Wednesday, November 26, 2014

In Search of a Voice for Ferguson's America (Revised 12/2/14)

I watch Ferguson, Missouri, from the safety of my suburban home as my television displays a bizarre juxtaposition of incongruent images--a torched police cruiser, tear gas and smoke bombs, a mock display of uplifted hands, and a bright red illuminated banner crossing a major thoroughfare and proclaiming the traditional greetings of the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons. I am ill at ease.

My discontent is palpable but I don't know how to express it or what to call it. I think it is because the truth is so elusive, that the moment is populated by separate realities, many of them unspoken but defining nonetheless. There are many truths here, and not just because people have different experiences. It is because truth is layered, measured, clipped, and disproportionately applied. And so we flounder around in search of explanations. Their banality become most evident when CNN holds a microphone to someone's face and invites a sound bite. God save us from sound bites.

Some think it is all summed up by watching the looters acting like they're running an early Black Friday sale at the local liquor store. It is so infuriating you want to throw a shoe. And sitting in the cheap seats, like my living room, it is tempting to point out how this is the real problem--people don't get it, human greed takes over, and obedience to the rule of law is the issue that needs to be confronted. But it's not that easy.

Then one can turn to the rational examination of facts. Just read the Grand Jury transcript and everything will become clear. The cop was being attacked by a 300 pound thug with stolen cigars, reminded him of Hulk Hogan, had a demonic look in his eye. Convinced his life was in danger, he pulled a gun for the first time as a police officer on duty. He fired off a multitude of shots in defense of his own life, and a teenage kid lay dead on the street. His blood was inside the police car and on the gun, he wasn't shot in the back, and the disparate recollections of many witnesses finally got sorted, adjusted, and crafted into a reasonably believable narrative. It's sad, unfortunate, even tragic, but there is the answer. No, it's not that easy.

How about the threat of anarchy? Who got the bright idea that the way to protest police brutality was to burn down the neighborhood beauty products store, to loot the automotive parts outlet, or to essentially raze by bats or matches an entire block of commerce in your own town? There's no rhyme or reason; there is only the crazed mob mentality that simmers beneath the surface, nesting within the constellation of injustice, unfairness, and inequality that is the lived-out experience of so many people of color and poverty. It takes just a particular moment, a convergence of circumstances, to ignite and then explode. It may not be the best of reasons. But it is a reason; some might say an excuse. That explains it--the presence of anarchy, or the fear of it. Alas, not that easy.

It has been a lot of years since Martin Luther King climbed to the mountaintop--about 46 of them. The nation of equals he marched for, prayed for, got arrested for, and ultimately died for, has come a long way since 1968. We have an African American President and Attorney-General, previously a Secretary of State. Life has improved for people of color. Few could deny that.

But King's dream is far from fulfillment, even if it has been adopted by many Americans of many ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Nonetheless, the events in Ferguson have reminded us of how urgently this nation needs a prophetic voice that can transform this mess of pottage into poetry.

We watched Missouri's governor bumbling his way around on national television, dashing hopes that he could bring sensitive leadership to the defining moment of his political career. We listened to a prosecutor reading a sanitized bill of particulars without seemingly having a clue about how his matter-of-fact prosecutorial tone would only deepen the pain of a community that needed assurance that he had not just a head but also a heart. We observed an array of officials speaking within their limited scope of authority, but few seemed able to understand where their brick fit in the cathedral under construction.

In the days that followed the non-indictment of a police officer and the subsequent torching of a community people took sides. But it was too late for that--the issues had already left Ferguson. Officer Wilson is no longer a cop, but he will find riches by telling his story to the media. Michael Brown will be grieved by his family forever, but he will soon slip from the collective memory of the nation. The question is what will be done with the remnants? What will happen to the ashes in the street, the shards of glass, the bullets collected from the crime scene, the police cruiser laying on its side, gutted and burned and remembered now as an iconic photo in the news magazines. What will happen to it all? Can redemption ever come from this?

A voice. I think that's what I need, what I think we all need. I don't know where it comes from, although I'm betting against cable TV. I doubt it's to be found among the bevy of minions acting as our Congress these days. They can't agree on the type of paper towel dispenser to be used in the Congressional bathrooms. My disposition would lean toward the churches, but they seem so busy deliberating on whether gays and lesbians are persons of worth along with a variety of other preoccupations.

