Yankee Stadium has had its celebratory final game. ESPN interviewed a bunch of current and former players and had some sort of attempt at a "red carpet" to catch all the celebs. 
Why, pray tell (I'm using 'prithee' later) do we care? We care because we live and breathe for the Yankees. BigD grew up in those parts. His grandparents raised their large Italian family in the Bronx. All of those brothers, their sons and grandsons and on down the line are Yankee fans. That is not an option. Yankees. Forever. Our sons have followed the tradition. Our Young Son was a Yankee for at least 5 Halloweens. Paul O'Neill to be exact. As he is our fourth child, we have no pictures of it, but he remembers it vividly. He would still have the tee-shirt (child's size M) but The Sophisticate lost it.
BigD has lots of stories about going to Yankee stadium. He never tells us those stories, but they exist. Now his travel schedule lands him in NYC and in Yankee stadium, randomly, several times a season. RANDOMLY this past week, during the LAST WEEK of games at old Yankee Stadium. Completely accidental and random.During all the pregame and postgame hoopla about Yankee Stadium, they showed some black and white clips from the '50s and '60s, and I had a weird sensation of being thrown back in time. I was a Yankee fan before BigD came along. I learned it from my Granny.
Granny was reared in a little town in the south. She went away to college in Virginia, married a glamorous pilot after the war (World War I), and they lived in New York for much of her married life. She was widowed in her mid-forties, so she moved home to her little town in the south. She also started smoking. Actually, I think she was ALREADY smoking, but just started smoking in public when she returned from New York emboldened. And, even without a husband or sons living with her, she was a Yank-eh fan. A college educated, widowed, smoking fan of the NY Yanks. She came a long way, baby, before the rest of us did. She drank Tab during the daytime, sherry with her friends in the afternoon, and a Tom Collins when my father was pouring.
Granny loved her 'Yank-ehs' In those days, we saw baseball once a week on Saturday afternoon, assuming that the Yank-ehs were playing. Granny left the lights off in her living room all day long, because it was hot. She also had a very luxurious couch with down cushions. And a candy dish full of bridge mix. SO... I laid on the down couch, ate bridge mix and read books which we had brought home from the library. She watched the Yank-ehs. It was cool, and dark and quiet. Also, smoky, but I was used to it.
I spent many summer Saturdays in the shady living room, lying on the down couch reading and eating chocolate covered raisins which I had picked out of the bridge mix. Granny, Eve cigarette in hand, sat in her magenta chair, silvery blond hair wreathed in smoke, watching the Yankees on the black and white TV. She called her boys by name - I just remember Mickey and Whitey. She would bring home as many books and as much candy as it took to keep me quiet since she would be watching the ball game. As a mother, I appreciate how much she respected my elementary aged self by not expecting me to be entertained by baseball on television.
BigD and our sons are more assertive about Yankee fandom. We have the cable-tv add-on that lets us see 947,342 baseball games a season. We either watch the Yankees, or watch some other team to see how it relates to the Yankees. We also hate Boston, so we watch them a lot, hoping to see them lose.
BigD sits at our Young Son's football games with his Blackberry in hand following the Yankees. Our sons get text message updates on the Yankees. This summer, while the Yankees were making my guys miserable, I read the whole Twilight saga. They come and get me when Andy Pettitte pitches. "Mom, come watch your boy."
How, prithee (told you) did Andy Pettitte get to be "my boy"? Seriously? Look at him! OK, back to the real story...in the early years, BigD and I took our babes (there were only 2) and made an annual pilgrimage to New Jersey to visit the fam. We always went to the city (but never to Yankee Stadium). Amazingly, there were on street corners, big buses emblazoned, " Blessed Heart of Jesus Holy Baptist Church" or "Big Sandy Methodist Church - Jesus' heart is as big as Texas" or something equally un-New Yorky. Near the buses were earnest southern teenagers, in tee-shirts, passing out fliers that said things like "Jesus will Save the Heathens of New York." or "Let Jesus In to Heal New York -the New Sodom and Gomorrah." Or something equally subtle. Problem #1, is that no one in NYC can understand you if you have even a moderate southern accent. Trust me, it was there that BigD first stepped up to make some necessary purchases...because no one in the bodega could understand me. Perhaps Farsi, but not Southern. Problem #2, everyone in NYC wears black, so the neon tee-shirts with the blood-dripping thorn of crowns on the back...not so effective.
