Picket Fence Post

I thought I was one of a naive minority of folks who thought it unconscionable that Major League Baseball decided to air this year’s All-Star game at 8 p.m., when the first pitch occurred near 9 p.m. My kids – then ages 6, 9 and 9 – wanted desperately to watch the game, but, given its starting time, I told them upfront they’d only get to see about an inning or so live before they’d have to go to bed. I recorded the rest of the game on our Digital Video Recorder (DVR) and told them they could watch it the following day. And I thought that this arrangement stunk.

I felt the same way about the World Series games last fall, which commenced late in the evening and my three young Boston Red Sox fans barely got to watch them (until what I hoped would be the last game and I actually encouraged them to stay up even though it was a school night) because they were prime-time events, airing at times way beyond grade school-aged kids’ bedtimes.  Ditto for the recent NBA championship games in which the Celtics were contending and eventually emerged victorious.

Then along came Stephen King’s column in this week’s Entertainment Weekly, giving voice to the complaints I’ve long had about professional sports which – despite the fact that they cash in on youthful enthusiasm with a variety of over-priced youth paraphernalia and stuffed animals of team mascots — that they’d rather air sports events at night, make lots of money in ad revenue and to hell with the kids and families.

King, a fellow Sox fan, wrote, “. . . [T]hanks to the unholy alliance of Fox and MLB, most ‘event’ TV baseball might as well come with an Adults Only tag.”

Arguing that greed has corrupted America’s favorite past-time, King wrote:

“This year’s All-Star game is a particularly disgusting case of how the game has been pimped out by the very people who pretend to care about its traditions. Fox came on air at 8 p.m. on July 15, and bingo, there go the 6- and 7-year-olds: Sleep tight, kiddies. The game actually started around quarter to nine (there go the 8-year-olds). It rolled past midnight with the score tied (there go the teenagers and working stiffs) and finally ended at 1:38 a.m. on July 16 . . . At 15 innings, it would have ended late no matter what, but if the first pitch had been thrown at 7 p.m., the game still would have been over before midnight. But hey, the kids don’t buy Bud or lawn tractors, so to hell with them.”

He concluded by quoting a sports commentator as saying, “Commerce trumps conscience every time.”

As The Girl continues to come to terms with the fact that baseball is a business, not a national treasure (she’s struggling to overcome her anger and betrayal over the departure of her favorite Sox player, AGAIN, and trying to get through a Sox game without getting upset), I believe it’s my job to give the kids a jaded, realistic perspective on matters involving today’s professional baseball: It’s not about the fans who love the teams, buy the outrageously expensive tickets and shell out hard-earned money for shirts and various merchandise. It’s not about tradition. It’s not about what’s fair. It’s about MLB (the league, the owners and the players). And their money.

Bad news followed us on our vacation to Cape Cod last week.

In the form of the departure of Manny Ramirez.

From the Boston Red Sox.

Manny was a baseball hero to my almost 10-year-old daughter, known, affectionately in this space as The Girl.

Manny originally replaced Nomar Garciaparra as The Girl’s hero. Garciaparra was The Girl’s first favorite ballplayer when she commenced her career as a Red Sox fan in 2003. However, four years ago, almost to the day, Nomar left the Boston Red Sox mid-season and broke The Girl’s heart. After a period of mourning — during which I bought The Girl a Chicago Cubs/Nomar T-shirt — Manny became her Chosen One, her rebound baseball hero.

“Why does everyone I like leave?” The Girl asked through her sobs after she learned about Manny’s departure when we were at an ice cream shop in downtown Wellfleet. “Why does this have to keep happening?”

Now, several days later, her tears have dried, although she still remains extremely disappointed. She’s now in the market for a new baseball hero from the Olde Town Team. Currently in the running: Mike Lowell, who many people think looks like her dad (a.k.a. — The Spouse).

Image credit: The Boston Red Sox.

The Eldest Boy stayed up late last night – with The Spouse’s permission – to watch Major League Baseball’s Home Run derby, while The Girl and The Youngest Boy two watched a recording of it this morning on our DVR.

