Change Is Inevitable

I think Mother Nature must be going through menopause.

Hot flashes one day, cold flashes the next; and the gusty winds and thunderstorms.

But this morning the air is still and the sky is blue. And the sun light is bright with a slight tint of orangey yellow.

And it's chilly.

The dew that dropped out of the sky has coated everything on the ground with a thick coat of wet.

Even though I pulled out my heavy black woolen sweater from the closet that stores winter coats, I'm still chilled by the slight breeze as I sit on the back deck by the still waters of the swimming pool.

I guess it's time to consider that summer is over and fall is starting.

It's time to close this swimming pool down. It's time to give it one final vacuum, empty the water to the half-way point, poor in the winter doses of chemicals, and put the black tarp on.

But not yet, at least not today.

We still have ball practices to attend, and the Major Leagues still have two weeks of the regular season left. But then, ball always starts before the pool opens and ends long after the pool is closed.

Many have told me that they feel ripped off by the summer we had this year. Too cool, too wet they all say. But I disagree.

This has been a fantastic summer.

There's a humming bird hovering next to a bush of blue flowers in the garden, sipping the dewy nectar that lies on the tiny petals, oblivious to the fact that it's forty seven degrees outside. But he is in the sunshine while I sit here in the shade.

I wonder if he thinks the summer was too short.

Maybe.

The trees don't think so. For all the maples that I see in my surroundings, only one has leaves starting to turn orange and red. And he always starts early, as though in a rush to be first. The first with leaves in spring, and the first to change colors and fall in autumn.

The impatient one, while the rest still stand high and sturdy with lush green leaves in no hurry to see the season end.

It is still summer you know.

My eldest daughter Alannah has ball practice shortly at noon. Still a practice / tryout of sorts for a new team with another club called the Wildcats, having been cut from the next age group up at the Turtle Club. The experience left me questioning the concept of loyalty – and how do I convince her to hold the value true when the club she was so loyal too was not loyal back to her in return.

But you have to earn your spot to make the team. And this year the competition came from every nook and cranny of our peninsula of a county nested between the great lakes St. Claire and Erie. I watched most every moment of those practices, and I thought Alannah did terrific.

But I must have misjudged her competition.

Last year, my youngest Ashley-Rae missed the cut to play on the same team Alannah did. She spent the summer watching from the side with me, and together we went through house league and all stars. And together we had a ball. Now this year, she made the team that Alannah grew too old to play for anymore. She won her spot in convincing fashion. And so as a family we now get to remain with the other families who will still travel together next year from tournament to tournament, while we make new friends on the new team that Alannah seems certain to earn a spot on. Families from a different club who may not hold the Turtle Club in as high esteem as we do, out of loyalty.

Next year we will be both inside – and on the outside looking in. On both sides of the window.

Alannah's new team does look like it will be very strong though. I haven't seen a single weak player on the team. And two of her old team mates from Turtle Club will be there to, both Lilly and Rachael suffered the same breakdown in what they presumed to be a two-way commitment.

I'm very proud of my two girls – both equally – as they grow up with fast pitch softball as one of their anchor points in their development into young ladies. In fact I am very proud of all the girls I have had the pleasure to manage and coach this year – and those that I simply rooted for on Alannah's team.

There isn't a bad apple in the whole group.

And so, with Ashley's experience of being cut behind her, and now Alannah, the older sister, just learning the experience now – and moving on with a maturity that inspires me, I reconsider my position and understand that relationships, be them with people or with organizations, are more often than not fleeting. They are ever-changing, growing like the huge maples that grow around my yard.

And some change colors early, while others stay green as long as they can.

It's been a fantastic summer for me and my family. Travelling to play ball and watching them step up to each challenge and conquer their own self-doubts. Both Alannah and Ashley-Rae grew up a good bit this year in the most positive ways any father could ask for.

And now they are confident in their own abilities and in each other's as well. They know how to face obstacles, how to meet challenges, and how to succeed.

