Being an obsessive White Sox fan, you might be surprised that I've never enjoyed playing baseball. In fact, I recall pick up games at my cousins' house in which Jon's best friend Ian would stand behind me and tell me when to swing.

I loved Ian.

I am, shall we say, selectively athletic. Quite a few sports hold little appeal or I've long accepted a lack of playing talent.

Of those I enjoy, rowing tops the list. Joining the crew team remains a college highlight.

My presiding non-interest in sports has never bothered me. If I'm not reading a book, I'd rather be hanging out with friends over a glass of wine than chasing after a ball. If a sport interested me, I gave it a whirl.

In my mid-20s, the majority of my friends enjoyed playing sand volleyball Sunday afternoons. I'd often go cheer them on and work on my tan. Every once in awhile I'd brave the courts. Even though many people were too competitive for my tastes, I usually had fun.

I wondered what else I should give a second try.

As my baseball fandom increased, I realized how better understanding playing the game would help me appreciate it more. Now this didn't mean I wanted to join a league or anything like that. Going to a batting cage- either by myself or with a kind friend so as not to embarrass myself- or playing catch would fit the bill.

It's not that I didn't think I could catch the ball at all. I was merely unconfident in my hand-eye coordination. And I certainly didn't think I could catch a ball under any sort of pressure. My competitive nature really only emerges for Scrabble games. Anything else stresses me out.

I declared the summer of 2006 would be the summer I learned to play catch. My friends were supportive yet incredulous. As in, how had I made it this far in life without being certain I could catch a ball? Apparently, one can grow to be 26 years old and do just fine. Because honestly, short of a baseball stadium, how often do balls come flying at you out of the blue? Wait. Don't answer that.

This goal came about with the purest of motivations. I think. Maybe not. There was a boy in the picture, after all.

Of course, I wondered: if I caught the ball, would I also catch the guy?

On a day that turned into our second or third date, the boy and I sat next to each other at church and then the same table at our post-church haunt with friends. My roommate and I lived practically next door to the restaurant but he insisted on driving us home.

The boy got out of his car and lingered, while my roommate headed in to our apartment. We talked about afternoon plans and the boy suggested we go to a nearby park and read for awhile.

The sun warmed the park bench where we sat, lulling him to lay down next to me after he'd read for a few minutes. A smile tickled my lips as my eyes strayed from the book in my lap to the slumbering boy next to me. The day seemed ever full of promise.

The boy's nap didn't last long and when he woke, he decided we should play catch.

I narrowed eyes at him. Up to this point, I'd envisioned doing this with friends who'd known me awhile. Not a boy I was trying to impress.

But still. He trained those puppy dog eyes on me and I couldn't say no. He trotted off to his car to retrieve a tennis ball- the perfect starter ball. He remained confident in my catching abilities. I remained confident in my ability to embarrass myself around cute guys.

We started out close together, never a bad thing. He lobbed the springy yellow ball to me and I caught it, light in my hands. I tossed it back, a little more certain with each catch and throw.

My mom taught me conversation was like throwing a ball back and forth. Similar to the give and take of relationships.

Back and forth we went. I relaxed. I laughed. I glowed. My aim stayed true. We spread out further and my success continued, going so far as to run back and catch when he overthrew. The student had become the master.

OK, not really.

The boy and I didn't work out. These days my only games of catch involve children under the age of 4. That sunny summer day, the ease of an afternoon in a park with a cute boy, is still emblazoned on my mind.

I keep trying new things and re-trying old things. Just in case. We never know what will happen if we try.

Can you play catch? Have you ever re-tried something you weren't good at before?

You're curious. I know you are; it's only natural. You're wondering what secrets I might have. You're aware, dear reader, that there are topics that do not grace this corner.

I might write about my grandmother's death but I do not talk about what that really means for me. When I share stories about my family, I'm mindful that, good or bad, it's merely my interpretation and recollection of our history. Also, don't hold your breath for details about my most recent date or life-giving conversation with a friend.

Some things do not need to be shared in a public forum.

It's not always my story to share, for one. For another, sometimes it's best to live a situation out, see which direction it will go, and wrestle or enjoy privately in the meantime.

