I’ve been a Yankees fan for 35 years now, ever since that Sunday afternoon in June when my mother drove me to the ballpark in the South Bronx for the first time. It was Bat Day, 1977, and I was handed a wooden bat with Thurman Munson’s name and Burger King’s logo engraved on it. It didn’t matter to me that the Yankees lost to the Minnesota Twins that afternoon. As I stared out at the vast expanse of green before me, and as I heard the crack of bat against ball, I was hooked. A Yankee fan for life.
Since that day, I’ve chatted about the Yankees all the time with my mom, brother, grandparents, friends and wife. Even my dad, who grew up rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers and was deprived of the chance to bring his sons to the ballpark that sparked his childhood dreams, has come around to talking Yankees with us. And my daughters, despite their marked preference for Webkins and Glee, have their moments of joining in some pinstriped passion.
When talking baseball with others, it can be uncomfortable to share the fact that I’m a Yankees fan. There are, of course, those 27 championships to gloat over – 16 more than any other team in baseball history. With the Yankees sporting baseball’s highest payroll every year, it’s easy to assume that I’m a front-runner. Here in New York, Mets fans may have more misery, but they can always claim the integrity of sticking with their team no matter what the outcome.
Yet, I came of age in the 1980s, the one decade in the past five in which the Mets can clearly say they were New York’s team. I watched the Yankees go 14 consecutive years without making the playoffs, and saw the Mets claim a World Series title and a division crown during that same stretch. Had there been a Wild Card team during those years, the Mets would have made the playoffs six times in seven years. Meanwhile, the Yankees were stumbling along with a variety of managers, general managers and high-priced veterans. So I know what it’s like to see your favorite team implode in front of you while other local club gets all the press.
The past 17 years have changed that landscape quite a bit, though, as the Yankees have made the playoffs every year but one since 1995. It may seem a bit outdated to use the old cliché that cheering for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel. So to update it a bit for 2012, cheering on the Bronx Bombers is more like cheering for higher quarterly reports from Apple. Ho-hum. Buy me some iPads and Cracker Jack.
But with all honesty and understanding, I ask you this: What can I do? Must I feel guilty for the Yankees’ success? Should I stop rooting for the Yankees simply because they have won too often? Do I push aside my memories and toss that old Thurman Munson bat in the trash because of my adult awareness of economics? Is competitive imbalance enough reason to turn aside the rush of childhood joy that accompanies the sight of an interlocking NY? Aren’t all of our baseball passions much more about feeling 8 years old again than about thirsting for victory?
In recent years, Major League Baseball has taken important steps to level the playing field somewhat in terms of team revenue, thanks in large part to revenue-sharing and luxury taxes. In addition, changes to the way the game is played and scouted have turned baseball into a sport dominated by the best young players teams can find. The Yankees have won just one championship over the past 11 years, and their 2012 club is just like all the others they’ve put together over that time period – very talented, but with clear weak spots. They might win, and they might not.
So I’ll cheer for the Yankees in 2012, just as I always have. But at age 41, I’ve matured to the point where my heart no longer breaks if the Yankees’ season ends with a loss. Because I know that whenever my team loses, there are other fans, with their own passions and memories, who are delighted over their team’s victories. Last year, as the St. Louis Cardinals claimed their 11th championship, millions of Redbirds fans were glorying in their unexpected triumph. That’s pretty awesome to see, no matter what the team. This year, I’ve got my eye on the Royals from Kansas City, who have not made the playoffs since their championship season of 1985, and who are unveiling a team filled with some of baseball’s top young talent. It might not be this year for the Royals, but it may be quite soon. I’m also watching out for the Nationals of Washington, who have even more young talent than Kansas City, and could contend for the playoffs as soon as this season. Washington has only seen one baseball championship, and that was nearly 90 years ago. Perhaps it’s about time for a second.
A new baseball season is set to begin this week. I’m hoping to get to a couple of Yankees games this year, where I can see that big green field and hear those bats and balls connect. The season will unfold, and I’ll follow it like a novel I can’t put down. But no matter what happens in the end, it will have been worth it. It always is.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
Antonio and Me
As a high school teacher, I’m on the move nearly every minute of the day. From teaching classes to planning lessons to grading papers to meeting with colleagues to conferencing with students, it’s a whirlwind of activity. And that’s not even counting the after-school club. Or the paperwork. Or the lunchroom duty.
With so much to do, the first week of March comes as a shock to the system for New Jersey high school teachers. For it is during this week that we must stop everything for three mornings in order to proctor the state’s standardized test – a three-day math and language arts exam that 11th-graders must pass in order to graduate. Standardized tests have become, well, standard in America, with each state’s exam going by a different name yet fulfilling the same objective.
When proctoring this exam, it’s not permissible to grade papers or plan lessons. Teachers are expected to keep their eyes on the students, and to make sure the juniors are writing in the correct sections of their answer books. For the two teachers who are paired together in each room, this amounts to some nine hours of slowly strolling up and down aisles. By the end of Day Three, you become intimately familiar with the layout and design of your assigned classroom.
This year, I found myself paired with Martin, a friend and colleague who teaches math. As we began Day One, we glanced around the room while students tapped away on calculators and penciled in bubbles. It soon dawned on us that this room, which is used for Spanish classes the rest of the year, was not just a classroom. It was much more than that. In fact, you could call this room the educational equivalent of a shrine to one man. That man: Antonio Banderas, movie star.
In front of me, I quickly spotted seven photos of Antonio – all of them dutifully printed out to fill up student poster projects on the Andalucia territory of Spain, of which Antonio is a famous native. To my left, another Antonio filled up a giant poster to promote reading. “Antonio Banderas apoya a las bibliotecas de America,” the poster read, as Antonio gingerly fingered a copy of Don Quixote, his forced smile revealing a bit of discomfort with the Cervantes text. Eight Antonios, I figured, was enough. But then, when I glanced behind me, I saw Antonio smiling from the cover of AARP magazine, just beside the chalkboard. I glanced at the magazine cover’s subhead: “Antonio Banderas: The actor and his wife, Melanie Griffith, open up about family, fidelity, and addiction.”
