Royal's Blues

October 27, 2014

Greetings from the dugout,

Most readers will already know that I don’t normally follow sports in any rigorous fashion.  To illustrate, here is an actual conversation about baseball in which I took part:

Friend: Are you going to watch the World Series?

Me: No.

I do care about baseball, as required by the Constitution, which we all know names baseball as our National Pastime.  I have seen several movies about baseball and I have learned that:

Baseball is a magical art.  Baseball is a science.  Baseball is a financial institution.

Baseball is a series of math problems.  In baseball, hard work and believing in yourself, along with natural ability, and the love of a good woman, will lead to success in the face of unfavorable odds.

What most people haven’t considered is that those elements have very little impact on the ultimate success of a baseball team.  What really matters are unrelated, seemingly irrelevant symbols.

The Kansas City Royals are playing in the World Series for the first time since 1985, when they defeated the St. Louis Cardinals (not the Catholic ones).  You might wonder why this professional baseball team has struggled in obscurity. Supported by millions of dollars in salaries, dozens of world class coaches, and 29 years of expert athletic scratching and spitting, the Royals haven’t been able to take home the Commissioner’s Trophy.

There is a consensus from a cadre of sports enthusiasts who believe that the Royals are under a cloud.  It is the Curse of the Shuttlecocks.

The Royals enjoyed some minor success after the ’85 win, but something happened that ruined them.  Some believe it was the installation of giant badminton birdies, 19 foot tall shuttlecocks, on the lawn of the Nelson Atkins museum in Kansas City.  Ever since they appeared, the Royals have floundered as also-rans.  Yes, on the surface it seems unlikely that freakishly large elements of an awkward child’s game could have an impact on a professional sports franchise.  But what other explanation could there be?

Tangentially, here is another actual conversation in which I took part:

Friend: Want to play badminton?

Me: No.

This year the Royals are in the World Series, the furthest they have gotten in nearly three decades, in large part due to the Wild Card.  The Wild Card: This is where all of the team captains get in a circle and draw from a deck of cards, held by former Cincinnati Reds hustler, Pete Rose.  (There is no betting in baseball)  The team that pulls the Joker (the wild card) gets to compete for a shot in the World Series, even if they have a worse record than the Detroit Tigers.  (There is no crying in baseball.) 

In case you want to know the outcome of the World Series but don’t want to actually watch the games, the giant birdies still stand, so the Royals are still cursed.  Proof?  Last night the Royals lost to the Giants 5-0.

Yes, there are competing curse possibilities.  The Royals last won the Series in 1985, and that same year Microsoft released Windows 1.0.  The comic strip ‘Calvin and Hobbes’ was first published that year.  1985 started on a Tuesday.  2014 started on a Wednesday.  All of these things could play a part in the Royals failure this year, much to the Giant’s glee.

Baseball is rife with curses.  There is the Boston Red Sox Bambino Curse, the Chicago Cubs Billy Goat Curse, the Phillies Billy Penn Curse, not to mention the Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx.  It’s no wonder the Yankees dominate the World Series.  I’m surprised that the other teams don’t just hand them the trophy on opening day.

I’m not saying I completely buy into the idea of a sports curse.  But, the Detroit Tigers haven’t won the World Series since 1984, which is the same year that Alex Trebek started hosting ‘Jeopardy’.  Need I say more?  (Stated in the form of a question)

Hope this finds you crossing your fingers,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Weather Sells

October 20, 2014

Greetings from the great outdoors,

Like most people, this time of year I begin to care about the weather.  I suppose I always care, but for the next several months going outside will have serious implications.  Some days one might only get reined in by rain, but other days could lead to being stranded by snow or isolated by ice. 

The rest of the year my interest in the weather can be satisfied by opening the door and sniffing the air.  If I am really curious, I might hold one hand out, palm up, to see if it’s raining.  But now I have to consider how many layers I am going to wear to protect me from a hostile environment.

I have an app on my phone, or I can check the forecast on several weather sites on my laptop.  Or if I want someone to explain the weather so any first grader can understand it I can turn on TV.  Except now I’m afraid to.

In my area the competing TV networks all have a full staff of meteorologists with serious sounding credentials.  Whatever skills these professionals accumulated at Meteor School become ironically academic since they have been reduced to pointing at a green-screen and finding interesting ways to explain the H and L symbols there.

All the TV weather experts have some kind of Doppler radar to help them see what weather has a 50/50 chance of coming to our area.  First Alert Live Doppler.  Pinpoint Doppler. Double Doppler.  SkyTracker.  First Warn Radar.  I checked the weather in California yesterday and found out that Los Angeles has a station with Mega Doppler 7000 HD.  All that to predict sunny and 70.

And so weather becomes drama and entertainment.  Not like Sonny Elliot entertainment (“It’s colder than an ex-wife’s hello”) but it’s theater no matter how you slice it.

It’s no surprise that TV stations have figured out that one of the most watched segments of the local news broadcast is the weather, and the more dramatic and engaging they can make it, the bigger the impact on their ratings.

