I'm wrecked. I have a pile of work on my desk, and I'm recovering from a night of virutally no sleep. I was up almost every hour with Nolan, who fights with his brother in his sleep. "No, Seany! No! It's mine!" he screams from his bed, sound asleep. Occasionally, I ride it out. But usually, I have to intervene. I gently rouse him from his sleep. I get him up, I get him to the bathroom, where he typically pees for about two minutes, and then I get him back to bed. I've noticed that nighttime hysterics seem to be related to his need to pee. Once his little bladder is empty, he sleeps through the rest of the night without a peep. (Last night was an exception, however. Lucky me.) And as exhausting as it can be to deal with sometimes, I'd rather be up with a screaming, sleeping, peeing banshee than dealing with a pee-soaked bed in the morning.
I also went to bed later than usual last night. After a quick trip to Ikea (Candles! Construction paper for the kids! Horrible ergonomic pillows that lasted three seconds in my bed last night!), Ian and I grabbed a drink at Firehouse. Los likes to push the Spanish reds on me, and last night's was a single glass of pure nectar. My inferior follow-up glass of shiraz was so lame in comparison. It would have been fine on its own, but I'm such a horrible snob. I left the glass full and rejected on the bar, and Ian and I skipped on outta there to head home.
"I want ice cream," I announced.
Our options were to hit Krauzer's for a pint of Haagen-Daaz, Gourmet Heaven for a grossly overpriced pint of Ben & Jerrry's, or Ashley's for some real ice cream.
Ashley's won out. I opted for the Oreo, since my favorite--Coffee Oreo--was too much of a gamble at 10PM. After all, I was hoping to get a good night's sleep. Har har.
Once home, my belly fulla warm Spanish wine and cold Oreo ice cream, I settled into the couch to watch a biography of former Yankee player and manager Billy Martin on YES.
Sean's first season of tee-ball last year bestowed upon him a #1 jersey. My Uncle Danny, a big baseball fan and longtime New Yorker, immediately noted: "He's wearing Billy Martin's number!" But in all honesty, Sean's temperament is the polar opposite of Martin's. Sean is a very thoughtful, sensitive, intellectual little guy who is interested in brokering peace deals. More of a DiMaggio than a sand-kicking, angry Martin. In fact, as we watched a clip last night of Martin kicking sand at an umpire, Ian said,
"Look! It's Nolan when he grows up!"
Good God I hope not.
Billy Martin. He ran around with his famed teammates Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford (two players I met together in February 1988) as baseball's answer to the Rat Pack. But Martin's drinking got in the way of his full potential, that's for sure. It also got in the way of his life, which ended at 61 when he drunkenly smashed his pickup truck on Christmas night 1989, just as he was poised to accept another turn as manager of the Yanks, a position he held five times. Each time, he was fired.
But how you look at Martin's career depends upon how you look at things in general, I think. It seemed a lot of former players and managers quoted for the biography focused on Billy's inability to keep the job as manager. But the way I see it is that he was asked back five times. He had something going for him, even if it wasn't exactly people skills.
This is the last year that the House That Ruth Built will be used for games. Next year the new stadium opens across the street from the current one. I've got tickets to see the Yanks play Detroit this May in the Bronx. I've got a few more games picked out, too. And since this is also the last year for Shea Stadium, per Ian's prodding I've picked a game to check out with the kiddins: The Mets vs The Dodgers, now managed by former longtime Yankee manager Joe Torre. I'm looking forward to that.
Time to get back to work, if I can stop yawning. Ian and I have big things on this weekend's agenda with respect to upcoming nuptials and househunting in the Cove. And I'll have a full house, too, since my brother and sister are spending the night with me tomorrow.
But before anyone arrives, I'm going for a run. My fourth run of the week. Every day I've gone a little longer, a little faster. And each time I've done a loop through Lighthouse Park, which is turning into my year-round outdoor home away from home.
It's good to feel like I'm back in my own skin.
Here's a clip about Martin's funeral:
And this, from Ian, who knows how to make my day: