I'm relatively certain that my first memory was Game 5 of the 1976 Boston series.
I still have the ticket from the first Suns game I went to. I was a little over 3 years old and I got to go because I stood on a stool and peed into the potty.
Deuce is now urinating exclusively in the toilet, but we're having problems getting him to drop his namesake in there just yet. I've seen "Elmo's Potty Time" at least 8 times now. As the song it tells him to do, he just keeps trying. I'm thinking that maybe if I entice him with a Suns ticket, he'll go in there. He likes basketball, too. He's pretty good at the little hoop in his room.
But this entry is supposed to be about my Suns tickets.
My brother and I were at Game 5 of the Clipper series last year. You know, the one where Raja Bell hit the three in the corner. The Suns also had a great Game 5 in Chicago in 1993 (triple-overtime there, too). After the game, Charles told the citizens of Chicago to sleep well and take the boards off the windows because he personally saved them from the inevitable rioting that a Bulls championship would produce. Some great triple-overtime Game 5s, but no rings yet.
After that game, we decided we needed to get season tickets. We knew we needed to be in line for playoff tickets, too. Getting Amare back was probably the best off-season move of any team. More on him later.
We split a half-season package. My understanding is that we are entitled to buy tickets for half of the home season playoffs in our same spot and that we are able to get first crack at any other tickets for the other games. There's a good chance we'll have tickets for all of the playoffs at home. There's no way in hell I'm scalping anything but first round tickets.
Our tickets are the second-cheapest in the building (we went to a preseason game last night). We are center court, but two rows from the top of the building. The only cheaper tickets are at the same level in the curves.
My brother and I took 5 games that we wanted to go to and decided to go together. We each took the tickets for 8 other games (21 total regular season games -- its technically a little more than half; I wonder how that works out?). I took games that were before January and starting in March so that I'd be around when Little Rose pops out. I almost bought her a pink Suns shirt at the Team Shop. Maybe next time.
Maybe I've got romanticized memories of Amare two years ago, but he sure looked a lot more like Tom Chambers than Amare Stoudemire. Nothing against Chambers, and Chambers in his prime would be a great addition to this team, but I really wanted to see the old Amare. Maybe he'll get there, and maybe he won't.
I'm thinking that as long as Thomas or Amare makes it into the postseason, we're going to have a great shot at the championship. I also like the addition of a true backup point guard for Nash. It was so mish-mash last year. Banks looked sluggish, but at least he's not a square peg (Eddie House, Leandro Barbosa) in a circular hole.
And the future looks great.
Pat Burke, the only Irish-born NBA player, hit a three at the end of the game (try to remember Teen Wolf -- "Put it up, fat-boy!"). We went to the Team Shop in the arena afterward. Oddly enough, there were not No. 11 Burke jerseys for sale. You can get one with your name on it there; maybe I'll get a Burke one specially made.
Diaw, the only Frenchman I can stand, just signed a five-year extension.
With the exceptions of Nash, Thomas, and Piatkowski (who?), none of the players have been in the league more than 7 years and none (other than Pat Burke) were born before 1976. Marion is 28, Amare is 23, Barbosa is 23, and Diaw is 24. Even when Nash leaves (in a few years, I'd suppose) after 2 or 3 rings, the team is still young and strong. Next year I'll probably spring for tickets closer to the floor.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
How Adam Sandler Has Replaced John Hughes
A while back, I wrote about how I though John Hughes was the greatest philosopher of the late 20th Century. If you’re interested, go look through the old entries. If anything makes sense or raises a question, please comment on that “old” entry and I will respond.
The Valentine’s Day before I married my wife we went to see The Wedding Singer. Funny thing is that before and after that viewing, we’ve never been big “move goers.” We go, just not that often, but we wanted to see this movie.
Now that we’ve decided on a name for our daughter, we laugh about “Julia Goulia.”
