I'm currently spending time with my cousins (and some more distant relatives; I'll write about this fabulous island later), both of whom are avid baseball players. Over dinner, an interesting topic came up: baseball bats.
Now, in major leagues they use wooden bats; however, in kids' leagues country-wide they use metal bats.
This annoys me to no end.
Now, I was not an "sporty" kid. I like to think I was athletic in my own way; for example, I was -- still am -- unsurpassed in hula-hooping, and I held my own in jump-roping and musical chairs. Be that as it may, I still hold strong theories on how children's sports should be run. Since, to my dismay, there were no competitive hula-hooping teams when I was in elementary school, I did soccer. (I was not the best, or even average; in my father's words, I was a defining endpoint of the range of talent.) Did I harbor visions of myself winning an Olympic gold medal at soccer? Of course. I was seven. (I was also not so clear on the differences between the Olympics, World Cup, and Superbowl.) But was I led to believe I was any better at soccer than I was? Absolutely not. My coaches (Bella's dad) called me back every time I wandered off the field to pick daisies. They wouldn't make the cones a little further apart for me when it was time to do drills. They didn't tell me I was a superstar. And in the face of a daisy-free ponytail, a mother who refused to slice the oranges for a team snack, and a total lack of talent, I persevered.
I was not aided and abetted by a metal bat that led me to think my swing was more powerful than it really was. (Or ... whatever the equivalent of that would be in soccer. I never really picked up on all the rules either.) I never really believed I was good at soccer. I just believed that I'd get there, through lots of practice and an up-beat song and a montage involving lots of panting, wiping sweat from my brow, and soulful looks at the camera. No self-delusion for me.
I feel somewhat angry towards leagues that give kids metal bats, but, more than that, I feel sad for the kids. I imagine that one day that kid will pick up a wooden bat for the first time, and swing, and realize that he's not a superstar. He was never going to be a superstar, because in the major leagues, you need to use a wooden bat and he can only use a metal bat. (Also in my imagination the ball can only go about half as far with a wooden bat as with a metal one. Of course I have no factual support for that, but I'm really bonding with my imaginary kid here who grew up hitting with a metal bat so you'll have to excuse factual slip-ups.)
I just don't get why they want kids to practice with metal bats. Isn't it setting them up for failure? Am I the only person in the entire world who's concerned? Comfort me, dear readers. Make me understand.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Rant #29: Excerpts from My RV-ing Journal
As you know, earlier this summer (at the beginning of July) I went on a trip with my extended family to Michigan. To go RV-ing. My dear friend Caroline entreated me to keep a journal documenting my experience, and I did so. Now, I would like to share some excerpts with you.
Keep in mind I'm not as witty when I'm writing in a journal as I can be when I have time to go back and edit.
Friday, July 9th, 11am
Currently in car w/ Nana, Bear, (my mom's parents), & Uncle Sport (mom's brother). We're driving from Sault Ste. Marie to Escanaba, where we'll pick up our RVs and depart for that segment of our journey. For the past hour and a half, Nana and Uncle Sport have been discussing Nana's taste in music & why she doesn't listen to anything made in the past 40 years. (To summarize: Nana doesn't like bands; she likes good ol' soloists, like the ones from her youth. Nana also dislikes guitars or "yeah yeah"s or "noisiness". Uncle Sport agrees that there's some of that, but also encourages her to try some modern stuff too, as many recent artists aren't "noisy" the way she claims. Like Elvis, he suggests. Or the Beatles. You know. Recent stuff.) Now they're debating over how loud music should be played. The phrase "oral assault" was just used. As was "the 1812 overture SHOULD be loud". Not sure how that fit into the conversation. I'm kinda drifting in and out here.
I wonder what's going on in the other car.
So last night, GP1, GP2, and I shared a hotel room. I asked the concierge with an eyebrow raised if that was okay. She assured me it was. My father glared at me to stop talking. I asked, "you know I'm fifteen?". She nodded and looked confused. (*comment deleted because it's not very nice -- thus is the trouble with sharing your innermost diary on the World Wide Web*).
I figured that I had taken a self-defense class, so I'd be fine, and so I shut up. Evidently laws don't apply in Michigan. I considered asking the concierge for a lottery ticket or directions to the nearest bar, but resisted the urge.
