"It's great to be young and a Yankee."

I'm stuck at the office all day/night, so I apologize for the lack of recap, especially in light of the awesome showing on our boys' part. (For what it's worth, I plan on watching the Encore presentation whenever I get home and posting thoughts on it tomorrow morning.)

But in honor of Mother's Day, I'm linking to something I put up here in January about my own wonderful, beautiful, generous, brilliant, supportive mother and best friend.

January 19, 2010

I don't see my mom TOO often, but it was nice to know that she was only a train ride away from the city. So when my parents dismantled the Christmas tree on December 26, packed up the car, and drove to Florida to escape the cold New York weather, it shouldn't have been that much of a change in pace.

I mean, aside from the fact I'm in my late 20s and should be able to pick out a sweater without calling my mom to weigh in, technically I'm still seeing them about the same amount as I would have had they remained in NY.

But I admittedly miss the proximity.

So in honor of my mom's special day, I figured a Commemorative Mom post was long overdue.

For those of you who have been following this blog, you already know my mom's editorial asides and commentary are always present and never un-entertaining. Just skimming through my blog, I encountered these gems:

July 17, lamenting her daughter's priorities:

"You can't just like baseball like everyone else. Everything has to be so intense. All I ever wanted was just one normal daughter."

June 11, on Nick Swisher:

"Dad and I were watching the game last night and we decided we do NOT want you to marry Nick Swisher if he can't even make a simple catch like that."

June 12, on Mariano Rivera:

"I wonder what that's like for the opposing team, when they see Mo coming in, knowing that they're about to lose the game."

November 2, on Charlie Manuel:

"I lost any respect I had for Charlie Manuel after what he did yesterday. He knew he couldn't beat CC with Joe Blanton, so instead of trying to win by the power of their own offense, they compromised CC's comfort by immediately hitting A-Rod and effecting the warning to both benches. Whatever else happens in the remainder of the series, the Phillies don't deserve to be the champions. If that's how they're going to try to win, they just plain don't deserve it."

There are countless others, and maybe my mother's comments don't always make sense, per se, but what they DO always do is ring with conviction and interest. My mom isn't a diehard sports fan, (she asked me to come down to Florida the 2nd week in February so Dad would have someone to watch the Super Bowl with), so they fact that she reads every last word that I write, means the world to me.

I don't entertain any great illusions that she finds my daily game recaps groundbreaking, and I know a feature article from "Real Simple Magazine" on alternate uses for coat hangers is 100% more in her wheelhouse than 1000 words comparing Joba's slider to stale halloween candy. But it doesn't matter to her.

Even when I know something I wrote isn't "my best work" (and if I don't, my dad will tell me), my mom extols the virtues of every last word, and adamantly insists it's worthy of a Pulitzer. And even though I know it's not true, I'm pretty sure I'll never reach an age where the inflated praise of a mother isn't worth its weight in gold.

She emails me to say, "Happy Pitchers and Catchers Day!" Or to make confusing exclamations about the Yanks advancing in the playoffs. She forwards me NY Times articles about blogging. And when the Village Voice called and asked me if I've ever gotten paid for any of my writing, I was able to say, "Well, no. Actually, wait, I think my mom is the sole subscriber to my blog on Kindle."

Never in my life have I ever encountered a woman with more charisma and more aplomb. It's like this fable I had to read in middle school where the moral was "Whatever you do, do it boldly." She can't go to a Yankee game without a sign, and she'd sooner give her tickets away than bring a sign that doesn't look like it was produced by a Madison Avenue Ad Agency.

She's creative and funny and goes all out for every holiday and invents reasons to have theme parties. She always wears a jersey to games, and loves the Hip, Hip, Jorge! cheer more than a reasonable amount. Everything is exciting to my mom, and it reminds me of how the son in Elf describes Will Ferrell: "Buddy cares about everything."

And she does. To a fault. She'll describe dusty shelves with the fervor most people reserve for natural disasters. (So...I have a good idea where I inherited my melodramatic tendencies from when it comes to writing sports.)

She's selfless and thoughtful and patiently humored me in Tampa when I insisted we wait outside Legends Field in February to see the "Yankees" take batting practice.

There weren't even any spring training games yet, and there certainly weren't any roster players working out. My mom basically sat in the bleachers for 6 hours while I scampered around the field's perimeter trying to get shots of 19-year-old kids with jersey numbers that started around 88.

She hung around a hospital waiting room for hours on Opening Day of 2009 and even complied when I begged to go to watch the 2nd half of the game at a bar instead of going home and doing whatever standard routine generally follows ACL surgery. (Bed rest?)

(I think it was when we were sitting at a bar, both of us deliriously watching the painful rout in the home opener, that she remarked how funny it would be if I had a famous person's ACL in me: "Like Whitey Ford's!" In retrospect, this comment isn't a fraction as confusing as the fact she somehow managed to get me and my gimp leg up the 5 flights of stairs to my apartment.)

But she did. And she always will. Because no matter how many times we fight over whatever pool she must be in that causes her to get frantic over pinpointing the ETA of marriage/grandchildren, or how many times we get exasperated with each other over whether or not it's necessary to remind me not to wear ripped jeans to client meetings (pretty sure she thinks I'm either him or him)...I know everything she does comes from unrelenting maternal support, and there's something good at the heart of her every word and action.

After I wrote my very first article ever, she emailed me:

Kristen, I have a great idea! I think you should be a television sportscaster. Why don't you write a sports column as if you were delivering it on the news and make a tape to send to ESPN. Love, Mom

And she means it. I take it for granted sometimes how lucky I am to have that kind of unconditional support, but it's such undeniable testimony to the fact that no one ever loves us the way our parents do.

So, thank you, Mom. For being my best friend and my biggest supporter. And for always being someone me and my sisters look up to. And for reminding us that "life's too short to do the things you don't want to do if you don't have to do them." To be honest, I'm still not 100% sure if that's necessarily applicable to all situations, but your joie de vivre is truly infectious...and take it from your daughter when she promises you that you really are "forever young."