At this time a year ago, I found myself astonished at the cool demeanor that Barack Obama displayed under intense pressure. From John McCain to Sarah Palin to debate moderators to news reporters, nearly everyone tried to break through Obama’s cool and bait him into snapping under the spotlight. He didn’t do it.
I remember writing last year that his demeanor reminded me of New York Yankees pitcher Mariano Rivera, the king of closers. Both men work with a humble, confident elegance, and neither man acknowledges the pressure that leaves nervous onlookers biting off the last of their fingernails.
In October 2009, Mr. Obama is now more than nine months into his first term as president – a job he won thanks in large part to that cool confidence. In October of 2009, Mr. Rivera is also still at work this year, thanks to the success that his New York Yankees have had in this season’s playoffs. New York begins its quest for a 27th World Series title tomorrow night against the defending-champion Philadelphia Phillies.
Rivera personifies grace under pressure among baseball’s active pitchers. And while his job is nowhere near as taxing as Mr. Obama’s, there are very few people on this earth who can stand on a pitching mound in front of 50,000 people and execute flawlessly. Even former President George W. Bush, before throwing out the first pitch for Game 3 of the 2001 World Series – arguably the most visually triumphant moment of his presidency – got some advice from Derek Jeter of the Yankees before walking out to the mound. (Jeter advised the president to throw his first pitch from the rubber; Bush did so, flawlessly.)
That mound can be a lonely place. And when a couple of men get on base, time begins to speed up, and the rhythm that every pitcher craves is disrupted by runners taking leads off the bases, crowd noises intensifying, and the inner demons of second-guessing your pitch selections. Before you know it, there’s a liner headed into the gap, and someone’s warming up in the bullpen.
And yet, there are men who just don’t seem to care about the pressure. In fact, they seem to invite it. You need a big win? Just bring it on, they say. In years past, these big-game pitchers came with names like Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, Whitey Ford and Jack Morris. In recent years, postseason dominance has belonged to men such as Curt Schilling, John Smoltz, Josh Beckett and Cole Hamels.
Which brings us to this year. Among the numerous reasons to watch this year’s series – two historic teams who’ve only met in the Series once before, two powerful home run-hitting teams, two rabid fan bases – perhaps the most interesting aspect is the sheer number of pitchers on either team with ice in their veins.
The Phillies sport an ace pitcher by the name of Cliff Lee – a left-hander who has pitched as well as anyone in the sport over the past two years. Lee has been nearly unhittable in the postseason, and he’ll start three games if needed. The Yankees counter with their own ace, C.C. Sabathia, who has been just as dominant as Lee this year. Sabathia, unlike many pitchers, seems even more relaxed on the days in which he pitches. No sweat, he seems to say.
When it comes to veterans, the Phillies have one of baseball’s best players over the past 15 years – a wily veteran named Pedro Martinez. He spent most of the season gardening, waiting for a contending team to offer him the money he felt his reputation deserved. When the Phillies ponied up, Pedro answered the call with the kind of pitching that has already made him a Hall of Famer. The Yankees have their own legend, Andy Pettitte, who broke Smoltz’s record for most career postseason wins when he led the Yankees to their 40th pennant on Sunday night. Pettitte’s aw-shucks personality is completely at odds with his intensity and brilliant execution under the spotlight.
Philadelphia has a brilliant young talent in Hamels, last year’s most successful postseason pitcher and World Series MVP. The lefty has been inconsistent this year, playoffs included, but his resume promises he won’t be a pushover. In the bullpen, the Phillies offer closer Brad Lidge, who has had his share of well-documented playoff meltdowns, yet has been perfect in save opportunities since joining the Phillies before the ’08 season. And the Yankees, well, yes, they still have Rivera. He will be 40 later this year, but he’s shown no signs of pitching any differently than he did at age 26, when he won his first World Series with New York.
The pitching mound is an 18-foot diameter circle. The slim, white pitching rubber stands 10 inches higher than the rest of the field. The pitcher faces a batter who is standing 60 feet, 6 inches away and holding a large chunk of wood in his hands. It can be a lonely and intimidating place.
But at its best, that mound is a place of empowerment. It is a place where an individual finds more confidence than he ever knew he had. It is a place where a man like Los Angeles Angels pitcher John Lackey can shout at his manager, “This is mine!” when that manager comes out to the mound to remove him, as Mike Scioscia did on Thursday night against the Yankees. It is perhaps the most beautiful sight in baseball – an individual not only willing to carry his team on his back, but demanding it.
Give me the pressure. I can handle it. I want to handle it. I believe in myself. Yes I can. Yes we can.
Twenty years ago, I last pitched in an organized baseball game. It was my high school’s last regular-season game, and if we won we’d be in a one-game playoff for the last remaining spot in the postseason tournament. I was up against a manager whose teams I’d been facing since I was 11 years old, and I’d never beaten him.
We were leading, I recall, and I got in some trouble in the fourth inning. I got out of the jam, and as I jogged off the mound, our manager – now the superintendent of schools in a town near mine – walked over to me. I turned to him and barked: “Don’t you dare take me out! You’re not taking me out of this game!” He looked at me, turned away, and smiled. “I’m not taking him out,” he muttered. We won the game.
There were plenty of moments on the mound when I didn’t hold up so well under pressure. But on that day, for that one afternoon, I was everything I’d ever wanted to be as a pitcher. As Pedro and Andy and Cole and Mariano and all the others get ready for the ’09 World Series, I’ll be looking for the nerves of steel. The man who can make that ball dance under the hot lights. The man who handles drama like Obama.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
A Need to Read All About It
Whenever I watch a sporting event closely, as I always do during the baseball playoffs, I think about the story I would be writing if I were still working as a sportswriter. Tonight, for example, as I’m watching John Lackey blank the Yankees in Game 5 of the American League Championship Series, I think about the options: There’s the “momentum” story, on how quickly the pendulum can shift from one team to another; there’s the Lackey story, on the way in which he’s dominated in a must-win game (and will he be available in relief should there be a Game 7?); and there’s the “offense” story, on whether the Yankees really have enough hitting to (a) close out this series and (b) have a prayer against the mighty Phillies.