It's been a fantastic summer.

Winning for Losing

Sometimes it's just inevitable.

Sometimes you just can't win for losing.

But, then again, sometimes the line between winning and losing is blurred.

Last night, my little Gold '99 fastpitch team was in the semi-final game to see who would go one to play in the championship game. It was a very close battle.

We were in the top of the final inning, and down by only two with one out and knowing that if we could hold them to a couple of runs, we could come back and win it in our final at bat.

The first out was made at first base, the player picking up a ground ball down first base line and the runner beaten to the bag.

But then with only a runner on second, their team hit a hard ground ball to our third baseman who looked up and saw the runner on second heading to third.

So she ran to third base and touched the bag first.

But she didn't tag the runner.

I know this because I was chatting with the other team's third base coach and was standing only a couple feet away, watching intently.

"OUT" screamed the umpire – all of fifteen years old – from left field.

There was no way he saw the play.

"She didn't tag her" screamed the fans from the opposing team's bleachers.

They were right.

With my scorebook in hand, I trotted out to left field. And I explained to the umpire that this was not a force play at third.

"But she tagged her", he said – while the fans of the other team were screaming the same thing at the fifteen year old Umpire.

"No she didn't. She didn't even make the attempt to tag her".

That was my fault. I didn't teach my young third-baseman well enough.

I waved to the other team to bring the runner back to third.

That runner scored on the next play when we achieved another out at first on the next batter.

That would have been three outs right there.

And the rest of the inning was a comedy of errors by my infield.

Balls thrown over the first basemen's head, dropped catches on pop-ups. And a dropped ball at first.

My closing pitcher, who I adore as a person – who always gets the job done – then had a hard time finding the strike zone. After eight runs I switched pitchers – even though this admirable young girl had done so such a great job to that point. As I pointed to my little centerfielder to replace her on the mound, my admirable young closer's face started to crumble under the emotion.

And my heart sunk into my stomach for doing that to her.

My next little pitcher came out to warm up – while my admirable young closer walked out to center field. The whole team except for the catcher went out to centerfield with her. And while my next little pitcher threw her practice pitches – the rest of my team consoled my admirable young closer – apologizing for their mistakes – and telling her how great she was – and telling her jokes until she finally laughed.

My next little pitcher struck their batter out with three pitches to finally end the inning.

And we couldn't make up the ten run deficit in our final at bat.

In the huddle after the game where the girls sit on the grass in left field while I stand and talk about the game, I explained to the team what happened at third base. And why I called back the other base runner to third and gave the other team back the second out.

"We don't want to win that way, do we?" I asked.

The girls all said nothing. But they all shook their heads no in agreement.

"You don't want to hear all your friends from the other team tell you we won by cheating or by a really bad call by the umpire, do you?"

"No way coach!" replied my sturdy catcher who is the oldest on the team, a fantastic leader on the squad and top in her class at school.

And the others all chimed in as well muttering "Nope" and "Uh. Uh".

"And we still won the regular season, right?" I continued. "We know in our hearts we are the best team, right?"

"Right", the all replied.

"Sometimes girls you just have to do what's right, even though it's not in favor", I said. "And that, I really believe was the right thing to do".

I doubt the other team really thought much about the out we gave back.

And I doubt very much that our sense of right and fair play will go down in Turtle Club lore – in fact the other coaches would likely think me nuts for not taking advantage of a really bad call by the Umpire in left field.

But all the girls on my little Gold '99 team will remember it. And as the pain of losing washes away as it always does quickly with kids, I think as they grow up, they will remember that call, and that decision, and be proud.

And I think they already feel like winners.

Even though we lost the game, we won.

Perhaps sometimes you can win for losing.

Because sometimes the line between winning and losing gets blurred.

But I sure will miss my little team of Gold '99s.

My Turtle Club Gold ‘99s

It's July 1^st – Canada Day to us Canukians.

