The Enemy Within

Some time ago President Obama made an unfortunate choice in his words, which he almost never does. He was chastised for referring to those on the other side of the political aisle as enemies. But the truth is that these people are enemies as they find every opportunity to threaten war, and raise the possibility of armageddon.

Whether or not to authorize the government to pay the bills it has incurred does not seem a rational battleground. To put the nation in harm's way voluntarily is contrary to the obligation of those that govern us. But the Republican party has long since abandoned rational thought as a predicate for their actions. We have no respect for a party which allows its most radical elements to mis-direct this into government by confrontation.

Mr. Krugman challenges the President and his party to draw a line in the sand. But the reality is that this President is a rational man who knows that we cannot risk the damage to our nation in a long and bloody fight over raising the debt ceiling. So, his economic policies, and the safety net that we provide to the elderly and the less fortunate among us, will continue to be the ultimate victims, as he sacrifices in the name of peace.

Graduation Day

This was an idea of her own making. She looked forward to the 20 minute car ride one night a week. At her destination, she climbed the stairs to the second floor classroom. She surveyed a landscape of teachers, nurses, graduate students. She was 12 years old. But she wanted to learn how to sign, and so, in this room full of people almost twice her size, and more than twice her age, she sat and listened. And participated. And learned. And fit right in.

She never lost that passion. So many of us cling to an idea of who we are, or what we are meant to be, for but a brief moment and then move on. Not her.

Her resume is filled to overflowing. From that first experience almost 15 years ago, to this Tuesday, when she receives her graduate school diploma and becomes a speech and language pathologist, she sought out opportunities to help. She has worked with the less fortunate, the less-abled, in as many settings as time and circumstance would permit. Each experience has brought wonderful reports from those who monitor her. She has been imbued with a generosity of spirit.

There is something significant about people who are not frightened or disquieted by difference, but are drawn to it.

Those who look upon my daughter on that stage will see only the culmination of all those years of effort and dedication. I will see that little girl walking out of the car, opening the door into her own universe.

I have told her that congratulations is not a word that remotely does justice. As a parent, and as an observer of everything that she is and she will surely be, I am filled with a most profound sense of joy and the deepest feeling of gratitude.

Annie

The morning was busy being busy doing what it does
The coffee ground and the tea kettled
From nothing there was motion and commotion all around
And she watched silently through it all

Inside her room, inside her head, inside her
There was a deep quiet
It clung fiercely to her like a passionate lover
And she watched silently through it all

The shower showered and the soap dispensed
There were things that mattered that couldn't wait, wouldn't wait
There were conversations hanging in the air
And she watched silently through it all

For her life exists in its own place
In the smallest parts the others passed right by
She would let them be what they had to be
As she watched silently through it all

And while the toast toasted and the jam jammed
As the door opened and closed again and again
When everything demanded attention and everyone attended
She watched silently through it all

For her life exists in its own space
In the smallest parts the others passed right by
She would let them be what they had to be
As she watched silently through it all

She knew more than others thought to ask
The answers resting at her feet
As they went about the business of being busy
She watched silently through it all.

For her life exists in its own place
For her life exists in its own space
For her life exists with its own pace
For her life exists

The Magical Golf Ball

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS PIECE APPEARS IN THE SPORTS SECTION OF THE NY TIMES ON MAY 15, 2011

THERE IS A FRONT PAGE STORY IN THE NY TIMES TODAY ABOUT A GOLF BALL THAT WILL CURE WHAT AILS YOU ON THE COURSE

The familiar sounds and sights would disappear overnight. There would be no more cursing, no club throwing, no excuses that are so fundamentally part of the experience. The mulligan would fade into obscurity. It would be as if hell was no more. If there was no darkness, how would one understand and appreciate the light?

"A Golf Ball That Won't Slice Comes with a Catch: It's Illegal" creates a world where achievement loses its meaning. Most often after I finish a round of golf, I am disappointed, disillusioned and disgusted. Last weekend, the stars magically aligned, and so did my stance and my swing. Normally, it takes a fistful of gimme putts and the bending and twisting of the rules of golf to fit my circumstances, to finish with a score that I can announce to an apathetic general public. But, for one magical afternoon, none of that was needed, and when the scorecard showed but 74 strokes at day's end, it was authentic and immensely satisfying.

Keep your Polara ball. I don't want to tee it up with Tiger and the others until I deserve it.

On the Issue of "Assassinations"

The logic is bewildering. Mr. Douthat ("Whose Foreign Policy Is It?"), no more than a shill for those who have brought us 10 years of unrelenting bloodshed, now criticizes limited and defined actions intended to do damage only to those like Bin Laden and al-Awlaki who are our avowed enemies, and absurdly equates Bush's legacy with Obama's recent actions.