Is there someone out there without preset agendas, with an ability to listen as well as talk? Is there someone who can clear their throat and speak with conviction and yet with humility about life in these United States of America? Is there someone who can convey a message that resonates with the proud moments of our past while pointing to a future of promise. We need words that sound strangely familiar and yet altogether new. Perhaps something like this:
"Listen, my friends, I have a dream about a journey and I must share it with you because I want to invite you to come with me. In this dream we are all together, climbing a mountain, seeking its summit. In this amazing dream we all understand that each and every one of us is of inestimable worth. There are no exceptions, no human quality that separates a human being from our essential worth. Some think it is a silly pipe dream, that it is too hard, too idealistic. Perhaps. I don't know if I will get to that mountaintop or if any of you will. But this dream is about a journey that is worthy of the human family, The mere effort to fulfill it will make us better, more hopeful, more loving. Surely I am not the only one who has this dream? Will  you join with me and risk some scoffing ridicule that we have embarked on a fool's errand? I don't care. I yearn for that mountaintop. I can't quite see it from here. It is, I am sure, out there somewhere, just out of view, just beyond the horizon. It will be a long journey, I am sure. But, oh my, how important that journey will be, how joyous. Do not look back. Do not let voices of skepticism and dissent turn us away. Take my hand, and the hand of another. Come, let us journey together. Let us live the dream once again."
We need a voice like that--clear, visionary, compelling, gentle, prayerful, and trustworthy. Many of us yearn for such a voice. The message from Ferguson's America is that the need for such a voice is no longer just a wistful hope. It is now an urgent necessity.


 (This post was published in the early morning on November 26, 2014. During the course of the days that followed some stylistic edits and a few content revisions were made, especially in the last few paragraphs. These changes did not affect the thesis of the original, but hopefully allowed the English language to express those ideas more effectively. It is doubtful that further revisions will be made, however much they may be needed. In any case, the most current version will always be the one published on the GRANTaMUSEd blog.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

A Fan's Joyful Lament

It was the last gasp of an extraordinary baseball season for the Kansas City Royals, and the tying run stood 90 feet away. Kauffman Stadium was jammed with over 40,000 fans decked in blue and rocking, waving, screaming, hoping.

A 25-year-old cyborg creature masquerading as a San Francisco Giants baseball pitcher was staring down a 24-year-old catcher armed with a bat that a month ago had salvaged an improbable wild card game and launched the Royals into a mystical, magical playoff run--the first such appearance of any kind in Kansas City for a generation.

All kinds of history, records, and personalities populated this single moment. Las Vegas had figured the odds. Pundits had fingered the key players and made their predictions of potential stars. And there had been whispers, hushed only by the audacity of the claim, that perhaps the Royals were (Shhhhh!) a Team of Destiny. They had won eight straight in the playoffs against teams with superior records. They  had taken the Giants, seeking their third World Series win in five years, to a rare seventh game, one of the most exciting of all events in sport. And now, in the 177th game of the season, it all came down to this single, very pregnant, moment.

In a matter of seconds it all wilted--the pitch, the swing, a pop-up on the infield gathered in routinely by the third baseman, who then flopped down on his back as if he had caught a cannon ball.

The crowd that had for three hours cheered as one suddenly cheered as none. The quiet was deafening. That lost moment had sucked the air out of the stadium. Even the people who hadn't been to a baseball game in ten years but were sitting in $1000 seats stopped networking for a bit, recognizing that something untoward had happened out there. The focus of attention immediately shifted to the victors converging on the field. Microphones were pushed into the faces of the celebrants, most of whom served up the platitudes typical of post game interviews. There were only a few exchanges with the losing team--"How does it feel to spill out your guts every day for seven months and then lose it with the game standing just a few feet away?"--sensitive questions like those.

The magical, improbable journey of the decades with its last minute comebacks, its startling catches, stolen victories, and inspiring drama had fallen one run short. And that made all the difference. There will be no appearances on Letterman, no ticker tape parade, no visit to the White House. The record books will be altered by this series and this game, but most of the big ones will have "Giants" beside the numbers. If a new face appears on a Wheaties box it will not be topped by a blue cap with KC above the bill.

