Moises needs wings that are like a shield of steel to protect him

Been a pretty good week, though it was Tuesday before my legs stopped hurting from the day skiing. But I was able to meet the son of a president, and that’s always a good thing. Of course the carnage in St. Lucie continues. Moises Alou heads to surgery for a hernia? I almost don’t want to know. So before anyone else gets hurt, I present the Deezo Friday Five.



1) The new Topps Heritage set. Only Topps has the history to come up with a set like this, and year after year it is stunning. This year Topps gives us current players in the glorious 1959 design, as seen here by the sweet Carlos Beltran card.

But things get a little screwy. Topps gives us a “News Flashback” insert subset. The only problem is that ’59 wasn’t all that newsy. Sure, the Nixon-Khrushchev kitchen debate card is cool. But my box had the “Castro become prime minister” and “In Cold Blood Murders Committed” cards. Yuck. I’d rather have cards of a couple Yankee scrubs than a couple of murders.

name="wmode" value="transparent">
2) Kitty say what?


3) All-Star Game caps. I got this sweet cap from the 2006 game for just 99 cents! Twins Enterprise makes the best caps by far, and I have them through the start of this decade. Of course that streak comes to an end since this year’s game is at Yankee Stadium and refuse to wear anything with a Yankee logo.

4) I won a copy of the “Batfink – The Complete Series” DVDs. Oh my. There are 100 episodes that are about five minutes each. And at least half of each show consists of scenes recycled from previous shows. But his wings are like a shield of steel!


5) Taking the youth group to see the Winter Jam concert this weekend in East Lansing. As always, the lineup is stellar, with MercyMe and Skillet headlining, and the $10 tickets are an extreme bargain. The only problem is that the show is hosted by Newsong, and they have a big, long set in the middle. These are the people who brought us “Christmas Shoes,” and their non-holiday fare doesn’t stray too far from that. A little too in-your-face for my liking. But MercyMe rocks!

Flying is easy. Landing, however, is more dangerous than spring training with the Mets

"Oooooh ooooooo Black Diamond!" So this is what Kiss was singing about!

I came to some conclusions in the short time I was sliding headfirst on my back looking up at the heavens and clutching my ski pole.

First, I can no longer keep up with high school kids.

Second, a ski hill is the second-most dangerous place on the planet, apparently following only the Mets spring camp.

Seriously, the walking Mets wounded includes Carlos Delgado, Ruben Gotay, Marlon Anderson and Ryan Church – who got hurt together – and perpetually gimping Orlando Hernandez. It seems the only one not hurt is Moises Alou, who must be saving his annual injury spree for when games actually count.

And just as seriously, I learned I can hurt myself and others, including a ski lift operator.

I spent the weekend chaperoning the church’s high school youth group on our trip to Crystal Mountain, which is just south of Traverse City, or where the tip of your pinky and ring finger meet on the handy hand map of Michigan.

It started out safe enough, braving some of the easiest runs, identified by green signs and names like “Giggles” and “Hoot Owl.”

Some of the kids thought I was able enough to try some of the more challenging runs, designated by blue signs, which, I must say, I handled skillfully.

After about four of these runs, the kids decided I could attempt some of the dreaded “black diamond” runs, the toughest.

I looked down at one, and it was indeed steep. But it was also pretty wide, allowing me to go from side to side, as opposed to being a goggled bullet stopping only after impaling myself on the wall of the ski patrol offices.

It really wasn’t bad. I could handle the speed, and avoided fellow skiers and other obstacles.

After a few runs down this hill, the kids – who I learned were members of their school’s ski team – took me to another diamond run. We stood at the top and looked down.

“Kids, this is not a hill. This is a cliff,” I stated, accurately. “A cliff with big icy patches.”

Then one of the other chaperones, a mom, said that it was, indeed, very steep and icy, then effortlessly went over the edge and zoomed to the bottom.

“Oh yeah,” the chaperone’s son said. “You need to know that mom is really, really good.”

Apparently.

Then the rest of the kids in turn took off down the hill, through not all as cleanly and successfully as the mom.

I moved over about 40 feet or so where the start was less steep, though still by far the steepest I had ever skied down – and did so with nary a wobble.

Sure, it doesn't look scary. This "Main Street," an easy run.

Success breeds confidence. And like the also successful and confident Mets of last season, I became a little cocky.

Two of the boys in my group took me on some of the tougher trails after dinner, then to a “terrain park,” which should be properly titled “place where guys show off for snow bunnies.”

The guys went through the half-pipe and on some of the grinding boxes. I watched, clearly well out of my league.

But they convinced me to go through the mini-terrain park, with scaled down grinding rails and jumps. I sought a small bump, caught some small air, landed poorly and hit the deck slightly embarrassed.

But the second and third times over the bump were pretty sweet. And I hit another bump on another run, got some air, landed well and heard someone on the chair lift overhead yell “Good one!”

A little encouragement was a bad thing.

We went back to the mini-terrain park. One of my high school friends was going to try a 360-degree turn, and I was going to hit a slightly larger – but still small – bump.

There was much glory as I floated through the air. The flying part is easy. Landing, however, is not. Skis went flying, one of the poles got tossed and I somehow proceeded down the hill on my back, head-first.

“Whoa, did you guys see my spectacular wipe out?” I asked.

“Austin crashed, too, and he’s spitting up blood!” one of my friends yelled.

These are not words chaperones want to hear. I scrambled over to see him on his knees, spitting blood into the snow – but only a little.

Apparently his 360 ended up in a face plant and his braces cut the inside of his mouth. I could exhale. But we went to the ski patrol just to be sure – after finding my skis and other pole.

After that I ran into another of the chaperones with our youngest youth group member, and they suggesting taking one last run – on one of the easy trails, at my request. My jumping days are over.

Alas, this, too, proved to be perilous. And that was just getting on the lift.
The younger member got a little tangled as the chair approached and stumbled into us. I fell backward – hard, but right into the seat. But the ski lift operator yelled, put his hands to his face and turned away.

“Did you get hit by the chair?” I asked.

“No, it was your pole! You just missed my eye! Is there a big mark?”

Luckily, it wasn’t the tip of the pole and I didn’t see a mark. But I felt horrible.

Two calamities in less than a half-hour is an indication that you should stop skiing for the day. We took our sweet time coasting down the green trails, taking care not to injure anyone else – or myself. Again.

700 Middle-schoolers and a Tired Chaperone

Me and my kids at the end of the long weekend.

I spent the weekend with 700 middle school students.

But don’t send condolence cards. I actually like working with the kids that many fear.

I’m not saying they can’t be rascals if left off the leash for too long, especially at an event like "YouthQuake," where we spent the weekend.

But I think the middle-schoolers get a bad rap. I’ve worked my church’s junior high youth group for the past four years, and guided the high school kids for a couple years before that.

I think the middle school kids are more fun. They’re old enough that you can have a good serious discussion, yet young enough that they’ll enjoy a silly game, especially if includes running around and bouncing off walls. They watch the opposite gender intently — but from a safe distance.

And the kids seem to relate well to me. I suspect that I’m not as cool as I think I am, but not as out of touch as they assume I must be. I’m enough of a stickler to make sure they follow my rules, but lax enough to bend some of the event’s rules, like blowing off some of the most boring sessions and instead conducting our small group study in the hotel hot tub.

"You’re strict, but you’re not a butthead about it," one of the kids told me. I think that was a compliment.

The annual "YouthQuake" in Lansing attracts Lutheran middle school groups from all over the state, and includes Christian bands, a speaker and breakout activity sessions.

My job is to keep the 15 kids in my group safe, semi-focused and participating. And, if all breaks right, see if they can learn something and grow spiritually.

This year’s theme verses were the parable about the foolish man who built his house on the sand and the wise man built it on a rock, allowing it to survive when the storms came. The idea is to show the kids that using their religion as the foundation will serve them better than chasing money, popularity and the other worldly things that teens crave.

It’s a good topic because they can relate to it. Building on the rock means knowing to say "No" when someone at a party offers them beer, and I was surprised that this was already happening to them.

At the end of the night I buy a stack of pizzas, and we sit around and talk. I’m always amazed at how much they open up in the discussions. I try to pepper it with example from my own life, which they seem to like, especially when I tell them about ways I’ve screwed up.

Given all that, I do realize that they are indeed middle-schoolers and fully capable of mischief. "Trust but verify" is a good policy, and it helps that I’ve done this before. This year I knew enough to confiscate all the little packets of coffee from the in-room coffee machines. They were brewing the stuff last year to help stay up all night.

