Back at City Island

Last night I got to my first Senators game of the year. It was a nice evening and the ball park looked great. And I had the good fortune to be seated next to a very kind gentleman who enjoyed discussing baseball. Our conversation began with him asking me if I were a season ticket holder. He explained that he he had tried to get the seat I was in but that it was already taken. I guess he asks everyone the same question, trying to figure out why he got stiffed. (I had the aisle seat, and that's no doubt why this guy wanted it.) It was, in fact, a wonderful seat, fifth and final row of the field boxes, just behind first base. And at City Island, where there is minimal foul territory behind the plate and along the base paths, you are really close to the players.) In any case, the game started off horribly for the Senators (down two zip before they had recorded a single out, shoddy fielding in the top of the first, poor base running in the bottom half...), slowly settled down (good pitching), then turned fun with a five run seventh. The highlight was watching shortstop Danny Espinosa go 5 for 5, including two homers. (Bristol right fielder Mark Dolenc absolutely crushed one way over the left field everything in the fifth inning.) Even the most routine games involve something memorable. In this case, in addition to seeing Espinosa go 5 for 5, I had the opportunity to see pitcher Loek Van Mil, who just happens to be 7 ft. 1. But that's not all. He's originally from the Netherlands and he pitched quite well for the Dutch team in the World Baseball Classic. He's moving up in the twins organization. But he had a bad outing last night. Speaking of relief pitchers, it's time to check in on the progress of Atahualpa Severino. He's still in Syracuse, apparently having a good but not great year. His ERA is 3.65 (44.1 innings pitched), but his walk to strikeout ratio is not good. I'm rooting for him! (In the photo, Danny Espinosa, playing for the US in the Pan American Games.)

Blessed Imperfection

What a memorable baseball season! Last night more exceptionality: Detroit Tigers' pitcher Armando Galarraga was robbed of a perfect game when the first base umpire made what will surely go down as one of the most infamous bad calls in baseball history. Poor Jim Joyce, the umpire who blew the call. It will be with him for the rest of his life: he cost the kid a joyous moment! And changed his place in history. Regardless of what happens from here on out, Galarraga will forever be associated with Jim Joyce. In this story there are lots of bad guys and at least one good guy. Let's start with the good guy: Armando Galarraga. He didn't scream at Joyce, didn't berate him, and accepted the ump's post-game apology with grace. He's got some perspective. And I just read that in a short time, Galarraga will walk out of the dugout before today's game and present the lineup card to Joyce, who declined to take the day off, and will be working behind the plate. That's courage! Folks, it's just a game. Everyone needs to lighten up! The bad guys: everyone who's been giving Joyce such a hard time, including Jim Sutton, the stupid ESPN announcer who called Joyce's missed call "unforgivable". No Don, it's not unforgivable at all. Well, that's what everyone's talking about today.

Catching Up with Atahualpa

Last year I made a reference to pitcher Atahualpa Severino, who at the time was with the AA Senators. I predicted big things for him. Well, so far so good: he's at AAA Syracuse this year and appears to be pitching well: a 1.82 ERA after 14.2 innings pitched. He gave up three runs in a third of an inning in his first outing of the year and since then it's been lights out. That's not many innings, but let's check back in another month or so. I just learned that Atahualpa was not even drafted, signed as a non-draftee in 2004. That's quite a contrast to his new teammate, Stephen Strasburg. This morning over coffee Asun and I were discussing change, the idea that everything is change. But I have my doubts: on a cosmic scale, change is very slow. At least, it seems so to me. The personal and the cosmic. Yesterday I read part of an interview with Woody Allen, published in Commonweal. (I had no idea that journal was still being published, and was very happy to learn that it goes on; it's a fine publication.) Woody admits that he's a whiner. Life is senseless! Our horrible fate! Yes, it seems to make no sense; why all this horrible and pointless suffering? As I sometimes say to my students, "you don't have to answer". Meanwhile, among the many wonderful activities fate (or chance, I'm not picky) has brought my way, is that of casual but passionate baseball observer. Atahualpa. Say that out loud: Atahualpa! (Atahualpa, by the way was the las Incan emperor.)

