Supersonic Seven

My daughter, Grace, has always reminded me of the line from A Midsummer Night's Dream, "Though she be but little, she is fierce!" (I see those quizzical looks out there. No, I don't read a lot of Shakespeare.  I probably saw the quote on a t-shirt or bumper sticker.  Just go with it.)  Lately, I have been forced to recognize that, though she is still fierce, Grace is not so little anymore.  I had a sappy dad moment last night at the supermarket, a tiny reminder that Grace is growing up.  I was shopping alone in Giant.  (Well, not alone.  There were approximately a billion people with me in Giant last night, only two of which were cashiers.  I thought I was going to have to recreate the end scene of Crocodile Dundee,  walking on people's shoulders to get to the frozen food aisle.  I had a similar embrace with the Hot Pockets when I finally reached them.) Anyway, I was shopping alone in Giant when I passed a guy pushing a small girl in one of those carts where the child sits in a plastic car mounted to the front of the cart so she can pretend to drive.  I was taken off guard by the tiny wave of sorrow that struck me when I realized Grace has grown too big to pretend drive one of those carts.  (Not that she wouldn't try to squeeze in one.)  As much as I enjoy watching Grace grow, I sometimes miss my little baby girl.

At age seven, Grace has reached the point where she is caught in between stages.  No longer a loony, id-driven toddler, yet not a pre-teen.  As she walks that line, she bobbles back and forth between each side.  She is still genuinely excited to see me and often jumps in my arms when I get home from work, but is embarrassed if I use my thumb to wipe her face before she walks into school.  She likes to sometimes sing silly songs together, yet rolls her eyes if I start jamming to one when she doesn't feel like it.  She often could use a nap, yet rarely takes one.  (Sigh.  Remember naps?  Those glorious times where you could get things done on a weekend, like watching something with colorful language on Netflix.  "Quiet time" isn't quite the same.)  Grace can easily tie her own shoes, but must be asked a thousand times to find them and put them on.  She is perfectly capable of fixing her own lunch, yet whines there is not a "single thing to eat" in the fully-stocked cabinets or refrigerator.  Helping Grace navigate the between stages line is quite a ride.  A ride I assume only gets bumpier as we hit the teen years.  My father-in-law takes great joy in telling me I ain't seen nothin' yet.

I acknowledge growing up is tough for the kids, too.  Just a few years ago they were drawing cheers as mundane acts like walking, talking, and not crapping their pants were seen as major milestones.  As you age, the bar is raised.  I am a tougher audience today.  "Oh, you finished reading Green Eggs and Ham all by yourself?  That's nice.  If you really want to impress me, Sam-I-Am, go grab some Dostoyevsky off the shelf and give that a whirl."

Of course, there is also great upside to Grace growing up.  We haven't watched Frozen in months.  We have hilarious conversations.  I love her curiosity.  We are beginning to share sports fandoms.  It is heart warming to watch her be a good neighbor to her younger friends.  And every once in a while, amidst bedtime arguments and soliloquies about why she should be allowed to wear high heels to the playground, Grace will give Amanda and me a sign that we are doing things right.  Two small, but cool things recently made me proud.  For Christmas, Grace had the idea, completely on her own, to use her leftover birthday money and gift cards to buy gifts for some family friends.  A generous and unselfish act.  Then, earlier this month, Grace was honored at school for raising the most donation money in her school for Jump Rope for Heart.  As she handed Grace her prize in front of the entire school, the vice principal put a live microphone  in Grace's face.  In that split second, I wondered how Grace would react.  Would she turn and walk away?  With the gross, gassy kick she has been on, would she belch the alphabet?  No, she responded with a simple, polite "Thank you."  It was a small thing, but it made me realize that our conversations about manners seem to be sinking in.  

So, even though I sort of long for the seven and a half years that have passed with supersonic speed, I can't help but look forward to the fun ahead.        

On to Round Two

We don't yet know when the series will begin, but that won't stop me from starting the Caps v Pens chatter.  It's never too early, Caps fans.

Fact: I hate the Pittsburgh Penguins.
Opinion: They are Grade A, USDA-certified, notarized, card-carrying douchenozzles.

Fact: The Washington Capitals were the best     team in hockey for the first half of the season.
Opinion: They are no longer the best team in hockey.

Fact: The Pittsburgh Penguins were the best team in hockey during the second half of the season.
Opinion: They still are.

Fact: I am worried about this series.
Opinion: You should be too.

Fact: My friend Eddie has always been, and remains, the sunniest Caps fan I know, always finding hope among springtime doom and gloom.
Opinion: We should applaud his optimism and follow his lead.

Fact: The Penguins will be called for some penalties this series.
Opinion: The Capitals will be called for many more.

Fact: My playoff beard continues to grow.
Opinion: It still resembles a defective Chia Pet.

Fact: My friend Roberto thinks Barry Trotz looks like George "The Animal" Steele's little brother.
Opinion: It would be awesome if, during Game 1, Trotz took a huge bite of the turnbuckle-like  pad at the end of the bench.

Fact: This series will garner much national coverage.
Opinion: I hope on the national broadcasts we get more Kenny Albert and less of the more celebrated Doc Emrick.

Fact: We fans will cheer like crazy and adhere to all our nutty superstitions despite the fact neither will have any bearing on the outcome of the games.
Opinion: We must never stop Rocking the Red.

Fact: In five games against the Penguins this season, Alex Ovechkin had zero points.
Opinion: In this series, The Great 8 will elevate his game in an epic battle with Sidney Crosby.

Fact: I was convinced that today I would be writing about fretting over a Game 7.
Opinion: In about two weeks, I will be writing about fretting over a Game 7.

Fact: There will be much teeth-gnashing, nail-biting, curse-pondering, hockey gods-begging watching the games through our fingers over the next couple weeks.
Opinion: We would not have it any other way.

Fact: The Caps CAN beat the Pens and win the series.
Opinion: The Caps WILL beat the Pens and win the series.

Fact: I've been wrong before...

Puck You, Flyers.

Well, I suppose it is time to climb up on my high horse.  I wasn't going to weigh in on the ugliness in Philadelphia Monday night, but the comments of Flyers General Manager Ron Hextall have called me to action.  Before I get to his comments, a little history lesson is in order.  I was raised on the battles of the old Patrick Division.  The first NHL game I attended in person was Caps vs Pens, but my true Patrick Division baptism occurred soon after when the Flyers came calling to the Capital Centre.  That afternoon was educational.  Barely in the arena, walking down to our seats, I heard a fan profanely informing Flyer goalie Ron Hextall about the sexual abilities of Mr Hextall's sister.  The game itself was a penalty filled bloodbath.   Dirty hits were leveled, blood shed, teeth dislodged.  The main event, a twelve player brawl, included one goalie beating another, required blood be scraped from the ice before play could resume.  The box score read like a career criminal's rap sheet.  That game served as a portal to my hockey fandom and to a not-yet-relinquished hatred of the Philadelphia Flyers.  Plenty of other Caps/Flyers moments that stoked the hatred followed: a game with more fights in the stands than on the ice,  Hextall wielding his goalie stick in a menacing, dangerous way,  handmade "Flyers Suck" t-shirts, Eric Lindros, Overtime Elimination in 2008, watching a car full of Flyers fans nearly intentionally hit a female Caps fan with their car.  So I have seen, and participated in, the ugliness of the rivalry, including moments I am not proud of personally.  I know of what I speak.

Fast forward to this current series.  Most Caps fans expected the Flyers, if they were being outclassed on the ice, to resort to the time honored tradition of "If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em."  After two close losses, it appeared the Flyers were desperate in Game 3.  Ryan White, chief complainer about no-calls, wrecked Brooks Orpik on a questionable hit.  Once the game was out of hand on the scoreboard, the Flyers did what they do best: devolve the game into a scene from Slapshot. 

It's as if every Flyer squad is playing the ghost of their ancestors, the Broad Street Bullies.  Those Flyer championship teams of the 1970's were skilled and barbaric. They also played a style that has long since gone out of favor. The current Flyers make a cowardly, clumsy attempt to honor this timeworn tradition.  After Pierre-Edouard Bellemare's plainly dirty hit pasted Dmitry Orlov, two other Flyer players started beating on Capitals without provocation.  As I said earlier, I loved the brawls of the early '90s as long as there were willing, evenly matched combatants. It was the cowardice of the hit on Orlov that got me going.

