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.

Bloodied, Unbowed, and Last Seen...

How life slams us. Dick Diver, the protagonist in Fitzgerald's "Tender Is the Night," is last seen practicing medicine in upstate New York, having lost his wife and children to another man in Europe. He no longer returns letters or has contact with the world he once knew

"In any case he is almost certainly in that section of the country, in one town or another," the novel ends. I think it more perfect than Fitzgerald's iconic coda in Gatsby.

Trapped on this island jutting into the Atlantic Ocean, the next stop Ireland, I have come to the conclusion that serious matters are best left to those who answer letters and engage in give and take, not Nobelists who complain that if the powers that be would only listen to me all would be better. But, hey, it's a free country. Error is truly a marker of my judgment. In spite of my black eye and tender other parts, the path for economic gain has been clearly laid. Rick Wagoner's dismissal at GM tells us who is in charge, the duly elected representatives of the U.S.A (and I have a soft spot for guys like Wagoner who, like me, didn't realize the rules had changed; I couldn't block in a football game now without my hands held to my chest).

Miss Market is having her way. The only direction is up. Youth must be served. Let the animal spirits of our offspring prevail, as surely they will. Softball season is upon us. Young ladies with leather gloves and hope in their hearts can only inspire.

Stick with F, DXO, AMD and PALM. Your children will love you no matter what town or another you end up in.