My maternal great-granparents in their Lansing Michigan home circa 1915.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
Saw a Great Bumpersticker: My Kid Is a Mensch
Saw it yesterday while driving about town. What a cool concept, raising a kid to be a mensch. Compared to the ubiquitious, specious "My kid is an honor student" stickers, the "My Kid Is a Mensch" is a welcome change.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Thoughts on Recent Readings
Recommended: The Pacific is a delicious set of short stories by Mark Helprin. The prose is lyrical and provacative and the insights woven through each story are original and shared. The characters are unique, yet easy to identify, their lives are brewed in the earth, the sea, the air, our experience, and the spiritual. In fact, the life well-led, the characters who have found a dash of peace in the shifting sands of disappointment and mortality, are those who define their existence and find comfort within the broad parameters of the spiritual.
Disappointment: A Million Little Pieces. Redemption is redemption and one should never quarrel with the methods by which a person makes their peace. However, with that said, the current topselling A Million Little Pieces is worth ignoring unless, of course, you still need a dose of the anti-hero to help form your alternative universe. James Frey's autobiographic tale is story of the ultimate anti-hero, a narcissitic nihilist full of piss, vinegar, and more than enough anger to spoil everything he comes near. Frey pulls himself out of a death spiral to enter a rehab center where he eschews the programmatic approach to sobriety because he's smarter and better than the system--it's the perfect postmodern ruse, angry loner who has one foot on a bannana peel and other in the grave mends his way in the nick of time to show the establishment that foundations are corrupt, that meaning is useless, and the anti-hero knows more, knows better, and is capable of taking his vile, nihilist, narcissist temperment, turning it on a dime, and finding life, love, and success. Yeah, right.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Fantasy Baseball Season Recap
The Choppers took first place in their rotisserie league in June and were never threatened. The next best team was 11 points behind. Bennie Molina was added the roster at the All-Star Break to complete a roster that had A-Rod, Michael Young of Texas, Mark Texaira of Texas, and the great Albert Pujols. Contreras of the White Sox was added to the pitching staff on Labor Day and added three wins September.
The D-Hacks struggled early and finished strong. They made the six-team league playoffs by finishing fifth. The D-Hacks defeated the league's 2nd place team in the first round of the playoffs but fell in the second round to the league's first-place team. The D-Hacks took an early lead in the second-round game but couldn't finish and were swamped by the eventual league champions. Relegated to the Consolation Round, the D-Hacks lost the third place series and finished fourth in the league.
Both teams were skippered by veteran manager Dick De Bacle. "Am I happy with 4th place?" De Bacle snorted. "Expletive no." "Next year both teams are moving up to tougher leagues. I want to see what these Choppers are made of."
In other team news, De Bacle's contract has been extended through the 2008 season.
The D-Hacks struggled early and finished strong. They made the six-team league playoffs by finishing fifth. The D-Hacks defeated the league's 2nd place team in the first round of the playoffs but fell in the second round to the league's first-place team. The D-Hacks took an early lead in the second-round game but couldn't finish and were swamped by the eventual league champions. Relegated to the Consolation Round, the D-Hacks lost the third place series and finished fourth in the league.
Both teams were skippered by veteran manager Dick De Bacle. "Am I happy with 4th place?" De Bacle snorted. "Expletive no." "Next year both teams are moving up to tougher leagues. I want to see what these Choppers are made of."
In other team news, De Bacle's contract has been extended through the 2008 season.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
ASU vs USC: Caliente como Infierno
Brother Paul, nephew Mike, and I went to the ASU vs. USC game yesterday and were treated an exellent match with the powerful, best-in-the-nation Trojans coming out ahead of 38-28 score.
ABC dictated that the game begin at 12:30 pm, which is fine, except that this is Arizona and this is early October and the weather is dry and warm, bordering upon hot. Temps were in the mid-90s and kick-off and rose throughout the day. There wasn’t a speck of shade in the stadium for the first half and there was none for the entire game where we sat, high in the north end zone’s upper deck. Players, coaches, and fans all roasted. It was hot, bright, and for the most part windless, and, since football is an all-weather outdoor sport, it was a beautiful day for a ball game.
The plucky Sun Devils had the heavily-favored Trojans down 21-3 at the half. The Trojans looked lethargic and the Sun Devils had a bounce in their step and mayhem in their eyes. An upset seemed within reach.
USC Coach Pete Carroll is, perhaps, the most ebulliant, bouyant, boyish major college coach in the land. He exudes a bonhomie that many of his taciturn colleagues, who receive far too much credit for victories and shoulder far too much blame for losses lack. Carroll came to USC from the NFL, where the uber-competitive and joyless world of strategy, tactics, and interchangeable, disposable gladiators wasn’t a good fit for his managerial style and demeanor.
Carroll inherited a USC program that hit bottom. Within a season he took the talent that had lain fallow and created a contender. The atmosphere around Trojan program became lighter, friendlier, more jocular, if you will. In a heartbeat, USC was the place to play if you were a West Coast 5-star stud.
What impressed me yesterday was the combination of strategy and tactical precision with which the Trojans played the 2nd half. The first play was an innocuous three-step drop and quick, precise throw to the sideline for a completion by Heisman winner Matt Lienart. Innocuous yes, but genius by design because it made the ASU defense pursue to the boundary. The first few plays repeated the tactic, misdirection and then a quick throw which made the ASU defense pursue to the boundary. USC scored in short order and then repeated the strategy and the result throughout the half. The ASU defense, which spent a majority of the day on the field on hot, sunny day eventually wore down. The many, many stars from USC took over, dominated the second half, and the Trojans banked their 26th consecutive victory.
Well done SC. Well done Sun Devils. The Sun Devils never gave up even when the better team, the tipped balls, andt he heat took a toll on their ability to compete. SC is breathtaking collection of athletes and coaches.
It was a pleasure to view the game in person.
ABC dictated that the game begin at 12:30 pm, which is fine, except that this is Arizona and this is early October and the weather is dry and warm, bordering upon hot. Temps were in the mid-90s and kick-off and rose throughout the day. There wasn’t a speck of shade in the stadium for the first half and there was none for the entire game where we sat, high in the north end zone’s upper deck. Players, coaches, and fans all roasted. It was hot, bright, and for the most part windless, and, since football is an all-weather outdoor sport, it was a beautiful day for a ball game.
