Dear Paige

***A few weeks ago, the Our Lady of Sorrows Academy baseball team decided to forfeit it’s Arizona Charter Athletic Association state championship matchup game rather than face off against Mesa Preparatory Academy, which features a second baseman named Paige Sultzbach.  Our Lady of Sorrows claims it is against their school policy to play Mesa Prep, because they do not believe in mixing sexes and sports.

Dear Paige Sultzbach:

You don’t know me, but I just wanted to write you a note to say three simple words: “I support you.” Three more words that I feel compelled to also add are: “I am sorry.” I am sorry on behalf of those who do not understand how their actions can affect others.

Yeah, three words, or more accurately six words, are NOT going to cut it.

My father was a baseball coach. He coached Babe Ruth baseball to 13, 14 and 15 year old boys for 37 seasons, from 1969 - 2005. In the late 70’s, my observation of baseball included such things as goofy boys with long hair that barely fit under their baseball caps, a family of people that gravitated to one another anchored by their love of the sport and one memorable game in particular that included an uninvited streaker, who I caught a glimpse of as he darted across the baseball field wearing only a vibrantly colored neck tie before a hand was quickly cupped over my eyes by one of my Dad’s assistant coaches. In that decade, we also all witnessed the first girl, Cindy, to try out and be drafted onto one of the teams in the league.

My Dad’s stance was that just because a girl had never played on one of the boys’ teams before that did not mean she was not capable of it. Secretly, deep down, I don’t think he appreciated it, but he had the common sense not to share that with me. Of course we had softball for girls. But NOT baseball for girls. Only boys played baseball and they were much more highly regarded for doing so.

Gutsy, courageous. Even back then, I knew just how ballsy she was.

I remember sitting on a swing at the playground as she took her first at bat. Her long, stringy, chestnut hair down to her waist. Her tall, slender shape. Her calm, yet awkward stance at home plate.  It was a pretty controversial moment. I admired her and thought she was pretty cool, yet I remember feeling sad for her. I was sad, because it was not “normal”, the sight of it making me feel all of a sudden inferior. It felt uneasy. Some people in my small suburban town where elated over this new development, but others met it with criticism, whispers and heated debate over many a dining room table.

Shortly after that, my mother, a softball coach, started the first town softball league for teenaged girls, because there wasn’t one for those of us who wanted to play over the age of twelve and play for the town we lived in. I know that Cindy was the catalyst that set this in motion. My mother saw a need, not to mention my softball career going no further. The prospect of me being all washed up at the age of twelve, surely motivated her. That also took some fortitude. I remember my mother complaining that they refused, at the time, to let her use the Babe Ruth name, because it was for boys. She met with some resistance, mounds of paperwork, rallied for support and formed a league anyway, under a different name.

For the record, I am the last woman on this earth to go out and burn my bra (the gravitational ramifications of this would be the embarrassment of a lifetime) but I do believe we have a problem. Not the scream from the rooftops, in your face type of problem, but a serious issue, nonetheless. Yelling, protesting, occupying is not in order here. If I were to occupy something, I would take over something sensible. Like an outlet mall.

 I digress. Something must be done.

My suggestion is that all teams that are in the Arizona Charter Athletic Association (and any others that are interested in equality) should make it an active mission to recruit girls to play baseball. Not coerce girls into playing in order to prove a point. They need to look for talent in girls. Those girls will need to make the cut, be able to play up to the standards of the team (or probably better in order to really prove herself), just as the boys do. If a team such as Our Lady of Sorrows, has a policy that prohibits co-ed sports, that is fine for them, let them. Let them have their beliefs. But it does not necessarily prohibit them from playing other schools that do not have that same policy. By refusing to play another team that has a player that happens to be a girl, how does that violate their own policy? If you read that policy it does not violate it at all. What they did by forfeiting that game was make a statement. An anti woman statement. Once there is a girl on every team that they must face, Our Lady of Sorrows will have no choice but to forfeit every game, which may require them to take a better look at their own rules. Keep your school policy exactly the same, if you wish, just don’t force it on other schools who do not have the same beliefs.

I have a 12 year old daughter that I am very proud of. I truly believe, if put to the test, she could beat the crap out of most boys her age because she is strong and determined. She is driven to be her best, at whatever she does. She is athletic, fast, strong and highly motivated, yet small. God forbid the person that stands in her way. Sometimes, even I as her mother, am tempted to get the hell out of her way.

The other day my daughter told me that “chivalry is ridiculous”. “If I want to open a door or put my coat on, I have two arms, I can do it myself.” I appreciate that. I am somewhat thankful for that as I see the tide continuing to change. We can’t truly have it both ways, unfortunately. I believe in practicing respect toward all people you come in contact with.  

