The Charlie Brown / Cliff Lee Christmas Special.
[Scene begins with a dad, once nicknamed “Charlie Brown” by his grandfather, conversing about Christmas with his older daughter.]
So Katie, if Santa could bring you one gift this year, what would it be?
[A pause, then an answer] A dachshund.
Now Katie, you were given a dog for your birthday last year. Daisy isn’t even a year old yet. Let’s move on: If Santa could bring you two gifts this year, what would the second one be?
A bed for my dachshund.
All right now, Katie. Let’s move away from the dog gifts. If Santa could bring you a third gift, what would that be?
A panda bear.
(Sigh.) Good grief.
Sometimes, even the most wonderful time of the year is fraught with negotiation. While there will be no hot dog-shaped canines or black-eyed, bamboo-eating bears under our tree this Christmas, there has to be something. And when the girls finally got serious and gave us their Santa lists, the requests were, well, staggering. In a Sally Brown kind of way.
- An iTouch
- A new backyard playset
- An e-Reader
- An iPod
- A bicycle
They didn’t say it themselves, but I’m sure they’d also be pleased with Sally’s request of “tens and twenties” on her Santa list. What happened to the days when Lite Brite was a lot to ask for? What happened to hoping upon hope that a new Joe Montana jersey lay beneath the tree? What, in the name of Charlie Brown, ever happened to Lincoln Logs? Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?
Linus isn’t home right now, Charlie. Lucy is, though, and she’ll tell you it’s all a big commercial racket. She’s reading the newspaper today, and she’s interested in a story about Cliff Lee, the left-handed pitching ace from Arkansas. Still undecided on what his next team will be, Lee can be certain of one thing – when he does sign, he’ll be at least $150 million richer. There have been a lot of negotiations between Lee’s agent and assorted major-league teams over the past month, and the teams keep piling more money in front of the lefty. If Lee wanted a dachshund and a panda, several teams would happily provide them for him tomorrow.
Of course, Cliff Lee could build his own zoo with the money he’s about to make. He can look at my girls’ list and take care of it tomorrow – with his own shopping assistant, if he so desires. He might even buy himself one of those big aluminum trees. Maybe one painted pink. It’s not the easiest Christmas for some families, but for elite baseball players such as Lee, the stocking is overflowing.
Santa will bring some wonderful gifts to our house on Christmas morning, but he did not spend two weeks shopping in Best Buy or Petco for the 8-year-old and 5-year-old who live here. The gifts will be just fine, and I have a feeling my two girls will be very grateful for what they receive.
In our living room, after all, we have a new holiday ornament this year – a replica of Charlie Brown’s tiny Christmas tree. The girls like it a lot, and I’d like to think it reminds them of one of the many great messages found in Charlie’s holiday classic – that nothing needs to be pricey to be a thing of beauty; all it needs is a little love.
Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.
Ah, Linus. There you are. Bring that blanket over here and tell us a story. Lights, please.
Showing posts with label Lucy Van Pelt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lucy Van Pelt. Show all posts
Monday, December 13, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
He Did It Again (One Sixty-Two: Day 158)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day One Hundred Fifty-Eight: Logan Morrison, Florida Marlins
My mother would call us in for dinner from the back window, and we’d hear her as the sweat dripped down our brows. “Just one more minute!” we’d call from the patio, panting the words. My brother and I were locked in combat, and there was no dish of spaghetti or tacos or London broil that could pull us away from this moment.
We were inevitably tied at 20 in a game of one-on-one basketball, and our rules required the victor to score at least 21 points (one point for each basket made), while winning by at least two. As my mom granted us that one more minute and closed the window, Eric would dribble back to the foul line, give me a head fake and swish a jumper. Game point for him. I’d follow by picking up the pace on defense, putting a hand in his face on the next shot, and grabbing a monster rebound.
I’d dribble back to the foul line quickly, then bulldoze my way to the rim, where he’d get a hand on the ball but I’d hold on and somehow drop a layup into the rim. My ball again: This time I’d miss a short jumper, but hustle for the offensive rebound and bank in a put-back to pull ahead by one.
My ball; game point. Finally, for the first time in months, I was about to beat my brother. The kid was three years younger than me, but he’d been growing like a weed and was developing long, sinewy muscles that could do most anything he asked of them in the sports arena. As he grew into his teens, the kid started defeating me regularly in hoops, in stickball and in tennis. Almost every time we played, I’d hold a late lead, only to watch him snatch victory away from me in the waning moments.
This time, though, it was going to be different.
I dribbled slowly toward the hoop, keeping the ball away from Eric’s lanky arms. I backed him to the rim, setting myself up for a head fake and a short jumper. He leaned in, but I had him where I wanted him. And then, for some reason, my inner desire to become the next Kareem Abdul-Jabbar overtook any semblance of sanity. I leapt, swung my right arm in an arc from below my hip to above my head, and let loose a pretty, yet dreadfully misguided, hook shot.
Eric grabbed the rebound. He took off for the foul line, then returned with a pretty layup. Game tied. Ball back to Eric. He brought the ball behind the 3-point-line, took a quick look at me, and released a perfect jump shot. In our games, shots taken from behind this line counted as two points. As Eric’s ball landed perfectly through the net, my mother called us in again. I was bent over and wheezing now, in need of an inhaler. My brother slapped me five and retrieved the ball. “Good game,” he said.
