Last night Brian and I watched a 30 for 30 entitled "Catching Hell" about Steve Bartman. He was a Chicago Cubs fan who became notorious for trying to catch a foul ball that might have been caught, that might have changed the outcome of a game, that might have contributed to the Cubs going to the World Series, where they might (read: probably wouldn't have) won it all. There's endless footage of him being taunted, ridiculed, threatened, having beer thrown on him, being spit on, etc. They describe how they had to put a disguise on him to get him out of the stadium, because the mob that chanted "asshole" and told security guards to "put a twelve gauge in his mouth and pull the trigger," would not have let him get home safely. The commentators don't really mention it, but in the footage you see him sitting with a friend and the friend's girlfriend, who stand with their backs to him and not only do nothing to defend him, but act as disgusted as the rest.
And this is just a baseball game.
One segment interviews a female security guard who helped sneak him out of the stadium, and eventually brought him to hide at her house when angry fans saw through the disguise. She mentions him calling his parents to let them know he was OK. Somewhere in this city of haters were people who loved him. Yet they had to watch as a stadium full of people berated him and threw things at him and threatened him. For years, they had to read, hear, and witness the awful things being said about him. They had to endure his name becoming synonymous with the devastation of the Cubs' pennant dreams.
Again, baseball.
I was at the airport flying home to attend the June 20th Euclid City Council meeting and I saw Jim Tressel's face on the cover of thousands of Sport's Illustrated Magazines. An entire career of leading the best team in college football (wink, wink, chin to shoulder, chin to shoulder) to victory forgotten in the shadow of a forced retirement. Jim Tressel has a daughter about my age. She's sweet, and talented, and loves to dance. What are the chances she lives in a place that doesn't get ESPN or sell Sports Illustrated?
College football.
And in truly researching these catastrophic events, you can plainly see that every fan in Steve Bartman's section reached for that ball. He didn't even catch it or celebrate with it the way a man three seats down from him did. Jim Tressel never traded anything in exchange for a tattoo. There's an agonizing moment in the Steve Bartman footage where he leans to the people behind him (not his "friends," mind you, who won't even look at him) and asks, "Do you think I did anything wrong?" And while they politely shake their heads, the only real answer is, "What I think isn't going to change the mob behind me."
People ask me not to read it all. People ask me why I care about the opinion of someone who clearly doesn't know what they are talking about. How can I take to heart comments like, "Maybe if LeBron wouldn't have left Cleveland, maybe he wouldn't have...?" But it hurts to watch them defile you. And it's frustrating to know that what I think isn't going to change the mob behind me.
But I know you. And I love you. No matter what.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Little White Duck
It seemed for awhile that I didn't have a second to miss you. I mean, you were all I thought about, but there was so much drama to distract me. I have just recently started to reach for my phone to call you before remembering that I can't, or having flashes of memories that leave me wanting more...
I have no idea how old I was when I was the Little White Duck. And I do mean THE. The song was called Little White Duck, for crying out loud. If that doesn't scream HEADLINER, I don't know what does. There are pictures of me in my costume (I was the duck, did I mention that?) and mom's makeup, and I'm smiling into a bouquet of flowers. I'm not sure if it was Aunt Linda who brought those flowers, or if she just presented them to me, or if she was just picky about how a young girl (girl, star, titular character, whatever) holds her flowers, but when I see that photo, I think of Aunt Linda.
It was around the same time in my life that I was obsessed with Mary Poppins, and refused to leave the house without socks on my hands (I was sure they looked like ladylike white gloves to everyone else.) In the scene where she and Bert and the children jump through the sidewalk drawing, she is awarded a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that she holds in the crook of her arm. Oh, the glamour. That was how a woman, one who is practically perfect in every way, no less, holds her flowers.
So there I am, after blowing people's minds with my interpretation of the Little White Duck. And, it happened. Someone (maybe Aunt Linda, but who knows?) gave me a bouquet of flowers. And I remember thinking, "This is my moment. Here I am, with all these no-talents eating out of the palm of my hand, and now- there is flowers! Today, I am a woman." And I dropped the bouquet into the crook of my arm and began to pose for photographs.