What kept me going, pushing me to write, were the comments Wednesday from Ron Hextall.  You can find the full comments here. Hextall said after watching the hit fifty times, he believes the blame lies with Orlov for not protecting himself.  I am glad better hockey observers than I, like former players including Jeremy Roenick , have blasted Bellemare for the cheap shot.  I know Hextall is protecting his guy, lobbying for a reduced sentence, but to defend Bellemare at such length is disturbing.  Bellemare may not have intended to hurt Orlov. His reckless action, though, could have been catastrophic.  Players need to respect each other. If you see a guy's numbers, you can not ram him into the boards.  Hextall's garbage defense of the play proves he is the thug we always called him during his playing days.  And the one game suspension levied on Bellemare by the NHL?  A total joke.  If Tom Wilson were guilty of the same infraction the NHL would have ordered him tied to a car bumper and dragged down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Finally, the fact that the Flyers goons were out at that stage of the game further cements that they had far more intention of being disruptive than making a comeback.

With Ron Hextall sanctioning thuggish behavior on the ice, is it any wonder that Flyer fans take license to act like assholes in the seats?  As I said earlier, I have done and said regrettable things in the hockey bleachers.  Except for a hat trick-celebrating hat toss, I have never thrown anything on the ice.  Monday night, bracelets designed to celebrate the life of Flyers founder Ed Snider were tossed on the ice by the dozens.  At least one Caps player was hit and the game was halted for cleanup.  Nevermind that someone, fan or player, could have been hurt, this is just childish stupidity of the highest order.  Boo like crazy, but keep your hands (and your bracelets) to yourselves.   If this were an episode of Law & Order, you would hear a bunch of fancy talk from Flyers fans, lawyerly  misdirection about the Caps getting too many power plays and benefit of the doubt. Since this isn't Law & Order, what you hear is Flyers fans using their usual grunts and booger flicks to communicate how poorly their players have been treated. (To be fair, I know several Flyers fans who happen to be classy, erudite citizens of the world; I'm surprised they have not been asked to turn in their orange replica sweaters.)   Philly fans, notorius for booing Santa, throwing battery filled snow balls, and cheering Michael Irvin as he laid motionless on the Veteran's Stadium turf with a possible broken neck, have long been a scourge on the sports world. Forever classy.   I am all about making an arena a "hostile" environment, but it should not be literal.

Where does that leave us for Game 4? Likely more Broad Street shenanigans.  Hopefully, the Caps remain poised.  As much as I would like to believe otherwise, this series isn't over yet.  Philly won a series after being down 0-3 just six years ago.  I have witnessed the Caps choke away more commanding leads than I care to remember.  The Caps would be wise to keep their heads, stay focused and finish this thing tonight.  Then maybe they can quote Grand Moff Tarkin by saying, " The last remnants of the Old Republic  Broad Street Bullies have been swept away."

Good Cap, Bad Cap:A Brief Hockey Noir

Setting: A small, dank interrogation room illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.  Below the bulb sets a stark metal table covered  with neat piles of papers, maybe financial reports, and assorted memorabilia: bobbleheads,  t-shirts, a silver trophy marked President's something or another.  On one side of the table sits Washington Capitals owner Teddy L wearing a Winter  Classic sweater and a satisfied grin.  I, Detective A. Capsfan, sit across the table from Big Ted, cloaked in skepticism and a lack of sentimentality that I wear comfortably, like a favorite pair of shoes.  To my left is my partner, Detective Red Rocker.  I'd rather be out investigating a dame with great gams, but we all gotta play the hand we're dealt.

"Thanks for coming downtown, Mr. L" says Red. "Can I get ya anything, maybe some Kool-aid to drink?"

There goes Red, always trying to make nice.

"No, I'm fine, thanks.  I just want to answer your questions," says Ted.

"Really, it's just one question, Ted" says Red, "how would characterize this season for your hockey club?"

