Origional sin

We had our youngest son baptized in the Catholic Church over the weekend.  For most people this is would be cause for celebration.  But for me, this has stirred up many conflicting feelings and thoughts but right now disappointment is the prevailing one.  Having grown up in the Catholic faith and going to Catholic schools I know very well what takes place at a baptism and what they are for.  See, the Catholic church and as far as I know most of your Christian churches believe that we are all born with the stain of Adam and Eves original sin and baptizing our children is the only way to remove it and to therefore claim the child for Christ. 

I have very fundamental problems with this rationalization and first and foremost: I do not think my son was born with a flaw in his moral character.  He doesn’t sleep at night and he destroys cell phone like no other but I don’t think he’s a sinner…not yet.  And it seems unfair to pin the choice of some ancient ancestor on him doesn’t it?

I generally am a live and let live kind of guy when it comes to religion.  We do not regularly go to church which I guess is to say that regularly we don’t go.  But when it came to the decision to baptize our kids I always felt it was some sort of formality that one goes through.  I went through countless such formalities as a child that all the grown ups in my life found important.  I often found them mundane and sometimes confusing.  Now here I am subjecting my own kid to something that makes no logical or emotional sense to me and you know why I do this?  Just in case.  Yup, my wife and I would hate like hell to be wrong on this one. 

So I sat there in church in the front row reserved for just us.  My wife and I can be terrible procrastinators and it clearly wasn’t that important to us so most of the Mass one of us was wrestling with the now 16 month old child.  The priest says at the beginning of the service that this is a special day because “God will come and baptize (my son).”  This prompts my oldest son not quite 5 to ask later on why “God isn’t on the stage?”  The priest goes through most of the mass and I spend most my time trying to stop the most determined toddler on the planet from climbing the kneeler in front of us and escaping.  Parents reading this will relate to the arching back and dead weight trick that a child will do in an act of non-compliance.  I feel the members of the church casting looks in our direction and I can almost hear the judgments of the more faithful. .

Secondary to all the commotion in our pew I catch myself instinctively reciting all the prayers, creeds and responses.  Years of avoiding the church haven’t erased my memory and suddenly my  brain thinks it’s school mass Friday all over again.  My parents are there and I know they are proud.  My sister and brother in law will be the godparents.  My oldest son is being an absolute angel in this strange environment where everything is a mystery.  This is good right?  If nothing else its at least benign I figure. 

Father gestures for us to approach the altar.  Its time to do some baptizing.  I wrangle the worlds strongest and most stubborn baby and carry him to where the large bowl of water is waiting.  The priest anoints him with oils and my boy doesn’t protest but when its time to lean him over the water he fights and squirms and kicks.  “In the name of the father,” the priest cups water of my sons head with his hand “…and of the son,” another splash and my son is now screaming “and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”  It’s done.  My guy is mad and wet but I know that won’t last.  But I feel icky.

There is a good chance that I am a terrible dad and husband.  I may be slightly evil or possessed though I don’t think I actually believe in such phenomenon.  But for whatever shortcomings I may have I am a man of conviction.  And on that day I sold out.  What is worse is that I sold out my son and the instant the water hit his head I knew it.  My arcane fear drove me to allow someone to claim my child for the Church and for Christ.  Had my son not lived to be baptized that same church teaches that he would have to spend an eternity in purgatory until the second coming of Christ.  Am I the only one who sees this as unfair?  Even Catholics have to question this.  And after I question it I think “but what if I am wrong?” 

Then I read things like this and I almost want to “claim,” my child back. 

This will pass and really my boy wont know any different.  I just hope if he finds God and even a Church that it isn’t out of fear for being wrong.   

Things You Should Never Admit Volume 1: I don't like the National Anthem

What!!??!  He doesn't LIKE the national anthem? 

Yes, you read it right.  I don't care much for "The Star Spangled Banner."  But before you send deem me to be unpatriotic and probably a terrorist hear me out. 

I vividly recall my dad telling me before a baseball game when I was a kid to take off my hat, face the flag and remember the men and women who died for our country.  I did as I was told and thought about Vietnam because as I understood it at the time, nothing made this country safer than sending men and women to die in a war we probably couldn’t win to defeat something called Communism.  And to this day I can’t find any fault to the logic of my dad.  I think it’s very important to remember where we came from and the sacrifices people made before us…and now. 