Martin and I quickly realized we were trapped in a world of Antonios, guiding us through all phases of life, from regional geography to reading to recovery. Martin, who still remembers his high-school Spanish, scribbled a quick note in Spanish to the classroom’s regular teacher: “How many Antonios do you need in one room?” he wrote. The next day, she had written back a response: “There are never enough Antonios!”
Oh, I would beg to differ. But imprisoned as we were under the gaze of Antonio’s sultry eyes, Martin and I looked closer and noticed the different Antonio personas: Some pictures featured the polished, hair-slicked-back Hollywood Antonio; others featured the gel-infused curls of a looser, more European Antonio; and still another featured a long-haired, shirtless, blue-blazer Antonio that seemed to have inspired Russell Brand’s entire career.
By Day Three, Martin was driven to the point of haiku:
Antonio B
His eyes … Everywhere in here
It’s kinda creepy
As for me, my more serious nature led not to poetry, but to a mental self-inventory. It was time to compare my own life to that of Antonio’s. I am 10 years younger than the man, but both of our careers have gone on long enough that a comparison seemed valid. So, Antonio, here goes.
If there’s one thing that’s clear to me about my career so far, it’s that I’ve had my hand in a little bit of everything. I’ve taught high school, taught college, written for newspapers, written for magazines, blogged, raised a couple of kids, stayed active in the churches I’ve attended, and led some community service work. It’s hard to pinpoint one thing that would form the lead to my own obituary quite yet. Whatever legacy I’ve got to leave seems kind of varied and all over the place.
But is that really a problem at age 41? Or does it simply make me more like my good friend Antonio? After all, what is Antonio Banderas’ signature movie role so far? Is it Philadelphia or Evita? The Mask of Zorro or The Legend of Zorro? Spy Kids or Spy Kids 2? Shrek 2, Shrek the Third or Shrek Forever After? Puss in Boots or The Skin I Live In? It’s kind of hard to tell.
Whichever Antonio film you like best, it’s clear that the man does not yet have a clear, calling-card role. And that means a couple of things: First of all, the man is versatile: From Tom Hanks to Madonna to Pedro Almodovar to ogres and donkeys, he mixes it up with just about everyone. And secondly, his shining hour may still be ahead of him. We might not have seen the best of Antonio yet – no matter how many posters he graces in a high school classroom.
So although you will never see nine photos of me in a school classroom – I say that with enough certainty to bubble it in with a No. 2 pencil – you might see me, like Antonio, establishing my legacy in the years ahead. And someday, when I’m visiting Andalucia with my wife to celebrate a Teacher of the Year award, I’ll turn on the TV and see Antonio accepting his long-awaited Oscar.
“How far we’ve both come,” I’ll whisper. Antonio will look up at the TV and nod knowingly. There will only be one of him in the room. And I’ll find such power in the moment that I’ll turn to haiku. Somewhere, Martin will be smiling.
With so much to do, the first week of March comes as a shock to the system for New Jersey high school teachers. For it is during this week that we must stop everything for three mornings in order to proctor the state’s standardized test – a three-day math and language arts exam that 11th-graders must pass in order to graduate. Standardized tests have become, well, standard in America, with each state’s exam going by a different name yet fulfilling the same objective.
When proctoring this exam, it’s not permissible to grade papers or plan lessons. Teachers are expected to keep their eyes on the students, and to make sure the juniors are writing in the correct sections of their answer books. For the two teachers who are paired together in each room, this amounts to some nine hours of slowly strolling up and down aisles. By the end of Day Three, you become intimately familiar with the layout and design of your assigned classroom.
This year, I found myself paired with Martin, a friend and colleague who teaches math. As we began Day One, we glanced around the room while students tapped away on calculators and penciled in bubbles. It soon dawned on us that this room, which is used for Spanish classes the rest of the year, was not just a classroom. It was much more than that. In fact, you could call this room the educational equivalent of a shrine to one man. That man: Antonio Banderas, movie star.
In front of me, I quickly spotted seven photos of Antonio – all of them dutifully printed out to fill up student poster projects on the Andalucia territory of Spain, of which Antonio is a famous native. To my left, another Antonio filled up a giant poster to promote reading. “Antonio Banderas apoya a las bibliotecas de America,” the poster read, as Antonio gingerly fingered a copy of Don Quixote, his forced smile revealing a bit of discomfort with the Cervantes text. Eight Antonios, I figured, was enough. But then, when I glanced behind me, I saw Antonio smiling from the cover of AARP magazine, just beside the chalkboard. I glanced at the magazine cover’s subhead: “Antonio Banderas: The actor and his wife, Melanie Griffith, open up about family, fidelity, and addiction.”
Martin and I quickly realized we were trapped in a world of Antonios, guiding us through all phases of life, from regional geography to reading to recovery. Martin, who still remembers his high-school Spanish, scribbled a quick note in Spanish to the classroom’s regular teacher: “How many Antonios do you need in one room?” he wrote. The next day, she had written back a response: “There are never enough Antonios!”
Oh, I would beg to differ. But imprisoned as we were under the gaze of Antonio’s sultry eyes, Martin and I looked closer and noticed the different Antonio personas: Some pictures featured the polished, hair-slicked-back Hollywood Antonio; others featured the gel-infused curls of a looser, more European Antonio; and still another featured a long-haired, shirtless, blue-blazer Antonio that seemed to have inspired Russell Brand’s entire career.
By Day Three, Martin was driven to the point of haiku:
Antonio B
His eyes … Everywhere in here
It’s kinda creepy
As for me, my more serious nature led not to poetry, but to a mental self-inventory. It was time to compare my own life to that of Antonio’s. I am 10 years younger than the man, but both of our careers have gone on long enough that a comparison seemed valid. So, Antonio, here goes.