And while I often fear the worst — as a protective chaperone should — they happily prove me wrong time and again. There are couple surprises from this trip.

Movie time: I try to give them some time by themselves. I’m very close by — reading a newspaper in the hall -- but that gives both of us a little break. The kids — all 14 of them — were quietly spending some free time in one of the rooms, the wastepaper basket in the door to keep it open enough so I can hear if something was going on.

One of the boys walked out to get some more snacks from his own room, and I asked what they were doing. "We’re watching a movie." I immediately feared that they had ordered some of the hotel pay-per-view movies, and you know what kinds of movies are usually offered. I jumped in, and sure enough, they were all sitting around watching something intently. I though it was a good sign that no one dove for the remote to change the channel.

"What are you guys watching?"

"‘Annie.’" someone responded.

"‘Annie’ as in the red-haired kid with the dog and the bald guy?"

"Yeah."

Phew! I have no idea why that would interest them, but sometimes it is best to just be grateful and not to question such things.

Dirty feet: Later in the night, they were gathered in the same room and one of the girls walked by with a towel. The hotel pool was closed for repairs so I couldn’t figure out what she was up to.

"We’re having a foot-soaking party."

Say what?

Sure enough, an inspection revealed about five if them standing, fully dressed except for shoes and socks, in the small bath tub, which was filled with water and bubbles.

I considered this to be an opening to tell them the story about Christ washing the feet of the disciples, but I didn’t want to cram anyone else in the tub.

I figure if that’s their idea of being wild and crazy, I’m going to be OK.

As Christians we are called on to spread the good news. I confess that I have trouble talking to adults about faith issues, especially trying to reach out to an adult non-believer. But it's different with kids. My hope is that I can do something that will take them a little bit further in their faith walk.

At the very worst I hope they see an adult who cares about them and is very happy with his life. And maybe if this Christ stuff is working for me they'll think it might work for them, too.

Middle-schoolers, the Mets and unconditional love

I spent last weekend with my church's youth group at a Christian camp here in Michigan.

I love working with middle-schoolers, but they're a mess, and I don't just say that because the boys completely trashed the inside of our cabin within an hour. They have issues, only some of which they'll tell you about.

So I spend a lot of time each week talking about God's unconditional love for them, which is a pretty big concept for a 12-year-old.

I tried to illustate the point last weekend with one of my favorite songs: "More" by Matthew West. I have the refrain taped to my monitor at work so I can read it when I'm feeling down. It's written from God's point of view. It goes like this -- and trust me, you're better off reading it than hearing me sing it.

"I love you more than the sun
And the stars that I taught how to shine
You are mine and you shine for me, too
I love you yesterday and today
And tomorrow I'll say it again and again
I love you more."

I get emotional every time I sing the words "You shine for me, too." What a beautiful line. The notion that a flawed person like me -- and I have big flaws -- can shine for the Lord who is so powerful that he made the heavens is both humbling and joyous. When something lousy happens at work, I read that and think , "Well, at least I got that working for me."

I think the kids understood. It's kind of hard to tell, but they'll let me know in small ways when I least expect it.

And I think that since I receive unconditional love, I have to give it, too. Of course my kids get some, but that's easy. The Mets, however, are another story.

I don't know why I'm so drawn to the Amazin's. Goodness knows they've broken my heart. I was so angry on June 15, 1977 -- the day M. Donald Grant sent Tom Seaver packing -- that I jumped over to the Yankees camp. It lasted about a half-hour. I just couldn't do it.

My buddy Will teases me about my blind devotion. And he's right. I think they've got a chance to win every year -- especially this year. And I won't conceed they're out of the race each year until the day they are mathmatically eliminated. And even then, I'm not all the way sure it's over.

If I can forgive trading Seaver, then I can forgive stuff like Kenny "Bleeping" Rogers forgetting how to throw strikes to Andruw Jones in Game Six of the 1999 NLCS, or Armando Benitez serving up grand slams to Brian Jordan or giving up on Jason Isringhausen too early or not putting Roger Clemens on his butt after he skulled Mike Piazza.

I've almost forgiven them for messing with the home uniforms by adding that fat tail under the script Mets for a couple years in the 1990s, but I'm not quite there yet.

So when Opening Days declares winter dead and gone next week, I'll celebrate the arrival of Pedro and Beltran, a full year of David Wright and a healed Jose Reyes. Looks like a bright shiny year to me!