Friday, October 19, 2012

10th New Thing ~ Kim is Always Right


If I asked a variety of people to name their favorite professional sports team, I imagine I'd get a variety of answers.

What would your answer be?

Teams of all sports: football, soccer, basketball, hockey....
Teams here in the Pacific Northwest, geography-based loyalty.
Or perhaps a team from somewhere you've lived before: Indianapolis, Charlotte.
Or a team you loved growing up: Yankees, Spurs, Rams
Maybe the team of your favorite player: Lions, 49er's, Suns

Or perhaps your favorite team is your favorite because they are regularly the underdog team. For Seattle based teams, over the years, you can cover both the underdog and 'geography-based loyalty' angle.   (I've always tended to be the Cheer for the Underdog kind of fan.)
You're thinking of your favorite team right now, aren't you?
Whatever your choice, I'd hazard a guess that very few of you would name a professional women's team.

There are some people in my life of which I can’t precisely recall how the relationship came about. They appeared exactly when I needed them, in a magical, mystical way. I continued to believe…have faith and sure enough, the universe rallies on my behalf. Every time.

Kim is one of those people.
Kim, who is always right. (I need to remember to link this to Michelle or I won't get paid for that statement.)

When I first started compiling the list of 50 New Things, my mind was a flurry of ideas, my social conversations, a steady stream of suggestions and discussions about possibilities.

Consequently, one evening on the phone when Kim said she was going to 'the game' the following weekend, I asked....
"Game? What game?"
"The Storm."
"Oh, I've never been to a Storm game," I said. It was fast becoming a reflex. Shamelessly inviting myself. No pressure, Kim. In fact, I'd never been to any professional women's sports event. Not that our culture offers many choices this way.

Kim has a season ticket package. She gave me a few dates to choose from. The best day worked out to be the Storm's last home game of the regular season.

~


Fan Appreciation Night. 
San Antonia Silver Stars v. Seattle Storm 
Third and fourth in the Western Conference, respectively. 
Both teams having already secured playoff positions.

We arrived in plenty of time. Parked and walked a short distance to Key Arena. Well, Kim walked, I made choppy little scuttling steps, trying to keep up. Her legs are twice as long as mine.
She never actually said, “Keep up, Shorty.” But she kept looking around to make sure she could still see me.

We were handed free bright green Storm t-shirts on our way in the door. The first so many fans.

Kim let me accept my free t-shirt but absolutely forbade me from picking up a complimentary pair of bam bams.

"No bam bams."
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
"What?"
“If you’re going to sit with me, no bam bams.”
"What are bam bams?" I whispered to one of Kim's daughters.
"Nevermind, you'll see," she said.

Well, I don't know about you but if someone says to me "No bam bams for you," suddenly all I want is bam bams. Even though I had no idea what they were.
We shopped in the team store for a while and regardless of what bam bams are, I want credit for resisting the urge to buy a set of Seattle Storm tattoo sleeves.

When I walked into Key Arena, I only knew the name of two players. Not surprisingly, Lauren Jackson and Sue Bird. But as I watched the game I quickly developed favorites and non-favorites. At first I wasn't crazy about Katie Smith. One of the shorter Storm players at 5'11".
I thought she argued with the refs too much. I wanted to say, "Just play." But she grew on me. She had great energy and passion for each play. You gotta love someone who feels so strongly about something. She became my favorite.

My least favorite was, of course, the Stars player that seemed to give us the most trouble. I don't remember her name but she probably plays offensive lineman during the off-season. And I don't think she missed once at the free throw line.

In the first half, it looked like the Storm was not going to have any problem winning this game. But in the third quarter I began to worry a little bit. They chipped away at the gap and before we knew it, the game could have gone either way.

Helpful Storm Tip: At the beginning of a Storm game, you don't sit down until Seattle scores their first basket. Also at the start of second half.

In the weeks prior, I looked forward to the game, expecting to appreciate the superior athleticism of a professional basketball team. And I was not disappointed. I had always suspected that most of us Pacific Northwest residents were idiots, for not appreciating and giving these players due credit and patronage for their athletic excellence. I know that I was guilty.