Anyway, there is no city in the world that couldn't stand a dose of God. NYC seems particularly secular and evil-ish to those of us from the Bible belt. But I could not comprehend how a bunch of teenagers in neon yellow tees and jean shorts were making a dent with the crazed people who wash windshields and then bang on the window until you pay. Or any other New York people. I mean, it's just not like it is here - there is not a fish decal on every car, no "God is my co-pilot" license plates, no billboards with scripture and an invitation to dinner at Wednesday night church followed by a passion play. So, what was God going to do about New York?
One thing he did was send Andy Pettitte. I mean, seriously? Look at him! A fine specimen of a Christian, in my opinion. My second personal most memorable Yankee moment was some really important game - certainly a play-off game, and maybe a World Series game. If I would go and wake up our sons, they would tell me exactly which game, the score, the stats - all of it. Pettitte pitched well, they were leading, and the relief pitcher was in. Things were tense, and they kept showing Pettitte in the dugout, with a towel over his head, which was bowed. The announcers were all crowing about how nervous he was, and how he couldn't bear to watch. They said that he was hiding under the towel.
I knew EXACTLY what he was doing, he was praying. And I said that to our boys, who were watching. And they said "No, you crazy woman, he's sweating." So, game over, Yankees win. Hooray for all.
Postgame interview is Andy Pettitte himself.
TV guy: "So, Andy, was it just too nerve-wracking to watch? Were you afraid he was going to lose it for you there at the end?"
Andy Pettitte, southern accent and all, stood up tall and laughed out loud, towel in hand. "Oh, no. I wasn't nervous. I was just praying. A bunch of us get together and read the Bible and pray together. I was just..."
TV guy interrupts, "But Andy, you were bound to be fearing the worst. You didn't even take the towel off your head until after the game. Possibly losing this big game after your great pitching! What did that feel like?"
Pettitte: "Aw, naw, I was just praying for him. I wanted him to know how much confidence we had in him. I was praying for him."
So, God sent missionaries to New York City indeed. They wear pinstripes, not neon tees. Who better to speak to New Yorkers than Yankees? Also, who better to speak to my sons? Win - Win - Win!
And - after all the day-long woo-hah, my guys informed me that IF...somebody loses this many games, and somebody else beats Boston, and the Yankees win this many more games....IF all that happens, we did NOT just see the last game in old Yankee Stadium.
Let the praying begin. eta: Let the praying begin for NEXT season ....in the NEW Yankee Stadium.
Let the praying begin. eta: Let the praying begin for NEXT season ....in the NEW Yankee Stadium.
Ladies, look around, there are plenty of seats. I moved - though I was directed to a seat a row down, with the assurance that they would "still talk to me." Seriously. What are you going to say? Are you going to tell me who is rumored to be going steady? Perhaps we will pass notes? Maybe we could make a little club, and decide who we are NOT going to ask to join. I did not cry, because I am not in 6th grade.
The single important exclusion is some particular dads who need desperately to ask what to wear every single time they leave the house, unless they are wearing a suit. With the tie picked out by someone else.
"Is that your Young Son sitting on the bench?" No, actually it's not. It's a couple of big, beastly kids who are tired from playing the whole game. The live tackling-dummies stand up the whole game, helmets in hand. But perhaps thinking before speaking might apply here. Nothing good ends with "sitting on the bench."
I don't actually cook every day, so I 
Two beautiful pears. 
Brown-sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts with the University of Florida Gator logo somehow reproduced on the icing. (Yes, that is Vergil's Aeneid, in Latin). They look alarmingly like temporary tattoos people put on their faces at football games and swim meets. If I had gone through the whole football themed box of Pop-tarts, theoretically I would have also seen Ohio State or Boston College. Question. Why are we putting tattoos on Pop-Tarts? To make them even more disturbing? Is the tattoo infused with vitamins? Does it make them even more nutritious than a brown sugar Pop Tart is already? Who would CHOOSE a Pop Tart over any other food because of the college logo? "Sorry Mom, I only eat 
OK, that's not fair. That's Mimi's salad, and it has a lot of bacon on it. Even I will eat that salad. So will our Young Son...in fact he'd eat all of them.
