MY SOX ARE BLEEDING

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I’ve never stepped on a major league pitching mound.  My name is not Curt Schilling, but my Sox are bleeding anyway.

I’ve written a number of times about my love of baseball.  The beauty I see between the white lines, the sweat and prep and luck it takes to reach the majors, the joy of watching people play.

I also appreciate baseball.  During the 1980s I discovered Bill James, a writer/statistician who significantly changed the traditional paradigms of evaluating an individual player’s talent, and team statistics.  He analyzed baseball from a perspective so different it opened my eyes to an entirely new way of seeing the game.  And you know he had to be one hell of a writer for me to understand what he was saying since I still count on my fingers.

But there is another side to the love of the game: being a fan and rooting for a particular team.  Truth is, I have many team allegiances, but I’ve lived in Boston longer than anywhere else so I’m first and foremost a Red Sox fan.

Hell, at one point I lived close enough to Fenway Park to hear the voice of announcer Sherm Feller, through my open windows.  Or to walk over before an afternoon game and score a ticket.  In those days, tickets were available and affordable.

Neither are true today–though you can still get tix through re-sellers.  If you don’t mind turning your pockets inside out.

Just one of many downsides when you finally field a championship team.

Before the Sox were winners, they had a different karma–heart breakers.  I remember a World Series game that was one out away from winning the whole enchilada.  It was the middle of the night so I ran around the house waking up Sue, Matt, and even Jake who didn’t know a baseball from a Big Wheel.  I wanted them to see history.  They did; they saw a ground ball dribble through our first baseman’s legs instead of the championship out.

But that was then.  New century, new ownership, new general manager, new attitude.  Theo Epstein, the youthful GM, even hired Bill James as a consultant.  Still, it took a while for the karma to change.  There was one last hammer to the head season when, during the definitive play-off game that would send us to the Series (and a game we were winning), our manager sent pitching great Pedro Martinez back to the mound in the eighth.  Everyone in the stands, watching on television, listening on the radio, knew Pedro was gassed.  Done.  Nothing left.  Need I say more?  We’re talking another heartbreaking season.

2004 changed Red Sox fever.  We felt the decades of heartache and hatred–even the Curse–were in the past.  We could actually hope.  And succeed.  After 86 years and a record-breaking three game comeback during the play-offs against our arch rival Yankees, we actually won the World Series.  How sweet it was.  How sweet it was.

There was a new attitude.  Big-time spending on players by the new owners (Baseball economics creates a huge differential in terms of wealthy and less wealthy teams.  For years the Yankee’s were vilified about “buying pennants” but, though true, a number of teams are now in that club including the Red Sox).  Management hired a fresh manager, Terry Francona, who bought into the relatively new statistical analyses that James and Epstein believed in.  (Read Money Ball by Michael Lewis for a lucid explanation of these new tools.)

Our bright view was rewarded.  Another World Series ‘W’ in 2007.  Fan life was good.  Fan life was good.  Very, very good.

But now it’s 2012 and something is rotten in Red Sox Nation.

After last season’s historic September collapse, Francona was sacked, Theo Epstein left to try to replicate his magic or luck with the hapless Chicago Cubs, our new GM crapped on by ownership when they rejected his managerial choice.

And ownership’s choice for manager is looking like a pitcher who lost his fastball.  For a team that still relies upon statistical analysis, when the manager doesn’t know whether the opponent’s pitcher is left or right handed, you gotta raise your brows.

(To be “fair” around $70,000,000 of talent is injured so you could argue the teams’ dismal end to last season and beginning of this is out of their control.  You could, but it sure doesn’t feel that way.)

Drought has dug in and suddenly the old break your heart fear (come close but no cigar) is sliding into the 60’s mindset of “they stink,” with a litany of reasons and numbers.

But there are other indications that don’t fit into baseball’s stat game.  Snakebites.  And while I’m not a superstitious person, when the fan has hold, then hold the damn phone.  Everything is a sign.

Which all point to the cellar.  Which makes me hope I’m very wrong.  (I’ve said “the season is still young” a ton of times.  True, but not really reflective of my gut.)

Sue, whose best sports moment is Hoosiers, watched and suffered through the Pedro pitching fiasco.  As is our custom, she fell asleep while I worked the clicker.  About an hour later, she burst out of a very deep sleep, lifted up onto her elbow, turned toward me, eyes closed, and said; “If this is what it means to be a sports fan, then I say fuck it.”

