I was at a softball game yesterday and got an attack of nature. Thankfully, even though the door to the men's room at this ballpark was padlocked shut, there were several people there who had keys. One of them let me borrow his.
So, I trudged down to the men's room, key in hand. And I was in full panic. What if it's the wrong key? What if it gets stuck in the lock? What if the lock is situated in place where I can maneuver my way to use the key? What if the key won't turn? What if I break the key because it won't turn the lock.
I'm telling you. It dawned on me at that moment that even though I'm a mature (some would argue about that) middle-aged man with no apparent lack of capacity, the simplest things intimidate me. Like unlocking a door!!
I wonder whether anyone else has these feelings of terror over doing the simplest little things. Later, after successfully unlocking the door, and then locking it back up (though not without a last-minute surge of panic over the fact it took a few seconds to close the lock), I started compiling a list of all the stupid little things that intimidate me on a daily basis. Such as ...
Dealing with the freakin government about anything. I don't care if it's paying a parking ticket, dealing with the Department of Motor Vehicles (or, Registry as we call it up here in Massachusetts), preparing tax forms ... anything ... these simple chores can seem exhausting and terrifying to me. I'll go to any length to avoid doing these things, even if it's to my detriment. I don't think a year's gone by that I haven't left my taxes until the very last minute (I even got a ticket for running a red light trying to make it to the Post Office so I could have my return postmarked in time).
I'm forever trying to figure out the exact, perfect time to do my business at the RMV because I hate waiting in line. I detest waiting in line.
It's not just the RMV that catches my line-hating wrath either. I put off Christmas shopping until, literally, the last day because I can't stand crowded stores because they mean, of course, endless lines. So you can say lines intimidate me too.
Everyone else has glowing memories of their time at Disney World ... all I can remember is standing in line for over an hour just to get on Space Mountain.
I got in a fender bender recently. Well, not that recently. It was in February. I just last week submitted all the paperwork to my insurance company. Dealing with insurance companies intimidates me, especially if I've been in an accident that might raise my rates (as this one surely will).
Seeking, and receiving, any kind of medical treatment puts me on edge for days at a time. I suffered with a toothache for a month and a half before breaking down and going to the dentist. By the time I finally went, and the dentist got a good look at the abscessed tooth in my mouth, he said, "that's one of the worst ones I've ever seen."
Of course it was. Going to the dentist means Novocains. The Drill. Some guy you barely know sticking long, sharp objects in your mouth and picking your teeth with them ... and gouging the insides of them as well. It means severe discomfort. So, for people like me, who tend to put these things off for as long as possible, you have to find that balance that exists between the pain you're in, and the pain you're going to be in. More often than not, you fail. And one day, what was a little nagging, dull ache becomes a full blown abscess, and you're climbing the walls.
And then -- and only when it's way too late -- drills, Novocains and teeth-pickers don't seem so bad. The day the endodontist numbed my tooth and put me out of the misery of "the worst abscess I've ever seen" was a very happy one.
And then, of course, there are the pain killers. I have an aunt who was a nurse, and she once told me that pain killers don't really put you to sleep. It only seems that way because they take the edge off the pain and allow you to relax.
Could be. I'd never argue with Aunt Ruth. One didn't argue with Aunt Ruth. But if she's right, I did a lot of relaxing after that root canal!!! I can certainly understand how these things can get addictive if you're not careful. And this wasn't even the good stuff. It was only Vicodin.
If the dentist intimidates me, so does the doctor, especially if it's my GP, and I'm feeling a little porcine on the day of my physical. Then, I don't want to go. I've come up with some great excuses for not going, too. It's not that he's going to hurt me as much as he's going to lecture me. Imagine. I'm a grown man and I quiver at the idea of my doctor ... a guy who I'm paying ... giving me a lecture about making healthier choices. If that's not the definition of "intimidation" I don't know what is.
But there are other reasons going to the doctor intimidates me. Just after I turned 50, and just after I'd lost 50 pounds doing Weight Watchers, I had surgery on one of my knees. I went to the hospital for all the pre-op stuff, and next thing I know, I'm getting a call from my Primary Care Physician tell me he had to see me now. .
What on earth could he want, I wondered. Well. What he wanted was to tell me was that I had diabetes. Ain't that just a kick in the pants! Wasn't losing weight supposed to prevent the onset of Type 2 diabetes?
So now, I come by this aversion to doctors naturally. It seems I'm always getting bad news from this guy when I go. So I don't go. And when absolutely have to go, I have this impending sense of doom for the entire week prior to the appointment.
Believe it or not, and even though I have an electric lawn mower now instead of a gasoline-operated one, cutting my grass intimidates me to the point where I can let it go for weeks at a time.
Why? Old tapes. Back when I had the type of lawn mower where you had to pull the rope to ignite the engine, I'd pull the rope and nothing would happen. Wouldn't matter what I did. Every spring, I'd take it to the repair shop to get it tuned up, I'd get it home, pull that rope, and pffft. Nothing.
I swear, I hurt my back from all that pulling. And, of course, the more nothing happens, the more impatient you get, the louder you curse, and the harder you pull that rope. And you keep getting nothing ... and keep repeating the same cycle of frustration.
Eight years ago, I got an electric lawn mower. Now, all I have to worry about is running over the cord, which -- so far -- I've managed not to do. I still have the same lawn mower, it works perfectly, and I still have this momentary sense of dread every time I go to start it up.
Next on the list are airports. Any airports. And for any reason. My best/worst airport story involved Philadelphia last summer. For some reason, our GPS took us into the Philadelphia Airport, which was not where I wanted to be. Don't ask me why. Ask Magellan. She told us to go there.
Once Magellan got us into the airport, she kept us going around in circles until I was ready to throw her out the window. Finally, I politely (!) told Mrs. Magellan her services were no longer needed -- at least on this journey -- and that I'd find my way out of the stupid airport myself. Which I did.
Simply put, airports are terrible places. And they were terrible places long before 9/11 made it necessary for them to be terrible places.
Nothing like having your luggage left behind at the airport while you're on a cross country flight to San Francisco for a wedding. But since 9/11? Oy Vey.
If you want to fly, fly early. Like crack of dawn early. The later in the day you travel, the worse those lines get (and we've already discussed how I hate lines). It just makes traveling such a chore. The whole ordeal just seems overwhelming to me.
And we're just talking about escaping the airport. Next we can discuss boarding the plane with stuff you want to store overhead, only to open the compartment and see steamer trunks that take up three spaces in there. Really, you have all you can do not to hit someone.
I suppose half the reason I get so tense about these things is because I'm so skittish about the whole idea of traveling to begin with. I don't have the same feelings about trains or automobiles ... just planes!
Going to Fenway Park anytime intimidates me. Going to Gillette Stadium does not. Any time I ever set foot in the old Boston Garden was an exercise in torture. I love the new place (and I may be in a distinct minority here, too).
Anything I do for the first time terrifies me. If I've never driven somewhere before, I have to give myself an hour to get lost (even with the GPS, because now I worry that it'll direct me to an airport and drive me around in circles). Anything that needs to be assembled in "six easy steps" just about makes me break out in a rash. They may be six steps, but they're not easy. There's always some pre-drilled screw hole that won't line up with its counterpart, which makes screwing two pieces of wood together damn near impossible. I've done some of my best cursing trying to assemble something in "six easy steps."
I'll do you one better. Reading any directions makes me quake in fear. I just got a new iPod, and reading those directions ... they might as well have been printed in Russian. First of all, the type is so small that if you have any eye issues at all, you can't read the instructions. But more to the point, they're in a language that simply isn't to be understood. Either that, or they assume you know the lingo when, most of the time, you don't.
And that's why I really resist buying anything technological.
And when it comes to human confrontations, count me out. I'm the world's worst. They intimidate me more than anything else. Even when I'm sure I'm right, I instinctively back off the minute I encounter one of those uber-agressive types who seem to be louder, and more obnoxious, when they're the most wrong. I'm sure we've all dealt with them.
Instead of standing my ground against these bullies, I take the attitude that it's better to escape situations peacefully with the knowledge you're right than it is to take the humiliation of losing an argument to a total jerk who can't admit he's wrong.
And I'm always totally ashamed of myself when that happens, too.
Right about now you're probably thinking, "boy, what a fuss-budget!" Maybe if I told you I'm a Virgo it would make you understand better. We Virgos are like that. Everything has to be just so.
You're probably also wonder howinhell I manage to get through life with all these phobias and fears! I'll tell you. It ain't easy! Instant paralysis over anything that isn't laid out neatly before me can be unsettling.
But you know? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Somehow, I unlocked the men's room door ... somehow, I got my iPod to work. Somehow, I figured out how to uninstall, and then re-install, iTunes because the old version wasn't compatible with my new iPod.
And that's the beauty of it. Having fears and phobias, and learning to work past them, gives you this "cool of the evening" feeling ... as if, for that one, brief, shining moment, you've conquered the world.
Until you have to go the men's room again and have to unlock it yourself. Then all the gremlins return.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Happy 100th to the Lyric Little Bandbox known as Fenway Pahhhhhhk
Anyone from Boston -- or anyone who likes to make fun of the Boston accent -- will understand the proliferation of "h's" in the title. It's how we speak.
And it's worse when you listen to the radio squawk shows around here, and hear someone get on there and say "they're ruining my summmaaaaaaaahhhhhhh" with regards to the Red Sox and their propensity to excite us and frustrate us all at once.
In fact, in 1999 I had the thrill of a lifetime when the all-star game was at Fenway Park and Major League Baseball unveiled its nominees for "team of the century." Among the nominees was Bob Gibson, who pitched for the St. Louis Cardinals, and who won three games in the 1967 World Series ... and whom I always admired for his sheer ferocity and competitiveness on the mound.
I went up, shook his hand, and told him I was from Boston.
"Oh, NO," moaned Gibby. "I can just hear it now ... YOU BROKE MY HAHHHHHHHHHHT."
Actually, he didn't. I was only 14 in 1967, but I knew greatness when I saw it. And Gibby was pure greatness. In fact, in the overall realm of greatness, I'd put him above any pitcher I've seen since ... and that includes Clemens, Pedro Martinez circa 1999-2000, and Justin Verlander today.
But I digress. This is about Fenway Park, not Bob Gibson (though I could probably write an entire blog item on that seventh game of the 1964 World Series when he threw about 700 pitches -- OK, a slight exaggeration -- and beat the New York Yankees).
Fenway Park had just turned 50 when I first saw it up close and personal. That was in 1962, when I was nine years old, and my father took my sister and I to see a Yankees game so we could watch Mantle and Maris hit home runs (Mickey hit one out; Maris did not).
And even though it was 50, it was less than 30 years removed from the massive renovations it underwent when Tom Yawkey took over ownership of the club in 1934.
Being only nine, I had no idea about significant anniversaries. And besides, I don't recall there being much of a fuss over Fenway's 50th (though in retrospect, I wonder ... the all-star game was at Fenway in 1961, and perhaps that was why).
The only thing I remember about my first experience at Fenway -- and this is so horribly cliche I almost hesitate to mention it -- is that coming up the runway into the grandstand, it was hit with two memories I'll never forget. First, before my eyes, was the greenest and most perfect grass I'd ever seen. Don't forget that in 1961, most TVs in America were still black and white, and you didn't get a sense of how lusciously green those fields were with a B&W TV screen the size of a shoebox.
The second memory is the smell of the park itself. I can't describe it today. I can't possibly count the number of hours I've spent at the ballpark since 1961, and the place still smells the same ... a combination of stale cigar smoke (well, maybe less so now that you can't smoke there), stale beer, stale popcorn, and maybe a whiff of "fresh roasted peanuts here."
In those days, the Red Sox served popcorn in a container that looked like a megaphone. When you were finished, you could pop the cover off the bottom and actually USE it as a megaphone.
The kid behind me was from New York, and he was freak-in obnoxious. He laughed at everything the Red Sox did wrong. And there was plenty to laugh at, too, as the Yankees quickly got up 10-2 in that game before the Red Sox got home runs from Jim Pagliaroni and Bob Tillman to make it 10-6. Pags and Tillman went back-to-back (Pags was the catcher and Tillman, who was a rookie, pinch-hit). I remember that shut the New York kid up but good.
At least once a year until I got into high school, and was old enough to ride the rattle-trap Green Line trolley cars of the Boston MBTA system on my own, my father took us in to Fenway at least once a year ... sometimes twice. We saw doubleheaders most of the time (the man was a saint, taking two little kids to doubleheaders during an era when the team was dreadfully bad).
If Fenway was a lyric little bandbox, which is what John Updike called it when he wrote his farewell to Ted Williams in 1960 (Gods do not answer letters), it was news to me. It was just the place where the Red Sox played. There wasn't anything more significant to it than there was to Yankee Stadium, Tigers Stadium, Memorial Stadium in Baltimore, or Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles. Back then, just about every other ballpark in the American League was named either Memorial, Municipal, or -- in the case of the Minnesota Twins -- Metropolitan. These were the days before naming rights.
National League parks had the much more interesting names ... Forbes Field, County Stadium, Crosley Field, Candlestick Park, Dodger Stadium, Sportsman's Park (later, Busch Stadium), Connie Mack Stadium, Wrigley field. And if you can name the teams that played in those edifaces in the 1960s -- before most of them were torn down in favor of the cookie-cutter era -- you're good. Hint ... only two of them are still in use for baseball, though the name for a third one -- which has since been torn down -- is still used.
Fenway fit right in. It was always a more interesting looking part, having been built to accommodate a neighborhood that, in 1912, was rapidly developing. The "green monster" was made of wood, and covered with ads until after the renovation, at which time was reinforced with tin, painted its famous color, and adorned with what was, at the time, the most state-of-the-art scoreboard in baseball.
There was a 10-foot incline leading up that wall -- a reinforcement of the wall, actually -- known as Duffy's Cliff, which forced the left fielder to run uphill to catch fly balls (it was named for Duffy Lewis, the Sox left fielder at the time). Since the field was -- as it is today -- below the level of Lansdowne Street, the cliff served to compensate for the differences in grades.
That imperfection was remedied in the 1934 rehab.
Other along-the-way quirks and revisions occurred early in the Ted Williams era, when the bullpens were built in right field, ostensibly to give "The Kid" an easier chance to hit home runs (duly named "Williamsburg); and the construction of an elaborate left-field screen to catch fly balls as they went over the wall (so they wouldn't wreak havoc with business establishments and cars on the other side).
Williams once hit one so deep into the right field seats that the chair it hit was painted red for posterity.
Fenway had both an auspicious and inauspicious beginning. On the good side, the Red Sox beat the New York Highlanders (later the Yankees), 7-6. On the down side, coverage of the momentous event was overshadowed by the sinking of the Titanic just days earlier.
Fenway's first decade was perhaps its finest until this most recent one. The Red Sox won numerous world championships, the last one being in 1918 over the Chicago Cubs, and served as the first professional home of perhaps baseball's most historic figure ever ... Babe Ruth.
