One Possible Batting Order for the 2011 World Champion Boston Red Sox:
1. Carl Crawford, LF
2. Dustin Pedroia, 2B
3. Adrian Gonzalez, 1B
4. Kevin Youkilis, 3B
5. David Ortiz, DH
6. JD Drew, RF
7. Jarrod Saltalamacchia, C
8. Marco Scutaro, SS
9. Jacoby Ellsbury, CF
Theo Epstein has a remarkably youthful appearance, but he sure looks like Santa Claus tonight!
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
30
Thirty years ago tonight, Howard Cosell told us during a Monday Night Football telecast that John Lennon had been shot and killed. His murder is every bit as nonsensical today as it was then.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Life Is Good! (At Least This Part!)
It was a Monday, so I picked Kaly up from Mothers’ Day Out. As we walked to the car, I asked her what she wanted to do for the afternoon. “I want to see the forest,” was the immediate response. Not unexpected, as we go to the Pink Palace frequently on Mondays, and with the Enchanted Forest open now, well…Off we went. She got excited when she saw the fence along Central, and by the time I got her out of the car seat, she was wired. I had trouble keeping up with her crossing the parking lot and getting to the doors. I had to tell her to slow down, as she went toward the escalator when I approached the ticket counter. When she stopped, she looked at the mobile of the solar system in the lobby. “Jupiter!” she screamed out when she saw the big boy. “Saturn’s rings!” followed as she spotted the next one. “Spot! Rings!” and by now, everyone including the ticket selling kids were staring at this tiny little girl who seems to know way, way too much about her universe.
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
We escaped around the corner and checked out the penguins prior to her calling out for the escalator to the second floor, and the Christmas Tree garden. When we got to the door of the Forest, I went into my pocket for the tickets to show to the attendant. Kaly went for Frosty. I had to run to catch her. I didn’t want her to turn the corner, out of my sight, for some reason. She was so wound up that she was making monkey sounds. We’ve been through the Forest at least nine times (usually two rounds per visit; we’d made three once), but this time brought out her internal monkey. “Granddaddy, the mouses! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Penguins! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo! Fox! Ooo, Ooo, Ooo!” This was the pattern through the first half, all the way to the Marty Bear. She avoided the elves again. She went right to the big, floppy reindeer, as soon as the family ahead of us finished their pictures. She marched right up, looked up to me, and asked, “Can I pat him?” “Yes.” “Can I hug him?” “OK.” She added a kiss for good measure.
We wandered over to the train display, with one eye on the bridge penguins. I haven’t ever known her to watch Thomas the Tank Engine on television, but she loves him at the Forest. We checked out the entrance to his tunnel, and the exit and watched him go in and come out for about 20 minutes. She actually tried to follow him through the mountain and time his emergence. She’ll be two in January. After the trains comes the Big Guy himself. Fortunately, there was a family with a baby and a little girl about Kaly’s size visiting with Santa. Fortunate for Kaly, that is, as Granddaddy simply walked along the back rope and tried to catch Santa’s eye to wave (unsuccessfully).
We started the second loop much like the first, Granddaddy struggling to catch up with an excited little monkey. We followed the path until skipping from Marty Bear to the Beaver camp. We wound around, and this time, Santa was alone, talking only with the photographer. He spotted her this time, stood up, and walked over from his house to the velvet rope. As he made his way over, she buried her head in my shoulder. Santa, a very, very skilled man, recognized the situation and made his allowances. He actually got her to give him a high five! He leaned in, and said “I bet you’d like a baby doll for Christmas. A little pink baby doll, with diapers and a stroller.” Kaly’s eyes grew into saucers! “How did you know that?” was all over her face. He told her that he wanted to give her a candy cane, but that children have to stand on a magic spot to get the candy. She let me carry her over, into Santa’s house. She agreed to be put down on the spot. He handed her the little, cellophane-wrapped candy cane, and held his hand out, envisioning another successful enticement into a package of photographs, $20 for a 5X7 and four wallets, but his dreams were just torched! “NO!” My granddaughter never has any difficulty making herself understood. “Sit with Santa just for a moment?” he asked, plaintively. “NO!” the little bundle of fury and curls declared! “Granddaddy!” she demanded, with her arms reaching up, her voice sounding like the most demanding woman in Manhattan hailing a cab. And with that, her conveyance whisked her away from the large man in the very red suit, a successful escape effected flawlessly.
As we left, I told her that we are going back on Thursday, with MommaMomma. She nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think you might sit with Santa for a picture with Momma?” Granddaddy asked with a fair amount of trepidation. “OK,” she lied, to let Granddaddy live a little longer with his delusions.
We got home just a few minutes before Grandmommie, and then MommaMomma. We spent our “us” time turning on all the Christmas, which must be done anytime the family comes home and enters the den. Don’t sit down without hitting the trees, the banners, the things that require cords, because you’re just going to be getting up.
The “time to go scramble” cranked up as soon as Grandmommie and MommaMomma got home. There is so much to do: change the diaper, change the shirt, change the shoes, get a cup for her milk, check the diaper bag for the appropriate contents, assemble the blankets, mittens, hats and layers, and then head for the car to discover what mandatory equipment we have left inside the house. Kaly always helps Granddaddy drive up to the first curve on our street. It used to just be the end of the driveway, but she mastered that space so quickly that we needed to make it more challenging.
This time, the vast quantities of material were precisely as needed, so the adventure was on.
The larger plan for the evening: attend the Court Square tree lighting, with flatbreads at the Majestic and a trolley ride to, before, and from, after. Mission Accomplished Evaluation: mostly pretty good. The pizzabread substitutes (Grandmommie insists there is a difference) were more than acceptable. We ordered the standard roasted chicken, and MommaMomma wanted one with artichoke hearts, feta, spinach, olive oil and lord knows what else (it was awesome!) and asked about ordering a cheese and sausage plate, one of the great Majestic appetizers. Kaly was in total agreement, adding “Cheese, yeah!” when MommaMomma spoke to the waitress. We attacked all the food as it arrived, and wiped out everything. Kaly ate her crackers and cheese, and then, smooth as a jewel thief, lifted the crackers off MommaMomma’s plate and seemed to swallow them whole, too. She liked the cheddar, which was aged and very sharp, and ate a good bit of the goat cheese, too. I was concerned that they might both be harder than she would appreciate, but no worries. I should have known.
Then, on to the trolley. Kaly has been in love with the trolleys ever since she first saw one. It was months ago. But she hadn’t ridden in one until Monday. If it wasn’t love at first ride, then it was surely over by the time we had moved the hundred yards from Peabody Place Station to Union Avenue. The driver stopped for the light, and Kaly was immediately upset that the ride was over and incredibly too short. I quickly explained why the pause. She turned on MommaMomma’s lap to verify that there was, indeed, a red light impeding our progress, and, once satisfied that I had told her the truth, she turned back to studying the holiday displays in the stores and restaurants along Main Street.
We got to Court Square. It was deserted. No one anywhere in sight. Not even any of the notorious cadre of beggars who haunt the park. No lights. No trees. Nobody. And way too cold to wait for them. We walked around for just a moment, complained about the apparent disruption, and decided to take refuge in a southbound trolley. Which left Kaly utterly delighted! She hadn’t wanted to get off the trolley in the first place. We rode back to our stop, but she still wasn’t ready to get off. We promised, in the face of threatened tears, that we would return shortly for a longer ride.
Once in the car, we headed toward Central Gardens. There is an absolutely beautiful and overwhelming display on one of the old mansions, all in red and white lights, on the house, the shrubbery and even some of the stately oaks that dot the majestic yard. We had wanted to show it to Kaly for several days, since Grandmommie and I had first seen it. Upon arrival, I pulled onto a side street, parked and retrieved my lights-looking partner from the car seat. MommaMomma and Grandmommie wanted to sit this one out, so Kaly and I walked down the sidewalk in front of the fabulous house, to get the full experience. Kaly smiled as she looked. That’s all the reward I need. We spent a couple of minutes before the cold drove us back toward the car.
As we walked back, I asked my granddaughter, “Did you like the lights?” The light of my life looked up at me a little bit sideways, and answered, “I liked the trolley.”
It was a perfect night!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
RIP Leslie Nielsen (1926-2010)
Jane: I've heard police work is dangerous.
Lt. Frank Drebin: It is. That's why I carry a big gun.
Jane: Aren't you afraid it might go off accidentally?
Drebin: I used to have that problem.
Jane: What did you do about it?
Drebin: I just think about baseball.
*********************************************************************************
Drebin: It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girls dies in a tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.
Jane: Goodyear?
Drebin: No, the worst.
*********************************************************************************
(as a food-poisoning epidemic sweeps the plane)
Captain Oveur: What is it Doctor? What's going on?
Dr. Rumack: I'm not sure. I haven't seen anything like this since the Anita Bryant concert.
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: Can you fly this plane, and land it?
Ted Striker: Surely you can't be serious.
Rumack: I am serious. And don't call me "Shirley!"
*********************************************************************************
Dr. Rumack: You'd better tell the Captain we've got to land as soon as possible. This woman has to be gotten to a hospital.
Elaine Dickinson: A hospital? What is it?
Rumack: It's a big building with patients, but that's not important right now!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Baseball's Golden Era
It wasn't the glorified 50's. Nor the Hall of Famer-laden 60's. Not the wild 70's, the mild 80's or the steroid era 90's.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Baseball's Golden Era is right now.
Just think about the current decade. Baseball was instrumental in rallying the country after 9/11. Google Jack Buck's speech, check out the Braves-Mets series in the aftermath, or the Yankees winning the AL pennant for the 2001 season. The Diamondbacks may be said to have missed the part in the script where the trophy went to NYC at the end, but that 7 game series did a lot for the spirit of the country in those days.
In 2002, the Los Angeles/California/Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles won their first World Series. The Angels' history had always been marked by just missing the mark, but Mike Scoscia's managerial skill was made evident to everyone who bothered to watch. Barry Bonds, holdover from the rampant steroid days, had a brilliant post-season to refute the argument that he couldn't perform in the big games. The Giants, without a championship since 1954, were perhaps only a Dusty Baker decision to leave Russ Ortiz on the mound in Game 6 from taking the title. They'll be back in a few paragraphs.
The 2003 season brought a bunch of young, poorly paid Florida Marlins players defeating the legendary New York Yankees in six games. The finale saw Josh Beckett shutting the Yanks down in Yankee Stadium for the win. The Marlins won their second World Series, without yet winning a Division Championship. Thus the influence of Bud Selig's tenure as Commissioner.
A year later, baseball's assumptions were turned on their collective ears: after 86 years of heartbreak and misery, the Boston Red Sox defeated the St. Louis Cardinals, and carried the trophy back to the Fens. This Series also marked the first time your humble blogger attended a World Series game. It was Game 3 at Busch Stadium. Pedro Martinez summoned up his last spectacular moment in a Sox uniform, and dominated the Cards.
In 2005, the Chicago White Sox went the Red Sox two years bettter. The Pale Hose hadn't won the championship since 1917. 88 years the Southside had waited. Ozzie Guillen finally led them to the promised land, and while you never knew (and still don't know) where Ozzie's mouth will blow up next, his skill at managing became indisputable.
2006 saw the St. Louis Cardinals as champs. The Cards hadn't won since 1982, and that 24 year drought was their longest since they started winning titles in 1926. Tony LaRussa became only the second manager in baseball history (along with the late Sparky Anderson) to win a World Series in each league.
In 2007, the Red Sox proved that 2004 wasn't a fluke, and became the first team with two titles in the 21st Century.
For 2008, The perpetually pitiful Tampa Rays won the American League pennant, and the typically awful Philadelphia Phillies took the NL flag. Joe Maddon and Charlie Manuel are two great managers who got to show the whole baseball public what they can do. The Phils, baseball's oldest team that has played in only one city with one nickname, took the Series for only the second time.
The New York Yankees, the greatest franchise in the history of professional sport, reasserted their dominance in 2009, taking their 27th World Series title by defeating the defending champion Philadelphia Phillies. Joe Girardi was in his first season managing in the Bronx, after Joe Torre's long, successful run. The Bombers were also celebrating their first season in the new Yankee Stadium, a gleaming billion dollar plus palace across the street from The House that Ruth Built.
Finally, in the season just ended, the San Francisco Giants won for the first time since 1954. They defeated the Texas Rangers for the championship, the first time that the Rangers had ever won a playoff game at home, won a playoff series, or won the American League pennant. It was baseball after the old style, brilliant pitching, timely hitting, speed and defense. The legendary Giants' manager, John McGraw, would have had no trouble recognizing the game that he dominated at the turn of the 20th century, as played by Bruce Bochy's team. Add to that the retirements of Bobby Cox, Joe Torre and Lou Piniella, and the stage is set for a new era to begin.
The only thing that I now hope to live to see in baseball is a championship won by the Chicago Cubs, now set to begin their 103rd season since they won the World Series last, in 1908.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Red Sox Season Finally Ends!
Dateline: Arlington, TX
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
ALCS Game Six Recap: TheRod Back to Postseason Stinking; Phil Hughes' Command as Reclusive as Howard Hughes; Yanks Fear Hamilton; 2010 Yanks Became Old and Older!
Fashion Critique: Brian Cashman looks much better in the cap whose logo read "Spring Training" than he does in one marked "AL Champions."
The Granddaughter's Assessment of the Yankees: Yankees Stink! (Very advanced for not quite 22 months)
Final: Yankees Lose...TheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeYankees Lose!