Of course, I don’t have a deadline to meet tonight; instead, I have classes to teach in the morning. I’m ready for those, and looking forward to them. But when I finish working tomorrow, I’ll look forward to reading what others did write about the game. In particular, I’ll be looking for the latest from my friend Steve Politi, with whom I went to college and who now serves as the lead sports columnist for the Star-Ledger of Newark.
Steve is one of the best sportswriters in America, and he’ll be writing brilliant stories for a long, long time. That is, unless newspapers cease to exist.
There has been so much written in recent months about the decline in readership among daily newspapers, thanks to the combination of Internet, television and radio news outlets. Newspapers have folded, slashed salaries, eliminated positions, and required their staff members to take furloughed vacations. It has been dismal before in the newspaper world, but never this bad.
And that, my friends, is more than a shame; it’s a national crisis. There are many reasons why America’s democracy has thrived for 233 years, not the least of which is the ability of daily newspapers to document the actions of government officials, business people, political leaders, law enforcement officers, entertainers and, yes, even sports teams. Newspapers provide an indispensible depth of coverage and professionalism, and they tell the day-to-day story of America better than any other form of communication we’ve ever created.
When we pick up a newspaper, we’re presented with a wide variety of stories and opinions, and many of the things we learn on those broadsheet pages are new to us. Many of the opinions expressed on those pages are different from our own, yet are there for us to read and consider. As Nicholas Kristof wrote in a March New York Times column, reading the news on-line allows us to self-select the news we read. That is not necessarily a good thing. “When we go online, each of us is our own editor, our own gatekeeper,” Kristof wrote. “We select the kind of news and opinions that we care most about … there’s pretty good evidence that we generally don’t truly want good information — but rather information that confirms our prejudices.” How can we truly learn when we’re looking for things we already know?
Some might argue that with so many people reading on-line, we’ll always be able to hold people accountable and keep democracy in place. But the news on-line, like the news on TV, is always dominated by images. And that means “balloon boy” stories will find more readers and viewers than stories about, say, elections or war atrocities. Sensationalism typically numbs us to the things that truly impact our lives.
And it’s not just the news section that delivers the goods when it comes to daily papers. When tomorrow’s Times and Star-Ledger appear on my driveway, they’ll provide information about area activities that I would never have known about otherwise. They’ll also tell me about new businesses that have opened in the area. And, yes, they’ll give me plenty of information about tonight’s Yankees game.
Things have changed in the ballgame since I started writing this post. The Yankees stormed back to take the lead against the Angels’ bullpen, then lost that lead – and the game – when their own pitching stumbled. Out of my original column ideas, the “momentum” story is the only one with legs. Steve is likely switching gears as we speak, finding a newer angle that will fit with the events of the past hour.
It’s not easy work. Never has been. But I know Steve will pull it off. Great newspapermen and women like him have been making newsprint sing for centuries. And I, for one, am still ready to read all about it.
Of course, I don’t have a deadline to meet tonight; instead, I have classes to teach in the morning. I’m ready for those, and looking forward to them. But when I finish working tomorrow, I’ll look forward to reading what others did write about the game. In particular, I’ll be looking for the latest from my friend Steve Politi, with whom I went to college and who now serves as the lead sports columnist for the Star-Ledger of Newark.
Steve is one of the best sportswriters in America, and he’ll be writing brilliant stories for a long, long time. That is, unless newspapers cease to exist.
There has been so much written in recent months about the decline in readership among daily newspapers, thanks to the combination of Internet, television and radio news outlets. Newspapers have folded, slashed salaries, eliminated positions, and required their staff members to take furloughed vacations. It has been dismal before in the newspaper world, but never this bad.
And that, my friends, is more than a shame; it’s a national crisis. There are many reasons why America’s democracy has thrived for 233 years, not the least of which is the ability of daily newspapers to document the actions of government officials, business people, political leaders, law enforcement officers, entertainers and, yes, even sports teams. Newspapers provide an indispensible depth of coverage and professionalism, and they tell the day-to-day story of America better than any other form of communication we’ve ever created.
When we pick up a newspaper, we’re presented with a wide variety of stories and opinions, and many of the things we learn on those broadsheet pages are new to us. Many of the opinions expressed on those pages are different from our own, yet are there for us to read and consider. As Nicholas Kristof wrote in a March New York Times column, reading the news on-line allows us to self-select the news we read. That is not necessarily a good thing. “When we go online, each of us is our own editor, our own gatekeeper,” Kristof wrote. “We select the kind of news and opinions that we care most about … there’s pretty good evidence that we generally don’t truly want good information — but rather information that confirms our prejudices.” How can we truly learn when we’re looking for things we already know?
Some might argue that with so many people reading on-line, we’ll always be able to hold people accountable and keep democracy in place. But the news on-line, like the news on TV, is always dominated by images. And that means “balloon boy” stories will find more readers and viewers than stories about, say, elections or war atrocities. Sensationalism typically numbs us to the things that truly impact our lives.
And it’s not just the news section that delivers the goods when it comes to daily papers. When tomorrow’s Times and Star-Ledger appear on my driveway, they’ll provide information about area activities that I would never have known about otherwise. They’ll also tell me about new businesses that have opened in the area. And, yes, they’ll give me plenty of information about tonight’s Yankees game.
Things have changed in the ballgame since I started writing this post. The Yankees stormed back to take the lead against the Angels’ bullpen, then lost that lead – and the game – when their own pitching stumbled. Out of my original column ideas, the “momentum” story is the only one with legs. Steve is likely switching gears as we speak, finding a newer angle that will fit with the events of the past hour.
It’s not easy work. Never has been. But I know Steve will pull it off. Great newspapermen and women like him have been making newsprint sing for centuries. And I, for one, am still ready to read all about it.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sweet Dreams, Daddy
In my last blog entry, I wrote about losing my children to Neil Diamond. I wrote of the hope we all hold out, that our kids will embrace our own passions and hobbies, giving us the chance to spend quality time with our kids while also still enjoying the things we love.
For me, things got worse before they got better in that department. But, at least for a fleeting moment, they did get better.
