Peeking Under Santa's Suit

There was one more gift on my list to buy so I broke my cardinal rule and went to the mall on Super Saturday. I packed my pepper spray in case I needed to fight off anyone for that last discounted sweater at The Gap.

I found a parking space two zip-codes down from the mall and then rode my bike the rest of way, leaving it with the valet attendant outside of Nordstrom. I passed the line of children waiting for their digital-camera moment with Santa right when the jolly fellow was taking a break. He looked a little weary and lost, so I offered some help.

“Where’s the Cinnabon?” he inquired.

I led him to the food court and sprang for a sleigh-sized cinnamon roll. We chit-chatted while he stuffed his bowl full of jelly with sugary goodness. He told me that the elves at the North Pole have everything under control. So now he can spend his days interacting with children all over the world. He said he’ll head back up north on Friday to rest up for his big night. He also said that he likes to bring back the organic reindeer food from Trader Joe’s.

I gave him a nod, quietly looking for a chance to escape from this nutty St. Nick. But I could see the life returning to his rosy cheeks and decided to play along.

“You know, Santa, I’m really having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit this year.”

“Why is that?”

“Everything is just so out of control,” I told him. “The whole season is just a bombardment of advertising urging me to spend, shop, and buy. People camped out for days for Black Friday deals. Stores opened up before midnight on Thanksgiving. I don’t care that Every Kiss Begins with Kay and that Lexus is making this a December to Remember. I just want to rebel against the commercialism and see how much money I can save … by not shopping.”

“Wow,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve just come out of Abercrombie and Grinch.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, very funny. It’s not that bad. I understand the difference between the spiritual reasons for Christmas and the consumerism season of Christmas. I just wish we had more emphasis on the former and less on the latter.”

“It’s pretty crazy, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, but frankly, Santa, don’t you think you’re to blame?”

“Me? Why me?”

“Well, didn’t you start all this? I mean, how did we go from St. Nicholas … a real bishop of the Christian church to you: a fat man, in a red suit, flying all over the world giving gifts to good little girls and boys?”

“Marketing.”

“Marketing? Huh?

“Well, yeah, sort of. It’s a long story, trust me. Back in the day, in Europe, I was quite famous. I had my own holiday, December 6^th, to honor my life of kindness and gift-giving. So it was the Europeans who brought me to America. But like most things here in the new world, I got Americanized. I’m basically the work of writers, poets, artists, and advertising executives dating back to the early 1800’s.

“But,” he whispered. “I’ve always been St. Nicholas. Whether you call me St. Nick, Sinterklaas, Sankt Niklaus, or Santa Claus … I still am St. Nicholas.

“Beneath this red suit, I’m still just and old bishop who had Jesus as the center of his life and his ministry. I still care for children and for the poor. I still am devoted to Christ the King.”

I was stunned. “You have to be kidding.”

“Listen, I can’t help how my existence has transformed over time. But I do know how I lived. My values haven’t changed. I went to prison for my beliefs, so in that sense the North Pole isn’t so bad.

I was amazed at what I was hearing, but it sounded logical. Maybe instead of blaming Santa, I actually needed to brush up on my history of Santa. We live in an age where everything is super-sized and exaggerated to the max, from the contracts of the mega-star athletes to the commercialism of Christmas. Perhaps with Santa it’s really not any different. But, maybe, just maybe, if we replace Santa’s suit with St. Nicholas’ vestments, the true meaning of Christmas isn’t so camouflaged after all.

“Thanks Nicholas. This has been extremely eye-opening. I think I’m ready to enjoy the Christmas spirit this week.”

“That’s good, my son. Now, that we’ve got all of this cleared up, what can I bring you for Christmas?”

I paused and thought for a second. I replayed all the ads I’ve seen throughout the last month. “Well, to be honest, I’d really like Carly Foulkes’ phone number.”

“Who is that?”

“She’s the girl in the T-mobile commercials.”

Prayer and the Art of Tebowing

First we had planking.

Then owling, teapotting, headmanning, and batmanning. If you’re unfamiliar with these terms, let me take a second to explain.

In planking, people lie flat as a board in random places, have a friend snap a photo, and upload the picture to the net. Owling calls for the participants to squat like an owl, teapotters strike an “I’m a little teapot” pose, and batmanners hang upside down like a bat. Two people are needed to headman correctly. One, will sit, crouch, or lie in a contorted position in which his or her head is obstructed from view. The other person will do the same, but only their head is visible, leaving a photo that looks like one person’s head has been detached ala the headless horseman from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

And now we have … drum roll please … Tebowing, courtesy of Denver Bronco starting quarterback Tim Tebow. Tebowing is defined as “getting down on a knee and starting to pray, even if everyone else around you is doing something completely different.”

Tebow was a hugely successful college football player. He won a Heisman Trophy in 2007 and helped lead his University of Florida Gators to a pair of national championships in 2006 and 2008. He had polarizing affect on college football fans, as views of his abilities ranged from being a limited “system” quarterback to being the best collegiate player this side of Red Grange.

