Mongeau

2010-06-14T15:57:00.000-07:00

2010-05-07T08:49:00.000-07:00

Makin' Thunderbirds

2010-03-31T14:47:00.005-07:00

Bobby Great Lakes sings to the Water Wonderland's recent, glorious past. Paul Ingrassai's Crash Course details how the Big 3's hubris and the UAW's vanity share equally in ruined American automobile industry.

Makin Thunderbirds

The big line moved one mile an hour
So loud it really hurt
The big line moved so loud
It really hurt
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds

We filled conveyors
We met production
Foremen didn't waste words
We met production
Foremen didn't waste words
We were young and proud
We were makin' thunderbirds

We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
They were long and low and sleek and fast
They were all you ever heard
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds

Now the years have flown and the plants have changed
And you're lucky if you work
The big line moves but you're lucky if you work
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds

We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
They were long and low and sleek and fast
They were classic in a word
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were young and proud
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were young and sure
We were makin' thunderbirds

2010-03-16T19:18:00.005-07:00

Stitt was our 10th grade gym teacher. He was built like a fireplug with a crew cut, drove a T-Bird, and had cool guy/tough guy attitude that comes with being a short guy who could you the hurt on you in a heartbeat. Back in the day, wrestlers came in two flavors: scientific wrestlers and rule breakers. Stitt straddled the chasm that separated the two flavors like a pair of wrap-around shades. Our class nicknamed him "Sunshine."

Stitt hearded our class out to high school track on the first near-Spring Michigan March day and told everyone to run a mile. We'd been inside all winter. Sure, some guys played baseketball and some guys wrestled. A few guys were on the swimming team. As a group, were all pale, a little doughy, and sun deprived. It was cool being outside. It sucked to have to run a mile. We didn't run distances. Never had. A mile could have been a marathon.

Gym class was supposed to fun, right. It wasn't physics. There wasn't homework. So, what the hell are we doing running four laps around the track. This was work. Stitt made us do it every day, weather permitting, until school closed for the summer. When we finished our mile Stitt made us do 50 push-ups. And, so it went. Everyone had to run a mile and do 50 push-ups in order to pass the class. By summer, we were nearing decent shape.

Stitt had a decent sense of humor for a wrestling coach. He'd grin as we sang songs while circling the track. Our favorite, "You Are My Sunshine," was a layered serenade and, when Sunshine Stitt was out of earshot, we boldly chanted "70 minutes of Shit from Stitt." I tink he heard us and liked it.

Anyway, I hadn't run a mile since Stitt's class until I broke though that barrier last month. Funny how stuff rattles through your mind while running. I couldn't help but think about an old friend who recently passed. He was chantmaster while we ran around the track for Stitt. He was a trendmaker, a wit, and a bon vivant. But, black water roiled below the surface. Within a few years his wit turn to choler, and lonliness, bitterness, heroin, and cruelty coursed through his veins. He wandered about the world fooling friends and taunting everyone. He left us broken and toubled. So long, dude. We'll always miss your best. We'll always forgive your worst.

Ran 2.1 miles non-stop the last two runs. The distance was verified when I followed my route by car. Keeping one foot in front of the other. Loving where it takes me.

Runner's Den 5K

2010-02-11T13:57:00.004-07:00

My take away from the Rock 'N Roll 1/2 was to build strength and pace. I've employed Jeff Galloway's Miracle Mile training drill to do just that. Galloway's Miracle Mile consists of:

4-5 minute walk

Jog an 880

Run 1 minute / Walk 1 minute

4 Acceleration Gliders (Run for 15 seconds at regular pace; increase speed over next 15 seconds; then glide from the momentum built during the run

Run 1 mile at a fast pace

Repeat as a cool down

I've done the Miracle Mile drill on two Sunday mornings at the Scottsdale Community College track. Beautiful running surface, mountain views, and solitude make the perfect training mix.

The Runner's Den 5K winds its way through the neighborhoods of North Phoenix. Heavy rains on Saturday night cleared near dawn. The sun esacaped a batch of renegade clouds that followed the storm minutes before race time.

I started near the back of the small band of runners who showed for the race. I am guessing these are the folks who'd run regardless of the conditions. My plan was to start at a slow pace and keep it as long as I could.

Most folks broke quickly from the start, and, soone enough, I was at the back of the pack with the very slow walkers. I kept plodding along. I began passing the faster walkers and then the fast walkers. I felt strong and kept going and kept going turn a corner on the course and passed the 1.5K sign.

I had never run that far before. Never found the pace or thought I had the strength to do it. I began passing runners who'd started quickly and lost their wind. My thighs started to ache and then came the 2.5K sign. Uncharted territory!

I stopped at the water table and grabbed a drink. From there to the finish I ran one minute and walked on minute. During the one-minute runs I used another Galloway technique; I counted how many times my right foot landed. I tried to increase the right-foot landing count on each one minute run.

I finished the 5K in 36 minutes and change: a full two minutes plus a few seconds better than my last 5K time.

I am lucky. I know it. I am not fast. Never was. I am gaining strength. I have new goals. I am a finisher.

The Rock 'N Roll 1/2

2010-02-02T20:12:00.008-07:00

Anyone who has set a stretch goal and then met the stretch goal knows this process:
• I can’t.
• Maybe I can.
• Yes, I can.
• I did it.

The Pat Tillman race was an adventure. Training for, entering, and finishing the P.F. Chang’s Arizona Rock ‘N Roll ½ Marathon was one part Quixotic and one part renewal.

I was in my doctor’s office last week for an annual physical, and we were talking about the race—I took my bib number for the race in to show him—and he asked how many people with significant arthritis finished the race? I told him that I didn’t know there were thousands of people on the streets. Then he said to me, “I know that you don’t consider yourself disabled, but there are very few people in your condition who would try to do what you did. Congratulations. I am proud of you. Now, let me feel your prostate.”

The Pat Tillman saga, described in another entry, led to an e-mail from a longtime friend who challenged me to the ½ marathon to be held in January 2010. He told me that if I trained, he’d come to AZ to run it with me. It was around Memorial Day that I took the challenge and began training.

I’ve counted Chris LaReau among my closest friends the better part of 5 decades. His story is a good one, best told by him. He’s run 5 marathons, 2 in France, one that wound its way through French vineyards and had rest stops at Chateaus where wine was dispensed and race participants danced to the music provided. Sounds civilized, right?

Anyway, Chris’ marathon stories are terrific. He and his sister, Valerie a marathoner in her own right who’s qualified for and finished the Boston Marathon, used the Jeff Galloway Run-Walk-Run method to train for, compete in, and finish marathons. Their stories of training in the dead of a Michigan winter beg retelling. Courage, dedication, and strength of character are run thick in the LaReau Family tree. Chris’ and Valerie’s parents are two of most genuine folks walking the planet.

The Galloway Method allows people like me, those who’ve tossed in the towel , to get off their kiesters, put one foot in front of the other, and get out the door. I took Chris’s challenge, bought Galloway’s book “Half-Marathon: You Can Do It,” and created the training schedule outlined in the book. It was Memorial Day. A full six months until the Rock ‘N Roll ½ marathon.

Galloway lays out a plan for people to gradually build distance over time. He teaches runners how to build endurance and to go farther and farther without hurting themselves. It was the perfect system for me. It would be crushing to begin training only to find that my body wouldn’t support the work or distance. I didn’t need that as an outcome. Galloway tells beginners to be careful. Find a pace that is comfortable for them, and so, armed with this advice, I began a slow, steady climb through the distances.

By football season I was into the nine mile range. Around Halloween, I did 10-miles. From Thanksgiving through New Years I was out doing run-walk-run training sessions for 12, 13, and 14 miles. Sunday mornings would find me out before dawn doing the 3 to 3.5 hour training sessions required for that week. I designed my training course so that I would be running east as the sun rose over the McDowell Mountains. Each Sunday there were two dawns: one actual and one metaphoric—a new day for Scottsdale and the dawning of much good stuff for me.

I can’t generalize about why most people run. The literature is full of theories. Everyone knows about endorphins and all that, but my favorites are the stories that running fires the deep corners of our molecular and evolution biology where running is tied to our very existence. I do know this, after not running for decades, running stokes something deep within that smoothes the bumps life’s loopy, lumpy road. In many ways, I have cashed a lottery ticket.

Chris lives in Savannah, GA with his lovely wife Catja. They flew into Phoenix on the Friday before the race. We would be joined on race day Mary Jo, a golfing buddy, who’s run before but never the ½ marathon distance. MJ wanted to experience and conquer the challenge, too.

We spent the weekend with Chris and Catja, having dinners, laughing, going to the pre-race expo, laughing, riding the new light-rail mass transit system, and laughing some more. Time stood still. Old friends being old friends together.

