They beat the hell out of us, us, us, us us us

This post is the story I referenced in my class blog for the Columbia Missourian. The title, for those of you who aren't Chiefs fans, stems from the chant that rises from Arrowhead Stadium every time the Chiefs score a touchdown: "We're gonna beat the hell out of you, you, you, you you you!"

KANSAS CITY, Mo. — You need to know, first of all, that my fandom is a little bit confused.

So I hope you’ll forgive me, if you’re a Chiefs fan, that I wore blue on Sunday at my first NFL game, when my beloved New York Giants played the Chiefs at Arrowhead Stadium. You, Chiefs fan, had the last laugh.

I’m a New Yorker by birth but a Vermonter by upbringing. In eighth grade, I walked into algebra to find a poster laid out on a table, Magic Markers scattered across it. On one side it said “Yankees,” and on the other it said “Red Sox.” I signed my name on the Boston Red Sox side, with whatever eighth-grade reason I could muster (probably my friends signed that side), and that fall the Red Sox won their first World Series in 86 years.

Sweet, I thought.

But my baby brother has grown into a baseball-playing teen who loves the New York Yankees like some people love their dogs. And then my dad rediscovered his love for the Yankees. And then my mom caught on, which is when I really lost the battle. I can’t think of a time my sisters and I could’ve talked her into leaving the TV on while we ate dinner, except on movie nights, but if a Yankees game is on we will listen to it as we eat our squash kebobs and steak. Summer equals Yankees at my house. It’s tough to be a Boston fan.

Then, when Super Bowl XLII came around and the New York Giants faced the New England Patriots, I had the chance to choose again. I picked the Giants. (This time, at least my mom was sympathetic.) The Giants stunned poor undefeated Tom Brady with David Tyree’s famous helmet catch and a comeback touchdown with 35 seconds on the clock.

Four years later, the Giants did it again.

My brother? A Patriots fan.

But I’ve managed to stay true to my teams, so maybe you won’t hold it against me that I went to the Chiefs game Sunday (they’re 4-0, baby!) in my blue-and-white striped dress, ready to scream my heart out for wide receiver Victor Cruz and dynastic quarterback Eli Manning.

We made it up to our cloud-level seats, and I was lucky enough to see a Giants shirt to my left, stark blue against the red chairs and red jerseys and red everything. But the wearer was really a Bears fan, and he left early. My friend Lee Anne sat to my right, politely clapping for the Chiefs but not really caring who did what because her San Francisco 49ers weren’t playing.

I turned to Lee Anne, excitedly, early, when the slate was blank and the game was anyone’s and hope was high. “This is as close as I’ll ever be to Eli Manning!”

He was a tiny speck on the field but a lot closer than he is when I can count his teeth on the TV screen. Manning, Cruz, defensive end Justin Tuck — this was real life. Cruz could bust out his touchdown salsa move right in front of me. He’d be just a few hundred seats and half an end zone away.

And for awhile, my men didn’t disappoint. Manning answered Chiefs quarterback Alex Smith’s first touchdown pass with a 69-yard pass to Cruz.

Cruz danced.

I was thrilled.

But the rest of the time, as the New York crew struggled to break through Kansas City’s defense, I sunk lower and lower into my seat. I watched thousand of red-and-gold-clad fans pushing the decibel meter up to 98, 104, even 109. My seat shook as the guys behind us beat on the red stadium seats. I saw the joy, the unabashed glee, as guys took photos holding up four fingers on one hand and none on the other: 4-0! Me alone with the field in the background! Me with my buddy! Me with my buddy and my girlfriend!

Midwestern hospitality aside, they crushed us. 10-7. 17-7. 24-7. Fans happily teetered down the steps, shaking each other victoriously, leaving the stadium. 31-7.

I walked past the Giants fans I had earlier regarded as my stalwart brethren, now smoking morosely by the exit.

Now we’re 0-4. Cringe. Ouch.

My Kansas City friend at the game texted me after, reasoning that at least the Giants have two Super Bowls in the past ten years. Yeah, whatever. When you’re getting the hell beat out of you, two rings can’t really make you feel better.

Ok, maybe a little bit.

And with that consolation in mind, I have no problem with the Chiefs going 5-0. Or 6-0, next time they’re home. Bring it on, Oakland.