The plucky Sun Devils had the heavily-favored Trojans down 21-3 at the half. The Trojans looked lethargic and the Sun Devils had a bounce in their step and mayhem in their eyes. An upset seemed within reach.
USC Coach Pete Carroll is, perhaps, the most ebulliant, bouyant, boyish major college coach in the land. He exudes a bonhomie that many of his taciturn colleagues, who receive far too much credit for victories and shoulder far too much blame for losses lack. Carroll came to USC from the NFL, where the uber-competitive and joyless world of strategy, tactics, and interchangeable, disposable gladiators wasn’t a good fit for his managerial style and demeanor.
Carroll inherited a USC program that hit bottom. Within a season he took the talent that had lain fallow and created a contender. The atmosphere around Trojan program became lighter, friendlier, more jocular, if you will. In a heartbeat, USC was the place to play if you were a West Coast 5-star stud.
What impressed me yesterday was the combination of strategy and tactical precision with which the Trojans played the 2nd half. The first play was an innocuous three-step drop and quick, precise throw to the sideline for a completion by Heisman winner Matt Lienart. Innocuous yes, but genius by design because it made the ASU defense pursue to the boundary. The first few plays repeated the tactic, misdirection and then a quick throw which made the ASU defense pursue to the boundary. USC scored in short order and then repeated the strategy and the result throughout the half. The ASU defense, which spent a majority of the day on the field on hot, sunny day eventually wore down. The many, many stars from USC took over, dominated the second half, and the Trojans banked their 26th consecutive victory.
Well done SC. Well done Sun Devils. The Sun Devils never gave up even when the better team, the tipped balls, andt he heat took a toll on their ability to compete. SC is breathtaking collection of athletes and coaches.
It was a pleasure to view the game in person.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Grace Facing the Family
Two scions of the Mongeau clan are featured with brother Paul. The irrepressible Mike Mongeau, Paul's son, stands front and center, and Katie Crouch, daughter of sister Celeste, is seated to his next. We were about to have a wonderful little Mexican dinner and Mike is on his way to a Cub Scout Den meeting. Katie was working her way through the AZ universities as part of her duties as an editor with McGraw-Hill. Katie's a kind soul and suffered through our brief reunion with humor and grace. Well, you've heard that some family traits skip a generation, right? Grace? Goodness, there's a family trait that's been in mothballs. Heretofore, a graceful moment was when one put a hand through a plate glass window rather than a head.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Victory Songs
Football season—crisp mornings, turning leaves, marching bands, caramel apples, and hot cider. Tucked away in football’s glorious past is the Lansing Michigan Catholic School Junior High Football League. There were six schools that fielded teams. We played on Sundays in September and October.
Priests and dads organized the league. They gathered the equipment, much of it cast off from Michigan State, reserved the fields in city parks, limed the fields, set the schedule, hired the referees, and coached the teams.
The play in the league was uneven. Some schools had a larger enrollment and fielded larger squads, and, as such, usually had a few better players than the smaller schools. I played for Saint Thomas Aquinas, and, in my 7th grade year, we had two kids who went on to play college ball and eventually appeared in two New Year’s Bowl game in same year—one kid started for Michigan and played in the Rose Bowl and another kid caught a touchdown pass for Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.
The games were spirited, if sometimes ragged. We drew a decent crowd of family and friends who cheered us onto victory and consoled us in defeat. Winning was more fun than losing, but losing wasn’t the end of the world. What mattered most was that we were together, we were a team. We belonged to one another for the time we spent on the field.
We would dress out in our uniforms at the school around noon on Sundays, we had all been to early Mass, and we'd either board a bus for a trip across town or hustle across the street for home games. The bus rides to the games were contemplative yet pensive.
STA had a victory song that I leaned when I came to the school in 6th grade. I don’t know how long the song lasted after we left because the Catholic League did not last much longer. It was a boastful drinking song. Where it came from is a mystery. Of course no one on our 7th and 8th grade team drank.
The victory song was most fun after away games. After a victory, the singing would start as the bus pulled out of the park parking lot. All bus windows would be down. We sang long and hard and until we were hoarse.
There’s a moment from those games that has stayed with me all these years. We were playing St. Casimir, a hardworking parish dominated by Polish and Irish and German families, a family friend was playing quarterback for St. Caz—his mother’s obituary was recently published on this blog. In the second half he threw a pass that I intercepted. My timing was perfect, I was headed against the flow of players and broke into the clear along the sidelines. A St. Caz player had the angle on me though, and he lunged for my legs and sent me spilling, ass over teacups, out of bounds.
I rolled and spun and came up, fine for the experience, and gathered my bearings. I looked up and saw the quarterback’s father within a few yards of where I came to rest. He face was set, his lips pursed, and his stare was blank. I’d know him all my life, so I was looking for some recognition. Had I offended him by intercepting his son? Was there something wrong with me?
Fall is coming to the grand, beautiful Sonoran desert. Summer is finally loosening her infernal grip. Mornings are crisp again, the way they should be this time of year. I went and bought a flat of sky blue petunias, the first new plants of my fall / winter garden. I spent some time planting and weeding this morning and thinking about this story. And then it struck me. I understand the look on the the father's face. He was thinking of my dad and how my interception would have put a few more watts in his bright smile and little extra bounce in his already spritely step, and the quarterback’s dad was missing his pal who left us all far too soon.
Oh yeah, I’ve never forgotten the lyrics to the STA victory song, you can sing along too. The tune is “As the Caissons Go Rolling Along.”
Priests and dads organized the league. They gathered the equipment, much of it cast off from Michigan State, reserved the fields in city parks, limed the fields, set the schedule, hired the referees, and coached the teams.
The play in the league was uneven. Some schools had a larger enrollment and fielded larger squads, and, as such, usually had a few better players than the smaller schools. I played for Saint Thomas Aquinas, and, in my 7th grade year, we had two kids who went on to play college ball and eventually appeared in two New Year’s Bowl game in same year—one kid started for Michigan and played in the Rose Bowl and another kid caught a touchdown pass for Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.
The games were spirited, if sometimes ragged. We drew a decent crowd of family and friends who cheered us onto victory and consoled us in defeat. Winning was more fun than losing, but losing wasn’t the end of the world. What mattered most was that we were together, we were a team. We belonged to one another for the time we spent on the field.
We would dress out in our uniforms at the school around noon on Sundays, we had all been to early Mass, and we'd either board a bus for a trip across town or hustle across the street for home games. The bus rides to the games were contemplative yet pensive.
