Honoring the Memory of September 11, 2001

As I mentioned yesterday, I don't have much to add to all the amazing words that have been written about this day.

We all know where we were, what was going on. It was the most amazing, beautiful, clear crisp September morning ever. And then it was a mess and the whole world was wrong. My baby girl was 3 weeks into kindergarten -- and I desperately wanted her home with me.

I was stepping out of the shower trying to get my youngest off to pre-school and the phone was ringing. It was T, telling me to turn on the TV. The TV was on, but youngest was watching Barney or something and was NOT happy when I changed channels.

I sat on the end of my coffee table wrapped in a towel watching the news reports. When Rudy Guiliani gave a press report about how to pick up your kids from school, I wept, wondering how many kids wouldn't have anyone to come get them.

Eventually we learned that day was full of heroes. Some lived to tell the tale. Many did not. I told you yesterday about one, and today I will share many more with you.

Five years ago I wrote a memorial about Brian Bilcher, one of the first responders who lost their lives that day.

There was Rick Rescorla, whose foresight kept literally thousands from losing their lives that day.

Lt. Heather “Lucky” Penney  was given orders to bring down United flight 93, which eventually was crashed into a field in Pennsylvania thanks to heroics of some passengers. Lt. Penney had her F-16, but in a pre-9-11 era, she had no ammunition. She took off, preparing to use her plane as the missile to bring down the plane.

These are just the stories I know of right now. I have others floating around in my brain I wish I could tell you. So many heroes of that day.

Let me tell you how I get to celebrate this day, showing the terrorists that life goes on:

A friend is a captain for the fire department where we used to live. He got tickets (or was given -- I'm unclear) for first responders in that area for the Texas Rangers baseball game. Once they were all spoken for, he had a few left over and invited my family to join them. So, I will be attending a baseball game. Sitting amongst first responders. And I will probably cry at some point due to the normalcy of it all.

May you have a grand day of normalcy.

Riley Got His Groove Back

I doubt you missed it, but I didn't tell just a whole lot about baseball season here. Not much to tell, even though our little team went to the finals. This was Riley's first year in the 9-12 year old league, so he was one of the youngest and most inexperienced. This league is also his first experience with kid pitch. He saw plenty-o-the-bench and got up to bat only once each game. He pretty much got to where he would gamble on getting walked or struck out by just standing at home plate holding the bat.

He did, at one point, get hit in the face (on the face plate of his helmet) by a pitch. In kid pitch, you're going to get hit by a ball. But it evidently scared Riley enough that he could hardly stay in the batter's box if a pitch got close. Since he had so few opportunities at bat during the season, we didn't really address it. As long as he was having fun... but we knew he would have a better time if he could show what he was capable of doing.

Advance to summer league -- summer league is an instructional league where you play two full weeks of games, but don't have any practices. You also aren't allowed to play the same position two innings in a row and Riley's coach was great about mixing things completely up and letting anyone pitch that wanted to, etc. Riley has had a great time, but didn't swing the bat one time. Oh, he got up TO bat, but stood with his bat on his shoulder. Sometimes he walked. Sometimes he struck out. He always leapt out of the batter's box if the ball got close.

After his 2nd or 3rd night in a row striking out without swinging his bat, I talked to his coach after the game. "Not swinging isn't his primary problem. He's moving his feet to jump out before the pitch is even thrown. If we can get him to stay in the batter's box, then we can worry about him swinging the bat." So we had a little family conference when we got home -- we didn't really intend to, but it worked out that we were all in there and, of course, Riley felt attacked. It was awful. His little quivery chin and watery eyes and "But I can't tell if it's going to be a strike or not." We told him we were just telling him what he couldn't see for himself and told him some other things coach had said that may help. With only two games left in summer league, we just wanted the guy to make contact with the ball.

The next night coach had him bunt just so he could track the ball and make contact with the ball (it worked like a charm, but I would think the last thing you would try to get a kid to do if they were afraid of getting hit is try to bunt -- that's why I'm not in charge, I guess). He fouled and ended up striking out, but he at least made contact. Awesome. We just raved when we got home about his turn at bat.

Last game was Friday night. We invited two families to come watch the game with us and then to eat dinner -- since that's kind of the only way you can have a social life during baseball season. Once we got to the ballpark, Riley got pulled from his regular team to fill in for another team (from our same little league) who was a player short. He knew some of the players, but not the coaches. Their little team was playing a tough team from across town who, in their first inning at bat, got all 6 runs (only 6 allowed per inning) before an out.