If there’s one thing that’s clear to me about my career so far, it’s that I’ve had my hand in a little bit of everything. I’ve taught high school, taught college, written for newspapers, written for magazines, blogged, raised a couple of kids, stayed active in the churches I’ve attended, and led some community service work. It’s hard to pinpoint one thing that would form the lead to my own obituary quite yet. Whatever legacy I’ve got to leave seems kind of varied and all over the place.
But is that really a problem at age 41? Or does it simply make me more like my good friend Antonio? After all, what is Antonio Banderas’ signature movie role so far? Is it Philadelphia or Evita? The Mask of Zorro or The Legend of Zorro? Spy Kids or Spy Kids 2? Shrek 2, Shrek the Third or Shrek Forever After? Puss in Boots or The Skin I Live In? It’s kind of hard to tell.
Whichever Antonio film you like best, it’s clear that the man does not yet have a clear, calling-card role. And that means a couple of things: First of all, the man is versatile: From Tom Hanks to Madonna to Pedro Almodovar to ogres and donkeys, he mixes it up with just about everyone. And secondly, his shining hour may still be ahead of him. We might not have seen the best of Antonio yet – no matter how many posters he graces in a high school classroom.
So although you will never see nine photos of me in a school classroom – I say that with enough certainty to bubble it in with a No. 2 pencil – you might see me, like Antonio, establishing my legacy in the years ahead. And someday, when I’m visiting Andalucia with my wife to celebrate a Teacher of the Year award, I’ll turn on the TV and see Antonio accepting his long-awaited Oscar.
“How far we’ve both come,” I’ll whisper. Antonio will look up at the TV and nod knowingly. There will only be one of him in the room. And I’ll find such power in the moment that I’ll turn to haiku. Somewhere, Martin will be smiling.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Crossing Borders in the Garden
As my seniors begin to count the days to graduation, I try and keep them engaged in high school English by giving them assignments they’ve never had before. One such assignment involves a film-analysis unit. Their job is to study a movie as closely as they would a book, then write an essay on the film. This year, I chose John Sayles’ Lone Star, the 1996 indie classic. As they watched the film, I asked my students to write an essay analyzing the borders that are crossed, both literally and figuratively, in this story.
As Chris Cooper’s Sheriff Sam Deeds seeks to solve a long-ago Texas murder mystery, Sayles opens up his screenplay and camera to take on more than just a classic Western plot – he turns his movie into an exploration of what it means to be an American. Issues of race, immigration, assimilation, ethics, historical accuracy, family strife and the burdens of our past all come together in this movie. There are, to say the least, a lot of borders to cross. As my students watched the film, it was fascinating to see which borders they were willing to grapple with in their analysis, and which ones they chose to avoid.
Border-crossing is a theme we’ll be sticking with for a while this semester, as we’ll follow up Lone Star with Khaled Hosseini’s novel The Kite Runner. As we explore this film and book, we might find ourselves more aware of other borders being crossed in the world around us.
If we follow basketball, we might have noticed one such crossing at Madison Square Garden Friday night. The World’s Most Famous Arena has been noticeably quiet during basketball seasons for more than a decade now. But this year was supposed to be different, as the New York Knicks sought to end their years of misery by suiting up two perennial All-Stars. Yet, despite the presence of stars Amar’e Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony, the Knicks were off to a dismal start as February began. Then, a week ago, Anthony was lost to injury and Stoudemire had to leave the team due to the death of his brother. That left New York in even worse shape, and set up for a lost season.
So, with nothing to lose, the Knicks handed the ball to an undrafted, second-year point guard out of Harvard. A California-born kid of Tawainese and Chinese descent. A young man who could have walked the streets of New York at any time and been recognized by no one. Jeremy Lin is his name, and his NBA career includes two brief stints with teams that let him go.
Sometimes, those borders get crossed when you’re least expecting it. The undrafted point guard has scored 20 or more points in five straight games – all them won by the Knicks. After Friday’s 38-point outburst against Kobe Bryant and the Los Angeles Lakers, Jeremy Lin is the toast of New York sports. The Garden is rocking. The Knicks can’t keep Lin’s jersey in stock. Linderella, some are calling it. Linsanity, others say.
Less than a week after the Giants claimed their fourth Super Bowl title, all eyes are on the Knicks. Less than a week before Yankees pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training, all eyes are on the Knicks. This is the way it’s supposed to be in New York in February. But it hasn’t been that way since the Patrick Ewing Era ended, and that’s a long time ago. Now, as a skinny, slick-moving guard slices through opponents’ defenses, there is hope again for the Knicks.
And as many hibernating Knicks fans cross this sports border into basketball fandom again, we find ourselves dribbling across other lines as well. As we watch a basketball player who is neither white nor African-American guide the Knicks to victory, we smile at the knowledge that anything can happen in sports, and our assumptions and expectations can be proven wrong as quickly and as emphatically as a 360-degree spin move.
There are a lot of people out there who love basketball and play it really well, and Jeremy Lin is one of them. He is by no means New York’s lone star – in fact, his style of play encourages teamwork much more than ball-hogging. But as Lin and the Knicks find themselves playing their best basketball of the year, and as an arena full of New Yorkers of all races and ethnicities shout this young man’s name, it is a moment worth noticing in sports.
Sure, it’s just a hardwood floor with a bunch of sweating athletes on it. But at its best, sports is a place where borders get crossed left and right – so much that it’s hard to see the dividing line at all. So embrace the Linsanity, New York. Embrace it fully.
As Chris Cooper’s Sheriff Sam Deeds seeks to solve a long-ago Texas murder mystery, Sayles opens up his screenplay and camera to take on more than just a classic Western plot – he turns his movie into an exploration of what it means to be an American. Issues of race, immigration, assimilation, ethics, historical accuracy, family strife and the burdens of our past all come together in this movie. There are, to say the least, a lot of borders to cross. As my students watched the film, it was fascinating to see which borders they were willing to grapple with in their analysis, and which ones they chose to avoid.
Border-crossing is a theme we’ll be sticking with for a while this semester, as we’ll follow up Lone Star with Khaled Hosseini’s novel The Kite Runner. As we explore this film and book, we might find ourselves more aware of other borders being crossed in the world around us.
