A Moment in Time: At the Plate

I'm introducing a new series to my blog entitled "A Moment in Time." One of my professors at Boston University told me that if you can describe a single moment in more than just a few words and stretch it into a few paragraphs, then you are well on your way to becoming a good writer. This advice stuck with me and helped me write a few great features in a sports journalism class. The new series will focus on describing single moments in time to evoke feelings of happiness or sadness, nostalgia or discovery, acceptance or rejection. My goal is to write these posts in the second person to create an atmosphere in which you can place yourself even if you've never been in that situation before. I hope you enjoy.

Photo courtesy of iStockphoto.com.

The sun reflects off the composite bat in your hands. The air is warm and smells of freshly cut grass and foot odor. The crowd slows from a loud cheer into a soft murmur as it anxiously awaits your fate. You squint your eyes against the glare and pick out your little brother focusing on his Nintendo DS in the crowd.

At least one pair of eyes isn't watching me.

A slap across your helmet knocks your mind into focus. The 25-foot walk across the rock-filled dirt seems to grow a mile in front of you. Sweat beads form on your forehead where the inside of the padded helmet presses onto your skin. You shuffle your feet on the path to seal your legacy as a player.

You arrive at the white pentagon that represents the deciding factor between a win or a loss.

How can such an insignificant piece of rubber loom so ominously at me? How could it have the power to create a memory that will last a lifetime or a repressed thought that will bring embarrassment to my name?

The two holes spaced a foot apart below your feet prove too deep for your liking. You swipe your left foot across the dirt and into the holes. You repeat with your right foot, then your left again. You dig your left cleat into the covered hole. You dig your right cleat into the other hole. You hold the 23-ounce bat in your left hand and tap the far corner of the plate to position yourself in the perfect stance. You circle the bat around like a windmill three times before cocking it into a 45-degree angle behind your head.

The pitcher whips the yellow ball into her glove twice before placing herself on the rubber a mere 43 feet away from you. The crowd is silent. Your team stands behind the fence; everyone links their fingers into the chains in anticipation of the first pitch. The sun's rays seem to beat down on your face hotter than before, causing the sweat to drip down the front bill of your helmet.

Please do something. Anything.

It seems like an eternity before the pitcher contorts her arm into a winding motion and flicks the ball towards you. It whizzes past the letters on your jersey. Strike one.

You look down the third base line to see your coach nodding and clapping at you, willing you to at least make contact with the ball. The pitcher whips her braided ponytail back around her head and once again turns to face you. Her fingers twirl around the ball to find the right grip.

I'm going to swing at this one. High and outside, baby. Right in the sweet spot.

The winding motion starts, and this time you see the ball rotating towards the same location as the last pitch. You take a step forward and force all of your power behind the bat while keeping your body balanced. But the ball still ends up in the catcher's mitt. Strike two.

The crowd groans, and the team on the opposing bench jumps up and down in excitement. No balls, two strikes, two outs. It's the bottom of the seventh inning, and your team is down by one. Two of your teammates are on second and third base; you can see them clap their hands and yell at you to bring them home through the cloud of dust. If you drive them in, your team advances to the semi-finals of the district championships. If you fail, your team goes home title-less, but you claim the title of choke artist.

Every pitcher knows to throw outside the strike zone when it's 0-and-2. Let's hope this girl isn't stupid.

This time the pitcher's motion slows down -- a change-up. The white-stitched sphere curves low and outside. Ball one.

The crowd rises on the bleachers. Your team rattles the fence and produces a clanging noise that echoes between the ear holes of your helmet. Your coach rests his hands on his knees, nodding away to give you confidence. His black aviators hide the fear and disappointment you can already see forming in the creases of his face.

Then all goes quiet. Your team continues to jump up and down; their mouths form words, but nothing comes out. The crowd is still clapping, but no sound emanates from the clash of their hands. There is no noise except for the thoughts running through your head.

I can do this. I can do this for my team, my family, myself. Forget the pitcher; watch the ball. It's all up to me.

The pitcher winds up for the final time, and the ball spins closer and closer right down the middle of the plate. The bat shakes in your hands from the heavy pounding of your heartbeat. You hold your breath and try not to blink.

This is the pitch that decides everything. Whether you hit a line drive to score two runs and win the game or strike out swinging and disappoint the whole team is up to you. In that single moment, you can overcome your fears or you can let them consume you. Because a decision made in one single moment can change everything.

Monday Dinners - Beef Stroganoff

Beef stroganoff over egg noodles

Since my work schedule changed and is now back to normal, my new dinner recipes will be from Mondays instead of Tuesdays. I realize I haven't posted a dinner recipe in a while -- don't worry, I haven't had to wash any dishes in the meantime. There were a few that didn't work out and weren't worth posting. I pretend to know what I'm doing in the kitchen, but alas, sometimes it simply doesn't work.

The following beef stroganoff recipe received a thumbs-up from five other hungry bodies that are usually hard to please. The best part about it is it's simplicity; as long as you have access to a grocery store and a slow cooker, you're good to go. Put it in before work -- or before you sit on the couch all day -- and you'll have a satisfying dinner with almost no effort.

Ingredients:

2.5 lbs beef stew meat (for six people)
1 cup chopped sweet onion
2 cans (10 3/4 oz. each) condensed cream of mushroom soup
8 oz. sliced mushrooms
salt and pepper, to taste
8 oz. cream cheese
8 oz. light sour cream
egg noodles

Combine the stew meat, onion, soup, mushrooms, salt, and pepper in the slow cooker. Mix before turning it on low heat. Let mixture sit for 8-10 hours.