Enter the Weather Channel.  The sensation you are feeling is the tail wagging the dog.

My version of Cheapskate Cable does not get the Weather Channel, but I’ve seen it in hotel rooms so I get the concept.  When I first heard of it I snorted derisively, (no longer allowed at the dinner table) lumping it into other half baked ideas like the Time Channel and the Puppy Channel.  I snorted too soon. 

The Weather Channel is a big deal.  They have all kinds of weather related programming, but people tune in to see their favorite personality chat up the forecast.  They have turned mundane into compelling. So for the longest time the Weather Channel has tried to get us to watch, and we did.  And now they are watching us.

The folks at Weather Co. have developed a process combining weather patterns, data mining, and polling their considerable following on weather.com.  From this science they can predict the buying patterns of Americans based on the weather we experience.  From there they can sell that information to whoever wants to sell you something.

So when it is hot and humid, they know that many women will be concerned about frizzy hair.  At which point these consumers can be marketed a hair care product on their smartphone or computer.  When it is going to snow, an ad for show shovels pops up from Ace Hardware.  Rainy?  Craft projects sell better in your area on rainy days, so you get an ad from Hobby Lobby.

The Weather Co. is now collecting data on how people FEEL as a result of certain kinds of weather, with the hopes of being able to tweak marketers approach to the consumer with pinpoint Doppler accuracy.

I don’t have a meteorological degree but I feel qualified to make this prediction; the next evolution will be that we turn on the TV and some forecaster will tell us “Today there is a 60% chance of buying an iPod, with scattered chocolate ice cream purchases in the area.  Tomorrow we’ll see occasional acquisitions of small jewelry in the morning, with a few pockets of new car test drives in the afternoon.  So you’ll want to be sure to make sure you take your American Express with you on your morning commute.”

Sonny Elliott would be mortified.

Hope this finds you holding your palm up,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Columbus Day

October 13, 2014

Greetings from the fo’c’sle,

It’s funny how memories sneak up on you.  Yesterday, as I stood in the yard and watched my neighbors recreate a weekly ritual, hauling brightly colored bins to the curb, I remembered when my Dad used to decorate the house for the holiday when we were kids. 

Each year he would push through the detritus in our garage and drag out huge pre-fabricated panels that would be assembled in our front yard.  These would be affixed to the front of our house with an elaborate combination of brackets, nails and duct tape, forming a realistic looking hull jutting out into the lawn. To the uninitiated, it might appear we were building an ark. 

Huge rolls of canvas were unfurled and hung from the eves.  A Spanish flag would be hoisted from the TV antenna.  And overnight, our house would be transformed into the Santa Maria.

It never struck me as odd that none of the other families on the street did any Columbus Day decorating.  We believed everyone was at home in their own kitchens making Columbus Day cookies, wrapping Columbus Day gifts, watching the 1949 epic ‘Christopher Columbus’ with Fredric March in the title role. 

It was my family’s responsibility to lead the celebration of this auspicious day.

The neighbors contributed in their own ways.  Our next door neighbor, Sam Goodhue, would help my Dad haul the hull out of the garage, and lift the authentic balsa-mast onto the front porch.  This was an extraordinary effort considering that Sam was Canadian and didn’t care a whit about Columbus.  It was kind of like having a Jehovah’s Witness help decorate the Christmas tree.  (Sam always got the first choice when the Columbus Cake was cut.)

I don’t remember when the tradition started. We knew that one day in early October that Dad would begin wearing a velvet cap and a robe with large billowy sleeves, not unlike a graduation gown one might purchase at a garage sale over on Vernon Street.  And from there the anticipation would build, until we were all swept up in the recreation of the discovery of the New World. 

Each morning my Dad would stand on the front porch, which was authentically replicated as the bridge of the ship, and pilot us into the front yard.  He would take out his sextant, which looked remarkably like an egg beater, and would peer into the sky.  (We children were never allowed to use the sextant, or even say the word, because we were Catholic.)

He would scan the horizon with his telescope, which occasionally would cause some embarrassing moments for Mrs. Nelson across the street.  He would shout commands to his crew, using his best Italian/Spanish/Scottish accent, which sometimes led to confusion over details.  To this day I don’t know port from starboard.

The recreation did have an impact on our lives.  The mail would not be delivered due to a misunderstanding when someone tried to shanghai the postman.   Occasionally the paperboy would loft a Flint Journal high enough over the bow to make it on to the porch, but usually for the week or so that Columbus was in port, the news would pile up at the water line.

We would prepare for weeks.  My mom would dress up as Queen Isabella, replete with the huge collar, which looked exactly like the plastic cone our dog Patches wore after his ‘special’ surgery.  She would send Columbus off to search for the new world, and then, slightly at odds with history, retire to the galley to make pot roast for the crew.

We kids would have to pretend to be sailors on the ship.  It was a part that I loved, but my Dad insisted on complete immersion in the role.  We dressed in rags, swabbed the deck, ate raw fish, and when possible, developed scurvy.  For weeks leading up to Columbus Day we were trained in the socio-economic status of the common sailor of the late 15^th century.  I thought the world was flat until I was twelve.