Kownacki Man!

I thought I was done with baseball for at least a few days, but thanks to the wonders of our information age, I and millions of others have seen the video of Fordham University's Brian Kownacki leaping over the catcher to score! The play of the year? How about the play of the century! See it here. How often are you going to see something like that? Now imagine pre-Internet. It would have been a local legend with no photographic evidence. It almost surely would never have moved beyond a very small circle of local fans.

Maybe this is the Yang to Billy Buckner's Ying. And what I loved about this video is that Kownacki (say that out loud a few times!) was a little nonchalant when he hopped up. Sure, I do this all the time. Most wonderful is that the kid didn't snap his neck: that was a very dangerous jump. These surprises are really wonderful. You can't run through the catcher? Don't like physical contact? Jump over him! This could be great subject matter for a ballet. (That's Kownacki on the left, above.)

The New Season

There are many things I love about Baseball. One of them is its extraordinary capacity to surprise. Just when you think it's all routine, something seemingly unique will happen. Right at the beginning of the season you had Mark Buerhle's once in a lifetime play to get a runner at first. I just watched the video again and noticed something I hadn't seen before: the first baseman also contributed nicely, making the out possible by extending his right arm and grabbing the toss bare handed. Buerhle's play was unique, but it wasn't a fluke accident. It's quite clear that the southpaw was making a very deliberate effort to make this play, resulting in an extremely rare convergence of instinct, intelligence, and imagination. See the video clip here. Another early season treat was the Mets' twenty inning victory over St. Louis. And not just any 20 inning game, but a game that was 0-0 after 18 innings! (The longest such show of scoring futility since 1989, when the Dodgers beat the Expos 1-0 in 22 innings.) So imagine this: the Mets FINALLY get a run in the 19th and you think, ok, that's it, only to see Frankie Rodriguez give up the tying run in the bottom half of the inning. But they found redemption and pulled it out. Speaking of the Mets, their new kid, Ike Davis, had a very impressive major league debut last night, helping the New Yorkers to a 6-1 win over the Cubbies. And I see that Jason Bay is off to a lousy start. Dilemma: do I escape work tomorrow to go see Stephen Strasburg pitch on City Island in a rare morning ball game?

Atahualpa Severino

The Senators played their last game of the year on City Island Thursday, a beautiful, moonlit evening. There was a big crowd, but fortunately, over half of them left by the end of the sixth inning. I'm not against crowds, but I guess "intolerant" would not be an inaccurate description of my attitude regarding groups who display blaring ignorance regarding the behavior that is expected of them so as not to impinge on my enjoyment. Hah! It seemed that crowd had it all backwards from the start. As it was the last game of the year, and the last game in the stadium's current incarnation, there were some pregame ceremonies, words from the mayor (STILL Stephen Reed, after all these years, BUT, he has been perhaps the greatest mayor in the history of Harrisburg), etc. So for the national anthem a Knights of Columbus 4th degree honor guard decked out in their silly garb with the big chapeaus marched out to the field. Very serious. They brought along the Vatican flag, crucifix included. Everyone gets all pious. Ok, ok, patience... then the game starts and no one pays attention. It's as if six thousand people had just paid five or ten bucks a head for the privilege of paying more money for greasy funnel cakes, awful hot dogs, and frozen pizza while they enthusiastically obey the commands of a big screen telling them to make noise on cue. Well, why the hell don't they go to an amusement park instead and let me enjoy the ball game! The game, now that's sacred. You want proof that not everyone is on the same page as me? Imagine this: towards the end of the game I was standing behind the box seats along the third baseline. A guy come up and stands next to me. We chat a little, nice evening, nice catch, etc. Then he turns to me and says, "Have you tried Jesus?" I choked on my coffee. He had this beatific smile, as if really expecting I was going to fall down to my knees and give eternal thanks for having been finally saved. Doing my best to suppress laughter, I explained that I really wanted to focus on the game. Then I left. But the game: as Manolo says about the bull fights, there's always something interesting to see, regardless of how mundane or otherwise disappointing the proceedings. And Thursday night no doubt I found interest in watching Atahaulpa Severino. This guy looked very good. He's only 5'9'', but he brings some serious heat. I think you'll be seeing him in a major league uniform before the end of the 2010 season. He's clearly on an upward trajectory, unlike the larger part of this group of Senators. It was a long game and I was sorry to see it end. And, by the way, it ended with the Senator's scoring a run with two outs in the bottom of the ninth to break a 3-3 tie.