A cool morning with the sun hidden above a thick layer of cloud that is spitting fine droplets of rain as my faithful black lab Suzy and I sit on the back deck this morning.

The hot summers of years before do not seem to be the plan so far this year. Instead today it feels more like May.

I am pouring over the spreadsheet that is my roster and line up for my Turtle Club house league fast pitch softball team of twelve girls aged from ten to fourteen years old. I'm looking over the combinations of our players for innings one through five, who works best with whom in which of the nine available positions, and the order they will bat in.

You might think that having a team of girls with such a broad age range is too much. That the older girls play too hard – to fast – for the younger ones. I know I did when this season started.

But I was wrong. Dead wrong.

The older girls, at least on my team, are all mentors to their younger team mates. And the younger girls have learned so much more this season than they would have simply by playing against teams exactly their age.

The younger girls' skills have risen so much faster. And the older girls still continue to improve.

The older girls, almost young women about to enter high school either this year or the next have all been fantastic role models.

I am so proud of each and every one of them that I cannot tell you in words.

My best pitchers come from both the older and younger girls alike. And the older girls give the younger ones tips and tricks.

And while our little league has only four teams in total, the talent appears to be pretty evenly spread across the pool the players. And we still play under the rules that all girls must bat in a game, and all girls must play both infield and outfield in a game – and all girls must get a chance at pitching – a very hard skill indeed to hurl a yellow eleven inch leather sphere bound in red threading with a cork center as fast as they can underhanded consistently in a strike zone that changes as the size of the girls change.

But all my girls are up for the challenge – eager for their next opportunity to stand at the center of the diamond and do their best to throw strikes across the plate thirty five feet away.

It's so much fun to be a part of a team that is stepping up to each challenge as well as my little team has done. We are turning double plays, and making the throws from third to first to get the fastest of base runners.

Our team is in first place so far with a third of the season left to play. And I do admit that while the premise of house league play is to be fun, with winning being a secondary, perhaps a tertiary thought to skill improvement and a love for the game, I always tell my girls that while winning isn't everything, it is funner than losing.

They seem to like that mindset.

And when we do lose, they do not like it.

We live in a very competitive world, shrinking day by day as our technologies make our experience on this planet one of a global community. It's not a place where an indifference to winning will help you succeed.

There are no participation trophies given in life. You have to get them and earn them. There are no rewards for simply showing up. And that is what sports can teach our children, if we use the metaphor correctly. Honor and integrity and fair play and justice must all be equal key ingredients for this magic potion to really teach our kids the lessons they so desperately need to learn.

No video game console invented yet can replace sports for teaching our kids true competitive drive. And no game where there are no losers and there are no winners – can help our kids evolve into the kind of kids that help keep our community, our society strong. But it has to be an equal mix of all.

There is no social network they can belong to online – chatting to the world that is more influential than that of a ball diamond dugout – when the team is down by four runs and you need a rally – and the cheers the girls sing together for their team mate at the plate gets louder … and more inspiration.

And you have to learn how to take the unfair with a smile that only makes you try harder the next time. You can't blame the umpire because they made a bad call. You can't say the other team got lucky on a fantastic catch.

I guess that's what I love about all these girls the most. They already seem to know this. And they all want to strive to be better. They are not looking for handouts, or easy solutions. Instead each time they step up to the plate – they want to drive that ball into the center field gap for a double or a triple or even a home run. Each time that ball is hit to them, they don't step out of the way in fear, hoping someone else behind them will make the play. No, instead they charge the ball and take ownership of the opportunity to get the out. And if they bobble it, they fight harder to get it back and still attempt the play.

They don't give up.

And when they step up to the challenge, our whole team is on their feet to congratulate them – to make them feel as special as they deserve to feel at that moment. And then that moment is over and the next challenge is faced.

And when they make a mistake – or they don't do as well as they think they could do, there is no blame chided by their team mates. Instead the whole team is there to tell them …
"it's alright, it's okay we still love you anyway!"

I think that's my favorite cheer of them all.