First, the worse. I have asked, cajoled, pleaded and demanded that she please hold off on this music until at least Veterans Day. In the past two years, I have amended that to after Halloween. I cannot, will not, go any further than that. When it hits November 1, I only drive with her when I must. There’s no room for me anyway, as the entire passenger seat is filled with holiday CDs. I tell the girls that this is not normal, and that they should feel free to ask the woman to take these CDs out at any time. They’re sitting in the back, after all, so they’re held hostage to their mother’s two-month-long Christmas-music binge.
So it’s the first Sunday in October, the sky is blue, it’s 70 degrees, and the four of us are driving home from church. I am about to put on some pop music, or NPR, and maybe even find a song that I can tell the girls about. But before I can do so, this woman (I could refer to her as “Amy” or “my wife,” but I’m embarrassed to) says to the girls, “Should we put it on, guys?” They respond immediately: “Yes!”
She slips in a CD, and I hear the jingling bells. No, please. Then I hear Tom Petty. Oh, this can’t be. It is. He launches into a song called “Christmas All Over Again,” which is fun to hear on December 15. Once. Mind you, it is October 4th at this moment, and I am hearing this song. Katie, our older girl, immediately responds: “Yes, turn that up!”
I’m not going to bother with her. She’s lost already. I turn back to Chelsea, who at age 4 is still plenty malleable. “Chelsea,” I say, “it’s not too late. There’s still time – I can save you from this madness.”
Chelsea looks at me as if I’ve just offered to take away her favorite blanket. “I want this,” she says. “I love Christmas music.”
That woman next to me is now howling, pounding the steering wheel. “You haven’t worked hard enough, honey,” she says. “You’ve got to pound it into them. Pound it in.”
Insanity. First of all, I’m not pounding anything into my children. They should come to love whatever they want – as long as it’s not this. Which brings me to my second point – it is just wrong to be playing these songs on October 4th. I can’t sit in this car. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll take Elmo, Barney and Raffi yet again over hearing a Tom Petty holiday song two weeks removed from summertime. I’ll even take the Wiggles over this.
So, with parenting angst at its height, we come to this evening. This night is special to me because my mom and her Neil Diamond records are back in her own home, and my wife and her ho-ho-ho’s are out for the night. So it’s just me and the girls. We’re reading books and drawing, while Daddy catches the Cardinals-Dodgers playoff game in between pages of our Franklin book.
At one point, Chelsea looks at the TV and notices the gorgeous cardinal logo on the visiting team’s jerseys. Katie looks up as well and starts asking how the Dodgers got their team name. As I explain that they were named for “trolley dodgers” in old Brooklyn, the girls are talking about the trolleys they’ve seen, and we’re doing some vocab work, figuring out what the verb “to dodge” means. A few minutes in, they get it.
Katie wants me to tell her some other team names, and how they got started. I tell her about the 1960s Houston Colt .45s, and how they figured out that naming themselves after a gun was a bit over-the-top, and hence the Astros. She’s interested. She wants more. I talk about the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869, and how they became the Reds.
Out pops a baseball history book, and Katie wants to see photos of Babe Ruth. Then she’s asking about Lou Gehrig. I show her Joe DiMaggio, and tell her that her own great-grandfather pitched against him once (true story). She’s amazed at this, and responds, “So that means we’re famous!” I tell her about Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra, and Reggie Jackson.
We head up to bed, and she carries this five-pound baseball book up with her. As I’m putting Chelsea to sleep, she asks who Pete Rose is. Then she brings me a photo of Joe Carter, after his World Series-winning home run of 1993, and asks why he’s lying on the field surrounded by teammates. “Is he hurt?” she asks. “No,” I say, “he’s just overcome with joy.”
Katie asks me to tell them one more baseball story before bed. I go into the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox, and we’re talking about Bucky Dent’s big home run, and Lou Piniella’s game-saving play in the sun, and she just wants more. The girl can’t get enough. “Give me details,” she says.
This is too good. Beyond good. This is heaven on earth. I want to keep going, telling them more. But it’s after nine and they have to go to sleep. I sing Chelsea a song, and she’s out cold. I kiss Katie on the forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.
She doesn’t have to wish me the same; I got my dream already tonight. Tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back to Neil and Tom and Bing Crosby in that car. But tonight, they were in Daddy’s zone, and they liked it. Nobody’s taking that away.
For me, things got worse before they got better in that department. But, at least for a fleeting moment, they did get better.
First, the worse. I have asked, cajoled, pleaded and demanded that she please hold off on this music until at least Veterans Day. In the past two years, I have amended that to after Halloween. I cannot, will not, go any further than that. When it hits November 1, I only drive with her when I must. There’s no room for me anyway, as the entire passenger seat is filled with holiday CDs. I tell the girls that this is not normal, and that they should feel free to ask the woman to take these CDs out at any time. They’re sitting in the back, after all, so they’re held hostage to their mother’s two-month-long Christmas-music binge.
So it’s the first Sunday in October, the sky is blue, it’s 70 degrees, and the four of us are driving home from church. I am about to put on some pop music, or NPR, and maybe even find a song that I can tell the girls about. But before I can do so, this woman (I could refer to her as “Amy” or “my wife,” but I’m embarrassed to) says to the girls, “Should we put it on, guys?” They respond immediately: “Yes!”
She slips in a CD, and I hear the jingling bells. No, please. Then I hear Tom Petty. Oh, this can’t be. It is. He launches into a song called “Christmas All Over Again,” which is fun to hear on December 15. Once. Mind you, it is October 4th at this moment, and I am hearing this song. Katie, our older girl, immediately responds: “Yes, turn that up!”
I’m not going to bother with her. She’s lost already. I turn back to Chelsea, who at age 4 is still plenty malleable. “Chelsea,” I say, “it’s not too late. There’s still time – I can save you from this madness.”
Chelsea looks at me as if I’ve just offered to take away her favorite blanket. “I want this,” she says. “I love Christmas music.”
That woman next to me is now howling, pounding the steering wheel. “You haven’t worked hard enough, honey,” she says. “You’ve got to pound it into them. Pound it in.”
Insanity. First of all, I’m not pounding anything into my children. They should come to love whatever they want – as long as it’s not this. Which brings me to my second point – it is just wrong to be playing these songs on October 4th. I can’t sit in this car. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll take Elmo, Barney and Raffi yet again over hearing a Tom Petty holiday song two weeks removed from summertime. I’ll even take the Wiggles over this.