STA had a victory song that I leaned when I came to the school in 6th grade. I don’t know how long the song lasted after we left because the Catholic League did not last much longer. It was a boastful drinking song. Where it came from is a mystery. Of course no one on our 7th and 8th grade team drank.
The victory song was most fun after away games. After a victory, the singing would start as the bus pulled out of the park parking lot. All bus windows would be down. We sang long and hard and until we were hoarse.
There’s a moment from those games that has stayed with me all these years. We were playing St. Casimir, a hardworking parish dominated by Polish and Irish and German families, a family friend was playing quarterback for St. Caz—his mother’s obituary was recently published on this blog. In the second half he threw a pass that I intercepted. My timing was perfect, I was headed against the flow of players and broke into the clear along the sidelines. A St. Caz player had the angle on me though, and he lunged for my legs and sent me spilling, ass over teacups, out of bounds.
I rolled and spun and came up, fine for the experience, and gathered my bearings. I looked up and saw the quarterback’s father within a few yards of where I came to rest. He face was set, his lips pursed, and his stare was blank. I’d know him all my life, so I was looking for some recognition. Had I offended him by intercepting his son? Was there something wrong with me?
Fall is coming to the grand, beautiful Sonoran desert. Summer is finally loosening her infernal grip. Mornings are crisp again, the way they should be this time of year. I went and bought a flat of sky blue petunias, the first new plants of my fall / winter garden. I spent some time planting and weeding this morning and thinking about this story. And then it struck me. I understand the look on the the father's face. He was thinking of my dad and how my interception would have put a few more watts in his bright smile and little extra bounce in his already spritely step, and the quarterback’s dad was missing his pal who left us all far too soon.
Oh yeah, I’ve never forgotten the lyrics to the STA victory song, you can sing along too. The tune is “As the Caissons Go Rolling Along.”
Give a cheer, Give a cheer
To the boys who brew the beer
In the cellar of St Thomas School.
They are brave, They are bold
For the liquor they can hold
In the cellar of St Thomas School.
So, its guzzle, guzzle, guzzle
As the beer goes down your muzzle
Shout out our order loud and clear
More beer!
And if Rosie* wants a beer, Say Rosie* have a beer,
In the cellar of St. Thomas School.
Repeat ad nauseum.
* Rosie is Sister Rose Gilbert, the stern and compassionate principal of STA who never met a kid she couldn’t make smarter.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Do You Promise to Funk?
Tired of Anderson Kvetcher's take on racial the racial divide? Here's a solution.
One Nation Under A Groove
Lyrics by the redoubtable G Clinton, G Shider, W Morrison.
One Nation Under A Groove
Lyrics by the redoubtable G Clinton, G Shider, W Morrison.
So wide can't get around it
So low you can't get under it
(So low you can't get under it)
So high you can't get over it
(So high you can't get over it)
Da-yee do do do do do do
This is a chance
This is a chance
Dance your way
Out of your constrictions
(Tell sugah)
Here's a chance to dance our way
out of our constrictions
Gonna be freakin'!
Up and down
Hang up alley way
With the groove our
Only guide
We shall all be moved
Ready or not here we come
Gettin' down on the one which
We believe in
One nation under a groove,
gettin' down just for the funk
(Can I get it on my good foot)
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
(Good God)
'bout time I got down one time
One nation and we're on the move
Nothin' can stop us now
(Aye aye aye aye aye)
Feet don't fail me now
Give you more of what you're funkin' for
Feet don't fail me now
Do you promise to funk?
The whole funk, nothin' but the funk
Ready or not here we come
Gettin' down on the one which we believe in
Here's my chance to dance my way
Out of my constrictions
(Do do dee oh doo)
(Do do dee oh doo)
(You can dance away)
Feet don't fail me now (ha ha)
Here's a chance to dance
Our way out of our constrictions
Gonna be groovin' up and down
Hang up alley way
The groove our only guide
We shall all be moved
Feet don't fail me now (ha ha)
Givin' you more of what you're funkin' for
Feet don't fail me now
Here's my chance to dance my way
out of my constrictions
Givin' you more of what you're funkin' for
(Feet don't fail me now)
(Feet don't fail me now)
Do you promise to funk, the whole funk,
nothin' but the funk
One nation under a groove
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move
Nothin' can stop us now
Nothin' can stop us now
One nation under a groove
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move
Nothin' can stop us now
Nothin' can stop us now
One nation under a groove
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move
Nothin' can stop us now
Do you promise to funk?
Do you promise to funk?
Hah
Do you promise to funk, the whole funk?
One nation under a groove
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
(Here's my way to dance my way out)
Gettin' down just for the funk of it
One nation
And we're on the move
Nothin' can stop us now
Do you promise to funk, the whole funk?
You can't stop us now
Givin' you more of what you're
Funkin' for
Sunday, September 11, 2005
LSU v ASU: Wonderful Game
First, let me apologize for not taking my camera. LSU purple is as vivid as any color on the football spectrum. Playing at night accentuated the color. It was striking.
The game itself was a gem and a hoped for metaphor for the people of Louisiana. LSU won 35-31. They received a few charitable contributions from ASU, such as an inexplicably timed fake punt with such high bothcery on ASU’s end that LSU scored a go-ahead touchdown without breaking a sweat.
The fourth quarter was a classic heavyweight battle. Each team marched and scored to answer their opponent. LSU won the game on a marvelously improvised, perfectly thrown 40 yard strike to a double-covered receiver who managed to scrape one foot in bounds as he flew out of the end zone.
The metaphor for the people of Louisiana? LSU took some of ASUs charity, glady I might add, but crafted their comeback victory on guile, guts, and their superior talent. LSU prevailed just as the people of Louisiana will take our generosity and rebuild their lives.
I work for a company that has a division in NO. The building suffered minimal damage, but the people were scattered with the wind. I worked on a hotline that answered calls from wandering employees and directed them to a temporary work assignment 200 miles north. The company is helping in ways large and small. It was an honor to help. The people were marvelous. Their stories were wrenching. It isn’t my business to retell their stories. I will say this. These people tell a different story than the politicized, hysteria unfolding on cable TV.
I’ve seen many, many college football games in my life. But I haven’t been to any where the fans respectfully applauded both teams as they left the field. If you can find a tape of the game or view the game on replay, do yourself a favor. View it. It is a wonderfully played game and a game that has many winners.