There is not a kid on this team that I am not incredibly proud of. And while I and my two fantastic coaches might have taught them just a little teeny bit about playing softball, they in return teach me so much more.

Our little Gold '99 team is a fantastic group to be a part of this year. And I am so happy that I and my youngest daughter Ashley-Rae – only ten herself – have had the opportunity to share this experience with them together.

"Hey one-zero, come be my hero, and hit the ball, over the wall"
"Seven seven, hit it up to heaven"

I love those sing-song cheers.

And to all the parents of these exceptional young ladies I have the privilege to manage, I sincerely want to thank each and every one of you for the outstanding job you have done so far.

Because I'm here to tell you it's not easy raising kids today.

But I think these girls are all the cream of the crop.

I can hardly wait for our game tonight against that dastardly Red team. To watch these girls go out there and try their best. And while I hope we win, I know there is a another great lesson out there just waiting to be learned.

What a great way to spend a July First Canada Day.

I just hope it doesn't rain.

I got a buddy, eh ...

I don’t care much for self-proclaimed experts.

For all that I have met, there is one guy who sits at the top of my list.

When I was a younger man, still living in London, I played on a fastpitch softball team with some friends and we were a pretty good team.

The guy who coached us was a bum of sorts. And we dismissed him and usually coached our team by committee. If we all agreed we did it. And this guy would always say that it was his leadership that brought us to our conclusion.

Anytime this bum needed to sound authoritative on any subject, he would always preface his next statement by saying “I got a buddy eh, …” and he would go on to tell us what this expert buddy told him.

And for every subject there seemed to be a different buddy.

This guy was not so likeable that he would have that many buddies. Or that they would all be so incredibly knowledgeable, and more so to be so generous with their knowledge to share it with this bum of a coach guy.

It drove me nuts, and the tripe that spewed  out of his mouth after declaring his buddy status was usually quite useless.

So I have never really held much credence to those who start to impose their wisdoms with the sentence “I got a buddy, eh …”

Until now, because you see …

I got a buddy, eh …  a fellow I work with who over the last two years who is a coach of a much older team than my girls play on. His daughter plays on this team and he has always described her as very good. And we would talk about softball, usually with me asking questions and he giving answers. His answers have always been very good ones.

One day this spring I was telling him about our upcoming trip to a tournament in Toledo. Let me first say that the level of play in Toledo is fantastic, with clubs that that recruit players from up to a hundred miles away. Their coaches are paid instructors – not the volunteer parents and neighbors our leagues here offer. Not coaches like me, who try to work with the basic knowledge of a fan.

So I was telling him about our Toledo trip and he told me to try to get the girls ready to be beaten badly – mercied  if you will –  every game.  Then he told me “spend the remaining part of your time teaching your girls how to defend against the bunt. These teams will test you early, and if you can’t make the right plays, they will spend the whole game simply bunting on you and taking your defense apart.  Train them every scenario with runners in every combination – runner on first. Runner on third, runner on first and third – bunting up and down the first and third baselines – teach them all of those until they know it cold.”

So I shared this knowledge with our team manager, but I prefaced it by saying “I don’t know what level of authority this is coming from … but here is what he told me …”

Our next practice was devoted entirely to bunting – just as my buddy Len had suggested. And it paid off. While we did get beaten badly every game - losing by ten runs easily as we entered the third inning of each – the other teams only tried bunting on us once or twice, maybe three times a game, and our girls handled most well enough that the other teams just resorted to hitting home runs and line drives to every open spot they could find on the field. And when batting, we only had one base runner that entire tournament.

The next week, when I saw Len, he asked how we made out. I told him how humbling the experience was, but that his advice about bunting was great advice that worked, and even though we got completely annihilated, it wasn’t because they bunted us to death,

Our second tournament in Toledo we won a game from a Toledo team, and played close in a couple others, but annihilated by the best teams.

He smiled and told me that was great progress.

