It cheered me somewhat surprisingly last night to learn that the Phillies had signed a third baseman. Puzzled me that I had not heard of the guy, though. He’s a National Leaguer, after all; has played for the Giants for something like seven years. His name is Pedro Feliz (“Happy Peter,” one of the message-board fans was already calling him).
The opinions on Peter are mixed. Some of the Bay area fans have terrible things to say about him; how frustrating he is to watch, flailing at bad pitches in clutch situations. His batting average is only .250, and his on-base percentage is lousy, they point out. But he hits 20 home runs a year; in Philly’s small park they say he’ll hit more. He drives in 80 runs. And by most accounts he plays a terrific third base.
The paper said Rollins was juiced when he heard Feliz was coming. I wonder how that makes Dobbs and Helms, the incumbent third basemen, feel. Both were already sounding a little miffed at the strenuous efforts of management this off-season to replace them. Good riddance to Helms, I say. He was a real drag last year, the turd at third. But Dobbs is a scrapper, and a good clutch hitter. He may not be an everyday player, but I’d hate to see him go.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Examination
What are my motivations for running?
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.
I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.
Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.
Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.
If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Money in the bank
Okay, so the honeymoon’s over. For the entirety of my lunchtime run today, I struggled as though I was carrying a cannonball. I huffed and I puffed and I felt like quitting, even though I was wearing a brand-new pair of shoes. Why the change from the time before? The day was cold, but no colder than it’s been. Had the glass of rye whiskey I sipped before dinner last night suddenly made me turn old? Serious runners talk about the “running gods,” who giveth and taketh away, without explanation. Some days you just feel lousy.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Before I’d finished a mile, a pretty good definition of “discipline” popped into my head. A discipline is something you do whether you feel like it or not. Doesn’t that about cover it? A discipline is something you practice. You do it over and over, regularly, with dedication. It’s something you set aside time for, something you plan for and commit to. Something you do “for your own good,” that is, your long-term good, as opposed to your short-term inclination, what you “feel like” doing.
Sometimes near lunchtime I will for one reason or another not feel like running: Maybe I’m hungry, or my blood sugar is low, or I’m tired or under stress. I’ll be tempted by excuses. My calf hurts, and I might get injured. I’m coming down with something. I have too much to do. It really would be better just to rest. Sometimes I’ll actually talk myself out of running, or spend so long at trading pros and cons that the opportunity is lost.
On the days when I manage to override the temptations and get myself out the door, I am "exercising" discipline. Giving it a work-out. Making it a little stronger. And that feels good. Not like scratching an itch feels good. More like putting money in a bank feels good.
It helps to remember this.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Back on the trail
It was snowing today at lunchtime. When I went out for my run, my co-worker said to me: “Wow, that’s dedication.”
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
If it is, I thought, it’s dedication to pleasure. Heading out for a leisurely run around the deserted golf course, by myself, when there’s snow falling and the black tree branches jut across the gun-metal sky, is the highlight of my day. It’s solitude. It’s peace. It’s honest work. It’s cleansing.
I am used to thinking of running as a discipline, like writing, like prayer. It requires effort. You have to keep it up. There is at least some temptation, every day, to let it go. But damn I love it. Damn I miss it when I don’t do it. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give it up.
I’m just coming back to it, after a month off because of recurrent colds and a stubborn sinus infection, so in part at least this is honeymoon talk. But I welcome the stiffness I’ve been feeling in the morning. I cherish the controlled effort of setting out from Rec Hall. I enjoy facing the cold, and coming in from it all flushed and invigorated and feeling like I’ve done something.
I think of Jim, our local astronaut. When I went down to see him at Johnson Space Center, where he was working his ass off to get ready for his Shuttle mission, he told me that his tightly scheduled four-mile run, alone through the scrub pine, with the good possibility of seeing a deer, was the highlight of his day. For Jim, running was an escape from discipline. It was his daily chance to chuck everything and break free.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Back to Cali
East Coast born and bred, I am always surprised by the friendliness of southern Californians. I react suspiciously, and then, ashamed of myself, I let my guard down probably too far.