(Bite it, Sterling!)
The Sox may now Rest in Peace for 2010!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
11:01 pm, CDT, October 19, 2010
In regards to the previous post on this blog: Nevermind!
I guess they left the ghosts across the street.
Rangers 10, Yankees 3, top of the ninth. Rangers already leading 2-1 in the ALCS.
I guess they left the ghosts across the street.
Rangers 10, Yankees 3, top of the ninth. Rangers already leading 2-1 in the ALCS.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Yankees Are Still the Yankees
Everything was going the Texas Rangers' way in tonight's ALCS Game One. Nolan Ryan threw out the first pitch. The Great Sabathia was, after pitching once in 18 days, merely a mediocre pitcher, as only 51 of his 93 pitches were strikes. And he had managed to wake up Josh Hamilton's bat in the first, throwing a meatball that quickly turned into a three run homer. CJ Wilson was in the middle of his coming out party. Brilliant through 7, allowing only a perfectly acceptable solo shot to Robinson Cano in the top of that frame. Texas had their hands on the first home playoff win of the year.
But the Yankees are the Yankees.
And so Ron Washington behaved reasonably. He pulled Wilson, after 104 pitches, two batters into the top of the 8th. Gardner had outrun Wilson on a scratch grounder. That happens. Jeter promptly whacked a double down the left-field line, 5-2. Hey, the kid was great, but he was finally out of gas. Out came the manager, and Wilson, in favor of the dependable Darren Oliver. Who walked the next two batters, regardless of his spectacular record of control throughout the regular season. So Wash tried O'Day for Arod, and the first pitch almost killed Michael Young as it passed by third, 5-4. That brought Cano up again, and Wash called for the lefty Rapada, going straight by the book. Cano hadn't read the book, but singled to center, 5-5. Righty Holland for Marcus Thames, but he isn't much of a reader, either. Another single, and 6-5, Yankees.
Kerry Wood hadn't been in pinstripes long enough to understand everything about being a Yankee, so he walked Ian Kinsler leading off the 8th. After a couple more balls to Murphy, Dave Eiland came out to remind Wood to look at his uniform. So the former Cub phenom promptly picked off a brain-frozen Kinsler and moved through the rest of his inning, leaving the ninth as easy pickings for The Great Rivera.
So, the Yankees are the Yankees.
And the Rangers will be very fortunate to avoid a sweep after tonight's game.
But the Yankees are the Yankees.
And so Ron Washington behaved reasonably. He pulled Wilson, after 104 pitches, two batters into the top of the 8th. Gardner had outrun Wilson on a scratch grounder. That happens. Jeter promptly whacked a double down the left-field line, 5-2. Hey, the kid was great, but he was finally out of gas. Out came the manager, and Wilson, in favor of the dependable Darren Oliver. Who walked the next two batters, regardless of his spectacular record of control throughout the regular season. So Wash tried O'Day for Arod, and the first pitch almost killed Michael Young as it passed by third, 5-4. That brought Cano up again, and Wash called for the lefty Rapada, going straight by the book. Cano hadn't read the book, but singled to center, 5-5. Righty Holland for Marcus Thames, but he isn't much of a reader, either. Another single, and 6-5, Yankees.
Kerry Wood hadn't been in pinstripes long enough to understand everything about being a Yankee, so he walked Ian Kinsler leading off the 8th. After a couple more balls to Murphy, Dave Eiland came out to remind Wood to look at his uniform. So the former Cub phenom promptly picked off a brain-frozen Kinsler and moved through the rest of his inning, leaving the ninth as easy pickings for The Great Rivera.
So, the Yankees are the Yankees.
And the Rangers will be very fortunate to avoid a sweep after tonight's game.
Monday, September 20, 2010
A Very Difficult Four Days
We were at AutoZone Park, worried only about the score of the Redbirds game against Tacoma in Game 3 of the PCL Final. My phone rang, and it was my brother. Our uncle, Bill, had gone into cardiac arrest, and the doctors were not giving any hope of getting him back.
Before we could get to the hospital, he was gone. While he had been an insulin-dependent diabetic since age 2, he was only 55. He had married just 14 months ago, and now, Teresa was a widow. And in my mother's family, just as happened in my father's family a few years ago, the baby had died first.
We gathered at Memorial Park last night for the visitation. Then, today, the funeral was held at Aldersgate UMC, where Bill and Teresa married in the summer of 2009. Finally, he was laid to rest at Memorial Park, just five feet from his parents, the people who had saved his life, and pointed him to the life he enjoys today.
Bill was just six years older than me. He was 11 years younger than his next sibling. He always seemed more a part of the generation with my brother, sister and me than that of my mother and other uncles. Bill only beat me into the family by two years. He was adopted by my grandparents when he was four. He had come to live with them at 2; at 4 he came in one night to my grandfather's room and asked if he could become a Fisher. The adoption process started the next day.
Bill was funny. He was brilliant. He was passionate about life. And given the work that my grandparents did in teaching their adopted son what it means to be chosen, he committed his life to ministry. He understood fully that just as he was chosen to be part of his family, so does God choose us all to be part of God's family. He needed to communicate that opportunity to other people. He did it in a variety of ministry settings, from running our Conference camp, to serving as pastor to the poor and elderly in our retirement homes, to the Singles ministry at our largest church, to all of his more traditional assignments as pastor of several churches in the West Ohio Conference, as well as here, at home, in West Tennessee and western Kentucky.
Please keep Teresa in your prayers, and my mom and uncles. And all the people whose lives Bill touched as pastor and bearer of God's good news.
Before we could get to the hospital, he was gone. While he had been an insulin-dependent diabetic since age 2, he was only 55. He had married just 14 months ago, and now, Teresa was a widow. And in my mother's family, just as happened in my father's family a few years ago, the baby had died first.
We gathered at Memorial Park last night for the visitation. Then, today, the funeral was held at Aldersgate UMC, where Bill and Teresa married in the summer of 2009. Finally, he was laid to rest at Memorial Park, just five feet from his parents, the people who had saved his life, and pointed him to the life he enjoys today.
Bill was just six years older than me. He was 11 years younger than his next sibling. He always seemed more a part of the generation with my brother, sister and me than that of my mother and other uncles. Bill only beat me into the family by two years. He was adopted by my grandparents when he was four. He had come to live with them at 2; at 4 he came in one night to my grandfather's room and asked if he could become a Fisher. The adoption process started the next day.
Bill was funny. He was brilliant. He was passionate about life. And given the work that my grandparents did in teaching their adopted son what it means to be chosen, he committed his life to ministry. He understood fully that just as he was chosen to be part of his family, so does God choose us all to be part of God's family. He needed to communicate that opportunity to other people. He did it in a variety of ministry settings, from running our Conference camp, to serving as pastor to the poor and elderly in our retirement homes, to the Singles ministry at our largest church, to all of his more traditional assignments as pastor of several churches in the West Ohio Conference, as well as here, at home, in West Tennessee and western Kentucky.
Please keep Teresa in your prayers, and my mom and uncles. And all the people whose lives Bill touched as pastor and bearer of God's good news.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
New Rules for Hiking, Mountaineering and Protesting
OK now, boys and girls, please pay attention. Circumstances have now necessitated a new set of rules for those among us who continue to choose inappropriate neighborhoods for our hiking, inappropriate seasons for our mountain climbing, and want to be able to protest anywhere in the world like we were at home in the good ol' USA.
1. Sarah Shourd is, as of this writing, in Oman. She has been released by Iran. She was arrested for being in Iran. During a hike. By my rule, she's the last one. From now on, if you decide to hike in Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea or any other such site on God's Green Earth, then we, the sane portion of the American people, will recognize that you have a bizarre need for attention, that you are willing to risk anything-including death-to get that attention, and we will allow you to pursue it. But don't expect anybody to come get you. No diplomats will waste their time and our money, no military excursion will be mounted at the risk of the lives of military personnel. You hike in Iran, your booty belongs to Iran, have a nice day.
Prior to your departure, backpack in hand, for the Persian Gulf, you might consider the Appalachian Trail, the Rocky Mountains, the Sierra Nevadas, or any other number of exquisite places within the bounds of the United States of America, where you will not be arrested by a totalitarian regime, regardless of what Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck say.
2. New rule #2. It is cold in the winter. On tall mountains, at great elevations, it is even colder in the winter. Do not plan your mountain climb in those months. Understand? Every year now, a certain number of geniuses choose to mount their expeditions at precisely the time that will be the most likely to leave them stranded and in peril for their lives. Some of them even include spouse and children in these lame-brained stunts. OK. I guess that's one of those rights to stupidity guaranteed by our great Constitution. But from now on, you're on your own. You go up there in January, you better get your butt back down. Because we will not endanger the life of any fine park ranger, rescue personnel, National Guard member, or full-time military personnel. You want back-up? Make your climb in August. Then, if there is a problem, there will not likely be an avalanche involved in your rescue. Otherwise, it's been nice knowing you. And, again, if you include your kids in one of these cockamamie schemes, they will be taken from you, as you are, by definition, unfit to be around children, and unable to make decisions about their care.
3. Kim Jong Il don't give a rat's booty about your rights. You want to protest, you better do it here. You can go to Lafayette Park and march your hiney off. You can make a sign and hold it on Wall Street. You can cry out your message from most any street corner in America. But North Korea and some of those other fine countries listed above, well, they don't want to hear it. And if you try to bully your way into their little piece of heaven, you're going to jail. For a very long and hard time. And now, by rule, you're on your own. We will no longer ask the (nearly) 86 year old former President Jimmy Carter to travel to the other side of the world to bail your stupid ass out of a mess of your own creation. Doesn't an 86 year old Nobel Prize winner have better things to do than apologize to a bunch of wingnuts to bail you out for being stupid? Don't want to be in a North Korean jail? Don't go to North Korea. Stand in front of our Capitol, make a great big sign, scream your head off about the injustices of their way of doing business. But stay the heck out of their territory. Because they will flush you and never remember having been in the bathroom.
These few rule changes will encourage a handful of our countrywomen and men to make more informed and much more intelligent decisions about their behavior in the world, and you're welcome! Glad to be able to help.
And check back in a couple of days for the new rules that will govern those who choose to interact inappropriately with wild animals. Got some changes coming there, too.
1. Sarah Shourd is, as of this writing, in Oman. She has been released by Iran. She was arrested for being in Iran. During a hike. By my rule, she's the last one. From now on, if you decide to hike in Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea or any other such site on God's Green Earth, then we, the sane portion of the American people, will recognize that you have a bizarre need for attention, that you are willing to risk anything-including death-to get that attention, and we will allow you to pursue it. But don't expect anybody to come get you. No diplomats will waste their time and our money, no military excursion will be mounted at the risk of the lives of military personnel. You hike in Iran, your booty belongs to Iran, have a nice day.
Prior to your departure, backpack in hand, for the Persian Gulf, you might consider the Appalachian Trail, the Rocky Mountains, the Sierra Nevadas, or any other number of exquisite places within the bounds of the United States of America, where you will not be arrested by a totalitarian regime, regardless of what Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck say.
2. New rule #2. It is cold in the winter. On tall mountains, at great elevations, it is even colder in the winter. Do not plan your mountain climb in those months. Understand? Every year now, a certain number of geniuses choose to mount their expeditions at precisely the time that will be the most likely to leave them stranded and in peril for their lives. Some of them even include spouse and children in these lame-brained stunts. OK. I guess that's one of those rights to stupidity guaranteed by our great Constitution. But from now on, you're on your own. You go up there in January, you better get your butt back down. Because we will not endanger the life of any fine park ranger, rescue personnel, National Guard member, or full-time military personnel. You want back-up? Make your climb in August. Then, if there is a problem, there will not likely be an avalanche involved in your rescue. Otherwise, it's been nice knowing you. And, again, if you include your kids in one of these cockamamie schemes, they will be taken from you, as you are, by definition, unfit to be around children, and unable to make decisions about their care.
3. Kim Jong Il don't give a rat's booty about your rights. You want to protest, you better do it here. You can go to Lafayette Park and march your hiney off. You can make a sign and hold it on Wall Street. You can cry out your message from most any street corner in America. But North Korea and some of those other fine countries listed above, well, they don't want to hear it. And if you try to bully your way into their little piece of heaven, you're going to jail. For a very long and hard time. And now, by rule, you're on your own. We will no longer ask the (nearly) 86 year old former President Jimmy Carter to travel to the other side of the world to bail your stupid ass out of a mess of your own creation. Doesn't an 86 year old Nobel Prize winner have better things to do than apologize to a bunch of wingnuts to bail you out for being stupid? Don't want to be in a North Korean jail? Don't go to North Korea. Stand in front of our Capitol, make a great big sign, scream your head off about the injustices of their way of doing business. But stay the heck out of their territory. Because they will flush you and never remember having been in the bathroom.
These few rule changes will encourage a handful of our countrywomen and men to make more informed and much more intelligent decisions about their behavior in the world, and you're welcome! Glad to be able to help.
And check back in a couple of days for the new rules that will govern those who choose to interact inappropriately with wild animals. Got some changes coming there, too.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
On the Burning of Qu'rans
So some nobody "pastor" of a nobody, nondenominational "church" in Florida with a total of a reported 50 adherents wants to "draw a line" and burn the holy book of Islam. Responses from your poor blogger:
1. Why is the press paying any attention to this buffoon? Regardless of the choices of my local tv stations, the robbery of a Dollar General store somewhere in Oklahoma is not news in Memphis, and neither is some goof who's clearly staging a stunt to garner attention that his efforts at "ministry" haven't been able to get him. Why not give the book burner's time to the homeless man who walks up and down Summer Ave. everyday, talking to someone the rest of us can't see? They are operating on pretty much the same plane.
