Five Minute Major

I did not see all or really much of the hockey game last night. I had important things to do.  I was playing a singles tennis match for most of the hockey game and had to blow a 40-love lead in the 10th and, what became, deciding game.  In order to blow the lead, I had to focus all of my energy on counting the victory, preparing mentally for the 11th game, so that I could lose the ongoing 10th game, and lose the set. First things first.  Not a happy camper at about 945 pm last night.

However, I did see one portion of the hockey game.  I saw most of the five minute major penalty. And that was enough. During that time the Kings scored three goals and essentially won the game during that span.

So, was that right?  Should one official's call determine who wins an entire game, and in this case, the Stanley Cup.

I did not see the offense until this morning. It was offensive.  The Devil's player slammed a King into the boards and he went down in a bleeding lump.  The rule in hockey for such egregious penalties is that the offending player is banned from the ice for five minutes. In five minute majors, unlike other penalties, even if the opponent scores during that time while a player up, the scoring team retains the player up advantage for all of the five minutes.  So, for five minutes the Kings had an advantage and scored three times during that span.

My general sense is that hockey needs to do more to ensure that players do not behave like thugs. For too long  hockey teams had what were called, "goons".  Players whose job it was to start a fight with a better player, getting both players to be penalized.  If a goon is penalized at the same time as a goal scorer is penalized then the goon did a good job.  The fights, I thought, took away from the excitement of the game and the strategy of starting a brawl for advantage seemed more like a pro wrestling gambit than something from a legitimate professional sport.

In a way, therefore, I am happy that the Devils lost the game because of thuggery.  This could be a message to any teams who employ goons that your season could be lost because of bad behavior.  However, what has given me pause this morning is that when I watched the you-tube recording this a.m. I saw that just seconds prior to the penalized hit, the Kings had boarded one of the Devils. Thing is, it was less of a crushing blow and/or the Devil player did not go down in a bloody lump.

I don't think the result of an offensive act should be a factor in the penalty for the offensive act.  If someone steals from me and I go broke is that more offensive than if someone steals from me and I had next to nothing in my wallet?  The act of stealing is the reprehensible act. It does not become more reprehensible because of the contents of my wallet.

I am delighted that the Devils lost. I do not like the Devils for a number of reasons related to the mania of sports fans.  And it is absolutely true that the Devils and their goalie needed to do a much better job killing off the penalty. They played weakly during that time and the goalie missed a really easy save for the third goal which just about settled the game.  But I wish the game had not been decided on one call made and another missed.

Of course the more important event of the night was my decision to hit a second serve softly when the score was ad in.  I tried to get the ball to the outside of the box and it went right down Broadway.  My opponent put me on the defensive. Eventually, as mentioned above, I lost 6-4.  Fortunately, the newspaper did not cover the game and I have a rematch scheduled next Tuesday.

slumber

I was in Chicago last week. I've been there before for various reasons. This time I stayed within the loop a couple of blocks from West and North Wacker, around the corner from the Goodman theatre, with the name on a huge vertical sign, and five blocks from Millenium Park where a remarkable statue called the Bean is located. If you have never seen the Bean, it is almost worth a trip to Chicago to check it out. In the right spot you can see your reflection and the city skyline behind you.

 I did not get to Wrigley Field or Comiskey park, but the cab driver who took me back to the airport regaled me with his opinion about the Cubs whom he did not like, and the White Sox whom he adored. He seemed personally upset that the Cubs who never in his words "won a damn thing" keep selling out and the White Sox do not get the respect they are due.

 "Who won the World Series in 2005?" he asked me rhetorically. "Not the Cubs. Incredible marketing is what they got, nothing else."

 My cab driver had begun our journey in good spirits. He told me how much he loved the city and how friendly it was. He talked about the White Sox and how the new ball park was better than the old one. The good feelings took a dive however when he had to make a phone call to the city licensing board. He told me that the day prior he had gone to the city to get his name off of a suspension list. He was successful, but at the time the computers had been down. So, prompted by seeing a police officer in the bumper to bumper traffic, he was phoning the city to make sure that his name was off the suspended list.

 "Good afternoon" my cab driver said into the speaker phone. "My name is x and I came in yesterday to restore my license. My license number is y. Can you tell me if my name is off the suspension list."

 "What time did you come in yesterday."

 "About 330."

 "I wasn't here then. Kevin was here then. Kevin will be here at 330. Call back then."

 "Sir" said my cabdriver politely. "Can you look to see if my name is off the suspension list."

 "I told you I wasn't here yesterday when you came in. Kevin was. You will have to talk to Kevin."

