Pedro on the Mound

[Inspired, obviously, by Ernest Thayer's "Casey at the Bat"]

The outlook wasn’t stellar for the Philly nine that day:
The series stood three-two, with the Yanks one win away.
But Sabathia lost his start, and Burnett he did the same,
So the fans in red just thought, hey, that we can win one game.

A feckless few thought their team beyond all repair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Pedro could but go just one more round -
We’d put up even money, now, with Pedro on the mound.

Cliff Lee preceded Pedro, as did that Blanton Joe,
And the former threw a lulu, while the latter he did show;
So inside that spellbound Philly crowd high expectations grew,
For Pedro now would take the ball; we know what he can do.

That Lee he won a tough one, to the great delight of all,
But Lidge, he so untrusted, hit Teixeira with the ball;
And then the infield shifted, and that Damon he spied third,
So with Johnny safe on base, the A-Rod name was heard.

So from the Yankee bosses, there arose a hearty cheer;
It irked the huddled masses, who grabbed another beer.
Hope was dim that much was true, but we hearkened to the sound,
That Pedro, yes that Pedro, would so soon ascend the mound.

There was grace in Pedro’s manner as he stepped up to the mike;
There was joy in Pedro’s visage as he said this game I like.
And then, responding to reporters, he let the s word slip.
So sorry he said, but who did care, it was a stellar quip.

A thousand cameras spied him as he spoke of his life’s work;
I hope that you, he stated, find me not to be a jerk.
And while the balls fly slower, as they leave his well honed grip,
They take paths that few can follow as they weave and dip.

And now the much awaited game came thrust onto our screens,
And Pedro, ah, well let’s just say, he bore the Phillies dreams.
Three thousands Ks, two hundred wins, that stellar ERA;
Who better then, who could be found, to start on such a day.

Now from the Bronx, full of pinstripes, came the usual refrain,
Come on you baseball nation, bow before the Yankee train.
“Never! Down with George’s team!” shouted all not wearing blue;
We have Utley, Howard, Werth, those Phillies know what to do.

With a smile on his face, the great Pedro took the ball;
Hope springs in us eternal, after surgeries and all.
His velocity is down, crafty still he labors on;
His legacy is certain, we’ll still miss him when he’s gone.

“Pedro!” cheered the nation, as the game was to be played;
A great arm’s date with destiny was not to be delayed.
The hall of fame is certain, as is glory and renown;
Still we wanted, still we wished, that brave Pedro not go down.

The smile is gone from Pedro’s mien, his head hangs just a bit;
Somehow one gets the feeling, that this just might be it.
Matsui saw the ball, and did he ever hit it hard,
He smacked it not once, but twice, and four runs the Yankees scored.

Everywhere in baseball lands, fans of the game are saddened;
When they see pinstripes rejoice, most hearts are not so gladdened.
And somewhere teams are scheming, hoping for that one great shot;
But there is no joy in Philly, mighty Pedro he was not.

Long distance runner

Clearly too cheap to pay for photos

That title is a weak bridge from my last post, obvious only to the most diehard Dead fans, I suppose. It seemed necessary to post something here before wordpress.com decided this blog had been abandoned and deleted it.

A few weeks ago, I ran my first marathon. Why did I do this? Part of me is still wondering about that, but most of it has to do with setting goals and challenging oneself. Also, J has dreamed for years of running a marathon and not done it yet, so I hope by blazing the trail I can light a small fire under her motivation.

I also happened to have a window where I had no teaching obligations. Sure, I had a ton of other work to do, but everyone has free time and I needed something to fill mine while living far from home and away from my usual time filling activities such as gardening, cycling, house repairs, UU activities, etc. Marathon training fit the bill.

Next I had to find a marathon in late September or early October. The obvious choices were either Bremen or Cologne, but the Cologne marathon is larger, and running with crowds in front of crowds is supposed to help with motivation (it does). Plus, I spent a year in Bremen, and using the words October and Bremen in the same sentence brings to mind visions of being wet to the undies and cold to the bone. Yuck. As it turned out, the weather in Cologne wasn’t exactly fab, but it only rained for about ten minutes, and the sun even made an appearance for the better part of an hour.