Our (new) little team got up to bat. Some hits, some walks, some outs, and (dum, dum, dum) Riley gets up to bat with bases loaded, two outs, and eight of our friends there to watch! My stomach was ROLLING -- "Please just let him make contact!" I recited over and over. The first pitch, he tried to keep his feet in the batter's box, but jumped the top of his body back. He completely lost balance and tumbled back about a mile. Bless him. Okay, he recovered. Second pitch, he smacked it so hard it sailed out to far left field. When it bounced up it hit one of the advertising signs on the fence. I don't remember much else except the screaming -- my own, of course. The little turkey made it a home run and since bases were loaded, that is known as a GRAND SLAM.

Riley's hit tied up the game to 6-6 and that was the last time all night his new little team was anywhere close to ahead. And, like those games tend to do, continued to drag on and on. The last time we had time to get up to bat the first kid struck out, second kid got out and first, and then it was Riley's turn at bat. Again, two outs, only this time there was no one on base and we were losing 18-7. I figured anything he did would be a downer from the first phenomenal hit. He swung once and missed. He didn't swing at a way-outside ball. Third pitch, he knocked it to almost the same exact spot as the first. Only this time, left-fielder was ready. It was a win-win: Riley got another fabulous hit, and it ended the eternal game! Riley's slump is definitely over -- maybe mine is, too!

I wrote this article two years ago after I was driving to pick up Riley from baseball practice with my windows down. I drove by another team practicing and heard the 'ping' of a successful hit (sorry if that offends your baseball sensibilities: bats don't thwack anymore, they ping). I knew there would come a time that Riley making that ping would give me a thrill. Indeed it has.

Observations for the Week

• In Sarah's Happy Universe, only coaches who talk nicely to their players are allowed to win. Thus far this week, my rule has prevailed. We lost tonight, thus ending our own Little League Hell Week. But we lost to a team whose coach talks nicely to his players, so it was okay.


• There is little as heartbreaking as seeing the pitcher cry. Unless maybe it's seeing the first baseman crying. While the shortstop is crying. And soon the third baseman is crying. We did not go down gracefully, folks.


• This is how we warmed up for our games. And thus it should be. Thank you, Coach Brady.


• People spit a lot at lunch meetings.


• Someone else applying sunscreen to my back is a fairly intimate occurrence. It really bothers me to ask an acquaintance to help. I will contort myself into all sorts of crazy manners to avoid asking for help.


• In old news, I just saw a clip tonight from Don Cheadle's, of Hotel Rwanda fame, press conference when he met with Kofi Annan in December about the violence in the Darfur region in Africa. I loved this quote: "The problem is not getting better, it's worsening," Cheadle said. "you don't control your papers I know, the editors (do). But we need to press that these stories not be small paragraphs on page 17 but that they at least have as much time as Britney Spears not wearing underwear." He has an excellent point.


• And today we could add: "... or where Paris Hilton is serving the remainder of her jail sentence."


• Hell week is over, tomorrow I teach swim lessons to the little bitties and keep my friends, Kenny and Abbie. And Saturday I sleep late. And go to the gym if I wake up in time.

Let Summer officially begin!

The Fun Continues

Some people call it City League Tournament. Some folks call it County Wide Tournament (which is more accurate). I'm beginning to call it Little League Hell Week.

As fraternities and sororities have a week of activities to stretch pledges to their physical and mental limits, little league has County Wide Tournament. It's a single elimination tournament that does only last one week -- Monday through Saturday. Teams travel to different sites and play on unfamiliar fields. Parents travel to small town America to realize that a clean bathroom means different things to different little leagues. Players and fans alike bathe in mosquito repellent to participate in the West Nile Virus roulette. Fans feast on rubbery nachos and lukewarm sodas to tide them over until they can eat "real food" after the game -- you know, real food like burgers, chicken strips, and fries. As the fans feast on the concession stand fare, mosquitoes feast on them.

For teachers or stay-at-home moms who don't have to go to school or work the next day it's not quite so much of a challenge, but folks who must arise and go to work the next day and/ or plan any work activities for the week have all kinds of mental obstacles. Since Troy needs to travel for his job, baseball, end-of-school activities, and plumbing/ reconstruction jihad have somewhat kept him tethered to town. This week, he has had to play the "my son may or may not have a baseball game in which he may or may not play more than 5 minutes on that night" game. I don't think it makes for very good business relations. Of course, he doesn't have the challenge of entertaining kids home from school, hyped up about this tournament business, who aren't to go swim the day of the game 'lest they wear themselves out. Considering the speed of the Tasmanian Devil tear through the house, the player isn't slowing down anytime soon. Maybe it would be safe to go to the pool.

And, just like any fraternity's hell week, as I describe this, some of you (uninitiated) are saying, "That sounds TERRIBLE. It must be awful." And, just like some crazy college kid, I would say, "No, it's awesome! You've really gotta do this sometime!"

