Ask a MAMIL

Dear MAMIL,

Why are MAMILs like you, as a group, so hated on? I mean, it’s not like you’re hurting anybody and as we age, non-impact exercise like cycling makes a lot of sense.

Lisa M, Ross, CA

Dear Lisa,

Indeed, “MAMIL” is a largely derogatory term. Fun fact: the Oxford English Dictionary added this word in 2014, defining it as “A middle-aged man who is a keen road cyclist, typically one who rides an expensive bike and wears the type of clothing associated with professional cyclists.”  It doesn’t mention the negative connotation, but then dictionaries seldom do.

I suspect the antipathy relates to the intersection of Lycra, middle-aged-ness, and maleness. So many middle-aged men are shameless about wearing Lycra despite their un-svelte girth. This can create reactions along the lines of “why are you doing this to me?!” from onlookers. The hardcore cyclists with weedy builds are no better … why would we want to accentuate such a physique with form-fitting clothing?

On top of that, cycling is an expensive sport, thus much of the ridicule is based on the showy display of wealth and status by people we don’t actually envy and wouldn’t want to be. On top of this, the very fact that cycling is a virtuous activity can trigger the gag reflex. But I think “MAMIL” is a fairly lighthearted mockery, and of course anyone able to afford this sport, and in good enough health to do it into middle age, ought to be a good sport about it. If you call me “MAMIL” to my face I’ll good-naturedly reply, “Guilty as charged.”

Dear MAMIL,

Let’s just be real for a minute here: isn’t the point of men wearing Lycra to show off their junk?

E.A., Albany, CA

Dear E,

The short answer is no. The slightly longer answer is hell no. The full answer is: I’m not going to discuss genitalia in this column. Nice try.

Dear MAMIL,

How can you justify the horrendous cost of your clothing? I mean, isn’t it like $200 for a single pair of shorts? Wouldn’t that feed a poor village for like a week?

Malcolm D, Oakland, CA

Dear Malcolm,

You can actually spend $400 on a pair of Assos bib shorts. There’s no doubt about it, cycling clothing is atrociously expensive. A relatively upscale Castelli costume (i.e., a pair of bib shorts and a jersey) is, ounce for ounce, more expensive than  MacBook Air, a leather jacket, a pair of Nike Air Jordans, or a pair of Doc Marten boots.

(Take the above AI-generated chart with a grain of salt, as I didn’t hallucination-check it.)

Now, a lot of this cost is basically a luxury tax for an upscale sport. But to some degree the cost is justified, because the fabric, the cut, the design, etc. really do help the clothing perform well. I fully appreciated this one cold January morning when I was getting ready for a race, but hadn’t changed yet, and was freezing my ass off in jeans and a sweatshirt. Once I put on my ABCs (that’s cycling vernacular for “angry biker clothes”), I was immediately more comfortable.

Fortunately, if you scour the Internet (and, depending on where you live, even your local thrift stores) you can find cheaper gear. The high school mountain bike teams in my region get styled out with all kinds of free gear, because MAMILs love to upgrade their wardrobes and donate perfectly good stuff.

Dear MAMIL,

Is there really an article of bike clothing called “bibs”? I was overhearing my teenager talking about his team’s clothing order and I kept hearing “bibs.” I know bikers eat fast, and it’d be a shame to spill on their expensive biking jerseys, but bibs? Really?

Phyllis R, Topeka, KS

Dear Phyllis,

“Bibs” is short for “bib shorts.” These have shoulder straps, kind of like suspenders, instead of an elastic waistband. The vast majority of MAMILs use this type of short. They’ll tell you it’s because bibs are more comfortable, cause less bunching, etc., but in reality it’s a) a mimetic thing (i.e., it’s what the pros wear), b) for the corset effect, and c) to avoid the discomfort of the elastic waistband cutting in to our belly fat.

Middle-age spread aside, I’ve been wearing bibs since I was a teenager. The main reason, originally, was bullying. It was surprisingly common (i.e., almost inevitable) in those days, at least in Boulder, for a rival teen rider to come up behind you, grab the back of your shorts, pull them down, and hook the waistband under your saddle like a super-snuggie. In most cases the perp then grabbed his water bottle and hosed down your butt. Once this started happening, no one I knew ever bought another pair of non-bib shorts.

Dear MAMIL,

It seems like most of your readers ask questions about the Lycra side of MAMIL. What about the middle-aged part? Doesn’t anyone care about that? I’ll start: isn’t cycling a younger person’s game? Why persist at something so physically taxing, not to mention dangerous? At our age, what’s wrong with golf?

Perry L, Sarasota, FL

Dear Perry,

I’ve wondered myself about the preponderance of clothing-related questions. I suspect it’s just harder to articulate inquiries around the inchoate wistfulness that accompanies middle age. In answer to your question—why do I persist?—I think the short answer is because I still can. Ageing alone is hard enough, with the loss of muscle mass, power, and stamina, but psychologically I was dealt an extra blow upon becoming an empty nester. For the past few years, life in general—and cycling in particular—have come to feel like when you get Extended Play during a car race video game. The real work has been done and life is starting to wind down, and it feels like if I pause for too long in my cycling I’ll suddenly discover I can’t do it anymore. So in a way, cycling is more important to me than ever … it’s like one of the few strands left connecting me to my younger life.

As for danger, the risk of injury with cycling is less than soccer, basketball, skiing, snowboarding, and even running and jogging if you factor in overuse injuries. With golf, meanwhile, you run a roughly 100% chance of being a dweeb.

Dear MAMIL,

Not all of my cycling clothing has the same washing instructions. Some tags include crazy decrees like “line dry in the shade.” Can you give some general tips that I could safely apply across all my bike garments?

John L, Ithaca, NY

Dear John,

It can definitely be confusing. Check out this label from a pair of shorts I had (click to enlarge):

Can you believe it? Two sets of conflicting washing instructions on one garment! I think it just goes to show, there aren’t many hard-and-fast rules. But my decades of experience (see how asking a MAMIL has its benefits?) have taught me a few things:

• You can use whatever detergent you want (my wife often makes her own)
• You can (and should) use a stain remover like Shout or Spray ‘n Wash
• There’s no need to wonder about fabric softener because nobody, and I mean nobody, has used this product since my neighbor Mrs. K—back in the ‘70s
• Wash all of your cycling gear (including the socks) on cold, permanent press or “casual” cycle (whatever one step down from “normal” is on your machine)
• Don’t worry about separating darks from lights, that’s a completely mythical rule with zero basis in reality, other than that weird pair of unripe-plum-colored “Thai fisher pants” that my wife bought once that turned everything pink
• Line dry all your bike clothes (except your socks), and yes, it’s okay to dry them in the sun if you want (I mean, think about it, it’s not like we only ride at night!)
• Wash your shorts right-side-out (to protect the chamois), but dry them inside-out (because it’s faster)
• For really fancy shorts like Rapha, hand-wash, and only in bottled water (just kidding—if you have any Rapha clothing,  donate it to the Goodwill and then go buy something less hipster-douche-y)

Dear MAMIL,

This isn’t a big deal or anything, but I’m kind of hung up on why we call so much apparel “Lycra” when it mostly isn’t. If I see “Lycra” on a clothing label at all, it’s usually a pretty small percentage. Can you shed any light on that?

