Dear Kid,

I played soccer yesterday. And I was awesome.

Now before you begin thinking up snarky responses, let me clarify.

Pi, Dad, and I went to the soccer field yesterday. Pi wanted to practice tricky moves and needed two live bodies to practice around. Guess who provided one of the bodies.

Turns out I am a natural for standing where I’m told to stand on a soccer field.

Seriously, you would have been crazy impressed.

I even managed to get the ball away from her. Once.

I celebrated. Dad and Pi laughed. I did not get a yellow card for excessive celebration.

Then I was promoted to ball-kicker. It was my job to kick the ball to Pi and her job to get it around Dad.

Once again, I executed my athletic duties with accuracy, timeliness, and amazing modesty.

Finally, it was my job to throw the ball in the vicinity of Pi’s feet. I say vicinity since there was a lack of clarity on the part of the direction-giver. But I finally got the hang of it. And then Pi kicked the ball in Dad’s face.

Fortunately, she didn’t kick it hard, so there were no emergency room runs.

I plan to announce my retirement from soccer later today amid great fanfare, a major press conference, and sobs from Pi. At least when she isn’t laughing at me.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

IF you had been around on September 16, 1954, and IF you had been a trend-watching sort of dude, and IF you were interested in sports, you might have noticed the first issue of Sports Illustrated. You weren’t around, so you didn’t notice, so I—being that sort of mother—shall attempt to fill you in.

Sports Illustrated was first published on September 16, 1954. You are now filled in.

But wait, there’s more.

Many people in the magazine publishing industry scoffed (that’s the polite word) at the idea of a magazine devoted entirely to sports. After all, several had already failed (including two named Sports Illustrated). But interest in sports was exploding (if you had been around you might have heard the bang) and color printing was exploding (ditto). All in all, it was a rather explosive beginning.

The magazine more or less (in this case “more”) missed the mark in the early days focusing on polo (the kind with horses rather than water), safaris (the kind with guns rather than cameras), and yachting (the kind with rakish hats). Advertisers yawned and only the snooty rich people cared about the coverage.

Fast forward to the 1960s, when SI (as it wasn’t yet known) began to have full color coverage of sports, began to pay attention to football (the American kind), and introduced the Swimsuit Issue. Wham! (That was the sound barrier being broken as SI’s popularity zoomed up.)

Sports Illustrated has named a Sportsman of the Year since it began. The first such person was Roger Bannister. No extra points for knowing who he is, but you can pat yourself on the back. in 1972 Billie Jean King became the first female to be named Sportsman of the Year.

Love, Mom

Got a minute? Like us on Facebook. You’ll feel better once you do.

Dear Kid,

And then, with the snap of a ball, football season began.

Last night was the start of high school football season (at least for our team). We began with a scrimmage (“scrimmage” means it’s mostly unofficial, the rules are slightly different, coaches get to be on the field and yell at players close up, and the only people who care about which team won are on the winning team).

Fortunately, it was a lovely evening and a good time was had by all.

And my friend Stacey is selling a boat, so if you know anyone who’s interested…

Tonight we are heading downtown for the Bengals’ pre-season game. This will be my first live-and-in-person major league football game. I’m telling you, this is quite a sports week for me. First baseball, then football, then football. I am very excited.

Years and years ago, a certain little boy (not naming names or anything) liked to watch football on TV. His little sister (still not naming names) would ask lots and lots of questions during the game which frustrated the little boy. The frustrated little boy (who chose to solve this particular annoyance by ignoring it) and the Dad-of-selective-hearing expressed Utmost Surprise when the hilarious and lovely mother barked at them for not answering the little girl’s questions. “Don’t you want her to enjoy watching football with you?” said that very same brilliant Madre. “You won’t like it at all if she wants to watch something different and you want to watch football.” Sage-like. [But not from an actual sage because that role’s taken.]

In an act of selflessness, deep insight, and a bit of self-preservation, the little boy (after heaving a might sigh to show just how unjust the world was being) took it upon himself to teach the little girl about football. At least until the next commercial.

And see where we are now? Watching the GirlChild play varsity football and going to a major league football game.

Did I mention that my friend Stacey is selling a boat? She didn’t tell me the boat’s name, but I understand that boats are fairly indifferent to being renamed.