Batter Up!

originally on heartlight.org
March 30, 2005

I hate baseball.

There you have it. Just as my delay in seeing "The Passion of the Christ" calls my citizenship in heaven into question, I feel certain that my loathing of America’s past-time also calls my United States citizenship into question. But there it is – I hate baseball.

So God, having the fabulous sense of humor I feel any loving Creator should have, sent me a son. A son who, in his 7th year, wants to play baseball more than anything. Soccer? Nope. Basketball? Nothin’ doin’. Baseball? Sign him up! Sign him up we did.

Now we’ve invested in cleats, hats, socks, belts, and numerous other items that seem to be essential for playing a game of baseball. Now I spend my evenings sitting in the not-yet-warm West Texas wind watching small children learn to "throw a string, not a rainbow". I figure in a one hour Little League game (and I think I’m being optimistic to assume it will only last an hour) the ball in motion and all subsequent action will total approximately 12 minutes of that game. My son’s part in the action may total about 4 minutes. Again, I believe myself to be an optimist.

I admit that my disdain has had to give way to minor dislike as I watch the enthusiasm that my son has for the sport. Minutes waiting for practice to begin (PRACTICE, mind you – we haven’t even had a game yet!) are painstaking agony. Minutes at practice fly by all too quickly. The little leaguer gushes with knowledge and excitement after each practice. Finally, last night I admit my heart thawed totally toward the sport. I commented, in all honesty, "Well, I’m really glad that you seem to like it." His response was nothing less than incredulous: "Like it?!?! Are you kidding?!?! It’s the best thing that ever happened to me!!!"

Now, keep in mind that my son’s life is not necessarily fraught with hardship unless you count unloading the dishwasher and feeding the dog difficult manual labor. But if baseball is the best thing that ever happened to him, then buy me some peanuts and CrackerJacks, I don’t care if I never get back from the old ball game! I have laughed to myself at how little it took to change my view of the game – simply the fact that it is the delight of one of the loves of my life.

I believe that those of us blessed to be parents are given that task in order to get a tiny glimpse into God’s love for us. Lately I have been perplexed by the verse "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37:4) What if the desire of my heart involves 6-pack abs and single digit clothing sizes? I have no hard and fast answers (nor hard abs) but I do know that this spring West Texas day was one of the best things that ever happened to me. And I do believe that it tickled God to no end for me to tell Him so. I also believe that as I continue to pour out my heart to God and know Him as the loving parent He is, the desires of my heart will more closely match His.

Without a doubt, HE is the best thing that ever happened to me!

Batter up!

Blogger's note -- now, two years later, enthusiasm has not
waned and I look forward to countless more hours on impossibly hard metal
bleachers and dinners of Dixie Burgers or concession stand
nachos.

Play Ball!

Allow me one more baseball post. Today was the last game of the season. 2:00 p.m. in Abilene, Texas. A balmy 96*, winds approximately 25 mph. Basically go preheat your oven to cook a frozen pizza then open your oven door and you have the general feel.

I just wanted the game to get here and be over. Enough baseball, already. We played Thursday evening, the last day of school, and it was a disaster. Most of the kids stood in the outfield waiting for the ball to wander into their glove. I didn't imagine this game would be much better, although I knew the team we were playing would at least get us a win. The coaches for the other team are unbelievably nice gentlemen that hate to take anymore family time from the players than the games already take, so they don't get into the whole practice thing too much.

By the end of the 2nd inning, we had quite a solid lead, so our coach benched our best players and scrambled the outfield to give kids opportunities to play new positions. It was a great experience for our guys and the other team was able to get quite a few hits. They even made it to the 9th batter -- our little league has a rule that only 9 batters can bat in one inning. However, if the 9th batter gets a hit (as opposed to striking out) the ball is still in play until either the batter himself has been tagged or home plate is tagged with the ball. (Please don't ask for more details -- I barely understand it).

The other team's little 9th batter was a little bitty guy named Bobby I had seen the coach working with for batting practice. The coach was SO encouraging, and would call him, "Bobby, the Bob-ster!" Bobby approached the plate with much trepidation, but eager. His first swing was when the ball was about half-way to home plate. The coach was still so encouraging and I really don't remember much other than Bobby got a hit. I don't remember where he hit it, but Bobby kept running. He was like Forrest Gump -- not to be stopped. One of our outfielders tagged 2nd base before Bobby got there, but didn't tag Bobby. Bobby kept running. Bobby ended up getting a home run and hitting 2 runners home. The little stands -- both sides -- erupted with cheers for Bobby.

With tears in her eyes, Bobby's mother told our coach that is the first time all season Bobby has gotten a hit in a game. What a way to end the season. That's what it's all about.