Amateur tips from an NFL game first-timer

1. Wear sunscreen! I know I sound like a mom, but I haven’t been this burned since I was a limnophobic lifeguard. And because I was sitting in the same seat the whole game, I have a nice sunglasses burn on the left side of my face. Trust me. Please.

2. You may be tempted to think the NFL game bag size limit is like an airline carry-on restriction: airline attendants never really shove your bag in that box to see if the dimensions are correct, and if it’s too big, they’ll gate-check it for you. No. This is the TSA. Three-three-one or those liquids are going in the trash, my friend.

3. From a fellow fan: Don’t forget your tickets in the car. If you do, try to do it when you’re at a game with your buddies, not your wife.

An earlier version of this story incorrectly identified my father as a Patriots fan. Sorry, Dad. 

Participatory journalism, and yet another blog

I'm currently at the University of Missouri studying journalism, and this week I went to cover a National Anthem audition hosted by Mizzou's athletic department. When everyone left, I sang my own warbling, off-key, voice-cracking version of the toughest song in America. When I came back to the newsroom, my editor, rather than being impressed with the story I had written about two young fans who came to watch their mom audition, asked why I didn't write about my own audition. 

I told him I could only write it as if I were writing to post it here: with the silly, tongue-in-cheek humor I use with my family and friends. He told me to write it that way. 

So I did.

And although it wasn't the most newsworthy column, it sure was interest-grabbing. (Picture me trying to be Beyonce. I'm lucky I didn't have any photos or audio for the newspaper to post online.)

So whatever you may believe about journalism's place in entertainment and how much a journalist should appear in his or her stories, this time, journalism served as a place for human connection and humor. Kind of like I try to do on this blog. These days I'm waxing theoretical on my reporting blog, but sometimes, I might just publish what I would've written here. 

Dr. T.J. Eckleburg

I sat in the trying-on room of the oculist today, surrounded by fake glasses and rotating through four frames as the minutes marched by. Maybe mentally starting a blog post helps me make decisions. Maybe deciding where to go to grad school and where to work and whether or not to cut my hair short has prepared me for deciding which glasses to buy. Whatever the process, I started at the eye doctor and ended at my family's dinosaur desktop (back up your files, ye who believe your laptop will never die), reflecting on the following:

About me #1: I've had eye exams before, but this was the first time I went intent on leaving with glasses. I went to a different doctor, wanting to squeeze in a visit before I leave (who knew eye doctors are in such high demand in Vermont? Apparently even the healthiest people in the Union need glasses).

About me #2: I HATE any sort of sharp object near my body. (I almost cried the first time I had a manicure, and I haven't been back.)

This spry 69-year-old doctor only freaked me out once: when he tested for glaucoma by shooting the head of a tiny pin at my eyeball to see how fast the pin would bounce back. Luckily, I survived.

About me #3: I like sparkly things and bright colors and Jude Law.

As a glasses innocent, I made the mistake of going alone, without someone to tell me, "Don't buy hot-pink-and-yellow-spotted glasses, Rebecca. No one will take you seriously." Fortunately Dad told me that back when I bought my phone case, so I demurely declined the rhinestone-heavy options and narrowed the walls of frames down to four pairs.

Options A and B were cheap and similar and common, the rectangular sort that you tend to see on non-hipster, New England, female twenty-somethings. Option C reminded me of Jude Law's in the film The Holiday. As beneficial as it might be to think of Jude Law every time I pass a mirror, I decided that could be a faulty rubric for choosing accessories. However, now that I look at a photo of Jude's glasses, I realize they're much closer to Option D, the one I actually chose. But as I learned from the show LOST (if you've never seen it and don't have 121 episodes worth of time to devote to television in the near future, don't start), "the universe has a way of correcting itself." Must be true.

In other news, Baby Dell is going to run track at the University of Southern Maine. Our family has come a long way since my last post. I am so proud. 

Jogging track at Oxford

I was recently jokingly accused of affectation because I'm an unabashed East Coaster, complete with Sperry's and a string of pearls. (The irony is that I'm from Vermont, where people wear Teva sandals to one of the only nightclubs in town and shop at stores like this one.)

And then I wore my Oxford athletics sweatshirt:

"Oh, you took your pretension so far east you took it across the ocean?" ...(the teasing being slightly undermined by the sweatshirt draped over my friend's shoulders, sleeves tied)... "You ran track at Oxford?"