There's are lots of theories as to why owner Harry Frazee sold off Ruth and many others from that team to the Yankees -- thereby helping to create that dynasty -- and most of them are wrong. Some think Frazee sold Ruth to finance "No, No, Nanette," but that is incorrect. So all you people out there who want to gag every time you hear "Tea for Two," keep your food down. That had nothing to do with it.
It was true Frazee was hard up for money, but it's also true that The Babe, by 1919, was already developing a reputation as a man whose penchant for being a colossal pain in the ass approached his historic abilities. It's been said that Frazee breathed a sigh of relief that he was no longer in the business of babysitting the Bambino.
Of course, history has proven Frazee tremendously short-sighted. Athletes who are difficult to handle thrive in just about every sports ... perhaps just as much today as they did then. The only difference, really, between then and now is that thanks to the International Brotherhood of Baseball Players, pain-in-the-ass athletes have more power.
That trade, though, put the Red Sox into a tailspin they didn't really break until a 20-year-old Theodore Samuel Williams showed up on their doorstep in 1939. You can always tell an athlete's worth, and his future legacy, by how many nicknames are bestowed on him. Williams had his share ... "Teddy Ballgame," "The Splendid Splinter," "The Kid," and probably a few others that can't be printed among more genteel folk.
Williams is easily the most famous and celebrated player in Red Sox history. He is generally acknowledged by all knowledgeable fans as the most gifted pure hitter the game has ever seen ... or, if that's too hard to take, in baseball's modern era. He is really the first player to actively turn hitting into a science that went beyond "see the ball ... hit the ball."
In fact, every time I hear some crazed high school coach yell out to his batter "hit the top half of the ball" I want go down there and tell him, "hey, Jack, Teddy Ballgame could only do that one-third of the time, and he's the greatest hitter who ever lived. So let the kid breathe, would you?"
Teddy Ballgame's the last player in MLB history to hit .400 (though Tony Gwynn might have had a shot at it were it not for the 1994 strike/lockout).
Williams is also among the last of the true larger-than-life ballplayers in Major League history. Think about it. After the 1950s, baseball, as America's official pastime, ceased to exist. By the 1960s, football had risen to the point where it was just about equal to baseball in popularity, and it has surely surpassed the Grand Old Game by now. Why else would Major League Baseball take to ending its season on a weeknight? Why else would it start the World Series on a weeknight, instead of a weekend? It's because weekends are totally taken up with football ... colleges on Saturdays, and the NFL on Sundays.
Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle are the last two -- in this writer's opinion -- truly larger-than-life figures in Major League baseball. This doesn't mean there haven't been great players since, but nobody since has commanded the type of all-out attention these guys created. Not even Hank Aaron. Not even Willie Mays (who perhaps would have qualified had he not been banished to San Francisco for so much of his career), and certainly not Barry F. Bonds.
The Red Sox had a brief burst of relevance in the mid-to-late 1940s -- winning their first AL pennant since 1918 in 1946 (but losing in seven games to the St. Louis Cardinals thanks to Enos Slaughter's mad dash), but then receded into mediocrity and outright incompetence until 1967, when Dick Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg authored "The Impossible Dream ... Baseball Style."
Along the way, the Red Sox themselves hardly covered themselves with glory as the game shifted away from its whites-only history into historical compliance with regards to race relations. They were the last of the established Major League teams to integrate, finally seeing the light in 1959 when they called up Elijah "Pumpsie" Green to the big club.
The club also, in this rather inglorious years, stood pat while its players were subjected to some horrendous racism during spring training when the club moved its headquarters to Florida (Earl Wilson, who was a very good pitcher, was traded away because of such an incidence in 1966 in favor of a severely broken-down -- but white -- Don Demeter).
Once the Sox of 1967 won the pennant, they remained relevant, with few lapses, until the present time. And it was as the sixties turned into the seventies that some of the older parks were razed in favor of ugly, all-purpose facilities complete with artificial surfaces that lacked character and ambiance. Three Rivers Stadium. Riverfront Stadium. Shea Stadium (which might be the worst ballpark ever built). The Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in Minneapolis with a baggie for a right-center field wall.
These were some of the most horrendous edifices known to man, and it's worth noting that the four aforementioned stadia, along with several more, have been sacrificed to the great God of progress for baseball-only fields that somehow managed to combine modern accoutrements with an old-time flavor. Camden Yards in Baltimore was among the first, but more followed.
It was during this transitional era that Fenway became the darling of baseball dilettantes, going from a rather run-down facility that had already, by the end of the 1975 season, undergone major facelifts to a park that local histories fought diligently to preserve when it looked as if, in the 1990s, it would be replaced.
The first such facelift occurred after the '75 World Series when Fred Lynn almost broke his back trying to catch a fly ball in Game 6 (the Carlton Fisk game). After the season, the wall was padded.
That wasn't all, though. in recognition that times had changed, a brand-new jumbotron scoreboard was added in center field, and half of the left-field scoreboard -- which included National League scores -- was taken down (it has since been put up again, along with other embellishments, that make the one constructed in 1934 look tiny by comparison).
Finally, a new more spacious, the club built a new, more spacious, indoor press box (to that point, the facility was woefully inadequate with nature's air conditioning to boot).
The next major facelift occurred after the 1990 season, when the grandstand-level press box was demolished for a facility halfway to heaven, with the previously existing space used for the abominable, poorly conceived 600 Club (that was changed to .406 Club after Williams died in 2002).
About the only noteworthy thing about the 600 Club was that hitters claimed the change in wind currents that resulted from its construction changed the course of fly balls, making it more difficult to hit home runs.
But then again, Fenway always had its critics based on its dimensions. Many experts claimed that the park, with its short (310 feet) dimensions to left field prevented the club from winning more because it spent too much time and money trying to find hitters who could knock home runs over that wall rather than pitchers who could actually get people out.
That wall also took away as many home runs as it gave up, as rising line drives became singles and fly balls that would have been outs anywhere else ended up as round-trippers. Or, to put it another way, if that 1978 playoff game had been anywhere else but Fenway Park, the Red Sox might have won, 2-0, and Bucky Dent would have flown out harmlessly to left field.
It appeared, though, that Fenway had run its course by the late 1990s. By then, the new parks were starting to emerge, and architects such as Janet Marie Smith (who designed Camden Yards) were able to convice people you could have it all, with regards to ballparks. The groundswell began to do the same to Fenway.
And the groundswell almost became a reality in 1999 when plans were unveiled to build a new stadium next to the old one. It would have involved the usual funky financing, as well as improvements to the existing infrastructure (a fancy way of saying roads), but it looked as if all systems were go.
Now, let's break from our rather objective historical narrative to express the following opinion: I was on John Harrington's side on this. Fenway by the mid-1990s was a tired ballpark that had been surpassed in almost every capacity by the newer structures. It may have been historic, but that's all it was. The seats were uncomfortable (unless you were Twiggy or Hopkin Hopkins (look him up); if you were sitting in the wrong spot in right field, you couldn't see parts of center field and left field. Ditto along the third base line (where the left field corner was totally obscured). Support poles blocked the action (instituting the aptly named term "obstructed view"), and seats were actually pointed away from the plate.
This may not have seemed relevant in 1912, or even in 1962. But if you went to places such as Camden Yards, or Pac Bell Stadium, or Jacobs Field, and saw the potential to have a much more enjoyable fan experience and still feel like you were at a real ballpark (as opposed to a cereal-bowl multipurpose stadium), and then went to Fenway Park, the difference was palpable.
So I do not think John Harrington was evil. I think John Harrington tried to do what he thought was right when it came to providing his ever-growing fan base with an enjoyable experience.
But into the breach came the "Save Fenway" crowd, and in the beginning I thought they were both crazy and obstructionist. I'd have preferred to see all them rounded up and transported to Saturn.
They brought up some valid points. Fenway Park was historic, and it existed in a city that place an important value on such things ... unlike New York, which suffered greatly under transportation/urban planning czar Robert Moses (it was Moses, and not Walter O'Malley, who was most responsible for the Dodgers moving to Los Angeles because of his intractability when it came to helping O'Malley find a spot to build a new stadium in Brooklyn.
Much of New York's early history was bulldozed (something that, sadly, is still an isue today, as evidenced by the callous destruction of "The House that Ruth Built" in favor of a modernized and more expensive Yankee Stadium).
But the historical issues could have been resolved. Perhaps the essence of the old park could have been transferred to the new facility; maybe some of it could have been preserved as part of an on-site museum. And maybe some of it could have been incorporated into the new design.
There was no reason that Red Sox fans, the same as Orioles, Indians, Giants, Pirates, Reds and Tigers fans, couldn't enjoy a modern facility with an old-time feel.
The only reason was the "Save Fenway" crowd.
So it was with great disappointment, to me and countless others, when John Henry, Tom Werner and Larry Lucchino announced, upon acquiring the team in 2002, that they'd explore ways to keep Fenway as it was and improve it as much as they could.
Not what I wanted to hear. But Lucchino had worked with Janet Marie in Baltimore, and brought her in design the improvements. I'd never heard of Janet Marie Smith, but I can honestly say, now, that as far as members of this organization go, she's the one most responsible for turning Fenway into something approaching a modern ballpark.
Smith was responsible for all of it ... the "monster seats," the pavilion, improved sight lines, new seats and a better venue for standing room along third base, and the destruction of that god-awful 600 Club in favor of regular seats. By doing all this, she (and the Red Sox) improved Fenway's capacity, and -- in the process -- turned it from a moribund relic into a pretty attractive place ... albeit with many of the same limitations that caused people to pine for a new stadium in the first place. She is a true hero in this story.
She was also responsible for opening up much of the concourse, especially along the right field seats, and turning Yawkey Way into a bigger concourse on game days. Now, at least, if there's a fire, we have a chance of an easier egress.
For her efforts, Janet Marie was -- of course -- shown the door in what can only be seen as some kind of power struggle somewhere. That's too bad. It would have been nice to see what other ideas she had. But this fan will always be grateful that there was a Janet Marie Smith, and would, someday, love to meet her and thank her for all she did to make Fenway as attractive as it is today. Because quite honestly, and despite everything I still dislike about it, the park has never looked better.
So as we prepared to celebrate Fenway's centennial, we can, in the end, be thankful that a significant piece of Boston's historical landscape has been saved and, more importantly, cared for by the likes of Larry Lucchino (this may be the only time I ever say anything remotely nice about him) and Janet Marie Smith.
Be it ever so humble (and believe me, it still is), there's no place like home.
And it's worse when you listen to the radio squawk shows around here, and hear someone get on there and say "they're ruining my summmaaaaaaaahhhhhhh" with regards to the Red Sox and their propensity to excite us and frustrate us all at once.
In fact, in 1999 I had the thrill of a lifetime when the all-star game was at Fenway Park and Major League Baseball unveiled its nominees for "team of the century." Among the nominees was Bob Gibson, who pitched for the St. Louis Cardinals, and who won three games in the 1967 World Series ... and whom I always admired for his sheer ferocity and competitiveness on the mound.
I went up, shook his hand, and told him I was from Boston.
"Oh, NO," moaned Gibby. "I can just hear it now ... YOU BROKE MY HAHHHHHHHHHHT."
Actually, he didn't. I was only 14 in 1967, but I knew greatness when I saw it. And Gibby was pure greatness. In fact, in the overall realm of greatness, I'd put him above any pitcher I've seen since ... and that includes Clemens, Pedro Martinez circa 1999-2000, and Justin Verlander today.
But I digress. This is about Fenway Park, not Bob Gibson (though I could probably write an entire blog item on that seventh game of the 1964 World Series when he threw about 700 pitches -- OK, a slight exaggeration -- and beat the New York Yankees).
Fenway Park had just turned 50 when I first saw it up close and personal. That was in 1962, when I was nine years old, and my father took my sister and I to see a Yankees game so we could watch Mantle and Maris hit home runs (Mickey hit one out; Maris did not).
And even though it was 50, it was less than 30 years removed from the massive renovations it underwent when Tom Yawkey took over ownership of the club in 1934.
Being only nine, I had no idea about significant anniversaries. And besides, I don't recall there being much of a fuss over Fenway's 50th (though in retrospect, I wonder ... the all-star game was at Fenway in 1961, and perhaps that was why).
The only thing I remember about my first experience at Fenway -- and this is so horribly cliche I almost hesitate to mention it -- is that coming up the runway into the grandstand, it was hit with two memories I'll never forget. First, before my eyes, was the greenest and most perfect grass I'd ever seen. Don't forget that in 1961, most TVs in America were still black and white, and you didn't get a sense of how lusciously green those fields were with a B&W TV screen the size of a shoebox.
The second memory is the smell of the park itself. I can't describe it today. I can't possibly count the number of hours I've spent at the ballpark since 1961, and the place still smells the same ... a combination of stale cigar smoke (well, maybe less so now that you can't smoke there), stale beer, stale popcorn, and maybe a whiff of "fresh roasted peanuts here."
In those days, the Red Sox served popcorn in a container that looked like a megaphone. When you were finished, you could pop the cover off the bottom and actually USE it as a megaphone.
The kid behind me was from New York, and he was freak-in obnoxious. He laughed at everything the Red Sox did wrong. And there was plenty to laugh at, too, as the Yankees quickly got up 10-2 in that game before the Red Sox got home runs from Jim Pagliaroni and Bob Tillman to make it 10-6. Pags and Tillman went back-to-back (Pags was the catcher and Tillman, who was a rookie, pinch-hit). I remember that shut the New York kid up but good.
At least once a year until I got into high school, and was old enough to ride the rattle-trap Green Line trolley cars of the Boston MBTA system on my own, my father took us in to Fenway at least once a year ... sometimes twice. We saw doubleheaders most of the time (the man was a saint, taking two little kids to doubleheaders during an era when the team was dreadfully bad).
If Fenway was a lyric little bandbox, which is what John Updike called it when he wrote his farewell to Ted Williams in 1960 (Gods do not answer letters), it was news to me. It was just the place where the Red Sox played. There wasn't anything more significant to it than there was to Yankee Stadium, Tigers Stadium, Memorial Stadium in Baltimore, or Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles. Back then, just about every other ballpark in the American League was named either Memorial, Municipal, or -- in the case of the Minnesota Twins -- Metropolitan. These were the days before naming rights.
National League parks had the much more interesting names ... Forbes Field, County Stadium, Crosley Field, Candlestick Park, Dodger Stadium, Sportsman's Park (later, Busch Stadium), Connie Mack Stadium, Wrigley field. And if you can name the teams that played in those edifaces in the 1960s -- before most of them were torn down in favor of the cookie-cutter era -- you're good. Hint ... only two of them are still in use for baseball, though the name for a third one -- which has since been torn down -- is still used.
Fenway fit right in. It was always a more interesting looking part, having been built to accommodate a neighborhood that, in 1912, was rapidly developing. The "green monster" was made of wood, and covered with ads until after the renovation, at which time was reinforced with tin, painted its famous color, and adorned with what was, at the time, the most state-of-the-art scoreboard in baseball.
