She was always reading Self-Help books about raising the ideal child, and everything from prenatal vitamins to New-Age touch therapy in herbal baths were her way of saying, "I will love you if you will be perfect." Baseball was not part of her vision for me, so my father had to sneak in a little male-bonding when she was not looking.

             Mom and my father never fought. They did, however, consistently play a sport I have learned to call "Not-Fighting." This is obviously the name, because when you ask them what they are doing in the midst of the activity, they would answer, "We"re NOT fighting." With clenched teeth and fists, they would pitch complaints and blame at each other, always striking out at the other"s words with a heavy swing. I think I must have been an unknowing patron of the game, because time with me was often the trophy with which the winner of Not-Fighting walked away. When Mom was victorious, I would be rushed off to go purse and shoe shopping at the mall, with an obligatory stop by the toy store -- where I was not allowed to look at sports gear because it was a symbol of something terrible and horrible about men in our society, or so a therapist I consulted for a single visit later in life extrapolated as my Mom"s reasoning for everything. When my father won their game, we went to the park. Or sometimes to a bar -- my father was friends with every single employee at the local sports "pub," and I think with the majority of the sheriff deputies as well, so bringing a kid in was no big deal. Well, that"s not entirely true, because it was a big deal to me. I knew it meant I was a part of some secret club for men Mom did not like, and I knew it meant they thought I was special. The only problem was that I felt "special" not because I belonged to the group there, but because I felt like an outcast in a place that it was all right to be one.