If we follow basketball, we might have noticed one such crossing at Madison Square Garden Friday night. The World’s Most Famous Arena has been noticeably quiet during basketball seasons for more than a decade now. But this year was supposed to be different, as the New York Knicks sought to end their years of misery by suiting up two perennial All-Stars. Yet, despite the presence of stars Amar’e Stoudemire and Carmelo Anthony, the Knicks were off to a dismal start as February began. Then, a week ago, Anthony was lost to injury and Stoudemire had to leave the team due to the death of his brother. That left New York in even worse shape, and set up for a lost season.
So, with nothing to lose, the Knicks handed the ball to an undrafted, second-year point guard out of Harvard. A California-born kid of Tawainese and Chinese descent. A young man who could have walked the streets of New York at any time and been recognized by no one. Jeremy Lin is his name, and his NBA career includes two brief stints with teams that let him go.
Sometimes, those borders get crossed when you’re least expecting it. The undrafted point guard has scored 20 or more points in five straight games – all them won by the Knicks. After Friday’s 38-point outburst against Kobe Bryant and the Los Angeles Lakers, Jeremy Lin is the toast of New York sports. The Garden is rocking. The Knicks can’t keep Lin’s jersey in stock. Linderella, some are calling it. Linsanity, others say.
Less than a week after the Giants claimed their fourth Super Bowl title, all eyes are on the Knicks. Less than a week before Yankees pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training, all eyes are on the Knicks. This is the way it’s supposed to be in New York in February. But it hasn’t been that way since the Patrick Ewing Era ended, and that’s a long time ago. Now, as a skinny, slick-moving guard slices through opponents’ defenses, there is hope again for the Knicks.
And as many hibernating Knicks fans cross this sports border into basketball fandom again, we find ourselves dribbling across other lines as well. As we watch a basketball player who is neither white nor African-American guide the Knicks to victory, we smile at the knowledge that anything can happen in sports, and our assumptions and expectations can be proven wrong as quickly and as emphatically as a 360-degree spin move.
There are a lot of people out there who love basketball and play it really well, and Jeremy Lin is one of them. He is by no means New York’s lone star – in fact, his style of play encourages teamwork much more than ball-hogging. But as Lin and the Knicks find themselves playing their best basketball of the year, and as an arena full of New Yorkers of all races and ethnicities shout this young man’s name, it is a moment worth noticing in sports.
Sure, it’s just a hardwood floor with a bunch of sweating athletes on it. But at its best, sports is a place where borders get crossed left and right – so much that it’s hard to see the dividing line at all. So embrace the Linsanity, New York. Embrace it fully.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Holden On
I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don’t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could’ve been there.
For the past three years, I’ve been teaching freshman English again, just as I did earlier in my career. When I review my school’s reading list to prepare my curriculum each summer, there are some titles that I hem and haw over, unsure as to whether I want to give that book a go again. And then there are others for which I have no such doubts; I know I’ll be teaching them. And I know some of my students will be glad that I did.
It’s been 61 years since J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye. Some of those in education have voiced doubts about the book’s relevance in 21st-century America. Some of my students dub Holden Caulfield a “whiner” who can’t stop complaining about everything he sees. Some find it ironic that Holden calls so many people a “phony” when he himself is lying, drinking underage and smoking. They see no reason for a kid to give up on his grades and flunk out of four schools.
I listen, and hear my students’ reactions to this 16-year-old boy who sees so much to frown about in his world. Some may find fault with Holden’s words and actions, but when I ask them if there are things that they find annoying or phony in the world, my students flood the classroom with answers. All manner of human behavior is brought up, as they complain about the actions and words of friends, teachers, celebrities, coaches and family members. I ask them to write about these observations, and they do that, too.
By the time my students meet Holden’s 10-year-old sister, Phoebe, and see the ways in which she’s able to help save her brother from giving up on this world, they’re hooked. They understand by now that Holden never hated the world – he simply couldn’t understand how it could be so full of negativity. He didn’t see why children have to grow up into adults who make such poor decisions and endure such difficult experiences. He didn’t see why we have to give up our innocence in this life. “Certain things they should stay the way they are,” he muses. “You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”
It is Phoebe who helps Holden see that he’s got to find a way through this. The 10-year-old sister challenges her 16-year-old brother to focus on the positive in spite of the many negative things that are, and always will be, around him. Phoebe’s mantra, if she had voiced one, would be similar to that found in the holiday cards sent by a dear friend of ours named Kathy. Our friend’s message is simple: “Heavy on the joy.” It sounds so easy to do, but as we all know it can be hard to keep our minds on the things that bring us love and joy – especially when we see and feel the things that invoke anger, fear, grief or depression.
My wife and I don’t have a 10-year-old Phoebe at home right now. No, our 10-year-old has a lot more Holden in her at this time. As our Katie grows into a girl who can see with eyes wide open, she notices things that make her nervous. This world ain’t easy, and Katie can tell. Her 7-year-old sister still sees it all as one cool dance party, but Katie’s days of unbroken bliss are gone. She sees the phonies and the fearful things, and she isn’t at all sure what to do about it, except worry. I tell her that she’s inherited this all from me, as my own mother had dubbed me “Warren the Worrier” by the time I was 10. I tell her that I had to figure out a way to think about the beauties more often than the phonies, and that I found, as a writer, ways to explore some of the things that concerned me about the world. I tell her that she can do the same.
Katie listens intently, and she takes it all in. She reads, and writes, and goes for walks. All activities that Holden enjoyed, too. Since she could talk, she’s also asked me to tell her stories before bedtime. So tonight, for the first time, I told her a little about Holden. Some of it went over her head, which is fine. I really just wanted her to think about the part at the end, when Holden watches Phoebe on the Central Park Carousel. As Phoebe sits on her horse, smiling and reaching for the gold ring, Holden sits on a bench out in the rain and just starts crying. For once, these are not tears of pain, but tears of joy. Heavy on the joy. The kid sees a moment of pure beauty, and he realizes that moments like this do win out in the end. That life is very much worth living. That even the people who annoy you often end up being OK when it’s all said and done. That the innocence may fade, but the goodness can last.
