Cinematic Soul

                Last night, my wife and I sat with our daughters to watch the Super Bowl together. We savored Amy’s chicken chili, laughed at Stephen Colbert’s pistachio commercials, and admired the Seahawks’ championship defense. But to be honest, Amy and I were thinking about something else on Sunday; we were mourning the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

            For more than 20 years, we’ve been astounded, time and time again, by Hoffman’s acting. Whenever you thought you’d seen the depths of human emotion plumbed as far as possible, another Hoffman film would surface, and you’d find him exploring the human soul even further. His obituaries do a fine job of listing the films, but picking your favorite Hoffman movie moment is about as difficult as choosing your favorite novel or dessert. Even my 12-year-old daughter, who recently saw Hoffman in Catching Fire, had become a fan.

            In my 12^th-grade English classes, we recently watched Hoffman in his Oscar-winning portrayal of Truman Capote, after we’d finished reading In Cold Blood. We used the film Capote to close out a unit on how true nonfiction really is, and whatever students thought of the movie or Capote’s book, they had nothing but praise for this actor who had managed to re-create the mannerisms and moods of a man who had died more than 20 years before the film’s release.

            The thing I found most fascinating about Hoffman as an actor was his ability to bring dignity and accuracy to his roles, whatever they were: a music critic, a political hack, a spiritual leader, a boarding-school student, even a shy, gay boom operator. I’m no film critic, so I’ll be careful not to try and act like one here. But when I think of all the Hoffman movies I’ve seen, perhaps no role impressed me as much as his portrayal of a home-care nurse in Magnolia. In that film, Hoffman’s character, Phil, does little more than listen to the stories of a dying man, his trophy wife and estranged son. But as these characters share their pain with Phil, he feels their struggles deeply, even to the point of weeping. Hoffman’s character shows us that being present and compassionate is in many ways the essence of life.

            My brother, who is a film critic, saw Hoffman at the Sundance Film Festival last month. He, like many others who live in New York City, had also seen Hoffman many times in Greenwich Village with his family, just living an ordinary life. Of course, addiction often does not announce itself on the ski slopes of Utah or the streets of Manhattan. It’s often a solitary and dismal experience, one to which Hoffman succumbed yesterday. There’s no way to gauge the loss to this 46-year-old man’s family and friends, let alone to movie fans like Amy and me – it’s just deeply sad in every way.

            As a parent, Hoffman brought his family down to Cape May Point, just a few miles from my parents’ home. When I’d go out for jogs in that area, I’d keep an eye out for a blond-haired, bespectacled man, likely wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and shorts. If I had seen Hoffman taking out the garbage or helping his kids ride their bikes, I know I would have just nodded the same way I did for anyone else I passed on the roads there. That, I figured, was the ultimate respect I could have given to an actor who had achieved much fame and fortune, but who had never tried to present himself as anything more than the rest of us.

            I never saw Hoffman in Cape May. I’ll be back down there in a few months, and I’ll go out for more jogs. This time, I won’t be looking for my favorite actor. But when I’m passing through Cape May Point, I’ll think of Phil the nurse, or Scotty the boom operator, or Capote. The greatest gift an artist or craftsman gives us is a body of work that lives longer than he does. Hoffman has done this with astounding success, and his films serve to remind us of all that he offered in his brief time here, while also connecting us with the complex emotions we feel, hide, express and share.

Brothers in Arms

            I haven’t followed football nearly as much in my adulthood as I did in my adolescence. This year, however, I am fascinated by the Super Bowl matchup that the National Football League has provided. If I told you I grew up rooting for the San Francisco 49ers, you’d figure I’m into this game because the Niners are in the title game for the first time in 17 years.

            It is cool to see San Francisco winning games again, but that’s not why this game is so interesting to me. I’m going to be watching it for a more basic reason: because I have a brother. I have a brother against whom I competed during every day of my adolescence. So as the football world prepares for a Super Bowl in which opposing head coaches Jim and John Harbaugh are brothers, I feel as though a part of my life will be played out in that game.

            My brother, Eric, is three years younger than me. So by the time he was about 7 years old, we were ready to compete in just about any game we could find. As we grew older, that competition became fierce. We’re not just talking about games that helped us wile away a few hours. We’re talking about games in which our thirst to beat the other left us spending every ounce of energy we had in pursuit of victory.

