Furious Angels

On occasion, I'm not ashamed of my nationality. Thank God, those moments won't last.

Nobody plays baseball where I come from. We play Finnish baseball, which is called, well, baseball. We have no name for the American variant, as nobody plays it. As a nation, we are the world champions in the game, the game, I mean. The women, they're the best of the best. And the team my niece plays in, Roihu, are the absolutely very best. They would be the heirs to the throne, if we were a monarchy.

Their blood may not be blue, but who cares? I believe there are icicles clinging to the ceilings of the chambers of their hearts. That should do the trick, during moments of national unrest: A sip of ice-cold water. Take a dive in it, if you must. You may lose your head, but never ever your heart. Proceed.

I'm just a fan, a spectator. I'm nothing. Yet I know something. I've seen things. Be quiet, skip a beat, and listen. Forget what the reporters and commentators tell you. This here is the truth, and you heard it from me first.

Today, Eeva brought the first run in a manner that set the tone for the rest of the game. The team caught the drift, and turned the game into the last of the season by winning it. Another result, and there would have been one more game. Not in this world. Roihu wanted this more than their adversaries. And I'm extremely proud to say it was my sister's daughter - whom I pushed in a stroller on the sidewalks of Toronto 18 years ago - who made that tendency palpable. Like gravel against your skin.

A friendly advice: Do not step in front of her while she's running. This was the second time I saw what happens, if you don't heed the advice. Angels tend to be very mellow indeed, but it is unwise to meet a furious one within an arm's length - even more so, if it's you who made her so displeased in the first place.

Understood? Good.

Lesson #2...

[To be continued.]