There was then a bit of dissension in room 308 over the remote control. My mom's trying to bribe us with an elaborate check minus/check plus check system, rewarded on basis of good behavior, with the winner after our first 3 days in Michigan getting the grand honor of having his first choice of beds in the RV. (First choice, that is, after my grandparents, parents, & uncle. So 6th choice.) However, yesterday at lunch my mother casually remarked that I, having received check minuses for the last 2 days, was essentially out of the running for 1st or 2nd choice. So I'm pretty much free to be a total brat with no repercussions. I love it when my mother's attempts at bribery result in chaos. This check system was doomed from the start, though, since the only prize at the end was a CHOICE OF BEDS. I mean, for God's sake, it's an RV. All the beds are narrow and uncomfortable. Personally, I think that I should win triple check-pluses for being the first to recognize that. Next time my mom should try bribing us with cash.
Saturday, July 10th, 11:20am
*Editor's Note: I started this entry by drawing a really detailed diagram of the RV, detailing who's sleeping where, but unfortunately am unable to share it here. The gist of it's that I shared an RV with Nana & Bear (mom's parents) and GP2 (7-year-old sister), while my parents, Uncle Sport, and GP1 (11-year-old brother) were in Big Rig A.* Yesterday evening, once we had gotten our RVs:
and settled into our campground for the night, I hitchhiked for the first time.
You see, Uncle Sport and I hiked to the far end of the campground to pick up some firewood (that's right, to make a fire; we're pretty intense campers, I'm telling you) and ice. Once we got there, however, we realized Uncle Sport had forgotten that we would have to carry the wood & ice BACK. I was all ready to strap the wood on top of Uncle Sport's head when he strode over to a parked minivan, brazen as could be.
"Excuse me," he said to the attractive 35-year-old woman and what looked to be her mother, "we're staying at campsite 73 and misjudged how heavy this would be. Would you mind --"
"Not at all!" the woman chirped. "Just put it in the trunk and hop in the back." Uncle Sport did just that and smirked at my horrified expression. I reluctantly clambered in next to him. As we rode to campsite 73, Uncle Sport flirted with the woman (he's 41 and single and living in Singapore, all 3 to Nana's dismay) and I prayed silently. We made it back alive, by the grace of God, but who knows what could have happened? I don't even want to think about it.
Though in retrospect, I DID take a self-defense class. I probably could have broken their noses or something. But Uncle Sport would have been on his own. Officer D didn't teach us how to protect someone else.
July 10th, 3:45pm
Stopped at gas station on way back from Fayette (iron mining town; just my dad & I went, and the rest of the family didn't miss much). The gas station had neither of People magazine for me nor a New York Times for my dad. It did, however, have a remarkable supply of beer and $5 wine, as well as an ample display of porn and chewing tobacco.
Not [east-coast state we live in; you didn't think I was going to share THAT, did you?! I totally took an Internet-safety class too]. So my dad picked up several six-packs of beer, and moved the eggs out of the refrigerator so they would all fit. He also got some more wood, because we're campers now, and we go through a lot of wood. And evidently the wood Uncle Sport & I bought yesterday was obscenely overpriced at $4.50 a bundle. The gas station wood was only $5 for a REALLY BIG, Costco-sized bundle. My dad assured me that it's an investment.
It's gone from fun, driving in the RV, to being acutely embarrassing clambering down at epitomizing white trash (Uncle Sport's phrase, not mine) every time I go to a gas station in search of a People magazine. Or to a Hilton in search of a decent bathroom.
Luckily the windows are tinted. I think.
Sunday, July 11th, 9:30pm
Lovely dinner of cheeseburgers, carrots (slightly undercooked to Uncle Sport's exacting standards), & salad. GP2's bonded with several girls at this campground, one of who (Hannah, age 11) informed me that while most teenagers are mean to her I was very nice.
It kinda made my day.
Because you know what? I AM very nice. I really am. And if you ever doubt that, you can just ask Hannah. She'll vouch for me.
Monday, July 12th
After lunch, we went to yet another lighthouse, with a dinky museum attached. Equally boring, though we were greatly amused by a small sign in front of the museum: "We ask our guests to please turn off their cell-phones."
"Please," my dad snorted, "As if anyone has service". Sure enough, none of us did. And none of us turned off his cell-phone.
Tuesday, July 13th, 11am
The greater falls were pretty, and we had to take a rowboat out to get to them. A certain contingency of our group didn't want to spend an extra $12 to rent another boat, however, so all 8 of us crammed into the 5-person boat. It sunk dangerously low into the water, but we made it across without incident. I also got GP2 to believe that all the foam near the waterfall was soap bubbles, from people further up the river who had bathed in it, leaving a soap residue. So all in all the greater falls were quite enjoyable.
Tuesday, July 13th, 9pm
This afternoon at approximately 3pm we landed here in the Munising tourist park. My mother claims that this is posher than our other option, but I'm not so sure. We have bathrooms here that flush, but those showers SO aren't doing it for me. We're spending 2 nights here (tonight & tomorrow, Wednesday, night), and I took a shower this morning, so I figure that if I'm careful I can make it to Thursday afternoon without showering, though it's a stretch. Quite a stretch.