I was going to look up all sorts of interesting statistics about the Jets vs Bengals game but my laptop is still sick and seems to be running some sort of fever at the moment. Not to worry—I can still provide lots of pregame analysis.

One of the teams playing is expected to win. This will not delight the other team. Commentators (professional and amateur) will have a great deal to say about who won, who lost, and whether the quarterback was given too many lollipops as a 3^rd grader.

Many people will attend the game and most of them will indulge in stadium food. A very large man by the name of Jimmy Bones will be on hand to make loans for anyone wanting to purchase a vegetable cup. Enjoy every bite of that crudité.

Someone at the game will think the weather is too warm. Someone at the game will think it is too chilly. No one will be dressed for snow. This is ok, since no one is anticipating any snow. (Except perhaps the kind without the “w” that comes in a paper cone.)

At least once you father will explain to the entire western hemisphere why the referees are right. And at least once he will explain to the entire solar system why they are wrong. Someone will disagree. With luck, there will not be a discussion about it and Mr. J. Bones does not like to be taken away from high finance to resolve academic disputes.

Oh, hey, guess what? My friend Stacey is selling her boat. As far as I can tell, it’s a very nice boat and has never peed on the living room carpet.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

The other night, I joined thirty-two thousand of my closest friends and went to my first live-and-in-person major league baseball game. (It was my friend Crystal’s birthday – Happy Birthday, Ninja!)

Here’s what I learned.

Baseball in person is better than baseball on TV. It is also considerably more crowded.

Baseball is better when the home team wins. Go Reds!

You can buy a really good vegetable cup at the Great American Ball Park. Once you do, you won’t be able to afford college tuition, but you’ll have a few healthy veggies to nibble.

Baseball doesn’t have a lot of action (I already knew that), but the stadium does.

Sometimes, baseball tickets get you free pizza. Thank you to the Cleveland players who struck out.

They sweep the dirt at baseball games. They also Swiffer the bases.

I will never be able to mow my lawn in such cool patterns.

This year’s All-Star Game will be in Cincinnati. Whoever created the logo did a really great job—unlike the person (me) who took the photo of the logo.

Make today a home run day, kiddo.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Me (drying Booker’s feet): You owe Dad an apology.
Booker (lifting his right front paw): What for?
Me: For waking him.
Booker: Did not. He was going to get up to watch Olympic hockey.
Me: Nonetheless, you owe him an apology.
Booker: He yells louder at the TV!
Me: This foot please. You need to apologize.
Booker (confounded and frustrated): The house, maybe the entire Universe, was under threat of imminent attack!

Previously:

Half an hour earlier, there were four deer on our front lawn. Big deer. Really big deer. Booker sprang into action. And by “sprang” I mean “exploded.”

He barked. He yipped. He made sounds a dog five times his size would envy. He jumped. He shook. He tried to claw his way through the dining room windows to get to the deer. He made more noise than an entire pack of trained hunting dogs could make. I thought he was going to expel a kidney.

Synchronized deer turned their heads to stare (ooh! New Olympic sport: synchronized skiing!). They seemed slightly curious about all the mayhem but basically unimpressed.

Booker raced from window to window giving the impression an entire battalion was arming itself for an assault.

The look on the largest deer’s face clearly said, “Seriously little dude?” After a few minutes, the pack moved off down the street.

Booker upped the volume (which I didn’t think was possible). The commotion registered a 3.4 on the Richter scale.

I finally got a leash on him and we went out for our morning walk. By which I mean I walked, he pulled on the leash and tried to track the deer. This involved a good deal of Serious Staring, Sniffing, and Surveying and did not involve actual Deer Sighting. (The deer may be condescending, but they are not stupid.)

Which brings me back to our conversation.

Me: You owe Dad an apology for waking him. (And the entire Tri State area.)
Booker: I was protecting the house.
Me: The house is fine.
Booker: It is now.
Me: The deer were not interested in the house. You owe Dad an apology.
Booker: I protected all the bulbs you planted last fall.

Pause.

Booker got a few extra bits of kibble in his breakfast.

Hope you don’t need to defend your territory as ferociously today.

Love, Mom

I need your help (please). Please tell someone about DearKidLoveMom.com. Send them the link. Brighten their day (and mine).