Look How Far We've Come

You have to pick your battles when it comes to these things because no matter how many inroads are made, there are still inequities. We won “NCAAM” and “NCAAW” in the score crawl, but ESPN still lists “Women’s Basketball” under “All Sports.”

I wasn’t itching for a battle this morning, but that was before I randomly found myself on the NCAA website. The first line that greeted me:

“It’s The Girls’ Turn.”

Girls???

I just couldn’t contain my anger.

Female athletes do not deserve to be cast in a diminutive role as if their participation is cute and quaint. Just because the public interest in their competitions may not reach the same heights as the men doesn’t make their athletic efforts secondary. They are just as good, just as dedicated, and just as deserving of respect as the men. No one would ever refer in print to male collegiate athletes as “boys,” so why is it okay to do that to the women?

I can’t say that I’m surprised by the remark, but I am shocked at the source. The NCAA is supposed to be an organization that represents and promotes its athletes, female and male, equally, but I guess that mission took a backseat to one sexist writer’s need for a synonym.

The ironic part... the best collegiate basketball team in the nation is a women’s team.

Plum Crazy

I love the feeling of the wind whipping in my face, the blood pulsating in my cheeks, and the outright feeling of abandon my legs get when I shift into high gear. I check the air in my lungs, holding it until I can finally push out one great exhale at the end. There’s one last leap as my oversized foot stabs at the base and then my body pulls up like a horse in the Derby, finished with the sprint.

That’s how I run. Anything more that 240 feet around the basepaths is too much for this girl.

I like sprinting. I do not like running. Long distance, that is. Even when I was a kid… give me a good 50-yard dash and I was golden. Put me on a track to complete my mile for the Presidential Physical Fitness test and I was miserable.

But somehow I find myself training for a half-marathon.

Call it a lark. Call it an adventure. Call it a new year’s resolution.

And please call it crazy.

Trying not to strain myself with a big ol’ pat on the back, I’ll admit that I excel at cheering for my friends in races, but when it comes to doing it myself… let’s just say that you’d have a better chance of finding me eating a jar of peanut butter with an expired Epipen at my side than contemplating a half-marathon.

Plum crazy.

But on one perfect Sunday last fall, with sweat from the Army Ten-Miler still fresh on their brows, my friends Hoops and Cheesus told me about the first-ever Disney Princess Half-Marathon.

I stared at them in disbelief. Maybe that runners’ high everyone talks about was still in effect for them. I showed them the tambourine in one hand and the homemade signs in the other and said that I would be there to cheer them on like the good friend that I am, but that was it.

Then when I was out of earshot, Cheesus said to Hoops, “If she were really a friend, she’d get her ass out there and run.” Touché.

They joked that maybe they could convince me to do it by saying it was like running around the bases 25,000 times. Instead of a starting gun, there could be the crack of a bat. Not a bad rationale, but it wasn’t enough to make me contemplate running 13 times the distance I had run in nearly 10 years... or ever.

What eventually did?

A mouse.

Even at 30, a trip to Disney World is a powerful motivator.

It’s been almost 4 months since I took my first steps toward a goal I never envisioned, and I never thought I’d see the day when I could run 3 miles without stopping. I never thought I’d voluntarily brave single-digit windchills to stay on course. And I never thought I’d have a legitimate reason to buy the Nike running gear I so desperately drooled over.

But here I am… exactly one month before the race… and I find that it doesn’t feel so crazy anymore.

100 Mea Culpas

There are no excuses.

The record of Dallas Academy’s girls’ basketball team was certainly no mystery to the team from The Covenant School when they took the court. Dallas Academy hadn’t won a game in four years, or the entire history of their program. The chances of an upset were subzero, so Covenant had nothing to fear.

But even if the Covenant coaches were concerned that the Dallas Academy girls may have spontaneously turned into mini-Michael Jordans overnight, when they went up by 10, then 20, then 30, did they ever feel like they could relax just a bit? Did they think that maybe enough was enough? Apparently not. They only let up when the scoreboard read 100-0 at the final buzzer.

And now... as if the game itself weren’t bad enough, The Covenant School is formally requesting a forfeit, which is by far the greatest insult in this unfortunate situation of unsportsmanlike conduct.

For a winless team, handing them a win by forfeit is like throwing a heaping spoonful of salt into the wound. With no other victories to speak of, that one win will become a story. People will ask the Dallas Academy girls about that “1” in their record and they will have to tell the story of how there was once a school that ran up the score 100-0 and then had a fit of conscience.