I say, good for her, ’cause I can’t.  I’m gonna bleed until my Sox are in the washer.  Or not.

“Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent.” Marilyn vos Savant

THIS PARENT’S PLEASURE

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On May 19th my oldest son is marrying Alyssa Casden, a truly wonderful woman.  The marriage comes at the end of one of Matt’s most painful years when his mother and his mother’s sister died within months of each other.

Dealing with death is always tough, but not only did Matt and Alyssa work through their emotions, they played point on all the arrangements and every detail.

Yes, they had help.  Peg and Marlene’s friends, us, Jake, Alyssa’s family–but the weight fell on them.  Bigtime.

Watching Matt handle the situation with calm sensitivity wasn’t a surprise.  Alyssa at his side didn’t surprise either.  But until Federal Judge, Mark Wolf, who will officiate their ceremony, asked Sue and I to write about them that my lack of surprise made serious sense.

When I think of life together with Matt, lots of thoughts and images pop into my mind.  He began living with me half the week at a point where I was much less stable than now.  But he rolled with it.  Even enjoyed some of the mishigas like being brought to school on a motorcycle (I wrapped a rope around the two of us) or when we hitch-hiked in town when I no longer had the cycle or a car.  Hard for people not to stop when a little, little guy has his thumb out.

He didn’t eat all that well when with me since I can’t cook.  Spagettios were a staple as was baked macaroni, the only meal I knew how to make.  But we did well, despite the lack of nutrition, and having to move into different apartments a couple of times during those early years

But more importantly than us doing well was Matt’s ability to do tremendously well academically and socially no matter what was happening in his home life.  Which, as time moved on, became more stable–as did I.

We moved in with my friend Bill who helped father Matt in more ways than I can count.  Built him his own house out of a giant empty refrigerator box and was always willing to play ‘pong’ which was the video game of those times.  We also ate a whole lot better.  It was Bill who took him to newly created video arcades.  Bill and Matt had a ton of fun together and still do whenever Matt visits.  And it still makes me happy to watch them hang.

But when Matt was seven our lives really settled down once we moved in with Sue.  During those beginning years I worked evenings at home upstairs.  When I’d come down after meeting with a client, many times during the week Matt and Sue were sitting at our kitchen’s enamel topped table having tea together along with an after-school snack.  And often their conversation centered around going to movies and having a ‘candy’ supper.

Despite the sugar, or perhaps because of it, I was always amazed at his intense work ethic.  I knew he was both smart and insightful, but the degree of commitment to flat out work (academic or otherwise) was mind-boggling.  I can’t count the number of times during high-school when, at 1 A.M. and I was ready for bed, I’d go into Matt’s room and find him asleep in his clothes, school book open on his face.  I’d wake him, suggest he go to sleep, and was consistently met with, “Thanks for waking me, Dad. I just want to get in one more hour.”

As someone (me) who always had difficulty with school, there were times when Matt’s success blew me away.  When he graduated from Boston Latin as president of his class, 6th academically, then accepted to Yale with close to a full boat, I felt like an immigrant parent: “My son the American.” 

It was also during his high-school years when his half-brother was born.  When Jake was able to motor around the house, Matt used to lay on the living room floor, wait until Little Guy was in reach, snatch him, and roll around wrestling and tickling until Jake would ‘get away’ and repeat his run waiting for the next grab.

Watching them become even closer now, as they both grow older, has given both Sue and I great pleasure.  And gave Peggy pleasure as well when she was alive.

Another picture also always comes to mind.  Matt’s internal desire to meet, reach out, make friends with people of all colors and nationalities.  A tough do in Boston.  But something he did from before high-school and continues to this day. Something that makes me proud and appreciative about the person he is.

And of course my intense satisfaction in knowing about all the positive work he’s done from his high-school years to now with people less fortunate.  Matt has an unending commitment to helping high risk kids in inner city schools.  It’s pretty clear he won’t rest easy until schools and school related programs provide an education that gives these kids a legitimate shot at a decent life.

Which goes for Alyssa as well.  It’s not accidental that they share those basic beliefs and dedicate their lives to them.

