What Every Little Boy Knows

Because of baseball.

A beautifully written, neat little essay by T.R. Heally: "Chin Music"

My recommended reading for the month of September. (See sidebar.)

A Window Into My Classroom

The following blog is the most recent post from my English Lit class blog, Senior English. I thought some of my readers at Dirt Bombs might enjoy it. There's a link to my class blog on the sidebar if you're interested in reading more. Have a nice day.

That's Wyrd

I did a little research on the Old English, Anglo-Saxon concept of the wyrd. Simply put, it is most easily defined as a notion of "personal destiny" or fate. The word wyrd derives specifically from an old Germanic word and has cognates in ancient languages spanning from regions all across Europe, Central Asia, and all the way to northern India that date back to the Copper Age in the 5th and 4th millennia BC (5000-4000 BC). So this notion of a personal destiny runs deep in the blood and spirit of humanity.

What fascinates me the most, in the context of this course, is the collision between Christianity and personal fate on the British Isles during the Roman Empire. In the literature that you are reading right now, you can see how the monks embraced the notion of fate. After all, they would already have had both unconscious/subconscious and intellectual/academic exposure to the notion. But from what I can tell in my own reading, they saw it as the best avenue into the spiritual concerns of the "natives" of the lands that they conquered. As I said in class, in a world where it was highly likely on any given day that a child could die of sudden illness or a warrior could die in hand to hand combat, this notion of fate was just a matter of fact. Weather very directly affected survivability on a month to month basis. There were constant local battles for resources and security. Nothing was a given. Everything was hard. So if it was your time, it was your time. I don't mean to suggest that people only associate fate with death. It's just one of the most prominent associations that people make.

It seems that when the Roman Empire monks, who came from a much more "civilized" and secure place, picked up on the Anglo-Saxon locals' aforementioned spiritual, practical (and understandable) reliance on the concept of wyrd"ness" they ran with it, and the rest is history. Since then, as far as I can tell from both historical research and personal observation, the concepts of "personal destiny" and the God of Christianity have melted together more and more--to the point that we can observe it in popular American culture ranging from soap operas to politics (and yes that was a clever joke and yes it is sad). As I mentioned in class, I have a hard time accepting that some things are just meant to be--especially when they come from "religious" angles. Was 9/11 unavoidable? Was it predestined by God? That's not for me to answer for you, but I don't mind admitting that I have a hard time accepting it. Did God "kill" my mom with breast cancer when she was in her 40's? Was that divine fate? Maybe so. But I'd rather think of the fate end of it in more modern, scientific terms. She had genes that were more prone to cancer than other, healthier women. Yeah, God may have created those genes. Once again, it's not for me to say in this setting. But I don't mind saying that I don't think God gave her those genes In The Beginning. It just happened. My mom fought a valiant battle against a deadly disease, she contributed to research that has helped many women since survive breast cancer, but in the end, she "ran into a sword." If she'd have lived 5 years longer, they probably would have saved her. It was just wyrd, man. Those firefighters that heroically ran into those buildings trying to save lives and died--that was their personal destiny, and we will always venerate them for it. That's all I know to say.

I hope you will think about these types of things all year long on a deeper level than you have in the past. It's never my intention to "change" your belief system. But I do want you to question it so that it will grow stronger and more sound. This is why we read literature.

See you in class.

Sing a Song of Sixpence

Rome, Mama, and I have been reading nursery rhymes these last two days. We found a damaged (illustrated) book that's just FULL of great ones at the bookstore last weekend, and they sold it to us for three dollars. A poet-friend of mine had said recently that they are ominous and even frightening sometimes--especially when you're an adult and you understand the imputations. I had no idea what she was talking about until last night when the three of us sat down and started reading them together. Mama and I were shooting wide-eyed looks at each other over the cover of the book.

Like Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater, who had a wife but couldn't keep her. So he put her in a pumpkin shell and there he kept her very well. What the heck's going on here? Seriously. Did he, like, dice her up and stuff her in there or something? (My first thought.) I read that she was unfaithful so he improvised a chastity belt out of a pumpkin. Makes perfect sense. No, Mommy, that's siiiiiiilly.

Look at the old man that went to bed and snored through some rainy weather. He bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning. He's dead right? (I didn't find any analysis or history of this one. Tell me, please.)

