Basically Betty

Daughter Becky reporting in from Seattle.

On this, the 4 week anniversary of mom's death, I'm still filled with thoughts of her, I still hear her voice every couple of days when I have to re-save a treasured voice mail and I've begun wearing her pink robe, having moved the tissues from the one pocket into the other - consolidating - with a plan to never wash it and hope that it always smells, even a little bit, like her.

As I begin putting together her eulogy, I've been thinking of her role as a fan and how representative her love of the Rays was of all the players and teams of her life.  Her friends, her family, her many loved ones; we all formed one big team of effort, joy and triumph.  Mom was a great fan of baseball and of most sports, but she was absolutely best at being a fan of her friends.

Jimmy and I are basketball fans.

We lost our own NBA team in the off season, a band of Oklahoma City business men bought our Seattle Supersonics and moved them to OKC.  With the team went 42 nights of absolute delight for Jimmy and I. 

For the past 2 seasons, we sat in the 7th row behind the home bench and as Jimmy learned about the rules and strategies of the game, I studied how the coaches interacted with the players, tried to predict injuries by the mechanism of the impact and, sitting so close, especially enjoyed feeling like I was actually heard when I'd scream at a player, coach or referee.

In bad times a few seasons ago, I was a fan with a sign. 

Our coach was Bob Weiss and he was absolutely terrible.  Our record was absolutely terrible.

Back then and at this same time of year, I began wearing my Santa hat to games and made a pretty red and green holiday themed sign that said "All I want for Christmas is a new head coach." 

I felt Coach Weiss was blaming players for our dismal performance when his coaching was the real cause - he's not really a coach, he's more a friend and all the players were quoted as saying they weren't getting any direction from him or his staff. 

It was time for Bob to go and I was going to help him leave.

After Christmas passed, my sign changed to "It's not them Bob, it's you." 

He didn't last through the first week of January.

Jimmy carries one all-purpose sign and he only brings it when I bring a sign.  His sign says "I'm not with her."

I've had my share of fits at refs, opposing players, even other fans when they've behaved just slightly worse than me.

My worst moment, by far, as a fan came a bunch of years ago when Nate MacMillan's jersey was retired during half time at a Sonics game.  Nate was an assistant coach for our team then and if you've never seen a retirement ceremony, it's really neat. 

Dignitaries from the front office, the city, the league and the cream of our past player crop were all on hand.  One of the executives of our club was Wally Walker and he was so roundly hated by the fan base (for expensive and inane recruiting/trade decisions) that fans used to pitch in and hire an airplane to pull a banner that said "Wally Must Go" or "Fire Wally" around Key Arena for a couple hours before each game. 

Well, Wally Walker gave a speech early on in Nate's jersey retirement ceremony and I just couldn't help myself, with the arena dark and Wally speaking into the microphone, a few fans began boo'ing and I don't know what came over me - mob mentality, perhaps - but before I knew it, at the top of my considerable lungs I let out a "Wally You Suck" and he actually stopped talking, he was so shocked.  A round of applause, not just for me but for the whole defiant effort, erupted throughout the arena and Wally's speech was cut noticably short. 

In the press the next day, Wally said he was shocked by the reaction.  I took that as a personal accomplishment.

John, my seatmate for that game, told me he thought it was disrespectful to NATE to boo Wally but I disagreed, saying that if I was Wally's neighbor I could put a sign in his yard, if I shopped at the same grocery store as Wally I could give him a piece of my mind in the check out line or if Wally and I banked at the same branch, I could educate him waiting for the ATM.  But I never see Wally.  I don't know where Wally lives, shops, banks or eats. 

I had one chance and one chance only to let Wally know my thoughts.  And I did.  And it felt good.

It was many years before Wally was fired and all of town rejoiced when he left.  He's recycled in the industry, ruining someone else's organization.  Wally's a jerk.

And this year, at a WNBA game right after the City of Seattle totally sold out to the Oklahoma City ownership group and made a deal for the Supersonics to leave town, our Mayor, who I long ago unofficially named Captain Kangaroo, showed up at the Seattle Storm game. 

During the trial to move the Sonics, Mayor Roo admitted he'd only been to 2 Sonics games in more than a dozen years.  Then, within a few days, he's at a Storm game.  They showed him on the Jumbotron and the crowd boo'ing was so intense and immediate that they instantly took him down.  I realized I couldn't find him around the arena and that meant that he was probably sitting pretty close to Jimmy and I in our 3rd row behind the home bench.

Sure enough, with 6 minutes left in the 4th quarter and the Storm well ahead, the Capt'n and his wife (poor soul) made their way out, crossing just a few feet right in front of us. 

Realizing I do not know where Capt'n lives, shops or banks, I knew this was my one shot and I stood up and let him have it.

"Captain Kangaroo, you sold us out, you're an idiot, YOU move to Oklahoma City, you suck." 

Again, applause.  And surprisingly, catharsis. 

My team left.  Idiots bought them and moved them to one of the most ignorant and racist places in the country.  I went to all the rallies.  I called all the politians.  I spent ridiculous amounts of money on season tickets.  And, in the end, none of that mattered.  The Sonics are no more.  But screaming at the Capt'n, that felt great. 