The game itself was a gem and a hoped for metaphor for the people of Louisiana. LSU won 35-31. They received a few charitable contributions from ASU, such as an inexplicably timed fake punt with such high bothcery on ASU’s end that LSU scored a go-ahead touchdown without breaking a sweat.
The fourth quarter was a classic heavyweight battle. Each team marched and scored to answer their opponent. LSU won the game on a marvelously improvised, perfectly thrown 40 yard strike to a double-covered receiver who managed to scrape one foot in bounds as he flew out of the end zone.
The metaphor for the people of Louisiana? LSU took some of ASUs charity, glady I might add, but crafted their comeback victory on guile, guts, and their superior talent. LSU prevailed just as the people of Louisiana will take our generosity and rebuild their lives.
I work for a company that has a division in NO. The building suffered minimal damage, but the people were scattered with the wind. I worked on a hotline that answered calls from wandering employees and directed them to a temporary work assignment 200 miles north. The company is helping in ways large and small. It was an honor to help. The people were marvelous. Their stories were wrenching. It isn’t my business to retell their stories. I will say this. These people tell a different story than the politicized, hysteria unfolding on cable TV.
I’ve seen many, many college football games in my life. But I haven’t been to any where the fans respectfully applauded both teams as they left the field. If you can find a tape of the game or view the game on replay, do yourself a favor. View it. It is a wonderfully played game and a game that has many winners.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Planted this ruella just over a year ago. It came in a 5-gallon container. In the last year it has exploded into the bush above. The blooms last for the morning then they drop to the ground. A fresh group of blooms is ready to take their place each morning. The blooms are bell-shaped and make a perfect feeding spot for hummingbirds and insects. I sat quietly and watched a hummingbird move from bloom to bloom through the whole bush. When finished, the hummingbird found a branch on the bush and perched for a few minutes. First time I had ever seen a hummingbird be still.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Jo Hayes; Wonderful Woman, Great Friend
Jo was a dear friend of my parents. She was present for many of the important moments in my young life. I'll always remember her smile, her kind eyes, her unquestioned affection, and her great laugh. They were a wonderful generation. God bless them all.
Born in Lansing on Jan. 10, 1921, was the first generation of Sicilian Immigrants of Rose and Jim Noice. She died on Aug. 28, 2005, at Hospice House of Mid Michigan. Josie's life was filled with love for her family, friends and her church. She was a devoted mother who loved the sun, beach, her home and especially her screened in porch, walking, gardening, cooking, bridge and euchre, reading and golf. She embraced life and enjoyed gatherings with friends and family. She will be missed by all the lives she touched. She was preceded in death by her husband, Frank J. Hayes. She is survived by her loving and devoted seven children; Michael (Becky), Mary Jo (Tim) Bremer, Maureen (Rick) Shipley, Patrick (Terry), Margie (Bob) Miller, Amy (Mike) Hansen, Ann (Michael) Shields, 17 grandchildren, 1 great grandson, a very special friend Pete Lilla and many beloved nieces and nephews. A Memorial Mass will be celebrated Saturday at 10:00am at St. Gerard Catholic Church with Rev. Fr. John Klein as celebrant. A gathering of family and friends will begin at 9:15am at the church. In lieu of flowers memorials can be made to Hospice House of Mid-Michigan or the Alzheimer's Assoc.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Find Huckleberry Finn Offensive?
Find HF a little unsettling? Does Twain's language cause your postmodern, politically correct feathers to ruffle? Do you pine for the never-were glory days of the morally superior socialist economies that murdered millions and oppresssed and brutalized millions more and ruined cultures and invented histories and reinforced elitism? Is the earth flat?
Do you think that liberal democracies are capable of recognizing and correcting artificial barriers, such as a segregation? Was the Civil Rights Act of 1964 a piece of legal legerdermain that just reinforced the oppression of inherent in liberal democracy? Is Mark Twain reinforcing wrongs or tempting people to admit weakness? What's more important, telling the story correctly or correctly telling the story?
Here's a cool passage from HF in which Huck speaks:
Well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter, now. I had been to school most of the time and could spell, and read, and write just a little, and could say the multipication tables up to six times seven equals thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway.
Save the humanities. Read Twain and enjoy Twain. I am.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Teammates By David Halbertsam--An Essential Read
A friend sent me this book with the note "our dads would have fit right in with these guys." These guys, Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Bobby Doerr, and Dom DiMaggio are wonderful men whose friendship is warmly told in the book Teammates by the redoubtable David Halberstam.
Everyone knows Teddy Ballgame, a man chosen by the Gods to be the best hitter of the 20th century and equally cursed with a hyperkinetic personality that drove away all but his most steadfast and patient and loving friends. The others, Doerr, DiMaggio, and Pesky were quintessentially of their time. DiMaggio and Pesky rising from immigrant roots to scrap their way into professional baseball. Yes, Dom is Joe D's brother but don't be fooled, Dom made his own way on his own talent. Doerr's family life was supportive, nurturing, and true to form, Bobby Doerr grew from those roots to become a solid, balanced man.
Each man served in WWII. Williams served in WWII and Korea. Each knew sacrifice and sadness. Perhaps, the penultimate lesson in the book comes from this story. The boys were playing for the Red Sox versus the Cardinals in Game 7 of the World Series. The score was tied 2-2 in the bottom of the 8th. Enos Slaughter of the Cardinals scored the winning run from first on ball that was hit in the gap between center and left. Pesky, the shortstop, cut-off a weak throw from a replacement outfielder and turned to see Slaughter near the plate. Surprised to see Slaughter so close to home plate, he held the ball and extra instant and threw to the plate late. Slaughter had scored. The press seized upon the moment and charged Pesky with holding the ball too long thereby allowing Slaughter to score and the Red Sox to lose the World Series.
For more than 50 years Pesky accepted the blame rather than pass the blame off to a teammate. The game isn’t fair; sometimes it’s good to you and sometimes it isn’t. Pesky’s friends explain the play. Pesky did all he could they say. Pesky refuses to comment. This loyalty, this code of honor, this devotion to an ideal that is larger than the person exemplifies the love and passion with which these men played ball and led their lives. Halberstam’s prose is equally devoted and affectionate throughout.
My friend is right about our dads. They lived by the same qualities. They shared experiences and hardships and matured in circumstances much more difficult than their baby boomer children. Perhaps viewing times past from a distance helps me understand what wasn’t recognizable when I was standing next to it.
When I listen to the relativist, hateful, spiteful vitriol spewed by the post moderns I think to myself how could I have thought that some drunken lout, half-assed poet in Los Angeles had more to offer to me than men who lived through the Depression, fought in a War, found careers, and raised families? Guys who knew first hand that life was difficult and unfair and disappointing yet labored and loved and laughed and learned. Guys who looked disappointmet in the eye and didn't blink. As their generation passes from this time on the planet let's hope books such as Teammates can help us reconnect.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
A pot full of zinnias are the latest gift of color to grace the backyard. I have two pots of zinnias in, purples, yellows, oranges, and red. I potted them during the hottest, brightest, driest time of the year and they have flourished during our very moist monsoon season. Yes, monsoon in the desert.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Russ Maples, Good Man
Everything you'll read about Russ Maples is true. My best friend, ages 5-10, is his son Denny Maples. We moved and my relationship with the Maples family became distant. Russ treated us fairly, and as kids we all knew we'd get a square deal whether we were caught red-handed doing what we shouldn't be or if we deserved congratulations for an act of good citizenship or athletic feat. Rest in Peace Good Russ.
Maples, Russell Dale Lansing, MI Russell Dale Maples died peacefully at his home on Wednesday, August 10, 2005 after a brief and courageous battle with kidney cancer. Russ was born on February 27, 1925 in Imlay City, Michigan and in the midst of a stellar high school athletic career, enlisted in the Army Air Corps in 1942, at the age of seventeen. He piloted a B-24, "Unfinished Business", flying 52 missions in the European Theatre. He then attended Bowling Green State University, where he was a standout quarterback in the late 1940's. His career as coach, teacher, and central administrator for the Lansing School District lasted nearly forty years. His beloved Sexton "Big Reds" were Class A state football champions in 1961 and 1963. Russ was inducted into the Greater Lansing Area Sports Hall of Fame in 2004. He served in many civic organizations, including as president of the Lansing Boys Club. Russ was preceded in death by his parents, Andrew and Mae. Surviving are his wife of 56 years, Marilyn Maples; his children, Dennis (Jenny), Dayle (David Kampfschulte), and Mike (Lori); his grandchildren, Kris, Kory, and Gage Maples, Kevin and Annie Kampfschulte, and Kinzel Maples were the light of his life; and sisters, Beverly (Ed) Thomas, Barbara Crankshaw, Sandra Teetzel, and Mary Jo Maples, along with many nieces and nephews. He is also survived by hundreds of former students and athletes, whom he greatly influenced. Russ was greatly comforted and cheered by the many dear friends who visited and helped care for him in his final days. He was an avid downhill skier and golfer and spent the winter of his 80th birthday skiing in Michigan and in the West. He cherished deeply the countless hours spent with his friends and family on the ski slopes and golf courses over the years. He was a skilled builder and carpenter and enjoyed helping friends with many projects. The family would like to thank the medical staff at Dr. Larry Pawl's office, the staff at Spectrum Health, Butterworth Hospital, the staff at Ingham Visiting Nurse and Home Hospice Services, and the staff of Home Instead Senior Care, for their excellent and compassionate care given over the past three months. A service to celebrate Russ's life will be held at 3:00 p.m. on Sunday, September 4, 2005 at Delta Presbyterian Church, 6100 W. Michigan Ave., Lansing, with the Rev. Dr. Alfred D. Deutsch officiating. The family will receive friends one hour prior to the service on Sunday at the church. In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to Ingham Hospice Services of Michigan or the Boys & Girls Club of Lansing.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Fugue for Tinhorns, Lyrics by Frank Loesser
NICELY
I got the horse right here
The name is Paul Revere
And here's a guy that says that the weather's clear
Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do
If he says the horse can do, can do, can do.
(Benny starts singing his part at this time, while Nicely continues:)
Can do - can do - this guy says the horse can do
If he says the horse can do - can do, can do.
(Rusty starts singing his part as the time, while Nicely and Benny continue:)
For Paul Revere I'll bite
I hear his foot's all right
Of course it all depends if it rained last night
Likes mud, likes mud, this X means the horse likes mud
If that means the horse likes mud, likes mud
Likes mud.
I tell you Paul Revere
Now this is no bum steer
It's from a handicapper that's real sincere
Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do.
If he says the horse can do - can do - can do.
Paul Revere. I got the horse right here.
BENNY
I'm pickin' Valentine, 'cause on the morning line
A guy has got him figured at five to nine
Has chance, has chance, this guy says the horse has chance
if he says the horse has chance, has chance, has chance
I know it's Valentine, the morning work looks fine
Besides the jockey's brother's a friend of mine
Needs race, needs race, this guy says the horse needs race
If he says the horse needs race, needs race, needs race.
I go for Valentine, 'Cause on the morning line,
The guy has got him figured at five to nine
Has chance, has chance, this guy says the horse has chance
Valentine! I got the horse right here.
RUSTY CHARLIE
But look at Epitaph. he wins it by a half
According to this here in the Telegraph
"Big Threat" - "Big Threat"
This guy calls the horse "Big Threat"
If he calls the horse "Big Threat",
Big Threat, Big Threat.
And just a minute, boys.
I've got the feed box noise
It says the great-grandfather was Equipoise
Shows class, shows class.
This guy says the horse shows class
If he says the horse shows class
Shows class, show's class.
So make it Epitaph, he wins it by a half
According to this here in the Telegraph.
Epitaph! I got the hore right here
I got the horse right here
The name is Paul Revere
And here's a guy that says that the weather's clear
Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do
If he says the horse can do, can do, can do.
(Benny starts singing his part at this time, while Nicely continues:)
Can do - can do - this guy says the horse can do
If he says the horse can do - can do, can do.
(Rusty starts singing his part as the time, while Nicely and Benny continue:)
For Paul Revere I'll bite
I hear his foot's all right
Of course it all depends if it rained last night
Likes mud, likes mud, this X means the horse likes mud
If that means the horse likes mud, likes mud
Likes mud.
I tell you Paul Revere
Now this is no bum steer
It's from a handicapper that's real sincere
Can do, can do, this guy says the horse can do.
If he says the horse can do - can do - can do.
Paul Revere. I got the horse right here.
BENNY
I'm pickin' Valentine, 'cause on the morning line
A guy has got him figured at five to nine
Has chance, has chance, this guy says the horse has chance
if he says the horse has chance, has chance, has chance
I know it's Valentine, the morning work looks fine
Besides the jockey's brother's a friend of mine
Needs race, needs race, this guy says the horse needs race
If he says the horse needs race, needs race, needs race.