2. Apparently "Pastor" Terry Jones (and he isn't the Monty Python genius, or any other sort, for that matter) is not conversant with the Christian scriptures he claims to defend. Either that, or he really wants someone out there to burn a bunch of Bibles. (See the whole "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" thing.)
3. I'm tired of living in a world of Jerry Springer's making. Only in Springer-World can a toothless Alabaman sharing a bedroom in his trailer with his wife, her sister, his sister and a goat be presented on stage as the equal of a psychologist. Well, there, and on the average network newscast. And, now, in presenting Jones as anyone with the intelligence, education, tradition or vision to speak for Christianity. Baseball broadcasters have the good sense to never put on tv those who are either drunk or crazy enough to run out on the field during a game. Because showing them would only encourage other drunks and nuts. News people should only be so bright.
4. I'm tired of this crap and I'm going to bed. To quote Keith Olbermann, "Good night and good luck."
1. Why is the press paying any attention to this buffoon? Regardless of the choices of my local tv stations, the robbery of a Dollar General store somewhere in Oklahoma is not news in Memphis, and neither is some goof who's clearly staging a stunt to garner attention that his efforts at "ministry" haven't been able to get him. Why not give the book burner's time to the homeless man who walks up and down Summer Ave. everyday, talking to someone the rest of us can't see? They are operating on pretty much the same plane.
2. Apparently "Pastor" Terry Jones (and he isn't the Monty Python genius, or any other sort, for that matter) is not conversant with the Christian scriptures he claims to defend. Either that, or he really wants someone out there to burn a bunch of Bibles. (See the whole "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" thing.)
3. I'm tired of living in a world of Jerry Springer's making. Only in Springer-World can a toothless Alabaman sharing a bedroom in his trailer with his wife, her sister, his sister and a goat be presented on stage as the equal of a psychologist. Well, there, and on the average network newscast. And, now, in presenting Jones as anyone with the intelligence, education, tradition or vision to speak for Christianity. Baseball broadcasters have the good sense to never put on tv those who are either drunk or crazy enough to run out on the field during a game. Because showing them would only encourage other drunks and nuts. News people should only be so bright.
4. I'm tired of this crap and I'm going to bed. To quote Keith Olbermann, "Good night and good luck."
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
He was a Mighty Man, Dead and Gone...
Most of the attention paid in these parts to any departed musician tends to focus on August 16, Whitehaven, and peculiar things like candlelight vigils. Please pardon a minority report.
On August 15th of last year, James Luther Dickinson died of complications following heart surgery. Jim was the Godfather, the soul, the heart of Memphis music. Judy Peiser dedicated this year's Memphis Music and Heritage Festival to Jim's memory. That's a start, in remembering this embodiment of what Memphis is all about, and why it matters.
Johnny Cash died on September 12, 2003. Johnny Cash was rock and roll, and Johnny was country. He was big and cool and strong, with a voice that sounded like the voice of God. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can ever take the place of Johnny Cash.
Warren Zevon died five days prior to Johnny Cash's death. Zevon was smart. He, too, brought an incredible cool to the table. Warren had a good time, even when he was dying. In his last television appearance, he encouraged David Letterman, and all the rest of us, to "enjoy every sandwich." Good advice, to this day.
This trio are way at the top of my list of musical heroes. I am eternally grateful for their work, that their recordings survive, and that their music guarantees Dickinson's chosen epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."
Rest well, my friends!
On August 15th of last year, James Luther Dickinson died of complications following heart surgery. Jim was the Godfather, the soul, the heart of Memphis music. Judy Peiser dedicated this year's Memphis Music and Heritage Festival to Jim's memory. That's a start, in remembering this embodiment of what Memphis is all about, and why it matters.
Johnny Cash died on September 12, 2003. Johnny Cash was rock and roll, and Johnny was country. He was big and cool and strong, with a voice that sounded like the voice of God. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, can ever take the place of Johnny Cash.
Warren Zevon died five days prior to Johnny Cash's death. Zevon was smart. He, too, brought an incredible cool to the table. Warren had a good time, even when he was dying. In his last television appearance, he encouraged David Letterman, and all the rest of us, to "enjoy every sandwich." Good advice, to this day.
This trio are way at the top of my list of musical heroes. I am eternally grateful for their work, that their recordings survive, and that their music guarantees Dickinson's chosen epitaph: "I'm just dead. I'm not gone."
Rest well, my friends!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Is the President a Christian?
Apparently it has been a slow news week, but attention has been paid to a Pew Research poll that found 18% of the American people generally, including 31% of Republicans, believe that Barack Obama is a Muslim.
The discussion surrounding the poll is much more interesting to me than the actual topic of the poll, but let's start with that subject.
Is the President of the United States a Muslim? I'm of two minds here.
First, who cares? When the time came to consider our Constitution over 200 years ago, there was a general outcry that the document would never be approved without an enumeration of certain rights that could not be denied to (given the ignorance of the time) white, male citizens. Over time, our forebears discovered the wisdom to extend these freedoms to all people. The first of those amendments made six sacred declarations: that the government would never be in the business of establishing a church or churches; that the government would never interfere in the rights of individuals to practice their religion; that people would be free to speak their minds; that the press would enjoy that same freedom; that people would be free to associate with whom they choose; and that the people could come to the government seeking justice when wronged. Each of these points is simple and clear. Read them sometime. The significance of the First Amendment for this discussion: It's none of your business or mine whether or not Obama has a religion, and if he does, what it is. That must necessarily be the response of any American citizen who takes our Constitution seriously. Anything less is, by definition, Unconstitutional, and therefore by definition, Un-American.
The second part of what chews on me about this is the arrogance of Obama's political opponents. The exemplary statesman, Sen. Mitch McConnell, was on Meet the Press this morning. Mediator David Gregory asked McConnell, the Senate Minority Leader, about the Pew Poll, wondering how such a misperception could arise. McConnell answered, "I have no idea." Really, Senator? I would have thought by this point that someone would have introduced a fine conservative such as yourself to Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and all of the other people who have committed their lives to convincing Amercans that Obama is lurking in their closets or under their beds, just waiting to get them like those childhood monsters that disappeard when the light was turned on. Disingenuous at best, Senator. A bald-faced lie, more likely.
McConnell went on to say, about his own opinion of Obama's faith, "I take the President at his word [that he is a Christian]." How noble. I'll tell you what, Senator, since you've been so generous with the President, then I'll take you at your word that you're a Christian, too. And I'll take Rush's word for it, too, although he's from Missouri, and just up the road from his hometown of Cape Girardeau, a Muslim father carried out an "honor killing" of his daughter for shaming the family. And, come to think of it, Rush just got married for the fourth time. Kind of violates that whole sanctity of Christian marriage being between one man and one woman (at a time?). (Whoever heard of a nearing-60 multi-millionaire suddenly feeling the need to marry a stunning blonde in her early 30's anyway?)
But I'll take your word, and Rush's, because that's all any of us can do. We take one another's word for it. You don't know what's in my heart, and I don't know what's in yours. But here's what I do know: You and/or I deny a brother or sister in Christ at our own peril.
Whether or not any person is a Christian or not is, ultimately, between that person and God. Again, meddle in that at your own peril. Deny a brother or sister in Christ at your own peril. You might Google "Bible, Jesus, Millstone" and see what you come up with. Read it carefully. And then share with 31% of the Republicans what you find.
The discussion surrounding the poll is much more interesting to me than the actual topic of the poll, but let's start with that subject.
Is the President of the United States a Muslim? I'm of two minds here.
First, who cares? When the time came to consider our Constitution over 200 years ago, there was a general outcry that the document would never be approved without an enumeration of certain rights that could not be denied to (given the ignorance of the time) white, male citizens. Over time, our forebears discovered the wisdom to extend these freedoms to all people. The first of those amendments made six sacred declarations: that the government would never be in the business of establishing a church or churches; that the government would never interfere in the rights of individuals to practice their religion; that people would be free to speak their minds; that the press would enjoy that same freedom; that people would be free to associate with whom they choose; and that the people could come to the government seeking justice when wronged. Each of these points is simple and clear. Read them sometime. The significance of the First Amendment for this discussion: It's none of your business or mine whether or not Obama has a religion, and if he does, what it is. That must necessarily be the response of any American citizen who takes our Constitution seriously. Anything less is, by definition, Unconstitutional, and therefore by definition, Un-American.
The second part of what chews on me about this is the arrogance of Obama's political opponents. The exemplary statesman, Sen. Mitch McConnell, was on Meet the Press this morning. Mediator David Gregory asked McConnell, the Senate Minority Leader, about the Pew Poll, wondering how such a misperception could arise. McConnell answered, "I have no idea." Really, Senator? I would have thought by this point that someone would have introduced a fine conservative such as yourself to Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and all of the other people who have committed their lives to convincing Amercans that Obama is lurking in their closets or under their beds, just waiting to get them like those childhood monsters that disappeard when the light was turned on. Disingenuous at best, Senator. A bald-faced lie, more likely.
McConnell went on to say, about his own opinion of Obama's faith, "I take the President at his word [that he is a Christian]." How noble. I'll tell you what, Senator, since you've been so generous with the President, then I'll take you at your word that you're a Christian, too. And I'll take Rush's word for it, too, although he's from Missouri, and just up the road from his hometown of Cape Girardeau, a Muslim father carried out an "honor killing" of his daughter for shaming the family. And, come to think of it, Rush just got married for the fourth time. Kind of violates that whole sanctity of Christian marriage being between one man and one woman (at a time?). (Whoever heard of a nearing-60 multi-millionaire suddenly feeling the need to marry a stunning blonde in her early 30's anyway?)
But I'll take your word, and Rush's, because that's all any of us can do. We take one another's word for it. You don't know what's in my heart, and I don't know what's in yours. But here's what I do know: You and/or I deny a brother or sister in Christ at our own peril.
Whether or not any person is a Christian or not is, ultimately, between that person and God. Again, meddle in that at your own peril. Deny a brother or sister in Christ at your own peril. You might Google "Bible, Jesus, Millstone" and see what you come up with. Read it carefully. And then share with 31% of the Republicans what you find.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
For a Reason?
"Everything happens for a reason."
This mindless statement has become extraordinarly fashionable as a catch-all for those moments when most of us have absolutely no idea what to say. It is usually attached to some equally mindless palaver about "God's Plan" or some such idiocy. Most of the time, thinking people are gracious enough to allow the stupidity to go unchallenged, although there are times when it is utterly painful to let it pass.
Here's a newsflash, boys and girls: there is, indeed, a reason for everything. It is not, however, the same reason for everything. Let's consider a couple of examples.
A child is born, mother and child both emerge healthy, the child is loved, provided for in every way, and grows to adulthood well in the care of a church family? Indeed, the grace of God is at work, and God's intention has been fulfilled. A child is born, only to die, suffocated by his mother? How about two children, for good measure? (If you've been in a cave, this happened, in our country, earlier this week) Yeah, there's a reason for this. A human being, operating under whatever set of circumstances that will be presented in court as a defense, did an evil, evil thing. Don't blame this on God. The God I know was disregarded totally on this one.
A person makes mistakes in life. Becomes substance-dependent. "Comes to himself" as Jesus said in the Prodigal's story. Asks for help, finds it, and proceeds to live a redeemed life? Again, God's grace on display, available to all. Another person, substance-dependent, comes to himself and asks for help. But he's unemployed, has no insurance, and cannot get a placement for care, and that, after appeals for help to both of the prominent church-named hospitals in the community? Not God's fault! God was not considered in this; a throw-away person was, simply, thrown away. This is not God's Plan, God's intention, or in any way an expression of God's presence in the world.
These are both very small examples, nothing on the scale of the Holocaust, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, Stalin's purges or the Rwandan genocide of the last decade. Or, for that matter, any of the evil that you and I encounter and wrestle with on a daily basis, inflicted by petty, evil people who are determined to abuse and destroy and abandon? I would never, ever, consider working for a God who would include such circumstances in his/her "Plan" and neither would you.
So, how about a little more honesty and integrity? The next time we feel "There's a reason for everything" or "It's part of God's Plan" or any such horse excrement, about to escape our lips, decide, instead, to tell the truth: "I don't know what to say, but I love you, I believe God does, and God and I are here." Because that's actually God's plan for us to care for one another.
This mindless statement has become extraordinarly fashionable as a catch-all for those moments when most of us have absolutely no idea what to say. It is usually attached to some equally mindless palaver about "God's Plan" or some such idiocy. Most of the time, thinking people are gracious enough to allow the stupidity to go unchallenged, although there are times when it is utterly painful to let it pass.
Here's a newsflash, boys and girls: there is, indeed, a reason for everything. It is not, however, the same reason for everything. Let's consider a couple of examples.
A child is born, mother and child both emerge healthy, the child is loved, provided for in every way, and grows to adulthood well in the care of a church family? Indeed, the grace of God is at work, and God's intention has been fulfilled. A child is born, only to die, suffocated by his mother? How about two children, for good measure? (If you've been in a cave, this happened, in our country, earlier this week) Yeah, there's a reason for this. A human being, operating under whatever set of circumstances that will be presented in court as a defense, did an evil, evil thing. Don't blame this on God. The God I know was disregarded totally on this one.
