Batting Cage Match

Today I went to the batting cages at Playdium in Mississauga with Deb, Sarah and Nina. Last summer was my third season playing softball with the Rebels. Last summer, before heading to Israel, my batting had improved dramatically and I was hitting well, compared with my previous stike-out queen status for the two seasons before this. As you can imagine, this was frustrating - letting both myself and my team down - and hitting well last summer was just so great. Well, now that I'm back on the diamond Tuesday nights I seem to have returned to this state of non-confidence in myself while at bat and am striking out more than I'm hitting - despite the fact that I'm fielding well in my position at First Base and can throw well to almost anyone other than Deb. And, I'm still striking out despite all the advice and support I constantly receive from the women on my ball team, women I look up to and who inspire me in more ways than they do on the field and in the dug-out.

So, last week Deb said calmly and matter-of-factly to Nina and I, who have not been hitting well, that we were going to the batting cages. For 10$ each, we rented one of the cages at Playdium for an hour. When we got there, there was a problem: there was a leak from all the heavy rain the night before and all the balls were wet which plays havoc with the automatic pitchers. The guys working there were furiously drying each ball by hand so they'd be ready for us, the only people to have booked a cage.

My second turn in the cage, I thought what the hell: I'm going to try batting left, when I usually bat right. It felt funny, but I started to hit the balls more regularly and further than I did when I was batting right. This might seems strange, to just switch things up like this, but when I was playing ball in a mixed league fifteen years ago, I was switch hitting. Playing on a mixed team can be a mixed blessing: on one hand, a lot of guys will treat you with kid gloves or won't give you the respect you deserve as a player just cuz you're a girl. On the other hand, a lot of other guys I played with challenged me to try things like switch hit. I was no hotdog then, I'm not now, but I sure did mess up the other team when I went up to bat and hit a little green regardless of which side of home I stood on - not bad, for a girl.

Batting left today, I hit more often and better than I did at right. I've changed my stance so that I stand straight instead of crouched. I hold the bat up high at a right angle to my shoulder. My stance has my legs closer together so that I can more easily take a step, and I swing with my body and not just my shoulders. It felt good, dinging all those balls, some of which had some air time before hitting the overhead nets. I'm hoping to maintain the confidence that I can translate from this practice to the play-offs which start next week.

I think that's a pretty big intro to what I'm about to tell you next, but to me it's pretty important. I take my baseball seriously - not in a professional, sport-is-life way, but I love to play, I am competitive, and I like the mix of competitiveness and playfulness that I enjoy with my awesome all-women team-mates. We have fun, but we have more fun when we win. So, here's the story, as told to me by Deb:

I got out of the cage after my second-to-last at-bat. Deb asked me if I'd seen the little girl standing with them. I said, no. It seems that a little girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, was there with her dad and she told him that she wanted to play baseball, she wanted to get in the cage and hit some balls. Her dad, who was in his late thirties or early forties, said, "You can't do that. You're a girl." Deb heard him and turned to him and gave him a very dirty look. Right in front of him were three women waiting their turns to bat while giving encouragement to the fourth in the cage, me. (Who was, at that point, hitting every ball that was pitched to her, and hitting them well, while batting left.) Dad caught this look that Deb threw, and he suggested to his daughter that she move a little closer to our cage so she could watch better. While she watched, the little girl looked at my shoes (tri-colour-pink Chucks), looked at her shoes (pink sneakers), back and forth, until she finally grabbed her dad's hand with one of her own, and pointed at my shoes with the index finger of the other: "Look, Daddy, she's got pink shoes, too." (And she's belting balls while wearing them.)

