Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘athlete’

Dave and I spent the day selling the car.

The car.

If you live nearby, you know the one I mean.  The 2000 A6, in the color the salesman at Barrier Audi called “comearrestmered.” The one we bought new (!) and ordered especially for us: manual 6-speed transmission, ski door from the trunk to the back seat, heated seats, sunroof.  The one we bought with the stock options granted in my first career, which I spent at Microsoft.

The one that I could drive up and down any hill in the snow, as long as I kept my speed under 15 mph.

The one that took all the seventh grade girls home from Newcastle Beach Park because there weren’t any other adults there.

The one that wore grooves into the pavement between home and Tyee Middle School, as I raced (the kids would say “crawled”) to get the kids there on late mornings, attended and presided over PTSA meetings, transformed the Commons into a sparking skyline one June evening and an island paradise four years later.

The one that went to hundreds of Little League and Mudville games.  Hundreds of girls’ basketball games, boys’ basketball games, football games, sports banquets, playoff games. The one that sprinted from the Little League State Tournament in Auburn to home and back again because someone forgot his cleats.

Sometimes, my daughter and I work at the same school.

Sometimes, my daughter and I work at the same school.

The one in which one child sat and cried before attending the first practice freshman year at Newport.

The one I waited in day after day during Tutorial, waiting for another child to finish up in Honors Freshman English, trying to get from 62% to 80%.

The one we were in after a terrible Apple Cup loss.  The cops who pulled us over (that color…) blinked at the youngsters asleep in the back, the obviously sober parents in the front, and said, “You’re probably not in the mood for a ticket, are you?”

The one that parked outside while I shopped at Bellevue Square and worked out at The Bellevue Club, two other indulgences we had to give up.

The one we drove when my friend from ninth grade visited with her husband, and we took them everywhere you take visitors except to our house, which had descending into utter chaos after our abrupt return to work.

The one I was in when I saw the prongs of my engagement ring, vacant, and realized I must have lost the diamond in the pool at the Y.  The one parked in the garage when Dave said, “I still have what I most want from the wedding.”

The one that carried me to the hundreds and hundreds of hours of volunteer work I did for the kids’ schools, Bellevue PTSA Council meetings, WSPTA Board Meetings and which later delivered me to my second career, this time in teaching, which hasn’t taken off the way I’d hoped.  Yet.

The one I was in when the mileage hit 100,000.  It’s not nearly as fun to watch on an electronic odometer as it was on the old mechanical ones, where you saw all 5 nines roll back while a a 1 followed by five zeroes rolled up.  Or, as was the case with my parents’ 1962 Fairlane, just the five zeroes.

The one that lost its clutch on my birthday, burning out as the valet parked it.  Mercifully, the restaurant paid half of the bill.  We could have never afforded it.

If you look closely, you’ll see an ugly gouge in the center of the back bumper. I did this. I did it because I was excited to see a Newport team play at Safeco in the State Baseball Tournament, so excited I didn’t set the brake. The car rolled back into the garage door as it was closing. This time, Dave almost cried.

The one Kirsten and I drove downtown after Christmas 2014 to watch “The Book Thief.”  Ever mindful of costs, Kirsten guided me to a meter cheaper than those inside the downtown core.  And a block away from a strip club.  When we returned from the movie, my back window was broken, there was a rock on the seat, and my Timbuktu bag was gone, and with it, my carefully curated collection of substitute teacher supplies.  Thought you were getting a laptop, didn’t you?

The replacement is a Volkswagen CC, a sleek silver model with just 20,000 miles on it.  It will not need expensive maintenance.  It will park at whatever school I’m assigned to (still subbing…), and will carry groceries and school supplies. It will visit Pullman for games, Spokane to see my mom, and perhaps Vancouver for a little R&R.  It will get me where I need to go.  It will never take me where the Audi took me.

 

 

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

I’m good at using the internet to find people.  My father was in the Air Force, so my old friends don’t all get together at one particular reunion.  We’re scattered across the country.  Social media has given us the perfect way to stay in touch, and from time to time I get motivated to find more friends from back in the day.  Males are of course the easiest to find.  Men with unusual, distinctive names pop up in one search, no matter where they’ve landed.  Girlfriends are much rarer.  They marry, divorce, make new lives in new states.  Girlfriends, I must hope, will try to find me.  (Fortunately, some do!)

This practice hasn’t been without its sad moments.  One of my best friends from the seventh grade died before her ten-year reunion.  A boy I knew in the same neighborhood was murdered.  A high school boyfriend died under mysterious circumstances, and the last guy I dated before dating my husband has died of heart disease.

This week I had one of those bursts of curiosity that sends me to my keyboard.  I had the urge to find a couple of guys from high school.

Our final move, when my dad retired, landed me in Spokane at the start of my sophomore year of high school.  And for reasons that would take far too long to explain, I found myself, for the first time, without an active social life.