Sean D, Austin, TX

Dear Sean,

Lycra is a brand name for a high-end version of elastane, aka spandex. A number of my cycling garments say “elastane” on the tag, and a few say “Lycra,” and none say “spandex.” (I reckon this is because “spandex” is associated with women’s apparel like swimwear, leotards, dancewear, and ‘80s aerobics wear.) Cycling shorts tend to consist of 20-35% elastane (or Lycra if they’re fancy) and 65-80% nylon. That’s enough Lycra/elastane to give enough stretch, but keeping the nylon content high makes shorts more durable. Jerseys, on the other hand, tend to be mostly (or entirely) polyester, which is a totally different material from elastane (polyester being polyethylene terephthalate, to be precise, vs. elastane which is a polyurethane-based elastomer). But we just call it all “Lycra” because that gets the point across, just like “Kleenex" and “Xerox” do.

In fact, it’s a good thing the term “Lycra” still predominates, because if we always said “elastane” then I’d be a Middle-Aged Man in Elastane, i.e., a “MAMIE,” which sounds like “someone who is maimed.” Though actually, considering how hard this sport is, that kind of fits…

Dear Mammal,

I still breastfeed my 18-month-old and refuse to apologize for it. In countries like Norway this isn’t even considered strange. Why do you suppose so many mothers in my community seem freaked out by this?

Joan L, Burlington, VT

Dear Joan,

I’m sorry, I think you’ve got me confused with another columnist. While I am a mammal (and admittedly prone to occasional mansplaining), I am not equipped to field your question about breastfeeding. I hope you’re able to find the right expert to help, as opposed to a MAMIL which is all I purport to be.

Dear MAMIL,

I’ve noticed that a lot of cycling clothing isn’t so sleek and form-fitting anymore, particularly mountain biking clothing that can be downright baggy. Why don’t more MAMILs sensibly wear that instead of continuing to wear Lycra kit that in many cases puts their extra “padding” on prominent display?

Rob S, Phoenix, AZ

Dear Rob,

At first blush this newer clothing, mainly used for mountain biking, seems like a fine idea, and in many cases totally is, but there are both practical and cultural impediments to replacing Lycra with modern, baggy bike clothing.

If a middle-aged cyclist is fairly new to the sport, isn’t worried about what cultural signals he is sending, and doesn’t need gear that’s high performance, baggywear (to coin a term) is totally fine with just a few minor caveats. One, the baggy mountain-biking shorts don’t always have a chamois, so either you wear traditional Lycra shorts underneath (which means spending more money) or you get a sore butt. Two, if this cyclist is skilled enough to hit really high speeds, the flapping of that jersey could get annoying (and eventually irritate the skin if worn as a single layer). Mountain biking is slower, which is why this clothing works at all. The final caveat is that the mountain biking jerseys often don’t have pockets. This is fine if you use a seat bag, or a Camelbak-style pack, or one of those crazy compartments that some modern bike frames have. But if you do long road rides, you’ll want pockets for your vest, your jacket, your food, etc.

Culturally, baggywear is designed around youth who think Lycra is for, well, MAMILs. When I was head coach of a high school mountain bike team, and leading the big kickoff meeting for prospective new riders, one of the questions I fielded from a new kid was, “Do we have to wear the Lycra?” My answer—that you can wear whatever you want in training, and whatever shorts you want in the races, but you have to wear the team jersey in races—really put this kid at ease, and in fact he went on to do most of the rides in a t-shirt and sweatpants. (This was before baggywear existed.) So, when I see an adult (e.g., a fellow coach) in the baggier stuff, my spidey-sense starts tingling and I wonder if it’s a case of arrested development. If I’m honest, this is probably just sour grapes because the other adult can pull it off better than I could. But if you go down this path, you should be aware that others, particularly youth, may think you’re trying to be cool, which is widely held to be a major gaff, especially when perpetrated by the middle-aged.

A final practical consideration applies if you are both a roadie and a mountain biker. If you want to wear the baggy stuff off-road, but wisely stick to Lycra on the road, you’re talking about doubling the size of your (expensive) wardrobe. My advice? Just stick with the old-school Lycra and own it.

Dear MAMIL,

It’s not like only men ride bikes. Is there any female equivalent for “MAMIL”?

Tina O, New York City

Dear Tina,

I’ve never heard one, and my light research hasn’t unearthed anything in widespread use. ChatGPT suggests MAFIL; Gemini asserts MAWIL and OWL (Older Woman in Lycra); and Copilot purports to have come across WILMA (Woman in Lycra, Middle Aged) and SOMAT  (Slightly Overweight Middle-Aged Totty) though it credits Single Track World magazine which it acknowledges is a very niche publication.

I’m not a fan of any of the above. Let’s see if we can get MAVIS to take off: Middle Aged Vixen in Spandex!

Dear MAMIL,

I once thought I could fight the “MAMIL” stigma by simply not wearing Lycra when cycling, but eventually I got over myself and starting wearing the proper gear. This started with just shorts and jersey but now I’ve discovered arm and leg warmers—what a game-changer! I don’t know why it took me so long to understand their value. Are there other types of cycling apparel I might be missing out on that actually help?

Paul M, San Francisco, CA

Dear Paul,

I eschewed the cycling vest for over thirty years, as I just didn’t see the point. What’s wrong with sleeves, right? Well, now I have seen the light. A cycling vest is a very close fit, which is doable because you don’t have the problem of bunching up around the armpits. The snug fit makes them warmer than a jacket and they don’t flap around at all. Plus, a vest can be made of a relatively stout fabric like Gore Windstopper (typically just on the front panels) and still scrunch up nice and compact in your pocket.

Another amazing accessory is the Lycra skullcap, such as Castelli’s “skully,” which looks like those weird caps astronauts wear under their space helmets. It’s just thin Lycra so it fits really well under a helmet, yet for some reason it does an amazing job keeping your head warm. I’m so fond of this skullcap, I think if it were chilly out and I couldn’t find it, I’d probably just not go.

Dear MAMIL,

A pal told me Castelli makes a product called a “light head thingy” and though I was sure he was pulling my leg, I checked and they actually do! My question is, who wears this thingy, and why?

Bart B, Chapel Hill, NC

Dear Bart,

Who wears it? That’s easy: Thing 1 and Thing 2! And why? Because Thing 1 and Thing 2! (Full disclosure: they actually don’t, which came as a big disappointment to me. Why did I think they did? Because The Cat in the Hat wears one! His happens to have a brim, but look at it: it’s clearly a light head thingy.)

Hey MAMIL,

Why are you people so annoying?

Anonymous, Irvine, CA

Dear Anonymous,

I think you meant to sign off, “Anonymous motorist.” If you were a cyclist, you probably wouldn’t find us annoying. But you live in Irvine, so you are clearly a motorist. Most non-cyclist motorists view the world though a very narrow perspective: that of somebody who is perennially frustrated while behind the wheel, but doesn’t know why. The reason, of course, is that you’re so often stuck in traffic, and instead of thinking, “I’m getting what I deserve,” you’re blaming your situation on others, like other motorists, and on traffic laws, and on red lights, and—especially—on cyclists. We drive you bonkers because we’re actually allowed to just ride right past you, gliding along merrily while you’re there fuming.