A person makes mistakes in life. Becomes substance-dependent. "Comes to himself" as Jesus said in the Prodigal's story. Asks for help, finds it, and proceeds to live a redeemed life? Again, God's grace on display, available to all. Another person, substance-dependent, comes to himself and asks for help. But he's unemployed, has no insurance, and cannot get a placement for care, and that, after appeals for help to both of the prominent church-named hospitals in the community? Not God's fault! God was not considered in this; a throw-away person was, simply, thrown away. This is not God's Plan, God's intention, or in any way an expression of God's presence in the world.
These are both very small examples, nothing on the scale of the Holocaust, the Killing Fields of the Khmer Rouge, Stalin's purges or the Rwandan genocide of the last decade. Or, for that matter, any of the evil that you and I encounter and wrestle with on a daily basis, inflicted by petty, evil people who are determined to abuse and destroy and abandon? I would never, ever, consider working for a God who would include such circumstances in his/her "Plan" and neither would you.
So, how about a little more honesty and integrity? The next time we feel "There's a reason for everything" or "It's part of God's Plan" or any such horse excrement, about to escape our lips, decide, instead, to tell the truth: "I don't know what to say, but I love you, I believe God does, and God and I are here." Because that's actually God's plan for us to care for one another.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Excuses or Explanations, the Truth is the Truth
After the games of Sunday, August 15, the Boston Red Sox are 67-52, the fifth best record in the American League. They are third in the AL East, trailing the first place MFYs by six games (seven in the loss column), and the Wild Card leading Tampa Bay Rays by five games (six in the loss column).
Here's a quick trip around the diamond.
Catchers: Victor Martinez, 4 time AL All-Star
Jason Varitek, 3 time AL All-Star
First Base: Kevin Youkilis, 2 time AL All-Star, 2008 Hank Aaron Award, best AL hitter
Mike Lowell, 4 time All-Star, 2007 World Series Most Valuable Player
Second Base: Dustin Pedroia, 3 time AL All-Star, 2007 AL ROY, 2008 AL MVP
Short Stop: Marco Scutaro
OF: Jacoby Ellsbury, Franchise single season stolen base record holder
Mike Cameron, 1 time All-Star, 3 time Gold Glove winner
Pitchers: Hideki Okajima, 1 time All-Star, 8th inning set-up specialist
Josh Beckett, 2 time All-Star, 2007 ALCS MVP
These players have all spent significant time this season on the Disabled List, with Youkilis and Cameron being lost for the season. Only 3b Adrian Beltre, DH David Ortiz, and (ironically) RF JD Drew among the everyday players have avoided the DL this season, and Papi forgot how to hit in April.
The fact that the Sox are still in contention is a miracle, and points to only one thing: Terry Francona is the Manager of the Year in the American League.
Here's a quick trip around the diamond.
Catchers: Victor Martinez, 4 time AL All-Star
Jason Varitek, 3 time AL All-Star
First Base: Kevin Youkilis, 2 time AL All-Star, 2008 Hank Aaron Award, best AL hitter
Mike Lowell, 4 time All-Star, 2007 World Series Most Valuable Player
Second Base: Dustin Pedroia, 3 time AL All-Star, 2007 AL ROY, 2008 AL MVP
Short Stop: Marco Scutaro
OF: Jacoby Ellsbury, Franchise single season stolen base record holder
Mike Cameron, 1 time All-Star, 3 time Gold Glove winner
Pitchers: Hideki Okajima, 1 time All-Star, 8th inning set-up specialist
Josh Beckett, 2 time All-Star, 2007 ALCS MVP
These players have all spent significant time this season on the Disabled List, with Youkilis and Cameron being lost for the season. Only 3b Adrian Beltre, DH David Ortiz, and (ironically) RF JD Drew among the everyday players have avoided the DL this season, and Papi forgot how to hit in April.
The fact that the Sox are still in contention is a miracle, and points to only one thing: Terry Francona is the Manager of the Year in the American League.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Guided by Gibby
In 1967 Cardinals' Hall of Famer pitcher Bob Gibson suffered a broken leg when he was struck by a ball off the bat of Roberto Clemente. Gibby was never known to be the most patient man. One legendary story about Gibson's on-field disposition finds catcher Tim McCarver being dispatched by manager Red Schoendienst to go to the mound and talk to Gibson during an opponent's rally. As McCarver tells it, he got a couple of steps toward the mound only to hear Gibson bellow, "What the hell are you doing?" McCarver told his pitcher of the manager's instructions. "Get back behind the plate," came the answer. "The only thing you know about pitching is that you can't hit it."
As you might guess, Gibson quickly tired in the summer of 1967 of being questioned repeatedly by reporters about his injury. Finally, he made a small sign that he taped to his shirt. On the sign:
"1. Yes, it is off." (meaning his cast)
"2. No, it doesn't hurt."
"3. I don't know how much longer." (before he could pitch again)
I have developed a better understanding of Gibson's frustration in the last month than I ever had before. The questions have been frequent and awfully repetitive. I don't have a sign (yet), but if I did, here are the answers:
1. No, I don't know who I ticked off.
2. Yes, it hurts a great deal.
3. No, I'm not sure how we'll manage.
4. No, thank you, I haven't been accused of anything.
5. No, I don't think you can be embarrassed unless you worry about the opinions of people whose opinions don't matter.
I am grateful for the well-wishes of a few kind people; less so of those who also stop on the interstate to gawk at the crash victims. I wish I had better answers. I wish even more that I didn't need them.
As you might guess, Gibson quickly tired in the summer of 1967 of being questioned repeatedly by reporters about his injury. Finally, he made a small sign that he taped to his shirt. On the sign:
"1. Yes, it is off." (meaning his cast)
"2. No, it doesn't hurt."
"3. I don't know how much longer." (before he could pitch again)
I have developed a better understanding of Gibson's frustration in the last month than I ever had before. The questions have been frequent and awfully repetitive. I don't have a sign (yet), but if I did, here are the answers:
1. No, I don't know who I ticked off.
2. Yes, it hurts a great deal.
3. No, I'm not sure how we'll manage.
4. No, thank you, I haven't been accused of anything.
5. No, I don't think you can be embarrassed unless you worry about the opinions of people whose opinions don't matter.
I am grateful for the well-wishes of a few kind people; less so of those who also stop on the interstate to gawk at the crash victims. I wish I had better answers. I wish even more that I didn't need them.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Remembrance of Things Past?
The whole clan, very nearly, spent a glorious week in Gulf Shores, enjoying a spectacular house, the gorgeous white sand beach a few steps out our back door, and the wondrous water of the Gulf of Mexico. From the Saturday prior to Memorial Day until the Friday after, we had an incredible week, courtesy of my parents. (All anyone needs to know about my parents: Dad, his sister, and the heirs of their late sisters sold Granny and Granddaddy's farm a few months ago, and he and Mom decided to spend a fair chunk of their part of the proceeds taking all of us on this trip. A lot of people do a lot of lip service to the value of family; my parents have always and invariably put their money where others only put their words.)
Dancing Baby provided a great deal of the entertainment to the whole crowd. My younger niece seemed to have been singled out for particular attention from the 16-month-old. Alie must have heard her named called several million times on this trip, but she never showed anything but good humor and patience with her littlest cousin. DB's uncle has been away at college for most of her life, so she's been a bit hesitant with him. At least prior to the trip. Bubba, as she named him, took her out into the Big Water, where Granddaddy and Grandmommie were only willing to go along the edge of the water. Bubba is now a god on the Dancing Baby scale. So is Emmie, for the same reason. These poor old people who won't venture out, well, DB was patient, but the feelings were clear. Bubba and Emmie are where it's at!
Tacey was the partner for the never-ending "Uh-oh Game." You know the one: the hair band/bracelet/spoon/whatever is at hand is "accidently" dropped, again and again and again and again, with the requisite "Uh-oh" from Dancing Baby, to see how many times the playing partner will pick the darned thing up. Tacey is a very good, very kind, very patient partner for the "Uh-oh Game." Bike-a-Bike (DB's version of Mike-a-Mike, my brother's name since DB's mom was 2 1/2) taught DB how to build sand castles, and that was the least of the challenge. Just getting her to sit down in the sand (she shares her grandfather's aversion to sand) was a major accomplishment! We, and by we I mean DB, fed the deer at the little Gulf Shores Zoo. We looked, unsuccessfully, for alligators along the nature walk; checked out the fish on the walls in all the restaurants; listened to the musicians at the West Beach Grille; had DB's first encounter with flying food at Lambert's Cafe.
It was an utterly delightful week, and something we hadn't all done together since my kids were little.
That was from Saturday to Friday.
On the second Saturday, going home day, we awoke to look out at dark stains on the beach. The Deepwater Horizon oil spill had reached Gulf Shores.
We knew it was coming, and, yes, we hoped it wouldn't arrive until we were gone. But it still hurt my heart to think that Dancing Baby could well be in her mid-teens (at least) before the beaches and the Gulf would look again like they looked during our visit. As little use as I have for sand, the Redneck Riviera has been a big part of our family's life, just as for southerners from all over. And if it is a loss to us, just visitors to the area, what of the people who live there? We had the beach to ourselves on several days of our trip, in the early days of June. I'd never seen that before. People were cancelling trips even before the oil arrived on the beach. Nobody will book now that it has hit.
Will BP pay the waitstaffs who will be laid off when the restaurants close? What about the people hired to clean the rental properties that won't need cleaning? How about the properties that will be foreclosed upon, as there will not be nearly enough income to meet the mortgages? How can the fishermen be made whole? We've all seen the pictures of the pelicans and other creatures who depend on oil-free water to live and thrive. How do we fix that? They can't cash checks.
I don't understand how this happened. And I don't mean the spill. How do we still allow corporations to destroy the world around us, unregulated, unaccountable and unrepentant? Is it alright for the Gulf to be turned into a toilet, with the oil and the chemicals from the dispersants? What of the plumes of oil still underwater and drifting?
I can still see my granddaughter standing at the edge of the Big Water, her face declaring the joy in her heart at seeing such a thing. At least she was spared knowing that she may never see that sight in the same way ever again.
And pretty much the only thing that's getting reported today: BP's stock is down a fraction of a point. Their assets should have been seized immediately after the pipe started spewing oil into the Gulf, as has become our practice with other terrorists. Instead, BP will, of course, declare bankruptcy, so they won't have to pay a nickel to the millions of people whose lives they have destroyed.
And they will never even apologize to the little girls and boys who will never have the experience that has been so important to families all across the south.
Dancing Baby provided a great deal of the entertainment to the whole crowd. My younger niece seemed to have been singled out for particular attention from the 16-month-old. Alie must have heard her named called several million times on this trip, but she never showed anything but good humor and patience with her littlest cousin. DB's uncle has been away at college for most of her life, so she's been a bit hesitant with him. At least prior to the trip. Bubba, as she named him, took her out into the Big Water, where Granddaddy and Grandmommie were only willing to go along the edge of the water. Bubba is now a god on the Dancing Baby scale. So is Emmie, for the same reason. These poor old people who won't venture out, well, DB was patient, but the feelings were clear. Bubba and Emmie are where it's at!
Tacey was the partner for the never-ending "Uh-oh Game." You know the one: the hair band/bracelet/spoon/whatever is at hand is "accidently" dropped, again and again and again and again, with the requisite "Uh-oh" from Dancing Baby, to see how many times the playing partner will pick the darned thing up. Tacey is a very good, very kind, very patient partner for the "Uh-oh Game." Bike-a-Bike (DB's version of Mike-a-Mike, my brother's name since DB's mom was 2 1/2) taught DB how to build sand castles, and that was the least of the challenge. Just getting her to sit down in the sand (she shares her grandfather's aversion to sand) was a major accomplishment! We, and by we I mean DB, fed the deer at the little Gulf Shores Zoo. We looked, unsuccessfully, for alligators along the nature walk; checked out the fish on the walls in all the restaurants; listened to the musicians at the West Beach Grille; had DB's first encounter with flying food at Lambert's Cafe.
It was an utterly delightful week, and something we hadn't all done together since my kids were little.
That was from Saturday to Friday.
On the second Saturday, going home day, we awoke to look out at dark stains on the beach. The Deepwater Horizon oil spill had reached Gulf Shores.
We knew it was coming, and, yes, we hoped it wouldn't arrive until we were gone. But it still hurt my heart to think that Dancing Baby could well be in her mid-teens (at least) before the beaches and the Gulf would look again like they looked during our visit. As little use as I have for sand, the Redneck Riviera has been a big part of our family's life, just as for southerners from all over. And if it is a loss to us, just visitors to the area, what of the people who live there? We had the beach to ourselves on several days of our trip, in the early days of June. I'd never seen that before. People were cancelling trips even before the oil arrived on the beach. Nobody will book now that it has hit.
Will BP pay the waitstaffs who will be laid off when the restaurants close? What about the people hired to clean the rental properties that won't need cleaning? How about the properties that will be foreclosed upon, as there will not be nearly enough income to meet the mortgages? How can the fishermen be made whole? We've all seen the pictures of the pelicans and other creatures who depend on oil-free water to live and thrive. How do we fix that? They can't cash checks.
I don't understand how this happened. And I don't mean the spill. How do we still allow corporations to destroy the world around us, unregulated, unaccountable and unrepentant? Is it alright for the Gulf to be turned into a toilet, with the oil and the chemicals from the dispersants? What of the plumes of oil still underwater and drifting?