I guess I haven't thought about these stories since I was Rome's age. Do they teach us the tough lessons that no one else really wants to talk about? They're just another form of myth or something like that--cautionary tales--morality plays? I mean, what were Jack and Jill doin' on a hilltop looking for water? Shouldn't they have been in a low spot somewhere? And why did they fall? It's just a hill. They weren't climbing a cliff. Are Jack and Jill Adam and Eve? Or maybe they were gettin' it on and got caught. So if you're somewhere you shouldn't be, doin' something you shouldn't be doin', you're gonna fall too? Supposedly the earliest, Scandinavian versions were about Jack and his buddy Gill--both boys. That really throws me for a loop.

I just don't know. This is probably old news to most of you. Please, tell me what these stories are about. Anyone?

I'll sign off tonight with my favorite one in the book. I don't think I read or heard this one more than a couple of times when I was a kid. I just LOVE it.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds,

Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,

The birds began to sing;

Now wasn't that a dainty dish,

to set before the king.

The king was in the counting house,

Counting out his money;

The queen was in the parlour,

Eating bread and honey.

The maid was in the garden,

Hanging out the clothes;

When down came a blackbird,

And pecked off her nose.

They send for the king's doctor,

Who sewed it on again;

He sewed it on so neatly,

The seem was never seen.

Analyze that.

I'm gonna have to include a few of these nursery rhymes in one of my first lessons this year on literary analysis. I need to hear what my brilliant, new seniors can do with some of this stuff. I can't wait.

Oh the lessons of parenthood. They keep coming and coming and coming.

The Iron Horse: Lou Gehrig's Farewell Speech

For the last two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it a highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? Sure, I'm lucky. Who wouldn't have considered it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball's greatest empire, Ed Barrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy? Sure, I'm lucky.

When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice-versa, sends you a gift--that's something! When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies--that's something! When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter--that's something! When you have a father and mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body--it's a blessing! When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you knew existed--that's the finest I know!

Gehrig died within a year of his retirement from baseball. His speech, one of the finest I know, was pieced together using first hand accounts, brief audio clips and video footage, notes that people scribbled down on the spot. The fans and writers who were sitting in the stands, in attendance on that glorious day, heard what Gehrig said and passed it along.

This is the stuff myths are made of.

John Milton's Cosmos

Today in class, I get to talk about John Milton and Paradise Lost. We only read a few famous passages from the work, but I take some time to put the piece in an historical and philosophical context. The setting of the story is what fascinates me the most.

Milton's Heaven surrounds a fountain of indestructible, fiery light, out of which everything in Heaven is created. Angels swirl around, appearing as rainbows, and clouds veil the fountain of God to protect the angels' eyes. If they were to look directly into the light, they would be blinded. It's interesting that Milton claimed that much of the work came to him directly from God--in the form of a blinding light--in strange fits in the middle of the night. Much of it was written down by his daughter/slave after he went blind as an older man. I secretly hope she changed a few words here and there.

Directly below Heaven, as if it were hanging on a chain, is the fledgling Universe--God's comfort-food creation for Himself after the notorious revolt on His throne. In relation to the whole Cosmos, the Universe is tiny , and at the geometrical center is Planet Earth--the Garden of Eden--a mere spec of sand on a vast beach compared with the rest of the Universe. Extraterrestrial life is possible, even likely. In Book XIII, an angel tells Adam that on another planet, "clouds may rain, and rain produce/Fruits in her soften'd soil, for some to eat/Alloted there." Angels can leave Heaven and visit Adam and Eve. They disclose little secrets of the Universe and of God, but they don't tell too much.

Engulfing everything below Heaven is a realm Milton called Chaos. Chaos is simply an infinite "womb of space," swirling matter out of which the Universe and Hell are created. The place is described as "warring atoms." Milton was an accomplished astronomer (a composer too by the way); he had many stellar secrets figured out on his own. He missed a few important ones too though, like Earth being the center of the Universe.

Below everything is Hell. Hell was created for Lucifer and his army long, long ago. When God kicked them out of Heaven, they fell through Chaos for 9 days--so far and so fast that their rainbows were melted into grotesque lizard skins. Hell is not only a physical place, burning lakes of sulfurous darkness. It is also a psychological place, at the heart of Satan when he cries. Hell, like the Garden of Eden, can be fun though. Demons lounge around at Pandemonium, Satan's castle, and sing sentimental songs of self-pity, wax philosophic, have tournaments. Satan comes out on the balcony every so often and rallies his men. The demons can leave Hell too and fly around the Universe creating havoc, which has always puzzled me.

It's fun stuff to think about and say aloud. We really believe this stuff a lot of us.

The Teachers' Lounge on Second Semester

"Alright?"

"Seven years of plenty, seven years of famine."

"Five days for Thanksgiving, review for exams."

"Four half-days."

