It was a surprising relief that the Bengals held on to defeat the Broncos last night. The result of the game puts my team, the Patriots, at home as long as they last in the playoffs. Last year the Patriots had to travel to Denver to play the Broncos and lost. Manning was brilliant then on a beautiful Denver day with the wild fans supporting him throughout. If the Broncos get to the championship game this year, he will have to play in Boston. It might be chilly.
Some thoughts on the game last night and the upcoming playoffs.
The Bengals got every break one can get last night. A facemask resulted in a personal foul negating a long reception which could have reversed the game momentum. There was at least one offensive holding call which brought back a long Denver gain. In the fourth quarter when it was Manning time to pass all over the place and carve up the Bungles, it started to pour like a monsoon. Listen to your friendly blogger: this victory for the Bengals will be the highlight of their season. I think they will lose to the Steelers next week and go quietly in the playoffs.
Manning looks like he is not himself. I don't get the sense he has too many long throws per game in him. The Broncos look very beatable and I am not so sure they make it to Boston for the championship game. They will get by the Raiders next week, and consequently they will have a week off, and most of the other teams in the running are pretenders, so they will probably make it to the finals, but no fast track. The Broncos are a diluted version of who they were last year and at the beginning of the season.
The NFC looks very tough and Seattle scary good. The Packers and Seahawks will play for the right to play the Patriots in the super bowl.
And on another sport note, the Rajon Rondo trade to Dallas gives them subtraction by addition. The whole is not always greater than the sum of its parts. Sometimes an excellent participant can undermine an entity. In the communication business when we examine teams in organizations or groups we refer to this phenomenon as "nonsummativity". In other words, because of multiple factors the whole is unequal to the sum (hence non summative) and is as likely to be negatively nonsummative as positively nonsummative. Rajon Rondo will not help the Dallas Mavericks win. They beat San Antonio by a few points in his first game because San Antonio sat out all their studs who were either injured or exhausted because of back to back multiple overtime games. Last night the Mavericks and Rondo lost to Atlanta. Of course, I thought McGovern would beat Nixon, but I do not think the Mavs will be better with Rondo.
Last night of Hanukkah. Not too late to illuminate the darkness for those you love.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
Two MInute Warning
I am watching the Denver--Cincinnati game. The Broncos are losing by nine.
If there is a team in the NFL that can blow a 9 point lead in two minutes it is the Cincinnati Bengals. They are not nicknamed the Bungles for nothing.
And if there is a quarterback who can make up 9 points in two minutes it is Manning.
Stay tuned.
If there is a team in the NFL that can blow a 9 point lead in two minutes it is the Cincinnati Bengals. They are not nicknamed the Bungles for nothing.
And if there is a quarterback who can make up 9 points in two minutes it is Manning.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Lit
I read Mary Karr's memoir, The Liar's Club, about a month after 9/11. I remember this because I bought it in an airport to keep me occupied on my first flight after the horror.
It did keep me occupied. Very good book. I keep a list of books that I think are worth recommending and The Liar's Club is on it. I can't remember much of the content other than her childhood was difficult; her parents more than just a little quirky and her parents' relationship more than just a little atypical. When I found out that the author was a poet I was not surprised. More than the content I remember that she could create an image the way I think a poet does.
Karr wrote a second memoir called Cherry which I did not read, but when I was at a library book sale a few weeks back I spotted, Lit, the third memoir--about Karr's post high school years--and picked it up.
This one was not so extra. Karr still writes well and sometimes you just shake your head at how she can make a scene so clear with language and metaphor. But Lit did not seem to me to be consistently well written. I got the sense at times that after the bonanza of The Liar's Club she realized that writing memoirs could support her poetry. However, more than the style or writing, I found the content off-putting.
Lit begins with her journey to college; stops and starts there, goes onto her marriage, motherhood, bouts with alcoholism, and throughout, her journey toward God. The journey toward God part was foreshadowed nearly from the beginning.
Initially Karr depicts herself as more than just an atheist; but someone who considers the idea of a God absolutely ridiculous. When attempting to recover from alcoholism she is told to believe in a higher power. She reacts then as if the counselors are suggesting that she believe in pelicans or cheese cake. Yet the reader can sense that where we are heading is a realization that God is a superpower and it was praying that "saved a wretch like her."