We bought the VHS tape (yes, this predated our DVD era) from Blockbuster on a “pre-viewed” basis. Kind of like the two cars we own now (we’ve bought into the CPO hype). I still like the previews for Jackie Chan’s Mr. Nice Guy.
Anyway, we like to watch that film. Every time I watch that, I have the incredible urge to “just” be a good person.
One complaint I’ve had about films like Nic Cage’s Family Man is that he gets both the money and the family in the end. That didn’t happen in this film. Adam chose the family and went back to his “poor” state of life. That’s a little more “real world” for me. You can’t have it all.
I’ve been trying to bring my entries about Abraham’s Faith to a conclusion, but I keep getting sidetracked. In Click, Adam gets his goals but misses out on all the things that happen in between. I kept thinking about the 3-hour playdough party I had with J2 a few weeks back. I’m relatively certain he will never do that with me again. What else have I been missing?
Oh, and Adam Sandler knows what he's doing. Next time you watch The Wedding Singer, listen to the music. The final love ballad plays throughout the flick at the appropriate times. In Click, the "first song" that plays when he kisses his wife-to-be is "Linger." In a story about fast-forwarding through life, lingering during the first kiss is important. Reminisce sometime.
Is Abraham’s faith a symbol of his strength or a gift of Grace?
Going back to earlier chapters, it is my position/ belief (at least right now) that Abraham’s faith is what allowed him to become the “Father of Nations.” That gift, though, is not something borne of his character, but it is Grace.
The Greeks believed that a hero was a hero because he was selected to be one. This likely had something to do with the way they viewed comedy versus tragedy. Anyway ... Odysseus was not special due to anything other than the fact that certain gods favored him. He was “chosen” to be special.
Most of what I’ve read and studied introduce this as a dichotomy, a fundamental shift from pantheism to monotheism. But is it really? Isn’t the ability to love the moment a gift? Isn’t the ability to be “special” a gift?
The “fundamental” shift is not that we cannot achieve it without divine intervention. The “fundamental” shift is that we’ve all been given the gift, but that we need to embrace it. here are not a "selected" few who have been "chosen" to receive the gift. It is there for the taking.
It’s here. The Kingdom of Heaven is upon us. Take that plank out of your eye and look around.
One of the great criticisms come from the little green man in my living room: “Never his mind on where he was. Eh. What he was doing. Eh.”
If you just hit fast-forward to where you wanted to be, imagine how much you would loose.
The Valentine’s Day before I married my wife we went to see The Wedding Singer. Funny thing is that before and after that viewing, we’ve never been big “move goers.” We go, just not that often, but we wanted to see this movie.
Now that we’ve decided on a name for our daughter, we laugh about “Julia Goulia.”
We bought the VHS tape (yes, this predated our DVD era) from Blockbuster on a “pre-viewed” basis. Kind of like the two cars we own now (we’ve bought into the CPO hype). I still like the previews for Jackie Chan’s Mr. Nice Guy.
Anyway, we like to watch that film. Every time I watch that, I have the incredible urge to “just” be a good person.
One complaint I’ve had about films like Nic Cage’s Family Man is that he gets both the money and the family in the end. That didn’t happen in this film. Adam chose the family and went back to his “poor” state of life. That’s a little more “real world” for me. You can’t have it all.
I’ve been trying to bring my entries about Abraham’s Faith to a conclusion, but I keep getting sidetracked. In Click, Adam gets his goals but misses out on all the things that happen in between. I kept thinking about the 3-hour playdough party I had with J2 a few weeks back. I’m relatively certain he will never do that with me again. What else have I been missing?
Oh, and Adam Sandler knows what he's doing. Next time you watch The Wedding Singer, listen to the music. The final love ballad plays throughout the flick at the appropriate times. In Click, the "first song" that plays when he kisses his wife-to-be is "Linger." In a story about fast-forwarding through life, lingering during the first kiss is important. Reminisce sometime.
Is Abraham’s faith a symbol of his strength or a gift of Grace?
