Tag Archives: Sports

Boys and their balls consume my life

Ya’know…Baseball, Basketball, Football….

….Balls.  Boys love them and we parents get to experience the joy of ushering the man children around to all of their ball activities.

Which is where I’ve been these last two plus months.  On ball duty.  I think I have breathed and bathed in enough dirt and line chalk to make an asthmatic kill themselves.  More nights than not, going home seemed pointless and if I didn’t have to wash a stupid WHITE Baseball uniform Every. Single. Day.  I would’ve camped right on the grounds thus beginning the first occupy Ball field.

But we (ball sports involve the entire family and my youngest began to manifest demons at the mere mention of ball, field or game) survived and the team made history in their undefeated win of 4 straight championships and runner-up in the Pony East Zone tournament.

My teenage baller is an animal and managed to break 7 (I stopped counting after the 7th hit to my bank account) bats this season.  He had a great year and almost made it worth the monetary and kronos investment.

Take a look at the consuming, cheesy posed ball life taken by my convenient cell phone.  I’m not one of those “good mothers” who not only washes but iron starches her son’s uniform with pure joy, brings home-baked snacks for all of the exhausted boys and parents, has her Nikon ready (complete with telescopic lens to capture each bead of sweat), bounces across the field like Tigger amped on the now regulated cough meds, offers to car pool endlessly, dresses her entire family in coordinated team spirit wear, and screams non-stop without suffering any damage to her vocal cords.  Okay, so maybe this exact woman doesn’t exist but I’ve met some that come pretty sickening close.

I hatefully throw the uniform in the machine and pray it comes out partially clean (secretly envisioning the day when it will blaze on my bon fire).  Iron?  My youngest didn’t even recognize one in the store.  I barely bake for my own children and certainly do not plan to torture myself for offspring that are not my own.  My cell phone captures the moment with enough grainy haze that if you felt the need to see a drop of sweat then one could certainly be imagined.  I have to down coffee laced with regulated cough syrup just to function so field bouncing isn’t in my routine.  I can barely get my own DNA to where they need to be and adding others into the mix would be a suicide mission on wheels.  Coordinated team spirit wear?! My family considers themselves fortunate to have daily clean wear and matching socks is a huge bonus (the only coordination they know).  The last time I tried to scream for my son, I choked on my spit and bronchospasmed.


One of many this season

Yes, I’m a dirtball and we are bringing some of the field home with us but I am too exhausted to care.

Proud Papa poses for yet another championship win.

Score, another one!  They could be twins.

It takes two to hold this so I better help him – Proud Papa  Hey Proud Papa, wanna help me wash that uniform?!?

Aww, she does love him even if we had to bribe and drag her to the game

Proud of their bro even if Tres’ motivation is trophy lust

Oh look, his dedication paid off and he scored one of his own. It pays to be a loyal bat boy a.k.a. little brother

My baller throws a fast 65 and beat the 17yr olds even though he was holding back for the upcoming game.

New bat #7…I think. Sadly I don’t predict a long life span for this guy.

As if we have not experienced enough ball! Seeing how the pros do business.

It was a sadistically fun ride.  Now we are getting ready for the start of school and more ball activities ahead.

Boys and their balls.  The infatuation never ends.

The heat and the power of endorphins!

I caught a quick glimpse of the TV yesterday (while I was vacuuming and dropping sweat that could fill a man-made lake) as the youngest was channel surfing (yes, he is male and inherited this trait from his father’s gene pool).  The quick flash I saw was of the USA pictured on a weather map and the entire country was lit up red with 90’s and 100’s across the board.  A meteorologist was standing in front of the weather map speaking to the camera and wearing a look of concern in addition to his slightly wilted and crumpled suit.

That’s all I got.  I couldn’t hear him and before I could power down the sweeper and make a request that the little TV dictator keep that station on for a minute,  he changed the channel.  I debated on using my rank to overtake him and seize power of the arc of the covenant but decided to continue working and sweating.

Sweating has been a part of daily life.  But I’m not complaining (thank God for A/C).  Although apocalyptic, I love the heat.  Ok, so this might be a bit oppressive (we live in the arm pit of the world) but I’d rather have this heat than the horrid blizzard of a winter we had to endure.  Actually, I’d rather have my butt planted in Arizona where there is zero humidity.  The humidity is what kills us here.

Well some of us more or less than others.  My middle child, Dos, cannot handle humidity in any form and Mr. Pavlov was birthed and raised in the heat ridden, humid, tropical Philippines.

Dos is a big boy and an avid sport player.  By big I do not mean McHeffer, I mean large for his age.  At 12yrs he is 5’7″ and 160#  The boy is solid.  Think hitting a brick wall and you’ll get it about right.  He is also freakishly strong.  I already cut his hair so I know for a fact that we don’t have any Sampson going on here (and he has also taken sips of fermented drink – another non-Sampson trait).