After we arrived, I took a walk on the beach. As my mother's pointed out over 17 times in the past week, it's incredibly weird to be along the great lakes, with the rocks & sand & waves, and to not smell that salty sea-water smell. (Because, you know, the Great Lakes are lakes, not oceans, and thus have fresh water.) My mother refers to this as "sensory dissonance", but I'm going to go with "weird".
Those excerpts were the highlights. There was more, of course, but I can't go on for TOO long here. Now let me give you one last image of our trip:
That's my dad. Emptying out the, ah, tank, over in Big Rig A.
Keep in mind I'm not as witty when I'm writing in a journal as I can be when I have time to go back and edit.
Tuesday, July 6th, 9pm:
Upon departing from the plane, the pilot chirped, "Make it a great day!". I thought that was deep, and, for several minutes, pondered his meaning, and decided I would make it a great day. I smiled benevolently at my mother. She raised her eyebrows. When the teeny-bopper with the minuscule skirt rammed into me, glared at me, and resumed texting furiously, I thought, "oh, foolish, unfortunate child; she has not learned the secret I know -- that is, that one has to MAKE it a great day", and said "excuse me" sincerely.
And then, I saw a sign. It read "Welcome to Mackinac. Make it a great day!".
And I promptly strode by that teeny-bopper, rammed my shoulder into her, and smiled sweetly.
You see, if it's that town's slogan, it can't also be the secret to happiness. That my pilot was an angel sent to teach me a secret I can believe. But that an entire town in Michigan got to hear the secret before he told me? Please. False prophet or a tourist gimmick.
And then, I saw a sign. It read "Welcome to Mackinac. Make it a great day!".
And I promptly strode by that teeny-bopper, rammed my shoulder into her, and smiled sweetly.
You see, if it's that town's slogan, it can't also be the secret to happiness. That my pilot was an angel sent to teach me a secret I can believe. But that an entire town in Michigan got to hear the secret before he told me? Please. False prophet or a tourist gimmick.
Friday, July 9th, 11am
Currently in car w/ Nana, Bear, (my mom's parents), & Uncle Sport (mom's brother). We're driving from Sault Ste. Marie to Escanaba, where we'll pick up our RVs and depart for that segment of our journey. For the past hour and a half, Nana and Uncle Sport have been discussing Nana's taste in music & why she doesn't listen to anything made in the past 40 years. (To summarize: Nana doesn't like bands; she likes good ol' soloists, like the ones from her youth. Nana also dislikes guitars or "yeah yeah"s or "noisiness". Uncle Sport agrees that there's some of that, but also encourages her to try some modern stuff too, as many recent artists aren't "noisy" the way she claims. Like Elvis, he suggests. Or the Beatles. You know. Recent stuff.) Now they're debating over how loud music should be played. The phrase "oral assault" was just used. As was "the 1812 overture SHOULD be loud". Not sure how that fit into the conversation. I'm kinda drifting in and out here.
I wonder what's going on in the other car.
So last night, GP1, GP2, and I shared a hotel room. I asked the concierge with an eyebrow raised if that was okay. She assured me it was. My father glared at me to stop talking. I asked, "you know I'm fifteen?". She nodded and looked confused. (*comment deleted because it's not very nice -- thus is the trouble with sharing your innermost diary on the World Wide Web*).
I figured that I had taken a self-defense class, so I'd be fine, and so I shut up. Evidently laws don't apply in Michigan. I considered asking the concierge for a lottery ticket or directions to the nearest bar, but resisted the urge.
There was then a bit of dissension in room 308 over the remote control. My mom's trying to bribe us with an elaborate check minus/check plus check system, rewarded on basis of good behavior, with the winner after our first 3 days in Michigan getting the grand honor of having his first choice of beds in the RV. (First choice, that is, after my grandparents, parents, & uncle. So 6th choice.) However, yesterday at lunch my mother casually remarked that I, having received check minuses for the last 2 days, was essentially out of the running for 1st or 2nd choice. So I'm pretty much free to be a total brat with no repercussions. I love it when my mother's attempts at bribery result in chaos. This check system was doomed from the start, though, since the only prize at the end was a CHOICE OF BEDS. I mean, for God's sake, it's an RV. All the beds are narrow and uncomfortable. Personally, I think that I should win triple check-pluses for being the first to recognize that. Next time my mom should try bribing us with cash.