I was confident in my training, but as clocked ticked closer to the appointed hour, doubts crept closer, too. Dark voices from deep inside started spitting flames of doubt: “Who are you to think you can do this? You’ll quit. You don’t have the strength. You’re body can’t handle it.” Perhaps the most insidious were lines like: “Nobody will mind if you don’t do it. You have a million excuses. Make a good show and melt into shadows.” Then I reminded myself to shut up. I had trained. I was confident that I could conquer the distance. The Galloway System’s slow, steady climb through the distance was my shield. I knew I could cover the distance. It worked. Chalk up another victory.

The morning of the race broke crisp with broken clouds. Perfect running weather everyone said. And, after a few transportation hiccups, we found our place at the start of the race. Runners are divided into corrals by best guess of their finishing times. We’d all guessed 3:00 hours and so we were put in Corral 19. It took us approximately 30 minutes from the starting gun to make the starting line. Music blared, this was, after all, the Rock ‘N Roll Marathon, and when Kiss’s “Rock and Roll All Night” hit the speakers, everyone sang along. What irony! We sang even though everyone knew that the party was 13.1 miles in the distance.

Chris took over once the race started. Since we had three rookies and one veteran marathoner we agreed on a one-minute run and one-minute walk pace. This pace would get us through the race in about 3 hours. Chris watched his watch and called out the run walk sequence to our group of four. He navigated us through the maze of runners and walkers. He sang. He shouted encouragement to everyone who’d listen. He was loving every second of it.

The back of marathon is an interesting place. Those runners built for endurance and speed were well ahead. The back of the race is composed to people of all shapes, sizes, ages, genders, and ability. There is no archetypal back of the race runner. The back of the race is about community not competition.

There’s a significant difference between training for distance and being in the race. I trained by myself. I had a stopwatch and a pedometer. I knew I had trained for the distance, but what I hadn’t done well enough was make sure that my pace at the end of the race was somewhere close to my pace at the beginning of the race. For me, the race feel into three parts: part one: An easy gait and a light step; part two: tightening thighs and a gentle alarm that miles aren’t passing as quickly as I hoped they would; and, part 3: the grueling home stretch where doubt devils carpet bombed me between the ears.

Chris managed us through the race like a master. He knew what was going to happen to us as we wound our way through fellow runners. He knew that we’d be ambushed by our bodies. He knew that soon enough we go from being cavalier about the distance to long distance grinder determined to finish. He expertly led us into the marathon’s maw knowing that while each of us would follow it would take individual guts and determination to finish.

I am still confident that I would have finished without Chris’ expert guidance, but the experience would not have been as genuine or as rich had I gone it alone. Honestly, by mile 12 I had fallen a hundred yards, or so, behind my friends. The others waited for me to have our picture taken at Mile 12. We stopped again at Mile 13 for another picture. We were gassed at Mile 12 and did our best to run keep our last mile and to be running when we crossed the finish line.

Chris and I ran together toward the finish line, and, as we approached, he grabbed my hand and we crossed the finish line together holding hands. That summed the whole experience. He knew what it meant for me. That’s the kind of man Chris is. He always has been that kind of guy and always will be. I will never forget it. “That’s one you cross off the Bucket List,” he said as we gathered our balance, our wits, and our breath in the finishing area. Then it was off to get our medals and a cold beer.

Forgot to mention. We finished in 3:14. Not bad considering we stopped for pictures and a couple of visits to the port o johns.

Rock On!

2009-08-09T10:20:00.007-07:00

Day dawned a bright, dry 80 degrees. The staging area was at a nice picnic area at the base of South Mountain. I don’t' know what the f*ck I was thinking, but I was a bit surprised when I saw that the road, which was the course, wound its way up the damn mountain.

I made my way to the back to be with others who'd likely be about my pace. There were about 600 or so runners, and I let most of them pass before I started moving for the front. My chip beeped when I crossed the timing line; I was off.

I had a little trouble finding my pace running with the pack. The steady sound of feet set the beat and I tried to follow. Soon enough, the pack was strung out as the ascent began. I forgot to bring a personal timing device, so I let my wind be the judge of run and rest breaks. I was a little disappointed at how quickly I started to huff and puff, but then I haven't run uphill like I was today. Soon I found a pace and a small pack who were close to the same pace.

The elite runners had covered 2/3 of the course by the time my pack was completing the first 1/3. From then on it was a steady two-way stream of traffic until my pack finally made it up the mountain to the water station. We rounded the turn and headed back down much to everyone's relief. Ii was at this point, when started heading back down the course, that I started enjoying the vistas, the landscape, and the mountains. On the way up, I was fixated on the ascent focusing on not much more than the backsides of the group that was in front of me.

Going downhill was better from an effort standpoint but required enough control to keep from careening off into desert or into people in front of me. As we were running down the course, a few of the elites were going for a second lap and they yelled encouragement to us as we worked our way down the hill. Work being the operative word here; the elites are fine-tuned machines. My pack was working on guts and determination.

I came to the finish line as the clock turned 40:00. I know I didn't start at 0:00, so I don't know my exact time, but, to my surprise, I was close to my 12:00/mile pace because I felt like I was going much slower. I'll chalk my perception up to a good, difficult for me course, the excitement of running with other bodies, and the fact that my body just must like the 12:00/mile pace.

I really liked the experience. For me, the race was well organized, friendly, and another challenge met.

What's not to like?

Race Post-Mortem

Here's my official time.

38:58 for 5K makes for a 12:31/mile pace. Gotta start somewhere. I am proud of the opportunity. The value of grasping opportunity and rising from the bottom isn't safe in a time when big government wants to mandate outcomes. That has to be a bummer for those who run 2.5x faster than me. Poor bastards.

2009-08-05T19:15:00.001-07:00

Summertime in the UP. We're on a small lake just south of Lake Superior. We're visiting Frank Sarvello (spelling from memory) who at the time was Sheriff in Ishpeming. Frank had a big family, I am standing next to one of his thousands of daughters. Tiger hat squarely affixed to my dome. Holy Cross Crusaders sweat shirt representing the West Side.

2009-04-18T15:52:00.016-07:00

The last 40 yards of Pat's Run, a 4.2 mile run/walk that honor's the memory of Pat Tillman, covers 42 yards of Sun Devil Stadium's playing field. Pat wore number 42 when he played so brilliantly for the Sun Devils.

I haven't run much in the last 30 years. Maybe a hop here or quick stride there. Arthritis came upon me in my early 20s. My knees ached; my feet and my hands killed me. There were times during the 70s that I used a cane to help me walk. But, I am lucky. My type of arthritis burns itself out over time. Mine has left me stiff and some motion is restricted, but the nasty, mind-numbing, anger-producing, self-loathing pain has passed. A year ago I told Lori that I was going to do the Pat Tillman Run. Today I did. I took the tiny photo above with my cell phone as I burst (not really) joyfully (this is true) through the tunnel and hit Frank Kush Field at Sun Devil Stadium. What a thrill!

My re-entry to competition has been fueled by the pain's passing. I have gradually stepped up my training activities. Last fall I began running in the pool. In January I began to run around the neighborhood once a week. At first I had no wind. I sucked air big time. Over time I found my wind and a pace that supported my rickety knees and tender toes. Around the Super Bowl I changed from running in the pool to swimming. Beginning in April I started running in the neighborhood 3-4 nights per week. I made only one promise to myself: I would not, regardless of how I felt, I would not finish last.

20,000 people ran or walked the race. The start was staggered based upon how a person's pace for mile. I started way in the back. I had no idea of how fast I would be. I never timed myself when I practiced instead I relished reconnecting with my inner player.

It took about 20 minutes for our group to make the start; during our wait, we watched the elite runners pass the start and head for the finish. "Oh shit," I said aloud to the nodding agreement of my fellow runners. After watching the gifted runner sprint for home we finally reached the starting line. Crossing the line was an emotional, triumphant, and personal moment for me, even among a crowd of 20,000.

The first mile was the worst. My legs felt like cement. As I ran, I passed many people, mostly walkers, who had started before me. There were about five people that I recognized through the run. We took turns passing one another through the course. Coursing through the walkers was good sport. I ran 2/3-3/4 of the race, which wound it's way north of the Sun Devil Stadium through the rolling streets that bound Papago Park. I knew I wouldn't run the entire 4.2 miles in my first race.

As I passed the 3-mile marker my left foot began to throb some. My new running shoes served me well, cushioning my plodding strides. I slowed my pace, the pain passed, and I headed for the finish. Entering the stadium was as cool as I thought it would be. ASU football players stood shoulder to shoulder encouraging us as we ran down the field. I gave everything I had once I reached the field heading toward the finish. Quickly, I went running in a crowd to running alone. No one was near me and I was heading down the sidelines all alone. I gave my best burst. Hit the finish just as a race official said 10,300. I didn't finish last. There were 20,000 of us at the start and 13,000 or so wore the timing chip.

My official time was 55:09. You may view my results below. Next year I'll improve my time. I played 18 holes the next day and broke 90 at the always testing Aguila. My shins barked pretty good for a couple of days. I got back in the pool on Monday to stretch and swim so as not to lose my wind. I'll start running again next week.

