String Music by Vonnie Davis

We love March Madness here at our house. We love sports, period. With a grandson who is the home run king of his Little League team, another who qualified for States in wrestling as a lowly freshman and a granddaughter who is on a collegiate bowling scholarship, how can we not? From what I've heard from Calvin's old classmates at high school reunions, he was once a basketball jock. Perhaps that's why he loves basketball. And, as someone who has all the coordination of a caterpillar on Jack Daniels, I just love to see people who can run and talk at the same time. Me? I can only talk.

I love the energy, the agility, the athleticism of the games. I rarely miss a collegiate basketball game--men or womens.

I especially enjoy the MEACH (pronounced me-ack), a conference which mainly comprises smaller colleges. It was a well-dressed older gentleman who won my heart at that conference. Each year, Mr. MEACH, as he's so affectionately called, arrives at the convention center with racks of clothes. Yes, clothes. The man puts on a fashion show that would put the runways of New York and Paris to shame. He may don a red suit, red shoes, black shirt and red and black tie, top it off with a broad-rimmed red fedora and, with red cane in hand, step and stroll through the crowded bleachers. Pictures are taken. Smiles are shared. Cheers turn away from the players and toward this octogenerian. An hour later, he'll be in aqua and yellow or purple and pink. Oh, I'm telling you, he makes an amusing peacock. He has ladies who sew most of his suits. According to the newscasters, Mr. MEACH works on his many costumes all year long.

But why?

Well, why not. His colorful fashion show-off-manship makes people smile, just as my stories sometimes make people smile. No doubt he gets the same souldeep satisfaction from all the "oohs and ahhs" as I get from someone saying you made me laugh outloud.

I wonder if the man is exhausted at the end of the tournament, constantly changing clothes and making sure every detail of his outfit of the hour is perfect? Questions like that plague me somewhat this year. Questions like when has one had enough for awhile? How does one find balance? What's the difference between ambition and obsession? You see I've reached the point of mental exhaustion in my writing. In less than three years, I've written and contracted eight books. Suddenly I can't write one more emotion--humorous, romantic, painful or suspenseful. And I am playing my own version of string music this year. Strains of my favorite violin solos float from our stereo as I take a break from writing. I'm hoping a month of living life will do the trick. My house is certainly enjoying some deep cleaning. Plants are getting repotted. Closets cleaned. The yard is garnering some special pre-season attention. It's nice to step out of the writing cave for awhile and "see" life. I'm seeking balance. This month I'm putting my own ending to March Madness.

March and Madness

I know March and Madness have something to do with basketball, but honestly, I don't follow sports at all. Especially basketball. That squeaking of sneakers on the court kind of wears on my nerves after about 3.6 seconds. It just looks like a bunch of running around to me, which isn't all that productive, is it?

Can you tell I'm not an athlete? Like, at all.

I have my reasons for not being an athlete. Well, actually, there's just the one reason.

I suck at sports. Epically.

Let's start with the fact that growing up, my mom used to call me "Grace." Not because I had the poise and elegance of a ballerina, but because I pretty much stomped around like a drunken elephant with its eyes closed. So hear the name "Grace" with the bucket of sarcasm that it came with. I bumped into things. I fell a lot. I could never get my arms and legs to move in the synchronicity that other people seemed to achieve easily.

What's really funny is how I'm writing this with past tense verbs, bumped, fell, like it doesn't happen anymore.

It happens.

For obvious reasons, I don't play any organized sports. Even as a kid I only played softball because my parents made me. I think they were getting worried about all that time I spent in my room. As if I were doing something truly heinous in there, like...like...reading. Oh, no. Don't let the child READ! She might grow up to...have a good vocabulary and be a good student and maybe, just maybe, she may get a wild and crazy notion to...gasp...write BOOKS!

Oh, the horror. The madness. Not just in March either.

Okay, so I'd rather read and write even today than play a sport that involves scary equipment and balls and sticks and bats and pucks. Shudder. BUT, that doesn't mean that I'm not active. I move. All the time. In fact, the only time I sit still is to read or write. I spend lots of time walking and not at the pace of the rest of the humans. I walk like lightning. Sure, I stumble, I trip, I fall flat on my face on many occasions, but I'm fast. Just ask my 105-pound German Shepherd, Anubis, who loves to walk with me. We cruise, and generally speaking, he's the only reason you'd ever see me with a tennis ball in my hand.

I like yoga and aerobics and lifting weights, which you will note don't involve me having to catch anything. My vision sucks, and although I'll put my hand out to catch something (or to protect my head), I never actually catch anything. It always falls like I have a hole in my hands or as my husband says, I have "Margarine Mitts." Things slip.

But, I'm okay with this lack of sports ability. I've come to terms with it. Some of us were meant to play hard, others of us were meant to read about those that play hard. And some of us were meant to write about those that play hard.

Besides, I don't look good with sweat on my brow. I just don't.

Do you play any sports? Are you any good?


Toodles,
Chris
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com