On the Island

Yesterday we took Daniela's friend Elisa to see a Senators' game on City Island. It was a beautiful evening and we all had fun. (And the Susquehanna looked gorgeous! Not sure I've ever seen it with this much water in August.) I hadn't been to a game in some years and was very pleasantly surprised. The last time I went I remember being bitterly disappointed with the changes that had evolved: too much loud music, treating the fans like morons who needed to be constantly distracted by idiotic "entertainment". Well, either they've toned down the nonsense or I've simply been dumb-downed myself. I hope, and believe, it's the former. The stadium looks beautiful and they've made some nice improvements, including a wonderful "boardwalk" that wraps around the outfield, complete with bar-style seating. Very impressive. And for five bucks. Unbeatable! The game, won by the Binghamton Mets, was interesting. The Senator's starting pitcher, Erik Arneson, has been having a great year and was recently featured in Baseball America. But he looked like a dud last night. The Mets' hitters were really smashing the ball around. On the other hand, the Mets' starter, Dylan Owen, with very mediocre season numbers, pitched six and a third innings of shutout ball. I hope I can take in another game or two before the season is over. Another surprise: OK, so you assume that these double A players are really itching to move up and achieve their dream of playng in the big leagues. So what's with the half-assed efforts? There were at least two, maybe more, rather eye-popping instances of lack of hustle. (Maybe there's still too much prosperity.. ayy, I just can't kill that Calvinist streak in me; not that I'd ever dream of letting that ethic interfere with my own enjoyment. Ha!) And an amazingly bone-headed base running error when a Senators' player got caught too far off of third on a grounder to a drawn-in infield. Bush league! But it did lead to a pretty good pickle! Score that 4 to 2 to 5 to 2 to 5 to 2 to 6! But yes, I do identify with the runner. Which way I am going? Is there any escape? Aldrich, you knucklehead! I guess I wasn't paying attention.

In the photo: you can see that it takes many bridges to sustain a tear drop.

Trying to Catch Up

These days it seems mainly about trying to catch up. In many ways, including with regard to this blog. Catching up and undoing. And redoing. Undoing an overgrown garden, undoing boxes. Redoing connections, offices, accounts... Maybe the most delightful moments right now are spent puttering around in the garden, pruning back plants in my unartful and somewhat brutish way. I wish I had been here the past few months to experience this incredible growth. Water! It's also a delight just to be recentered with the family. Before Alma and Cristina head back to Cornell, we hope to have a few days all together. It's frustrating how little time there is to be all together.

Last night Manny DelCarmen pitched out of a bases loaded, no out jam. But for naught: the sox had blown their opportunity in the tenth and the Rays went on to win in thirteen. Longhoria, of course, with a game-winning homer. That guy is a real Sox killer. Sox. I just bought myself some new socks, so I'm feeling pretty good. And remembering that I'm not really a sox "fan", I feel even better. I can "follow" the sox and get great enjoyment from the unfolding of their adventures, but I don't suffer like a fan anymore. I gave that up after the 1986 fiasco. And I was reminded of that at the conclusion of the game we took in last week at Fenway. Right after the game ended, I found myself next to a little boy on our way out of the stadium He must have been around eleven or twelve years old. The sox had blown a three run lead in the ninth and gone on to lose. This kid was really distraught. Angry. I felt bad for him. Sonny, I feel your pain! Some adults never really move beyond that kind of childish reaction to sporting events. Maybe I didn't until 1986. Neuman had it right: what, me worry? None of this makes too much sense, but I know I enjoy watching Pedroia. And any ball game for that matter.

Balk!