I can still see my granddaughter standing at the edge of the Big Water, her face declaring the joy in her heart at seeing such a thing. At least she was spared knowing that she may never see that sight in the same way ever again.
And pretty much the only thing that's getting reported today: BP's stock is down a fraction of a point. Their assets should have been seized immediately after the pipe started spewing oil into the Gulf, as has become our practice with other terrorists. Instead, BP will, of course, declare bankruptcy, so they won't have to pay a nickel to the millions of people whose lives they have destroyed.
And they will never even apologize to the little girls and boys who will never have the experience that has been so important to families all across the south.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Disconnect
Superbly talented Florida Marlins' shortstop Hanley Ramirez has summed up the zeitgeist neatly. A day after totally dogging the retrieval of a ground ball that he had misplayed, being removed from the game by Marlins' manager Fredi Gonzalez, and being benched by Fredi for a couple days after, Ramirez shared his learnings from the whole experience: "He (Gonzalez) doesn't understand. He never played in the Major Leagues."
See, I'm now indebted to Hanley. I saw the highlights show review of the whole situation, and I thought I was seeing an immature, rich, catered-to young man having an unnecessary and unacceptable mistake brought to his attention. I just didn't understand that I was watching the persecution of the righteous by the ignorant. I remember sometime in 1997 watching Bobby Cox of the Braves pull Andruw Jones out of a game for nonchalanting a short fly ball into a game-losing triple. I thought Cox was helping Andruw grow up into a Major League player who could enjoy a productive 15 year career. Turns out, Cox was mistreating the poor baby. At least according to Hanley-Think.
But the truth is that Hanley Ramirez is in the shallow water when it comes to the "You just don't understand me, and can't possibly understand me, because you aren't fortunate enough to be me" way of looking at the world.
Pat Buchanan, considerably older than Mr. Ramirez, has announced that Elena Kagan is not acceptable for the Supreme Court because she is Jewish, and the rest of the court is made up of Catholics and Jews. The devoutly Catholic Mr. Buchanan is disturbed at his sudden discovery of the dearth of Protestants on the Court. Now, in my adult life, we've typically identified Court nominees by their abortion opinions. And your side doesn't want anyone from my side on it, and vice versa, because we, obviously, cannot communicate or understand one another about anything. I'd never been aware of the concern Pat Buchanan has for the spiritual descendents of Martin Luther and his colleagues, but good ol' Pat wants to make sure that we WASPish types have our representative on the Court.
Thanks, Pat, but I just don't feel that where somebody goes to church on their holy day, if they go at all, and if they observe any holy day at all, is the qualification I want to run to when considering Supreme Court nominees. Rather than understanding the theology of The United Methodist Church (Which is impossible, as we don't understand it ourselves; that's why we are perpetually studying and rewriting standards and policies and trying to turn ourselves into those "real" churches that have been around a whole lot longer than we have. Like Pat's. But I digress.), how about somebody that understands the law? Somebody who has given her/his life to the study of the law in America, how that law is to be applied, and what that old Constitution's about, anyway? Somebody like, oh, I don't know...a former Dean of the Harvard Law School?
As a citizen, I don't care where or if Elena Kagan goes to church, temple, mosque or whatever else is out there. I just want to know if she knows the law.
As for the rest, we used to have this thing called "Empathy."
Empathy was that human quality that let a more mature man, say, a Joe Torre, relate to a young bi-racial man, let's call him Derek Jeter, and help him get established as a Major League baseball player in the world's toughest media market.
Empathy was that human quality that let a judge like John Paul Stevens envision the circumstances of the young, the poor, the woman, and new immigrant, and anyone else that didn't match up molecule by molecule with a 90 year old man who has served on the Supreme Court since 1975.
Empathy was that quality that allowed Pope John XXIII to consider the plight of Catholics world-wide, still sitting in services every Sunday that were being conducted in Latin, which was understood by just about no one outside the clergy. His empathy led him to call for the Second Vatican Council, and start the process toward allowing people to actually understand the liturgy and homily they were faithfully attending.
Empathy was that quality that led Abraham Lincoln to look at the plight of the slave and know that the Peculiar Institution was wrong and had to end.
Empathy was what led Mother Teresa to care for the incurables.
It's what kept Nelson Mandela from treating the white South Africans during his Presidency the way black South Africans had been treated for generations when the white folks were running the show.
It's what caused my grandfather, a West Tennessee sharecropper trying to move out and up to his own farm, to cry upon the death of President Roosevelt, as aristocratic a President as this country shall ever know, because Granddaddy believed that Mr. Roosevelt was on his side.
Empathy is what enables us to see beyond ourselves and our own limited experience to know something of the lives and experiences of the other people who make up this world.
And Empathy is sorely lacking in our divided, angry, frustrated world. And that lack is revealed in every Hanley Ramirez, Pat Buchanan, Tea Party, terrorist, you and me, whenever we lack the will, the energy, the time or the desire to try to grasp the reality of anyone's life but our own.
See, I'm now indebted to Hanley. I saw the highlights show review of the whole situation, and I thought I was seeing an immature, rich, catered-to young man having an unnecessary and unacceptable mistake brought to his attention. I just didn't understand that I was watching the persecution of the righteous by the ignorant. I remember sometime in 1997 watching Bobby Cox of the Braves pull Andruw Jones out of a game for nonchalanting a short fly ball into a game-losing triple. I thought Cox was helping Andruw grow up into a Major League player who could enjoy a productive 15 year career. Turns out, Cox was mistreating the poor baby. At least according to Hanley-Think.
But the truth is that Hanley Ramirez is in the shallow water when it comes to the "You just don't understand me, and can't possibly understand me, because you aren't fortunate enough to be me" way of looking at the world.
Pat Buchanan, considerably older than Mr. Ramirez, has announced that Elena Kagan is not acceptable for the Supreme Court because she is Jewish, and the rest of the court is made up of Catholics and Jews. The devoutly Catholic Mr. Buchanan is disturbed at his sudden discovery of the dearth of Protestants on the Court. Now, in my adult life, we've typically identified Court nominees by their abortion opinions. And your side doesn't want anyone from my side on it, and vice versa, because we, obviously, cannot communicate or understand one another about anything. I'd never been aware of the concern Pat Buchanan has for the spiritual descendents of Martin Luther and his colleagues, but good ol' Pat wants to make sure that we WASPish types have our representative on the Court.
Thanks, Pat, but I just don't feel that where somebody goes to church on their holy day, if they go at all, and if they observe any holy day at all, is the qualification I want to run to when considering Supreme Court nominees. Rather than understanding the theology of The United Methodist Church (Which is impossible, as we don't understand it ourselves; that's why we are perpetually studying and rewriting standards and policies and trying to turn ourselves into those "real" churches that have been around a whole lot longer than we have. Like Pat's. But I digress.), how about somebody that understands the law? Somebody who has given her/his life to the study of the law in America, how that law is to be applied, and what that old Constitution's about, anyway? Somebody like, oh, I don't know...a former Dean of the Harvard Law School?
As a citizen, I don't care where or if Elena Kagan goes to church, temple, mosque or whatever else is out there. I just want to know if she knows the law.
As for the rest, we used to have this thing called "Empathy."
Empathy was that human quality that let a more mature man, say, a Joe Torre, relate to a young bi-racial man, let's call him Derek Jeter, and help him get established as a Major League baseball player in the world's toughest media market.
Empathy was that human quality that let a judge like John Paul Stevens envision the circumstances of the young, the poor, the woman, and new immigrant, and anyone else that didn't match up molecule by molecule with a 90 year old man who has served on the Supreme Court since 1975.
Empathy was that quality that allowed Pope John XXIII to consider the plight of Catholics world-wide, still sitting in services every Sunday that were being conducted in Latin, which was understood by just about no one outside the clergy. His empathy led him to call for the Second Vatican Council, and start the process toward allowing people to actually understand the liturgy and homily they were faithfully attending.
Empathy was that quality that led Abraham Lincoln to look at the plight of the slave and know that the Peculiar Institution was wrong and had to end.
Empathy was what led Mother Teresa to care for the incurables.
It's what kept Nelson Mandela from treating the white South Africans during his Presidency the way black South Africans had been treated for generations when the white folks were running the show.
It's what caused my grandfather, a West Tennessee sharecropper trying to move out and up to his own farm, to cry upon the death of President Roosevelt, as aristocratic a President as this country shall ever know, because Granddaddy believed that Mr. Roosevelt was on his side.
Empathy is what enables us to see beyond ourselves and our own limited experience to know something of the lives and experiences of the other people who make up this world.
And Empathy is sorely lacking in our divided, angry, frustrated world. And that lack is revealed in every Hanley Ramirez, Pat Buchanan, Tea Party, terrorist, you and me, whenever we lack the will, the energy, the time or the desire to try to grasp the reality of anyone's life but our own.
Friday, April 30, 2010
No Fool Like an Old Preacher Fool
People in my line of work have, generally speaking, a bizarre fetish. No, not the Bakker/Swaggert one. Or the one the Pope tried to cover up. There is, however, a deep, entrenched, time-honored notion among many that if you can come up with a few pieces of information that in a very few weeks are going to be published openly in the church's version of Pravda, then you...what? Win something? Should be a detective? Are the smartest person in the room? What? (for starters, participants in the fetish should heed the words of Hall of Fame baseball writer Peter Gammons: "I don't care about being first; I just care about being right)
Those pieces of information are, and I kid you not, where the preachers will be assigned for the new year. I don't get that. In the first place, who has time to go around chasing this alleged treasure? In the second place, who cares? Because, as I mentioned above, in about six or seven weeks, it will all be very publicly published!
Usually this fetish is played out in coffee cliques spread around throughout the conference. Typically it is harmless, just shop-talk among people who don't know enough about anything else to carry on a normal conversation. Occasionally, it has become malicious. There are even stories that have circulated about people using their discoveries to sabotage colleagues, which is pretty sick, to state the obvious.
My course in life has generally left me out of these types of speculations. My assignments haven't been interesting enough to generate conversation. Hooray for me. One night recently, however, my daughter came in and said she had seen one of my retired colleagues. One we've known forever. One known to be a bloodhound-type loudmouth when on the track of some insignificant piece of SOON TO BE PUBLISHED INFORMATION. He slithered up to my daughter and asked, "Where's your dad going?"
She did great. She told him she had no idea. He pushed and prodded for a couple more sleazy attempts at the nugget of gold. She finally just told him we don't discuss such things. Which was wonderful, because there are never, ever any secrets of significance between my children and me. I was completely and totally proud of her for her dealing with that old fool.
Because that's what he is.
And if, sir, you should ever happen up on this, and you know who you are just as I do, that's what you are. Maybe, especially in retirement, your life is so devoid of meaning that you have to spend all your time chasing down this utterly useless information. Have a big time, you dope! But if, in the future, you want to know something about me, call me. What do I care? I'll tell you what you're breathless to know. Just spare my children any display of your fetish! Why in the name of the God you pretend to serve do you need to show young people just how petty and stupid the clergy can be? Why would you pull back the curtain to reveal the sorriest part of the church to someone who's already got plenty of reason to be suspicious of it?
To amend the wise old saying, There truly is no fool like an old preacher fool!
Those pieces of information are, and I kid you not, where the preachers will be assigned for the new year. I don't get that. In the first place, who has time to go around chasing this alleged treasure? In the second place, who cares? Because, as I mentioned above, in about six or seven weeks, it will all be very publicly published!
Usually this fetish is played out in coffee cliques spread around throughout the conference. Typically it is harmless, just shop-talk among people who don't know enough about anything else to carry on a normal conversation. Occasionally, it has become malicious. There are even stories that have circulated about people using their discoveries to sabotage colleagues, which is pretty sick, to state the obvious.
My course in life has generally left me out of these types of speculations. My assignments haven't been interesting enough to generate conversation. Hooray for me. One night recently, however, my daughter came in and said she had seen one of my retired colleagues. One we've known forever. One known to be a bloodhound-type loudmouth when on the track of some insignificant piece of SOON TO BE PUBLISHED INFORMATION. He slithered up to my daughter and asked, "Where's your dad going?"
She did great. She told him she had no idea. He pushed and prodded for a couple more sleazy attempts at the nugget of gold. She finally just told him we don't discuss such things. Which was wonderful, because there are never, ever any secrets of significance between my children and me. I was completely and totally proud of her for her dealing with that old fool.
Because that's what he is.
And if, sir, you should ever happen up on this, and you know who you are just as I do, that's what you are. Maybe, especially in retirement, your life is so devoid of meaning that you have to spend all your time chasing down this utterly useless information. Have a big time, you dope! But if, in the future, you want to know something about me, call me. What do I care? I'll tell you what you're breathless to know. Just spare my children any display of your fetish! Why in the name of the God you pretend to serve do you need to show young people just how petty and stupid the clergy can be? Why would you pull back the curtain to reveal the sorriest part of the church to someone who's already got plenty of reason to be suspicious of it?
To amend the wise old saying, There truly is no fool like an old preacher fool!
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Changing of the Guard...Soon
There was a poignant moment in the telecast of tonight's Red Sox v. Rangers game. The camera caught David Ortiz and Tim Wakefield together. The two great players were in the dugout as Mike Lowell served as Designated Hitter and Clay Buchholz pitched.
