After adding 1,300 units with KC’s win over Bos yesterday, bringing the total in the vault to 2,800, we look for the Orioles to Baltimore chop the pinstripers. We’ll invest 500 units, for entertainment purposes only, in the O’s.
Can’t get off the dog sled yet. Mush, Mush!
One can hear the same exhortation emanating from the lips of business, labor and politicians – that is, just about everybody – after the release of anemic second quarter gross domestic product data and a sharp downward revision to first-quarter growth. The chances of tipping over into a double-dip recession have gone up
We have to admit we are surprised at the sluggishness. We guessed, incorrectly, that monetary and fiscal stimulus would have worked its magic and that the Federal Reserve Board would be tightening the money spigots by now to head off inflation.
But, alas, it appears the Fed has been “pushing on a string,” as businesses hoard cash and consumers refuse to spend (personal consumption increased just 0.1% on a seasonally adjusted annualized basis from the first quarter; meanwhile, inventories rose 0.18%, down sharply from the first quarter, but still ahead of consumption).
The all but certain curtailment of government spending tied to the debt ceiling bills couldn’t come at a worse time. The stock market is headed for its worst week in a year and jobs look to remain scarce.
We wonder what the Vegas odds are for another recession in the second half or in 2012? We might not want to speculate on this dog.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The De-Tanning of America
This sporting life brought us recently to the banks of a somnolent tributary of the mighty Mississippi. The evening was drowsy with lingering heat, but the young Texas Leaguers in a ballpark named for Yankees great Bill Dickey and the local investment banking legend seemed quite alert, though unaware they were about to engage in nine innings of cat and mouse that probably has never happened before in organized professional baseball.
You can look it up.
At least, we are reasonably sure it was a first – a game in which a no-hitter was hurled by the combined efforts of two Northwest Arkansas Naturals pitchers, who were bailed out of trouble by an around-the-horn triple play. A scorching ground ball to the hot corner after two walks, the latter a 12-pitch duel that put runners at first and second, started the fun at Dickey-Stephens Park.
The Arkansas Travelers, the singular of which was the creation of an antebellum troubadour, found no way out of the wilderness of futility, just as the itinerant woodsman of lore was baffled by the fiddler who wouldn’t mend his cabin roof and let the rain pour in.
We enjoy the same bafflement in the standoff in Washington (first in war, first in peace and last in the trust of its countrymen) over the debt ceiling increase.
As unprecedented as a combined no-hitter with a triple play, House Speaker John Boehner has lost his perpetual bronze glow, no doubt from hours better spent on the golf course wrangling with Democrats and the renegade Republican rump known as the Tea Party. What an air-conditioned mess! For a man to lose his tan because he’s inside conference rooms fencing with Obama and GOP cultists is simply outrageous.
Be that as it may, we trust all will not turn out well. Though an agreement would prevent financial market Armageddon, it won’t alter the cruel facts on the ground. Unemployment will remain stubbornly high. The government reported a disappointing drop in durable goods orders in June, and the Fed’s “Beige Book” report on conditions in the 12 reserve bank districts points to slowing economic growth.
We, however, are on a roll, having booked 1,500 units by taking Seattle over New York yesterday. We expect no triple plays, much less a no-hitter today in Boston, where the Kansas City blue bloods will face the bloody ankles and Beckett soon. KC will not be waiting for Godot, though, as Vladimir and Estragon did in Samuel Beckett’s absurdist play. Rather, the visiting dogs merit an investment of 500 units from yesterday’s win.
Woof, Woof!
You can look it up.
At least, we are reasonably sure it was a first – a game in which a no-hitter was hurled by the combined efforts of two Northwest Arkansas Naturals pitchers, who were bailed out of trouble by an around-the-horn triple play. A scorching ground ball to the hot corner after two walks, the latter a 12-pitch duel that put runners at first and second, started the fun at Dickey-Stephens Park.
The Arkansas Travelers, the singular of which was the creation of an antebellum troubadour, found no way out of the wilderness of futility, just as the itinerant woodsman of lore was baffled by the fiddler who wouldn’t mend his cabin roof and let the rain pour in.
We enjoy the same bafflement in the standoff in Washington (first in war, first in peace and last in the trust of its countrymen) over the debt ceiling increase.
As unprecedented as a combined no-hitter with a triple play, House Speaker John Boehner has lost his perpetual bronze glow, no doubt from hours better spent on the golf course wrangling with Democrats and the renegade Republican rump known as the Tea Party. What an air-conditioned mess! For a man to lose his tan because he’s inside conference rooms fencing with Obama and GOP cultists is simply outrageous.
Be that as it may, we trust all will not turn out well. Though an agreement would prevent financial market Armageddon, it won’t alter the cruel facts on the ground. Unemployment will remain stubbornly high. The government reported a disappointing drop in durable goods orders in June, and the Fed’s “Beige Book” report on conditions in the 12 reserve bank districts points to slowing economic growth.
