Hamilton for President

I am not throwing away my shot!

I am not throwing away my shot!

Hey yo, I’m just like my country

I’m young, scrappy and hungry

And I’m not throwing away my shot!

This spring, our house has been pulsing to lines like the one above, from the smash-hit musical Hamilton. The show tells the story of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton through hip-hop, dance and brilliant modern-day storytelling. Anyone who has seen the sold-out musical or listened to the bestselling album has probably been hooked on the songs just as my wife, daughters and I have been. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s music, lyrics and dynamic method of bringing Ron Chernow’s Hamilton biography to life are captivating in ways that call to mind other groundbreaking musicals such as Rent and Book of Mormon – shows that dared to be different and offered a new direction for Broadway.

            Part of what makes Hamilton so impressive is the degree to which it speaks to our modern-day world. In Miranda’s hands, we see a show that addresses many of our hot-button issues of 2016, from immigration to race to financial policies to foreign affairs to electoral politics. Hamilton also makes it clear that heated debate – yes, even heated fighting – has long been a part of American politics.

            But despite the musical’s indisputable relevance, I’d guess that even the subject of this show would be surprised at the level of absurdity present in the 2016 presidential election campaign. It’s all been very well documented, so I’m not going to review it with you again. But suffice it to say that no matter how much Alexander Hamilton might be intrigued by the idea of attack ads, Twitter posts and sound bites, he would be disappointed in the tone of this election. After all, this was a man who much preferred taking on his opponents face to face instead of letting others fight his battles for him.

            And that’s where things get most frustrating for me as I follow the current presidential campaign (from a distance, as I can’t bring myself to get too close to something this ugly). When I hear candidates raise ideas that they clearly don’t plan to follow through on, but that serve to rile up an angry base, I am reminded of a memorable line from The Great Gatsby.

By the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel (which, like Hamilton, speaks to the 21^st century throughout every page), narrator Nick Carraway can no longer refrain from judging two of the characters he’s been describing for us. The husband and wife due of Daisy and Tom Buchanan have left a disaster in their wake as they leave town, and Nick knows that they will not be the ones to suffer from this. He says, “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”

This, in a nutshell, is Donald Trump. He raises ideas and proposals that he will never bring to pass, even if he were to be elected president. He will not actually build a giant wall on the U.S. border with Mexico, nor will he arrest women seeking abortions. But because he says these things, Trump brings out emotions in those who take him at his word. And the mess that someone like this can make overshadows any positive steps he could conceivably take as a leader. But he’s a smart man, and he knows that if he says there might be riots if he’s not his party’s nominee, he is both planting an idea and recusing himself of any blame for such violence. He won’t be the one committing any violent acts, so he’ll just shrug his shoulders and say he’s disappointed at what happened.

This kind of behavior is not just a political thing, of course. It’s human nature. We see it when Kim Kardashian posts a nude selfie, knowing that her influence will lead young teenagers to try the same. We see it when Roger Goodell says that if he had a son he’d love to see the boy play football, when in fact the NFL commissioner doesn’t have a son and knows that many youngsters who play will sustain concussions unless the game is made safer. We see it when Ted Cruz promotes Christianity on the campaign stump, knowing that this is being read by some as code for “no Muslims.” So long as you imply your point instead of directly stating it, you’re as safe as Tom and Daisy.

Humans can be sneaky communicators, and they also know how to use their power, wealth and social status to make a tremendous mess of society. They know that their words and actions can hold incredible weight, and they are willing to use that leverage to watch others start a fire after they’ve left the lighter fluid on the floor.

Alexander Hamilton had plenty of flaws, for sure. But he acted on his beliefs, said what he thought, and made his own mess – even the one that led to his own death. “Every action’s an act of creation,” Miranda sings in the song “My Shot.” It’s not uncommon for works of art to speak to our needs better than the leaders we’re considering for elected office. This year, that is particularly true. Miranda’s miraculous work of art is worth every moment we give it, for through his words we might just find a way out of this electoral mess we’re in, and into the light of engagement, collaboration and hope.

It’s time to take a shot.

Forward, March

March can be a grind. It’s a month that does what it wants, when it wants, and leaves the rest of us to pick up the pieces. Like Tom and Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, March recklessly disregards anyone else as it whirls and swirls its way toward selfish ends. One day, it’s 70 degrees. The next, it’s snowing.

Spring begins, and we lift our hopes at the sight of crocuses blooming. But then March startles the crowds by announcing that nothing’s changing yet, and a deep chill returns. Eventually, of course, March and Old Man Winter will step aside and allow the more temperate April to take center stage. We’ll sigh with relief, only to groan a few days later when the temperature soars to 85 degrees.

You don’t feel much like spring when there’s snow on the ground. They tell you that the baseball season begins next week, but that seems like a farce. March leaves us in this netherworld, unable to plant our feet squarely on any settled ground. So, as a means toward survival and pleasure, we stay inside and turn on our televisions. We break out our brackets and watch young men glide across hardwood courts, in a dance they like to call March Madness.