For all the writing and blogging I do, I've become unacquainted with my journal, to my detriment. I paged through and discovered I've only written five times this year. FIVE. While I've meandered through certain circumstances here, there's a lot that's been left unsaid.

I wonder how I've processed any of it apart from these sacred pages.

I started writing in a journal when I was in 6th grade. Something about the act of recording the highs and lows resonated with my teenage soul. A year later, my journal saw me through depression. Where I didn't feel freedom to talk to anyone about my pain and struggle, I let emotions out by pen and paper.

Every once in awhile I'll read through entries from that time and I cannot believe that she and I are the same person. Skip forward just a few years and I traipse down memory lane with my details of pranks, class projects, and of course, my latest crush.

It's entirely too easy to forget the details we swear we'll always remember. I wrote pages about my best friend's wedding, from the cute groomsman I flirted with all weekend to realizing just how hot I looked. (That may come off as conceited but it was the first time I'd ever believed that particular descriptor in reference to myself.) I love reliving Tracy and Joel's day from my then 24 year old vantage point. As I read, I can't help but reflect on all that's changed in the 7 ensuing years since they exchanged vows.

My journals contain stories about how I dealt with unemployment after finishing grad school, what freedom looked like in college, and the time a monk taught me to meditate in Thailand. Sometimes my excitement leaps off the page and other times the old anxiety needles at me. I have the advantage of hindsight, no matter what.

When I read through my old journals, I rediscover myself. All this has been leading up to who I am now. I can't afford to forget that but it's unfortunately too easy to do so.

Quite a few things have happened the last few months. My journal has been packed in suitcases and stowed in my purse on the off-chance that I'd be inspired to take the time to commemorate.

Until this Monday night, however, the pages stayed blank. I finally opened it up and pressed pen to paper for a couple of hours, interrupted occasionally by my surroundings. True, much of what I wrote has already been hashed out with my inner circle. But that didn't lessen the necessity to write.

When I journal, I express exactly what I'm thinking and feeling. I don't need to positively reframe or consider my audience. I don't worry about grammar or sentence structure. I could care less about my Voice or the cadence I create when I'm Writing Seriously. And that's why it's important for me to journal: to unleash my words and emotions without concern for anyone's feelings or fear of reprisal. There is no censoring here.

Unless you sneak a peek, I'm the only person who will read my thoughts about October through December 5, 2011. My hand hurt when I closed the leatherbound book but my heart felt lighter. I didn't solve my problems or walk away with greater insights.

But that was never the point.

Do you ever write in a journal? What secrets do you choose to keep?

Given that I absolutely rule at throwing surprise parties, you should not be surprised that I also rule at pranking people.

I'm not sure where this impish streak comes from. I don't recall my parents pranking their friends or telling past stories about such hijinks. While my extended family will tease one another with great finesse, there's no pranking lore.

I don't remember my first prank but I do know when I began to view it as an art form. The summer before junior year of high school. I lucked into having like-minded friends. Suddenly, it was not just about pulling one over on someone but getting them good.

As in, setting the bar for payback.

If you prank people enough times and they discover your involvement, it inevitably happens.

Fall 1996, early Sunday morning. Dad tapped on my door waking me from my slumber. My parents didn't normally wake me up so this was unusual.

"Your friends left you something," he said. I could almost hear the smile in his voice, though I had no idea why.

"What? Who? Huh?" These questions took effort. I am assuredly not a morning person. In fact, this may not be how the conversation went at all. I tell you, people should know better than to talk to me the first hour or so that I'm awake.

"Just go look outside," he prompted.

I padded through the living room wondering which of my wonderful friends would leave me a gift and why they'd come over so early on a Sunday morning and why they hadn't just come inside.

The answer was soon revealed as I peeked through the curtains and saw a sea of white.

This picture really doesn't do it justice.

I was shocked. And stunned. And then maybe just the tiniest bit happy. After all, you only prank the ones you love. Based on the toilet paper before me, my guy friends loved me an awful lot.

When I arrived at Sunday School, Brian came up to me almost right away and outed himself and the other Scared Guys (this was their self-proclaimed nickname all the years I knew them) involved. It seemed that one of my neighbors had spotted my pals TPing and proceeded to yell at them, then chase them by car through the neighborhood until they finally lost him. He was worried they were in trouble.

