The Most Beautiful Sound I've Ever Heard

It's one o'clock in the morning and I thought I had nothing to write about - it sometimes seems like I never have anything to write about anymore - until I looked at the wall and saw the picture of my boy, Joey, that hangs there. Actually, there are three pictures of him on the wall directly across from my chair, all of them portraits that my wife had done a few months ago. He's got a big smile on his face in all three, a great big toothless smile that pretty much makes me fall in love with him again every time I see it.

Anyway, seeing that picture made me think of something that happened last night, something sort of huge, at least on a personal level. My wife already mentioned it at her brand-spankin'-new blog, Dear Diary, last night, but I wanted to talk about it myself.

After leaving work at 7:30, I went over to in-laws, where my wife and the baby were waiting. I almost decided against making the drive - a promise of Chinese food had devolved into the cold, hard reality of Boston Market, and I began to question the wisdom of driving twenty mostly unnecessary miles when gas is something like $400 a gallon. In the end, though, I made the trip because I thought it would make my wife happy and there was something schmucky about going over for Chinese but not for Boston Market. I attempt, on occasion, not to be an asshole.

I walked into the house, let the cat out, and went into the living room, where I could already hear my wife playing the "Who's here?" game with Joey. Right away, it was evident that he was in a good mood. He was sitting in his little play area, one of those circle things that keeps him sitting in one place while presenting him with about 37 different toys to play with and keep him entertained. I got down on the floor and crawled over to him, and he was going nuts - first giggling, then straight-out pee-your-pants laughing. It was great to see him so happy. He's been teething lately, and had a little cold on top of that, so he's been sort of miserable for a week or two.

As I was laying there on the floor, alternating between tickling his legs and making faces at him, I heard my wife say something to get his attention. "Jo-Jo, who's here? Who came to see you?"

To which he replied, clear as a bell: "Da-da."

Well. That was a first. Joey has made noises for a while now, including "dadadadadadada", and just recently put his "uh" and "oh" sounds to make "uh-oh", but this was the first time he addressed either of us in a way that sounded like it might have been on purpose. As anyone who is a parent can surely tell you, it's a pretty amazing feeling.

One of the things I've railed against, at least internally, in recent weeks has been the fact that to most people, I have ceased to be anything more than "Joey's daddy." I didn't like the fact that there are people in my life who only care about me because I exist as a bridge to Joey. For now, though, I'm willing to put those feelings aside. For now, I am totally cool with being "Da-da" and nothing else.

Intelligence: Not A Requirement For Hosting Dancing With The Stars

Maybe I'm just a little cranky because I've been sick for two days and will probably miss my second consecutive day of work tomorrow (starting Thursday, I'm coming for you, Cal), but something happened tonight on Dancing With The Stars* that bothered me.

*Yeah, I watch Dancing With The Stars - but only because my wife makes me. That's a good excuse, right?

After being eliminated, Marlee Matlin and her partner made their way to the floor so the judges could say their goodbyes and they could be interviewed one last time. They get down there, people are cheering, Matlin is waving to the crowd, and the hostess fires off her first question...

Directly into Matlin's back.

If this was a one-time thing, it probably wouldn't have been that big a deal. But the show has been going on for awhile now, and this was at least the third time someone tried to interview Matlin - who is deaf - and messed up. Tonight, you have someone asking a question when she clearly isn't looking, earlier in the season it was the backstage reporter asking a question and holding the microphone up to her mouth when her interpreter was the one verbalizing the answer.

I don't know, it just strikes me as disrespectful.

World Series Of Pop Culture, Here We Come

Real live conversation that occurred just moments ago between my wife and I:

Me: Did you know that the girl who played Audrey Griswold in European Vacation died?
Her: Yeah, she just died a couple of years ago, right?
Me: Or, in 1996.
Her: Oh. Didn't she have some weird disease?
Me: Diabetes?

A shameful performance by someone who usually lives on IMDB.com.

(Kudos to the comments on this Bugs & Cranks post for making this conversation possible)

Bill Simmons Still Does Not Know How The Baseball Hall Of Fame Works

The most recent column from ESPN.com's Bill Simmons came through the ol' Google Reader this afternoon, and one passage in particular caught my attention:

(Quick tangent: By definition, the Hall is a museum that teaches visitors about baseball history. Shouldn't it reflect that history? It can't pick and choose its lessons, for the same reason the Smithsonian doesn't ignore nadirs in this country's history like slavery, Hiroshima or Vanilla Ice. Pete Rose's plaque needs to be in Cooperstown and so do those of Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and every other disgraced legend, even if the plaques are crammed into a creepy, poorly lit basement that makes every visitor feel like Clarice checking in on Hannibal Lecter. The athletes would be simultaneously honored and dishonored, which is only right.)

Sound familiar? It should - Simmons wrote virtually the same thing in January 2007, shortly before Mark McGwire received 23% of the votes in his first year on the Hall of Fame ballot:

Let's stop pretending that the Baseball Hall of Fame is a real-life fantasy world -- a place where we celebrate only the people and events we can all unanimously agree deserve to be celebrated -- and transform it into an institution that reflects both the good and bad of the sport. Wait -- wasn't that Cooperstown's mission all along? Shouldn't it be a place where someone who knows nothing about baseball can learn about its rich history? Isn't it a museum, after all?

