Things We Dare Not Discuss

He sits alone at the end of the dugout. No one speaks to him or even looks in his direction. No one dares to discuss what he is tantalizingly close to doing. It could cause the gods to respond in anger.

Just like watching a pitcher who in the late innings is still twirling a no-no, we fear that if we acknowledge what is happening before our eyes we will jinx it, cause it to disappear in a Jim Comey moment, in a chad left hanging, in a Supreme Court appointee casting a big shadow over our democracy in her first days on the job.

We felt an excruciating pain in every inch of our being, in our soul, four years ago when we had the hubris to count our chickens before they were ready to hatch. We cannot allow that to play on repeat. 

And so we are collectively holding our breath, afraid to exhale lest we turn what we believe we see into a mirage, a cloud of dust.

The gods can't possibly be cruel enough to do it to us again. They can't allow a dying quail to fall in front of a charging outfielder, or a swinging bunt to eradicate all that has come before, to alter the course of destiny.

We will not talk out loud of this. It is not that we are superstitious. But Joe, if you will just sit in the corner and let us ignore you, understand why. We will wait until the last out, I mean the last vote, is counted before we give recognition to your accomplishment.

Just one fervent request. Do not throw a hanging curve Joe. It would break our hearts.

THIS TIME IT IS PERSONAL

 Do you know why President Trump is in trouble? Because this time it is personal.

The pandemic has done what his assault on Muslims, Mexicans, war heroes, political opponents, the media, Congress, the Constitution, the environment, the Justice Department, the FBI, NATO, the Post Office, women, on voting rights, on health care, on those suffering disabilities, on children in cages has not done. The pandemic has changed the thinking of those not  moved by his pandering to autocrats, to white supremacists, to the one percent, his breaking America's promises to the world, his personal immorality, his obliteration of the concept of separation of powers, his use of government for personal profit, his bullying, his dog whistle calls for violence, his boorishness, his destruction of truth, his narcissism, his laying blame for all his egregious errors at the feet of others, his incessant tweeting, his laziness, his relying on Fox News for strategy, his failure to supply his tax returns, his payoffs to keep his dalliances quiet, his pardons for the criminal acts of allies, his obstruction of justice, his "perfect" conversation, even by his impeachment.

This time his absolute incompetence has entered our homes, has taken our jobs, has made us sick. This time his malevolence has separated us from friends and family, has caused many to die horrible deaths in terror and isolation. This time Donald Trump's lies have caught up with him, for they have had horrific consequences that we see, we feel, each and every day.

We want our old existences back and we have learned the terrible lesson that Mr. Trump is not remotely capable of meeting that responsibility.

It is not what the President has been that will cause his political demise. It is what he is wholly incapable of being, of doing, that is finally, finally bringing him to his political knees.

It is not that Covid 19 infected Donald Trump. It is that he didn't do what he had to in order to keep it from infecting, from affecting, us. We finally got to see Mr. Trump, with his mask off. He only had to keep it on and everything else might have been forgotten, might have been forgiven.

This time it is no longer an abstraction. This time it is not happening to someone else, not happening somewhere else. This time it is personal.

You're Always Giving Him Money

("Biden Announces Record $383 Million Fundraising Haul For September")

You're always giving him money

You only give me your indignation

And in the middle of my coronation

I'm way down

I never told you the whole truth

I only gave it an imitation

You only started investigations

The whole time

Out of options, I am spent

Coronavirus put a dent

All the fun is gone, even on the road

Hate this job, I'm getting sacked

All the votes, can't turn them back

Try to slow them down, but yes I know

Oh that tragic feeling, the end of show

Oh that tragic feeling

The end of show, the end of show

One nightmare

Carry my bags and don't mess up my hair

Soon I'll have my own talk show

Trump TV, a billionaire once more

That's my dream, I'll make a score

I'll make a score

I'll make a score (yes I will)

One, two, three, five, seven, eight

Count my votes like this it's great

One, two, three, five, seven, eight

Count my votes like this it's great

One, two, three, five, seven, eight

Count my votes like this, it's great

Amy Coney Barrett

 ("Rooted in Faith, Amy Coney Barrett Represents a New Conservatism")

The dilemma for the Democrats is whether now is the best moment to attack Mother Teresa.

