CALL ME SNAKE

I sent this letter to the New Yorker. Will they have the guts to print it? That remains to be seen.

GUIDED BY FAITH?

In “Political Science” (March 13, 2006), Michael Specter makes the oft-stated assumption that President Bush’s policies are “guided by faith.” Why should we believe it? Because he uses the word “God” a lot and refers to himself as a “man of God,” and because journalists like Specter accept that unchallenged? From the very beginning, Bush has always played to “his base,” and I can’t see that faith has anything to do with it. (Unless by that you mean “faith in his base.”) A friend of mine, Smitty, says it well in a bumper sticker he’s been selling for years: “Jesus to Bush–Stop using me as a reference!”

The magician/illusionist David Blaine will attempt to break the world’s record by holding his breath while under water for at least nine minutes. ABC will broadcast this feat, or attempted feat, a week from Monday in a two-hour special called “Drowned Alive.” I don’t intend to watch this show and don’t, as a matter of practice, watch breath-holding programs, but I am curious about one thing: How can ABC take an event that won’t last much more than nine minutes, if that, and stretch it out into a two-hour program? In my book, that feat is even more impressive than the one Blaine is trying to accomplish.

I’m an innocent. I’ve had my hand in a number of books (whatever that means), but I’ve never written a novel. (Maybe a novella, if you stretch the definition.) So it’s clear I don’t know the first thing about it. I thought novelists wrote the books themselves. I had no idea there was such a thing as “book packagers” like Alloy Entertainment (with 17 New York Times bestsellers in 2005!) that actually write (they say “package”) the books for you. All this came to light for me–and for many of you, no doubt–when stories surfaced about the poor Harvard undergraduate who apparently was overly zealous in “internalizing” the novels of another author. (Perhas the Harvard girl should have picked a more obscure writer?) The question now is whether that other author–the one who “externalized” it rather than “internalized” it–wrote the books herself, or did she leave the prose to the pros at Alloy or similar firms?

It’s not often a comment rises to the level of “Celebrity Guest,” but the following missive from the pen of one Turd Blossom does that in spades. Turd Blossom is that rare person who recognizes the plight of handball in Cambridge as the pressing issue that it undeniably is. He speaks eloquently, from the heart. And now, without further ado, let’s hear just what he has to say….

************************
TURD BLOSSOM SPEAKS: I was going to call the following into the Cambridge Chronicle SpeakOut line, but then I decided it wasn’t up to their usual lofty standards. So, I thought, where to go with material not fit for loft standards? The Blogosphere! Interestingly, I also mention your lack of Pulllitzer.

I have to hand it to Steve Nadis. His heartfelt hand-wringing about the imminent demise of the sport of handball in the April 20th Chronicle brought this too-long ignored issue to the attention of the people of Cambridge. If there were a Pulitzer Prize for coverage of dying sports, Mr. Nadis would win handily. The fact that there are only a handful of players left at the Cambridge Y — you can count them on one hand — is a tragedy that words fail to describe.

Having tried the sport myself once, I can add my voice to the chorus of complaints that Mr. Nadis reports. My hands not only hurt, they swelled to about 3 times their normal size, and turned a yellowish-grey color. My hands were so injured that I was unable to dial the Chronicle SpeakOut line for several weeks.

Despite my complaints, I hope that the residents of Cambridge will lend Mr. Nadis a helping hand and give the sport a try. Failing that, they could at least call him Snake.

What happened to the Bumper Sticker contest announced last month? Who are the winners? What are the prizes? I’m sure these and similar questions have been coursing through your heads over the past three-and-a-half weeks since the March 30 announcement. The answer is this: It hardly seems like a Bumper Sticker contest without our perennial champion, Gatemouth, joining in. So this is a time of humility for me. I’m on my knees begging Gatemouth to send in his entries for which, no doubt, he will be duly rewarded. Please Gatemouth, an important tradition is depending on you. And surely we cannot let too another “important tradition” go down the drain, along with phonebooth stuffing, goldfish swallowing, and the like. As James Jones once said (or was it James Joyce?): There’s a subtle difference between man and beast–a thin red line known as “THE FIRST ANNUAL APRIL FOOL’S DAY BUMPER STICKER SWEEPSTAKES.”

