When I was a very small girl, I fell head-over-heels in love with my Aunt Darcy.  She was much older than my mother, her sister, with jet black hair and overflowing exuberance.  I loved nothing more than a chance to stay at her house in the summer.  She lived beside the Westover Dairy and her husband, my Uncle Lou, was the night watchman there.  On Saturdays, we would drop Darcy off at the hairdresser’s and head over to the Texas Tavern, 'the T-Room' to regulars, and order “two dogs walking”.  We would eat our hot dogs down by the James River and then head back uptown to pick her up.

There was something else about those sleepy Saturdays in Lynchburg, Virginia that I loved as well.  Baseball.  The Westover Dairy and my Aunt's white two-story were situated just a few blocks from the minor league stadium where the Lynchburg Mets played.  Walking to the park was as exciting as being there.  The city traffic would buzz by us as we tried to hear what the announcers were saying, their voices gaining volume and excitement as we neared.  This was big time for me, a little country girl growing up between tobacco fields.  We would tiptoe past the old cemetery, as not to wake the dead, a place that always seemed oddly alive to me, glowing in the yellow wash of the stadium lights.  Then we would head up the hill towards the melody of sounds and the intoxicating aroma of fresh, salty popcorn.

Darryl Strawberry was on the Lynchburg Mets back then, and he quickly became my first sports hero.  I can still hear his name bellowing out over the loudspeaker, taking a full ten seconds just to get the Darryl part out …  “Darr-uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-yl Straw-berry”.  When he would come up to bat, Darcy would hold me by the waistband of my shorts and I'd lean as far over the black rail as I could and wave my gloved hand, showing him exactly where to hit it.  Even knowing the unfortunate turn Strawberry's life would take doesn’t change the tingly feeling I get when I think back to those summer nights. 

The innocence of it all, the popcorn, the smell of my Aunt Darcy’s Chanel No 5, the roar of the crowd, the satisfaction of victory and the pain of defeat … I learned it like other kids learn multiplication facts or memorize poems, and I’ve never forgotten the way it made me feel inside.  I was cultivating a love affair with the feeling of sports in those tender years; a love affair that would entertain and sustain me into the present.  One that I can now share with my own children and hopefully, some day, my own niece or grandchildren.

Next came seven-foot-four Ralph Sampson to the University of Virginia, a man who would become the number one draft pick, but more memorable as the nicest guy on the court.  He was a mythical giant come to life and when I met him for the first time, my whole hand barely covered his palm.  I remember being dumbfounded by his hand - the smoothness as well as the size, the beautiful contrast of strength and softness.  I often think about how our hands are a visible representation of who we are on the inside and I wonder about mine, no longer tiny, but still so small in comparison to the giants in my life.

Ralph Sampson opened the door to Patrick Ewing at Georgetown and I proudly wore my Hoya’s t-shirt as often as possible, even though, compared to Uva (near where I grew up), Georgetown was considered “slumming”.  It's also important to know that most Virginians have very clear boundaries on their North Carolina sports.  You’re either a TarHeel or  Dukie, and as an aspiring Dukie, it was my supreme pleasure to watch Patrick Ewing not only start in the finals against UNC as a freshman, but to bully them up.  By his senior year, Georgetown was number one in the nation.

I must impart that my Mother was no sports slouch.  She was an ardent supporter of the Washington Redskins and considered any televised game reason enough to throw a party.  She’d wear a sweatshirt that said, “My favorite team is the REDSKINS and whoever’s playing DALLAS” and meet everyone at the door with a cocktail.  Her football parties were famous and as the SuperBowls rolled in, became practically notorious.  She may as well have set Joe Thiesmann a plate at our supper table every night, just in case he might show up for meatloaf or an Old ElPaso taco dinner.  A collection of his signature Pepsi bottles graced the sacred shelves of the antique china cabinet and sometimes late at night, when the moon is full, I can still hear the snap of his leg bones.

About that same time, Charles Haley, who’s family home was just a couple of miles from my ornery grandmother Frances’ house, was really making a name for himself.  From tiny James Madison University, he went on play for the 49ers and Dallas.   Six trips to the ProBowl and five Super Bowl rings later, he was still coming home and visiting his old elementary school and playing with the kids at recess.  We literally watched him change the lives of his family members, saving them from what I suppose now was poverty in a side-of-the-road town called Hell Bend, even though I didn’t know it then. 

During college, the tailgate party became more important than the game.  If I could remember much of it, I’d probably regret it.  But, I do remember that when my boy and I first got married and he switched jobs, moving us from a comfortable situation in northern Virginia  to a tiny apartment in Roanoke, VA, we picked up a couple of new, unlikely heroes.  We were practically flat broke and for entertainment, we used to go to the local high school football games on Friday nights.  We watched Tiki Barber and his brother Ronde set record after record not only in football, but in track, and academics as well.  We would rush home after the games to see their mom, Geraldine, on the news.  You could tell that she was one tough lady and that the public image of her sons was a perfect reflection of the young men they really were.  We followed them all the way through UVa, the NFL, Tiki’s retirement, and I still have a soft spot for Ronde.

Enter Michael Vick.  Michael Vick the Hokie superstar.  Michael Vick the number one draft pick.  Michael Vick the dog killer.  Over the years, I have put a lot of love into Michael Vick and he’s given me countless hours of joy.  I did hundreds of touchdown dances for him and our beloved Frank Beamer.  I argued his superiority over Donovan McNabb.  I blamed the Falcons management when he failed to produce in the NFL.  And, then, I cried when I found out about everything he was involved in.  It hurt me personally, which I know is ridiculous, but it did.  I hated him for hurting those dogs and for, in turn, hurting me. 

However, I’m just one of those people who can’t fall out of love once I’m in it … not with unforgivable ex-boyfriends, not with crooked, cheating politicians, and not with my players.  If I love you, I just do.  Period.

And so, if I may -

     Michael Vick, we’ve got a lot of ground to make up.  I’m sickingly disappointed, but I do see a light at the end of the tunnel.  I hope you succeed with the Eagles and I hope you use your story to change the culture in which you got yourself and others entangled.  I think everyone deserves the opportunity to use the gifts God gave ‘em and I hope that you thank him a thousand times a day, for giving you another chance to do so.  I hope you find the words and the courage to speak openly about what really happened and that it breaks your heart every time you do it.  But, most of all, I hope you’re humbled, just the way all of us who put so much love into you are. 

As they say in the Commonwealth, "Virginia Is For Lovers" ...