Thanks to his size, power, attitude and natural talent, he is readily accepted into the sport arena and plays just about everything known to mankind.  I have the mileage on my newer Clown Car (the non-affectionate name for our 5 seater downsize after the death of our beloved Honda Minivan) to prove it.  Currently he is on a basketball league.  Outdoors.  An outdoor basketball league. Clear?  Outdoors.  He had a game yesterday in the 100+ degree hot and humid temps.

My Mama heart was feeling a bit sorry for my big sized baby.  Hey, I still remember the day he was born like it were yesterday.  His head and shoulders are the most vivid of the memories (I will remember them forever!) but he will always be my baby no matter how large he becomes.  So when he came to me all pathetic looking asking if he could sit this game out, I knew my sports crazed kid was suffering from the heat.  Was it truly worth it?  Making a kid who sweats buckets, becomes easily dehydrated and then vomits up the attempts at rehydration play in this dangerous heat index?  The image of him hurling all over the court and the other players sealed the decision for me.  I told him he could remain at home.  Indoors.

Now Mr. Pavlov is a heat eating machine.  I think he possesses a mutant tropical gene that enabled him to live (as in play outdoors) in the Philippines. The man is unphased.  He is also an avid participant in sports and his true love is cycling (think Lance Armstrong as in cycling NOT his true love…just so we’re clear!)

He would sleep with his bike if I permitted her in our bed….but I don’t and she is confined to the garage or on the trainer in our family room.  He cycles 25 miles to work “just cause” and pushes himself regardless of the heat index.  He laughs at the sun and the gnats don’t even attempt to buzz his head, dive bomb his eyes or lodge in his sweat.  They know better.  Mosquitos don’t touch him either (I’m thinkin’ the mutant gene repels them).

He is an outdoor god.  But I’m not quite ready to place an image of him in my garden or erect a totem pole just yet.  Even though these next few pictures are totally statue worthy:

What heat?

Unzipping is my secret for ventilation

Feel the breeze baby!

On basketball day he came home from work wearing similar garb to the above photos.  Yes, he cycled to work, again.  His cycling suit was unzipped (see above)and he was joyfully sweaty.

I wondered how long the joy would last once I informed him that I permitted our heat intolerant child to skip his game.  Without further delay I spit out the information.  Mr. Pavlov looked at me, then glanced at Dos lounging on the couch wearing only his basketball shorts and playing with his ipad (nice presentation Dos!), then glanced back at me.  I waited for the speech about team commitment, keeping kids active and off of brain numbing computer gadgets and TV (Mr. Pavlov is also ex Airborne) but instead he nodded and replied a simple,

“Yea, it is hot.”

I offered Mr. Pavlov a glass of water and told Dos he should be thankful for a little thing called endorphins!

An afternoon of basketball, ghetto and chickens

Child number dos  has some amazing athletic ability.  As overused as this may sound, he is a natural-born athlete.  He truly was ‘born this way’ considering he entered our world trying to bungee jump with his umbilical cord.  At 6 months old he almost decapitated me with his Nerf ball.  During his little league years he managed to leave a third-eye-goose-egg on Mr. Pavlov’s forehead practically rendering him unconscious and nearly neutered several nice young males who offered to play catch with the “cute little boy.”  He was and is an animal.

The animal getting ready to make contact!

This year he decided to play basketball for the first time.  It came as no surprise to us when he owned the ball after one touch.  My head was spinning as the coach explained several moves he wanted the players to execute.  But dos was not phased at all.  He nodded his head and ran the dribble, spin, dribble, switch maneuver effortlessly. 

Mr. Pavlov and I watch the games proudly with our heads held high.  Mr. Pavlov seems to hold his head a little higher because he claims the genes obviously “come from him.” But Mr. Pavlov and I are quiet spectators.  Other than a “Good Job Dos!”  or “Nice!” we sit and admire the talent.  However, as we have experienced from our years on the side lines, not all parents embrace this reserved approach.

We have met our share of obnoxious but recently we met a parent who makes obnoxious seem enjoyable.  From the beginning of the game she screeched and screamed with such force that the tiny structures in my inner ear began to reverberate.  By the end of the game Mr. Pavlov and I had full-blown tinnitus. We were feeling as if  the Jr. High Marching band had slammed our heads between their symbols.  Our legs were wobbly, our vision blurred, our stomachs were entertaining nausea and we each had our own terrible version of a migraine going on.

However, the abuse didn’t cease there.  Not only was she a screech but also WHAT she was screeching made her our sport spectator winner for the most ghetto parent  E V E R! 

