sixth to lead by one run (Jimenez came out after this, of course). Manny Corpas came in for the top of the ninth, and you know my immediate, visceral reaction: NO! Much to my surprise and happiness, he held 'em, and this is when the magic happened. I am not using that lightly. Bottom of the ninth, down one, every little leaguer's dream to save the day. Up came Ian Stewart, who ripped a homer off Papelbon (let's comment on JP's hilarious game face, p.s.) and tied it. Rockies fans were enthralled and on their feet. Clint Barmes singled, Ryan Spilborghs sac'd to move Barmes over, Jason Giambi did what he does (and by that I mean pinch-hit a two-run, walk-off homer), and I was ready to hug everyone in the ballpark. This was easily one of the most spectacular games I've attended in my life. Now, my little sister wasn't pleased, but... Game apparel: jeans and a Durham Bulls shirt (which looks oddly like a Broncos design).

June 24, 2010, Red Sox at Rockies: Here's where Mal got her "revenge." It was another friggin' barnburner, with an extra inning that night to boot. Again the Rox scored first, but they couldn't hang on to the lead, and it looked grim in the fifth inning. And then, in the bottom of the sixth, to overcome a four-run deficit, the Rockies scored six runs to lead 8-6. From here on it was ping-pong with the scoring—and my and Mallory's alternating celebrations. MVP of this game was, hands down, Dustin Pedroia. Although some of Mallory's excitement seemed muted (I suspect she wasn't keen on making even a little show of it in a foreign and "enemy" park), it was a delight to see her boys come through for her. It was, naturally, DP's two-run homer in the 10th that finished off the Rox and made the final score 13-11. We thought it'd be cute or something if she wore a Sox shirt and I wore a Rockies shirt (I wanted to give my shirt another chance, folks), being that we actually get along. That shirt is now 0-2.

July 6, 2010, Cardinals at Rockies: When I said June 23 was one of the most spectacular games I'd ever attended—well, that language was there for a reason. This is probably the best game ever (all due respect to The Best Game Ever, October 13, 1960, of course). Improbable. Inconceivable. Unbelievable. Supposed to be a 6:40 p.m. start, delayed by half an hour for... spritzing. Rockies were absolutely awful at the plate with runners in scoring position. You can imagine my nerves when Manny Corpas entered in the top of the eighth. It was so bad that, down by six runs in the eighth, Phil (a transplant from upstate NY) was ready to peace out and go home. I don't blame him, because it was 10 o'clock on a Tuesday, and he works early and far away. However, as I pulled off my hat and began to turn it inside out, I said I'd be staying. He wisely sat back down—although the bottom of the ninth had him standing. It was finally some good, consistent hitting and smart baserunning. Singles and a passed ball scored Olivo. Iannetta's three-run dinger sent home Mora, Barmes, and himself (a catcher, whattaya know!). Fowler had a ground rule double and moved to third on Brad Hawpe's (sigh) groundout. CarGo's single scored Fowler, and then Giambi, who actually played 1B for Helton that night, singled to advance CarGo and eventually send him home (error by the STL RF) and tie the game. The ball was constantly in play. It was intense. Aaron Cook ran for Giambi and moved to third on an Olivo single. Seth Smith, whose name is probably only known now because of what he did this night (come on; he's your general no-name outfielder), smacked a three-run walk-off. Probably more divine invocations there than any church that night. Here's where I nearly broke my ankle, jumping around. I suppose that's what I get for showing up in [drum roll, please] my work clothes: heels, skirt, pearls. So business casual is 1-0...

And so we get the breakdown.

Attending with only one other person: 3-1
Attending with multiple people: 1-1
Attending with a family member: 1-1 (I'm excited that I'll get to update this one in just a couple weeks!)
Day games: 2-1
Night games: 2-1
Nine innings: 2-1
Extra innings: 2-1
Rockies shirt: 0-2
Apparently, anything but a Rockies shirt: 4-0

(Am I missing anything?)

I'm 4-2 at Coors Field thus far this season and pretty much convinced I can't wear a Rockies shirt to a Rockies game. Going 0-2 doesn't seem like a big deal, but I don't want to risk it tomorrow, and I don't think the Rox want me to experiment when they're right behind the Padres in the division and are facing them at home now...

That leaves Coworker's question: What am I going to wear tomorrow? Hmmm.

UPDATE as of 7/11/10: I'm now 4-3 overall.

Other numbers: 2-2 with one other person, 2-2 for day games, 2-2 in the requisite nine innings, and 4-1 in anything but a Rockies shirt. Here's the ESPN recap from Sunday.

Guess my Cianciolo shirt is now banned from the ballpark as well. Ghaa. Paul.

I find it important/interesting to note that Dan and I had a "bet" (I use quotation marks there because he changed his prediction after I countered and made me counter again. Unfair, Petty!) going about how long Jeff Francis would be in the game after his start of questionable quality on Tuesday night and his problems very early on in this game as well. This time? He was out after five innings (which was Dan's second prediction, if you're playing along at home).

On Marc W. Witzig

2010-06-20T15:58:00.003-06:00

Strength and honor. Between Dad and me, yes, it is that simple. Work hard; be honest; and don't give up.

If you've seen Gladiator (and who hasn't, really?), you know the accompanying gesture, too. It's found its way into softball games (your little girl dusts herself off at third base and shoots you a grin across the diamond as you're coaching first), graduations (your kid's getting a B.A. from your alma mater), and road trips (annnnnd now she's driving 1,600 miles across the country...alone...to stay...forever).

Cue the cheesy "Dad's always been there for me." From rushing to my high school from his office because of my debilitating migraines my senior year to having my back when I was ejected from a softball game—and even as simply as holding my hand across a street as a toddler—he's been there for me, to hold me and keep me safe. It might be that he's still in a suit at my games, but that's because I am more important than work.

This is the man who took me to my first baseball games, taught me what a balk is and how to score a game. I saddle up to him on the couch in the fall to ask what nickel and dime defenses are. He knows better than anyone why I developed a side-armed throwing motion. I grew up on the 1989 Orioles highlights tape ("Why Not?") and cherished the 1982 and 1986 Penn State football teams by default. I was born in Pittsburgh, like Daddy, and he fostered in me my Steel City identity, which still continues to grow. I'm not sure which one of us was more upset when he hurt his arm and couldn't have a catch with me.

Grab that German-English dictionary I know is on the shelf by your computer. Look up my last name. No, really: Turn those pages. My dad is one of the wittiest people I know, and making him laugh is always a goal. He and I both know we probably got through my teenage screw-ups and hijinks because of humor. As my father, he doesn't like my choice language and certainly doesn't encourage it. (It's not ladylike or some [expletive].) "Comcastholes" let me echo his frustration, allow a psuedo-swear, and make fun of an annoying situation. When Boyfriend Of Four Years and I split, Dad didn't coddle me and smother me and constantly ask if I was OK. "Now you don't have to move to Philadelphia," he said. Thanks, Daddy. I needed that.

Is it too nerdy to mention how refreshing it was to talk about White v. Samsung when I took Media Law and offer and acceptance during Business Law? I only wish I'd had the guts to crash one of the classes he taught.

Five years ago we celebrated Father's Day in Dublin:

Are you and your childhood beagles why I ached for one?

Daddy, I hope when you're 87 I can still make you laugh and rant to you. No girl could be luckier.

Can you believe where we are today?
You see it just don't matter what no experts say.
It's better we're in this thing to stay.
(...Now the O's are going all the way!
Why not?!)

On editing

2010-06-14T17:53:00.002-06:00

Frequently this:

Writer: "What's wrong with that?"
You, out loud: "Those are two independent clauses; you can't join them with a comma."
You, in your head: "Stop it with the friggin' comma splices, for the love of God! ...Great lede, though."

And sometimes this:

Writer: "Is there a bottle of Jack in your desk drawer?"
You, out loud: "No."
You, in your head: "...Because I finished it already."

And sometimes that:

Writer: "Hey, thanks for your edits."
You, out loud: "Sure. You're welcome."
You, in your head: "This is like crack to me."

And sometimes a writer learns you're into Krav Maga and makes you a picture in Microsoft Paint!

Thanks, Jameson!

Yes, I've already told him it should be hyphenated: "bad-grammar-fighting Monica." He took it well.

The editing world is a veritable mixed barrel, with those who are offended if you change anything, those who actually learn from the changes, those who think you have all the time in the world for their stories, and those who really hate that you use the serial comma whenever stylistically acceptable.

You might take my Web site (erg, website), AP, but you'll never take my serial comma! ...Not until I work for a newspaper, anyway. [Editor's note: Well, I'll heed it when you finally do: AP breaks its new rule here with "Web site" instead of the currently prescribed "website." Excellent. I feel less guilty now.]

My thanks go out to all who give me opportunities—and trust my hard work.

On Warren F. Witzig

2010-06-13T06:06:00.002-06:00

Sometimes, I'm not sure where my fortitude went, and I wonder if it went with him.

"I will see you again, but not yet. Not yet."

I don't need to list what he's done to garner the world's respect. Congress has already done it for me.

Although I smile when I think of him, for the last three years, on this day, my brain has replayed how it all ended. I fear the witching hour, when I got the texts from my younger sister: "Something is wrong. Daddy is crying. I'm scared," my phone beeped at me. I am both honored and heartbroken that on the very night he died he asked my dad about me specifically. I hope his last thoughts of me were out of amusement and not concern.

"Grandpa would want you to live your life, Monica," Dad always says when I start to get misty-eyed. I know it's so; I talk to Grandpa in my head on my hikes, and I hear him calling when an old, diesel Mercedes comes around a corner downtown.

I am lucky to have had him for 21 years (30+ years for my cousins!), as many of my friends' grandparents passed when we were much younger. I think I'll just always miss him.

Grandpa, I will forever picture you in your blue pajamas. I still can't drink decaf coffee and don't enjoy grapefruit, but you should have seen me at the Titan Missile Museum in Arizona. I love learning about what you did, and my kids will also grow up knowing that nuclear energy is "clean, safe, and efficient." [Editor's note: Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the reason I love nerds...]

I continue to feel your loving encouragement and only hope you know I am never giving up this last name.

On timeliness and highlights

2010-06-12T09:39:00.000-06:00

Timeliness is a big part of news: No one cares how well-written it might be if it's too late. Were this a reputable source for news and read by more than just, oh, my parents and the lovely Vicki Boykis, I'd have been better about updates. Whoops-a-daisy.

