I love Philadelphia. I’ve loved it since Ryan was little and being treated at Shriner’s Hospital, and one day I asked if I could go out to get him some McDonalds for lunch as a treat. The nurses said, “Sure! Go on out and take a break. He’ll be fine.” I’ll never forget pulling out of the parking lot with the windows down and smelling the clean, fresh air. Anyone who’s been on North Broad Street in the summer would die laughing, but that’s how it felt to me. People were nice, the air was clean, and I felt like I was home, even though I lived in New York at the time.
Now, chances are good you’ve heard stories of the other side of the coin where Philadelphia is concerned. The dumbass kid who ran onto the ball field during a game. (And the copycats later.) The guy who got drunk and threw up on a cop’s kid. The fights in the stands. The snowballs thrown at Santa Claus (and I still hold that if the guy shows up at a football game with 70K people in attendance and he doesn’t bring any presents, he gets what he deserves). The way the Phillies’ fans took over Nationals Park for Opening Day a couple of years ago. (I don’t hear Nats management complaining about the revenue they took in, but that’s a different can of worms.)
Today I experienced Brotherly Love.
I had our usual Sunday season tickets for the Phillies game. It being the first Sunday home game of the year, I couldn’t wait. I missed the place over the long and lonely winter. Citizens Bank Park is practically my second home. I know where everything is, to the point that I could probably navigate the place blindfolded. I love it there and I love baseball. If Heaven doesn’t in some way resemble Citizens Bank Park, I’m not going and that’s all there is to it.
John went to the Saturday game with a friend, and a Mets fan’s kid dropped his ice cream down his back. Not on purpose, of course, but still an inconvenience when it’s the 1st inning. I didn’t give his bad fortune a second thought as Alex and I walked around the ballpark today, soaking in the atmosphere as fast as the crab fries. We got to our seats, the game started, I was knitting, Alex was recovering from eating $50 worth of food, and all was just great. Cole Hamels looked pretty good despite giving up a 2-run homer in the first; he put it behind him and got on with the game. Awesome stuff.
Fourth inning, and behind me I hear, “BLURP.” I feel something hit my back. I look behind me. The woman 2 rows back has vomit down her shirt, across the bag on her lap, down her shorts and legs…and across the seat in back of me. And, consequentially, my back. Then I turn to Alex. It’s down his back too. I look at her. She looks like a mannequin, staring straight ahead of her like nothing’s happened, other than she’s been pithed through the spinal cord. I wait for a word, an explanation, an apology; something. Nothing.
I think, “Well, okay, I’ve got a problem here.” I wave to get the usher’s attention, to get a rag or something. He’s distracted. I dig some napkins out of my bag and start wiping off Alex’s shirt. Pretty futile, but it’s better than doing nothing. A woman in the row behind me hands me a handful of baby wipes, bless her heart. It does more for Alex’s shirt, and I can clean off the seats too. I peel out of my jersey (thank God I opted for the tank-under-the-Utley-jersey look) and hang it inside out on the railing.
Alex and I sit back to watch the game–it was the bottom of the inning; of course I’m not leaving–and then I tell Alex we’re going to go get him another shirt. I’d seen t-shirts with Hunter Pence’s famous, “Good game; let’s go eat” on it, and it’s perfect for Alex (considering he just ate $50 in concessions). I wanted it anyway; now I have a reason.
We get the shirt. I ask for a shopping bag. I take Alex aside and have him change shirts right there. I put the dirty shirt inside out in the shopping bag, and we go back to our seats.
Where three rows around our seats applaud us. I’m blown away. I guess they were glad I didn’t blow up or cry or do something pathetic. I just cleaned up and went back to the game. Pretty sweet.
Someone in our row says she talked to a CBP employee about getting Alex a replacement shirt, saying it’s the least they could do. (Someone else complains that the woman who threw up had staggered into the seat. Apparently she was WAY overserved. I’d like to credit her as a Mets fan, but I couldn’t tell; she wore no identifying fan colors, or maybe it was hidden under the spewage.) When I get back, the area manager has a shirt but says, “It’s not big enough. We’re looking for a bigger one.” An inning later, another CBP employee comes to the seats and brings us both shirts “because you deserve them.” More applause in our section. She also notes, “Just so you know, you can’t buy these.” One shirt is mostly red with the CBP logo on it. I’m guessing it’s something they only give employees. (It’s a 2XL so it’ll fit Alex.) I tell the woman, “He wears red for his soccer team so this is perfect.” She was delighted. The green shirt is from the Phestival, the one volunteers were given. That’s mine. 
Other ballparks, I’m sure, might’ve seen the same scenario played out and said, “Wow. Sucks to be you.” But not Philadelphia, and not Citizens Bank Park. I love this place. This was home to my family a few generations ago, and it’s home to my family now. When someone asks where we’re from, there’s no hesitation in my heart. I may have been born in NYC, but I’ll hold my head up and say, “I’m from Philadelphia.”