Facebook is a curious phenomenon and it's interesting to see how incredibly fast it's evolving. I don't regret joining it because it's been an amazingly effective means of reconnecting with friends form college, high school, and even childhood. The other day I received the following message:

Alright, it's maybe 8th grade, you're pitching. I'm in left, pepper is thick in the air. So you go into your wind-up and I yell out "THIS GUYS MOTHER WEARS A JOCK STRAP!" You crack-up and balk, the umpire whips off his mask, halts the game and reams me out but good in front of everybody. As I'm standing there like a dope getting balled out, I look to the mound and you are howling. 

Ring any bells?

I suspect it was actually 6th or 7th grade when that happened, but in any case, what a funny recollection. And now I know why that major league career I was dreaming of never worked out. It was all Grier's fault! He was so good at not letting me forget how absurd it all is. We sure did have a lot of fun. And it's still a lot of fun. The path from a ball field in Bronxville to an apartment overlooking the beach in Malaga could be traced in many, many different ways, one of which might be to see the dots connecting the lines as absurd chance happenings that bleed outsized shares of incredibly good fortune.

We Are in the Universe to Watch Baseball, or Cosmic Harmony On A Sunny Day

Wow! When it got to 7-0 I admit I pretty much gave it up for lost. Who wouldn't? Indeed it was magical. So many incredible moments. David found his wood. They all did. Coco's at bat to end the eighth was truly memorable. When Drew came up in the ninth I confess it's not what I was really hoping for–I'm always rooting for extra innings, endless extra innings. So we got the next best thing, simply one of the most incredible games in the history of baseball! Thank you, mlb.com! More drama to come. No use being a pessimist with these Sox. As the kids might say: that is so last millennium. Speaking of pessimism, on the 'rest' night, Asun and I went to a very interesting book presentation, this one a gathering to celebrate a collection of interviews with people who were close to the Rumanian writer Cioran, the radical pessimist. Antonio presented the editors, his friends Carlos Cañeque and Maite Grau. There was a nice dinner after the event, and it turned out to be a good opportunity to share a lot of laughs with some novelists. A lot of Cioran's writing was aphoristic in nature. Here are a few examples, translations from the original French (yes, Cioran wrote in French after settling in exile in Paris in 1937), taken from the web: "Consciousness is nature's nightmare." "Existing is plagiarism." Here's an uplifting one: "By all evidence we are in the universe to do nothing." And says I: so what's wrong with doing nothing? But last night, even before the game got started, was for optimists: Asun and I went to an event with another exiled writer, this time a reading by Uruguayan novelist and poet Cristina Peri Rossi. She settled in Barcelona in the early 1970s. I wasn't real familiar with her work. I had kind of a mixed reaction, but it was an enjoyable event, as Peri Rossi turns out to be a very funny woman. If Cioran had gone to NY instead of to Paris, if Peris Rossi had gone anywhere but Barcelona, the resulting cosmic chaos would have been unbearable, and no doubt the Sox would have lost last night. But they didn't. Let's play two (more)!

Searching

Yesterday after finishing with work I went to a book presen- tation at the new FNAC store. Juvenal was presenting Manuel Alcántara's most recent anthology. I got there late, but in time to listen to Alcántara reflect on his life (he's 80) then read some poems. Nothing really special about the event itself, which was very well attended, but it was nice to be able to say hello to Manolo. (Speaking of older-young-at-heart poets, Pablo was in town last week and we were able to have lunch together; as always, a wonderful gathering.) Last night I also had the opportunity to meet Manuel Pimentel, a former government minister who decided to engage his interest in poetry a few years ago, after he left the government; he was there as the publisher of the anthology. Last year I translated twelve of Alcantara's sonnets. Here's one of my favorites, which the poet recited last night:

I search for myself in time badly spent

and in calendars whose pages are old,

but the scent of my soul has gone cold,

and the old man I knew he up and went.

The one I was just a one time event?

I want news of myself, news to unfold

the layers of myself, these words of gold

to relieve oblivion, my one lament.

The small adventure of this boat that sails

blue seas and feels the force of big strong gales:

yet no mermaid with any answer sings.