Now, make no mistake about it.  This type of behavior displeases my mother greatly.  Foul language.  Angry tones.  Grimaces.  Mom expected more from me and yet, I just can't quite deliver.

Mom was a polite fan.  I am not. 

As she was dying, I'd be dealing with some emerging disaster with her illness, hovering over her, helping clean up, straighten out, comfort or administer and occasionally, I'd say a swear word. 

And all mom would do is say "Becky, that is not my favorite word." 

I think daddy, an excellent swearer, a bi-ingual swearer, in fact, perhaps desensitized mom to these things. 

To help Jimmy and I cope with being team-less in Seattle, I bought an 8 pack for the Trailblazers and last night was our first game. 

It was great to be in an arena again, only this time watching a good team with 17000 crazed fans, Nate MacMillan is the head coach for Portland and we sit 3rd row courtside, baseline between the Blazers bench and the basket.  Paul Allen, team owner, Microsoft founder and bazillionaire, sits 2 rows in front of us. 

We have good seats.

I took a sign and in honor of mom, it was a nice one.  Of course, I don't have anything to complain about.  Yet. 

Me and my sign made it onto the Jumbotron and Blazer fans came down the aisle just to see my sign and give me my asked-for and very theraputic hug.  The mascot dog-type-thing gave me a nice long embrace and kissed me with his round plastic black nose pushing into my face.  I was hoping for a hug from Paul Allen but his body guards would not have allowed it, I'm sure.  Maybe next game.

I will never be a fan like mom was a fan.  But she did appreciate my love of the game, my game, basketball, and I think she accepted that my fandom is like everything else about me;  different and not very polished but with my heart in the right place.  Unless you're Wally Walker.  Or Captain Kangaroo.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Blazers beat Sacramento by 1 point.

 

Yesterday a box arrived at the studio and it was full of mom's things.  Pooge is making her way through the sorting, donating, arranging and mailing of mom's belongings. 

Going through everything in the box felt like a slightly sad cross between Christmas and my birthday.  Some things are so old that I remember mom and dad using them going all the way back to when I was in elementary school. 

There's the plastic trivet that has alphabet pasta and long grain rice and some small colorful beans suspended in it, it's about 6 x 8 inches and for decades it sat on the table between mom and dad's easy chairs.  Mom was surprised I wanted it but was happy that I did and I told her I've had a spot on the corner of my desk just waiting for it and that I'd use it to hold my huge glasses of water that I chug all day every day.  She liked the idea that it would my constant companion every day that I'm at work. 

A small but impressive portion of mom's Rays shrine is now in Seattle and I'm going to give it a place of honor in the studio.  I'll wait until all the banners, pins, balls, posters and, my favorite, the bobble heads arrive, then figure out the best and most decorative way to display them. 

The cowbell is my favorite Rays thing so far.  When I pulled it out of the box, I exploded into tears thinking about how mom clanged that thing so loud and for so long during all those exciting games toward the end of the Rays' season, toward the end of her season.

Her pink fluffy robe still carries her scent and unused tissues, tucked away just in case, are still in the pockets.  Her down pillow will be with me every night.  Pooge has daddy's pillow and I have a blanket we used for him as he was dying. 

Eventually, Pooge is sending mom's hats.  Mom and I had a love of hats in common and we both have absolutely huge heads so I'm pretty sure all of hers will fit me. 

It's well documented that smell is a powerful trigger so it's understandable that the smell of mom on her robe and pillow create such a strong emotional response in me but I'm also, and almost equally, comforted by holding the things she held, using the things she used and having them become part of my daily life as they were hers. 

Is it odd that we keep these things?  That I keep these things?

I've always been aware of the reverence our family feels for the personal belongings of our loved ones but I know lots of families, happy and normal (whatever that is), who aren't attached to a single personal item, no matter how closely associated it was to the loved one. 

All I know is that, for me, from the Rocco Baldelli mouse pad to her last driver's license, I'll happily keep my own collection of Baseball Betty's belongings.  I feel closer to her this way and that makes me happy.

Love and prayers from here to there.

It's been two weeks today since mom died. 

Plans for her St. Pete service on 12/20 are coming together, Pooge has been fielding all the calls/emails/inquiries while also getting mom's apartment transformed into its new incarnation.  All the while, she's finding her way into her new independence. 

Going out for lunch is nothing shy of a revelation when you've been a primary care giver for so very long.  Freedom is a wonderful thing and I'm so happy Joann can finally have personal discretion over her days and nights.  From someone who's known nothing but, I imagine this is the most amazing aspect of her current reality.

I've just finished presenting at an educational conference down in Phoenix and am busy planning my next road trip to Madrid to teach at the beginning of December.

The workshop I just presented was mostly what I worked on while I spent those few weeks in North Carolina with mom over the summer and fall.  I had my favorite picture of her out on my podium while I was presenting so I could keep her close. 

I held together really well all weekend long until Sunday morning when, at the end of a 5 day slog, I was up at 5 and in the expo hall by 6:30, pressed the flesh til the expo closed at 10, then rushed back to the room to pack everything up in time to clear the room for the noon check out.  I had a couple of voice mails so I put my phone on speaker to hear them - that way I could keep shoving stuff into bags - and you know how you have to resave messages when they time out? 