2009-03-01T18:02:00.002-07:00

Here are the usual suspects in the backyard. Pansies and petunias are thriving with more light, moderate temps, and a few good soaking from the winter rains. I added geranium over the weekend. If you're a fan of wildflowers now's the time to be thinking about the Sonoran desert. The bucket on the right is a Chinese Water Bucket from the early part of the 20th century. Got it a place called Blue Crate Findings. The CWB has taken a few good soakings and it's hanging tough. I've got a bigger red one in front that's holding primrose. The folks at Blue Crate are always friendly and helpful.

2009-03-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

You may remember shot of the yellow hisbiscus from last year. Here's a cousin of the yellow hibiscus, purple hibiscus. This is the year's first bloom of the purple hibiscus, which sit in our front yard, which is north facing. Purple hibiscus will prosper as the sun moves northward and expose the northern face bushes to more direct light.

2009-03-01T17:53:00.002-07:00

The tree out front is an evergreen pear. It doesn't bring forth fruit but it does burst into blossom near the same weekend every year. The bloom are white and soft; however, rather than giving off the sweet bouquet that one associates with citrus, it gives off a sour aroma that is surprising more than unpleasant. The local wild bees don't mind. They're busy in the tree from dawn till dusk. You can see the ancient McDowell Mountains in the background.

2009-03-01T17:48:00.002-07:00

Here's niece Di with one of planet's newest and gentlest souls, daughter Ellie. Di and Ellie made a quick trip from their Baltimore home to grace us with their presence. Ellie is a great kid and Di's a great mom. We're better people for having them on our team.

2009-01-20T19:33:00.003-07:00

There's a ton going on in this photo. Its a picture shot by a photographer for the Lansing State Journal. It appeared front and center of the Society section of their Going Back to School Sunday issue.

The photo is meant to depict my brother Paul heading off to kindergarten. He's shaking hands with our dog Susie as our mother, purse on the ground, stand watch. I am on my way up the stairs of the Skywalk that spanned Saginaw Highway a couple of block south of Bretton Woods school. I have the half smile/sneer that kids my age had when they're last few days of summer vacation included monkey suits and picture posing.

The photo was taken about six weeks after my dad died. My mother was good friends with the society editor of the paper, and as a result, family members had appear before and would appear again in the society section. My mom had a thing for society. My dad didn't but society was quite fond of him. If you look at the picture carefully, the only two who seem to be enjoying themselves are my mom and Susie.

Susie was a gentle Golden who'd had a few litters and had mellowed except for when it thundered. Then she'd panic and shake and hide and/or jump through screen doors. We had no idea how to work with the poor girl. She had a son named Mike who lived a few blocks away. During that time, most family pets would occasionally roam the neighborhood. Our neighborhood was an unincoporated suburb with large lots and gravel roads. Mike was a monster-sized Golden. His head was the size of a large pumpkin. He come to meet Suzie with great leaping affection. They'd roll and nip and chase and, once in awhile, someone would let Mike in the house by mistake. Mike and Suzie would romp in the house and it drove my mother crazy. Wonder who it was that use to let Mike in the house?

The Skywalk was all about progress. Saginaw Highway was a four-lane racetrack. There were few stop lights. Speeds were high. Left turns were dangerous. Crossing on foot or on bike was a high-risk proposition. The Skywalk was the answer. Pedestrians were now safe. However, check out the steps on the Skywalk. Think any kid hauled his/her bike up and down the steps? They didn't. I didn't. Parents thought we were safe. We weren't. We back to the high-risk stuff. It beat wrestling your bike up and down the step twice a day.

However sneery-faced I was, it's hard to match the look on my brother's face. He looks as if he's just taken a bite from a lemon sandwich. I am not sure if he was all that jazzed about going to school. I know for a fact that I wasn't. Heck, who was?

What really grabs me about this photo is that there is no one else around. Those are my most lasting memories of that time. I went to Saint Gerards. I walked or rode by Bretton Woods evey day. Our starting time differed from theirs. I didn't have anyone near me who went to StGs. So, I rode, or walked, alone. I can still remember the sound of the wind whipping high and cold through the elm trees. It sounded like an angry Lake Michigan. Couple that with a low, gray, spiteful sky and you had a recipe for lonliness. Those were cold, lonely days even with my mug in this Society section.

2009-01-20T19:19:00.004-07:00

Picture courtesy of the East Valley Tribune

Here's Tim Hightower crashing into the end zone for the Cardinals go ahead score in the NFC championship game versus the Eagles.

I would be lying if I told you I saw it coming. I didn't, which makes the Cardinals sweep of the conference playoff games such a thrill. Sure, I watched every game this year. Honestly, I had no idea this was coming.

My affection for the Cardinals has been gradual. The Cards came to town in '88. In those days I lived a couple of blocks from the stadium. It was easy to walk over to the stadium near kick-off, buy a less than face value seat, find a spot in the shade and watch the game. My first Cardinal memory is watching the elegant graceful Art Monk catch a ball over the middle and glide untouched 35-40 yards to the end zone.

The Cardinals have been in the Bidwill family since the 30s. Bill Bidwill, the current patriarch, of the Bidwill clan was a ballboy the last time the (Chicago) Cardinals won the NFL Championship. It was no small irony that on Sunday he held the George Halas Trophy. It is said that the Bidwills left Chicago for Saint Louis after losing a Chicago turf war with Halas.

Bidwill senior is much vilified among those who blab about football. He's a Milqtoastian-type of character, who doesn't mind giving off the aura that he's three-steps beyond a skinflint. Privately, it is said that he is a devout person who prefers to have his charity work to be anonymous. Believe what you like.

I am in the middle of enjoying this improbable run. I intend to keep on enjoying it. I am asking no questions, and I have no answers when anybody asks. It's the type of thing that happens in sports. For that, I am grateful.

An Editor’s Tribute to Her Own Working Mom

2009-01-20T19:10:00.001-07:00

Elizabeth Hughes is the daughter of a good friend of mine. He can be proud of his daughter's beautifully written tribute to her mother, my friend's wife.

A noted writing expert wrote that good writing comes from clear thinking. Elizabeth wrote about one of life's greatest challenges and handled this difficult topic with grace, elegance, honesty, and clarity.

Congratulations Elizabeth and much love to your family.

(Click on the headline to link to Elizabeth's article.)

2009-01-12T19:51:00.002-07:00

Al Kaline, the picture of youth. He went straight from the sandlot of Baltimore to become win the AL batting crown in 1955. I won't dull you with tales of this career--his stats are elegantly laid out here.

I do have one story about a day in Tiger Stadium that features Al. It was the summer of '68 and the Tigers were cruising toward their World Championship. Al broke his collarbone in the Spring and in late July/early August he made his return to the line-up. The Tigers were playing a Sunday doubleheader against the Oakland A's. We were sitting in the first row of the upper deck between third base and the left-field foul pole. The A's bullpen was directly below us.

Doubleheaders were a fan's delight. Two full games with plenty of time between games to make sure that all the Stroh's you needed came your way. Kaline was penciled in to start the second game, and, sure enough, he came out between games to stretch and to do a little running.

Our section was a typical Detroit crowd. Blue collar, couple of dogs and couple of beers, and much adoration for their dear bengals. Everyone loved Kaline and there was much buzz about seeing our dear Al in the nightcap. Except for one guy. Today we'd call him a little person. He referred to himself as a midget. He had smuggled in a pint of something and by the end of the first game he mixed most with a couple of cokes. By the beginning of the second game he was pulling directly from the bottle, sucking the last of the syrupy goodness down his gullet.

Mr Small Person became more agitated as time passed. Before the start of the second game he started to complain about Kaline. Seemed he sent Al a get well card when Al was hurt, and Al had not returned the favor when Mr. Small Guy was hospitalized with gall bladder trouble.

By the time the 2nd game had started our friend had has enough. He had climbed up and was now standing on his seat. Then he started yelling at Kaline, the rightfielder. Remember, our seats were in left so our friend was in no position to have an affect on Kaline's day. Nonetheless, our friend, now in fine state of agitation kept on. "Hey Kaline! Remember the Midget," he yelled. "I sent you a god damn get well card. Think you coulda sent one to me? NOOOOOOOOOOO! Mr. Bigshot doesn't have time for midgets."

And thus it went, until our friend finally ran out of gas. He and his date date had had enough, packed up what was salvageable of their dear and headed for the exit.

The Tigs swept the doubleheader against the young A's. Kaline got a couple of hits and much love from his adoring fans.

2009-01-04T10:31:00.002-07:00

A cool part of the Insight Bowl is that its next door to downtown Tempe's new year's eve bash. Here's an action shot of newphew Mike rocking on the bash's air guitar stage. This was Mike's second year of wowing the crowd with his self-styled performance to the Police's Message in a Bottle.
Mike was not pleased with this year's air guitar organizers. Last year featured solo performers who were competing to win a Wii. This year it was a free-for-all, and organizers allowed multiple performers on stage simultaneously. Mike, who had been working on his routine for some time, felt as though the organizers had cheapened the event.