My wine and questions are in the same cup.

Pains and doubts. Everything piles up.

And God's answer is to not say a thing.

We're all searching. The Red Sox too. They just got beat badly again. The lost autumn of Big Papi? He's got one more chance to find it. They all do. I hope today isn't my last chance. I don't think it will be. (First I've got to figure out the 'it' I'm supposed to be looking for; actually this life as search idea isn't really my cup of tea. I just keep rooting for extra innings, endless, infinite extra innings. And it's softball, none of this three strikes and you're out nonsense. Damn, with those rules I'd have been gone long, long ago.) We had a funny family meeting last night: Asun and I here in Malaga video talking to Alma and Cristina, who were rather comically seated in one of the little campus information booths where Alma sometimes works, and Daniela in Madrid participating via speaker phone. A couple of times we had to stop so Alma could give directions to campus visitors. And at times there were several conversations going on at once: travel plans, help with homework, just catching up, boyfriends, etc. Today's word is: Discombobulated. (In the photo, Manuel Alcántara.)

He Did It!

A couple of weeks ago I joked about young Red Sox rookie Jed Lowrie needing some rein- carnation work. He stunk it up pretty good in September at the plate (his fielding has been consistently good, better than you could expect from a rookie), but boy did he come through last night! How about that–the kid gets the game winning hit with two out in the bottom of the ninth. He didn't exactly tear the cover off the ball, but a hit's a hit, and with it the Sox move on to Tampa Bay. Should be fun. (And it's fun in Malaga–Asun arrived yesterday. Superlative. Lucky me. Wow, not being alone really does change my whole outlook. As Ortega y Gasset said, "I am me and my circumstances". The circumstances just got exponentially better.) These long waits they have come up with between post season baseball games are excessive, but in this case I'm not complaining–wanting to see the games really messes up my sleep routine. And sleep is important. So now I get a break for a few days. In getting this photo of Lowrie, I noticed that someone has already entered last night's hit in Wikipedia. The game just ended a few hours ago! Poor Angel fans. But the fans are happy in Malaga: the basketball team destroyed Real Madrid on Saturday and on Sunday the soccer team, back in first division, beat Huelva 0-4. Someone I'd really like to have lunch with: Roger Angell.

Some Men I'd Like to Meet

Thursday was a most pleasant day, even though it didn't start that way. Sometimes the alarm clock goes off at the wrong moment, and that was the case yesterday. I must have been in a deep slumber, because that annoying jingle my cell phone makes really startled me when it went off at 5:45. I don't always get up that early, but the Red Sox were on and I wanted to see the end of the game. A slow game: I sat down at the computer and it was only the top of the sixth. Beautiful. I was just getting my eyes to stop watering and, crack, Jason Bay smashes a two run homer. Then in the bottom half of the inning Lester boy strikes out the side. And so it went. I go to the terrace and the sun is just coming up, and for the first time of the season, it's rising over the water. Wonderful. I'm sipping my coffee, thinking a little about the Sox and feeling very placid and benevolent, so benevolent, in fact, I decide it's time to really cleanse myself completely: I'm going to forgive the big goat from 1986. No, not Bill, middle name omitted, Buckner. I forgave him years and years ago. I'm talking about John No Brain McNamara. Buckner will always be the poster boy for that historical meltdown, and he of course was the one who blew the routine play, a gaffe that happens to be, for his eternal misfortune, antonomasia for little kid mistake: Billy baby, you stop letting the ball roll through your legs when you're 10 or 11 years old! But poor old Bill should never have been out there in that situation. All through the 1986 season, when the Sox were ahead in the late innings, Dave Stapleton had been sent in as a defensive replacement. So why did McNamara change the routine? He wants the old veteran out on the field for the celebration. Get real! (Compare that to Francona's  recent explanation of why he left Timlin off the roster: yah, Mike's a great guy, and it's tough, but this is about putting the best team possible out there. You tell the guys the truth straight up and that's that. We're professionals.) And McNamara pinch hitting for Clemens and sending up Greenwell, leaving Don Baylor on the bench. Don Baylor and his 31 home runs that year! Greenwell was a rookie! McNamara, the bum. The Bum! But yesterday, the sun was coming up beautifully and I thought, it's ok. John is no doubt a nice guy and I'd even like to meet him and I would no longer have any bad thoughts. It's gone. All gone. And so I'd like to meet Buckner, too, poor guy. And while I'm at it, I'd like to meet Bob Stanley, and Mookie Wilson, and even, I'm going out on a limb here, Calvin Schiraldi. It's all ok. But I don't want to meet Dick Stockton. Is there a worse baseball announcer out there? I just heard him durng the ninth inning of the Dodgers/Cubs game. Truly awful. That too, is ok.