Running 26.2 miles takes a long time. When you do it in kilometers, it seems even longer, because 42 is a big number. On the other hand, you knock out the Ks faster, so maybe it is a wash. At any rate, it starts to hurt at some point, and around 36K it was like I lost fifth gear in my transmission. I could maintain my pace fine, but acceleration left the building.

I had trained like a laser–always timing myself and carefully measuring my distances, a rare moment of such athletic exactness for me–and got to the point that I can run a mile or kilometer and more or less tell within ± five seconds how fast I went. Doing the math, I knew that if I ran just a tad under five minutes per kilometer, a 3:30 marathon was possible. Ran that pace in my longer training runs and didn’t die, either, so felt optimistic.

Ended up with a 3:31:22, which over that distance counts for me as pretty much dead on target, so was very satisfied. Good to know that one can dole out one’s energy over such long distance with some degree of control.

Not sure I am eager to run another one anytime soon, although J and I are tossing around running one next June with me as her pacer, but am pretty glad to have figured out how one does such things without injury or drama. Had always wondered what it felt like, too, to run that far.

Watching hockey in Germany

Courtesy daveynin via Flickr

I can’t remember how it came out, but a couple of months ago I learned that I had a few Pittsburgh Penguins fans in oneof my classes here. This kind of surprised me, since hockey is known here and Leipzig has a team playing in one of the more minor leagues, but isn’t a major sport. I chatted with one of my students about it, and while he didn’t play hockey (his hometown has no ice sheet–how I feel his pain), he started watching a long time ago and somehow found his way to the Pens.

[Note: If you are reading this and know me, I need not explain that for me, there are the Pens, and a bunch of other teams which are there to lose to the Pens. For the rest, you just learned.]

Fast forward to last week, where my beloved Pens survived a wretched game five to tie things up at three games all. I had thus far resisted the urge to watch any of the games. They start at 2:00 am here and I am no longer the footloose student I was in 1991 when they won the Cup while I was in Bremen and watched every single minute of all six games against the North Stars in the middle of the night. I’m a responsible adult with a heavy teaching load and two young children. But game seven? Against the Red Wings? Responsibilities be damned.

Courtesy Eliya via Flickr - note the pillow needed for watching to ease the gut wrenching.

I ran into one of my Pens fans two days before the game in the hall in my building. Shamelessly, I said, hey, you mentioned there are ways to see the games here. He said sure, in my kitchen. I then proceeded to more or less invite myself over in the middle of the night (didn’t take much; we Pens fans take care of each other). Brought chicken wings (the appropriateness of eating wings occurred to me only later, so focused was I on the game) and chocolate chip cookies in response to a request for American snacks. The wings in the bowl, along with the celery sticks and blue cheese dressing (made my own!), had as little chance of survival as did the other Wings in the red jerseys.

Turns out that my student has a large screen (literally, a screen, as in the kind that pulls down) in his kitchen, and a computer projector so he can watch things in super large format. Excellent setup.

It was glorious. The Wings fans present were sad, but decent about it. Those of the Pens persuasion were exhausted as the sun came up outside, but utterly exhilarated at the hoisting of Lord Stanley’s cup. I agree with those who say it’s the best trophy in sports, won through the hardest playoff run, and somehow watching your team hoist it just blows the mind.

Baseball: a veritable anatomy lesson

One thing I find myself doing on occasion here in Germany is defending baseball to Europeans who find it boring. I don’t try very hard; my evangelical streak wanes as I age, and, frankly, I love baseball and don’t really need anyone else to like it. If, however, you like baseball, read on.

A few years back, I got sucked into fantasy baseball (curse you, Beau!) and find that it speaks to the analytical/number-crunching side of my brain. It’s also no-stakes gambling, so that factors into the appeal, too. Hmm, what if I pick up Gavin Floyd … will his next start stink as bad as his last one? That kind of question can occupy me for 10 minutes as I delve into past performance, etc.