2009-01-04T10:16:00.004-07:00

2008 passed with another trip to the Insight Bowl. Insight is a minor bowl that pits the 6th place finishers in the Big 10 and Big 12. Sixth place? Yup. Go figure.
Kansas and Minnesota, two venerable schools from the prarie, matched skills this year. Kansas had the better of the skills and won easily.
2008 passed gracefully and provided the sunset above which was a spectral delight. The phone camera shot above doesn't do justice to the calming hues thrown by the setting sun.
I saluted 2008's passing with a few cold beers and seat in Sun Devil stadiums west-facing upper deck. For most games, west-facing seats guarantee that you'll have your hide burned and handed back to you by the desert sun. This time of year, however, is tolerable, and the view provides the lucky few with a sunset that can't be beaten.

Cool, Gray December Day---2008

2008-12-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

Front walk twins.

2008-12-07T11:15:00.005-07:00

No sun today for this backyard grouping--pansies, petunia, poinsettia, and gourds. In background, San Pedro cactus, pencil cactus, and their drought resistant pals.

2008-12-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

Cyclamid standing tall on a cool, gray December day.

2008-12-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

Curve-bill thrasher sitting on an arm of our neighbors cactus. Curve-bill is the most resourceful and cunning of the neighborhood avians. Their eponymously named bill serves them well as they work for seeds.

2008-12-07T11:09:00.001-07:00

December means not much direct sunlight for hibiscus. Notice how shorter days and less sunlight threads more red into the bloom. Scroll down for a bloom that gets more direct sunlight. Same bush.

2008-10-07T19:15:00.004-07:00

Here are the Cards hitting the field in their state of the art, Taj Mahalesque stadium. Note the cheezy, third-strung heavy-metal indoor flame throwers. Does the NFL need this kind of stuff? Guess so. But for us guys who grew watching the game while adjusting the aluminum foil the black & white's rabbit ears to get the best picture possible, the game's enough.

2008-10-07T18:57:00.006-07:00

Wins have been spare throughout the Card's history. Nonetheless, the Cards are proud of Hall of Famers who have suited up in the Cardinal Red and White. Our nosebleed seats faced the ring of honor nameplate for Number 81 - Dick "Night Train" Lane.
Night Train was traded to my beloved Lions in the early 60s. His legend lived during his Lion Years and then beyond.

My dad grew up while in the army in WWII. He met plenty of tough guys during those days. We watched plenty of grainy black & white Lions games. He had certain way that say the names of guys who meant business on the field; guys who were tough guys. This tone was reserved for guys like Joe Schmidt, Night Train, Bobby Layne, Jim David, Lou Creekmur, guys who gave it and took it all day long.

Lion fans of the day will always remember Van Patrick's voice telling us, by his very tone, that number 81 Night Train Lane had REEEHEEALLY knocked Willie Gallimore out of bounds. Lions Fans! Van Patrick Fans! Check This!

2008-10-07T18:48:00.002-07:00

We went to the Cardinals vs Buffalo Bills game this past Sunday. The Cards thumped the Bill 41-17 much to the local's pleasure. The picture above is one of the many murals that hang throughout the Card's swell new stadium.

The Cards logo says that the team has been playing, in some form, since 1898. Who am I to argue? The boys above show that they've been at it awhile. The names and dates aren't posted.

Hail to these guys!

2008-09-27T15:54:00.001-07:00

Here's a closer, inner view of another bloom on the same bush. Friggin' outrageous.

2008-09-27T15:47:00.001-07:00

Hibiscus bloom from Friday, the 25th. Note the red swirl near the center of the flower. I have not explanation for how this happens. Googling an explanation will go on the list. As I said in an earlier post, sometimes the red stuff is green stuff. How that works for flowers spawned by the same bush is beyond me. Perhaps it's seasonal. I'll have to pay closer attention.

Anyway, very cool stuff, right?

2008-09-24T18:28:00.004-07:00

I am back, for now anyway. I have a new camera which I got when I cashed in some bonus awards. The picture above, taken at dusk of our hibiscus, is record. Not bad for a barefoot hacker, right?

The mighty hibiscus doddered near death after a few wicked winter frosts. In late spring I cut it way back and hoped for the best. Hibiscus thrived during the hot dry part of the summer and feasted during our warm, wet monsoon season. The ground remains warm as the air has dried and nights longer. Now, hibiscus is throwing off buds like no one's business.

The specimen above displays the majesty of the hibiscus bloom. Notice the white ring around the epicenter of the bloom. The same bush will throw blooms that have a green ring in the middle or a red ring in the middle. Freaking spectacular!

2007-12-26T19:26:00.000-07:00

Good friend Bob and his SO Mary Jo walk ahead on number 2 at Papago on a cool, crisp December day near the tail end of 2007.

Number 2 is a modest 360-yard, uphill, dogleg left par 4. The large, sloping, rolling green is 25 yards long and 20 yards wide. Hitting the green in regulation isn't the trick; getting your ball close to the pin and on the right side of the slope is easier said than done. My drive today was in the middle of the fairway but farther back than I would have liked. I tried to scootch my second shot under the boughs of the tree that guards the outer flank of the dogleg and caught a branch flush. As luck would have it my ball came straight down into some dormant bermuda that was minding its own business on a small, awkward slope. Downhill, sidehill lies aren't my favorite, and dormant bermuda only complicates matters, but I managed to get some good clubface on the ball and left myself pin high a few feet from the green,30 feet from the pin--the yellow grass on the left-hand side of the fairway is the spongy dormant stuff. An overcooked chip went beyond the hole and left me with a downhill, twisting five-footer. I waited my turn to putt and, with more luck than skill, my ball found the bottom of the cup for a hard-earned bogey. The same type of mini-dramas, small victories, and farces revealed themselves through rest of the day.

Bob, Mary Jo, and I were teamed up with a good kid named Rich, who is a roadie/tech dude with the traveling version of Blue Man group. Rich drove up to the first tee in a plaid Ben Hogan style hat, a couple of tee shirts, cargo pants, no socks, and a pair of Birkenstocks. One look told us he was from out of town. PHX residents may wear shorts year round, but no socks on a 50-degree day? No way.

Pappy is a daily rate muni nestled in the gorgeous red rocks in East Central Phoenix. For my cash there's no better golfing in the all of the Phoenix area. You can pay more to play in Phoenix than at Papago, but you won't find 18 contiguous holes that are better laid out or more challenging. Plus, they let you walk, which allows a player to enjoy the view and the golf one step at a time.

2007-12-24T08:23:00.000-07:00

Happy Holidays to all.

Nephew Mike and siter Celeste are hamming it up at our first holiday gathering at Manuel's, our favorite local Mexican joint. AZ is a smoke-free restaurant state, so Uncle Sam found a large table in the bar area, his favorite spot. Please excuse the cell phone photo effects, they weren't intentional.

Phil and Martha's progeny, soon to be three generations deep, will be together this year. We'll raise a glass to all.

Make 2008 your best year ever!

Requim en Pace--Sister Mary Emily

2007-12-14T07:55:00.000-07:00

Don't ask why I scan the Detroit News obits. Simple reason is: I don't know. Part of my curiosity is that they publish the obits of nuns who served various Catholic diosceses of MI. My expiernce with nuns is, most likely, similar to those of others. I took my share of banishments, face slaps, ruler to the knuckles, etc., as an other kid who had a propensity for consistently being in their crosshairs. I still get mileage out of my Sister Leo and Sister Ralph stories--they were tough ladies!

Sister Mary Emily treated us as if we where the cherubim and seraphim who assisted the Virgin as she was assumed into heaven. She called our class Angel City. She taught me how to print my name. I began reading with her. She gave me all "A"s--my academic career went south immediately thereafter.

One lasting memory of first grade: I began feeling sick during the after-lunch recitation of the Apostle's Creed. I raised my hand to ask for restroom relief. Sister Mary Emily mouthed a stern no to me. Moments later I projected of wide arc of cafteria food vomit across the classroom. Incensed, Sister Mary Emily went and pulled my sister out of class and made her help in the clean-up.

Click on the headline for link to Sister Mary Emily's obit.

2007-11-30T09:55:00.000-07:00

Aunt Cele and Uncle Tom Drinan are pictured on their wedding day, October 1940. They're posing outside St. Mary's church in Muskegon.

Cele was the youngest of my dad's four sisters. Cele was the seventh of eight and my dad was the eighth of eight. Dad and Cele were close. Of all the friendly, accommodating Muskegon relatives, it seemed to me that we always stopped at Tom and Cele's first. Tom and Cele had five children Ann, Ellen, Tom, and twins Jim and Kate.

The Drinan cousins are competitive, sharp, and damn good at most things they do. If you were going to game with the Drinans, you needed to pack a lunch--and sometimes a snack. While more times than not a cousin would get smoked by the Drinans, they were gracious winners and the best of people. They still are.

Here are the Drinans who could gather on Thanksgiving 2007. From what I've heard the Drinan Family Olympics, held on Thanksgiving weekend each year, was full of fierce action. I don't know if this picture was taken before or after the events.

2007-11-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

My dad and his writing partner, Hod Shewell, wrote a weekly humor column for the Lansing State Journal entitled, "As We See It." The column was composed of about 20 quips on the popular topics of the day.