Going back to earlier chapters, it is my position/ belief (at least right now) that Abraham’s faith is what allowed him to become the “Father of Nations.” That gift, though, is not something borne of his character, but it is Grace.
The Greeks believed that a hero was a hero because he was selected to be one. This likely had something to do with the way they viewed comedy versus tragedy. Anyway ... Odysseus was not special due to anything other than the fact that certain gods favored him. He was “chosen” to be special.
Most of what I’ve read and studied introduce this as a dichotomy, a fundamental shift from pantheism to monotheism. But is it really? Isn’t the ability to love the moment a gift? Isn’t the ability to be “special” a gift?
The “fundamental” shift is not that we cannot achieve it without divine intervention. The “fundamental” shift is that we’ve all been given the gift, but that we need to embrace it. here are not a "selected" few who have been "chosen" to receive the gift. It is there for the taking.
It’s here. The Kingdom of Heaven is upon us. Take that plank out of your eye and look around.
One of the great criticisms come from the little green man in my living room: “Never his mind on where he was. Eh. What he was doing. Eh.”
If you just hit fast-forward to where you wanted to be, imagine how much you would loose.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
My Little Rose
We’ve decided on Julia Rosaleen Kelly. Rosaleen is (allegedly) an Anglicized version of the Irish Roisin (pronounced “ro-sheen”). I’m not so sure about that, though. The name Rosaleen first appeared in Ireland in the sixteenth century – about the same time as the English poet Spenser first mentioned his aloof love, Rosalind. From what I’ve read, Rosalind was a name first used by Spenser.
Before going much further, I need to confess that I ended my Guinness boycott. I played soccer tonight. After the games, I like “two Guinness and a whiskey.” As I’ve said before, I’m going to write a song about it someday.
I need to do some more research, and maybe someday I’ll post an update, but, interestingly the patriotic poem “Dark Rosaleen” (allegedly translated from the Gaelic in the 19th century) mentions Spanish ale and Spenser spent time in Ireland in the sixteenth century at a time when the Spanish were funding the Irish in an effort to wreak havoc on their mutual enemy, the British. Someday, I’ll do some research on primary materials and have something to back up this.
Until then, we’re going with Julia Rosaleen. Personally, I don’t care for Julia. I like it. It’s nice. It’s okay. My wife loves it. She is the one with a huge stomach and sore feet, after all.
Rosaleen means “little rose.” It's a good nickname. With my son, he's got "the boy" (ala Bart and Homer Simpson) or "Deuce." I really felt uncomfortabe calling my daughter, "the girl." My "little rose" is pretty, don't you think?
My grandmother’s middle name was Rose. One of my first entries here was about my grandmother’s funeral.
This is the first Kelly girl in something like 90 years. My dad had a brother and his brother had three boys. I have two brothers. My grandfather (my Dad’s dad) had one sister. My grandfather just had nephews (as far as I know – there’s some sort of “black sheep” back there that I’m going to figure out someday).
My grandmother desperately wanted a girl. I was the first (and one of only two) grandsons (she has six total) to get married. She was thrilled to get a daughter-in-law. I think my Grammy may be my wife’s favorite family member simply because of the reception into the family.
Grammy’s great desire for a girl is what gave me hesitation in naming my daughter after her. A little background is necessary.
When I was born, my Grammy was still working as a secretary for Woodmen of the World. Someone gave her a wooden picture frame that consisted of letters spelling “Pride & Joy.” There was a baby picture of me in that frame. When I was at her house during the funeral time, that picture frame was still in the den.
I’m pretty sure I was her favorite. She told me as much. It’s okay for grandparents to have favorites. My brother was Grandpa Lunden’s favorite (at least of us 3 boys). Grandpa Lunden was my mother’s sister’s father-in-law. Technically not a grandparent, but we were fortunate enough to have three sets of grandparents.
When she was in the hospital, I sent her some roses. Her good friend, a Jesuit priest, visited her after she left the hospital. When I saw him at the funeral, he told me that his last conversation with her was about me. She said her “Pride and Joy” sent her those roses, and “it must have set him back $75 and he shouldn’t have done that.” It was only about $55 including delivery – oh, well.
