I have pet-peeves. I admit that most are a result of my cynicism, but I believe there are a few justifiable ones, too — beyond any disenchantment or negativity, that is.
A girl asked me a couple days ago whether I was excited that baseball had begun. “Oh, definitely — I’ve been playing since I could walk and I love the game,” I said. She nodded, “Nice.”
If you were ever an endurance athlete (running, nordic skiing, cycling, for instance), you know what it’s like to develop a routine. That is, six days a week — for months at a time — of intervals, distance, tempos, strength, followed by a coach- or trainer-imposed (or self-imposed, if you were training alone and very disciplined) rest day.
I’ve got New York in my blood. My dad was born in Manhattan, and my Mom grew up in Brooklyn Heights; we return to the city at least once a year, whether for Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, a birthday or just a three-day weekend. Even though I consider myself a New Hampshire kid, a part of me feels very much at home in the city.
There’s a history of non-violence in my family: my paternal grandfather grew up in a quaker household, my parents put the kibosh on arguments between me and my brother before they were anywhere near physical and contact sports — excluding elementary school basketball and the physicality that sometimes accompanies it (i.e., when one kid trips over another) — were never allowed.
