I have a basketball jones. It came to me while carrying a boy in my belly. I had so much testosterone surging through my system, I became unrecognizable to myself. It was a blessing; I found the Minnesota Timberwolves (amongst other male centric activities that I'll not go into here, slowly, slowly I'm getting boundaries and an unwelcome thicker skin))...ANYWAY,
I was there when The Kid started to blossom, that season when Malik Sealy blossomed late in his career (and sadly during the last year of his bright life)....I loved watching Kevin Garnett play basketball. I don't know much about stats, and game savvy, but I know he made me smile.
Boston, buckle up, your winters are about to look rosy. The positivity and passion and charm that Kevin Garnett brings to basketball will brighten even your grayest nor'easter days. And I admit that I was tempted to show up at every Timberwolves game I attended last season wearing a handmade FREE KG t-shirt because he was shackled to a dysfunctional family fathered by Kevin McHale. But it's hard to leave your family who loves you in spite of being messed up (what family isn't?). Looking into the sadness and frustration on KG's face the last couple of years, the years after his less principled siblings Sam and Latrell, left him high and dry to support the family on his own, led me to wish for a better situation for him.
I've been weirdly teary since I heard last night that he was leaving. Like a comfortable sweater, I got used to having Kevin around; I may've even took it for granted that he'd always be here for me on the coldest winter night. Now he's leaving for one of my favorite cites, and I'm going to miss seeing him smile, and boost his team mates, and execute with beauty and grace. Thanks Kevin, you ruled the roost with aplomb and I'm going to miss you, but you were in the center of a poorly run business, and I think happy days professionally are just around the corner for you. Have a blast! Love, Laurie
p.s. I can't believe I just wrote a sports blog.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation
Sitting in the grass at baseball diamonds.
Folding and putting away an endless stream of laundry.
Buying dresses that I have nowhere to wear.
Reading from my book wherever they'll have me:
In Madison, an assortment of the casserole makers from my old neighborhood sat in the front row while I read. I did not read aloud about my adult assessment of them because there they were, proud and loyal, grateful that my first novel (the early adolescent years set to thinly veiled fiction) was never published. Marco Pogo, Madison's premier live music afficionado and dancer, was there -- his presence is a badge of honor. My childhood neighbor who was sport enough to take me to our junior prom was there with a print-out of our prom picture (even though at the time I stood a foot taller and ditched him at the after-party at Devil's Lake).
In Edina, two young women in high school sat in the front row and asked permission (permission!) to take my picture on their cell phones.
Talking to radio personalities (Lori and Julia and Jill Spiegel at 107.1 are hoots and a half) and parents of ball players.
Reading up on perimenopause, anxiety, addiction, and trying to get through the Edith Wharton bio.
Fielding corrections by the rock and roll police ("Crazy Train" was an Ozzy song, not a Sabbath song; forgive me), the routing police (we were in Iowa to get to Seattle because we decided to avoid mountain driving; Northfield is not where I said it was in my book, forgive me), and the grammar police who all attended private colleges that they feel the need to mention (the charges too numerous to list, again, forgive me).
Gearing up for back to back weekends in the nations' water parks (see anxiety).
Giving myself permission to send up stream of consciousness, ill-formed blogs.
Trying to figure out what the Minnesota Twins need to do to stay on track.
Wondering why Kevin McHale still works for the Minnesota Timberwolves.
Wishing it would rain.
Hoping everyone's having a swell summer, even the haters.
Folding and putting away an endless stream of laundry.
Buying dresses that I have nowhere to wear.
Reading from my book wherever they'll have me:
In Madison, an assortment of the casserole makers from my old neighborhood sat in the front row while I read. I did not read aloud about my adult assessment of them because there they were, proud and loyal, grateful that my first novel (the early adolescent years set to thinly veiled fiction) was never published. Marco Pogo, Madison's premier live music afficionado and dancer, was there -- his presence is a badge of honor. My childhood neighbor who was sport enough to take me to our junior prom was there with a print-out of our prom picture (even though at the time I stood a foot taller and ditched him at the after-party at Devil's Lake).
In Edina, two young women in high school sat in the front row and asked permission (permission!) to take my picture on their cell phones.
Talking to radio personalities (Lori and Julia and Jill Spiegel at 107.1 are hoots and a half) and parents of ball players.
Reading up on perimenopause, anxiety, addiction, and trying to get through the Edith Wharton bio.
Fielding corrections by the rock and roll police ("Crazy Train" was an Ozzy song, not a Sabbath song; forgive me), the routing police (we were in Iowa to get to Seattle because we decided to avoid mountain driving; Northfield is not where I said it was in my book, forgive me), and the grammar police who all attended private colleges that they feel the need to mention (the charges too numerous to list, again, forgive me).
Gearing up for back to back weekends in the nations' water parks (see anxiety).
Giving myself permission to send up stream of consciousness, ill-formed blogs.
Trying to figure out what the Minnesota Twins need to do to stay on track.
Wondering why Kevin McHale still works for the Minnesota Timberwolves.
Wishing it would rain.
Hoping everyone's having a swell summer, even the haters.
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