This is where Aunt Linda came in. And if she didn't give me the flowers, I don't know why she didn't just mind her own damn business... "Oh, no no no Claire, hold them up." She straightened them up. I posed for one photo this way, and them slipped them back into the crook of my arm. I mean, I could pretend to let this rube have her way, but she wasn't going to ruin my moment. "Claire. Hold them UP!" She came over again and grabbed my wrist and straightened the flowers. I felt a little embarrassed for her. Had she never seen Mary Poppins? What kind of hillbilly holds their flowers like that? Someone who leaves the house without gloves on, I'll tell you that much.
This went on for a few moments before from the back of the pack of fusser-over-ers, I heard, "That's how Poppins holds her flowers." I looked up. There you were. My dark haired hero, who had put that movie on a million times for me. Who would always pause it so that I could come into the kitchen and put the magic flavor egg into my Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup myself. Who named my winter hat and mittens- Trixie, Tammy, and Laura- to make me laugh. Who made me sit on the third stair and taught me how to tie my shoes. Who let me leave the house with socks on my hands for crying out loud. Not only that, but would explain to the bank teller that those were indeed not socks, but gloves. And there you were, rolling your eyes at this moron, who somehow didn't know how Poppins held her flowers. Maybe her kids weren't into Poppins. Or, more likely, maybe she just wasn't the parent that you were.
Like I said, there's a picture of this moment. But the flowers are sticking straight up. I'm looking down into them and smiling. And in my head I'm thinking, "When we get home, Kev and I are going to put our socks on our hands and hold these flowers like babies."
I have no idea how old I was when I was the Little White Duck. And I do mean THE. The song was called Little White Duck, for crying out loud. If that doesn't scream HEADLINER, I don't know what does. There are pictures of me in my costume (I was the duck, did I mention that?) and mom's makeup, and I'm smiling into a bouquet of flowers. I'm not sure if it was Aunt Linda who brought those flowers, or if she just presented them to me, or if she was just picky about how a young girl (girl, star, titular character, whatever) holds her flowers, but when I see that photo, I think of Aunt Linda.
It was around the same time in my life that I was obsessed with Mary Poppins, and refused to leave the house without socks on my hands (I was sure they looked like ladylike white gloves to everyone else.) In the scene where she and Bert and the children jump through the sidewalk drawing, she is awarded a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that she holds in the crook of her arm. Oh, the glamour. That was how a woman, one who is practically perfect in every way, no less, holds her flowers.
So there I am, after blowing people's minds with my interpretation of the Little White Duck. And, it happened. Someone (maybe Aunt Linda, but who knows?) gave me a bouquet of flowers. And I remember thinking, "This is my moment. Here I am, with all these no-talents eating out of the palm of my hand, and now- there is flowers! Today, I am a woman." And I dropped the bouquet into the crook of my arm and began to pose for photographs.
This is where Aunt Linda came in. And if she didn't give me the flowers, I don't know why she didn't just mind her own damn business... "Oh, no no no Claire, hold them up." She straightened them up. I posed for one photo this way, and them slipped them back into the crook of my arm. I mean, I could pretend to let this rube have her way, but she wasn't going to ruin my moment. "Claire. Hold them UP!" She came over again and grabbed my wrist and straightened the flowers. I felt a little embarrassed for her. Had she never seen Mary Poppins? What kind of hillbilly holds their flowers like that? Someone who leaves the house without gloves on, I'll tell you that much.
This went on for a few moments before from the back of the pack of fusser-over-ers, I heard, "That's how Poppins holds her flowers." I looked up. There you were. My dark haired hero, who had put that movie on a million times for me. Who would always pause it so that I could come into the kitchen and put the magic flavor egg into my Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup myself. Who named my winter hat and mittens- Trixie, Tammy, and Laura- to make me laugh. Who made me sit on the third stair and taught me how to tie my shoes. Who let me leave the house with socks on my hands for crying out loud. Not only that, but would explain to the bank teller that those were indeed not socks, but gloves. And there you were, rolling your eyes at this moron, who somehow didn't know how Poppins held her flowers. Maybe her kids weren't into Poppins. Or, more likely, maybe she just wasn't the parent that you were.
Like I said, there's a picture of this moment. But the flowers are sticking straight up. I'm looking down into them and smiling. And in my head I'm thinking, "When we get home, Kev and I are going to put our socks on our hands and hold these flowers like babies."
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