Open wound, pour salt, repeat.

The forfeit is more about alleviating the guilt of the Covenant team than it is about doing right by Dallas Academy. If Covenant really wanted to do something for their opponents, they would just let the game fade away.

Or maybe they should have quit while they were ahead by less than 100.

The Great Game 5 Comeback

I didn’t want to say it, but I couldn’t shake it. Deep down in the pit of my stomach, I just had a feeling. I knew the chances of the Red Sox coming back from a 3-1 deficit in the ALCS were slimmer than they had been in previous postseasons. Too many injuries, too many years in uniform, too many reasons why the younger, spunkier team would come into our house and drive the final nail into the coffin.

But still… I had a feeling.

I didn’t say anything to Izzie about it at first. I didn’t know if verbalizing it would cross that very fine line between faith and superstition. But finally I couldn’t keep it to myself. In the bowels of the T, I uttered only these words, “I have a feeling.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. There was nothing either of us could say. Anymore words might rile the gods, and we had to keep them happy.

We had tested the gods already, and they weren’t pleased. As much as we wanted our beloved Red Sox to win, we knew they needed to lose one in the series to force a Game 5 and make our trip possible. So after winning Game 1, we both made decisions not to indulge our superstitions. No lucky bracelet. No lucky shirt. The fact is… we needed to jinx them.

And we did. For three straight games.

We were both ashamed and did everything in our power to reverse the pattern. I knocked on wood so many times that there was little anyone could say about the Red Sox that didn’t warrant my knuckles striking any solid object around me… wood or not. We had both gone through an exhaustive process of packing clothes that could only bring good luck. The Beckett and Ortiz jerseys stayed at home because they had not proven themselves to be charmed during the postseason. I said a Rosary the day of the game and wore lucky underwear. Anything and everything to make the gods happy, to let them know that we were sorry for testing them.

For six innings on the night of October 16th, the gods let us know that they were still forces to be reckoned with.

As we sat five rows behind the Rays bullpen in right field, I still had that feeling, but it was fading fast like the tattered photo of Marty McFly’s siblings tucked in his wallet. Without realizing it, I started composing the final paragraph of this column. I thought how I would write that even in spite of losing 7-0, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. October baseball, win or lose, is a moment to be treasured. Even though I wanted to give in to the burning in my tear ducts, I was glad to be there.

And then it happened. The gods knew I was truly penitent.

After enduring a brutal warm-up session during which he heard a taunt per pitch, Grant Balfour took the mound and coughed up a double to Jed Lowrie. Suddenly a crowd that had been given nothing to cheer for got a second wind. With two outs on the board, Crisp laced a single that sent Lowrie running for third. Then the definition of scrappiness stepped to the plate in the form of Dustin Pedroia. He connected for a single that scored Lowrie. Both the Sox and the crowd had finally showed up by the time Papi stepped to the plate.

I don’t remember seeing the swing, but I heard the roar and looked up to see Papi’s towering fly heading towards us in right field. I looked down at the fence, back at the ball, again at the fence, and back to the ball and finally it registered. That ball was gone. Izzie and I turned to each other in ecstatic disbelief. The unknowns around us suddenly became our best friends as we all exchanged high fives of euphoric glee. It was the Papi of old and we had a contest on our hands.

Balfour was gone after that, and Dan Wheeler never stood a chance. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have 38,000 people chanting your name in a cadence so derisive that you can’t function. Izzie and I joined the chorus around us, yelling, “Wheeeee-ler! Wheeeee-ler!”

Ball one to Jason Bay.

”Wheeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeee-ler!”

Ball two.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee-ler! Wheeeeeeeeee-ler!”

Ball three.

“WHEEEEEEEEE-LER! WHEEEEEEEEELER!”

Take your base, Mr. Bay.

We were in Wheeler's head.

And then J.D. Drew joined us there by slamming a shot into the stands just to the left of us.

7-5.

My phone was buzzing like mad in my pocket. Izzie and I were practically speechless.

Was this really happening?

Before we knew it, we had reached the middle of the 8th, and as Neil Diamond’s voice filled the air, the raucous crowd truly believed that things were oh so good now that the Red Sox had come within one run of tying the devilish Rays.

Fear still lurked in my gut though because Papelbon was done for the night, but I knew that no one else could have stopped the bleeding but him. He had come in at the right moment and I just had to believe that Justin Masterson could bring the magic.