As the Amy Coney Barrett hearing gets underway the Democrats must try to thread a needle knowing that the Judge will be confirmed at the end of the day: they must push against this occurrence without pushing away any votes they need to cling to come November 3.

Kamala Harris, for her part, must be strong in her questioning, but not offensive in demeanor. The Dems must question whether the religious values of the judge will influence her decisions without questioning her religious values. They must try to persuade our nation that America should not be on tilt to the right without sounding alarm bells that the left is taking over the Democratic Party.

The worst thing that could happen in these hearings is that they provide excuse for voters to take their eyes off of Mr. Trump's abysmal record and his ongoing tragic mishandling of Coronavirus devestation. Let this not be the last minute James Comey revelation of 2016 that derailed Hillary Clinton. Let this not be the last word before this election.

The Dems should not roll over and play dead on this nomination, but they dare not go to war, no matter the lingering stink of the Republican stolen seat in 2016, no matter the hypocrisy of Mr. Graham and the words he basically begged the nation to hold against him.

Amy Coney Barrett will bring her ultra conservative originalist beliefs to the highest court for decades to come. Don't also let her be the catalyst for four more years of the reign of terror.

Two wrongs would only make a far right.

Whitey, Baseball Wounds and Unoccupied Seats

 ("In a Golden Era for the Yanks, the Mound Belonged to Whitey Ford")

Tonight's demise at the hands of Tampa was painful in the way a bad tooth hurts just before it is pulled. But, the seventh game loss to the Pirates in 1960 was, to borrow the parlance of Muhammad Ali, the closest thing to death I have ever experienced in my Yankee loving life. I ached from the moment the ball passed over Yogi's head in left (yes, left) until the electric M&M home run derby revitalized my soul the following glorious summer. 

Six decades have passed since Bill Mazeroski became the original Bucky F'ing Dent, a player who drove a dagger deep into the hearts of the opposition and that eight year old boy who often slept with his glove at his side.

The Yankees have misplaced their aura of invincibility for over a decade now, so the sting of Mr. Brousseau's retort for a regular season 101 MPH missile out of the hand of Mr. Chapman directed at his opponent's psyche, was not wholly unanticipated. But that 1960 squad was fully imbued with the power of inevitable victory, especially against a far inferior squad from Pittsburgh.

The Yanks beat them from pillar to post in their three victories and surely it was preordained that the last contest would be their coronation. But the gods can be cruel at times to little boys. And big ones.

I know your piece was devoted to the Chairman of the Board (until today I didn't realize why he received this title). But you were the one who opened up a 60 year old wound in referencing Casey's mismanagement of Whitey's work schedule that series.

If you put Whitey side by side with Gerrit Cole, from their size, stem to stern, to the speed of their fastball, you would have wagered your mother's last penny that Whitey had spent a career laboring at a different pursuit. But, your mom would have died penniless and you would never let that happen.

I am nearing 70 now and I understand there will in fact be a next year, even as there was this one, Covid be damned. There will be unexpected heroics and unexplainable defeats.

If I am fortunate there will never be another Mazeroski in my baseball lifetime, Mr. Brousseau notwithstanding. But also likely never another Chairman of the Board. That seat is now vacant. 

The Fly - Continued

 He grew up a little more than a mile from here. Last week he had been young. This week, he was middle aged. Next week, he might die of old age. Such is life as a housefly. Decisions must be made quickly, or not at all.

Early on, he was not a political animal. For the first 10 days of his life he did not even know the name of our Vice President. But over the past weekend there was much buzz among his friends and family about the show coming to town on Wednesday night.

In a single day he studied the entire Republican platform. Actually it only took him a minute or two to absorb the specifics. And he decided in that moment that he would risk life and wing to be on that stage. His existence had to have some higher meaning.

He knew security would be tight in the hall. Everyone entering would be triple checked at the door. He had heard tale of a cousin who had been killed trying to sneak into this room the day before. He would have to hatch a plan.

He would wait until the debate was well underway. When everyone was distracted by the Vice President's interruptions, or mesmerized by his ability to speak in tongues, he would buzz past security.

And that is exactly what transpired.

Once inside, he went straight to the horse's ass. Or, more accurately, his head. There was a rush of adrenaline, unlike anything he had known before. He was born to be on center stage. Even as he knew he might die here.

