Magic

It was nearly 40 years ago that my wife and I wed. I remember the act of proposing in one moment and in the next having my future mother-in-law straighten my bow tie as I readied to walk down the aisle. I am generally oblivious to life and the space between engagement and I do was no exception.

This weekend our daughter got married. And everything that was lacking in me was overflowing in her and my new son-in-law (this is the first time I have written that phrase to describe him and I could literally feel my breathing change as I tap-tapped the letters). For all the detail I knew or cared nothing about, they sweated each and every atom, particle and possibility.

It was for them a production, a statement of how much they cared not only about each other but about every person who was there not solely as witness but as participant in a joint celebration. This was not mere inauguration of husband and wife but a love in.

When we were young, if we were fortunate enough, we forged unbreakable bonds, the connective tissue the common passions of the heart. For this weekend at a camp in the Adirondacks, those connective tissue were on full display.

These were young men and women returned to their childhood, to the baseball diamond and the basketball court, to the games and the rivalries, to the boasting, the chastising, the glory and the less glorious,  the freedom from the burdens and the obligations,  the days and times lost but not forgotten. To be with the ones they grew up loving and still loved, doing what they most loved. To have the joy of youth and the knowledge of age combined in a single marvelous moment.

There was no distraction, no dissonance, no thunder or lightning to diminish or deprive one of undeniable, unmitigated pleasure. The clouds literally parted, the long awaited spring arriving alongside the guests for the weekend, the sun a constant welcome companion. The cold waters of the lake warmed and embraced its first visitors of the season. The earth and sky played their roles to utter perfection.

And each of those tasked with shepherding the wonder from here to there, did so more than nobly. There was no detail too small, no undertaking too big. Everything in its place, every place shined and polished, ready and waiting to do its thing.

For those who just witnessed the wedding and party Saturday evening, they missed the soul of this undertaking. Yes, my daughter was radiant, the groom beaming, the venue beyond one's imagination, the vows as beautiful as the setting sun over the lake. And the celebration that ensued was loud, raucous, delicious and enthralling. But the greatness in this weekend was not in the centerpiece but everything that surrounded it.

And it was all orchestrated by two whose only true obligation was to exchange rings, share a kiss and walk hand in hand to a wondrous tomorrow. If I had been in charge, and thank God I was not, it would at most have been a decent getaway.

 

Instead, for me, and I believe for all those who absorbed all its brilliance, it was the best weekend of our lives.

The Catch (Part Two)

It is known simply as "the catch." My daughter and I were at perfect vantage point in the stands when Derek Jeter ran as if one step clear of rampaging bull and dove, Greg Louganis like, headfirst into the stands, risking life and limb (or at least a bruise or two on the face) in pursuit of a baseball and an out. He left his feet a mere mortal, but emerged from the clutter of bodies and metal a god.

This effort was better.

It was a one inning softball game, fielded on each side by 50 or so players (I use that term as loosely as humanly possible). Our capacity was from woeful to formerly wonderful. Our ages ranged from my body still responds sometimes to my commands to what the hell were you thinking bringing me out here. We were joined as one in celebration of the wedding of my daughter to the man who is the centerpiece of this tale.

Everyone on each squad would bat once, and each was welcome to take a place (I can't call it a position) when his team was on defense. There was a family of ducklings that had taken possession of part of the outfield, and they were slowly moving as one unit in single file as the game began. Children who I had coached a generation before were scattered  in small groupings, theoretically in the outfield to perform a function, but for most part merely taking up a different physical space in which to conduct conversation.
 

The outfield wall in straight away center was a lake, probably a good 600 feet from the batter's box. I doubt Aaron Judge could have deposited a ball that far removed from where he would have stood staring out at the pitcher. Down the left field line, was a thicket of bushes and trees, ranging from a few feet in foul territory to a spot, near third base, maybe 10 to 12 yards from where my future son in law stood guard of the hot corner.
 

I was stationed in what should have been the third base coaching box. There were maybe 20 to 25 outs and anywhere from a few to more than a few runs in, runners on first and second, when it happened.
 

I am certain I barked out instructions to the runner on second reminding him or her not to run on anything in the air but to watch for my sign on whether to tag up. I might as well have been giving directions to the nearest Jiffy Lube.
 