With only one minor heart palpitation, Masterson retired the Rays, and before we knew it, the bottom of the 9th arrived. Nothing seemed impossible then. Not even when Pedroia and Papi went down. Not even when Youkilis grounded to third. Not even when the throw to first seemed to glide so perfectly toward the outstretched glove of the first baseman… and then it didn’t.

Pure pandemonium undulated through Fenway on the error. Youk took second, and the triumph was so close I could have seen it with my 20/200 vision in the dark underwater.

It was right there in front of us… which was exactly where Gabe Gross was when J.D. Drew’s game-winning hit skirted over the top of of his glove.

I didn’t see Youk cross the plate, but I knew as soon as I saw Drew's rope to right that he would. When I saw the ball miss his outstretched leather, my arms flew up in the air and my hoarse voice found its tune one more time to yell for the victors.

Izzie and I looked at one another and had no words. We slapped five with each other and anyone else in a five- seat radius. When the strains of “Dirty Water” became the soundtrack of the moment, we took our cue and began to sing along, jig in place, and fire off texts and calls to everyone who we loved and who loved the Sox.

It was the type of moment you want to wrap in tissue paper, tuck in a hope chest, and keep safe forever. It was transcendent. It was perfect. It was the epitome of October baseball.

Even when Izzie and I were walking to the T, joining the Red Sox cheers and bouncing along to the cacophony of horns in Kenmore Square, I don’t think either of us realized the true magnitude of what we had just seen. We knew full well we had been at a spectacular baseball game, but we didn’t understand that we had actually seen one of the greats. It wasn’t until the next morning when we read the paper and watched the recaps that the reality began to set in.

We had witnessed history.

* * *

When Red Sox Nation finally landed back down on Earth, we discovered that our team, though gutsy and talented, still didn’t have enough gas to defeat the Rays. In the end, the Red Sox fell to Tampa Bay in the 7th game. Had they won, it would have made a nice footnote to The Great Game 5 Comeback, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but I had a feeling.

I had a feeling it was someone else’s year to win it all, and even though I finally gave in to the tears, I was okay with that.

After all, you can’t ask for too much, and the gods had already given me more than I ever could have asked for.

A Real Pro

On a dark, windy night at Shea Stadium, pitcher Nelson Figueroa got a little flustered. Nothing was going his way, and when the claps and cheers from the Nationals’ dugout floated out to the mound, his blood pressure skyrocketed.

Feeling angry and superior, he lashed out at his National League East counterparts, saying, “They were cheerleading in the dugout like a bunch of softball girls. I'm a professional just like anybody else. I take huge offense to that. If that's what a last-place team needs to do to fire themselves up, so be it. They could show a little more class, a little more professionalism now that they won tonight, but in the long run, they're still who they are."

Them’s fightin’ words, Figueroa.

The U.S. Women’s National Softball Team appeared at the Nationals game on Sunday, and I would love to see what they had to say about Nelson Figueroa. These women are going to represent our country in the Olympics, but by Figueroa’s estimation, they’re immature and unprofessional.

If Figueroa wants to insinuate that the Nationals are immature and unprofessional, he shouldn’t denigrate a sport that isn’t much different than his own and insult a group of athletes who are as dedicated and professional as he claims to be.

If he had really wanted to make a point, then maybe he should have said they were cheering in the dugout like a bunch of Little Leaguers. Correct me if I’m wrong, but we all know that 6-year-old boys love to scream, “We need a pitcher, not a belly itcher!” as much as girls do.

But before Figueroa hoists himself up onto that giant pedestal, maybe he should remember that he gets paid to play a game for a living. He’s not finding a cure for cancer. He’s not teaching kids how to read. He’s not patrolling a war zone praying that he and his buddies make it home in one piece. He’s paid to play catch.

If the Nationals wanted to have a little childlike fun in the dugout, then let them. From an early age, we’re taught that games are supposed to be fun. Then again, we’re also taught not to be sore losers and not be sexist, but I guess Figueroa was absent that day.

The ABC's of a Very Nats Weekend

When I walked out of my house on Saturday morning, the air was perfectly still and the sky was cloudless. It was a quiet Washington morning and I could practically smell baseball in the air. I had dreamt about baseball the night before... nothing specific, just that I was at the park with a wonderful sense of anticipation palpable even in my REM cycle.