Turns out that mentoring younger writers, cursing about comma splices, and playing with my puppy and mini-cousins are more important than this blog (...and fantasy baseball—sorry, guys).

Let's hit the highlights, huh?

Sports

God, so much to say here, but, since I'm late, I'll be brief.

Ken Griffey, Jr.'s retirement: an amazing player whose career and personality should continue to be used as a model for the rest of MLB and aspiring ballplayers.

With Seattle, I always managed to see him, by design or not, as the Mariners seemed to be the opponent in whatever ballpark we were in for the afternoon. This was true for his first stint with the Mariners, for more than a decade, and my father, older sister, and I still laugh. "Always the Mariners..." We seemed to see him less when he was with other clubs.

Impressive numbers and a class act. All of baseball should be sorry to see him go and happy to have been graced by his presence.

The No-No That Wasn't: more class in MLB. Instead of arguing a terrible call, Galarraga shrugged it off, finished the game, and did not speak ill of Joyce.

I think it was an egregious miss, but I also don't dig instant replay, so I have to settle for rolling my eyes and giving props for not flipping shit (as most of us lesser individuals would have done if our own perfect games were on the line).

A lesson, though: "I'm sorry" does not fix things.

College football: Who doesn't love a good shakeup? Many remember Nebraska and 1994 (Penn Staters will find it hard to forget) and welcome the chance to beat up on NU regularly now. It's also a school with a good rep for sports and academics, so: Welcome to the Big Ten, Nebraska.

Now, this Colorado nonsense... That's exactly what it is. What could the Pac-10 possibly want with CU, aside from the Denver TV market? CU is NOT good at football, and it just got busted by the NCAA for academic violations.

Oh, and the USC shenanigans: Let's just say everyone's giggling a little (and Pete Carroll's giggling a lot).

Work

Dallas is looming...

Family

The little sister: less than two weeks 'til her visit! By the time she gets here, it will have been exactly 10 months since I left Pennsylvania—and since I've seen any member of my immediate family. We'll be playing outside, enjoying baseball, and visiting CU and CSU. ...I shamelessly want her here for grad school. Can you blame me?

The puppy (yes, she's family): The vet confirmed my suspicions that she's younger than the shelter said—by nearly a year! Monongahela's making great progress with commands and general puppy stuff.

Ready for a tear-jerker? Years ago, I bought our family beagle a PSU bandana. He passed in January. A few days ago, I got mail from my mother: Inside was the PSU bandana and a note about how Indy would have been proud to pass on the "wearing of the colors" to another rescue beagle in the family. G'head. You can cry. ...I did. It looks good on her, of course, but she kept trying to lick my tears as I put it on her.

In other dog news, I let her sleep with me last night. Snuggly and sweet, but, jeez, what a bed hog!

On my adopted beagle

2010-05-27T16:21:00.002-06:00

Sunny Sunday afternoon in late May, light breeze as a mid-twenties girl in a sundress runs barefoot in the backyard with her young beagle. Peals of laughter as she collapses into a chair, clasping a frosty glass of craft beer. Her dog climbs into her lap and, after attempting to lick the beer, lets her tongue loose on her caregiver's face.

I couldn't be more pleased to have joined the ranks of (sometimes crazily) active, (delicious) beer-drinking, (very) devoted pet owners in Denver. I'm so "Colorado" it hurts sometimes. The jokes write themselves, really. (Always a hit if you sneak the word "granola" in there.)

Monongahela's name is its own story, although you can probably figure most of it out.

Let's get down to the story about the dog herself.

It was kind of a surprise (even to me!) that I came home with her when I did. Everyone says when you meet that special person and fall in loooove and all that "you'll know." [Editor's note: Ignore my own momentary eye-rolling.] I was playing with her at the shelter, and...I knew. This was my dog. [Editor's note: Indeed, I now believe in love at first sight.]

She's about a year and a half old [Editor's note: As of 6/5/10, she's actually about seven months.] and had only been in Colorado for a couple days when I managed to snag her. She was a transfer to the Boulder Valley Humane Society from New Mexico. (I hear lots of dogs are transferred to CO because they're more likely to be adopted here. Not surprising.) Energetic, enthusiastic, affectionate. Young enough to be lively but not so young that I need to worry about her peeing everywhere or nibbling on my cousin's kids. We will be working on manners and commands. "Sit" is already coming along nicely. "Stay," on the other hand...

I've already slipped up a few times, calling her Indy. I presume she doesn't mind. (That is to say, she hasn't cried or anything when it's happened.) I also assume that if she knew why I did it she'd consider it an honor to be compared to her "uncle" Indiana.

Two stories about her are already getting around.

One involves her assuming that "Hi!" means "Please jump into the shower with me." It made me laugh as I put her down on the rug and out of the way of my shampoo, but I probably should have fostered her desire to be clean. I know; I know. That wasn't her goal. But, if it happens in the future, I'm going to pretend it is her goal.

The other story involves a car ride and a rap song. I admitted it to Heather and Mark over the weekend, after realizing how absurd it was. A rap song came on in the car. Although I like this song, I glanced back at Little Mon and changed the track, thinking: "I don't want my dog to hear that." What was going on in my head? It's not as though she's going to repeat what she hears... Sigh.

Mon, Mark said. In some ways a dog is like a practice kid...Just goes to show that parenting instincts for some are innate—or conversely that Heather and I have begun to rub off on you.

I guess I'm OK with either one.

But if I enroll her in a Waldorf school we'll know the truth.

Meet my little predator...I mean hound.

On Debbra L. Witzig

2010-05-09T07:24:00.002-06:00

Frequently, family and friends tell me how very much like my dad I am. Our poor mothers, dealing with our shenanigans and ebullience. (Not so secretly, you know they're laughing, too.) While I am pleased with the comparison to the man I love the most, I strive to be like my mother.

Let me first explain that my mother is just what my dad wanted in a mate: tall, leggy, blonde, likes Penn State football. Throw in my mother's affinity for baseball and burgeoning interest in hockey, and she's above and beyond. Sound like anyone else you know?

My mother didn't work when my sisters and I were in elementary school—devoting her time to caring for us. I have no doubt some of my strongest instincts are because of her. After collisions in softball (I was in many), my mother's twig of a daughter was the one who stood up. Although I have a catch with my dad, my mother is my biggest fan. Perhaps no one was more excited about my college graduation than my mom, a Penn State girl herself. Her loyalty is fierce, and her encouragement abounds.

I always see my mother practicing what she preaches. She is the epitome of love, compassion, and forgiveness—as you must be when you have children, especially one like Monica J. Witzig.

My mom does this cute thing where she starts laughing before she says something she knows is funny—we are lucky if she manages to get it out. Her laughter alone is contagious and engaging. I am certain her sense of humor has aided her in raising her girls. Humor? As a coping mechanism? Gee. Not a bad idea, Mom.

Nearly two years ago, I was having a spat with a former friend/roommate. I ranted to my mother, using choice words you shouldn't use around your mother, and, after listening, she calmly said to me: "Indiana, let it go." Thanks, Mom, for helping me to pick my battles and keep a level head (and for not yelling at me about my questionable language).

In January of this year, our family beagle passed away. Four months later, it still upsets my mother. Her deep love for Indy is simply another example of my mother's warmth and unselfishness. We often joked he was her favorite child, but she gave him a wonderful life. Mom, you saved his life, and you were his favorite, too. I loved Indiana as well, but if I ever care for anything the way you cared for him, I will know such a great love. You inspire me, and my dog will be a rescue.

If I turn out like you, I will consider myself a success. Thank you for everything. I love you.

(Mom, age 25)

On love and tattoos

2010-04-25T10:14:00.004-06:00

I resisted reading the Harry Potter books for years and years. (This might also be because I attempted the first book in Latin and was so frustrated by the spells' fake Latin that I decried the entire series.) It wasn't until Boyfriend Of Four Years bought the complete boxed set (in English, yes) that I gave in. It was shortly after my grandfather's death that I began my HP book marathon. This passage resonated with me, and it is probably what I remember the most from the entire series.

"Love...leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever."
—Albus Dumbledore, page 299, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

I found myself upset about my grandfather yesterday morning, for seemingly no reason at all. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't cried so hard since I left Happy Valley, probably, so I shot my sisters a quick e-mail. I didn't need a response—just to tell people who understand without having to call and sob.

Had I forgotten the thing I keep with me always as a reminder? The very reason I got it? It is not visible to the general public, but I know it's there.

(Taken the day I got it, September 27, 2009: This is love's mark.)

If you ever see me clutching at my kidney, I am not in pain—I am happy, comforted, and protected.

On tax refunds and being a workaholic

2010-03-31T09:26:00.021-06:00

I got paid today. (I am thankful that I don't mean that Davy-style, in Wayne's World.)

I'm not hurting, but I'm certain I let out a little sigh each time I look at a paystub—and its list of these terrible excuses for where my earnings go. I like to pretend my tax money is being used for good, rather than evil, considering many levels of government like to rob me blind. (Let's not even talk about the crock of crap Social Security is.)

You'd think all this overtime would more than make up for it, too. (And, yet, it doesn't.) You know it's bad when you can't have a beer with your roommates at 8 p.m. because, although you just got home, you have more work to do. Then they yell "Workaholic!" at you as you ascend the stairs...

Left, right, left, right. Stop. "I am not a workaholic," you reply. "I just—hang on while I finish this." Left, right...

My dad and older sister, who work even more than I do, implore me to "be sure to have fun, too."

I am a degree-bearing, full-time job-holding, tax-paying, independent adult! Pretty sure this was the goal, but, Christ, success (as it were) has its price. May God have mercy on my soul if I feel guilty next Friday afternoon for being at the Rockies' home opener instead of my office.

It's a far cry from my younger days as a summer intern, most notably when I was 17 and got my first paycheck. By this age I'd been dealing with things through sass and humor for upwards of a decade, but on this day I utilized a kind-of temper tantrum. I burst into my father's office, outraged and confused.

"This is a special day for me," he said, beaming, as the world welcomed another practical brain.

It will be a special day for me when I get my tax refund, Dad.

On baseball questions for my father

2010-03-27T11:10:00.001-06:00

We have many ways of tracking our progress, be it physical through pictures, schooling through grades, or knowledge through questions asked.