With the signing of Adrian Beltre to play third this season, the Red Sox had announced to the world that they didn't want or need Mike Lowell anymore. They, indeed, had traded the former World Series MVP to the Texas Rangers, only to find the deal voided because Mikey's thumb needed ligament surgery. Now, not quite three weeks into the season, Lowell has supplanted Big Papi in the Sox' lineup.
43 year old Tim Wakefield, fresh off his first-ever All Star Game selection, was signed last winter to a two year contract. This should have provided more than ample opportunity to Wake to surpass Cy Young and Roger Clemens as the winningest pitcher in Red Sox history. Tim has 175 wins in a Sox jersey; Young and Clemens sit at 192. Seventeen wins in two years for a pitcher who has won 17, 10 and 11 in the seasons since his 40th birthday? No problem! Except that the Sox signed John Lackey, bringing the total of starting pitchers to six. And the Sox are clearly determined to keep Clay Buchholz in the majors this season.
Papi doesn't seem able to hit anymore. The Greatest Clutch Hitter in Red Sox history (quite a title for a player on a team that's had Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, Pudge, Rice, Lynn, Nomar, and a whole lot of other great hitters) has lost his batspeed, his knowledge of the strike zone, and, seemingly, his confidence.
So the unwanted Lowell plays, and Papi sits. With Wakefield.
The camera showed the two veterans together, Ortiz' arm draped around Wakefield's shoulder, Wake speaking and Ortiz in rapt attention.
I wish I could have heard that conversation. I suspect that I know a fair percentage of it. Things that neither of those consummate professionals will ever, ever say to anyone else. Things that each understands about the other's predicament. Things that are borne of frustration and demotion and humiliation. Things that come up when you're wondering, "Can I get this done anymore?"
I treasure each of those men. There would have been no 2004 without the two of them. No 2007, either. The Red Sox might well have continued as a moribund franchise had they not come along. They may very well have made it possible to persuade Schilling to come, and Manny to stay, and given Theo the courage to trade Nomar in the first place.
But time marches on.
And time can be so very cruel.
I hope Papi can find his swing, and I hope Wake gets his turns in the rotation. I want these old friends to continue forever, productive and effective.
It will all end sometime, and the NESN camera strongly suggested it won't be long, but I can still hope and root like hell for one more season of glory for two Champions who led the eternally-suffering Red Sox Nation to the Promised Land, not just once, but twice.
Come on, boys! I'm with you, and always will be! Calendar be damned!
With the signing of Adrian Beltre to play third this season, the Red Sox had announced to the world that they didn't want or need Mike Lowell anymore. They, indeed, had traded the former World Series MVP to the Texas Rangers, only to find the deal voided because Mikey's thumb needed ligament surgery. Now, not quite three weeks into the season, Lowell has supplanted Big Papi in the Sox' lineup.
43 year old Tim Wakefield, fresh off his first-ever All Star Game selection, was signed last winter to a two year contract. This should have provided more than ample opportunity to Wake to surpass Cy Young and Roger Clemens as the winningest pitcher in Red Sox history. Tim has 175 wins in a Sox jersey; Young and Clemens sit at 192. Seventeen wins in two years for a pitcher who has won 17, 10 and 11 in the seasons since his 40th birthday? No problem! Except that the Sox signed John Lackey, bringing the total of starting pitchers to six. And the Sox are clearly determined to keep Clay Buchholz in the majors this season.
Papi doesn't seem able to hit anymore. The Greatest Clutch Hitter in Red Sox history (quite a title for a player on a team that's had Teddy Ballgame, Yaz, Pudge, Rice, Lynn, Nomar, and a whole lot of other great hitters) has lost his batspeed, his knowledge of the strike zone, and, seemingly, his confidence.
So the unwanted Lowell plays, and Papi sits. With Wakefield.
The camera showed the two veterans together, Ortiz' arm draped around Wakefield's shoulder, Wake speaking and Ortiz in rapt attention.
I wish I could have heard that conversation. I suspect that I know a fair percentage of it. Things that neither of those consummate professionals will ever, ever say to anyone else. Things that each understands about the other's predicament. Things that are borne of frustration and demotion and humiliation. Things that come up when you're wondering, "Can I get this done anymore?"
I treasure each of those men. There would have been no 2004 without the two of them. No 2007, either. The Red Sox might well have continued as a moribund franchise had they not come along. They may very well have made it possible to persuade Schilling to come, and Manny to stay, and given Theo the courage to trade Nomar in the first place.
But time marches on.
And time can be so very cruel.
I hope Papi can find his swing, and I hope Wake gets his turns in the rotation. I want these old friends to continue forever, productive and effective.
It will all end sometime, and the NESN camera strongly suggested it won't be long, but I can still hope and root like hell for one more season of glory for two Champions who led the eternally-suffering Red Sox Nation to the Promised Land, not just once, but twice.
Come on, boys! I'm with you, and always will be! Calendar be damned!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Happy Thoughts
1. Reason enough for them Internets to exist: http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/
Roger Ebert's natural voice doesn't work any more, due to multiple bouts with cancer, but his writing is an excellent as always. The man is insightful and brilliant on a great many things beyond film.
2. Reason enough to carry hope for the old home town: http://ilovememphisblog.com/
Kerry Crawford is a young woman I've never met. Count me, however, a big fan. A young white person open about her love for Memphis! Who'd a thought? And if that's not enough, she's a member of the local Roller Derby team! Roller Derby, people!
3. Reasons enough to treasure raising the grandchild in Memphis: http://www.levittshell.org/
Free music series, including a day for kids, each May/June and September/October
http://www.southernfolklore.com/
Judy Peiser may not be God, but she's sure doing the Lord's work!
http://www.memphiszoo.org/home
Disregard the histrionics of the local dog trainer, and check out the treasure that is our zoo. I started going there when the elephants still had chains around their feet. How far things have come!
http://www.memphisbotanicgarden.com/index.cfm?section=12
The Botanic Garden (Goldsmith Gardens forever to those of us who still refer to Memphis State) has put its time, money and energy into a great place for children...in addition to feeding the koi!
http://www.dixon.org/
Need an object lesson on the beauty of God's creation for your little one? Pretty good place to begin teaching the value of art to the soul, as well.
http://www.hueyburger.com/music.cfm
Need a good, smokeless place for your Dancing Baby to discover the fun of live music? (Not to mention a great burger, to boot.)
4. Reason enough to keep an old-fashioned radio around: http://www.wevl.org/
Community radio, with as eclectic a playlist as you'll ever find anywhere.
5. Reason enough to carry some hope for the soul of the church: http://www.churchhealthcenter.org/
As we abandon the city, at least somebody's still trying to make a difference for the working poor and forgotten of the community.
6. Reason enough to enjoy summer: http://www.minorleaguebaseball.com/index.jsp?sid=t235
No, I can't explain why the Memphis Redbirds are in the Pacific Coast League. But hey, we won the PCL Championship last year!
7. Reason enough to enjoy some creativity: http://www.artsmemphis.org/
All the arts that are arts, right here in river city.
There, I did it. Seven happy thoughts.
Roger Ebert's natural voice doesn't work any more, due to multiple bouts with cancer, but his writing is an excellent as always. The man is insightful and brilliant on a great many things beyond film.
2. Reason enough to carry hope for the old home town: http://ilovememphisblog.com/
Kerry Crawford is a young woman I've never met. Count me, however, a big fan. A young white person open about her love for Memphis! Who'd a thought? And if that's not enough, she's a member of the local Roller Derby team! Roller Derby, people!
3. Reasons enough to treasure raising the grandchild in Memphis: http://www.levittshell.org/
Free music series, including a day for kids, each May/June and September/October
http://www.southernfolklore.com/
Judy Peiser may not be God, but she's sure doing the Lord's work!
http://www.memphiszoo.org/home
Disregard the histrionics of the local dog trainer, and check out the treasure that is our zoo. I started going there when the elephants still had chains around their feet. How far things have come!
http://www.memphisbotanicgarden.com/index.cfm?section=12
The Botanic Garden (Goldsmith Gardens forever to those of us who still refer to Memphis State) has put its time, money and energy into a great place for children...in addition to feeding the koi!
http://www.dixon.org/
Need an object lesson on the beauty of God's creation for your little one? Pretty good place to begin teaching the value of art to the soul, as well.
http://www.hueyburger.com/music.cfm
Need a good, smokeless place for your Dancing Baby to discover the fun of live music? (Not to mention a great burger, to boot.)
4. Reason enough to keep an old-fashioned radio around: http://www.wevl.org/
Community radio, with as eclectic a playlist as you'll ever find anywhere.
5. Reason enough to carry some hope for the soul of the church: http://www.churchhealthcenter.org/
As we abandon the city, at least somebody's still trying to make a difference for the working poor and forgotten of the community.
6. Reason enough to enjoy summer: http://www.minorleaguebaseball.com/index.jsp?sid=t235
No, I can't explain why the Memphis Redbirds are in the Pacific Coast League. But hey, we won the PCL Championship last year!
7. Reason enough to enjoy some creativity: http://www.artsmemphis.org/
All the arts that are arts, right here in river city.
There, I did it. Seven happy thoughts.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Things an Insomniac Just Doesn't Need
1. A beloved baseball team that does not wish to win its games.
2. A beloved granddaughter who is not required to take naps or go to bed for the night when visiting another grandparent, thus rendering her internal clock destroyed for the next four or five days.
3. A goodbye gift from the current Finance Committee. Try being told in the month when the IRS expects to be paid that the workplace will not pay your family's insurance for the quarter. Which brings the current workplace's theft of salary and benefits to $22,141.69, not to mention the salary promises and staff additions lied about prior to arrival.
4. Three months up in the air as to whether there will be a workable job available for the coming year.
5. Being told to "leave well" in the face of numbers 3 and 4 above. Huh?
6. Having three more sermons to preach on lectionary passages that can't be followed where they lead, due to number 5 above.
7. Having to face the wife and kids, two in college already and the other who wants and needs to be this fall, when the current income has never lived up to what was promised, and the next income is dropping like a rock.
Sleep tight!
2. A beloved granddaughter who is not required to take naps or go to bed for the night when visiting another grandparent, thus rendering her internal clock destroyed for the next four or five days.
3. A goodbye gift from the current Finance Committee. Try being told in the month when the IRS expects to be paid that the workplace will not pay your family's insurance for the quarter. Which brings the current workplace's theft of salary and benefits to $22,141.69, not to mention the salary promises and staff additions lied about prior to arrival.
4. Three months up in the air as to whether there will be a workable job available for the coming year.
5. Being told to "leave well" in the face of numbers 3 and 4 above. Huh?
6. Having three more sermons to preach on lectionary passages that can't be followed where they lead, due to number 5 above.
7. Having to face the wife and kids, two in college already and the other who wants and needs to be this fall, when the current income has never lived up to what was promised, and the next income is dropping like a rock.
Sleep tight!
Sunday, April 04, 2010
We Had 'Em All the Way!
And if you believe that title, would you like to buy a bridge?
Josh Beckett didn't pitch like an ace tonight. By the time he left in favor of Scott Schoeneweis in the fifth, the Sox were down 5-1. That's the bad news. The good news is that Carsten Charles Sabathia didn't pitch like an ace tonight, either. CC took it to 5-4 in the fifth, before David Robertson let Adrian Beltre tie the game.
Take a look at Theo's additions. Beltre was 1-3 with two RBI and a handful of nice plays at third. Mike Cameron was 2-3 with a walk and a run scored. Marco Scutaro 3-4 in the 9 slot, with a run and an RBI. Nice pickups, Mr. GM!
Concerns: Papi was 0-3 with a walk. Two of his outs, a couple of groundballs to the right side, came with runners in scoring position. Jacoby Ellsbury went 0-5, but we had glimpses of just what our jackrabbit outfield is going to deliver in terms of fly balls going to die in their mitts. Ramon S. Ramirez gave up a couple of runs, but the rest of the relievers were fine in their initial outings.
Need I point out that Pedey and Youk are just ridiculous. As a Memphian, I can direct you to the moment the Grizzlies regressed from the low-rung playoff team that they were for three years: the Shane Battier trade. Every sports team has to have at least one guy who doesn't mind doing the dirty work, brings energy and intensity to every single game, is the first man there for practice, game or the airplane, and is the last one to leave when they turn out the lights. Battier brought that ethic to the Grizzlies. Youk and Pedey are both that guy for the Sox. They started out the season pounding on the MFYs. How about 5-8 and a walk, 2 doubles, a triple and a homer, 5 runs scored, 5 RBI. People speculate about whether they'd take TheRod or Pujols or Ryan Howard to start a team. How about a couple of All-Stars whose uniforms are always filthy, who never give away atbats, and play like their lives depend on it every single night? I'll take Youk and Pedey over any pair you can show me.
Game One: Red Sox 9, MFYs 7. What a wonderful world!
Josh Beckett didn't pitch like an ace tonight. By the time he left in favor of Scott Schoeneweis in the fifth, the Sox were down 5-1. That's the bad news. The good news is that Carsten Charles Sabathia didn't pitch like an ace tonight, either. CC took it to 5-4 in the fifth, before David Robertson let Adrian Beltre tie the game.
Take a look at Theo's additions. Beltre was 1-3 with two RBI and a handful of nice plays at third. Mike Cameron was 2-3 with a walk and a run scored. Marco Scutaro 3-4 in the 9 slot, with a run and an RBI. Nice pickups, Mr. GM!