Even when I was a punk ass teenager and felt too cool for such formality, I dutifully removed my hat faced the flag and was respectful during the anthem.  But I all the times I have stood for the anthem, I have never been moved, touched, felt pride or really anything that I suppose I am supposed to feel.  And I didn’t know that you were supposed to unless you had just won an Olympic medal. 

Lets be honest here, it’s not that great of a song.  For one thing, it’s set to the tune of an old British drinking song called “ To Anacreon in Heaven”  Take that England.  Oh how the red coats must have snickered. 

Then theres the lyrics which come from "Defence of Fort McHenry",  a poem written in 1814 by the 35-year-old lawyer and amateur poet, Francis Scott Key who had wittnessed a particular battle over the fort.  Come on people…”Defence of Fort Mchenry?”  Can you think of a worse title for a poem?  For myself, when I write peotry I try not to sound like a seventh grade history text.  Mr. Francis Scott Key tells us the story of this battle that no one today ever saw.  A battle that while probably important at the time and impactful to him has little to do with me at a baseball game staring intently at the flag while wondering what the starting line up will be.

In the play offs Major League Baseball teams have begun a tradition of singing “God Bless America,” during the 7^th inning streatch the last couple of years.  Usually it features some recording artist or fire fighter or someone of local importance.  I watched the Yankees/Rangers game yesterday and the Phillies/Giants game tonight.  Both featured “God Bless America” during the 7^th inning.  One was some singer/actor but in Sanfransisco it was this violinist with no words.  Both times my eyes welled up with hot stingy tears.  And this has been the case for some time now.  Read these lyrics to the full version:

"While the storm clouds gather far across the sea,
Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free,
Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,
As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer. "

":God Bless America,
Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home."

I don’t know… it’s such a humble ditty.  I love that it speaks of gratitude and seeks Gods guidance for our nation.  These concepts, more than a dry poem set to an old drinking tune seem to be as important now as they were when this song was penned.  Finally, I feel the pride but I also feel something else: lucky to be here.  So I submit to you that if it ever came to a vote or…however they decide such things, that “God Bless America,” should be our national anthem. 

The dumb white guy in my house (is actually me)

I loved the era of PC.  You know “Political Correctness.”  Oh it drew and still draws much ire from people like my father who thought it was somehow threatening to white people.  But I always felt that at it core the idea that we should try and use terms to describe people that they find non offensive to make a lot of sense.  In fact, it just seems polite.  Some people probably took it too far and smudged the good intent.  I always felt that though I may make mistakes, my intent is to clarify and to be non offensive and unbiased toward any racial, religious, social group, creed or sexual orientation.   

At my core, I’m pretty bleeding heart.  I don’t mean to be but I just am.  And maybe, I even look down my nose at other less enlightened white people.  But that seems justified because after all…aren’t I a better person?  You decide.

The gas station closest to my house is owned and run by a family of Indians (people from India.  The “other,” kind are called indigenous Americans you un-PC asshole.)  This fact bothers many people I know.  I hear stupid rumors like: “they don’t pay taxes!  Don’t spend your money there.”  The fact that they practice Hindu may as well make them witches in the eyes of many.  But as for me, I happily spend my money there as seeing as their gas prices are competitive and they have the best deal on Monster Energy Drinks of which I am hopelessly addicted.

One day this summer I was filling up with gas and getting one such energy drink before work.  I was running late and had realized last minute that in addition to carbonated amphetamine, I would also need gas for my car.  I can be somewhat terse and irate when I am under a time crunch.  I filled up the car, rushed inside, grabbed the sweet nectar of the Gods known as “Monster,” and b-lined for the checkout where I waited for the woman ahead of me to decide which generic brand of cigarette she wanted. 

Finally it was my turn.  Today the wife was working the store.  She is polite and pleasant even though we exchange few words most days.  She scans the Monster and I pay swiping my card.  I don’t pay attention to the total…I never do.  I put the debt card back into my wallet and prepare to leave when she says something to me.  I found it hard to decipher  her English just then as she speaks with an accent.  “What was that?”  I say hoping its clearer the next time.

She repeats herself and I cannot understand her.  “Im sorry?” I say becomming embarassed for the the both of us.