So, with parenting angst at its height, we come to this evening. This night is special to me because my mom and her Neil Diamond records are back in her own home, and my wife and her ho-ho-ho’s are out for the night. So it’s just me and the girls. We’re reading books and drawing, while Daddy catches the Cardinals-Dodgers playoff game in between pages of our Franklin book.
At one point, Chelsea looks at the TV and notices the gorgeous cardinal logo on the visiting team’s jerseys. Katie looks up as well and starts asking how the Dodgers got their team name. As I explain that they were named for “trolley dodgers” in old Brooklyn, the girls are talking about the trolleys they’ve seen, and we’re doing some vocab work, figuring out what the verb “to dodge” means. A few minutes in, they get it.
Katie wants me to tell her some other team names, and how they got started. I tell her about the 1960s Houston Colt .45s, and how they figured out that naming themselves after a gun was a bit over-the-top, and hence the Astros. She’s interested. She wants more. I talk about the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869, and how they became the Reds.
Out pops a baseball history book, and Katie wants to see photos of Babe Ruth. Then she’s asking about Lou Gehrig. I show her Joe DiMaggio, and tell her that her own great-grandfather pitched against him once (true story). She’s amazed at this, and responds, “So that means we’re famous!” I tell her about Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra, and Reggie Jackson.
We head up to bed, and she carries this five-pound baseball book up with her. As I’m putting Chelsea to sleep, she asks who Pete Rose is. Then she brings me a photo of Joe Carter, after his World Series-winning home run of 1993, and asks why he’s lying on the field surrounded by teammates. “Is he hurt?” she asks. “No,” I say, “he’s just overcome with joy.”
Katie asks me to tell them one more baseball story before bed. I go into the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox, and we’re talking about Bucky Dent’s big home run, and Lou Piniella’s game-saving play in the sun, and she just wants more. The girl can’t get enough. “Give me details,” she says.
This is too good. Beyond good. This is heaven on earth. I want to keep going, telling them more. But it’s after nine and they have to go to sleep. I sing Chelsea a song, and she’s out cold. I kiss Katie on the forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.
She doesn’t have to wish me the same; I got my dream already tonight. Tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back to Neil and Tom and Bing Crosby in that car. But tonight, they were in Daddy’s zone, and they liked it. Nobody’s taking that away.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Good Times Never Seemed So Good
I have tried, at various times in the past few years, to introduce the girls to my hobbies and passions. I bring them to a ballgame, play them a Springsteen CD, read them some of my writing, take them to Manhattan. They’re always interested, and I think they appreciate my sharing the things that I love to do without forcing them to like it, too.
Of course, I’d love it if Katie started wearing a CC Sabathia jersey, or if Chelsea started listening to “Born to Run.” But there’s no promise of that, of course. I’ll embrace the passions they develop, and encourage the girls to pursue those. That’s my job.
And yet, some things are just not fair.
I understand that the girls might not think it’s all that amazing that Derek Jeter broke the Yankees’ franchise record for hits. I know they might not want to sit down and watch his at-bats on TV. I know that the subtleties of Springsteen’s images of longing might be a bit over their heads. But please, I do not deserve this …
It’s my mother who hits the jackpot. Walks in the other day with a DVD, and says the girls just have to watch it. I listen to their conversation, and start shaking my head. It’s him again. Neil Diamond, live in concert from Madison Square Garden. The woman has seen this man in concert about two dozen times, and knows every single song he has ever recorded. In the world of pop culture, this man is beyond a passion for her. If she could buy a bottle of his sweat, she’d do it.
The girls know all about Neil Diamond – they’ve had no choice but to listen to him, and they’ve heard me groan whenever his music begins playing at their grandparents’ house. And yet …
They say sure. They’d love to watch the DVD.
I am cleaning the house, stewing with jealousy. I glance into the living room, and there the girls are, their eyes glued to the TV while this 68-year-old man, glittering with sequins, reaches out with his left arm and croons “I am … I said / to no one there / and no one heard at all, not even the chair.”
I could toss on “Thunder Road” right now, and dare the girls to tell me that “I Am … I Said” can hold a candle to my guy’s music. But I know they’d ignore me. “Look at him work the crowd,” my mom says, and the girls watch intently as this man, looking like a washed-up figure skater, pauses mid-chorus and brings 20,000 baby boomers to their knees. He continues, hitting the chorus with that nasally voice, the “yeahhhhh,” the eyes closed tight, the arm always reaching out toward a fan who’s frothing at the mouth. I try to mock him in the living room, and the girls wave me off. “Stop it, Daddy,” Katie says.
His signature song comes on, and the girls can’t control themselves. As the chorus to “Sweet Caroline” nears, Katie jumps onto the arm of our couch, pumping her fist in the air as she cries out at the top of her voice: “Good times never seemed so good / So good! So good! So good!”
It’s time for bed, and they don’t want to stop the DVD. My mom promises them she’ll watch the rest of it with them tomorrow, and they consent to that. They’ll have to wait another day to see how he works the crowd in “Love on the Rocks.” What a shame.
My whole life, I’ve had to listen to this guy and his pop songs. Several of them are catchy, I’ll grant him that. But so many others are painfully mediocre. For years, I longed for the day when I could get a little more highbrow with the music I played for my own kids. And just as they’re reaching the age when they might actually listen to a few more songs of mine, in swoops Nana with her DVD.
It’s just a matter of months now before she takes Katie to see the guy in concert. Soon, Katie will be wearing a Neil Diamond concert T-shirt, and asking me to buy her an iPod so she can listen to his songs while doing her homework. She’ll buy an old VCR copy of that awful “The Jazz Singer” film remake, and watch it endlessly. She’ll name her first kid “Shilo” or “Soolaimon.”
OK, maybe that’s going too far. It’s time to take a deep breath, let go of this petty envy, and chalk one up for Mom. Music tastes aside, she found a way to pass along her passion to another generation. And really, how awesome is that?
I’ll get my chance someday. For now, I’ll have to watch as this 63-year-old woman sings “Forever in Blue Jeans” along with her granddaughters. I can think of much worse. You go, girls.
Of course, I’d love it if Katie started wearing a CC Sabathia jersey, or if Chelsea started listening to “Born to Run.” But there’s no promise of that, of course. I’ll embrace the passions they develop, and encourage the girls to pursue those. That’s my job.