We, however, are on a roll, having booked 1,500 units by taking Seattle over New York yesterday. We expect no triple plays, much less a no-hitter today in Boston, where the Kansas City blue bloods will face the bloody ankles and Beckett soon. KC will not be waiting for Godot, though, as Vladimir and Estragon did in Samuel Beckett’s absurdist play. Rather, the visiting dogs merit an investment of 500 units from yesterday’s win.
Woof, Woof!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Hind Catcher
We would be remiss if we didn’t relate our experience as a baseball catcher one day in our teens. Man on second, we call for a fastball with two out in the bottom of the seventh (the inning of decision for kids) and ahead by a run. The young stud at the plate laces the pitch into left center. We throw off our mask and stand astride the plate, all 130 pounds of ourselves. The left fielder picks it up cleanly and fires to us.
The throw is high, we have to jump and catch and apply the tag in one motion. The man on second, a young Pete Rose, barrels in as we tag him on his back as he sends us flying. It is our one moment of glory. Few remain, we suspect.
We never heard a greater compliment than that delivered that day by a young lady with bad teeth, common in those days. “What a brave hind catcher.” We still see her and love her wherever she is. Are there still hill folk who call the catcher a “hind catcher?”
This is why we love this sporting life. The moment of a girl (we can’t divulge her name) telling you at 16 that you are brave has an exhilarating effect. It has lasted a lifetime.
But fear tries to poke its nose beneath the tent. So we are always in awe of the man in the arena, the guy or gal who leaves the tent without a care for battle.
How about the poor son of a gun from Pittsburgh who fouled the Butler fellow on a free throw rebound with a second on the clock and the score tied? He was reacting as all of us would do when we feel an athletic feat is called for.
Hold your head high, young man. We’ve all been there. We dropped a pop foul attempting a basket catch as a hind catcher, allowing the young batsman to get another pitch and drive in the winning run
”It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night is another thing." (The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway).
The throw is high, we have to jump and catch and apply the tag in one motion. The man on second, a young Pete Rose, barrels in as we tag him on his back as he sends us flying. It is our one moment of glory. Few remain, we suspect.
We never heard a greater compliment than that delivered that day by a young lady with bad teeth, common in those days. “What a brave hind catcher.” We still see her and love her wherever she is. Are there still hill folk who call the catcher a “hind catcher?”
This is why we love this sporting life. The moment of a girl (we can’t divulge her name) telling you at 16 that you are brave has an exhilarating effect. It has lasted a lifetime.
But fear tries to poke its nose beneath the tent. So we are always in awe of the man in the arena, the guy or gal who leaves the tent without a care for battle.
How about the poor son of a gun from Pittsburgh who fouled the Butler fellow on a free throw rebound with a second on the clock and the score tied? He was reacting as all of us would do when we feel an athletic feat is called for.
Hold your head high, young man. We’ve all been there. We dropped a pop foul attempting a basket catch as a hind catcher, allowing the young batsman to get another pitch and drive in the winning run
”It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night is another thing." (The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway).
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Pick and Choose
The higher power has no power. He is strangely absent from the course of human events. Holy Cow! Perhaps He created us and left us to our own devices, including nuclear power plants, the Declaration of Independence and the National Football League lockout. Not to mention the rise of multi-cellular organisms with the capacity to organize games that defy logic. Why were Colorado, St. Mary’s and Virginia Tech left out of The Dance?
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we ask you what hath God wrought?
But this is all palaver. Baseball is a mere two weeks-plus away, and shorts, golf shirts and no socks are on the horizon.
Our picks are chalk, as they say. Philadelphia from the senior circuit and the New England Patriots, oops, we mean the Beantown bloody ankles from the designated hitter heretic league will appear in the fall classic. Expect Phillies winning it all but winning under 97 games in the regular season. Our beloved Redbirds are doomed without 20-game winner Adam Wainwright. It has been our experience that the team with the better players wins. Jeff Capel, the fired coach of the Crimson and Cream, had Blake Griffin and rode this horse to the elite eight just two years ago.
But meanwhile we have young men in baggy shorts putting us into full March Madness Mode. We are going full unchalk in this one. We see San Diego State defeating Florida in the final. This is a lock, so get in while you can. For entertainment purposes only.
Sports, as they are meant to do, distract us from life as it is. Few of us will hit the three-pointer at the buzzer, or the home run in the bottom of the ninth. Fewer of us will encounter the decision to save the elderly and endanger our own lives. But some do. In this sporting life, we face dilemmas greater than point spreads and over-unders.
By the way, take Gonzaga over St. John’s, hold onto Ford Motor Co., love thy neighbor and don’t practice putting.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we ask you what hath God wrought?
But this is all palaver. Baseball is a mere two weeks-plus away, and shorts, golf shirts and no socks are on the horizon.