Oddly enough, I used to be just like you when in motorist mode. I would be driving my daughter across Berkeley to her ballet class, and running late, and feeling stuck, and just generally being terrorized by the imposed paralysis that is the condition of the urban motorist, and I would be tempted to start lashing out the way you do. In fact, for a brief, senseless moment I once started to criticize the city of Berkeley for all the streets I couldn’t take because they were blocked to cars and labeled “Bicycle Boulevard.” But then it hit me: Berkeley isn’t the problem; I’m the problem! I shouldn’t be driving a car, I should be on my bike! So from then on I made my kid bike to ballet class with me. It went splendidly because Berkeley, wisely deciding it had catered to motorists long enough, has designed its roads to be truly bike-friendly. Wait, don’t go yet! There’s an epilogue to this story: fast-forward a bunch of years, and my daughter is now a young adult and hasn’t bothered to get a driver license. She bikes everywhere, like her old man. Her middle-aged old man in Lycra.

A MAMIL is a syndicated journalist whose advice column, “Ask a MAMIL,” appears in over 0 blogs worldwide.

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Old Yarn - The Enemy Coach

Vlog

Remember those old Ovaltine ads saying how kids will drink what they will not eat? Well, in case this post is discovered by a person who will watch what s/he will not read, I am making it available as a vlog. Watch this video on your laptop, tablet, phone, or in theaters everywhere! (Where available.) Share it with friends and family! And if you share it with a blind person, lie and say it’s a podcast ... s/he will never know the difference!

Introduction

This is the third “old yarn” installment on albertnet (inspired by my pioneering effort “The Cinelli Jumpsuit” and the subsequent post “Bike Crash on Golden Gate Bridge”). This is the kind of story that would normally be a “From the Archives” item, except I’ve never before written it down.

(Here’s what I looked like around the time this story takes place. You can see how scrawny, goofy, and yet somehow self-possessed I was.)

The Enemy Coach - Spring 1988

I realized the other day that I’m in my tenth year of coaching high school mountain bike racers. I had no idea, when I started out, that I would stick with it this long, but it’s been a blast so why stop? Something my student athletes don’t know (and there’s no real point in telling them) is that before becoming a NICA coach in NorCal, I already had experience coaching.

Decades ago, after high school, I took a gap year and moved to California to get residency, to lower my future college tuition costs. During that time I had several jobs, including a gig canning underwear, another answering phones at a radio station (yes, that was me taking the 9th caller who won the free passes), and a third working in a bike shop. On the side, I coached a team of junior road cyclists. There were eight or ten of them, and they were part of a larger team, the San Luis [Obispo] Cycling Club, SLCC, which also had something like forty adults. This was in fall of 1987 through the summer of 1988.

The coaching was supposed to be a paid gig, something like $7/hour, but I don’t think I ever got paid. That was fine … my love of the sport was enough incentive. In general my role was to ride with the juniors, show them the ropes, drive them to races, console them after the races, and try to keep them from quitting. That last bit might seem uncharitable but it was in fact a real struggle, because bike racing is a very, very hard sport and as you can read here, here, here, here, and here, it can take a long time to get good at it.

It was kind of hard for me to build cred with these juniors because (as you’ve probably already grasped) I was scarcely older than they were. I considered but rejected the strategy of briefing them on my own (albeit modest) success as a junior road cyclist, because it would have sounded like (and, well, would have been) bragging, and after all talk is cheap. So I just did my best to explain and model the right technique. To the extent I talked about my own racing it was to describe how frustrating the sport was for me starting out, to impress upon them how normal that is.

Well, one early spring day, in March or April of 1988, our team director decided, as a treat, to bring in a big, fancy USCF-certified coach to run a one-day clinic. (The USCF was the United States Cycling Federation and was the governing body of road cycling; it’s now known as USA Cycling, or USAC.) We all met up at the bike shop that sponsored the team. I knew nothing about the USCF coach certification process but could only assume it was a complete joke, because from the very beginning this guy struck me as a clown.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking … of course I would have it in for this guy, since here he was stealing my thunder. And sure, that’s part of it, but it’s not like I was immune to being impressed myself, and of course I was interested in getting whatever knowledge and insight I could from the guy. But right off the bat he showed his true colors by showing up on a bike with upturned, sawed-off handlebars. This was a somewhat fashionable fad among douchebags of that period. It was supposed to be aerodynamic and tell the world how fast you were on the flats. Here’s what that setup looked like:

Of course it defeated the purpose of the drop handlebar, an excellent design that remains the standard today because it gives the rider so many different ways to hold the bars over varied terrain. I scoffed at sawed-off bars even at the time, and in fact doubted it was actually more aero, based on the result of the Colorado state time trial championship the previous year.

(Quick aside on that. In 1987 my friends P— and J— were both on the 7-Eleven junior team, which gave the riders all free road bikes but had only one time trial bike to go around. The TT bike had a smaller front wheel, a down-sloping top tube, and upturned “bullhorn” style handlebars—the non-DIY version of what you see above. There was a bit of a debate over who got to use the TT bike for the state championship time trial. J— pushed his case harder, P— shrugged it off, and guess who ended up winning the race? P—, on his bog-standard road bike, and by a significant margin. Years after this, wind tunnel tests confirmed that the bullhorn bars are no more aero; only the hoop-shaped “clip-on” bars give an advantage.)

The other thing about this fancy certified coach is that, despite the temperature being in the lower- to mid-50s, he had bare legs. I’d spent all winter trying to teach my juniors to wear leg warmers when it’s cool, and maybe half of them had actually listened, but now that was out the window. The coach’s goal in eschewing leg warmers was obvious: he was showing off his big, shaved thighs. He was a sprinter, in fact more of a track rider than a roadie, and it showed. Of course there were stars in the kids’ eyes, which the guy’s swagger only increased. He talked constantly, and so much of what came out of his mouth was malarkey.

For example, he told the riders not to try to do two races on consecutive days: “Your body needs to recover. Target just one of the weekend’s races.” This flew in the face of what I’d been saying, which is that if we’re attending a race weekend, and are at the venue both days anyway, everyone should do both races, and that’s the best way to improve your day-to-day recovery. This blowhard also instructed the kids to figure out what they’re good at and focus on that instead of trying to do everything well … which is ridiculous because stage races require the full range of capabilities, and it’s fun to ride in the mountains even if you’re better at sprinting. I feared that my juniors would note the discrepancies between what I, their almost-peer coach, was saying vs. this big-thighed, USCF-certified, grown-up coach, and systematically un-learn everything I had tried to teach them.

My own coaching style was (and remains) just to ride, not talk too much, answer questions, and only provide tips during an obvious teachable moment. But this dude just loved to hold forth, and during our training ride kept up a steady stream of do this, don’t do that, etc. At no point did he acknowledge that I was even a coach, much less ask me if he was teaching something (e.g., a rotating paceline) that I’d already covered (which I had). I was just another kid to him, which—I will freely confess—caused a quiet animosity to mount in me. But what could I do? I just silently went along, wondering if this one clinic could effectively end my coaching gig by stripping away all the scraps of cred I’d managed to stitch together over the preceding months.