The neighbors eventually became involved, culminating with a dramatic pageant on Columbus Day.  The kids on the street all had to dress up like indigenous peoples, a confusing array of feathers, loincloths, football jerseys and Converse All Stars. 

Usually on the weekend, we would go ashore and conquer the ‘Indians’ and capture a few, imprisoning them in the dining room.  Queen Isabella would not tolerate this and often forced us to quarter them outside behind the garage, which led to numerous escapes into Sam Goodhue’s yard, not to mention the decimation of the rhubarb there. 

My sisters did not enjoy being sailors on the Santa Maria.  This dissension, which I believe was historically accurate, was dealt with fairly by the captain.  They were all sent to clean the ‘poop deck’, our appropriately named back yard where Patches did his business.

The Santa Maria was often still afloat at the end of the month, which made our house a popular stop for Trick or Treaters, particularly pirates.  But ultimately it would be dismantled before people began anyone made any inappropriate Mayflower comparisons.

I know that time has a way of altering history, creating myths and legends that perhaps once were only more ordinary truths.  I suppose this is why it was so important that our family carried on the tradition of Columbus Day.  It makes me proud to preserve this memory, this slice of history, so that the story of Columbus discovering Ohio would sail on into the generations to come. 

Hope this finds you exploring,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Write and Release

October 6, 2014

Greetings from beckoning white space,

Most of us have had the experience where we hear a song and it sticks in our head, the music rolling around in amidst the synapses, snatches of lyrics and rhythm appearing unbidden and then dipping away only to resurface when we are trying to think of something else. 

I am a writer, and I have the same experience with words. I hear one that is interesting, and it becomes tattooed where I have to see it.  I can try using other words to push it away but I know better. 

The attraction is heightened when I don’t know the meaning of the word.  Sometimes I will avoid looking the word up just so I can enjoy the shape and sound of it for its own esthetic, without being muddled up with a practical application.

Yesterday I heard someone use this word; bucolic.  I like the way it feels when I say it. 

I have an image of the definition, not one of those third grade ‘use it in a sentence’ things.  A man standing inside a stone wall, leaning on a rake, talking with a couple passing by on the dirt road.  Geese fly low announcing a change, the sun setting over bronze fields behind them.  Bucolic.

It reminded me of a word that might not exist.  Like ‘broccolic’, which I think describes someone who is gifted at growing things.  I might have this confused with what causes vegetarian babies to cry.   This might be a digression.

There are a slurry of words that regularly bubble up to see if I need them in a sentence.  They hang around on the periphery of my conscious like out of work actors at a backstage door, desperately optimistic. 

I don’t write them down because I don’t need to; they roam around between the practical workhorse words that I think all day, appearing like friends at the back fence.  Mellifluous.  Cacophony.  Akimbo. Penumbra. Loquacious. Penultimate. Onomatopoeia.

There are some words that have a foreign-familiarity to me, some from the Highlands of Scotland, others from the fires of First Nation peoples.  Scunner, bahookie, bairn, bedabun, odayin.  No place to fit them in lunch conversation or an email to the service department.  So they hover, lingering at the end of sentences, where other words, the regulars, have their place.

I love these words, and their more pedestrian cousins that fill in the space between the subject and the participles which I often dangle.  Some mornings when the passion meets opportunity, I mix and knead them into a shape that means something.  Sometimes not.

All of us marshal our favorite words, our ‘go-to’ adjectives, the automatic adverbs, the nouns that come as a reflex.  We communicate all day within the ease of our native tongue, sharing ideas, describing events, giving orders, responding to questions.  Those automatic words are almost invisible to us; it’s easy to take them for granted.  Maybe that’s no great crime, after all there are always more words.

Perhaps.  Last week I watched a woman struggle to speak, searching for a word, her face a mask of confusion and fear.  And then relief as the word formed and she said it.  She is recovering from something, perhaps a stroke, and she knows the words are there, but they have sifted into a place she can’t quite reach.  These common, ordinary words we can take for granted.

It dawned on me that the reason I have these other peculiar words waiting to spice my ordinary pedantic mutterings, is to make me fully appreciate the color and depth and richness of the language I have been given.  Made me smile just to think of that.

I am scripturient.  I am a writer.  When I wake on Monday morning, and on most mornings, the words are already swirling, hovering, lined up like jets over O’Hare.  I don’t always take the time to harness them or arrange them, but I acknowledge them.  That’s our relationship, one which I hope never to lose, and I won’t as long as I honor it.

There are mornings I scurry behind the words, as if herding grasshoppers, and get to shape them, even for a moment, into a form that communicates something larger than the letters themselves.  Some mornings it is a deep thought, or a memory that must be shared, or describing a bucolic scene for no other reason than the pleasure of imagining.

Some mornings writing is a catch and release activity.  Gather the words in and hold them long enough to look at them, feel their texture and life, and then rinse them back in the ice cold flow where they will grow and play and come back again.

Hope this finds you casting,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith