We're famous! Sort of ...

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Moments that matter

Back in the summer of 1991, back when my shoe size and my dress size were the same number,  I attended my very first Louisiana Sports Writers Association convention.  It was in Baton Rouge, at the Holiday Inn.

Poorer than I am now, I stayed at my sister's house. But I went to the events. In a foreshadowing of what was to come, we had a casino night, with fake tables and fake money. It was a lot more fun, I gotta say.

Back then, I was the young, shy, green newcomer that nobody knew.  I stuck close to Ted and Bummer and Ron, the only people I really knew, and J.J. and Hilburn, whom I had just met. And I even won a little award -- a third place for prep event.

I just came back from my 17th LSWA convention -- in Baton Rouge. Now, I know  most of the people there -- but it's hard sometimes with all of the turnover in our business.  And I attended all of the events -- the welcome dinner at LSU, the casino buffet dinner (but we skipped the gaming) and the awards banquet.  I even won a little award -- third place in Prep Writer of the Year.  (I like it when I don't leave empty handed).

But even better,  I got to sit at the head table, the one reserved for officers.  I am the current reigning secretary of the LSWA. And that third place means more to me than the other.

By the timelines that were laid out this week, I could be the president of the association in three years -- just about the time that the 50-year dream of an actual Louisiana Sports Hall of Fame comes true.  The concept is difficult to grasp.  I can't imagine myself cutting that ribbon. I can't imagine myself on that stage, giving that speech, handing out those plaques to Louisiana sports greats.

OK. Yes I can.  I can't wait, to tell the truth. (But I have started the diet .....)

But it may be difficult for some other people to imagine.  A woman will open the Hall of Fame.  This woman will.

After the birth of my daughter, my wedding, and my two Prep Writer of the Year wins, this could be one of the defining moments of my life.  It might even move up to third.

Dream Weddings and such

When I was planning my "dream" wedding back in 1994, my mom and I butted heads -- A LOT.

You see, I had had many dreams about my wedding day -- what I would wear, where it would be, the color of my bridesmaids dresses and flowers.  I went through the whole, "Rainbow Wedding," dream, the "Barefoot on the Beach," scenario and the "Sound of Music," epic idea. I toyed with the idea of  a tiny roadside chapel, St. Louis Cathedral and Sacred Heart on Loyola's campus.

None of it came to fruition, however. I married a man I never dreamed of in a place I never thought of, angy at my mother.

She never had such dreams, she said. Didn't understand the fuss. She just didn't get it.

But just the other night as my little girl and I cuddled in those last minutes of the day before sleep (my favorite part of the day, mind you), I found out that I was not the only one in my family who dreams of such things. In fact, my 6-year-old daughter laid out her plans for her dream wedding -- as only a 6-year-old can.

"What color will your wedding be?" I asked her.

"I want to wear white," she said, giving me the "silly-for-asking" look.

"No. What color will your girls wear?" I asked.

"Show me your toes," she demanded, then pulled off the covers to look at my silvery  toenail polish. "That color."

"What color will your flowers be?" I asked. Again I got the "silly-for-asking look."

"Mom. I think you know," said my pink-obsessed child.

"Who will be your bridesmaids?" I asked her.

We listed all of her friends -- Carolyn, Marissa, Paige, Chloe and Ashley, her half-sister.

And Courtney gets to be the flower girl.....

"But," she said. "I haven't picked the boy yet."

"You have plenty of time," I told her.

The conversation had begun in a discussion of death -- and life. Would I still be here when she graduated from high school? Would I be there at her wedding? Would Nana? Would Grandma and Pappy? Would Daddy?

"Daddies are supposed to walk with you," she said.

And I thought of Lena. and of Rhett. He got to walk me down the aisle, but not her.

We can only hope we'll all be there, I told her. I want to help you get dressed and make sure everything is just as you dream it.

Then she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep -- and dream.

 

The mouths of babes

So,

Marty's team lost a big game on Thursday, one they really needed to win. But, they didn't play very well....

And da coach was not a happy camper when he came home.

I did my best to say things to try to cheer him up.

Didn't work.

Then Lora came in.

"Dad, are you sad?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Come sit down with me," she said.
They sat on the sofa.
"Listen, dad. You're still a good dad. You're still a good coach. You're still a good baseball player. You're still a good cooker. Your team will win again someday."

Happy to me!

OK. I admit it. I am a big baby when it comes to my birthday. Always have been, always will be.

Blame it on my mom.

She and my Grannie always went all out for my birthdays. I had HUGE parties when I was little -- cake, ice cream, Grannie's big white punch bowl. One year they rented a little kiddie carnival down the street. 

Even once I got to be a "tween" my birthdays were EVENTS.  I remember fourth or fifth grade. Mom said I could invite "a couple" of classmates. I invited them all. Lynn LeBouef gave a report the following Monday on, "Everything I ate at Lori's birthday party."  We had petit fours and cake and little cups of ice cream. All these years later, people remember those parties.

(And you know Lora Leigh is going to be just like me!)

In sixth grade, it was the Donny Osmond party. Me and Belle Smith atop the stairs to the breezeway (that was our stage, like on Laugh In), dancing to the Osmonds. Rhett did the music. We wore the new fad that year -- Maxi skirts (Granny dresses).

My 16th birthday at Shakey's Pizza Parlour -- half of  Terrebonne High was there.

My 17th birthday at The Lion's Share -- we put 18 candles on my cake so I could drink.

Then my first birthday at Loyola -- alone, in the dorm.