For example, she yelled “Get yo man” repeatedly when it was zone defense, not man-to-man!  A noble soul, who was hoping to get her to shut her trap (I’m sure of it) informed her the team was playing zone defense.  This information would’ve sent me under the bleachers gagged and muzzled daring never to show my face again but not screech.

She went off like a siren with woot-woot, dat’s what I’m talkin’ bouts and whoops each time her children received a foul.  We even got to feel the bleachers shake and threaten collapse with each of her celebratory pelvic dance grinds.  She yelled “GOOD BLOCK” when her child mowed down another player football tackle style and encouraged her child to “get da rebounds” even if it meant crossing into another zone and knocking out a team-mate in the process. Her children were most concerned with pleasing her and were willing to draw whatever amount of blood was necessary to accomplish each task required for the approval of screech.

As painful as this behavior was to endure I prepared myself to let it go and never speak of it again….UNTIL….I heard….screech…sound off during this 11yr old, co-ed basketball game with…. 

“G U A R D   D A T   H O!!”

and just incase the entire suburb failed to hear her….

“G U A R D    D A T   H O!!”

Again, maybe, just maybe someone was not paying attention so she felt compelled….

“G U A R D  D A T   H O!”

We, the human parents in the gym, were in a state of shock.  I kept my head straight but strained my eyes horizontally in an attempt to connect with Mr. Pavlov and child number uno.  I’m sure it was this continued ocular strain that sent me off  the migraine cliff.  I also attempted to locate child tres because he is known to repeat such reactionary adjectives just for giggles. I could just imagine tres joining screech in perfectly blended vocal harmonics of “Guard dat ho!” 

Thankfully, tres appeared not to comprehend the revolting screams but seemed sufficiently entertained by her pelvic bumps and gyrations.  Tres performing a spectacle of himself with his crotch as the star entertainer was far more favorable to me than the alternative.

Slowly and ever so slowly, I turned my head  to see if I could find “dat ho’s” parents.  I wanted to prepare myself for the direction of the attack!  Since I don’t actually know “dat ho’s” parents, I tried to locate the individuals wearing the most offended facial expressions or exhibiting the strongest physical reaction.  I was unsuccessful in locating the parents because EVERYONE was wearing looks of silent horror. No one moved.  No one spoke.  We sat.

And that is when the realization imploded from within that Mr. and Mrs. Pavlov were not the only chickens attending the game.


Post Superbowl: Where even the young are hurtin’

I’m not much  of a sports fanatic.  This is by choice.  I was [past tense] a crazed sports freak.  But I seem to get too involved and then ultimately crushed when my beloveds do not win.  So I decided in 1992, after the ultimate heart failure loss, to observe from a safely unattached distance.  However, I know that Steeler fans are  CRRAAAAZY-dedicated to their Black and Yellow and I admire that. 

I know everyone has something that they like to do for games and Superbowl.  Once we stupidly actually went to a Steeler game and froze beyond freezing.  I never knew that my corneas could ice over!  The pain seared through my eye sockets with each blink. AND would you believe the stadium sold out of Hot Coco?!?  Therefore,  the lack of hot product forced me to lean into my seat neighbor’s personal body space, just above her steaming cup of Hot Coco in order to defrost my partially frozen corneas.  Yea, we didn’t go again after that near blinding, frost bitten experience.  

Usually our Superbowl Sundays go something like: sleeping in (thanks to the beauty of Saturday night Church service), grabbing some take-out or inhaling homemade spaghetti at the parent’s and then returning home so the hubs can retreat to his basement, which he zoned for maximum testosterone output.  It is here that he can indulge in his TV addiction by feeding it with Football time and other man pleasures like hunting or Military shows…often uninterrupted.  We, being myself, the female child and youngest son, usually remain upstairs while the two males yell, groan and engage in general species bonding time.  The kids are usually in bed at a reasonable hour and all is well the next AM regardless of the game outcome.  I can remain safely detached and obtain game info from those emerging from the TESTOSTERONE CAVE.

This year we changed our usual routine thanks to some friends who decided to host a Superbowl party.  We sported the Black and Yellow and were off for some Superbowl FUN!  

We are ready!!

It was great.  I got into the game and felt that old excitement returning.  The friends were awesome and the food filling!

Let’s GO!

Nice Job Kim!


Remember my post on the nightmares of Filipino food? click here WHHAAHHHAAA.  I though about bringing Balut (Ba-loot) or some other HELLISH EVIL but Pancit got the vote and she scored!  Don’t worry.  Pancit is just noodles, chicken, peppers and other totally edible stuff  – totally absent of fully formed leathery DUCK!

Yum, Pancit is SAFE


The youngest was actually motionless for all of 5 minutes while Fergie “shook it” and belted air through her vocal cords.  Although I’m convinced he was more interested in the gyrations than the dying cow singing part.