This week, I ran into Len in the hallway again, and he told me with beaming pride about how his team actually won that weekend’s tournament in Toledo.

“Really?!, That’s fantastic!”, I said.

“Yes, but we have a lot to work on still he replied”.

That struck me.

Thursday, our coach mentioned that we were going to have one of the other clubs coaches come to one of our practices. I was curious, so I looked at the other clubs website to find out about this other coach. As I was weaving my way through the teams on their site, I tripped over their under 18 girls team. And there was my buddy Len as the coach.

And below in the list of players – his daughters name was listed. And above that list there was another list of accomplishments.

Ontario Provincial Woman’s Softball Association Silver Medalists

Len’s daughter was listed as the PWSA Top Batter from two seasons before, and the PWSA  most valuable player last year.

And I realized the true quality of advice that I was getting.

And I felt kind of silly in my boasting of my own two girls, who are both doing very well and I am very proud of, but not anything like Len’s daughter.  We are truly just beginning.

All of Len’s advice had been excellent advice, and I did take and followed it when given. But I did not realize the level of authority that my buddy held when he told me.

But now I have this conflict. I really don’t want to sound like that bum of a coach that we all dismissed on that team from long ago.

But I’m afraid I probably will now.

I can just hear me during our next practice, standing at the fence with the coaches, and saying ….

“I got a buddy, eh …”

Peddling Papers

Remembrance Day has come and gone again.

My Dad’s birthday was November 11th or Remembrance Day here in Canada. Everyone here dons a red poppy pinned to their lapel to remember our fallen soldiers.

When I was a little boy, I always felt bad for Dad having a birthday on Remembrance Day – because everyone would be remembering other people and nobody would remember his birthday.

Birthdays are important when you’re a little boy.

But since Dad passed away some 22 years ago, I spend a good portion of that day simply remembering my Dad.

My Dad had some really great sayings.

When he would greet us in the morning he would ask “How’s your belly for spots?” instead of “How are you?”

When someone would offer Dad something he would smile wide and say “We take all free gifts”.

When he would find my brother and I to be a bit to rambunctious, he would tell us to “go peddle your papers” or “go play in traffic”.

But my favorite expression was used anytime that my brother and I and Dad would know that we were in trouble with our Mom.

Before Paul and I could even conger up any feasible resemblance of an excuse or alibi, Dad would simply smile at and almost with a wink he would say to us

“You lie and I’ll swear to it”.

This year I was thinking about all the technology that has evolved over the last 22 years. I was thinking about how it was too bad that Dad didn’t get to experience how personal computers would have revolutionized how he did his job as the Manager of Southern Region for Business Products Sales for the 3M Company.

He likely would have fought it.

Dad would spend hours working on the visuals – the transparencies that he laid on top of the lighted screen of the overhead projectors he sold to schools and businesses as he prepared to give presentations to very large audiences.

Of course, programs like Microsoft’s PowerPoint would have made this task a breeze – although Dad was very much a person to pay attention to detail.

Spreadsheets and word processors would have greatly helped both my Dad and my Mom – who appointed herself as Dad’s private secretary.

They were a great team.

But Dad got very sick in 1983. He was forced into an early retirement just a year or so before the very first IBM PCs came onto the market. Dad passed away in 1990 a couple years before the Internet came along in such a way that the public could access it.

Dad never saw e-mail, or instant messaging. He never saw a web page like this one. He never would have dreamed of things like Skype or Facebook or Twitter or YouTube.

Or the iPhone.

In retrospect – much of what the personal computer came to be replaced what the very business products my Dad’s teams sold.

Except Post-It notes.

Sad, Dad never saw the 3M Post-It notes. And the computer never really found a way to replace them.

And Dad never saw any of the professional social networking sites like LinkedIn.

My Dad often told the story of being hired by Blue Cross Blue Shield in Michigan – about how when asked what University he went to, he replied “Why the University of Western Ontario”. When challenged by whoever he told the story to, he would rebut, “I most certainly did go to Western, every Thursday … to sell Encyclopedia Britannica”.

