Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Random Musings

How do you know that the person to whom you are talking is the person she claims to be?  If you've never interacted in a face-to-face situation, how do you know that it is she when there's a woman standing in front of you claiming her identity?  

We were watching an impressively bright print of 1938's The Adventures of Robin Hood as the unknown traveler declared his kingly-ness by opening his robe, thus revealing his royal coat of arms.  There were no newspapers or televisions or portrait galleries in Norman vs Saxon times, so how did Robin and his merry men know that the garments had not been stolen?  The second time Richard pulls that stunt Claude Rains cries as his coronation is interrupted "It's an impostor!"  It is not an altogether unreasonable assumption.

Talk about cheering for laundry...

Dallas Braden pitched a perfect game.  In baseball, that means 27 batters up to the plate, 27 batters retired.  No one sets a foot on base.  No one is credited with a walk or a hit.  In a no-hitter, players can be walked or balked field error'ed and reach a base.  In a perfect game that doesn't happen.  The opponent sends 27 batters to the plate, and they all return to the dugout.    And in this case, Braden's opponent were the Rays, the best team in baseball.

Baseball has been keeping statistics since 1901, according to the Baseball Almanac.  In all that time, there have been 19 perfect games.  In 109 years.

Baseball keeps a lot of statistics, probably more statistics than any organization ever ought to collect.  But this one is really very special.  And so was the hugging

His teammates swarm him and his coaches are joyous and he's walking, straight towards something and then at about 1:39 he finds his grandmother and it's a total sobfest.  The two of them have created a hug which requires new nomenclature..... it's more than engulfed or enmeshed or entwined or combined or ..... I'm open for suggestions.

And, it happened on Mother's Day.
The Big Cuter was a Mother's Day baby.  Teaching hospitals can be overwhelming places, but on a Sunday towards the end of the interns' and residents' rotations, and a Sunday which happens to be Mothers' Day (I'm still wondering about that apostrophe) ... well, on that kind of Sunday there aren't many people around.  It was Janice-our-OB, one beautiful nurse with a long braid wrapped around her head, TBG and me.  And then there was the Big Cuter, sunnyside-up and curious even then, and he was in the room and everything was different.

He's finished his exams and the first year of law school is behind him.  Adulthood is rushing up, inexorably crowding the little boy's space with responsibilities.  But tonight he's watching Learning to Fly and remembering the feeling of cheering for the best team, a team that would not lose, a team that was his when he was 7 and both he and Michael Jordan lived in Chicago and loved the Bulls.  

And I'm struck, again, by the depth of my love.