So, my birthday has always been the day of the year I look foward to.

So sue me. And I expect great things. I guess I expect too much. It hasn't always lived up to my great expectations.

Frankly, I just don't get all these people who claim to HATE their birthdays. OK. You're a year older. So what? You would prefer the alternative? I mean, you only get so many birthdays in this lifetime, and you don't know what that number is.

 Then, it is the one day that all the people in your life think of you. Some call you. I know Janine will. Lou will. Jo will.  Some send cards. But even those you haven't seen or heard from in years might remember you on your birthday.  Hell, it was the ONE day of the year that my dad remembered to call me. And my brother. And I miss that ...

I know I remember the birthdays of people I haven't seen since grammar school. Sure, it's useless information now. But, I do think of them on that day.

Hopefully, some people think of me on March 8th.

And quite frankly, I don't mind getting older. I am 45 years old and proud of it.

For so long, I was "the Kid" or "The Girl in the Office." It's hard to be The Kid or The Girl when you're a 45-year-old broad.

So, happy birthday to me. Even though my boss did his best to screw it up. I have to drive two hours to Lafayette, spend hours in a boring all-state meeting, cover a basketball game, then drive home... Maybe I'll get a kiss from Lora Leigh before midnight.

Then it becomes March the 9th.

And that's another story completely!

 

Go Saints Go! Please

So the New Orleans Saints are the talk of the nation.

Who'd have thunk it?

It's the feel good story of the year, the cinderella story of the year, one of the most improbable rags-to-riches sports stories ever played out. It's Rudy, Invincible and the Bad News Bears all rolled into one.

And the nation's press is all over it.  Every paper in the country -- even ones in places like Iowa -- are writing about the Saints. All these sports guys (and yes, they are mostly guys) are writing about how the Saints have hitched the entire city -- heck, the entire region -- onto their backs and taken us all on this incredible ride. The Saints are playing for the battered city, they say.

That's only part of the story.

These Saints -- these GOOD Saints -- also are playing for guys like Rhett Lyons.

Rhett and I grew up watching the Saints on Sundays (rarely Mondays). And we both learned our first curse words on those Holy Days, watching those exasperating Saints, the ones who couldn't hold the ball and who couldn't recover a fumble, at the knee of our Grandpa, Martin Berhman French.  (If you're from New Orleans, I don't even have to explain his name and tell you who he was named for.)

As he grew up, Rhett lived and breathed for the Saints. Every Sunday he would wake up, pull his No. 3 Bobby Hebert jersey out of the closet, stock his refrigerator with Budweiser and try to unplug the phone. But football parties at his house were legendary. And, more often than not, Rhett got to use his own curse words as he suffered along with the Saints.

But oh how he would be rejoicing now.

Oh how he SHOULD be rejoicing now.

But for an unused seat belt on a dark and rainy night on La. 1 in Fourchon, he might be. But he's not.

Since that horrific July of 2001 night, our family has adopted the Saints' Fleur de Lis as our own little emblem. Louella, my sister-in-law, decorated an entire room in black and gold and Fleurs de Lis. She calls it her memory room.

On the day Louelle finally decided to inter my brother's ashes in a tomb in Thibodaux, many of us brought simple mementos to place in the darkness with him. My husband brought a baseball from his inaugural season as head baseball coach at Destrehan. We all firmly believe that Rhett was our Angel in the Outfield that season, which ended with his team finishing as state runner-up. We saw the dragonflies.

Me?  I brought a brand spanking new black hat adorned with only a single Fleur de Lis so that my brother could be a Saints fan forever.

So now the Saints are one victory away from their first ever trip to a Super Bowl, two victories away from the most incredible sports story in the world. But all I can think about is how my beloved brother is missing it. And so is Grandpa.

Or are they?

If there is such a thing as an afterlife, there is no doubt in my mind that Rhett Lyons and Martin French will be hovering around Chicago on Sunday. And, if they get a chance to re-enact a scene from one of the Angels in the Outfield movies and blow a ball or trip a Bear, I'm sure they will.

But they won't be too far away. You see, Rhett's first grandchild, a baby girl to be named Madison Elise Brunet, is going to be born any second now. And wouldn't it be fitting if that little girl enters this world on the same day that the Saints secure their first Super Bowl berth?

That sure would be some serious kharma.

Go Saints!

(And you can visit Rhett's page here --- Remember Rhett)

 

 

 

A Star is born

How often is a mom humbled by a 5-year-old child?

My answer is, often. And tonight was one of those nights.

Lora has been taking singing lessons for a few months. She expressed an interest because a classmate of hers took singing last year. She also has a sweet little voice. She's been going once a week to a local girl, Deborah Mayeaux, who also has a beautiful voice. (and her dad fixes air conditioners).

Our local church fair was this weekend, and Deborah (an alum of the church school) got time for her students to perform. 

Frankly, we didn't think Lora would. At first she said she wouldn't. Then she changed her mind. We all expected her to freeze up, mumble a few notes and be a cute little 5-year-old curiosity.

Nope.

This child, all decked out in a pink leather skirt and vest and pink cowboy boots, marched onto the stage and belted out "Behind these Hazel Eyes." And she simply wowed the crowd (and it was a pretty healthy one, too, at 6 p.m. on a Saturday night.) 

I bawled my eyes out the whole time.....

Afterwards, many many people came up to her and told her how great she was. One little girl asked her for an autograph!!! (OH MY GOD). 

And Marty and I are simply amazed......