At the far point of our ride, before heading back toward the bike shop, the coach stopped us at a city park and said, “We’re going to do a drill here. It’s very important, in bike racing, to be able to jostle with other riders and not be afraid of some contact, of bouncing off each other. You also need to know the proper way to fall.” (I’m quoting this as though verbatim; obviously I’m paraphrasing from memory as best I can, but you catch the drift.) So he instructed the riders to ride around on the grass and bump into each other, to get a feel for that. I wasn’t so sure this was a good idea, since several of these kids were pretty new to the sport and might be a little freaked out, but what could I say? I stayed on the sideline and watched.

To my horror, this big stupid thick coach started riding around among the juniors like a big cat selecting his prey, and then knocking over one rider after another. What a dick! Just a big freaking bully, showing off by terrorizing my poor juniors! That was one of the thoughts racing through my mind. The other thought was: oh, good. This is gonna be AWESOME. Because this coach didn’t know about Road Warrior.

Road Warrior was a game my brothers and friends and I had invented and played at since we were like 12 or 13. It consisted of biking around on residential streets and trying to run each other into curbs, parked cars, and/or each other. It was not so different from what this douchey coach was doing, except it was on asphalt and was a more level playing field, our skill levels being similar. For the most part it was a game of chicken, though we did occasionally hit a car or the ground. Minor scrapes suffered in the process were as natural and expected as messing up the kitchen when you cook. The most important thing I learned from Road Warrior is the importance of staying low and getting underneath your opponent’s body. I noted the effectiveness of this when playing against the neighbor kid, a pretty tough hard-knocks type who had lived with various foster families and kept all their names, such that we referred to him as J— L— R— R— H-N—. (By protecting his privacy with initials I’ve ruined the almost poetic sound of all those two-syllable names strung together, but so be it). J— L— R— R— H-N— had street cred because was almost the only kid in Boulder, it seemed, who wasn’t completely white (nobody, not even he, knew what all ethnicities he had), plus he’d cut off half his thumb in shop class. Still, I’d naturally assumed I’d get the better of him, being a) bigger, and b) already a somewhat seasoned cyclist … but he was really, really good at Road Warrior, despite being on a BMX bike which we assumed would somehow be a disadvantage. From him I learned about coming in low.

(I was also no slouch at jostling in an actual race. In Colorado they’d often mix the already large junior field with the senior Category 3s, resulting in a peloton of well over a hundred riders. This photo is from just such a race, the 1987 Rocky Mountain News Criterium in Denver, snapped not long before I was taken out in a massive pileup.)

I didn’t do anything right away. Instead I waited a bit, savoring my anticipation of this coach’s comeuppance, letting him bully my juniors some more until I was sure at least a couple of them were fighting back tears. Then I casually rode over to the douchebag and took him out. He was absolutely astonished. I’m quite sure he’d never even considered this possible, and probably wasn’t even expecting anyone to challenge him. His dominance was of the untested Mike Tyson variety: run roughshod over your opponent because he’s too terrified to respond. Well, now he was on the ground.

He immediately leapt to his feet, climbed back on his stupid bike with its upturned bars, and came at me, certain that it was only the element of surprise that had allowed me to take him down. Wrong! I knocked him over like a damn bowling pin. Then I circled around to set up for the next bout, looking across my juniors to see their reaction. (You getting this, guys?) Another clash and the certified dumbass was on the ground again. He got angrier and angrier and his efforts got more forceful, but he just lacked the skill to accomplish anything. Eventually the juniors put their bikes down and just sat on the grass on the gentle hill at the edge of the park, watching and enjoying the spectacle. Finally, after I’d gone at least 8-0 in takedowns, the humiliated coach realized he wasn’t going to achieve anything except maybe a heart attack, and ended the drill.

The ride back to the shop was very quiet. And oddly, on my subsequent rides with the juniors, there was no trash talk about how badly I’d schooled the big bad USCF-certified coach (which trash talk I’ll confess I’d kind of been hoping to hear). In fact the enemy coach was never mentioned again; it was like he’d never existed. Which was, needless to say, totally fine with me.

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Major League Baseball FAQ - A Guide for Foreigners

Introduction

I am no expert on Major League baseball. That might make me seem like a poor authority to consult about the sport, but most Americans are far too steeped in its lore to be of much help to a foreigner. Ask almost any baseball fan what “the count” means, and you’ll get an answer like, “Oh, it’s simple. If it’s like, 3 & 0, that’s ahead of the count, and 0 & 2 would be behind the count. Very basic.”

I recently attended an MLB game with a variety of family members including my Dutch nieces and nephew, and it occurred to me that this seemingly simple game is actually pretty complicated. As a service to foreigners trying to wrap their brains around our national pastime, and for native-born Americans who could use a chuckle, I offer this guide.

Major League Baseball Frequently Asked Questions

Is baseball modeled after cricket?

No, baseball and cricked both descended (or, you might say, ascended) from other games, and though the history is murky, the sports of “rounders” and “stoolball” are the most direct antecedents. “Stoolball” holds the distinction of being the most disgusting name ever applied to a sport.

I get that the point is to hit a ball and try to run around the bases, which seems straightforward enough. But why does the language of the game have to be so complicated?

I don’t know what you mean.

Come on. When the batter swings at a pitch and misses, such that there is absolutely no contact between the bat and the ball, that’s called a “strike.” And when the batter just stands there doing nothing, it’s called a “ball,” even though the baseball is involved throughout every activity of the game including a hit. How is that not confusing?

Gosh, I guess you got me there. I guess it’s only perplexing if you haven’t been immersed in the culture of the game since childhood. I’d speculate that the weird terminology serves as a shibboleth. We like it better because we’re in on it.

How come the batter can get a strike called against him when he doesn’t even swing?

That is an excellent question, and I learned the answer the hard way. I was playing baseball in elementary school gym class, and was absolutely terrified of striking out because in those days, at least in my hometown of Boulder, Colorado, mercilessly mocking a fellow student was not only tolerated by the gym teacher, but expected and even encouraged, as part of our education. I figured as long as I didn’t swing, I couldn’t strike out and be teased about it, and walking to first after four balls seemed entirely civilized. And yet the umpire, who was not the gym teacher but my regular teacher (whose very attendance during gym class was a mystery to me) kept calling strikes. I thought I wasn’t holding the bat still enough, and concentrated harder and harder on holding it absolutely still. My teacher kept yelling at me, with unconcealed disgust, “What is your problem? That was a home run pitch!” It would have been helpful if she’d explained the strike zone. It’s the area of space above home plate, at a reasonable elevation, meaning the batter has no valid excuse not to swing. If batters weren’t required to swing at pitches in the strike zone, I suppose the game could get pretty boring because lousy batters could just walk all the time. Like I’d dreamed of doing.

I gather a foul ball counts as a strike, but if a batter has two strikes already he can apparently hit as many fouls as he likes. What gives?

There is a special rule about this: you cannot strike out on a foul ball. As with the strike zone, I had to be corrected on this. A bunch of us kids were playing baseball in the street, and David K— hit a foul after two strikes and I declared him “out.” He protested, and we argued, and I told him not to be a baby, and he ran home literally crying to his mom. She stormed up the street in her apron and her horn-rimmed glasses and gave me a good scolding. “You can’t strike out on a foul ball!” she shouted. “Everybody knows that! What’s wrong with you?!”