            Some days it was Wiffle Ball games on our driveway, with one of us hitting a soaring ninth-inning home run off the telephone pole to crush the other. Other days it was one-on-one basketball in the backyard, with our breaths visible in the crisp winter air and Eric’s squared-up jumpers piling up the points against Warren’s wild hook shots. Still other days it was tennis matches at swim clubs and assorted local courts, with Warren’s Stefan Edberg-like finesse doing battle with Eric’s John McEnroe athleticism. On rainy days, it was Matchbox car duels, with my wheels up against his. On snowy days it was video games, tackle football and snowball fights.

            There’s no real end to the events that my brother and I headlined in the Hynes home. I can keep the list going for some time – we haven’t even gotten to Pinewood Derby cars, for crying out loud. Whatever it was, we were locking horns in a duel that was absolutely essential to us both. In order to learn who we were as individuals, we needed to size ourselves up against one another in the heat of battle. Everything we’ve become since is partly the result of those matchups. Of course, the fact that we loved each other dearly – both during and after every game – can’t be left unsaid. But in those games, words of love were the farthest things from our lips. It was a battle to the end.

            So on February 3^rd, it will be Jim Harbaugh’s 49ers against John Harbaugh’s Baltimore Ravens. What makes this so amazing is that for each man, winning Super Bowl XLVII would be the ultimate career achievement. And yet, in order to claim this prize, one man will have to defeat his own brother. This, my friends, is grand drama.

            When I think about those games with Eric, I remember a similar rhythm to our matchups: I’d get out to the early lead, playing soft and loose, and Eric would quickly get frustrated. As my lead grew, he’d then throw something of a tantrum. When I saw him get upset, I’d keep playing hard, and there was no drop-off in my effort. But psychologically, his tantrums reminded me of something deep inside – the reality that I’d rather see my brother succeed than watch myself win. This didn’t always lead to me losing, and there were countless times when Eric – a superior athlete – would have come back and won anyway. But I can think of a few times when we were locked in a fierce duel, and I looked him in the eyes and realized my truest competitive desire – to see Eric triumph, even if that came at the expense of me.

            Today, my brother and I are both writers, and some of our aspirations are the same. We don’t compete with one another for stories, but if you created a scenario in which there was space for only one of us to get a book published, I’d step aside in a heartbeat.

            So when I watch the Super Bowl, that’s what I’ll be looking for – who yields first? Which brother has that inner desire to sacrifice himself for the other? I’ll be scanning my TV set in search of that split-second of mercy. That complex brotherly love, mixed in with the fierce competition. That’s what makes this game, in some sense, the ultimate in sporting matchups. The Super Bowl is always the biggest game in sports, but this time it’s also two brothers playing tackle football in the snow. I may not watch football much anymore, but I wouldn’t miss this game for the world.

            Unless, of course, my brother calls, and asks if I want to shoot some hoops.

The Alps, Applebee's & Andy

According to Major League Baseball’s schedule, pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training in just nine days.

No way. This is impossible to envision. Young men in short-sleeve shirts, fielding grounders? Sorry, bud – that’s beyond my ken. Not in this winter of 2011, when everyone from Maine to Mexico is feeling the wrath of Mother Nature. Video from Spring Training seems about as plausible as live footage from Oz.

In much of America and Europe, the onslaught of snow and ice this winter has been as relentless and frightening as the slew of 90-degree days were this past summer. Scientists tell us that climate change brings with it extremes, and so here we are, with several feet of snow blanketing New England and several feet of rain falling in Australia.

Here in Central Jersey, there’s usually no snowstorm that can stand in the way of a good day’s shopping. But even in the malls, you see the haggard looks and hear the groans of frustration. Outside, the snow-plowed parking lots leave mountains of the white stuff. It’s like the Alps, but with Applebee’s.

In the midst of an all-out ice storm Wednesday morning, Punxsutawney Phil had the effrontery to forecast an early spring for us all as he waddled out of his little hole in Pennsylvania. Thanks for the pick-me-up, little guy, but you don’t get the pleasure of my attention this year. You can’t waddle out of a cozy little hibernation hole and tell me I won’t be shoveling for long, while you and your little groundhog friends kick back and cuddle where the snow don’t fall.

We try to follow incredibly important news stories from Egypt, Tunisia and Washington, yet find ourselves constantly clicking over to The Weather Channel, where we find Jim Cantore howling with shock over the sound of thunder in the midst of a Chicago blizzard. Revolutions in the Middle East are world-changers, but it can be hard to focus on that when I’ve got a constant “Winter Storm Warning” box at the top of my weather.com page. And when I see a story in The New York Times explaining that this is the second consecutive mild winter up at the Arctic Circle, I am rendered speechless and feel the urge to re-watch An Inconvenient Truth.