Concerns: Papi was 0-3 with a walk. Two of his outs, a couple of groundballs to the right side, came with runners in scoring position. Jacoby Ellsbury went 0-5, but we had glimpses of just what our jackrabbit outfield is going to deliver in terms of fly balls going to die in their mitts. Ramon S. Ramirez gave up a couple of runs, but the rest of the relievers were fine in their initial outings.
Need I point out that Pedey and Youk are just ridiculous. As a Memphian, I can direct you to the moment the Grizzlies regressed from the low-rung playoff team that they were for three years: the Shane Battier trade. Every sports team has to have at least one guy who doesn't mind doing the dirty work, brings energy and intensity to every single game, is the first man there for practice, game or the airplane, and is the last one to leave when they turn out the lights. Battier brought that ethic to the Grizzlies. Youk and Pedey are both that guy for the Sox. They started out the season pounding on the MFYs. How about 5-8 and a walk, 2 doubles, a triple and a homer, 5 runs scored, 5 RBI. People speculate about whether they'd take TheRod or Pujols or Ryan Howard to start a team. How about a couple of All-Stars whose uniforms are always filthy, who never give away atbats, and play like their lives depend on it every single night? I'll take Youk and Pedey over any pair you can show me.
Game One: Red Sox 9, MFYs 7. What a wonderful world!
Monday, March 29, 2010
New Life
If you want a profound Easter post, you can probably find one with very little effort, but, then again, nobody comes here looking for profundity.
No, the new life I'm excited about at the moment is that which begins at 7 pm, CDT, on Sunday evening. Jon Miller and Joe Morgan will welcome ESPN viewers to Fenway Park. The Boston Red Sox will host the MFYs in the opening game of the 2010 Major League Baseball season. And all will be right in my world again.
It has been a long time since November 4, when the MFYs beat the Phillies in Game 6 of the 2009 World Series. An insufferable football season was played to completion. College basketball and the NBA slog on and on. Do they still play hockey? Does anyone care?
This Sunday night, baseball will be back. Baseball means Spring. Baseball means that the Cubs have a chance to play in the World Series. Shoot, they could even win another one after 102 years. The Red Sox have done it twice after 86 years, and the White Sox got one after 88.
Bobby Cox will begin the last season of his Hall of Fame career on Monday. Tony LaRussa and Joe Torre will continue their progression towards Cooperstown. Albert Pujols will continue his reign as the best all-around player in the game. The Phils will seek their third straight NL pennant, and the Cards, Dodgers, Braves and Cubs will try to stop them. The MFYs will look to repeat, but my Beantowners will be hot on their trail. The Rays still have the core that took them to the Series in 2008, and in a new, openair ballpark in Minneapolis, Ron Gardenhire will find a way to keep the Twins in the chase in spite of already losing Joe Nathan for the season to Tommy John surgery.
A kid named Jason Heyward will play right field for the Braves, coming off a spring where he has looked every inch the best prospect in the game. Old veteran Mariano Rivera will try to be the Sandman for one more season. Chipper Jones will try to be Chipper Jones again, and Joe Mauer will try to be worth that contract.
I'll be visiting with old friends each evening. Vin Scully will call Dodger games for the 61st consecutive season, and Chip Caray will go back on Braves TV. Joe Castiglione and Dave O'Brien will keep Red Sox nation informed, while the execrable John Sterling will prove, once more, that all the money in the world can't buy class in the Bronx. John Rooney will try to make sense of the beloved Mike Shannon, and the Brennamans will see Reds fans through another season. Jon Miller, bound for the Hall of Fame as this year's Ford Frick Award winner, will once more provide the San Francisco Giants' fans with the best broadcast in Major League Baseball, while his protege, Dave Fleming, just gets better and better. Pat Hughes' good humor and Ron Santo's utterly blind loyalty will encourage, or more likely, comfort Cubs' fans all summer long.
Locally, we will occupy our seats at AutoZone Park throughout the summer as our Redbirds try to defend their Pacific Coast League championship. My granddaughter's baseball education began before she could possibly have known that she was at the ballpark. Baseball Second Grade will commence on April 16.
The next six months will be grand. The Perfect Game is back, and just in the nick of time. The old water heater flooded the house last week. The Career (sarcasm intended) is on the rocks. The winter doldrums have been brutal this year. My country lost its freaking mind over the idea that everyone should be able to get healthcare. Bush's idiotic wars have become Obama's idiotic wars, and for reasons that I will never understand, people still send their children to die in them. Patriotism? As though there is any reason we and our enemies see the world as we do other than the geographical accident of birth.
But Baseball is coming. Tony Campolo made a forture preaching that "It's Friday But Sunday's Coming." Good for him.
My message of hope tonight: It's still March, but Baseball's Coming!
Hallelujah!
No, the new life I'm excited about at the moment is that which begins at 7 pm, CDT, on Sunday evening. Jon Miller and Joe Morgan will welcome ESPN viewers to Fenway Park. The Boston Red Sox will host the MFYs in the opening game of the 2010 Major League Baseball season. And all will be right in my world again.
It has been a long time since November 4, when the MFYs beat the Phillies in Game 6 of the 2009 World Series. An insufferable football season was played to completion. College basketball and the NBA slog on and on. Do they still play hockey? Does anyone care?
This Sunday night, baseball will be back. Baseball means Spring. Baseball means that the Cubs have a chance to play in the World Series. Shoot, they could even win another one after 102 years. The Red Sox have done it twice after 86 years, and the White Sox got one after 88.
Bobby Cox will begin the last season of his Hall of Fame career on Monday. Tony LaRussa and Joe Torre will continue their progression towards Cooperstown. Albert Pujols will continue his reign as the best all-around player in the game. The Phils will seek their third straight NL pennant, and the Cards, Dodgers, Braves and Cubs will try to stop them. The MFYs will look to repeat, but my Beantowners will be hot on their trail. The Rays still have the core that took them to the Series in 2008, and in a new, openair ballpark in Minneapolis, Ron Gardenhire will find a way to keep the Twins in the chase in spite of already losing Joe Nathan for the season to Tommy John surgery.
A kid named Jason Heyward will play right field for the Braves, coming off a spring where he has looked every inch the best prospect in the game. Old veteran Mariano Rivera will try to be the Sandman for one more season. Chipper Jones will try to be Chipper Jones again, and Joe Mauer will try to be worth that contract.
I'll be visiting with old friends each evening. Vin Scully will call Dodger games for the 61st consecutive season, and Chip Caray will go back on Braves TV. Joe Castiglione and Dave O'Brien will keep Red Sox nation informed, while the execrable John Sterling will prove, once more, that all the money in the world can't buy class in the Bronx. John Rooney will try to make sense of the beloved Mike Shannon, and the Brennamans will see Reds fans through another season. Jon Miller, bound for the Hall of Fame as this year's Ford Frick Award winner, will once more provide the San Francisco Giants' fans with the best broadcast in Major League Baseball, while his protege, Dave Fleming, just gets better and better. Pat Hughes' good humor and Ron Santo's utterly blind loyalty will encourage, or more likely, comfort Cubs' fans all summer long.
Locally, we will occupy our seats at AutoZone Park throughout the summer as our Redbirds try to defend their Pacific Coast League championship. My granddaughter's baseball education began before she could possibly have known that she was at the ballpark. Baseball Second Grade will commence on April 16.
The next six months will be grand. The Perfect Game is back, and just in the nick of time. The old water heater flooded the house last week. The Career (sarcasm intended) is on the rocks. The winter doldrums have been brutal this year. My country lost its freaking mind over the idea that everyone should be able to get healthcare. Bush's idiotic wars have become Obama's idiotic wars, and for reasons that I will never understand, people still send their children to die in them. Patriotism? As though there is any reason we and our enemies see the world as we do other than the geographical accident of birth.
But Baseball is coming. Tony Campolo made a forture preaching that "It's Friday But Sunday's Coming." Good for him.
My message of hope tonight: It's still March, but Baseball's Coming!
Hallelujah!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Who Would You Like to Be?
For several lengthy portions of my life (those not crowded with the exploits of various sports or political figures), if I had been offered the opportunity to be anyone in the world, my first choice would have been Jim Lovell. Long before he was immortalized by Tom Hanks and Ron Howard in a very, very good movie, Jim Lovell was an honest to goodness hero. Lovell flew fighters in the Korean War, and, familiar to the stories of many of the astronauts, became a navy test pilot later. He missed out on being in the Mercury 7 over a marginal medical problem. It wasn't enough to keep him out of the Gemini program. He flew Gemini 7 with Frank Borman, and again, with Borman and Bill Anders on Apollo 8.
Apollo 8 flew around the moon.
They flew around the moon.
Three American men in a tin can flew around the back of the moon, that part that faces away from Earth and out into space.
They were the crew that made the Christmas Eve broadcast back to us in 1968. They (and it depends on whether Lovell or Borman is telling the story of just who held the camera) got the first shots of the "Earth-rise" over the moon's horizon. They are breathtakingly stunning photographs to this very day.
Apollo 8 and the Christmas Eve telecast are the earliest memories that I have, outside of family life, of something good and positive. The first memories that I carry, outside the family, are of the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. Perhaps that's why our parents were so determined that we watch Lovell, Borman and Anders on Christmas Eve. 1968 had been a horrible year of assassination, Viet Nam, Chicago and Nixon.
Lovell flew next on Apollo 13.
He, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert had the rollercoaster ride of all rollercoaster rides. An explosion in an onboard oxygen tank cost them their opportunity to land on the moon. It very nearly cost them their lives.
Their survival is testimony to the intelligence and training of the astronauts and the Mission Control staff, and the sheer determination and leadership of Jim Lovell. He willed that spacecraft home.
Lovell is a modest man. His wit is self-deprecating. He is often to this day applauded for his strength and toughness in that toughest of circumstances. He often pokes fun at being lauded for a failed mission.
Lovell is a man of courage. He is a man of science. He is a man of intellect, loyalty and character.
Jim Lovell is 82 years old today. And he is still one of my heroes.
Happy birthday, Sir. And thank you, again.
Apollo 8 flew around the moon.
They flew around the moon.
Three American men in a tin can flew around the back of the moon, that part that faces away from Earth and out into space.
They were the crew that made the Christmas Eve broadcast back to us in 1968. They (and it depends on whether Lovell or Borman is telling the story of just who held the camera) got the first shots of the "Earth-rise" over the moon's horizon. They are breathtakingly stunning photographs to this very day.
Apollo 8 and the Christmas Eve telecast are the earliest memories that I have, outside of family life, of something good and positive. The first memories that I carry, outside the family, are of the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy. Perhaps that's why our parents were so determined that we watch Lovell, Borman and Anders on Christmas Eve. 1968 had been a horrible year of assassination, Viet Nam, Chicago and Nixon.
Lovell flew next on Apollo 13.
He, Fred Haise and Jack Swigert had the rollercoaster ride of all rollercoaster rides. An explosion in an onboard oxygen tank cost them their opportunity to land on the moon. It very nearly cost them their lives.
Their survival is testimony to the intelligence and training of the astronauts and the Mission Control staff, and the sheer determination and leadership of Jim Lovell. He willed that spacecraft home.
Lovell is a modest man. His wit is self-deprecating. He is often to this day applauded for his strength and toughness in that toughest of circumstances. He often pokes fun at being lauded for a failed mission.
Lovell is a man of courage. He is a man of science. He is a man of intellect, loyalty and character.
Jim Lovell is 82 years old today. And he is still one of my heroes.
Happy birthday, Sir. And thank you, again.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Alex Chilton is Gone
Is it a needless redundancy to say that Alex was an artist, and a different sort of bird? Of course it is. But he was.
Alex was working with Chips Moman and Dan Penn when he was barely old enough to drive. The band was the Box Tops, and another group of Memphis kids changed music, again. The Letter and Cry Like a Baby are the most enduring cuts. They stand up to this day. The lead vocalist is a big part of the reason why. (The Box Tops went through several incarnations, one including a drummer named Thomas Boggs. He would later take his TGI Friday's experience and open a restaurant in his home town, and then a series of them, called Huey's. And he gave additional generations of Memphis musicians a place to play.)
After the Box Tops went their separate ways, Alex bounced around before landing in Big Star with Chris Bell, Jody Stephens and Andy Hummel. There would have been no alternative music movement without Big Star. Period.
Where did Peter Buck's jangling guitar come from? Big Star. Where did Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder find their inspiration as lyricists and lead singers? Big Star. Or, more specifically, Alex Chilton. Where did the model for records lost as record companies went to pieces or turned on their own artists? Big Star.
#1 Record changed music. Third/Sister Lovers blew music up. By that time, the band was a conspiracy between Chilton, Stephens, Jim Dickinson and a lot of Memphis musicians, the great Richard Roseborough in particular, but Richard's another story.
Everything that would arise in Rock and Roll for the next 40 years has its roots in Third/Sister Lovers. That's not just my opinion. Michael Stipe said so. Peter Buck said so. A Who's Who of the alt rock generation agreed.
Alex had a third career as a solo artist. Like Flies on Sherbet is the pick here. It is weird. And brilliant. And free. Like Rock is supposed to be. Alex got it. Or it got him.
Chilton managed to keep the relationships alive no matter how the artistic temperament affected him and his colleagues in the various bands through the years. He and Stephens picked up Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow to perform and record as Big Star off and on for 15 or 20 years. Several versions of The Box Tops have appeared at the Beale Street festival and other settings recently.
Big Star was set to play a benefit for the Overton Park Shell (corporate name ignored intentionally) on May 15. I hate like hell that we won't get that show.
