I've Got Spirit, Yes I Do!

I am not a sports fan; I am a cheerleader. This is not easy to admit, but here's some evidence, scanned in from my high school yearbook:



I'm the first one, left front. (One of the yearbook boys liked me. And no wonder--I had no idea then, but just look at those cute legs! Also, since I'm coming clean here, note that I am wearing my class ring. Which I still have for some reason. Want it?)

Anyway, I like to play sports, and I can appreciate athletic grace and prowess, and sometimes I can admire strategy. I know most of the major sports' major rules, and am able to define terms like icing, offsides, traveling and holding, and can usually recognize them when they're happening on the field/ice/court/playing surface.

I really like the TV show Sport Science, because I love seeing the way the human body functions in terms of athletics.

I like the stories that get told through sporting events (not to be confused with the mini-dramas about the athletes Bob Costas narrates to fill time during the Olympics). I love the emotions on the players' faces.

What I like most about sports, though, is the community aspect of it all, and I think this is where my cheerleading history shows through: I love the home team. It embarrasses me to admit it now, but I was one of those dorky kids who always had school spirit. It only makes sense that I would grow up to have a hometown spirit too, I guess, and like the Penguins as representatives of the city more than I like hockey.

I used to fight the sports things entirely. My first feminist inklings showed up in high school, when the stupidrottenhorribleeviljackass of an athletic director wouldn't allow the cheerleading squad to be listed as a team (which would have given us money for things like uniforms) despite the fact that we competed. You know, against other schools. Like all the other teams did. Then, when we raised our own money and kicked ass at some competitions, that same AD wouldn't let us put our trophies in the trophy case (where the football, baseball, and wrestling trophies lived), because of his decree that cheerleading wasn't a sport (our trophies got stuffed into corners in some of the administrative offices). It didn't matter that we ran and lifted weights, or that many of us were great gymnasts or dancers (who had no dance or gymnastics teams to join, because our school didn't have them). All that mattered was that he decided we couldn't be called athletes.

I still really dislike that man.

Anyway, the whole thing was an exercise in being a second-class citizen, and I resented the reality that the football players (some of whom where very nice guys and good students, and some of whom were the kind who would happily punch girls) were clearly seen to be more important than I was.

I blamed football (because we were indeed an All About the Football school), and turned my back on it and the whole of organized sports for a long time. And then, a few years ago, I watched Friday Night Lights (the movie, not the TV show), and it all came rushing back. I missed it so much! I missed the drama and excitement, and the earnestness of sports--I had grown up with it, and it was a part of me, and I'd have to figure out how to reconcile the idiocy and the money and the bad behavior and the big business, because sports can be a lot of fun.

I suppose it helps that I have a son, and that he's become a sports fan and is growing into a capable little athlete, but I hold his sports experience (as a player, not a fan) as something different. I watch him play and practice soccer the way any parent watches her kid play a sport or dance in a recital or act in a play--it's not at all the same as paying to watch strangers or acquaintances play.

Anyway, the joy of sports for me is in the way the whole city gets behind the Steelers or the Pens, and even the struggling Pirates. I love seeing everyone out and about on a game day, grinning at one another as they take in each other's black and gold regalia. In Pittsburgh, at least, it doesn't matter if you're a big fat middle-aged mom or a skinny little geeky guy; all you have to do is sport the black and gold, and people are friendly--because for a while, anyway, we all have something in common: we're supporting the home team.

So while I can't quote you any stats on shots taken versus goals scored, I can tell you that I'm really pleased the Penguins have gone from looking to move to another city last fall to being four games away from bringing the Stanley cup back to Pittsburgh. And I believe that pride and pleasure is all that's required of me to be able to unabashed when I say Let's Go Pens!

I am a Rock; I am an Island

I am neither rock nor island, really, but I am all alone. ALLLLL alone. The Boy is on his way to West Virginia for the Big Field Trip. He's so excited, and I'm excited for him--but I am going to be on pins and needles until his bus pulls back into the school parking lot Wednesday night. He literally has never been this far away from me, and he didn't take his phone because there's no service there. Do you realize what this means, people? It means that for the first time since he was born--in December of 1996, I am going to spend more than 48 hours without any communication from my kid. He's of course not bothered by this AT ALL: I didn't even get a hug and kiss goodbye. Ingrate. Macho. Sigh.

Honestly, I'm not worried about him or his safety once he's there, but I am worried about the bus trip there and back. I fully admit that I am a paranoid freak, but I might call the place late this afternoon and just make sure the bus made it there. Then I can breathe until Wednesday afternoon, when they start to make their way back.