To those who have been wondering, I did not win a Pullitzer Prize last week. Part of the problem, I now realize, is that for all these years I have been spelling it wrong. (There’s just one “l” in “Pulitzer,” and maybe that’s why the award-givers looked elsewhere. NOTE TO MYSELF: Practice spelling!) So although I did not capture journalism’s most illustrious prize, I did get the second best thing: a letter published in my local newspaper, the Cambridge Chronicle. The subject of said missive was handball (another digression from our main topic of volleyball), namely that handball is dying and if we–and by that I mean WE ALL–don’t do something fast, there’ll be no more handball here. Period.

The letter came out two days ago, and I was already starting to worry about the fact that I had not yet been approached by any new handball players, when something strange and wonderful happened. After taking an afternoon swim today at the Y, I chatted briefly with the lifeguard in the locker room. He suggested I should take up competitive swimming. I said that I could never swim that far or hard without seriously damaging my shoulders. “There’s one game…,” he started to say but then caught himself. “Nah, I guess with bad shoulders you’d never play…”

“What game is that?” I asked.

“Handball,” he said tentatively.

“Well, you’re talking to the right person. If I didn’t exactly write the book on handball around here, I did at least write the letter,” I said, pulling out a copy of my celebrated Chronicle dispatch.

He read it in amazement, and things progressed from there. We’ve already set up a game. Next, he and his partner–both a generation younger than our usual crowd–will get to meet the gang. And the future of handball in Cambridge, for those of you who’ve passed sleepless nights worrying about it, is suddenly looking a lot brighter.

Some news accounts on the radio have suggested that Bush’s trusted aide, Karl Rove, got a demotion, handing over his policy management responsibilities to Joel Kaplan. But that’s far from true. They can call Rove whatever they want but his true job will always remain the same: that’s telling Bush what to do when Dick Cheney isn’t telling Bush what to do.

It’s well known that kids say the darndest things, and if there is any lingering question on that score, this should settle the matter beyond “reasonable doubt.” (NOTE: Is there such a thing as “unreasonable doubt”?)

My three-year-old was choking at the dinner table, as she is wont to do. Concerned, I beseeched her to speak: “Say something! Say something!” After a dramatic pause, she smiled and said, “Fabulosa!”

After preschool one day, my three-year-old complained that her best friend was mean to her and didn’t play with her. “Did that make you sad?” I asked. “It didn’t make me sad,” she replied. “It made me mad.”

Years ago, our former neighbors had a young boy named Will who went through a prolonged “hi” phase. He would call out “hi” to me endlessly from his deck. I always said “hi” back to him, about 10 times a day. This went on for the entire summer. At the end of the summer, I ran into Will and his father on the sidewalk, and I greeted the lad warmly. “Daddy,” he said. “Who’s that man?”

Save for a few mitigating factors, I might have been on that fateful bus that pulled into Boston’s South Station at 8:15 last night. I could have been one of the people splattered with blood when murder suspect Stephen Marshall shot himself in the head with a .45 caliber handfun. I was up in Portland, celebrating Easter with my wife’s family. My wife and kids were going to spend the night. I decided to go home, partly because we had left our cat Sunshine outside, and Sunshine is spoiled. (I don’t know how she would have coped with being left outside all night.) The other factor was my mother-in-law, who has a tendency to work a lot and was thus open to the idea of heading back to Boston last night. So I drove back with her, rather than catching an evening bus from Portland. The rest, as they say, is history…

We’re introducing a new feature here at Call Me Snake (introducing new features is what we do best) and this one is called “QUOTE O’ THE DAY.” Last month, as you may recall, we introduced “Quote of the Day,” but that one flopped for some reason and instead of becoming a regular feature, as advertised, it looks more and more like a one-shot deal. Based on our meticulous market research, I’m confident that “QUOTE O’ THE DAY” will fare much better. We’ll be offering a new quote every single day we feel like offering one–driven to some extent by consumer demand.