Rising from the ashes of 9/11 was a foreign policy which promoted indiscriminate death. Predicated on lies, we went into battle against those who took no part in our loss of nearly 3000 that one sunny morning in September. The Bush decision to invade Iraq was thoughtless, baseless and monumentally wrong

We were attacked, and continue to be subject to attack, by a confederacy of a small band of individuals, not by nations. In directing efforts, whether by Navy seals or predator Drones, to take down those individuals, we see the kind of action that is rational in purpose and targeted in ways that the Bush policy was not.

In answer to the question, don't lay the foreign policy blunders of Iraq and Afghanistan at the feet of a president who did not create but only inherited them. However, do give full responsibility and credit to President Obama for trying to limit the focus, and direct the power of this nation, at those whose stated mission is to seek our annihilation.

A Gift from the Gods

My golf bag held much more than the 14 clubs. It was filled with the disappointing swings, the discouraging putts, the dismembering of my ego. It was a very heavy load to carry around with me. Last season was unrelentingly bad.

I had no earthly reason to expect what happened yesterday. This had to be divine intervention. It was to be my first full round of golf of the season. My only other attempt had ended, mercifully, after but 2 holes, as my aching back gave me an excuse to put away my bag, and all its excess baggage.

Now, the back, if not the mind, had healed enough to let me try it again. I stood at the first tee, renewing acquaintances with many old friends and bad habits. I made certain that I was in the last group, as I would rather the others not see what the next four and one half hours were sure to bring

And then all my diminished expectations, eager to begin their attack, lost their way. The first swing produced an acceptably mediocre result. The second one, and those that followed in succession, failed to locate the inner disgust that was waiting, just below the surface. Good holes and good scores walked hand in hand in this new universe.

My attempts to minimize what was occurring were met with disdain by my playing partners. Embrace your destiny was the message of encouragement. Don't live your failures but your successes was what they said, or at least in this embellished version, is what I heard.

Shots landed with unrelenting frequency near the intended target. The hole, which had seemingly chosen to vanish every time I putted over the last several years, reappeared, remaining in one place and growing ever larger.

When I counted up the numbers at the conclusion of the day, it seemed like I had forgotten to play several of the holes. The figure that stared at me, as I stared at it, made no sense. It was way too small to be attached to my name. But it was.

Whenever a gift like this is handed to me from the gods, my wife's admonition is to stop playing. It can only get worse she says. And while she is almost unerringly correct, I will trudge back out in future days trying to recapture what, for at least one day, I found.

I know that the bag will soon be filled to overflowing with 3 putts, mis-hits and mistakes of every size and shape, but like every golfer who has ever played the game, I live for the days when the only thing I see when I look into my bag is success.

The Mailing List

On Paul Krugman's "Fears and Failure"

"(Who sends out the memos telling people what to worry about, and why don't I get them)" is a very humorous aside. The answer is not nearly as funny.

During the course of the mid-term elections, we heard the Republicans pound continuously on the failure of the Democrats to deal with the massive unemployment problem in our nation. The mantra was that once they were given the opportunity, things would be different. Jobs, jobs, jobs.

Once the mid- terms were behind them, the thoughts of the Republicans turned to 2012 and the course of the conversation shifted. If the economy continued to sputter, it could only work to their advantage. This, they will be sure to remind us in the coming months, is still a government under Democratic leadership. So, the Republican machine has misdirected us to theoretical disasters of tomorrow, rather than the actual concerns of today. The result is an anemic and stalled recovery, unrelenting unemployment, and a government that fails to address adequately the most urgent need of its population. If this downturn lingers, and it shows all the signs of doing so, the Republicans will lay blame directly at the feet of their opponents. The call for jobs, jobs, jobs, it turns out, was nothing but a con job.

One of the principle failures of this administration has been an inability to direct the discussion or choose the topics. In response to Mr. Krugman's question, the Republicans send out the memo, and until that ceases to be the case, he is never going to be on the mailing list.

Through the Fog

Her face was bruised and battered. Her upper lip was swollen, and the purple colored mustache served as further reminder of the trauma she had sustained. Her jaw was slightly misshapen, and a line of color descended from her mouth to her chin and towards her left ear. Behind this ear there was a bump and a bruise. The back of her head hurt to the touch. Her neck, at the shoulders, felt stiff and she was in pain if she turned her head in either direction. Her arm, just below the shoulder was giving her trouble. The middle of her back was tender. And her leg, just above her buttocks, was another area that had sustained damage.