And in case you were wondering, the Phillies avoided the series sweep by beating the holy snot out of the Mets. Despite the puke shower, it was a good day all around.
Not the soap opera (though I confess, I do used to watch it way back when). It just stuns me sometimes that people live in their own little world, not realizing how much more there is, even when it’s right alongside them.
A woman I work with lost her husband this week. It was very sudden and we were all surprised. We knew something was up because she wasn’t at work during one of the busiest times of the year, and she’s very dedicated so it had to be something. Well, it was.
By her own choice, she wanted to limit the spread of news, because my office has a grapevine that most news agencies would envy. She only told her manager, who told the rest of their department–with her okay–and because I know someone in her department, I found out and I told someone I work with.
Well, the person I work with is, to put it mildly, a funeral junkie. It’s the craziest thing but if someone dies, he has to be at the funeral. I don’t know why or what inspires him, but he’s there. I mean, seriously; it’s not like the Recently Deceased is going to return the favor. Me, you can’t pry to funerals. I don’t even want one of my own. I plan to leave instructions and enough money to have a kick-ass party. I want everybody to stand around getting pickled while they laugh about all the fun we had. As the saying goes, “Don’t cry because she’s gone. Smile because she was here.”
So today the info came down about the funeral arrangements, and she indicated she wanted the service to be private. My co-worker was actually upset. I mean, really upset. He thought it wasn’t fair. “Doesn’t she need our support? Doesn’t she want our sympathy?” Yes, he was serious.
I told him no, she doesn’t. She wants it private, and she’s entitled to have it that way. He got his nose out of joint when I said, “This isn’t about you. She’s entitled to plan the services the way they agreed. This has nothing to do with you.”
I just don’t get how people feel they have a right to make a show of their feelings, even if their feelings are only for show. What does this get them? “Brownie points into Heaven”, as my Mom used to put it? No. It does nothing. If she wants to be alone in her grief, she has every right to that. EVERY RIGHT. Everyone handles these things in their own way. She wants to keep things quiet. I’m sure she’s aching from the inside out right now. Her whole life has been turned around six ways ’til Sunday, and it’s going to take her a while to get her direction back. If she chooses a non-standard method of going through it, let her. It’s not about you.
For what it’s worth, I’m serious. I want a big New Orleans-style sendoff, preferably at Citizens Bank Park, perhaps during a ballgame but if not, that’s fine too. They put on a great party. Look up World Series 2008 if you don’t believe me, or better still, check the video of Harry Kalas’ funeral. Each of the players carrying Harry’s casket to the car? Classiest move I’ve ever seen, but I can’t hear “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” without crying like a baby, yet I have 2 different versions of it on my iPod.
How do you want to go out? It’s all up to you. I say, do it with your own personal style, and forget what anybody else thinks. Just like the way we should live life.
Sorry I missed Thursday last week, but I was on vacation, visiting family in Florida, and there wasn’t time to get to it. I did think about it, and really, I should’ve set something up from Saturday, after I finished the Phillies 5K. Do a search on Carla and you’ll see I came in 3819 out of 5,000. I’d be prouder of that stat if there weren’t over 1k DNFs and no-shows. 
But I did it, and I’m thrilled!
There will definitely be more races in my future. The first mile was tough, but once I got into a rhythm, I could even talk while we ran. The course was great, everything went smoothly, and I had a great time.
The best part was when we turned off Broad Street, onto Phillies Way, and Ann pointed out the yellow pedestrian sign ahead. She said, “When we get to that sign, we’re going to pour on the steam and cross the finish line at a sprint.” I said, “I don’t think I’ve got anything left!” but as we got closer, I saw the clock and realized I might just beat my best time for 3.1 miles. That got me moving, and I kicked it up and ran for the end.
Of course, once I crossed the line, I all but dropped. Partly out of gratitude and partly out of exhaustion, but all of me was thrilled to do it. So thrilled that when I saw free tote bags from one of the vendors, I went in that direction instead of taking my victory lap around the field. Dur!!
Definitely next year. Next race: Mud Run!
Thanks, Ann LaBar Russek, for keeping me going!!
No, I’m not going anywhere. Well, not now. The blog is staying, I’m staying.
RWA called their Golden Heart and Rita awards finalists on Monday. My phone rang, but it was my son’s teacher. Mind you, I was on a conference call for my job at the time, so not only did I throw the headset across my desk (and slap the “mute” button) but my hands shook and my heart raced as I answered the cell phone. I adore my son’s teacher, but in that moment, I could’ve killed him with my bare hands. In the end, he had no way of knowing.
I entered another contest, but didn’t make the next round there either.
Know what? I’ll live. I cried a little, but I didn’t drink myself into a stupor (I had to pick up the oldest from his class trip), and nothing else in my life slowed down. I still went to the gym, and I came home and made dinner and answered email and did some crocheting and watched TV. (The bright spot in my evening was the contestant on “The Voice” named Carla. Ooooohhh, listening to Adam Levine saying my name over and over and over…! <melty>
Saturday I run my first 5K. I’m looking forward to it. It’s going to be a challenge, but I think I’m up to it. I don’t expect to win. I only want to finish without killing myself or injuring others.