Today’s quote comes from the physicist Richard Garwin, whose influence extends far wider than his celebrity. Among his many accomplishments was coming up with the design for the world’s first hydrogen bomb. Garwin did this at age 23–at a time when many kids are just graduating college and moving back in with their parents. When asked by an NPR reporter whether he saw the test explosion in 1952 which demonstrated the fruit of his labors, Garwin responded: “I haven’t seen any nuclear explosions. I hope never to see it. I don’t need to–I have a good imagination.”

Today’s first “Celebrity Guest Comment” was so successful, we’ve decided to do it again–this time from a member of our own ranks. That’s right, I’m talking about good ole’ Dr. Max of “That One Blog,” a satirist of Swiftian wit who needs no introduction. Which leaves me–as the person responsible for the introductions–with little to do. So take it away, Doc, as they say…

*************************

Snake, I agree with your friend, Nashville Lawyer Guy. I remember being able to wander more when I was a kid, to goof off and explore. Now, like every parent, constant media stories have me living in fear of level 3 sex offenders behind every shrub. I want to keep my kids within view at all times. Thus the 8 gabillion parent organized activities that never give us a break from one another and just seem to produce more stress. I guess time travel back to the 1960’s is the only answer, not only would we have healthier families, gas prices would be a hell of a lot cheaper.

We’re back with one of our most popular new features here at Call Me Snake. That’s right, it’s time for another “Celebrity Guest Comment”–this one from the pen of an influential lawyer in Nashville, Tennessee’s thriving entertainment industry. I know this guy on account of how we’ve played soccer together, gone backpacking, kayaking, and skiing, and even played cribbage–sometimes while listening to “Cat Stevens” before he changed his name. So without further ado, we’ll let today’s celebrity speak for himself. Mr. Celebrity sir, the “conch” is yours….

************************

Snake, Every once in awhile I check in at the blog. The baseball piece got my attention. First, I hated baseball, but played it constantly.  I was bad at it (unlike you, I would never have made an A team had “Centerville” had a Little League when I was coming through the ranks) and probably received some deep injury to my psyche by constantly “underperforming” in comparison to my peers.  However, I liked the bit about “line ball” and 16-inch softball and the pick-up games.  (Here’s where I get a little serious, with apologies.)

My kids don’t have a neighborhood.  They can’t imagine going outside and playing a baseball game or anything else.  It just doesn’t happen here.  Do you think it still happens in your old “Plainsville” neighborhood? I wonder if my kids will be different (in a negative way) because so much of their sports (and other activities) are so organized by adults.  What do you think, Snake?

Second (back to baseball), my son (do daughters play softball?  Mine didn’t, thankfully - read on) played Little League for a few years.  Big mistake.  It consumed so much of our family’s time that I found myself, during playoffs, silently cheering for the other team to win so the season would come to a merciful close.  My cousin, father of two sons, forbade them to engage in the National Pasttime (is that how you spelled it?) for that very reason, even though he did so as a boy.  

Phew, I’m glad THOSE thoughts are off my chest. I’m also glad to hear you deliver your daughters to school via bike.  You’re a good man, but, thanks to the internet, not too hard to find. By the way, I know a great place to get coffee here next time you’re in town…

I’d been doing so well. I used the occasion of the recent closing of C’est Bon–as discussed in some detail in these pages–to break free of my scone habit that had snuck up on my during the five consecutive years that my daughters (or at least one of them) was in preschool. I debated about going “cold turkey” or making the switch to muffins.

But then it happened. By chance, I found the same scones I’d been getting at C’est Bon on sale at Toscanini’s. And now I’m right back where I started. Well, not exactly where I started. I’m on the other side of Harvard Square now–the “homeward” side you might say–but still feeding that scone habit just the same. And I’d been doing so well…

A friend asked me and others to join him later today on a march for immigration reform. People will meet at the Boston Common at 4 p.m. and then, after a few inspiring words no doubt, proceed to Copley Square. I support the cause and could use the exercise, but can’t go on account of “parent-related activities.” (I’ll spare you by not elaborating.) But the sad truth is, even if I were not tied up with said activities, I still would not go because, as I explained to my friend, “I’m not the marchin’ kind.”