And Dad would laugh.

I like to tell that story on behalf of my Dad now. But that was then – before the Internet - before Google – before being able to validate such facts nearly instantaneously online.

I don’t think my Dad would have tried to pull that kind of stunt today.

It’s funny though, because most people I know have their professional credentials on LinkedIn. Their whole resume is on their profile; their education, their certifications, their acquired skills, and their employment history.

It’s all there.

IT people are funny when it comes to listing their skills on a resume. It’s as though they list every technology they ever heard of as a skill they have acquired. There seems to be no regard as to what they will do should they get hired to work with that technology they know by name only.

And now, others can attest to your mastering the skill. They simply click on the skill link in your list of skills and select Endorse.

That person does not have to prove that they know that you know that skill. But with a mere click of a mouse such a claim becomes a verified fact.

Or as my Dad would have said, “You lie and I’ll swear to it!”

Our Boys of Summer Play On

The first half of October is a visual smorgasbord here in southwestern Ontario.

The reds, the golds, the browns …

The frost …

The end .,,

Still there are remnants of summer past left lying around … the ball diamonds still have players practicing, the decks all still have tables with umbrellas unfurled, the sun still feels warm to the skin as it reaches its daily apex.

But soon those summer artifacts will all be packed up as though raked into piles like the brilliantly covered leaves that could no longer cling to their branches.

Thank god there's still ball.

The young ladies of the Turtle Club Athletics team continue to practice outside as long as the precipitation stays away and the temperature stays warmish. Once that evacuates to make way for the undeniable oncoming of winter – the young players and their coaches will move into a gym at a French school on the other side of our little village.

The Detroit Tigers are still contending in post season baseball – having defeated the last-minute winners of the American League West – the Oakland A’s – who wear the uniform that inspired our Lady Athletics from the Turtle Club copied and turned into girlie versions of green with gold trim.

I much prefer the old Turtle Club logo. As silly as some may think a turtle could be to represent a high quality baseball team – it means the world to us with its legacy behind it.

But now they wear the same cursive styled spelling of Athletics that the dastardly Oakland Centerfielder Coco Crisp wears.

As a Tiger fan, I despise Coco Crisp.

Crisp (whose name likely violates Nestle Copyright and Trademark rights) single handedly kept the Athletics of Oakland in this series with jump catches robbing home runs and base hits that drove in tying and winning runs and base stealing’s to move into position to score and cause various accounts of trouble that base runners distract middle relief and closing pitchers with.

Crisp got into the Tiger’s players heads.

And their fans too.

But the Tigers rendered the Oakland A’s - seemingly a team of destiny – to merely another remnant, another artifact of autumns transition to winter.

Most have a favorite sport. Mine is baseball. My daughter’s is fast pitch softball. I talk about the two as though they are the same.

But ball is so unique – no other game is like it – not even Cricket.

No other sport is so North American – even though it’s played seriously and elegantly as far away as Japan.

The smell of the red-clay dirt of the infield as the leather bound and red thread stitched ball bounces through the freshly cut grass of the infield – into the thick padded leather glove – and the throwing hand reaches inside that glove to grasp the ball and hurl it across the infield to first base – mastering the balancing challenges of a bent over runner reaching, clasping, grasping, and then planting and throwing.

And the outstretched gloved hand of the first baseman straining to meet the ball in flight before the runner who hit the ball travels at their fastest sprint up the first baseline to stomp on first base.

Safe? Or Out?

The question answered throughout the course of the game.

Where is the next play to be?


Ashley-Rae (with Rally Towel

waving in my face)

and I at ALDS Game 2 vs, Oakland

 As I sat in the stands with my ten year old daughter Ashley-Rae, watching the second playoff game between my beloved Tigers and those bastardly A’s – I continually challenged her with that question – pointing to the situation on the field.