And worst of all, we will all have to start hearing "wait till next year" way sooner than we're ready to hear it, embrace it, or comprehend it. It is like asking a woman who moments ago gave birth after a long labor if she planned to have any more children. Not the right time to ask.

That said, my lament for the fact that my team had scratched its way to the top only to fall a fingernail short is injected with an undeniable sense of joy that is not measured in baseball terms although it is prompted by this baseball story with its sad/happy ending.

My feelings are not from thinking about the team that will take the field next year, although I am heartened by the returning core players and the minor league prospects who are on their way to the Big Leagues. They are not really about the fascinating personal stories in the clubhouse, although I have been inspired by many of them. They aren't about the national and international goodwill enjoyed by the team as well as the city of Kansas City and its environs, although it warmed my heart to see our town and team in that positive light.

Rather than those probable sources of joy, mine came out of a feeling I have been experiencing for over a month, but of which I never spoke. I have been immersed in this playoff run, thought about it every day, listened to sports radio, read the thorough coverage by the Kansas City Star and other publications, managed to see one of the ALCS games in person with my son, and did all the other things one might expect of a lifelong baseball fan after a 29-year October baseball drought.

I had a general sense of what was going on in the world, but was far less focused on that than I usually am. I knew there were awful beheadings in the Mideast. I heard the reports of the scary Ebola virus killing thousands of Africans and beginning to threaten this country as well. I was saddened by a senseless shooting in the capital of the peaceful country of Canada, the place of my birth. I saw that more children had died from the senseless gun violence that is so pervasive these days. I was assaulted by tasteless and deceptive political commercials from both sides of the shameful political divide in this country. I was saddened by the untimely death of a friend. And in the midst of all of this the game played on.

So yes, in my preoccupation with men playing baseball games I began to feel some uneasiness prompted, I guess, by guilt. How can we devote so much time and energy to entertainment which, despite the outlandish salaries and misplaced priorities, it still is? How can we spend thousands of dollars for a seat at a three-hour game when that same amount of money could feed a starving Third World village for months? And on and on.

But then I started to think about this baseball team and to consider what it represents. There are young men there who grew up in the most humble circumstances and were able to channel their natural gifts into the fulfillment of a dream they never would have imagined. There were aging stars who had labored through an entire career without tasting baseball's greatest prize until now, contributing more with their heart than their bat. There was the video of a Royals player in Baltimore who picked up a game of catch with some kids outside the stadium; the video went viral. There was a phenom-in-the-making who played in the College World Series and the MLB World Series within a period of about four months--never had that happened in the history of the game. There were scores of tributes, some of them tearful, from players who wanted everyone to know that they would never have been here without the sacrifices and support of their moms. The list is endless.

Life is about imagination and hope. Both of those things have to be carved out of real experience. I think that is why this amazing journey by a baseball team caught the attention of people literally around the world. The team and the game transcended baseball and embodied hope.

I'm trying to understand why I am not in more pain over losing it all in the last out of the last inning of the last game. I feel empty, but not profoundly sad. This story strained for ninth inning heroics, for David slaying the Giant (get it?), for the satisfying sense that all is right in the world.

But perhaps that is the joy embedded in my lament. It is not a perfect world, and not all endings are happy, but they can be joyous. That happens in the deeper sense of the word when something occurs that is so good, so real, that it is etched forever on our hearts. That has happened to me during this glorious month of October.

And as to next year, I'm not ready for that. This World Series isn't done with me yet.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Jim's Hot Tamales and the Afterlife

For the last several days I've had a hankering for some of Jim's Hot Tamales, a Kansas City staple virtually unknown to visitors and usually missing from the guidebooks about our town. Those of us who were around here about four generations ago, beginning in the late 1950's or thereabouts, will remember the white tamale cart that Jim pushed around the sidewalks of Downtown Kansas City, parking for a while in front of Macy's, and then moving along to the next area of high pedestrian traffic.

A food commentator has described Jim's tamales in this way: "These are not Mexican style tamales, but rather New Orleans style tamales. They are still made with corn masa, but rather than stuffed with meat and wrapped in corn husks they are flavoured with broth and cylindrical in shape."