I was not convinced she had been saved after finishing the book. I think the scars from having a wild mother and witnessing a crazy--if loving--parenthood are still in evidence.
Besides I am not taken by those who explain their irresponsible behavior--however self deprecatingly--as a function of some victimization. Mary Karr's childhood was tougher than mine, but she has some real gifts. One is that she writes well. I understand that this skill is something you need to hone and the industry involved is considerable. But she had the tools to start with. Second, she is a looker and that is a break she got that could not have hurt her along the way. Some of her college mentors and Cambridge friends were wonderfully supportive and loyal. Perhaps she earned that, but not everybody has a Walt in their lives. Her first husband, while described as a bit of a cold fish, put up with some outrageous alcoholic behaviors and sort of seemed to me to be in love with Karr withal. So, I found the book a bit too kvetchy. She still can string together words --she can use slang and the king's English seamlessly in the same sentence. Her ability to use yiddish expressions, for someone who I have to think did not hear a whole lot of yiddish growing up, is a reflection of something--my guess is that she both reads everything and can absorb all. Another asset that gave her a leg up.
I could not sympathize with Mary Karr in Lit. We have all had some bad breaks. Every single one of us can point to a deep bruise from parenting that we wish were different even if we were blessed with good souls as parents. However deep the bruise, it does not justify irresponsibility. And the just-you wait-you-will-see-that-praying-to-a-higher-being-will-be-your-salvation I could do without. I pray in my own way and believe in my own way. It won't, in and of itself, result in publishers/benefactors sending me money (as she intimates occurred when she was nearing rock bottom).
I wouldn't be surprised if her next memoir is about how she realized that God was NOT the answer, but that romantic love is.
In sum, if you have not read The Liar's Club I suggest you go out and get it. Really excellent. But I cannot recommend this sequel with enthusiasm.
It did keep me occupied. Very good book. I keep a list of books that I think are worth recommending and The Liar's Club is on it. I can't remember much of the content other than her childhood was difficult; her parents more than just a little quirky and her parents' relationship more than just a little atypical. When I found out that the author was a poet I was not surprised. More than the content I remember that she could create an image the way I think a poet does.
Karr wrote a second memoir called Cherry which I did not read, but when I was at a library book sale a few weeks back I spotted, Lit, the third memoir--about Karr's post high school years--and picked it up.
This one was not so extra. Karr still writes well and sometimes you just shake your head at how she can make a scene so clear with language and metaphor. But Lit did not seem to me to be consistently well written. I got the sense at times that after the bonanza of The Liar's Club she realized that writing memoirs could support her poetry. However, more than the style or writing, I found the content off-putting.
Lit begins with her journey to college; stops and starts there, goes onto her marriage, motherhood, bouts with alcoholism, and throughout, her journey toward God. The journey toward God part was foreshadowed nearly from the beginning.
Initially Karr depicts herself as more than just an atheist; but someone who considers the idea of a God absolutely ridiculous. When attempting to recover from alcoholism she is told to believe in a higher power. She reacts then as if the counselors are suggesting that she believe in pelicans or cheese cake. Yet the reader can sense that where we are heading is a realization that God is a superpower and it was praying that "saved a wretch like her."
I was not convinced she had been saved after finishing the book. I think the scars from having a wild mother and witnessing a crazy--if loving--parenthood are still in evidence.
Besides I am not taken by those who explain their irresponsible behavior--however self deprecatingly--as a function of some victimization. Mary Karr's childhood was tougher than mine, but she has some real gifts. One is that she writes well. I understand that this skill is something you need to hone and the industry involved is considerable. But she had the tools to start with. Second, she is a looker and that is a break she got that could not have hurt her along the way. Some of her college mentors and Cambridge friends were wonderfully supportive and loyal. Perhaps she earned that, but not everybody has a Walt in their lives. Her first husband, while described as a bit of a cold fish, put up with some outrageous alcoholic behaviors and sort of seemed to me to be in love with Karr withal. So, I found the book a bit too kvetchy. She still can string together words --she can use slang and the king's English seamlessly in the same sentence. Her ability to use yiddish expressions, for someone who I have to think did not hear a whole lot of yiddish growing up, is a reflection of something--my guess is that she both reads everything and can absorb all. Another asset that gave her a leg up.