There was a 10-foot incline leading up that wall -- a reinforcement of the wall, actually -- known as Duffy's Cliff, which forced the left fielder to run uphill to catch fly balls (it was named for Duffy Lewis, the Sox left fielder at the time). Since the field was -- as it is today -- below the level of Lansdowne Street, the cliff served to compensate for the differences in grades.
That imperfection was remedied in the 1934 rehab.
Other along-the-way quirks and revisions occurred early in the Ted Williams era, when the bullpens were built in right field, ostensibly to give "The Kid" an easier chance to hit home runs (duly named "Williamsburg); and the construction of an elaborate left-field screen to catch fly balls as they went over the wall (so they wouldn't wreak havoc with business establishments and cars on the other side).
Williams once hit one so deep into the right field seats that the chair it hit was painted red for posterity.
Fenway had both an auspicious and inauspicious beginning. On the good side, the Red Sox beat the New York Highlanders (later the Yankees), 7-6. On the down side, coverage of the momentous event was overshadowed by the sinking of the Titanic just days earlier.
Fenway's first decade was perhaps its finest until this most recent one. The Red Sox won numerous world championships, the last one being in 1918 over the Chicago Cubs, and served as the first professional home of perhaps baseball's most historic figure ever ... Babe Ruth.
There's are lots of theories as to why owner Harry Frazee sold off Ruth and many others from that team to the Yankees -- thereby helping to create that dynasty -- and most of them are wrong. Some think Frazee sold Ruth to finance "No, No, Nanette," but that is incorrect. So all you people out there who want to gag every time you hear "Tea for Two," keep your food down. That had nothing to do with it.
It was true Frazee was hard up for money, but it's also true that The Babe, by 1919, was already developing a reputation as a man whose penchant for being a colossal pain in the ass approached his historic abilities. It's been said that Frazee breathed a sigh of relief that he was no longer in the business of babysitting the Bambino.
Of course, history has proven Frazee tremendously short-sighted. Athletes who are difficult to handle thrive in just about every sports ... perhaps just as much today as they did then. The only difference, really, between then and now is that thanks to the International Brotherhood of Baseball Players, pain-in-the-ass athletes have more power.
That trade, though, put the Red Sox into a tailspin they didn't really break until a 20-year-old Theodore Samuel Williams showed up on their doorstep in 1939. You can always tell an athlete's worth, and his future legacy, by how many nicknames are bestowed on him. Williams had his share ... "Teddy Ballgame," "The Splendid Splinter," "The Kid," and probably a few others that can't be printed among more genteel folk.
Williams is easily the most famous and celebrated player in Red Sox history. He is generally acknowledged by all knowledgeable fans as the most gifted pure hitter the game has ever seen ... or, if that's too hard to take, in baseball's modern era. He is really the first player to actively turn hitting into a science that went beyond "see the ball ... hit the ball."
In fact, every time I hear some crazed high school coach yell out to his batter "hit the top half of the ball" I want go down there and tell him, "hey, Jack, Teddy Ballgame could only do that one-third of the time, and he's the greatest hitter who ever lived. So let the kid breathe, would you?"
Teddy Ballgame's the last player in MLB history to hit .400 (though Tony Gwynn might have had a shot at it were it not for the 1994 strike/lockout).
Williams is also among the last of the true larger-than-life ballplayers in Major League history. Think about it. After the 1950s, baseball, as America's official pastime, ceased to exist. By the 1960s, football had risen to the point where it was just about equal to baseball in popularity, and it has surely surpassed the Grand Old Game by now. Why else would Major League Baseball take to ending its season on a weeknight? Why else would it start the World Series on a weeknight, instead of a weekend? It's because weekends are totally taken up with football ... colleges on Saturdays, and the NFL on Sundays.
Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle are the last two -- in this writer's opinion -- truly larger-than-life figures in Major League baseball. This doesn't mean there haven't been great players since, but nobody since has commanded the type of all-out attention these guys created. Not even Hank Aaron. Not even Willie Mays (who perhaps would have qualified had he not been banished to San Francisco for so much of his career), and certainly not Barry F. Bonds.
The Red Sox had a brief burst of relevance in the mid-to-late 1940s -- winning their first AL pennant since 1918 in 1946 (but losing in seven games to the St. Louis Cardinals thanks to Enos Slaughter's mad dash), but then receded into mediocrity and outright incompetence until 1967, when Dick Williams, Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Lonborg authored "The Impossible Dream ... Baseball Style."
Along the way, the Red Sox themselves hardly covered themselves with glory as the game shifted away from its whites-only history into historical compliance with regards to race relations. They were the last of the established Major League teams to integrate, finally seeing the light in 1959 when they called up Elijah "Pumpsie" Green to the big club.
The club also, in this rather inglorious years, stood pat while its players were subjected to some horrendous racism during spring training when the club moved its headquarters to Florida (Earl Wilson, who was a very good pitcher, was traded away because of such an incidence in 1966 in favor of a severely broken-down -- but white -- Don Demeter).
Once the Sox of 1967 won the pennant, they remained relevant, with few lapses, until the present time. And it was as the sixties turned into the seventies that some of the older parks were razed in favor of ugly, all-purpose facilities complete with artificial surfaces that lacked character and ambiance. Three Rivers Stadium. Riverfront Stadium. Shea Stadium (which might be the worst ballpark ever built). The Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in Minneapolis with a baggie for a right-center field wall.
These were some of the most horrendous edifices known to man, and it's worth noting that the four aforementioned stadia, along with several more, have been sacrificed to the great God of progress for baseball-only fields that somehow managed to combine modern accoutrements with an old-time flavor. Camden Yards in Baltimore was among the first, but more followed.
It was during this transitional era that Fenway became the darling of baseball dilettantes, going from a rather run-down facility that had already, by the end of the 1975 season, undergone major facelifts to a park that local histories fought diligently to preserve when it looked as if, in the 1990s, it would be replaced.
The first such facelift occurred after the '75 World Series when Fred Lynn almost broke his back trying to catch a fly ball in Game 6 (the Carlton Fisk game). After the season, the wall was padded.
That wasn't all, though. in recognition that times had changed, a brand-new jumbotron scoreboard was added in center field, and half of the left-field scoreboard -- which included National League scores -- was taken down (it has since been put up again, along with other embellishments, that make the one constructed in 1934 look tiny by comparison).
Finally, a new more spacious, the club built a new, more spacious, indoor press box (to that point, the facility was woefully inadequate with nature's air conditioning to boot).
The next major facelift occurred after the 1990 season, when the grandstand-level press box was demolished for a facility halfway to heaven, with the previously existing space used for the abominable, poorly conceived 600 Club (that was changed to .406 Club after Williams died in 2002).
About the only noteworthy thing about the 600 Club was that hitters claimed the change in wind currents that resulted from its construction changed the course of fly balls, making it more difficult to hit home runs.
But then again, Fenway always had its critics based on its dimensions. Many experts claimed that the park, with its short (310 feet) dimensions to left field prevented the club from winning more because it spent too much time and money trying to find hitters who could knock home runs over that wall rather than pitchers who could actually get people out.
That wall also took away as many home runs as it gave up, as rising line drives became singles and fly balls that would have been outs anywhere else ended up as round-trippers. Or, to put it another way, if that 1978 playoff game had been anywhere else but Fenway Park, the Red Sox might have won, 2-0, and Bucky Dent would have flown out harmlessly to left field.
It appeared, though, that Fenway had run its course by the late 1990s. By then, the new parks were starting to emerge, and architects such as Janet Marie Smith (who designed Camden Yards) were able to convice people you could have it all, with regards to ballparks. The groundswell began to do the same to Fenway.
And the groundswell almost became a reality in 1999 when plans were unveiled to build a new stadium next to the old one. It would have involved the usual funky financing, as well as improvements to the existing infrastructure (a fancy way of saying roads), but it looked as if all systems were go.
Now, let's break from our rather objective historical narrative to express the following opinion: I was on John Harrington's side on this. Fenway by the mid-1990s was a tired ballpark that had been surpassed in almost every capacity by the newer structures. It may have been historic, but that's all it was. The seats were uncomfortable (unless you were Twiggy or Hopkin Hopkins (look him up); if you were sitting in the wrong spot in right field, you couldn't see parts of center field and left field. Ditto along the third base line (where the left field corner was totally obscured). Support poles blocked the action (instituting the aptly named term "obstructed view"), and seats were actually pointed away from the plate.
This may not have seemed relevant in 1912, or even in 1962. But if you went to places such as Camden Yards, or Pac Bell Stadium, or Jacobs Field, and saw the potential to have a much more enjoyable fan experience and still feel like you were at a real ballpark (as opposed to a cereal-bowl multipurpose stadium), and then went to Fenway Park, the difference was palpable.
So I do not think John Harrington was evil. I think John Harrington tried to do what he thought was right when it came to providing his ever-growing fan base with an enjoyable experience.
But into the breach came the "Save Fenway" crowd, and in the beginning I thought they were both crazy and obstructionist. I'd have preferred to see all them rounded up and transported to Saturn.
They brought up some valid points. Fenway Park was historic, and it existed in a city that place an important value on such things ... unlike New York, which suffered greatly under transportation/urban planning czar Robert Moses (it was Moses, and not Walter O'Malley, who was most responsible for the Dodgers moving to Los Angeles because of his intractability when it came to helping O'Malley find a spot to build a new stadium in Brooklyn.
Much of New York's early history was bulldozed (something that, sadly, is still an isue today, as evidenced by the callous destruction of "The House that Ruth Built" in favor of a modernized and more expensive Yankee Stadium).
But the historical issues could have been resolved. Perhaps the essence of the old park could have been transferred to the new facility; maybe some of it could have been preserved as part of an on-site museum. And maybe some of it could have been incorporated into the new design.
There was no reason that Red Sox fans, the same as Orioles, Indians, Giants, Pirates, Reds and Tigers fans, couldn't enjoy a modern facility with an old-time feel.
The only reason was the "Save Fenway" crowd.
So it was with great disappointment, to me and countless others, when John Henry, Tom Werner and Larry Lucchino announced, upon acquiring the team in 2002, that they'd explore ways to keep Fenway as it was and improve it as much as they could.
Not what I wanted to hear. But Lucchino had worked with Janet Marie in Baltimore, and brought her in design the improvements. I'd never heard of Janet Marie Smith, but I can honestly say, now, that as far as members of this organization go, she's the one most responsible for turning Fenway into something approaching a modern ballpark.
Smith was responsible for all of it ... the "monster seats," the pavilion, improved sight lines, new seats and a better venue for standing room along third base, and the destruction of that god-awful 600 Club in favor of regular seats. By doing all this, she (and the Red Sox) improved Fenway's capacity, and -- in the process -- turned it from a moribund relic into a pretty attractive place ... albeit with many of the same limitations that caused people to pine for a new stadium in the first place. She is a true hero in this story.
She was also responsible for opening up much of the concourse, especially along the right field seats, and turning Yawkey Way into a bigger concourse on game days. Now, at least, if there's a fire, we have a chance of an easier egress.
For her efforts, Janet Marie was -- of course -- shown the door in what can only be seen as some kind of power struggle somewhere. That's too bad. It would have been nice to see what other ideas she had. But this fan will always be grateful that there was a Janet Marie Smith, and would, someday, love to meet her and thank her for all she did to make Fenway as attractive as it is today. Because quite honestly, and despite everything I still dislike about it, the park has never looked better.
So as we prepared to celebrate Fenway's centennial, we can, in the end, be thankful that a significant piece of Boston's historical landscape has been saved and, more importantly, cared for by the likes of Larry Lucchino (this may be the only time I ever say anything remotely nice about him) and Janet Marie Smith.
Be it ever so humble (and believe me, it still is), there's no place like home.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sorry seems to be the hardest word ...
OK. Let's get in the mood for this, with two of the more melodramatic songs of apology ever written ... first, there's this ... and then there's this.
You know, there's a place in this world for a good, old-fashioned apology, but not when it's depicted like it is here ... in these two songs ... full of bathos to the point where it reeks of self-serving inauthenticity.
I bring this up today, of course, because Rush Limbaugh had to do the old mea culpa number over the weekend in response to the growing outcry over his ill-chosen words directed to Sandra Fluke, the 30-year-old Georgetown student who testified before Congress on the issues of contraceptives.
Poor Rush. He did something typically Rush. He went off on her, called her a slut, and even suggested that she should provide videos of her sexual exploits.
Before we go on, let's talk about Rush. John Henry, who owns the Boston Red Sox, once had a great line about the late George Steinbrenner. He said that being insulted by George Steinbrenner was a little like being by Don Rickles. You almost feel as if you've made it in this world.
If I were a liberal pundit, in other words, and I didn't feel the sting of a Rush Limbaugh rant every so often, I'd be insulted. I'd feel as if my efforts weren't being taken seriously. I'd feel like a neutered bull. I'd feel as if I'm a threat to nobody.
So Sandra, as crude as Rush's comments might have been, you have this to take to the bank: You're in wonderful company. Some of the most respected people in the world have been taken to task by Rush Limbaugh. Most of the time, the laugh's on him. And the fact that he doesn't know it yet makes it even funnier.
Rush jumped the shark a long, long time ago -- in my humble opinion at least -- and his influence beyond his narrow sphere of like-minded bullies and bigots is nil. At this stage of his career, he has to be satisfied with flinging red meat at perpetually angry people who possess none of the analytical, introspective gifts that would qualify them as intelligent.
Of course, there are plenty of them in the country ... enough so that Rush can still make a pretty good living being the point man for the ridiculous right (it's not as cleverly alliterative as the "loony left," but it's going to have to do).
But wait ... Eight of Rush's sponsors have flown the coop over his latest rantings about Sandra Fluke. Maybe that's temporary. Maybe when the heat dies down and everybody "gets past this," as we seem to love to do in this country, those sponsors will fly back to the nest. After all, Rush still gets ratings, even if he'll never broaden his horizons when it comes to influence. It's just that at the moment, the spotlight's on him ... and not because of anything good.
The issue itself? It's a bonafide wedge issue, defined here as any issue that, as soon as it's brought up in the public domain, is sure to cause predictable knee-jerk reactions among all the major players in government. And that's a huge part of what goes into legislative gridlock. ALL of today's major issues can be defined that way, and in every case, you can predict how everyone's going to react the minute anyone tries to discuss them. You might as well script and choreograph these discussions, because rarely do they deviate from predictable patterns.
Into this breach went Sandra Fluke last week, testifying before Congress that insurance companies should cover contraception. Well all right. It's a hot-button issue, and although I support this side of the argument, it's not without being cognizant of some very reasoned opinions from the other side.
And that's as it should be. If we can't, in this country, listen to reasoned arguments both pro and con on the important issues of the day, then what good are we? So it's no sin to admit that some of the answers we seek today are damn hard to come by, and that we need to listen to people, and take them seriously, if we're ever to arrive at them.
Now, Rush claims to be a serious spokesman for conservatives in America. My question is how? How can you be taken seriously if your answer to someone who's demonstrated the courage to get up and testify on a hot-button issue -- thereby setting herself up for a whole lot of grief and anxiety she could have avoided if she'd just shut up and gone about her life like most of the rest of us -- is to crudely ridicule and bully her?