(Was David’s father similarly supportive? Well, sort of. He did frequently host pickup baseball games for all the neighborhood kids at a nearby park, so his son could get extra practice, but Mr. K— also had a “house rule” that it was permissible to get D— (and only D—) out by throwing the ball at him like in kickball. This looked painful, and one time D— started bawling, and his dad gathered everyone around the poor kid and said, “Who wants to see a crybaby?” That was Boulder in the ‘70s.)

What exactly is stealing a base? How does a player decide to do it?

Normally, a runner can only advance to the next base after the batter has hit a non-foul ball or a pop fly that has been caught. But when the pitcher has started the wind-up to his pitch (and is committed to it such that he can’t change his mind and throw to a base), the runner can try to run to the next base because it takes time (though not much!) for the pitch to reach the catcher, who will throw the ball where needed to try to get the runner out.

You mentioned a “pop fly” just now as though I had any idea what that is.  So … what is it?

A pop fly, also called a pop-up, is a ball that goes really high and really far but isn’t that hard to catch, and has so much hang time any player in the outfield is allowed to catch it. The runner has to “tag up” (i.e., return to the base to tap it if he’d advanced a few feet beyond it, which is called “leading off” and is legal), and can do so only after the pop fly is caught. Interestingly, advancing on a pop fly isn’t technically stealing.

This is so terribly arcane. How am I supposed to know and keep track of all this?

You’re not. It’s really not that important. The real point of the game is that these players can hit and throw a baseball incredible distances, and that fans in the stands can sometimes catch (and keep!) the ball, and there’s food and beer and it’s all very pleasant in a distinctly American way that other sports, like soccer, are not.

What is the World Series?

This series of games (the number of which depends on how things unfold) determines which MLB team is the world champion for the season.

Is it like the Olympics where the best players in each country play for their national team?

No, it’s the normal league trade teams competing. It wouldn’t work to have national teams because all the teams playing are American.

You mean other countries never qualify? How is that possible?

Actually, they simply aren’t invited. Our national pastime, our rules.

Have foreign teams ever participated?

Yes, the Toronto (Canada) Blue Jays played in 1992 and 1993.

How did they do?

They won, both times.

Did they ever qualify again?

No. (Which I find a bit fishy.)

Cuba has won more Olympic medals for baseball than any other country but they have never played in the World Series. How can MLB baseball call it the “World” Series?

Because America.

What is the seventh inning stretch?

This is when all the fans in the stadium stand together and stretch, since they’ve been sitting so long on those uncomfortable bleachers.

So it’s like yoga or Tai Chi?

No, just stretching out your arms a bit, and singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

Is it always the same song, across the nation?

No, in Boston they sing “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond.

Why Boston? Why don’t they sing “Sweet Caroline” in North or South Carolina?

Nobody knows. That is to say, I don’t know.

Why are the benches called bleachers?

According to Wikipedia, the uncovered wooden boards that traditionally comprised these benches were so named because they got bleached by the sun.

What is the “nosebleed section” of the stadium?

These are the bleachers that are so high up and so far from the action, you can barely see anything. The nickname derives from how mountain climbers can get nosebleeds at very high altitudes.

Why would anybody want to sit that far from the action?

Because it’s cheap. MLB baseball is actually a sport that you can afford to watch live, for as little as $4 for a whole game (which lasts, on average, over two and a half hours). This sets it apart from, say, football, which is far pricier (averaging about $150 a game).

Do baseball fans look down on other sports?

I don’t know for sure, being only a cycling fan (whom the fans of other sports all look down on). But at a Colorado Rockies baseball game I attended recently, I happened to wear (along with my brothers, as shown above) a University of Colorado (CU) Buffaloes t-shirt. (The Buffs are a football team.) Lots of people called out to us (“Go Buffs!” etc.) and made some hand gesture resembling horns. It was as though our modest show of support for a local football team elevated us somehow, even at a baseball game. Maybe it was the beer talking.

Speaking of which, are there baseball hooligans?

Violence at baseball games isn’t nearly as common as at soccer games in Europe. Maybe it’s due to the different energy in general. Baseball games don’t seem nearly as intense as soccer (or even American football), perhaps because there are so many games, and so many opportunities to score points. I almost get the impression that the spectators aren’t actually that focused on the game.

Seriously?

Yes. At the game I attended, I had a nice conversation with my niece’s husband about our fathers’ deaths, while watching the Rockies pitcher strike out several Cubs batters. Having something to focus my gaze on made it a lot easier to have this dialogue than if we were, say, across a table having coffee.

Are you suggesting that most baseball fans are just using the game as a foil to have deep heart-to-hearts?

No, I am not saying that. Honestly, I’m not really a fan and really have no idea what most fans do.

Is baseball cooler than soccer?

Hard to say. Soccer requires more physical stamina, but then it has the problem of flopping, which is disgraceful.

Is there doping in Major League baseball?

Yes, of course. There have been many highly publicized cases of steroid use. Even more prominent is the use of chewing tobacco, a known stimulant, which—though it’s legal, and not technically doping—is completely disgusting.

Is Major League baseball as dangerous to players as pro football?

No, not at all. There’s no tackling, and each player kind of has his own territory, so other than getting beaned by the ball or accidentally colliding with another player, there’s not much risk of major injury.

Is “bean” a technical term?

Actually, yes. The verb “bean,” and its noun form “beanball,” refer to the pitcher deliberately throwing the baseball at the batter’s head.

Wow! Does the pitcher get arrested and booked for assault?

No. As with hockey, the rules of the game supersede the law of the land. In all cases, the batter who’s been beaned is allowed to proceed to first base, to punish the pitcher’s team. In egregious cases, the pitcher can be ejected from the game. But the assault is not treated as though it were criminal.

Why do baseball uniforms have belts? Surely these teams can afford trousers that fit?

There is a rule stipulating this, which goes all the way back to 1882. It’s not clear that this rule is still in effect, but I guess these traditions die hard.

Given how hideously ugly modern cycling helmets are, particularly those worn in time trials, couldn’t it be said that baseball is actually far more elegant and tasteful, in its adherence to tradition over whatever-works?

Yes, it could be said.

What is a switch hitter?

Baseball players are typically expected to do two things well: 1) whatever position they play on defense, and ) batting. Some players suck at batting, so they get to have somebody else hit the ball for them. As a former bike racer, I find this ridiculous. Cyclists have to be good at pretty much everything: climbing, descending, sprinting, cornering, and tactics. Imagine if a rider with poor bike handling skills could just tag in a teammate for a descent, or if a pure sprinter could have somebody else tackle the big climbs for him. It would be a mockery of the sport.

So it could be said that you’re more elitist than the baseball fans who openly celebrate the CU Buffs football team?

Guilty as charged.

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Fiction - Game Show of the (Near) Future

Introduction

I haven’t seen a game show in at least a decade, and I’ve seen almost zero reality TV, so perhaps I’m not the greatest person to create a story about them.  On the other hand, who’s to say what these shows might morph into?

What follows is pure fiction.  Any resemblance of any character to any real person—past, present, or future—is utterly coincidental and, I might add, extremely unfortunate for all of us.