I am taller than both my sisters now, but I'm still a stick. The piece of paper saying I have a B.A. in journalism is at my parents' house, but I continue to excitedly tell them about x, y, or z that I'm learning. It's hardly necessary to bring up that I've loved baseball for as long as I can remember, but the evolution of my understanding of the game and my attachment to it are displayed through the questions I ask my dad and my commentary.

Daddy, who is the best player? Who is your favorite?
Daddy, he didn't hit the ball; why is he going to first?
Daddy, the outfielder caught the ball; why is that other guy running?
Daddy, can I play? Like my sister?
Daddy, why does his arm look like that when he throws? Can I do that?
Daddy, why do I have to keep my back foot down?
Daddy, why do my hits go to right?
Daddy, what's OPS?
Daddy, what's the difference between an at-bat and a plate appearance?
Daddy, I think I can throw a little farther; I'll back up.
Daddy, she was in my base path; I had to go through her.
Daddy, why does my hitting suffer when I pitch better?
Daddy, how many times can you have Tommy John surgery?
Daddy, what's with all the prospects we get in trades?
Daddy, how much does a minor league team cost?
Daddy, I want to be the commissioner.
Daddy, his WHIP is abominable.
Daddy, my fantasy team is killer!
Daddy, I got tickets to the home opener!
Daddy, I'm going to spring training!
Daddy, will you buy me a sabermetics book?
Daddy, I might be in Dallas when the Pirates are here. Stupid trial. I just want to see my boys.
Daddy, my mini-cousins want to know why I love baseball. How much of a game can little girls sit through?

It's weird to see how I've come from blindly having favorites to an appreciation for all facets of the game (and knowledge of most); I've grown up. Even the later remarks I notice go between my own independent baseball excitement and asking for my dad's help. Can you tell which lines are from my teen years? (Yep, even something I asked a couple weeks ago was prefaced with "Daddy...")

Now to field those questions from the girls. How do you explain to a 4- and almost-7-year-old why you love what you love? I hope I can get them interested enough to hear their questions change as they grow.

On children and priorities

2010-03-09T16:02:00.001-07:00

To my dearest mini-cousins:

Currently the four of you range from almost 2 to almost 7(!). I feel so lucky that I've been able to watch you as you grow up—and by proxy shape your little lives, even slightly. (That both excites and terrifies me, truthfully.) I like that I'm Cousin Monica and not just another adult (I swear when I make you brush your teeth it's not because I don't love you!), but a playmate and someone you can run to if anything's ever wrong—or if you just want a snuggle. Chances are good I just want to snuggle you, too. :) Ah, the blessings of being about halfway between you and your parents.

Madeline, my oldest, my brilliant first-grader, the first great-grandchild, I was still in high school when you were born. You are a great big sister, and your leadership is obvious. I love playing our word games with you and know that as you go through school you'll be teaching me vocabulary. Your Witzig [editor's note: in our family such is a stack of books waiting to be read] is impressive and never lasts long; you are a voracious reader. Hearing a speech pattern that is decidedly mine come out of you was both amusing and an honor. Your hugs as I leave on Sunday nights are among the best ever.

Ava, simply put, you crack me up. Part of me fears you know this, but, heck, I'm not going to stop you. Your energy is boundless, and your laugh is contagious. Your tender heart is especially on display when you care for your guinea pig and draw me pictures to take to the office. As hilarious as funny faces are during dinner, you and I should probably both stop that. ;)

Miles, my only boy mini-cousin, the only boy great-grandchild (for now, anyway), and son of the only boy grandchild, I fully expect to be invited to your football and baseball debuts, since you're already tearing up the field as a soccer player. You are the only child to ever tell me, while lining up your cars, that they were tailgating at a football game. I will forever cherish teaching you to charge the mound, cupcakes, and pictures with Paul Posluszny. (Someday you'll kick yourself for initially being shy and making me say, "Would you like to meet my friend Paul?" If it were up to me, you'd never wear that autographed jersey again, cutie.) The warmth with which you crawl into my lap is a comfort. I miss you, my little East Coast man.

Piper, you're so young that I wonder if you'll even remember who I am next time I see you. I met you in Hershey the very day you were born. I'd never held a baby so young before (sheesh, sweets, you were literally a newborn), and yet your parents trusted me with you. I doubt it's a day I'll ever forget. You're the snuggliest little thing, and I still consider singing "Toora Loora Loora" to get you to stop crying one March morning a year ago an immense victory. And your baby snot on my sweatshirt at the ballgame that day? Quite the trophy.

You help me learn, watch my mouth, and get my priorities straight. All the love in the world to my youngest family members.

On yuppies

2010-03-01T19:35:00.005-07:00

On my way home from the office tonight (yes, I did just arrive home recently—that should tell you how long I was there), I had a moment.

A snotty moment.

An "if I said this out loud I wonder if my parents would pretend not to know me" moment.

A very revealing and truthful moment.

Your stereotypical (and ethnic, yes) loudmouth woman was on the bus, yelling and cursing and cackling about a passenger who was taking a while to exit and then something-or-other-else. All I could think was this: I really hope you don't live in my neighborhood.

Now, if she were old or seemingly crazy or not dressed in D&G (don't ask me if it was real; my tastes are not refined enough to know or care), I like to think I wouldn't have judged as hard. But, Jesus H. Christ, lady, I don't work late so that I can listen to your drivel (over my already-turned up iPod!) on my way home. A more compassionate person would probably tell me to be glad that I have a job, that I can afford bus fare, and that I have a nice house to come home to. You're right, More Compassionate Person, and kudos to you for keeping me in check.

But it annoyed me—and reinforced a title I've (previously jokingly) given myself: yuppie.

You know what: I embrace it.

- I get warm fuzzies about being comped for overtime and feel guilty if I know there's a big work e-mail waiting for me Monday morning, when I could have logged in remotely on Sunday (and probably did earlier that day).
- I plan vacations around potential trial dates.
- I own disgusting amounts of active/outdoor apparel. (I'm looking at you, North Face and Columbia.)
- I live two blocks east of a grocery store, two blocks west of a park, and one block north of a coffee shop. I frequent each.
- I have/use/love reusable bags.
- I bought into a co-op for June through December of this year and am beyond excited.
- I have a roommate who bakes bread and conducts yoga classes.
- My heart is all aflutter at the idea of newly ironed button-down shirts.
- I cry a little every time I actually look at how much of my paycheck goes to taxes. And then I threaten to vote out the people who did this to me.
- I don't live with my parents.
- I dream of season tickets, digital SLRs, kitchen gadgets, and covered, off-street parking.
- I try to get everyone to visit me because you must see my mountains and drink my fabulous beer!
- I sometimes call it The Pennsylvania State University.
- And, at the risk of a never-ending list, Stuff White People Like characterizes me pretty well.

So, my friends, rise up, and be not ashamed! Er... yeah, because we're all kinds of oppressed. Free the yuppies!

...And to that woman on the bus: Nah, never mind. I'll pretend to take the high road and not complain about you anymore tonight.

On Shoeless Joe and going the distance

2010-02-23T09:52:00.004-07:00

I hesitated to write my thoughts about the book immediately upon finishing it last night.

...If only because it would have come out something like this: ohmygodIlovedit/youmustconsideritindependentofFieldofDeams/J.D.Salinger/thefather-daughterbond/aaahhhthewriting'ssoooogoood

But, 12 hours later, I still feel that way.

For those who don't know, Shoeless Joe is the book by W.P. Kinsella on which the movie Field of Dreams is based. I'd put money on it that more of us have seen the movie than read the book, which prompted my caveat in the babble above about needing to take the book as its own entity, on its own merits, apart from the iconic film.

Field of Dreams came out in 1989. I'm not sure how old I was the first time I saw it, but it's possible that it's been almost 20 years, as I distinctly remember growing up with it.

For quite a while, it was among the only things that I'd ever seen make my father teary-eyed. I can't tell you if, when I was young, it was the movie that made me cry or my father's obviously moving reaction to the movie that made me cry along with him. Being older, my truly loving embrace of the movie is a result of my amalgam of feelings surrounding it: thoughts of playing with my dad and older sister, my great passion for the sport itself, the familial strength displayed, the blind faith and hope, and my memories of watching it with people dear to me. It is both heartrending and comforting to watch it 1600 miles from my favorite baseball fans.

I remember having the general idea of reading the book before seeing the movie jammed into my brain as a child. I still abide by this and will, of course, brainwash—I mean edify—my children in the same manner. It is borderline-offensive to bibliophiles that I read the book up to 20 years after seeing the movie. Forgive me. There is some more PG-13 stuff in the book, which suggests that perhaps in this case seeing the movie before the book was not such a bad approach--and might be the route I take with my kids (whenever that is...no worries, Mum and Papi).

There were those subtle differences you expect to find between novels and movies. There were bigger things I didn't see coming. (No spoilers from me here; dust off your library card and find out what I mean.) There were seemingly little things that really struck me, too.

Aside from the fact that no self-respecting baseball fan could pick up a book on which one of her favorite movies is based and NOT finish it, one of the things that kept me reading was the father-daughter bond. It is much more pronounced in the book (which is not to say it's not important in the movie). Readers want to be connected and will stop reading if they don't feel that pull to the characters. I am by no means relating myself to the innocent Karin, but it's hard to observe the close father-daughter bond over the sport you love best and not say, "Hey! We have that!"

And, as with any good book, it left me wondering—and slightly unsure. In Shoeless Joe, Ray's twin brother can't "see it." He doesn't have "the magic" in him (which is funny, because he works for a carnival). Would I be that blind sibling? Would my sisters be the ones called? Would I understand or call them crazy? Snapshots and statistics will tell you I'm actually probably the "craziest" of my sisters, so maybe I should stop worrying. (After all, I was the one who got the Go the distance call...and heeded it.)

Some favorite lines from the novel:

"A ballpark at night is more like a church than a church."

"I wonder if there are soft-spoken voices who deliver assignments to all of us at various times, and if my problem is one of hearing too acutely."

On my favorite winter sport: snowy hiking

2010-02-21T20:18:00.001-07:00

I'm never leaving this place (...says the girl who's heading to Arizona in less than two weeks).

(See the rest of the photos from the snowy hike here.)