Katie listened to the end of my story, then faded off to sleep while I sang “Rainbow Connection” to her and her sister. Someday we’ll find it / the rainbow connection / the Holdens, the Katies and me.
I’m finished with Catcher for this school year. But I’m never really finished with Catcher. None of us are. We take it on every day; Katie’s just starting early. The phonies are everywhere; but the carousels are, too. It just takes a little more work for some of us to see them. And man, when we do, it really does make us so damn happy. Damn near bawling.
For the past three years, I’ve been teaching freshman English again, just as I did earlier in my career. When I review my school’s reading list to prepare my curriculum each summer, there are some titles that I hem and haw over, unsure as to whether I want to give that book a go again. And then there are others for which I have no such doubts; I know I’ll be teaching them. And I know some of my students will be glad that I did.
It’s been 61 years since J.D. Salinger wrote The Catcher in the Rye. Some of those in education have voiced doubts about the book’s relevance in 21st-century America. Some of my students dub Holden Caulfield a “whiner” who can’t stop complaining about everything he sees. Some find it ironic that Holden calls so many people a “phony” when he himself is lying, drinking underage and smoking. They see no reason for a kid to give up on his grades and flunk out of four schools.
I listen, and hear my students’ reactions to this 16-year-old boy who sees so much to frown about in his world. Some may find fault with Holden’s words and actions, but when I ask them if there are things that they find annoying or phony in the world, my students flood the classroom with answers. All manner of human behavior is brought up, as they complain about the actions and words of friends, teachers, celebrities, coaches and family members. I ask them to write about these observations, and they do that, too.
By the time my students meet Holden’s 10-year-old sister, Phoebe, and see the ways in which she’s able to help save her brother from giving up on this world, they’re hooked. They understand by now that Holden never hated the world – he simply couldn’t understand how it could be so full of negativity. He didn’t see why children have to grow up into adults who make such poor decisions and endure such difficult experiences. He didn’t see why we have to give up our innocence in this life. “Certain things they should stay the way they are,” he muses. “You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”
It is Phoebe who helps Holden see that he’s got to find a way through this. The 10-year-old sister challenges her 16-year-old brother to focus on the positive in spite of the many negative things that are, and always will be, around him. Phoebe’s mantra, if she had voiced one, would be similar to that found in the holiday cards sent by a dear friend of ours named Kathy. Our friend’s message is simple: “Heavy on the joy.” It sounds so easy to do, but as we all know it can be hard to keep our minds on the things that bring us love and joy – especially when we see and feel the things that invoke anger, fear, grief or depression.
My wife and I don’t have a 10-year-old Phoebe at home right now. No, our 10-year-old has a lot more Holden in her at this time. As our Katie grows into a girl who can see with eyes wide open, she notices things that make her nervous. This world ain’t easy, and Katie can tell. Her 7-year-old sister still sees it all as one cool dance party, but Katie’s days of unbroken bliss are gone. She sees the phonies and the fearful things, and she isn’t at all sure what to do about it, except worry. I tell her that she’s inherited this all from me, as my own mother had dubbed me “Warren the Worrier” by the time I was 10. I tell her that I had to figure out a way to think about the beauties more often than the phonies, and that I found, as a writer, ways to explore some of the things that concerned me about the world. I tell her that she can do the same.
Katie listens intently, and she takes it all in. She reads, and writes, and goes for walks. All activities that Holden enjoyed, too. Since she could talk, she’s also asked me to tell her stories before bedtime. So tonight, for the first time, I told her a little about Holden. Some of it went over her head, which is fine. I really just wanted her to think about the part at the end, when Holden watches Phoebe on the Central Park Carousel. As Phoebe sits on her horse, smiling and reaching for the gold ring, Holden sits on a bench out in the rain and just starts crying. For once, these are not tears of pain, but tears of joy. Heavy on the joy. The kid sees a moment of pure beauty, and he realizes that moments like this do win out in the end. That life is very much worth living. That even the people who annoy you often end up being OK when it’s all said and done. That the innocence may fade, but the goodness can last.
Katie listened to the end of my story, then faded off to sleep while I sang “Rainbow Connection” to her and her sister. Someday we’ll find it / the rainbow connection / the Holdens, the Katies and me.
I’m finished with Catcher for this school year. But I’m never really finished with Catcher. None of us are. We take it on every day; Katie’s just starting early. The phonies are everywhere; but the carousels are, too. It just takes a little more work for some of us to see them. And man, when we do, it really does make us so damn happy. Damn near bawling.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Turning Tom Seaver
It was full-blown baseball nerdiness, but we enjoyed it anyway. It was the kind of thing you’d never figure out unless you lived in our world. And we only did it whenever one of us had a birthday.
My brother Eric, my friend Ron and I had a mutual passion for baseball that far exceeded anything our mid-1980s world had to offer. So we expanded that world on our own. We went to stores and had our T-shirts silkscreened with Yankee uniform numbers and names long before sporting goods stores started selling those shirts. We joined fantasy baseball leagues long before those statistics could be compiled by web sites. We played Wiffle Ball for hours with make-believe lineups made from major-league teams.
And then there was this birthday thing. Instead of saying “Happy 17th, Warren,” my brother and friend would say to me, “Hey, you’re Mickey Rivers this year.” Instead of being 23, I was “Don Mattingly.” And instead of wishing one of them a happy 31st, I’d tell them they’d reached “Dave Winfield.” I guess when you’ve got so many uniform numbers floating around amid your baseball memories, you’d might as well find a use for them. So, during each birthday, we’d connect our years-old to the numbers worn by those pinstriped heroes we used to cheer for every summer night.
And during those years when there were no great Yankee uniform numbers attached to our new age, it was even more fun to try and remember lesser-known players who’d worn those digits. “You’re Bob Shirley,” one of us would say when we’d reached age 29, harkening back to the left-handed reliever of the mid-1980s. Or “Happy birthday, Kevin Maas” when we turned 24, referring to the slugging first baseman who started off his Yankee career like a superstar, then quickly became a much more pedestrian hitter.