The emotion of the moment was almost palpable. This must have been what it was like when Casey at bat was penned. The third basemen tensed, getting into that athlete's crouch that I only now find myself in unintentionally and with great discomfort. At bat, stood some man or woman who, in all likelihood, was wondering if he or she had time for a nap before the next activity. The pitcher peered in for a sign from the catcher, who I think was contemplating if and when he could inform everyone that his wife was pregnant.
 

And then there was an unmistakable thwack of the bat, or maybe it was more like the thud of the bat, as softball and soft swing met in a moment of athletic purity. The pop up, not more than a story or so high, drifted past the third base line towards the waiting arms of the grove. The left fielder, or maybe the short left fielder, or the short short left fielder, would make valiant effort, the ball would fall harmlessly to earth, the batter would take his or her stance once more, and life would go on as intended.
 

But the man who would be married to my daughter in less than two days, was not thinking about his wedding vows or the life he would lead hereafter. He was not contemplating his finances or the weather or even wondering if the ducklings were being bothered by the mass of humanity that had descended on their territory. No, for him, there was an urgent call to action, to make the effort, no matter how risky, or futile, in pursuit of that quickly falling orb, its parabola almost done.
 

And as he ran full tilt and then left his feet, landing with great force in the tangles and brambles, my thoughts turned to Derek Jeter. Here I was in the third base box, with the same angle of vision that I had on that day so many years before, as my daughter and I sat in wonder at the majesty of what we were witnessing. And the first and only thought I had at that moment was I hoped that my future son in law was not landing in a field of poison ivy.
 

I will not tell you whether or not he made the catch. It was, after all, the effort of both Jeter and my now son in law that is the tale.. Emerging bloodied or not, with ball in hand or empty, the legend is of leaving it all on the field.  A man jumped into the stands and another into the bushes. And on each occasion, a legend was born.
 

But more than all that, I thank god there was no poison ivy.

AMERICA, AMERICA GOD WHAT'S BECOME OF THEE

Our ugliness his specious lies

The knowledge that he feigns

His bitter tongue a tragedy

With full contempt he reigns

America, America god what's become of thee

We've lost our good and brotherhood

No majesty have we

Our ugliness his royal seat

This stern, embattled mess

A thoroughly alarming beat

His every thought a guess

America, America, god help us find our way

Confront this soul with no control

Bring light to darkest day

Our ugliness, no hero he

Mere home to endless strife

A selfish man he'll ever be

No mercy in his life

America, America, god help us good men find

We'll find success in nobleness

In open, gentle mind

Our remedy, our fervent dream

To look beyond the fears

When once again our nation gleams

A beacon for the years

America, America god knows what we should be

And find our good and brotherhood

For all the world to see

An Equal Opportunity Offender

He is an equal opportunity offender.

There are 196 countries in the world, if you include Taiwan. The language of the Paris climate accord was a result of discussion among 195 of them. Only Syria, in the midst of its bloodbath of a civil war, did not participate.  All who were part of the conversation, except Nicaragua (who thought the document did not adequately confront the problem) signed the agreement and 148 countries have ratified it. One has now repudiated it.

We should have seen this coming. Mr. Trump's political ascension has seemingly correlated directly to the number of other nations he has criticized.  Even before he entered office, Mr. Trump took pot shots at, among others, Mexico ("they're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime, they're rapists"), China ("they're raping our country; the concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese"), the Philippines ("we're dealing with animals"), Germany ("a total mess- big crime. Get smart") Iran ("doing bad things behind our backs"). He criticized how France and England handled  the "Muslim problem".

And he even went on the attack against institutions like NATO (obsolete) and the Pope (disgraceful).

Once in the White House, it was hoped that the magnitude of the undertaking, and the guidance of those who at least should know better, would moderate the hand and the mouth of the President.

Yet less than a week into office, Mr. Trump's declaration that Mexico would "absolutely 100%" pay for the wall led to an obscenity laced reply from Mexico's President and cancellation of a visit to Washington. The following week, the President hung up on the Australian Prime Minister over immigration policies, and shortly thereafter took a swipe at Germany and Sweden on their apparent massive crime problems. The list goes on and on, neither friend nor foe immune from the acerbic tongue and the misguided thoughts of our leader.

But, instead of a piecemeal approach, Mr. Trump has now offended virtually the entire planet in one ill conceived moment. While, in past months he has withdrawn from trade agreements, has threatened to renege on a pact reached by seven countries to control and delay the manufacture of nuclear weapons by Iran and has refused to commit to protecting our NATO allies, he has now removed our nation from a universal pledge to keep this planet from melting. His ignorance is matched only by his chutzpah.

