Things I can say for certain right now...

• I have a very special story about Opening Day coming up ;)
• I went from despising Britney to feeling sorry for her and wanting her to get better.
• I really, really like sleeping in. Next to baseball, boardgames and BBQs,(and apparently anything else that begins with B) it's probably my favorite past-time.
• I realized a little while ago, and admitted to some friends tonight, that the first CD I ever bought was a single..."Livin' La Vida Loca". Yup, Ricky Martin. I was 14-leave me be.
• I'm patient enough to let my nails grow out, but impatient enough to bite them all off within minutes when I'm nervous.
• I hate high heels, but need them to be taller. I thought I'd be used to them by now.
• I don't love all kids. Some I love. But some-not so much.
• I don't remember why I became sarcastic, but I promise it probably started in high school.
• There are some moments in my life where I instinctually know what someone with a big secret is going to say before they finally tell me. Sometimes I wished I didn't know.
• I cried tears of joy the other day.

The Brett Favre Jersey Story

I wish I could tell you an inspirational story about getting Favre's jersey sent to me in the mail with a personal note from his truely saying something along the lines of 'to Sports Gal, you're awesome. With Love-Brett Favre', but it seems that being a girl who's also a sports fan always leaves room for stories about bums out there who think that I, a female (gasp!), could have any possible knowledge of anything pertaining to sports.

Today, I had my first gender inspired prejudiced sports moment in a while. Not the every day kind I usually get. I mean the kind that annoys me even now, at 1:25 am. Leave it to the lanky, pasty boy working at Sports Fanatic in West County Mall to make me want to punch a, well um, lanky pasty boy.

I was trying to make a miraculous last minute birthday gift possible. My guy cousin is a Packers fan. Trying to be the hero who got him a Favre replica jersey, my gal cousin and I walked into the sports store and I promptly asked lanky, pasty boy how much the Favre replica jerseys cost.

Now, I worked at a sports store for a few years. I know that if a woman, or man, walked into a sports store and used the sports clothing jargon "replica" then they probably had a pretty good idea of what they were talking about. I wasn't going to question the man or woman's sports intelligence. If a guy/gal walked in and said "I want the real thing" I would assume he/she meant an "authentic jersey". If a guy/gal walked in and said, "I want the cheaper one", I would assume he/she meant "the replica" and so on, and so forth. If I was still working at a sports store, and had even a smidgeon of doubt whether the customer attempting to purchase the replica jersey might be aware of Favre's announced retirement for some crazy reason, I would have smartly remarked on the fact that the jersey had been a hot item since Favre had retired the previous week. This being the less insulting and obvious way of making sure the customer was aware they were purchasing a retired player's jersey, of course.

But oh, not lanky, pasty boy. First, he innocently remarked, "well, that's the only one left. Does this guy fit into a 5XL?" and then as we joked that he would probably not, he immediately jumped on the "girl equals no sports knowledge" wagon and remarkably asked, "Now, you DO know he retired, don't you?" Wow, my cousin and I just stared at him for a moment before my cousin asked in heavy sarcasm, "What? He retired!?!?!?!?" and looking around in mock surprise, I sarcastically added, "Wait, is this a sports store!?!?!?!" I immediately tried to rectify the situation by saying, "yes, we do know he retired, just recently in fact. But I was assuming the future hall of famer's jersey would still be a hot commodity". Which, as it turns out, was the reason for no more Favre replica jerseys being available, as this hot commodity had quickly sold out. Makes sense, huh? Well, he didn't explain himself and probably just continued to assume we were way in over our heads. We left the store, marveling at our missed opportunity to add, "This 'Favor' guy, is it? Was he any good?" Darn.

Now, before you go attempting to defend him by saying I'm overly sensative because I am a girl or that I'm over-reacting, I want you to ask yourself this. Would lanky, pasty boy had dared ask a guy, no matter his age, no matter his appearance, whether he knew that Favre had retired? No. No he would not have. And that's what angered me. I throw my sports clothing jargon out there and he still didn't latch on. He continued to float out into the abyss that is ignorance and incomprehension.

Kind of ironic, considering he assumed I was the ignorant one. But, that's the life of a sports gal, I presume. I still marvel at how little fan credibility I receive because I don't pee standing.

The Quote That Never Disappoints

Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.

----Terence Mann, Field of Dreams (James Earl Jones)

Pie's Injury Microcosm of Cubs' Century

Felix Pie of the Chicago Cubs, a walking punch line in and of themselves, has already given Cardinal Nation a generous gift in the department of mockery to enjoy for the remainder of the season. The Cubs official website posted a story listing the number of injuries that have befallen the team thus far. But it was Pie's injury that has everyone talking,

"The Cubs have had a variety of injuries this spring. So far, infielder Mark DeRosa was hospitalized with an irregular heartbeat, pitcher Jose Ascanio had a bruised face after getting punched in a robbery attempt, and outfielder Felix Pie missed a couple of days early because of a twisted testicle. Third baseman Aramis Ramirez remains sidelined with a sore right shoulder."

Yes, our good ol' rivals feel they haven't been charitable enough in the business of handing us Cub Jokes, our little philanthropists also have a player who got injured by way of a twisted testicle. Quite a ballsy (a-thank you) move on their part to post that over-the-top but nonetheless appreciated bit of information.