I can’t imagine anything that could bring more joy to a parent (me again) than loving Alyssa, for who she is herself, as well as for the wonderful qualities she elicits from my son.  I simply can’t imagine a better example of people who love and bring out the best in each other.

As mentioned above, Alyssa lived through one of the most difficult times in Matthew’s life.  And stood shoulder to shoulder every inch of the way.  I have absolutely no doubt he would have done the same.  It’s pretty damn nice to see people who love and give to each other.  It’s a mitzvah.

And finally, having spent time with Alyssa’s family, it’s gonna be really great to have them as relatives.

Although I’ll be writing next Monday’s post, Sherri Frank Mazzotta will pinch hit for the 21st.  The following week I’ll be hunting and pecking, the only difference–I’ll have a larger family.  And will love it.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out and loudly proclaiming “WOW, WHAT A RIDE”

VOTING? VOTING, YOU’RE TALKIN’ ABOUT VOTING?

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About four years ago, Sue, some friends and I spent two to three nights a week at a local telephone bank making calls for Barack Obama.  I’ll never forget election night when, after the last call had been made and the telephone center cleaned, a group of us walked to a nearby watering hole.  And damn near couldn’t get in the door as wall-to-wall people boisterously cheered the countdown to his victory.  Strangers hugged and kissed and there were more than a few wet eyes as hope became reality.  We had our first Black president, and one who promised the next four years were going to be different than the previous eight.  We believed we’d finally reached the end of the Reagan Revolution.

Not so.  The war in Afghanistan continues; Iraq is still a mess; innocent until proven guilty doesn’t count for people who the government defines as potential terrorists; indeterminate detention has become part of our daily life.  And all this and more with the president’s tacit (sometimes not so tacit) approval.

Not exactly the change I was hoping for.  Not even close.

I understand the obstacles the president faced.  Blue Dog Democrats who were stalwart against any significant reform.  An opposition party that made it clear from the jump they had only one agenda item—anybody but Obama in 2012.  And stuck to it no matter how many times the president played nicey-nicey.

I’m even aware of the positive changes Obama managed to press through despite opposition from both parties.  He…

Overhauled the food safety system;

Approved the Lily Ledbetter “Equal Pay” for women rule;

Ended “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” discrimination in the military;

Passed the Hate Crimes bill in Congress;

Pushed through the Affordable Health Care Act, outlawing denial of coverage for pre-existing conditions, extending until age 26 health care coverage of children under their parents’ plans while adding coverage for around three million more people.(Though a really long spit from Medicare for All, it actually is better than what we had before.)

Expanded the State Children’s Health Insurance Program (SCHIP) health care for children;

Pushed through a $789 economic stimulus bill that saved or created 3 million jobs and began task of repairing the nation’s infrastructure; (Again, way, way too little money to really jump start the economy.)

Established the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and used a recess appointment to keep it on track in the face of GOP attempts to derail it;

Outmaneuvered GOP in naming two members of the National Labor Relations Board blocked by the Republicans in their attempt to shut down the NLRB;

Won two extensions of the debt ceiling and extensions of unemployment compensation in the face of Republican threats to shut down the U.S. government.  (Ask the unemployed how they felt about that one.)

And, in my mind, most importantly, appointed two progressive women to the U.S. Supreme Court including the first Latina.

Sadly, despite the above and more, he hasn’t stopped, or even slowed, the Reagan vision of America.  Nor has he sustained the enthusiasm and hope of his most ardent supporters–young people.  Which leads to the one overriding emotion he has engendered in me.

Fear.

Gore Vidal once said, “We live in a nation that has one political party with two right wings.”  That rings incredibly true.  But given our choices, it’s the Republican wing that scares the hell out of me.

I’ve watched the Supreme Court turn corporations into people, tear the Miranda decision to shreds, permit search and seizures without probable cause and, in general, turn back the clock as if the present and future just don’t matter.  This is what we have now and, with two judges deep into their eighties, I don’t want Mitt Romney picking potential nominees.  Not ever.

Still, I find myself unwilling to put the time and effort into Obama’s re-election and my friends feel the same.  While I’m guessing most progressives will probably drag themselves to the polls and vote, it might not be enough to keep Republican hands off the driving wheels of all three branches.