Rush is a big boy. He understands backlash. And he certainly understands that you own what you say the minute it comes out of your mouth, and that no amount of explaining can erase them ... or change anybody's opinion about them.
That goes double if practically half the country thinks you're a buffoon because, lately, you're nothing more than a cardboard caricature of yourself anyway.
Yes, Rush is an easy target, but before anyone feels too sorry for him, let's also acknowledge that he makes himself an easy target ... the same way anyone who stakes out controversial, bellicose stands on issues becomes a magnet for backlash. Jon Stewart probably gets his share of hate mail too, as do Bill Mahar, Rachel Maddow and all the rest. It goes with the territory.
These are people in the business of provoking. And most of them do it quite well, Rush included. But once in a while, in provoking, you go too far. And it happens across the board. Mahar's gotten himself into trouble with ill-timed and crude remarks about Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann. Don Imus practically got run off radio a while back when he called the Rutgers women's basketball team "nappy-headed hos."
But while it's a good thing to cut people as much slack as you can whenever possible, it's also true that once you cross the line into bad taste or out-and-out misogyny (in the case of Rush), it's useless to try to retrace your steps. You can't do it.
And this brings us back to the original premise. Apologizing. Sadly, it's a lost art, and I think it's that way because -- frankly -- I don't think people quite know how to do it. We've been in an "anything goes" mode in this country for so long that it just doesn't occur to many people that what they say and do can be hurtful.
But we do. All of us. And apologies can be very cathartic ... as long as they're genuine and free of bathos and drama.
First of all, and perhaps most important, apologies don't guarantee forgiveness. If you go through the trouble of trying to manipulate people into feeling sorry for you -- the offender -- by concocting this melodramatic apology you're going to be disappointed. Nine times out of ten, that doesn't work. And if it does, consider yourself lucky.
That doesn't mean we can't say we're sorry. Of course we should. We owe it to the people we offend, whether intentionally or unintentionally, to at least let them know we feel badly for whatever pain and anguish we've caused them and that we do regret having done, or said, hurtful things. After that, it's out of our hands.
Rush's apology to Sandra Fluke is a blueprint of what not to do. First, he tried to justify it by tying his comments in with his personal agenda. Bad. That's about as insincere as it gets. Geez Louise, man, take the ego out of it would you? Separate your politics from your actions and focus on what matters in this instance.
Second, he pulled the old "I was trying to be funny" routine. Ugh. Is there anything more phony than that? How often have you heard that? "I didn't mean it. It was only a joke."
I don't think so.
Finally, "my choice of words was not the best." I'll say.
Look, to cut him some slack, apologizing is a hard thing to do. Most of the time, you're apologizing to people who are already either angry with you, or offended by you, and you're wading into crocodile-infested waters. Even with the best of intentions, a heartfelt apology can be received by deaf ears. It's quite possible that someday, in its own way, whatever rift you've caused by your actions can be healed, but it's probably 50-50 that a simple apology will turn the tide that dramatically.
So why do it? If you're genuine, you do it because regardless of what anyone else thinks, YOU know when you've messed up. And YOU know, instinctively, that YOU'RE not going to start to feel better about it until YOU'VE at least acknowledged that yes, you've done or said something hurtful.
And this is where I think Rush showed his true colors. His apology was not sincere. He managed to restate his political position on the issue, tried to pass off his crudity as an attempt at humor, and then -- today, on his show, -- acted like the wounded warrior because Sandra Fluke dared to be unimpressed with his "apology."
That's par for the course. This isn't television, where you have to say you're sorry, and kiss and make up, between endless commercials and within the half-hour, or hour, time span. It's real life, and it can take a long, long time to undo the damage we do.
It's fair to ask whether Rush would have felt the need to apologize at all if the backlash wasn't so intense, or if advertisers weren't pulling out. Once your misdeeds start hitting you in the wallet, it's a whole new ballgame.
Anyway, to those who feel the need to issue the odd mea culpa over some transgression, remember: it's best to take all the pride out of it, focus on what you did, express whatever sorrow or regret you feel you can, and then -- as they say -- put it in God's hands. It may not get you what you want (at least not right away) but at least you can look at yourself in the mirror and say you did the best you could to atone for something you probably wish had never happened in the first place.
You know, there's a place in this world for a good, old-fashioned apology, but not when it's depicted like it is here ... in these two songs ... full of bathos to the point where it reeks of self-serving inauthenticity.
I bring this up today, of course, because Rush Limbaugh had to do the old mea culpa number over the weekend in response to the growing outcry over his ill-chosen words directed to Sandra Fluke, the 30-year-old Georgetown student who testified before Congress on the issues of contraceptives.
Poor Rush. He did something typically Rush. He went off on her, called her a slut, and even suggested that she should provide videos of her sexual exploits.
Before we go on, let's talk about Rush. John Henry, who owns the Boston Red Sox, once had a great line about the late George Steinbrenner. He said that being insulted by George Steinbrenner was a little like being by Don Rickles. You almost feel as if you've made it in this world.
If I were a liberal pundit, in other words, and I didn't feel the sting of a Rush Limbaugh rant every so often, I'd be insulted. I'd feel as if my efforts weren't being taken seriously. I'd feel like a neutered bull. I'd feel as if I'm a threat to nobody.
So Sandra, as crude as Rush's comments might have been, you have this to take to the bank: You're in wonderful company. Some of the most respected people in the world have been taken to task by Rush Limbaugh. Most of the time, the laugh's on him. And the fact that he doesn't know it yet makes it even funnier.
Rush jumped the shark a long, long time ago -- in my humble opinion at least -- and his influence beyond his narrow sphere of like-minded bullies and bigots is nil. At this stage of his career, he has to be satisfied with flinging red meat at perpetually angry people who possess none of the analytical, introspective gifts that would qualify them as intelligent.
Of course, there are plenty of them in the country ... enough so that Rush can still make a pretty good living being the point man for the ridiculous right (it's not as cleverly alliterative as the "loony left," but it's going to have to do).
But wait ... Eight of Rush's sponsors have flown the coop over his latest rantings about Sandra Fluke. Maybe that's temporary. Maybe when the heat dies down and everybody "gets past this," as we seem to love to do in this country, those sponsors will fly back to the nest. After all, Rush still gets ratings, even if he'll never broaden his horizons when it comes to influence. It's just that at the moment, the spotlight's on him ... and not because of anything good.
The issue itself? It's a bonafide wedge issue, defined here as any issue that, as soon as it's brought up in the public domain, is sure to cause predictable knee-jerk reactions among all the major players in government. And that's a huge part of what goes into legislative gridlock. ALL of today's major issues can be defined that way, and in every case, you can predict how everyone's going to react the minute anyone tries to discuss them. You might as well script and choreograph these discussions, because rarely do they deviate from predictable patterns.
Into this breach went Sandra Fluke last week, testifying before Congress that insurance companies should cover contraception. Well all right. It's a hot-button issue, and although I support this side of the argument, it's not without being cognizant of some very reasoned opinions from the other side.
And that's as it should be. If we can't, in this country, listen to reasoned arguments both pro and con on the important issues of the day, then what good are we? So it's no sin to admit that some of the answers we seek today are damn hard to come by, and that we need to listen to people, and take them seriously, if we're ever to arrive at them.
Now, Rush claims to be a serious spokesman for conservatives in America. My question is how? How can you be taken seriously if your answer to someone who's demonstrated the courage to get up and testify on a hot-button issue -- thereby setting herself up for a whole lot of grief and anxiety she could have avoided if she'd just shut up and gone about her life like most of the rest of us -- is to crudely ridicule and bully her?
Rush is a big boy. He understands backlash. And he certainly understands that you own what you say the minute it comes out of your mouth, and that no amount of explaining can erase them ... or change anybody's opinion about them.
That goes double if practically half the country thinks you're a buffoon because, lately, you're nothing more than a cardboard caricature of yourself anyway.
Yes, Rush is an easy target, but before anyone feels too sorry for him, let's also acknowledge that he makes himself an easy target ... the same way anyone who stakes out controversial, bellicose stands on issues becomes a magnet for backlash. Jon Stewart probably gets his share of hate mail too, as do Bill Mahar, Rachel Maddow and all the rest. It goes with the territory.
These are people in the business of provoking. And most of them do it quite well, Rush included. But once in a while, in provoking, you go too far. And it happens across the board. Mahar's gotten himself into trouble with ill-timed and crude remarks about Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann. Don Imus practically got run off radio a while back when he called the Rutgers women's basketball team "nappy-headed hos."
But while it's a good thing to cut people as much slack as you can whenever possible, it's also true that once you cross the line into bad taste or out-and-out misogyny (in the case of Rush), it's useless to try to retrace your steps. You can't do it.
And this brings us back to the original premise. Apologizing. Sadly, it's a lost art, and I think it's that way because -- frankly -- I don't think people quite know how to do it. We've been in an "anything goes" mode in this country for so long that it just doesn't occur to many people that what they say and do can be hurtful.
But we do. All of us. And apologies can be very cathartic ... as long as they're genuine and free of bathos and drama.
First of all, and perhaps most important, apologies don't guarantee forgiveness. If you go through the trouble of trying to manipulate people into feeling sorry for you -- the offender -- by concocting this melodramatic apology you're going to be disappointed. Nine times out of ten, that doesn't work. And if it does, consider yourself lucky.
That doesn't mean we can't say we're sorry. Of course we should. We owe it to the people we offend, whether intentionally or unintentionally, to at least let them know we feel badly for whatever pain and anguish we've caused them and that we do regret having done, or said, hurtful things. After that, it's out of our hands.
Rush's apology to Sandra Fluke is a blueprint of what not to do. First, he tried to justify it by tying his comments in with his personal agenda. Bad. That's about as insincere as it gets. Geez Louise, man, take the ego out of it would you? Separate your politics from your actions and focus on what matters in this instance.
Second, he pulled the old "I was trying to be funny" routine. Ugh. Is there anything more phony than that? How often have you heard that? "I didn't mean it. It was only a joke."
I don't think so.
Finally, "my choice of words was not the best." I'll say.
Look, to cut him some slack, apologizing is a hard thing to do. Most of the time, you're apologizing to people who are already either angry with you, or offended by you, and you're wading into crocodile-infested waters. Even with the best of intentions, a heartfelt apology can be received by deaf ears. It's quite possible that someday, in its own way, whatever rift you've caused by your actions can be healed, but it's probably 50-50 that a simple apology will turn the tide that dramatically.
So why do it? If you're genuine, you do it because regardless of what anyone else thinks, YOU know when you've messed up. And YOU know, instinctively, that YOU'RE not going to start to feel better about it until YOU'VE at least acknowledged that yes, you've done or said something hurtful.
And this is where I think Rush showed his true colors. His apology was not sincere. He managed to restate his political position on the issue, tried to pass off his crudity as an attempt at humor, and then -- today, on his show, -- acted like the wounded warrior because Sandra Fluke dared to be unimpressed with his "apology."
That's par for the course. This isn't television, where you have to say you're sorry, and kiss and make up, between endless commercials and within the half-hour, or hour, time span. It's real life, and it can take a long, long time to undo the damage we do.
It's fair to ask whether Rush would have felt the need to apologize at all if the backlash wasn't so intense, or if advertisers weren't pulling out. Once your misdeeds start hitting you in the wallet, it's a whole new ballgame.
Anyway, to those who feel the need to issue the odd mea culpa over some transgression, remember: it's best to take all the pride out of it, focus on what you did, express whatever sorrow or regret you feel you can, and then -- as they say -- put it in God's hands. It may not get you what you want (at least not right away) but at least you can look at yourself in the mirror and say you did the best you could to atone for something you probably wish had never happened in the first place.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
On swimsuits and the rest ....
I'm not one of these people who spends a lot of time moaning and groaning about the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. But that's only because if I waste a minute worrying about it, I may forget to sort my socks.
This year's edition is out, with Kate Upton graduating from mere swimsuit model to the cover. Good for her, I suppose. It'll certainly do wonders for her career.
But just because I don't spend a lot of time getting exorcised over the annual SI Swimsuit Issue thing doesn't mean I don't have opinions. I always have opinions.
Here are some of mine ... on this subject anyway.
First, one of my favorite SI issues of the year isn't so much the swimsuit. I can take or leave that, really. No. It's the issue after the swimsuit, when the letters to the editor cut a wide swath between faux righteous indignation and downright creepy worship of the women who model the swimsuits.
To those who would kill more trees complaining about the issue, I have a solution. Don't buy it. Don't read it. Don't let it into your house. That way, you can't see it, and it won't eat at you to the point where you have to look totally ridiculous complaining about it. Unless, of course, your goal in all of this is to amuse me. Then ... OK. Have at it. Because it is amusing.
To those on the other end of the spectrum: Please. I've seen less creepy letters in Playboy and Penthouse (which I only read for the articles).
Now, to be serious for a few minutes. If your idea of a harbinger of spring is to look at women in swimsuits, have at it. Myself? I get a bigger thrill out of watching the truck leave Fenway Park in February.
Somewhere in the back of my mind is the notion that Sports Illustrated, which otherwise does a damn good job telling the story behind the story about the world's biggest athletic events, adds to the culture of objectifying women -- whether it's doing so with tongue planted firmly in cheek (which, at this stage of the game, is most likely the case) or it actually thinks producing the issue counts as compelling journalism.
And you can be sure that with each hysterically overwrought letter protesting the issue, there are guffaws of laughter at SI's headquarters and ever more resolve, as a result, to keep printing it. And in the grand tradition of the American free enterprise system, I'll bet the money SI rakes in via advertising and increase sales helps the magazine finance some of the other, good, things it does the rest of the year.
However, it's just that sometimes, I just feel that the exploitation of someone like Kate Upton, who's only 19, is just as creepy as some of those those letters can be.
I know Kate Upton probably got paid a bundle for the shoots that ended up with her on the cover. Kate's probably good for the entire year -- and maybe then some -- with the money she's received. So in that sense, it's hard to make the argument that she was exploited at all.
But make it we do. Because even if there's more than a little hint of teenage-boy cheekiness about all of this, the issue reinforces the notion -- which I think is still a strong one -- that there are still environments in this world where women advance to the level of their looks, and not their talents and abilities.
By all means, enjoy the issue. I'm an SI subscriber, and the magazine has taken to putting a box inside the front cover asking people like me to let them know if they do not want to receive this issue. I didn't bother responding this year, which means it'll come to my house, the way it always does, and that it'll go largely ignored. I suppose that even in my apathy over it, I'm contributing to its yearly presence in our lives, and I accept that.
We still live in a world where style trumps substance. You see it every day. And the SI swimsuit issue really reinforces that superficiality.
It's a free country, however. SI is free to publish the issue, and we're free to either buy it or skip the honor. Or, if you're me, allow it to be mailed to our homes every February so it can sit on the coffee table.
OK. End of rant ... even if it was a mild rant.
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Today's Valentine's Day, which, if you're so inclined, is the day you can shout your love from one end of the world to the other without looking overly mawkish about it.