The tamales came out of the cart steaming hot, wrapped in paper twisted at each end. The tamale was hot in both senses of the word, not forbiddingly hot in the spicy way, but with a bite to be sure. When I was a kid I was enchanted by the man and his cart and found the tamales a tasty treat, if and when our mother would succumb to our pleas and overlook her concern about the potential threat to public health fostered by the unknown contents of the cart. My mother notwithstanding, Jim flourished with the goodwill of Downtown shoppers and workers.

In the years that followed, Downtown Kansas City folded and virtually died, giving way to the more picturesque Plaza, the upscale Crown Center, or the suburban shopping malls. Jim and his tamale cart disappeared.
Jim's Hot Tamales cart in Downtown Kansas City ca. 1966
I don't know all of what happened to Jim Van Zandt over the years, but every now and then he and his tamales would pop up in the most unusual places. Gas stations were the most common outlets, especially those with small convenience stores inside. There they were, hot and steamy, inside a plexiglas container looking, and tasting, just as good as ever. One day I was driving on Highway 24 just west of River Blvd., not far from where I had lived and still worked, and there in a previously vacated building that had once sold tires or repaired autos or pawned jewelry, a sign declared that it was now the home of Jim's Hot Tamales.

When I stopped in I discovered that it was actually the place where the tamales were made each day. They told me that they transported them around town to various locations. This wasn't really a restaurant but they would sell you a few tamales and, even better, a spread with chili spooned over the top. There was a hardback chair or two and a wobbly table you could use if you didn't want your order to go. Ambience wasn't Jim's thing.

In 2011 a man was shot to death at a location in Northeast Kansas City where he had sold Jim's Tamales for about 20 years. Media coverage reported that he was so connected to these tamales in that neighborhood that the locals referred to him as Jim Tamale. Van Zandt expressed dismay at the death of a friend for over 30 years and couldn't imagine why such a thing would happen. The story of the murder of the tamale man became a bit of an urban cause celebre for a while, adding an additional mystique to the homegrown tamale enterprise.

The final stop for Jim's Hot Tamales in NW Independence
Photo credit jimsawthat
I don't know how much time passed before I realized that Jim's Hot Tamales had again disappeared and then resurfaced at a new location farther west on 24 Highway, occupying a sparse drive-in restaurant with an expanded menu under the moniker "Jim's Tamales and More." When I stopped in I discovered that the proprietor took his job seriously, as if the tamale legacy was in his hands. I was given strict instructions about how to prepare them, freeze them, reheat them. Every now and then I made my way over there to pick up a couple of dozen tamales, unable to resist opening the bag and extracting two or three to consume on my way home.

All of this is the backdrop to my hankerings. I live farther away now, but I knew the taste buds were going to continue to tantalize me until I undertook the 20 mile or so trip. So this morning I made my way over there and with a jolt I realized that the place was now named "Grampa's Cafe" and featured Italian and Mediterranean Cuisine. My first thought was that this kind of place really should not be allowed to use the term "cuisine." My second thought was more desperate. Where are Jim's Hot Tamales?

I ventured inside, fearing the worst. I was met by a delightful older man of Mediterranean descent. I made the inquiry that he seemed to have heard many times before. "I was wondering what has happened to Jim's Tamales?" He looked at me, and then with a disarming smile he responded with a line that I later wondered if he had rehearsed and used often, "Jim died about a year ago and took his tamales with him."

"That is an unfortunate loss," I said sincerely.

"Yes it is," he responded, handing me a carryout menu. "But I hope one day I can serve you a meal that you will find very enjoyable." After looking at his menu I thought to myself that I might just do that one day. But not today.

As I drove home I reflected on the fact that Jim's Hot Tamales no longer exists, except in the place within one's neurological system where there are imprinted memories of what tastes good and what tastes bad, along with a host of culinary nuances that dance on one's palate.

As powerful as these may be, it wasn't my sense of taste that was working on me in those moments. It was more a feeling of loss. How can something like a particular tamale just suddenly be no more? In truth, I suppose there is nothing to prevent its resurrection. The recipe and instructions are surely in someone's hands; perhaps an enchilada entrepreneur may want to expand his menu.