"Oh man, where to begin?   So many great things happened this year.  Let's see, we sold out every game; we've got the best fans in the league.  Braden Holtby has a real shot at winning the Vezina Trophy.  TJ Oshie scored a career high in goals."

I detect the slightest taunting nod from the Oshie bobblehead setting on the table.

Ted continues, "Ovi scored his 500th goal, Kuzy made a ton of sick backhand passes from behind the goal.  The list goes on and on."

I wonder if he believes the shit he's shoveling.  I unbutton my cuffs and roll my shirtsleeves to the elbow.  It's getting a little warm in here.

"We, uh, set a franchise record for wins in a season," says Ted.

Listen to this guy, telling us what he thinks we want to hear.  I feel the familiar eye twitch, an old friend I first met after the Easter Epic back in '87.

Red says, "Ted, I think I'm gonna step out and get you that Kool-aid."

Ted's nervous eyes follow Red out the door then lock on me.

"You were saying, Ted?"

"Yeah, I was just going to say that, you know, Coach Trotz has a strong chance to be Coach of the Year.  We earned this here President's Trophy.  All in all, I think the 2015-2016 season has been a wonderful success."

That's it, I've heard enough.  I am out of my seat in a flash, sweeping the table clean with an angry swipe.  The contents of the table fly across the room, little TJ tumbling to the floor, head bobbling all the way.  " Wrong answer," I hear myself roar.

"You just don't get it do you, Ted?  None of you losers over at Kettler do.  All that stuff you just listed is window dressing.  It's all sizzle. I'm ready for big bite of Lord Stanley steak, dammit.  All that great stuff, the records, the awards, they don't mean a thing if you ain't got that ring, Ted.  Don't you see? The people want to love you.  This town is starved for a winner.  If you guys brought a Cup home, you would be kings.  The parade would make an Inauguration look like a little church picnic.  (I know that is an exaggeration, but I 'm on a roll.) Instead, since you guys can't get your crap together in April and May, Bryce Harper is getting a key to the city for swatting a few home runs."

Ted looks like he wants to say something.  Before he can open his mouth, I press on.

"Every damn year I sit here watching you blow sunshine up Red's ass, getting his hopes up.  Sweet talk about Hart Trophies and high seeds.  Drivel about multimedia empires and Winter Classics victories.  Yet every spring ends the same: me choking down the anger as you guys choke away another series lead.  You always run into a hot goalie.  Or lack veteran leadership.  A hundred other reasons for falling short.  Now, you are out of excuses, Ted.  You tell me you were the best team all season. You tell me you have the best goalie.  You added Mr. Game Seven, Justin Williams.  This is this team's best chance to win, but I'll believe it when I see it.  The previous 82 games don't mean squat.  I've been down this road too many times.  All I care about is 16 more wins.  Show me, Ted.  Prove me wrong.  Show me."

I realize I am pacing, fists clenched, sweat dripping from my red face.  Why the hell do I even care so much?

After a few quiet moments, Ted speaks in a low, defiant voice, "Do you think you might secretly want us to fail so you can keep on being miserable?"

That stings.  If only because there might be the tiniest kernel of fact buried in there.  It's not that I want the Caps to lose when it counts, it's just that I know no other way.  It's been so long, the misery feels right.  The truth is I don't know how I would feel if the Caps hoisted the Cup, but I would sure like to find out.

The door swings open.  Red walks in, completely unsurprised by the scene before him in the tiny room.  He places the cup of Kool-aid on the table for Ted.  A Kool-aid that I am desperately thirsty to drink.  But I know better.  I adjust my tie, straighten my sleeves, and button my cuffs as I head for the door.

"Show me, Ted. Show me."

Alarming.

Being a light sleeper with an overactive imagination is never a great combination, let alone when things in your house start beeping  in the middle of the night.  With so many phones, tablets, and other electronics about, when the beeping started the other night, I figured I had incorrectly set my alarm or someone was texting too late.  My foggy brain ran through the checklist of possible beeps until I realized the source of the noise was the carbon monoxide detector downstairs.  It is safe to say, after that, my brain was no longer foggy.

