Best Summer Ever: Weekend #11

 

• Got stopped by the lightrail fare collector men and sadly came to the realization that my student pass was expired.
• The pouring rain stopped just short of the game. I put on my $.99 poncho anyway.
• Watched a kid staring up into the night sky, stadium lights in his eyes, tongue out trying to catch the drizzling rain.
• Wished the cheerleaders would put some clothes on. They must’ve left the turtlenecks and baggy sweatpants at home. On accident of course.
• Got one stinking cool Broncos’ trucker hat at the team store.
• 6th row behind the Broncos bench. Oh yeah, the tickets were FREE.
• An awesome time with the Pa, the Bro, and drunk fans yelling all around us.

 

Poppa Dad, pb&shelley, and Brother Bear

the best part are the fans in the background

Fan #1: The Sleeper (or the Passed Out)

Fan #2: The Digger (hard hat area)

am i using her to get famous?

Awhile back, I posted a blog about the humor behind the search engine terms people use to find our websites (my favorites still being “penut butter butt”). And even awhiler back I posted a blog about middle names and our shyness towards them. Today I join the two to tell a story worthy of Oprah’s special on siblings being reunited. In this case, we’re basketball rivals and the other half of the whole doesn’t know who the heck I am. But that’s ok. I know of her and I also know that Oprah would still chomp at the bit to cover this story…

In keeping with the joys of reviewing the search engine terms used to find my blog, I’ve noticed that a handful (not a heap, but definitely more than a pinch) of people have sought out a former Lamar basketball superstar, Diane Dittburner, on the internet and come across my “middle name” blog that acknowledges my admiration for someone talented whose name is pronounced AND spelled just like my middle name: “Diane,” for all the few, the proud, and the slow out there. Let’s just say Diane was ever so slightly (maybe a hair but not more than a tad)  better than me when it came to the sport.

I hadn’t seen or heard of her for almost ten years. In fact, I forgot her last name until Mark (also from Lamar) reminded me of it in the ‘middle name’ post. Not to say that I forgot the respect I had for her as an athlete. I only forgot the “Dittburner” part, that’s all. 

Funny thing is, over this past weekend, my thoughtful, considerate, determined, and ambitious friend, Judi, got a picture with D.Ditt in pü-town Lamar (the only 2 things I remember about Lamar are the famous, homegrown basketball players and the pü smell). She relayed the why’s and what’s and who’s and huh’s of the story to D.Ditt and convinced her of the necessary photo op for proof of our one-sided reunion.

D.Ditt was pleased to accommodate, or humor, me. She’s such a nice, selfless famous person. Much like Rod Smith, if I say so myself. All the more reason to admire her.

Just look how excited Judi is, being the very one responsible for reuniting siblings rivals. If I ever get on Oprah with this story, you Judi, will be the one that accompanies me and sits on the first row. D.Ditt will of course be the one that comes from backstage halfway through to surprise everybody (even me) with her attendance. Maybe (just for kicks but not for giggles) we can play a little 1-on-1, she can stuff the ball back in my face, give me a black eye, and strip my eyelashes from my lids. Just like old times. Just like when we were kids.

And maybe, just maybe, I can become just as famous as her as more and more people find MY site in their “Diane Dittburner” search engine curiosity.

It’s so good having you back, D.Ditt. It’s so good having you back.

p.s. I swear I’m not a stalker. Just easily humored.

today’s events

in no particular order…

• got my polio and hepatitis b shots for the missions trip to ethiopia (less than 2 weeks away)
• ate leftover dutch baby pancakes from the pancake house for breakfast
• ate leftover pizza from blackjacks for lunch
• forgot to eat dinner
• took some bc powder for a honkin’ headache. man does that stuff work wonders. 
• mouthed-off to a ref at an indoor soccer game
• got a 2 minute penalty at an indoor soccer game
• played rock band drums at catalyst for an hour after work
• played the literal drums at catalyst for two hours following the rock band hour
• played my guitar for an hour following those three hours. worked on new songs.
• received a total of $200 in sponsorship for ethiopia. yay!!!!!
• found out my car is a bit broken and needs fixin’
• finally finished a big project at work
• felt the presence of God in my car and thanked Him for a rekindled fire
• blogged

You? Eventful day yesterday?