Game Show of the (Near) Future

Rick Bently, the host, who has the head of hair that Malibu Ken, Barbie’s boyfriend, must have been modeled on, wears one of those almost permanent grins that tempts you to hate him.  But the greater temptation is to fear him.  He may strike you as the grown-up version of one of the popular kids at school.  “It’s time for our first contestant!” he cries.  “Barbara Palmer, come on down!”

Barbara comes on down.  She has straight, mouse-colored hair and glasses.  “Barbara, tell us about yourself!” Rick booms.  Her smile looks a bit forced.  She grips the sides of the lectern and leans in to the mike before speaking.  “Well, I work in insurance but my real interest is mushrooms.  I’m what you call a mycophile.”

Rick touches his chin.  “You mean you eat mushrooms you find in the wild?”  Barbara perks up.  “No, the people who gather and eat them are called mycophagists.  I just like to study them.”

“Tell me, Barbara, what are three interesting things about mushrooms?”

“Well, for one thing, they’re a fungus, not a plant.  Also, they don’t require sunlight to make energy for themselves.  And maybe the most interesting thing is that a colony of mushrooms discovered in Oregon is now thought to be the largest organism in the world, covering over 2,000 acres, and it’s over 2,000 years old!”

“Wow, Barbara, what do you do with all this trivia?” asks Rick.

“Well, my friends all say the only value it could have is making money on game shows, so—here I am!” Barbara laughs.

“Well, that brings me to what’s on tap for today,” Rick says, shifting his attention to the camera.  “And I’ve got some exciting news for Barbara.  She doesn’t even have to compete with anybody today, because she’s been chosen as our Lucky Day winner!  That’s right, we drew her name out of a hat as an automatic winner, no quiz questions required!  Bob, show the studio audience today’s Lucky Day prizes.”

A disembodied, off-stage voice says, “It’s a BRAND NEW CAR!”  A beautiful woman in a long dress glides her hand over the car’s hood and up past the windshield.  “A Buick Regal with custom styling, perfect for date night or taking the kids to soccer practice!  But that’s not all.  The Lucky Day winner also gets … a trip to Belize!  All-expenses paid for the winner and a companion!  You’ll spend six nights at the Best Western Belize Biltmore Plaza!”  We see images of cocktails, the beach, a pool.

The camera pans to Barbara, who is literally jumping for joy.  “But Barbara, before you get too excited,” says Rick, “I didn’t actually say that you won.  What I said is, we picked your name out of a hat.  But the Lucky Winner is notified by phone, and—here’s the catch—the winner has to actually answer the phone to get the prize.  And you didn’t answer!  We tried to call you three times yesterday but you never picked up!”

Barbara’s smile vanishes.  Her lower lip trembles.  “I didn’t answer?”

“No!” say Rick, in the same upbeat tone he’s had all along.  “Why didn’t you answer!?  Screening your calls?  Or can’t you hear your phone?  What, were you in a loud bar?  A stadium?”

“Um, yesterday?  No … I was, uh, at home.  I was doing … laundry,” Barbara says slowly, sadly.

“Well, I’m sorry but this means you don’t win anything!  Not even a parting gift, though twenty randomly selected members of our studio audience will receive … Bob, tell them what they get.”

Bob cuts in, “Well, Rick, won’t they be happy with this Hickory Farms 5-Piece Farmhouse Sausage and Cheese Sampler basket!  Premium meats in natural casing, and naturally aged premium cheeses, individually wrapped to enjoy now, or later!”

“It’s time for a commercial intermission, and when we come back we’ll meet our next contestant!” Rick beams, as Barbara is escorted from the stage.

We rejoin and meet Doug Smedley, a rotund fellow with bad skin.  His face and neck are nicked up from shaving, making you think (oddly enough) of a pomegranate.  “Doug, tell us about yourself!” cries Rick.

“Well, I work … when I work, or when I worked I guess I should say … I’m between jobs … as an HVAC technician,” Doug says.

“HVAC?  What’s that?  Care to enlighten our studio audience?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s heating, ventilation, and air conditioning for office buildings.  Wiring, controllers, that sort of thing.”

“But you’re unemployed now?  How long has that been?”

“Well … it’s been, uh, fourteen months now.  It’s hard.  I guess HVAC is being done in the ‘cloud’ now.  I don’t really know how all that works.”

“Well, Doug, we have a special surprise for you today.  You see, you haven’t actually been selected as a contestant here, but we have a very special person backstage we think you’ll be surprised to see.  Bring out Janet Smedley, Doug’s mother!”

A grey-haired woman in neatly pressed trousers and a floral blouse strides across the stage and shakes Rick’s hand.  Doug, perplexed, gives her a little nod.  “Gosh, Mom,” he mumbles.  “I had no idea.”

“Janet,” Rick booms, “so glad you could join us!  We’ve just been talking to your son Doug.  And I have to say, Doug seems like a bit of a loser, doesn’t he?”  Janet frowns, and now looks as befuddled as Doug.  Rick continues, “When did you first realize he was a washout?”  Janet, her expression that of a drowning cat, says nothing. 

“Well, we happen to have a pretty good theory,” Rick says cheerily.  “It’s time for our special guest star!”

A thick, mustachioed man in a tweed suit strides across the stage and shakes Rick’s hand.  Rick looks into the camera and says, “This is Philip Simms, M.D., a renowned obstetrician, professor, and lecturer.  Dr. Simms, what can you tell us about the benefits of breastfeeding?”

“Well, Rick, as all doctors and most mothers know, a large body of evidence shows that children who are breastfed go on to score higher on IQ tests, and display higher academic performance.  Meanwhile, the closeness and comfort of breastfeeding strengthens the mother’s bond with her baby and is crucial in building a secure, loving relationship.”

Rick turns to Janet.  “You didn’t breastfeed your son Doug, did you?  Why is that?!”

Janet blushes profusely.  “Well—nobody did!  It was out of favor!  The doctors … they said formula was better!  It wasn’t just me!  It was everybody!  Breastfeeding was ... well, it was out of fashion!”

“Oh, fashion!  Of course you had to be au courant!  And, poor thing, you were pushed around by doctors!  But did it ever occur to you to think for yourself?  Didn’t you have any maternal instincts at all?!”

Janet is in tears.  Rick pushes on:  “Knowing what we all know about breastfeeding, I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say you played a big part in creating the sad sack your son has become.  Frankly, I think it’s disgraceful.”

Rick pauses.  “Now Janet, raise up your arms,” he commands.  “Come on, raise them up!”  Janet, bewildered, does as she’s told, and Rick points to where the armpits of her blouse are dark with sweat.  The audience roars with laughter.  “Janet, it’s time for you to go.  And take your dirtbag son with you!  Bob, let’s see what twenty more audience members get to take home, in Janet and Doug’s honor.”

Bob gushes about a framed Thomas Kincade print, showcased for the audience, and then there’s another commercial intermission.  We return to see another contestant standing at a lectern.  He is thin, sporting an Oxford button-down shirt, and has thinning, sand-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses.  “Kyle Nelson, tell us about yourself,” says Rick.  Kyle explains that he is a college history professor specializing in—“That’s nice, Kyle, thanks,” says Rick.  “And now, look—puppies!”