Not quite. Here's the backstory.

My relationship with track and field started when I was a seven-year-old running rec league at the same track I would later pound in high school. Unfortunately, I then forgot about track until a middle school friend told me I should join for fun.

So starting freshman year of high school, I spent my early spring afternoons at track preseason workouts. A few weeks of sore quads and hallway sprints later, after shoveling off most of the track and running on the slick snow in what I deemed a futile and dangerous attempt to melt it, we got outside. Dirt, gravel, red rubber, cold lungs, new leaves, cheap spikes, battered batons, bright locker rooms, even the scent of deodorant I used senior year — it all takes me back to those days. I was neither fast nor talented, but I loved the sport.

(My basketball career followed the same trajectory: rec league as a youngster, followed by a large gap and a high school career where I won spirit-of-the-sport-type awards but never really scored many points.)

But anyway, watching sports at Mason made me miss those casual high school years, so when I studied abroad and learned that all sports at Oxford are clubs, I eagerly looked into basketball (which, by definition, I should've been good at as an American) and athletics.

I did venture a bit beyond my two traditional sports: Most of these clubs have "taster sessions" to lure bright-eyed freshers into their sport, so my flatmate Claire and I went to a crew taster session just to say we'd rowed on the Thames (or the Isis) at Oxford. It went well until the final stretch, where I caught a crab, punching my oar into the novice in front of me. Claire, while not suffering any such embarrassments, decided her time would be better spent enjoying the other millions of things England has to offer. But I'm not quite as smart as she is. I went on to athletics.

The athletics taster session consists of jumping next to a measuring tape and sprinting back and forth in a tiny gym while the regulars applaud you and make you feel deceptively good about yourself. Real life starts one night later, with a workout of 4x200m, 4x200m, 8x150m and 8x150m. Total of about 1.75 miles, for those of you doing the math. Not too far. I showed up in my oversized neon t-shirt, quite pleased with my ensemble and still on a false high from the taster session. Pride goeth before a fall, folks.

Up to that point, my exercise consisted of a few two-miler jogs, with three solid years of post-high school lard layered on. You can imagine the outcome of that workout: my Spandex-clad backside chugging along on the darkening Iffley Road track, tracing Roger Bannister's four-minute-mile steps at a crawl. I later learned that my team included such notables as a Rhodes scholar who pole vaulted for Harvard. I was in way too deep.

But on the bright side, deep waters forced me to dig deep. I never really understood what that meant, until one solo workout in the dark when I realized that "digging deep" is code for "ignoring pain." Of course, the more I thought about it the more excited I got that I had finally figured it out, and that kept me going until I realized that my mental toughness lasts about fourteen seconds and it takes a lot longer than that to run 300 meters. But at least now I know.

And so I remain a proud Oxford University Athletics Club sweatshirt-wearer, even though my neighbors back home who went to Cambridge say that because I did not matriculate at Oxford I have not earned the right to shoe tabs (I'm still not sure what shoeing is, but tabs are Cambridge-ites and I shoed at least two of them at the Freshers Varsity meet). I will always think about digging deep in workouts, even if that just means timing my efforts so that I start working right when the Nike Training Club voice tells me to stay strong. And I will fondly, and with much humility, recall the time I spent jogging track at Oxford.   

Bieber and faceplants

The company that owns The Palm Beach Post is consolidating the copy desks. That means that after less than two months of interning here, the desk moved from the newsroom to a new segregated space (I'm not joking: I am the only girl down here, and I am the only person that sits on the east side of the currently occupied banks of desks). I came back to work after the wedding to find my old desk bravely standing amid several demolished ones. A few people huddled at their surviving work spaces, cheap paneling and straggling wires trailing in the rubble. I gathered my few things, sobbing softly, and traipsed downstairs.

It's not all bad. Down here I have huge windows behind me (i.e. light without distraction), nine huge TVs in sight (surprisingly not a distraction), and a view of the intermittently passing trains (a mild distraction). The downside is that we are ramping up to editing the sports sections for four papers, but we are on the very first bit of that ramp, and for a few more days I have little to do.