My Dad bought me my first glove when I was around 8. He told me I threw like a girl. The glove he bought fit on my right hand. He assumed that I would throw left, since I write with my left and he was a southpaw pitcher in his day. I finally threw down the glove and whipped the ball to him with my right hand. Two of my four siblings and I are ambidextrous. Dad says we're just mixed up. Anyway, my father neither stopped nor discouraged me from playing sports just cuz I'm a girl. My athletic pursuits, and my sister's, were supported as equally as those taken up by my two brothers. Deb's father was the same. These two men, and many others like them, encouraged their daughters to play whatever sport(s) piqued their passion. These two men are a generation or two older than this father Deb told me about today. Maybe today changed him. But, what I really hope is that today changed his daughter: you can play ball and wear pink shoes. No one said you have to give up being a girl to play ball.

Has It Been So Long?

I have a few good excuses:

1: Settling back into my apartment.
2: Being a tourist in my own city.
3: Catching up with folk I haven't seen in a year.

I had only meant to take a week off from working, two tops, and here it's been three and I haven't looked at any of my translations, nor have I written much creatively aside from editing and revisiting a few poems written in Israel. Today I get back into it all as well as updating y'all on the last three weeks. Heads up: four new photo albums have been added.

The non-stop flight from Tel Aviv to Toronto on the 5th was pretty uneventful except for the sweet 24-year-old dude from Montreal who insisted on switching seats to sit with me, kept me company on the flight, and refused to believe I was over 27. Sigh. Beware my big ego.

Julie was sprung from Ashbridges Bay for a few hours to come with Brandon to the airport to pick me up, with Timmy's doubledouble in hand. Welcome home, indeed! Mom popped by first, then the girls, then Dad, Laura, Seb, Em and I went to 7Numbers for dinner. I had sexy duck leg, of course, and experienced yet another inclusio to this year abroad: the night I flew out, all of us minus Seb (who was then in Barcelona) went to 7Numbers for my send-off.

My Mom threw me a fantastic "Welcome Home/40th Birthday Party" with her side of the family and some of my friends. The kids were a riot. Bridgette, my niece, and I have this thing where we go up to the cake (there's always a cake at our family gatherings) and take a fingerful of icing off the back. I've instructed her to lie if we get caught. So far, it works, even though she usually gives us away with stray icing on her face and I'm pretty sure our faux-innocence and giggling doesn't help our case. I went up to Mom's the night before and she must have really missed me because that night she gave me a particular pair of her boots that I've been coveting for 25 years. The party itself was great, complete with awesome gifts including Time and Life magazines which were published on the day I was born, a fancy lamp, and a drawing and a poem from Bridgette.

After Mom's party, we went to Dad's where they were throwing a "This is not a retirement party" party. Laura retired this year but is not a fan of a hullaballoo being raised about her. It was so much fun, too, and I had the honour (?) of naming a new shooter: it's made with espresso, vanilla vodka and something else...regular vodka? Anyway, Laura was handing them out saying, "Here! It's espresso!" while her pal Caroline was saying, "You have to name it!" I said, "Espresso, my ass," and a named shooter was born.

Adrienne and Johannes came to visit a couple of weeks ago. We didn't do anything majorly touristy since they were only here for two nights and we're leisurely morning types, but we did walk along Bloor in the Annex and we also went to Chinatown and Kensington. It was great, because it's been so long since I've been to these places that they felt rather new to me, too. So, um, when did Dooney's go? Does anyone else remember their big fight to stay in the 'hood when, I think, one of the big coffee chains was trying to take them over? I was pretty shocked that something new was in its place. The new place is nice but it's weird, to me, not to have Dooney's there. Do you ever get a sense of the guilts when something like this disappears in your city? Do you think: if only I'd gone there more often, maybe I could have saved them with my more-than-occasional coffee purchase? I do.

The girls and I went down to Harbourfront to their Mexican-fest - yum! - then Wednesday Daniele and I trekked back down for the free outdoor screening of "Desperately Seeking Susan," which I'd never seen. Fun! Afterwards, we were up at The Press Club on Dundas to listen to jazz and hang with my pal, Mikie, who owns the place.