How he twisted said-testicle is unknown. How you acquire a twisted testicle, I know not. And although I am not a possessor of that bodily...um...component, I can assure you it hurt badly. Come on, we all know twisting one's ball (?) ain't fun business. "Twist" is never fun unless it precedes "shout".

Fear not! It seems he will survive the injury, but not the endless teasing that is sure to follow at every ballpark. Don't get teste, Cubs fans. You'd do the same.

And thank you God.

A Love Letter

Ahhhhh.*deep sigh of contentment* Spring Training has arrived. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Cardinal pitchers and catchers have offically reported to prepare themselves for my favorite pastime- a game that has captured my heart, never failing to find a way to break it, but never ceasing to grasp at the opportunities given to lovingly mend the broken pieces and make it whole again. There it's dwelled for what's been years, has always flourished, will reside forever and yet never, ever, outstay its welcome. Elementary but poetic, offering hope and crushing dreams, rewarding but taxing...No words better accomodate what this game means to me beyond the humbly simple, "I love baseball".

I don't know how to compare this to anything else because nothing else compares to baseball. Those unaware of its meaning see it as a ball, bat and group of overgrown children. But for those of us aware of its power, we know that it's tattooed itself into our hearts and minds.

Oh baseball. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

Baseball is the competition, the months of much welcomed warm weather often spoiled with punishing humidity, the days I'll head downtown to see for my own eyes what preparation meant to the team. It's the vendors whose voices refuse to chime in unison, the stadium junkfood that tempts all patrons. Baseball is opening day (better than Christmas), Cardinal fans stubbornly wearing red, the elegant Clydesdales boasting with tradition, organist Ernie Hays and his little jingles we've all memorized and learned to clap with like the puppets we've been trained to be. It's Albert Pujols reliably adding to his unbelievable career, Tony LaRussa's stoic dugout face (yup, even that), the endless nights I'll have something to watch at 7:10 pm and the long drives home where Mike Shannon and John Rooney mercifully keep me company. It's the unneeded but still rewarding post-game interviews that serve as a bonus to that night's win, one last chance to see today's hero taking advantage of his minute to recite as many sports cliches as possible. It's mocking the cynicism of Dan McLaughlin and thanking God for the very existance of Cardinals baseball. And who could forget the overcrowded parking garages following plenty a-post game filled with trapped fans all too eager to honk their joys in fun or their sorrows away...or so I've been told. This is what I've patiently been waiting for since that unusual last day in Pittsburg (oh how we've been spoiled). Of course, it'll be all I wait for even in the relatively short hours between regular season games (please tell me you love me back). It's in the back of my mind all the time,nestled between the area where memories-both relentlessly painful and blissful-cross paths. And it's finally here. At Last.

Clemens the Politician

I didn't watch the Congressional Hearings with McNamee and Clemens today because I didn't really care to. But I am thoroughly impressed with the great lengths at which Clemens is going through to prove his innocence. Do I believe him? No. I don't. Maybe I'm wrong because I believe he's guilty until proven innocent, but I've seen too many lying athletes to believe this one just because he shakes all the congressmen's hands.

It's odd to me that Pettitte would go on record saying Clemens told him he took HGH years earlier while Clemens insists he misheard him. I know if I were such a high profile figure with doubts about my memory, I wouldn't go on record and say I heard the 7 time Cy Young Award winner say something compromising. And the longer Pettitte has talked, the more often he has had time to retract on any of his statements regarding the allegations Clemens took HGH (with Pettitte's wife also backing up her husbands words). But he hasn't. I also think it's odd that McNamee injected Clemens' wife with HGH pior to a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated a few years ago. Did Clemens approve of this? Apparently he "didn't know" and admonished her for doing so after the fact (uh huh). Kind of odd that she would do so once, with his trainer, without him knowing. She already released a written statement saying she regrets it. Is this just one big coincidence that Clemens is the only one who didn't take any performance enhancing drugs? I don't think so. But then again, I could think wrong. McNamee could be wrong. I mean, his stories haven't all been true thus far. Pettitte could of heard wrong. We could all be wrong but Clemens. I just find that highly unlikely.

Perhaps Clemens the politician is doing everything right, but maybe that's because Clemens the player did everything wrong.

Spring Blossoms Over Bouquets

I saw this tall, burly man with army pants walking around with flowers in his hand and nearly lost it. I actually looked at the ground so he wouldn't see me laughing. I wasn't laughing because he was buying flowers for the little lady, but because he probably feared what would happen if he didn't buy flowers for the little lady. And that's what it boils down to. If a man bought his significant other flowers today and didn't tomorrow, on Valentine's Day, she would probably still be disappointed. Not because she didn't think he loved her, but because she expected him to conform to society's rules and send them Febuary 14. But, hey, if that's what romance is to you...

Side note, I heard a sad, sad statistic yesterday that 15% of single women send themselves flowers on V-Day so they don't feel left out. That's all you need to know to get a sense of what Valentine's Day represents (and that's all you need to know about those women. sheesh).

What gets me more excited than anything else is the prospect of Spring almost within our reach. I am almost certain that warm weather would make me feel 10 million times happier than any bouquet of flowers could. That's right, all I ask for is the Spring! Bring me sunshine and I'm yours forever. I can't even fathom warm weather at this point but I'm going to soldier through this Uranus-like weather. Yes, I will soldier through like a starving pup being chased by a pack of wild hyenas in a bottomless pit of crap. Happy Valentine's Day.