Summing Up

The subtitle of Neal Conan's delightful book says it all: Play by Play: Baseball, Radio and Life in the Last Chance League. (I will forgive him the absence of an Oxford comma.) This book is very much -- and in the best possible way -- about exactly those things in the right amounts.

Conan took a sabbatical from his fancy and sometimes dangerous job as an NPR correspondent to try his hand and his voice at broadcasting games for the lowly Aberdeen Arsenal, an independent team based in Bel Air, Maryland. He brought with him his love for the game of baseball, his knowledge of the requirements of good radio, and his appreciation for the unique story behind every last-chance ballplayer on the team. 

Other than that, Conan was a rank amateur struggling with the requirements of a completely different skill set, motley equipment, a tiring travel schedule, a losing season, and the varied personalities of his colleagues. His outside-the-comfort zone season makes for great reading, full of anecdotes, personality profiles, self-deprecating humor, and the magic of America's game.

I loved this book. I'm sorry that Conan has passed away now and I'm unable to tell him so. I only learned about Conan's baseball broadcasting adventure and book in his friend and fellow NPR broadcaster Scott Simon's tribute. I'll be writing Simon instead.

Excerpt:

"There's a reason they're all here," they told each other.

It was an expression they would repeat at low moments over the remainder of the schedule, and it was true enough. If the pitchers could throw their best stuff with consistency, if the glove men were reliable and could hit even a little, . . . if somebody had taught them properly years ago, they'd be in big-league organizations. For one reason or another, they all washed out. . . . 

Things are more complicated in the independent leagues. There were a lot of guys determined to make it back to an organization, some just hanging on, some doing the only thing they knew how to do. They were older, for the most part, literally and figuratively scarred by injury and failure. Everyone had a story.

It turned out that there were reasons [the manager and coach] were there. And over time, I realized there were reasons why the radio guy was there, too.

Note: This book counts toward the Color Coded Reading Challenge. 

Life Goes On

It seems that this pandemic will be around for a significant period of time -- not that March to July isn't already significant! -- and another update seems appropriate.

Let's see, what's been happening?  

Like lots of folks across America, I watched Hamilton over the 4th of July weekend. It's truly amazing, a work of genius. No, it's not historically accurate on various levels, but damn, what a story and beautifully told in music that has been swirling around in my head since the first note sounded. I subscribed to Disney+ for a month in order to see it (best $7.00 I ever spent!) and have already watched it 4 times. There's always another layer to enjoy.

I also ordered the Chernow biography upon which the show is based and the book about the show, which includes its creative history and all the lyrics. Yeah, I'm a Hamilton geek now. No apologies.

A friend and I had promised each other that we would see it together, and Saturday night we did the next best thing, which is to stream it at our respective homes and phone and text each other numerous times while watching it. Such fun! 

Given all that, you may want to know: yes, I would still pay $200 a ticket to see it live, when that's possible again.

Which bring us to the pandemic. Sigh. Florida is doing a terrible job of managing this crisis, as are some other states. It's very discouraging. I've been doing my part to stay safe: Working from home. Not going anywhere to speak of. Wearing a mask when I do have to go out. Having groceries delivered. Trying to keep my spirits up, while worrying about my friends. I know many who are older or have health issues that predispose them to increased risk. And now my teacher friends are being told they have to do in-person teaching, starting in about 3 weeks. It just seems crazy, given the numbers and the risks.    

It's kind of hard to realize things have been like this since March, and apparently we wasted the shutdown and the hit to our economy from back then by opening too soon and too recklessly. That's sad. So much sacrifice, and yet here we are with new records for number of cases being set almost every day. 

I'm lucky and grateful to be working from home for a sympathetic employer. We are still extremely busy and that's a good thing. It hasn't been too hard for me emotionally to stay home. I have regular weekly phone calls with friends that help me stay connected. I've done some projects around the house. I've caught up on some paperwork. My daughter sent me an ice cream maker for my birthday and so far I've made nectarine ice cream and chocolate ice cream and pronounced both of them successful. 

