Maybe.
But not this year.
82
Showing posts with label Pittsburgh Pirates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pittsburgh Pirates. Show all posts
Monday, September 9, 2013
82
They say we've been rebuilding since '92. They say tonight ended the long, national nightmare. They said we were a lost cause.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
An open letter to the Pittsburgh Pirates
To Our Dear Pirates,
Before things get crazy, I just wanted to write a note of thanks for all that you've done over the last few seasons. I know it's been hard to come so close, only to fall short; but I know that it will all be worth it soon enough.
Perhaps I should introduce myself before I say much more. My earliest memories of sports involve sitting on the glider of my grandparents' back porch listening to games on an old transistor radio. I heard stories from my mom and grandfather about the glory days of the 70s. It was quite some time before I knew what baseball looked like, but the sounds of the park have always brought me to a place of fondness.
I was just six years old the last time that you had a winning
season. (Lisa Frank. Nirvana. No front teeth. Truly floppy disks.)
My grandfather taught me everything I know about baseball (and how to be a total huckleberry). He taught me that through the ups and downs, you're a fan no matter what.
He's been gone for more than half of this sub-.500 streak, but he
would love this season and this team. Your pluck and your scrappy, by-the-bootstraps
outlook would have resonated with that former steelworker.
He would yell and scream and whoop and holler because he
knew that you could do better. He carried losses like Atlas; he smiled a little
more after wins.
He would heckle batters for swinging on the first pitch and
then sit there with a twinkle in his eye and a smile as big as the Allegheny
when they knocked the next pitch into the river.
My mom likes to watch me watch games because she sees my
grandfather in my reactions. Truth be told, I think he's been watching this
season with me, patiently counting to 82 and beyond.
As you look for this pivotal distinction - and end the streak that could have turned old enough to drink itself out of its own misery - my hope is that a city of sports excellence continues to surround you with support. That old fans welcome the new fans just catching the fever and let them know that there's plenty of room for everyone on our ship.
I don't want you to think that you’re carrying the hopes and dreams of
two decades of sorrow, frustration, and parody on your shoulders. Instead, know
that we’re standing strong with you, ready to support you through each inning.
We’ll scream and shout at our TVs. We’ll tweet and post and
hashtag our love to you. We’ll do special loads of wash just to have black and
gold to wear to work or class. We'll spout gibberish about Zoltan, beloved sandwiches, shark tanks, and bulls as if it were common English. We'll be those crazy fans who do you proud.
The joy of baseball
has seen us through good times and bad. With each trip to Florida for training, hope springs eternal. And when we see that last out or walk-off
that gets us to 82, may we know and hope that the best is yet to come.
So, stand up tall, Buccos. This may be the year we pillage the postseason.
So, stand up tall, Buccos. This may be the year we pillage the postseason.
Love,
Rachel Moore
Unrepentant, Illogical, Loud, Heartfelt Pirates Fan
P.S. - Z
(Bucs fan? New to baseball? Lost your faith? Feel free to leave a comment to wish the Pirates well or share your memories!)
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Hello, Old Friend.
Well, hello. It's been a while.
For the last six months, I've spent hundreds of hours and thousands of words discussing the world of representations of female candidates and athletes. I've run hundreds of miles and two marathons. I've watched as dear friends transitioned beautifully into parenthood. Did I once post here? I'm afraid not. And for that, I'm deeply sorry.
But let's press on, shall we?
After finally conquering Pittsburgh*, I'm so pleased to report that Mr. Run on Sentences and I will be taking a trip over Columbus Day to run the Chicago Marathon. And eat our way through the city. And, with any luck, catch fellow marathoner Peter Sagal at a taping of Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! if it's in town.
It goes without saying that our excitement is rivaled only by unhinging frustration that was the registration kerfuffle for the race.
That aside, this race marks a particularly interesting departure in training orthodoxy for us. We thought it fitting that for our first Marathon Major - and, since our performances have seemed to plateau a bit - we thought we would use the opportunity to jump into the Hansons Method.
For the uninitiated, the Hansons Method is based on the premise of residual fatigue to maximize performance. This means longer weekday runs and shorter weekend long runs and a lot more miles over the 16 weeks leading up to Chicago.
The somewhat masochistic perfectionist in me is very excited for this. For my grocery and gear budgets? Maybe not so much. That's a lot of food. And a fair few pair of Newtons.