As I walked to Starbucks that morning with a sense of euphoria that couldn't be contained, I knew that I would be able to enjoy at least one game over the weekend and was hoping for the chance to see two. But even if that didn't happen, the reality that baseball was back and back at a new ballpark was all I needed.

Thankfully it did happen, and for sixteen blissful hours over the course of one weekend, I roamed around Nationals Park, saw two games, and soaked up everything in sight. However, I couldn't even begin to describe it all, so instead, here are the ABC's of a very baseball weekend at Nationals Park.

Awesome

There are no other words to describe Nationals Park. When Dusty and I rounded the corner of M Street SE on Saturday and the navy blue seats came into view on, I actually choked up. I've been to some of the great parks and each holds a mystique that can't be put into words, but there's an unspeakable emotion that wells up inside when you step up to a brand new ballpark that's almost in your backyard. I've never lived so close to a baseball stadium in my life. I grew up looking forward to that one opportunity a year to see my favorites take the field, but this... this was a lot to take in. My eyes filled with tears as I walked through the turnstiles and beheld that bright green grass for what will surely be the first of many visits.

Boos for Bush

I did not vote for George W. Bush the first time or the second time. I refused to buy a Nationals hat with a curly "W" because of what "W" is a synonym for in this town. I'm counting down the days until he ships back to Crawford. But I'll admit I didn't boo him when he took the mound to throw out the first pitch at Nationals Park. Putting aside the fact that I could barely feel my lips because of the biting cold and that I was too focused on snapping blurry pictures, I just couldn't bring myself to boo him because of the moment. It transcended partisan differences and presidential stupidity. It wasn't Bush on the mound, but rather the symbol of our nation, for better or worse.

Cold

Did I mention how cold it was? I've had some chilly moments in my life and live in a house that is often too expensive to heat, but sitting in Section 401 of Nats Park in 30-something degree weather ranks high on the list of the coldest moments of my life. I knew from the exhibition game that it would be cold, especially since the opener was slated to start a full two hours later, so I made sure I was prepared. In order from skin to air, I was wearing a turtleneck, long-sleeve t-shirt, sweatshirt, Nationals ¾ length t-shirt, and my Lands' End coat. I dug out my old volleyball spandex shorts to keep my rear from freezing and wore two pairs of socks, one of which came to my knees. I even brought my fleece UConn blanket to wrap up in. And don't forget the scarf, earband, and gloves. I felt like Randy from The Christmas Story. I actually had a hard time bringing my phone to my ear because my arms were so bundled. It was a cold night as it was, but with my seat at the tippy-top corner of the park, I knew the wind would be my nemesis for the duration of the game.

Doubts

Ever since baseball landed back in the District, people have doubted its staying power and its ability to pack a house. When officials broke ground on the new ballpark, people doubted whether this state-of-the-art facility would live up to expectation without burdening the city with its price tag. The day Alfonso Soriano shipped out of town, people doubted whether the Nationals would ever have the star power to be contenders. But on the night of March 30, 2008, when the ball left the hand of Odalis Perez for the first time, it seemed that every one of those doubts evaporated. Washington loves baseball. Nationals Park is a wonder to behold. And the Nats are ready to take on the best of the best.

Embraces

I got three hugs and the warmest reception from every worker I encountered at the park. When I saw the security guard at the door of the team store, I said to him, "I remember you from RFK!" He looked at me for a moment and said, "You know... you look familiar to me too!" When I paused to make fun of this sign (because who has pizza and wine together?), another member of the staff put her arm around me and had a good chuckle also. It really did feel like I was being welcomed home.

Five Dollars

That's how much I paid for my Opening Day ticket. I was one of 400 people who stood in line on Sunday afternoon for a shot at being part of this historic event. Up until that morning, I wasn't 100% I would go. I knew from the previous night that it would be freezing and that once I bought the ticket, I had to go immediately into the park, which meant roughly 10 hours just hanging out and roaming around. But I also knew that I didn't have any plans and that I could either go stand in line or I could mope around my house all day because I wasn't at the park. I decided to take my chances, and I'm so glad I did. Now I'm the type of person who expects the worst and hopes for the best. Better to be prepared for disappointment than to be devastated by it... but I did have a feeling I would be there and my Mom had the same feeling, so who could argue with that?

Greatest Love Of All

That's the song the gentleman in line behind me at Starbucks was singing on Saturday morning before my blissful baseball weekend had even begun. I couldn't quite place the song at first, but then the little voice inside my head started singing along.