I am not a migratory bird;
I won't go back for the summer.
I spread my wings and flew away,
And this is where I'll remain.

On Car Registration and Spring Training

2010-02-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

I'm not in the office today. I am yet again venturing into something new: registering my car in the great state of Colorado.

This is it. There's no turning back after this.

Well, ok, more accurately phrased: It's a pain in the ass to go back after this.

When I planned to take a day off to get this done, I just picked the middle of the week because that's when AirCare Colorado says it's least busy, and I've, uh, been here for almost six months, but today represents something a little different.

Today pitchers and catchers report to spring training. It is rebirth, hope, growth. With the obvious exception of my family, there is nothing I love more than baseball. (And some days if I'm watching a game they know I won't pick up the phone, so...)

And I have a transformation of my own: Orion no longer bears Pennsylvania plates.

It's a new season for all of us.

A Colorado Love Story

2010-02-14T07:09:00.003-07:00

You can't really blame me for thinking Valentine's Day is bull—and not even because I'm one of those bitter "I don't have a boyfriend on this lovey-dovey day" people.

I've always been of the opinion that love is not simply special on just one day a year. And, frankly, guys, how many times has your girl said you needed to show your feelings more? Clearly, she agrees with me. Get her flowers in March "for no reason" and tell me she doesn't appreciate that more than dinner in a crowded restaurant in the middle of February.

That said, I do have a little love story to share, so bear with me.

It's no secret that I don't tend to get along with girls, but... I am going to marry my best friend Molly! Get ready, Mom and Dad!

Kidding. If that doesn't give my grandmothers heart palpitations I don't know what will. Back to my story.

As a little girl, I drew pictures of myself in a pick-up truck, with a dog next to me, in the Rockies. (The mountains were purple, so you could tell.) When I was 18, my family vacationed in Colorado. I fell in love with it but always figured it was a pipe dream (I think we can safely make jokes about my passion for Boulder and Boyfriend Of Four Years, each of which I laugh at now). Five years after our vacation, I moved here, and only good things have come my way.

An aside to my "I love mountains and beer!" reasoning for moving was that everyone I knew who'd moved to the West found someone. It was by no means my priority, but it was an added bonus. In 10 days, I'll have been here for six months(!), and... I don't have a boyfriend. I'm not discouraged at all, because I've found something that, since I was about 16, I never thought I'd have again.

I have a core group of chick friends. A few of them are natives, but most of us are transplants (at least three of us are from the P of A). What is it about Colorado that attracts girls who don't suck? Among us, we have rabid football and baseball fans, skiers, snowboarders, trail runners, hikers, travelers, beer-appreciation—and we can wear dresses and open our heads and spill our crazy to each other. My first friends in Colorado were guys (surprise, surprise, but this is what you get when your first socialization happens at the Penn State alumni bar), but I can say, for the first time in several years, that my best friends are girls—and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

So, along with my point earlier, I'll make sure I tell you on days other than this, but, to my Colorado girls: I love you.

On Climate Change and Family Ties

2010-02-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

In case anyone missed it, my facebook status as of this morning is this: Monica Witzig thinks those saying, "Haha, global warming, look at the snow!" and "Doubters clearly don't get science" should both shush and go shovel their elderly neighbors' driveways. Especially my grandmothers'. Thank you.

Pretty promptly, I had support in the forms of "likes" and comments.

Also pretty promptly, I received a private message from a FB friend. Let's keep this kosher and not reveal the individual's identity. The message suggested shock from this individual that I would be so aggressive, considering my many Republican-voting family members. (My family's actually pretty evenly split among R's, D's, I's, and don't-give-a-shit's, but ok.) My favorite line from the message was "What would your father think?"

Must give credit to the author for that one. I do care about my parents' opinions of me. But let's face the facts: For how many times I've crossed the line with my folks (in every way imaginable: bad language, breaking curfew, tattoo, beer in the morning at a football game, whatever), do you really think there are opinions I haven't shared with them? That's perhaps one of the very best things about my parents: They taught me to think for myself and NOT to back down. (Certainly, admitting when you're wrong is important as well, but that's not the issue here -- am I right?) They know, my friends. My parents know. And what's more is that they're not shocked by my supposedly conflicting views: I like money! And guns! And gay marriage! My. God. They've raised a rational and compassionate child.

So I explained briefly to The Individual that political leanings don't have anything to do with it. One of my parents' cars is a diesel Mercedes. Yep. Diesel. It's exempt from emissions testing because it's cleaner than the nasty-ass thing you drive. No, I wasn't crude with The Individual, but that was the gist of that point. So, surprise. My Alex Keaton-esque father is ruining Earth less than you are!

And there's that family thing. It was a point of contention with Boyfriend Of Four Years. He said I was "in love with [my] last name." (It's cooler than most last names, though, so that's not even fair.) But in the sense that I have immense loyalty and love for my family he was spot on. So why bother arguing about climate change when it's already happening...and dumping snow on all of the Mid-Atlantic...when you need to go shovel out your cars and could go be good people and help your neighbors? My grandmothers live in good ol' State College, Pa., home of The Pennsylvania State University. For the love of god, people, they need to get to doctor's appointments; they're almost 90. Stop being stubborn, self-righteous a-holes and do something good for someone.

/end soapbox.

Sirens

2010-01-24T09:12:00.001-07:00

My heart jumps into my throat when I hear sirens.

Is it a fire?
Where will those people sleep? What about their belongings, things with memories and meaning attached?
If I had to bolt in the middle of the night, what would I take? Would I have the presence of mind to grab important and/or expensive things?

Is someone hurt?
Was it a shooting? Does that happen in my yuppie, progressive, Bohemian part of the city?
Is someone's grandmother dying from a heart attack? Someone's sister in a car accident? A college kid with a careless drug overdose?

It's fleeting. The noise isn't coming from here. Aid is on its way. I, alive and healthy and safe and happy, can duck under my covers again.

Rest in peace, Indiana.

2010-01-17T09:30:00.001-07:00

So I've not been too enthusiastic about relationships over the last two years. Scared, jaded, unwilling—call it what you want. And recently I decided to make the switch over to Ice Queen so that I didn't have to be vulnerable. It's working pretty well.

This, of course, only applies to humans. Human males who suck me in and get me all excited about giving a shit about someone else again. (I sound bitter. I'm not. Just unwilling to be exhausted about someone else when I have plenty of work at the office to exhaust me.)

My "coldness" never applied to dogs. I can't shut that off. And besides, how can you hold a grudge against a dog? Dogs love freely, passionately, unconditionally. Certainly, they have favorites among their humans, but if I could love like my dog did I'd be a much better person.

Unfortunately, that tense up there is correct. "Did." I received the call at 7:30 a.m. MST today that Indiana had passed; the vet says it was a brain tumor. This at least explains his leaning slightly to his left and his vision problems. To say I am heartbroken does not fully represent my emotional state. Granted, I didn't throw up like I did when I was told about my grandfather's death, but I will be surprised if my housemates didn't hear me wailing. My dog. I can't believe my dog is gone.

We rescued Indy nearly four years ago, in June 2006 (we couldn't have a dog before this, because of my dad's allergies). Indy was a featured Humane Society dog, and he won over all of us, even my older sister, who probably got tired of my requests every year for a puppy. We thought my mom would be the hardest sell, but she turned out to be the one who jumped on the paperwork. According to what's on file in Pennsylvania, he is her dog.

My dad was on his way back to Harrisburg from State College when we called him to tell him, totally randomly, that we found a dog we wanted, a beagle. We asked him to meet us as soon as he could. My father, who, in his 20s, had to put down his own beagle, was about to have another hound dog come into his life. Another go at his childhood, almost.

So we took Indy home with us. His name wasn't Indy then. The Humane Society dubbed him Quincy, as he was a stray and didn't come in with tags, obviously. We quickly renamed him Indiana. (For our naming reference, see the end of the third Indiana Jones movie: "...Junior..." "I like Indiana." "We named the dog Indiana." "You were named after the dog!?" "I have great memories of that dog.") The vet told us he was somewhere between 10-13 years old. Sheesh. Our first dog was veritably an old man.

His energy was boundless, though. Sure, he'd limp, and you'd feel sorry for the old boy, but the strength he summoned when he chased a rabbit made him look like a puppy. Beagle Baby would pull your arm out of its socket if you weren't careful when he spotted a bunny. This was true even the last time I was with him, in late August of 2009, just before I left for Denver. We'd had him for three years at that point, so he was 13-16 this past summer, going on 14-17 when he passed this morning. That's a pretty ripe old age for a hound.

I remember one afternoon, the first summer we had him, when it was my turn to walk him. I was putting on his leash. I must have said something that caught his attention, because he turned his head, and I clipped his ear. He yelped. "Oh!" I cried. "Indy! I'm so sorry! Stay still, please; just hold on. I'll fix it." The dread and guilt I felt for making him suffer, if only for a second, was immense. He had never done anything wrong to anyone, and I managed to hurt him, two months into becoming a family member. But he scooted close to me and gave me this "It's ok; let's go on our walk" look. His ability to forgive so quickly should be an inspiration to me. You won't get that kind of turnaround from your siblings or your friends when you wrong them.

My family and I often joked (or maybe it wasn't joking at all) that he was my parents' favorite child. Indy had several beds in various parts of my folks' house, and we laughed about his preferential treatment. "Tempurpedic bed for the dog?"

You know how you're not supposed to feed dogs from the table? That was a load of b.s. in our house. Indiana would sit at the feet of the person he felt mostly likely would give in and share with him, "the weakest link," as Dad called it.

In fact, a couple favorite food memories come to mind. The first is when my older sister Christie drove up to our parents' house to meet Indy (she lives in D.C.). We put au jus on her cheek and let him lick the heck out of her. But perhaps my all-time favorite was at the breakfast table one morning. I had cream cheese on my toast. I, reading the paper, held the toast out to my side for him to take a bite (there is nothing wrong with sharing with your dog—he and I did this with oatmeal cream pies frequently when I was home from college). Instead of chomping down, he licked all the cream cheese off. Yeah, the rest of that toast became his very quickly. I should take note of his methods.

My family and I watched The Bishop's Wife together a few years ago. If you're unfamiliar with it, let me give you the basics: Cary Grant (sigh!) plays an angel named Dudley. Dudley is sent to Earth to help an overly ambitious bishop and his family. I think you know where I'm going with this. We all agreed that Indiana was our Dudley.