And yet, some things are just not fair.
I understand that the girls might not think it’s all that amazing that Derek Jeter broke the Yankees’ franchise record for hits. I know they might not want to sit down and watch his at-bats on TV. I know that the subtleties of Springsteen’s images of longing might be a bit over their heads. But please, I do not deserve this …
It’s my mother who hits the jackpot. Walks in the other day with a DVD, and says the girls just have to watch it. I listen to their conversation, and start shaking my head. It’s him again. Neil Diamond, live in concert from Madison Square Garden. The woman has seen this man in concert about two dozen times, and knows every single song he has ever recorded. In the world of pop culture, this man is beyond a passion for her. If she could buy a bottle of his sweat, she’d do it.
The girls know all about Neil Diamond – they’ve had no choice but to listen to him, and they’ve heard me groan whenever his music begins playing at their grandparents’ house. And yet …
They say sure. They’d love to watch the DVD.
I am cleaning the house, stewing with jealousy. I glance into the living room, and there the girls are, their eyes glued to the TV while this 68-year-old man, glittering with sequins, reaches out with his left arm and croons “I am … I said / to no one there / and no one heard at all, not even the chair.”
I could toss on “Thunder Road” right now, and dare the girls to tell me that “I Am … I Said” can hold a candle to my guy’s music. But I know they’d ignore me. “Look at him work the crowd,” my mom says, and the girls watch intently as this man, looking like a washed-up figure skater, pauses mid-chorus and brings 20,000 baby boomers to their knees. He continues, hitting the chorus with that nasally voice, the “yeahhhhh,” the eyes closed tight, the arm always reaching out toward a fan who’s frothing at the mouth. I try to mock him in the living room, and the girls wave me off. “Stop it, Daddy,” Katie says.
His signature song comes on, and the girls can’t control themselves. As the chorus to “Sweet Caroline” nears, Katie jumps onto the arm of our couch, pumping her fist in the air as she cries out at the top of her voice: “Good times never seemed so good / So good! So good! So good!”
It’s time for bed, and they don’t want to stop the DVD. My mom promises them she’ll watch the rest of it with them tomorrow, and they consent to that. They’ll have to wait another day to see how he works the crowd in “Love on the Rocks.” What a shame.
My whole life, I’ve had to listen to this guy and his pop songs. Several of them are catchy, I’ll grant him that. But so many others are painfully mediocre. For years, I longed for the day when I could get a little more highbrow with the music I played for my own kids. And just as they’re reaching the age when they might actually listen to a few more songs of mine, in swoops Nana with her DVD.
It’s just a matter of months now before she takes Katie to see the guy in concert. Soon, Katie will be wearing a Neil Diamond concert T-shirt, and asking me to buy her an iPod so she can listen to his songs while doing her homework. She’ll buy an old VCR copy of that awful “The Jazz Singer” film remake, and watch it endlessly. She’ll name her first kid “Shilo” or “Soolaimon.”
OK, maybe that’s going too far. It’s time to take a deep breath, let go of this petty envy, and chalk one up for Mom. Music tastes aside, she found a way to pass along her passion to another generation. And really, how awesome is that?
I’ll get my chance someday. For now, I’ll have to watch as this 63-year-old woman sings “Forever in Blue Jeans” along with her granddaughters. I can think of much worse. You go, girls.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Beauty and the Bucs
You start your trip to PNC Park by walking over the Roberto Clemente Bridge. It’s a gorgeous yellow bridge in a city filled with gorgeous yellow bridges. On game days, the bridge is closed to vehicles, so pedestrians can have it all to themselves. As you cross the Allegheny River, you see riverboats in the water below, a sparkling skyline behind you, and the ballpark itself in front of you. As you reach the gate entrance, you come upon a tall statue of Clemente himself, just finishing a swing for all time.
This eight-year-old stadium, which the Pittsburgh Pirates call home, is one of the most spectacular ballparks in America. We finally had the chance to check out the park last month when we visited Amy’s uncle, who lives in nearby Beaver, Pa. Uncle Bill, who is in his mid-80s, was up for a Bucs game, so we drove into the city with the girls. When I got to the ticket window, the attendant there told me that with my kids there, we could all have a student discount rate that night of $10 per ticket on the left-field line. I said, well, sure.
So just to recap, we started this trip to a ballgame by (a) hooking up with family, (b) walking across a pedestrian bridge, (c) looking at a fine work of art and (d) getting surprisingly affordable tickets to a major-league baseball game. Once in the park, we had a crystal-clear view of the bridge and skyline, while also feeling very close to the ballfield itself (the park has a capacity of just over 38,000). Uncle Bill had been here before, so he regaled me with stories of his previous trips to this field, and to the Pirates’ previous parks, Three Rivers Stadium and Forbes Field. The girls, who are usually a bit antsy by 7:00 at night, were surprisingly calm throughout the night game. Even they could tell: This setting was truly perfect.
Pittsburgh, Pa., is perhaps the most underappreciated city in America. Take a ride up the Duquesne Incline funicular to the top of Mount Washington, and find yourself staring down at a bustling, modern city skyline, as well as the dynamic convergence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers: the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio. It is a view unlike any other, and the trip up the hill on a red trolley car, scaling Mount Washington at a 30-degree incline, is worth the trip in and of itself.
Finish your Incline trip and drive into the Strip District to grab a sandwich from Primanti Brothers. Pick your deli meat, then watch the cook stack cheese, French fries, cole slaw and a tomato on top of your meat – all of it between two slices of Italian bread. Take a bite. Then another. Amazing.
Spend hours in the Carnegie Science Center, checking out everything from a submarine to a robotics exhibit to a planetarium. Savor some pop art at the Andy Warhol Museum. Visit the city’s colleges – Duquesne, Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh, to name a few. Visit the National Aviary, take a riverboat cruise, and – if you’ve got connections – visit Heinz Field on a Sunday in autumn to watch that football team with the six Super Bowl rings as it once again bolsters Steel City pride. More than anything else, though, just get yourself to the riverside and walk. Take it all in.
Later this month, Pittsburgh will serve as host to the G-20 economic summit. Reporters from around the world will be there, and this aesthetically pleasing city will get its due. Stories will be written around the world praising the city of Pittsburgh for its appearance, its mettle, and its culture. It will all be well-deserved. Uncle Bill knew this a long time ago. He knows enough to stay the hell out of town that week, but he’ll be watching TV at home and smiling at the glowing reports on Pittsburgh. “Come check out Beaver,” he’ll say to the TV. “We’ve got a beautiful town up here, too.” And he’s right; they do.
If you’re going to bolster your city’s image, it’s helpful to do it with a winner. When the visitor looks at Heinz Field, he or she recognizes this as the new home of the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers. As for PNC Park, well, it’s easy enough to connect the stadium with the Pirates – they’ve been playing baseball in this city since 1891, after all. But this franchise, with its five world championships and numerous Hall of Famers, is not at all a winning team in 2009. In fact, this year will mark the 17th straight losing season for the Pirates. That’s the longest losing streak ever in any of the nation’s pro sports leagues.
That’s not pretty, to say the least. When we visited the Pirates, they were hosting the Phillies. There were more than 17,000 fans present, but half of them were wearing Philadelphia red. When Pirates fans tried a cheer of "Let's Go Bucs," they were quickly drowned out. When Philadelphia's Ryan Howard hit a go-ahead home run, the stadium erupted in cheers for the visiting team.
We were walking back across the Clemente Bridge by the time Howard touched home plate; the girls were tired. The city was still sparkling, and the water in the Allegheny glimmered as riverboats cruised along. Pittsburgh was steeling itself for the flurry of visitors that late September will bring. As the economists, entrepreneurs, reporters and world leaders descend on the city, the Pirates will be home, playing baseball in their jewel of a park. It’s a good week to have your sports team playing home games.
Just imagine the excitement, though, if Pittsburgh were actually in a pennant race. You’d have had to grab your binoculars and take the Incline up just to see the game live. Or you’d have had to catch the Bucs on TV with a sandwich in your face at Primanti.
That’s the kind of thing this city deserves. It’s got the beauty; now it needs the buzz. Come on, Pirates – make the place proud.
This eight-year-old stadium, which the Pittsburgh Pirates call home, is one of the most spectacular ballparks in America. We finally had the chance to check out the park last month when we visited Amy’s uncle, who lives in nearby Beaver, Pa. Uncle Bill, who is in his mid-80s, was up for a Bucs game, so we drove into the city with the girls. When I got to the ticket window, the attendant there told me that with my kids there, we could all have a student discount rate that night of $10 per ticket on the left-field line. I said, well, sure.
So just to recap, we started this trip to a ballgame by (a) hooking up with family, (b) walking across a pedestrian bridge, (c) looking at a fine work of art and (d) getting surprisingly affordable tickets to a major-league baseball game. Once in the park, we had a crystal-clear view of the bridge and skyline, while also feeling very close to the ballfield itself (the park has a capacity of just over 38,000). Uncle Bill had been here before, so he regaled me with stories of his previous trips to this field, and to the Pirates’ previous parks, Three Rivers Stadium and Forbes Field. The girls, who are usually a bit antsy by 7:00 at night, were surprisingly calm throughout the night game. Even they could tell: This setting was truly perfect.
Pittsburgh, Pa., is perhaps the most underappreciated city in America. Take a ride up the Duquesne Incline funicular to the top of Mount Washington, and find yourself staring down at a bustling, modern city skyline, as well as the dynamic convergence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers: the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio. It is a view unlike any other, and the trip up the hill on a red trolley car, scaling Mount Washington at a 30-degree incline, is worth the trip in and of itself.
Finish your Incline trip and drive into the Strip District to grab a sandwich from Primanti Brothers. Pick your deli meat, then watch the cook stack cheese, French fries, cole slaw and a tomato on top of your meat – all of it between two slices of Italian bread. Take a bite. Then another. Amazing.
Spend hours in the Carnegie Science Center, checking out everything from a submarine to a robotics exhibit to a planetarium. Savor some pop art at the Andy Warhol Museum. Visit the city’s colleges – Duquesne, Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh, to name a few. Visit the National Aviary, take a riverboat cruise, and – if you’ve got connections – visit Heinz Field on a Sunday in autumn to watch that football team with the six Super Bowl rings as it once again bolsters Steel City pride. More than anything else, though, just get yourself to the riverside and walk. Take it all in.
Later this month, Pittsburgh will serve as host to the G-20 economic summit. Reporters from around the world will be there, and this aesthetically pleasing city will get its due. Stories will be written around the world praising the city of Pittsburgh for its appearance, its mettle, and its culture. It will all be well-deserved. Uncle Bill knew this a long time ago. He knows enough to stay the hell out of town that week, but he’ll be watching TV at home and smiling at the glowing reports on Pittsburgh. “Come check out Beaver,” he’ll say to the TV. “We’ve got a beautiful town up here, too.” And he’s right; they do.
If you’re going to bolster your city’s image, it’s helpful to do it with a winner. When the visitor looks at Heinz Field, he or she recognizes this as the new home of the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers. As for PNC Park, well, it’s easy enough to connect the stadium with the Pirates – they’ve been playing baseball in this city since 1891, after all. But this franchise, with its five world championships and numerous Hall of Famers, is not at all a winning team in 2009. In fact, this year will mark the 17th straight losing season for the Pirates. That’s the longest losing streak ever in any of the nation’s pro sports leagues.
That’s not pretty, to say the least. When we visited the Pirates, they were hosting the Phillies. There were more than 17,000 fans present, but half of them were wearing Philadelphia red. When Pirates fans tried a cheer of "Let's Go Bucs," they were quickly drowned out. When Philadelphia's Ryan Howard hit a go-ahead home run, the stadium erupted in cheers for the visiting team.
We were walking back across the Clemente Bridge by the time Howard touched home plate; the girls were tired. The city was still sparkling, and the water in the Allegheny glimmered as riverboats cruised along. Pittsburgh was steeling itself for the flurry of visitors that late September will bring. As the economists, entrepreneurs, reporters and world leaders descend on the city, the Pirates will be home, playing baseball in their jewel of a park. It’s a good week to have your sports team playing home games.
