It is still hard to believe that the Kansas City Royals are in the World Series. We were so bad for so long. Twenty-nine years long.
Last time the boys in blue were playing top ball, I was in the hospital having Laurie. On October 22, 1985, she was born. Hot-shot pitcher Bret Saberhagen's wife was laboring with their first in a neighboring hospital. I do not have specific memories of the I-70 series, as I was a new mom and therefore distracted.
Now, though, it's baseball, baseball, baseball. Our city's fountains are spouting blue. Practically everyone is wearing baseball garb ... the mild October weather is perfect for T-shirts. Strangers in line at QuikTrip are still talking about that heart attack- inducing Wild Card game that sent us to the play-offs with the Los Angeles Anaheim Angels. We swept three games. Going up against the Baltimore Orioles, we swept four. Of course, we swept. We have players Butler and Dyson. LOL
And now here we are, competing in San Francisco, against the Giants. First game, we got spanked (7-1).
Second game, we won (7-2). Last night's full-count score was a sweet victory.
It is true to say that before each game I say a little prayer that our long-suffering baseball team and city will once again rise to the top.
It's been a long time coming.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Friday, July 17, 2009
Field of Dreams ...
Everyone who knows me knows how much I love baseball. And the Midwest. Some people crave coastal living ... not Kathleen Stander. I've been to California; I've been to New York; my heart belongs in Missouri. Maybe Minnesota (I do so love winter). Perhaps Iowa. Kansas, not so much. Ditto for Nebraska.
So the spouse and I are heading to Dubuque. Has (his name, for the uninitiated) says that Dubuque, Iowa is, in his estimation, the most beautiful city in this great nation. No homebody is he, either. His employment takes him around the country in both clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. He's pretty much been everywhere. And he still maintains that Dubuque is "where the living is at."
I'll soon found out. Dyersville, Iowa, is the location where my favorite baseball movie, Field of Dreams, was filmed. The field is there, and the farmhouse that cutie-pie Kevin Costner called home in his role as the baseball-loving farmer. So we'll be visiting Dyersville, which is about ten miles outside of Dubuque.
I'm excited to visit some of the painted ladies that decorate this river town, set high upon a bluff.
Lots of pictures I'll take, and then will post.
So the spouse and I are heading to Dubuque. Has (his name, for the uninitiated) says that Dubuque, Iowa is, in his estimation, the most beautiful city in this great nation. No homebody is he, either. His employment takes him around the country in both clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. He's pretty much been everywhere. And he still maintains that Dubuque is "where the living is at."
I'll soon found out. Dyersville, Iowa, is the location where my favorite baseball movie, Field of Dreams, was filmed. The field is there, and the farmhouse that cutie-pie Kevin Costner called home in his role as the baseball-loving farmer. So we'll be visiting Dyersville, which is about ten miles outside of Dubuque.
I'm excited to visit some of the painted ladies that decorate this river town, set high upon a bluff.
Lots of pictures I'll take, and then will post.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Peanuts and Cracker Jack ...
Yes! Today was a baseball day, which means, for me, experiencing heaven on earth.
The minor-league baseball game (Go T-Bones!) started at 11 this morning. Spouse and I met another couple at the stadium and for the next seven hours (no kidding ... there was a double header, and the first game played lasted 4 hours, 10 minutes) we drank beer and ate dollar hotdogs and laughed and behaved immaturely.
However, I did catch a rather miserable sunburn ... should have applied my sunscreen more liberally and more often ... .
But the best part of the day was spending glorious time outlining my summer writing project, which I did this morning, bored to distraction in my husband's office. I'd gone to work with him stupidly early (he arrives at his desk each morning at 6:15) and after listening to him talk through various telcons for ninety minutes, I sneaked off to the lounge and pulled out my pen and set to work.
Part cookbook, part memoir, the book will celebrate my blue-collar Midwestern upbringing. Tentatively titled chapters include "Broccoli-Rice Casserole," "Fried Egg Sandwiches," "Gravy," and "Recession Food." Of course one chapter will be devoted to my love and profound appreciation for Miracle Whip. If it's never published officially (Read: reputable publishing house) I'll just vanity press it and leave copies for posterity. I really don't want my mom to die before I get out of her how it is exactly she made her famous pork chops in brown gravy, or how to assemble the milk toast dish she talked about from her own childhood.
I'm jazzed to start the writing.
Stay posted!
The minor-league baseball game (Go T-Bones!) started at 11 this morning. Spouse and I met another couple at the stadium and for the next seven hours (no kidding ... there was a double header, and the first game played lasted 4 hours, 10 minutes) we drank beer and ate dollar hotdogs and laughed and behaved immaturely.
However, I did catch a rather miserable sunburn ... should have applied my sunscreen more liberally and more often ... .
But the best part of the day was spending glorious time outlining my summer writing project, which I did this morning, bored to distraction in my husband's office. I'd gone to work with him stupidly early (he arrives at his desk each morning at 6:15) and after listening to him talk through various telcons for ninety minutes, I sneaked off to the lounge and pulled out my pen and set to work.
Part cookbook, part memoir, the book will celebrate my blue-collar Midwestern upbringing. Tentatively titled chapters include "Broccoli-Rice Casserole," "Fried Egg Sandwiches," "Gravy," and "Recession Food." Of course one chapter will be devoted to my love and profound appreciation for Miracle Whip. If it's never published officially (Read: reputable publishing house) I'll just vanity press it and leave copies for posterity. I really don't want my mom to die before I get out of her how it is exactly she made her famous pork chops in brown gravy, or how to assemble the milk toast dish she talked about from her own childhood.
I'm jazzed to start the writing.
Stay posted!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Biscuits and gravy and eggs, oh my!
I made a ginormous breakfast this morning for my guests: bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and bacon gravy with buttery biscuits and strawberry jam and apple butter and orange juice.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.
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