The NCAA men’s basketball tournament offers a surfeit of athletic drama, equaled only by a few other sporting events – the Olympics, Wimbledon, the Kentucky Derby, and the World Series. To turn on your television and know for a fact that somewhere over the course of a few hours you will see a season hanging on 1.7 seconds – that’s just a sports fan’s dream. So please, let the baseball players shag some more flies and get in their morning workouts down in Florida and Arizona. No rush – we don’t need them yet.

I’ve got my eyes set on Harrison Barnes right now. I’ve been following North Carolina basketball closely since I stepped foot on the Chapel Hill campus some (gulp) 22 years ago. I’ve seen a lot of players in Carolina blue touted as the “best since Michael Jordan.” It’s become a cliché of sorts. But this time, it may be for real. UNC has won three national titles since Jordan left for the NBA Draft 27 years ago, but I’m not sure the school has produced as skilled a player as Harrison Barnes in that quarter-century. At 6-foot-8, Barnes is long, lean and lithe. He does not run; he glides. The freshman can shoot a 3-pointer as easily as he can dunk, and he can steal a ball as easily as he can pop a jumper. He will be playing basketball for a long, long time. For now, though, the Tar Heel faithful are the ones lucky enough to have him on their side.

Soon enough, Barnes’ season will be over – either with a tough tournament loss, or with a terrific title run. And then baseball will drag spring back to us, and we’ll have reason to stand outside again and think about doing some lawn work. I’ll plant some grass seed while daydreaming about the Yankees’ chances this season.

Tonight, though, the snow continues to fall. And March exudes its ever-present madness. It’s not a day to dream of pinstriped sluggers; it’s a day for freshman forwards in high tops. I’m ready for tip-off.

The Piano Man

Grading papers is a craft of sorts – you want to provide valuable feedback to help a student improve those skills, yet you can’t spend an hour on each essay. That would leave you with no life whatsoever. So you work efficiently, red or purple pen in hand. And you write those comments in a manner that is part-teacher, part-psychologist – you’re always aware of whose work you’re grading, and what tone you should use in order to leave that student feeling better about his or her potential, no matter what the final grade may be.

It’s a little like the work of a hitting coach. Instead of fine-tuning a batter’s swing or follow-through, you’re honing some reading and writing skills, via full-class sessions, conferences and written feedback. And instead of poring over video and scouting reports, you’re studying The Great Gatsby and A Raisin in the Sun. You don’t expect to become a household name through the work you do, but you know that if you do it well, there will be more than a few students who will come back and thank you someday.

As I was practicing my grading craft Monday, I did so with another craftsman working in the basement below me. His name is Lee Bulkley, and he’s been tuning pianos for four and a half decades. Some kind neighbors had given us their piano upon moving, and this early-‘80s Kimball upright needed a tuning in the worst way. So, thanks to our friend Peter’s recommendation, we invited Lee over to take a look. He walked in, greeted me, and sat down at the piano. He played a few notes, stopped and said, “Well, it sounds awful, but it’s something we can work with.”

There are craftsmen, and then there are craftsmen. In my book, Lee Bulkley more than earned his italics on Monday. The man spent four and a half hours in our basement, delving into the bowels of that piano in search of a sweet sound. He adjusted the tension of strings and oiled the metal pins that held these strings in place. Every hour or so, Lee played a full tune on the ivories to give the piano a test drive. As I worked through my seniors’ tests on A Streetcar Named Desire, I did so to the sounds of Lee playing “The Entertainer” and “Hello, Dolly!” If a few of my students earned higher test grades than normal, it’s because of the mood that Lee’s music left me in as I sat at my desk.

Occasionally, I walked downstairs to check on Lee. At one point, we digressed from talking about pitch, broken keys and the evolution of the Kimball, and instead started discussing careers. Lee shared with me the reality that his business is not faring so well these days. As with so many businessmen in 2010, Lee has had more profitable years than this one. He’s thinking of new ventures, he said. Right now, he’s looking into real estate.

There was a time, not so long ago, when learning a craft and perfecting that craft were seen as some of the highest accomplishments an adult could achieve in life. In this 21st century, though, it has become possible to computerize so many of the things we use and value. While this has its advantages, it also tends to leave the craftsman behind.

And when we do that, we lose something. The Lee Bulkleys of this world have provided an awful lot of soul to the music of life. Losing them would be a bit like assessing our students solely through standardized tests. Or teaching youngsters how to hit a baseball via YouTube videos.

Lee got halfway through the tuning process on Monday. He’s coming back soon, to finish the job. He estimates it will take another four hours. I look forward to seeing him walk up the driveway, toolbox in hand. And I can’t wait to hear him test out his handiwork with a song or two. I may even put the grading aside this time, and just sit and listen.

