Baseball

I've never been that big of a baseball fan. I mean, I've known the mechanics of the game since I was 5. Well, roughly. I mean, for my first season of T-ball I didn't really get that the first base coach wasn't actually on the team, so I'd always throw the ball to him. It makes sense, he was close to the bag, taller, and clearly the best player. Why shouldn't I throw it to him? I played ball for the 8 of the most formative years of my life, and then church softball for the next 6. Though I've never had a batbag of my own, I've never been without a fitting glove. I at least half-heartedly collected baseball cards and pored over my across the street neighbor Kade's Becket for hours looking up the latest prices on my investment. But that only lasted until I discovered Magic Cards.

You see, as much as I was indoctrinated into baseball from an early age, I never really cared so much about the sport. I liked to play it, though I doubt I ever really loved even that. Baseball is where I first learned the fear and humiliation of failure, after all. There's nothing quite as terrifying as walking up to the plate, knowing you aren't a very good hitter and that you probably need glasses but are too embarrassed by that fact to tell your parents, with all your teammates counting on you not to lose the game for them. It's enough to give you a perfectionist/fear-of-failure complex. Hmm. I remember making fast friends with players worse than I, bonded together in our mutual lower class athletic status. Still, at least partly I stood next to them to show the other kids that I was different - King of the Losers, so to speak, and therefore acceptable to the upper crust of raw athletic talent. I remember befriending the best player on the team, the coach's son, Brandon - my first man crush (by which I mean someone I wanted to be). Everything was easy for him. He was good at sports, but because he was so naturally gifted, he had no reason to be a jerk. He was king and didn't need to impress anyone, we all tried to impress him. Kids can be horribly cruel. I remember the temptations (to which I often succumbed) of trying to make yourself look better by attacking someone weirder or goofier looking or more stupid than yourself. And I remember that he never joined in. But of course, he didn't have to. He was already on the top.

The sad thing about that really is that I have, if not considerable, at least above average natural athletic ability. I can throw, I can run, I can make diving catches, and I can hit ok. Looking back now, it's easy to see that what really put me on the bottom was my fear itself. Had I been a little more carefree and less self-conscious I would have likely been a much better player.

I jumped into all this reminiscing only to say that, although I was never a fan of baseball, in that unlike many men of any age I don't have stats upon stats that I could run off in my head, I love it. No I don't know every player, even on my own favorite teams. But there is something about it that transcends statistics, or wins or losses. There is, of course, the glory of all athletic competition. There is something pure about Sport (capital S), something innocent that brings humanity together. But I mean more than that. Baseball itself has a quality that I've never run into in another sport - and its a distinctly American one. Likely that's only because that for about 50 years, every boy in the country played baseball at some point. Maybe soccer will become the new American pastime in years to come, but maybe there's really something about baseball itself. There's the smell of the grass, the dust of the infield, the lazy distractions of right field, and the sharp, nervous anticipation of Short Stop. And there's the crack of a wooden bat that signals an explosion of action.

Americans enjoy those tense situations...we like full count, bases loaded...or even 4th and inches. We like a pause, a chance to reflect before everything is decided. That is, after all, just good storytelling. Spectating baseball has its own, almost unexplainable charms. I only check scores on TV. The distance from the players and the lights of the field kills all the magic for me. But at a game...there's just nothing like it. I actually enjoy Football games more. The roar of the crowd, the press of bodies jumping up and down, 60,000 people all screaming for the same thing, united in passion for a good pass, a breakthrough run. But Baseball is different...and equal in its own lazy right. You can talk during baseball games. You can get up and walk around. You can watch the relief pitchers warm up in the bullpen. It's more than fun. It's like...being at home.

(Sorry for the essay form, kids, I wasn't originally planning to post this but I liked it - W.)

Gaza

This is...well both incredibly frightening and moving. I don't know what to say. They are trapped in that place and thugs are walking the streets. There is no law. There is no future. There is certainly no victory here. This is just the beginning - there will only be more and more bloodshed.