But here's the thing, in athletics as in life, complacency with the comfortable is never a smart idea. And as we embark on this new journey of more than 850 miles, I'll be sharing my workouts, what I wore, what I ate (yes, that means recipes), and how it feels.
Next time on Run on Sentences, a postmortem on Pittsburgh and what I hope to get out of training. (Other than faster, natch.)
In the meantime, have you used the Hansons Method? Run Pittsburgh or Chicago? Have horror stories from a particularly scarring race? I'd love to hear from you!
_____
*My first attempt to run Pittsburgh didn't go so well. Like, pass-out-at-mile-17-and-get-rushed-to-the-ER not so well. I may have puked just a few hundred yards from the finish line, but blowing by where my race ended the last time and finishing was a really transcendental experience. Oh, and that's my mum in the Penguins sweater. We bleed black and gold.
For the last six months, I've spent hundreds of hours and thousands of words discussing the world of representations of female candidates and athletes. I've run hundreds of miles and two marathons. I've watched as dear friends transitioned beautifully into parenthood. Did I once post here? I'm afraid not. And for that, I'm deeply sorry.
But let's press on, shall we?
 |
| May 5, 2013: Pgh Marathon My mum and I share a few strides. She was a little warm in her Penguins sweater, but we all bleed Pittsburgh's black and gold! |
After finally conquering Pittsburgh*, I'm so pleased to report that Mr. Run on Sentences and I will be taking a trip over Columbus Day to run the Chicago Marathon. And eat our way through the city. And, with any luck, catch fellow marathoner Peter Sagal at a taping of Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! if it's in town.
It goes without saying that our excitement is rivaled only by unhinging frustration that was the registration kerfuffle for the race.
That aside, this race marks a particularly interesting departure in training orthodoxy for us. We thought it fitting that for our first Marathon Major - and, since our performances have seemed to plateau a bit - we thought we would use the opportunity to jump into the Hansons Method.
For the uninitiated, the Hansons Method is based on the premise of residual fatigue to maximize performance. This means longer weekday runs and shorter weekend long runs and a lot more miles over the 16 weeks leading up to Chicago.
The somewhat masochistic perfectionist in me is very excited for this. For my grocery and gear budgets? Maybe not so much. That's a lot of food. And a fair few pair of Newtons.
But here's the thing, in athletics as in life, complacency with the comfortable is never a smart idea. And as we embark on this new journey of more than 850 miles, I'll be sharing my workouts, what I wore, what I ate (yes, that means recipes), and how it feels.
Next time on Run on Sentences, a postmortem on Pittsburgh and what I hope to get out of training. (Other than faster, natch.)
In the meantime, have you used the Hansons Method? Run Pittsburgh or Chicago? Have horror stories from a particularly scarring race? I'd love to hear from you!
_____
*My first attempt to run Pittsburgh didn't go so well. Like, pass-out-at-mile-17-and-get-rushed-to-the-ER not so well. I may have puked just a few hundred yards from the finish line, but blowing by where my race ended the last time and finishing was a really transcendental experience. Oh, and that's my mum in the Penguins sweater. We bleed black and gold.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Run on Sentences: 5 April 2012
In which the author rambles about obsession and losing her Garmin in the river...
Oh, hello, blog. It’s been a long time. Sorry to neglect you. I was busy training for my latest marathon, getting into grad school and doing a bunch of things that I can’t even remember (like everything - save the run - that happened this week).
I’ve also been suffering from allergies. Running helped me get off my prescription for dog, cat and every-pollen-under-the-sun allergies, but NOTHING can save us from the very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing that is Spring 2012. I’ve managed to deal with the flowering trees (my kryptonite) better than I had originally thought, but yesterday morning I couldn’t stop itching on my 6 miles with 6 strides. By mile 2, I was scratching so much that it looked like I had been attacked by a colony of junkyard cats. By mile 3, my face was swollen and covered with a disgusting concoction of mucus and tears.
Gorgeous visual, right?
After the turnaround on Harrisburg’s Market Street Bridge, even my watch band was causing disrupting itching. So, being the genius I am, I decided it was a great idea to loosen my watch band and scratch underneath of it. With sweaty, slippery hands. On a bridge. With wind. Genius.
I got the strap of my Forerunner 210 lose and dug my stubby, navy blue nails underneath and finally got a bit of relief...
And then it fell. It happened in slow motion. I shrieked. A cyclist passed me with a quizzical face. The Garmin fell and fell. The wind caught it and it bounced...