After you come home to a kitchen permeated with the mouth-watering scent of slow-cooked beef and sauce, boil salted water to cook the egg noodles. (You can use other types of pasta or rice, but I've found that egg noodles capture the flavor of the stroganoff well.)

Cut the cream cheese into cubes and add to the mixture. Stir until melted. (Be careful because the beef will be so tender that it will fall apart if you stir too violently.) Then stir the sour cream into the mixture until blended.

Serve the stroganoff over the egg noodles, and enjoy! I served it with a side caesar salad; steamed or grilled vegetables would also go well with it.

For the original Betty Crocker recipe, click here.

Theo is Gone!

Photo credit to Elise Amendola, AP

Good riddance. Let's move on.

The Taste of Fall

Apple crisp with ice cream

Football, orange leaves, pumpkins that have faces, apple crisp. My favorite things about fall. While I can't control the outcomes of the first two, and I have limited artistic abilities when it comes to pumpkins, I can tell you how to make a delicious apple crisp that goes well after any dinner -- or for dinner, if you prefer. If fall could taste like anything, it would be a spoonful of this heavenly dessert. It's one of those little things in life that can turn a bad day into something wonderful.

There are so many variations in apple crisp recipes that I took my favorite aspects from every one and combined them to form the perfect taste for my palate. I hope it suits yours as well. And remember...don't forget the vanilla ice cream on the side!

Ingredients:

8 medium apples, sliced and peeled
cinnamon
honey
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup quick oats
1/2 cup (or 1 stick) butter, softened
3/4 tsp cinnamon
3/4 tsp nutmeg

Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Grease the bottom of a 9"x13" pan. (The size of the pan doesn't really matter -- just adjust the recipe accordingly if it's smaller.)

After the apples are sliced and peeled, place them in rows in the pan to create two layers. (If you prefer a thick section of apples or have way too many to fit in your fridge after apple picking, add another layer.) Sprinkle with some cinnamon and drizzle with honey.

Apples sprinkled with cinnamon and honey

In a medium bowl, mix the brown sugar, flour, oats, butter, cinnamon, and nutmeg until blended. (I prefer a non-oatmeal-ly taste to the crisp, so add more oats if you feel there aren't enough. And yes, I'm an English major, so I'm allowed to make up words.) I enjoy a lot of the crisp on top -- just a bunch of mushy apples isn't enough! -- so cut back on the butter and sugar if you only want a thin layer. Sprinkle the mixture evenly over the apples.

Sprinkle mixture on top of apples

Bake for 30 minutes or until apples are tender. Cool for ten minutes before serving; it will still be hot enough to slightly melt the ice cream. Bon appetit!

Invasion of the Pink Hats

2011 Championship Banner

Thousands of flashes reflected off the surface of the ice. The black and gold championship banner hung low from the rafters in the middle of the rink. The bleachers smelled of $8.50-a-cup beer and expensive cologne. Zdeno Chara skated onto the ice while hoisting the sacred Stanley Cup and passed it to Patrice Bergeron, who passed it to (the now retired) Mark Recchi, who passed it to part-time assistant captain Andrew Ference; and so on. Each player kissed the gleaming cup as if it were the first time he received it in his arms -- an emotional moment and a cause for celebration.

But the fans were quiet.

There was the occasional uproar after every mention of "champion" during the pre-game ceremony speeches, but other than that only murmurs sounded from the sell-out crowd at TD Garden. Opening Night 2011: the invasion of the pink hats.

No longer are they congregated in the stands at just Fenway and Gillette; they have swarmed to the golden seats of the Garden. When the crowd is louder during the noise meter measurements on the jumbo-tron than after a power play killing by the Bruins, there is something wrong.

During the initial part of the ceremony, the energy from the fans -- who made it to their seats on time -- seemed to predict a raucous night ahead. Instead, the Garden remained quiet after the banner took it's rightful place in the rafters. (For a not-so-professional video clip of the raising, click below.)

When tickets sell for well over $200, one would think many die-hards would splurge to be in attendance to reap the benefits of glory. This season opener, however, proved that the Boston Bruins have become just another fashion statement, replacing the likes of the (continually frustrating) Red Sox. The games are no longer about hockey; they are about social status. The perception is that everyone who is anyone will be there.

Before the emotional raising of the banner, a glance around section 325 showed evidence of the causes of the low energy -- from men dressed in business suits who left in the second intermission to girls wearing club attire who flirted with each and every male around them instead of watching hockey. They don't even need to wear pink hats; they might as well write "I'm going to ruin your night" on their foreheads.

Not that the Bruins gave the fans anything to cheer about post-ceremony anyway. The Philadelphia Flyers won the opening game 2-1 after a lackluster offensive performance by the defending champions. Through two periods, the black and gold spent the majority of time in their own zone without showing any of the physical game that fans were used to seeing from the Big Bad Bruins last season. The Flyers scored their only goals in the first period, but that proved enough to earn them the win.

Brad Marchand scored the only goal for the Bruins in the first period on an assist by Tyler Seguin. If this game foreshadowed things to come, then expect much more out of the youngsters this season. Their energy may prove enough to carry this team to another playoff berth.

Until then, beware the pink hats. The Bruins will remain fashionable in Boston, so expect the non-stop cell phone users and the I-need-to-update-my-status-on-Facebook-every-five-minutes socialites to annoy you during the game. It may be more enjoyable -- and more affordable -- to watch the game from the comfort of your own couch.

Stanley Cup