Gone With The Wind

 I ran into an excellent round of golf yesterday, out of nowhere. I can, but won't, tell you of each swing, the break on each putt, the score, hole by hole. Inch by agonizing inch.

But, ask me who I played with, spent four hours swapping stories with, had lunch with, and I barely recall. Not that they were forgettable. Merely that my power of retrieval is, to be kind to myself, akin to a three putt on every hole. For you non-golfers, that means pathetic.

My mom suffered from dementia, robbing her of the last decade of her life, resembling the person I knew in body alone.  I understand that none of us, or at least most of us, aren't firing on all cylinders as we move towards the finish line.  But I wonder if the road I am traversing is leading to the dark place where my mom resided those last terrible years.

A few of my friends are wobbling, some around the edges, others taking occupancy wholly in the eye of the storm. I have no clue as to what precipitated their fall, as but a blink of the eye last, we were all vibrant, all free from mental blemish, at least from where I stood and peered in. There was no warning sign, no flashing lights.

For years now, I have been hard pressed to remember names, sometimes even of those with whom I have shared air on more than just the occasional occasion. When being in position to introduce A to B, I merely stand there awkwardly, waiting for A to recognize that the dead space meant I was unable or unwilling to perform the task I was implicitly assigned.

The title, or even the plot of movies I just watched. Forget about it. Literally.  Names of actors. You know, the one who starred with that other famous one in the film about...  Everything becoming a description, each person and even many things losing specific designation. It is what you utilize to turn a light on or off. Oh, you mean a switch.

My wife will ask me to do something, anything, for her. And yes, I am that cliche kind of husband, with what is generously referred to as selective hearing. But it is much more than this failing. I will walk upstairs, intent on accomplishing my task and, seconds later, return from where I started, having completed nothing more concrete than the exercise comprising the climb and descent.

Is there fear in all of this? Resignation? Inevitability? Denial? Some of all of the above. Most often all of this is but a faint noise in the background, something to be ignored. Something happening to other people on their planet. Not mine. Like the way some consider climate change.

And if it is happening to me, what can I do about it? Given my propensities, my response will be, at best, muted. At worst, merely writing these few words and leaving the next chapter as a blank page, to be filled in by forces acting upon me. As though I was disassociated with the event.

If you were wondering, yesterday morning was spent with Paul, Larry, Hank and Rusty. On my best days, I can tell you not only each of my swings, but most taken by the others who wander aimlessly for hours in my company. Not that you would ask.

Just don't make me repeat their names again a few minutes from now. Like that old classic starring the guy with the big ears, that information will likely be Gone With The Wind.

Welcome to the World - Part Two

 I know at your age you don't see  everything too clearly, but at my age neither do I.

I know at your age at times you can find things a little overwhelming, but at my age so can I.

I know at your age you are trying to determine friend from foe, searching for the kindest of touches, wondering who you are happiest to have in your presence. Funny thing is I am too.

So while you think we are very different, we are not. So while you think that I have all the answers and you only have questions, I do not. 

So you think, heck I don't really know what you think, I am just guessing. But then I often am not sure what my next thought will be. The little secret is there is a lot of guessing in life.

But just know that soon your vision will become clearer. And soon those images that appear only in black and white will explode in a rainbow of colors.

Soon you will find days when there is a gentle peace in your surroundings, when the swirl quiets.

Soon you will cherish the touch of your mother and father, the laughter of your sister, the relentless love heaped upon you by those who ache to be in your presence. 

Soon you will hear the birds sing, hear the waters of the stream run, feel the warm breezes in the air caress your face. 

Soon you will understand the same truths as I. Soon you will realize how much alike we are, how much we want the same things, how much we need the same things. Soon you will have wisdom, or at least the capacity for wisdom.

And the one overriding truth is that the capacity for wisdom is all we ever have, young or old, beginning or ending our days. 

We are so very alike, you and I. And I hope along the way, you will be my teacher, will lead me if sometimes I struggle to find the path. That you can be my guide if it appears night is descending. That I can lean on you if sometimes I wobble.