Baseball

Strange guy, Manny. (No one in Malaga knows about Manny, the Red Sox, or baseball.) Sin Manuel, so far, so good. What would have happened had Manny had Carlton Fisk as a teammate? Maybe Pudge could have straightened him out. (Above, the portrait of Fisk by Susan Miller that Peter donated to the National Portrait Gallery in memory of Duane. Thanks, Peter! That's a truly wonderful gift.) Or maybe Manny would have stayed happy had Spaceman Bill Lee been around. That guy strikes me as a false nutcase–he's not really crazy, just likes to act that way. But I've never met Lee, so I can't really say. And early this morning on the computer I saw Manny hit a single, then go first to third on a single to right-man, nothing wrong with those knees, no way. He was going all out. So what's the deal? It appears that Manny was definitely tanking it, and if that's the case, well, he should have been docked some pay before being shipped out. Unconscionable. Apropos nothing: when are they going to stop playing "God Bless America" during the 7th inning stretch? It's time to put that to rest, and long overdue is a clamp on all the obnoxious noise they blare you with at games. That's when I stopped going to Senators games at City Island. It was so wonderful when it was just baseball. It's too bad. (Noise pollution is a big problem in Malaga.)

"Coño, si todavía estoy aquí"

Damn, I'm still here!* That's what Carlos Cristos says to himself with great joy when he wakes up in the morning. It's in the documentary "Las alas de la vida", which I saw on tv Friday night. The film covers three years in the life of Carlos, a family doctor in Mallorca who is diagnosed with a very rare nervous system disorder that is progressive and fatal. In Spanish the disease is known as "atrofia sistémica múltiple" (AST). They say there are only 800 cases worldwide. The film is really wonderful. Carlos quickly wins over the viewer with his sense of humor and infectious enthusiasm, in spite of living in a rapidly deteriorating body. The disease does not affect his intellect. After the film I got to thinking about routines, the ordinary day to day stuff that we take for granted. Yes, it's a tired cliché, we shouldn't take anything for granted. But true nonetheless. So I guess I'm tremendously lucky because I do get really excited about the most trivial stuff. Last night, for example, I walked downtown to have some coffee with friends. And walking down the Paseo del Parque I thought, wow!, this is great, just walkin' down the street! Step, step, step. Nothin' to it. Then, when I got home, more fun. Earlier yesterday I had signed up for major league baseball's online subscription–the service that allows you to watch all the games on your computer. I put a game on (Cleveland at Toronto), but I wasn't really paying attention and started doing something else in my office. Then I heard the announcer say "and there's a soft grounder to the right side". Can you get any more routine than that? Splendid! How many times in my life have I heard that exact description? Hundreds, at least. Or any other routine expression you hear over and over again in a single game: "strike three", "ball", "a routine fly to center", etc. Great! I can't hear them enough. Because without all that ordinary narration what's really unusual wouldn't make sense. We need the context. If some guy can just report "and that's another walk by...", well, there must be at least a minimum of normalcy, of a sense that the world isn't about to end right now, because if it were I don't think we'd be listening to a ball game. That ball is going, going... Not yet! Coño, si todavía estoy aquí. Gracias, Carlos.

* Anyone who speaks Spanish knows that coño literally means "cunt". It would be ridiculous, of course, to translate that exclamation literally. The ubiquitous presence of coño in the daily speech of most Spaniards is worthy of its own entry.