When I find myself in this aimless situation I try to improve my mind by reading about sports. Unfortunately, that often brings me to Deadspin, a wonderful sinkhole of vulgar but entertaining stories (be warned, if you click any of the ensuing links) that vaguely relate to sports. Wednesday's catch was a feature about singing the national anthem at a minor league ball game. I saw the writer is also a GQ correspondent, and I clicked through to the magazine's site. A feature on teen pop star Justin Bieber stood out (why? I dunno). It was four pages long. (And, as several of the Post interns discussed, any mid-story clicking requires a higher level of reader dedication.) I accidentally clicked to the end, painstakingly clicked back to make sure I didn't miss a word, and proceeded to soak up details of a mediocre interview with the baby king of pop.

After I finished reading the article, my first thought was that I would have written it with either more snark or more philosophical reflection on the perils of fame.

Then I thought, WHAT IS SPORTS EDITING COMING TO? Bieber-critiquing? Really, Rebecca? I knew I was really in trouble when I went home making Bieber puns in my head (there are problems with that on many levels).

(Incidentally, with my acute aptitude for drawing parallels, I realized that Justin and I both have the attention span of a chihuahua on caffeine (much like my dopplegänger). If we were friends we would probably need a safety guard just to help us cross the street without chasing butterflies and getting hit by cars.)

My thoughts were punctuated by some heels-induced slapstick (ladies, take note: vanity is not always worth it). I took one step onto a tile floor in the new office space and felt my foot slide backward while the rest of my body obediently followed Newton's first law of motion. I landed completely flat, trampoline-artist style, with no casualties except for the innocent recycling bin I took down with me. If this had happened around my family or friends, I would be guaranteed an ab-workout-level laugh. Instead I politely answered polite inquiries as to any injuries and have politely laughed along to a few good jokes about it since.

I was told to make the most of my internship. Good thing I have a couple weeks left.

Marriage Pie

The weekend of Natalie and Thomas' wedding started early for me, so early that I was (a) very excited and (b) unprepared for any glitches. It was gushy and lovely and worth every minute. But it started with a trip to West Virginia instead of DC, so I knew right away that my summer theme — BE FLEXIBLE — was still in play. But displaced plans make for much better stories. 

Weather delays and cancellations on the uncharacteristically wimpy Eastern Seaboard meant that on Wednesday night I flew from Florida to Charleston, WV, arriving well after midnight. Much to the chagrin of some family members, the bride and groom drove five hours from their homes in Virginia (one way) to pick me up. This was not at all to my chagrin, however, because I got to spend stress-free time with two of my best friends, and it gave me an easy way to start my toast (like I told everyone I met while traveling, "This groom would do anything for his bride!"). 

On the drive to Charlottesville, we stopped at a McDonald's in the haunting hours of the morning, where Thomas was bright and upbeat as always (this is not sarcastic) despite me and Natalie dallying at the drive-through. The guy at the window told Thomas he was the best (most cheerful) customer they'd had all night, and unable to contain myself, I leaned forward and blurted out, "They're getting married!"

Well, this guy's night was already boosted, and news of pending matrimony made it even better. He leaned out the drive-through window to get a better look at the two of them and said, "Really?! Do you want some marriage pie?" 

And that, my friends, is how to get free pie AND cookies at McDonald's. (I did feel weird eating them, as I am not a part of the marriage, but I'm not one to turn down empty carbs.)

The pie proved useless, however, when the gas light flicked on 20 miles from the nearest gas station. We coasted down as many hills as we could, made an illegal u-turn, and slid into a deserted pit stop just in time. 

We fell asleep at Thomas' house around 5 a.m. I woke up at 10 a.m. and staggered upstairs, blearily greeted friends I hadn't seen in months, and tried not to fall over as I shook off the weirdest lack-of-sleep hangover I've ever felt. Thomas flipped on a vinyl (the soundtrack to Disney's Robin Hood) to set the mood as we munched our Eggos. Then more bridesmaids arrived and the ladies were off to a day full of packing up Nat's stuff, checking in to the hotel, getting decorations and programs and gifts ready, going to a bachelorette dinner, crashing a bachelor party, drinking really, really bad wine and sleeeeepingg. 

It was Toad's birthday too! Ribbit.

"Come on Becsy!"

We have the key to the church! It's official!

Directions: not our forte.