When my folks had stressful days, they knew their loving beagle was waiting for them. I waded through some crap in college, and there was Indy, falling asleep on my legs when I'd come home for holidays, his methodical breathing such a comfort. I have no doubt Indiana saved the lot of us from spiraling too deeply when my grandfather passed. Ah, what solace petting a dog provides. Even his snoring supplied comfort.

The very act of typing out some memories of Indy (I once assigned him the full name of Indiana Allegheny Witzig when fussing at him) has soothed me somewhat. What a shame that it took my dog's death to shake me of the idea that I could keep up the Ice Queen charade.

Rest in peace, Indy—and may you chase bunnies for eternity.

Running

2009-12-06T19:37:00.002-07:00

You left and I ran hard to make up for it.
I ran for you and from you.

Nothing about your absence made sense,
but at least I could understand the way my sneakers devoured the pavement,
miles at a time.
It was rational and real, and I could quantify.

Then the shin splints hit,
and I wish I could say that was just a metaphor.
The pain came even before 5,280 feet did.
I couldn't run anymore, not even from you.

Can I keep up?

---------------------------
I hear you grow out of shin splints. What about when they happen to you at age 23? At any rate, new material.

Reactor

2009-10-27T09:16:00.002-06:00

One wall features your obituary.
I didn’t need to tell them your story.

The last name you built follows me,
from Westinghouse
to the Skipjack series,
all the way to Penn State.

"This is Cerenkov radiation," they told me.
The great blue flash illuminated the pool,
the water that hugged the rods.

I got to witness the pulse-excited heartbeat
of the reactor as it woke up that morning.
I see why this fascinated you.

"Do you want to see your grandfather's last log?"
She asked me.
Your handwriting always was a little tough.

“So help me God, I’ll be back!”
Your scribbles boomed.
Intimidating, but I know you were teasing.
I’m sure your voice carried around the reactor, too.

I bet you’d sit around in your blue pajamas here if you could.

I’m sorry I’m not an engineer.
I am a nuclear meltdown.

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

Written fall 2008 but always on my brain.

Go learn something! "A is for Atom"

Sweater Vest

2009-10-19T16:28:00.002-06:00

"I always think people in sweater vests are hiding something."

What?

Heels and hose and firmly pressed pants,
Button-down and sweater vest.

Second Amendment.
Voter reg says "Republican."
Thirty-fifth floor.
Working through my lunch breaks.

Got love for East Coast baseball, and
My football team has six Super Bowl rings.

Success.

But maybe my brilliant white iPod
Houses Ludacris.
Maybe my Sundays are spent in the mountains
Instead of in church.
Maybe I'd rather take a shot of Jack
Than drink your cult Cabernet.
And maybe underneath that button-down
There's a tattoo.

Yeah.
Maybe my sweater vest and I are hiding something.

-------------------------------------------
New material! Yes, just written today.

The Editor's Remarks

2009-10-13T19:02:00.000-06:00

If at first you don't succeed,
you probably work here instead of ESPN.

What the world needs now is
human interest stories.

When life hands you lemons,
keep them on file in case you need them later.

Then they all lived happily ever
after they finished the layout in Quark.

-----------------------------------
I probably have a couple more hiding. ...Maybe I should write new stuff, too.

Minor League

2009-10-04T20:12:00.002-06:00

You don't use crisp, clean, white baseballs
for batting practice.

The groupies have probably never even left
the time zone.

But you get a walk-up song,
and no one throws a six-dollar Iron City at you.

They love you,
because you're not in it for the money.

----------------------------------
And the old poems continue to finally see the light of day—er, screen.

We live for this.

2009-10-02T11:23:00.000-06:00

My father is a 54-year-old attorney in Pennsylvania. He has no sons, but I'd say three daughters who can go from dresses and mimosas to reciting starting lineups are more than appropriate.

The season's winding down. Here's the familial take on it.

E-mail from Dad to his daughters, 1 October 2009:

The Washington Nationals will finish the regular season with the worst win-loss record in MLB.

The Baltimore Orioles will finish the regular season with the second worst win-loss record in MLB, and the worst record in the AL.

The Pittsburgh Pirates (17 straight losing seasons and counting!) will finish the regular season with the second worst win-loss record in the NL, and third worst in MLB.

What does this say about us? (Okay, Mallory roots for the Red Sox.)

Oh, I just read that Freddy Sanchez is on the shelf, will undergo arthroscopic surgery on one knee, and likely will not see the SFGiants renew his contract. (Good trade, Buccos. And Freddy got hurt in Arizona just four days before the Pirates traded him to SF.)

Jack Wilson went pffft in Seattle. But Snell pitched fairly well for the Mariners.

Anyone ever again read about Nate McLouth?

Xavier Nady likely will never regain his form.

Does the water in Pittsburgh keep its players [relatively] healthy? Or did management decide to trade players a year too early instead of a year too late?

Oh, Nyjer Morgan's season ("say hey!") ended in late August. But he hit very well for the Nats and looks to be a top line lead-off batter.

Jason Bay had a good first half of the regular season. Now he wants $18MM/year, or more.

I have to sort through all of this. Not sure what it all means. Maybe simply that I care too much.

Peace, Dad

p.s. Go Sox!

My response, 2 October 2009:

All the losing seems to overshadow some of the wonderful things. The Pirates typically are league leaders in how few errors they commit. Garrett Jones has hit more than 20 homers in his rookie season in Pittsburgh (Mal: Jason Bay did the same). Buccos took 3 out of 4 from the Dodgers (Rox say thanks!) last weekend and have been able to raise the Jolly Roger over the Cubs -- taking both games of the double-header the other day. Ryan Doumit had a MONSTER homer. But you don't hear about that; you hear about 17 losing seasons in a row. (I'm pleased to remind you the Phils still lead with all-time game losses.)

And how quickly we forget the excitement about the O's Matt Wieters. Does anyone miss Aubrey Huff?

Yesterday, the Rox played their final regular season home game and clinched a spot in the playoffs. Depending on how it goes with the Dodgers, they might win the division. It's very exciting to be here and be a part of Rocktober. Yes, to those who remember 2007, I was on the other side of it, rooting for the Sox. This time, I live here. The Rockies have adopted me, and I have to say I want to see them do it. Not that I won't root for Boston if the Rox get knocked out, but I've never been this close, and I'm developing attachments (Brad Hawpe for the win!). I can say "we" and "us" and know everyone's on the same page.

I might also be trying to convince people here that Philly's actually in New Jersey and not in the great state of Pennsylvania...

The season is done for most of our favorites, but it's postseason now, and it's time to get excited again and pick sides.

Dad, I wouldn't say that it's caring too much -- it's about being part of something bigger than we are.

We live for this.

Just Friends

2009-09-30T18:04:00.002-06:00

We are almost twenty-two, and
you're no longer my lanky best friend
or my protective "big brother."

Your lean body eases through the fence, and
your feet sink into the snow.
Your hand reaches back, seeking mine.

The lights at Oakwood Park have long since gone to bed,
as we should have.

Thudding hard through our t-shirts,
our sweatshirts,
our coats,

I can feel your heart.
Or maybe it’s mine.

Your lips tickle my neck.
It was the only time you kissed me.

Your girlfriend wouldn’t have liked that.

But we're just friends.
-----------------------

...I think I'll post a few more as the days progress. These are old (but original), circa fall 2008.

Baseball gives me gray hair.

2009-07-29T21:50:00.005-06:00

Jack and Freddy are gone. I can only hope the players we got in return deliver in terms of wins.

I got a headache immediately upon hearing about Jack. By the time the Freddy trade was official, I was exhausted and even more upset. I fielded condolences texts from friends and family all day.

Through the losing seasons, I've kept saying, "I know baseball loves me back." Where was that today? How could this possibly be a show of affection for loyal fans? I didn't want it justified to me in terms of business today. I wanted to know someone else was just as sad and pissed off, because these guys matter to me. You get more face time, more team time, more personal time with baseball players than participants in other sports. They're my boys.

I hate to say it, just by putting the idea out there in the universe, but I'm terrified that Ryan Doumit's next. Let's face the facts: Ryan's healthy, and we've been acquiring quite a few catchers. There won't be a better time to trade him. My younger sister remarked when I told her this awful idea: "I hope they don't trade Ryan. I think that would push you over the edge."

Mom: "I'm sorry about Jack, sweetie." And later: "They didn't really do this to you twice in one day—did they?" Truth, Mom.

I hate what the trade deadline does to me. What normal 23-year-old girl gets teary-eyed when she hears about her roster being decimated?

Baseball wrecks me. So why do I love it so much?

It's because they do love us back. Read what Jack and Freddy had to say about their fans in Pittsburgh.

It's going to be a rough couple days (weeks? months?).

This morning I forgot an umbrella, and in the downpour it was just too slippy to wear my flip-flops on the walk to my car across campus. The scene: Consistent rain. Bare feet. Pittsburgh Pirates/Ryan Doumit t-shirt. Talk about pathetic. Who knew it'd be symbolic of the rest of the day?

Cameron: "I think I see my dad..."

2009-07-28T09:19:00.003-06:00

So my father alerted me to the fact that he'll be in State College tomorrow afternoon on business and such.

Also to tell me I probably won't see him because of his attention needing to be elsewhere (and since I'll see him Saturday anyway).

My response: "If time allows and you want to stop in at my office briefly, I welcome that."

Straight out of the Marc W. Witzig, Esq. Handbook, I swear.

I've turned into my dad.

Extra Innings Dreams

2009-07-27T19:16:00.001-06:00

I've been having dreams for the last week about a Pirates-Rockies series. ...And I've been having them in chunks, if that makes sense.

The first chunk involved telling my sons to stop hitting each other in the back seat or I wouldn't take them to see their boy Chris Iannetta the next day. It was actually very vivid—to the point where I can tell you their names, who was older, that their father was off at a daddy-daughter thing with their sister for the weekend, etc. Crazily vivid.

Other chunks involve cheering and are significantly less clear. I can tell you I'm at the game, but the section I'm in changes, and I can't tell you who's batting or fielding. I know it's in Denver, but that's the extent of it. Not once during these dreams did I cheer for a specific player, or that'd make it much more clear. It'd be obvious that my bias was for Pittsburgh if I yelled, "Go, Jack!"

