Eric The Blue

The wildcard race in the American League

Did the pope visit America?  I've been too sunk in the American League wildcard race to notice. Yesterday, I was set up for an exciting night, Twins v Indians in Cleveland at 6 on Fox Sports North followed by A's v Angels at 9 on ESPN, and my dad coming over for supper to help shoo the girls away from the TV, but then the Twins are rained out and when I turn on the late game at bedtime the Angels score four runs in about three minutes to go ahead of the A's, 6 love. Another half game in the red. 

But, on the bus to work this morning, I see that the Astros lost last night in Seattle, so that helps, and then, late in the afternoon, "watching" the first game of the Twins' doubleheader on espn.com, I see that the visitors' half of the fourth inning starts double-single-single-walk-double-walk.  The prospect of gaining 1.5 games in one day, the entire deficit, came into view until Mike Pelfrey began pitching the nightcap.  Here I sit, still watching in the eighth inning, like picking a scab.  At least the A's are leading the Angels. 

I can't go on like this. Maybe in a week I'll be back in form, moaning about the "cafeteria Catholics" who wish the pope would drop the topic of capital punishment in order to free up some time to preach about "the culture of life." 

 

Yogi Berra, 1925-2015

Yogi Berra, who died Tuesday at age 90, is regarded by many as a likable baseball clown.  That's mainly on account of "Yogiisms," his memorably slanted malapropisms, many of which he probably never  uttered.  The general principle, someone has said, is that the Yogiisms most likely to have been invented are the ones that make Yogi sound sort of dumb.  That's probably true.  We all have our favorites.

Asked during spring training what size cap he wore, Yogi said, "How should I know?  I'm not in shape yet."

Directing someone to his house, he said, "When you get to the fork in the road, take it."

Having toured the Louvre, he was asked whether he had enjoyed it, and replied, "It's okay if you like paintings."

Of a certain restaurant, he said, "No one goes there.  It's too crowded."

If you google him, you'll find a lot more of these before you ever discover that he was more than just a good baseball player:  he was one of the very greatest.  No player was ever a member of more pennant-winning teams, or played in more World Series games.  Yes, he had great players beside him, but it is arguable whether even such iconic Yankee stars as DiMaggio and Mantle were Yogi's equals.  He was the American League's Most Valuable Player three times.  More impressive, especially for a catcher, the everyday player most subject to injury, he was among the top four in MVP balloting every season from 1950 to 1956--fourth in 1952, third in 1950, second in 1953 and 1956, and first in 1951, 1954, and 1955.  It's true that the Yankees were winning the pennant every season, which gave a Yankee the inside track to the award.  Still.  DiMaggio and Mantle each won the award three times, too--same as, not more than, Yogi.  Over 19 seasons, Yogi's output, per every 162 games played, was a batting average of .285, an on-base percentage of .348, a slugging percentage of .483, 27 home runs, 90 runs scored, and 109 RBI.  For a catcher.

As a manager, he was probably underrated, too.  He took the 1964 Yankees to the World Series, where they lost in seven games to the Cardinals.  Everyone supposes that, well, the Yankees, they always won, manager fills out the line-up card and then watches them win from the dugout, but the 1964 team was old and hobbled by injuries.  With a new manager, they finished in sixth place in 1965, tenth in 1966, ninth in 1967.

Yogi's 1973 Mets also made it to the World Series.  That's two pennants in just five full seasons of managing.

Miss Manners told one of her correspondents that it's always a good sign for someone if they are more than they appear to be.  Yogi Berra gets an A+ in that category.

 

Watching TV

With the spouse off with her Iron Man friends, and the kids tucked away, I had complete control last night of the TV room, and, drink in one hand and remote in the other, I toggled back and forth between the Republicans, the Twins, and this show on PBS about a burial ground of prehistoric humans. 

My impression of the Republicans, based on occasional look-ins, is that they are a terrible advertisement for America.  I know that for a million years people have been idealizing a golden past that really wasn't very golden, in order to compare it unfavorably with the fallen present, but still it is true that around 240 years ago the 2.5 million Americans living along a thin north-south stretch of land near the Atlantic Ocean included Washington and Jefferson and Madison and Monroe and Adams and Franklin and Hamilton, while today a "presidential debate" among a dozen or so eminences of one of the two major political parties in a continental nation of more than three hundred million people includes a lively discussion concerning the alleged perils of childhood immunizations.  Also, it appears that Republican orthodoxy on the issue of climate change has gone from regarding it as a hoax to regarding it as something we can't, or shouldn't, do anything about.

The Twins game, which lasted even longer than the political show, was sort of dispiriting, too--the locals lost, in twelve innings, after failing, in both the ninth and tenth innings, to get the winning run home from second base with no outs.  Well, there's another game tomorrow, and the Twins might win.  Not sure there's any hope for the Republicans.  The best thing on TV last night, by far, was the PBS show, so it's practically axiomatic that the Republicans want to shut down the left-wing commies responsible for the excellent programming.

 

Perils of googling

Yesterday, something happened to me for the first time ever.  No, no, I have two daughters, biologically, so, if that had happened, it would have been the third time.  What actually happened is that I googled someone with whom I have lost touch over the years, an old college friend, and the first return was his obituary. 