"Because the greeeeeat-est love of all is haaaaappening to meeee..."

I couldn't think of better song to begin the weekend.

Hot Dogs

Call me crazy, but I was hoping for an RFK-style hot dog... stale bun, cold dog, too much ketchup. It's all part of the experience, and on Sunday, I got just that. At work the next morning, a few people asked me, "So how was the food?" I knew they were expecting stories about Ben's Chili Bowl, Hard Times, and Red, Hot and Blue, but instead I regaled them with tales of my fabulously imperfect hot dog. They were disappointed, but I wasn't.

Images

The scoreboard at RFK was really the size of a postage stamp... well, at least in comparison to the behemoth of a building it sat in. Most of the cheap seats offered a pretty decent view of the miniature monitor, but if you sat anywhere from center to right-center, then you automatically forfeited your ability to see the score, the line-up, or an animated Abe Lincoln doing the hidden ball shuffle. It's a brand new world at Nats Park though. The scoreboard is the size of Rhode Island and has more pixels than there are people in China. It's almost hard to pay attention to the game because the electronic image is so crisp and clean. If men had remote controls on their seats instead of cup holders, they might actually be in the perfect world.

Jones

As in Larry Wayne, a.k.a. Chipper, a.k.a. a player I can't stand. He was the one who marred the scoreboard by hitting a solo shot out to the Red Porch area of the park. As he trotted around the bases, I had to wonder whether he was thinking about some Hooters wings. Old joke, but still a goodie.

Kelly Clarkson

The music in the park was your typical fare. Neil Diamond played during pitching changes. "Eye of the Tiger" blared at another point. Then there was the canned organ music that made the time between batters more energetic. But imagine my surprise when I heard not one, but two Kelly Clarkson tunes floating from the speakers before the start of the Opening Night game. I was psyched when I caught an earful of "Behind These Hazel Eyes," but then two songs later I heard the familiar opening beats of "Since U Been Gone" and I was downright giddy. In the middle of the song, my phone buzzed with a text message. When I flipped it open, I had a note from Chase. He wrote, "Ha ha Kelly Clarkson is on." My friends know me so well.

Lines

The Secret Service and Ben's Chili Bowl conspired to make many a fan's experience just a little irksome, but thanks to my early arrival at the park and my distaste for chili, I didn't have to deal with either. The only line I had to contend with was the one that had formed outside the Nationals ticket office on Sunday morning. The Nats organization had made it abundantly clear that no one would be allowed to form a line for the $5 tickets before 3:30, but I didn't quite believe that and I was right. When I arrived, I found roughly 250-300 people ahead of me. I was crestfallen, but determined. The line itself wasn't unbearable, but the people around me were. In front were representatives from the Class of 2010. I didn't mind their mini radio or the discussion of their study schedules, but when the boys literally started climbing the walls of the stadium, I had a hard time containing my annoyance. In front of the frat boys was a man who looked like a cross between Randy Johnson and Jed Clampett. His scraggly hair hung down the center of his back and he was wearing a cap that said, "Two Dogs." Huh? His common-law wife looked like she might pull a corn cob pipe out of her overcoat at any second. The best crew was behind me though. Picture three paunchy guys in homemade, white, crewneck sweatshirts who looked like they had been playing too many video games in the basement of their mother's house. But they thought they were cool, which was the worst part. Every other word out of their mouth was modified by an expletive that only thinly disguised just how badly they wanted tickets to this game. If they didn't swear, they probably would have cried. These were my linemates and I was praying that they wouldn't be my seatmates. Apparently I used up all my prayers on actually getting a ticket.

Metro

For months, everyone and their uncle who had any connection to the building of the new park encouraged people to take the Metro to and from Nats Park. I figured I'd sample the Navy Yard station on my way home from the opener, so after weaving my way through the crowd filing out with their free rally towels, I rushed right into a bottleneck at the escalators. So much for Metro renovations.

National Pastime in the Nation's Capital

It was the 6th inning before I noticed the phrase spinning around the top of the Red Porch. It said, "The Official Home of the National Pastime in the Nation's Capitol." When I walk to the Metro every morning on the way to work, the magnificent white dome less than a mile ahead of me disappears in a haze of thoughts for the upcoming day. I tend to forget that I live in the nation's capital, but when I looked to my left on Sunday night and saw that same dome, then looked back ahead to see the Nats staying strong against the Braves, I suddenly felt a surge of pride in calling this city my home.