There are no adjectives to adequately describe the ill conceived actions that are the essence of Mr. Trump. His is not an "America first" policy, but an "America last". We are no longer leaders on the world stage, instead we are the only country on this planet to step away from a commitment to address the one issue that beyond all others unites us.

What will Mr. Trump do now that he has insulted everyone?

Shakespeare on Comey and Trump

("The Complexities of James Comey")

"What's done cannot be undone."  

Can James Comey wash the imaginary blood from his hands? Was Lady Macbeth wrong?

"The play's the thing in which I'll catch  the conscience of the king."  

As act two unfolds, can Mr. Comey's Hamlet be contemplating Mr. Trump's manifest denouement  after the ruler hears the damning testament ? Will the king tweet an armada of denials to which we will merely reply with a "methinks he doth protest too much", and deliver our indictment?

If Shakespeare were scrivener, would the final scene be one in which Mr. Comey makes amends for past transgressions? Will this be his resurrection or will he seem but a man "in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes", a "poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more"? 

If for no other reason, this presidency is unforgettable for its intrigues, deceptions, its injustices and lurking evil. Its characters with flawed characters.

Shakespeare could hardly do better. In fact, I dare suggest he could not. Or as 45 might tweet of the drama he has created, "the best ever. Great. Great. Really."

 "To be or not to be. That is the question."

The Moving Man

I descended the steep ramp to the lower level of the parking garage of our apartment building. The hotel cart I was pushing held a relatively large piece of furniture, its intended destination our storage unit in the bowels of this edifice.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, I could feel my grasp slipping, my fingers clawing to regain control of what I feared would soon be a runaway locomotive. Below, in my direct line, was an expensive looking automobile, parked and blissfully unaware of the possibilities that lay ahead.  In that moment I thought to myself, "this may not end well."

My career as a moving man has been marked only by its failure. A half century ago, I was asked by an aunt to remove an air conditioning unit from a second floor bedroom window. When gravity finished its business, the wreckage on the ground included both the dismembered unit and the heating system below that had cushioned its fall.

A decade later, a cousin and I were tasked with carrying a large urn of coffee down a flight of stairs to an outside family barbecue. For years after, I am certain there was a residual smell of incompetency on those steps. For unknown reason, that was the last time we gathered at this particular residence.

And thus,  given my well known proclivity for demolition, I blame my sister for putting me in a situation fraught with such peril. She and my brother in law were moving into the same apartment building as my wife and I, and had dropped off this piece for temporary storage before ultimately finding a home elsewhere. My wife suggested to me that I undertake the task, despite knowing chapter and verse of the magnitude of my inadequacy.

To be fair to my sister, I don't think she ever perceived that I would be the one assigned this duty. And my wife had instructed that I seek assistance from those whose​ job at the building was to make certain that people like me were never handling responsibilities like this.

In that split second I contemplated whether my homeowner's insurance would cover the resulting calamity. And how the true level of my ineptitude would now become folk lore.

But, by pure serendipity, or because I was now informed that God really does exist, my lunging effort to corral the cart was an unqualified success, and after a few steps of running in tandem with this beast, I was able to bring it under my command once more. A cowboy taming a bucking bronco.

My sister will never have to know how close her simple request came to creating a disaster for the ages. And my wife will never have to add this episode to the far too long list of things at which to shake her head.

I am now contemplating advertising myself as a mover, no job too small and no steep prices. Well maybe steep is a word I should avoid at all costs.

Assault

("Going Beyond Bad Trump")

At a time when the President is being poked and prodded like he is the lead patient at a proctology convention, when his health plan makes us sick, his budget leaves us wanting, his administration is sinking faster than the Titanic, his accomplishments could fit in a shoe box with room to spare, his wall is unbuilt and his immigration orders don't have the constitution to survive, a candidate from his party who just committed a physical assault upon a member of the media is elected to Congress. So much for the theory of trickle down.

For those who thought that this disaster of a President would bring the Republican behemoth to its knees, that impeachment was but a special election debacle away, that the stench from Washington would smell all the way to Montana and beyond, think again. Donald Trump and his party still have a beating heart and are still attacking those who have the audacity to question their conduct. They are still winning. Bigly.

The President is everything we feared he would be, and less. And yet the vast majority of those who voted for him on November 8, 2016 would pull that same lever tomorrow. We who recoil in horror at his every thought, who project our disgust into the minds of every citizen of this country, have to awaken from our dream of a Trumpless tomorrow and a Republican party in free fall.

The nightmare is alive and well, still shoving aside those who stand in the way, still kicking ass and taking names.

Ouch.

Let's Go to the Movies

("Where Did the Great Hollywood Baseball Movie Go?")

We became intimately acquainted with all too flawed heroes in baseball in the generation of Clemens, Bonds, McGuire, Sosa and A-Rod. The greatest were revealed as lesser beings. But is there not some wonderfully redemptive tale lurking in the shadows of these failures?

And, while we have sometimes been saddled with questioning what our eyes suggest, we have also borne witness to the life and times of Derek Jeter, the intersection of talent, grace and class. And now, in its embryonic moments, is the tantalizing possibility of the latest unfolding of this fable featuring the Paul Bunyonesque sized talents of Aaron Judge.

So let us not be so quick to bury the idea of baseball as catalyst for an Oscar moment.

We are certainly not as readily willing to air brush shortcomings and idealize on film those like the Babe whose prodigious talents on the field were matched by his prodigious appetites off it. 

But if the great baseball epic of tomorrow does not appear, it is not because the game has lost its magic, its tragic, enigmatic or compelling characters. And while Hollywood may have long since moved away from the biopics of those like Jimmy Piersall, Monty Stratton, or even the incomparable Lou Gehrig, there is still in the belly of this undertaking the stuff of legends . 

No, if we fail to discover the next great story between the foul lines, fail to produce the next wondrous role for this era's version of Jimmy Stewart, Robert DeNiro (Bang the Drum Slowly) or Kevin Costner,  it is not that the fault lies in the stars (fallen or not) but in ourselves.

Or maybe I am mistaken. Maybe with the advent of 30 for 30, Real Sports, MLB Network, MLB Tonight and countless other options, there are no more mysteries, no more myths, no more room for the mind to conjure up its own suppositions, its own version of reality, its own  demons and angels. Maybe our minds have been oversaturated to the point of exhaustion. Maybe the field is just too crowded for it to encompass another dream. Maybe imagination has died.

Crybaby

("4 year-olds don't act like Trump")

It stands as proposition that immaturity and impulse control are issues that both pre-K children and the President find most challenging.

Yet toddlers do not require the coddling of Mr. Trump, do not need sycophants to assuage a forever wounded soul, do not mandate the fealty of servant to master.

Four year olds are definitely more emotionally resilient than Mr. Trump, not infinitely harboring their psychic injury and plotting ultimate revenge​, as we are informed the President's decision to run for the Oval Office was but retribution for the lambasting he suffered at the hands of Barack Obama at the 2011 White House Correspondent's dinner. 

It is why on Mr Trump's current foreign tour, those with whom he will meet have apparently been warned to compliment rather than confront, to speak of the size of his electoral victory and not of the countless errors strewn across his presidency.

4 year olds have learned, through time outs in the corner, to reconsider their worst ideas and gain some insight into their shortcomings. But Mr. Trump treats his reprimands, like the defeat of his unconstitutional ban on Muslims or his health care debacle, not as moments of clarity but as deep offenses, not as a time for somber reflection but for lashing out, not as a failing of self but of others.

Mr. Trump has now been in office 4 months and maybe a more apt comparison is to a baby that age, unable to stand on his own two feet, uncertain of his surroundings, unable to perform the simplest of tasks. Or maybe that would be deemed the ultimate insult to 4 month olds.

The Bard of Washington

"When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries and look upon myself and curse my fate."

 

While the Bard of Avon may not have quite imagined this particular invocation, there is more than a little Shakespearean resemblance in the travails of the embattled and embittered monarch careening from one self inflicted wound to the next.

 

"No politician in history- and I say this with great surety - has been treated worse or more unfairly." While this phrasing may be plodding and not possess the depth or gravitas of the great poet, Mr. Trump does wax inelegantly as one unjustly persecuted, maligned and mistreated.

 

It is as if we are witness to a play of universal and epic proportion, unfolding scene by scene, the audience in rapt attention, the scrivener a master at bringing those in attendance to an emotional fevered pitch.

 

I believe Shakespeare would have much admired the complexity of this work,  the stage filled with characters of intense passions, the maelstrom created by a person of moral depravity, immense ego, consumed with an insatiable desire to be revered. From the most elevated of heights, performing a high wire act where the next strong gust could result in the most incredible of falls.

 

A tragedy both unimaginable and as real as today's news. From the mind of the Bard of Washington.