Pleasant diversions come at us throughout February – Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day, President’s Day Weekend, the Grammys, the Oscars. We grab hold of these and search for a way to forget about the shovels and rock salt. We rent a movie, stir up some hot chocolate, hop on the treadmill. But then we look out the window again, and the frosted flakes are falling once more.

So yes, February 14th is the first day that teams require pitchers and catchers to report to Florida and Arizona for their first Spring Training workouts. Any ballplayer with fire in his belly has been getting his body ready for several weeks now, but next week the athletes start gathering in the same facility with their old and new teammates. Over in Tampa, the Yankees will start their “spring” without Andy Pettitte, the lefty legend who chose to retire Friday rather than leave his family for another long season. After 240 wins, it’s been a terrific career for Andy. He leaves his team with class and dignity.

I can recall a summer’s day, 13 years ago, when I sat with my brother in the old Yankee Stadium and watched Pettitte strand Florida Marlins baserunners all over the basepaths en route to another crafty victory. It was vintage Pettitte – double-play grounders, clutch strikeouts, fist pumps. As I sat in my shorts and T-shirt and cheered Andy on, all seemed right with the world.

Now, as Andy Pettitte retires, he heads back home to Texas – typically a warm state year-round, yet one that has experienced bitter cold and severe storms this winter. As the Super Bowl is played in Cowboys Stadium tomorrow, we’ll find folks bundling up for the game just a few hundred miles north of Mexico. We’ll shake our heads in disbelief.

Up here in Jersey, we’ll remember Andy Pettitte fondly, and we’ll tune into the big game tomorrow as well. But as much as I’d like to read a reflection on the Yankee pitcher’s career or watch a preview of the Super Bowl, I have a sinking feeling that I’ll be checking in with Jim Cantore and those ceaseless storm warnings. Andy Pettitte always knew how to gut it out through those tough spots; those of us living through this bewildering winter know deep down that we must do the same.

Super Cold (One Sixty-Two: Day 34)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Thirty-Four: Ike Davis, New York Mets

So they’re going to play a Super Bowl in Jersey. This seems about as wise an idea as hiring Vanilla Ice to sing at the Super Bowl halftime show. Which, considering the weather around here in February, might actually be a fitting choice.

Whoever earns the right to play in Super Bowl XLVIII will have the privilege of suiting up at the New Meadowlands Stadium in lovely East Rutherford, N.J. If you’re looking for someplace to watch U2 in concert this summer, New Meadowlands is the perfect spot. But a Super Bowl? If I’m spending the kind of money they charge for a ticket to the big game, I want to see it in the most pleasant weather possible. Give me Pasadena, not past the Turnpike.

If the National Football League is going to play a Super Bowl in the Northeast, then maybe Major League Baseball should re-visit that proposal it received from Buffalo, N.Y., to host a major-league franchise. Back in the early 1990s, when baseball was expanding from 26 to 30 teams, Buffalo was one of the finalists. But, alas, it lost out to such warm-weather cities as Miami, Phoenix and Tampa. The one northern city given a franchise was Denver. And while the Colorado Rockies do have their share of snow-outs, a Buffalo team might spend most of April sliding around in the slush and snow.

There is a professional baseball team in Buffalo, albeit a minor-league one. The Buffalo Bisons serve as the New York Mets’ Triple-A affiliate. The team plays its games in open-air Coca-Cola Field, which seats more than 18,000. Up until a few weeks ago, Ike Davis was hitting the ball all over that field. But when you’re too proficient a hitter in the minors, you soon find yourself suiting up for the show.

And so now Ike Davis finds himself starting at first base for the Mets, plying his trade 25 miles from the site of Super Bowl XLVIII. Davis is doing well so far, hitting .282 in his first month as a big-leaguer. The 23-year-old seems able to excel regardless of the weather or the city. Davis even connected on the first pitch he saw from the great Mariano Rivera on Friday night. Davis smashed the Yankee pitcher’s famous cutter into right field for a run-scoring double.

To hit Rivera so hard, on your first try, is a sign that this Davis kid has some big-game talent. And maybe even nerves of steel. Or ice. Ice. Baby. Bring him to the Jersey Super Bowl. He can handle the chill.