Saturday, July 10th, 11:20am
*Editor's Note: I started this entry by drawing a really detailed diagram of the RV, detailing who's sleeping where, but unfortunately am unable to share it here. The gist of it's that I shared an RV with Nana & Bear (mom's parents) and GP2 (7-year-old sister), while my parents, Uncle Sport, and GP1 (11-year-old brother) were in Big Rig A.* Yesterday evening, once we had gotten our RVs:
and settled into our campground for the night, I hitchhiked for the first time.
You see, Uncle Sport and I hiked to the far end of the campground to pick up some firewood (that's right, to make a fire; we're pretty intense campers, I'm telling you) and ice. Once we got there, however, we realized Uncle Sport had forgotten that we would have to carry the wood & ice BACK. I was all ready to strap the wood on top of Uncle Sport's head when he strode over to a parked minivan, brazen as could be.
"Excuse me," he said to the attractive 35-year-old woman and what looked to be her mother, "we're staying at campsite 73 and misjudged how heavy this would be. Would you mind --"
"Not at all!" the woman chirped. "Just put it in the trunk and hop in the back." Uncle Sport did just that and smirked at my horrified expression. I reluctantly clambered in next to him. As we rode to campsite 73, Uncle Sport flirted with the woman (he's 41 and single and living in Singapore, all 3 to Nana's dismay) and I prayed silently. We made it back alive, by the grace of God, but who knows what could have happened? I don't even want to think about it.
Though in retrospect, I DID take a self-defense class. I probably could have broken their noses or something. But Uncle Sport would have been on his own. Officer D didn't teach us how to protect someone else.
July 10th, 3:45pm
Stopped at gas station on way back from Fayette (iron mining town; just my dad & I went, and the rest of the family didn't miss much). The gas station had neither of People magazine for me nor a New York Times for my dad. It did, however, have a remarkable supply of beer and $5 wine, as well as an ample display of porn and chewing tobacco.
Not [east-coast state we live in; you didn't think I was going to share THAT, did you?! I totally took an Internet-safety class too]. So my dad picked up several six-packs of beer, and moved the eggs out of the refrigerator so they would all fit. He also got some more wood, because we're campers now, and we go through a lot of wood. And evidently the wood Uncle Sport & I bought yesterday was obscenely overpriced at $4.50 a bundle. The gas station wood was only $5 for a REALLY BIG, Costco-sized bundle. My dad assured me that it's an investment.
It's gone from fun, driving in the RV, to being acutely embarrassing clambering down at epitomizing white trash (Uncle Sport's phrase, not mine) every time I go to a gas station in search of a People magazine. Or to a Hilton in search of a decent bathroom.
Luckily the windows are tinted. I think.
Sunday, July 11th, 9:30pm
Lovely dinner of cheeseburgers, carrots (slightly undercooked to Uncle Sport's exacting standards), & salad. GP2's bonded with several girls at this campground, one of who (Hannah, age 11) informed me that while most teenagers are mean to her I was very nice.
It kinda made my day.
Because you know what? I AM very nice. I really am. And if you ever doubt that, you can just ask Hannah. She'll vouch for me.
Monday, July 12th
After lunch, we went to yet another lighthouse, with a dinky museum attached. Equally boring, though we were greatly amused by a small sign in front of the museum: "We ask our guests to please turn off their cell-phones."
"Please," my dad snorted, "As if anyone has service". Sure enough, none of us did. And none of us turned off his cell-phone.
Tuesday, July 13th, 11am
The greater falls were pretty, and we had to take a rowboat out to get to them. A certain contingency of our group didn't want to spend an extra $12 to rent another boat, however, so all 8 of us crammed into the 5-person boat. It sunk dangerously low into the water, but we made it across without incident. I also got GP2 to believe that all the foam near the waterfall was soap bubbles, from people further up the river who had bathed in it, leaving a soap residue. So all in all the greater falls were quite enjoyable.
Tuesday, July 13th, 9pm
This afternoon at approximately 3pm we landed here in the Munising tourist park. My mother claims that this is posher than our other option, but I'm not so sure. We have bathrooms here that flush, but those showers SO aren't doing it for me. We're spending 2 nights here (tonight & tomorrow, Wednesday, night), and I took a shower this morning, so I figure that if I'm careful I can make it to Thursday afternoon without showering, though it's a stretch. Quite a stretch.
After we arrived, I took a walk on the beach. As my mother's pointed out over 17 times in the past week, it's incredibly weird to be along the great lakes, with the rocks & sand & waves, and to not smell that salty sea-water smell. (Because, you know, the Great Lakes are lakes, not oceans, and thus have fresh water.) My mother refers to this as "sensory dissonance", but I'm going to go with "weird".
Those excerpts were the highlights. There was more, of course, but I can't go on for TOO long here. Now let me give you one last image of our trip:
That's my dad. Emptying out the, ah, tank, over in Big Rig A.
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