More likely, the light just went out and the new restaurateur was right in saying that Jim took his tamales with him. They'll be missed. Truly.

Stephen Covey has said that the components of meaningful existence are "to live, to love, to laugh, to leave a legacy." It would be silly to apply such esoteric notions to Jim's Hot Tamales, but I'll just note that someone made a good life out of doing something he loved, creating something that brought joy to others, and left us wishing we could just one more time see that white cart perched on the nearby corner, steam leaking around its cover, and that unique smell wafting its way toward us.

I don't know much about the afterlife, but if it includes a tamale spread from Jim how bad can it be?


This two minute YouTube video is pretty awful, but gives a feel for some places and times that are parts of the unique story of Jim's Hot Tamales, now lost to us all.

Thursday, October 02, 2014

Redemption Cometh - Baseball and the Soul

The Sports Page of the Kansas City Star says it all in one word following the Royals stunning victory
over the Oakland A's in the AL Wild Card Game of Major League Baseball's 2014 Post Season
(Photo by John Sleezer, The Kansas City Star)

In the end, the cast of characters was as improbable as the game--a booming triple off the top of the wall by a season-long underachieving first baseman, a high bouncer in front of the plate by a rookie infielder with a broken finger, and then a screaming line drive down the third base line by a much-coveted young catcher, but one mired in a horrible 0 for 5 in the game, sometimes swinging haplessly at pitches, looking completely lost. But this ball smacked against the wall and ended a four hour and 45 minute classic, propelling the Kansas City Royals past the Oakland A's 9-8, and extending to another day their first post-season tournament appearance in 29 years.

The catcher: Salvador Perez. The headline: Salvation.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound. Once was lost, but now is found.

There must be some reason why baseball attracts some of the best writing in all of sport. Names like Red Smith, Roger Kahn, Ring Lardner, Jimmy Breslin, Roger Angell (the best of all), and W. P. Kinsella have for decades graced newspapers, magazines, and anthologies with poetry masquerading as baseball stories. Unlikely contributors like the biologist Stephen Jay Gould, the political columnist George Will, and the novelist John Updike have all written signature books or essays demonstrating that this is more than just a game. 

The titles of some of the most notable baseball books point to a reality beyond the stadium: 

Triumph and Tragedy in Mudville: A Lifelong Passion for Baseball
The Boys of October: How the 1975 Boston Red Sox Embodied Baseball's Ideals -- and Restored Our Spirits
The Faith of 50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture
Mickey Mantle: America's Prodigal Son 
Baseball: A Literary Anthology
Baseball as a Road to God: Seeing Beyond the Game
The Duke of Havana: Baseball, Cuba, and the Search for the American Dream
Memories of Summer: When Baseball Was an Art and Writing About It a Game

There is something about this game of baseball that transcends bats and balls and gloves. It has something to do with a dad tossing a baseball to his son--and thankfully these days to his daughter as well--but that isn't all of it either. It is about the rise and fall of heroes--"There is no joy in Mudville, Mighty Casey has struck out." It is about moments frozen in time--Bobby Thompson's home run, Willy Mays basket catch with his back to the infield, Jackie Robinson's first step onto a Major League baseball field after which everything is different.

It is about historic team rivalries and nail-biting match-ups between Cy Young Award pitchers and MVP hitters--two men all alone it would seem as a blazing orb collides with a pine bat, launching it to God knows where--the extended leather hand of a diving shortstop, or that sweet spot between the racing outfielder and the unmovable wall, or perhaps beyond the wall, into the seats where suddenly everyone becomes an outfielder, $10 beers splashing into the wind, popcorn tubs converted to mitts, and hopefully a ball ending up in the hands of a kid, now a baseball fan forever.

Transcendent themes weave through every game--hope and dreams, failure and loss, tragedy and comedy. It is about odds that are overcome and statistics that lie, surgeries and rehabs, youthful exuberance and veteran wisdom. It is about blown calls and managerial missteps, rules and reviews, hirings and firings. It is about patience and waiting for your chance, one that may never come.

In other words, baseball is about "life writ large."