Well, I had to listen to an old message and deal with it before I could hear my new messages and the old message was from mom, from May 13th, calling late at night to tell me that her Rays had beat the Yankees twice and were now 2 games ahead of Boston. 

As soon as I heard her voice, I burst into tears.  Heidi, my dear teaching partner and roommate on this trip who was also frantically packing, burst into tears. 

Mom was in tears, too, on the message. 

She was so happy her team beat those Yanks and were edging ahead of those evil Red Sox.  She said not to call her back - mom was always so respectful of my time - that she'd be going to bed soon but that she wanted me to know the great news. 

I have a bunch of other voice mails from her saved.  One queued up for resaving the day after she died.  I cried hearing that one, too. 

The one I have from her giving me the play by play on what transpired the night a bat flew into her apartment and Bill had to come over and get it out is absolutely hilarious.  I just might send the audio to James for him to build into mom's memorial service multimedia show . . . you weren't expecting anything less, were you? 

She wouldn't and we won't let her down.

Love and prayers from here to there.

Mom was so happy when I told her Pooge and I would continue posting to her blog after her death. You'd think she'd have a long list of approved topics, ideas about censorship especially for me, or some attempt to guide content, but no. Her only request was that we continue to end each post with her closing salutation, Love and Prayers From Here to There.

With pleasure.

As you know by now, mom died last Tuesday, October 28th, at about 8:45 in the morning, North Carolina time.

It certainly helps to have known it was coming, and it certainly helps to have been able to spend time talking about the fact that we knew it was coming, but somehow, the world seems slightly different. At least my world does.

I think we can all be sure mom had a lot to do with Rocco's homer in the last game of the World Series. Sitting in my Seattle studio alone, watching the game, I burst into tears a milisecond after Rocco's bat made contact, absolutely certain mom had helped him swing, then helped him run, then helped him recover. How she loved Rocco.

Her last few days were pretty rough. From Friday through Monday, she had a lot of pain and Pooge ended up having to administer morphine every 30 minutes around the clock to try and keep it under control. That worked, and mom rested comfortably the rest of the way.

Between 5 and 6 am on Monday, mom was downright chatty.

She told Pooge she was seeing a crowd of people but she didn't know who they were. She kept saying "my name is Betty, my name is Betty," as if she were introducing herself to new friends. She also talked about Maddon's Mom, saying it over and over again. Joann pinned her down on the details and it was true, mom was talking about Joe Maddon's mom, saying that she was watching Joe's mom on TV.

What I take this to mean is that a bunch of baseball fans came to get mom and that she has cable in heaven. This is all good news.

About a week before mom died, Hospice had told Pooge not to be busy and fuss around mom, that activity surrounding her would keep her here longer than she would otherwise stay. They described her as half way here, half way in the next world. And I think that's true, since mom had visions and hearings and plain old hallucinations a lot toward the end.

We think her kidneys shut down a day or so before she died. We also think she was hemmoraghing. The physical aspects of her death were remarkable to us because we saw and helped her go through so many changes but in the big picture, they weren't nearly as bad as they could have been.

Mom's last words to Pooge were "don't be gone long," said on Monday as the nurse was giving her a bath and Pooge was headed upstairs to shower and make herself some food. Mom's last words to me, on Sunday night, were "I love you Becky, I love you." Mom never complained about pain or her situation, in general, but she did run a tight illness-command center with frequent and insistent email requests, Google and Switchboard.com searches and especially food orders. Hospice said mom could eat anything she wanted those last few weeks, so the gloves came off, the bacon fried and the ice cream was dished.

Good Lord, how she enjoyed her food, almost to the end.

So, her last breaths came as Pooge and I talked on the phone and we're sure mom knew we were talking to each other and that we were talking about her - she has dominated our conversations our whole life - and that we're fine, we're going to stay fine and that her legacy is in loving hands.

Without a care that a single thing had been left undone, untended, unsaid, off she went.

Pooge bathed her, dressed her in her favorite blue nightie and placed a Rays bumpersticker in her hands. The logo, the team name, and the words "I live for this." She sure did.

Her St. Pete service is scheduled for December 20th at her church, Lake Seminole Presbyterian. We'll have a Steubenville service in the Spring, one in North Carolina in late Winter, and I'll host one in Seattle just after the new year. Mom always wanted to but didn't travel much in life, but her ashes are sure going to get around.

When Paul Newman died recently, his obit was on Page 3 of the Seattle Times. Mom's obit ran on Page 1 of the St. Pete Times. She was front page news twice in the last 3 weeks of her life. The most famous Leone, her obit online carries well-wishes from baseball fans and readers all over the country, including one from the entire City of Philadelphia. Only one idiot, Gus, wrote something inappropriate but it doesn't matter.

Nothing does, except mom lived a great life, she died a great death and Joann and I, and many of you, will honor her with our friendships, our passion for baseball and our love of life, now and forever more.

Love and Prayers From Here to There.

Baseball Betty - rest in peace.