More fear.  It may all come down to our younger adults.  Will they vote for Obama given their disappointments?   Right now, I ain’t betting rent.

So what’s a progressive to do?  Sit still, vote, and pray that we’re not looking at a Republican horror show at the end of the day?  Drag our asses to the phone banks?  Somehow I don’t think that idea is really gonna be enough this time.  Which leaves progressives with the imperative to talk to those young adults.  Without their willingness to vote for Obama (holding their noses, if need be) we’re gonna be catapulted back in time in ways that will annihilate what little progress we’ve made.

I don’t want corporations to be ”people.” I don’t want a larger net fishing for those who DWB (Drive While Black—and, now Brown as well) I don’t want Arizona to lead the nation into greater and more pervasive racism.  I don’t want the rich to grow richer while the poor grow poorer and the middle class slides down the greased economic pole.  I want to retain all that remains of our civil liberties and the First Amendment.  I don’t want back-alley abortions.

So yeah, I’m gonna vote.  And I’m gonna talk to every young adult I can about voting too.

As far as canvassing and calls, I’m not sure.  Probably depends upon how much more frightened I am as we approach November.

And I’m plenty scared now.

“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” Alice Walker

 

CHEERS & FEARS

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I’m not gonna lie, when I read the line“…the measure of my Jewishness had been tossed into a hospital’s foreskin container…” I laughed out loud.  As those of you who follow my posts know, I’m deep into proofing my four original Matt Jacob books for digital downloads.  And what I’m discovering is how much I enjoy my earlier work and how scared shitless I am about the new Matt Jacob books that will be coming.

Frankly, I’m not sure that at my age of sixty three I still have the chops to turn a phrase, think of a phrase as snappy or interesting as I could in my forties.  Forgetfulness alone makes a huge difference.  When I was forty and walked into a room to retrieve something, I remembered what I was there for.

Not that I was a young forty.  I was born old, or quickly got there given my childhood experiences.  But even an old forty is damn different than sixty three.  There are, however, similarities.  Then I decided to write because I had used up being a counselor.  Now because I felt finished with my time as a trial and jury consultant.  In both instances I turned to writing because the way humans act and interact is, for me, the most interesting aspect of life.  And to fictionally chronicle both is a way to express not only what I see, but how I understand it.

I’m still confident in my ability to observe and understand.  Confident about relationships.  How they work—or don’t.  Why they work—or don’t.  How groups of people function—or dysfunction.  Furthermore, age brings the gift of deeper understandings.  But at forty I never even bothered to define those talents.  I simply decided to write detective fiction, sat down, and wrote.

In those days my biggest worry was the twists and turns of a plot.  Could I create situations where readers would wonder about what was happening, but look for clues and not find the ones that were there.  (An aside—I start writing by thinking about a theme I want to explore, the natures of my ongoing and non-ongoing characters, and finally try to imagine a dénouement that ties the theme with the people—though my endings are never even close to those which I imagine before I begin.)  Back then I was still young and brash enough to push away the plot fear and plunge ahead, secure with my voice, main characters, and ability to write in a style that would hold readers.  And be pretty funny along the way while I developed interesting stories.

Now the fears are more numerous.  What will Matt Jacob sound like now that I’m 20 years older and he is older as well?  Hell, my personal voice is different, won’t his be?  My personal issues are different, won’t his be?  Can I still see the world with the same quirky eye?  Can my style be as captivating as it had been?  How will Matt’s neuroses play out now with more age and experience packed onto his life?  Mine are certainly different and, while fiction is, in fact, fiction, it’s also a reflection of a writer’s insights.  And of course there’s still that deeply felt plot fear, which has never left and I don’t expect ever will.

Now that I’m older and gifted with deeper understanding something just struck me.  Are my fears really more numerous now—or am I just more capable of admitting and eyeballing them?  A somewhat comforting thought.

It’s funny how things change.  In my forties I felt competitive with Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Ross Macdonald, Charles Bukowski, Harry Crews, and a number of other writers I admired and respected.  Now I find myself in competition with only one author—me.

It’s also funny how things stay the same.  Then I really, really wanted to push the limits of detective fiction into the world of literary novels and not be consigned to the genre bin.  Now I still want to push those same limits, but no longer care about categories.  Though the goal is still the same, and I’ll work just as hard to attain it, age has taught me something about what I can and cannot control.  I don’t do the labeling of my work, other people do–and it will be what it will be.