"Christmas Break, and then The Dark Ages begin."

"You know that's right."

"Better gas up now Son cause then it's forty years in the desert to the land of milk and honey."

Dreamin' Like Joseph

H and I went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat Saturday evening with some friends. It was my first time at the theater in over a year; H hadn't been since college.

I came away with a couple of things to write about:

• Live theater is enthralling. We used to go regularly in college to support Drama Major-friends and to accumulate "green cards" required for graduation at MHC. On the drive home, we both vowed to go back at least a couple'times a year from now on.
• And this particular production was a hoot! Austin Miller played Joseph. (H and I recognized him because we're devotees of Mad TV.) Also, a former student of mine from both Dunbar Middle and Central High, Katye Dunn, played her first professional role as Mrs. Potiphar, the temptress. Let's just say she stole the scene.
• In preparation for the show, I got a Sunday School lesson from Dad on the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. Genesis 37-50. You ought to read it! Here's the King James Version. I hope to write more about this later.
• I've been dreamin' like crazy for the last two nights. Maybe God touched me at the show, and I have the gift now.

#7 Mickey Mantle

Mickey Mantle is Big J's all-time favorite ballplayer.  When he was growing up in Columbia, a young boy, there weren't any professional baseball teams west of Chicago and St. Louis, and there were none at all in the South.  Papa, Perky, Big J, and Uncle L didn't get their first TV until about 1953 or 1954.  That was while they lived on Denny Road in Columbia.  Big J said, "Believe it or not there was only one televised game a week, creatively called The Game of the Week by CBS."  Papa and Big J started watching the game together, and since the Yankees were the dominant team in the land, the televised game usually turned out to be the Yankees versus whoever they were playing that day.  They watched Mantle, Maris, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, their home-state boy Bobby Richardson from Sumter, and manager Casey Stengel every time they were on TV.  

Big J wrote about some of the highlights of the new, televised games:  

The broadcasters for The Game of the Week were Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean.  Often when the game was slow (or truth be told, most of the time), by the late innings, Old Diz had drunk one-too-many Falstaffs.  One time, the TV camera panned over into the right field bleachers where the crowd was sparse and showed a young man and young woman really going to it.  Dizzy's all-time great Falstaff-inspired line was, 'Ah, look out yonda in the bleachers.  A couple of youngsters having fun out at the old ballpark this afternoon.  It appears as if he's kissing her on the strikes, and she's kissing him on the balls.'  There was a blacked-out silence for two or three minutes while the booth got their composure back.

The summer after Big J's high school graduation, Papa won a trip to the Provident national convention in New York City for selling a lot of insurance.  He took the whole family along.  They stayed in a big, fancy hotel.  The popular band, The Herman Hermits, was staying in the same hotel so there were screaming groupie girls running around everywhere.  They took a Gray Line boat tour that week up the East River, under the Brooklyn Bridge, turned onto the Harlem River going north, came out on the Hudson, and followed the whole western length of Manhattan going south back down to The Battery.  The 1964 New York World's Fair was also going on at the same time at Flushing Meadows in Queens.  The family spent a whole day there.  

The city had constructed a brand new stadium on the fairgrounds, Shea Stadium, which was the first of the monstrous, multi-purpose, cookie-cutter stadiums built for football and baseball, concerts and other entertainment events.  There happened to be a game that day between the new New York Mets and the San Francisco Giants.  Many New Yorkers were still bitter because the Giants had moved to the West Coast from New York along with the Brooklyn Dodgers.  It was practically a home game for the visiting Giants.  That day, Papa, Perky, Big J, and Uncle L sat in the third deck of the new stadium and watched Gaylord Perry, a country boy from North Carolina, pitch for the visiting Giants.  It was a muggy summer day and Perry was soaked by the end of the first inning, sweat streaming off of his chin.   Willie Mays hit the game winning home run for the Giants, and the crowd went went wild.      