Ovation

The ovations were plentiful over the weekend... baseball is here to stay in Washington, the park is gorgeous, and Nick Johnson's leg works again... huzzah!

Presidents

When Teddy Roosevelt didn't win the Presidents' Race at the end of last season, rumors flew that he would win on Opening Day. I had purchased a special t-shirt for the occasion, one that said, "Let Teddy Win," and when I wasn't sure I'd get tickets, I secretly wondered if my purchase would be for naught. If Teddy won in the first game, it would be obsolete by the time I got to the second. So as much as I was rooting for Teddy to beat out George, Abe, and Tom, I was secretly hoping to have another opportunity to don my t-shirt. When Teddy broke from the pack... in the wrong direction, I knew my shirt would live to see another day.

Quartet

I had been waiting in the $5 line for about 90 minutes when all of a sudden I heard the gentle strains of "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" being sung up ahead. I stood on my tip-toes and sure enough there was a barbershop quartet entertaining the masses. I appreciated the gesture.

RFK

I left a piece of me at RFK. As beautiful as Nats Park is and as much as RFK looks and feels like a toilet bowl, there will always be a little part of my heart somewhere between sections 503 and 509. I've seen too many games there, spent too much time with people I care about there, eaten too many nachos there not to feel a little warm and fuzzy when someone mentions RFK.

Sanitary Napkin Containers

(Sorry, gentlemen.)

Much has been made of the fact that Nationals Park came in on budget and on schedule. Phew! Imagine what would have happened if they had added sanitary napkin containers to every stall in the ladies' room! Man oh man, that budget would have skyrocketed. Those little tin boxes that you can stick to the stall walls with ticky-tacky do break the bank. C'mon now... not one person in the planning of this bastion of baseball thought that this might have been a good idea to serve all of the women they're so desperate to cater to? Keep the pink hats and stick to the basics!

Team Stores

I love a good gift shop almost as much as I love baseball. Ask anyone who has ever taken a trip with me and they'll tell you that I have to go into every gift shop I see on the off chance that one will have something the other doesn't. The premier Nationals team store is located at the main center field entrance of the park, and it's a beauty. It's spacious and smells like freshly laid carpet. It has a replica of Mount Rushmore above the registers, adorned with the mascot faces of our favorite four presidents. It's just spectacular. But even after spending 20 minutes roaming around the main location, I couldn't keep myself from going into the auxiliary one behind home plate and stopping at several kiosks along the way, looking for that diamond in the rough that would make me pull out my money. I'm happy to report I bought a t-shirt, a baseball, and of course, a mini bat. Let's just say I have a collection of them.

Unbridled Excitement

During the winter, I had tried everything I could to get tickets for Opening Day and everyone I knew tried everything they could to get me tickets to Opening Day, but it was to no avail. After virtual waiting rooms, lotteries, and begging, I had resorted to combing Craig's List and found two tickets for the exhibition game that were right in my price range. If I couldn't go to Opening Day, then I would at least get to say that I saw the first major league game ever played in Nationals Park, even if it didn't count. I couldn't have been happier with my boon, and on the day I bought the tickets, I ran around my office like I had just sucked down a dozen pixie sticks.

Victory

I'm getting ahead of myself...

Water

The sun never made an appearance on Sunday, so as the clock inched closer to gametime, the temperature dropped more and more. All of those layers did little to protect me from the elements, and the only relief I got was by ducking into the bathroom on occasion so I could shield myself from the wind. While I was in there once, I decided to actually use the facilities and when I went to wash my hands, I discovered a most beautiful thing. Steam billowed from the faucet as hot water gushed over my red, chapped, frigid hands. I sat there, rhythmically going from left hand to right to faucet button, left, right, faucet, left, right, faucet. I just couldn't get enough and I felt tingles of warmth fly up my arms. For a moment, I thought I could stay there for hours, but then I felt a little like a homeless person, so I decided it would be best to brave the elements once more... and then find another bathroom.

X - No smoking

I don't remember seeing any sign in the park that said you couldn't smoke, but when was the last time you went to a sporting event where it was okay to light up? Randy Johnson and his common-law wife decided to break out their Marlboros not long after the first pitch. I couldn't believe it, but didn't dare say anything. I just sat there hoping the wind would carry the smoke elsewhere. The funniest thing was when common-law wife went on an 8-inning journey for two Heinekens and Randy couldn't find anyone with a light. Gee, I wonder why?