He focused on his target, hit his mark perfectly and stuck his landing, waving his arms furiously for but a second in greeting to the millions of other flies who were surely watching. They had to be envious  that he had been the one to rest his laurels on such perfect dung. His intention was to make a quick entrance and quicker exit, safely watching the balance of the debate in the wings.

But, the next two minutes seemed more like an eternity (and they were in fly time) as Mr. Pence droned on. The simple house fly may have momentarily passed out, unable to extricate himself, trapped in a white web, awakened from his stupor only when the Vice President finally hit a period.

Why he was saved from a public execution at the hands (hand) of Mr. Pence he knows not. But whatever the reason, he has stated the rest of his days will be devoted not to flights of fancy but to pursuit of a more down to earth goal: keeping his distance from any Republican web of deception.

The Fly

 Trump has decided to replace Pence on the ticket with the fly. 

The fly now has to be tested for Coronavirus and quarantined for 14 days.

The fly is negotiating a book deal for it's life story.

The fly had the same number of comments that responded to the moderator's questions as did Pence.

The fly was checking to see if Pence was a human or a robot.

The fly appeared to be Republican, like Karen Pence entering the stage without a mask.

Or maybe the fly was really a Democrat, a bug planted on Pence to mess with his head.

One flew onto a cuckoo's nest.

Why didn't the fly get two uninterrupted minutes to answer?

I would rather have the fly elected President than Trump

The fly should be Time's person of the year for 2020 

Long live the fly

Never Gonna Be Alright

 ("A President in the Hospital and a a Nation in the Dark")

You say you want some revelations

Well, you know that isn't gonna be

You ask him all about his condition

Well, you know, information don't come free

For if you expect truths from Chairman Don

I got you a bridge in Brooklyn to bid on

Oh you know it'll never be alright

Never gonna be alright

You say you wonder if he's dying

Well we won't know 'til November 3

You ask him can he please stop lying

Well you know he's gonna be what he will be

For if you want answers you're in the wrong place

Cause the orange one's all about saving face

Oh you know it'll never be alright

Never gonna be alright

You ask about his constitution

Well you know he don't believe in it

You're left with just your intuition

Cause man his docs just give us s..it

For democracy's died a thousand deaths

While we just wait and hold his breath

Oh you know it'll never be alright

Never gonna be alright

Gonna be alright

Alright

All right

All wrong

Irony

 This one is just begging to be listed in Webster's as the perfect example of irony.

While it would be polite to say I wish no one ill, the President has taught us all that politeness is a weakness. So, Mr. Trump let me be the first to wish you not well.

Let me be clear that the President will try to turn his positive result into a positive result. He will inform us he is feeling fine. He will tell us that he is the strongest of men his age, that he can beat back any illness. He will say, look at me, there is nothing to fear from the Coronavirus but fear itself.

But would it not be the height of irony if the virus proved the President's political death knell. If it demonstrated that his mask of false bravado was no defense against a disease that demands one wear an actual mask in prevention.

And while he may recover from the illness maybe he won't be able to recover from the psychological impact of he, his wife and maybe a full coterie of those around him proving how sick it is to try to treat this disease with contempt.

Mr. Trump, I wish you a speedy recovery so that you are in perfect health on November 3 when I hope the results of that test make you sick.

Irony, thy name is Trump.

Mr. Trump, Good Things Happen in Philadelphia

 Dear Mr. Trump:

("Trump Renews Fears of Voter Intimidation as G.O.P. Poll Watchers Mobilize")

 "Bad things" do not happen in Philadelphia.

I was a "poll watcher" there for the 2016 election. I was a volunteer for "Election Protection", having received training to assure that the rights of voters were not abridged by intimidation or otherwise, and that these rights were properly exercised.

I was assigned to monitor three polling places in a mostly minority district. I can report that all went wonderfully. The people I met as I walked the city between polling spots were among the nicest I have ever encountered. The voting issues I had to address at each location were virtually nonexistent.

I left late that afternoon filled with gratitude for having had the privilege to witness democracy working as intended.

Mr. Trump, you can tell the Proud Boys to "stand down." There are, contrary to your assertion, "good people" here and I can assure you that good things happen in Philadelphia. I was witness to them.