My dad and Hod were among the thousands who were swept into State of Michigan government jobs when the democrats swept into office with FDR. Dad came to Lansing upon his graduation from high school in 1936 and took a job in the Highway Department's mail room. Hod came to Lansing a few years earlier. Hod met my dad's brother Izzy, and Hod and Izzy took up residence in a bachelor pad in Lansing. My dad met Hod through Hod's friendship with Izzy and their relationship thrived from that point on.

The yellowing newspaper clipping was recently found pinned to a sewing room wall in a Lansing Home. My guess is that the clipping is from circa 1957-59. A friend of mine was helping a friend of his move belongings from his friend's late mother's home. He spotted the clipping on the wall, took a quick look, asked for the clipping and sent it on to me. What's the real story behind the how the clipping? Was it really pinned to a wall of nearly 50 years? Why? Who?

Hod was gentle, loving soul ever armed with a story, a quip, a song, or a smile. If you Google "Hod Shewell," you'll find this: "Humorist Hod Shewell characterized Las Vegas as "The city of fish and chips: Some poor fish is always losing his chips."

Don't squint to hard, here are the lines from the clip above:

We belong to no organized political party—we’re republicans

Stage hand unionism—the electrician can pound a nail, but is forbidden to use a hammer

Not one of our bills got lost in the holiday shuffle

One man in a thousand is a leader of men; the others follow women

A mother is a person who can find a kid’s coat in the closet that isn’t there

In yourself, anger is righteous indignation, in others—just bad temper

Some people conduct their lives on the cafeteria plan—self service only

Synonym: a word used in place of the word you can’t spell

If a gal doesn’t try to hold her shape, no one else will

Growl all day and you’ll be dog tired at night

Keep your words soft and sweet—you never know when you’ll have to eat them

Some people succeed on a shoestring while others take a lacing

First Alaskan legislation will probably include a slush fund

Last minute holiday haircut—the final clip

Now I just wonder why I got a cuckoo clock for Christmas

When day is done sometimes nothing else is

Inflation: A peculiar method of cutting a dollar without damaging the paper

A few more moons riding down in the lazy west and the world indeed will be waiting for the sunrise

You never know how noisy your neighbors are until your TV breaks down

They tell us that vodka takes your breath away

A diplomat uses people to use people

Enjoy!

2007-11-29T08:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a bumper sticker on a car since the late 70s when I had one of the few Detroit Lions bumper stickers in PHX. Let's face it: the Lions are consigned to playing the fool's role in a lifelong comedy. However, I can always scan the hard drive of my memory and find Van Patrick's voice telling me that it is a beautiful day for football. Perhaps my Leons bumper sticker did the same for some other Leon fan.

Now, I have one of the few, if not the only, East Lansing Baseball bumper stickers in PHX. I like that. EL Baseball was my last organized sports team. It's special for me. I remember the days fondly. The bumper sticker makes me smile every time I walk up behind it.

2007-11-29T07:24:00.000-07:00

It's been some time since the last post and now it's time to belatedly chronicle the last Mongeau (Scottsdale Division adventure. As the banner above tells, Paul, my brother, his son, Mike, and I went to the ASU v. Cal football game, which resulted in a nifty win by the hometown Sun Devils.

It was ASU's homecoming game and since both Paul and I have at least one degree from ASU (Paul has a couple), we feel honor-bound to attend. The Homecoming game comes with a parade, a small, parochial affair composed of entrants who represent the residential, fraternal, and cultural components of the ASU community. It's nothing fancy, but each entrant showers the parade watchers with candy and trinkets, which is Mike's main incentive for attending.

As you can see Mike is fired up and ready to begin gathering the goods as they're tossed from the passing entrants. The parade lasts about an hours, which was plenty of time for Mike to make a substantial haul.

Next, it was on to the part of the Homecoming that required Paul's attendance. Paul is faculty member in the Hugh Downs School of Communication. Yes, that Hugh Downs. Hugh lives in Carefree, an exclusive burb in the boulder-strewn, rolling elevations found in the northern reaches of PHX. The Prime Minister of ASU, Michael Crowe, created an edict whereby all departments at ASU must show their raison d'etre, trade show style for the alumnae to oggle.

For the Mongeaus, this meant that we had to find Paul's department "booth" and hang there to represent. But first, we took a few moments for to get a bit to eat, for Uncle Sam to have a few adult beverages, and for Mike to get some quality time on the Golden Tee video golf machine. After the brief interlude, we were off to academia.

Paul is damn proud of his son, and he should be, but facing his work mates with his brother, who's had a couple of adult beverages, roils his gastric acids. Let's put it this way: he knows from experience. Long story short, Sam was affable. Enough said. You can see Paul breathing a sigh of great relief that Sam didn't go off on some long rant about how post-modernism has spoiled the humanities. However, Sam did try to talk Paul's boss's son into trying throw a plastic pee-wee football and hit Old Main from the front of the Hugh Downs School of Communication's booth. Paul's boss was firmly against the idea, the son thought he could do it. Some discussion ensued. The son didn't try.

Finally, were off to the game. We had unbelievable seats. Paul, Mike and I sat between the 48- 50-yard line five rows below the press box. Our view was spectacular.
The photos from the cell phone don't do the scene justice, so squint and imagine what a wonderful view this is.

The night was capped off by a come-from-behind Sun Devil win, which made the night about as perfect as perfect can be. The fireworks below celebrate another ASU win. (Again, imagination is necessary to fully enjoy the photo.)

2007-10-26T14:57:00.000-07:00

Four first cousins hamming it up at the reunion described below. From the left are Jim Mongeau, Izzy's oldest (and the first baby born in Lansing's Ingham Medical Hospital), Dave "Doc" Mongeau, Slammin' Sammy Ward (like me named for the Grandpa Sam), and Mike Mongeau.

Jim, Mike, and Doc all came to East Lansing and lived in our house on Orchard Street. Each had done his time in the Service, and, I guess that Alma wasn't big enough to entertain or to contain them. Lansing, "the big city" had its alluring qualities: plenty of civil service job, where Jim found a job at the highway department; a large university with plenty of fine looking coeds, which worked out well for Mike; and plenty of retail work, which Doc took advantage of.

For me, it was like having a bunch of big brothers around. They were terrific--funny, funnier, and funniest.

Each brother has terrific stories to tell. Mike and Jim have beauties. Reputations dictate that they tell you; I won't publish them here. But think about this for a minute: Mike, when he lived with us, Jim, when he lived with us, and my mom and my sister were all dating during this time. Talk about a circus. Talk about not having enough bathrooms. Talk about the steady stream of conversation about people, places, and things.

2007-10-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

The beastly heat of summer is gone for another year. Shorter, more temperate days, signal the plants in the backyard to move from drought-tolerant survival mode to full-blown participants in the stream of desert life. The ruella, pictured above, keeps it green leaves throughout the year. In the summer, it serves as a shady home to geckos and the assorted insects which serve as the prix de fare for gecko gourmands.
each day, Fall through Spring' the ruella serves up dozens of deep dish lavender flowers. The flowers are services by bees and hummingbirds who harvest and transfer the nectar from deep within ruella's treats.

The cell phone camera doesn't give justice to the true color of the flowers. The flowers run from a deep blue to a light blue and all have a subtle finish that contrasts with the still bright, early Fall light.

One of the days, Alice, I'll get myself a worthy camera.

2007-10-23T08:38:00.000-07:00

We're driving south on a four-lane road. There's a center lane for left-turns, so, to be specific I am four lanes over from the roadside on the right. The roadside on the right is composed of an overpriced mud-track known as the Starfire Golf Course. Starfire? Should be called Mudhole.

Any way, the route I am driving leads me past the first hole of Starfire's East Course. The first hole is a straightforward par four. There's water directly to right of the tee which only comes into play if you've hit a dead shank. Further down the right is grassy wash area that poses no real problem. The road I am traveling sits less than 20 yards to the left of the tee box.

It's about 3:00 on a fine Fall afternoon. I am going about 35mph and minding my own business. I am about a quarter-mile from the first tee of the east course and closing fast. When, suddenly, an object bounces in front of me, comes up over my hood, and strikes the windshield just in front of Lori's face.

Remember, I am four lanes over from the the roadside. The tee box is 20 yards from the roadside. And I just took a direct shot to the windshield by a fast moving golf ball.

As a driver, I understand that these things happen. But as a golfer. I am deeply offended. I was just victimized by some dummy's over-rotated, over-the-top, decel, snap-pull hook, a problem this dope could have fixed if he didn't think he was Phil Mickelson (Come to think of it, he does have some Phil in that shot!).

Displaying much bravado, I flipped a U Turn at the tee box, I cruised alongside the tee as Hacker McGee was hitting a second shot. I yelled at the "players" wanting to know who had chopped their ball left into the street. Neither player looked up as they dashed to their cart for their getaway.

Cart riders, Starfire, they were made for one another!