What I didn't expect to find was that the crowd would be so fun. A great mix of young and old, moms and dads. couples on dates. I really had not expected there would be so many kids excited and cheering, running down on the court for the conga line during time-out periods.

The climate of energy in the arena was so much more friendly and light-hearted than my experience with other professional sports.

It's good math: more smiling families, face-painted children, less drunken, stumbling assholes.

Even the youngest kids that night were better behaved than most adult fans in my previous experience.

In fact, there was not a soul around us who was the least bit belligerent or intoxicated. There was plenty of screaming, cheering, whistling, thanks to the man a few row above us, trashcan-lid cymbal smashing. Much less booing and heckling than I've ever witnessed at such an event. And there was no one sitting there that was 'too cool' to participate. Why go at all if you're going to sit there grumbling, mocking your team?

And I'm probably not helping ticket sales, for certain demographics by pointing this out, but there were no pubescent girls, dressed like a skank and dancing like strippers during half time.
Talk about Fan Appreciation!!

Instead, the half-time show was a children's dance team. The Storm Dance Troupe. Boys and girls, from, I'd guess, ages 6 - 12. My face hurt from smiling, as I watched their pure enthusiasm and joy. It was a blast.

(I wonder, when he's old enough, if Connor would be interested in auditioning for the Storm Dance Troupe....hmmmmm, I'm short, maybe they'd take me??)

I love that all the kids in the crowd are seeing this team of professional athletes in an atmosphere of overwhelming respect and admiration. Full audience participation. Hopefully, they will be more likely to hold up these female athletes with the same 'ROCK STAR' reverence that most of our short-sighted society holds for (even mediocre) male athletes. I was grateful to every dad in the crowd sitting next to his son or daughter.

(Want to sponsor a kid to attend a Storm game? See the link at bottom of this post.)

I wish my name was Barbie Calabro, but sadly, it's not. (That voice melts me.) So you'll be getting no play-by-play from me.

I'll cut to the chase, the end of the game was exciting. Seattle won. Not with a last minute basket. But close enough for me. 84 - 75.

As exciting as the end of the game was, it was nothing compared to the end of the 'Catapulting of Fan Appreciation Memorabilia."

After celebrating the win then grabbing the microphone to thank the fans for a great season, the players positioned themselves around the perimeter of the court, Sharpies in hand, launching autographed t-shirts and shoes into the crowd of frenzied fanatics, waving their arms….. in the stands.

Here's something I've never done: I've never caught anything at a game.

Okay, and I didn't catch anything at this one either.
But that's not my fault. I'm five feet tall. Kim is like......more than five feet tall. So are her daughters. As are most people. We yelled and waved our arms hoping to draw some attention in our direction. Svetlana Abrosimova signed a rolled up t-shirt, handed it to her lovely assistant, who launched it into the crowd. The t-shirt came straight for us. But even the people in the row, just below us, dwarfed me. Kim wrestled it out of the grasp of some burly guy in front of us, then handed it to me. Okay, maybe it wasn't a burly guy, but an elderly nun...whatever... I walked out of Key Arena with that t-shirt. Signed by Svetlana Abrosimova. Score.

"Kim is always right."

The autographed t-shirt was enough for me. I was a happy fan. Then the shoes started flying.
Holy cow! Given the size of the shoes involved, this seemed like a dangerous thing to be vaulting into the mass of people. I promptly stopped waving my arms, preparing to duck and cover. This really felt like the prudent thing to do and I would have thought everyone else would duck too. But no.

This is where being short kept me safe. At one point a signed basketball shoe headed our direction. I managed to resist the instinct to dive under my seat. Kim’s arms flew into the air, the shoe spun end over end, threatening to give someone a concussion. It was like watching slow motion. The shoe hit the tip of her fingers, but the momentum sent it toppling into the hands of the guy behind us, who came down with the shoe clutched to this chest. Kim had to settle for the assist. She’d have preferred the rebound, but the guy was not parting with that shoe. Signed by Camille Little.

There was a lot of debate on the ride home about how close she’d been to snagging that shoe. Kim's daughters… engaging in family-friendly trash talk, mentioned if their fingers had touched the shoe, they wouldn't have let it get away. Kim was disappointed. So close.
I felt bad for her as I held my two Storm t-shirts in my lap all the way home.