If that's the case -- and I say it is -- then how can we leave out Pete Rose, the all-time hits leader and most memorable competitor of his era? And how can we even consider leaving out McGwire, Barry Bonds and Sammy Sosa, the three most memorable hitters of the 1990s? We're supposed to stick our heads in the historical sand and pretend these people were never born? Imagine if the rest of the world worked like this. Word is, JFK cheated on his wife. Should we change the name of the airport and remove all his memorabilia from the Smithsonian?

Bill Simmons is an intelligent man, but for some reason he simply cannot wrap his mind around the fact that the Baseball Hall of Fame is comprised of more than just the plaque gallery. He doesn't appear to understand that while induction is the highest individual honor a player can receive, those who touch the game in a variety of ways can still be represented within the museum.

Joey And The Beanstalk

When my son was about five months old, my wife and our friend Allison brought him to the theater when they went to see Sweeney Todd*. I was allowed to stay home, but they were joined by Allison's brother Steve, who likely didn't realize when he woke up that morning that his innocent question - "Does that kid ever shut up?"** - would earn him a lasting place in our family history. I think Vicki mentions it every time she hears Steve's name. For the longest time, she was sure he hated her.

*I know what you're thinking - "You took a five-month-old to see Sweeney Todd? What kind of parents are you?!" - and you're probably right. If there is one area in which we have clearly failed as parents, it is with regards to the movies that we allow our child to see. The following are movies we've taken him to in the past nine months or so:

Knocked Up (he was in utero at the time, but I'm counting it anyway)
American Gangster
Sweeney Todd
I Am Legend
Juno
No Country For Old Men
Horton Hears A Who

Hey, if you can't perform basic sociological experiments on your own kid, who can you perform them on? At best, we figure he becomes a normal, well-adjusted, contributing member of society. At worst, he becomes a snarky barber with an ironically bad haircut who gets his girlfriend pregnant and creates a huge drug empire just before everyone in the world dies and leaves him as the last person alive - except for the small city that lives on a clover he discovers one day. Really, which one is more likely?

**In fairness, he had a) just woken up and b) not been properly informed that the soundtrack for the showing he was attending included a cranky baby.

Tonight, more than three months later after their initial encounter, Steve and Joey met again. And I made sure to get visual evidence of the showdown:

It's hard to tell from the picture, but the look on Joey's face is one of absolute terror. As my wife said when she saw him, "He looks like he wants to cry, but just CAN'T." I'm sure I felt the same way when confronted with a giant for the first time. Steve, on the other hand, was greatly amused by the situation, possibly because he realized that he's like 37 times the size of Joey. Either way, I'm pretty sure he doesn't hate him.

Wherefore Art Thou, OMDQ? (And Other Assorted Ramblings)

Hardcore fans of the blog, of which there are approximately seven, may have noticed that posting has been a little light for the past month or so. This will probably continue for the foreseeable future due to my involvement in Bus Leagues Baseball, a minor league blog I started last year with Eric of The Extrapolater and Storming the Floor fame. Things lay pretty much dormant during the winter (while Eric was busy getting linked by a New York Times sports blog and writing the daily College Basketball Closer for Deadspin - I'd hate him if he wasn't such a good guy), but we're firing it up now that the season is upon us. Check over there for ramblings of a more focused nature from yours truly. If you're looking for my latest tales on running red lights and changing diapers, however, stay right here.

Why Don't We Get Drunk and Blog's Dave Lozo is the latest blogger to organize a tournament pitting his fellow basement dwellers against one another. Starting Monday morning, voting will begin in the Suckiest Sports Blog That Ever Sucked tournament. Somehow, One More Dying Quail just snuck in, earning the sixteen seed in the "Jealous of Newspaper Guys" Region. My first round opponent will be Sports By Brooks, who would hold a decided advantage over me in most brackets - while he's posting pictures of gorgeous women and reporting actual news, I'm writing about my feelings and figuring out a way to get my hands on that Jay Bruce figurine the Louisville Bats are giving away on April 18. Fortunately, in this contest, that makes me WAY more awesome than Brooks, so I just might have a chance at pulling off the upset.

Yesterday, for at least the third time in two weeks, someone talked to me about writing for a living. This time, it was my brother, my biggest champion, who said that he wouldn't want to see me get paid for something I love to do (like writing) if it meant I would stop enjoying it so much. Makes sense, in a weird sort of way - I have to work hard to write even reasonably well, so maybe if I was doing it more often, with the pressure of money looming, I would start to view it as more of a chore than a fun thing. Yeah, that's it.

Since this blog is sort of a marker that I use to note interesting things that happen, both in the world of sports and my personal life, I thought I ought to include a point this evening where the two merged. My wife and the baby skipped town for the weekend (the New York relatives wanted a chance to ooh and aah over my finest creation), so my friend Allison and I decided to go bowling. We bowled two games, I won two games (124-110 and 125-87 - I didn't say I was good). She responded by not speaking to me for two hours. I'm sure it's not because I am, in my wife's words, "a bad winner."

I've been on a big classic rock kick lately. The other day at school, I heard Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" for the first time in a long time, and was surprised at how much I liked it (that looks like something Peter King would write - "You know who is really good? Pink Floyd. I had no idea!"). A couple of days later, I downloaded "Comfortably Numb", "Wish You Were Here", and Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" from iTunes.