I go for Valentine, 'Cause on the morning line,
The guy has got him figured at five to nine
Has chance, has chance, this guy says the horse has chance
Valentine! I got the horse right here.
RUSTY CHARLIE
But look at Epitaph. he wins it by a half
According to this here in the Telegraph
"Big Threat" - "Big Threat"
This guy calls the horse "Big Threat"
If he calls the horse "Big Threat",
Big Threat, Big Threat.
And just a minute, boys.
I've got the feed box noise
It says the great-grandfather was Equipoise
Shows class, shows class.
This guy says the horse shows class
If he says the horse shows class
Shows class, show's class.
So make it Epitaph, he wins it by a half
According to this here in the Telegraph.
Epitaph! I got the hore right here
Giant waterfall discovered in California national park
This is a cool discovery. Click on the title for more.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Quick Fantasy Baseball Update
De Bacle has hung tough with the Diamondhacks and they’ve risen from a miserable 9th place in the standing to their present position of third. They’ve won 6 of the last 7 weekly match-ups; two of those victories came by perfect 9-0 scores. They are a shoe-in to make the end of season championship playoff.
The turning point in the season was grabbing Cleveland catcher Victor Martinez off waivers when he returned from injury. Then a fortuitous trade netted the D-Hacks Mr, Reyes of the Mets for rookie sensation Cliff Barmes of Colorado. Barmes fractured his clavicle just days after the trade when he was lifting some freshly shot venison from something to something. Oops!
The Choppers have been in first place since May. De Bacle’s in cruise control making sure players with hot hands are in the line-up. The Chopper pitchers have a combined ERA of 3.15. When asked if having Roger Clemens in the line-up contributed to his team’s domination, De Bacle looked skyward and rubbed his eyes, then he turned away from the questioner, spit, and said “Expletive,” grinned, shook his head, then grabbed a fungo and hit some mile high pop-ups to his catchers. He shouted, "home run in a phone booth," when his last pop-up soared straight above him, cleared the the third deck roof line, and landed in catcher Molina's glove not ten yards from where De Bacle stood holding his fungo.
The turning point in the season was grabbing Cleveland catcher Victor Martinez off waivers when he returned from injury. Then a fortuitous trade netted the D-Hacks Mr, Reyes of the Mets for rookie sensation Cliff Barmes of Colorado. Barmes fractured his clavicle just days after the trade when he was lifting some freshly shot venison from something to something. Oops!
The Choppers have been in first place since May. De Bacle’s in cruise control making sure players with hot hands are in the line-up. The Chopper pitchers have a combined ERA of 3.15. When asked if having Roger Clemens in the line-up contributed to his team’s domination, De Bacle looked skyward and rubbed his eyes, then he turned away from the questioner, spit, and said “Expletive,” grinned, shook his head, then grabbed a fungo and hit some mile high pop-ups to his catchers. He shouted, "home run in a phone booth," when his last pop-up soared straight above him, cleared the the third deck roof line, and landed in catcher Molina's glove not ten yards from where De Bacle stood holding his fungo.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Peter Gammons Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech
Click on the heading. Then click on the link for the speech. Following is an article that has a story that Peter references during his speech.
'Can you smell the bat burning?'
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Peter Gammons
Special to ESPN.com
July 5, 2002
July 5
Ted Williams got what he always wanted. When he walked towards a San Diego playground before the 1991 All-Star Game in his hometown, a man stopped his car, turned to his son and said, "There goes the best hitter who ever lived." It was Williams' mantra, and it was repeated at Fenway Park in 1999, when, surrounded by Henry Aaron and Mark McGwire and Willie Mays and the rest of the All-Century team, Tony Gwynn spoke those very words.
He was a man whom John Wayne and Robert Ryan tried to emulate, was John Glenn's co-pilot in Korea, was the last man to hit .400. He also batted .388 at the age of 39 in 1957 -- without one infield hit. Was that his greatest hitting achievement? "Nah," he said, "that was the year my bat slowed down, but the league didn't adjust to me. I was late on a lot of balls and got hits to center and left-center. They were out of position a lot. No big deal."
No big deal? .388!
He was too stubborn to use the whole field, but his patience and simple creed -- "Get a good pitch to hit" -- defines the approach to plate discipline that marks the Yankees and A's of this era. He loved hitting, its science, and all its attributes. When I was driving Ted and Wade Boggs to Clearwater for a dinner of hitting talk with Don Mattingly in spring training of 1986, Ted asked Boggs, "Have you ever smelled the bat burning?"
"What are you talking about?" Boggs replied.
Ted didn't reply.
At dinner, Ted repeated the question to Mattingly.
"People think I'm crazy, but yes," replied Mattingly. "It takes a perfect rising, four-seam fastball, a perfect swing, a foul straight back ... and you can smell the burn of the seams and the bat."
"Only the guys who whip that lumber have smelled it," said Ted.
When all those great players surrounded Williams at Fenway at the '99 All-Star Game, he motioned for McGwire to come closer. He asked the same question.
After the game, McGwire repeated the story of how Ted called him over and asked if he'd ever smelled the bat burning. "I told him I had," said McGwire. "But can you believe that he knew who I am?"
"What are you talking about, smelling the bat burning?" asked an All-Star teammate.
That teammate didn't understand that Ted, McGwire and Mattingly speak a language of their own, the language of the gods.
In 1991, ESPN producer Debby Wrobleski and I were trying to do an interview with Williams concerning the 50th anniversary of .406 and other subjects. At 6 a.m. one day, the phone rang. "So," boomed the voice on the other end. "When the hell are you coming down here?"
He said he had no more than 30 minutes ... and finally had to get ready for a court date after the interview had run more than 100 minutes. He recounted why he wouldn't sit out the second game after passing .400, and that the best right-handed and left-handed pitchers he ever faced were Bob Lemon and Herb Score. With the interview over, he called me into the kitchen. There, he'd set up six glasses with ice, two plates of nachos and cheese and crackers for the six people in our crew. "They probably got tired and hungry and thirsty listening to my BS," he said.
In snapshots, he could be one of the warmest men on the planet, as he was the first time I met him doing a sidebar at a Senators-Red Sox game in 1970, when he was managing the Senators and I was a cub reporter; after an hour in his office, he said, "Kid, you're OK. You like this game."