I had a great time. Great seats. Great company. Great game. Two t-shirts. No signed shoes. But most importantly. No Seattle Storm Bam bams. (Go Google it.)

At the end of this post, it was my intention to mention that I want full credit for not yielding to the temptation to 'go off' on male dominated sports dynamic in our culture. That being said....

I do not begrudge any team their fan base. But it feels like something is a little off. When WNBA came to the Pacific Northwest, I remember thinking, “How cool is that?”
But I was raised in a culture where female athletes and girl teams were always second to the guys. I'm not happy to admit that I never acted on the "How cool is that?" feeling I had. I didn't follow the team at all. Not in the paper, not on TV (had they been in the paper and on TV at the same copious amounts as other former and current Seattle sports teams).

Makes me sad. We are such sheep sometimes.
Our tendency to fall for the mass media marketing every time.

(And this is kind of an insult to actual sheep. Which, as it turns out, are not as easily led as one might think. See New Thing #11.)

It might be time to rethink the favorite team thing. I mean, right here where I live, there is a professional sports team that makes it to the playoffs, as a rule instead of as the exception.
The Storm have made it to post-season play 10 out of their 13 seasons. And yet in societal sports entertainment terms they still seem to be underdogs. 



PostScript:
I wrestled briefly with how to get pictures. I’ve really enjoyed photographing the New Things. 
But I wasn’t interested in lugging the camera around for the evening. Stadium seats are not known for their wealth of leg or elbow room. And in my experience of past sports events, there’s a good chance of jumping up, cheering! 
Sitting down. 
Jumping up, CHEERING!! 
Sitting back down. 
Jumping. 
Cheering. 
Sitting. 
CHEEEEEERING. 
Sitting. 
You can see the problem.

I decided a few pictures on my phone would be the best thing. 






The Seattle Storm
2004 & 2010 WNBA Champions

Attending a professional women's sports event...
My 10th New Thing 




Sunday, October 7, 2012

9th New Thing ~ Releasing the Outcome

For New Thing #9, I have no pictures to offer, at this point.

And very little story to include, at this point.




I've never entered a writing contest. 


Recently a friend sent me a link to a writing contest being held by a well-known magazine. This periodical displays, glossy, on the shelf of most of our library branches.

I linked to the periodical's site, clicking to Rules for Entry.

Contest Opened: May 12, 2012. 
Closed: September 13, 2012. 
Word Count: 1500 maximum.
Topic: Something you would go back and change 
First Prize: $3000 and a trip to NYC

I started working on my entry (or full-blown shitty first draft) on September 8th. Six days. Yikes!
Not much wiggle room for my standard writing workflow, which looks like this:

  1. Let an idea sprout: Germination
  2. Watch it take shape and grow in my head for a week or two: Cultivation
  3. Chew on it a bit: Rumination
  4. Get it out into the open to breathe fresh air: Exhumation
  5. Then reshape and prune it painfully: Reconstruction
  6. Repeat Step #5: Asphyxiation 
  7. Repeat Step #6: Resuscitation
  8. Reach the elusive decision that 'enough is enough: Revelation
  9. Send it out on its own: Emancipation
  10. Done: Celebration
You can imagine how long this flawed and ridiculous masturbatory process takes. Many of my pieces still waiting to get beyond Step 3. Weeks, months, years. 
(There is definitely something here to look at more closely. Honestly.)

I had only DAYS to draft, edit and submit. Plus I had regular real-life stuff to work around. (Including Happy Polaris Upgrade Day!) 

With the help of a last-minute Fairy God-Editor, I wrestled it under the 1500 word limit, formatted it according to the rules and submitted it with thirty-three minutes to spare. Eastern Standard Time   

WHEW! 

Of course, it doesn't feel like my best work because I had to spin it out so fast. BUT perhaps, it will be exactly what I needed to write. Without the self-indulgent luxury to overwork and pulverize my original words, maybe the true story will stand a chance. We will see.

The winners will be announced January 2013. The top three articles to be published in the magazine. 

I'm not at all sure what to hope for. 

Do I want to hear "We loved your story! You are the first place selection." 
YES!

