My father loved baseball and football and tennis and boxing and figure skating. He and my mother even used to watch wrestling (they both loved Hatpin Mary).
But I don't remember my father being a big basketball fan. My brother liked basketball. He used to try to teach it to me, and while I was pretty good at dribbling (at least if no one else was playing), I never could get the ball into the basket. Never. Not once. And if you can't get the ball into the basket on your driveway/garage court, you certainly can't at school, where once or twice a year, the gym teacher would personally humiliate me by making me try.
Yes, the gym teacher made everyone else try at the same time. But it felt like a personal attack. And it wasn't until a couple of years ago that I realized none of us were good at getting the ball into the basket. Most likely, the vast majority of my classmates felt like it was a personal attack too.
From my father, I got a love of sports (except for boxing; I really hate boxing) and a love of rooting. Put me in front of any competition, and I'll find someone to root for. Miss America, spelling bees, presidential races, I don't care. I'll choose someone and be happy if they win, sad if they lose.
Even though I don't care about basketball, I do have an awareness of March Madness, which always ends in April (now that I think about it, This World We Live In has an April 1 publication date, but came out in reasonably early March, so perhaps March and April are simply one big month- Mapril). I couldn't tell you all the colleges that have played or how they got into the tournament, but I can tell you this:
My goddaughter graduated from Cornell.
My father's papers are at Syracuse University.
My father had a longstanding relationship with Baylor.
Sense a theme here? Then let me prevent you from heartbreak and misery and losing bets by pointing out that the Mayor of Winfield, West Virginia proclaimed Susan Beth Pfeffer Day on April 30, 1986 and while I haven't been back to Winfield (or anywhere else in West Virginia) since April 30, 1986, I'm sure they still celebrate it annually.
So don't count on the University of West Virginia. I'd tell you not to count on Duke either (my brother knows someone who teaches there), except they're playing against each other, so the odds are one of them will make it to the finals. At which point, they'll lose to either Michigan State or Butler, since I have no connection with either of them. To be honest, I don't even know where Butler is, although I assume Michigan State is in Michigan somewhere.
A couple of my blog reading friends have noticed that I haven't written an entry in almost a week, and deduced from that that I've been busy writing. Le Ha! Or should that be La Ha! since Ha! is most likely feminine. Either way, Ha! I was doing exactly what I proclaimed I'd be doing, watching the World Figure Skating Championships. Some mornings they'd start before even Scooter woke up and they'd go on and on and on until dinner time.
And with all those triple axels and side by side twizzles to watch and evaluate, I could hardly be expected to write. Or even think about writing. So I didn't.
Now, alas, the skating is over with. But my excuses linger on. How can I be expected to work with Passover coming? An entire holiday devoted to the liberation of slaves, and you expect me to work? It'd be positively un-american. I get enough grief about my portrayal of the President in Life As We Knew It without risking further wrath by working during Passover. Which, fortunately for me, is eight days long.
And when Passover ends, Taking My Mother To The Doctor season begins. All the more reason not to work.
At some point, I'll get back to writing Blood Wounds. Right now, I'm still working out the ending, and reevaluating some of the beginning. The contracts have actually arrived, so Harcourt is expecting a manuscript and I'd hate to let them down.
But in the meantime, Happy Passover to those who celebrate, and a meaningful Holy Week, followed by Happy Easter, for those who celebrate, and Happy Anything Else That Keeps Me From Working to those who celebrate (which, quite possibly, is just me).
And, of course, the happiest of Happy Susan Beth Pfeffer Days. The best reason ever not to work!