He's still....must be the Black Eyed Peas

And I realized that I can watch sports without getting too messed up over the losses.  Fear the beard…not the team!

Now shave that thing!

Everything requires balance.  I can see this now thanks to some help from appendages on the light fixture.

I can see things more clearly now...

But I must tell you….we were hurting today.  I don’t know how some people can stay up so late (yea, I’m a total out of the closet night owl and one to talk…I know) and still function well the next day.  I was ready to shoot-up on some of this and deal with the death later…..

When Starbucks just doesn't cut it!

I was about to blame it on my nearing 40 age bracket but then I noticed something…………..

Post Superbowl: Where even the young are hurtin'

Yep, Post Superbowl:  Where even the YOUNG are hurtin’ INDEED!

Falling on your butt happens.

In life we fall down. It happens. We all have crashed at some point. Some of us more than others.  Well this New Year’s Day the boys learned this fact literally. We made the most of this beautiful, unusually warm day and headed out to explore the sights, the sounds and the ICE.

But before the ice let’s look at the exhibits….

He LOVED the gingerbread masterpiece creations.  He was pointing out Sponge Bob’s house.


You must be joking.  I am not, I repeat NOT getting on the ICE…no way! I am bred for the tropics.


I see the hubby’s reflection


Rows of Gingerbread homes


Jumps of excitement over the house creations


A form of Art.  Now when can we eat them?  We are 100% recovered.                                           
an indoor exhibit of houses galore                                                                                                                                          
Santa ornament camouflaged in the tree                                                                
And not so camouflaged.                                                                                                                                                         


Santa’s from around the world                                                                                                                                             


How the Italians do it…a bit troubling indeed.                                                                                                                             


La Befana                                                                                                                                                                                       


Now this is a frightening sight for anyone especially a child! She looks like she requires the Heimlich maneuver.                                                                                                                                                                         


 The hubby’s favorite.  Reindeer butt.   Disturbing.                                                                                                                                                                


Looking up                                                                                                                                                                                    


and up                                                                                                                                                                                            


and under                                                                                                                                                                                      


Getting ready to hit the ice



Whoa, this is harder than it looks – getting their skate legs


I can’t let go!!!


I must hold on!  I have a death grip on this rail.
I am getting tired.  This is hard!


Older bro is gaining momentum but I keep falling!


I got this!  No problem! And it’s so hot that I can take off my coat!  Mom somehow failed to capture all of the butt falling moments but there were several and I saw stars.
A hard fall will make you see things like lights around trees…

I was taking the pictures but are you wondering about the rest of the family? Just in case you are….


Monitoring things from the sidelines…the safe way to be.


But wait, Texting???


And Drinking??


She must have found a STARBUCKS!!!


Back outside to the beauty for a short while before it is over.
Good-bye for another year…and we welcome 2011!!!

From our family to yours....

Happy New Year!!

Seeing the light

We kicked the influenza just in time for the Holidays.  We may have been weak and battered but we were determined to rock the seasonal celebration(s).  Now the problem with puking your guts out for a few days is that your stomach shrinks and becomes sensitive for awhile.  Well, this was NOT going to work.  I mean there are soooo many goodies that only come around once a year. Once a year!  Annual!  The cookies, the pasta dishes, the soups, the side dishes, the gingerbread, the food, food, food and did I mention the desserts???  Mouth watering. 

It was proving to be difficult to enjoy all of these treats.  We were pale and our foreheads glistened with sweat brought on by minimal exertion (think chewing).  Not to mention how our stomachs churned with each mouth watering bite.  However, there is just something about food when it calls your name that is absolutely irresistible and we were able to forge on.

We made it through the festivities without revisiting the bathroom from over consumption.  But given the fact that we were on the verge of losing consciousness, and seeing more lights than Christmas offered, I was not able to capture any photos of the heavenly spread…or many photos of Christmas for that matter.  But I did realize more than ever this year just how important the family unit is during these seasons.  Immediate family, extended family, whatever and whomever your family is and however you make it work – THAT is what matters the most.

I see THE light!!

And now it’s hard to believe that another Christmas has come and gone. Here are a few of the photos I was able to capture……until next year!

Christmas Eve.  The youngest is trying hard to hold back on the face making.
Christmas brings out the magic of sibling love.  Yes, it does exist.
The Christmas morning JIG – He got THE game!!
Even dad gets into the excitement when he finds his gift under the tree!
The little guy by the Christmas tree art.
Keeping things in perspective

Capturing Josh

Can one photo sum up an individual?  Can a shot capture a person?  Maybe not fully but this one came pretty darn close!

AND a few hours after I took the above photo he strolled through the kitchen and paused briefly….

Are you getting the theme?