Sure, I’m disappointed about not finaling in two contests, but life goes on. You can’t sit on your hands, waiting for success to come to you.
Me? I’m running toward it.
Or maybe joggers. At my current weight/speed, I’m pretty sure I’m still just a jogger, but I’m working my way up to runner.
The other night I ran three miles without planning to. The weather here in SE PA was SO nice, and the park was so pretty, and I had 90 minutes to myself, so that when I finished four laps around the football field, I decided to keep going. I ended up doing two more laps. When I went home, I found a map of the park and realized, each lap is 0.5 miles. I got there with no plans to run a 5K, but I did it anyway. And I loved it.
At the same time, it inspired me to think of the Must Do things for new runners like me. Four occurred to me while I was running (or jogging; don’t judge me). The rest, I came up with afterward. See if you can add some of your own. I’m always open to new ideas.
10 Commandments of the Newbie Runner
- Thou shalt not run with thy mouth open, unless you want to include in your diet plan the calories from consuming gnats, flies, and the occasional moth.
- When the Rocky theme comes on thy iPod, thou shalt stop jogging and RUN.
- Thou art running for thy health and to whittle down the ass that could shade Rhode Island, not to be seen. (I’m looking at you, blonde cougar with the deep V-neck skin-tight shirt, wearing more perfume than Macy’s stocks on Black Friday.)
- Thou shalt not run while wearing a maxi pad, unless you want a fresh reminder of what diaper rash feels like.
- When thou thinkest thou art tired, thou shalt run one more lap.
- Thou shalt not reward thy three mile run with a hot fudge sundae from Mr. Softee. (At least walk to the DQ, for crying out loud.)
- Thou shalt not puss out on the inclines. Likewise, thou shalt not speed up on the declines. You’re not fooling anyone. We all know where the downhill slopes are.
- Thou shalt get away with only two uses of the gym towel before it goes in the wash. For the love of all that’s healthy, please.
- Thou shalt not imitate Kirk Gibson as thou hittest the 5K mark. Unless no one’s around. If you’re alone, knock yourself out.
- Thou shalt run just one more lap.
So tell me, what are your running commandments? What have you learned about yourself from running that you didn’t know before? Or, if you don’t run, why not? What do you do instead?
Man, do I wish knitting burned as many calories as a good 3 mile run. I’d be the happiest girl on the planet. Also the skinniest.
But I’ve been busy beyond belief. I’m working 12 hour days sometimes, and I’m going to the gym for an hour, and then there’s laundry and dinner and household stuff. I love spring, but I’m dreading the lawn care.
And yet, I’m excited. Today is the Ides of March, and for years March 15th always seems to bring me something good. Today it’s hearing that Mario Williams signed with the Bills (OMG, did they need a stronger defense) and my first session with a therapist. I really feel like today is the start of a new chapter in my life, and I’m feeling really positive.
So ‘scuse me while I go knit myself a sweater while watching the Syracuse basketball game–I *heart* March Madness!!–and then tonight I’ll watch more basketball and the Rangers game. (I *heart* Ranger hockey too!!) And life will keep going, but it’s going to get better.
I must be serious about running. I’ve been to four brick-and-mortar stores looking for a sports bra that fits me (I’m a little more blessed than the average runner) and had no luck, so at the risk of being spammed to death, I looked online and found a store that sells sports bras for plus-sized women. It’s going to cost me more than two regular bras would, but if it works, it’ll be worth it. I’ve discovered the hard way that nipple chafing isn’t a myth. As my long-standing joke goes, a chest cold for me could be fatal. Hey, it is what it is, or in my case, they are what they are.
I take Mondays off from the gym because I have so much other stuff going on, but I’m starting to suspect that my not exercising on Mondays makes my Tuesdays that much worse. I was a bear on Tuesday, and not just because the furnace went dead the Thursday before. My mood didn’t improve until I got in a 2-mile run.
I used to think that running was my way of stepping out of my comfort zone, but now it IS my comfort zone. It’s something I do entirely for me, because I enjoy it and because I want to do it. it doesn’t hurt that there are some other nice-looking runners at my gym and I wouldn’t mind impressing them, but when it gets down to it, I do it for me. I feel good after a run, and I look forward to going to run. Hell, there are some times that knowing I’m going to go for a run is the only thing that pulls me through the day.
But it’s time to get out of the comfort zone again. I haven’t been writing fiction lately because I just can’t get my head back there. I’m pushing myself like I used to jump-start my old ’72 VW Bug. It was stick shift so if I let it roll down the hill and popped the clutch, the engine would jump-start itself. I had hoped writing would be the same, but so far…? But I need to put the negative thoughts aside and JUST DO IT. J Yeah, where have you heard that before?
I need to get back to telling a story. That’s what I’m really here to do.