I have to admit that I sometimes stay in my pjs until the end of the workday. Please don't tell anyone! 

The cardinals raised a whole passel of babies this year, and I've had the pleasure of watching them just out of the nest, barely able to fly, visiting the feeder and growing more confident and capable every day. There are about 10 babies, so it was a very good year!

The cats are happy and healthy inside, and as lazy as ever. The outdoor gentleman cat has become very friendly and is lobbying to come into the house. I doubt that will happen but he is a pleasure to have around outside. He occasionally sleep on top of my car and when I open the curtains in the morning, there he is, peeking in the window from the carport, right about eye level.

There is no summer league baseball for fans, unless you count being able to watch via live feed. It's not the same as being in the ballpark. Not that I'm complaining that they're taking no chances. (Well, maybe just a little bit.)

And so life goes on.

        

Pain and Baseball

Or maybe it's baseball and pain. Pat Jordan's memoir, A False Spring, despite being about America's pastime and one of my very favorite subjects, literary or otherwise, was excruciating to read.

After signing a big contract and leaving home for the first time, star pitcher Jordan quickly discovers that professional baseball life in the minor leagues brings a host of challenges that he's unprepared to meet. He can't just "mow 'em down" with his power because he's begun to have episodes of complete wildness, a fatal flaw in a pitching career. He doesn't know how to cope with the foreign locales of small-town Nebraska, Iowa, Georgia, and Florida. He doesn't know how to have a relationship with one of the local girls who hang around the team, one who seems to have eyes only for him, or with this teammates, for that matter. The pressure, the travel, the routine, and the loneliness make baseball life an insurmountable challenge.

Jordan looks honestly at these failures, showing at every turn how much growing up he needed to do. He shares some insights -- this is a memoir, after all -- but for the most part he allows his inabilities to speak for themselves. I found some of the incidents truly painful to read; when a kind word or a right action might have saved the situation, Jordan usually just flounders on. He's a sympathetic character -- more lost and clueless than bad -- but I often wished he'd had some mentoring, an insightful father figure or a smart and caring grandmother figure to help him along. I also occasionally wanted to shout at him, finding his most unlikable moments deeply frustrating.

Jordan's journey from Golden Boy to former player shows a side of baseball that fans never see, from a highly personal and interior viewpoint. Failure stories are at least as instructive as success stories, when told honestly and with a certain amount of grace. That alone makes this book worth the price of admission.

Excerpt:

What would I be without baseball? I could think of nothing.

Note: This book counts toward the Mount TBR Reading Challenge.    

Reading and Watching

I enjoy reading about baseball. I especially enjoy reading the baseball "classics," and Thomas Boswell's How Life Imitates the World Series is one of those. I certainly understand why Boswell is considered one of the lions of baseball literature, after progressing through the series of essays that make up this slim book.

Boswell has the baseball aficionado's feel for pacing, which is to say that these essays unfold at a deliberate pace. He also has the aficionado's ear for pithy commentary, sometimes insightful and sometimes outright hilarious. His essays are arranged to follow the months of the baseball season, March through October, and themed similarly, from spring training to the playoffs and the Series, lending a nice arc to the reading experience.

Along the way the reader is treated to situations and conversations from dugout to pressbox, locker room to playing field. Sometimes a single game is the focus; other times, a particular player. Little Leage baseball gets its due, as does Cuban baseball, although mostly the subject is the major leagues. It's a successful mix that puts different aspects of the game under the microscope, to good advantage.

And how does life imitate the World Series? It's all about how you handle the pressure.

Excerpt (Yankees vs. Red Sox playoff, 1987, bottom of the 9th, two outs):

This play-off lacked only one thing: a time machine. When Captain Carl, Boston cleanup man, stood at the plate facing Gossage with the tying run dancing off third and the winning run on first, that moment should have been frozen. The 32,925 standing fans, the poised runners, Yaz's high-held bat, Gossage's baleful glare: For once baseball had achieved a moment of genuine dramatic art -- a situation that needed no resolution to be perfect. A game, a season, and an entire athletic heritage for two cities had been brought to razor's edge. . . .