After my first lonesome year, I knew of one more way to gain acceptance on the social scene.  Today, a lonely girl would attend a few club meetings to find one in search of new members.  Heck, today, that girl would start a new club.  Me, I looked for a boy in need of a girlfriend.  I’m too old to be embarrassed about it.  It was a standard gambit for a girl of my era.  So stop judging me already.

I found him in the back of my German class.  Steve was a gifted athlete one year older with a glum expression and a bad case of acne.  Besides our strange interest in German, he was, like me, a bit of a social outcast.  I discovered through diligent research—no need to call it stalking—that his father had a drinking problem.  Mine did, too.  I also discovered that he lived in the same not-quite-up-to-snuff neighborhood where I lived.  He already gave me a slight lift of the chin if he saw me in the halls.  All I had to do was wait for the right moment, which in my day meant waiting for the dance which required the girls to do the asking.  I knew we would hit it off and get along beautifully.  The plan involved more details, of course, many more details, but I won’t bore you with them here.  Just take my word for it:  I took all the right steps, and my plan could not fail.

You already know, of course, that when I mustered up the courage to invite him to the dance, he didn’t say yes.  Instead, he looked confused and said just about the worst thing a boy could say.  He said, “I was hoping someone else would ask me.”  You don’t need me to tell you how I froze in the hall as he continued on his way.  You don’t need me to explain that I spent the next two weeks fixated on my shoes as I walked the halls, afraid to let anyone read my bewildered expression.

You see, another girl had moved to town several months after I did.  Two of them, actually; they were twins.  They fit in better than I did, and one of them noticed, as you probably already guessed, that there was a talented athlete walking the halls without a girlfriend.  Everything I had in common with Steve, all my good intentions, they weren’t of enough value to him.  He needed a ticket to the inside, too.  I could offer him affection.  But she had true social currency.  She already belonged.

Steve continued to play sports well, though not well enough to play in college.  He attended a local community college and became a chef.

I saw him only once more after his graduation.  He was at a party, probably during the summer, standing in the doorway looking just as glum as I remembered.  But instead of raising his chin in greeting, he reached out his long arms to give me a hug.  And he apologized.  He told me he was sorry about what he’d said to me and for not accepting my invitation.  He hadn’t enjoyed his date with the other girl at all.  He knew he’d have had a much better time with me.

He wasn’t one of the first people I wanted to look up online.  I typed his name into Google just yesterday.

Steve died in a house fire in 2001.  The reporter shared his athletic achievements in football, basketball, and the high hurdles, explained his restaurant career.  I was pleased he included all those things, but less pleased that he shared explicit details about how Steve was found.

Today I tried to find my Sr. Prom date, Mike.  I first met Mike working at The Early Dawn Ice Creamery, one of those old fashioned soda-fountain places.  Mike was handsome, funny, and smart.  Most teenagers wanted to talk about other kids or sports figures or celebrities.  Mike liked to talk about movies and food and current events.  We dated briefly (he broke up with me out of the blue) but remained friends.  He later transferred to my high school, and I invited him to be my prom date.  At our 10-year reunion I learned he was working in a nearby city, and intended to get in touch to have coffee or something.  But I never did.

Mike died in 1995.  His obituary doesn’t state the cause of death—unusual for a young man of 35.  It does mention a companion, and asks that remembrances be made to the Seattle AIDS Support Group.  Mike was, of course, one of the guys who inspired me to write Steadfast.  I never imagined he might have actually met the same fate as the character in that book.

I’m taking a break from finding old friends.  It’s just too sad.

 

Read Full Post »

He’s an athlete.  He was raised to love Jesus.  And he’s gay.

Today I read an article in Sports Illustrated in which Jason Collins explains why he’s chosen now to come out.  He writes with complete clarity about why he waited until now, and why he doesn’t want to wait any longer.

I admire his courage.  What about you?

Read Full Post »

Kristen Lamb

Author, Blogger, Social Media Jedi

The Matt Walsh Blog

Absolute Truths (and alpaca grooming tips)

Crystal St. Marie Lewis

Words About Writing, Worship and the World Around Us

OutTales around the Fire

We all have a story to tell

the wild love

stories of a growing-up faith

The Part-Time Writer

Part-time mum, part-time writer, full-time chocoholic...

Blooming in Thailand

เบิกบานใจในประเทศไทย

rodalena

"A fool also is full of words…" -Ecclesiastes 10:14a

The Object

Book One Now Available

A MINIATURE CLAY POT

"We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives" 2 Corinthians 4:7 The Message

Debra's ~ Daily ~ Dialogue '2'

Past Present & Future - A journey of the Mind, Body & Soul

Mark Mansfield

Scars Run Deep

The Sagebrush Sea

Ramblings from a Cowboy-Girl.

The Culinary Apartment

RECIPES WORTH KEEPING

SammyHKSmith

Ramblings of a Writer

The Year Of Wonderful Weekends

My year of weekends reclaiming life's simpler pleasures

Author Thelma Cunningham

Just another WordPress.com weblog

Adele Gallogly

REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS

The Nerdy Paige

Ramblings from a Nerdy Mom

Conquering Babel

All about language learning

%d bloggers like this: