"This game is officially meshugeneh." That was Howie Rose's call the other night when the Mets made yet another sensational (double) play in a four hour marathon of sensational plays. Yes, it took them that long just to play nine innings.
I'm enjoying baseball season while it lasts, and this year (Shh! Don't tell them!) it may last all the way to November for the Mets. I will take the respite from Nut Season myself, by putting my feet up and enjoying the almost lost art of listening to the radio.
Calling a game requires the skills of a storyteller combined with those of a researcher, as well as a voice over actor. Baseball is a leisurely game, punctuated by moments of intense, complex activity. Silence is not permitted on radio. Dead air must be filled. As the game goes on the stories get sillier, if you've got a really good broadcast team.
When I've dealt with the beastly day job, I generally come home to find only the cat. As the Nut Season ramps up in September, the household schedule takes on a managed chaos. I never know what shape which boy will be in when they walk in the door, but the one constant in the chaos is, the ballet mommy has to stop whatever she's working on and listen. Must find the energy to celebrate a good day and the patience to perform a postmortem on a bad one, pick up the pieces and jumpstart them back to life, because tomorrow is another day of class and rehearsals.
Only after the adrenaline had been damped down by food, or the angst fully vented, do I become free to pick up the thread of my own project. Where was I going with that chapter? That thought - what thought? Yes, my space is littered with pens, notebooks, computer peripherals, all of which are meticulously inventoried daily by the cat. I have two monitors, one of which is becoming covered with virtual sticky notes (curse you, Windows 8!) reminding me of editors' reading periods and anthology deadlines. Other notes, the ones I habitually shuffle to the back, remind me of errands and chores to be done. And those reminders, along with the projects, get shuffled again whenever another artistic meltdown happens.
Sometimes the meltdown is mine. Like that old "inspirational" poster from back in the day, I've worked for it, I owe it to myself, and no one is going to deprive me of it.
Not even a Nutcracker Prince and his class accompanist.
Chaos? Bring it.
Think ballet and baseball don't mix? Check out Christmas in July with the Philadephia Phillies, as the Phanatic takes on the Mouse King. http://m.mlb.com/video/topic/21753540/v271229083/miaphi-phillie-phanatic-escapes-from-mouse-king
I'm enjoying baseball season while it lasts, and this year (Shh! Don't tell them!) it may last all the way to November for the Mets. I will take the respite from Nut Season myself, by putting my feet up and enjoying the almost lost art of listening to the radio.
Calling a game requires the skills of a storyteller combined with those of a researcher, as well as a voice over actor. Baseball is a leisurely game, punctuated by moments of intense, complex activity. Silence is not permitted on radio. Dead air must be filled. As the game goes on the stories get sillier, if you've got a really good broadcast team.
When I've dealt with the beastly day job, I generally come home to find only the cat. As the Nut Season ramps up in September, the household schedule takes on a managed chaos. I never know what shape which boy will be in when they walk in the door, but the one constant in the chaos is, the ballet mommy has to stop whatever she's working on and listen. Must find the energy to celebrate a good day and the patience to perform a postmortem on a bad one, pick up the pieces and jumpstart them back to life, because tomorrow is another day of class and rehearsals.
Only after the adrenaline had been damped down by food, or the angst fully vented, do I become free to pick up the thread of my own project. Where was I going with that chapter? That thought - what thought? Yes, my space is littered with pens, notebooks, computer peripherals, all of which are meticulously inventoried daily by the cat. I have two monitors, one of which is becoming covered with virtual sticky notes (curse you, Windows 8!) reminding me of editors' reading periods and anthology deadlines. Other notes, the ones I habitually shuffle to the back, remind me of errands and chores to be done. And those reminders, along with the projects, get shuffled again whenever another artistic meltdown happens.
Sometimes the meltdown is mine. Like that old "inspirational" poster from back in the day, I've worked for it, I owe it to myself, and no one is going to deprive me of it.
Not even a Nutcracker Prince and his class accompanist.
Chaos? Bring it.
Think ballet and baseball don't mix? Check out Christmas in July with the Philadephia Phillies, as the Phanatic takes on the Mouse King. http://m.mlb.com/video/topic/21753540/v271229083/miaphi-phillie-phanatic-escapes-from-mouse-king