“So Ash, they got a man on second – Coco Crisp - and one out – what does Miguel Cabrera do if they hit the ball to him at third”

Ashley looked at the field as though it were a math problem and solved almost like pretending to write with chalk on a chalkboard.

“You check the runner at second to hold him then you throw it with all you got to first, and you can’t throw a big loopy throw, you gotta throw it hard so it gets there fast Daddy”, replied Ashley-Rae.

We punched fists in celebration of her correct answer. Then she adjusted the brim of her Turtle Club All Star team hat with the same greens and golds as the Athletics A’s hats – only her hat has a gold TC instead of an A.

I love that hat.

And she was wearing her Justin Verlander fan t-shirt over a sweatshirt.

My girls understand baseball.

Maybe they don’t understand everything totally yet, like the infield fly rule. But apparently even some post season National League umpires don’t exactly understand the complexities of the infield fly rule either – having cost the Atlanta Braves their post season chances in a single game wild card elimination match against St. Louis.

I hate the St. Louis Cardinals too.

Now as we move into the third week of October, and the playoff contenders dropping off at the same rate as the leaves from Windsor trees, our beloved Tigers pick up the American League Championship Series – the ALCS – against the even more dastardly – even more bastardly New York Yankees – led by my favorite short stop who I cannot stand – Derek Jeeter and their former Tiger center fielder Curtis Granderson.

Our pitching army of Verlander, Fister, and Scherzer, with a side of Sanchez will do their best to stifle the bats of the Big Apple pin-stripers. And the clout of Triple Crown winner Cabrera, 1st baseman Fielder, and a slew of other guys on this squad who can easily run into a home run now and then – they will do their best outpace the Yankee hitters through nine innings.

And whoever wins gets to play in the World Series.

And whoever loses – their boys of summer will fall into winter like the umbrella on my back deck that still needs to be furled up and put up in the rafters of the garage.

Ready for next year.

Playing Ball With The Brill Girls

We've had a busy summer so far this year.

Lots of swimming in the pool – even though I nearly blew our water pump out by running it for a day with the hose valves closed after backwashing.

I finally finished my book – although I am still in proofreading mode though – but I am extremely happy with it and anxious to get some guest readers looking at it.

But best of all – miles better than anything else this summer – has been watching Alannah and Ashley Rae play fast pitch softball for the Turtle Club this year.

Alannah had practiced year around this year as a member of the LaSalle Athletics Under 11 team. Ashley had to miss those tryouts as she had sprained her knee. So Ashley spent the off season watching Alannah – and learning from Alannah.

It really paid off this year!

The season started by the girls playing together on a house league team that I was lucky enough to help coach.

Actually the director of the league basically told me I was going to help coach – there really wasn't any room for negotiation.

And it was great! I got to stand in the dugout or out coaching first base with a pocket full of sunflower seeds – spitting shells and yelling things like "where's the next play?" and "good eye" and "Atta-girl!" and giving high fives and punching knuckles.

I had to stop calling the girls darlin' though. That was part of the left over southerner in me – and Coach Joe, who was the head coach of the team let me know in a kidding way that we can't call the girls darlin' anymore. Coach Joe coaches for a living. So I stopped.

I guess it's just another of the million zillion signs that our world is changing.

Now house league is over – and both my girls – Alannah and Ashley Rae – made the Turtle Club All Star team. And Coach Joe is coaching them – along with Coach Larry and Coach Gay – all three excellent fantastic coaches who have been practicing the girls from 9 – 11 AM most every other weekday mornings this whole summer.

So every other morning, Alannah and Ashley-Rae pack up their wagon and the pull it and each other to and from practice. The coaches tell me it's a pretty cute sight to see. I'm usually at the office wishing I could be there to watch.

I'm so jealous.

But I hear all about it. When I come home from work, and have a seat out on the back patio by the pool with a cold drink. The girls tell me all about all that happened at practice that morning , with injections of "shut up I'm telling this part" and "I wanted to tell him I did that".

My girls love ball!

And the Brill Girls are just now starting to make their mark at the Turtle Club.