2007-10-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

Many of the first cousins gathered in summer of 1991 to celebrate the life of Denny Ward: fireman, fire chief, husband, father, uncle, and hero. The photo above captures most of the first cousins who were in attendance plus the three very special guests of honor, the three surviving members of their generation. Seated in the front row from left to right is my sister Celeste, Aunt Ming, wife of the Great Uncle Izzy, my mother Martha Jane, and Aunt Regis Mongeau Loftquist, who is pictured in the post below with her mother in the early 1950s.

There were more than 150 relatives who gathered on my cousin Margret's farm. Although I am not in the picture I may have been there. I know that I was at one of the reunions on Margret's farm. There was a horse, ball games, a keg of beer, food everywhere, smiles, hugs, and something no Mongeau reunion goes long without--plenty of laughs.

2007-10-10T19:28:00.000-07:00

The picture above was sent to me by my cousin, Ann Mitchell. The two wonderful women pictured is of our grandmother, Suzy Mongeau and our Aunt Regis Loftquist.

Suzy died when I was very young and I remember visiting her a couple of times, although I know that I must have been in her presence many times that I don't. She was the mother of 8, four boys and four girls. My dad, Phil was her youngest. My brother Paul and I were her youngest grandchildren.

My older cousins, especially those who lived in the Muskegon area, knew Grandma Suzy much better than I did. I can tell you this though, the times that I remember being with her were extraordinary. In retrospect, I think that I can identify it as the palpable display of unconditional love.

Her daughter Regis and her sisters continued to treat me same unconditional love and affection. I was dumb enough to be uncomfortable and embarrassed around them. Wish they were around now so that I could apologize.

2007-10-02T10:00:00.000-07:00

The D-Backs have made the playoffs. You may be wondering who they are. Here's my scounting report after watching part of most their games this season. (Picured above from the left: Brandon Webb, Orlando Hudson, Eric Byrnes, Chris Young, Steven Drew)

1st base: You'll see the venerable Tony Clark platoon with 2nd-year player Connor Jackson. Clark is the D-Backs answer to Gates Brown, only Tony is an asset in the field, too. Tony has hit clutch homers for the D-backs since he came two years ago. Look for him to start and to play as a late inning pinch hitter and defensive replacement.

Jackson has a great command of the stike zone, which leads to a good walk percentage, but, he also takes a lot of close pitches, which could be hittable and which are sometimes called strikes. When they're called strikes he gets into bad counts and then presses. He has come up with some very big hits down the stretch. Like most of the young D-Backs, he does not lack confidence.

2nd base: Losing Hudson was a huge blow. He's the on-field leader, a .295 hitter with excellent speed and great range at second base. He isn't gone, however. He still runs the clubhouse from the dugout.

Augie Ojeda is Hudson replacement. Augie is your prototypical hustle player. He's journeyman with more than 5 years in the bigs. He's diminutive, 5' 7." He will often take a pitcher deep into counts fouling off very good pitiches, and like most of the D-Backs, he finds a way on base to score important runs.

Emilio Bonifacio, a whippet phenom from AA, may seem some action. Look for him to pinch run in a critical spot. He's very green, but Melvin may use him in a critical spot.

Short: Stephen Drew, first year in the bigs and little brother of J.D., is very efficient with the glove and has good range at short. His hitting has been a mystery; he's only hitting .235 for the season, but he's been squaring the ball up in the last couple of weeks. Like most of the young D-Backs, he'll make the occasional mistake in the field or on the basepaths. But, like all the D-Backs, he never, every hangs his head.

This attitude comes directly from our beloved Gibby, (Kirk Gibson to non-Tiger fans, non-MSU fans) who's the D-Backs bench coach. Gibby is in charge of the outfielders and baserunning. You can see Gibby in the D-Backs play. He's their secret weapon. Gibby mans the top step of the dugout and each player must pass him by in good times and in bad times. If you get the chance to watch the D-Backs, look for signs of Gibby in this young club.

Third Base: Mark Reynolds, called up from Mobile AA in May. He has incredible power. He's a lunger with a heavy bat. He takes mighty swings and sometimes misses badly. He struck out in 10 consecutive at bat in July and then came back and hit .360 in August and September. Anything can happen when he's up. He's not a bad third baseman. Good arm and he'll stand in front of anything.

Leftfield: Eric Byrnes, Jeff Spicoli in a baseball uniform. He's another leader along with Hudson and Clark. He's not the most talented player on the field, but he plays the hardest of any baseball player this side of Pete Rose. He stole 50 bases this year. He's an excellent baserunner who will get caught trying to take an extra base from time to time.

Centerfield: Chris Young, rookie from AAA. Ahhh, my favorite player. The epitome of a graceful centerfielder. Such speed that it looks as if he's gliding through the outfield. If it can be caught, he'll get it. Enigma at the plate: 30 homers, 30 steals and a .235 average. If Melvin bats him lead-off he has a tendency to take the first pitch out the park. He had something like 8 lead-off homers this year. He's just learning the game.

Rightfield: Justin Upton, called up from Mobile AA in June. First player taken in the 2005 draft. Learing the game. Incredible 5-tool player. Sometimes he looks lost. What better place to learn the game?

Look for him to platoon with Geoff Salazar, another minor league (AAA) call up. Salazar looks like a professional hitter and a solild to excellent glove man.

Cather: Chris Snyder, 3rd year man. Has been on fire since the All-Star Break. Great defensive work. Great arm. Just the guy you want catching the D-Backs starting rotation.

Miguel Montero, first year player, backs up Snyder. Montero hits better than .570 after the 7th inning. Good behind the plate.

Starters:

Brandon Webb, last year's Cy Young Winner. Sinkerballer. When it's on, batters beat the ball into the dirt all day long. Had a 42-consective inning shutout streak midseason. Ace of the staff. Terrible bunter. Has trouble moving runners. Could ruin a crucial situation where the team needs someone in scoring position.

Livon Hernandez: Hasn't thrown a fastball over 80 miles an hour all year. Has thrown change-ups in the mid 60s. When his stuff is on, he baffles batters. The poster boy for crafty veterans everywhere. When his stuff isn't on, watch out! He takes hitting seriously. Not an automatic out. Good bunter and can hit behind baserunners.

Doug Davis: Soft-tossing lefty with a career 75-75 record. When his stuff is on, he can mow them down. When it's not, watch out.

Micah Owings: Young, hard throwing righty. Won two big September games. Wonderful hitter with power. Has three homers this year and went 4-4 with two doubles in his last outing against the Pirates. Melvin has had him pinch hit in the past and may do it again.

Bullpen:

Great counterpoint to the mostly, soft-tossing and sinkerballing starting staff. Melvin needs six innings out his starters then he can turn the game over to his hard throwing bully. Batter have trouble making the adjustment to the changes in speed and tactics.

7th inning specialist: Tony Pena, hard throwing youngster who has recovered from the August control problems. After six innings of facing Webb, Davis, or Hernandez, hitter need a couple of pitches to adjust to Pena. By then they're down in the count and trying to protect the plate.

8th inning specialist: Brandon Lyon: another hard thrower. Lyons is the the gem of the trade that sent Schilling to Boston.

Closer: Jose Valverde: Flame thrower, who, at times, can make things a little too interesting for my taste. When he's on, his fastball has extra pop, a devilish splitter, and when he wants to tempt fate, he'll thow a change.

Closing Comments The great thing about the D-Backs is that they defy both the Sabremeticians and the Insta-Analysts on the Four-Letter Sports Network.

The Sabremeticians (Society for the Advancement of Baseball Research stat dorks) say that a team that gives up more runs than they score should never win a division championship. Opps! The D-Backs did it. How you ask? They can lose a game 12-0 one day and come back and beat a team the next two games. Losing is not a big deal, for these kids tomorrow is another day.

Insta-Analysis on the Four-Letter? The game, like the world, sometimes defies the cable gabfest news cycle. If the Insta-boys can't get a handle on the obvious they're lost and with the Yankees, Red Sox, and Cubs all in the playoffs there's plenty of obvious to go around!

When it comes to the D-Backs, ignore the "experts" and enjoy the games.

2007-09-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

What's the saying? Something doesn't fall far from the tree? Here's my cousin Mike Mongeau, one of Izzy's sons, with his sons, Nick, on your left, and Sam, on your right. Yes that's right. There are at least two Sam Mongeaus walking the planet.

There was a day when Mongeau men did all they could to save their hair. My mom told me stories about how Ming, Izzy's wife and Nick and Sam's grandmother, would give Izzy regular shampoos with some kind of tar-based elixer to save his head of hair. It worked. Izzy kept a full head of hair. Nick and Sam prefer the shaved head look, which exposes the full Mongeau noggin. Not a bad choice by the boys, right?

Mike shows much Mongeau, too. Especially on the golf course. I played golf with Mike awhile back. My heart raced when I looked at him across on of the greens and thought for a quick minute that I was looking at his dad. He looks just like him. He sounds just like him. What we all wouldn't give to play a couple more rounds with our dads and uncles.