   

There is something that I want for you to know about Big J and me, and I want for you to understand it plainly.  We were both born and raised in the Deep South, not only physically, but also ideologically.  Our childhoods were very different from yours.  South Carolina has never been a friendly place for black folks.  Your ancestors were slave owners.  We have family documents officially freeing the slaves years after Lincoln's "Emancipation Proclamation."  Schools and busses and restaurants and water fountains were segregated while Big J was growing up.  When he was a boy, he said it was common for pranksters to ride through "Niggertown" in their cars throwing rotten apples at people in their yards.  While I was a boy in Camden, I went to an integrated school, but there was a deep divide between whites and blacks.  Train tracks literally cut Camden into two distinct communities.  South of the tracks, there was extreme poverty.  As I grew older and started to drive, I would secretly explore streets most whites never dared to drive.  Sad images are stuck in my mind of dilapidated shanties, weathered and oppressed men and women sitting on their porches in the severe heat of summer afternoons.  North of the tracks, there were beautiful, shady, oak-lined avenues, horse-drawn carriages in the streets, marvelous marble-columned colonial houses with four-foot high slave entrances in the back--dark tunnels that led into the kitchens.  I heard racist jokes on a regular basis.  I laughed at them.  I even learned to tell them by the time I was 13 or 14.  I used the "N word" on a regular basis for a few years, and I believed that I was part of a superior race of human beings.  I only tell you this because I want for you to know.  I want you to know how far we have come.  You see it now.  People can change, R.L.

Sometimes when Big J talks about Mickey Mantle now, there is a tinge of regret in his voice--just sometimes.  Now, when he speaks of Mantle, he often points out that one of the biggest baseball questions of the day was whether Mantle or Mays was the better player of the era.  According to the numbers, it's obvious that Mays was the better of the two, but many whites at the time couldn't see past the contrasting colors of their skins.  Mantle was a good ol' country boy from Oklahoma with a million dollar smile.  He appeared to be the All-American kid.  The TV camera loved him.  But Mays was another black boy, born into a working class family in Alabama, trying to break into the white man's world.  A lot of people resented Mays and lauded Mantle as a heroic baseball god.  Period.  No matter that Mantle was a womanizing alcoholic in real life who showed up to as many games hung over or drunk throughout his career as he did sober.  I would not understand this side of the Mantle vs. Mays question if Big J had not explained it to me, and I am grateful to him for being so reverend in his honesty about the subject matter.  His anomalous transformation from a typical, racist South Carolina boy to the all-inclusive, accepting, and loving man that he is today is heartening.  

Regardless of all that ugly stuff, Mickey Mantle was a fabulous ballplayer.  There's no telling what he might have done if he hadn't torn up his knee in a stupid drain grate out in center field at Yankee Stadium during the 1951 World Series. 

#7 Mickey Mantle.  5-11.  198.  Throws right.  Switch hitter.  Outfield.  Hall of Fame.  536 career HR's.  Mantle was the greatest switch hitter ever.  A real legend of the diamond.      

   

Romulus: Part Two

by Plutarch

translated by John Dryden

"Others think that the first rise of this fable came from the children's nurse, through the ambiguity of her name; for the Latins not only calledwolves lupoe, but also women of loose life; and such an one was the wife of Faustulus, who nurtured these children, Acca Larentia by name. To her the Romans offer sacrifices, and in the month of April the priest of Mars makes libations there; it is called the Larentian Feast. They honour also another Larentia, for the following reason: the keeper of Hercules's temple having, it seems, little else to do, proposed to his deity a game at dice, laying down that, if he himself won, he would have something valuable of the god; but if he were beaten, he would spread him a noble table, and procure him a fair lady's company. Upon these terms, throwing first for the god and then for himself, he found himself beaten. Wishing to pay his stakes honourably, and holding himself bound by what he had said, he both provided the diety a good supper, and giving money to Larentia, then in her beauty, though not publicly known, gave her a feast in the temple, where he had also laid a bed, and after supper locked her in, as if the god were really to come to her. And indeed, it is said, the deity did truly visit her, and commanded her in the morning to walk to the marketplace, and, whatever man she met first, to salute him, and make him her friend. She met one named Tarrutius, who was a man advanced in years, fairly rich, without children, and had always lived a single life. He received Larentia, and loved her well, and at his death left her sole heir of all his large and fair possessions, most of which she, in her last will and testament, bequeathed to the people. It was reported of her, being now celebrated and esteemed the mistress of a god, that she suddenly disappeared near the place where the first Larentia lay buried; the spot is at this day called Velabrum, because, the river frequently overflowing, they went over in ferry-boats somewhere hereabouts to the forum, the Latin word for ferrying being velatura. Others derive the name from velum, a sail; because the exhibitors of public shows used to hang the road that leads from the forum to the Circus Maximus with sails, beginning at this spot. Upon these accounts the second Larentia is honoured at Rome." 

--MJF

Mr. Head

from "The Artificial Nigger"

by Flannery

"The thing to do with a boy," he said sagely, "is to show him all it is to show. Don't hold nothing back."

--MJF

Romulus: Part One

Recorded by Plutarch

Translated by John Dryden

Ransacked by MJF

Folks won't agree on how or why the illustrious old city got its name.  Shocking.  