Sports' moments of epiphany are written on water. The spell of timelessness must be shattered, the house of cards collapse. Yaz cannot stand poised forever, waiting for the Goose. Art may aspire to fairness, but games cannot aim that high. They must settle for a final score.

"I was thinking, 'Pop him up,'" said Nettles [the Yankee third baseman]. "Then, Yaz did pop it up and I said, 'Jeez, but not to me.'"

Note: This book counts toward the Mount TBR Reading Challenge.  

Reading the Game

Baseball is a lot of fun to read about. Having never gone in for team sports, being a dedicated baseball fan, and appreciating the myth-making that accompanies this most literary of sports, I relish any behind-the-scenes book that promises not to be too technical.

Jim Brosnan's groundbreaking diary, The Long Season, and its follow-up, Pennant Race, check all the boxes. The Long Season chronicles the ups and downs of Brosnan's 1959 season with the St. Louis Cardinals. He's neither the star nor the goat. He's more erudite than his teammates, but still a regular guy (although that's not strictly true, given that only 1 in 5 players who are drafted and signed ever play in the major leagues -- and being drafted and signed is a long shot, too). And he isn't afraid to tell the truth about playing major league baseball every day. 

There's a lot of insider stuff here: jokes, funny situations, career worries, stories about famous players, and the like. Heroic, it isn't. It's a clear window into the daily grind of all those games and the ups and downs of a professional career where major successes and failures take place in public, subject to immediate commentary by teammates, opponents, broadcasters, and fans, and slightly delayed analysis and commentary by anyone and everyone. 

Brosnan's teammates call him Professor. His wife calls him Meat. That pretty much sums up the range of experiences offered in this seasonal diary.

Pennant Race is Brosnan's follow-up memoir, looking back at the 1961 season. The book wisely ends on a high note, with the National League championship, leaving out the Cincinnati Reds' loss in the World Series. Filled with anecdotes, jokes, astute observations, and the day-in, day-out rituals of professional baseball, it's more of the same, in a good way.

Excerpt (from The Long Season, just after Brosnan has been traded to the Reds):

The phone rang. [My wife} said, "Cincinnati, again. Gabe Paul. Who's he?"

Gabe Paul, the general manager of the Reds, wished me well, welcomed me aboard, and demanded to know why I wasn't in Chicago for the two o'clock game with the Cubs. His assurances that he was happy to  have me on his club were tempered with several phrases of displeasure. Where was my enthusiasm? Wasn't I as happy as he was? Why hadn't I hopped the first plan to Wrigley Field? His speech was succinct, his voice crisply modulated, his telephone manner formidable. "This guy can really talk," I thought. . . . 

Paul and I sparred for a few minutes; he parried my belated request for permission to report a day late. I answered his question about enthusiasm with an unnecessary blurb about the great opportunity it was to be associated with him. He feigned modesty, and urged me to grab opportunity when it came my way. "Don't vacillate," he said. 

Good God in the foothills! A general manager who uses the word "vacillate." That's enough to give anybody enthusiasm. We hustled out of town.

Sport and Other Things, Vicariously

Donald Hall is better known as a poet -- and a fine poet he was, too -- and he approaches the essays in this collection, Fathers Playing Catch with Sons: Essays on Sport [Mostly Baseball], with a poet's eye, ear, and sense of timing. They are a pleasure to read, in no small part because Hall appreciates the intricacies of baseball in a way that appeals to my own sensibilities about the sport.

Hall isn't exclusively a baseball fan, as he readily admits, but there's something essentially unhurried yet precise about his poetic approach that marks baseball as his first choice for relaxation, reflection, and even participation. One of the funniest and most poignant essays in the book recounts Hall's participation in the Pittsburgh Pirates spring training camp, everyone's nightmare fantasy come to life, where he discovers the pain and freedom of attempting to do the physically impossible, failing, and almost immediately getting another chance. Perhaps the whole experience is summed up best in his own words: "Fielding is total humiliation. I don't care."