Tebow is also known for his strong Christian beliefs. His parents are missionaries and he does missionary work during the off-season. His post-game interviews often sound like cheery cliché-laden sermons. He talks up homeschooling and abstinence. He was featured in a pro-life commercial during the Super Bowl a few years back. And he prays. A lot. Especially during football games. Practically after every touchdown, completed pass, and trip to the Gatorade cooler. Tebow has a lot to be prayerful about. NFL gurus predicted very little success for him as a Pro QB. After playing sparingly last season and starting this season on the bench, he has taken over the QB duties for the Broncos and has led them to four wins in their last five games. (The only loss was a 45-10 smackdown at the paws of my Detroit Lions.)

And now his praying pose has launched a new internet photo fad which can be tracked at the website tebowing.com. The pictures and merchandise had me literally laughing out loud. But then I got to thinking. What if the terms "Tebowing" and "praying" suddenly became synonymous and interchangeable?

We’d have families Tebowing before dinner and children saying their bedtime Tebows. We could tell our friends who are ill that they are in our thoughts and Tebows.

Also, this could create a nice loop-hole for Christians in the separation of church and state arena. Maybe I could hang up the Lord’s Tebow in my classroom? Christian administrators, faculty members, and coaches around the country could Tebow at school without drawing a lawsuit from the ACLU.

If this fad continues, Bible publishers might have to revise their texts. Key passages would become: Tebow without ceasing (I Thess. 5:17), the Tebows of a righteous person are powerful and effective (James 5:16), and do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by Tebowing and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God (Philippians 4:6). Would a children’s picture Bible have to be changed to show Jesus Tebowing in the Garden of Gethsemane?

Of course, Jesus himself had much to say about Tebowing, er … I mean prayer. Speaking against the attention-grabbing Tebows of the self-righteous religious leaders of his day, Jesus said to Tebow in secret. “But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen …” (Matt. 5:6).

I don’t think that any Hall-of-Fame quarterbacks have to worry about Tebow breaking any of their records. He’s always been able to overcome his limitations and what he’s done the last four games is shall I say … miraculous. But his career as a starting QB is probably short-lived.

I’m certainly a fan of his and I’m glad he’s succeeding. But doesn’t a player, in any sport, praying on a knee, in front of stadium full of people kind of go against the Lord’s directive to pray in secret? Maybe after his next touchdown, Tebow could just flip the ball to the referee and pray standing up, on the sideline.

I think God will still hear him.

Party time with a Palos Verdes Peacock

During a phase of my childhood, my parents decided to channel their inner-Clampett and moved us to rural Michigan. On our sprawling ten acres we had ducks, chickens, and wild guinea hens.

My grandfather loved to come out from his home in downtown Detroit and work the land. Once I watched him take an axe to a chicken. I probably shouldn’t have, but this was the 70s, and parental control on our “farm” was a bit lax. You know that phrase, “Running around like a chicken with its head cut off”? It’s quite appropriate. I had nightmares for months.

One time, a guinea hen was busy hatching some eggs. She had a nest under a tree out past the duck pond. She was as vigilant as a guard at Gitmo and wouldn’t let a soul within 30 feet of her nest. When I decided to get a closer look and she came charging after me like the Tasmanian Devil, squawking and flapping her wings until I was safely back in the house. These are some wonderful memories, but they did nothing to prepare me for the day I went face to face with a Palos Verdes peacock.

Palos Verdes is an affluent community in the Southbay area of Los Angeles. Along with Donald Trump’s resorts there are cliff-side mansions and country style homes shrouded in eucalyptus trees and surrounded by equestrian trails. In PV, peacocks are allowed to roam free. And in some neighborhoods it is quite normal to hear their annoyingly eerie honk or see them crossing the street.

During college, some friends of mine used to let me house-sit when they went out of town. So, one hot July morning I noticed a family of peacocks in their backyard. There was a mom, a dad, and several babies. A little later I saw what I figured to be the same birds in the front yard. I then left to run an errand and when I returned I parked in the driveway with the intention of washing my car. Their garage sits on west side of their ranch-style house with the majority of the living space extending out to the east. As I pulled up I saw the father peacock and the babies scurry across the driveway, away from the house. I didn’t see the mother, but I figured she was in the lead.

My friends did not live extravagantly, but one thing I could never understand is why they couldn’t afford a screen door. Anyway, I went into the house, and which may have not been my best idea, left the front door open as I returned outside to wash my car.

Making my way back into the house after the car was washed, I discovered Mrs. Peacock waiting for me in the foyer. At first, we stood there, still as statues, facing each other like old west gunslingers. I made the first move and took a step toward her. She went backward. Behind her was the living room; a formal living room, with many breakable items. Directly behind her was a sliding screen door to a deck. She wasn’t going to let me get behind her to shoo her out the front door, but I thought that maybe if I got to the screen door, she could exit the house by way of the deck. Another bad idea.