Just imagine the excitement, though, if Pittsburgh were actually in a pennant race. You’d have had to grab your binoculars and take the Incline up just to see the game live. Or you’d have had to catch the Bucs on TV with a sandwich in your face at Primanti.
That’s the kind of thing this city deserves. It’s got the beauty; now it needs the buzz. Come on, Pirates – make the place proud.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tell Me What to Think
I am tired of the experts. Take them away. Far away. I want some peace.
There was a time, about 90 years ago, when all Americans learned about current events from people who wrote for newspapers and magazines. These folks, we hoped, had done their due diligence, and were presenting us with the straight facts. There were times, of course, when print journalists took advantage of our reliance on them, even going so far as to provoke wars that we couldn’t see. But for the most part, journalists took their responsibility quite seriously.
As the middle of the 20th century unfolded in a blaze of technological glory, radio and television journalists were added to the fold. They began as experts – a Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley portraying an air of distinction and class, presenting us the news without commentary. Tough TV reporters, from Dan Rather to Ted Koppel, brought us a powerful and informative combination of words and images. They worked hard, and we trusted their reports.
The past 30 years have brought a well-documented technological revolution, one that has given us the ability to do so much more than we could decades ago, and with such breathtaking celerity. I’m as pleased as the next guy that I can use my debit card, and watch cable TV, and check my e-mail, and send a text to my wife. Amazing stuff.
But there’s always a price that we pay for the progress we make. In the case of journalism, the proliferation of cable stations and web sites has led to a fervent competition for readers and viewers. Whatever gives your ratings a boost, you go ahead and do. Whatever increases your number of web-site hits, you do.
And what most of these 21st-century news sources have found is that the modern media consumer likes an abundance of commentary. When we’ve got the ability to switch channels and web sites with the click of a button, we’re much less likely to spend any time on a point of view with which we disagree. So if your consumer is self-selecting his news anyway, why not toss out a bunch of opinion-based “news,” and know that if your opinions match his point of view, he’s sticking with you? Create a cable show or a blog or a web site, put someone on a soap box, and let the consumers come to you.
This is where we find ourselves in this summer of 2009. And the results are not pretty. It’s not the details of the health care reform act that we get – it’s the spin, and hence the misinformation. It’s not the economic background we get, to better understand how our financial system works – no, instead we get the advice, much of it conflicting, on what we should do with our money. Even in matters such as sports, it’s not the news we focus on so much as the expert “fantasy sports” consequences of David Wright’s injury or Brett Favre’s comeback.
We live in a world of shouting voices, all of them trying to tell us what to do. They desperately want us to spend time with them, and they’re doing the same thing that mountebanks were doing 150 years ago, selling quack medicines from atop a platform in town squares across the country. They’re playing on our insecurities, telling us that they’ve got the solution to what ails us, and that we ignore them at our own peril. They just have a slicker presentation, with graphics and YouTube spots.
It’s quiet tonight. I’ve got the TV off, and I’m getting ready to sit down and get back to the Dave Eggers book I’ve been reading. I can hear the crickets outside, and they sound nice. They sound like they get along, and even appreciate the value of a little consensus once in awhile.
I’ll return to the madness in the morning. But when I do, I’ll try to fight off those insecurities, and look for the straight news first. I want to make up my own mind, and take my time in doing it.
There was a time, about 90 years ago, when all Americans learned about current events from people who wrote for newspapers and magazines. These folks, we hoped, had done their due diligence, and were presenting us with the straight facts. There were times, of course, when print journalists took advantage of our reliance on them, even going so far as to provoke wars that we couldn’t see. But for the most part, journalists took their responsibility quite seriously.
As the middle of the 20th century unfolded in a blaze of technological glory, radio and television journalists were added to the fold. They began as experts – a Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley portraying an air of distinction and class, presenting us the news without commentary. Tough TV reporters, from Dan Rather to Ted Koppel, brought us a powerful and informative combination of words and images. They worked hard, and we trusted their reports.
The past 30 years have brought a well-documented technological revolution, one that has given us the ability to do so much more than we could decades ago, and with such breathtaking celerity. I’m as pleased as the next guy that I can use my debit card, and watch cable TV, and check my e-mail, and send a text to my wife. Amazing stuff.
But there’s always a price that we pay for the progress we make. In the case of journalism, the proliferation of cable stations and web sites has led to a fervent competition for readers and viewers. Whatever gives your ratings a boost, you go ahead and do. Whatever increases your number of web-site hits, you do.
And what most of these 21st-century news sources have found is that the modern media consumer likes an abundance of commentary. When we’ve got the ability to switch channels and web sites with the click of a button, we’re much less likely to spend any time on a point of view with which we disagree. So if your consumer is self-selecting his news anyway, why not toss out a bunch of opinion-based “news,” and know that if your opinions match his point of view, he’s sticking with you? Create a cable show or a blog or a web site, put someone on a soap box, and let the consumers come to you.
This is where we find ourselves in this summer of 2009. And the results are not pretty. It’s not the details of the health care reform act that we get – it’s the spin, and hence the misinformation. It’s not the economic background we get, to better understand how our financial system works – no, instead we get the advice, much of it conflicting, on what we should do with our money. Even in matters such as sports, it’s not the news we focus on so much as the expert “fantasy sports” consequences of David Wright’s injury or Brett Favre’s comeback.
We live in a world of shouting voices, all of them trying to tell us what to do. They desperately want us to spend time with them, and they’re doing the same thing that mountebanks were doing 150 years ago, selling quack medicines from atop a platform in town squares across the country. They’re playing on our insecurities, telling us that they’ve got the solution to what ails us, and that we ignore them at our own peril. They just have a slicker presentation, with graphics and YouTube spots.
It’s quiet tonight. I’ve got the TV off, and I’m getting ready to sit down and get back to the Dave Eggers book I’ve been reading. I can hear the crickets outside, and they sound nice. They sound like they get along, and even appreciate the value of a little consensus once in awhile.
I’ll return to the madness in the morning. But when I do, I’ll try to fight off those insecurities, and look for the straight news first. I want to make up my own mind, and take my time in doing it.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The Heat - and Sweet - of the Moment
Pfoooough.
Slick, gray skin. Dark eyes stare at us from just beneath the water.
Splash.
Translucent shadows of the animal streak beneath our red kayak.