2007-08-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

Most every Michigander has been to lovely Torch Lake. It's nestled in Northwestern Lower Michigan just a stone's throw from Lake Michigan. Let me restate: If I had the arm that used to have Torch Lake is a stone's throw from Lake Michigan. Anway, you get my drift, right. Here we are vacationing with close family friends. My mom took the picture--and she took a beauty

Top row left to right are: Carol Lilla, who's holding Stephen Magnotta (who was kind enough to send me this photo); Carol's husband, the great Pete Lilla--a kinder and more devoted friend you'll never find; Anna Magnotta, a kind, loving soul; Mike Magnotta and Anne Magnotta; Mike Magnotta, that patriarch of the Magnotta clan and a person who was kind, loving, funny, and generous all at the same time; Patrice Magnotta; and My dad, Phil Mongeau who is holding my brother who looks as if he was just told that the Tigers had lost to the Yankees.

Bottom row left to right are: My sister Celeste, Jim Magnotta, John Magnotta, and me.

These were great times, at a great lake, amid the Great Lakes. What could be better?

2007-08-12T10:51:00.000-07:00

You've seen the come ons for genealogy web site, right? I was horsing around in a search engine when I can across a link that read: "Find where all the Mongeaus lived in 1920. I clicked on the link where I found a U.S map. Each state that had a Mongeau in the 1920 U.S. Census was highlighted. I clicked on Michigan and the page above displayed.

I was excited when I saw my grandfather and my aunts. Of course, the links are disabled so there was no detail without buying a subscription. I didn't cough up the money to go any further. I would just as soon spend the money on greens fees, which is a very Mongeau thing, indeed.

You may click on any photo to enlarge the image.

2007-08-04T14:46:00.001-07:00

When I bought my 4Runner in 1999, my plan was to drive for many, many years. I paid it off 2 years ago and last night, 4Runner turned 100,000 miles. Here's a picture of the odometer taken from a cell phone while waiting at a stop light. I've tried to take good care of it (all scheduled maintenance, a fresh set of tires, a couple of batteries, and a starter), and it has rewarded me by being reliable and comfortable. It's no mystery why people buy and drive Toyotas.

2007-07-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

These fine looking young folks are my first cousins, the Porrettas. From left to right, you see Anthony "the Big A", Maria, Tom, and Carla. They're turned out in front of their Detroit home and are dressed in their Easter finery.
They're the children of my mother's sister, Mary Ellen and her husband Tony.

My brother Paul and I are the youngest cousins of our generation. When were visited relatives, the duty of entertaining us usually feel to younger cousins, and this meant that when we went to the Motor City, the job fell to Tom.

Tom did good work. He turned me on to Soupy Sales, and that simple act provided me with joy for years. We did White Fang and Black Tooth, and when he called me "Birdbath" I laughed uncontrollably. He had a friend down the street, a blond haired kid named Tim, and they told me that Tim was Lion quarterback Bobby Layne. I believed them both and happily told everyone who would listen that I knew Bobby Layne. It was a cool time. I was about four. I was dialed in.

Tom lived a good life. He lost his battle with colon cancer earlier this year. He was kind, and gentle, and smart. His life was rich with family. I have a Tom story that lives on in my memory--which means that some of the details may or may not be correct, and Tom would be good natured in correcting any details that I may misrepresent. Here goes: When I was in high school, and he was fresh out of the navy, he performed one of the all-time family stunts. He drove his mother's Buick convertible down to Florida. One night he parked on the beach, lowered the convertible top, and went to sleep. Over night, the tide came in. The car was flooded, and Tommy had some 'splaining to do. However much 'splaining he did, it didn't prevent his story from being told in solemn tones with pregnant pauses sprinkled throughout to allow the guilt to soak in with requisite caution and introspection.

So, in Tom's memory, and for our own sake, most of us have had a {begin whisper voice}colonoscopy{end whisper voice}. (Those of you who knew my mother or my aunt understand the whisper voice). I had mine this week.

Those of you who know me know that I can have a sophisticated conversation with you about the effects of chronic pain. However, I have {begin wood knocking sound} never {end wood knocking sound} had surgery. So, the concept of sedation for surgery is new to me. I understand why. Surgical sedation is powerful stuff. Upon arrival at the Endoscopy Center the staff told me that the worst was over. They were right. I was given a sedative named Versed that erased all memory of the process. I came to in the recovery room bright-eyed, chipper, and richer for the experience. As my mother would say {cue MJ's voice} "It's charming how our little experiences bind us through time."{end MJ's voice cue}

Tom is missed by many, White Fang and Black Tooth included.

2007-07-14T14:21:00.000-07:00

A beautiful little storefront in Taos, NM. Took the picture on a bright, summer Sunday morning last time we passed through NM. Recently finished Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West a wonderful, even-handed Western History by Hamilton Sides. Kit Carson, who made his home in Taos, is featured prominently in the work. Blood and Thunder is a must for anyone who is interested in the convergence of Navajo, Spanish, Mexican, and Anglo cultures. This tiny garden in Taos provides ample evidence that all these cultures live on in a very special place.

2007-07-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have been clamoring for a photo of me from this century, your wait is over. That's me on the right. On the left is the wonderful, beautiful, Lori who spends far too much time making sure that I am tethered to the planet. This makes me one lucky individual. The photo is a couple of years old, and Lori looks as fine as ever. On the other hand...

2007-07-07T14:48:00.000-07:00

My dad was born in Lake Linden, a small town located on Keewanaw Peninsula in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. The Keewanaw is a small sliver of land that juts out into Lake Superior. Houghton and Hancock are the major towns on the Keewanaw. The area was the center of the cooper boom in the late 1800s and early 1900s. My dad loved the UP and spent as much time there as he could. My mom wasn't as enamored with UP, so my dad usually had to come up with some type of side trip that my mother could embrace. This picture was taken in Indian River in the UP. My recollection was that there was a giant freestanding cross that was a religious tourist attraction, which was probably the reason why we were visiting there. I don't know who the people are who are flanking my mother. My Indian headress was temporarily gracing my noggin while my Tiger cap was in the car.

2007-07-07T14:32:00.000-07:00

Three uncles from the Mongeau side. From left, the great and gentle Oscar Loftquist, husband of my father's sister, Regis; Denny Ward, former fire chief of Muskegon. Denny may have been the strongest man I ever met. He was a legitimate hero having once climbed aboard a burning freighter and carried men out of the burning ship one-by-one. Denny married my father's sister, Betty. Next to Denny is Lloyd (Mung) Mongeau, the patriarch of our branch of the Mongeau clan. Lloyd was the city assessor of Muskegon Heights. During the Depression he coached his younger brothers, Phil and Izzy, at Muskegon Saint Mary's High School. The fellas are sitting on the Denny's back porch which overlooked Lake Muskegon. All the freighters that docked in Muskegon passed by Denny's picture windows. The house was on the main road to Pere Marquette State Beach and Denny, Betty, and Kids renovated their garage into a root beer/hot dog stand for those heading for the beach. It was pure heaven for me.

2007-07-07T14:24:00.000-07:00

Here's a great family photo from a time long ago. Front row: My dad, Phil Mongeau; me; my cousin. Pete Mongeau; my dad's brother, Izzy Mongeau. Row 2: Unknown friend of my sister; my cousin, Dave Mongeau. Row 3: My aunt, Lorena (Ming) Mongeau; my sister, Celeste Mongeau Crouch; my cousin, Jim Mongeau; my mom, Martha Jane Mongeau; my sister's friend, Janet Maurer

2006-02-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

As promised, more about the Flahertys. After some research my mother found the family crest complete with the family's Celtic warning to all trespassers, O Lord deliver us from the wrath of the ferocious O'Flahertys." Seated in the front row are dimunitive Ellen and the bearded Edward, my great grandparents.

Ellen and Edwin immigrated from Ireland around 1860. Edwin's family was named O'Flaherty, but somehow the O'Flaherty became Flaherty at Ellis Island. Unknown to one another, Ellen's family and Edward's family headed west for Cleveland. Ellen and Edward met and married in Cleveland. Once married, Ellen and Edward headed to Eaton Rapids, Michigan to build a family and a farm. The lasting memory of the Cleveland days was that Ellen and Edward stood by the side of the rails as Lincoln's funeral train passed through Cleveland enroute to Illinois.

Ellen and Edward raised 8 children on the working pre-modern farm. They workd the farm from the 1870s to 1910 when the family moved to Lansing and the burgeoning industrial age.

More soon.

2006-02-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

Lansing's West Side has always been a tough place, and here's the proof. Here I am standing keeping the watch outside our house on 925 N Jenison. It wasn't fancy, but it was ours, and I was periodically entrusted to safegaurd the family fortress. It wouldn't be long before we headed farther west to Delta Township--you can see I am ready for the move West--and later we moved to East Lansing.