…too afraid

today i realized the shoebox of regretful moments i have in life are centered about one unfortunate characteristic. People-Pleasing. what would people think of me? these missed opportunities unavoidably cloaked me in the uneasy and awkward sensation that intrudes with Embarrassment. and of course they were always unwelcome and always accompanied by Fear. they may seem simple but they are lightly laced with grief as i sample them again today. 

elementary school. annual fall festival outdoor carnival. cake walks, dunking booth, a jail, duck pond, and face painting. i’d spent my very last ticket on the magnetic fishing game retrieving a plastic toy that’d be stored in my closet for next summer’s garage sale. i can make a nickel or two off of that. that october day, in the front of my mind, i knew the family would be leaving promptly as the Texas sun went to sleep. don’t be late. before i successfully located them, a cool and highly influential Tracy Ellis bounded up to me with her face freshly painted. i was wowed. wowed yet ticketless. generously she offered me a few quarters to get my face entirely done camouflage-style. i wanted it so bad. but more so i wanted to keep my parents happy. my (foolish) reasoning led me to believe i’d be grounded for months after a spanking with that splintered wooden paddle. i sulked, refused her offer, and found my mom, filling her in on the recent events and the good-girl response I had returned to Tracy. “why didn’t you do it?!” my mother asked, confused at my decline. well, because i was too afraid.

middle school. 8th grade volleyball season comes to a close. it was my first year ever playing the sport and as it turned out, i was fairly decent. Shannon and Liz excitedly encouraged my continued career: high school team participation. i mentally scanned the future and surveyed the layout. spandex shorts and large crowds of people in those wooden bleachers? and each person had TWO ogling eyes? on me? not a chance in the world. vulnerability? no way. and so i let a newfound enjoyable delight drain in a matter of a moment’s decision. i would never play the sport competitively again. i was simply too afraid.

high school. a developing passion to sing. i stood in the large church and belted out a tune along with the crowd at rock the nations. little did i know Rachel was listening in. she leaned in and said, “you’ve got a nice voice. you should try out for the school choir.” i contemplated the offer, blushing at the compliment. but i contemplated for four years and never stepped foot in the choir room. tryouts? singing in front of someone? out loud? and so i dismissed the idea over and over until i graduated. i sang on stage in public for the first time august 2005. i was 23. 23 silent years and then i let my voice out of its box. but never did i sing in high school because i was too afraid.

college. freshman walk-on to a division one basketball team. scrawny and short. high school highlight videos lost amid the surrounding standout talent. from the first day i stepped foot on the lacquered university floor until the last day of the season i was purely intimidated by my head coach. all talent and ability walked out of the gym at the same time People-Pleasing walked into my head. i had let the paranoia of failure in front of my coach become reality. as it played out in my head so it played out in my game, my shot, my instinct. my former talents and abilities were locked within a cage i fashioned with my own hands. days after the season ended so did my self-imposed restriction. i let loose and played as if no one watched. i played for myself and not my coach. Tasha and Ty stared in disbelief at a teammate seemingly unrecognizable. one piped up, “where have you been all along? why didn’t you play like that during the season?” you guessed it. an entire year choked and buried. i was too afraid.

a lesson learned: don’t miss out. no matter how simple the situation may be, no matter how little the loss may seem at the time, don’t allow your temporary, short term fears become lifelong regrets.

My Great-Great-Uncle was a Rainbow Trout

I have gills. I really do. The next time you see me, bend a little at your knees and peer up at my nostrils. They’re slits. Growing up, I never took notice of this or at least never put two and two together: I could close my nostrils without pinching them shut with my fingers but merely by breathing deeply; I had a permanent nose whistle in the dead of night that often woke me up with the sound of a steam engine approaching; and my face turned beet red during any physical activity as I had no steady source of oxygen filtering through my body. I really became aware of my Fish-Nose when I was a freshman in college playing on the basketball team. The other 3 freshman teammates had plenty nostril room and often questioned if I could breathe when I played. So I began my nostril comparing.

The other night I was with my mom and we got to comparing our nostrils. Where in the world did mine come from? Was it the milkman that resembled an Atlantic Cod or the postman that took after a freshwater salmon? Dad definitely had ample nostril room. Mom’s nostrils could be the next exhibit at a spelunkers conference. They’re caverns. Caverns. She asked if I had issues breathing and soon we found ourselves creating ways for me to breathe easier. Breathe Rights weren’t quite good enough. We had to come up with another plan. And genius it was.

Slightly dangerous but effective. A drinking straw cut into 6 small portions.