The ringlet-headed Adonis who brings my bags to my motel room, the suntanned senior citizen who delivers my rental car: why are they smiling? Why are they happy? Why do they seem to be genuinely interested in what brings me to San Diego or La Jolla or Riverside?
Are they hustling for tips? I’d tip them anyway, just out of my overriding Eastern fear of doing something wrong—and I believe that they can smell this. Nor is there anything particular about me that would attract attention or stimulate sudden affection: I’m not a pretty girl, or a recognizable face. Why are they being so nice?
It seems to be just the norm out here, and probably I should know this—It’s no doubt a mark of my lack of sophistication that I don’t have a good handle on this thing called Western manners or California openness or whatever people call it—but still I wonder, where does it come from? What is the cause of it? When did it begin? Is it entirely a function of climate? Of geography? (Are people in Fresno and Indio as friendly as their counterparts in Laguna and Newport Beach?) Did it arrive with the gold rush? Is there some other cultural component at work?
Sometimes I think that these are the most American of Americans, suffused with optimism and tolerance, sun-kissed and feeling fortunate, living in paradise, suspended, not wanting the dream to ever end. Who can blame them? Open the motel-room door to go get breakfast and you’re blinded; you stand there blinking like an owl. As your eyes adjust, your spirit soars: Can the sky really be that blue? Can the breeze be that caressing? Is that sparkling swimming pool for me to use? How could this day not be sensational?
The stories were told of easterners (writers especially) being ruined out here, losing their bearings and their intensity among the Lotus Eaters. It’s easy to imagine. It’s easy to feel when you’re out here on assignment or vacation, and the sun warms your forearms, and you catch a whiff of eucalyptus as you cross the fresh-paved parking lot to an open-air cappucino bar where a blond-haired barista, suntanned and immaculate in her fifties, beams you a dazzling smile.
But at night in your room with the TV blaring, or sitting cramped on the plane ride back home, as you reflect on the traffic and the smog and the astronomical cost of living, don’t you wonder how people can relax out here at all?
How can they afford to be so mellow? Is the culture of the Sun so overwhelming?
The ringlet-headed Adonis who brings my bags to my motel room, the suntanned senior citizen who delivers my rental car: why are they smiling? Why are they happy? Why do they seem to be genuinely interested in what brings me to San Diego or La Jolla or Riverside?
Are they hustling for tips? I’d tip them anyway, just out of my overriding Eastern fear of doing something wrong—and I believe that they can smell this. Nor is there anything particular about me that would attract attention or stimulate sudden affection: I’m not a pretty girl, or a recognizable face. Why are they being so nice?
It seems to be just the norm out here, and probably I should know this—It’s no doubt a mark of my lack of sophistication that I don’t have a good handle on this thing called Western manners or California openness or whatever people call it—but still I wonder, where does it come from? What is the cause of it? When did it begin? Is it entirely a function of climate? Of geography? (Are people in Fresno and Indio as friendly as their counterparts in Laguna and Newport Beach?) Did it arrive with the gold rush? Is there some other cultural component at work?
Sometimes I think that these are the most American of Americans, suffused with optimism and tolerance, sun-kissed and feeling fortunate, living in paradise, suspended, not wanting the dream to ever end. Who can blame them? Open the motel-room door to go get breakfast and you’re blinded; you stand there blinking like an owl. As your eyes adjust, your spirit soars: Can the sky really be that blue? Can the breeze be that caressing? Is that sparkling swimming pool for me to use? How could this day not be sensational?
The stories were told of easterners (writers especially) being ruined out here, losing their bearings and their intensity among the Lotus Eaters. It’s easy to imagine. It’s easy to feel when you’re out here on assignment or vacation, and the sun warms your forearms, and you catch a whiff of eucalyptus as you cross the fresh-paved parking lot to an open-air cappucino bar where a blond-haired barista, suntanned and immaculate in her fifties, beams you a dazzling smile.
But at night in your room with the TV blaring, or sitting cramped on the plane ride back home, as you reflect on the traffic and the smog and the astronomical cost of living, don’t you wonder how people can relax out here at all?
How can they afford to be so mellow? Is the culture of the Sun so overwhelming?
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