I’ve never felt comfortable in large group events like that. Marches and protests have never been my thing. Yet I also realize that mass demonstrations may be helpful in this case, just as the protests were critical in ending the Vietnam War. For people wanting a voice in national and international affairs, the options are few. They can participate in rallies or write a letter to their Congressman or newspaper editor. Which is why I said that above: I’m not the marchin’ kind, but I oughta be…

I can already hear the skeptics: What do I have in common with George Brett? Quite a lot actually. We are close in age (he’s got a year on me), and we both held our jobs for a long time–Brett employed by the Kansas City Royals for 20 years and me employed by myself for 25 years. Although I have not been elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame, nor was I the American League’s Most Valuable Player, 12-time All Star, and Gold Glove winner, I have won quite a few trophies in volleyball which are proudly displayed in my office.

But there’s a more important similarity I haven’t even talked about yet. We’ve both injured ourselves watching television. I hurt my knee, as described in most vivid fashion in yesterday’s post,whereas Brett spent 19 games on the disabled list in June 1983 “with a broken toe suffered while striking a door jam when rushing to watch Bill Buckner on TV.”

So there are at least two important lessons to be drawn here. One, as stated yesterday, is that “TV viewing may be hazardous to your health.” The second is that the George Brett and I have quite a bit in common.

For years we’ve been told that TV viewing, especially when it’s “excessive,” may be hazardous to your health. Yesterday, in fact, our daughter came home from school with a sheet instructing us to feed our children at least five servings of fruits and vegetables each day, limit TV viewing to two hours per day, and engage in at least one hour’s worth of physical activity daily. (The sheet suggested we’ll need to increase our children’s TV viewing by nearly an hour per day, but that’s beside the point.)

Of course, none of this occurred to me at 11:19 p.m. when I raced upstairs from my office to catch the weekend weather report. The weekday weather report is important enough–as I want to know whether I’ll be biking with my children through rain, snow, sleet, or hail–but the “weekend weather report” is even more important since it concentrates on the “weekend weather” which we’ve all be trained to put on a pedestal as if the daily weather hardly matters a whit. It was, as I said, a mad rush upstairs. I was cutting it very close because in a second there’d be a commercial before the second or third sports announcement came on. I turned on the TV and then crouched down to the cable box to set the channel. Then I sat down on the rug in an awkward manner–I believe the cat came by around then, throwing me off. The result being that I did something weird to my knee in my haste to turn the TV on, probably something to do with the cartilage. I iced the knee last night but it still hurts, probably enough to louse up my handball game this evening, but not enough to keep me from playing. (The pros in the NBA have to learn to “play through pain,” and so does every amateur handballer over 50.)

So now I know, firsthand, that TV viewing can be hazardous to your health, because if I hadn’t been so anxious to watch TV last night, none of this would have happened. And we, instead, would have been talking about something unimportant like Scooter Libby implicating our commander in chief in another lie or, if you prefer, another “cold-blooded, premeditated mispresentation of the truth.”

Watch out, Rumsfeld, the generals are gunning for you. The military people in the field agree almost unanimously that your war plan is an unmitigated disaster. Prominent generals like Paul Eaton and Anthony Zinni–people who actually know what’s going on Iraq–are calling for your ouster.

President Bush, not surprisingly, is standing by his man. (He’s loyal to a fault.) Why can’t he see the failings of Rumfeld that are obvious to everyone else? I figure Einstein had it right in saying “it’s all relative” (and he was right about a couple of other things too). Bush is shaping up as one of the worst presidents in U.S. history, while Rumsfeld is destined to be one of the worst Defense Secretaries in history. Is it any surprise then that Bush thinks Rumsfeld is doing such a great job?

Tuesday’s Boston Globe had a nice “perspective” piece by Peter Canellos about Bush’s lackey Andrew Card, the former chief of staff. Card was more like a “lowly manservant” than an “imperious” ruler, Canellos wrote, largely due to the inordinate amount of power wielded by VP Dick Cheney. Here’s the part I wish I’d written, as it says very well something I’ve thought about many times before: “Cheney seems happy to swim along with an approval rating lower than Bush. He isn’t running for office. He’s running the country.”

