I know this is cheating—and for many of you it won’t be new at all—but a few people have suggested that I offer the Thorps’ annual Christmas letter online, and a few others have suggested I post the “back issues.” Bless you for your interest in a letter that runs too long and includes footnotes.
Here’s a start on the archive:
I’ve made a lot of choices
Most have not been wise
But I have some really good friends
I’ve been fortunate enough to find
They get through the lonely days
When I want to stay inside myself
They get me out of my shell
Out into the world …
Heartless Bastards, “Hold Your Head High“
I used to think I was good at being alone. I remember my last two years of college in Connecticut, with my future bride half a country away, I felt like I had being alone down to an art form. I had routines. I got sleep. I listened to my own music, watched Polish movies no one else wanted to, ate in the dining halls when most of my friends moved off campus, worked 20+ hours a week and still went to class. I got stuff done, talked to Jodi on the phone (and chatted online, before we knew what it was called), and was generally a pretty happy guy.
I remember when I discovered I wasn’t good at being alone. I went to Chicago for a conference. It was around Christmas, a few years after Jodi and I married. Certainly we had Brendan, maybe Gabe, too. I remember wandering downtown the first evening, wrapped like a package in my old wool overcoat and scarf, enjoying the swirling snow, the glittering lights, and the bustle of holiday traffic on the Miracle Mile. I remember the brief pang in my chest as I thought, Jodi would enjoy this. I remember calling home from the hotel, then settling in for a long winter’s nap.
I lay awake a long time. I tossed and turned, turned on the tube, discovered that old truth of cable (hundreds of channels and nothing on), and nonetheless watched parts of several movies. I finally drifted off in the wee hours, woke tired at the alarm’s cry, and shuffled off to the conference’s morning session.
By the end of the first full day, all of things that sparked wonder the previous day now only increased the hollow ache in my chest. I wanted to go home. I was a family man.
In college and thereafter, I discovered something else about me: not only am I not good at being alone or apart from the people I love, but I also tend toward being an all-or-nothing friend. I’m either right there with you, deeply, personally, and for the long haul, or I’ll give you the old reverse nod and try to remember your name. I’m terrible with names, worse with birthdays and such, I generally hate phone calls, and, as a writerly sort, I can’t send a casual email to anyone I don’t feel I know pretty well. (My casual emails are studiously so, and I have the obsessive habit of re-reading them after I send them and wishing I’d worded them differently. Sometimes I’ll clarify with a P.S. after the fact.) So you might imagine that maintaining a casual acquaintance isn’t easy for me.
But I like people. Too much, sometimes. I like people to the point that I get emotional when strangers do. I like people to the point that when they do bad things I’m shocked and disappointed, almost moreso than angry. I like people with views so counter to mine that my guts tie in knots in anticipation of when it’ll all blow up. I practice what I’ll say when it does, in my head so you can’t hear, hoping that it’s the right combination of words that will convey vehement disagreement and utmost affection.
Somebody told me a couple of weeks ago that I don’t seem like an insecure guy. Maybe I’m not. But I want to do right by you. All of you. It’s completely naive and idealistic and impossible. It’s exhausting at times, and about every two weeks I want to secede from society. I want to pull into my shell just so I can breathe.
You people invariably coax me out again. Today, dozens of you took a second to wish me a happy birthday, in the midst of a stressful, eat-at-your-desk, student-protest-outside-the-window, what-the-hell-am-I-doing kind of Tuesday. Facebook, of course, has made the casual friendship so easy that even I can do it now, but still—you took a couple seconds out of your day to brighten mine. Why did you do that? Maybe you’re thinking it’s not big deal, but I smiled through the sporadic train wrecks of the day because you decided to burn a moment on me.
Do you realize what that is? There’s a word for it, one we use in a million wrong ways and are too often afraid to use right. Yup. That one.
So I’ll say it, and may your cheeks burn to hear it: I love you. Yes, even you. And don’t worry if you were about to let me have it regarding something I said or did. Go ahead. It’s gonna be okay; I’ve got it all planned out.
We didn’t watch a lot of sports when I was kid. I’ve been to two professional sporting events in my life: Tigers-Yankees at Comerica in Detroit a few years ago, and Yankees-Orioles last fall in old Yankee Stadium. But when we visited Busia and Dziadzi, sports were on—Ernie Harwell calling the Tigers game on the radio; the Lions telecast on Thanksgiving; college hoops or football in season if my uncles and cousins were there, too.
At home, we didn’t pay much attention to sports unless a Michigan team was making a playoff run. I tracked the Roar of ’84 on black-vinyl-covered portable radio with a 9V power source and a hanger for an antenna. We watched the Motor City Bad Boys elbow their way to back-to-back championships in 1989 and 1990, and watched the Wolverines bounce Seton Hall from the NCAA tournament in 1989. I had a big box of baseball cards, but didn’t know the three Don Mattingly rookies were worth anything until a kid at school showed me a photo in a collector’s magazine in junior high.
These days I get a lot of grief here in Minnesota for not rooting for the Twins and the Vikings, and a lot of grief all over the place for cheering for the Yankees. I have my reasons for the teams I cheer for, but none of them have to do with family ties or geographic loyalty. In fact, my reasons are only slightly better than colors and mascots. Here’s the breakdown:
MLB: Yankees (Runners-up: Twins and Tigers)
As I said, I grew up with the Tigers. I loved Chet Lemon for his name; Señor Smoke (Willie Hernandez) and Aurelio Lopez for their names, Lou Whitaker and Kirk Gibson for being Sweet Lou and Gibbie, game-in and game-out. About the only non-Tiger I could name anywhere else in the league was Kirby Puckett, and I loved him, too, for his name, his frame, and his game. Now I live in Minnesota, and the Twins always seem to put together a solid team. You gotta respect that.
