Roots

Recently (as in the day before yesterday) an aspiring medical professional friend of mine pronounced me a drug user.

Apparently "it's the only way (he) can explain why an intelligent motivated woman would still like the Dodgers".

He is his own brand of bonkers that I won't get into right now but it does include a few Angels jerseys and a dislike of the Lakers... *harumph*

Its about ROOTS man!

Its about where you come from!!

Its about history!

Its about hot dogs larger than life and that essential childhood knowledge that there was a perfect lawn in a perfect shade of green somewhere for a very specific purpose.

Its about singing with my dad at the stadium with our matching Dodger blue caps.

Its about watching my Great-Grandmother sit in front of her tubed, knobbed TV with her Brooklyn Dodgers jersey (that's right. Our family devotion goes back to the beginning) on yelling at Tommy to take a lap or two when he got heated.

Its about being inspired to be excellent the Hershiser way.

No drugs necessary for this high - none whatsoever.

Play on Manny. Play on.

Wednesday Giggles

In honor of the dearly departed Olympics

Video Posted from Olympics's Gallery on Takkle.com

I love the puff of chalk. Its the perfect finish.

Bleeding Purple and Gold

You may not know by looking at me, or by looking around my house, but I am a die-hard fan.

I love basketball and I love the Lakers

I think it started with Chick Hurn and Kareem when I was about 4.
I have sweet memories of watching the Lakers/Boston championships all throughout the 80s with my dad and learning the difference between a hook shot and a free throw and why Magic was magic and why being “on your wallet” was bad and why “in the refrigerator” was good thing. I loved the pace of the game, I loved how the players were elegantly larger than life. I loved how it was a cerebral game as well as just forcing the flesh. I loved how excited I got at every free throw and I loved the fact that they were constantly reaching up instead of across a field like in football. Kareem remains one of my favorite players of all time. The Gentle Giant. Don’t mess with the man either, but he was the nice one.

I LOVE YOU KAREEM!

I just loved it all and nothing much has changed.

Basketball has been a part of my life since, well, forever. Every time I went to Tucson to visit family we’d hit up one of my cousin’s games. I’d go support our church ball leagues; I was a faithful fan of our unsung but very capable and accomplished high school team. It’s pretty impossible to grow up LDS and not be basketball and volleyball proficient.

Basketball was an intimate part more than one District Leader’s lessons on my mission as well. There are a lot of lessons in basketball. John Wooden remains one of my heroes and one of the best men who has ever walked the planet.
I love how it brings people I love together and leaves them better.

But mostly I love the Lakers

Some of my best memories with my crazy brothers and cousins have been watching the Lakers play, being on our feet, and cheering for purple and gold boys, IBCs in hand and feeling nothing but love and adrenaline.

Since the Kobe years and the death of Chick my dad has pretty much put away his purple and gold allegiances but my brother and I are still carrying the torch. And for the first time since Shaq left we’ve found themselves back in the finals, AND against Boston of all people. Little else has been in or out of my thoughts in the last two and a half weeks except maybe Twilight and my graduating from college – more on that later.

Now, if you love the Lakers you hate Boston. It’s the rules. Larry Bird and Magic came up together in the 70’s through college and the draft and were always personal rivals and then they both became centerpieces of their teams that they played for the majority of their careers; Bird with Boston and Magic here in LA. They played each other in NBA Finals 6 different times and the rivalry went from being personal to a franchise wide loathing. Things haven’t changed much since then. I still hate Boston. When my friend went to go visit earlier this year it was all I could do to not go “Why??!” every time she mentioned it. Boston is where happiness goes to die. Everyone knows that.

NBA speaking, I think Brett Hall got it right when he said “I hate Boston (he's a true fan) but I like Boston’s players”. I will totally agree with that. Boston’s line up right now is amazing and as much as I hate to admit it, we are getting handed our cabooses in pieces. 4 different pieces. Game 6 of the finals is tomorrow night in Boston. We’ve already lost two games out there and one here to Boston. We need to win two more if we’re going to take it but with how we’re playing and the fact that Boston is practically breathing fire at us (Kevin Garnett, I’m looking at you) we’ll have to see what happens.

I’m nervous. As nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Tomorrow is a big day.

Why??!

Why do I find my self agreeing when people want to go bowling? It always seems like a good idea at the time and a lovely venture into suburban life. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I've ever been bowling and whenever people bring it up I think "well that doesn't sound so bad - maybe that will work...." But there is always something tugging in the back of my head - you know... Like when people try to schedule something and something else is tugging at you saying "you've got something going on that day, Don't agree. Don't commit" but you can't remember exactly what it is so you say "let me check my planner and see".

Well - the thing that I always forget about bowling is: I am TERRIBLE at it, its an unmitigated din inside one of those places, and I always, always, ALWAYS severely break a nail in a very painful way at one or multiple points in the evening.

(Not to mention the questionable bacterial content of rented bowling shoes and a very unpredictable cross section of patronage generally consisting of somewhat inebriated people or screaming teenagers. This is a factor anywhere in public so I don't really begrudge that too much but it still seems noteworthy.)

Last night was much like any other. We started it with Chinese food and Gatorade and we ended up on lane 33 at Brunswick. I had my shoes and we were doing the name-inputting thing and I was pulling on my numbered leather clad beauties and *WHAM*! My middle finger's nail popped off (below the fingertip mind you) and was flying through the air. As I watched it land and proceeded to suck the bloody mess my fingertip had just become a number of things happened. Firstly, I had to squash the urge to be a sissy girl and scream "I broke my nail!!" because

a) most people have fake nails and numbed receptors from acrylic overdose so they don't understand the millions of nerve endings that are currently making their presence known and

b) that most people don't get that your entire hand has officially become aesthetically offensive and the tragedy that is. And when you have hands that are less attractive like mine a good set is kind of important. Its like insta-Quasimodo status in the hand department. Bad. Very bad.

The second thing I realized, and slightly more important, is why I don't care for bowling. Because I'm bad at it, I have to wear silly shoes and I always leave damaged. Remind me again how this is fun? Why there are organized leagues? How people get sponsorships and write screenplays about the stuff? Because I just. don't. get it. Maybe because the shirts are sort of cute...

Ironically I got the highest score of my life on the first round - 135- and I got three strikes in a row. Strange - its true. Considering I just stood at the line and threw the ball most of the time. My thumb nail got ripped off half way through the second game but me and my 13lb yellow marbled wing man managed a 125. The cost was high and I remain to be won over but being with my friends is worth it and always has been. So if they love it, so do I. Nails grow back. I will get over it. When my fingers stop pulsating from the shock.