I am pretty sure that the woman who would eventually marry me heard some of these conversations, and yet she chose to remain with me. You’d have to ask her why. I guess the important thing to tell you is that as I stand two days shy of 41 years of age, I do not partake in this nonsense anymore. I don’t sit around and think about the ballplayers who have worn the number my aging body will be donning throughout the year. That’s really kids’ stuff, to be honest.
Tom Seaver. Eddie Mathews. Sterling Hitchcock.
OK, so maybe I do think about it a little bit. Just for a minute. Then I move on to other, more mature stuff. Like writing a blog about baseball and life.
Number 41 is not a big Yankee number. There have been somewhat effective pitchers with the number, such as Hitchcock and some guys from my childhood, like Joe Cowley and Shane Rawley. But it’s not a number you’ll see on a pinstriped uniform for sale at Modell’s. Over in Queens, however, Number 41 means an awful lot. Even more than it does in Atlanta, where Eddie Mathews’ number 41 is retired. Mathews was a great player, but he played nearly all of his career in Milwaukee, before the Braves moved south. For the Mets, however, Number 41 represents the only player in team history ever to have his number retired.
They called him “Tom Terrific,” and Tom Seaver lived up to every bit of that nickname. In a 20-year career, Seaver won more than 300 games and became one of the best pitchers of his era. He spent 11 of those years with the Mets, and most New York fans will tell you that the Mets should never have let him go. As a Yankee fan, I always followed Seaver from a distance, except when he showed up as a Yankees broadcaster after his retirement. But when I’d go out on the field to pitch, I’d always hear coaches comparing my delivery to that of Seaver. I had the full windup, the “drop and drive” delivery that saw my right knee scraping the ground and my right foot pushing off the rubber, followed by the overhand delivery with the good follow-through. Just like Seaver.
Of course, that delivery was the only similarity you could find between my pitching style and that of Tom Seaver. Once the ball left my hands, you might compare me to, say, Charlie Brown. But for an average pitcher, I was apparently pretty to watch. A vague reminder of a classic.
So that brings us to age 41 – a little more vintage than I envisioned myself being back in my pitching days. But here I am, Tom Seaver in age. I’m not dropping and driving anymore. Just workin’ for a livin’, raising a couple of kids, and still in love with the cute redhead I met back when I was still pitching and making those corny birthday jokes.
It’s not the kind of thing they retire uniforms for, I guess. But I’ll take it. And as for the growing older bit, why worry? There’s lots to look forward to. After all, I’m only one year away from Mariano Rivera. Three away from Reggie Jackson. And five away from Andy Pettitte.
Plenty of numbers to throw around for a good long while. Baseball nerds unite. And blow out your candles.
My brother Eric, my friend Ron and I had a mutual passion for baseball that far exceeded anything our mid-1980s world had to offer. So we expanded that world on our own. We went to stores and had our T-shirts silkscreened with Yankee uniform numbers and names long before sporting goods stores started selling those shirts. We joined fantasy baseball leagues long before those statistics could be compiled by web sites. We played Wiffle Ball for hours with make-believe lineups made from major-league teams.
And then there was this birthday thing. Instead of saying “Happy 17th, Warren,” my brother and friend would say to me, “Hey, you’re Mickey Rivers this year.” Instead of being 23, I was “Don Mattingly.” And instead of wishing one of them a happy 31st, I’d tell them they’d reached “Dave Winfield.” I guess when you’ve got so many uniform numbers floating around amid your baseball memories, you’d might as well find a use for them. So, during each birthday, we’d connect our years-old to the numbers worn by those pinstriped heroes we used to cheer for every summer night.
And during those years when there were no great Yankee uniform numbers attached to our new age, it was even more fun to try and remember lesser-known players who’d worn those digits. “You’re Bob Shirley,” one of us would say when we’d reached age 29, harkening back to the left-handed reliever of the mid-1980s. Or “Happy birthday, Kevin Maas” when we turned 24, referring to the slugging first baseman who started off his Yankee career like a superstar, then quickly became a much more pedestrian hitter.
I am pretty sure that the woman who would eventually marry me heard some of these conversations, and yet she chose to remain with me. You’d have to ask her why. I guess the important thing to tell you is that as I stand two days shy of 41 years of age, I do not partake in this nonsense anymore. I don’t sit around and think about the ballplayers who have worn the number my aging body will be donning throughout the year. That’s really kids’ stuff, to be honest.
Tom Seaver. Eddie Mathews. Sterling Hitchcock.
OK, so maybe I do think about it a little bit. Just for a minute. Then I move on to other, more mature stuff. Like writing a blog about baseball and life.
Number 41 is not a big Yankee number. There have been somewhat effective pitchers with the number, such as Hitchcock and some guys from my childhood, like Joe Cowley and Shane Rawley. But it’s not a number you’ll see on a pinstriped uniform for sale at Modell’s. Over in Queens, however, Number 41 means an awful lot. Even more than it does in Atlanta, where Eddie Mathews’ number 41 is retired. Mathews was a great player, but he played nearly all of his career in Milwaukee, before the Braves moved south. For the Mets, however, Number 41 represents the only player in team history ever to have his number retired.
They called him “Tom Terrific,” and Tom Seaver lived up to every bit of that nickname. In a 20-year career, Seaver won more than 300 games and became one of the best pitchers of his era. He spent 11 of those years with the Mets, and most New York fans will tell you that the Mets should never have let him go. As a Yankee fan, I always followed Seaver from a distance, except when he showed up as a Yankees broadcaster after his retirement. But when I’d go out on the field to pitch, I’d always hear coaches comparing my delivery to that of Seaver. I had the full windup, the “drop and drive” delivery that saw my right knee scraping the ground and my right foot pushing off the rubber, followed by the overhand delivery with the good follow-through. Just like Seaver.