The Journey Begins (One Sixty-Two: Day 76)

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 Seventy-Six: Mike Murray, Arizona League Giants

We take a break today from the big-league players in order to drop down a few levels. Today’s focus is a Rookie League player fresh out of college. Mike Murray is not a Major Leaguer yet – give him a couple of years. But Murray is a former student of mine, and he’s playing professional baseball, and that’s worth writing about.

As a junior, Mike was an active participant in our English class at Westfield (N.J.) High, often voicing his opinions on the quality of books I selected (thumbs-up for The Great Gatsby, thumbs-down for The Bluest Eye). When I had him again as a senior, Mike helped brighten a first-period English class by starting class discussions while others were still yawning and rubbing their eyes. It’s not often that you have a student for two straight years, but in those two years I realized that Mike was a natural leader. It was no surprise, then, when I learned that he was a catcher. An All-State and All-American one, at that.

In the spring of his senior year, Mike chose college over the amateur baseball draft, and he spent four years studying and playing ball at Wake Forest University. As a senior, he co-captained the Demon Deacons and hit .345, driving in 53 runs in 54 games. This past spring, Mike signed a contract to play in the San Francisco Giants’ minor-league system. He’s got a .333 batting average so far, playing for the Arizona League Giants in sunny Scottsdale, Ariz.

You hear stories, time and again, about the challenges of adjusting to the minor-league lifestyle. The travel, the down time, the expectations, the loneliness. As Mike Murray begins his minor-league journey out West, I’m sure he’s got plenty of support from his family and friends. But for what it’s worth, may he also know that there’s a high school English teacher back East thinking of him, and wishing him a summer filled with joy, good health, strong throws to second and doubles in the gap.

The Valley of Ashes (One Sixty-Two: Day 69)

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 Sixty-Nine: Cliff Lee, Seattle Mariners

As the No. 4 train pulled up to 161st Street last night, I wondered what state of disassembly the old Yankee Stadium was in, 21 months after it last hosted a baseball game. I wasn’t aware that the ballpark was gone entirely, that the cranes and pulleys had torn the stadium apart already. So as the elevated train crawled to its stop, I had trouble believing my eyes.

I looked west and saw a vast, empty lot the size of three city blocks. The lot was coated with a ghost-gray dirt cover and surrounded by a makeshift blue fence. Instead of looking like the House That Ruth Built, this looked more like the Valley of Ashes in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. As I walked down the stairs from the train tracks, I stopped and took another look. This dirt pile over here was right field; that one was left field. Only my imagination could help me see the old stadium that had framed my childhood. Out toward 157th Street, beyond the lot, I could see the old, 138-foot-tall replica of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. This was where I would meet my brother or friends when we were arriving separately for a game. It was the only remnant left.

Of course, as I descended the stairs, I walked across 161st Street and into Jay Gatsby’s house itself. This monstrous hulk of a stadium now houses all the Yankee home games. It was a beautiful early-summer’s evening, and the pinstriped club was hosting the Seattle Mariners. The fans had filled this mansion up, as they do every night. They were walking around the open concourse, shopping in the souvenir shops (they even have a women’s-specialty store, with lots of Yankee pink), and eating at the Hard Rock Café. I was fortunate enough to sit for a few hours with my brother, Eric, and our dear friend, Neil. They had an extra ticket and had invited me. As we sat in our upper-deck seats, we took it all in – the 101-foot-long video screen, the groundskeepers dancing to the Village People’s “YMCA,” and the cascading levels of seats, running all the way down to the “premium” seats at field level, where one seat costs more than the per-capita income of about 50 countries. In those box seats, Gatsby comes over and serves you dinner.

Out in centerfield, I could barely see the monuments and retired Yankees’ numbers beneath the giant, black-tinted Mohegan Sun Sports Bar. Over in right field, I could see the No. 4 train pass through the small opening between the bleachers and upper deck. But the train now passes that spot after it departs, northbound, from the 161st Street stop. So if you’re riding that train from Manhattan, you don’t get that breathtaking, momentary view of the green field while pulling up to the platform. It’s a view that defined the magic of this place. But times have changed.

Seattle’s ace pitcher, Cliff Lee, shut down New York with a complete-game victory last night. The home team rallied in the ninth, then folded. After saying goodbye to Eric and Neil, I crossed the street on my way back to the train station. As I walked up 161st, that blue wall was beside me again. When the makeshift wooden planks offered a slight opening, I caught a glimpse of the Valley once more. Gray, and barren. On the wall, the words “Post No Bills” were printed in white stencil. A man with a saxophone played a slow blues tune in front of the old park. A funeral hymn, perhaps.

I reached the station, and climbed aboard the No. 4. It had been another grand party at Gatsby’s house, with lots of new money all around. I had enjoyed the company and the entertainment.

The atmosphere, though, had left me empty. It always does in this place.