Playing Out the String, Forever

Last weekend I spend in Houston with Glenn, my brother-from-another-mother, helping said brother and mother clear out many of Glenn's dad's things.  It's been six years since he passed, and Mom has gotten to the point of being ready to part with his extensive collections of superheroes and James Dean paraphernalia; Glenn asked if I would help lift a few boxes, and knowing how much I enjoy (a) spending a weekend with him, and (b) doing so in Houston, I readily agreed.

Among the quintessentially Houston things we did were Texas barbecue at Goode Company on Kirby before an Astros game at Minute Maid on Saturday night.  As the 'Stros have now successfully passed 100 losses in the season, the reader will not be surprised to learn they lost to the Angels the night we were there.

Glenn has since posted up his essay on the game and the experience (read it!), as well as several of his always outstanding pictures of the scene; the ones of the Astros legends' jerseys--players I grew up with, heroes of an unheroic team--came out especially well given the amount of my drool he had to scrape off the glass.

His essay notes the futility of being a lifelong Astros fan, and Glenn posits that I'm more a fan simply by dint of distance: it's harder to be as excited when the annual disappointments occur in the same area code.  Perhaps he's right.  I also see value in my continued fandom as a character lesson for David and Sarah.  It's easy to back a perennial winner, to get used to seeing your players in the World Series--or to hop from one winner to another.  But our kids learn lessons from the things we do, moreso than the things we say, and there's an integrity to staying true even when your team just flat-out stinks as much as the Astros do.  I like to think that it adds to the integrity of what I mean when I tell them that some commitments in life--faith, marriage, choosing to run the risk of pregnancy--really hold lifelong implications, and that even when those things are rough sailing, we stay true.

Glenn's absolutely right that this year's squad is reduced to playing out the string; heck, Jose Altuve was the DH for the night we were there, a night in which no Astros batter had more than a .300 average.  Regardless of the quality of play, in each of the (four?) times I've journeyed to Minute Maid, I've had an absolutely terrific time.  I cannot adequately describe the sensation of coming "home" to a place that I've never been (whoa, there's a great sermon brewing there on the Kingdom), but that's what it feels like, strolling the mezzanine surrounded by thousands of others in Astros garb..."I am with my people, and they are beautiful," becomes my mantra.  And you know what? Local or growing up in the 802,  a World Series berth or a hundred losses, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Maturing Pride

Over the summer, when we replaced the carpet in the house, David laid claim to the computer desk that had been in the study; we moved it into his room in place of the one he'd had from Mary from when she was a girl.  As summer ended, we helped him clear it off and make a study spot for him in his room, so he had a place (other than in front of the Xbox) to do homework.

I am shocked to report that for the first two weeks, it has worked!

David's laptop and AP World History texts live up there, and each night we see signs that he's using them both--and taking notes, and writing, and reading.  He seems to have started the year by making a conscious, concerted effort to tend to his homework.

Moreover, he has volunteered (!) to give up several of his Saturdays for a project, organized through the school, called "Capturing the Voices of WWII."  He and some of his friends will be trained, then spend their days at the World War II memorial downtown conducting oral history interviews of surviving WWII veterans who come to the memorial.  He is really looking forward to an opportunity to capture the voices, and video, of the last survivors of the Greatest Generation--conducting interviews, learning their stories, and capturing them for the ages to come, so others can remember the sacrifices they made and what it was like to serve 70 years ago in the hell of WWII.

The boy is maturing.  He is more willing than ever before to set aside the immediate pleasures and to think of his responsibilities, and of something larger than himself. Oh, sure, we have our moments of teenage attitude, but on the whole, this has been a tremendous start to his sophomore year.  He is maturing, and he is taking pride in his work and in what he can bring to the world.

And as a father I find myself experiencing my own maturing pride in the young man he is becoming.  I can probably count on one hand the number of times my dad said he was proud of me.  In looking at these first couple of weeks of school, I can see multiple reasons for pride in my son, and it reminds me of the need to let him know how proud I am of the man he's emerging into.