Friday was Laura's birthday so she, Dad, Seb and I (minus a working Em) went to Frank at the Art Gallery of Ontario for lunch (on the phone, I thought Dad said "Rank" and I thought was a pretty lame name for a resto) then to wander in the new art gallery. It's great, and in my opinion is finally of a world-class calibre. I love being impressed with this gallery now that I've experienced others especially in London, Madrid, Barcelona, Paris and Jerusalem. Now, I can't wait to get me back to the ROM, especially now that the Dead Sea Scrolls are on exhibit.

Saturday saw me at a BBQ at Sonny and Jen's with folk I haven't seen in forever, and it was especially great to see Derek. Again, plenty of kids and plenty of fun. There's not much that's better in this world than hanging with folks whose company you truly enjoy, drinking a few Cinquantes, and eating BBQ...although, now that I think of it, I didn't have any hot dogs and that's just wrong. I will have to remedy that this coming weekend at Rahmer's belated birthday rooftop BBQ.

And now that you've had plenty of left to right, I'm heading off to translate a few verses of Judges 5. My shiny new BDB Biblical Hebrew-English lexicon arrived last Thursday and I'm dying to crack it open.

Between Jason and I, we snapped over a thousand photos during our first four days together. I'll be putting together albums and posting them for you after I know (inside and out) the different ways of picking up on Aramaisms in the Psalms and also all about parallelism in biblical poetry. I love parallelism. So, these albums may not be posted until I'm home...

Oh! Remember when I told you that I often feel that I'm living in a dream here? I thought there was something very dreamlike about the quality of some of the following photos. Initially, I thought it was the quality of the light that day - it was so bright that we were literally pointing-and-shooting because we couldn't see the screens of our cameras, and when I transferred them to my Angus/computer I thought it was pretty cool that this light also transferred. The down-to-earth explanation is that I must have touched the lens of my digi with my sunscreened finger. I'm digging the effect, though.

Jason taking a wee rest on an overturned stone trough near the south stables in Megiddo.


Me, at the south stables.


The entrance to the bath-house at Caesarea.


I thought: ooh! wedding! No, it was a photo shoot, but there were wedding photo-ops going on in other areas of Caesarea. To the right of the photographer are Claire and Alain. I love their expressions.


Relaxing above the beach. Me, Alain, Jason hiding behind Bruno.

Too Much Left to Right

That's Jason's way of saying I write too much. I've decided, therefore, to make the next few posts pictorial - for your waning attention spans and/or time constraints that don't let you currently sink your teeth into a meaty post. Instead, here's a feast for your eyes.

The following photos were all taken at the Fauzi Azar Inn in Nazareth, where we stayed for two nights.

This is at the top of the stone stairs.


The main room.


Here's Jason looking relaxed at around 7:30 or 8am on Sunday morning before we adventured to Megiddo and Caesarea. Notice his lack of reading material.


The door to our room, taken from the wee sitting area where you see Jason in the above photo.


A very flattering shot of pigeons.

Dear Diary:

This has been a full week of Dear Diary Moments. Here's a list of the highlights:

The Shreddies that Richard and Tzippy brought me from home were devoured weeks ago, but I hadn't mentioned them earlier and thought I'd better: Yum! Thank You!

Last Saturday night, Jason stepped off his 11 hour flight from Toronto and into a rental car. Driving north on the 60 about an hour and a half later, we entered the tunnel before Nazareth and he did a spoken word version of The Band's "The Weight:" I pulled into Nazareth, was feeling 'bout half past dead.

The greatest wrong turn: last Sunday, we convoyed behind Alain, Bruno and Claire (The French). First, we went to Megiddo - wow! - perfect site to visit for my research. Then, to Caesarea on the coast: we should have turned right but Bruno turned left and we ended up at a yacht club south of the ruins. There was a little restaurant on the beach where we had burgers with fries and salad and went for a swim in the Mediterranean. The water was clear and warm, the shells were plentiful, there weren't many people. Jason didn't want to leave, and I can't say that I blame him.

On Monday, Jason told me that I embarrassed him at dinner the night before because I only had one beer: "What kind of Canadian are you?" I redeemed myself the next night by having a very large vodka with fresh-squeezed oj.