I rushed downstairs hoping the pattern of beeps was only a dying battery notification.  A quick scan of the legend indicated it was not a battery problem. Crap.  Okay, four beeps means a CO problem, five chirps indicates the device is dead.  Discerning the number of beeps isn't as simple as it sounds, especially when anxiety is threatening to take the wheel.  The beeps (Or are they chirps?) are so close together I really was having trouble counting them.  If they were beeps we have a problem.  If I am listening to chirps then I think we are okay.  The purchase date etched on the back of the device read 2009.  Certainly old enough that this thing has simply quit on us.  But no self-respecting worst case scenario guy can leave it at that.

I walk the beeping menace upstairs for a second opinion.  Always thrilled to be awakened by anything, my beautiful wife assures me it is five beeps and rolls back over.  I, of course, remain unconvinced.  I consider the options.  1)Move the family to fresh air and call the fire department to investigate.  2)  Turn off the heat, smash the faulty detector, sleep with the windows open for fresh air, deal with in the morning.  3)Assume it was five harmless beeps, trust the upstairs detector that has not sounded, and take our chances.  4)Fret about making the right decision, endure paralysis through analysis. 

As usual, I choose Door Number 4.  Amanda, now wide awake thanks to the incessant beeping and my pacing and muttering, comes downstairs wearing a look somewhere between Bemused and What the F@*k Are You Doing?

Hey Lady, I am just trying to keep our family safe!
The ensuing discussion was a microcosm of our twenty years together.  My wife: rational, practical, calm.  Me: worried, fretful, certain we're doomed, saying helpful things like, "Why does this never happen at three on the afternoon?"

Me: I still don't know how many beeps that was.  Why can't they make it like 4 vs 12 beeps?

Amanda: It was five, Bryan.

Me: Ummmm, you might be right, but I am just not sure.

Amanda: Count. The. Beeps.

Me: Five. No, four. Or maybe it is five.

Amanda: Bryan!

At this point, I am looking through YouTube demo videos of our brand of detector hoping to hear the difference between a beep and a chirp.  Guess what? They sound EXACTLY THE SAME.  How is that helpful?  Thanks Internet for failing to solve my problems!  Never one to be afraid of making a mountain out of a mole hill, I decide our course of action.  I reign in the crazy long enough to not dial 911.  No, the solution is to go buy new detectors.  And that, kids, is how I ended up at Walmart at 1am. 

Dodging floor waxers and shelf stockers, I found, much to my sweet relief, that they now make CO detectors that talk to you.  There is no ambiguity in a robot voice imploring you to run out of the house.  I rush home, plug in the new detectors, close the windows, and cross my fingers.  I decided to stay up a while to make sure all was well.  While my family slept peacefully, I sat vigilant watch.  Unfortunately, the crazy crept back in.  As any hypochondriac knows, the symptoms you are worried about are the symptoms you feel.  I started to feel some of the main symptoms of CO poisoning: headache, cloudy mind, sleepiness or, you know, the exact way you feel if you are awake at 3am.  With my new monitors remaining silent, I finally settled the anxiety, left the rest to the Big Man Upstairs, and grabbed a few hours of fitful rest.  We all woke up in the morning, so I guess all is well.  Safety first, even I was a bit tired in the morning.  At least I didn't have to sit through hours of boring testimony during jury duty the whole next zzzzzzz....

Buck-le Up!

To paraphrase the brilliant Steve Martin in The Jerk, "The new baseball season is here! The new baseball season is here!"  After a long winter's nap, Orioles baseball is back.  On Opening Day, with an entire season to come,  hope springs eternal.  Of course, the flip side of that hope is uncertainty. 

A sub-par Spring leaves many questions.  Can Crush Davis possibly live up to his new contract?  Will Adam Jones stop swinging at sliders in the dirt and finally become the superstar whose success matches his charisma?  Can a team with lackluster starting pitching contend for a pennant? (Tillman, Gallardo, and pray every batter goes yard-o!)  What will be the implications of parking the South Korean import on the bench?  How will this squad become more than just the best beer league softball team in the American League?  Will there actually be Natty Boh served at Camden Yards this season?  Indeed, uncertainty abounds.