Thanks, Alex, for keeping the faith. Thanks for bearing witness to the truth that still lives and breathes at this weird, funky, inexplicable doorway to the Delta. Thanks for everything you shared with us. And thanks for that moment you shared with me at the Beale Street Festival, when the sound wasn't set up to suit you, so you jumped down off the stage and signed autographs, posed for pictures, talked and laughed until it was brought to your liking.
Rest well, brother, even if it is far, far too soon.
Alex was working with Chips Moman and Dan Penn when he was barely old enough to drive. The band was the Box Tops, and another group of Memphis kids changed music, again. The Letter and Cry Like a Baby are the most enduring cuts. They stand up to this day. The lead vocalist is a big part of the reason why. (The Box Tops went through several incarnations, one including a drummer named Thomas Boggs. He would later take his TGI Friday's experience and open a restaurant in his home town, and then a series of them, called Huey's. And he gave additional generations of Memphis musicians a place to play.)
After the Box Tops went their separate ways, Alex bounced around before landing in Big Star with Chris Bell, Jody Stephens and Andy Hummel. There would have been no alternative music movement without Big Star. Period.
Where did Peter Buck's jangling guitar come from? Big Star. Where did Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder find their inspiration as lyricists and lead singers? Big Star. Or, more specifically, Alex Chilton. Where did the model for records lost as record companies went to pieces or turned on their own artists? Big Star.
#1 Record changed music. Third/Sister Lovers blew music up. By that time, the band was a conspiracy between Chilton, Stephens, Jim Dickinson and a lot of Memphis musicians, the great Richard Roseborough in particular, but Richard's another story.
Everything that would arise in Rock and Roll for the next 40 years has its roots in Third/Sister Lovers. That's not just my opinion. Michael Stipe said so. Peter Buck said so. A Who's Who of the alt rock generation agreed.
Alex had a third career as a solo artist. Like Flies on Sherbet is the pick here. It is weird. And brilliant. And free. Like Rock is supposed to be. Alex got it. Or it got him.
Chilton managed to keep the relationships alive no matter how the artistic temperament affected him and his colleagues in the various bands through the years. He and Stephens picked up Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow to perform and record as Big Star off and on for 15 or 20 years. Several versions of The Box Tops have appeared at the Beale Street festival and other settings recently.
Big Star was set to play a benefit for the Overton Park Shell (corporate name ignored intentionally) on May 15. I hate like hell that we won't get that show.
Thanks, Alex, for keeping the faith. Thanks for bearing witness to the truth that still lives and breathes at this weird, funky, inexplicable doorway to the Delta. Thanks for everything you shared with us. And thanks for that moment you shared with me at the Beale Street Festival, when the sound wasn't set up to suit you, so you jumped down off the stage and signed autographs, posed for pictures, talked and laughed until it was brought to your liking.
Rest well, brother, even if it is far, far too soon.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
A Personal Note
I'll give you a couple of options. You can consider this a belated anniversary valentine, or you can consider it a comment on how life has been the last month or six weeks. Take your pick.
Now, down to business.
Thanks, honey!
Thanks for eight years of this partnership. Thanks for loving my girls, and now our granddaughter. Thanks for buying in to my goofy life, and treating it with far, far more respect than it deserves. Thank you for hanging in with a migraine sufferer. Thanks for learning baseball to details you had never imagined existed. Thanks for your encouragement when I see no point or hope. Thanks for believing when I'm ready to give up. Thanks for doing your job all day and then getting home many nights and helping with mine, too. Thanks for tolerating the calls that come at weird hours and during the birthday parties and other celebrations. Thanks for making room in your house as well as your heart for my kids and the baby. Thanks for enjoying some of the more peculiar of my acquaintances (or at least pretending to), because I love some of these whackos dearly. Thanks for ignoring my devotion to rasslin' and roots music and especially Levon Helm-I know how his voice grates on your nerves, and I really am trying to remember not to play him right after you get home from work. Thanks for trying to smile as I drag you to every Dylan show in a seven state area. Thanks for reminding me not to yell at the television during Red Sox-MFY games after the under-30's have gone to sleep. Thanks for pretending to tolerate cajun/creole food, moroccan food and whatever kinds of critters are skewered on those kabobs from the cuisines of various parts of the world. Thanks for pretending to think it's a good idea to visit those neighborhoods in Chicago that contain the great blues clubs. Thanks for letting me rant when I need to. Thanks for your patience with Zevon and Dickinson and Cash and Grohl and Earle and Snider and Hiatt and Guthrie and Haggard and Lovett and Waits and Kimbrough and Burnside and Willie and all the others you really don't care for.
And for all I've left out, thanks for that, too!
I love you more than I can ever explain.
Me
Now, down to business.
Thanks, honey!
Thanks for eight years of this partnership. Thanks for loving my girls, and now our granddaughter. Thanks for buying in to my goofy life, and treating it with far, far more respect than it deserves. Thank you for hanging in with a migraine sufferer. Thanks for learning baseball to details you had never imagined existed. Thanks for your encouragement when I see no point or hope. Thanks for believing when I'm ready to give up. Thanks for doing your job all day and then getting home many nights and helping with mine, too. Thanks for tolerating the calls that come at weird hours and during the birthday parties and other celebrations. Thanks for making room in your house as well as your heart for my kids and the baby. Thanks for enjoying some of the more peculiar of my acquaintances (or at least pretending to), because I love some of these whackos dearly. Thanks for ignoring my devotion to rasslin' and roots music and especially Levon Helm-I know how his voice grates on your nerves, and I really am trying to remember not to play him right after you get home from work. Thanks for trying to smile as I drag you to every Dylan show in a seven state area. Thanks for reminding me not to yell at the television during Red Sox-MFY games after the under-30's have gone to sleep. Thanks for pretending to tolerate cajun/creole food, moroccan food and whatever kinds of critters are skewered on those kabobs from the cuisines of various parts of the world. Thanks for pretending to think it's a good idea to visit those neighborhoods in Chicago that contain the great blues clubs. Thanks for letting me rant when I need to. Thanks for your patience with Zevon and Dickinson and Cash and Grohl and Earle and Snider and Hiatt and Guthrie and Haggard and Lovett and Waits and Kimbrough and Burnside and Willie and all the others you really don't care for.
And for all I've left out, thanks for that, too!
I love you more than I can ever explain.
Me
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Tiger, The Women, and Apologies
A young man, married, twice a father, the best (perhaps ever) at his job, wealthy, handsome and as famous as anyone in the world: Awesome!
The same young man, outed as a philanderer, facing the loss of his wife and children, reputation, half his wealth (at least) in a divorce settlement, seriously damaged earnings potential for the future: Stupid, arrogant and sinful.
The same young man, emerging momentarily from therapy, owning his behavior, apologizing profusely to everyone he disappointed and wounded: Hopeful.
Some (any) portion of the Other Women involved in his philandering asking for the young man to apologize to them, women who wanted to be with a famous man they knew to be married, women who demonstrated no restraint or morality themselves: Absurd!
If there are to be additional apologies in Tiger Woods' case, how about Tiger's girlfriends, all, some, or any of them, summon up an attempt at decency themselves, and apologize to Mrs. Woods?
One thing that hasn't been said anywhere by anyone about Tiger Woods is that he forced or coerced anyone into his bed. That being the case, they were, at the bare minimum, willing participants. With a married man. And twice a father.
There is a lot of speculation in the media about Tiger's body language, choice of words, eye contact with the camera, and everything else about his statement last Friday. He brought that on himself. But what must be said is that whatever his motivation, he seems to be trying to get his life together.
We must applaud anyone who makes such an effort.
But there is no sympathy here for any of those who shared in his misbehavior looking to play the victim. They all knew who he is. That's why they made themselves available to him.
Instead of asking for apologies, ladies, how about growing up and making one?
The same young man, outed as a philanderer, facing the loss of his wife and children, reputation, half his wealth (at least) in a divorce settlement, seriously damaged earnings potential for the future: Stupid, arrogant and sinful.
The same young man, emerging momentarily from therapy, owning his behavior, apologizing profusely to everyone he disappointed and wounded: Hopeful.
Some (any) portion of the Other Women involved in his philandering asking for the young man to apologize to them, women who wanted to be with a famous man they knew to be married, women who demonstrated no restraint or morality themselves: Absurd!
If there are to be additional apologies in Tiger Woods' case, how about Tiger's girlfriends, all, some, or any of them, summon up an attempt at decency themselves, and apologize to Mrs. Woods?
One thing that hasn't been said anywhere by anyone about Tiger Woods is that he forced or coerced anyone into his bed. That being the case, they were, at the bare minimum, willing participants. With a married man. And twice a father.
There is a lot of speculation in the media about Tiger's body language, choice of words, eye contact with the camera, and everything else about his statement last Friday. He brought that on himself. But what must be said is that whatever his motivation, he seems to be trying to get his life together.
We must applaud anyone who makes such an effort.
But there is no sympathy here for any of those who shared in his misbehavior looking to play the victim. They all knew who he is. That's why they made themselves available to him.
Instead of asking for apologies, ladies, how about growing up and making one?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Hey, Pat: Just Shut Up
This is an 80 year old fool named Pat Robertson who has been a boil on the ass of Christianity for a very, very long time. Pat believes that God does very bad things to people.
Pat believes that 200 years ago, some Haitian people made a "deal with the devil" when the French came calling to try to re-enslave the Haitians. Pat believes that God has a very long memory.
Pat believes that God sent an earthquake to destroy one of the poorest, most impoverished areas in the Western Hemisphere and kill as many Haitians as possible.
Pat Robertson couldn't recognize Christianity if it came up and bit him on the ass. This is one moment when I wish that I could see the world the way Pat does. Because if God treated evil people the way Pat thinks God does, I would really love to see what God would do to Pat.
If you have a clearer image of God than Pat (and that wouldn't be difficult), and believe that God identifies with the poor and destroyed of the world, then give to UMCOR or the Red Cross or any other agency that will tell the Haitian people that God is gracious and loving and knows what it means to hurt, and that God's people are in the business of caring for life's victims.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Happy Birthday!
One year ago today, our whole family raced to Jackson to await this little lady's arrival. Today, she enjoyed a good chunk of birthday cake thoroughly. And we all still wait on her moment by moment.
Happy Birthday, Dancing Baby!
I love you!
Granddaddy
Saturday, January 02, 2010
Decade? What Decade? Or, 9/10 of the Way There!
Remember The Count from Sesame Street? When he began to count cookies, did you ever hear him point to the first and say, "Zero cookies" the second with, "One cookie" and so forth? I didn't think so.
When you count noses in whatever setting you do that, be it family members at the dinner table, passengers in the vehicle, children in the classroom or worshippers in the pews, have you ever started your count with person zero? Me, either.
Then what in the world are all these people doing with their "End of the Decade" lists of music, movies, historic events and so forth?
Unless we have moved to some sort of base nine numeric system, which would mean the thing would never be called a "decade" in the first place, then we haven't reached the end of anything.
All this nonsense results, of course, from the inability of the world to wait for the actual turn of the century-wait for it-nine years ago. The real "Y2K" disaster was in missing the end of the twentieth century by a full year! The end of 1999 didn't complete anything, and certainly not a century. HENCE THE FREAKING "99" AT THE END OF THE NUMBER!!!
The 100 years started with a "1" at the end of the beginning number-1901-and ended with "00" at the end-at the midnight that lay between December 31, 2000 and January 1, 2001. Which, of course, is then when the current decade began, along with the new century. Just as we never start counting with "0" in other areas of life, so do we not do so when counting years.
I understand that what passes these days for the Great American Press has gotten so lazy that they opt, invariably, for the easy, simple story (decade Top Ten lists in addition to annual Top Tens) instead of covering, oh I don't know, the wars that we're still involved in? But I digress.
Unless there's been some sort of vote that I missed, we still start out counting with "1" and complete decades with "10" or its multiples, and centuries with a "00" at the end of the number.
So let's all just settle down, wait for the appropriate time, and FOLLOW THE STINKING RULES!
When you count noses in whatever setting you do that, be it family members at the dinner table, passengers in the vehicle, children in the classroom or worshippers in the pews, have you ever started your count with person zero? Me, either.
Then what in the world are all these people doing with their "End of the Decade" lists of music, movies, historic events and so forth?
Unless we have moved to some sort of base nine numeric system, which would mean the thing would never be called a "decade" in the first place, then we haven't reached the end of anything.
All this nonsense results, of course, from the inability of the world to wait for the actual turn of the century-wait for it-nine years ago. The real "Y2K" disaster was in missing the end of the twentieth century by a full year! The end of 1999 didn't complete anything, and certainly not a century. HENCE THE FREAKING "99" AT THE END OF THE NUMBER!!!
The 100 years started with a "1" at the end of the beginning number-1901-and ended with "00" at the end-at the midnight that lay between December 31, 2000 and January 1, 2001. Which, of course, is then when the current decade began, along with the new century. Just as we never start counting with "0" in other areas of life, so do we not do so when counting years.
I understand that what passes these days for the Great American Press has gotten so lazy that they opt, invariably, for the easy, simple story (decade Top Ten lists in addition to annual Top Tens) instead of covering, oh I don't know, the wars that we're still involved in? But I digress.
Unless there's been some sort of vote that I missed, we still start out counting with "1" and complete decades with "10" or its multiples, and centuries with a "00" at the end of the number.
So let's all just settle down, wait for the appropriate time, and FOLLOW THE STINKING RULES!
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