All driving is now compared to the insanity of navigating Nazareth's Old City streets. We now say things like, "What? Do you think you're in Nazareth or something?" when we see crazy vehicular antics.

Best dessert in the world: a custard base very much like crème brulée, in a shallow dish with what looks like pistachio soup floating on top. It's sweetened with honey and flavoured with I don't know what else. We had this in Nazareth at a gorgeous café/restaurant. I asked the waiter what it's called and he said Kushtarelleh. I asked him what was in it and he laughed at me and said it's a secret.

Pseudo-synchronized swimming in the Dead Sea: I was floating, minding my own business, when I looked at Jason lying on his back in the water with one leg in the air, "using my abs to stay balanced," and seeing how long he could stay like that without rolling over. Of course, I had to try. It's the best Dead Sea floaty-game ever.

Dinner on the rooftop patio of the wee apartment The French had rented in Montefiore overlooking Jerusalem's Old City walls: For dessert, Alain had bought what he thought was a cheesecake in the Shuk...it was not cheesecake. Cheesecake in Israel is very light and fluffy, not as rich or as sweet as it is elsewhere. We don't know what this was, but it was very heavy and rather bland with a rubbery texture. Bruno's reaction - very much like Tom Hanks in "Big" wiping his tongue with a napkin - kept us laughing.

Yesterday was Jason's last day b'Aretz. We went to the northern-most beach in Tel Aviv = Hof HaTsuk. It was hot, it was packed, it cost 16 shekelim to get in and another 30 for lounge chairs and an umbrella - and worth every agarot. Although crowded, the beach is clean and very inviting. I couldn't have stayed in the sun for the three hours we were there without that umbrella. We met Laryn and Adi from Hebron, who were our lounge chair neighbours. Jason swam but, as much as I love to swim, I have this thing (um, fear?) that prevents me from sharing soak-time with jellyfish. I have a good reason.

Bacon and cheese burgers at Moses on Rothschild in Tel Aviv: 200 oz. of sloppy, too-big-for-your-mouth, red meat goodness. I was rather unimpressed, though, with the waitress who failed to tell us just how much food we were ordering - we did not need the sides of fries and onion rings. But, back to the point: cheese AND bacon on a burger! I wouldn't eat it at home but it's such a treat here!

Finally, I had power-struggle issues with our GPS which we named Zivah - she made me doubt my savvy navigational skills. She was really great for inner city driving, or for getting us out of a place and back onto the highway which was where I took over. If, however, we didn't go exactly where she wanted us to go (read: where we had programmed - or thought we had programmed - her) she got really mad. Once, she took us right off the highway down a bunch of sidestreets in some little town when we were en route from Nazareth to the Galilee. But, she had a nice voice and I was really happy we had her for getting us in and out of Nazareth, Tiberias and Tel Aviv.

And now, after a week of road-trip, sightseeing fun, I have to get back to work! First on the list: translating Psalm 145:11-17. I'm so over the Psalms. But, classes end this week, we have exams next week, and then I'm home. True home. Like true north.

Just Another Day at Home

Living with Kyle and Lily can be challenging, but it's a good-natured challenge. I say this because I'm not accustomed to a) living with a group of people, and b) being consulted about every topic under the sun from the weather to what time the gym closes on Shabbat. They look to me for advice, they assume I know the answers to everything and being a smartass sometimes is fun when I don't know the answer, give one that I know is wrong, then when they ask, "Really?" I always say, "No." For every question I do know the answer to, there are two or more I don't - "Ani lo' yoda'at" is the sentence I know best in Hebrew - but they still ask me. It's actually a lot of fun, sometimes exasperating, but I have to admit I like the feeling of being needed.

So, Kyle and I share a similar love of dressing like 80-year-old men around the house. Today's fantastic question from Kyle: "Do I look dorky in this?"
Kyle is cute as a button. What started me laughing was the black socks:

She's taking her inner-80-year-old-man out for a walk.