When she got out of the hospital, Dad, her first-born, went to be with her. I had a bad feeling about that trip. I thought the bad feeling was simply that Dad would be faced with putting her in a care-home or something like that. She died a couple of days after he got there. She asked him to come earlier than he was planning to go. If he had gone with his original plan, he would have not been there for her. She always said she wanted to go in her home and that she did not want to go alone. She got both her wishes.
Pretty touching, right? What’s the problem? Why did you hesitate to name the first Kelly girl in 90 years after the woman that called you her “Pride & Joy?”
After we got out of the ultrasound for Deuce, we started calling family members. She was the third person we called – after my parents and my wife’s parents. When I told her I was having a boy she said, “Oh, honey, I was really wishing for a girl.”
I wanted to reach through the phone and slap her.
My first child and instead of being excited, she expressed disappointment. Looking back, part of my shock and anger was that this was the first time I really saw some of her flaws. No need to go into her flaws now, but the point is that I think she knocked herself off the pedestal I had put her on.
She had died about two weeks before we found out we were having a girl. Before Dad left for Kentucky to be with his mom, I told my wife that Grammy would stick around to see if we were having a girl. I thought she’d pass over some time after she’d seen this Kelly girl.
Last week, Dad brought back a pink afghan that she had knitted. She has, over the years, knitted many comfortable afghans for me and for her grandsons. She gave Deuce one, too. It was a little bit old – she had been holding on to it for a while.
I’m still mad at her for that phone call. It’s probably the worst thing she ever said to me. It is also probably the only negative thing that I can ever recall her doing to me. Because of that, it was probably one of the meanest things anyone’s ever said to me. And I don’t “see” where she was coming from. It was awful, it was selfish, and it was not borne out of love.
So she was flawed. She’s human. It still hurts me. But she’s my Prodigal Grammy, and I’m her “Pride & Joy.”
Before going much further, I need to confess that I ended my Guinness boycott. I played soccer tonight. After the games, I like “two Guinness and a whiskey.” As I’ve said before, I’m going to write a song about it someday.
I need to do some more research, and maybe someday I’ll post an update, but, interestingly the patriotic poem “Dark Rosaleen” (allegedly translated from the Gaelic in the 19th century) mentions Spanish ale and Spenser spent time in Ireland in the sixteenth century at a time when the Spanish were funding the Irish in an effort to wreak havoc on their mutual enemy, the British. Someday, I’ll do some research on primary materials and have something to back up this.
Until then, we’re going with Julia Rosaleen. Personally, I don’t care for Julia. I like it. It’s nice. It’s okay. My wife loves it. She is the one with a huge stomach and sore feet, after all.
Rosaleen means “little rose.” It's a good nickname. With my son, he's got "the boy" (ala Bart and Homer Simpson) or "Deuce." I really felt uncomfortabe calling my daughter, "the girl." My "little rose" is pretty, don't you think?
My grandmother’s middle name was Rose. One of my first entries here was about my grandmother’s funeral.
This is the first Kelly girl in something like 90 years. My dad had a brother and his brother had three boys. I have two brothers. My grandfather (my Dad’s dad) had one sister. My grandfather just had nephews (as far as I know – there’s some sort of “black sheep” back there that I’m going to figure out someday).
My grandmother desperately wanted a girl. I was the first (and one of only two) grandsons (she has six total) to get married. She was thrilled to get a daughter-in-law. I think my Grammy may be my wife’s favorite family member simply because of the reception into the family.
Grammy’s great desire for a girl is what gave me hesitation in naming my daughter after her. A little background is necessary.
When I was born, my Grammy was still working as a secretary for Woodmen of the World. Someone gave her a wooden picture frame that consisted of letters spelling “Pride & Joy.” There was a baby picture of me in that frame. When I was at her house during the funeral time, that picture frame was still in the den.
