Ominous news out of Clearwater today. Tom Gordon is headed north, to be checked out by one of the Phillies’ approved orthopedic men. The team predictably poo-pooed this development as strictly precautionary, but the fact is that their entire season may hang in the balance. Gordon, the closer, is the only solid bullpen performer they have, despite a winter of trying unsuccessfully to deal for a set-up guy. He was old when they got him, and broke down at the end of last season—and the Phillies have no insurance! Without Gordon healthy at the start, their chances to jump out on the Mets, and even to be competitive, are approximately nil. Now the question is, will they panic and do something drastic, and further disrupt a team that seemed to be starting to jell? Will they trade away a position player they can’t afford to lose, like Aaron Rowand? Will the seemingly far-fetched idea of converting Brett Myers into a closer actually come to pass? Word is that Jon Lieber, the sixth of their five starters, the guy they were trying to shop, is pitching well. Does this make retooling Myers, possibly their best starter, a real option?
The other story lines from camp are painfully trivial: Pat Burrell can’t get used to his new contact lenses, the ones the team insists on him trying and he says he doesn’t need. Now begins the relentless questioning of his eyesight in earnest, started by a single epithet uttered in frustration behind the batting cage and rippling out across the vast ocean of chat rooms and call-in shows until the end of time, or he stops looking at called third strikes, whichever comes first. How does any human being withstand the endless kicking this guy takes as the Phillies designated scapegoat without either slitting his own throat or punching the remaining teeth down the throats of a half-dozen inebriated loudmouths in some foul-smelling Kensington taproom just before last call in the midst of a long home losing streak during which he’s gone 1 for 13? It almost makes his grossly overinflated salary seem justified.
The feel-good story is that of journeyman outfielder Greg Dobbs, who in dark-horse pursuit of the fifth outfield spot is evidently hitting the bejesus out of the ball. His would-be teammates have taken to calling him Roy Hobbs, after Malamud’s mythic slugger, or more accurately after Robert Redford’s. Even the skipper seems to be rooting for him.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Profiles in courage, and other virtues
There were three interesting obituaries in today's New York Times:
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
The first tells the story of William R. Anderson, the Navy commander who in August 1958 led the nuclear sub Nautilus on a historic voyage to the North Pole. "At a time of rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union over who would first send humans into space," the paper says, "the accomplishment was greeted by banner headlines around the world." The Nautilus traveled 8,146 nautical miles in 21 days, "much of the way under the polar ice." The crew charted holes in the ice in case of emergency.
Anderson was a country boy from Tennessee, who later was elected to Congress. There in 1970 he stood up on the House floor to denounce J. Edgar Hoover for attacking Dan and Phil Berrigan for their opposition to the Vietnam War. Hoover's claim that the Berrigans were planning to kidnap a government official, Anderson said, was over-the-top McCarthyism. A Democrat, Anderson had been a supporter of the war, but changed his mind after visiting Vietnam.
The second remembers Henri Troyat, French writer of 105 books, whose name I have heard, whose books I may have, but who I have never read. "A day without writing made him feel like a sinner," remembers one of his comrades. Troyat claimed to have taught himself to write by reading paragraphs from Flaubert, then trying to rewrite them from memory. Then he would compare his version to the original, and "try to understand why what I had written was an affront to what I had read." He wrote mostly novels and biographies, and his style was "above all accessible." He was 95.
The third describes the AIDS-shortened life of Bob Hattoy, an adviser to Bill Clinton on gay issues. Hattoy is remembered as a fighter, someone who was never satisfied. In a televised speech at the 1992 Democratic National Convention, soon after he had learned he had the disease, he addressed himself to President George H.W.Bush: "I don't want to die," he said. "But I don't want to live in an America where the president sees me as the enemy." His words apparently gave many people hope. He was 56 when he died.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Impatient, ungrateful, critical. And happy.
An epic account of a very ordinary evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
On Wednesday we went to the taco dinner put on by the Catholic students of “Mission Mexico.” They’ll be spending Spring break at an orphanage in Tijuana, and this is one of their major fundraisers. For us it’s a cheap dinner and a chance to socialize a little, as well as a good cause. Dante enjoys it, and so do Lola and I.