Another pleasure of these essays is that Hall regularly and sometimes densely refers to various literary baseball works, leading me to develop an entirely new branch of the baseball-oriented TBR list. As a reader, that's as thoroughly enjoyable as the anecdotes and musings Hall's quotes and references support. 

And of course the book is also about writing, and poetry, and teaching, and family life, and the development of a career in letters, sewn together with sports, as it should be.

I'll always be on the outside of both poetry and sports, but thanks to this book, it's not so bad. In fact, I might even echo Hall by saying I don't care -- as long as I can read about both.

Excerpt:

In the dark Register building I finished my last lines for [sports editor] Ed McGuire, who took them to the Linotype room muttering imprecations. I put on my overcoat, mittens, and earmuffs; I stepped outside into the midnight air to wait a long time for the late-night bus that would take me four miles out Whitney Avenue and leave me at the corner of Ardmore to walk the dark block to my parents' house. I whistled white steam into the cold air of early morning, fifteen years old, thinking of maybe being brave enough to ask Patsy Luther to the movies--the proud author of a story right now multiplying itself into morning newsprint, ready to turn up on the doorstep in a few hours, large as life, BY DON HALL.

Note: I read this book for the Mount TBR Reading Challenge. 

Hooray and Goodbye

I'm so happy to be celebrating another championship for my favorite team, the Boston Red Sox. I inherited my loyalty from my dad, who followed the Sox all his life and faced all the classic disappointments -- including the legendary debacle in 1986 -- but didn't live long enough to see them win a World Series. 

I thought of him when I was at Fenway Park this summer, and I'll be thinking of him when I see the 2018 banner, next time I visit.

Goodbye, summer. Now it's a long wait until spring . . . . 

Score One for Accuracy

We've been having an incredibly rainy summer. Sometimes it rains in the morning, which is weird for this area. Our usual weather pattern is hot and sunny most of the day, giving the clouds time to build up in the west and sweep overhead with thunder and lightning galore, creating all kinds of excitement for about 15 minutes. This usually happens in the early afternoon (just in time to catch me returning from lunch) or around 3 p.m. (fine by me) or quite often around 5 p.m. (adding an extra dimension to the evening commute). And sometimes it socks in and rains all evening.

Florida is supposed to be water-soaked, so I have no problem with this -- although I have to wonder what in the heck we'll do if we have a hurricane when the river is already at flood stage.

Meanwhile, all these rainy days played havoc with the baseball schedule. The local summer wood bat league has navigated its season and playoffs have begun. I've become more diligent about attending, as the end of the season nears.

Yesterday it rained early and the start was delayed. I went to the ballpark at the usual time, and was literally the only person in the stands for about 15 minutes. Then a few more dedicated spectators appeared, and the announcer felt obliged to let us know what was going on.

"LADY and gentlemen," he said, "tonight's game will begin at 7:15."

Returning

Yoo hoo, remember me? It's been ages since I wrote anything and this promises to be one whirlwind of a catch-up, just to get things started again.

I have NOT abandoned the reading challenges and will update everything back to current status as soon as I am able to. Please don't give up on me despite my admin laxity!

Okay, so what have I been up to? Well . . . .

First and foremost I have to blurt out that Kayak Guy and I got a divorce. That relationship began with some of the most incredible experiences of my life, for which I will always be grateful. We had so many fun adventures together! But I'm sorry to say that the nitty-gritty reality of blending two full and independent lives ultimately was too much for us. We're striving to stay friends, but I'm not sure yet whether we'll succeed. It's especially difficult to make the transition because we have many interests and many dear friends in common. That process goes on.

On a happier note, I bought a house! It deserves a post of its own (and perhaps many more as the fixing-up goes on) but for now I will say that navigating the paperwork was like having another full-time job. Whew! I hope I never ever have to go through that again! It was worth every scan and fax and records search, because now I'm happily more-or-less settled into my own little 1963 charmer, surrounded by nearly a quarter of an acre of sunny Florida yard. My head spins daily with plans for indoors and out. Such an exciting time! The cats are much happier here, too, with plenty of room to spread out on every available windowsill.