Yeah, sure. Good game. It was always a good game with my brother. The problem was that it always ended the same way. I was Charlie Brown going all-out to kick the football, and he was Lucy pulling it away from me at the last moment. Just when I thought I finally had him licked, he stepped behind that 3-point-line and finished me off.
This past week, somewhere in the virtual world of ESPN Fantasy Sports, two make-believe baseball teams played a head-to-head matchup in a league semifinal. One of these teams was managed by my brother, and the other by me. My team had far and away the best record in the regular season, while Eric’s had just barely made the playoffs. I had superstars ranging from Alex Rodriguez to Carl Crawford to Roy Halladay on my team. Eric had a few great players, but he also had to scuffle just to fill his roster with some players he could rely on regularly.
But when he found himself matched up against his dear brother, Eric knew his season was about to turn around. And it did, of course. While my superstars struggled just to get base hits last week, Eric turned to unsung players such as Marlins rookie Logan Morrison, whose superb week helped lead Eric’s team swiftly past my group of All-Stars and into the finals.
I have a pretty good history of recovering rather quickly from fantasy-baseball losses. There are, of course, several million more important things in our lives than virtual sports. But at the same time, well, it happened – he beat me again. I was so close to victory, and I could taste it as if it were Mom’s spaghetti steaming on the kitchen table. And then my laptop took a queue from the gathering dusk of a backyard patio on Staten Island, and that kid found a way to hit another final shot.
Charlie Brown, you can pick yourself up now. The game is over. You battled hard, you fought ‘til the end, and your brother still loves you. Dinner’s ready.
Day One Hundred Fifty-Eight: Logan Morrison, Florida Marlins
My mother would call us in for dinner from the back window, and we’d hear her as the sweat dripped down our brows. “Just one more minute!” we’d call from the patio, panting the words. My brother and I were locked in combat, and there was no dish of spaghetti or tacos or London broil that could pull us away from this moment.
We were inevitably tied at 20 in a game of one-on-one basketball, and our rules required the victor to score at least 21 points (one point for each basket made), while winning by at least two. As my mom granted us that one more minute and closed the window, Eric would dribble back to the foul line, give me a head fake and swish a jumper. Game point for him. I’d follow by picking up the pace on defense, putting a hand in his face on the next shot, and grabbing a monster rebound.
I’d dribble back to the foul line quickly, then bulldoze my way to the rim, where he’d get a hand on the ball but I’d hold on and somehow drop a layup into the rim. My ball again: This time I’d miss a short jumper, but hustle for the offensive rebound and bank in a put-back to pull ahead by one.
My ball; game point. Finally, for the first time in months, I was about to beat my brother. The kid was three years younger than me, but he’d been growing like a weed and was developing long, sinewy muscles that could do most anything he asked of them in the sports arena. As he grew into his teens, the kid started defeating me regularly in hoops, in stickball and in tennis. Almost every time we played, I’d hold a late lead, only to watch him snatch victory away from me in the waning moments.
This time, though, it was going to be different.
I dribbled slowly toward the hoop, keeping the ball away from Eric’s lanky arms. I backed him to the rim, setting myself up for a head fake and a short jumper. He leaned in, but I had him where I wanted him. And then, for some reason, my inner desire to become the next Kareem Abdul-Jabbar overtook any semblance of sanity. I leapt, swung my right arm in an arc from below my hip to above my head, and let loose a pretty, yet dreadfully misguided, hook shot.
Eric grabbed the rebound. He took off for the foul line, then returned with a pretty layup. Game tied. Ball back to Eric. He brought the ball behind the 3-point-line, took a quick look at me, and released a perfect jump shot. In our games, shots taken from behind this line counted as two points. As Eric’s ball landed perfectly through the net, my mother called us in again. I was bent over and wheezing now, in need of an inhaler. My brother slapped me five and retrieved the ball. “Good game,” he said.
Yeah, sure. Good game. It was always a good game with my brother. The problem was that it always ended the same way. I was Charlie Brown going all-out to kick the football, and he was Lucy pulling it away from me at the last moment. Just when I thought I finally had him licked, he stepped behind that 3-point-line and finished me off.
This past week, somewhere in the virtual world of ESPN Fantasy Sports, two make-believe baseball teams played a head-to-head matchup in a league semifinal. One of these teams was managed by my brother, and the other by me. My team had far and away the best record in the regular season, while Eric’s had just barely made the playoffs. I had superstars ranging from Alex Rodriguez to Carl Crawford to Roy Halladay on my team. Eric had a few great players, but he also had to scuffle just to fill his roster with some players he could rely on regularly.
But when he found himself matched up against his dear brother, Eric knew his season was about to turn around. And it did, of course. While my superstars struggled just to get base hits last week, Eric turned to unsung players such as Marlins rookie Logan Morrison, whose superb week helped lead Eric’s team swiftly past my group of All-Stars and into the finals.
I have a pretty good history of recovering rather quickly from fantasy-baseball losses. There are, of course, several million more important things in our lives than virtual sports. But at the same time, well, it happened – he beat me again. I was so close to victory, and I could taste it as if it were Mom’s spaghetti steaming on the kitchen table. And then my laptop took a queue from the gathering dusk of a backyard patio on Staten Island, and that kid found a way to hit another final shot.
Charlie Brown, you can pick yourself up now. The game is over. You battled hard, you fought ‘til the end, and your brother still loves you. Dinner’s ready.
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