 "Do you have a record of my coming in."

 "What's your number again?"

 The cab driver provided the number.

 "Okay. I see you came in. Like I said you got here while Kevin was here. You will need to talk to Kevin"

 "If you can see that I came in on a computer screen. You can probably see if my name is off the suspended list."

 "How many times do I have to tell you that I was not here then. Kevin was here. You will have to speak to Kevin."

 The conversation ended then; that is the conversation between the cab driver and the voice from city hall. The conversation--actually monologue--between the cab driver and me continued. Now, no longer a representative from the chamber of commerce, the cabbie could not say enough about how rude, inconsiderate, unprofessional, the city was. He threw in some good stories about Mayor Daley and just sneered when I mentioned the new mayor, Rahm Emanuel.  The only Chicago things the cabbie had positive things to say about afterwards were related to the Chicago White Sox.

I had been in Chicago to lead a workshop for a very professional group whose offices are near the hotel where I was staying--between North Wacker and the Bean. During a break, one of the participants, appropos of nothing in particular started singing a lyric to a Simon and Garfunkel song: I Am a Rock. This was ironic because I have been listening to a Simon and Garfunkel CD that contains that song for about a week. I have a habit of leaving the same CD in my car radio until I realize that I have listened to the songs multiple times. And coincidentally I have listened to I am a Rock maybe a dozen times in the last week.

A particular lyric in that song keeps surfacing to my consciousness. "I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died. If I never loved I never would have cried."

 I think that many strange behaviors are a function of such slumbers left undisturbed. Take the fellow from city hall that my cabbie was talking to. He was irrational and rude. I did not think he was stupid, just rude. What is he doing answering the phone at noon if the world is on hold until Kevin comes back?

And this behavior is benign compared to others influenced by toxic slumber. I wonder about the repercussions of toxic slumbers in general. Do they affect how the people at the airport check your bags,the flight attendants' attitudes, the person who is sitting next to you on the plane. Do toxic slumbers create an illusion of normalcy, but infections that retard our pursuit of happiness and, actual, slumbering.

I think sports is often the anodyne, a palliative for the toxicity of slumbers superficially undisturbed,that are insidiously wreaking havoc with our consciousness. Go White Sox or whoever.

the catcher not the pitcher

There's an old Sergeant Bilko episode that wafted up into my head as I was thinking about tomorrow's 7th game between the Heat and the Celtics.

Bilko, ever the conniver, has come across a soldier who is an incredible baseball pitcher. Bilko, of course, imagines making some loot by getting the Yankees to sign this phenomenon.  The soldier (played by a very young Dick Van Dyke) is a rube and Bilko has to persuade the kid that he can play professional baseball. He also has to convince the scouts who typically are cynical of someone shouting about a prospect.  I cant recall the episode completely, but it would not surprise me that Bilko has earned a reputation as someone who will pull a fast one on the scouts, so they are cynical when Bilko calls them to see the pitcher.

Bilko knows that his reputation is not great, so he figures a scheme to get around this.  He tells the scouts to come see this great catcher.  He gets Doberman to be the catcher and brings Van Dyke along to throw to Doberman. Bilko keeps touting the catcher. The scouts see that the catcher is nobody talented and have their notions of Bilko as goniff confirmed. However, the scouts are astonished by the skill of the pitcher.

Of course, this is Bilko's ploy--talk about the catcher because if he talks about the pitcher the scouts will think there's something up his sleeve. Every time the scouts marvel at the pitcher Bilko says, "The catcher not the pitcher. The catcher. Watch the catcher."  Bilko, eventually, pretends to be surprised by the pitcher's ability, downplaying it--"But, I wanted you to see the catcher".   The scouts wave the comments about the catcher away and plead with Bilko to help them sign the pitcher.  Bilko pretends to be reluctant, but says okay--getting what he wanted in the first place.

Last night, LeBron James had a game for the ages. I have watched a good deal of basketball, but never have seen someone shoot like that or drive like that or, really single handedly, defeat a team.  Of course, the Celtics did not help their own cause by not being able to drop the ball in a bathtub, but James was astonishing.

The pundits, having predicted the Celtics to be victors before the game, swung 180 degrees after the game singing the praises of James and assuring that the Heat will pulverize the Celtics in game 7.