I'm still working and teaching, with a new adjunct gig starting next month. I've been seeing my share of baseball games. I have some travel plans in the offing. I'm putting my health back together with more exercise and more time outdoors.  Mother Nature continues to renew me whenever I need her the most. I'm feeling that I've weathered this stormy period and can see calmer waters ahead now.

And life is what it always is, delightful and challenging and changeable, all wrapped into one.

Nevertheless, a Good Spring

So far this year has included precious little baseball, which is not to my liking but can't be avoided. My chosen city is far from the Grapefruit League venues, which all seem to be marching further southward with the passage of time, while I drift north with every move. And work has been keeping me busy, even on the weekends.

There's college baseball here, but it's a little too rah-rah for me. I'm just not drawn to it, although the team is tearing it up this year. Their current record is 24-8, so yes, I really should go.

Thanks to C.S.'s prompting, I made a pilgrimage to see the Red Sox, near and dear to my heart. Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to be on the field for batting practice before the game, but C.S. made it happen.

It's a spring tradition for C.S. to call me from the field and let me listen to the crack of the bat from behind the batting cage. This year I heard it live.

That makes up for a lot of missed games.

 

Some Things I Never Expected

Someone once said, "The unexpected is always upon us." I thought it was Soren Kierkegaard, until I tried to Google it and came up empty. Maybe it was Samuel Beckett? It sure doesn't sound like him. So anyway, it's a great thought and I read it in one of my favorite books ever, The Feast of Love.

And that will have to suffice to launch into this list of surprises.

1.  I live in an over-55 manufactured home community. That's a fancy way to say trailer park, I guess. (Thank goodness my mother will never know. She would be horrified.) This was very much a practical move: Kayak Guy's parents retired here many years ago. When I met him, his father lived here; my lease was up soon after his father passed away in 2014, so I moved in. The following year, as we whittled our stuff down from His, Mine, and Dad's into a single Ours household, it made sense to consolidate here rather than adding a 4th household into the mix. We said we'd give it 2 years and see if we liked it here enough to stay.

We're still not 100% sure we'll be here forever. We still feel the alluring call of northern climes, and of life with acreage, and of waterfront property. Time will tell if we have another household on the horizon.

2. There's a lot to like here. I like living in a reasonably sized house that gives us quite a bit of privacy in the back, so we can sit on the porch in our bathrobes and enjoy a nice view onto an undeveloped 5 acre lot. I like that it's difficult to tell these aren't traditional houses. I like the many trees and the birds and critters that pass through the yard, to which we are adding more Florida native plants. I like the relative peace and quiet, balanced with the minor bustle of our historic little town that has a vibrant main street, a college campus, 3 engaging independent bookstores, a baseball team, a locally oriented business community, and a CSA farm. (That's our old courthouse, still used for government offices, in the top picture, and the view overhead in the back yard in the one below.) I like being close to the beach, to our friends, and to good places for our favorite outdoor pursuits. I like having a pool and a hot tub that someone else maintains, and a ready set of pickleball partners for Kayak Guy.

That said, there's a little too much bingo going on around here, if you know what I mean. Many of our neighbors are 20 years older than we are, and less active. And the self-segregation weighs on me once in a while.

2. There are 4 cats in this household. I'm not sure how that happened.

3. I have cognitive dissonance. I love baseball even though I do not love pesticides, fertilizer, and over-watering. And that's only one example of the complexity my brain works with every day.

4. I don't believe in acupuncture, but it works. Thank goodness I discovered our wonderful local community acupuncture clinic, where for $20 I can receive a treatment that makes my migraine go away. Instead of 3 days of agony, I get 60 minutes of resting in a darkened room with a few ultra-delicate needles inserted in key points, and voila. Despite my Western skepticism, all better now.

5. I had a heart attack. During our wedding reception. It made for a really memorable day and I hear it was a great party. Too bad Kayak Guy and I missed almost all of it (including almost all of this dessert buffet) because I was in the emergency room and catheterization lab. But that's a whole 'nother post.

Happiness Is . . . .

Discovering it's Opening Day of the local collegiate wood bat baseball league. The kids will play hard all summer only 5 minutes from the house. Although the first game snuck up on me -- meaning I missed the fun of counting down the days -- it's still an exciting moment to realize the first game is tonight and I didn't miss the first shot at summer baseball. Proof that I haven't totally lost my edge: I already have our season passes in hand, at a reasonable buy one, get one price.

Seeing two wrens busily building a nest in an empty box in the carport. They will join the cardinal family (3 babies!) and the red-bellied woodpecker family (1 baby) around the backyard feeders. The bird antics around here are enough to make me wish I had one of those cameras with a long lens.

Being employed for the rest of the summer (at least), after a bit of on again, off again, stop-and-go zigzagging between contract work, teaching, and having nothing lined up at all. Spare time during the summer is great. So is income.

Looking ahead to doing some reading challenges. I had a few very slow reading years while I was busy moving, dealing with a promotion at work, and planning a wedding, but I'm back now and looking forward to setting some reading goals. If you have any recommendations for challenges, I'd love to hear them.

Blogging again. It's a nice snapshot of life as it zooms by, and you've made me feel welcome with your comments. It's so good to be back!

Game Over

Baseball always makes me feel philosophical this time of year.

Local baseball wrapped up last night, with a difficult 9th inning loss by the home team. Much as I wanted to see the River Rats advance to the championship game, I can't possibly say they deserve it after giving up the tying run on a bobbled bases-loaded single that followed a series of miscues, and the go-ahead run on a bases-loaded walk. Followed by the insurance run, also on a bases-loaded walk.

It was a really good game for a while there, and then it got ugly.  Oh well.

The bigger picture is that this is the end of local baseball, which clearly signals the progress of the seasons. It's August already. The days are already noticeably shorter and, while I have plans for another long river trip before summer's end, we're already turning toward fall.

Another season, soon another year. It all goes by so quickly.

Summer's Close

Last night was my final opportunity to see baseball in my own neighborhood. All summer, the local collegiate wood bat league has played within walking distance from my house.

The same league plays near my future neighborhood, which is an essential. I'm not sure how I would function in a town with no summer baseball.

It was raining at game time last night, so the start was delayed. My friend and I had dinner instead of heading to the ballpark. At the end of the evening, on my way home, I drove by my future house, enjoying the peacefulness of the neighborhood and imagining myself living there in the near future.

And then I thought, well, maybe I'll just swing by the ballpark and see if the lights are on. It's only about a mile away.

The rest is easy to guess. Once I saw the lights and the number of cars in the parking lot, it was easy to decide to go in and just see what the score was.

(Sometimes my powers of rationalization and self-deception amaze me. I could probably get a lot more laundry done if I used the same method. I'll just sort the clothes and see what's dirty, followed by why not do just one load. Voila! I'd be hooked.)

Once I saw my favorite team was leading 2-0 in the 6th inning, it was a foregone conclusion that I'd sit down and watch the rest of the game.

And what a game it was! Lots of scoring from then on, with the lead changing hands practically every half inning. Bases loaded jams, runs walked in, a couple of hard-to-believe errors, and a trip to the championship on the line. Winner advances. Loser goes home. See you next summer.

Because I arrived late, I wasn't keeping score on my personal scorecard. Therefore I was not able to record the triple play that unfolded just a few minutes after I sat down. Thrilling to see -- disappointing not to capture!

That's the second triple play I've failed to get on my scorecard. Years ago I missed one because I was out of my seat. At least I saw it this time! Getting closer . . . .

(If you must know: With runners on first and second, the batter hit to the pitcher (one out), the pitcher threw to first base before the runner could get back there (two outs), and the first baseman threw to the shortstop covering second base before that runner could return (three outs). Just like that. Inning over.)