In those seconds, my entire running life flashed before me. All of my running memories would be lost to Davy Jones’ locker! Don’t I hate my Garmin? Don’t I threaten to throw it in the river on mornings when it takes 10 minutes to sync? What about those fantasies of a running chip implanted in my brain to measure my stats? But how would I measure splits? How would I know my distances? How would I remember to put right in front of left? Would I still be a runner? Will my existence as a human be validated without statistics of every single step? HOW WOULD I GO ON WITHOUT MY GARMIN?
Mercifully, it stopped about an inch and a half short of being a swimming watch. I bent down, shaking, and attempted to steady my hand to put it back on my wrist. This time, I put it a bit looser to leave room for scratching space. It took about a quarter mile before my palpitations stopped.
I had a revelation in the wake of almost losing that terrible, wonderful piece of rubber and computer: I’m obsessed with stats, but I hate them. I resent that since I missed Boston by just over a minute and a half, I’ve been engrossed with every split, trying to get faster and faster. I don’t always live and die by my times, but numbers push me to work harder and harder at it. 95 seconds is all I need and each well-documented (if not undependable) split I clock puts me a bit closer to Beantown.
I know I’m not alone in this sentiment. We’re all inextricably tied to our watches. It’s a sense of pride when it goes well. It’s a motivating sense of shame when it goes poorly. It’s probably a pretty terrible vice in the scheme of running... but in the scheme of life, I guess it’s not so bad.
And hey, at least I’m not one of those obnoxious Pittsburgh Pirates fans who paints their nails yellow for opening day... oh wait... LET’S GO BUCS!
Oh, hello, blog. It’s been a long time. Sorry to neglect you. I was busy training for my latest marathon, getting into grad school and doing a bunch of things that I can’t even remember (like everything - save the run - that happened this week).
I’ve also been suffering from allergies. Running helped me get off my prescription for dog, cat and every-pollen-under-the-sun allergies, but NOTHING can save us from the very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing that is Spring 2012. I’ve managed to deal with the flowering trees (my kryptonite) better than I had originally thought, but yesterday morning I couldn’t stop itching on my 6 miles with 6 strides. By mile 2, I was scratching so much that it looked like I had been attacked by a colony of junkyard cats. By mile 3, my face was swollen and covered with a disgusting concoction of mucus and tears.
Gorgeous visual, right?
After the turnaround on Harrisburg’s Market Street Bridge, even my watch band was causing disrupting itching. So, being the genius I am, I decided it was a great idea to loosen my watch band and scratch underneath of it. With sweaty, slippery hands. On a bridge. With wind. Genius.
I got the strap of my Forerunner 210 lose and dug my stubby, navy blue nails underneath and finally got a bit of relief...
And then it fell. It happened in slow motion. I shrieked. A cyclist passed me with a quizzical face. The Garmin fell and fell. The wind caught it and it bounced...
In those seconds, my entire running life flashed before me. All of my running memories would be lost to Davy Jones’ locker! Don’t I hate my Garmin? Don’t I threaten to throw it in the river on mornings when it takes 10 minutes to sync? What about those fantasies of a running chip implanted in my brain to measure my stats? But how would I measure splits? How would I know my distances? How would I remember to put right in front of left? Would I still be a runner? Will my existence as a human be validated without statistics of every single step? HOW WOULD I GO ON WITHOUT MY GARMIN?
Mercifully, it stopped about an inch and a half short of being a swimming watch. I bent down, shaking, and attempted to steady my hand to put it back on my wrist. This time, I put it a bit looser to leave room for scratching space. It took about a quarter mile before my palpitations stopped.
I had a revelation in the wake of almost losing that terrible, wonderful piece of rubber and computer: I’m obsessed with stats, but I hate them. I resent that since I missed Boston by just over a minute and a half, I’ve been engrossed with every split, trying to get faster and faster. I don’t always live and die by my times, but numbers push me to work harder and harder at it. 95 seconds is all I need and each well-documented (if not undependable) split I clock puts me a bit closer to Beantown.
I know I’m not alone in this sentiment. We’re all inextricably tied to our watches. It’s a sense of pride when it goes well. It’s a motivating sense of shame when it goes poorly. It’s probably a pretty terrible vice in the scheme of running... but in the scheme of life, I guess it’s not so bad.
And hey, at least I’m not one of those obnoxious Pittsburgh Pirates fans who paints their nails yellow for opening day... oh wait... LET’S GO BUCS!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)