Once that was out of the way, Brian and the rest of the guys proceeded to gloat.  Over the years the amount of TP involved has increased, the last retelling of this story counted 95 rolls of toilet paper.

Given the time and effort spent cleaning it up Sunday afternoon, I don't think that's far from the truth.

You may wonder whether this put me in my place. Heck no! If anything, it only made me more sneaky and creative. I'm proud to say there are friends I've pranked that still don't know I was the instigator.

Nashville friends, watch out.

Tell me about the best prank you've ever pulled. Are you a pranker or a prankee?

I'm perched on the edge of your bed, fingers traipsing through your jewelry box, admiring this piece and that. It is strange looking through your necklaces and rosaries while you lay in the living room.

I find a St. Francis medal and laugh. We had been in the kitchen as you washed dishes and I dried. You told me you were praying to St. Francis on behalf of my marital status. The patron saint of lost causes. I might have been offended but you reassured me that this was who you prayed to while you were waiting for Grandpa to propose. Since you've been married for almost 57 years, I'd say it turned out all right.

Even though I don't believe in praying to saints, I tuck the medal away. One more reminder of you and that day. It seems a lifetime ago, instead of a few months. I can't wrap my mind around these changes or think about all that you will miss out on.

How is it possible that you'll never witness my walk down the aisle or cradle the babe I hope to someday birth?  No matter that I'm not guaranteed either will happen. I just thought you would be there, the way you always have been.

It's almost two months since Aunt Teresa died. We are only now getting around to going through her clothes, photo albums, life. Making the piles doesn't ease the loss but we still open drawers and file items away. We say we are making things easier for Grandpa, for after. But maybe we're making it easier for us too. It seemed a natural progression to move on to other rooms.

Still, I knew my place. I could go through Teresa's belongings but not yours. Not until Mom summoned did I peer into your room and collection of baubles.

I don't remember noticing your jewelry before, though these bits and pieces are somehow familiar. How to pick out that which you hadn't yourself bequeathed to me...what was here that would remind me of you?

This is a rare moment in which I'm glad to be the only girl living in-state. Always outnumbered by the boys, today I have no competition and there is no rush.  Mom and the aunts have had first choice and now it's my turn before Clara and Emily arrive by plane.

And then I see it, lopsided from its weight, a large spot of unexpected turquoise. It is not your style but it is perfectly mine. No one remembers seeing you wear it.  But it's here, in your jewelry box.

The design is faded, indicating it was well-worn by someone. All I want to do is to wake you up and ask you about this ring. Did someone give it to you? Did you buy it while out in Arizona visiting your twin? Did you ever wear it?

You might wake up but your mind would be too hazy to remember.  The season for asking and talking and laughing with you is over.

I know with certainty that this is my ring now and I hope that no one else wants it, sighing with relief when it's mine to claim. It fits on my ring finger, which is strangely apt, as if you and St. Francis were conspiring.

It's not a fair trade, you for this ring, but the cancer didn't ask for our opinion.  I wear it for the rest of the weekend, the week, and then your funeral.

I don't know why this not-you turquoise ring speaks to me so. On days that I'm missing you, I put it on and feel a little more OK, a little sassier, a little more me.

And that's what I've needed this past week. You've been gone four years now, Grandma. I wear your unexpected ring and remember all of our talks, how you led by example and taught me so much. How faith in God was your greatest priority and then your family and friends. You deeply loved and were loved deeply in return.

If your then prayers to the patron saint of lost causes someday pay off, this ring will serve as my something blue. I know you won't be looking down on me that day; that's not how heaven operates. But I'll look at this ring and remember and hold you close in my heart just the same.

My grade school friends and I loved quoting the Grey Poupon commercial to each other.  "Pardon me, sir. Do you have any Grey Poupon?" Always uttered in the most posh and sophisticated of voices.  Then the reply, "But of course."  As if there were any other type of mustard one would keep in the car!

I'm not sure that I ever tried Grey Poupon, or any dijon mustard for that matter, while I was a kid.  My house was more of a yellow mustard place and I would use it on just about anything.  I wouldn't come to understand the deliciousness of dijon until I was a grown-up.  I know this, however: that commercial was playground gold.