Brooks and Brooklyns too Broad for Leaping

The world grows tiresome, yet rejuvenated. Young people texting while walking into traffic are a pestilence, but nevertheless endearing as they bustle about in their skinny and baggy jeans. One of them will be the POTUS someday, even if he or she can’t tell you what speech “four score and seven years” came from.

This is the reason we have children. Hope is always abundant with the young prancing, romancing and advancing among us. See! They’ve even made us a rapper. Do they still call it that?

The decline in athletic skills is a melancholy spectacle. Johnny Unitas at San Diego, Willie Mays at New York, Joe Namath at Los Angeles. They stayed too long at the fair.

Even Duke Snider, correct us if we’re wrong, the leader in home runs and RBIs in the 1950’s, attempted to prolong his career after he left the Dodgers. One of the “Boys of Summer” in Roger Kahn’s sparkling phrase, died yesterday. To Brooklynites of a certain age, among whom we count the southern hillbillies like us who have adopted the borough, the passing of Snider tears another page from the book of this sporting life. Will the next POTUS be able to name the center fielder of the Dodgers in their glory years of domination of the National League?
Never mind. They have Pujols, Cabrera, Crawford, Mauer to hold on to. We refer them, however, to A.E. Housman:

WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.

Talkin' 'Bout My Generation

So we said to ourselves, “Selves, c’mon, man, give it up.” The torch must be passed.

One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.

Confession: Despite being Papists, we’ve always preferred the King James version of the word of God.

All is vanity, baby. The aging A-Rods, Derek Jeters Kevin Garnetts and Johnny Vegas’s of the world will not miss any meals, but must bow to inevitable decline. Sure, supermodels, caviar and BMWs will be aplenty, but the ball game abideth. We believe there are folks with canes who wear hog hats in Fayetteville and hairy men in pink Red Sox hats and tank tops singing “Sweet Caroline” in Boston. The long suffering, while tuning in WGN, asked for tissues when the Cubs tanked in 1969. The young boy elated by pinstriper Scott Brosius’s home run in Game 5 cried inconsolable tears when a bloop single handed the 2001 series to Arizona in Game 7.

There is a Game 7 out there for all of us, even guys like us too dim to realize it until we approach those final innings. But hope springs eternal. Pitchers and catchers unlimbered in Florida and Arizona recently (a mystery: why not corner outfielders and utility infielders first?). And now we hear that Bernard Madoff has lost weight. He should write a diet book titled “Build a Ponzi Scheme, Always shoot 3 over Par Somehow and Go to Prison.”

The New York Metropolitans baseball club, owned by beneficiaries of Mr. Madoff’s ledger main, is now apparently searching for someone to take Babe Ruth off their hands so they can produce “No, No, Nanette.”

C’mon, men (the Wilpons, that is). Time to give it up. Sell the team and settle your debt to Mr. Madoff’s losers. The Metropolitans are losers, too, so what’s the beef?

Which brings us to our beloved Cardinals. Given the economic events of the last few years, it’s surprising that Albert Pujols thinks he can rule the elements, as a dear friend of ours says. The St. Louis club can win without him when he’s 41.

We just turned 25 last year, though we find some that dispute this. Retail sales were up less than expected last month and inventories were up. Expect the stock market to drop and utility infielders to demand a few million less.

Bread and Circuses XLV

What’s in a name? Billy Shakespeare said a rose would smell as sweet. We think he was wrong. If we would change our name, it would be to Johnny Vegas. How can you not get a date with a name like the Venezuelan golfer?

We will play Johnny Vegas for a day, apt for Super Bowl Sunday, which pits the Steelers of western Pennsylvania against the publicly owned Packers of Wisconsin. Will shares of the Cheeseheads plummet if they should be undone by the Carnegies? If so, we’re buying. We’re also buying into a Green Bay victory. This way we can’t lose.

Aaron Rodgers, signal caller for the Pack, will flummox LaMarr Woodley, James Harrison and Troy Polamalu. Ben Roethlisberger, counterpart for the Pittsburgh eleven, will be harassed by Clay Matthews, Charles Woodson and B.J. Raji to the point where the substitute center Doug Legursky (another great name) will be wishing he had a high ankle sprain like Maurkice Pouncey. James Starks of the green and gold will outgain Rashard Mendenhall of the black and gold.

Take the Packers and give the 2 ½ points. The total is tougher. At 44 1/2 points, buy a couple and go over. If you’re into props, take Matthews to record the first sack. Also, pick up some guacamole and tortilla chips for nutrition, which you’ll need while battling icy streets and snow banks on your way to the party, whether in Dallas or New York.

Weather won’t be a factor for the gladiators, but for us demanding our bread and circuses we are reminded by our sainted Mother of this ditty dear old Dad used to quote when the winds came sweeping down the plains:

“The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow

And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?

He’ll fly to the barn to keep himself warm

And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.”


Poor thing, indeed. Stay warm, my friends, in front of the flat screen hearth.