She repeats herself a third time with a big smile and sort of half laugh.  And then I did it.  I did something that I am sure that has been done to her countless times in her life by people who couldnt quite hear her.  I did something I thought I would NEVER do--I patrionized her.  And with a big stupid smile, slight wave of my hand and my own half laugh I said "Oh...okay!  Bye."  And with that I left in my hurry to get to work.

To be completely honest, I probabally wouldn't have thought twice about the incident past that day.  Thats how easy it came to me.  But what makes this stand out is what followed.  As I sat in my car at the intersection waiting for the light to change this woman, this poor sweet lady comes running up to my car.  Almost out of breath she tells me "you need to pay for your gas."

Appearently she didn't realize I had gas and simply wanted me to swipe my card again.  Mortified and deeply embarassed I return to the store to pay for the gas and apoligize emphatically. 

So thats my story.  Maybe prejudice and discrimination are more nuanced and subtle than I once thought.

I THought There'd be Jet Packs in the Future

It has been 25 years since the movie “Back to the Future,” was first released.  Its funny but in the sequel the year Doc and Marty travel ahead to is 2010.  Back then, 2010 seemed liked as fictional as the rest of the movie.  I mean it was SO far away.  Of course I think we all suspected that 2010 wouldn’t be quite like the movie depicted; like there would be no floating cars or hovering skate boards. But I figured personal jet packs for the masses wasn't too rediculous. 

Then again that wasn’t the only thing that was off.  For one thing, I really thought I’d be a rock star.  Since I was very young I imagined that I would be probably a musical genius and loved by the masses.  Then, I think around 12 years old my mom suggested I get a guitar.  Huh, just realized how “uncool,” it is for a mom to suggest that.  At any rate, the first guitar I owned was a ¾ sized Harmony® acoustic with an extremely high action that made the string too tight and my fingers bled when I played it.  But I played it for hours at a time.  Don Mcleans “American Pie,” was the first song I learned from start to finish. 

I had played so much my parents must have felt that this was more than some passing phase because at Christmas that same year I got an electric guitar and amp.  It was on now.  I could turn up the volume and tune out the burgeoning turbulence of my teenage life.  I made that little 30 watt Crate amp bark out notes that shook pots and pans and rattled pictures hanging on the wall.  I played first thing after school and usually all the way to bed time.  Sure, my school work suffered which would be putting it nicely but hey, I was going to be a rock star.  Who needed school?  In fact being educated would have cost me some serious “cred.” 

Bye 16 I was an angry, emotional, lonely adolescent with a pretty high tolerance for hallucinogens.  I had no band.  I had no fans.  I didn’t even have my own songs yet.  Boy though, I sure FELT like a rock star. I knew it was only a matter of time.  I even had accepted my fate of a Rock star death.  Dying in a plane crash was way to random it seemed to me.  That was certainly NOT a rock stars proper death.  No I think I would have liked to have died from something drug related like an overdose.  That’s how a star goes: alone and brooding, face down in their vomit.  Oh the fans would eat that up!  Nothing galvanizes the angst filled youthful music fans like their hero dying before his/her time by their own hand (see Kurt Cobain).  

Shortly after what would have been my senior year, I sort of fell into this band with a group of guys.  I wasn’t even old enough to get into the bars but I could play lead guitar and I would practice all day if you needed.  That was my first band.  We called ourselves “Big Muscular Seth,” for reasons which elude me now.  But that was our name.  By now I was 18 and feeling more artsy and introspective so my music  wasn’t the  grungy death metal as it was more of a college sound. 

We played some gigs.  I even had a groupie.  We cut two demos.  We ultimately failed to make money or get rich when our lead singer and writer of most the songs moved to Washington DC to be with his fiancé.  Even the Beatles couldn’t compete with Yoko Ono and our band would suffer the same fate.  But I loved the two years or so I had with that band.  I loved practicing, writing and recording.  Playing before a crowd is such a rush that I cannot to this day rediscover it in anything else.  And when people return to see your group or start requesting a particular song…it’s flattering and humbling at the same time.  Big Muscular Seth had probably tens of fans and that’s counting girlfriends and friends.  But we were good.  And through that process I grew musically and transformed from slick guitar show off to song writer. 