The latest one I've had two nights in a row now, the exact same dream. It's the last chunk I'll ever get, I think. I say that because I'm fairly certain it's the end of the game—I am laughing and crying at the same time at the ballpark.

It's not unusual for me to dream about sports. But it (finally!) became clear to me today that it's Pennsylvania vs. Colorado. Should I move? Should I stay? I know that Pennsylvania loves me—my family, my city, my university—and for that I love Pennsylvania so dearly right back. More than I should at times. Colorado keeps calling. If I don't go now, will I ever go? Will I kick myself if I stay? So many what-ifs.

"The mountains are calling and I must go." —John Muir

I don't know how the dream ends. I don't know who wins. It plagues me.

Be a good sport, huh?

2009-07-22T22:09:00.000-06:00

I don't know where I'm going with it or how to organize it yet, but in the next month I'm going to concoct a piece about my family and sports, since I'm movin' 1600 miles away 'n' all.

Something about how I could chase down your fly ball, but if you want someone to throw it home from the outfield a la Nate McLouth in the 2008 ASG it'd be my older sister. And how, because of our age difference, we were never in the same league as kids (sound like the LaRoche article?). And how she's probably the main reason I got into softball in the first place. And how her love for her Demon Deacons is immense, picking the ACC, and heading south to a school eight hours away—a trailblazer in her own right.

Something about how my younger sister has turned into a stats beast and rabid sports fan. Her kids'll definitely be able to tell you the starting linebackers for Penn State when they're 3.

Something about my ejection, maybe. ...To this day I maintain that it was worth it.

Something about how my mom brought me refreshing orange juice during those hot softball tournaments and has always been my biggest fan. And how she encouraged me to always be the one who stood up after collisions on the field (if you don't get out of my base path, I'm going to plow through you). The way hockey entranced her this season. And about how she's a big part of the reason I love Pittsburgh and Penn State like I do.

Something about my dad's demonstrative, windmill-like motions as third base coach. And how he just surprised me one night and told me I'd be pitching. And how he never missed a game, often showing up from work, still in his suit. And how I'm not sure which of us was more upset when he hurt his shoulder and couldn't play catch with me for a while. Nothing makes a girl tear up like watching Field of Dreams with her daddy. All those times we teamed up to snag sweet football signatures, his teaching me about nickel and dime defenses, and the significance of my future license plate: 48-14.

Hearing my parents sing "Polamalu..." is priceless.

Now to turn it into a real story...

Goodbye, Nate The Great.

2009-06-03T19:30:00.000-06:00

So, I'm going to put this out there.

And maybe I'm doing it a little too hastily. After all, I only heard the news about 90 minutes ago.

But Neal Huntington has just pissed away the talent we've had in Pittsburgh. My beloved outfield of Jason Bay, Nate McLouth, and Xavier Nady is no more. It's not even that just one part is missing—or that two parts are missing. All three have been traded over our last two seasons for prospects. PROSPECTS!

The money's not a problem. In the off-season, we had just inked a nice contract with Nate to keep him here for a few more years. We don't have these ridiculous players and their ridiculous salary demands. We wanted to develop him more. It's been a pleasure to see the dude grow. He's only 27. He had a spectacular showing in his first All-Star Game (2008, just last season) and went on to win a Gold Glove.

And Huntington traded him to Atlanta tonight.

I'm not going to say that the GM's lack of care makes me question my own loyalty. It doesn't work that way. It's clear that I care, as I had quite the visceral reaction. "No! No! No, no, no, no, NOOOOOO!"

I'm going to stick with my guys, and I'm going to wish McLouth success as the Braves try to contend this season. Jason proved himself clutch for the Red Sox during the postseason last year and has continued to prove his worth this season for Boston. The X-man hasn't done as much as JBay has, but at the end of the day he can say he plays for the Yankees, who are always in the running for the postseason. When it comes down to it, they're still my boys.

And I guess that means I need to support whomever we acquire, too. They're Pirates now. They're my boys, too.

But, God, I'm going to miss Nate.

Adaptation

2009-06-01T08:02:00.001-06:00

So the plan's changed somewhat. I'm working around it. My goal is still in my sights—just have to get there.

Summer's plan: Educational Sociology, Literary Humor, Business Law, the law office (when is it not part of my plans?), baseball, and family. Sounds pretty typical to me.

In a rare moment long before I was born, my grandfather and John Lennon agreed: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

While I am growing academically, I'm also growing as a person: discovering themes of my life and rules by which to govern myself, people I need and those I can live without, and that I will always have to adapt.

My folks were in Michigan to see the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum. In truth, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Gerry is that Simpsons episode when he asks if Homer wants to come over to drink beer and watch football—and then they both trip and declare D'OH! Unfortunately, YouTube only has the Spanish version of the clip (although that almost makes it funnier).

At any rate, my dad was telling me of the experience, and I was really struck by the house rules Gerry's parents had in place: "Tell the truth; work hard; and be on time for dinner." Here's hoping I can institute that when I have kids. Until then, looks like I have a new way to organize my own guidelines.

Da Burgh

2009-04-19T10:51:00.002-06:00

Dad, Mallory, and I made the Pittsburgh out-and-back yesterday for Braves at Pirates. We had probably 75-degree temperatures and sun (despite Mallory's brilliance to bring SPF 45, we all have a little redness). The giveaway of the game was a Ryan Doumit bobblehead (Ryan's a favorite in our household); it's why we picked the date.

It was Mallory's first visit to PNC Park. It was also the first afternoon game there on a Saturday since 2005 (the Bucs tend to stick with weekend night games). First pitch was scheduled for 12:35 p.m. We left State College around 6:30 a.m. in order to get in some errands in Pittsburgh before the game. Dad remarked that parts of I-99 and 22W looked as they did back in '81 when he and Mom would make the trip. Yikes.

Naturally, we hit all the important spots: Mt. Washington, Graham's Bakery (where Dad lovingly bought me a Penguins-inspired cupcake), the Billy Penn Hotel, the bakery at Kaufmann's (which is closed on Saturdays now, so we didn't get our usual cupcakes!). Upon arriving at the park, we showed Mal the view from a few different points in the stadium. She's not used to skylines like this one. I enjoyed telling her about how kayakers will jump out of their boats to go after home run balls that land in the Allegheny.

After grabbing lunch (burgers for Mal and Dad, Primanti Bros. sandwich for me!), we made our way to section 10, which is on the first base side of the diamond. Daddy likes to joke with us about "Oh, looks like we have to keep going" as we descend to our seats; we're very lucky when it comes to tickets. What we didn't realize was that row G was even closer than we thought: two rows behind the visitors' dugout. Cue my jaw-drop. Not one of us knew just exactly where our seats really were until we got there.

The danger in having these seats is that there's no backstop to save us from foul balls, mis-throws, etc. That's why one of us brought her glove. :)

The clear upside is how close we were to the players. Some of the kids over in rows A-F (past the dugout, closer to the outfield) handed over balls to the Pirates first base coach Hill to take back to the home dugout with him. Mallory spotted Derek Lowe in the Braves' dugout (previously with the Red Sox, has some clinching postseason games and a no-no under his belt). Daddy, the sports opportunist, asked, "Did either of you bring a ball?" Yes. I did. And two Sharpie markers. Unlike the kids in A-F, I just jumped over the row in front of us, leaned over the dugout, and asked Mr. Lowe if he'd sign my baseball, please. The game hadn't even started yet, and I already had a bobblehead and a Derek Lowe-signed baseball. I made sure to smile at him throughout the game.

The Bucs took an early lead and never relinquished it. Ryan's been batting clean-up. He went three for four yesterday with a walk. And those three hits? They were all doubles.

Dad pointed out to us that there was no harm in asking the Braves 1B for inning-end baseball. So I stood up and got Casey Kotchman's attention. ...And I got a game ball. Dad joked that the next thing I'd get would be a bat. (I made sure to smile at Casey for the rest of the game, too).

Mallory wanted to see Brandon Moss (previously of Boston) start in RF. But RF Craig Monroe proved to be just as entertaining and exactly what the Buccos needed yesterday: Monroe had two (count 'em) three-run dingers in the game. He got a curtain call from the third base side and standing O from the fans in the outfield seats when he returned to the field.

Per Dad's bat remark, one did come screaming past me into the stands. It's probably the most terrified I've ever been at a ball game. Based on my reaction, Dad and Mal covered their heads. The bat landed just across the aisle. No one was hurt, but we fans all 1. freaked out and 2. got out of the way. Dad didn't realize the item that had entered the stands was a bat until my exclamation during our walk back to the car at Mellon Square after the game. No, I didn't come home with a bat yesterday. The good news is that I didn't catch it with my face, either.

Other highlights include Pirates pitcher Ian Snell going for a full seven innings before being relieved by Sean Burnett and Jesse Chavez. Oh, and that 10-0 win we racked up. The Pirates looked good yesterday. They looked healthy and happy to be playing. The crowd of about 20,000 wasn't the biggest ever, but it was an involved and appreciative crowd.

One of the best days of my life? Easily.

Opening Day

2009-04-06T14:00:00.003-06:00

So we've hit that time of the year when I can finally leave my tv on channel 34 (that's FSN-Pittsburgh here in State College) continually for the next few months.

This time around, that's only applicable through the summer-ish, thanks to My Big Move. I'll find FSN out in Denver, though, not to worry. And GameTracker'll save my life, keeping up with my boys.

This is the first time since 2001 that the World Series will spill over into November, and that just means I'll get to watch baseball further into the calendar. (In 2001 it was all postponed because of 9/11 affecting the season's schedule.) Naturally, this also means I'll have to hear non-baseball fans complain: "But baseball goes on for soooo long!" Please. Be happy that you don't live in the DR, where it's year-round, baseball-haters.

Today has included many an e-mail and text among my family members; I don't think I'll be struck with holy bolts of lightning when I call today nearly sacred to my family. I love the uniting force of sports, especially baseball. I can't say I wasn't happy to see Brett Myers get friggin' lit up last night in Philly's home opener against the Braves, but my joy definitely came more in the forms of 1) rookie Jordan Schafer's first major league at-bat yielding a home run and 2) the official return of baseball, those 162 games for each team.

Opening Day is a fresh start, a chance for teams who shined last season to show they've still got it—and a shot at a better season for those who weren't so great.