'Only Hamas gunmen walk the deserted streets'

Hazem Balousha, a Gaza-based journalist, gives an eyewitness account of the hardship and danger in a city gripped by chaos

Thursday June 14, 2007
Guardian Unlimited


Hamas supporters celebrate after capturing the headquarters of the Preventative Security Force, which was loyal to the Palestinian president and Fatah leader, Mahmoud Abbas, in Gaza City. Photograph: Abid Katib/Getty Images

Late this afternoon the shooting appeared to die down. It's been going on now for five days - bullets and bombs going off day and night. The most important thing is keeping my niece and nephew occupied. They have heard gunfire at weddings before, so I have told them it's just a big wedding.

They replied that it was such a big wedding that it must be the president's. If only they knew - he has other matters on his mind at the moment.

But worse than the noise of war is the noise of loudspeakers at the mosque. They are saying: "We are Hamas. We are the Izzedine al-Qassam Brigades. We will defeat Fatah. We will liberate Gaza from the collaborators and the traitors." The loudspeaker is never quiet.

We live close to the intelligence headquarters, which has been under attack. The loudspeakers call on the fighters to surrender. If they do, they will survive, if they don't they will be killed.

My apartment is on the fourth floor, but it is too exposed and dangerous so I moved to my parents' place on the ground floor, which has some cover. Since Sunday, several bullets have hit my apartment and the windows have been smashed. When the shooting stops for five or 10 minutes, I try and take a look out the window. The streets are deserted of cars and people. Only the Hamas gunmen are walking the streets. Everyone else is holed up inside.

This chaos did not come as a big surprise, so we have been stocking food. We have no bread, but my mother is trying to make some now. The electricity lasted until last night and there has been none since.

Suddenly there is a new announcement from the mosque. "Hamas have taken the intelligence headquarters." Earlier this week, it was hard to tell the fighters apart. You could see masked men wearing black T-shirts, flak jackets and camouflage trousers. They carried rifles, grenade launchers and mortar tubes. Now it's clear who is who. The Hamas fighters are kneeling in prayer, congratulating each other and greeting onlookers. The Fatah men are being led from the building, hands in the air, some stripped to the waist. It is unclear what will happen to them.

There may be a bit of quiet for a while, but it won't last. Israel will now have new excuses to attack Gaza. With Hamas in control of Gaza, no one will be able to stop Israel. Even though Fatah seem to be doing badly at the moment, they are not finished and this is not the last round.

My eldest brother is close to Hamas and he seems happy with the way things are going. My other brother is more pragmatic, he is concerned about his businesses and the future. Some are saying Gaza will be sealed off now, isolated from the world like a new Taliban state. Personally, I think this is a disaster. I might leave. I have visas for Ireland and the UK, but the border is closed.

Colin Powell, Public Servant

Read the Washington Post story here. As much as I wish that he had stood up to the President on Iraq instead of doing his duty (not that a man like Colin Powell could do any less) I have to say that I admire him tremendously. I certainly hope he is involved in the next administration, democrat or republican. America could only benefit from his sage foreign policy advice - if only the people who matter actually listen.

Why I would have trouble working for the CIA...

I'm not anti CIA. I think they've done many questionable things over the years, but fundamentally I believe very strongly in American ideals and that in order to protect those ideas you absolutely must have an incredible intelligence network. And I think that the Agency, despite all the things they do horribly wrong, does a lot of things well. It is, after all, the kind of organization that you never hear the whole story and you're much less likely to hear what they do right than what they do wrong. And I mean that both practically as well as morally. After all, they are in the business of saving American (and allied) lives. They can hardly be blamed for Iraq - if the administration had listened to our intelligence we would have known that there were no WMD's to be found. Good intelligence is about the of preventing war...or at least making it as small scale as humanly possible. But zeal for the protection of American lives can lead and has led the Agency to do some monumentally stupid things. I fear that the War on Terrorism will lead us to make the same damn mistakes as we did in the War Against Communism. Namely, that we end up supporting whomever happens to have the resources to help up root out terrorists: fascist dictators bent on genocide to root out terrorists bent on killing us. Part of the problem is that the CIA is run by political appointees who take their cues from the administration. The pressure gets pushed down to the grunt-level zealots, who when there is any moral ambiguity rely on the old standards - ends justify the means. Only the means often make the ends impossible in the long run.

Anyway, sorry for the rant: here's a story from the LA Times that prompted it.