Chaps

Two more days :)

Friday we drove up to Ash Lawn to decorate for the reception. After a few hours of being mildly helpful, I volunteered to drive to the nearest Walmart and pick up a staple gun. Anna, the youngest bridesmaid and a sister of the groom, quickly volunteered to join me. Mind you, I'm an average driver, I didn't know the local speed limits, we were on the side of a hill (mountain?) in the middle of Virginia, and we were behind schedule. Fortunately Anna is used to her sister's driving, and except for the time I braked while she was sipping lemonade, we got along just fine. 
 

Playing with sheep at Ash Lawn

Name-carding (sorry for verbizing, Charlyne)

Fake-bouqueting

Real-bouqueting

Side story: Everyone made it to the rehearsal in time, where I realized I didn't have to worry how I looked during the wedding because my place in the line up was right in front of the precocious flower girl and dapper ring bearer (who refused to dance together at the reception, despite many attempts at bribery).  

Diana, Anna and Lauren at the rehearsal

After the rehearsal dinner a few of the boys stopped by the hotel and we got a sneak preview of the first dance. Thomas' twin and another groomsman sang and played Jon Foreman's In My Arms — perhaps the most beautiful first dance song I've ever heard. 

Then the girls settled down by playing the box game: pick up an empty cereal box with your mouth without touching the floor. Once everybody does that, cut an inch off the box and try again. It's a bit like doing the limbo, and it brings out a strategic-athletic side you probably didn't even know you had.

Then the day itself came. Aside from some last-minute seamstressing (there are saints among us), preparation went beautifully. At one point we had a four-person train of girls doing or getting their hair and make-up done (all those years of girls' nights paid off with useful skills). 

Rapunzel hair

Sisters!

The wedding itself went smoothly — I only tripped once walking down the aisle (success!), and I think an usher was the only person to notice. Natalie managed not to cry (we thought it would be a waterworks wedding for all involved), and both the rings were present and accounted for (which was not true two days earlier, according to every ringbearer's worst fear).

When we got to Ash Lawn to take pictures, I desperately wanted to play with the calves in the field. But Stephanie insisted the mothers would trample me and, to my shame as a Vermonter, I didn't have the data to prove her wrong (any input from any farmers reading this?). So I stayed on the people side of the fence, but of course when a big black Bessie came to violently rip branches off a tree by the fence, I fed her some leaves (Stephanie: "SHE'S GOING TO BITE YOU!" Me: "COWS ARE HERBIVORES!").  

Flashback to sophomore year...missing Ashers!

The whole bovine business was merry and fine until the wedding party, lined up by the fence, was disrupted by a shrill scream from Stephanie's end of the line. Dear Bessie was snuffling her way over to us, determined to both be in the photos and ask me for more leaves. She ended up just licking my elbow. Who knew cows drooled so much? Thankfully one of the debonair groomsmen offered his handkerchief (chivalry is alive!) and we moved on to dinner. 

From there it was a pretty typical wedding/dance party. Hope you're having fun in the Rockies, Nat and Thomas! Like I said in the toast, the first time Thomas told me he had coffee with Natalie, I didn't know the freshman girl rule of assuming a marriage was pending...but it's hard to go wrong with two blond-haired, blue-eyed, guitar-picking, history-majoring, classics-reading, hammock-using, Frisbee-playing, Jesus-loving people. I should've known marriage pie was in the works all along.

I have got to stop tweeting before bed.

Bookending sleep with social media has its downsides. Or upsides, depending on your perspective. Late last night Carmelo Anthony tweeted a photo of five of the world's best basketball players, kicking back at a Johnny Rockets. Apparently I fell asleep with that image percolating in my labyrinthine gray matter.

The court is smaller than normal — which is typical in Europe, I'm informed — and I trip out of bounds at least once. I canNOT make a layup. The wood floor is the color of Grade B maple syrup.

It must be a scrimmage since there's no other team. I'm the only girl, and I'm sorely underqualified. But for whatever reason, the powers that be decided to put me on Team USA. Most of the guys are supportive, even though they're not thrilled a 5'8'' female will be subbing in for LeBron in London (OK, let's be real: I know I'll be a benchwarmer). The only one who's being a jerk is Djokovic. I still can't figure out why he's on the team. Don't you play tennis? Because in this situation, clearly he's the one who's out of place.

Waking up is always a bit of a reality shock.