Lingering in Summer

Soichiro Amaya of the Hiroshima Carp recently climbed a wall and stood on it to snag a would-be home-run ball. Spiderman bowed to the reporters in the after-game interview. We used to catch carp in the Chikaskia River near Blackwell, Kay County, Oklahoma, with our grandfather and threw them back. The rascals were too bony to filet and fry up, Grandpa said.

It seems the recovery from the Great Recession and the Middle East wars are rivers full of carp and few edible crappie. As the stimulus runs out of steam, so does the economic engine chugging along the track of history. We are usually an optimistic sort. The girls are still in their summer dresses. Six-foot putts still occasionally rattle into the cup. Surly old men still order the king of beers. Young men still return to school seeking PhDs in medieval literature. Look out Chaucer, you’re about to be dissected again.

But Americans are waking up to the fact that the age of dominance is fading. We depend on the kindness of strangers – for instance, the Chinese who bought our bonds to fund our feckless adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Given the dismal economic data of late – home sales, employment, durable goods orders, not to mention the hottest summer on record in New York (Con Ed probably made a killing, but to be fair avoided blackouts) – the tendency to be optimistic is under attack. Yet we must. Why does Rice play Texas as JFK said in Houston? Hey, the Owls covered the spread.

For entertainment purposes only, we picked no winners at Saratoga this weekend. Quality Ride proved he is a fine animal by winning the Woodward after missing the Derby. Such fragile beasts, ankles as skinny as ours, supporting chests and haunches that bespeak power and desire. They are said to be dumber than pigs, but they inspire awe, much as human beings do, though we are also probably dumber than pigs.

After a night of restless sleep and a dreadful round of foozled drives on the golf course in the state park at Saratoga, where a friend of ours learned we saw the same Crosby, Stills Nash and Young concert on a rainy night, we came romping home to old New York.

All is not lost. We picture ourselves atop that Japanese baseball wall with Mr. Amaya, snaring victory from the jaws of defeat rather than the other way around.

Oh yes, heard the cicadas still chirping. Summer lingers.