Yes, I am a worrier. I deal with it, and I do my honest best to keep The Boy from knowing just how much I worry, but . . . there really isn't much I can do about it.

In other news, I sold an old bed frame on Craig's List, and the guy came to pick it up at the crack of dawn Saturday morning. Since I was up, The Boy and I went to the big neighborhood yard sale, where I spent $30 on a big bag of books, a bike to replace The Boy's crashed one, and a bike rack for the car. Sounds great, right? But . . . (of course there's a but) we immediately put the rack on the car, hooked the bike to it, and drove to MP to see my dad. We were planning to go in anyway, to see if he could fix the pedals on the crashed bike, so we figured we'd take the new bike for him to go over and make sure it was safe.

So we drove to MP, and got there to discover that the front wheel had fallen off the bike on the way. UGH! I actually did the old, I'm Shocked! move of clapping my hand over my mouth. We retraced our route (just as far as the turnpike) to see if we could find it, and of course could not. Then we went to Wal-Mart (ugh) to see if we could buy one, but they only sell whole bikes. By the way, there *is* a bike shop in MP, and of course we went there, but it's CLOSED ON WEEKENDS. Isn't it amazing that everyone in MP is able to fulfill their bike needs between from 9-5, Monday through Friday?

It was too late to go to the local bike shop by the time we got back home, so we went yesterday when they opened at noon. The cheapest wheel, tire, and tube set the guy had would have cost $75, and he was very, very reluctant to sell it to me because he said the bike was a piece of junk and that it would be a waste to put such an expensive tire on it. And then he brought out a used bike that had just come in that day, which The Boy promptly fell for . . . which I agreed to buy for $120. It will have a full tune-up, new tires, and new brakes. And supposedly the bike would have cost about $600 when it was new.

The Boy's thrilled, but I don't know whether I did the right thing. Suddenly the $15 yard sale bike has cost a whole lot more. On the one hand, The Boy will have a good bike that he'll be able to ride and keep until he's pretty much a grown-up (or able to fork over for his own damn bike). On the other hand, I'm probably a chump.

And I am SO SICK of thinking about it!

Happy Mother's Day

I will preface this by saying that I had a nice day, because I got to spend it with my kid, whom I love a great deal. BUT, I had to drive to Indiana (PA, not the state) in rain and gusty-blowing-the-car-off-the-road winds, to arrive at the soccer field in a hail storm, and then stand around for a half-hour while the refs waited for enough lightening that they felt they had to call the game. We hung around for a while longer and then drove right back home in the rain.

But, like I said, it was still a good day. The Boy is an excellent car companion, and never fails to entertain. He fashioned a lovely rain hat from a a deflated beach ball that had been stuffed under the seat. "You can't say I'm not resourceful." You're right, Boy. I can't. But I *can* say you probably shouldn't wear that thing outside of the car.

In Mother's Day gift news, I scored a sweet card, with sentiments of The Boy's love preserved in his own handwriting and drawings, AND a basket for the front of my bike. Woo! I'm seriously happy about the basket, because I want to be able to carry more than what I can fit on my back.

So, yes. A very nice day, indeed.

Yesterday was nice too. I took a huge (for me) bike ride, got to see my mom for a while, and then P came over for grilled pizza, MST3K, and Rock Band.

Look at the pizza!


Not only does the dough NOT sag down through the grill rack, but it gets bubbly and crispy.


A side gets crispy in two or three minutes, and then you flip in and add the toppings, and Bob's your uncle.


Ta da!

Here's the recipe for the dough:

1 envelope active dry yeast
1/2 tsp sugar
2/3 cup warm water
2 cups flour
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp pepper
2 TBL olive oil, plus more to brush on crusts

Combine yeast, water and sugar and let it get foamy. I combined the flour, salt, pepper, and olive oil in my food processor with the dough blade, and added the yeast mixture once it was ready, and then ran it until it turned into dough. I gave it a little bit of extra time to knead, and then put it on a bowl coated with oil, turned it, covered it with plastic, and let it rise for about an hour and a half. It's a weird, heavy dough, and I was very suspicious of it, but it turned out just fine.

After it rises punch it down and divide it into four pieces. Roll them into pizza crusts that are about 1/8-inch thick, brush both sides with olive oil, and grill.

Once the dough has risen, the whole process is really quick, and it's pretty fun to do. The crust is super thin and crispy, and tastes kind of smokey, like pizza from a place that uses a brick pizza oven.

Good stuff.