Got a haircut the other day. The barber waved the obligatory mirror on the backside and I was shocked! shocked!, I say! to see the rear of the cranium hairless, as it has been for years. Sigh.
But it keeps us cool in the summer heat, so we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.
There is also a bald spot in the fabric of American life that needs Rogaine, or at least a toupee. It’s not the Glenn Beck rally in Washington. It’s not Obamacare. It’s not Darrelle Revis island. It’s not Navy fumbling at the goal line versus Maryland, keeping us from -- for entertainment purposes only -- cashing in. It’s not the Orioles taking the first two from the Yankees, which is also nice.
No, it’s the world we have lost. Where is Army’s lonesome end formation? Where is the split T (best onion rings and milk shakes in the world at a restaurant in Oklahoma City by the same name)? Where are the 180-pound offensive linemen? Where are the blocking rules we learned (that is, you can’t use your hands)? Where are the sports stories that review games and players and not arcane contracts?
We feel we are strangers in a strange land (apologies to Robert Heinlein). We live without iPods, still knot our ties the same way, a cool breeze through our window still seems like the breath of God wafting over our fevered flesh. Yet something has changed in our public life.
The sporting life we seek to lead is bespattered with People Magazine and movie directors, brilliant as they may be, despoiling 13-year-old girls and getting away with it. Cigarettes costing $12 a pack in the People’s Republic of New York. Poetry drowned out by hip-hop nonsense blared from an Escalade. Tea Party crybabies who don’t know their hip from their elbow. We are a surly old man, but keep our nails clipped and take our hat off indoors. Which is nice.
We are in a dark place, though Nick Swisher did us a favor by hitting the walk-off homer against Baltimore and assuring the run line win for the O’s , for entertainment purposes only. Which is also nice.
Take Mississippi State over Auburn (pick ‘em), and in the NFL New Orleans -5 over Minnesota, for entertainment purposes only, tonight. Must go with old OU -7 against Seminoles on Saturday, for entertainment purposes only.
In any event, entertained we shall be.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Ode to Summer And Fall
I hear the cicadas humming their love song, their lives soon to end. As boys in Texas, my brothers and I used to catch them, tie a string around them and let them fly at the end of the tether as we walked around the neighborhood. It marked the waning days of summer, long after Little League season ended.
I see my blonde sister in her teenhood, her hair tinged green from chlorine after hours in the pool.
I see Bob Gibson hitting an inside-the-park home run and Vada Pinson of the Reds, or were they the Red Legs back then?, knocking himself out against the wall at Busch Stadium 1 in 1965. At least that’s what I remember. Have to find the scorecard some place.
I feel the tug of fall as my brow cools and my children head back to school, full of expectations of glory, as well they should.
I thank the Good Lord that I have potable water when it seems the world is awash in what Coleridge said: “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere and nor a drop to drink.”
I look forward to college football and the religious experience of rooting for the Laters (as a good friend of mine calls them) to beat Florida State and Texas.
Enough “I’s.” Summer is dying. Had some pumpkin bread the other day and “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as Mr. Keats pointed out, will soon be upon us.
And the Yankees, BREAK ‘EM UP.
I see my blonde sister in her teenhood, her hair tinged green from chlorine after hours in the pool.
I see Bob Gibson hitting an inside-the-park home run and Vada Pinson of the Reds, or were they the Red Legs back then?, knocking himself out against the wall at Busch Stadium 1 in 1965. At least that’s what I remember. Have to find the scorecard some place.
I feel the tug of fall as my brow cools and my children head back to school, full of expectations of glory, as well they should.
I thank the Good Lord that I have potable water when it seems the world is awash in what Coleridge said: “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere and nor a drop to drink.”
I look forward to college football and the religious experience of rooting for the Laters (as a good friend of mine calls them) to beat Florida State and Texas.
Enough “I’s.” Summer is dying. Had some pumpkin bread the other day and “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as Mr. Keats pointed out, will soon be upon us.
And the Yankees, BREAK ‘EM UP.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Their Flag to April's Breeze Unfurled
The day before we entered this vale of tears Bobby Thomson fired the shot heard ‘round the world. Not the one at Concord that Emerson immortalized:
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard 'round the world."
No, it was the one Mr. Thomson of the New York Giants cracked over the left field fence at Coogan’s Bluff to defeat the Brooklyn Dodgers in a playoff game for the senior circuit pennant. We have felt a strange connection ever since we became cognizant in early boyhood of our place in baseball history, which leads us to coin a phrase – a day late and a dollar short.
We’ve run our race, as Paul said in his second letter to Timothy. Yet we take solace in Brett Favre (how do you pronounce his name?) writing another chapter. Or Eli Manning kneeling like Y.A. Tittle, bloodied warrior.
Mr. Thomson passed away the other day, and so did a piece of our life. Ralph Branca, who threw the fateful pitch, is still with us, but is surely to join his friend in glory soon. Days defy us. Years eat us up. Decades doom us. We only wish to tell our sons and daughters that once there were Giants, like Mr. Thomson, the embattled farmers at Concord and Mr. Tittle kneeling in the end zone with blood streaming down his bald noggin.