Do I want to say "I won a Writing Contest in a national magazine? 
I do.

Do I want to win $3000 and a trip to New York City? 
Yes and Yes.

Do I want anyone reading that piece? 
Honestly? Maybe not. I might be counting on coming in fourth or lower. The piece is very personal. A bit raw and naked, when I look straight at it.
   

The 9th New Thing:
Enter a Writing Contest 

Done! 

1490 Words

First Line: For years, I've known the answer. 
Last Line: "What course was altered?"

Submitted: Thursday September 13, 2012 07:26 PM 


I did my part. The end result is out of my hands now. I will keep you informed here, either way.


Keep your fingers crossed...  

...I'm just not sure for which outcome.  
Scaredy-Cat Barbie






Tuesday, October 2, 2012

8th New Thing ~ September 11th Memorial

Each year since 2001, I've tried to find the best way to observe September 11th.
Each year, wondering how I could personally reflect on the events of that day, honor the memory of those who were killed:
Civilians
Police 
Port Authority
Pentagon Military Personnel
Firefighters & other First Responders


I had no direct connection to the attacks. I knew no one killed that day. I'd never been to New York, Pennsylvania or Washington D.C. I watched from the other side of the country. Yet, the attacks felt incredibly personal.

I spent the first anniversary reading back over the pages of journal entries I'd written in the days and weeks just after the attacks a year previous. Emotional, confused writing. About my children, my country, my life, my fury and shock. Writing, in a futile attempt to make some sense.
I watched one year anniversary coverage. Reading newspaper and magazine articles. I continued to write, my emotions from a year's distance. Saturating my day with remembrance.

In years two & three I checked out library books and documentaries. Spending a few days, absorbing and remembering. The networks were not airing as many shows. Media observance was lessening. I understood the temptation to push the difficult, painful memories away, into a mental dark corner but I found the lack of attention disturbing. And sad. I felt even more determined to set the day aside for my own healing. To honor the loss.

In 2005, I began a personal, yearly tradition of taking bouquets of flowers to local fire stations on September 11th. Armloads of dahlias. Fire stations in Tillicum, Graham, Lakewood.

Along with leaving flowers, each year I worked at the Tillicum library, I filled the display window with books and DVDs on the subject of September 11th. I needed such gestures. Trying to heal my heart. Determined to look at it directly. Let myself feel the pain. Remember fully.


In spite of my private determination to observe the anniversary over the past eleven years, I had never attended a public commemoration on September 11th, until this year.

A couple weeks prior to the anniversary this year, I searched online for local events.

I found two.
  • A morning remembrance at the Fallen Firefighters Memorial on Ruston Way, Tacoma
  • An evening dedication service at 9/11 Reflection Park in University Place  


The morning event was reverent and somber. The sky, clear blue overhead. A faint gray haze on the horizon over the water of Commencement Bay. The peacefully landscape of the
Fallen Firefighters Memorial.










The Tacoma Fire Department Honor Guard presenting colors, so moving in procedure and tradition. The silence heavy, when the flags were lowered to half staff.













The sorrow-filled sound of the bagpipes, as the Pierce County Firefighter's Pipes and Drums marched by, playing "Amazing Grace" and "Scottland the Brave."

A couple of local officials spoke. A choir sang. White doves, released. 
The understandable attitude and energy that I expected at a public memorial service. 

Then something I was not expecting....

New York Police Lieutenant Anne Verbil took the podium. I was startled to find myself listening to her first hand story of September 11th. This woman, this New York City first-responder standing before me, was in Tower 2 when it collapsed. In a stairwell with eight other people, all of whom got out alive. She said she has horrible survivor's guilt. She spoke of the countless funerals she's attended of those lost. Of the pain and grief in NYC. Tears rolled off my face, and the faces of those around me. She reminded us that the emergency workers of New York City responded no differently, no more heroically than our own local police and firefighters would respond under such crisis. I hope to never find out.

It was incredible, listening to her story. Looking into her eyes, as she and I spoke after. Shaking her hand. Telling her how sorry I was for the loss of her friends and co-workers. How glad I was that she survived, that she was here, eleven years later to share with us. To tell us the story. She gave me a long hug. And handed me a New York City Police Department patch. I handed her the white roses I'd brought with me to lay at the statue of the Fallen Firefighter. It was an honor and one of the most emotional and moving experiences of my life, meeting this woman.    

  


Following the ceremony at the Fallen Firefighters Memorial, everyone was invited to gather at The Ram Restaurant next door.
"In keeping with traditions, we will raise a glass and honor our fallen." 
I was not certain if this invitation was to the general public or if it was implied to be for those in the 'brotherhood' of first responders. I walked across the street to my car, hesitant and uncertain, not wanting to crash this memorial tradition. The hesitation looked a lot like fear, so I locked up my car, walked back across the street, down the sidewalk to The Ram. And into the bar.

It was a packed crowd, primarily men in various versions of uniform. A few people in 'street clothes.' Just as I walked in, someone that I could not see in the crowd, across the room, shouted over the noise, "So raise your glass and keep it raised through the playing of Amazing Grace."

It was clear that drinks had already been served in one form or another; everyone raised their glass.

I stood empty-handed, no glass to raise.

On the table of the booth next to me, there was a wallet, a cigar and a full mug of beer. Unattended.

Glancing around my immediate vicinity, I saw everyone in sight already had a drink in hand. I could see no one without a glass raised in the air.

So I picked up the mug and held it in the air, as the Pipes and Drums played Amazing Grace.

At the end of the moving musical tribute, I sat the mug back where I got it.

A moment later a uniformed fireman walked up to the table. Clearly, the beer's owner.
"Sorry," I said. "I borrowed your beer."
"No worries," he said.
"I didn't drink any, I just needed to raise a glass."
"You should have helped yourself," he said. Well, alright then.

The song of the bagpipes continued, in that enclosed area. The rhythm and momentum increased. It was intense. The room was wall-to-wall Alpha Males. The energy of courage and brotherhood: Impressive. The beer wasn't the only substance of intoxication in that room.


~

The dedication of 9/11 Reflection Park that evening was not quite as solemn as the morning.

Of course there were similarities: uniformed fire fighters, police officers, active military and veterans. Many familiar faces from the morning. Again, the Pierce County Firefighters Pipes & Drums. Lieutenant Verbil was there.





And, as with the morning, there was a speaker from New York. From FDNY Engine 42.

Eleven years ago, he was just a young firefighter. 2001. He said that he would not elaborate on the things he saw that day. Understandable. My heart broke for the pain he must have felt. Must still feel.








In spite of the commonalities, the evening event didn't hold the same serious quiet of the morning. It was a park dedication. There were many more civilians. Families, children and teens. A troop of young Boy Scouts. The social chatter was louder, more casual and free flowing. Like the reception at a gallery opening.

And like a gallery, there was art. The new concrete pathways and sidewalks were decorated with the chalk drawings and literary expressions of local elementary school students.























The service was concluded with one of the most engaging public speakers I have ever heard. An active duty Special Forces soldier from JBLM. The 4th Stryker Brigade. I wish I remembered his name. This man was a compelling presence. Physically imposing. Commanding. Charismatic  He carried himself with absolutely convincing authority. Simultaneous calm and power. Absolutely nothing to prove. Undeniable confidence. Not only do I not remember his name but also can't recall the details of his speech. Yet I was completely riveted. There was a microphone but he didn't need it. I shook his hand after. Thanked him for his service to our country.

This dedication ceremony was more lively and relaxed than the memorial that morning. Yet more lonely for me. This had nothing to do with who did or did not attend. Who I did or did not speak to.

But instead, it had everything to do with the centerpiece of the park. The focal point.




A piece of steel from The World Trade Center.






      I cannot wrap my mind around how first responders run straight into burning buildings, up flights of dark, smoky stairs while everyone else is running out.
But I am so very thankful. 

I reached out and touched the cold steel.




We remember 9.11



I set out the morning of September 11, 2012
to attend a public 9/11 memorial for the first time. 
To lay my hand upon a piece of steel i-beam from the World Trade Center. 
In addition, I got to shake the hand of Lt. Anne Verbil, NYPD. 
It was more than I'd thought to hope.