Five adorable German Shepherd puppies run out onto the stage.  They’re fluffy, with floppy ears and love-me eyes, and the crowd gives a collective “Awwwwwwwww.”  The puppies line up and lie down, facing the audience, resting their heads on their front paws.  

Then a full-grown German Shepherd wearing a charcoal-colored vest labeled “POLICE” trots out to the stage, lean and taut, the perfect embodiment of discipline and grace.  A moment later a uniformed police officer appears onstage.  He is sturdy, with a square jaw, five-o’clock shadow, and thick, dark hair.  He is so good looking you begin to wonder if he might actually be a male stripper.

“This is Officer Jack Strong of the L.A.P.D.,” says Rick, “certainly one of the finest in the force.  I know I’m glad to have him on our streets.  Officer, I believe you have some questions for Kyle here.”

Officer Strong gets right to the point.  “Mr. Nelson, just after 11 p.m. on Saturday, October 18 you were headed southbound on Highway 405 when you encountered a police road block.  An arrest was being made on the shoulder of the highway, and as you were waved through you accelerated.  You wanna tell everybody what happened next?”

Kyle is speechless.  The cop continues, “You hit something, didn’t you?”  Kyle looks stricken, and stammers, “Well, there was a thump, but I didn’t know what it was, I figured it could be a road cone, or a hunk of an old tire or something.  I don’t know, I didn’t stop—I mean, there was a big bust happening there!”

“A road cone?  Is that what you were thinking when you cleaned the fur and blood off the front of your car?!  You ran over my K-9, you [BLEEP]!”  The audience gasps in horror.  “Scout died in my arms.  He was a good dog.  He was one of the best on the force.  And he was my friend.  You know what you are?!  You’re not just a cop-killer, but a hit-and-run dog-killer!”

Rick, who has been approaching Kyle, suddenly steps back as Kyle slams his fist down on the lectern.  “Wait a second!” Kyle cries out.  “You just wait a second!  Look, okay, I made a mistake!  But I was scared!  Fine, call me a coward—but look at yourselves!  You’re even worse!  Sitting there all smug, gaping at me and getting off on my humiliation!  You should all be ashamed!  This show is a travesty!  How would you like it if your lowest moment was put on display for a bunch of judgmental strangers?!  What is this, Tower Hill in London?  The Colosseum in Rome?!  Where would you be if you weren’t here to see this?  A cockfight?!  You disgust me!  You all disgust me!”  He turns to Rick.  “And you’re the worst of all, making your nut shaming people.  You can go straight to hell.”  Rick turns and begins to stalk away.

But Rick grabs him by the shoulder.  “Stop,” he says.  “I have to tell you something.”  Kyle turns and glares.  Rick leans close and, in a low tone, hisses, “You think you’re the first guy to try turning the tables on us?  Don’t make me laugh.  Sure, we film this thing life before a studio audience, but it’s not shown live.  We can cut it up all we want, and you can be sure your little tantrum there won’t be hitting anybody’s TV screen.  Don’t be a twit.”

“You think I care?” Kyle shoots back.  “Screw your show.  None of the rest of your footage is usable either, since I didn’t deign to follow your stupid script.  I’m glad I wasted your time.”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah.  Not so fast, mister.  Yes, we do have a script, and you’re going to follow it.”

“Oh yeah?” Kyle sneers.

“Yeah.  Because we have your teenage daughter backstage, and if you don't go back up to that stage and finish out this show the way we intended, I’m going to bring her on the show and confront her about her recent abortion.”

A blood vessel is bulging on Kyle’s forehead, and he stands fuming for a full minute before walking back to the lectern, lips pursed, and taking his licks.  Rick, when he’s done smearing his guest, concludes, “It’s time for Kyle to go.  And no, he won’t be getting a parting gift.  But Bob, show the viewers what Officer Strong and the rest of his precinct will be getting.”  Bob sings the praises of a beautiful hip flask—“Timeless, yet practical, in brilliant chrome or beautiful brushed stainless steel, covered in genuine cordovan leather.”

“But you, Kyle Nelson, you get nothing!” Rick shouts.  “That’s how we do it on”—and here the entire crowd shouts it out, in perfect unison—“NO CONSOLATION!” These words appear on-screen, in a giant blocky font.

The credits roll.

Back To School

Introduction

“Back to school.” One of the most powerful phrases in the English language—or at least it was to me as a kid. The newspaper ad inserts hawking school supplies presented the new school year like it was a good thing. How I resented those ads, and the very idea of summer being over. It was with nothing less than dread that, each fall, I faced the beginning of the new school year.

How odd, then, that this year I found myself excited about my kids’ first day of school. Even more odd was that my kids were looking forward to it themselves. The school year starts absurdly early in Albany—August 25 this year—and as a kid I’d have been outraged and whining about it. But when I reminded Lindsay the night before, she said, “Tomorrow?! Really?! Yahoo!” Alexa was similarly enthusiastic.

This post examines the back-to-school phenomenon and recalls episodes from my school days. There’s no real thesis to this essay; it’s as aimless and pointless as childhood itself.

Savoring and rushing

After allowing our kids a largely unstructured summer, my wife Erin and I have shifted smoothly—for now—into an effective morning routine. That is to say, we haven’t yet settled into our normal just-in-time, frantic mode. The first day of school went particularly smoothly: the kids had set out clothes the night before and were up and dressed before we got out of bed. Still, we managed to squander most of our wiggle-room and had to walk the girls briskly to class. Not that they bought into the briskness. Though Alexa is capable of fretting about a tardy slip throughout the half-mile walk, she’s just as likely to be oblivious of the time. Here are the kids enjoying a little footpath instead of marching swiftly along the sidewalk as we’d have them do:

I remember how, when I was a kid, the excitement (and dread) of school starting seemed to enhance my sensory perceptions. I remember the weave of the purple rug in the classroom, viewed in macro mode (I tended to lie around on the floor a lot in the early days). I remember the teacher’s decorations in the classroom, like the Caps For Sale tapestry in my kindergarten classroom. Most of all, I remember the smell of new crayons. It’s not like crayons have a strong scent, but you get enough kids with new boxes of Crayolas and the aroma is unmistakable. (Remember the larger crayons that, instead of being cylindrical, had a D-shaped cross section, so they would sit flat on a desk instead of rolling off? Whatever happened to those?) I also remember the smell of the glue. (This was non-toxic Elmer’s glue—we weren’t huffing it or anything.) Decades later, I’d be hyper-aware of the smell of new carpet in the office where I started my first big corporate job. Surely an anthropologist would have something clever to say about this.

Here Lindsay walks with a bounce to maximize the drumming of her new lunchbox in her backpack:

The drop-off

The crush of kids always frightened me on the first day of grade school. It was a fevered delirium of little boys running around, yelling, shoving each other, seeming completely at ease while I felt like I didn’t belong and would get singled out for abuse at any moment. I was completely craven. One time in kindergarten I encountered a first-grader in a hallway who pointed a finger at me and said, “You’re in big trouble, mister.” Rather than deny this, and/or assert that I’d done nothing wrong, I naturally assumed I’d misbehaved somehow and was done for. I burst out crying. It never occurred to me that the kid was just screwing around.