SO...back to the rules. No count calories apparently actually don't count for some people. Our Young Son is - how to put this delicately and not offend his sensibilities since he is one of my three loyal readers? Our Young Son is LEAN. Very, very, very lean. It starts with an 'S' and it rhymes with BRAWNY. He thinks he eats a whole lot. I think so too. But, since he is not moving from the S word to Brawny, I have decided to count his calories. If Michael Phelps needs 10,000 calories a day ( or some obscene number ) then our Young Son, by a complex algorithmic calculation needs about 6OOO calories. Or I made it up. (Actually, I did Google up a 
Traditional Post Labor Day White-Putting-Away. The Sophisticate, PPP and I wore all our favorite summery white clothes all of Labor Day Weekend. I wore my white sunglasses until the last glimpse of the Gustav tinted sunset disappeared Monday evening. And now the sunglasses, along with the daughters' sundresses are retired. If I had white shoes or white pants, I would put them away too. . . forever. I am using “put away” loosely, as in relegate to the bottom of my pile of clothes. A few weeks later, the white sunglasses are now “put away” on the kitchen counter. But I am GOING to put them in the top drawer of my dresser. I hope I remember that when it’s spring, or in the bleak midwinter when I want to pull them out to remind me that summer is coming.
The traditional after school snack followed by nap on the couch. I walk in the door starving, a left-over primordial response to the end of the school day, and sleepy from getting up in the middle of my biorhythmic night. (see above: I'm not the only one who indulges in this one.) I eat a very healthy snack, like Toaster Strudel, with the little white icing squeezed out of the plastic packet, which looks alarmingly like toothpaste. I then sit down on my couch and consider my need to grade papers. I fall asleep instantly, a direct physical response to being in a small enclosed space with children grades 6 – 11. It’s a day full of drama and hormones. It’s exhausting…trying not to laugh at their self-absorption. I meant to say it’s exhausting preparing interesting and challenging lessons and then presenting them in a dynamic and engaging way. While planning two weddings. And wrangling this household. Any of that. All of that.
Then, when he’s about an hour away I text him:
The traditional Friday night dinner ritual: “What kind of take-out are we having tonight?” All that stuff we bought and cooked last weekend, to be prepared and all that? It's gone. There is no cooking on Friday night. We go through take-out phases. There was the pizza phase, which lasted roughly 17 years. Then there was the Chinese phase, when we were deluded into thinking that it’s OK to spend all that money on Chinese food for these hungry people, because we will “have leftovers all week.” We don’t have leftover anything. Ever. We are currently in a sub sandwich phase, and we order the large size sandwiches, so we can have leftovers. We don’t have leftovers, but we order as if we will. The leftovers are gone by 10 pm.
The FOOTBALL thing – My tradition is the chatting and the picture taking and the talking about how interestingly the other parents behave. I do pick up crowd signals, so I pay attention when things get exciting. Or someone gets hurt. It also changes dinner into Corn Dogs.
Traditional stalker pics. I love it when they don't know I'm watching. Traditionally. 
The cat sleeping in the sock basket tradition. OR, the traditional cat gives-birth-in-the-sock-basket. Self explanatory. 
Our younger daughter, Pretty Pretty Princess, had a busy summer. Dang, Gina, the girl can manage her hair and her sunglasses with the best of 'em. It makes her mother proud. Also her sister, the Sophisticate, who defines sunglass chic. PPP is now in the throes of her senior year in High School. I like single gender education (I like homeschool too, but this is hard-core school.) That's pretty much all I have to say in the matter - I did the research, it works for me, it works for them. I don't want to hear about all the reasons they need socialization. Trust me, they are adequately socialized.