One thing that fantasy baseball has taught me, or better put made clearer to me, since I’ve long known this about baseball, is that some baseball players are the fitness equivalent of the Michelin man, or of that guy next door who plays a few rounds of golf a month. In other words, pretty sorry. Never engage in a fitness contest with serious football players, hockey players, or hoopsters–they will beat you down every time, let alone what a triathlete or a climber could do. Baseball players, not so much. Granted, there are some super all-around athletes in baseball, probably many of them, but it’s ultimately a game that relies a lot on some pretty narrowly defined skills. Hitting curveballs, picking up 95 mph fastballs, painting the outside corner, digging a ball out of the dirt, judging a towering fly ball’s landing point: these are skills not everyone has nor can learn.

Sure, baseball players work out. Even a pitcher like David Wells, a lumbering blob of a man, surely hit the weight room to keep his arm in shape. It’s the general fitness that seems to be a bit lacking. My heavens, today it’s a strained oblique, tomorrow it’s a torn triceps, and the next day someone is having the fine connective tissues in their elbow/wrist/shoulder sewn back together. While I appreciate the ongoing anatomy lesson, would it hurt to focus, perhaps, a bit more on general fitness. 162 games is no joke, one must take that into account, but hockey players play 82, and if they make the playoffs a bunch more, and having played both sports I would say that one hockey game equals about ten baseball games in terms of physical abuse. Yet hockey players grind out game after game for the most part.

It’s not just the injury reports that point toward a need for better and more intelligent fitness training. Just watch the next game and count the beer guts and pudgy butts. They abound! Were I a GM investing millions of dollars in the future performance of players, I would surely like to see them eat better and keep those pounds off.

UPDATE: After I wrote this I thought maybe I had gone a little hard on ballplayers. Thankfully, this bit from today’s baseball news assured me I had it right:

Jack Wilson(notes) already had a single and a pair of doubles when he ripped his first triple of the year, a drive into the right-field corner in the eighth inning.

“I’m not going to lie,” the 31-year-old shortstop said. “I got to third base and said, ‘I’m getting old.”’

31 and too old to run the bases four times in one game? Really.

Bike, hole in the head comes free

I already own a lot of bikes, and were time and money no object, I’d own a whole bunch more. I love bikes, and can think of at least ten different kinds that I really need.

So I’m living in this bike-friendly place, and need to pick up a bike for my time here. My dream was to get a lean, mean single-speed city machine, the kind that is all the rage in the US right now (albeit sans fixed gear; I actually like being alive), but they turn out to be nearly unheard of here and very hard to find. If I had my shop at hand, I’ve seen at least ten frames that I’d love to convert into such a machine, but that’s a pipe dream.

So I decided to settle for second best and buy myself a sturdy, basic German Stadtrad (city bike). These are almost always black, have a rack on the back, full fenders (necessary here if one plans to ride to work and not look like a bike courier all day), and front and back generator-driven lights. Happily, I saw the perfect bike last weekend:

Rücktritt Tauglich

Nice shop, nice people, too. And really not terribly expensive either. Plan to go back and pick one up later this week.

If you’re one of my cycling friends, please don’t ask what this bike weighs. Just know that I shall return with massive thighs, which answers the question right there.

My fear is that I’m going to fall in love with this bike and then it will have to come home with me, at great expense. Such is the life of an addict.

Bottom of the bureaucratic ninth …

… two outs, hard-throwing closer in top form and on the mound. Oh, I guess baseball season is around the corner and I’m a little excited about that. Will Chris Carpenter’s Frankenstein-like body hold together and put the Cardinals on a track for the postseason, or will he develop some rare syndrome that causes him to miss 90% of his starts. I’d put money on the latter, but as a Cards fan, I’m lighting candles for the former.

The baseball metaphor employed here expresses my joy that I’ve nearly completed the worst of the bureaucracy here. Last week I finally picked up my residence permit on Thursday, and Friday morning sent my account application to the bank. Hopefully within a few days I’ll have an account, and then, in theory at least, the Freistaat Sachsen can pay me my wages. They will, of course, require at least two weeks to process my paperwork, so I may end up working here for the better part of two months without wages. Oh well, at least it will all come in eventually.