My kids don’t seem to live under that dark cloud. Like their friends, they wear their lives lightly and understand facetiousness, irony, and other kinds of subtle rhetorical forms unknown to me at that age. At a big potluck at a neighborhood park the other evening, Alexa was playing hide and seek and her friend couldn’t find her. “Where’s Alexa?” I asked the friend. She said she didn’t know. I replied, straight-faced and in a serious tone, “Hey, I was counting on you to keep track of her!” She shrugged, like “Yeah, right.”

My kids were relaxed and in good cheer when we arrived at the school. Here is Alexa nonchalantly taking leave of her old man and striding into her fourth-grade classroom, in a small building she’s never set foot in before.

Lindsay, I’m told, was just as sanguine when it came time to head through the door. (The girls start at the same time, so Erin and I could only see off one daughter apiece.) But of course a good drop-off doesn’t guarantee anything. Much could go wrong during the school day to disappoint or frustrate a child. I should know.

School trials I have known

My very first day of kindergarten was a disappointment. Early in the previous school year, my brother Max bragged about Cowboy Day at school. I was crazy about cowboys, and decided to follow Max there for the festivities. He kept telling me to turn around and go home, but I refused. (Kids back then, at least in my family, were never escorted to or from school.) Once I got to the classroom, I was turned away by Max’s teacher, and walked sadly home. The teacher had assured me I could attend Cowboy Day “next year” and, one year later, in my childish stupidity, I expected the first day of my own kindergarten to be Cowboy Day. It wasn’t.

Perhaps that’s the reason that on the second day of my academic career I cut class for the first time. I hid behind the giant boulder in my back yard and entertained myself all morning by making up songs. When I saw my brothers coming home at the end of the school day, I headed in myself. To this day I don’t know why nobody seemed to notice my absence. If a kindergartner failed to show these days, they’d have SWAT teams and bloodhounds out in full force and it’d be all over the evening news. All I remember was that the next day the teacher said, “Gosh, it’s really too bad you weren’t here yesterday. You missed lots of fun things. We even read Caps for Sale!”

Kindergarten got no better after that. During the first week, for Show & Tell, I brought an origami bird that one of my brothers had made. If you pulled the tail the wings would flap. As we lined up to go into the classroom that morning, some kid begged me to let him try my bird. I refused, saying it was too fragile and I needed it to work for Show & Tell. The kid promised to be gentle so I reluctantly handed it over. He yanked on that bird as hard as he could, deliberately ruining it, a big grin on his face. That bastard! I don’t remember who he was because, frankly, he was no different than any of my other classmates. Any one of them would have done the same thing.

First grade (which Lindsay starts this year) was even harder for me. I wasn’t a terribly self-conscious kid during kindergarten and the beginning of first grade—in fact, I was a daydreamer, barely conscious of anything—but at some point that second year I become terribly, cripplingly self-doubting and shy. Like a dog smells fear, the other kids seized on my weakness and taunted me at every turn. All flatulence, even fictitious flatulence, was blamed on me. Et cetera. I didn’t like the teacher either, because she ripped masking tape with her teeth and then told us never to do this. Like she had some special dispensation allowing her to do things she herself acknowledged were wrong.

I did have a friend or two in first grade though, and I once entertained Robbie Bifocal (I never bothered to get his last name right) by saying sternly “Accidents do happen!” while snapping a crayon in half. Word of this got around and soon everybody wanted a live demo of my stunt. Hungry for positive attention, I always obliged. Somehow I never got busted for this (which was probably a great disappointment to the other kids, who—now that I think about it—probably had no other motive in asking to see my trick than to watch me get in trouble). Still, I hated to break the crayons. The paper label never ripped uniformly so it would stick out past the edge of the broken section, like a hangnail. I could never trim the paper edge just right so I’d end up ripping off the rest of the paper, and then the crayon would be naked. Plus it was just a useless little stub. These crayon amputees I found disgusting, and I inwardly suffered for my destructive behavior. Still, “the kid who breaks crayons” was a better identity than “the human fart.”

(My brother Geoff, meanwhile, became “the kid who eats glue.” As our brother Bryan said in a comment to an earlier albertnet post, “Geoff was known all through elementary school as the kid who ate glue, because he did in first grade, and [so] he and I were the twins who ate glue. I would usually try to convince the accuser that it was only Geoff who ate the glue, though my guilty conscience wouldn’t let me try too hard, because I’m sure I at least tasted it myself. But Geoff just didn’t care that the other kids made fun when he ate the glue, he ate it anyway because it was so darned good…. In fourth or fifth grade, I guess, Mom gave us Coca Cola® flavored Chapstick®. It was so delicious I ate the whole thing while sitting in the library, in one sitting, and it made me sick. I’m sure Geoff probably ate his, too.)

Will Lindsay have her own such troubles in first grade? Probably not. Alexa never did, and she’s in fourth grade this year. What troubles might await Alexa? My own fourth grade experience was terribly strange. The evening before the first day back, I broke my leg in a bike crash and missed at least the first week. When I got good enough on crutches to start school, all the kids—pitying me and fascinated by my cast—were nice to me for the first time ever. All of a sudden I was getting invited to birthday parties, which had never happened before. Of course I was glad to be invited, but it was bittersweet: it meant realizing that these parties been ongoing throughout my school years and I was just never invited before.

I felt like an outsider at these parties, hopping on one leg to try to pin the tail on the donkey, or mooning about at the outskirts of the roller rink, unable (of course) to skate. I couldn’t help feeling like a novelty, a social trinket. Pity will only take you so far, and by the time the cast came off my schoolmates had tired of me. When I stopped getting invited to birthday parties, I was, though disappointed, also somewhat relieved.

The pick-up

I worked from home on the first day of school so I could go along to pick up the kids after class let out. Alexa was the first one out, and was still in good spirits. Here, she totally fouls up the special goodbye fist-bump but doesn’t even blush:

Alexa had nothing but good to say about her first day. The closest she came to complaining was to say, “I’m groaning inwardly at the thought of my homework.” She delivered this line (a literary allusion, I imagine, to Harry Potter or some such) without conviction, as though just trying out the words. A pose, you might say.

I know all about that pose. In my early days, when my mom asked me how school was, I would immediately answer, “Terrible!” She didn’t pursue the matter right away, but after the third or fourth day of this, my mom asked me what was so terrible about school. This question caught me completely off guard. It hadn’t occurred to me that there was any other opinion to give; after all, this was how my brother Geoff always answered. My bluff having been called, I’d had to admit that school wasn’t that bad, actually.

After fetching Alexa we went to Lindsay’s classroom. When came through the door, she might as well have been arriving fresh from the spa. Someday when she’s a surly teenager I’ll have to show her this video and say, “What a happy kid you were! How far you’ve fallen!”

Epilogue

The kids have been back at school for a week now, and already our morning routine is slipping. Starting out too late to walk yesterday morning, we had to take the bikes. Lindsay sat on the top-tube of my 3-speed (wearing her ladybug helmet, of course) while Alexa flanked us on her mountain bike. This was the first time Alexa had ever ridden to school, and she forgot her bike lock. Thus, after the drop-off I had to ride both bikes home, rolling Alexa's bike next to me. I’m not troubled by such minor struggles: we have the rest of the school year to get it right.

dana albert blog