Bubba Moon, we called him, Moon being from Monson and Bubba on account of him being a big guy, red neck in his politics.  We played foosball, in the basement of the dormitory and in bars, and he was both terrible and determined to get better.  He was also thrifty, and when it was his turn to put in quarters you could sometimes see the struggle between the desire to keep playing and the desire to keep his coins in his pocket rather than spend them in the service of prolonging his losing streak.  I remember once, when he had just plugged in his quarters and the new balls were rolling into the slot, one of the other fellows, Keith Simanski I think, remarking, "Bubba, you are so tight with those quarters I keep expecting to hear the eagles squeal."

He made an exception to his usual procedures when the Hormel meatpackers were on strike in 1985.  He'd go to the grocery store and buy cases of Hormel chili, then deliver them to the food shelf, where he'd accept their thanks without divulging that the real motive was his hatred of labor unions. The family business, as the obit makes clear, was trucking, and unions were regarded as the mortal enemy.  I see that on the tribute board some former employees write about what a square deal they got from the Monsons and how they always liked the family.  I suspect that's not just funeral-time fluff.  One thing I always liked about Bubba Moon was that, unless you knew, you'd never know he was well off.  In the early '80s we were both beginning golfers, always looking for a deal on greens fees, even though I kind of vaguely thought that he probably could have joined a country club. He wasn't much better at golf than foosball.  Once in a while, he'd beat me, and when that happened he never quite succeeded at disguising his pleasure.  He'd buy beer afterwards in the clubhouse, a sure sign of euphoria.  I remember trying to explain that beating me 101 to 103 did not necessarily justify a celebration, and he'd deny that there was a celebration, but generally the nineteenth hole played faster.

I see that the trucking company closed its doors in 2009.  I think I remember that they hauled newsprint, and I bet the rise of the Internet and decline of newspapers killed them.  I was dimly aware that the company had shut down, and casual curiosity about what Bubba might be up to now is what caused me to type his name into the Google box.  Didn't care at all for the jolt that followed upon that. 

The Donald, again

 Drawing by Jordan Awan

I admit to being obsessed with the Republican race for president.  At some point, I'll probably have to stop enjoying Donald Trump and start worrying about what he'll do to the country if he is actually elected president.  Not there yet, however.  George Will opened a recent column with this sentence:

Every sulfurous belch from the molten interior of the volcanic Trump phenomenon injures the chances of a Republican presidency.

I think that is probably right, and it is enough for me to keep enjoying his shtick for a while longer.

According to the Real Clear Politics average of polls, Trump is currently leading the Republican field in Iowa by seven points, in New Hampshire by fifteen, and in the whole country by fourteen.  There has been a lot of speculation, including by me, that he would not fare well with Iowa's legions of evangelical Christian voters.  Speaking for myself, however, I was not meaning  to suggest that his margin of victory in Iowa was going to be somewhat less than his overall margin in the country.  I meant that he was going to crash and burn in Iowa.  So far, that isn't happening.

And, it must be said, his lead in Iowa, where the fundamentalists supposedly rule, is standing up in the immediate aftermath of The Donald having declined to share with some political reporters about his favorite bible verses.  He saw where the question was headed and cut off the interviewer before the question was out there, which, depending on whether this was before or after he demonstrated he didn't know a lot about some of the personalities in the Middle East, may or may not have been a learned strategy for compensating for a void.  Anyway, at least one witty evangelical--no, not necessarily an oxymoron--has a lot of amusing contributions for the Twitterverse game (#TrumpBible) of guessing at how Trump might have answered, if he had answered.  The whole thing is here.  A few of my favorites follow.

And Jesus went out into the desert. But he should’ve invested in hotels there. I mean, I’m killing it in Vegas. A LOT of money. #TrumpBible

Love covers a multitude of sins. Sure. But you’d be nuts not to get a prenup. I mean, c’mon. #TrumpBible

Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife. For a season. #TrumpBible

And Pharaoh said to Moses, “Do you know how many Hispanics I have working for me?” #TrumpBible

Sarah lived to be a hundred and twenty-seven years old, but even young she was nothing to look at, so you can just imagine. #TrumpBible

The Donald is the gift that keeps giving, and it is evident that what pass for wise men in the Republican party establishment are now officially worried that George Will is right and that the biggest beneficiary will turn out to be a pant-suited Democrat unschooled in the ways of e-mail. 

 

You go, Lindsey and Dick!

I vote for the Democrats, but, just to give evidence of my broadmindedness, I like to point out when a Republican says something smart--that is, something with which I agree.  It requires me to be alert, because it doesn't happen a lot.  Just the other day, however, Lindsey Graham, Republican of South Carolina and candidate for president, was being interviewed by wingnut radio host Hugh Hewitt when the following exchange occurred:

Hewitt: [T]here is this story underway right now in Kentucky where a county clerk, Ms Davis, is refusing to issue marriage licenses to same sex couples despite the courts of federal and state telling her to do so.  What's your opinion on what she ought to do here, Senator?

Graham: As a public official, comply with the law or resign.

Meanwhile, Richard Lugar, once a candidate for my favorite Republican, has announced his support for the Iran nuclear deal that, according to Mike Huckabee, "will take the Israelis and march them to the door of the oven."  Who says the GOP doesn't play beneath a big tent?