The dinner was held downtown, in the basement of St. Aelred's Episcopal. We had arranged that I would walk there from work and Dante and Lola would meet me. They arrived first, as I had hoped they would. Dante spotted me through the glass door, yelled “Dad!” and ran to hug me, and of course my heart melted. While he was still squeezing my neck, however, I looked up to see Lola counting her money. “Do you have any cash at all?” she asked weakly. Immediately I felt a wash of anger short-circuit the moment's tenderness. “Uh, no,” I shot back, shaking my head. Yet again, I was thinking, she has not thought things out. As though I never make a mistake. She continued, miserably, to recount a stack of wrinkled bills.
We were three dollars short. Lola timidly approached the ticket table, me looming behind her. Dante was oblivious, darting and jiving in the long hallway, running his fingers along the wall. The girl taking money was oblivious too. “Do children get in free?” Lola asked her, cringing slightly. The girl rolled her eyes, waived us in. “Go ahead,” she said wearily. Whatever. Uh…no sanks, as Dante would say. It was a fundraiser, after all. “I’ll go out and look in the car,” Lola said. “Wait here.”
Dante was getting tired of waiting. I was fit to be tied. “Let’s go. Help mom,” I snapped after a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want to go. I had to cajole him. Out in front of the church, Lola was rifling the van, all the usual places: the ashtray, the overheads, the undersides of the sun visors. Nothing. I could feel my face curdle into a sneer. “We’ll have to go to the bank,” Lola said, straining. “Hop in, Dante.”
I brooded all the way to the ATM and back. Tried half-heartedly to cut through the mood with a prayer for forbearance, it being Lent, but I was enjoying my righteous anger too much—even though I knew that to hold it much longer was risking a backlash. I held my tongue, but sighed exasperation when I had to step out into traffic in front of the bank. Lola was not responding.
Finally we were back at the church, paying our money, standing in line. The line was long. The room was crowded with students eating. The girls began to notice Dante, to point, to smile. Soon he noticed them. With only a little encouragement from Lola, he launched into an enthusiastic demonstration of the Chicken Dance, which he had learned earlier in the day at his pre-school afternoon enrichment class. More pointing. More smiles. Laughter. I folded my arms, forced a smile. The boil had been lanced, and the anger was draining. Lola apologized for not bringing enough money. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. Then, “Geez, this line is moving slowly.” She rolled her eyes.
When at last we sat down with our plates I quickly polished mine off, and soon felt a stitch from the fat and the additives. It was all canned stuff, and not even Goya. Mountains of stiff orange machine-shredded cheese, a white plastic bucket of imitation sour cream. Hard corn shells packed in cellophane that crumble at the first bite, leaving you with a handful of shards and greasy meat. Naturally I went back for seconds.
When I got back to the table Fr. Gary was visiting, talking to Lola about Dante, trying to talk to Dante. “How’s your dinner?” he asked. “Good,” Dante said. “How old is he now?” he asked Lola. He does this every time he sees us. Our conversations have never gone farther, and although he knows our faces, it’s clear that Fr. Gary doesn’t know our names. For some reason, though, (maybe it was the kitchen work that awaited him), he was in an expansive mood. He talked on about the Mission, the orphanage, the ragged little boys he sees again every year, the way they paw at his pockets for the bubble gum he keeps there for them, the time two of them doused him with a bucket of water. He was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t help but focus on the thick tufts of hair protruding from his nose, the way he had just scarfed a taco while standing over the garbage can, the stories I’d heard of his laziness.
At last he got up to leave. “Have to go wash the dishes,” he said, mock incredulous. Soon Lola was done eating, and after a while Dante was done too. The room had almost cleared out. We got up, lingered briefly over the photo displays from previous Mission trips—they all included a group shot from an “R&R dinner” at some cantina in Rosarita—and talked to a few students about the clothing Lola had gathered to donate. She gave two of them hugs as we left; they thanked us for coming. I squatted to tie Dante’s shoe. He quickly rounded on me, a favorite move, and jumped on my back, arms round my neck. “A ride, a ride,” he chanted. I stood, slowly, and hoisted him up. We walked down the long hallway and out into the evening.
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