The end of baseball means fall is practically here, bringing the sense of ending and loss that comes with September's shorter days and mellower light.

I'm glad I caught and savored that last bit of summer, while it lasted. No summer should close with a rainout.

Is It March Yet?

March means Spring Training in Florida and hallelujah for that. It's hard to beat a really warm spring day when you can feel the first sunburn of the year threatening to come along, as you sit in the bleachers with the first hot dog and beer of the season, watching the millionaires in the tight pants play a kids' game. It's an unbelievably sweet experience, every single year. Especially when it's a weekday and you know most of the rest of the world is chained to a desk somewhere.

March also means the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. Book mecca, let me tell you. And with a sense of humor. How can you resist an event that advertises itself with the slogan "Three Homers" and shows pictures of Babe Ruth, Homer Simpson, and Homer (no last name given, 850 BCE)?

This year the Fair is March 9-11 in St. Petersburg, still in the same great retro dance hall location. The arches, wood floor, sparkly lights and book selections make it a bibliophile's dream. Check out the Fair's very cool blog at FloridaBookFair.blogspot.com.

If you have a zest for rare-ish modern fiction, ancient leather-bound tomes or anything in between, there's many a thrill in store. I've been to the fair twice (2010 and 2009) and had some memorable experiences.

My gasp of surprise and delight was audible all over the auditorium when I spotted a copy of The Siege of Krishnapur, a book I'd never seen before (reported here).

And I'll never forget the time I picked up a gorgeous first edition of The Sun Also Rises, priced at $100,000. Put it right back down again, too! I still get a little lightheaded thinking about that (reported at the end of the 2009 post, here).

No telling what the selection this year will hold . . .

Humor with Substance

"The wisest man I ever knew taught me something I never forgot. And although I never forgot it, I never quite memorized it either. So what I’m left with is the memory of having learned something very wise that I can’t quite remember."

George Carlin said that. It was quoted in a presentation I saw the other night, and not only is it funny, it is a very subtle remark when you stop laughing and think about it.

That's so typical of George Carlin. I think of him as a serious philosopher, masking the big questions behind raucous, sometimes scatological humor.

The most important of these examples, perhaps, was his famous "Seven Words That You Can Never Say on TV" (no, I am not going to link to it). I read that case in First Amendment class and I was really impressed.

Not so much with the cleverness of the court determining that the FCC could make rules limiting the broadcast of "indecency" to the hours between 10:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m., because most kids would be asleep then -- wow, those were the days, huh? -- but because I absorbed the impression that Carlin was really riffing on the power of words: the fact that there were 7 out of the 400,000 words in English that were just plain unsayable in polite company or over the airwaves.

To me, this is a whole different issue than what's going on now with Cher, Nicole Richie and Meryl Streep (no, I am not going to link to them, either!), which strikes me as merely a trip to the crossroads of live t.v. and limited vocabulary. Not a whole lotta philosophy happening there.

Carlin was something different, and I'll always feel admiration and affection for a man who loves words and takes them seriously.

And have you heard him on Baseball v. Football? Words again, and funny. Thoughtful, too.

The Power of Habit

They say old habits die hard. They say you have to do something new X number of times before it becomes a habit.

I say it only takes doing something ONCE for it to become a habit, when that thing is something indulgent and possibly bad for you. Like stopping for gelati every time I drive by the ice cream store.

I say it's easy to leave old habits behind when there are better alternatives. It's surprisingly easy to change my patterns, with a new location.

I live closer to the ballpark now, and since summer baseball has begun, I've been there a lot. (Last night, for example. When a huge zot of lightning was accompanied by a nearly simultaneous, extremely loud clap of thunder, I suddenly became highly aware that I was sitting on a metal seat under a metal canopy. Next thing I knew I was at home on the couch. Wow, that was fast.)

I'm also a whole lot closer to yoga now, making it ridiculously easy to swing by there at various morning and evening hours.