A few moments stare and a bit of squinting and I look like a flounder.

 

It was a moment of bliss. For the first time in my life I had air flowing through me effortlessly. A windsock on a breezy day. So delightful, so invigorating, so life-giving. A handful of time with the straw bits and I was temporarily transformed in spirit and in body.

Not long after, I was unfortunately back to breathing through my gills again as I knew life in nostril heaven couldn’t last forever. Although I wish it could’ve lasted forever, I do not regret partaking in a taste of what is to come for me. One day. One day, I will trade these gills for nostrils. And there will be no more tears. 

Why do we hate them?

Many a years have passed and I’ve wondered why people are so afraid of their middle names. They’re the middle child of the name world, sandwiched between the comfortable and the loved. Shelley _______ J. It’s almost as if our lives are dependent on the top-secret information. Should it leak, our identities are blemished, our covers blown, and our character destroyed. Well, today I’m feeling overly confident, overly daring, overly vulnerable. (deep breath). Community of fellow fear-ridden middle-name holders, LET’S BE FREE! Here goes. Should you choose to follow my lead and announce to the world what only few people know, then I salute you. (e-high five).

My middle name is Diane and it means “divine”. Heck yes. I was named after my aunt. If you haven’t figured it out, her name was Diane. Famous people with that name or a variation of it: Princess Diana, Diane Keaton, and the goddess Diana of Ephesus. An interesting fact: the name peaked in the 1950s and has dropped off since then. Sad. So sad. And finally, there was a Diane I admired in the basketball world. I was a freshman and she was a senior on a rival team from Lamar. She kicked my butt, stuffed the ball back in my face, and I walked away from that game with fewer eyelashes and more black eyes than when I started. It’s a good story and I might share it someday.

SO…WHAT’S YOUR MIDDLE NAME??

Go find out some stuff about your middle name and proudly share it with the world. BE FREE!

http://www.thinkbabynames.com/

Sports Heroes and the Heimlich

I came out of the womb with a basketball in hand, track spikes on, and a sweatband ’round my brow. Kicking the placenta aside, I ran to the nearest court for my first game of H-O-R-S-E. For years the heroes in my life were athletes — Jackie Joyner Kersey, Florence Griffith Joyner, Michael Jordan — and then somehow Whitney Houston slipped her way into the top four or five on my list (that was BEFORE all the crack). I remember watching baseball on TV or at my brother’s little league games and admiring the amount of bubblegum one human being could physically fit in his mouth. Wads. I mean…WADS. And so I began my quest to stretch out my cheeks in order to become a REAL athlete…the kind with a grapefruit-sized wad lodged between her teeth. Daily jaw exercises and inserting pens sideways in my mouth couldn’t have prepared me for the intense cramping I’d experience in my mandible. Pain. Worse than any twisted ankle, muscle cramp, broken bone, or 1-point loss to your rival. This was Bubblegum Pain, folks. And the culprit, Big League Chew and his nasty cousin, Double Bubble.

7 years later: Middle School. “Must…make…a…good…impression. Must…be…cool.” And oh how I was that evening. I stepped out of my mom’s blue Ford Taurus, metallic basketball shorts down to my knobby knees. Insert Double Bubble Piece #1. And what rockin’ cool ankle braces I had. Insert Piece #2. Was that a NIKE wristband I was wearing?? NOT generic?? Insert Piece #3. Did I have the athlete strut down or what? Piece #4 and 5.

I WAS IT. The real deal. The athlete I longed to be ever since I was 5. I popped my sixth and final Double Bubble into my mouth and headed towards the gym for practice. The jaw cramps started quicker than I could run the 50-yard dash. The saliva build up was Niagara-esque. The gagging uncontrollable. The choking unbearable. The spitting all too necessary for such a situation.

 

And the humiliation…overwhelming. I ran to the nearest trashcan, removed the baseball from my mouth, bit a fourth of it off for keeps and sheepishly walked into the gym, head down, eyes misty.

 

I failed them all. Not my teammates on my intramural basketball team. No. I failed Jackie, Florence, Michael…even Whitney. I was the idiot, wanna-be-athlete, fool of the century. I couldn’t chew my grapefruit without requesting backup from First Aid. I was a failure.

 

Never again have I attempted to climb Mt. Double Bubble. It conquered me that day. I stand defeated and humbly tip my ball cap to all the REAL athletes out there with a melon in their mouth. Make us proud, athletes. Make us proud.