Barry Bonds, With a Side of Roger Clemens

Right off the bat, I will not refer to Barry Bonds by his common baseball title. Henry Aaron (not Hank Aaron, as The Hammer considers "Hank" a character he has to perform in public, but does not particularly like) was my first hero in sports, the man who carried the burden of approaching and then surpassing Babe Ruth on the Home Run list, and I will not now or ever describe any juicer as Mr. Aaron's better on baseball's greatest list. So...
The Giants' former slugger, Barry Bonds, is on trial in California due to steroids. Not because he used steroids. But because he lied about using them. He has repeatedly insisted, under various oaths and to multiple law enforcement officials in sworn statements, that he never "knowingly" used steroids. I did not use the popular "allegedly lied" because anyone who has seen pictures of Barry Bonds prior to, say, 1997, and after, say, 1998, knows that something happened. In his mid-30's Bonds' head went from being an orange to being a grapefruit. His shoulders went from those of a sprinter to those of an offensive tackle. His arms...well, you get the idea. His best single season home run total also went from 49 to 73. That's a lot. Many ballplayers saw a similar increase in those years.
Most of that many have owned up to what caused their improvement. A lot of them, granted, were outed by the Mitchell Report or the periodic spurts of names from the list of positive testers that set baseball's testing program into motion from 2002. But they've owned up to it. And not one of the people who has admitted what happened, either before Congress, the FBI, local police or other officials has ever been prosecuted for steroid use. Miguel Tejada pled guilty to perjury, with a full elocution of his usage, and had his sentence suspended. That, to my knowledge, leaves the prosecutions of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds.
Again, neither of them is being prosecuted for using steroids. They are being prosecuted for lying about their use of steroids. It does not matter that Clemens and Bonds seemed to themselves to have been bigger than the game of baseball, no usage pun intended. It does not matter that both men seem to believe themselves bigger than Congress (in Clemens' case) or federal grand juries (in Bonds' case). And, yes, this combination of charges may indeed mean that Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens find their freedom in peril because they are stupid. Nonetheless, as Bruce Pearl can now also bear witness, when you are caught, own up to it. Otherwise, it will cost you, and cost you big.
And it is precisely the nature of that cost that is now at issue. Bonds and Clemens have already cost themselves election to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. The Baseball Writers' Association of America, those who cast the ballots for the Hall, have already made themselves heard on steroid usage, and even whispered allegations of steroid usage. Look at Mark McGwire's vote totals, or Rafael Palmeiro's, or even Jeff Bagwell's this year. If you used, or are believed to have used, you aren't getting in, period. Bonds and Clemens don't have a prayer of being elected.
Any day now would be a good time for these two fellows to wake up, own up to their actions, beg the mercy of public opinion and the courts, and pray fervently that they get to live out their natural lives outside the bounds of a federal penitentiary.
Or, they can just keep going as they are, as arrogant and foolish as they have lived for pretty much their entire adult lives. And kiss their freedom goodbye for a few years, and what's left of their names goodbye forever.

Madagascar Live!

Dancing Baby's second foray into the theatre was Friday night at the opening performance of the utterly delightful stage version of Madagascar. The show basically follows the movie, with, of course, more music and silliness. These characters have been pretty significant for DB, as her first portable high chair's lion has always been Alex, and every zebra anywhere has always been Marty, and the species is, collectively, identified as Martys, at least in our house. And we usually ride Marty at the Wolfchase Mall Merry-Go-Round, too.
We had great, unobstructed seats in the Orpheum's balcony, which is vastly preferable for a petite two-year-old. Sitting in the only slightly inclined main floor's seating just doesn't get it, when taller people are all about. She fixed on the curtain immediately upon our arrival, and when the announcer declared that the Central Park Zoo would open in ten minutes, she started winding up. From curtain-up it was hysteria. She recognized the characters, made sure the requisite adults in tow did, too, and never looked away from the stage. For all 40 minutes of Act I. She danced and laughed and was just generally delighted with the whole thing. When Intermission arrived, she almost started to cry, wanting them to "Go Again!" After our best explanation, she took a bit of comfort, and waited for Act II, refusing to leave our seats for any reason whatsoever.
She clapped and cheered when the curtain went back up. And she started asking for "Moving Moving." If you've seen the credits of the movie, you understand. Her song came up at the end, and it was time to boogie. DB was begging, "Do it again!" before the show was even over. All the way out of the Orpheum and the two blocks to the car, she kept asking if we could "See it again?" If she hadn't been going to visit another grandparent for the weekend, we just might have done that.
It was a cute show, smart enough for us old people to be entertained. But the real show for me was watching my little bundle of curls transfixed for an hour and a half, transported into a world outside her everyday experience. No, it wasn't The Iceman Cometh, but DB is already learning the power and fun of the theatre, and if we can facilitate her enjoyment of it, we'll have done a good thing.

An Ideal Sunday Afternoon

It's been a pretty intense week, with a pretty heavy decision made (previous post) and plans for the future laid. That all just served to make it that much more enjoyable to spend part of the early evening at the Midtown Huey's. Grandmommie and I took Dancing Baby; MommaMomma and Auntie Em arrived shortly after. My old pal DiAnne Price was performing with 2/3 of her Boyfriends. We missed Jim Spake, but nobody's ever mistreated getting to hear DiAnne, Tim Goodwin and Tom Lonardo. DiAnne is Memphis music. She is at home in the Blues, Jazz, Standards, Rock 'n' Roll, and any other genre you can come up with. She can hammer out the barrelhouse, sing with the smoky authenticity of late nights and bad circumstances, turn on a dime, and bring more life to I'll Fly Away than I've ever heard in any church of any denomination. My girls have been listening to DiAnne and the Boyfriends play since Auntie Em was Dancing Baby's age, so I'm now indebted to her to the fourth generation (as my parents are fans, too!)
I don't know what to make of people who don't take music as a part of their lives. Such an absence betrays an emptiness of soul that I cannot account for. I can't begin to explain what relief I have found in seeing my granddaughter, since she was about six months old, literally moved by music. DiAnne was the first person DB heard play live, and she was wiggling and cooing from the first notes. Now, we've graduated to a need to stand on the floor, on her own two feet, to shake a tailfeather. My mother always conquered her low times at the keyboard of her piano. My daughters do the same. Saturday night, at our monthly family gathering, Miss 2-years-old handed out the instruments (woodblocks, cymbals, cow bells, triangle, etc.) as the whole family concentrated on her and followed her lead in Family Band Practice. She sang Itsy Bitsy Spider at the top of her lungs, as eleven or twelve hand-held percussion pieces thundered around her. Pretty much the way it should be.
I hope she will always find solace, diversion, direction, hope, joy and so much more through music. As I have come, this spring, to the realization that the work in which I have spent my life has no more use for me, it has been music that has comforted and mended my soul, something that the church doesn't seem interested in doing any more. But then again, there has always been more authenticity for me in the ministry of a musician performing for wandering souls than in the often absurdly rigid dictates of a faith that carries less and less relevance for humanity every year, with our endless, petty arguments over what kind of sinners God is willing to love and use, and our endless paperwork that reports on fewer and fewer people every time the reports are filed. Case in point: I preached to 12 people this morning. DiAnne played to a crowd of over 200 this evening. I'm glad she's doing the Lord's work.
And, fine, I'm sure those numbers are totally related to my incompetence.
But I know the truth. And so do you. And so does God.

March 15, 2011

Dear Judy,
I retire, effective June 30, 2011.
I'm confident that the District Office will forward this note to anyone else who needs to see it.
Joe