Feeding Yourself (Sunday Meditation #37)

Chewing my way through a shrimp po' boy the other day, hunger doing its best to overcome disgruntlement at being surrounded by competition culture. The sandwich proved to be a fair balm, but only just. Meditation on society and culture should not be done on an empty stomach but perhaps it is to be avoided whilst eating. Especially hard to do when surrounded by big screen TV's and noisy folks watching the game(s).

Nowhere is safe it seems, in this modern society, from the illness of competition. Everything has been turned into some sort of sports metaphor, with all of us required to give "110%" and to "bring it" when it is "game on". All the time, 24/7. And I am quite tired of it.

Even cooking and eating are not spared the lunacy of win or die. I noticed this one night this week while watching a cooking show on the tube, the name of which rhymes with "Flopped". I do enjoy watching the chefs work creatively under impressive constraints, but it became clear to me with the episode in question just how pernicious sports and gaming "culture" have gripped our sensibilities.

The announcers, the chefs, the ads, all using the language of conquest, domination and war. It isn't enough to create something amazing for its own sake, it has to "crush" the competition it "came after". The erstwhile chefs throw shadow punches and talk about their fellow contestants as if they were weak neighbor nations in possession of natural resources to be pillaged. They must be "taken down" and "dominated" because they are all "here to win".

It is a conundrum I face every time I set out to cook something or write something: for whom and why do it? The truth became apparent to me as I ruminated on the sandwich I was devouring. To focus on domination, humiliation and subjugation of others as "winning" is to have already lost the game. Whether it be cooking a meal or filling the pages or sending a ball through a hoop, the true competition lies not in overcoming others, it lies in overcoming one's own self.

There May Be No Crying In Baseball, but There Sure Is A Lot of Cursing

TIME: Approximately 4:30, on a Sunday afternoon in May.

PLACE: Casa Del Gumbo, the living room.  Beneath our feet, a bare hardwood floor (Remember that; it matters later in the story).


CAST:  Wee Lass and yours truly.  I'm shod in a pair of slightly worn Dearfoams slippers. (Also remember that; it too becomes important).

We had been home from our road trip about an hour, and the darlin' daughter was of a mind to throw down on some Wii sports, an activity I was (at first) of my own mind to avoid.  She wanted to play some baseball, which held little appeal for me as I was 1) Tired and 2) Still irked I hadn't mastered the art of the swing with the controller.  At first, I said no.

She booted up the sports, and decided to play baseball against the machine.  Watching her, I was surprised and delighted to note that she was actually getting good (digital) contact on the (digital) ball.  She asked me again to play.  A few flashes of those baby blues, and I relented.

So there I was, crouched in front of the TV, feeling a little foolish trying to get the bat to hang right by fidgeting with the controller, waving it back and forth to get the haft of the thing out of my avatar's head.  Wee Lass is off to the side waiting to throw the first pitch, which she does with more enthusiasm than form.

As is my habit, I swung at the pitch.  I always do, it's a reflex.  But remember I said I was standing on a hardwood floor?  Wearing slightly worn Dearfoam slippers?

Well, apparently Dearfoams has discovered a new material for slipper bottoms.  One that has almost zero coefficient of friction.  I had swung at that pitch pretty hard, and the momentum of the swing combined with the lack of grip on the floor caused my feet to slide completely out from underneath me.  I crashed down to the floor hard, like the proverbial ton of bricks.  I landed on my right side, bruising my hip, skinning my knee and bruising my upper right arm in the process.

That s**t hurt.

So I'm laying there on the floor in a haze of pain, trying not to curse.  It was then I heard two things.  First, the chirpy little Wii stadium announcer saying in a cheerful voice "You're OUT!"

Second, laughter.  That's right.  LAUGHTER.  I look up at my precious daughter, the apple o' my eye, light o' my life...and she's laughing at me and hopping up and down in uncontained glee. She looks right at me and says:

"DADDY! DADDY! I got you! I got you!  ON A 71 MILE-PER-HOUR FASTBALL!!!"

Gee, thanks, kiddo.  Now, could you please call the paramedics?

Baseball Been Berry Berry Good To Me

Tonight, I went to a baseball game for the first time in years.  It was in the company of my darling Wee Lass and her mother.  The featured match up was the Bowie Baysox (a double-A farm team for the Baltimore Orioles) versus the Akron Aeros. Her Royal Cuteness had received a free ticket for participation in a reading excellence program at her school.

I lost interest in baseball back during the '96 ALCS Playoffs, when the hated Yankees beat the O's (damn that kid and his interference!) and that sort of broke my (admittedly) lukewarm sports fan heart.  The Wee Lass really wanted to go to this game, and who was I to say no?  We snagged two more tickets and made an evening of it.  Good times were had by all.

It was minor league, and I was prepared to be underwhelmed, but something wonderful happened.  I found myself explaining to Wee Lass how the game worked, the meaning of 'bunt', and how to steal a base.  No one will ever confuse me with an expert on baseball, but it felt good to explain things to someone curious to learn.  I felt as if I actually knew something.  I relaxed into the Now.

We chatted, we goofed off, we laughed.  Things felt right...I can only describe the time with my daughter as contentment.   This is a rare state even in the best of times.  There were no corn fields from which the ghosts or spirits would amble, to teach me a life lesson.  In its own humble way, however, it was a field of dreams.

Was That A Flying Pig That Just Crossed A Blue Moon?

Weird goings-on here in Casa DeL Gumbo.  The television is on. And it isn't the news hour.

Seriously.  Not only is it not news, it isn't a documentary, a food show or a sitcom.

Nope, what I am watching is...sports.  Specifically, hockey.  Stanley Cup playoffs, Game 7, between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins.  Its tied 2 -2 at the moment, halfway through the third period.

Good lord, man, I haven't watched any sports for more than highlight clips in...well, I can't remember how long.

(pause)  Sort of cheap shot by a Bruins defenseman on a Canadien player.

Well, then...I'll root for the Habs.  And keep an eye out for more of those flying pigs.

Epilogue:  They lost. Dangit.