Coach Brady

As you have read about in many previous posts, this was Riley's first year to play baseball. Because God blessed us immensely with an incredible coach to have for Riley's first team sport experience, Riley had Brady Nichols for a coach. Those of you that are parents know that you can't thank or repay someone enough when they have loved and influenced your child. I tried to put into words how much it meant to our family. I'm sure I missed by a mile, but I put this in a frame for a gift for the end of season:

* Coach Brady changed the entire course of my family’s life.

Three months ago, we were your typical family going in too many directions. Baseball was starting, and it was just one more thing on our ‘to do’ list. I was very vocal about the fact that I find baseball as exciting as watching paint dry, and really prefer any sport that is played indoors since Abilene only has “too hot” and “too cold”, no “just right” in the weather department. We signed Riley up, hoping that enduring one season of baseball would convince all of us that it was not the sport for Stirmans. Coach Brady changed all of that.

* Coach Brady showed all of us that baseball is about so much more than baseball.
* Coach Brady showed us how powerful encouraging words can be.
* Coach Brady showed us all the power of applause, which is so much more powerful when critical words are left unspoken.
* Coach Brady showed us that words and actions that stem from God’s love are so much brighter and more powerful on a baseball field (or workplace, or playground) than trapped inside a church building.
* Coach Brady showed us that encouragement makes a player feel good, no matter which team they’re on. And, of course,
* Coach Brady’s precious wife, Mrs. Brooke, showed us all that sharing your family with others is a ministry in itself.

Neither Coach Brady nor any of my family can know where that influence will end. The Stirman family is on their way to being honest-to-goodness baseball fans (if we could fix that weather thing you would have me!) Riley has a love of a team sport, as well as a confidence that can’t be developed by parents alone. At the very least, Coach Brady has convinced one player to play Dixie Little League for next year. But more than likely, a coach is in the making. A little league coach that will pass along all of the “Principles of Coach Brady” to his little leaguers. That little team will know kind words, encouragement, and baseball – in that order. A generation away, children will be thrilled to be on the baseball field because Coach Brady and Mrs. Brooke donated their entire spring to little league.

* Coach Brady changed the entire course of our lives. I couldn’t be more thankful.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I hate baseball. There you have it. Just as my delay in seeing "The Passion of the Christ" calls my citizenship in heaven into question, I feel certain that my loathing of America’s past-time also calls my United States citizenship into question. But there it is – I hate baseball. So God, having the fabulous sense of humor I feel any loving Creator should have, sent me a son. A son who, in his 7th year, wants to play baseball more than anything. Soccer? Nope. Basketball? Nothin’ doin’. Baseball? Sign him up!
Sign him up we did. Now we’ve invested in cleats, hats, socks, belts, and numerous other items that seem to be essential for playing a game of baseball. Now I spend my evenings sitting in the not-yet-warm West Texas wind watching small children learn to "throw a string, not a rainbow". I figure in a one hour Little League game (and I think I’m being optimistic to assume it will only last an hour) the ball in motion and all subsequent action will total approximately 12 minutes of that game. My son’s part in the action may total about 4 minutes. Again, I believe myself to be an optimist.
I admit that my disdain has had to give way to minor dislike as I watch the enthusiasm that my son has for the sport. Minutes waiting for practice to begin (PRACTICE, mind you – we haven’t even had a game yet!) are painstaking agony. Minutes at practice fly by all too quickly. The little leaguer gushes with knowledge and excitement after each practice. Finally, last night I admit my heart thawed totally toward the sport. I commented, in all honesty, "Well, I’m really glad that you seem to like it." His response was nothing less than incredulous: "Like it?!?! Are you kidding?!?! It’s the best thing that ever happened to me!!!" Now, keep in mind that my son’s life is not necessarily fraught with hardship unless you count unloading the dishwasher and feeding the dog difficult manual labor. But if baseball is the best thing that ever happened to him, then buy me some peanuts and CrackerJacks, I don’t care if I never get back from the old ball game!
I have laughed to myself at how little it took to change my view of the game – simply the fact that it is the delight of one of the loves of my life. I believe that those of us blessed to be parents are given that task in order to get a tiny glimpse into God’s love for us. Lately I have been perplexed by the verse "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." (Psalm 37:4) What if the desire of my heart involves 6-pack abs and single digit clothing sizes? I have no hard and fast answers (nor hard abs) but I do know that this spring West Texas day was one of the best things that ever happened to me. And I do believe that it tickled God to no end for me to tell Him so. I also believe that as I continue to pour out my heart to God and know Him as the loving parent He is, the desires of my heart will more closely match His. Without a doubt, HE is the best thing that ever happened to me!
Batter up!