Of course, that delivery was the only similarity you could find between my pitching style and that of Tom Seaver. Once the ball left my hands, you might compare me to, say, Charlie Brown. But for an average pitcher, I was apparently pretty to watch. A vague reminder of a classic.
So that brings us to age 41 – a little more vintage than I envisioned myself being back in my pitching days. But here I am, Tom Seaver in age. I’m not dropping and driving anymore. Just workin’ for a livin’, raising a couple of kids, and still in love with the cute redhead I met back when I was still pitching and making those corny birthday jokes.
It’s not the kind of thing they retire uniforms for, I guess. But I’ll take it. And as for the growing older bit, why worry? There’s lots to look forward to. After all, I’m only one year away from Mariano Rivera. Three away from Reggie Jackson. And five away from Andy Pettitte.
Plenty of numbers to throw around for a good long while. Baseball nerds unite. And blow out your candles.
Friday, November 25, 2011
They've Got the Whole World in Their Hands
The girls sat down at the bar and waited to order. When the bartender walked over, he looked at my 9- and 6-year-old daughters and asked if they were OK with blue. The girls nodded. He reached beneath the bar, then handed each of them a hunk of blue clay.
“What would you like to make?” he asked Katie.
“A bird,” she said.
“Very good choice,” he said.
“And you?” he asked Chelsea.
“A pencil,” she responded.
“Excellent,” the man said, then proceeded to show both girls the first steps to their creations.
They say you can find anything in New York, and I’m more convinced of that now than ever. I say that because my girls and I drove into the city two weeks ago and went to our first clay bar. That’s right – just beneath Houston Street, on a charming side street off the Hudson, you can take your kids to a bar where they sit and make things out of clay.
It’s part of the Children’s Museum of the Arts, which recently reopened on Charlton Street with loads of artistic opportunities for kids. Walk into this museum and you can paint to your heart’s content, create your own an advertising logo, learn stop-action animation, draw cubist art and use markers to tag your own graffiti. And, yes, you must sit down and try the clay bar. Joe, the bartender, will be happy to see you.
Joe creates the same thing you’re making, and he models each stage for you from his side of the bar. He showed Chelsea how to turn little slivers of gray clay into a facsimile of the ferrule that connects the pink eraser to the wooden pencil. He showed Katie how to make eyes and a beak, then handed her some fluffy pipe cleaners so she could add a few feathers to her bird. As the girls focused on each stage of their clay creations, Joe worked the bar, assisting other kids. A glance down the black marble bar top revealed a turtle, a mermaid, a motorcycle, and a shark complete with fish in mouth.
I’ve been reflecting on Joe and the clay bar this month and during this Thanksgiving weekend. It’s hard to know just what you can count on in this autumn of 2011. We’ve got a federal government that can’t function and a financial crisis that seems to know no end. We’ve got a college sex scandal rocking the country and college tuitions that are no longer affordable for many Americans. We’ve got wars and uprisings in Asia and Africa, and climate change-induced weather uprisings in our own backyard.
So with the world seeming to be out of our reach these days, it’s comforting to find something you can hold in your hands, and shape to your heart’s content. For some of us, it’s a dish we cooked for Thanksgiving. For others, it’s a card or e-mail we’ll be sending to a friend over the holidays. For still others, it’s the tree we’ll be trimming or the menorah we’ll be lighting during the next month.
For my girls earlier this month, it was the clay. They collaborated with Joe for a good hour, and came away with the best creations they’d ever sculpted. The bird and pencil now sit prominently in our living room – proud reminders of what can happen when we work together, experience wonder, and create beauty. Reminders of what it feels like to hold a piece of this crazy world in your hands. It’s still possible to do those things in this world today. Just hop up to the bar and find out for yourself.
“What would you like to make?” he asked Katie.
“A bird,” she said.
“Very good choice,” he said.
“And you?” he asked Chelsea.
“A pencil,” she responded.
“Excellent,” the man said, then proceeded to show both girls the first steps to their creations.
They say you can find anything in New York, and I’m more convinced of that now than ever. I say that because my girls and I drove into the city two weeks ago and went to our first clay bar. That’s right – just beneath Houston Street, on a charming side street off the Hudson, you can take your kids to a bar where they sit and make things out of clay.
It’s part of the Children’s Museum of the Arts, which recently reopened on Charlton Street with loads of artistic opportunities for kids. Walk into this museum and you can paint to your heart’s content, create your own an advertising logo, learn stop-action animation, draw cubist art and use markers to tag your own graffiti. And, yes, you must sit down and try the clay bar. Joe, the bartender, will be happy to see you.
Joe creates the same thing you’re making, and he models each stage for you from his side of the bar. He showed Chelsea how to turn little slivers of gray clay into a facsimile of the ferrule that connects the pink eraser to the wooden pencil. He showed Katie how to make eyes and a beak, then handed her some fluffy pipe cleaners so she could add a few feathers to her bird. As the girls focused on each stage of their clay creations, Joe worked the bar, assisting other kids. A glance down the black marble bar top revealed a turtle, a mermaid, a motorcycle, and a shark complete with fish in mouth.
I’ve been reflecting on Joe and the clay bar this month and during this Thanksgiving weekend. It’s hard to know just what you can count on in this autumn of 2011. We’ve got a federal government that can’t function and a financial crisis that seems to know no end. We’ve got a college sex scandal rocking the country and college tuitions that are no longer affordable for many Americans. We’ve got wars and uprisings in Asia and Africa, and climate change-induced weather uprisings in our own backyard.
So with the world seeming to be out of our reach these days, it’s comforting to find something you can hold in your hands, and shape to your heart’s content. For some of us, it’s a dish we cooked for Thanksgiving. For others, it’s a card or e-mail we’ll be sending to a friend over the holidays. For still others, it’s the tree we’ll be trimming or the menorah we’ll be lighting during the next month.