In game 7 watch the catcher not the pitcher.  The best player on the Heat is not LeBron James. the best player is Dwyane Wade.  Dwyane Wade has not had one of his incredible games yet and he is so due.  James will not play like he did in game 6. Nobody can and I don't know if anyone ever will. The key to a Celtics victory, besides buying some glasses to help them locate the hoop and occasionally putting the basketball there, is to watch the catcher not the pitcher.  Stifle Dwyane Wade and they have a chance.  And it will be difficult to stifle Wade.

superstition

I went to a hockey game once with a fellow who was a serious fan. We got to our level in the stadium and walked toward our section. Before reaching our area he put up his hand as if to say "wait a minute" and proceeded to walk into the exit side of the men's room.

 He was walking against the flow of traffic of course, but he went in that way regardless. I followed him and saw that he went to the sinks, touched the hot and cold faucets once, and then walked backwards out of the same exit that he had walked into frontwards. I looked at him puzzled. He explained, "Just a little something I do."

 Sports fans and participants are notorious for their superstitions. I have not polled the faithful but I would be a winner of any sum I wagered, if I bet that there are dozens if not hundreds of Boston Celtic fans who went to work today in a lucky shirt, or tie, or dress, or even some undergarment, in an attempt to give the Celtics some good vibes tonight in their pivotal fifth game of the series. And there are an equal number who will not dare to watch the game (a) with Charlie (b) in Lou's sports bar or, for example (c) while eating a blt because the last time they watched the game with Charlie, at Lou's, while eating a blt, the Celtics lost in overtime.

 Strange thing, superstition--and I am not above it. Far from it. I can find myself in a position in a chair which seems to bring good luck and not want to move a muscle while the good fortune continues. I might suspect that a good result will come of a tennis match if some unrelated activity, say juggling for five minutes without dropping the ball, is a success. Once in an attempt to get a read on what was real or a desired end, I went to the foul line and determined that if I could hit 8 out of 10 foul shots, the desired end was real. When I hit thirteen straight I knew for a fact that all was good in the universe.

 I am well within what is the normal range among superstitious sorts. Tonight when the Heat players go to the foul line in Miami, fans in Boston 1500 miles away will wiggle their fingers this way or that to affect a shot. If an announcer claims that a Boston player has a good foul shot, fans will scream at the broadcaster sure that the comment has jinxed the shooter. I don't know this for a fact, but I will guess that at least one of the players has not washed his headband in order to avert losing the something in the wash that permitted the overtime victory on Sunday. Some people will, and I do not exaggerate, do some extra good deeds today feeling as if there might be some quid pro quo from the almighty if the game is tight down the stretch.

Of course some players and fans will pray in order to get the same results. I find this a bit sacreligious since to pray for victory is to implicitly pray for someone else's defeat. I don't think if you are a believer you want to pray for someone's sadness. Seems to be contrary to any religious foundation. Standing on only your right foot while eating popcorn with only your left hand is far more appropriate.

 Go Celtics. And I trust no fans will give the team the whammy inadvertently.

Proteus Prequel

Today I remembered what triggered the thoughts that led to my blog about Proteus and transformation.  Before I wrote the blog yesterday I could not quite recall why I was thinking along these lines. Not at all unusual now for me to forget something that happened seconds before so while it was a little frustrating when I could not quite recall the source of my musings, I have become accustomed to it.

But I remembered today. On Friday I was rearranging some books I had at work and came across one that contained some jokes.  I had, go figure, forgotten some of the jokes in the book which I'd read only a few months ago.  The good news about this is I laughed all over again when I got to some good ones. The one that made me think about the hazards of transformation went like this:

Shapiro one day walks into the bathroom looks at the mirror and does not like what he sees.  He is overweight; his hair an unkempt mess; his face looks jowly like someone who is not only chubby but sad, his clothes look sloppy, and on top of all this he notices that the short walk up the stairs to the bathroom has him breathing heavily.

Enough of this, says Shapiro.  He begins an exercise regimen, cuts down on fatty foods, gets a haircut, goes to a clothier and gets some duds that smack of class.  Two months later he looks in the mirror and he looks great. Thin, trim, handsome, well coiffed--just terrific.

Shapiro leaves his house, starts to walk across the street and is run over by a truck.  Lying in the street, about to perish, he turns to the sky and wheezes, "God, how could you let this happen?'

God responds: "To tell you the truth Shapiro, I didn't recognize you."

When I read this joke, it made me think of how we--or at least I at times--have accommodated who I was to meet a particular circumstance. And  while the analogy between Shapiro trying to get in shape, and someone copping a different persona to lose her or himself, is not quite apt--I do think that unlike contestants in a sporting event, we must be careful to stay true to ourselves and not continuously adapt to accommodate a changing environment.  Otherwise not only God, but we ourselves, will be unable to recognize us.