As we sat in her kitchen, I gently tried to repeat to her the events of the last few days. The fall during the night, the call to 911, the determination that she was ok to remain at home; then the near fainting during lunch and another emergency call for help; the hospitalization and the battery of tests and her release 2 days later. And within a few minutes I repeated the tale again.

Yet somehow, with this latest episode have come some moments of remarkable clarity for my Mom, as she senses the inevitable approaching. Sitting at the table, she told me that she had lived a wonderful life, with loving and hard working parents, terrific siblings, a perfect husband, and the greatest children anyone could imagine. Here, as in the hospital, she gave instructions on how to live one's life. And then she said she was not going anywhere, anytime soon.

She now takes great pride in hearing, on a regular basis, that she is 93 years old. Where age was throughout most of her life, something she strenuously avoided discussing, now she wears it like a badge of honor. Confronted with failing eyesight, significant loss of hearing, an inability to locate herself in time and place, memory that is almost non-existent, difficult nights, and often more difficult days, wobbling gait and the visual reminders of her last fall, she tells me that she is in pretty good shape for her age. She advises that she has no right to expect more than this. She is just happy to get up in the morning and live another day.

We speak of how remarkable a journey it has been. She was born while the First World War was still raging. She has lived through the roaring 20's, prohibition, Babe Ruth, Franklin Roosevelt, the depression, the Second World War. I ask her if she feels like she has lived through different universes of time. She nods her assent.

I realize that I am romanticizing this tale somewhat. My mom's conversation is given through the fog that long ago descended upon her. Much of what I relate as a straight line conversation was truly a bit less than that, and the philosophy was tinged with confusion. But overall, this is a true story. This is how I believe my mom views the journey she has taken through nine decades. She has considered herself among the fortunate ones. She revered her parents, adored her siblings, cherished her husband, and took great pride in her children and grandchildren who have been as devoted to her as she has been to them.

At times I can now find true pleasure and joy in being with my Mom, diminished as she may be. It has been a struggle for me to accept and embrace this very altered version. But I find myself laughing again in her presence, amused by her flashes of wit and amazed by her philosophical musings. Like my Mom, I am willing to battle through the fog to find the light that still shines deep within her.

"Now batting, Number 2"

Baseball is, in its most basic sense, all about the numbers. For the hitter, while each swing of the bat may look the same to us, imperceptible changes are made clear in the statistics that we see next to the player's name. Numbers don't lie, or at least they don't lie in the same way that our wishes and desires do for those we want to succeed.

And so, the body of evidence accumulated on the page ("Under a Microscope, Jeter has a Powerless Start") reveals what I refuse to allow as a possibility: the erosion of Derek Jeter is well underway. One home run in 565 at bats. Two extra base hits in 105 at bats this season. And worse, if one were to subtract the 10 infield hits from the calculation, the future Hall of Famer would be batting an anemic .154.

I wish I could dismiss all of this. He still looks virtually the same as he did when he sprung upon us over 15 years ago. The hair may be a little thinner, and the waist just a bit thicker, but this is still the same player who has accomplished so much, at bat to at bat, for a decade and a half. But the overwhelming reality is that he is not what he was, and will never again be. It is hard to watch and even harder to accept. We wait for tomorrow to be different, for the line drives to return with unrelenting frequency. But when we add it all up, we come to the inevitable conclusion that even for Derek Jeter, time does not stand still.

One Man's Life and Death

In this millennium he changed the look of our universe more than we could have imagined. Gone were the days of feeling invincible. From that terrible day forward, we would forever be less sure and less comfortable in our own land. We would invade foreign territories, and search for foreign objects on our own bodies. We would listen in as a government for sounds of terror and we would capture and torture in the name of our security. We would look upon billions of Muslims around the world, and those in our own communities, with skepticism and hatred. For us, the deaths on September 11 were a direct challenge to the world as we understood it.

We would spend almost a decade in fruitless pursuit. We would chase into caves and down endless dead alleys. And then, for so long, it appeared that he was going to elude our grasp forever. And now he is dead.

And what does that mean to us, and to our future? While the past can never be altered, does this one death change where tomorrow leads? After the euphoria of the moment passes, and the patriotic fervor quiets, then what? We want so much for this to be the start of a different conversation, one where we don't feel the desperate need to kill in the name of retribution, and our enemies don't feel the desperate need to eradicate us, and all that we stand for. In the next decade, will the death of one man change the face of our planet in ways that his life did this past decade? Or is this just the death of one man?