Apologies to Emerson and the young men who serve and die.
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard 'round the world."
No, it was the one Mr. Thomson of the New York Giants cracked over the left field fence at Coogan’s Bluff to defeat the Brooklyn Dodgers in a playoff game for the senior circuit pennant. We have felt a strange connection ever since we became cognizant in early boyhood of our place in baseball history, which leads us to coin a phrase – a day late and a dollar short.
We’ve run our race, as Paul said in his second letter to Timothy. Yet we take solace in Brett Favre (how do you pronounce his name?) writing another chapter. Or Eli Manning kneeling like Y.A. Tittle, bloodied warrior.
Mr. Thomson passed away the other day, and so did a piece of our life. Ralph Branca, who threw the fateful pitch, is still with us, but is surely to join his friend in glory soon. Days defy us. Years eat us up. Decades doom us. We only wish to tell our sons and daughters that once there were Giants, like Mr. Thomson, the embattled farmers at Concord and Mr. Tittle kneeling in the end zone with blood streaming down his bald noggin.
Apologies to Emerson and the young men who serve and die.
Monday, August 16, 2010
C'mon Man
Why do ladies and gentlemen bother with silly games? Why does Rice play Texas (as it used to in the old SWC)? Why does the sun go on shining (as Skeeter Davis sang)? Ask me why and Tell me why (as The Beatles sang)? Because, as Wordsworth wrote, “The world is too much with us.”
Is there any sillier game than golf?
A club with a blade rested in a bit of dirt thought to be a random piece of scalped carpet and Dustin Johnson was consigned to the dustbin instead of a chance to raise high the Wannamaker trophy as PGA champion.
The son of a gun was corralled by some sunburned guy and told that he broke some rule by grounding his club in a hazard that had no rake and had been trampled by the crowd outside the ropes. C’mon, man. If this had happened on the first day to some unknown you wouldn’t have heard a peep.
Oh well, life is not fair and golf is what it is. We just play for fun and have no illusions about our ability. But this seems particularly unfair, given the prestige, not to mention the do-re-mi at stake. As we’ve pointed out before, Our Father sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust.
Meanwhile, take the over in every Canadian Football League game (for entertainment purposes only).
Is there any sillier game than golf?
A club with a blade rested in a bit of dirt thought to be a random piece of scalped carpet and Dustin Johnson was consigned to the dustbin instead of a chance to raise high the Wannamaker trophy as PGA champion.
The son of a gun was corralled by some sunburned guy and told that he broke some rule by grounding his club in a hazard that had no rake and had been trampled by the crowd outside the ropes. C’mon, man. If this had happened on the first day to some unknown you wouldn’t have heard a peep.
Oh well, life is not fair and golf is what it is. We just play for fun and have no illusions about our ability. But this seems particularly unfair, given the prestige, not to mention the do-re-mi at stake. As we’ve pointed out before, Our Father sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust.
Meanwhile, take the over in every Canadian Football League game (for entertainment purposes only).
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Dead
Ever since the world began, God decreed that old men must die even if he were Methuselah, who managed to make it to 969.
One guy, crowned by some as the Voice of God, did not find a cure for cancer. His contribution to this vale of tears in 99 years was announcing the name and numbers of batsmen appearing at the plate of a stadium in the Bronx.
The other guy was an 80-year-old rich boor who never hit a curve ball and was twice banned from baseball. Scott Fitzgerald said there were no second acts in American lives. But, as a friend of ours pointed out to us, this observation is false. He became in death the beloved Boss. The rich are different from you and me.
Now, we’re no saints. Some, hopefully, will shed tears and others will harrumph at our demise and perhaps some will come to our service to see us planted in the ground awaiting the second coming and the roses on home plate.
But let’s get serious. We all are destined to go where the Voice of God and the Boss are assigned to. We only have 750,000 years in purgatory before we meet them.
And our beloved Alouettes failed to cover the spread (for entertainment purposes only), costing us much entertainment. Stick with them while we’re still here and out of purgatory.
One guy, crowned by some as the Voice of God, did not find a cure for cancer. His contribution to this vale of tears in 99 years was announcing the name and numbers of batsmen appearing at the plate of a stadium in the Bronx.
The other guy was an 80-year-old rich boor who never hit a curve ball and was twice banned from baseball. Scott Fitzgerald said there were no second acts in American lives. But, as a friend of ours pointed out to us, this observation is false. He became in death the beloved Boss. The rich are different from you and me.
Now, we’re no saints. Some, hopefully, will shed tears and others will harrumph at our demise and perhaps some will come to our service to see us planted in the ground awaiting the second coming and the roses on home plate.
But let’s get serious. We all are destined to go where the Voice of God and the Boss are assigned to. We only have 750,000 years in purgatory before we meet them.
And our beloved Alouettes failed to cover the spread (for entertainment purposes only), costing us much entertainment. Stick with them while we’re still here and out of purgatory.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Carry a Big Stick
We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).
Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.
Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?
The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.
Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?
Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.
Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?
The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.
Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?
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