I know it is much to ask of you, but you can ask anything of me and I will move mountains to bring it to you.

You and I. I very much like the sound of that. 

Welcome to the world my little friend. I am so glad you are here. 

Death In Denial

 ("Ron DeSantis, How Many Covid Deaths Are Enough?")

Death in Denial. 

It may sound like the title of an Agatha Christie murder mystery but it is not. It is a killing happening in plain sight, over and over day after day. More like 50 First Dates or  Groundhog Day.

But unlike those movies, life never improves here. Our central character doesn't learn from the error of his ways. There is no happy conclusion to this tale. Not as long as Governor DeSantis is directing this picture.

Death in Denial is playing all over the state of Florida. It is a land of sirens and wails, of overflowing morgues and overwhelmed hospitals, of endless anguish and neverending tortured twisting of  truths. It is a horror film that even Wes Craven could not have imagined.

A Nightmare on Elm Street had nothing on this picture. And the Oscar for worst performance by a Governor in a leading role goes to Ron DeSantis.  

Well deserved Governor. Well deserved.

The Last Plane Out

 Leaving with a whimper and a bang.

This was the screaming exclamation mark on our failure. Our two decade fiasco coming to a terrifying, humiliating, virtually unimaginable denouement. Over the past days, the sights at the Kabul airport serving as storyteller, the images staining the screen blood red.

In the Gettysburg address, President Lincoln said "history will little note nor long remember what we say here, but can never forget what they did here." 

And so it shall be that these days will live in infamy in the retelling, as we depart on the last plane out.

Kill the Umpire

 Below is my response to an article in the New Yorker about some minor league games using robot umpires (like the tennis "seeing eye"machine)

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("Kill the Umpire")

Before your time, in 1950, there was a movie (of the same name as your article) starring William Bendix. It was, as one might expect, a movie that lives on in the memory of few. But it captured quite perfectly our hate-hate relationship with the man behind the plate.

Baseball is a game without a clock, meant to be analyzed in slow motion, perfect for dissection of every pitch, every imperfection.

The molecules of this sport have been rearranged recently, the designated hitter now a staple (of one league), a designated runner now appearing, like a magic trick, at second base at the stroke of extra innings. We adapt, like it or not.

And so too, if push comes to shoving the ump out of the way, we will accept this as an inevitable  21st century reality.

But, when that day comes, I will think fondly of William Bendix. And of every ump I have "lovingly" cursed at throughout the decades. And wonder, if striking out the umpire, was indeed a very bad call.

Not a Snowball's Chance in Hell

 ("The Quiet Rage of the Responsible")

There are no words left unsaid. Not a witty phrase, nor one of pure angst. Not a thought that has been Rip Van Winkling, nor one that still lays tantalizing close, situated on the tip of the tongue, or even the nape of the neck.

Neither Paul Krugman nor any other human being on this planet can offer a uniquely convincing unused contemplation critiquing, criticizing, crystallizing the determination of millions of Americans to put themselves, and us, in the direct path of an oncoming train. They are not blind nor deaf. They see it, they hear it. They do not need to be further informed, advised, chastised as to the impending destruction if they don't merely take a step to the side.

We need not continue to waste our breath nor tax our brain trying to locate pithy prose that would prevail, trusty truths that would move an immovable object. 

Please, no more Op-Eds, no more explanations, no more suggestions that there resides the power of persuasion. If death is not a sufficient deterrent, then no lesser concept of yours, or mine, stands a snowball's chance in Hell of changing a mind.

Enough.

At Least I Was Walking

 ("Spoiling for a Good Walk, Golfers Cut Out the Carts")

My game was in tatters. I had four putted the third, missed a one footer on four and hit out of bounds on thirteen. My score was moving in the wrong direction with relentless precision and my mind was racing with myriad unfounded excuses. But at least I was walking.

It was not a panacea, at least not for this round, but it helped. I was able to join a local club in the early part of 2020, just as the reality of Covid was descending upon us. It proved a tremendous outlet, a way to escape the brutal awfulness for a few hours. We were all given certain restrictions, no rakes in the sand, no ball washers, don't touch the flagstick. And the use of carts was (if memory serves me) initially prohibited and then, for the longest period, limited to a single person occupancy.

For the past year and a half I have walked up and down the hills and valleys here, in search of a swing and the ever elusive birdies and pars. But despite the travails that seem to be the 15th club in my bag, I can unequivocally state that the miles I have logged while yelling at my ball, myself and even God on occasion, have been some of the happiest I have spent in over six decades on the course. 

There is a small centering of self that occurs in the time it takes to travel by foot from one errant blow to the next. A calming of the nervous system. And a feeling that, even on the worst of days, in those times where the club resembles nothing so much as a slithering snake in your hands, that you are doing something good for yourself. Exercising your legs, at the same time you are attempting to exorcise the demons that force every putt wide and every swing to be uniquely aberrant, is a small victory of its own.

So, yes, abandoning the golf cart is something I would recommend for everyone who chases after a little white ball and momentary glory. At the least, it can help make your path to the 19th hole a more pleasant journey.

Chaos

It is an image that will be repeated on endless loop: a scene of utter chaos, people fearing for their lives, masses trying to flee what might be. The absence of control placed squarely on the shoulders of the one blamed for precipitating the moment through his words and deeds.

And as we raised our voices after the storming of our castle on January 6th, and held Donald Trump guilty as the accelerant, so too the man who replaced Mr. Trump will face the slings and arrows for the scene on the tarmac in Kabul yesterday.

I wonder if any of those who compared the siege at the Capitol to a tourist visit will find it in their heart to be so forgiving of this debacle, deeming it merely a question of overcrowding and poor administration of the ticketing process.  

January 6th, 2021 and August 16th 2021, two dates that will live in infamy as the very definition of our democracy and the reach of our ideals, came under brutal attack.

Linking two very different men, two very different Presidents, together in ways that would have been almost impossible to imagine.

Ted Lassoed

 ("Comfort Zone")

It is so glorious to find characters to love without guilt or remorse. Could anyone not find space in their heart for Roy Kent or Rebecca Welton? And who could imagine that in the cynical 21st century, in a universe filled with betrayals, that Mr. Smith Comes to Washington could still exist in the one and only Ted Lasso. 

The coach who makes everyone he touches a better human being. Who believes that people are worth reclaiming (I'm talking about you Jamie Tartt). Who allows us all to luxuriate for a moment or two in feeling good.

I sat with friends last evening as we savored each moment of the latest episode. As "It's A Wonderful Life" greeted us in both the original (thank you Clarence) and its present day iteration. Jimmy Stewart (no coincidence he graced the screen in both the old movies referred to in this piece) now transformed into our beloved coach.

While Frank Capra is long gone, I am thankful there still resonates the sound of that clanging bell on top of the Christmas tree. That a boy Clarence. That a boy. 

A Place Where Only Dreams Should Reside

 ("Shoeless Joe Won't Be There. Aaron Judge Will")

Having an actual game here, does, I believe, a fundamental disservice to a  "Field of Dreams." For the passion of this fable lies in memories, in connections to those who are no longer in the stands, and those who no more stand between the lines.

Like Ray Kinsella, I meet up with my dad in this land where the corn is as high as an elephant's eye. This is not a place where back up ballplayers take their positions, Covid and injuries infecting our vision. Not a spot where strikeouts proliferate and paychecks could  sustain poor nations.

Baseball is a sport unlike any other, regulated not by clock, or the demands of a world forever on the move. Here time slows, and we are free to revel in the company of those who bring the most meaning to our life. Here, is where we have a moment to breathe, to feel the beat of our heart. And let our minds roam, unrestricted by the constrictions of time and place. 

So, while today I will root for my Yankees as I do every other day, I will be saddened a bit that they have invaded a place where only dreams should reside.