Yelling

I didn't do a lot of yelling on Saturday or Sunday. I'm a big-time woo-er and sometimes my vocal cords snap me back to reality, reminding me of the shallow vocal range God gave me. It usually takes about 20 minutes of wooing before my voice cracks like an adolescent boy and my friends start laughing at me. But I continue to woo nonetheless because I know the players appreciate my wooing. Really, they do.

Zimmerman

The Nats looked good on Sunday night, almost too good. Maybe it's the Italian side of me, maybe it's the Red Sox fan in me... whatever it is, I know that the other shoe can always drop... and fast. The Nats held a 2-1 lead going into the top of the 9th inning. I could almost feel the hot shower, but when the notion popped into my mind that maybe I should start folding up my blanket, I made a conscious effort to resist. It ain't over 'til it's over. And then the Braves scored. The diehards who stayed either because they love baseball or because they were frozen to their seats let out an audible groan that was part pain for the Nats, part pain for all of us who knew we couldn't leave even if there were extra innings. I'll admit that I wasn't too certain the Nats would find the magic in the ninth to spare us a tenth, and when Guzman and Milledge didn't reach base, doubt crept in. Two outs and then the murmurs started. Ryan Zimmerman's name was announced and the murmurs turned into a buzz as he strode to the plate. I don't know if anyone really dared to hope for the Hollywood ending, the Hobbs ending... the night was perfect, but that would be too perfect, the kind of ending a filmmaker would scoff at as cliché and predictable. No way a pitch lands right in Zimmerman's wheelhouse. No way that ball slams right into the sweet spot of his Louisville Slugger. No way that ball rockets towards left center field. No way it clears the wall and lands in the outstretched palms of an eager fan. No way the first homerun in Nationals Park is a walk-off homer by the fresh-faced franchise kid.

Way.

Zimmerman electrified the park and a city with one swing of the bat.

And I can't tell you how thrilled I am to say that I was there.

Eavesdropping On The Madness

I won’t admit this to Izzie or Kino lest they disown me from our trio of sports fanaticism, but sometimes March Madness makes me feel a little like a high-heeled, glitter-wearing chick in a pink hat.

It’s not that I don’t know anything about men’s college hoops because I have my allegiance (UConn) and I do monitor the progress of certain teams throughout the season (okay, after the new year), but I don’t have anything close to the encyclopedic knowledge they do when the third month rolls around. I know the Big East and the ACC, and though I could tick off half a dozen other Division I conferences, I probably couldn’t tell you which teams were where. Of course, I know Mike Krzyzewski has coached Duke since Jesus was a boy, though I had to look up the spelling on Google. Jamie Dixon is at Pitt, Jim Calhoun at UConn, and Matt Dougherty used to lead UNC. I know Roy Hibbert stayed by the Potomac for another year while Jeff Green opted for richer pastures, and Tyler Hansbrough looked better in the face mask. But when Izzie and Kino start riffing on the minutiae of the teams, I just smile, nod, and act like I know exactly what they're talking about.

Of course, they see right through it. They know that with baseball on the horizon, I have room for little else in my mind and heart. But they also know another truth… that I’m a highly competitive person who is bound and determined to win our office pool one way or another. It doesn’t even matter that we’re not playing for dollars, euros, or marbles. A free lunch is good enough for me.

Which leads me to my mission for the day: my bracket.

The pressure.

The stress.

The heartburn... nope, wait... that’s the Easter candy.

Last year I poured over stats and blurbs in The Washington Post and on ESPN.com. I tried to put personal biases aside (UNC) and tried to conjure up any shred of information I might have heard in passing in order to make my decisions. I was the queen of the educated guess, and when that didn’t work, I decided to pick the Catholic schools (except for Notre Dame). Hey, some people go by mascots, others by colors… but it doesn’t hurt to go with God when it comes to things like this. In the end, I came out in the middle of the pack, which wasn’t too shabby, but I still would have loved that lunch.

This year, I’m not quite sure how I’m going to choose my teams. I’ve already inked in Georgetown, UNC, and Duke to win in the first round. I’d love to see the Eagles from my alma mater, American University, be the Mason of 2008, but I think the Vols will be too much for these Patriot Leaguers. UConn and Pitt can advance, but beyond that, I’ve got some serious homework to do because I want that free lunch.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go smile, nod, and eavesdrop on Izzie and Kino to find out who they think will go all the way.