Baseball and the Brain

My dad is kind of a saint.

The time between mom's repetitions has shortened dramatically and her short-term memory is the worst it has ever been. The other day she asked him three times in a span of about 20 minutes if he wanted to save his leftover Chinese food. She had no idea she already asked. This type of interaction occurs on a daily basis.

This week, baseball began. My mom has always been a huge baseball fan. Before her Alzheimer's really took hold and back when dad was more mobile than he is now, my parents attended about six St. Louis Cardinals games per season. They sat in the bleachers where I had my season tickets. Each visit to the ballpark was quite the production. Donning there Cardinal t-shirts labeled "Meemo" and "Papa Joe," my parents left the house hours before game time so they could park at a nearby (and very expensive) parking lot, grab a couple of hot dogs, and catch a bit of batting practice.

Mom always lugged along a thermal bag with bottled water and often pulled a ridiculously large visor on her head to keep the sun out of her eyes. Dad tugged on one of his many ball caps and once he sat in his seat, he usually didn't move until around the 6th inning when they would pack up and head home, listening to the rest of the game on the radio as the cruised back home along the back roads.

Mom doesn't remember this season's opening day, even though we all watched the game together. She doesn't remember the walk-off win, the first win of the season. There are only three pieces of Cardinal baseball my mom remembers every day: Mike Matheny, Adam Wainwright, and Yadier Molina. The three of them have been around long enough that they are a part of my mom's longer term memory.

Now, mom still enjoys the game of baseball. She will watch every single game, keeping a watchful eye out for Yadi, especially. But every game, she has the same questions. Over and over and over, dad sits beside her and reminds her who Randall Grichuk is and tells her why Jose Oquendo is no longer standing by third base. Sunday, dad "introduced" mom to Dexter Fowler about six times and tonight, he did it all over again.

Dad is much more patient than me. He always has been. But he is especially patient now. Sometimes, dad is kind of a saint. But he loves my mom and she loves her baseball so he does whatever he can to keep their love and her love of baseball alive.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Every morning, I make his coffee and get the newspaper from the porch. He eats an orange and a banana, while he has his one cup of black coffee and reads the front page, the obituaries and Family Circus. Then he heads to the living room to say his rosaries and man the remote. (The remote control is never more than a few inches within his reach.)

Every Saturday, he hands me $10 and his winners. I take them to a convenience store not far from the house where I pick up his lottery tickets for the week.  I also purchase our weekly supply of Diet Dr. Pepper. Panic ensues if I have Saturday morning plans that don't mesh with this weekly errand.

He is a television connoisseur of America's Got Talent, St. Louis Cardinals baseball, Blues hockey and reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. He seeks out new Hallmark movies for my mom and no matter how many times it airs, he will watch Ocean's Eleven EVERY SINGLE TIME it is on TV.

Some days, he will ask for a cheese sandwich for lunch. Other days, he prefers braunschweiger. Always drinks water at dinner. Never helps clean up. Unless there are big pots to wash. Then he will dry but only for my mom. If I am cleaning, I am on my own.

He worked for 56 years before he retired, starting his career at the age of eleven. That's why he never wanted my sister and I to work as teenagers. He broke his back for us so my mom could stay home and we could have fun.

My favorite memories of us when I was little are a little blurry. I don't remember much but I do remember rocking with him in his blue chair and getting up before dawn to go to our grocery store with him. We would leave the house around 4:30 AM and when we got to the store, he would stack potato sacks up in the back room near the heating vent so I could go back to sleep for a while. Then he would let me have the run of the store. People thought he spoiled me but, in my opinion, he was teaching me that I really could DO anything I wanted to do. He never told me something wasn't possible.

He was determined to make sure I went to college. We didn't have the money for it but he knew we could get there if our grades were good enough or if we worked hard playing sports. My sister was the smart one. I played ball. My dad came to every one of my volleyball and basketball games. Even in college, he showed up as often as possible. I can still hear him yelling, "Way to go!" When my sister and I graduated from college, even though it took me a long time, he was so proud.

After he retired, my dad spent his days taking care of my nephew who is his new pride and joy.
Before the walker became a primary assistant in his mobilization, he fished often and one day per month he ate lunch with his friends from high school. Now he mostly stays in the house. Sometimes you will catch him on the front porch in his socks. Putting on shoes seems silly when he isn't going far. If you see him, you should absolutely say hello and, if you have time, stop for a conversation. He would love that.

This month we celebrate his 77th birthday. What a milestone! So many accomplishments behind him. At least 1000 more viewings of Ocean's Eleven in his future.

Happy birthday, Dad!

Mom Loves Baseball

Mom loves baseball. She enjoys most sports, in fact. She is the one who taught me how to play basketball. She would challenge me one-on-one in the alley on the hoop a few doors down or whoop me repeatedly in games of H-O-R-S-E. But mom has a special relationship with baseball, especially the St. Louis Cardinals.

Me, mom, & dad at a game 2 years ago.

"My grandparents were huge Cardinal fans," mom shared. "Anytime they were playing, we had the radio on. We would sit in the yard with a bucket of beer and listen to the game."

My almost 80-year-old mom has been listening to or watching the Cardinals her whole life and now, she is just as dedicated and loyal as her grandparents. It really upsets her if anyone tries to assassinate the character of her team. She would never say anything bad about them.

Mom and dad walking to their seats at the
baseball hall of fame induction ceremony.

Her favorite players are Adam Wainwright and Yadier Molina, mostly because she no longer recognizes the guys on the team. Even if they have been on the team a few years, she can't remember them. During today's game, she repeatedly said, "I've never heard of that guy" even though they both had been on the team for a while. The grief that comes with her Alzheimers is directly related to her inability to remember recent events, people, etc. The joy, however, comes in her ability to remember stories from her childhood that we have never before heard.

The family at a game in the bleachers
a few years ago.

She loves watching sports because, while the rest of us might be looking at records and standings, mom doesn't have to remember what happened last game in order to enjoy the current game. It's also relatively easy for the rest of us because she knows how the game works, she understands the rules and she doesn't ask a lot of questions, aside from, "who is this guy?"

Today she made a request. She wants to sit in the "green seats" at Busch. She wants to eat in the dining area and sit in the expensive seats and have somebody wait on her. There is no way I can afford that on my teacher salary. I can barely afford groceries. But I told her yes. ABSOLUTELY. If I have to drive 12 hours shifts for Uber to make it happen I will. I want to give her that experience just once. It is the least I can do.