He could have been bitter about all the time he missed in World War II and Korea and with injuries, but when he did a commercial for the Hall of Fame he so loved, he listed being a Marine as one of his two greatest accomplishments. Oh, he'd also have hit more than 521 homers had he used the screen above The Green Monster, but he never whined. In fact, he always stayed in tune with the game. One day he called Dan Duquette out of the blue and said, "Nomar Garciaparra is the best damn player who ever played for the Red Sox." He loved McGwire and Barry Bonds, and one time he told me, "Every time I watch Paul Molitor hit, I close my eyes and see Joe DiMaggio."
Molitor saw the interview on ESPN, and said he was floored. Soon thereafter, Molitor was at the B.A.T. Dinner in New York, and when he went into the room with the head table, Ted was sitting in a corner telling stories with several of his contemporaries. "Get over here," Williams hollered to Molitor. "I want these guys to meet you. You're one of the greatest damned hitters who ever lived, kid."
But it had to be his way. When the Sports Illustrated baseball preview issue came out with Boggs on the cover and featuring the three-way discussion on hitting, Ted charged me, waving a copy of the magazine. "See ... see ... look at Boggs' bat," he hollered. "Is it an uppercut? You're damned right it's an uppercut. See ... see ... Ted was right, Walt Hriniak was wrong. Period."
Unfortunately, Williams got only one chance at a World Series, in 1946, and in an exhibition before the first game, he was hit by a pitch, damaged his wrist and could barely swing the bat against the Cardinals. So he is left with the memorial that he was beloved by teammates, and when Fenway Park holds his memorial service on July 22, he will be remembered as the greatest damn hitter who ever lived.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Five Pars and Two Eagles
Above: Out of bounds at Pagago.
The fifth hole at Papago Golf Course saves the best for last. The hole is a standard par four; a good drive leaves you with @ 150 yards to the hole. The green is a beauty. It’s lies 50 feet above your second shot with all of the rise coming within 15 yards of the green. As you stand in the fairway the green looks like a lazy letter J with the hook of the J in the left-front side of the green. The stem of the J, is the center and right side of the green, which is narrow and is protected by two large, deep bunkers. Pin placements are as follows: a front pin is in the hook of the J in the left front. The bunkers aren’t in play unless you push your shot to the right. The back and middle pins are in the stem of the J and dare you to fly the large, deep bunkers. The green rolls and pitches. There are few, if any, straight, flat putts.
Yesterday’s pin placement was a middle pin. The pin was placed farther left than normal so a player who drove far right had to fly the bunkers. I hit the green with my second shot, a rarity regardless of where the pin is placed, and strolled confidently toward my putt. Rain during the night and week left course wet and the grass thick and clutching. The air was ripe with dew and had the consistency of a damp sponge.
Climbing the hill and reaching the green, I heard the piercing cry of a raptor. I looked up to see two, very large, golden brown beauties land in a eucalyptus tree. They squabbled over position on the tree and then they settled nicely on branches once the seating order was established.
I stood over my birdie put and hit what can only be described as a miserable putt. While walking toward my second put I looked up and saw that one of the birds had drawn a bead on something near the green. I stood over my second put and stroked a second putt that was equal to or less than the quality of the first. In an act of mercy toward me, playing partners gave me the third and so I picked up and headed toward the back of the green grumbling about my bogey.
As I am walking toward the back of the green, the large golden brown bird flashes by and lands on top of the jackrabbit that was grazing not ten yards from where I stood. Talons raised, the great brown bird either didn’t have enough speed, misjudged the size of the jack, or the jack did a quick two-step because the jack got away. Great bird stood there, incredulous, with me 10 yards away.
Great bird was bigger than I first figured. It’s head was the size of a tennis ball. It’s stood regal and fearless. I said to my playing partners, “boys we’ve got a golden eagle here." Great bird, now eagle, wasn’t interested in me. He was standing on the ground looking through the creosote. Jack made a sudden move. Eagle took off and never rose 10 feet off the ground, he dove between to bushes and this time he didn’t miss. Jack was for breakfast.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Spent the weekend at La Paloma in Tucson, a beautiful resort nestled in the foothills of the Catalina Mountains. This view was two steps outside of our room. The developers did a nice job of settling the resort amidst the desert. Lori spotted a bobcat stroll in the desert just outside our room. I went to look for it but the brush was too heavy to do any serious following. The local birds were very upset, chirping and schreeching distress signals to all their feathered friends. So bobcat must have been close. The above shot shows a late afternoon monsoon storm crossing the Catalinas and heading for the Old Pueblo, Tucson.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Back at the Big Ballpark
Miguel Cabrera, the brilliant young leftfielder for the Marlins is standing on first base; he's in the black jersey. Cabrera is on both fantasy teams, He's hitting @ .340 for the year. He had two hits last nght. The Marlins are a good, young, athletic team. Cabrera and 2nd baseman Castillo are worth the price of admission on their own. Castillo combines with shortstop Gonzales to form as good a middle infield as you'll find in the game.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Requiem Aeternam
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Kyrie eleison,
Christe eleison,
Kyrie eleison
My father died 44 years ago today. You see him smiling, vibrant. He lives on smiling, vibrant. He had a heart attack while playing golf on a sunny, summer Tuesday morning. Newspaper accounts said he watched his drive on the first hole come to a stop and then crumple to the ground. He was playing alone.
I was playing in a little league playoff game that morning. We had another game that afternoon. I was leaving for the afternoon game having just finished lunch. Father Weber, the pastor at St. Gerard, was walking up our driveway. He was a family friend who socialized frequently with my parents. It wasn't extraordinary for him to be visiting. His face was ashen. I greeted him with a smile and wave as I hung my baseball glove from my handlebars. He said nothing and put a hand on my shoulder and guided me back toward the house.
We entered, my mother came to greet him. "Martha Jane," he said, "Phil has been taken ill in Gaylord." Ill? He's sick? He's going to be fine? Right? My young mind raced. My Irish mother began to wail. The banshees wailed along with her. I tried to leave to go play the afternoon game. Father Weber stopped me. "Stay close to home, Sam. You'll be needed." I held out hope that he was sick, that he'd be fine. He'd be home. I locked myself in the bathroom and closed my eyes and mustered my thoughts and my fears and tried to invent a reality in which he hadn't died.