As I got older, I lost interest in baseball. It seemed monotonous to me on television, and it wasn’t until after I was married that I began to catch the subtleties of the game. In fall of 1999, Jodi and I and two-year-old Brendan were at her parents’ place in South Dakota. Her older brother Brad was watching the World Series, cheering hard for the Braves, so I took the other side—the Yankees—just to keep things interesting … besides, their shortstop, Jeter, is a West Michigan boy. And I like history and tradition. I like raucous home fields.
The next spring, when baseball rolled around, little Brendan said, “We root for the Yankees, right, Dad?” He told me his favorite player was Andy Pettite, because he wore his cap low over his eyes—and he began to do the same.
How can you argue with that? We’ve been Yankee fans ever since.
NFL: Packers (Runners-up: Lions and Broncos)
Barry Sanders was a class act. Crazy talented and all business: no spiked balls or touchdown dances. He’s the one bright spot I remember for the Lions. Ever. I grew up in Michigan, so I wished (and continue to wish) the Lions well every year. But my cousin Mel was from Green Bay, right across the big lake, and Lambeau was legendary. Again: I like history and tradition. I like raucous home fields. When the Lions washed out, I pulled for the Packers. That hasn’t changed.
However: the first game I ever remember watching start to finish was a Broncos game, with Elway putting on a show. When I met Jodi, I learned that she is the only member of her family who is not a Viking fan. Her uncle told her as a little girl to root for the Broncos. So Denver stayed on the radar, too.
NHL: Red Wings
Michigan team. Yzerman and Lidstrom. History and tradition. Raucous home fields. And when I went to college, they were deadly on Sega hockey. We played a lot of Sega hockey. ‘Nuff said.
NBA: Pistons
To be honest, I watch very little basketball. But the Bad Boys, and the fact that my favorite soft-spoken superstar from those days, Joe Dumars, is leading the organization these days, means when I cheer, I cheer for them.
NCAA: It’s complicated
I went to Yale. Long tradition of intercollegiate athletics, but aside from hockey, not grabbing national headlines these days. Still, I pull for the Bulldogs. I grew up liking Michigan basketball, but also have great admiration for Coach Izzo at State and Coach K at Duke. I grew up liking Michigan football, but I now work for Minnesota, so I pull for the Gophers whenever I can (football, basketball, hockey, and wrestling). I’ve never followed college baseball. I also worked for Ferris State, and will cheer for them, except when they play the University of Minnesota or University of Minnesota Duluth.
That’s it. For what it’s worth, the kids like the Vikings and hate the Packers. And Jodi likes the Twins. To each his our her own. As I type, New York leads 7-1 in Game 6 of the World Series. Matsui-san is on fire. Go Yankees!
Blogger’s Note: I know, I know: Facebook reruns = cheating. Sue me.
Five-year-old Trevor has been on a role. On Saturday he informed me that, because we are part of one family, we love each other but are not friends.
“Why do you think family members can’t be friends?” I ask.
“Because,” he says. “I just know.”
I press him further. “Dad, I’m serious!” he says. “We can’t be friends!”
I make a sad face and quit talking. “OK, we can be friends,” he said.
“What makes you think so now?” I asked.
“Because you made a really sad face!”
But then later I revisit the issue, after Mom has come home. “For the thousandth time,” he says, exasperated, “we can’t be friends.”
He’s remarkably clear and consistent about the rules how they are applied. Siblings cannot be friends. Parents and children cannot be friends. Spouses cease being friends as soon as they marry. However, you can be friends with your in-laws. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, godparents, godchildren and “honorary” relatives (close friends to whom you give familial titles) can be friends. And of course, grandparents and grandchildren can be friends.
Give him specific names or situations, and he displays the wisdom of Solomon. For the thousandth time … he’s serious!
On Sunday, we woke to hear Gabe’s random silliness and Trevvy’s belly laughs in the next room. Who knew that acting things out in slow-motion and fast-forward could be so much fun? Later in the day, Trevor offered to show us what they had been doing before they turned in for the night, in “slo-mo, fast-mo and medium-mo.”
“We’ll do medium-mo first,” he said, “‘cuz that’s regular speed.”
Then late this morning, Trevor asked what we would have for lunch. I told him I was thinking about eating him for lunch.
“Aaaiiggh!” he said. “I don’t want to die alive!”
“I didn’t even think that was possible, ” I said. “I thought people usually died dead.”
“Dad,” he said in a tone that suggests I’m impossibly dense, “If you died dead, you would have to die a second life.”
Blogger’s Addendum: Just now, while seated on Jodi’s lap, Trevor backside rumbled audibly. “Hey!” said Jodi, and Trevvy began to laugh. Not three seconds later, the smell hit them both in a wave. “HEY!” yelled Jodi, grimacing, and Trevor sprinted away from her, holding his nose and laughing. When Jodi attempte to leave the area, Trevor went back to where they had been seated and began to fan his hands in her direction saying, “Here comes some good-ee!”
Trevor likes gorillas. He likes to act like a gorilla. The great ape may be his favorite animal, in fact.
So the other morning, over breakfast, Trevor abruptly announces, “Y’know how the lion is the king of the jungle? I think the gorilla should be. Because all he would have to do is pick up the lion like this,” — and here he mimes picking up something with a tightly clenched fist — “and PKEHHUUWWH!” — and here he throws a hard punch with his other fist, accompanied by a sound effect somewhere between a gunshot and a bowler’s strike.
Everybody laughs. “Trevvy,” I say, “when you said, ‘pick up the lion like this,’ what exactly did you mean?”
“I meant like when an animal picks up a baby animal by the back of the neck,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Just wanted to be clear,” I said.
That’s quite a gorilla.
Archangel Stomp 