Cardinal fans have never forgotten "The Call" in Game Six of the 1985 World Series
while Royals fans patiently remind them of the 11-0 thumping delivered in Game Seven.

I was there in 1985. It was Game One of the World Series between the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals--the I-70 Series they called it, after the freeway connecting the two Missouri baseball franchises on opposite sides of the state. We lost the game, but there was magic crackling in Royals Stadium that day. Six games later the Royals scrapped their way back, winning Game Seven after a blown call of epic proportions effectively snatched Game Six from the Cardinals' grasp. They never got back on their feet and the Royals cleaned up in a runaway.

In the 29 years since that jubilant final out the Kansas City Royals have never sniffed a playoff game, the longest playoff drought of any major sport in North America. Not even a sniff!

That is why the response to a play-off clinch on Saturday night triggered the expected celebration. It was loud and reckless, champagne bottles spraying their eye-stinging contents into a surreal, Star Wars-like locker room with players donning goggles and slickers to protect their eyes and skin from the burning liquids. If it seemed a little kissy-sissy--can you imagine Mickey Mantle with goggles and raincoat in a playoff celebration at Yankee Stadium? But it did not blunt the sheer sporting achievement of this historic win. It was a grand day in Kansas City.

But then came Tuesday night and the wildest of wild cards, the most unbelievable of scripts, and the most unfathomable of outcomes. Tuesday night became... well, it became downright theological.

The wonderful "Salvation" headline was much more than a clever spin on the name of a redeemed player. It was about this city, this team, these individuals. And if the cable sports channels, the radio talk shows, and the social media have it right, it would seem to be a time of redemption for us all.

I've got an M.Div. and I can only imagine my seminary professors snorting and snarling upon hearing the subject of many thousands of treatises being likened to a baseball game.

Well, maybe not Dr. Tex Sample. I thought of him while fingering some books and pondering the meaning of this baseball season, and darned if I didn't stumble across a piece by Sample, one of my favorites, now Professor Emeritus of Church and Society at St. Paul School of Theology in Kansas City, Missouri. His essay, "Baseball: A Spiritual Reminiscence," is collected in a wonderful book, The Faith of  50 Million: Baseball, Religion, and American Culture. Sample, an accomplished athlete and one-time semi-pro baseball player, writes movingly of a spinal condition that prevented him from playing football and redirected those talents to a baseball field. There he experienced the range of human emotions, likening a time when he walked the bases full to "being gutted," (p. 208) or describing his inability to play at the level he thought possible as a "failure of being, a failure to be a man" (p. 209). His reminiscence is often more tortured than redemptive. He recognizes that one can take it too far:
Yet baseball is not war; it is not a struggle over dignity; it is not the ultimate stage on which the reason for life is lived out...Turning baseball into a life-and-death struggle destroys it as a game, and it is the love of the game that makes it so right. (page 213)
Undoubtedly so, but the mere fact that Sample chose the game of baseball as a metaphor for his life journey clearly illustrates its power to define and describe one's very soul.

The fine writers listed above, and many others, have written about baseball as cultural history, social transformation, religious fervor, and literary achievement. Though an unrelenting fan throughout these insufferable 29 seasons, I might be a bit jaded about all of that had I not been listening to the voices in Kansas City this week. Women calling in to the radio shows and weeping in gratitude that the long ordeal is over. Hard-bitten sportscasters, choking up as they reached for words to describe the moment, and failing. Kids out in their driveways throwing the ball against the wall, imagining themselves in the bottom of the 12th at "the K" ripping that line drive just inches past the outstretched hand of the diving third basemen.

Silly or not, people got out of bed on Wednesday morning and life was different. If Kansas City's version of the Boys of Summer could pull off that most unlikely of achievements, how bad can my problems be? There is joy and hope in Royals Land and now we will see where it takes us. But no matter where it goes nothing can take back what has been done this week. It is here for the ages.

There is just one little troublesome thought burrowed into a corner of my mind, one that I can't seem to shake, one that keeps nudging itself into these theological ruminations.

Tonight is Game One of the American League Division Series. The Royals are in Anaheim and ready for the first pitch about 8pm CST.

Their opponent:  The Angels.