O's take on the Yanks in Baltimore tonight. The Yanks had a real fall from glory last season. Of course, they're the eternal powerhouse of the AL East and were still significantly better than, say, my Pirates, but it was a tough season for NYY. I wonder if this is an evening-out of the most competitive division in all of MLB.

Rays at Red Sox has been postponed to tomorrow afternoon, because of Boston's forecast. As much as I dig New England (and the fond memories I have of childhood summer afternoons at Fenway), it blows my mind that my little sister wants so fiercely to live there.

This morning it was snowing in St. Louis, where my Buccos are opening their season against the Cards at 4:15 ET. Hey, St. Louis: Pittsburgh's used to less-than-ideal weather; we'll play in flurries. I am jumping on the rest of my game as soon as I get home from work.

Not really sure what the deal is with the Nats today, but I'm sure Christie can bring me up to speed. This is the immense (albeit obvious) benefit of family in different places; they can always keep me posted on baseball in their regions.

The Rockies have just started their game against the D-Backs in Arizona, and I should really start to follow the Rox, seeing as how they're adopting me 'n' all. Chris Iannetta is catching today, and I think he's going to be my favorite for the Rox.

I'm really looking forward to my own "Opening Day," as it were. I'll end my "season" here in State College, only for my opener in Denver. It's my rebirth, a chance to show that I'm both still strong and ready to improve.

Once a place touches you like this, the wind nevers blows so cold again. You feel for it, like it was your child.
-Field of Dreams

Lucky to have been where I have been

2009-03-17T10:09:00.006-06:00

...Lucky to be coming home again.

A few things from this week that stuck with me:

"And she dreams of sunflowers bent over, frozen in the snow, and thinks, 'Colorado.'"

"I think you'll like her."

"Staying over isn't just for skanks anymore."

"Cousin Monica, Daddy says your coffee's ready."

"Sing it, Colin Hay!"

"You should relax: Have an ice cream beer float and tend to the house... in pearls."
[Editor's note: yes, beer—not root beer.]

"It's pretty much a requirement out here to have a dog, go running, and enjoy beer. You'll fit in."

"If Grandpa can say hello through a shooting star, certainly the familiar sound of a diesel engine is Grandpa looking out for you in Colorado."

P.S. I'm officially moving to Denver.

Rocky Mountain High

2009-03-10T07:23:00.002-06:00

Family beer time, playing with the mini cousins, jaw-drops simply on my walk to Safeway, gas prices that don't make me want to maim people, Red Rocks as my backyard, Coors Field downtown... How could it get better?

Last week (i.e. as I was packing) the Weather Channel told me it was going to be in the 50's here. Yeah. No. It's 16° F. I'm not entirely prepared for that: jeans, t-shirts, polos, shorts, cute dress, cardigans, fleece. I've got running clothes, so that won't be a problem today, but I purposely left my hooded sweatshirt in Camp Hill. [Kicks self repeatedly.]

Let's not talk about the fact that my flight from Harrisburg left almost an hour later than it should have. I barely made my connection to Denver in Cinci. You know that part in Home Alone when they're bolting through the airport? That was my Saturday morning.

I really like waking up here, as weird as that sounds. It could partially be that I'm not a slave to my alarm clock currently, but it's the sweetest thing to hear little voices saying, "Cousin Monica. Mooooonica!" in order to wake me up for the coffee Mark has so kindly made me before he grabs the girls and heads out for the day.

Heather picked me up at DIA on Saturday morning, and we headed out to the Apple Store in Cherry Creek (possible temporary job?), Chipotle, and a beer run. CO brews are sweet. The one I picked out was Mojo India Pale Ale from Boulder. Stoked to enjoy that later.

H and I played on Sunday: Red Rocks, Loveland Pass, Breckenridge. I got stuck in ski traffic for the first time ever. Lucky for me, H has good taste in music, so we enjoyed some Colin Hay, Jason Mraz, The Coral (uhhh, lots of Scrubs songs!) on our drive home. I can now say I've played on the Continental Divide, and my summer activities will absolutely include Dinosaur Ridge. In Breck, H and I had lunch at Downstairs at Eric's, pretty much a sports bar kind of place, and I got all excited when I saw the big BLITZBURGH banner. I flew ✈ 1600+ miles to put coleslaw and fries on my sandwich. :)

Yesterday Toli (Golden Retriever) and I walked to Safeway. It's been nice having his company. (Like how I go from one home with a dog to another?) It helped me to get my bearings a little. I think today will include some more Lakewood exploration (and by that I mean I'm going to attempt a jog! Let's see if the lungs can handle 5280+ feet in altitude), and tomorrow will be the day I take the bus to The North Face's store in Denver. Not sure if I'll make it up to Boulder this trip—I'm not all that keen on a two-hour bus ride when I don't exactly know my way around... at all. It might have to wait until I've got my car out here and can make the trip in ±50 minutes.

I want to be able to make my moving decision by the end of the week. It will give me peace, and that will help with finishing the semester. I'm kind of terrified, but it was so easy to get used to being out here and with H&M...

Jumped on the Twitter bandwagon this morning. The blog might hit a coma...

Twitter?

2009-03-06T08:51:00.000-07:00

So I think maybe I should get on Twitter, for all those times I just want to say things like:

-- "I'm flying to Denver tomorrow. Holy shit."

-- "Thank God baseball has returned."

-- "I probably should not have finished a jug of orange juice that huge in just four days."

-- "I think I want to give my daughter an Irish name, like Teagan or Michaleen (and I don't care if Michaleen is generally a boy's name)."
^See The Quiet Man, and you'll know what I mean.

-- "Why am I getting calls from a 702 area code?"

-- "I just printed my boarding passes for my flights west!"

Now her life is full of wonder, but her heart still knows some fear.

2009-03-01T08:08:00.003-07:00

To find in CO:

- Starbucks! (because we know I need my caffeine in the mornings)
- some sweet local coffee places, too (because I will feel better about myself if I patronize these instead)
- retail heaven, aka The North Face (because I can probably spend an afternoon here and not be bored slash identify ideas for sweet graduation presents!)
- Coors Field (because we know I will be spending a sweet $4 a bajillion times this summer to sit in the Rockpile to watch Rockies baseball :))
- public library (because I will be too poor to buy books I want to read when I finally have the time for it)
- a sweet running trail (because I seek a consistent path for my everyday workout, of course)
- grocery store (because I'll need to show off my sweet reusable bag with the Steelers logo—and by that I mean buy my staples: purple G2, clementines, cheesy rice, and snap peas...while showing off my sweet reusable bag with the Steelers logo)
- the nearest Apple Store(s) (because you know I'm an addict—er, advocate...)
- CU campus bookstore (because that Buffs t-shirt from five years ago obviously doesn't fit anymore)
- Big Foot Turf Farm (because CU plays baseball there, apparently)
- mmm, a job (because, unfortunately, no one's going to pay me to send outrageous postcards to my various attorneys back east)
- post office (because I do need to send those postcards...)
- bank (because, if I ever make some money, I need a place for it)
- husband (because—waaaiiiit a second...)

I'm reaching the point at which I'm horribly excited—and somewhat nervous. CATA around State College? Easy, but I've seen all these things for 20+ years anyway. I can't tell you where ANYTHING in Denver is, so I'm going to have a fabulous time getting lost via RTD on my own. :) Hopefully, I'll make it to Boulder in one piece.

Some preparation-y highlights:
-- I'm taking a carry-on and my laptop. Everything for every situation next week must fit. Yikes.
-- That means I'm packing. That also means what I pack I can't wear this week.
-- My flight's at 6 a.m. on Saturday. My loving Papí and I are leaving for HIA at quarter of five. Yeah. (Don't worry. He's getting me back: I'm taking him and Mom to the airport for their 6:30 a.m. flight to Michigan in May.)
-- I have at least three exams this week. Gag me.
-- I'm leaving right after work on Friday to get to my folks' house. Good thing my little sister reminded me that I'm responsible for taking her, too, or else she'd have been stuck in SC when I arrived in Harrisburg alone.
-- I NEED TO GO FOR A RUNNNN!

FTK!

2009-02-20T21:47:00.007-07:00

THON is this weekend!

Shameless promotion, because it's a great cause: thon.org.

My roomie Brinley is dancer #139A, and my baby sister Mallory (ok, ok, she's almost 20) will be working there for Gamma Sigma Sigma. Tomorrow morning, Mal and I are hiking Mt. Nittany—our first winter climb. And then I'll buy her coffee and send her off to THON.

THON ON!

Witzig Women

2009-02-08T10:24:00.001-07:00

I need to write to the women in my life. I'll certainly do it before graduation. They are who I want to be—all of them: my strong grandmothers, my amazing mom, my enterprising aunts, my high-octane cousins, my dynamic older sister, the younger sister and cousin behind me, and the little great-granddaughters who are so full of wonder and excitement.

I will be loved and strive to give love out unconditionally.
I will bounce back.
I will have high standards.
I will keep in touch.
I will "pay it forward" and help others.
I will be straight with you on what I think (but blunt or diplomatic angles will be my prerogative).
I will be physically and mentally fit.
I will use connections wisely and not abuse or ignore them.
I will cook.
I will laugh. A lot. Always.
I will play for fun instead of constantly to win.
I will find the joy in each day.
I will be fiercely loyal.

I love the women who came before me, who are right there with me through the earth-shatteringly good and bad, who know more than I do, who are still learning. This last name means the world to me. I will use it to make my mark.

We're from the town with the great football team...

2009-02-01T14:52:00.002-07:00

...We cheer the Pittsburgh Steelers!

It doesn't particularly surprise me that a bunch of people around here just don't care about tonight's game. On the other hand, I've been wearing nothing but black 'n' gold for the last several days, and my Terrible Towel's hanging in my bedroom window. I'm so excited for the history that comes tonight—Arizona's first win or Pittsburgh's SIXTH (that second option being far more preferable, of course). I wish I had some I.C. to enjoy during the game, but I'll be content with purely football (and that episode of The Office afterwards... I mean, COME ON. How is that not a great evening?).

My younger sister's sick, so I took her soup this afternoon and e-mailed her some Pittsburgh lovin', i.e. "Pittsburgh Steelers Polka" and "Pohlahmahlu" songs. I'm glad she's really taken to our Iron City roots. It'll be helpful to have a loyal research beagle (<-- among the coolest terms ever!) so very on top of the PA scene when I move across the country.