I’m pretty sure I was her favorite. She told me as much. It’s okay for grandparents to have favorites. My brother was Grandpa Lunden’s favorite (at least of us 3 boys). Grandpa Lunden was my mother’s sister’s father-in-law. Technically not a grandparent, but we were fortunate enough to have three sets of grandparents.
When she was in the hospital, I sent her some roses. Her good friend, a Jesuit priest, visited her after she left the hospital. When I saw him at the funeral, he told me that his last conversation with her was about me. She said her “Pride and Joy” sent her those roses, and “it must have set him back $75 and he shouldn’t have done that.” It was only about $55 including delivery – oh, well.
When she got out of the hospital, Dad, her first-born, went to be with her. I had a bad feeling about that trip. I thought the bad feeling was simply that Dad would be faced with putting her in a care-home or something like that. She died a couple of days after he got there. She asked him to come earlier than he was planning to go. If he had gone with his original plan, he would have not been there for her. She always said she wanted to go in her home and that she did not want to go alone. She got both her wishes.
Pretty touching, right? What’s the problem? Why did you hesitate to name the first Kelly girl in 90 years after the woman that called you her “Pride & Joy?”
After we got out of the ultrasound for Deuce, we started calling family members. She was the third person we called – after my parents and my wife’s parents. When I told her I was having a boy she said, “Oh, honey, I was really wishing for a girl.”
I wanted to reach through the phone and slap her.
My first child and instead of being excited, she expressed disappointment. Looking back, part of my shock and anger was that this was the first time I really saw some of her flaws. No need to go into her flaws now, but the point is that I think she knocked herself off the pedestal I had put her on.
She had died about two weeks before we found out we were having a girl. Before Dad left for Kentucky to be with his mom, I told my wife that Grammy would stick around to see if we were having a girl. I thought she’d pass over some time after she’d seen this Kelly girl.
Last week, Dad brought back a pink afghan that she had knitted. She has, over the years, knitted many comfortable afghans for me and for her grandsons. She gave Deuce one, too. It was a little bit old – she had been holding on to it for a while.
I’m still mad at her for that phone call. It’s probably the worst thing she ever said to me. It is also probably the only negative thing that I can ever recall her doing to me. Because of that, it was probably one of the meanest things anyone’s ever said to me. And I don’t “see” where she was coming from. It was awful, it was selfish, and it was not borne out of love.
So she was flawed. She’s human. It still hurts me. But she’s my Prodigal Grammy, and I’m her “Pride & Joy.”
Monday, October 02, 2006
Ronaldo's Doppleganger
I'll get back to Abraham sometime, but today I'm living in the moment and the moment is taking me somewhere else. I've also got an entry about my un-born daughter's new name, but I'll get to that later. I've got a couple things on my mind right now.
One good and one bad. Bad first.
I think I got screwed on the Guinness Bar Contest. They were supposed to come out with a winner's list by now. I requested a winner's list and never got one -- I just wanted to make sure that I wasn't getting screwed and someone actually won. And I always wanted to grouse about how the "other guy" shouldn't have been the winner. I've emailed four times and received no response. Not even a, "Hey, sorry, we discontinued that contest because all the entries (your's included) sucked." Nothing. I'm thinking about staging a boycott (a term that originated in Ireland). I am not buying or drinking Guinness again ... until Friday, or maybe Thursday ...
The good news is that I played relatively well on the soccer field yesterday. It's been one of my better outings in a while. We won 4-3 and I was 100% of our scoring. You know it's a tight game when they're relying on me.
I won't lie. Part of it was the competition. However, the goaltender was very good and made two very good saves on my shots (I only took 6 shots). And there was one defender I had trouble getting around. Fortunately, old age and treachery overcame youth and skill (well, he has some skill and was slightly younger than me). Here's how the third goal went down:
I had my back to the goal, off to the keeper's right side, with the ball, and this guy (who may have been slightly younger but didn't have so much skill) on me. He had been giving me trouble. So, when the opportunity presented itself I stepped on his left foot with my left foot so I could turn without his following me. Once around him, I focused on the back post and when I saw the goaltender leaning to his left, I shot to the near post and scored. It was quite magical if I do say so myself.