That was it.  That was my rock star career.  I went on to do solo stuff around the local coffee shop tour.  Throughout my twenties I wrote many songs and played them for people.  I learned to play some wedding standards and got gigs playing classical stuff at wedding ceremonies.  All in all, I had fun with music.  But here I am 32 years old when I should be dead from heroin. 

Anymore, I play for my family.  In particular my oldest boy loves music.  My crowd is usually my wife, our other son and the dogs with me and the boy jamming out using the stairs for a stage.  As of now my oldest is not five yet and can’t play any chords on the guitar so I really have to carry our group.  But I have faith someday he’ll start his own music rebellion.  Around the time I was 18 I got really into old blues recordings and in the last ten years Jazz.  Pretty much anything goes today as I find myself listening to more bizarre things.  Example: for some reason in the last week I can’t help but find the 80s band Toto very interesting.  I think it’s the harmonies.  So if you catch me with the acoustic today I’m probably trying to hammer out my blue grass arrangement of “Rosana.” 

But this isn’t a post about rock and roll really.  I guess it’s about adjustments.  I think you can be disappointed at times that your life hasn’t turned out like you thought but still be grateful that it is what it has become-what it needed to become.  I am blessed beyond any measure and certainly beyond anything I deserve.  I don’t think the music needed me in the grand scheme of things and that’s why I never “made it.”  But I think I needed music and in a big way music made me. 

Lets be honest, this is a post about getting old.  It happens to even some rock stars lucky enough to sober up or avoid faulty planes.  But eventually they all die.  This is why I started this blog I think.  Chances are that after the few copies of Big Muscular Seth’s demo C.Ds are gone, no one will remember those songs…good songs.  A true rock star gets to live forever through their music.  I think part of growing up for me is realizing my legacy isn’t important. Not like I once thought it was. 

BMS for life baby.

Just wait 'til next year...

Holy cow.  I mean did you SEE that?  I don’t understand how a team can just lay down and die like that.  Even more, I wonder why I subject myself to this.  This particular post season melt-down of the Twins has left me pretty angry at the old ball club.  I mean, it’s baseball where even success is measured in fractions.  How can the Twins get swept in there last 3 playoff series?  How can you loose 4 series against the same team.  I mean, this is baseball, even failure has SOME success…

Not this year.  The good guys I cheered for looked terrible.  This will give me a nice long winter to heal and try to be excited for 2010.  

Baseball and knocking on wood

So this is not the post I intended to write next.  In fact, I knew this post would have to happen but just not in this order.  Overtime and extremely busy schedule has made it imperative that I submit this post now or else you dear reader, will not know what I am going through. 

“I believe in the Church of Baseball. I've tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I've worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn't work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me”             

                                                                                               -Anne Savoy (From Bull Durham)   

Anyone who knows me knows that I absolutely love baseball.  Everyone who has met me is probably aware that I am a Minnesota Twins fan but only those close to me truly understand the boyish obsession I have with the sport in general.  Since I was a boy I have loved baseball.  When I was not yet ten years old, the Twins won their first World Series.  I remember watching every game.  Kent Hrbek was my hero back then.  He hit a grand slam in game six and I thought right then that he was probably the greatest person to ever walk the earth.  When Hrbek caught the final out in game 7 to take the series it seemed to my young mind totally just and really not that shocking.  After all, these were the greatest baseball players and heroes ever.  It was only right that they should win.  Good guys ALWAYS win right?

The Twins won it all again in 1991 in what many say was one of the greatest world series ever played.  It was a thrill all over again but to me, the one in 87 was better, perhaps because of my age and innocence at the time.  See, by 1991 I was a teenager with teenager problems, attitude, hormones.  I had just begun to become the mess I would be a few years later.  Baseball, was not the only thing in life.  There were things baseball could not comfort. 

I love baseball.  I really can’t overstate it.  Every year, around January I begin to get wrestles at night.  I find it hard to sleep and my mind drifts to a recurring fantasy I have played in my head since I was a very little boy.  Usually I am a pitcher though sometimes I am a position player.  The details evolve but the overall theme stays the same which is of course me leading the team to a championship.  My wife will break silence in our bed and say “hey what are you thinking about?”  It’s as if she can hear the crowd cheering in my head.  I usually just laugh from embarrassment of being caught. 