2006-02-11T11:37:00.000-07:00

My dad, Phil Mongeau, is front row, far left. He was about a year out of high school and came to Lansing when FDR and democrats swept Michigan in 1936. These were the days before civil service and the "spoils" system allocated many state jobs. My dad and brother Izzy benefited from older brother Lloyd's party work and were sent to Lansing. My dad started as a mail clerk for the Highway department. The intramural competition between state departments was fierce back then. A championship, such as the one the boys in the picture are celebrating, was worth major bragging rights around the capitol. My dad was a player, though lore has it that brother Izzy had a little more game. We have a Muskegon Chronicle story that has my dad scoring 19 of Muskegon St.Mary's 21 points in a 21-13 victory over Ravenna.

2006-02-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

Happy is as happy does. I am enjoying a rare day of Lansing sun with my sister and long-time family friend Anne Shewell. Celeste, my sister on the far left, is showing her maternal skills, which are still in fine tune all these many years since.

2006-02-10T20:07:00.000-07:00

My dad, Phil Mongeau, is second from the left in the first row. This is the 3rd grade from St. Mary's School, Muskegon, Michigan. My guess is that were looking at 1927 or 1928. A good looking bunch of kids, right? (Be sure and doubleclick on the photo to enlarge)

2006-02-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

My grandmother, Martha Jane Flaherty Keaveny and her two daughters, Martha Jane (my mother) on the left and Mary Ellen on the right. This picture dates from the early 1920s, my guess is that it dates from 1922-23. My grandmother passed away a short time later leaving her little girls and husband Thomas. Martha Jane and Mary Ellen spent their motherless years attending Marywood Academy, now a part of Aquinas College, in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Il Colore Ritrovato

2006-02-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

The world has changed beyond measure. When I was young you could find musicians everywhere, and because all around the world there so many there many great ones. Now the music is faithfully reproducible, musicians are not needed as once were. And music itself has changed. Though small cadres of classicists kept the sacred and ineffible the are under siege by coarse generations who music is hardly as musical as a bus engine or a chain saw. Something must have occured during their mother's pregnancies. How else is it possible to explain that playing Bach keeps them away from public spaces the way iron spikes drive pigeons from cathedral ledges?

A sample from Mark Halpern's Il Colore Ritrovato, a story in The Pacific and Other Stories , wonderful collection of short stories that are full of texture and light and the mature themes of existence, meaning, and belief.

The meme that recorded music changes the cultural role for musicians is fascinating. His comments on the devolution of modern music is well taken. Consider the narrow, constricted offerings released by the movie industry, and you have the same scenario, right? Replace Bach with any of the classics of Hollywood's byone era and compare those classics with the works nominated for best picture this year. Bus engines and chain saws compare comfortably with the films so highly regarded by the petulant, evangelical movie industry.

Lurking herein is relevant, important criticism of PostModernism, deconstructionism, and the barren, cacaphony that is social, cultural relativism.

2006-02-05T09:12:00.000-07:00

Martha Jane Mongeau, my mother, 1948. She's closing in on 30 and like her generation, she's been through the Great Depresession and World War II. There's no notation about where the photo was taken, but you won't be wrong if you were to guess Lansing, Detroit, or Muskegon. Any guess on the color of the dress? I'll guess kelly green or navy blue.

Honeymoon in Detroit

2006-01-21T07:38:00.000-07:00

My parents were married in 1937. They went to Detroit on their honeymoon and took in this Tiger game at Briggs Stadium. My mother always said that Schoolboy Rowe was the Tiger pitcher. I can't tell who the opponents were, but chances are they are the Yankees. Schoolboy Rowe and the Yankees in town may account for massive crowd in the upper and lower centerfield bleachers. If it is the Yanks, Joe DiMaggio is the Yankee on the far right with his back to the camea. From the looks of the play, aomeone just hit a three-run homer off Schoolboy. Ugh! My parents had deluxe seats that day, lower deck behind home plate, they must have splurged or, perhaps, the seats were a wedding present. It's an amazing photo nonetheless, thank goodness mom brought the camera. Be sure to double-click on the photo to enlarge the picture.

2006-01-05T19:22:00.000-07:00

My maternal grandmother, Martha Jane Flaherty sits front and center with her teammates on the Michigan Normal University 1908 women's baskeball team. Michigan Normal is now Eastern Michigan University. The uniforms don't look all that comfortable, but the girls, for the most part, seem to be enjoying their trip to the photographer. I never met her. She died in of cancer in 1924. She looks very much like my mother, her namesake Martha Jane. Our loss. She has a kind, loving look on her face. It's no surprise she was captain of the team.

Pancho and Lefty

2006-01-03T07:52:00.000-07:00

Written by Townes Van Zandt and covered by many, including a heartfelt, angelic version by Emmylou Harris and a wistful, soulful duet by two of America's finest storytellers, Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson (listen to either version, they're delightful). Pancho and Lefty captures essence of friendship, separation, lonliness, regret, and kindness--all in a handful of well-crafted lines. Thanks, TVZ.

Living on the road my friend
Was gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath's as hard as kerosene
You weren't your mama's only boy
But her favorite one it seems
She began to cry when you said goodbye
And sank into your dreams

Pancho was a bandit boys
His horse was fast as polished steel
Wore his gun outside his pants
For all the honest world to feel
Pancho met his match you know
On the deserts down in Mexico
Nobody heard his dying words
That's the way it goes

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him hang around
Out of kindness I suppose

Lefty he can't sing the blues
All night long like he used to
The dust that Pancho bit down south
Ended up in Lefty's mouth
The day they laid poor Pancho low
Lefty split for Ohio
Where he got the bread to go
There ain't nobody knows

All the federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him slip away
Out of kindness I suppose

The poets tell how Pancho fell
Lefty's livin' in a cheap hotel
The desert's quiet and Cleveland's cold
So the story ends we're told
Pancho needs your prayers it's true,
But save a few for Lefty too
He just did what he had to do
Now he's growing old

A few gray federales say
They could have had him any day
They only let him go so wrong
Out of kindness I suppose

Remeber: They only let them slip away out of kindess, I suppose, and, yes, save a few for Lefty too. He did what he had to do and now he's growing old.

More is coming about my maternals shown below. The man standing in the second row on the far right is Dan Flaherty. He left Michigan and headed west. He worked the copper trains that snaked there way through the desert mountains of Central Arizona. He visited us once, I was about 8 or 9. He had skin like iron and breathe as hard as kerosene. He was a kind man, but cold and distant much as he presents below.

2005-12-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

My maternal great-granparents in their Lansing Michigan home circa 1915.

Saw a Great Bumpersticker: My Kid Is a Mensch

2005-11-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Thoughts on Recent Readings

2005-10-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Fantasy Baseball Season Recap

2005-10-06T07:32:00.000-07:00

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.

ASU vs USC: Caliente como Infierno

2005-10-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Grace Facing the Family

2005-09-28T15:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

Orange honeysuckle blooming in the fall. The bush is just about one-year-old and is maturing nicely. It a mighty favorite for hummingbirds and, of course, flying insects of all varieties.

Victory Songs

2005-09-17T11:48:00.000-07:00

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.”

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.

Do You Promise to Funk?

2005-09-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

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.

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

LSU v ASU: Wonderful Game

2005-09-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Jo Hayes; Wonderful Woman, Great Friend

2005-08-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Find Huckleberry Finn Offensive?

2005-08-29T19:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Teammates By David Halbertsam--An Essential Read

2005-08-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-16T19:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Russ Maples, Good Man

2005-08-14T09:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Fugue for Tinhorns, Lyrics by Frank Loesser

2005-08-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

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

Giant waterfall discovered in California national park

2005-08-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

This is a cool discovery. Click on the title for more.

Quick Fantasy Baseball Update

2005-08-09T19:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Peter Gammons Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech

2005-08-01T08:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Five Pars and Two Eagles

2005-07-31T10:15:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

Caution: Attempted Art Shot: A long, covered archway at La Paloma. It occurs to me now that the shot would have been artsier if the shot had light spilling through the arches making for some cool light and shadow play. D'Oh!

Back at the Big Ballpark

2005-07-21T19:33:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

Chopper outfielder Juan Pierre is the dude whose half way between first and second. He's attempting to steal 2nd base but was gunned down by D-Back catcher Snyder. Later, Pierre made amends by swipping 2nd cleanly in the Marlins romp over the lethargic D-Backs.

2005-07-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

Back at the Big Ballpark this time on the corporate dime. Yup, we sat in the company seats. Aurora, goddess of the dawn, smiles a ray of golden sunlight on the boys as they take their hacks during batting practice.

Requiem Aeternam

2005-07-18T10:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-16T15:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-16T15:26:00.000-07:00

Same pot as the post below in the foreground with flourising yellow lantana in the background. The lantana flowering cycles are a mystery to me. It seems the more inhospitable the weather, the more spectacular the color and density of the blooms.

2005-07-16T15:23:00.000-07:00

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!

HBO Mantle Documentary Has Legs

2005-07-13T19:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-11T17:11:00.000-07:00

A Day at the Big Ballpark: A Challenge and a Reward

2005-07-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-10T09:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-07T18:59:00.000-07:00

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]

Red Grange: College Football News Calls Him the Best Ever

2005-07-06T18:56:00.000-07:00

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.