Paige, please don’t let Our Lady of Sorrows influence your feelings about yourself or your abilities. Take that fuel and use it to fire your love of baseball, or criminal justice or education, medicine or auto mechanics, whatever it is. In your time, Our Lady of Sorrows may not take the field with an opposing team who proudly includes a girl on their roster, but with your grace under pressure and important influence, maybe in my daughter’s time, they will.

And that team will be better for it. We all will.

A Clear Day With Foggy Weather

Complaining. We all do it. Some of us more than others. Saying  "I hate to complain, but..." is kind of just like saying "I don't like to gossip, but...". Both are self serving, but we do it anyway.

I complain, mostly to myself, or my husband, and no one else.  Usually about life's small annoyances.

I hate laundry. So I often talk to myself in a very 'postal' kind of way while doing laundry. For some reason that makes me feel better. I could either take out a gun and start using my Tide bottles for target practice, or I can just ACT like I am going to. By telling myself I most certainly could, if I wanted to, it quells my desire to throw each little skivvy and every grass stained knee or pen streaked tee, out on the front lawn. The thought of my husband and children going out into the world unlaundered keeps me in line. After all, I still want people to come to my cookouts this summer.

I listen to complaining often. I manage a dental practice and I often hear patients coming in off the street lamenting about things like: "The traffic is terrible" (It's really not that bad - we live in a very small New England town, a car in front of you going the speed limit usually equals "traffic") or my PET PEEVE: "This weather is awful" (really, what's so awful about it? Without rain, we are dead, no water, get it?) OR "Why is my bill so high?" (because your employer elected to take the cheapest dental insurance possible). Complain, complain, complain.

Dinner. Also a pain in the butt. When I get home from work and I am prepping to get my kids to their prospective activities, dinner seems like a major inconvenience. Everything under the sun has been baked, crock-potted and stir fried. I have no imagination left in me. I make the same old tired thing week after week. Chicken...Chili...Mac and Cheese... Even breakfast for dinner has lost its lustre. Can't we just lobby to cut the American meal plan down to two per day? Three balanced meals is so overrated.

Segue to food shopping. That just sucks. A small container of blueberries is $3.99 for Christ's sake! A good loaf of bread is $3.69 and will be almost gone in the shake of a lambs tail to the tune of two days worth of lunches and toast on the fly for breakfast.

I swear we could do it all day, everyday. Complain. I know people, that I truly believe, want something to go wrong, so that they can complain about it. You know those people. They make complaining an art. It's annoying and ridiculous and who in their right mind wants to listen to it?

Last month, my petty ramblings stopped. I no longer mutter to myself while folding jeans and pairing socks. I happily go to the grocery store and now buy extra food. Of the low sodium variety. Because I am cooking for a friend in trouble. Unthinkable trouble. A sick child. Not with the flu. My friend's 16 year old daughter, Brittany, was just diagnosed with level 4 Lupus. The most serious and aggressive form of Lupus.

Now, you hear Lupus and you think, "She'll be fine, Lupus is not fatal. (fact: Lupus can be fatal)" or "Hey, there are kids out there with cancer, those kids are REALLY ill." Well, tell that to Brittany who as we speak is undergoing a chemo treatment to hopefully send her Lupus into remission. The Lupus that is attacking her kidneys. The Lupus that now has her on 30 pills a day. The Lupus that may send her down the road to dialysis. Tell that to her parents. Tell that to her two younger brothers. Who are worried about her. Not just any worried. Mind numbing scared. Heartbroken.

My friend has faith and hope. Her family is courageous. She and her husband are strong. Brittany is fighting hard. They all look into the future and feel that something positive will come out of this experience. They don't look at this hand that are being dealt and complain to people about it. I am sure they have had their moments of despair, but outwardly they realize what good would complaining do? Besides, why put negative energy out there? We need positivity. I am amazed at their fortitude and their ability stay happy, while in the depths of a black hole that is most certainly the worst time of their lives.

What good does complaining do?

As a parent, the worst thing in the world has to be a child who is sick. Not just any sick. A sick that scares you. A type of sick that gives you nightmares. The kind of sick that brings people into your daughter's hospital room in HAZMAT suits. When we assess our own lives, does it compare to that type of 'really bad'? So, your checking account is overdrawn and the toilet just backed up for the third time this week. Are your children happy and healthy? Are your loved ones OK? Are your parents alive? What if they were not? I dare you to picture it.

Now...I dare you to complain about the weather.