For my girls earlier this month, it was the clay. They collaborated with Joe for a good hour, and came away with the best creations they’d ever sculpted. The bird and pencil now sit prominently in our living room – proud reminders of what can happen when we work together, experience wonder, and create beauty. Reminders of what it feels like to hold a piece of this crazy world in your hands. It’s still possible to do those things in this world today. Just hop up to the bar and find out for yourself.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Thinking Different
A few weeks ago, my brother and I took my girls to see the Jim Henson exhibit now running at the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. The wonderful exhibit chronicles Henson’s entire career, from commercials and Jimmy Dean talk-show appearances in the 1950s and ‘60s through the mega-success of Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, Fraggle Rock and the Muppet movies in the final two decades of Henson’s life.
I saw this exhibit with Eric and the girls in late September – before the passing of Steve Jobs, before the release of the latest Wilco CD, and before the St. Louis Cardinals’ stunning World Series victory. But as I reflect on these very different events from Autumn, 2011, they all remind me of that very rare individual – the one who can visualize and create something that is not there. Jim Henson, Steve Jobs, Jeff Tweedy and Tony La Russa fit that bill – and for different reasons.
Henson is so well-known for his creative genius that Jobs placed him and Kermit the Frog on one of Apple’s “Think Different” ads in the 1990s. Take a single image from any Muppet – say, Kermit playing the banjo at the start of The Muppet Movie – and you find yourself shaking your head at the sheer ingenuity. Since his death last month, Jobs has been eulogized by many as his generation’s Thomas Edison for his contributions to the technological revolution in which we currently reside. As Guggenheim perfected the printing press, Jobs perfected the smartphone. Jeff Tweedy has led Wilco to a place where pop music defies categorization, and that is meant as the highest compliment. Is this band, now well into its second decade, a pop band? Rock? Alternative? Country? Roots? The more you search for a clean label, the more elusive – and hypnotic – Wilco becomes. And as for Tony La Russa, anyone who is willing to buck the status quo in baseball deserves some kind of plaque in Cooperstown. La Russa’s willingness to think different in how to use pitchers and position players alike – and his ability to win a World Series with the likes of pedestrian players such as Nick Punto and John Jay in his starting lineup – is puppetry at its finest.
Tony La Russa retired yesterday – more than 2,700 wins were apparently enough for the man, and he’s ready for something else in life. With his jet-black hair and his bowl haircut, La Russa looks a bit Muppet-like. He and Jim Henson would probably have a lot to talk about. La Russa would surely compliment Henson on his adroit use of lesser-known puppets such as Bunsen and Beaker. Henson would likely fine-tune the Cardinals’ “rally squirrel” to give it a more human dimension. Jobs would probably recruit them both for an iPhone commercial, complete with Wilco soundtrack.
Yes, the geniuses are out there, and they’re still changing the world. It may seem as if we’re living amid a whole lot of ordinary sometimes. But in spite of the reality-show nonsense and movie-sequel mania, there are still innovative entertainers creating great art for us all. And despite the copy-cat technology in your nearest Best Buy, there are still inventors changing the way we live. Somewhere beyond all those American Idol songs, there are also still musicians crafting truly new sounds. And way out beyond the SportsCenter highlights, there are women and men thinking about sport in ways that no one has dared to think before.
The exhibit in Queens is titled “Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.” As we scan the headlines and the cable channels, this world doesn’t seem all that fantastic sometimes. But if we look within, open our minds and think different, it can seem damn near amazing. Great enough to make a frog sing. Or a Cardinal cheer.
I saw this exhibit with Eric and the girls in late September – before the passing of Steve Jobs, before the release of the latest Wilco CD, and before the St. Louis Cardinals’ stunning World Series victory. But as I reflect on these very different events from Autumn, 2011, they all remind me of that very rare individual – the one who can visualize and create something that is not there. Jim Henson, Steve Jobs, Jeff Tweedy and Tony La Russa fit that bill – and for different reasons.
Henson is so well-known for his creative genius that Jobs placed him and Kermit the Frog on one of Apple’s “Think Different” ads in the 1990s. Take a single image from any Muppet – say, Kermit playing the banjo at the start of The Muppet Movie – and you find yourself shaking your head at the sheer ingenuity. Since his death last month, Jobs has been eulogized by many as his generation’s Thomas Edison for his contributions to the technological revolution in which we currently reside. As Guggenheim perfected the printing press, Jobs perfected the smartphone. Jeff Tweedy has led Wilco to a place where pop music defies categorization, and that is meant as the highest compliment. Is this band, now well into its second decade, a pop band? Rock? Alternative? Country? Roots? The more you search for a clean label, the more elusive – and hypnotic – Wilco becomes. And as for Tony La Russa, anyone who is willing to buck the status quo in baseball deserves some kind of plaque in Cooperstown. La Russa’s willingness to think different in how to use pitchers and position players alike – and his ability to win a World Series with the likes of pedestrian players such as Nick Punto and John Jay in his starting lineup – is puppetry at its finest.
Tony La Russa retired yesterday – more than 2,700 wins were apparently enough for the man, and he’s ready for something else in life. With his jet-black hair and his bowl haircut, La Russa looks a bit Muppet-like. He and Jim Henson would probably have a lot to talk about. La Russa would surely compliment Henson on his adroit use of lesser-known puppets such as Bunsen and Beaker. Henson would likely fine-tune the Cardinals’ “rally squirrel” to give it a more human dimension. Jobs would probably recruit them both for an iPhone commercial, complete with Wilco soundtrack.
Yes, the geniuses are out there, and they’re still changing the world. It may seem as if we’re living amid a whole lot of ordinary sometimes. But in spite of the reality-show nonsense and movie-sequel mania, there are still innovative entertainers creating great art for us all. And despite the copy-cat technology in your nearest Best Buy, there are still inventors changing the way we live. Somewhere beyond all those American Idol songs, there are also still musicians crafting truly new sounds. And way out beyond the SportsCenter highlights, there are women and men thinking about sport in ways that no one has dared to think before.
The exhibit in Queens is titled “Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.” As we scan the headlines and the cable channels, this world doesn’t seem all that fantastic sometimes. But if we look within, open our minds and think different, it can seem damn near amazing. Great enough to make a frog sing. Or a Cardinal cheer.
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