Just Breathe

alternately: how one small breathing exercise can send me on a jaunt through my life in sound bites.

In corpse pose in yoga today, we were told to relax our ujjayi breathing and just breathe “normally” in through our noses and out through our mouths. This requires, for me anyway, conscious thought. That got me to thinking: have I made the yoga breath more automatic? Is that slight constriction at the back of the throat easier and more natural for me now?

Which then got me to thinking: huh–if the constriction at the back of my throat is coming more naturally, does that, then, account for the “grunt-sigh” noise Dale insists I keep making when I’m stressed out or responding negatively to something?

The “grunt-sigh” got me to thinking about the “woof-shrug” that Daniel Coyle wrote about in Lance Armstrong’s War. “Woof-shrug” is the sound and body language combo emitted by Belgian cycling gurus who don’t want to humor you with an answer.

Coyle’s book inspired me to think about the book I am currently reading and loving, Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, which, aside from being specatcularly well-written and enjoyable to read, is full of fun yiddish words, rendered in the American.

Yiddish, and how I pronounce it in my head while I read, led me to ponder German (since, duh, they’re related), whereby I wound up back at my job.

Do we all see why I sometimes have a hard time falling asleep at night?

Harlot at the Tower

 

Harlot at the Tower, originally uploaded by jda127.

It is true, dear Harlot readers. I was in London (not for the IKnit event, alas) and on my free day roaming the streets, I went to the Tower Hill area to take in the first stage of the Tour of Britain. I found some lovely older English gents to talk to about cycling and American politics. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see a clearly recognizable figure: the Yarn Harlot! I interrupt my conversation to accost her. I actually said out loud: Stephanie Pearl-McPhee and she swears she thought it was the voice of god talking. (She HAD just been to Westminster after all, perhaps the great spirit was paying attention to her?)

So, we took sock pictures and truly astonished those nice older British gentlemen. In all my fan-girl-ness I cannot tell you who won the stage.

It seems like the entire knitting blog world was in London this past week to see the Harlot and go to the IKnit event. I managed to see the Harlot and go to IKnit while missing the event entirely. Once you have sated yourself on Ysolde and cosmicpluto’s pictures of London, I shall return with some offerings of my own.

Oh–and I bought yarn at IKnit, too.

Bust a Move

Now that I’m done with globetrotting for, well, at least the next month or so, I am trying to get back in the groove with running. I recently swithed from PC to Mac, which involved migrating iTunes (don’t ask, it wasn’t smooth or pretty–sorta like my running actually–but it’s done now) and spending a lot of time working through my music library. I realised I needed some new tracks to keep me motivated on runs. Then, amazing synergy occurred when the July issue of Runner’s World presented me with an article on music and running and good tunes to workout by AND I re-discovered the iTunes gift certificated Greta hasn’t spent yet. (I’ll pay her back, really I will. And I’m not using it all up, really.)

So, I’m buying some music I wouldn’t perhaps listen to in the car with the kids (Thanks, Emimem, for your relentless BPM. Shut your ears, kids) but will keep the feet pounding. I also found a free podcast in the RW article that I am going to take advantage of. It’s called podrunner, but the DJ mixes tracks at various BPM levels, so that walkers, joggers, runners, and cyclists all feel served. I haven’t listened yet but his reviews on iTunes are stunning. Visit his website here: http://www.djsteveboy.com/podrunner.html and then get out and run!

The hobby I didn’t need

We were watching the 99th version of the Milan-San Remo cycling race tonight when the announcer said something about Erik Zabel that caught my attention. As we often do, we were watching TV with a laptop within reach, so I looked up his entry in Wikipedia. Reading it, I realized that it had a few thin spots, and some of the style could use help, so I went against the voices in my head and created a Wikipedia account.

Thirty minutes later, there’s more information, one more citation, and a bit cleaner style in spots. It’s clear to me now how Nicholson Baker and others get addicted to Wikipedia. As a librarian, i.e.- someone who can research and cite at a rate much faster than the general population, it has a very strong pull for me. I could spend another ten hours working on that article and learning the minutiae of Wikipedia editing. I think I’m in trouble.