Soon my sister was brought home from her job. I ran to the driveway and told her, "dad had been taken ill in Gaylord." She knew what it meant. She ran into my mothers arms. They wailed. Word spread soon. The house filled with family friends. Father Weber led a rosary and we knelt and prayed for his soul. The world then alternated between vicious high-velocity spins and excruciating moments when time slowed and reality glared directly into a young boy's heart.
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Kyrie eleison,
Christe eleison,
Kyrie eleison
My father died 44 years ago today. You see him smiling, vibrant. He lives on smiling, vibrant. He had a heart attack while playing golf on a sunny, summer Tuesday morning. Newspaper accounts said he watched his drive on the first hole come to a stop and then crumple to the ground. He was playing alone.
I was playing in a little league playoff game that morning. We had another game that afternoon. I was leaving for the afternoon game having just finished lunch. Father Weber, the pastor at St. Gerard, was walking up our driveway. He was a family friend who socialized frequently with my parents. It wasn't extraordinary for him to be visiting. His face was ashen. I greeted him with a smile and wave as I hung my baseball glove from my handlebars. He said nothing and put a hand on my shoulder and guided me back toward the house.
We entered, my mother came to greet him. "Martha Jane," he said, "Phil has been taken ill in Gaylord." Ill? He's sick? He's going to be fine? Right? My young mind raced. My Irish mother began to wail. The banshees wailed along with her. I tried to leave to go play the afternoon game. Father Weber stopped me. "Stay close to home, Sam. You'll be needed." I held out hope that he was sick, that he'd be fine. He'd be home. I locked myself in the bathroom and closed my eyes and mustered my thoughts and my fears and tried to invent a reality in which he hadn't died.
Soon my sister was brought home from her job. I ran to the driveway and told her, "dad had been taken ill in Gaylord." She knew what it meant. She ran into my mothers arms. They wailed. Word spread soon. The house filled with family friends. Father Weber led a rosary and we knelt and prayed for his soul. The world then alternated between vicious high-velocity spins and excruciating moments when time slowed and reality glared directly into a young boy's heart.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
A cool hanging tropical plant, sorry the name escapes me, sitting over more yellow lantana. A lantana bush, which has pink and yellow blooms, is to the left. The hanging tropical plant survives in the shade of the bouganveilla, it can't take full day sun. The hanging plants has cool, red blooms. The lantana are very resinous are are big favorite among the flying insect community, which by extension makes them a favorite among the bird and lizard communities who find the insect community to be very tasty neighbors.
It been 112-115 during the day for about a week. Lows are in the 90-92 range. It's hot. It hasn' rained since March. It's dry. The dew point is beginning to inch its way up. Warm wet winds are bring moisture from Mexico and the tropics. We're entering our monsoon season, which brings AZ 25-40% of the annual rainfall. Storms generate during the heat of the day and then roam the deserts and mountains in late afternoon, evening, and during the night. Some storms bring spectacular lightning and thunder events. The vinca, dianthus, and portulacca don't mind the the weather. This pot gets maximum sun, from about 9:00am to 4:00 during the hottest months of the year. The colors and volume of the hardly little guys is amazing. I give them a good soaking every evening during this hot strectch. This is my reward. Thanks guys!
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
HBO Mantle Documentary Has Legs
Just saw the HBO documentary on Mantle. It's a must watch for all Mantle-generation baseball fans. Everyone knows the story; there's nothing new, just a tender retelling of Mantle's tale.
I saw Mickey play. My first trip to Tiger Stadium was a Sunday doubleheader versus The Mighty Mighty Yankees. I was with my dad and my cousin Tony. The Tigs swept the Yankees 12-2 in the first game with Frank Lary beating Whitey Ford and 3-2 in the nightcap which featured bench-clearing brawl when Ray Boone took exception to a spikes-up slide into second by Gil McDougal.
My hightlight: We were sitting in the upper deck behind first base. I was using my cousin's binoculars to scope out Mickey, who was kneeling in the Yankee's first-base side on-deck circle. Mick was peering into the stands, no doubt scanning the seats for someone hot, when through the magic of binoculars our eyes met. While our eyes never met, for me they did. I rose from my seat, binoculars glued to my face, stood and waved. Mickey smiled not for me not at me but I didn't know that. I stood transfixed until my dad gently guided me back into my seat. I told him what happened and he smiled and nodded. He knew what happened. I was Tiger fan not a Yankee fan. He was the Mick. He transcended team loyalties.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Sunday, July 10, 2005
A Day at the Big Ballpark: A Challenge and a Reward
As you grow older, you never forget the plays you didn't make. Today, at the D-Backs versus Reds game a ball was fouled back and the forces of physics and fate froze the moment and sent the ball directly to my seat and I stood and watched the ball as it travelled to me and I caught the top-spinning foul with a clean two-handed bare-handed basket-style catch and revelled in the applause and adulation of those sitting near us and I smiled and waved to those nearby because I had been given another chance to make a play and I made the play.
We were at the big ballpark today, my brother, my nephew, and me. We were sitting in the third-deck, directly behind home plate. It was if the fates had planned it, the seats were the exact same seats we'd held two week ago when the D-Backs played the beloved Tigers. We were in the sixth inning. The D-Backs were at the plate. The best we can remember, catcher Kelly Stinnett was up to bat. The ball kept rising and sailing. As it rose over the first few rows of the third level the scene was predestined. The play was meant for me. The ball, though fouled with enough velocity to make the third deck, landed cleanly and softly in my hands. I've missed playing the game over the last decades dearly. I loved the game. Yesterday, the game came back to tell me it loves me still. I am pleased.
Extreme heat brings out the flowers in our bouganvillea. Temps will be in the 110-112 range today and rising to 114-115 by Tuesday/Wednesday. Once the temperature gets over 108, you can feel the difference. Yes, there's a very real difference between 108 and 110. Will be a tough week for the plants. I may have to change their positions and bring them under cover, much as I would if a hard frost were coming.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England
[Richard II, 2.1, 40-51]
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Red Grange: College Football News Calls Him the Best Ever
Red Grange, left, scores one of his first touchdowns against Field Yost's Michigan Wolverines, (who hadn't lost a game in three years), on Oct. 18, 1924, at the dedication game for Memorial Stadium at the University of Illinois in Champaign. In the first 12 minutes of the game, Grange ran for 265 yards and scored four times. He had his hands on the ball only six times and left the field before the end of the first quarter. In the third quarter, he returned and ran for the fifth touchdown; in the fourth quarter he passed for his sixth of the day. Illinois won 39-14. Grange went on to become one of the first superstars of the century.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)