Or, at least, it would appear to be that way.
Sorry to be so cynical. It's just that as I get older, it dawns on me more and more that Valentine's Day is getting to be just like Christmas, except the sentiment is a little different.
You'll notice that around Christmas time, people seem to be nicer. For that one week out of 52, the idea of good will toward men (and maybe even peace on earth) seems to penetrate our thick veneers. And as soon as January 2 comes around, all that good will goes right back into the box, and, they used to say on the Outer Limits, we resume our normal programming.
Valentine's Day seems to be when everyone freely expresses love, buys flowers and cards (this is not only a Hallmark Holiday but a florist's delight as well), and springs for dinner.
And what happens on February 15? "honey, there are leftovers in the fridge."
Again, to be serious, I have nothing against Valentine's Day. It's just that if we're all not careful, that love we so freely shout out to the world every February 14 can quickly get swallowed up the other 364 days of the year by the stress of work, the demands of life, bills, finances, health issues, the ruts we're all prone to fall into, too much TV or too much computer, and -- maybe most of all -- the rigors of parenting.
It's nice to have a day for celebrating love. It's better to do it all the time. And best, especially if there is no special "someone," to shower yourself with a little of that love and celebrate who you are.
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Just a word or two about the Grammy's (which obviously took the entire spotlight away from everything else Sunday night after Whitney Houston's untimely death).
I've always told people that if I could be anyone in the world, I'd pick Bono because of the power his words have over millions of people. But Sunday, at least, I'd have changed all that and decided to be David Grohl.
First, Grohl struck a chord with people like me, who value hard work, musicianship, and talent over the increasing encroachment of technology into the mix. He said music isn't so much about being perfect, but that it germinates from the heart and the mind. And as far as he's concerned, if it's not in either of those two places, it's not anywhere.
Amen. This is one of the reasons that, especially on a night that reached back and celebrated an era where all of music was made that way (Paul McCartney, the Beach Boys and Glen Campbell), the Foo Fighters were recognized as much as they were.
The other reason I'd have gladly traded places with David Grohl for the night is that he looked like the happiest person on the planet up there jamming with McCartney, Bruce Springsteen and Joe Walsh et al during the Abbey Road finale. Watching him (and them) go at it? That's music ... the unbridled joy you get from performing for people. It was awesome, and it was easily the highlight of the show.
Other Grammy observations ...
Who, or what, is a Nikki Manaj, and what on earth was that all about?
It is obviously sad and tragic that Whitney Houston died. But because she died the night before the awards show, and because most everyone feels her tortured lifestyle played a role, the amount of grief displayed Sunday night for her was disproportionate in comparison to say, Clarence Clemons, who is truly a giant in his own right, and who was acknowledged only in the litany of "those who have left us" toward the end of the show.
So it's even sadder to read that there was supposed to be a tribute to Clemons, but that it got bumped to make room for Jennifer Hudson's tribute to Whitney. Boy, I could think of a few other things that could have been bumped to make room for Clarence ... like, maybe, Nikki Minaj??
As it turns out, there was a nice, tasteful tribute to Etta James (though they managed to miss her entirely in the end-of-show litany) and, of course, one for Whitney. Glen Campbell was honored for his contributions (and rightly so), and the Beach Boys were trotted out to sing a portion of "Good Vibrations" (if you've ever heard the Ann and Nancy Wilson version of that, you were absolutely pining for it listening to the Beach Boys singing it Sunday).
But nothing other than a mention of Clarence Clemons' name and a snippet from his famous solo on "Jungleland."
Pity.
----------
Ronald Reagan (no favorite here) used to say his 11th commandment was "Thou Shalt Not Speak Ill of Other Republicans."
And you'd think that the party that's fallen over itself in recent years to be most thoroughly aligned with the "Great Communicator's" political philosophy would at least heed that very important piece of advice.
Someone forgot to tell Newt Gingrich.
I have rather curious criteria for judging political candidates. First, I feel they're all, to various degrees, con men, so you can't judge them on that (unless they resemble carny barkers so much they're obnoxious about it).
But disposition means a lot to me. And a lot of the time, knowing that most of what any politician says during a campaign you have to take with a grain of salt, I go right to disposition if I can't think of another reason why I'd want to vote for someone.
And petulant people really turn me off.
Newt isn't just petulant. He's nasty. I'm no fan of Mitt Romney's, but for all I don't like about him (and there's enough), I can't say he's nasty. Actually, his disposition's one of the better things about him. Even people in Massachusetts who really fought with him on issues agreed that he was a lot easier to deal with as a person than he may have been when it came to ideological struggles.
But Newt? Not that I care, but he's the type of guy who can easily bring the whole party down with his nastiness and petulance.
Hey. Go right ahead. The day moderate thinking conservatives retake the Republican party will be a happy day for all of us, as far as I'm concerned.
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Pitchers and catchers report in five days. C'moooooon srping!
This year's edition is out, with Kate Upton graduating from mere swimsuit model to the cover. Good for her, I suppose. It'll certainly do wonders for her career.
But just because I don't spend a lot of time getting exorcised over the annual SI Swimsuit Issue thing doesn't mean I don't have opinions. I always have opinions.
Here are some of mine ... on this subject anyway.
First, one of my favorite SI issues of the year isn't so much the swimsuit. I can take or leave that, really. No. It's the issue after the swimsuit, when the letters to the editor cut a wide swath between faux righteous indignation and downright creepy worship of the women who model the swimsuits.
To those who would kill more trees complaining about the issue, I have a solution. Don't buy it. Don't read it. Don't let it into your house. That way, you can't see it, and it won't eat at you to the point where you have to look totally ridiculous complaining about it. Unless, of course, your goal in all of this is to amuse me. Then ... OK. Have at it. Because it is amusing.
To those on the other end of the spectrum: Please. I've seen less creepy letters in Playboy and Penthouse (which I only read for the articles).
Now, to be serious for a few minutes. If your idea of a harbinger of spring is to look at women in swimsuits, have at it. Myself? I get a bigger thrill out of watching the truck leave Fenway Park in February.
Somewhere in the back of my mind is the notion that Sports Illustrated, which otherwise does a damn good job telling the story behind the story about the world's biggest athletic events, adds to the culture of objectifying women -- whether it's doing so with tongue planted firmly in cheek (which, at this stage of the game, is most likely the case) or it actually thinks producing the issue counts as compelling journalism.
And you can be sure that with each hysterically overwrought letter protesting the issue, there are guffaws of laughter at SI's headquarters and ever more resolve, as a result, to keep printing it. And in the grand tradition of the American free enterprise system, I'll bet the money SI rakes in via advertising and increase sales helps the magazine finance some of the other, good, things it does the rest of the year.
However, it's just that sometimes, I just feel that the exploitation of someone like Kate Upton, who's only 19, is just as creepy as some of those those letters can be.
I know Kate Upton probably got paid a bundle for the shoots that ended up with her on the cover. Kate's probably good for the entire year -- and maybe then some -- with the money she's received. So in that sense, it's hard to make the argument that she was exploited at all.
But make it we do. Because even if there's more than a little hint of teenage-boy cheekiness about all of this, the issue reinforces the notion -- which I think is still a strong one -- that there are still environments in this world where women advance to the level of their looks, and not their talents and abilities.
By all means, enjoy the issue. I'm an SI subscriber, and the magazine has taken to putting a box inside the front cover asking people like me to let them know if they do not want to receive this issue. I didn't bother responding this year, which means it'll come to my house, the way it always does, and that it'll go largely ignored. I suppose that even in my apathy over it, I'm contributing to its yearly presence in our lives, and I accept that.
We still live in a world where style trumps substance. You see it every day. And the SI swimsuit issue really reinforces that superficiality.
It's a free country, however. SI is free to publish the issue, and we're free to either buy it or skip the honor. Or, if you're me, allow it to be mailed to our homes every February so it can sit on the coffee table.
OK. End of rant ... even if it was a mild rant.
----------
Today's Valentine's Day, which, if you're so inclined, is the day you can shout your love from one end of the world to the other without looking overly mawkish about it.
Or, at least, it would appear to be that way.
Sorry to be so cynical. It's just that as I get older, it dawns on me more and more that Valentine's Day is getting to be just like Christmas, except the sentiment is a little different.
You'll notice that around Christmas time, people seem to be nicer. For that one week out of 52, the idea of good will toward men (and maybe even peace on earth) seems to penetrate our thick veneers. And as soon as January 2 comes around, all that good will goes right back into the box, and, they used to say on the Outer Limits, we resume our normal programming.
Valentine's Day seems to be when everyone freely expresses love, buys flowers and cards (this is not only a Hallmark Holiday but a florist's delight as well), and springs for dinner.
And what happens on February 15? "honey, there are leftovers in the fridge."
Again, to be serious, I have nothing against Valentine's Day. It's just that if we're all not careful, that love we so freely shout out to the world every February 14 can quickly get swallowed up the other 364 days of the year by the stress of work, the demands of life, bills, finances, health issues, the ruts we're all prone to fall into, too much TV or too much computer, and -- maybe most of all -- the rigors of parenting.
It's nice to have a day for celebrating love. It's better to do it all the time. And best, especially if there is no special "someone," to shower yourself with a little of that love and celebrate who you are.
----------
Just a word or two about the Grammy's (which obviously took the entire spotlight away from everything else Sunday night after Whitney Houston's untimely death).
I've always told people that if I could be anyone in the world, I'd pick Bono because of the power his words have over millions of people. But Sunday, at least, I'd have changed all that and decided to be David Grohl.
First, Grohl struck a chord with people like me, who value hard work, musicianship, and talent over the increasing encroachment of technology into the mix. He said music isn't so much about being perfect, but that it germinates from the heart and the mind. And as far as he's concerned, if it's not in either of those two places, it's not anywhere.
Amen. This is one of the reasons that, especially on a night that reached back and celebrated an era where all of music was made that way (Paul McCartney, the Beach Boys and Glen Campbell), the Foo Fighters were recognized as much as they were.
The other reason I'd have gladly traded places with David Grohl for the night is that he looked like the happiest person on the planet up there jamming with McCartney, Bruce Springsteen and Joe Walsh et al during the Abbey Road finale. Watching him (and them) go at it? That's music ... the unbridled joy you get from performing for people. It was awesome, and it was easily the highlight of the show.
Other Grammy observations ...
Who, or what, is a Nikki Manaj, and what on earth was that all about?
It is obviously sad and tragic that Whitney Houston died. But because she died the night before the awards show, and because most everyone feels her tortured lifestyle played a role, the amount of grief displayed Sunday night for her was disproportionate in comparison to say, Clarence Clemons, who is truly a giant in his own right, and who was acknowledged only in the litany of "those who have left us" toward the end of the show.
So it's even sadder to read that there was supposed to be a tribute to Clemons, but that it got bumped to make room for Jennifer Hudson's tribute to Whitney. Boy, I could think of a few other things that could have been bumped to make room for Clarence ... like, maybe, Nikki Minaj??
As it turns out, there was a nice, tasteful tribute to Etta James (though they managed to miss her entirely in the end-of-show litany) and, of course, one for Whitney. Glen Campbell was honored for his contributions (and rightly so), and the Beach Boys were trotted out to sing a portion of "Good Vibrations" (if you've ever heard the Ann and Nancy Wilson version of that, you were absolutely pining for it listening to the Beach Boys singing it Sunday).
But nothing other than a mention of Clarence Clemons' name and a snippet from his famous solo on "Jungleland."
Pity.
----------
Ronald Reagan (no favorite here) used to say his 11th commandment was "Thou Shalt Not Speak Ill of Other Republicans."
And you'd think that the party that's fallen over itself in recent years to be most thoroughly aligned with the "Great Communicator's" political philosophy would at least heed that very important piece of advice.
Someone forgot to tell Newt Gingrich.
I have rather curious criteria for judging political candidates. First, I feel they're all, to various degrees, con men, so you can't judge them on that (unless they resemble carny barkers so much they're obnoxious about it).
But disposition means a lot to me. And a lot of the time, knowing that most of what any politician says during a campaign you have to take with a grain of salt, I go right to disposition if I can't think of another reason why I'd want to vote for someone.
And petulant people really turn me off.
Newt isn't just petulant. He's nasty. I'm no fan of Mitt Romney's, but for all I don't like about him (and there's enough), I can't say he's nasty. Actually, his disposition's one of the better things about him. Even people in Massachusetts who really fought with him on issues agreed that he was a lot easier to deal with as a person than he may have been when it came to ideological struggles.
But Newt? Not that I care, but he's the type of guy who can easily bring the whole party down with his nastiness and petulance.
Hey. Go right ahead. The day moderate thinking conservatives retake the Republican party will be a happy day for all of us, as far as I'm concerned.
----------
Pitchers and catchers report in five days. C'moooooon srping!
Friday, February 10, 2012
On legacies and such ...
The Super Bowl is over, the Patriots lost, and now the debate begins over whether they, along with Tom Brady, truly belong in that Pantheon of great franchises and quarterbacks.
Who cares?
Why is this so important? Don't their accomplishments speak for themselves? Is there any need to thumb-suck over just exactly where they fall?
I don't get it. They've been to five Super Bowls in 10 years, and won three of them. In that 10-year span, they've only missed the playoffs twice, and won the AFC East the other eight times.
They had a spell between their last Super Bowl and this past January without a playoff victory (0-3, if you include XLII). Somehow, that was supposed to have tarnished their legacy.
This year, they won the two games they had to win to get to the Super Bowl, but lost to a team that -- I think, anyway -- was better than they were. In fact, I'd submit the Baltimore Ravens were probably better too.
And that brings us right back to where we were before that Denver victory. The loss somehow tarnishes their legacy.
Can we agree on one thing? That half the reason why the "experts" are so gleefully pillorying the Patriots has more to do with their perceived institutional arrogance (Bill Belichick's reputation as a cheater a big part of that) than anything else?
I think that's a fair statement. People tend to get bored when the same teams win again and again. I can remember hating the Dallas Cowboys when I was a kid for that exact reason. They won so often, and there was such an institutional quality about them, that winning was often a given. If there was any question about a call, for example, it would go their way.
Call it the Duke syndrome. There's no reason to despise Duke's basketball team. They have a coach, Mike Krzyzewski, who appears to play by the rules and win the right way. There are no recruiting scandals. You never see Coach K on the sidelines browbeating players, the way his mentor (Bobby Knight) did. When he loses, he conducts himself with class. His players, if they don't come out early, graduate.
Yet I never root for the Blue Devils unless they're playing North Carolina, and even then, it's with great reluctance. Why? Because every blasted time a call could go either way, it goes to Duke. Every time. Seriously. I can remember once listening to a coach harp on an umpire who had an unusually generous strike zone against a pitcher who really didn't need his largesse.
"He's good enough as it is," the coach barked. "He doesn't need YOUR help."
That's how I feel about Duke. Year in and year out, the Blue Devils are more than capable of sinking or swimming on their own. Do they need to get every close call too?