All three kiddos are psyched about tonight’s All-Star game, although the American League players will be without the services of our beloved Big Papi who’s still on the mend.

Nonetheless, despite any sleep-deprived tantrums that are likely to erupt today or tomorrow following late night baseball viewing, we are thrilled that the Red Sox have re-taken first place in the American League East.

So, as The Youngest Boy is melting down tomorrow because he’s so very tired, I will try to ease my pain in dealing with his irrational behavior by reminding myself that, at least for now, the Sox are number one.

And I’ll plan on bribing the kid with ice cream, that always seems to work.

Image of me wearing my beloved Red Sox jacket. The dinner plate-sized button bearing the likeness of my baseball hero, Dwight Evans, is obscured from view.

Chaperoned.

A third grade field trip.

And survived.

Was responsible for a group of four girls, including my daughter.

We decided to name our group “The HPs” (for “The Harry Potters,” The Girl is obsessed with all things Potter). When we went from one exhibit in the Boston Museum of Science to another, we formed the Hogwarts Express, and wound our way through the halls.

Then our group — along with the other third grade classes — took Duck Tours around the city of Boston, where an open, bus-like vehicle takes passengers to see landmarks by land and via the Charles River. Our tour guide wore pajama bottoms. And bright red sneakers. And was quite charismatic.

When we finally arrived back at the school, I was relieved that no one had gotten lost, injured or was panicked by the jarring electricity/lightning show.

Unfortunately, The Eldest Son, who also went on the same trip, was upset because his father didn’t get picked as a chaperone from among the parents’ who’d applied for the job. (I’ve only chaperoned once — for a trip to a farm with the Youngest Boy’s kindergarten class last year — and The Spouse hasn’t gone on a trip yet, though we’d hoped we’d both be able to do it this time.) The Spouse promised that he’d make it up to him. Maybe when they walk in historic steps along the Freedom Trail on a future trip.

While my chaperoning experiences were spared any melodramatic theatrics, have you ever had anything interesting happen when you’ve accompanied your kids on field trips?

A large article — accompanied by, count ‘em, three color photos — in the New York Times makes the argument that walking around with dramatically, noticeably chipped nail polish is now in. But only if you’re under 35 years old. And only if you’re wearing over-priced designer clothing and toting stupidly expensive purses which hold your now much-lighter wallet.

What reasons does one of the nation’s largest newspapers give for making this declaration?

“Over the last few years . . . having streaked, chipped or just plain grotty nail polish no longer suggests drug addiction, manual labor or pure laziness,” wrote Melena Ryzik. “Like untied high-tops, thread-worn jeans and bedhead, it’s now part of a deliberate look . . . It has been spotted uptown, in professional settings and gala parties, behind department store sales counters and even (gasp!) on beauty and fashion industry insiders.”

If letting your deep red nail polish chip to the point that it looks like you were splattered by blood is now chic — except for oldsters such as myself (the late 30+ crowd) — I’m throwing down the gauntlet. If the Times thinks it can declare something like this a bonafide fashion trend, then I, your intrepid blogger, have decided to jump into the deep end of the pool and declare some fashion trends of my own. . . starting with pony tails, sleekly done, 24/7. Not that pulling all your hair back into a pony tail says that you don’t care, it just tells the world that you have better things to do than spend 77 minutes on your hair every morning.

PJs at the school drop-off or school bus stop. Barely camouflaging your pajamas with a sweater or jacket and casually slipped-on sandals when seeing your children off to school indicates to the world that you were in bed too long.  What better way to get your neighbors to start wondering about whatever could have kept you in bed so late . . . other than garden variety sleep deprivation induced by living with small children.

Root beer or chocolate chip cookie dough lip balm as moisturizer. Who among us hasn’t used our children’s fun, flavorful lip balm on a dry patch or two? Why not make it a full-fledged trend and start regularly smoothing it on our elbows, knees and other parched areas so not only will they be soft and supple, but they’ll smell good too?

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