I stepped, and she stepped, as if we were doing the tango. I dashed toward the screen and she freaked out. She took off flying around the living room like a balloon losing helium. I flew open the screen door and frantically ran around trying to save every fragile vase, picture frame, and lamp that I could. Meanwhile, Mrs. Peacock was crashing into the indoor shutters and banging her head on the ceiling.

I knew that I had to leave the room in order for her to calm down. I went into the kitchen which is immediately to the right of the front door. I prayed that she would approach the front door so I could push her out to freedom. But no, she went deeper into the house, back toward the master bedroom, from which there isn’t a door to the outside. She was at the end of a long hallway. I grabbed some bread and began tossing pieces to her, hoping to coax her back to the great outdoors. I guess peacocks don’t like bread. But she did leave a deposit on the white rug.

I decided to go out to the back deck, wishing I had a book about bird calls. As I waited, she made her way to the foyer, presumably worried about her husband and babies. She looked back at me and then calmly strolled out the front door.

It took me a long time to clean up the poop and feathers and put all the breakables back into position. I’ll never forget how that peacock looked at me. When she did, I could only offer a shrug in return. Her expression was worth a 1,000 words. It said that if she could, she’d flip me the bird.

My Fowl Ball Experience

The baseball season walked off into its winter hibernation on Thursday. David Freese sent the World Series into a seventh game, but he ended the 2011 season with his 11^th-inning homer. Friday’s Game 7 was just a formality.

When the homer landed on the grassy backdrop beyond the centerfield fence, a few Cardinal fans scrambled to scoop up the ball as if it were a magical sphere dropped from heaven. David Huyette was the lucky man who grabbed the ball. He gave it to Freese in exchange for a bat and another baseball signed by the whole St. Louis team. I’m glad he did. I hate when fans try to extort tons of money or sellout to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve never gobbled up a valuable baseball before.

Everybody, including myself, wants to catch a baseball at a major league game. Some people more than others. Somehow getting a ball is some sort of magical blessing from the baseball gods, akin to getting touched by either the Pope or President Obama. If I had been in Huyette’s seat, I probably wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to hop the railing and go for the ball. Why not? Because I’ve never bolted out of my seat, jumped into a pile of arms and legs, or heaven forbid, leaned over a railing to grab a ball that is still in play. It’s not that important. Who cares? It’s just a ball.

However, at one game many moons ago I found myself staring at a screaming foul ball. I was at an Angels game with my buddy Justin. We were sitting in prime foul ball territory, in the middle deck, right on line with third base. There weren’t a lot of people sitting near us. The whole row in front of us was empty. Suddenly, after years of never even sniffing a foul ball, my chance was quickly approaching. I stood up and prepared to snare it with a Willie Mays style basket catch.

But then it all went awry. At the last second, a lady two rows in front of me reached up for the ball and it glanced off her palms like a stone skipping on a lake. The ball was now headed for my face. I was thrown off. The ball not only changed direction, but also its speed. I could only go on instinct. And so I made the only rational move possible.

I ducked.

Yes. I pulled my face out of the way and let the ball plop delicately into the lap of an old lady two rows behind me. It’s a decision that dear Ol’ Justin hasn’t let me live down, or forget.

Thankfully, redemption was in my future years later while on a Midwest ballpark tour. It was at Detroit’s Comerica Park in 2002. I was sitting in centerfield, near the outfield fence, in a triangular-shaped nook. The oddly shaped center field wall actually obscured my view of the outfielders if they approached the warning track. Detroit’s left fielder Rob Fick ended the top half of the fourth inning with a fine running catch in the left-center alley. His momentum carried him into my “blind spot”.

As many outfielders do after the third out, Fick had turned and lobbed the ball into the stands. I couldn’t see Fick, but I divinely noticed his throw. The ball was falling from the parting clouds right to me, as if Fick and I were playing catch. It was an easy grab, as simple as reaching up to pick an apple off of a tree. I stood, stretched my arm upward, and secured the ball tightly in my grip.

I finally had my baseball after 25 years of attending games. For it to happen in my hometown’s new stadium was extra special. I was now in the club of extraordinary fans who are lucky enough to catch a baseball at a game. I certainly would have to get a box to display my prized possession for all the world to see.

A few weeks later I brought the ball to school to demonstrate to my first graders a “get-to-know-me” show-and-tell project I wanted them to do. I remember presenting the ball along a few other favorite things. I think I set it on the desk next to me. From there, I’m not sure what happened. The ball could have rolled off the desk and into a trashcan that sat next to it. Maybe one of my students walked off with it. All I know is that the ball is gone.

I’m not sure what is worse. Ducking to avoid being conked by a foul ball or losing the one I did catch. You tell me. I don’t have the ball, but at least I have all my teeth.