Our picks are chalk, as they say. Philadelphia from the senior circuit and the New England Patriots, oops, we mean the Beantown bloody ankles from the designated hitter heretic league will appear in the fall classic. Expect Phillies winning it all but winning under 97 games in the regular season. Our beloved Redbirds are doomed without 20-game winner Adam Wainwright. It has been our experience that the team with the better players wins. Jeff Capel, the fired coach of the Crimson and Cream, had Blake Griffin and rode this horse to the elite eight just two years ago.
But meanwhile we have young men in baggy shorts putting us into full March Madness Mode. We are going full unchalk in this one. We see San Diego State defeating Florida in the final. This is a lock, so get in while you can. For entertainment purposes only.
Sports, as they are meant to do, distract us from life as it is. Few of us will hit the three-pointer at the buzzer, or the home run in the bottom of the ninth. Fewer of us will encounter the decision to save the elderly and endanger our own lives. But some do. In this sporting life, we face dilemmas greater than point spreads and over-unders.
By the way, take Gonzaga over St. John’s, hold onto Ford Motor Co., love thy neighbor and don’t practice putting.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
You Can Smell It
Unconscious Jon Diebler undid us the other day. The young Buckeye poured in threes as easily as teddy bears nestle with toddlers snoring in their beds. It was sleepwalking against the Wisconsin Badgers. Who needed stalwart Jared Sullinger inside when beyond the arc was the comfort zone for the Ohio State University?
As earthly mammals, we all seek comfort even as we strive to overcome our fellow mammal, each of whom is born live with fur and warm blood and the drive to overcome his or her brethren. Winning requires comfort, a condition that requires the ability of holding two opposing ideas in the mind and still function, a daunting task that makes this sporting life fraught with tension.
Want to bet on West Texas Intermediate crude going to $150 a barrel? There is another mammal who would take your action and relish in your loss. How about Ford Motor Co. breaching $20 a share this year? Plenty of short-sellers who’ll go the other way.
We attended our first boxing match the other night, watching young men in blue and gold (for entertainment purposes only) and managed to escape without blood on our jacket, which we considered a victory. A delicious slice of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee topped the evening off, and we mused that competition makes liars of us all. Martha Stewart wasn’t convicted of insider trading, but lying to the U.S. government about it.
We had a class long ago in Hawthorne and Melville, during which, in a discussion of the latter’s “The Confidence Man,” a young man of tender sensibilities actually broke down crying, exclaiming that no one can be trusted and the professor had to go to his side and pat him on the back. We chuckled at the time, but now we wonder if he wasn’t right to despair. Comfort zones are just that -- zones. When the world is turned upside down and we see it for what it is, all the bromides, sweater vests of coaches and protestations of integrity disintegrate.
Now, we are no saint, but Jim Tressel, the pigskin coach of the Ohio State University, keeps trying to be one. C’mon man. There is no comfort zone for a phony unless he wins.
“There ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity...You can smell it.” (Tennessee Williams, Cat on Hot tin Roof).
Meanwhile, expect the Crimson and Cream of Cleveland County Indian Territory to cover against the Bears of Waco and the Johnnies of Queens County to cover against the Scarlet Knights of New Brunswick.
As earthly mammals, we all seek comfort even as we strive to overcome our fellow mammal, each of whom is born live with fur and warm blood and the drive to overcome his or her brethren. Winning requires comfort, a condition that requires the ability of holding two opposing ideas in the mind and still function, a daunting task that makes this sporting life fraught with tension.
Want to bet on West Texas Intermediate crude going to $150 a barrel? There is another mammal who would take your action and relish in your loss. How about Ford Motor Co. breaching $20 a share this year? Plenty of short-sellers who’ll go the other way.
We attended our first boxing match the other night, watching young men in blue and gold (for entertainment purposes only) and managed to escape without blood on our jacket, which we considered a victory. A delicious slice of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee topped the evening off, and we mused that competition makes liars of us all. Martha Stewart wasn’t convicted of insider trading, but lying to the U.S. government about it.
We had a class long ago in Hawthorne and Melville, during which, in a discussion of the latter’s “The Confidence Man,” a young man of tender sensibilities actually broke down crying, exclaiming that no one can be trusted and the professor had to go to his side and pat him on the back. We chuckled at the time, but now we wonder if he wasn’t right to despair. Comfort zones are just that -- zones. When the world is turned upside down and we see it for what it is, all the bromides, sweater vests of coaches and protestations of integrity disintegrate.
Now, we are no saint, but Jim Tressel, the pigskin coach of the Ohio State University, keeps trying to be one. C’mon man. There is no comfort zone for a phony unless he wins.
“There ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity...You can smell it.” (Tennessee Williams, Cat on Hot tin Roof).
Meanwhile, expect the Crimson and Cream of Cleveland County Indian Territory to cover against the Bears of Waco and the Johnnies of Queens County to cover against the Scarlet Knights of New Brunswick.
Monday, February 28, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
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.
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