Proteus

I hear sports prognosticators hedging their bets when they identify the team they believe will win a game or a series.  "The Celtics can beat Miami depending on which Boston team shows up. If Rondo plays like Rondo then they have a chance.However, if  the real Dwyane Wade plays on Sunday then the Celtics can forget about it."

If Rondo plays on Sunday, well then Rondo will not only be playing like Rondo he will be Rondo.  The real Dwyane Wade will be in the Boston Garden tomorrow night.

Athletes performances will vary. The better players, like Jordan and Bird and Russell, are consistently great so the quality and style of their play will not vary much from one game to another. Rondo is difficult to predict.  He can go from a hall of fame player one night, to someone who seems uninterested the next.  In sports, there is this variability and it is one of the things that makes games interesting.  Can a player excel in certain situations and go beyond his limits.  Does an athlete in crunch time, run away from the ball, because he cannot take the pressure of the big shot?  When an opponent plays a zone, can a team adapt, changing its offense to combat the revised defense.

Proteus is a mythological sea god that had the ability to change shape.  The word protean is an adjective that  refers to changeability.  Someone who is protean can transform her or himself depending on a situation.  In sports, adaptation (as opposed to mercurial performance) is a good thing.  Not sure it is for the rest of us, especially if we lose sight of who we are what with the frequent wardrobe changes.

In the seventies and eighties I read a few of Kurt Vonnegut's books. He was something of a literary cult hero when I was in college, but it wasn't until I graduated that I began to read his novels.  My favorite (though I have not read them all, or even half of them) is Player Piano.  Great book, written in the early 50s with a remarkable sense of how technology would (and did), eventually, be omnipresent in organizations.

The main character in the book is Paul Proteus.  Proteus seems to be living the good life; he is a high level manager in the organization; has married a woman who seems to fit in with the society within which they live; has become a captain of sorts within his company by playing within the rules.  But something happens to Proteus. He begins to realize that he has somehow transformed and is not who he once was. He has copped the values of others, implicitly if not actively promulgating them, but he does not actually share these values.  True to his name, he has changed form to accommodate an environment, but he lost himself in the process.  I'll not spoil the read in case you're interested, but the question becomes can he change back.

If the Celtics continue to double team Dwyane Wade, he will have to adapt. But when we seem to be double teamed, we have to be careful to adapt or else we might become a chameleon, just a different person depending on where we are at and who happens to be our dance partner at the time.

I'm not a big short story reader, but one of Vonnegut's has stayed with me for thirty years. It is about two people active in community theatre. The man is painfully shy. He can barely say anything--except when he is on stage--then he can become whoever it is he is playing--a bully, a lover, a salesman.  Just tell him who he is and he can be it.  Another woman in the theatre group is interested in him, but offstage he can't seem to communicate with her. So their romance takes place on stage in different performances.

The story is called, "Who Am I This Time" and while it will benefit Dwyane Wade to adapt to the pressure defense tomorrow night and be protean in that way, I'm not sure it serves the average Jill and Jack to look back on their lives or look forward and ask themselves, who am I this time?

Caleb's Crossing: Book Review

Geraldine Brooks's novel is a tour de force. She manages to write as one might in the late 1600s and early 1700s. She captures the voice of a young woman--at the end an elderly woman--in a way that can make readers appreciate and understand another time. The author's use of vocabulary that was common then, but obsolete now, will be frustrating at times to readers because many of these words simply are not only not used currently but are not found in standard dictionaries. Still, Brooks's command of the language of then demonstrated how immersed she had become in the time and how careful she was to depict these times accurately. She also included events of the era which were essential to describe in order to explain the characters' decisions. I confess to not knowing or remembering anything about Metacom's rebellion/King Philip's war even though I have been living in New England for over thirty years. In many ways, this book was a beautiful history. Her description of landing in Italy and how a developed city must have looked to someone from the New World was worth reading the whole book.

However, the book is misnamed and not as advertised. It is not about Caleb. The book is about Bethia. She is the only nuanced character in the book. Caleb and Joel are peripheral characters and stick figures as is the grandfather, native americans, and the Cambridge characters. The father and Makepeace are multidimensional, but the point is that the book is allegedly about the crossing over of Caleb from native american culture to the other side. And while he is in the book, his journey is not central to it. The book is a remarkable depiction of the life and tribulations of a brilliant and courageous woman trapped in an era when brilliant women were suffocated by conventional values. It is not about Caleb's Crossing. It is more about how impossible it was for Bethia to cross over