Tag: self

for the love of the game

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I turned the TV off before Houston’s George Springer could satisfyingly catch Greg Bird’s pop up to centerfield on Saturday night. I thought to myself that maybe if I didn’t watch the final out, it wouldn’t happen – wishful thinking. As I stared at the black TV screen my throat began to swell, my face began to burn, and tears formed behind my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. The season was over. Just like that. The Yankees were coming home, one World Series short.

Now some of you might be thinking, “SERIOUSLY?!…. It’s just a game!” Well, yes it is a game, but it’s also so much more… to me.

I remember it like it was yesterday. A one-hundred-and-something degree Saturday in July: my first Yankees game. I remember my skin sticking to the seats. I remember peering over my big round glasses as they slid off my face. I remember my brand new Paul O’Neil shirt, hanging below my knees. I remember the Yankees were playing Kansas City. Most importantly I remember holding my dad’s hand as he pulled me through (the old) Yankee Stadium. That one-hundred-and-something degree Saturday in July was one of the best days of my life. It was also the beginning of my love for the New York Yankees.

Sports have always been me and my dad’s thing. We have watched thousands of hours of sports together. He has taught me everything I know from a first down, to a Par 5, to a sacrifice fly. He has coached every team I have played on. He instilled in me the importance of determination, discipline, teamwork, and courage. He also made sure that I never left a game without a smile on my face, no matter what the final score was. My dad has been and will always be my biggest fan.

My dad has taken me to countless Yankees games. There was no better feeling than driving over the George Washington Bridge knowing that I would soon see my Bronx Bombers, my heroes. I remember one day in particular when my dad picked me up from school. As I was getting in the car, my dad reached behind my seat. He pulled out my Yankees hat and Jeter jersey, “We’re going to the Yankees game!!” And off we went: just the two of us. Nothing made me happier.

With my love for the New York Yankees comes my love for the 1 and 6 New York Giants. Another one of my favorite days ever was February 3, 2008. The day that the New England Patriots’ perfect season came to an end with “One Giant Loss.” I was at a Super Bowl Party with my dad. I remember that we did not sit down the entire night. I remember my stomach doing summersaults. I remember Tom Petty singing “Running Down a Dream” at half time while I prayed to God for a win. I remember watching David Tyree catch a ball on his helmet. Then I remember not being able to breathe. I remember Plaxico Burress catching the ball in the end zone. I remember my dad grabbing me, holding me as tears filled our eyes. Our New York Giants were The Super Bowl Champions.

How lucky am I to have a love this great for sports? They nauseate me, make me brutally angry, and bring me indescribable joy all at the same time (and no, I am not talking about my relationship with my boyfriend, a bitter Mets and Jets fan).

But on a more serious note, sharing a love for the same team is a pretty great way to form a connection with someone. For me, that connection has been with my dad.

So from my experience, watching sports is so much more than watching grown men run around fields chasing balls.

growing into myself

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The other day one of my coworkers noticed the collage of pictures next to my computer.

“You look really happy,” he said.

I’ve been getting that a lot lately. Friends and family members have been saying how happy they are for me. A great boyfriend, a beautiful dog, my first real job, a new apartment. It’s true. I am the happiest I have ever been.

But it took me awhile to get here.

Throughout most of my childhood I never really felt comfortable in my own skin. I was a four pound, twelve ounce ball of anxiety straight out of the womb. My parents divorced when I was five and that really affected me. I mean, how could it not? I may have been young, but I knew what was going on. Not much could get past me: all four eyes and three feet of me.

As I got older, the more fearful and insecure I became. Fearful of what people thought of me. Fearful of change. Fearful of trying new things. Fearful of letting people down. Wherever I went, there I was: the same ball of anxiety. I started looking for things (and people) to make me happy. I tried everything, and I mean everything to get out of myself. I just wanted to be numb. I was a people pleasing, insecure, fearful human being who was going down a scary road. I told everyone, “I got this” because I wanted people to think that I was okay. And it worked…

For a while.

Until one cold December morning about four years ago. I woke up to my very worried mother sitting on the edge of my bed. I remember feeling different. I felt defeated. There was a lot that I felt unsure about but the one thing I knew for certain was that I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. And my mom assured me that I didn’t have to.

So on that very day it began. My journey of growing into myself.

I became honest – for the first time in my life – about how I felt. I started to actually like myself. I began to look at myself in the mirror, really look at myself, and not feel disappointed. I started to believe in myself, for the first time…ever. I starting connecting to people. I began to develop true relationships. What they say is true: how can I care about others if I don’t care about myself?

At the time of my so called “coming to Jesus moment” I was going to college down in Virginia. I knew that if I was really going to start over, I would have to make a pretty tough decision. I decided to leave my big fratty football school in the south and transfer to a much, much smaller school just eight minutes from my house. Although I was terrified, and sad to leave my friends behind in Virginia, this turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life. So back home I came, to my large dysfunctional, loving family. (Little did I know that I would graduate cum laude from my new small school in the forest).

Recently while going through old folders on my computer, I came across the transfer essay I wrote when I was re-applying to schools. The last paragraph reads:

“I will never stop taking risks. Part of life is not only taking risks but also realizing that sometimes a particular risk may not be right for me. I have gained a lot of acceptance and willingness these past couple years, finding my path in life. The most important asset I have acquired is trust in myself. Trust that I will do what is best for myself and not settle for anything that does not bring out my best qualities.”

I hope that my blog helps at least one person to believe in their self. To trust their self. To stop being so scared. I spent so many years scared of EVERYTHING, until one day I just had enough.

I truly believe that God did for me what I could not do for myself on that cold December day four years ago. I was miraculously given the strength and courage to start over.