Soon my new website will be up, the books for sale, and it will be crunch time.

But as I write this I remember sitting down for the first time to work on STILL AMONG THE LIVING thinking, Damn this is one hell of a cliff dive.  Well, the cliff is now different but the void is the same–and it’s almost time to jump.

“Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!” Margo Channing from Three Faces Of Eve.

OPENING DAY(S)

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Some people begin their new year at midnight every December 31st.  Some, the first day of school in September (you know who you are).  And while I really enjoy partying on New Year’s  Eve–often too much–my year starts in April.

Twice actually.  First, on the opening day of major league baseball, then a week later with Jah Energy’s first game.

That said, April softball in Boston isn’t much fun.  Layered clothing–two pair of socks and occasional long underwear–is not the appropriate uniform for the “summer game.”  But the game must go on as must I, despite my antipathy to the cold.

When I first joined Jah, a year after the league began, I had no idea how long I’d play or how important the team would become to me.  As time passed, its importance increased and I began to dream of playing until I was 65.  In fact, the team, league, and games grew so important that I’ve begun considerig having my ashes scattered on home field.  Seriously.

I was lucky to have never missed a game due to injuries.  Even luckier to have both sons, a nephew, and a niece play alongside me for many years.  And even able to bring home a couple of championships.

A banjo, but steady, hitter and an excellent defensive first baseman, in tough situations I always wanted the bat in my hands or the ball to be smashed toward me at first.  But a couple of years ago I started feeling the tickle of fear when an opponent’s left-handed power hitter strode to the plate.  Eventually, I was forced to acknowledge that I no longer wanted them to hit toward me.  I simply couldn’t cover ground the way I used to.  And worse, that banjo’s strings started to break and I had more and more trouble getting on base.

Two years ago I finally admitted the obvious, talked to the manager about playing half games and coaching third the rest of the time.  We also agreed that his wife Sammy and my son Jake had become much better at first than I.  To say nothing about their hitting, which dwarfed my own.  So the half games I played were usually at catcher, though the manager still liked the way I picked the ball out of the dirt and put me at first in particular situations.

Last season our manager stepped down so I co-managed the team with Sara.  Although Jake would yell at me for not placing myself into the line-up, I had the teams’ interest at heart and felt he and Sammy were so much better it would have been unfair to sit them.  I was able to play a couple of games as catcher, and one or two at first, but mostly I helped Sara and coached third.  Still, the dream of playing when I became 65 never faded and I just assumed it would occur.

Then came my shoulder problems.  The operation and the months and the months of rehab ahead has made it impossible for me to even coach or manage.  And so, for the first time in 24 years, I am no longer a member of Jah.  One of the most painful aches I’ve felt since my operation was putting my glove away.

But I’m here to praise baseball, not bury it.  I often catch a lot of grief during major league play-offs because I root for other teams if the Sox aren’t in it.  I’ve always rooted for my home teams so I don’t hate the Yankees or White Sox, or the Tigers in loyalty to Sue.  Even the deserters, the Dodgers and Giants, which, after they left New York, I’d listen on my transistor radio to Les Keiter bang sticks together in front of a fan noise record as he called the Giant’s games from a delayed ticker tape.

For me the game is larger than any single team.  Yeah, I know it’s millionaires playing for billionaires and much of the enterprise has nothing to do with anything but money.  No matter.  When I see players running onto the field, it’s all about what happens between the white lines.  The fleet outfielder gliding, body outstretched to snare a certain base hit.  A runner sliding headfirst into second safely then jumping up, pulling on his pants to get the dirt out of his crotch.  The myriad of signs that emanate from the 3rd base coach, a batter lunging after a pitch that’s impossible but somehow manages to slap a flare single.  Frankly, I could go on for pages. (And no doubt someday I will.)

I know baseball has lost its preeminent role as ‘America’s pastime.’ (Yea football.)  But for me it will always be the beginning of my year and the backbone of my summers.

Oh.  As far as Jah goes, I intend to rehab all year so next season when I’m 65 (which will be my 25th year in the league), I will play a single game then retire on my terms.  Some dreams never die.

“It’s so hard to say au revoir, so let’s just say hors d’oeuvre.” Martin Mull