He played his first football this season, and on the far side of the defensive line, I rarely saw him much less the plays he did or didn’t make. At dinner I asked him how he did in the loss…What was noteworthy was that he talked about the good things he did out there, but he also, and more importantly, talked about the misses he had and how “ticked” he was about not making those tackles. Ahh…beautiful responsibility…lacking in so many young people today. After he got it all off his ever-growing but not yet hairy chest, I told him I was most proud of the fact that he was looking at himself objectively, his awareness of his failures and his determination to improve…yep, he’s learning how to be an adult and reminding me of just what that means.

So why did he do it? He can’t articulate the reason. Not for a chick or to get (more) fit…he doesn’t know why. But the thing is, he doesn’t have to.

As it neared completion, there were thoughts of finality to our little dining room adventure. I was both parts relieved and saddened to finish the project we had started as a family. It reminded me that life is rarely all about the destination: it’s the travelling we most enjoy.

Now healthy 13-year-old boys have no time for such childish things, but he, too, was drawn to it. Of course, my one-armed 12-year-old was, too, but what I found most intriguing is that my husband and I spent so much time hunched over with wine glasses celebrating the smallest of finds. An old friend from Finland came to visit us, and amid English curses and giggles, we worked late into the night. (more to come)

I was looking at some quotes by Scully, and one in particular is most memorable: “Good is not good when better is expected.” How much better could we all be if we strove to improve, not to rest and rely on what we have, but to push for something more and greater than we dare dream. That philosophy can be applied to sports, of course, but relationships, jobs, life…

Tonight I hope to have Sculley with me, reminding me by deed that good doesn’t always get noticed, and that is why he is considered so great.

My oldest’s hiatus from baseball has taken an intermission. He was asked by another team whom he does not know to play for one more week in an upcoming tournament. After weeks of no ball, he found himself last night scrimmaging with them against an older team. What struck me is how small my son looked. He’s bigger than I am, as big as most of his friends, yet he was downright puny among these man-children. And he played like a child, like a boy I didn’t recognize. Nerves, mental vacation, rusty – I don’t know what it was, but it surely wasn’t pretty… As a rule, I never let my kids quit something once they start. But after the game, I asked him if he wanted to go forward with these people he doesn’t know, recognizing that he had to be embarrassed by his own performance…and he said he wanted to play. It’s what I secretly hoped to hear but wasn’t sure he was big enough to say.

My youngest gets this, without even knowing it…he suffered a season-ending and summer-changing injury on the mound. With a fellow teammate who wasn’t there, he had the following text exchange:

Connor: Did you hear what happened to me?
Friend: Yeah, that suxs.
Connor: Yep, but forget me. We (the team) are doing well…

Yep, there’s no “i” in team.

I live in the right place, where the old still remember and the new never forget, and they all are truly so Southernly sweet.

As with all art, soley depending on the viewer, it is good or it is not good. There is no objective measurement of art. There are as many conflicting views of what constitutes art as there are forms. You know the saying: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It cannot be measured by success or money or admirers. And our definitions of art can change over time. Five years ago, I never would have considered a sport an art form, but when baseball’s played well, it is as beautiful to me as Michelangelo’s David in motion.