How do I resemble Ronaldo in all of this? My stomach, my unwillingness to run, and my willingness to kinda cheat a little.
No one would ever really call me a "ringer." But, in this league, I sort of am one. Sort of. There are a lot of guys in this division that are just good enough athletes and just good enough at soccer to beat girls and run around a lot. Many of them are faster and stronger than I, but none of them are better players than I. I'm good enough to beat all the guys when I really want to. I also try to take it easy on the gals. Some of the ladies are good; when I try to take it easy on them they beat me. I have to remember to identify those to be nice to and those that cause me trouble.
I like this division, though, because it is now my firm belief that the only persons permitted to be intense on Sunday afternoons are in the NFL. If I played in the higher division, I might have to intensify my play so as not to look so bad. I can do it (I played in that league for a while), but intensity has no place on a Sunday afternoon. And, I've got my mens' league during the week for intensity. I also like my teammates. Among others that I like, my brother plays on the team. He never went as far with soccer as I did and I think the last time we had played on a team together I was something like 8 years old. That's nice, too.
Of course, maybe if I played with more intensity, I'd get rid of that Ronaldo-gut.
One good and one bad. Bad first.
I think I got screwed on the Guinness Bar Contest. They were supposed to come out with a winner's list by now. I requested a winner's list and never got one -- I just wanted to make sure that I wasn't getting screwed and someone actually won. And I always wanted to grouse about how the "other guy" shouldn't have been the winner. I've emailed four times and received no response. Not even a, "Hey, sorry, we discontinued that contest because all the entries (your's included) sucked." Nothing. I'm thinking about staging a boycott (a term that originated in Ireland). I am not buying or drinking Guinness again ... until Friday, or maybe Thursday ...
The good news is that I played relatively well on the soccer field yesterday. It's been one of my better outings in a while. We won 4-3 and I was 100% of our scoring. You know it's a tight game when they're relying on me.
I won't lie. Part of it was the competition. However, the goaltender was very good and made two very good saves on my shots (I only took 6 shots). And there was one defender I had trouble getting around. Fortunately, old age and treachery overcame youth and skill (well, he has some skill and was slightly younger than me). Here's how the third goal went down:
I had my back to the goal, off to the keeper's right side, with the ball, and this guy (who may have been slightly younger but didn't have so much skill) on me. He had been giving me trouble. So, when the opportunity presented itself I stepped on his left foot with my left foot so I could turn without his following me. Once around him, I focused on the back post and when I saw the goaltender leaning to his left, I shot to the near post and scored. It was quite magical if I do say so myself.
How do I resemble Ronaldo in all of this? My stomach, my unwillingness to run, and my willingness to kinda cheat a little.
No one would ever really call me a "ringer." But, in this league, I sort of am one. Sort of. There are a lot of guys in this division that are just good enough athletes and just good enough at soccer to beat girls and run around a lot. Many of them are faster and stronger than I, but none of them are better players than I. I'm good enough to beat all the guys when I really want to. I also try to take it easy on the gals. Some of the ladies are good; when I try to take it easy on them they beat me. I have to remember to identify those to be nice to and those that cause me trouble.
I like this division, though, because it is now my firm belief that the only persons permitted to be intense on Sunday afternoons are in the NFL. If I played in the higher division, I might have to intensify my play so as not to look so bad. I can do it (I played in that league for a while), but intensity has no place on a Sunday afternoon. And, I've got my mens' league during the week for intensity. I also like my teammates. Among others that I like, my brother plays on the team. He never went as far with soccer as I did and I think the last time we had played on a team together I was something like 8 years old. That's nice, too.
Of course, maybe if I played with more intensity, I'd get rid of that Ronaldo-gut.
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