Pfoooough.
Water sprouts up through his blowhole as he propels himself above the water. His dorsal fin hits the waves first, followed by his muscular body, then his tail fin. He keeps his eyes on us as he slips beneath the water, as if to say, “What’s up, kids?”
He is toying with us, this dolphin, swimming laps around us with a buddy. He’s trusting that we’re not there to harm him, and so we all hang out in the glistening waters of the Atlantic for a while. After a few minutes, the friend eggs him on, and he leaves us.
Breathless.
It was a top-10 moment for Amy and me, as we sat on our kayak off the Jersey Shore, watching these two dolphins from no more than five feet away. We found ourselves amazed at how, in a moment’s time, something so extraordinary can happen.
Throughout most of our lives, things don’t change a whole lot from one moment to the next. But then there are times when the dolphins appear out of nowhere, and we’re given the chance to open our eyes, take it all in, and savor.
There are also moments when things change dramatically for the worse. Take David Wright, a supremely talented New York Mets baseball player, who awaited a pitch on Saturday afternoon from San Francisco Giants pitcher Matt Cain. Wright has seen a lot of fastballs in his life, even faster ones than Cain’s 93-mile-an-hour heater. But this one had a different trajectory, and as it sailed at Wright’s head, the Mets third baseman was unable to dodge it. Five days later, the concussion fallout has Wright resting on the disabled list, hoping for a full recovery.
It all changed in a moment’s time.
Our most glorious, and most trying, moments often come at us without much notice at all. But what we do with those moments afterward – that’s what makes us who we are. For my wife, seeing those dolphins was not enough. She came home and told our kids all about it, told her parents and my parents about it, told her sister, told the hot dog guy at the beach. Sent a status update to her Facebook friends. She wanted to share the moment with others, perhaps brightening their day a bit. This wasn’t a moment she wanted to keep only to herself.
As for David Wright, he had already prepared for his moment of extreme pain, although he didn’t know it at the time. The New York Times published a story just two days before Wright’s injury about a new baseball helmet that Rawlings is developing – one that the company claims can withstand the impact of a 100-mile-per-hour fastball. Some of the major-league players interviewed for this story said they would never wear the helmet, as it’s too bulky and has too much padding for their liking. Wright, on the other hand, said this to The Times: “If it provides more protection, then I’m all for it. I’m not worried about style or looking good out there. I’m worried about keeping my melon protected.”
And two days after the pitch smashed into his helmet, and he was sent to the hospital, and the Mets worried for their slugger – two days later, there was David Wright at Citi Field shaking the hand of the man who had thrown that ball. Publicly displaying his forgiveness to the young fans out there who had wondered how their hero would respond.
The melon. That’s what David Wright wanted to protect. It’s also the name for a part of the dolphin’s body, at the front of the head. It’s used to communicate, via sonar. To share.
They come at us, these moments – sometimes faster than a fish in the ocean, or a 93-mile-an-hour heater. We can’t accurately predict them, try as we may.
But we can think an awful lot about the way we’ll handle whatever we get. That, in the end, is what people notice about each other.
Slick, gray skin. Dark eyes stare at us from just beneath the water.
Splash.
Translucent shadows of the animal streak beneath our red kayak.
Pfoooough.
Water sprouts up through his blowhole as he propels himself above the water. His dorsal fin hits the waves first, followed by his muscular body, then his tail fin. He keeps his eyes on us as he slips beneath the water, as if to say, “What’s up, kids?”
He is toying with us, this dolphin, swimming laps around us with a buddy. He’s trusting that we’re not there to harm him, and so we all hang out in the glistening waters of the Atlantic for a while. After a few minutes, the friend eggs him on, and he leaves us.
Breathless.
It was a top-10 moment for Amy and me, as we sat on our kayak off the Jersey Shore, watching these two dolphins from no more than five feet away. We found ourselves amazed at how, in a moment’s time, something so extraordinary can happen.
Throughout most of our lives, things don’t change a whole lot from one moment to the next. But then there are times when the dolphins appear out of nowhere, and we’re given the chance to open our eyes, take it all in, and savor.
There are also moments when things change dramatically for the worse. Take David Wright, a supremely talented New York Mets baseball player, who awaited a pitch on Saturday afternoon from San Francisco Giants pitcher Matt Cain. Wright has seen a lot of fastballs in his life, even faster ones than Cain’s 93-mile-an-hour heater. But this one had a different trajectory, and as it sailed at Wright’s head, the Mets third baseman was unable to dodge it. Five days later, the concussion fallout has Wright resting on the disabled list, hoping for a full recovery.
It all changed in a moment’s time.
Our most glorious, and most trying, moments often come at us without much notice at all. But what we do with those moments afterward – that’s what makes us who we are. For my wife, seeing those dolphins was not enough. She came home and told our kids all about it, told her parents and my parents about it, told her sister, told the hot dog guy at the beach. Sent a status update to her Facebook friends. She wanted to share the moment with others, perhaps brightening their day a bit. This wasn’t a moment she wanted to keep only to herself.
As for David Wright, he had already prepared for his moment of extreme pain, although he didn’t know it at the time. The New York Times published a story just two days before Wright’s injury about a new baseball helmet that Rawlings is developing – one that the company claims can withstand the impact of a 100-mile-per-hour fastball. Some of the major-league players interviewed for this story said they would never wear the helmet, as it’s too bulky and has too much padding for their liking. Wright, on the other hand, said this to The Times: “If it provides more protection, then I’m all for it. I’m not worried about style or looking good out there. I’m worried about keeping my melon protected.”
And two days after the pitch smashed into his helmet, and he was sent to the hospital, and the Mets worried for their slugger – two days later, there was David Wright at Citi Field shaking the hand of the man who had thrown that ball. Publicly displaying his forgiveness to the young fans out there who had wondered how their hero would respond.
The melon. That’s what David Wright wanted to protect. It’s also the name for a part of the dolphin’s body, at the front of the head. It’s used to communicate, via sonar. To share.
They come at us, these moments – sometimes faster than a fish in the ocean, or a 93-mile-an-hour heater. We can’t accurately predict them, try as we may.
But we can think an awful lot about the way we’ll handle whatever we get. That, in the end, is what people notice about each other.
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