I'm a lot farther away from fast food. As a result, I've been eating at home more often, which translates into less fat and more salads.

All this self-improvement makes me sound virtuous, right? Don't be fooled. I'm as lazy as ever. It's just that I don't have to go out of my way now for the good stuff. Instead, the good stuff is delightfully nearby.

And the gelati store is no longer on the way home.

There, I Said It

I would much, much, much rather be in Tampa tonight, watching this guy pitch.

Opening Day, Squared

I imagine that everyone has one good poem in them, kind of like everyone (maybe) has the ability to write one good novel.

In honor of the baseball season's Opening Day and the beginning of National Poetry Month, both of which occurred on April Fool's Day this year, here's mine. I wrote it for a Whitman class, in which we were charged to follow Whitman's lead and do something creative; when I read it aloud, it was very well received. Go figure.

BASEBALL

I saw you at the ballpark last Sunday, Walt Whitman.
I couldn't wave because I had a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other.
You wouldn't have noticed me anyway
because you were concentrating on the millionaires in tight pants playing a kid's game,
the sunburned necks of the boys on the bench,
the one kneeling in the on-deck circle,
the one crouched behind the plate,
the batter waiting for the ball to stay up a little in the strike zone
so he can send it high against the blue blue blue March sky
into deep right field for a hit or an E or an out and maybe a long singing throw into second.
The sound of the crowd is the voice of America.
I've heard you said you see great things in baseball, that it's America's game,
our game,
as important as the Constitution,
and I could have looked it up if I'd gone to the library on Sunday.
But I went to the ballgame instead.
I saw you there, Walt Whitman.
You were wearing a Dodgers cap.

S-p-o-i-l-e-d

I am still too busy for my personal taste, but it's with good things so no complaints!

I finally made it to a couple of Spring Training games, and my baseball jones is satisfied for a while. (You heard it here first: taking vacation days so I can go to the ballgame while others are working is one of life's sweetest pleasures.) The college teams are still playing, and the summer league starts in June, which means my favorite part of the year is upon us.

I spent the weekend with kids and horses. I had to do a little math as Chief Scorer for the competition (to earn my keep, so to speak), but it was totally and completely worthwhile. The head official was someone I took a clinic with many moons ago, when I was about 12. He was about 18 then and went on to ride with the Olympic team, compete in England, etc., etc. He's a big deal in the horse world and I'm a nobody, but with horses in common there are no barriers to conversation, no matter who you're talking to. It was amazing to cross paths again after all these years. He didn't remember me at all (how many little blonde girls do you think he met in those days?), but he was very gracious.

What remains of my 12-year-old heart was broken to discover I'm apparently the last person in the world to know that he's gay. But my grown-up heart is pleased that we re-met as adults and have a fresh start without all that leftover adolescent crush stuff getting in the way. (Kind of a relief, you know?)

Now I am gathering the courage to organize a clinic next fall, so my friends' kids can learn from him, just as I did when I was their age. It will be quite an undertaking but a major coup if I can pull it off. Wish me luck!

The super-moon was definitely gorgeous! I hope you saw it. The horse thing often requires an early start (this is dawn, not dusk) but it is 100% worth it.

Another favorable blast from the past arrived in the form of a rental car. My car needed some work that insurance covered, and the rental they gave me is a brand new Jeep Patriot with only 1,344 miles on it. They were assuring me "We'll have your car back to you just as soon as we can, m'am" and I was all "Oh, no, really, take as long as you like!"

It's a total flashback to my days driving a Jeep Cherokee, which I loved almost as much as I loved my Sierra pick-up truck. (You might not guess that this suburban girl is pretty country, too. It's the horse thing again. Gotta have a vehicle with some space and some power.) I'm fighting the impulse to rush over to my favorite dealer and come home with a Jeep of my own. Having no ready cash is really the only thing stopping me. (Merely a detail!)

Still, having a little test drive is great fun. As the GEICO commercial says, "I gots to ride up in style." For another day or so, anyway.