Even amidst the questions, I know a few things, though.  I know I was raised on pitching, defense, and the three-run homer.  I know it didn't matter whether it was Eddie Murray or Lenn Sakata, I collected every baseball card I could find, as long as it had a cartoon bird on it.  I've been in the building for Delmon's bases-clearing, Tiger-sinking double and for the first loss in a string of twenty-one to open a season.  I've been rocked to sleep by the lyric evening songs of Chuck Thompson and Jon Miller.  I've cursed Jeffrey Maier and I've mourned Flanny's passing.  I remember '83 and how this team made me feel in 2012 and 2014.  I know I'm ready to root, root, root for the Orange and Black.  I've read the predictions, but I know today, Opening Day, is a day for 'O'ptimism. 

By my logic, the Birds are due to piece together another improbable "even year" run.  Wild card in '12, ALCS in '14, World Series in '16?  Of course, by that same "even year" logic, San Francisco would dash my hopes of a World Series victory.  But never mind that, today is a day of hope.  Today, I choose optimism.  Baseball is great theater; let's open the curtain on 2016. Let's Go O's!

Super Duper

I thought it would be a long time before I enjoyed a movie as much as I loved Star Wars:The Force Awakens, but Batman v Superman:Dawn of Justice just might be the one.  Mere months after TFA comes a movie that surprises, entertains, and even makes you think.  I am glad I braved the theater despite the awful reviews.

Expecting to be dissapointed, I instead was surprised by a movie that turns superhero convention on its ear.  Lately, the genre has been too quippy for me.  I have grown tired of The Avengers cracking jokes in the middle of danger.  Saving the world is serious business and B v S conveys the proper serious tone.  A city being flattened is somber, not just a backdrop for stunts and flashy costumes. 

Batman v Superman also touches some deep philosophical notes.  You can have your wisecracking Deadpool, I would rather watch a movie that makes me think.  Think about political theory and the role of the state.  Think about the Law of Unintended Consequences.  Think about power and responsibility, good and evil, perception and reality, god and man.

Admittedly, there is a lot going on in this movie, but Jesse Eisenberg, as a young, hip, unconventional Lex Luthor, really ties the whole story together.  Okay, sorry, I've got to stop right there...if you still believe what I have been writing-HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!

To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, the makers of this fetid pile of stink spent too much time thinking about what they could do and not enough on what they should do.  This movie is a bloated, overstuffed bucket of diaper filler.  All your worst fears from seeing the trailer come true. They tried to cram WAY too much stuff in to one movie.  Eisenberg (who I generally like) is awful as hipster, crazy Luthor.  The only thing cheesier than the action is the dialogue.  Even the score is too loud and overbearing, as if I need one more cue that a particular moment was supposed to dramatic.  Finding good parts of this movie to highlight is like trying to unearth the undigested kernels of corn from a turd.  If pressed, I would say there were two: one scene when they actually let Batman be ass-kicking Batman and Wonder Woman.  That's it.  Beyond that you had a bunch of scenes that were stitched together in a silly, incoherent blanket of sadness.

Speaking of sadness, could the movie be any darker?  Literally from the opening shot, the tone of the movie is somber and funereal.  Two angst-riddled superheroes is two too many.  I understand what Zack Snyder was trying to do.  Lending gravity to situations and having the protagonists wrestle with the real implications of their actions could have been interesting had it not been laid on so thick.  This movie, though,  is too heavy with clenched jaws, furrowed brows, and far away stares.  Between this mess and Daniel Craig's James Bond, I think Hollywood is ready for some Prozac.

Of course, like Man of Steel, it wasn't just the tone that was dark.  The film's pallette is washed out and colorless.  The whole thing is grainy, rainy, and bleak.  Someone should tell Snyder to stop playing with the filters; I bet his Instagram is the most doctored thing you'll ever see.  Some of us would like to see Superman's cape a bright red or watch Batman fight in a building with the lights on.  I suppose that doesn't match our heroes' tortured souls.

I think there are great, deep stories that could be told using superheroes as the backdrop.  They are probably being told in the comics by better storytellers than Zack Snyder.  Maybe I should start reading those.  Unfortunately, in this battle of Batman versus Superman, moviegoers are the real losers.