I've started compiling a playlist for the drive. (Well, the songs'll be spread across dozens of CDs, as I don't have a way to play my iPod through my car stereo... no tape deck, no aux. line out... and I'm not willing to buy one of those transmitter things.)

Thus far, I have

-- the entire "August and Everything After" album by Counting Crows (51.6 minutes)
-- discs one and two of the "Across the Universe" soundtrack (95 minutes combined)
and then we hit the individual songs:
-- Try Again by Aaliya; Take a Chance on Me by ABBA; You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC;
-- It's All Been Done by Barenaked Ladies; I'll Be Back by The Beatles; Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe;
-- A Long December by Counting Crows
-- Fire by Joe Budden/Busta Rhymes; 3x5 by John Mayer; Separate Ways by Journey; The Dim & The Dark by Jump, Little Children;
-- Extreme Ways by Moby;
-- Wonderwall by Oasis;
-- For Once In My Life by Stevie Wonder;
-- Talkin' Baseball by Terry Cashman; and
-- Swing by Trace Adkins. (That chunk of songs is exactly an hour, according to iTunes.)

Obviously, there are tons of songs I've not moved into that specific playlist, but I'm taking suggestions! Updates will include additions, of course. My iTunes library is 14.8 days (days!) of music, so ~24 hours won't be hard, but the right order will be quite the task, and how do I decide which songs make the cut? Sheesh.

I'm a lucky girl to have that "problem." Mah starz, Ah just can't pick mah mewzik... These days I try to find at least one thing each day for which I'm thankful. It really helps get over the stress from classes and work and job-hunting when I can say, "Today I am thankful for..." So, today, I'm thankful for my pro football team in the Super Bowl. I'm thankful for hockey to keep me busy between football and baseball seasons... I'm thankful for my family, and for opportunities, and for the 45-degree temperature so I could run outside in the State College sun today instead of laps inside. :)

I wanna go,

2009-01-31T18:54:00.002-07:00

but I hate to leave you. You know I hate to leave you.

I'm so attached to State College. I spent 24 hours in the Harrisburg area, and, despite the attention from my parents (I was the only kid! whoa!) and all of the wonderful things they do for me, I was ready to get back to my life up here.

I feel this pull, though. I need to go to Colorado. I know it's the right thing to do. From the drawings when I was little to almost being left in Boulder five years ago, I have an opportunity to go start my post-grad life in the thinnest city in the country: Denver. It's such an active city (shoot, it's an active state), and those big rocks are calling my name.

When mom bought me my birthday presents today (Under Armour gloves and Adidas running leggings!), she said, "Use these well in Colorado." And last night Daddy and I booked my flight to Denver in March to go job-hunting, learn the city on my own, spend time with my cousin (& her hubby & their kids & dog—a full house!), etc. My folks are totally supportive of my going. Of course, they remind me that there's no shame in coming back to Pennsylvania, but I know they want to be able to make that flight to visit me and say, "I'm going to see my daughter in Colorado." There's that fanciful Add another ballpark! thing we've always got going on, too. :)

And the place looks like this probably some 300 days a year:

I can only imagine what it's going to look like in June when I've made the 24+ hour drive from Pennsylvania and finally reach the Rockies...

Colorado Crush

2008-12-18T15:53:00.000-07:00

This conversation took place this past spring at my office. I wandered into the kitchen and was mesmerized. Lucky for me, my coworker Matt came along.

Monica: What is this glorious sport?
Matt: Ah, you've discovered arena football.

AND NOW THERE'S NO 2009 SEASON!?

Not happy.

Unconditional

2008-11-30T15:15:00.002-07:00

Earlier this afternoon, it took me minutes (seriously, entire minutes) to come up with that word. I even thought of it thus: "What's that word I use to describe my dog?" Finally, it popped up in my little brain.

On Tuesday night, my drive nearing my folks' house, I began thinking of Thanksgivings past. Among those that played through my head was relatively recent. My dad's side of the family was at the Nittany Lion Inn for the meal, but Grandpa was at dialysis. Of course, we packed up a box for him to enjoy when his session was over, knowing he'd be worn out. As suggested by my older cousin Sean and supported by the rest of the (at times mischievous) family, we sent up the most wiry member of the party (yours truly) to ask for the biggest drumstick to take home to Grandpa. Laughs from all over the dining room... A couple years later, this is our second Thanksgiving without Grandpa, and I became teary-eyed in the car—and attempted to hide it during this year's meal at the Penn Stater.

I have a lot for which to be thankful this year: hands down, my family; friends; health; the joy and camaraderie baseball brings; Penn State football; and opportunity.

List of grievances? Well, I do wish Daddy would reconsider and go ahead and buy me that Alpha Romeo SUV... No, but seriously, I'd kill to go to Pasadena for the Rose Bowl. I also wish I'd had the guts to do a few things I should have taken care of years ago. Hindsight is 20/20, they say. These things will only make me a better person. I will strive to be able to afford an expensive car and trip to a bowl game on my own. I will not let love confuse me in my goals. I will try to not take what I have for granted.

If I didn't feel it already, geez, this is my home. I only hope that feeling can get me through the next month of school-, work-, and job-search-related insanity. Dec. 5 and 6: Christmas parties! Bring it, December.

Stand By Your Man

2008-10-26T12:09:00.002-06:00

I was once asked if I could take comfort in the football season, for how poorly my favorite baseball teams do.

Tonight is Game Four of the World Series. Boston is just barely out of it. Baltimore never had a shot. Pittsburgh is already being mathematically eliminated from next year.

Of course, I don't want to believe that about the Buccos, and I will fervently hope for them with every breath, but jokes do tend to help the pain—in most situations.

It's not so much that one replaces the other. I don't say, "It's ok, Pirates; at least we have the Steelers." The Steelers don't play baseball, and my emotional attachment to football is different and much more rooted in the college arena. I get charged up for my boys out in Iron City, but I've never cried over them. Following Super Bowl XL I was shouting and cheering, not getting teary-eyed.

...Like I did last night. And it wasn't because I was maced downtown.

On October 18, Homecoming, we beat Michigan for the first time since 1996. I was blessed to be in the student section with my younger sister. She doesn't quite understand. She's been spoiled by her sports teams, as she's only really come into them recently. She knows it was huge. She knows it's been a long time. She is happy to have been in the JR/SR section with me to see it and to laugh at me as I wanted to run down the 72 rows in front of me to rush the field.

Penn State is now 9-0. Last night, we beat Ohio State in the 'Shoe for the first time in three decades. (We beat OSU here in 2005, but I didn't get to rush the field then, either.) The first quarter was scoreless. Then it was 3-3 at the half. OSU managed to get up on us 6-3. That's right: no touchdowns for three entire quarters. Penn State pulled it out, winning 13-6. (We love you, Mark Rubin! And Pat Devlin! Ah, the entire squad!) It was decidedly a defensive battle, and my knuckles turned white as I clenched my beer.

I fielded texts from friends and family during the game and a phone call from Daddy afterward, looking to be merry with his daughter, whose freshman year was a painful losing season. For the first time in years, I nearly ignored the World Series while my football game was going on (in truth, the rain delay made me feel significantly less guilty for ignoring two ball clubs to whom I am nowhere near partial until football wrapped up).

Yes, yes, I caught parts of the crazy ninth inning, peering through windows downtown while some were maced and some attempted to roll cars. (I stayed away from the illegal stuff; I've got a name to protect around here.)

But as I was putting on jeans and a sweatshirt for my jaunt downtown, my eyes welled up with tears. I'd waited so long, hoped so hard for these boys to do well, yelled so loudly about Kevin Kelly's missed kick off the uprights. What a horrible child I was in eighth grade, saying I didn't want to attend Penn State.

I sent all my love to Columbus last night. Penn State loved me back. We've had our ups and downs (2000, 2001, 2003, 2004...), but I know my Nittany Lions care for me just as much as I care for them, undefeated or otherwise. Pretty sure Penn State loved me back in 2004, despite going 4-7.

"But if you love him, you'll forgive him, even though he's hard to understand. And if you love him, oh, be proud of him, 'cause after all...he's just a man."

So, to my Lions, my Stillerz, my O's, my Bucs, my BoSox, I love you.

For the Glory of Old State

2008-10-15T20:16:00.002-06:00

It's not true that my heart's not in it when I watch football games when the baseball season is still going on. It's just that I'm infinitely more busy, as all my sporting boys play at once.

The nice thing is that my school loves football. "Loves" might be an understatement. Happy Valley turns into the third largest city in PA (behind only Philly and Pittsburgh) on home football Saturdays. The stadium holds some 110,000, but that doesn't include all the tailgaters who don't have tickets to the matchup. It's amazing to bear witness to and be a part of one of the biggest parties on the planet.

But it's more than just the opportunity to get tipsy with my law firm and to scream my guts out in favor of my guys on the hashmarks.

For the last four years, it's been quality time with my friends, both cheering and being downtrodden. This fall, my fifth year in school, I get to share a football season with my younger sister. We share our sighs of distress, the BULLSHIT! chants with the rest of the student section, our shrieks of OHMYGODBRETTBRACKETT and BOONE! I see my parents most weekends of the football season, as they come up to enjoy games with their siblings and meals with my grandparents and with me. Penn State to me isn't just football or "seven years of college down the drain." It's hope (see the shirt below, which actually makes my father laugh very much). It's a challenge. It's loyalty. Mostly, it's family.

Dad calls Mom, Mal, and me his "pride of Lions." :)

GO! STATE! BEAT! MICHIGAN!

Could this be our year?

A Quick Capture

2008-09-27T08:07:00.000-06:00

I am a sister; I defend and love.
I am a daughter; I misbehave just enough to make my folks laugh.
I am a granddaughter; I travel, charm, hug, and laugh.
I am a girl friend; I bake cookies and roughhouse.

I am a libertarian; I like my money and my freedoms.
I am a Mac-user; I pretend to be elitist.

I am a photographer; I see the world through my camera lens.
I am a journalist; I ask too many questions.
I am a copy editor; I cringe because of poor syntax.

I am a sports fan; I live and die (and cry) with my teams.
I am an athlete; I sweat for fun.

I am a bibliophile; I never stop reading.

I am a tailgater; I drink before noon.
I am a college student; I make bad decisions and attempt to chart my life.