Boys of Summer

Tuesday morning, 8:15, back of the 17 bus on the way to the Friends Center.  The Puddle Jumpers' art project last week had been to make jerseys -- Noah chose a football and the number 5 for his -- and today everyone's supposed to wear them to school.  Since they've already done something about March Madness, I'm guessing that today's program is to do with baseball.  But obviously it's no use asking Noah, whose favorite non-ball-related sport is telling us as little as possible about what he does all day.  (Which, of course, is exactly as it should be.)

Anyway, we're sitting in a pair of seats facing the aisle.  The man opposite is reading The Daily News, whose amazing cover headline reads, "Black Madam, Linked with Butt-Injection Death, Dodges Cops."

"Hey Noah, who's your favorite baseball team?" I ask, wondering -- because clearly anything is possible in a world of black madams and butt-injection intrigue --  if he remembers the word Phillies from last summer. 

He registers the question and thinks for a second.  "Ryan Howard," he says.  Noah's a little fuzzy on the distinction between team and player -- his highest aspiration at the YMCA is to do something "like a team" -- but still, I'm kind of impressed.

"Ryan Howard!" I say, chuckling.  "He hits a lot of of home runs, doesn't he?"

Regarding me as a master craftsman might regard a seven-fingered moron gripping a hammer by the claw, he replies, "First, he spits on his hand."  Noah mimes it.  "Then, he rubs them together."  Rubbing his own plams, Noah now leans forward, projecting his chin over the front edge of the seat.  "Then, he spits on the floor, too."  He pretends to hawk another loogie into the batter's box.  The man across the aisle has put down the paper.  "Then," Noah concludes, before leaning back and smacking his lips, "he pops a bubble."


The man across the aisle guffaws.  "He's got the routine down!" he exclaims, laughing some more.  "Oh man, that makes my day!"

To my knowledge, Noah has never in his life watched a baseball game on our television.  

Little Lap

Noah didn't want to leave this morning before holding Miles in his lap -- not an everyday request.  (He usually doesn't want to leave without first gathering a fistful of loose change.)  Miles seemed to like it, though.

Springtime in Baltimore