This happens more often than not with teams who have winning legacies. I've seen it happen so often. An upstart team (or better, a team that has no business even being in the game) finds itself in a position to win against the established order. Next thing you know, the underdog team is called for holding at a critical time, or one of its players brushes up against Shaquille O'Neal and is called for a foul. Or, in the case of baseball, Derek Jeter comes to the plate in a critical situation and gets every stinking borderline pitch until he gets a good fat one and drills it.
The Patriots have finally reached that point ... but believe me, they had their moments of being absolutely jobbed out of victories too in the days before Bill Parcells finally changed the culture of the franchise for good.
I guess you could call it a case of "to the victor goes the spoils." The more you win, and more it gets to be almost institutional, the more breaks you get. And the Patriots caught a ton of them this year. I can remember wanting to throw things at Don Shula when I watched him on TV. Shula's Dolphins, in the 1970s and 80s, were like the Patriots are now. It was never a question of whether the Dolphins would make the playoffs, it was "who do they play, and can Griese/Marino/whomever win playoff games by themselves?"
But they rode that wave of reputation for years before it all finally caught up to them. And Shula had his bouts of arrogance too. The biggest thing with him was that all while the Dolphins were winning, he was on the NFL Rules Committee, and always managed to influence the rules changes to benefit whatever situation he was in. If you wonder why it is that offensive linemen can practically pull defenders' arms off in efforts to protect the quarterback, look no further than Shula, because you know that rules regarding holding have been relaxed (which also begs the question as to what criteria referees DO use when the actually make the call).
Similarly when Indy's Bill Polian was on the rules committee, Peyton Manning's receivers were mugged by the Patriots in the 2004 AFC championship game. Manning was picked off four times, and the Patriots beat the Colts to make the Super Bowl.
The next year? New rules ... favoring receivers. Hey, you have to use your influence any way you can.
The Patriots have their share of arrogance within their organization. Some would say more than their share. You can start with Bill Belichick himself. Now, it isn't possible for anyone to be as intrinsically evil as The Hoodie tries to make himself out to be. It's almost as if he asks himself, "how can I look like more of a jerk here? Am I doing all that's humanly possible to be as big a churl as I can be?"
If you look at the whole man, he's probably not so bad. But his football face, and his football persona, are deplorable. They violate everything your mother ever taught you about being polite and pleasant. The Football Hoodie wouldn't tell you if you were on fire. He'd tell you to wait until Wednesday when the first injury report comes out.
He's a big reason why, today, everyone's pig-piling on the Patriots about their legacy. Which is fine with me. And it wouldn't matter if he were Rex Ryan, who is his polar opposite in every way possible. Rex is getting his share for being the braggart who can't back it up. And that's after making the AFC championship game two straight years!
Tom Brady tries to project himself as something a little different. He doesn't try to be a churl. But, methinks there's more than a little Eddie Haskell in him. He's as cooperative and cordial as he has to be in the required settings, but something tells me he's not like that all the time. He doesn't always come across as being all that genuine in candid moments, like when he points to the referee and starts to beg for calls ... or when you see him getting into dustups on the sidelines, trying to blame receivers when plays don't work.
Manning used to do that too, in his early days, and he took a lot of heat for it as well.
I know it's a competitive game. Tempers get the best of you. And it may be unfair, but when the spotlight falls on you, it reflects that moment and no other. If you've picked that particular time to go off on your receiver who has just missed a ball that was a hair beyond his fingertips, or who couldn't come up with a pass that you threw behind him, you don't look very good. And Brady's done that a couple of times.
Once again, I have to draw an analogy. Call it the Jim Rice syndrome. Rice, who is now in the Hall of Fame, was one of the more menacing Red Sox clubhouse figures to deal with. He once ripped the shirt off a reporter. He gave arrogance a new meaning, his incredibly condescending and uncooperative nature rubbed off on the rest of the team, and he was universally despised for just about his entire career. And I honestly think that had a lot to do with the fact it took him until almost his last year of eligibility to make the Hall of Fame. He was borderline at best, and his churlishness didn't help his cause.
However, he was one of baseball's most feared power hitters, too -- at least for about eight or nine years. But he also led the league, in just about every one of those years, in hitting into double plays. This is where the Rice Syndrome comes into play. I submit that had he been a Cal Ripken Jr. type of guy (look it up; Ripken hit into his share of double plays too), nobody would have cared. They'd have all realized that in order to hit into that many DPs, you often have to hit the ball on the screws ... right at an infielder.
You never heard people complain about Ripken's double plays. But that's all you heard about with Rice. Never mind the homers are RBI. People focused on the double plays. And ... Rice, if you listened to his critics, was the absolute kind of knocking in meaningless runs.
This was the media's way of paying him back for the bad Karma he spread around.
This is now what I think is going on with the Patriots. By any measurable standard you choose to use, five Super Bowls in 10 years is pretty damn good. The only franchise that compares with the Patriots since the New England began its run is the Pittsburgh Steelers (three). Since 2000, the Giants have also been in three Super Bowls, winning twice.
The Colts, for all their glittering statistics, have been in only two, winning one.
Since the year 2000, the Steelers have won two Super Bowls, as have the Giants ... both one less than the Patriots.
In a league whose system and salary cap almost invites mercurial season-to-season performances, the Patriots have been remarkably consistent, winning eight divisional championships in 10 years. In that span, they have had double-digit regular-season winning records every years except for 2002, when they won nine games. Three times over that span they've been 14-2, once 13-3, once 12-4, twice 11-5 and twice 10-6.
This year, with a defense that all but the most rabid pom-pom wavers could easily see was not of championship caliber, they found ways to win, and make it all the way to the Super Bowl. Sometimes it was luck. No question. Sometimes, like in that first Denver game, teams handed it to them. Sometimes, they just came out and beat the other team silly with their offense. And sometimes (like the Washington and Miami games) they had to hang on by the skin of their teeth.
And we all know what happened in the AFC championship game when Billy Cundiff missed the field goal that would have sent the game into overtime.
But they won. There are 32 teams that begin this quest each September, and only two standing the first weekend of the February. One of them was the Patriots, despite all their shortcomings.
So if you want to vent your frustrations over the team's institutional arrogance, be my guest. There's enough to complain about. Watching a Belichick news conference after the Patriots lose is like grilling someone about an embarrassing family secret. Listening to him in the middle of the week berating reporters for asking questions he doesn't deem worthy of answering, your jaw drops at how someone who's that accomplished could also be so rude. It just doesn't compute.
You hear things about how generous he is with his friends, and how gregarious he can be in relaxed settings, and that's nice. But his job also includes dealing with the media too, and however much he doesn't like them, it still goes with the package. We don't necessarily like him all that much, either. I know, personally, that as much as I might be inclined to call Rex Ryan a blowhard (and I am!!), I'd also prefer dealing with a blowhard who gave you something you could use than a guy who, when he has a chance to connect with fans after a tough loss, says "we just got off the field. I don't know."
So yes. Hate him as much as you want. But as far as their legacy goes, the Patriots don't have to justify themselves to anybody. In every conceivable, measurable category of the 21st century, they come out ahead. That may change in the near future as other teams rise up to assume their dominance. But for now, even with this loss, the Patriots are still the current NFL standard. And any suggestion to the contrary is just ludicrous.
Who cares?
Why is this so important? Don't their accomplishments speak for themselves? Is there any need to thumb-suck over just exactly where they fall?
I don't get it. They've been to five Super Bowls in 10 years, and won three of them. In that 10-year span, they've only missed the playoffs twice, and won the AFC East the other eight times.
They had a spell between their last Super Bowl and this past January without a playoff victory (0-3, if you include XLII). Somehow, that was supposed to have tarnished their legacy.
This year, they won the two games they had to win to get to the Super Bowl, but lost to a team that -- I think, anyway -- was better than they were. In fact, I'd submit the Baltimore Ravens were probably better too.
And that brings us right back to where we were before that Denver victory. The loss somehow tarnishes their legacy.
Can we agree on one thing? That half the reason why the "experts" are so gleefully pillorying the Patriots has more to do with their perceived institutional arrogance (Bill Belichick's reputation as a cheater a big part of that) than anything else?
I think that's a fair statement. People tend to get bored when the same teams win again and again. I can remember hating the Dallas Cowboys when I was a kid for that exact reason. They won so often, and there was such an institutional quality about them, that winning was often a given. If there was any question about a call, for example, it would go their way.
Call it the Duke syndrome. There's no reason to despise Duke's basketball team. They have a coach, Mike Krzyzewski, who appears to play by the rules and win the right way. There are no recruiting scandals. You never see Coach K on the sidelines browbeating players, the way his mentor (Bobby Knight) did. When he loses, he conducts himself with class. His players, if they don't come out early, graduate.
Yet I never root for the Blue Devils unless they're playing North Carolina, and even then, it's with great reluctance. Why? Because every blasted time a call could go either way, it goes to Duke. Every time. Seriously. I can remember once listening to a coach harp on an umpire who had an unusually generous strike zone against a pitcher who really didn't need his largesse.
"He's good enough as it is," the coach barked. "He doesn't need YOUR help."
That's how I feel about Duke. Year in and year out, the Blue Devils are more than capable of sinking or swimming on their own. Do they need to get every close call too?
This happens more often than not with teams who have winning legacies. I've seen it happen so often. An upstart team (or better, a team that has no business even being in the game) finds itself in a position to win against the established order. Next thing you know, the underdog team is called for holding at a critical time, or one of its players brushes up against Shaquille O'Neal and is called for a foul. Or, in the case of baseball, Derek Jeter comes to the plate in a critical situation and gets every stinking borderline pitch until he gets a good fat one and drills it.
The Patriots have finally reached that point ... but believe me, they had their moments of being absolutely jobbed out of victories too in the days before Bill Parcells finally changed the culture of the franchise for good.
I guess you could call it a case of "to the victor goes the spoils." The more you win, and more it gets to be almost institutional, the more breaks you get. And the Patriots caught a ton of them this year. I can remember wanting to throw things at Don Shula when I watched him on TV. Shula's Dolphins, in the 1970s and 80s, were like the Patriots are now. It was never a question of whether the Dolphins would make the playoffs, it was "who do they play, and can Griese/Marino/whomever win playoff games by themselves?"
But they rode that wave of reputation for years before it all finally caught up to them. And Shula had his bouts of arrogance too. The biggest thing with him was that all while the Dolphins were winning, he was on the NFL Rules Committee, and always managed to influence the rules changes to benefit whatever situation he was in. If you wonder why it is that offensive linemen can practically pull defenders' arms off in efforts to protect the quarterback, look no further than Shula, because you know that rules regarding holding have been relaxed (which also begs the question as to what criteria referees DO use when the actually make the call).
Similarly when Indy's Bill Polian was on the rules committee, Peyton Manning's receivers were mugged by the Patriots in the 2004 AFC championship game. Manning was picked off four times, and the Patriots beat the Colts to make the Super Bowl.
The next year? New rules ... favoring receivers. Hey, you have to use your influence any way you can.
The Patriots have their share of arrogance within their organization. Some would say more than their share. You can start with Bill Belichick himself. Now, it isn't possible for anyone to be as intrinsically evil as The Hoodie tries to make himself out to be. It's almost as if he asks himself, "how can I look like more of a jerk here? Am I doing all that's humanly possible to be as big a churl as I can be?"
If you look at the whole man, he's probably not so bad. But his football face, and his football persona, are deplorable. They violate everything your mother ever taught you about being polite and pleasant. The Football Hoodie wouldn't tell you if you were on fire. He'd tell you to wait until Wednesday when the first injury report comes out.
He's a big reason why, today, everyone's pig-piling on the Patriots about their legacy. Which is fine with me. And it wouldn't matter if he were Rex Ryan, who is his polar opposite in every way possible. Rex is getting his share for being the braggart who can't back it up. And that's after making the AFC championship game two straight years!
Tom Brady tries to project himself as something a little different. He doesn't try to be a churl. But, methinks there's more than a little Eddie Haskell in him. He's as cooperative and cordial as he has to be in the required settings, but something tells me he's not like that all the time. He doesn't always come across as being all that genuine in candid moments, like when he points to the referee and starts to beg for calls ... or when you see him getting into dustups on the sidelines, trying to blame receivers when plays don't work.
Manning used to do that too, in his early days, and he took a lot of heat for it as well.
I know it's a competitive game. Tempers get the best of you. And it may be unfair, but when the spotlight falls on you, it reflects that moment and no other. If you've picked that particular time to go off on your receiver who has just missed a ball that was a hair beyond his fingertips, or who couldn't come up with a pass that you threw behind him, you don't look very good. And Brady's done that a couple of times.
Once again, I have to draw an analogy. Call it the Jim Rice syndrome. Rice, who is now in the Hall of Fame, was one of the more menacing Red Sox clubhouse figures to deal with. He once ripped the shirt off a reporter. He gave arrogance a new meaning, his incredibly condescending and uncooperative nature rubbed off on the rest of the team, and he was universally despised for just about his entire career. And I honestly think that had a lot to do with the fact it took him until almost his last year of eligibility to make the Hall of Fame. He was borderline at best, and his churlishness didn't help his cause.
However, he was one of baseball's most feared power hitters, too -- at least for about eight or nine years. But he also led the league, in just about every one of those years, in hitting into double plays. This is where the Rice Syndrome comes into play. I submit that had he been a Cal Ripken Jr. type of guy (look it up; Ripken hit into his share of double plays too), nobody would have cared. They'd have all realized that in order to hit into that many DPs, you often have to hit the ball on the screws ... right at an infielder.
You never heard people complain about Ripken's double plays. But that's all you heard about with Rice. Never mind the homers are RBI. People focused on the double plays. And ... Rice, if you listened to his critics, was the absolute kind of knocking in meaningless runs.
This was the media's way of paying him back for the bad Karma he spread around.
This is now what I think is going on with the Patriots. By any measurable standard you choose to use, five Super Bowls in 10 years is pretty damn good. The only franchise that compares with the Patriots since the New England began its run is the Pittsburgh Steelers (three). Since 2000, the Giants have also been in three Super Bowls, winning twice.
The Colts, for all their glittering statistics, have been in only two, winning one.
Since the year 2000, the Steelers have won two Super Bowls, as have the Giants ... both one less than the Patriots.
In a league whose system and salary cap almost invites mercurial season-to-season performances, the Patriots have been remarkably consistent, winning eight divisional championships in 10 years. In that span, they have had double-digit regular-season winning records every years except for 2002, when they won nine games. Three times over that span they've been 14-2, once 13-3, once 12-4, twice 11-5 and twice 10-6.
This year, with a defense that all but the most rabid pom-pom wavers could easily see was not of championship caliber, they found ways to win, and make it all the way to the Super Bowl. Sometimes it was luck. No question. Sometimes, like in that first Denver game, teams handed it to them. Sometimes, they just came out and beat the other team silly with their offense. And sometimes (like the Washington and Miami games) they had to hang on by the skin of their teeth.
And we all know what happened in the AFC championship game when Billy Cundiff missed the field goal that would have sent the game into overtime.
But they won. There are 32 teams that begin this quest each September, and only two standing the first weekend of the February. One of them was the Patriots, despite all their shortcomings.