I'm in a writing mood. Look for more posts throughout the day. And by that I mostly mean, read them all at once cause you don't check the blog obsessively like I do.

-Peace, seriously. Warnie.

Triumphant Return

Warnie, Boos,


Describing Hawai'i is sort of fruitless. I can do it, but it would take forever. Suffice it to say that Magnum P.I. is exactly correct. Tom Selleck is everywhere. And there are tons of Lamborghini's. And other impossible words to spell.

Actually, that's a lot of the difficulty. Dave Barry supposedly tells the story that when the Tahitians were coming to Hawaii, they brought everything they'd need, including the language. Unfortunately, most of the consonants washed away in a storm.

Here's the Hawaiian name for the Picasso Triggerfish. Humuhumunukunukuapua'a. That's the unofficial state fish. My favorite though was the Parrotfish, so called by us white-eyes because it has a very strong beak and big eyes (it uses the beak to snap coral). The Hawaiians call it "uhu" which means "loose bowels". The fish is followed by a cloud.

We actually spent most of our time hiking around in the forests and mountains, or at least more time than at the beach (we did a fair piece of snorkeling as well). That suited me. The Big Island, where we were first, had really cool rock beaches, with tide pools and things like that (two sea turtles swam right up to me and Pockets, swimming through our legs) and the atmosphere was much more like Nag's Head. Maui was very touristy, although with nice beaches.

Anyway, I'm trying to work on some poems related to the idea, but more about traveling in general. They're little tribute poems to the various folks that went with me, and I'm still working them out. But I thought I'd pass on the first one here.

Engineer (for my father-in-law)

The diarist at his journal

is a crayfish in a dark pond

combing the algae for food

with his facile, plated feet.

His mind is an elegant factory

where the day is refined to sentences

and a date—streamlined, sturdy,

and sleek as she needs to be.

It's short, but that's sort of the point. Anyway, I'm hoping to fill out the rest of my understandings with little things like that.

Hmm, it's early. Brain not functioning. Need coffee.

But I'm back, and I'll be posting.

--Jack

Mom and Dad

Hi all,
Next year, not this june, but next june is Mom and Dad's 30th wedding anniversary. I think we should start planning something now, especially since, as money goes, we all need to probably start saving up. Brian suggested whatever it is, we could give it to them at christmas so that they would have time to arrange it into their schedules. So, start listing ideas. I think a fun vacation or something would be well deserved. I think a surprise party would be fun but a little too hard to arrange/invite people they know. Start listing ideas boys...let me know what you think.

Indian Sunset

Listening to old school Elton John this morning. "Indian Sunset" is such a good song. It pulls at me every time I hear it.

As I awoke this evening with the smell of wood smoke clinging
Like a gentle cobweb hanging upon a painted tepee
Oh I went to see my chieftain with my warlance and my woman
For he told us that the yellow moon would very soon be leaving
This I cant believe I said, I cant believe our warlords dead
Oh he would not leave the chosen ones to the buzzards and the soldiers guns

Oh great father of the iroquois ever since I was young
Ive read the writing of the smoke and breast fed on the sound of drums
Ive learned to hurl the tomahawk and ride a painted pony wild
To run the gauntlet of the sioux, to make a chieftains daughter mine

And now you ask that I should watch
The red mans race be slowly crushed
What kind of words are these to hear
From yellow dog whom white man fears

I take only what is mine lord, my pony, my squaw, and my child
I cant stay to see you die along with my tribes pride
I go to search for the yellow moon and the fathers of our sons
Where the red sun sinks in the hills of gold and the healing waters run

Trampling down the prairie rose leaving hoof tracks in the sand
Those who wish to follow me I welcome with my hands
I heard from passing renegades geronimo was dead
Hed been laying down his weapons when they filled him full of lead

Now there seems no reason why I should carry on
In this land that once was my land I cant find a home
Its lonely and its quiet and the horse soldiers are coming
And I think its time I strung my bow and ceased my senseless running
For soon Ill find the yellow moon along with my loved ones
Where the buffalos graze in clover fields without the sound of guns

And the red sun sinks at last into the hills of gold
And peace to this young warrior comes with a bullet hole

its hot...boo fredericksburg, thats all i can say