Winners & Winners

So now they’ve got 10 movies nominated for Best Picture. And I couldn’t even begin to tell you which one should win.

There was a day, back in the years B.C. (Before Children), when I had easily seen all the Best Picture nominees by the time the Academy Awards were handed out. Not only that, but I’d also watched the more deserving films that the Oscars had failed to even nominate. I could sit there with my wife, my brother or my mom and debate the merits of each race while Billy Crystal danced on stage. “Shakespeare in Love” over “Saving Private Ryan” and “The Thin Red Line”? Are you kidding? “Gladiator” over “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” and “Traffic”? How can this be? “American Beauty” wins the award, but “Magnolia” isn’t even granted a nomination? What were they thinking?

Yes, those were the days when Amy and I would drive into the city on a weekend night to see a film that was playing in limited release. We might meet some friends for dinner, then all head over to the movies together. Afterward, we’d grab some ice cream and discuss the film. When March came around, we’d all talk about the Oscars, fiercely defending our own personal favorites.

That might has well have been a million years ago. The seismic shift from B.C. to A.F. (“Anno Fatigo” – In the Year of our Fatigue) only happened eight years ago, but the advent of parenthood has drastically altered our movie-going habits. Amy and I try, once or twice a month, to watch a movie together at home on a Saturday night. We search the library or video store for films that are 90 minutes or less, in the hopes that we will actually make it all the way through without falling asleep. More often than not, we still wind up watching the movie over two nights because one or both of us drifted off midway through the film. It’s kind of pathetic.

Every once in a while, though, that golden opportunity arises. Either my parents are over on a weekend night, or we’ve actually managed to get ourselves a babysitter. We kiss the girls goodnight, grab some Thai food or pizza, then make our way to the movie theater. Amy orders a large Coke, I end up drinking most of it, and we savor a couple hours of escapism.

These movie moments are rare enough that even with 10 nominees this year, we can only claim to have seen two. And one of those – the Pixar film “Up” – we saw with the girls. The only one we saw together on a date night was “Up in the Air,” which of course we enjoyed – but, really, we don’t have much with which to compare it.

Maybe we’ll get around to seeing “Avatar” or “Precious” or “The Hurt Locker” sooner or later. But when the awards are given out next month, we won’t be able to judge them all equally. Which means we’re going to have to watch the Oscars just for the fun of it, without all the rooting.

And you know, it’s actually a pretty cool feeling to watch a competition and not really care who wins. Last spring, Katie and I spent a few weekend hours watching college softball games on ESPN. We sat there together, talking about how you play the game, how cool the uniforms looked, and how the girls all kept their hair in ponytails. But whether Arizona beat Tennessee, or vice-versa? Just didn’t matter. No sweating over each out, like Katie’s dad might do with a Yankees playoff game. No butterflies in the stomach with Mariano on the mound. Just fun. Eventually, we felt inspired enough to go out in the backyard and have our own catch. To us, it was a game of winners and winners.

So as the Oscar debates rage on for the next month, Amy and I will follow all the hoopla. But we won’t be in on the water-cooler debates this time. We’re Switzerland on this one.

Our opinions are up in the air. Our spirits are up. Good luck with the envelopes.

Youth in Reverse

I should have known it was a bad idea. But you can understand the temptation. Here I was, on the day I turned 39, with a chance to go out for dinner and a movie with my wife. Dinner and “Avatar” couldn’t work inside the babysitting time frame. So, in an ill-advised moment, we chose a shorter flick: the Michael Cera vehicle “Youth in Revolt.”

“Juno” it wasn’t. Have I seen worse? Yes. But not many, actually. These days, we get out so rarely that I wanted something much better, especially on my birthday. So why, might you ask, didn’t we choose one of those movies with all the Oscar buzz? It’s a good question, and I think the answer goes no further than the movie’s title: As I cling to one last year in my 30s, how could I pass up anything with the word “Youth” in it?

At 39, I certainly hope to have many more years ahead of me. And there are plenty of people who would still consider me “young.” But even so, there’s no way I can claim to be a “youth” anymore. Thirty-nine is a precarious place sandwiched in between young adulthood and middle age – a place where many of us find ourselves balancing careers, families, personal wellness and social lives. It’s an exciting age, one where the present is full of more things than we could ever accomplish, and the past contains more memories than our brains can recall. And the future – well, that feels exciting and a bit scary at the same time.

So when you turn 39 on a Sunday in 2010, you do a few things. For one, you spend some time with your family. You go to church together, make smoothies for the girls, and show them scary photos from your high school yearbook. You do the “Happy Birthday” song, the make-a-wish, the candle-blowing with their help, the photo, then the photo do-over ‘cause so-and-so’s eyes were closed. You talk with your parents, brother, friends and in-laws, and you read all the kind wall postings on your Facebook page. You do something for yourself – go for a run, buy yourself a few CDs, watch a little football. You also do laundry and dishes and clean up the house, because, well, life doesn’t stand still for you, pal. And then, finally, you welcome the babysitter with open arms, grab some alone time with the love of your life … and watch the worst film you’ve seen in years.

It’s all very beautiful and gratifying, in many ways. But still, as you stare at that movie screen and see a baby-faced, 21-year-old actor looking back at you, it’s easy to wonder where the time has gone. And, while we’re at it, when those aches and pains are coming. And when the gray hair will fall upon you like a dusting of snow. And, dare I think it, when you and the wife will find yourselves too tired to even bother with dinner and a movie. “Youth,” you said? Two tickets for the eight o’clock show, please.

Baseball-Reference.com shows that 18 men born in 1971 played Major-League Baseball last year. Just barely one player for every two teams. If you’re 39 years old and a professional ballplayer, you’ve probably got the word “retired” attached to your title.

Unless, of course, you have revolted – against aging, that is. As for me, I’ll take what life’s got in store. Bring on 39. Just give me a better movie next time, please.