So if you want to vent your frustrations over the team's institutional arrogance, be my guest. There's enough to complain about. Watching a Belichick news conference after the Patriots lose is like grilling someone about an embarrassing family secret. Listening to him in the middle of the week berating reporters for asking questions he doesn't deem worthy of answering, your jaw drops at how someone who's that accomplished could also be so rude. It just doesn't compute.
You hear things about how generous he is with his friends, and how gregarious he can be in relaxed settings, and that's nice. But his job also includes dealing with the media too, and however much he doesn't like them, it still goes with the package. We don't necessarily like him all that much, either. I know, personally, that as much as I might be inclined to call Rex Ryan a blowhard (and I am!!), I'd also prefer dealing with a blowhard who gave you something you could use than a guy who, when he has a chance to connect with fans after a tough loss, says "we just got off the field. I don't know."
So yes. Hate him as much as you want. But as far as their legacy goes, the Patriots don't have to justify themselves to anybody. In every conceivable, measurable category of the 21st century, they come out ahead. That may change in the near future as other teams rise up to assume their dominance. But for now, even with this loss, the Patriots are still the current NFL standard. And any suggestion to the contrary is just ludicrous.
Monday, January 23, 2012
A little of this ... a little of that
OK. I can breathe again. The Patriots are in the Super Bowl. Lots of things have been pushed to the back burner as we threw ourselves into daily apprehension about the Patriots.
Now that we have a couple of weeks before we have to rev ourselves up again, here are some quick hits on some other issues ...
On Joe Paterno ... it's too soon to make a definitive statement about what his legacy is. There's a lot of good ... and there's one, giant bad. It'll take time, and perspective, to sort this all out and come to a conclusion about whether the impeccable reputation he carried for 45 years can, in any way, mitigate his tacit culpability in the Jerry Sandusky scandal.
But I can tell you this: The great ones always know when it's time to go. Joe Pa was 85 years old, set in his ways, of a different culture, and, as the years wore on, tunnel-visioned about that mark he was going to leave on Penn State and college football.
Those are all fatal ingredients when it comes to looking the other way, or, at the very least, providing minimal -- if any -- resistance to what I think we all can agree was a monstrous situation at Penn State. Perhaps if he'd been less interested in his legacy, and more cognizant that the game, and even the world, was a whole lot different than it was in 1966, when he became the coach at Penn State, he might have realized it was time to go when he was still maybe in his 70s ... before his judgment may have been clouded by delusions of grandeur.
Regardless of any of that, it's a bit sad to know that he died a broken man. He obviously did not intend to hurt anyone in anything he did ... it's just an awful tragedy he harmed people in what he didn't do.
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On Gabby Giffords ... a tragedy regardless of how you look at it. More than the country needs Barack Obama, or Newt Gingrich, or Mitt Romney, the country needs women like Gabby Giffords ... willing, at a young age, to put herself in the political arena and stand up for the things she believes.
In the end, it's not whether you're liberal or conservative that makes you a good leader. It's your willingness to put your principals on the line and become part of the process ... to fight the good fight. And maybe it's even to understand you'll never get everything you want, but that just by being there, you've made a difference.
From all indications, Gabby Giffords was that kind of person. The country is poorer this morning because some deranged nut shot her in the head last year, and her rehab precludes her from serving anymore.
What a sin. Of course, Giffords needs to rehabilitate herself. The sin is that deranged hate claimed exactly the type of person this country needs if it's ever going to get out of this morass of gridlock politics.
And before anyone starts excoriating me about that last statement, hear me out. Hate is hate. It doesn't matter, really what side it comes from, and who's doing the hating. It's all the same. It's ugly; and it leads people to do horrific things.
Just because the perpetrator in this shooting/murder was disturbed, and perhaps even apolitical, he did not live in a vacuum. He saw the same things we saw, and felt the same vibe. In fact, I'd even suggest that disturbed people often have more finely-tuned antennae than the rest of us do ... because it's those finely-tuned antennae that fuels their paranoia and their hate.
And I think that's an important thing to remember. We need to stop acting as if we're stunned every time some "nut job" goes on a rampage and shoots up a political rally, or a high school, or a college campus. We are all connected, whether we want to admit it or not. And our willingness to let hate flourish in our midst contributes to these mass tragedies.
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On Newt Gingrich ... I don't like Newt. I think he's a smart guy, but I also thinks he plays to the cheap seats much too often with his rhetoric. I also think if the conservatives who despise Barack Obama so much nominate Newt, it'll backfire and that Obama will win.
That said, I can't help think of the old proverb "a good judge conceives quickly and judges slowly" with regards to the ABC interview last week with his second wife and his suggestion that they share an open marriage.
Here's the thing about power. We all know it corrupts. And that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Yada, yada, yada.
But why do you suppose that is? It's because the temptations are more powerful. The ego is bigger. You have so many people in your coterie whose only job is to get you what you want, and when you want it, that you become oblivious to the idea that there's anything out there you can't have.
Often, powerful people are passionate people. The same holds true with creative people, too, by the way. And the ego boost that people who who want to bask in your glow can give you can truly be intoxicating if you're not careful, or if your priorities aren't in the right order.
All of which explains why musicians, actors, actresses, business leaders and politicians often lead the human race in human drama.
It's no secret that Newt had affairs, and that Newt was (and may even still be) a player. So trotting that woman out for the interview, as much fun as it might have been to do, did nothing except rally an angry conservative base that is convinced that there's a double standard when it comes to these things.
So if any of his rivals were behind this, I'd say it was a major fail.
My only comment is this: If you're going to be that way, then be that way. In the end, it's between you, your wife/mistress/whatever, your family ... and no one else. I'm willing to judge slowly on that account.
But for heaven's sake, don't paint yourself out to be something entirely different, and please don't use your hypocrisy as a cudgel to batter someone else who's doing essentially the same thing you are.
And this is what bothers me about Newt. In the early days of the Monica Lewinsky scandal, Gingrich -- by virtue of his position as Speaker of the House if nothing else -- was a major force behind the decision to impeach Bill Clinton.
Regardless of what you think about his morals (or, if you will, lack of them), the hypocrisy is astounding. I'm not willing to judge slowly on that account.
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On Mitt Romney ... If Mitt were a tree, and I was looking to grab onto a good, sturdy one if the raging flood waters were coming toward me, I'd be in a lot of trouble. There do not seem to be many good roots there.
He's opportunistic, but in politics, sadly, that's the norm. Mitt's bigger problem is that he's tone freaking deaf about how he allows himself to be perceived. This is the exact same thing that got George H.W. Bush defeated in 1992.
Here's Mitt up on the stump saying "I've lived in fear of getting a pink slip." Oh yeah? When? I'll bet the only pink slip Mitt ever got was the title to one of his cars.
And here's Mitt up on the stump saying he likes the fact that he can fire people. Now, he meant this in such a way as to say that he thought it was a good thing to have the freedom to be able to let go of people doing work for you if they're not doing it correctly.
But did he have to use the word "fire?" In this economy? Especially since he's already being tarred and feathered as a corporate cold-heart who made his money streamlining failing companies (read: firing people) and turning them into profitability?
I can't deal with politicians who are that oblivious to how things look and sound. And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Perception is reality. And it doesn't matter how fair or unfair you think that is, either.
So you can imagine my utter shock (sarcasm icon, please) when Mitt admitted he had money in Cayman Island accounts. I don't think there are many rigid qualifications for being president of the United States, but not being absolutely stupid has to be one of them.
Even if there's nothing untoward going on with regards to Mitt's offshore accounts (and you know, he seems so airily blind to how all this looks to people struggling to survive that I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), wouldn't you think he'd have straightened all these things out before he ran?
If he wants the job that badly, wouldn't you think there would be people telling him, "Mitt ... no. Offshore accounts in this economy are going to make it look like you're hiding money and taking advantage of tax loopholes, even if you're not. It's going to make you the butt of all the jokes on late-night TV if anyone finds out about it. You're going to look like George I when he appeared to express surprise that there were scanners in supermarkets."
So I have to ask ... what is the matter with him?
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On Robert Kraft and Patriots fans ... All right, the next time Tim Tebow genuflects on the sidelines as if he's the pope, nobody should complain. If I hear one more time that the spirit of his late wife Myra Kraft (who died of cancer in July) blew Billy Cundiff's chip shot field goal wide I'm going to scream.
It's a nice sentiment. And I'm sure that Bob Kraft -- who appears to be somewhat of a decent, sincere guy in my book -- believes it on some level. And it would certainly seem that some kind of supernatural force took over at that point and willed that kick wide. Sometimes, there are no other explanations. Cundiff lines up to make that kick 100 times, he knocks it through 99.
So believe what you want. But if that's what you choose to believe, don't be cutting Tebow up for "thanking his lord and savior Jesus Christ" at the beginning of every interview. You either believe or you don't. And if you're willing to go public with such a notion that the spirit of Myra Kraft had any outcome on Sunday's game, then you have no business criticizing other religious athletes for how they observe their faith.
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On Billy Cundiff himself ... The name sounds too much like Billy Crudup to me.
Billy Crudup is known most -- to me, at least -- for his role in "Almost Famous." And I'm sure Billy Cundiff wouldn't mind being "almost famous" today. Because sure as shooting, Cundiff has fame's bull's eye in the Baltimore area today ... and for reasons nobody would want.
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Somehow, I think the Patriots get the job done this time.
Now that we have a couple of weeks before we have to rev ourselves up again, here are some quick hits on some other issues ...
On Joe Paterno ... it's too soon to make a definitive statement about what his legacy is. There's a lot of good ... and there's one, giant bad. It'll take time, and perspective, to sort this all out and come to a conclusion about whether the impeccable reputation he carried for 45 years can, in any way, mitigate his tacit culpability in the Jerry Sandusky scandal.
But I can tell you this: The great ones always know when it's time to go. Joe Pa was 85 years old, set in his ways, of a different culture, and, as the years wore on, tunnel-visioned about that mark he was going to leave on Penn State and college football.
Those are all fatal ingredients when it comes to looking the other way, or, at the very least, providing minimal -- if any -- resistance to what I think we all can agree was a monstrous situation at Penn State. Perhaps if he'd been less interested in his legacy, and more cognizant that the game, and even the world, was a whole lot different than it was in 1966, when he became the coach at Penn State, he might have realized it was time to go when he was still maybe in his 70s ... before his judgment may have been clouded by delusions of grandeur.
Regardless of any of that, it's a bit sad to know that he died a broken man. He obviously did not intend to hurt anyone in anything he did ... it's just an awful tragedy he harmed people in what he didn't do.
----------
On Gabby Giffords ... a tragedy regardless of how you look at it. More than the country needs Barack Obama, or Newt Gingrich, or Mitt Romney, the country needs women like Gabby Giffords ... willing, at a young age, to put herself in the political arena and stand up for the things she believes.
In the end, it's not whether you're liberal or conservative that makes you a good leader. It's your willingness to put your principals on the line and become part of the process ... to fight the good fight. And maybe it's even to understand you'll never get everything you want, but that just by being there, you've made a difference.
From all indications, Gabby Giffords was that kind of person. The country is poorer this morning because some deranged nut shot her in the head last year, and her rehab precludes her from serving anymore.
What a sin. Of course, Giffords needs to rehabilitate herself. The sin is that deranged hate claimed exactly the type of person this country needs if it's ever going to get out of this morass of gridlock politics.
And before anyone starts excoriating me about that last statement, hear me out. Hate is hate. It doesn't matter, really what side it comes from, and who's doing the hating. It's all the same. It's ugly; and it leads people to do horrific things.
Just because the perpetrator in this shooting/murder was disturbed, and perhaps even apolitical, he did not live in a vacuum. He saw the same things we saw, and felt the same vibe. In fact, I'd even suggest that disturbed people often have more finely-tuned antennae than the rest of us do ... because it's those finely-tuned antennae that fuels their paranoia and their hate.
And I think that's an important thing to remember. We need to stop acting as if we're stunned every time some "nut job" goes on a rampage and shoots up a political rally, or a high school, or a college campus. We are all connected, whether we want to admit it or not. And our willingness to let hate flourish in our midst contributes to these mass tragedies.
----------
On Newt Gingrich ... I don't like Newt. I think he's a smart guy, but I also thinks he plays to the cheap seats much too often with his rhetoric. I also think if the conservatives who despise Barack Obama so much nominate Newt, it'll backfire and that Obama will win.
That said, I can't help think of the old proverb "a good judge conceives quickly and judges slowly" with regards to the ABC interview last week with his second wife and his suggestion that they share an open marriage.
Here's the thing about power. We all know it corrupts. And that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Yada, yada, yada.
But why do you suppose that is? It's because the temptations are more powerful. The ego is bigger. You have so many people in your coterie whose only job is to get you what you want, and when you want it, that you become oblivious to the idea that there's anything out there you can't have.
Often, powerful people are passionate people. The same holds true with creative people, too, by the way. And the ego boost that people who who want to bask in your glow can give you can truly be intoxicating if you're not careful, or if your priorities aren't in the right order.
All of which explains why musicians, actors, actresses, business leaders and politicians often lead the human race in human drama.
It's no secret that Newt had affairs, and that Newt was (and may even still be) a player. So trotting that woman out for the interview, as much fun as it might have been to do, did nothing except rally an angry conservative base that is convinced that there's a double standard when it comes to these things.
So if any of his rivals were behind this, I'd say it was a major fail.
My only comment is this: If you're going to be that way, then be that way. In the end, it's between you, your wife/mistress/whatever, your family ... and no one else. I'm willing to judge slowly on that account.
But for heaven's sake, don't paint yourself out to be something entirely different, and please don't use your hypocrisy as a cudgel to batter someone else who's doing essentially the same thing you are.
And this is what bothers me about Newt. In the early days of the Monica Lewinsky scandal, Gingrich -- by virtue of his position as Speaker of the House if nothing else -- was a major force behind the decision to impeach Bill Clinton.
Regardless of what you think about his morals (or, if you will, lack of them), the hypocrisy is astounding. I'm not willing to judge slowly on that account.
----------
On Mitt Romney ... If Mitt were a tree, and I was looking to grab onto a good, sturdy one if the raging flood waters were coming toward me, I'd be in a lot of trouble. There do not seem to be many good roots there.
He's opportunistic, but in politics, sadly, that's the norm. Mitt's bigger problem is that he's tone freaking deaf about how he allows himself to be perceived. This is the exact same thing that got George H.W. Bush defeated in 1992.
Here's Mitt up on the stump saying "I've lived in fear of getting a pink slip." Oh yeah? When? I'll bet the only pink slip Mitt ever got was the title to one of his cars.
And here's Mitt up on the stump saying he likes the fact that he can fire people. Now, he meant this in such a way as to say that he thought it was a good thing to have the freedom to be able to let go of people doing work for you if they're not doing it correctly.
But did he have to use the word "fire?" In this economy? Especially since he's already being tarred and feathered as a corporate cold-heart who made his money streamlining failing companies (read: firing people) and turning them into profitability?