"Dad, I hate it when you call us that", says Alannah when I refer to her and Ashley-Rae as the Brill Girls.

"But your Grandpa Brill would be so proud" I tell her.

Alannah hugs my neck and kisses my cheek when I tell her that.

"Oh, you always say that", she replies.

June Perfection

Not my yard!

I love the month of June.

If it were possible – my dream would be to live in a place where every day takes place in the first week of June.

The weather is still perfect. It’s not too hot – but warm enough for swimming. The gardens are still perfect and most everything is green, lush and in bloom. The lawns are still perfect. The grass is still green and not yet stressed to turn brown.

Perhaps we have misunderstood the scientists of the world – perhaps this is the purpose of global warming – to make every day of the year feel like the first week in June.

I doubt it.

But today is perfect. A wonderful morning to sit out on the back deck by the pool and look out over the gardens under the patio umbrella as the mid-seventies breeze blows across the skin.

Man the coffee tastes good on a morning like this. It’s a real shame I quit smoking.

But to be honest, had I not quit smoking, the gardens would not be quite so perfect, nor the grass be so perfectly green and trim. It seems smoking was the root cause of my procrastinating ways.

Today every muscle in my body aches. The blisters on my fingers have broken open and are sore, and the Motrin I took this morning is just now starting to melt some of the aches away as it mixes with the mocha flavored Kailua in my piping hot cup of coffee.

My faithful black lab Suzy is in her own paradise now – stretched out on the deck in the sunshine enjoying the breeze. She’s dreaming about something – likely lying on a deck in the sunshine like this in a breeze like this one.

That’s my guess anyway.

It’s one of those days where – well – you just have to come to the conclusion that all Darwinists hate – that such a day as today – with all the beautiful birds enjoying this day in our back yard – that a day like today could not simply be the result of random evolutionary chaotic coincidence.

There just has to be a divine plan.

A master designer.

There has to be an artist deity who knows just how much blue goes in the sky and how to swirl it with the white of the clouds – matching it with the greens in the grass and the leaves and the brown in the woods of the bark and the plant stems.

There must be a master aromatologist – a master of creating the most perfect aromas – as a deity – to mix the smells of lavender blossoming and cut grass blades and tree leaves that waft across in a gentle breeze – it can’t just all be Darwinistic coincidence.

The Darwinists will all comment here that such a thought is absurd.

But I bet deep in their own hearts – to experience such perfection as is today – to see such amazing beauty – more beautiful than any of the great masters could ever paint – more wonderful than any event planner could ever construct an experience – deep in the Darwinist’s heart they would find the awe that leads one to believe in a power higher than ours.

A God.

There must be.

Hoppy the squirrel just popped up on the fence that borders the back of our property. And Suzy took notice and scrambled down and across the yard – all the while Hoppy knowing Suzy’s limitations as a black lab – merely stands on the top of the wooden fence mocking her by cleaning his hands and face.

Yeah, there’s a God alright.

Or maybe I’m just a bit more sentimental today – on this beautiful June morning. Maybe I am just more emotional because of the aches in my body from all the work I did yesterday weeding and primping the gardens and trimming and feeding the grass to bring out its best shades of green.

Or perhaps it's due to that very exciting win the Detroit Tigers pulled off in the bottom of the ninth inning by a walk off pop fly hit by new rookie catcher Omir Santos to knock in the runner from third to defeat those bastardly New York Yankees to hopefully put the Detroiter’s back on track this season – perhaps that has me a bit more wistful this morning than usual.

Damn those Yankees.

Or maybe it’s just the Kailua in my coffee.

Yeah, that’s likely it.

But there is no denying this is a perfect June morning.

I am savoring every nuance of it. All the way down to how the sunlight twinkles on the top of the dancing water in the pool.

It’s all so perfect.

Until a neighbor in a nearby yard decided to start his lawn mower.

Crap.

Perhaps if I pour another cup of … coffee.