Saturday, September 20, 2014

Looking into Each Other's Eyes: Violence, Sport, and Home

I like football. It's not my favorite sport. I much prefer baseball because it is more nuanced in its play, the strategy more evident, the competitive match-ups right out there for all to behold. And, most of all, I like it because you can see the player's eyes.

I never played football, so I don't know what it's like "in the trenches." That's where they say the game is won or lost. It is where men weighing about 300 pounds play smash mouth, pounding each other to the turf, grabbing each other illegally and avoiding a penalty almost every play. It is where vicious, hard-hitting linemen vie against each other, striving to open a hole in the line where the fleet-of-foot back can gracefully dance through and run for daylight. Or it is where those lineman hold off the incoming defenders to give the quarterback time to launch the perfect spiral downfield to the streaking receiver. It can be beautiful or brutal. It can be elegant or awful. And, helmets and masks being what they are, you can rarely see the player's eyes.

We should make no mistake about the current debate over domestic violence and the National
Football League. This is not fundamentally about football and its violent play. It is not about forms of corporal punishment appropriate for disciplining children (although I don't want to hear a single argument defending punishments that leave welts on the backs of four-year old children). It is not about the vastly underreported culture of violence inside the homes of America. It is not about the simmering climate of distrust in our urban centers where teenagers live in fear of those sworn to protect them.

All of these are in the mix, of course, but none of this will be addressed until we look each other in the eyes and start being honest about our violent society.

Monday, September 08, 2014

Derek Jeter Day

I was glad to watch from the comfort of my home as Derek Jeter was honored at Yankee Stadium yesterday. He has been a fine player and he is a fine human being. I was glad to see the assemblage of athletes and celebrities who turned out to recognize him. I was glad to see him get a base hit on his first at bat. I was glad to hear the roar of the crowd who had watched him play his entire career in Yankee pinstripes. 
And most of all, I was glad to see my Kansas City Royals recognize Jeter by pasting the Yankees 2-0, and continuing their march to a playoffs that could very well include the Royals and exclude the Yankees. Now there is something to celebrate, eh Derek?

Sunday, July 06, 2014

From Free Libraries to Free Birth Control: The Stranglehold of Rigid Literalism

Spencer Collins, 9, stands in front of his Little Free Library before leaders
of his hometown of Leawood, Kansas, shut him down.
An updated and somewhat expanded version of this post appears on

Perhaps you've heard the story of Spencer Collins, the nine-year-old boy who got crossways with the civil authorities when he erected a "Little Free Library" in the front yard of his home. It seems that the city codes in the plush suburban environs of Leawood, Kansas, prohibit structures that are not attached to the primary residence--things like tool sheds, side-buildings, detached garages, and such. They don't specify free lending libraries operated by nine-year-old kids, but clearly it's the same kind of crime.

The gravity of his offense did not occur to Spencer when the avid reader built his roadside stand as a Mother's Day gift. He figured that the love of reading instilled in him by his mother could be shared with other kids in his neighborhood. So imagine the surprise of Spencer, not to mention his parents, when they returned from vacation and found an official-looking letter providing a few days to dismantle the library or face a citation and attendant penalties.

The issue with the city officials isn't content; no books on evolution or other insidious topics deplored by many Kansans are to be found here. It isn't a matter of licensing businesses; this isn't a blood-sucking, profit-making enterprise like a lemonade stand or its ilk. No, the sole issue here is consistency in enforcing laws and codes. If you make an exception for a kid the next thing you know some developer will be running an outlet mall in his backyard. Enforce the law!  Who can argue with that?

I'd like to give it a try.

Friday, May 02, 2014

Mortality and Other Annoyances: When the Body Speaks the Soul Listens

This is a substantially revised version of a piece I posted on this blog on March 14, 2012. It is published simultaneously on, an interesting new venture in blogging. 

They tell me that I’m going through the “aging process.” I always thought of that as something that can be fixed with a pad of steel wool and a can of Rust-Oleum. I’m now informed that it is far more cosmic than that—something I had begun to suspect a few years ago after a round of doctors appointments to check on a few maladies of seeming little consequence.

What I discovered is that the “aging process” is a default disease. Floaters in your eye? Just part of the aging process. Ringing in your ear? Yeah, that just goes with age. Bladder not fulfilling its part of the deal? Growing old has its issues.