I can't deal with politicians who are that oblivious to how things look and sound. And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Perception is reality. And it doesn't matter how fair or unfair you think that is, either.
So you can imagine my utter shock (sarcasm icon, please) when Mitt admitted he had money in Cayman Island accounts. I don't think there are many rigid qualifications for being president of the United States, but not being absolutely stupid has to be one of them.
Even if there's nothing untoward going on with regards to Mitt's offshore accounts (and you know, he seems so airily blind to how all this looks to people struggling to survive that I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt), wouldn't you think he'd have straightened all these things out before he ran?
If he wants the job that badly, wouldn't you think there would be people telling him, "Mitt ... no. Offshore accounts in this economy are going to make it look like you're hiding money and taking advantage of tax loopholes, even if you're not. It's going to make you the butt of all the jokes on late-night TV if anyone finds out about it. You're going to look like George I when he appeared to express surprise that there were scanners in supermarkets."
So I have to ask ... what is the matter with him?
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On Robert Kraft and Patriots fans ... All right, the next time Tim Tebow genuflects on the sidelines as if he's the pope, nobody should complain. If I hear one more time that the spirit of his late wife Myra Kraft (who died of cancer in July) blew Billy Cundiff's chip shot field goal wide I'm going to scream.
It's a nice sentiment. And I'm sure that Bob Kraft -- who appears to be somewhat of a decent, sincere guy in my book -- believes it on some level. And it would certainly seem that some kind of supernatural force took over at that point and willed that kick wide. Sometimes, there are no other explanations. Cundiff lines up to make that kick 100 times, he knocks it through 99.
So believe what you want. But if that's what you choose to believe, don't be cutting Tebow up for "thanking his lord and savior Jesus Christ" at the beginning of every interview. You either believe or you don't. And if you're willing to go public with such a notion that the spirit of Myra Kraft had any outcome on Sunday's game, then you have no business criticizing other religious athletes for how they observe their faith.
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On Billy Cundiff himself ... The name sounds too much like Billy Crudup to me.
Billy Crudup is known most -- to me, at least -- for his role in "Almost Famous." And I'm sure Billy Cundiff wouldn't mind being "almost famous" today. Because sure as shooting, Cundiff has fame's bull's eye in the Baltimore area today ... and for reasons nobody would want.
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Somehow, I think the Patriots get the job done this time.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Baseball Glove
After two years of my mother being in a nursing home, we've decided it's time to turn my parents' house into a home for its current occupants. This means sorting through a lifetime of accumulations and memories and figure out what to keep and what to throw out.
My son and his friend live there now, and recently they spent the day going through some old stuff of mine and my sister's, when were were kids, and putting it in individual boxes. One such object was the first baseball glove I ever owned. It got me through Little League and high school; and it got me through countless softball games as I got older.
But today, it's so worn down it looks like an animal chewed on it. All the original laces are gone, and the pocket is held together with laces from a pair of sneakers. I'm sure I didn't think of that. I'm just as sure that my father DID.
I know this because when the glove got to the point, I'd have wanted my father to go out and buy me another one. And he'd have used the opportunity to lecture me about how money doesn't grown on trees, and that if you can use your ingenuity to fix it, then that's what you do.
I was a typical kid. The minute something lost its new sheen, I wanted another one. My father was a kid who grew up in the depression. He played hockey with cardboard boxes for pads. He knew a great deal more about thrift than I ever did until he got old, and his finances got away from him.
But this isn't a "Daddy Dearest" blog item. It's a blog item about how the glove was autographed by Don Drysdale, and how much I idolized him as a child, simply because of that.
I loved the Los Angeles Dodgers when I was a kid. One of the happiest times in my life occurred in 1963, when the swept the New York Yankees out of the world series. Two years later, they won the whole thing again; and the year after that -- 1966 -- they were swept out of the series by another fledgling baseball dynasty ... the Baltimore Orioles.
From my total infatuation with Don Drysdale (which ended in the mid-1960s when I became Brooks Robinson's biggest non-Oriole fan), I learned the frustration of following West Coast baseball (something we no longer have to deal with thanks to the Internet). I'd wake up at 7 in the morning in the summer, dive for the newspaper see whether the Dodgers won and if Drysdale pitched. And if their game was in LA, you'd get a big (N) next to the game in the daily standings.
And since there was no 24/7 news cycle either back in the 1960s, you had to wait until the next day to find out how the West Coasters did.
That never mattered to me, though. I was a Don Drysdale guy. And, by extension, a Dodgers' guy. Oh, I knew all about Sandy Koufax and Johnny Podres, and I loved them. But only because they were on the same team as Don Drysdale.
Because he was a Californian by birth as well as vocation, and because he was a tall, good looking drink of water, Drysdale had cameos on a lot of the era's TV shows. He even showed up on "Leave it to Beaver."
He may have had a glamorous image, but he was one, tough, MEAN SOB on the mound. Had a blazing fastball, and he wasn't afraid to use it as a weapon.
Drysdale played three years longer than Koufax, retiring in 1969 with 209 wins and a 2.75 earned run average. He pitched 58 scoreless innings in 1968 -- his last full season in the majors. He is in the Hall of Fame.
"Big D" was 6-5 and 195 pounds ... or so he was listed. Anyone 6-5 weighing 195 had to look like a twig, and Drysdale was no twig. He may have been 195 when he was a raw rookie, but I'm sure he filled out over 200 by the time he was in his prime. Hell, his legs had to have weighed that much.
We move forward to 1987, by which time Drysdale is one of the two principal broadcasters for the Chicago White Sox. On this particular weeknight, the White Sox were in Boston, which meant that both Drysdale and Ken Harrelson were under the same roof. FI think I lost my keys and had to wait until the person who was offering to take me home was ready to leave. And he didn't want to. He wanted to sit around and listen to Don Drysdale and Ken Harrelson to swap stories.
If there were any two better raconteurs than "Big D" and "The Hawk" back then, I defy you to name him. These guys were the best. They were sitting in the media room, knocking back their drinks, and talking about the "old days." Every story was funnier than the last one.
And this is one of the bigger reasons baseball is such a great game. It lends itself to folklore as easily as tales of the wild, wild west. Every player has a war story, and they're all fascinating.
You don't hear this in any other sport. You certainly don't hear it in pro football, because most of the time, when ex-NFLers get together, they talk more about "this hurts, I can't bend this, and I've had so many concussions I'm donating my brain to research." It'll be a cold day in hell before Bill Belichick sits on a bench in the dugout, regaling reporters about some of the game's greats. But Drysdale and Harrelson were doing exactly that. I was loving it.
And I was a wonderful audience, too. I laughed at everything either one of them said. I think by the end of the night they were ready to pay me for making them look like professional comics.
But somewhere, I snuck my tale of youthful idolatry into the conversation. I was 33 years old at the time, and hardly what you'd call a wide-eyed innocent. Heck no. I was covering the Sox that night.
You take a risk telling ex-athletes how much you admire them, but I have to say I've had great luck in this regard. When Boston hosted the 1999 all-star game, they introduced the all-century team at a luncheon/meet and greet.
I'd heard all about what a churl Bob Gibson was. So I talked with Warren Spahn ... and caught up with Brooks Robinson. We both a lot about Frank Robinson, who was the best ballplayer I ever saw with my own eyes, as opposed to reading, or hearing, about him.
When I finally summoned up the nerve, I went up to Gibson and told him that I was from Boston. He thought I was going to come up and start ragging on him because of the 1967 World Series. But I was actually coming up to him to say how much I enjoyed seeing him beat the Yankees way back in 1964. He liked that a lot better, and we talked about that game, and about Johnny Keane (the Cardinals manager), and about, of all people, Tim McCarver (who annoyed me even back then).
It was a nice conversation. Gibson's actually a pretty funny guy.
That's how it was with Drysdale too. I told him how having his name on my glove opened me up to being not just a Red Sox fan, but a fan of the game. And while I don't deny today that I love my Sox as much as the next guy, I'm also a fan of the game.
I walked away from the conversation extremely grateful that someone I'd idolized as a little kid turned out to such a great guy when I finally got to meet him.
Drysdale died of a heart attack on July 3, 1993. That would be just a month before I turned 40 ... certainly old enough, and cynical enough, to remain singularly unimpressed with treating athletes like they were gods.
Yet it affected me. Because all I could think of, when I heard that he'd died, was that thank God, when I finally got to meet him, he appeared every bit as nice and genuine as I'd ever hoped he would be.
That poor glove. It's horrible looking. If looks like it belongs on the Island of Misfit Toys. It's the Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree of baseball gloves.
Yet like a lot of things, it has great symbolism to me. Holding it my left hand, putting it on my left hand ... in that instant, I was transported back my local Little League field, trying desperately to catch the ground balls my coach was hitting me.
And listening to Don Drysdale's wonderful tales of what it was like to be a Major League ballplayer.
My son and his friend live there now, and recently they spent the day going through some old stuff of mine and my sister's, when were were kids, and putting it in individual boxes. One such object was the first baseball glove I ever owned. It got me through Little League and high school; and it got me through countless softball games as I got older.
But today, it's so worn down it looks like an animal chewed on it. All the original laces are gone, and the pocket is held together with laces from a pair of sneakers. I'm sure I didn't think of that. I'm just as sure that my father DID.
I know this because when the glove got to the point, I'd have wanted my father to go out and buy me another one. And he'd have used the opportunity to lecture me about how money doesn't grown on trees, and that if you can use your ingenuity to fix it, then that's what you do.
I was a typical kid. The minute something lost its new sheen, I wanted another one. My father was a kid who grew up in the depression. He played hockey with cardboard boxes for pads. He knew a great deal more about thrift than I ever did until he got old, and his finances got away from him.
But this isn't a "Daddy Dearest" blog item. It's a blog item about how the glove was autographed by Don Drysdale, and how much I idolized him as a child, simply because of that.
I loved the Los Angeles Dodgers when I was a kid. One of the happiest times in my life occurred in 1963, when the swept the New York Yankees out of the world series. Two years later, they won the whole thing again; and the year after that -- 1966 -- they were swept out of the series by another fledgling baseball dynasty ... the Baltimore Orioles.
From my total infatuation with Don Drysdale (which ended in the mid-1960s when I became Brooks Robinson's biggest non-Oriole fan), I learned the frustration of following West Coast baseball (something we no longer have to deal with thanks to the Internet). I'd wake up at 7 in the morning in the summer, dive for the newspaper see whether the Dodgers won and if Drysdale pitched. And if their game was in LA, you'd get a big (N) next to the game in the daily standings.
And since there was no 24/7 news cycle either back in the 1960s, you had to wait until the next day to find out how the West Coasters did.
That never mattered to me, though. I was a Don Drysdale guy. And, by extension, a Dodgers' guy. Oh, I knew all about Sandy Koufax and Johnny Podres, and I loved them. But only because they were on the same team as Don Drysdale.
Because he was a Californian by birth as well as vocation, and because he was a tall, good looking drink of water, Drysdale had cameos on a lot of the era's TV shows. He even showed up on "Leave it to Beaver."
He may have had a glamorous image, but he was one, tough, MEAN SOB on the mound. Had a blazing fastball, and he wasn't afraid to use it as a weapon.
Drysdale played three years longer than Koufax, retiring in 1969 with 209 wins and a 2.75 earned run average. He pitched 58 scoreless innings in 1968 -- his last full season in the majors. He is in the Hall of Fame.
"Big D" was 6-5 and 195 pounds ... or so he was listed. Anyone 6-5 weighing 195 had to look like a twig, and Drysdale was no twig. He may have been 195 when he was a raw rookie, but I'm sure he filled out over 200 by the time he was in his prime. Hell, his legs had to have weighed that much.
We move forward to 1987, by which time Drysdale is one of the two principal broadcasters for the Chicago White Sox. On this particular weeknight, the White Sox were in Boston, which meant that both Drysdale and Ken Harrelson were under the same roof. FI think I lost my keys and had to wait until the person who was offering to take me home was ready to leave. And he didn't want to. He wanted to sit around and listen to Don Drysdale and Ken Harrelson to swap stories.
If there were any two better raconteurs than "Big D" and "The Hawk" back then, I defy you to name him. These guys were the best. They were sitting in the media room, knocking back their drinks, and talking about the "old days." Every story was funnier than the last one.
And this is one of the bigger reasons baseball is such a great game. It lends itself to folklore as easily as tales of the wild, wild west. Every player has a war story, and they're all fascinating.
You don't hear this in any other sport. You certainly don't hear it in pro football, because most of the time, when ex-NFLers get together, they talk more about "this hurts, I can't bend this, and I've had so many concussions I'm donating my brain to research." It'll be a cold day in hell before Bill Belichick sits on a bench in the dugout, regaling reporters about some of the game's greats. But Drysdale and Harrelson were doing exactly that. I was loving it.
And I was a wonderful audience, too. I laughed at everything either one of them said. I think by the end of the night they were ready to pay me for making them look like professional comics.
But somewhere, I snuck my tale of youthful idolatry into the conversation. I was 33 years old at the time, and hardly what you'd call a wide-eyed innocent. Heck no. I was covering the Sox that night.
You take a risk telling ex-athletes how much you admire them, but I have to say I've had great luck in this regard. When Boston hosted the 1999 all-star game, they introduced the all-century team at a luncheon/meet and greet.
I'd heard all about what a churl Bob Gibson was. So I talked with Warren Spahn ... and caught up with Brooks Robinson. We both a lot about Frank Robinson, who was the best ballplayer I ever saw with my own eyes, as opposed to reading, or hearing, about him.
When I finally summoned up the nerve, I went up to Gibson and told him that I was from Boston. He thought I was going to come up and start ragging on him because of the 1967 World Series. But I was actually coming up to him to say how much I enjoyed seeing him beat the Yankees way back in 1964. He liked that a lot better, and we talked about that game, and about Johnny Keane (the Cardinals manager), and about, of all people, Tim McCarver (who annoyed me even back then).
It was a nice conversation. Gibson's actually a pretty funny guy.
That's how it was with Drysdale too. I told him how having his name on my glove opened me up to being not just a Red Sox fan, but a fan of the game. And while I don't deny today that I love my Sox as much as the next guy, I'm also a fan of the game.
I walked away from the conversation extremely grateful that someone I'd idolized as a little kid turned out to such a great guy when I finally got to meet him.
Drysdale died of a heart attack on July 3, 1993. That would be just a month before I turned 40 ... certainly old enough, and cynical enough, to remain singularly unimpressed with treating athletes like they were gods.
Yet it affected me. Because all I could think of, when I heard that he'd died, was that thank God, when I finally got to meet him, he appeared every bit as nice and genuine as I'd ever hoped he would be.
That poor glove. It's horrible looking. If looks like it belongs on the Island of Misfit Toys. It's the Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree of baseball gloves.
Yet like a lot of things, it has great symbolism to me. Holding it my left hand, putting it on my left hand ... in that instant, I was transported back my local Little League field, trying desperately to catch the ground balls my coach was hitting me.
And listening to Don Drysdale's wonderful tales of what it was like to be a Major League ballplayer.
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