I don’t normally use this space to get on the soapbox, but some matters are so urgent as to prompt, and indeed necessitate, urgent measures. Handball is a dying sport. Let me break that down for you one more time in case you weren’t paying attention: Handball is a dying sport. I have that on the highest authority–from my father back in Chicago, who’s played the game for nearly 60 years. So if he says a game is dying, I’m inclined to believe him. And that certainly seems to be the case at the Cambridge Family YMCA. We’re now down to just five handball players–six if you count John, who comes just once or twice a year (on account of being too busy with his new university job). Five is not much when you consider that Ronnie’s got knee issues, Jimmy has back issues, Woody has shoulder issues, I’ve got my own “issues,” and Danny is retired and travels a lot (too much, if you ask me). A few men down (“Man down! Man down!”) and we’ll have trouble scraping together a game.

We’ve lost a lot to attrition over the years: Tony’s shoulder finally got to him. (He hated losing to people worse than him–i.e., people like me.) Jeff faded away; they say his wife didn’t let him out much once they had kids. Neal, who used to live a few blocks from the Y, moved to Arlington; Gary, who used to live in Arlington, moved to China. Various other people just moved on period.

At the same time, our recruitment efforts haven’t panned out so far. Vinnie showed up a couple of years ago, but (as the Boston “Open-level” champ), he was too good for us and moved on. Trevor (a former Irish champ) stopped coming after a few times and maybe moved back to Ireland. Phil showed up once and didn’t come back. (He said his hands hurt.) Donnie showed up once and didn’t come back. (He said his hands hurt.) Tommy played once, after a long layoff, and hasn’t come back. (He said his hands hurt–a refrain that is becoming all too familiar, if not tedious.)

So we’re down, as I said, to the “fabulous five,” just barely scraping by, in contrast to the situation a couple of decades ago when there were dozens of players and regular tournaments and court time was hard to come by. Hence this urgent appeal: Any handball players in the Cambridge/Boston area owe it to themselves, and to the sport itself, to come on down to the Cambridge Family YMCA. There’s more at stake here than just the interests of a handful of desperate players. We’re trying to save a dying game.

 

I’m an “unworthy friend,” to borrow an expression from Patricia Highsmith (“The Blunderer”). A friend stopped by today, excited because he just got baseball mitts for him and his 6-year-old son, and instead of sharing the excitement with him, I started reflecting on, and talking about, all the hours I wasted as a kid playing catch and baseball. As a kid growing up in suburban Chicago, a large fraction of the days during summer vacation were spent throwing a ball back and forth or playing softball (“lineball”) in the street or catching fly balls or fielding grounders or playing in actual baseball games–organized and pickup. It was the main thing I did. It was the main thing every boy I knew did. We played for hours and hours a day and often into the evening.

I don’t have many fond memories about playing baseball (though lineball [16"] was fun). I did it because it was the only thing to do. Although there were a few highlights–the occasional home run and one game-winning (dare I say “walkoff”) grand slam, etc.–I actually didn’t get that much enjoyment out of it. In particular, I remember those lonely evening bike rides to Roemer Field where I played in Little League from ages 10-12. It was a real stadium, with dugouts and a scoreboard and even a snack bar. I had made the “A League,” which meant we had all the amenities, and that part of it was cool. But the games, themselves, weren’t that much fun for me. I was a decent enough player but still worried alot about getting hit by a pitch or beaned by a superfast line drive to the head or making an error or letting the team down in some other way. And then some of those crazy parents might get on my case.

So when my friend told me about his recent purchase and his excitement about playing baseball with his son for the first time, rather than sharing some of that enthusiasm, I just had to be a downer. I couldn’t get beyond my own memories. I couldn’t think of anything else besides all those hours–and indeed all those years–I wasted playing baseball. What I’d do to have some of that time back now. But I can’t. So the best I can do now is wish that my friend and his son have more fun than I did.