The thing is that while there may be a default diagnosis there is no default treatment. While I am a reluctant pill popper, I figured that surely something as universal as this “aging process disease” could be annihilated by a fat pill, pink in color, with letters like 6YTK inscribed on them. Far from it. Turns out that everything requires a different pill and each one costs something like $357.62, unless you inquire about a generic version, in which case it costs $4.98. Glad I asked.

I’m starting to get annoyed, however. It’s the little things. I’m always happy to get those 10% senior discounts; my longstanding reputation as a good steward (which my kids translate as “cheap”) overcomes admitting that I am old enough to be worthy of this act of benevolence on the part of the local merchants. But just once it would be good to have them inquire as to my eligibility rather than have it assumed. I want to be carded when ordering Denny’s Grand Slam Breakfast.

It may be that part of this is punishment from beyond. I used to travel a lot and that put me sitting across many hundreds of tables accompanied by many more hundreds of people, often seniors. Most of these dear folk seemed able to talk only about the side effects of their various prescriptions, the bedside manner of their physicians, and the latest Medicare loophole to exploit. I know my eyes glazed over. I know I muttered silently something to the effect of “Dear God, why me? Why oh why me?” I’m now wondering if this is the Affordable Health Care version of the Myth of Sisyphus, whereby one is sentenced for all eternity to push a Tylenol up a long hill with the tip of his nose, only to reach the peak and watch helplessly as it rolls back down again.

Friday, March 28, 2014

An Unexpected Book: Discovering My Life's Journey on My Bookshelves

A few days ago my friend Jerry sent me an unexpected book. When I opened my mailbox I saw the familiar Amazon logo but I knew no order was pending. If I have a book coming I listen for the sound of the Postal Service or UPS truck. I know the rhythm of their schedules, can discern the difference between the strained roar of the furniture truck and the contented whirr of the book delivery vehicle. If the books arrive early, as happened a few weeks ago when my free two-day delivery item arrived in one day, I am taken back, ill-prepared, and restlessly pleased. And when they’re late? Well, I mutter and sputter and try to decide who gets my frustration. Usually, the cat.

When I opened the package I was still a bit confused. I didn’t immediately recognize the book nor identify the sender. But after a little reflection I figured it out. A nice lunch with Jerry and Cyndi just a few days before—it had been a long time and they were in town briefly. A conversation about baseball, a favorite topic. Jerry’s inquiry about whether I had read a certain book; I hadn’t, nor had I heard of it. And Jerry, being Jerry, deciding I needed the experience. He liked it, so surely I would. Hence, the unexpected book. I have been thinking about why it delighted me so.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Perfection Just Ain't What It Used to Be

When you're dancing with the stars it's tough to
compete with perfection.
Is it just me or have others noticed an avalanche of the word "perfect" thundering into everyday public discourse?

We just finished building a house and found ourselves in many conversations with bankers, mortgage officers, and other folks evaluating our credit worthiness. It appears we are perfect in that regard, something even I would dispute.

I guess I first noticed it when being interviewed on the phone regarding our application for a home loan. "For security reasons," she said, "May I have the last four digits of your Social Security number." I provided the information and she responded, "Perfect!"

It took me back. Had I known I was being graded I would have given more thought to my answer. I surely would not have wanted the last four digits of my Social Security number to be less than perfect. I probably would have wanted to consult that flimsy red, white, and blue card they gave me back when I took a job at that godforsaken laundry when I was about 12. I didn't have it on me, but I think I know the box it's in, or at least the room. I could have gone there and found it so as to avoid any chance of being imperfect on those four digits.

But before I could process all of that, my current address was also judged by the banker to be "perfect." Ah ha! Now I had them. That address was on East 30th Terrace Court and sometimes East was shortened to E; Terrace abbreviated as Terr. and sometimes Ter.; often Court was shortened to Ct. And most disconcerting, the Post Office on occasion added an "S" on the end, presumably meaning South. It was a volunteer thing, I guess. I opted out, figuring East and South needed to play together at one end of the address or the other. I wasn't about to contribute to dysfunctional coordinates in my home address.