I used to knock on things.  Ya know like knocking on wood.  I would knock whenever an announcer said things like “…Brad Radke hasn’t given up a homerun in 10 games.”  To me, that usually meant that he would give one up this game.  So I would have to knock on wood to overcome the effect of the stupidity of the announcer.  Pretty much positive statements were not allowed.  I began to enforce the rule with my friends.  As time went on, I became aware of the things I thought.  Some of those things were also very knockable.  It was not uncommon for you to watch a game with me and for me to seemingly at random get up, walk over to something wooden and knock on it.  Most people found this to be entertaining or funny but I could also get into a pretty bad mood if you provoked me with your statements.  It was crazy and probably unhealthy.  But it wasn’t hurting anybody.

Before we were married, I was being what I imagined was charming with my wife and I told her “I love you more than ice cream.”  And “I love you more than bacon.” I had thrown out a couple of these lines when she asked “what about baseball.  Do you love me more than baseball.”

I thought for a second trying to do honest soul searching and finally answered “yes…but it’s close.”

Our first son was around one and a half years old.   He had had several episodes where he couldn’t walk or bear weight on one of his legs.  He would cry in pain as we tried in vein to comfort him.  We took him to the doctor who was sure it was nothing but took blood just to be safe.  Over the course of a few weeks the doctor took more blood and kept seeing things that didn’t look right.  Finally his doctor gave us the news that we were being referred to Children’s Hospital in Chicago and that there were indications that our son may have bone cancer.  I was devastated.  I was in a daze.  I couldn’t really summon any emotion.  While my wife very appropriately cried and showed vulnerability, I just became angry.  I was angry at a God who would put any child through this kind of pain.  I couldn’t fathom putting our child through the torture of chemo therapy, radiation and whatever else was in store.  Our son knew so few words back then and he wouldn’t know what was going on.  It was then I learned how morbid my mind could be as I couldn’t help but imagine our son in a hospital, in a casket…loosing limbs and loosing his battle.  It was overwhelming and for the next month while we waited to see someone at Childrens Hospital the tone in our house became sadder and more resigned with every episode of knee pain…we became pretty sure our son had cancer.

It was during this time I when I was watching the Twins make an incredible run for the division title.  I recall knocking something said on TV and immediately felt…bad.  I was suddenly aware that for me knocking was some sort of wish or prayer.  And regardless of how I felt about God and religion I knew in that instant that the only things worth really praying for were my family and in that moment my sons health.  Nothing could ever be so important as to make me wish so hard that I forgot what was really worth wishing for.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have knocked on wood during a baseball game since then and it was always out of habit and I always “took it back.”  (there is an official way to do this.)

Long story short; after seeing our son the doctor in Chicago found that other than some unusual blood work, there was nothing wrong with our son.  To this day that experience has been a powerful lesson in gratitude for our family.  Its pretty sobering to be faced with the very worse thing you can imagine happening to your family.  I have not been able to see a “Make a Wish,” special on ESPN or pass a donation jar for a childs picture on it and not feel sympathy and sadness for the child and their family.  I cannot imagine what they are going through…or maybe I just don’t want to.

To this day the only time I knock is when for our family.  I don’t pray really very often.  In fact most my prayers start something like: “Oh shit!  Dear God….”  But I figure if there is a god, he would understand and appreciate my knocking on wood as my way of asking for only what our family needs and That I am trying to be unselfish.  So when you see me at the doctors office you may see me knock but it’s probably because I don’t want our boys to have whooping cough.  Or maybe you’ll see me knock at a job interview that will bring more money and stability to the family.  I suppose it’s got to be better than the “oh shit prayer.” 

Baseball is still one of my favorite things about this life but until I found my wife and family I didn’t know the capacity my heart had and the absolute joy that is possible when we are grateful for what we have and those who love us.

“Remember, that it's only a game but it's the best game on earth and it's our privilege to watch it”              -Batgirl (Bat-girl.com)

Well said. 

Now, with all that said go Twins! 

And on the third day he rested.

What?  I have a shorter work week than God, deal with it.  But really today was long.   There were kids falling and band aids, cell phones in the dogs water bowl and for a while we thought the hamster was dead.  Rest assured Little Nicky Punto is just fine.  So after a brisk run in the cool night air to reset my brain and a nice shower I will go to bed and start over tomorrow.  Hopefully by then my next piece should be ready to go by then.  See you then.