It started last spring with the creatively named Spring Fest, at which there is a princess, though not OUR PPPrincess. The '08 Seniors walked out of the chapel at the end. The Juniors 'moved up' into the senior seats. They wore short white dresses. And it was a big huge deal. Yes, indeed, there were tears shed by me. 
To prepare for her senior year she had a busy summer. She went to the beach with a few close friends, from church. Evidently, they got dressed up and went out to dinner. And lined up to pose for pictures on the beach.
She went on her mission trip to Mexico. All the pictures of the 'mission trip' are of PPP and her few close friends lined up for a picture. 
And, again, in Mexico posing for a picture with a few friends. Making GANG signs. Seriously? PPP thinks she's making a "gang face" too. Little Bear, cut out the glaring. 
Oh, look, here she is again. At home, going for a snow cone. And lining up to pose for a picture. I guess one of the traditions of her senior year is lining up and posing for pictures. At least they aren't making gang signs, since that location is pretty close to some actual gang-type activity around the corner or so.
A day or two before school started she went to paint her block on the wall. The wall is somewhere in the school. Each senior paints a block on the wall -whatever that's about. Evidently it's "2009 We Mighty Fine" That's what we get I guess at a girls' college preparatory school - we mighty fine. We agonized for weeks over the design of her particular block. At least no faux gang signs.
Derby Day is a huge tradition. Part of the tradition is that the seniors wear red shorts and red sports bras and roll up their tee shirts, thus baring the abdomen. Baring the tum-tum is a no-no in their little protected world. Not on Facebook though. There are scandalous pics on Facebook.
It's as if she is watching herself - a senior-in -progress. A tradition filled year, indeed.
With all the traditional photo taking, and mud wrestling, and gang signing and snow cones, PPP gets tired. She then crawls in bed with her I-Pod. A lot she does that. Also Facebook. That's a tradition too.
Our Young Son attends a "college preparatory school for boys," a rarified atmosphere indeed. After homeschool, I believe in single gender education. I like it, they like it, done.
The National Anthem is sung by our own a capella singing group. This group of young men makes a tour of the girls' schools in town every year. I cannot think of many schools where you have a group of young men, including some in pads and others in tee shirts, standing in a circle and singing on the track, then dispersing to play football or participate in the general mayhem in the stands. It's amazing.
The team, all gazillion of them, leaves the locker room and walks purposefully to the field led by the coach and I guess some important seniors. They move through a fan tunnel. The fan tunnel is really exciting. YAY! Fan tunnel! Or "Owl Walk" take your pick. YAY! 
Parents and students and other FANS line up, clapping and talking, on either side of the walkway from the locker room to the field. The clapping intensifies and the talking turns to yelling, as the team takes the longest possible route. 
The fans yell and scream and whistle and the players clomp through. Cleats on concrete - noisy. They are big in those pads and helmets. I had to work really hard to figure out where my guy was. 
Then I remembered his number. That was a help.
The fan tunnel fan can get pretty small as people push to see and crowd in, or reach in to give an encouraging punch, so the team has to push their way through. It's ....well, it's tradition. Sort of scary and wild, but another tradition. Twice per game. It's a way for everyone to get 'fired up.' 
They pray before the game. They bow their heads and put a hand on another's shoulder. From where I sit, in the stands, it sounds like a deep rumbling swarm of something. When longtime 
They do this thing with the helmets. Not sure what that's about, but they do it alot. And make a big loud boy-noise. Something about "WIN" or "FIGHT" or "TEAM" or "WOMEN" I mean "LADIES" ....one of those, maybe.
There is a lot of cheering and talking on the sidelines. Yes indeed, our Young Son does a lot of chatting on the sidelines on Friday night.
When someone is "down" or presumed injured, or exhausted, they 'take a knee' and they also take the helmets off. I'm not sure what the point of that is, unless it's to be sure that there is no surreptitious coaching or planning or whatever. Also, they are probably tired of standing up and they are hot - so removing the helmet and taking a knee is a nice little break. But I am a mom, so maybe that's not right. 
And then it's over. Win or lose, they all line up and shake hands. Like men do all over the world. At the end of the day, everyone shakes hands and goes on about their business. 