• Some say Cretans.  They roamed all over that place.  Lol.  Or it mighta been Trojans on the lam while the homeland burnt.  Stowaway, Miss Roma, was sick and tired of the bumpy odyssey and torched the getaway ships to the ground on the bank of the river Tiber.  The other women placated the wroth wussyboys with sweet talk and kisses.  Didn't take long for the guys to suss out the bonanza: women acting beautiful and the real estate rich.  So the fickle cowards named the lot after the bold woman who put her foot down.  But ever since, their male descendants expect their chicks to grovel over the burned boats with lots of good crazy-love.  Doubt that's what Roma had in mind.  
  
• Some again say Roma was half-goddess and like any reputable half-deity was just fucking around with shit.  And some say Roma might really have been a god named Romanus or Romus.  But most anybody that knows anything admits it is probably the safest bet that it was Romulus who really named the place.  They just can't agree on who Romulus's progenitors were.  Another one of those darned oracular and prodigious virgin birth-riverside abandonment-evil twin-great flood-handmaid's tale murder mysteries.  But dude's name was definitely Romulus, and he had a twin named Remus.
• Story goes, a fortune teller notified a power-hungry local that the twins would get in his way, so all paranoid, he ordered the twins' infanticide.  Poor Teratius just couldn't do it and put them down by the river where a she-wolf suckled them while birds of various sorts brought them morsels of food to eat; till a shephard spied the weird scene and took the boys in.  They grew big and strong and whacked that sumbitch that tried to off them.  All this according to some unreliable Promathian that wrote a history of Italy.  

• A more credible version, one with the most vouchers, was first told by the Greek, Diocles.  It's pretty convoluted, but here's the gist.  The kings of Alba reigned in lineal decent from Aeneas eventually to two brothers, Numitor and Amulius.  Amulius suggested that in order to be fair, they should divide everything into two equal shares:  1) the booty from Troy and 2) the kingdom.  Well, of course Numitor chose the kingdom as planned and Amulius used his riches to overthrow his brother.  The wealthy king was so insecure he locked his daughter, called either Ilia, Rhea, or Sylvia, locked her up so tight she'd never have sex.  Straightaway, like clockwork, she was knocked up and had twin boys with superhuman size and beauty.   When the king saw the boys, he was sore afraid and had Faustulus take care of them.  Fausty laid them in a manger and headed for the river to toss them in like puppies in a sack, but the river was roaring and rising, and he feared for his own safety and dropped them off as close as he could get.  I swear Amulius, if you want something done right, you just have to do it yourself.  The river did come up enough to float the trough, but the water wafted the boat to a safe ground called Germanus, perhaps from Germani which means "brothers."  
• Germanus had a wild fig-tree in the shade of which the cattle ruminated.  The tree's name was Ruminalis.  The tree was named for the following reasons:  1) Ruminalis sounds like Romulus; 2) cows chewed cud the there; 3) ancients called the dug or teat of any creature ruma; 4) Rumilia is the tutelar goddess of the rearing of children, in sacrificing to whom they use no wine, but make libations of milk.  Anyway, under the fig-tree, a she-wolf nursed the boys, and a woodpecker constantly fed and watched them.  'Peckers and she-wolves are esteemed holy to the god Mars.  Ilia/Rhea/Sylvia had claimed Mars was the one that got to her by the way, and that would make more sense than the claims of the perves who had her daddy coming to her disguised in armor.

To be continued... 

--MJF  

These are a few of my favorite things

from The Old Man and the Sea

by Ernest Hemingway

"Your stew is excellent," the old man said.

"Tell me about baseball," the boy asked him.

"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily.

"They lost today," the boy told him.

"That means nothing, the great DiMaggio is himself again."

"They have other men on the team."

"Naturally. But he makes the difference.  In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn.  But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park."

"There was nothing ever like them.  He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."

"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace?"

"I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him.  Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid."

"I know.  It was a great mistake.  He might have gone with us.  Then we would have that for all our lives.

"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said.  "They say his father was a fisherman.  Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand."

"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the Big Leagues when he was my age."

"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen the lions on the beaches in the evening."

"I know.  You told me."

"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"

"Baseball I think," the boy said.  "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw."  He said jota for J.

"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days.  But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.  His mind was on horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone."

"He was a great manager," the boy said.  "My father thinks he was the greatest."

"Because he came here the most times," the old man said.  "If Durocher had continued to come here each year, your father would think him the greatest manager."

"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"

"I think they are equal."

"And the best fisherman is you."

"No.  I know others better."

--MJF