I could not sympathize with Mary Karr in Lit. We have all had some bad breaks. Every single one of us can point to a deep bruise from parenting that we wish were different even if we were blessed with good souls as parents. However deep the bruise, it does not justify irresponsibility. And the just-you wait-you-will-see-that-praying-to-a-higher-being-will-be-your-salvation I could do without. I pray in my own way and believe in my own way. It won't, in and of itself, result in publishers/benefactors sending me money (as she intimates occurred when she was nearing rock bottom).
I wouldn't be surprised if her next memoir is about how she realized that God was NOT the answer, but that romantic love is.
In sum, if you have not read The Liar's Club I suggest you go out and get it. Really excellent. But I cannot recommend this sequel with enthusiasm.
Friday, December 19, 2014
Illuminating
For those in my tribe, tonight is the fourth night of Hanukkah.
I read a note today from a friend who sent me a card about her recently passed dad, and how he had orchestrated several beautiful hanukkahs. Knowing her father even to a limited extent, I am sure he did and did so with love for his family.
My parents would also gather my brother and me around a menorah and sing the prayers each night. I am far less likely to so conform. This year I am two for three, having lit the candles on the first and second night, but forgot last night. I think my box of hanukkah candles filled with one year's worth of wax has lasted three years now.
Last year Hanukkah, coincidentally, fell out on Thanksgiving weekend. And I had travelled to Florida to be with my dad for Thanksgiving. So we got to light a candle or two together. He was at that point not really able to enjoy my presence because of the absence of his lifelong companion, my mother. Very little he had shared with her, when he had to do it without her, seemed to illuminate the darkness.
My friend wrote today that her dad was an amazing guy--and I had only met him a couple of times but from my perspective he was. Like my father, he was a guy who tried as hard as he could to illuminate the darkness for his family--at hanukkah and at other times. In my dad's case, it was ironic and sad that Dad could not find a way to illuminate his own darkness and I was unable to help out.
All our days are illuminated, but sometimes we are too busy to see the light, or are consumed with sadnesses and healing bruises to see anything but darkness. What we can do during hanukkah is think of it metaphorically. It is a time to try to illuminate the darkness for our families and extended families and sweethearts and friends, and just about everyone. The story of Hanukkah is about a rebellion against a ruling group that attempted to impose its mores on the Jews and extinguish what Jews considered to be their essence, their emmess/their truth. The holiday celebrates the emancipation from the suppression of light. In that way, it is illuminating and should encourage us to attempt to brighten the days for everyone.
I read a note today from a friend who sent me a card about her recently passed dad, and how he had orchestrated several beautiful hanukkahs. Knowing her father even to a limited extent, I am sure he did and did so with love for his family.
My parents would also gather my brother and me around a menorah and sing the prayers each night. I am far less likely to so conform. This year I am two for three, having lit the candles on the first and second night, but forgot last night. I think my box of hanukkah candles filled with one year's worth of wax has lasted three years now.
Last year Hanukkah, coincidentally, fell out on Thanksgiving weekend. And I had travelled to Florida to be with my dad for Thanksgiving. So we got to light a candle or two together. He was at that point not really able to enjoy my presence because of the absence of his lifelong companion, my mother. Very little he had shared with her, when he had to do it without her, seemed to illuminate the darkness.
My friend wrote today that her dad was an amazing guy--and I had only met him a couple of times but from my perspective he was. Like my father, he was a guy who tried as hard as he could to illuminate the darkness for his family--at hanukkah and at other times. In my dad's case, it was ironic and sad that Dad could not find a way to illuminate his own darkness and I was unable to help out.
All our days are illuminated, but sometimes we are too busy to see the light, or are consumed with sadnesses and healing bruises to see anything but darkness. What we can do during hanukkah is think of it metaphorically. It is a time to try to illuminate the darkness for our families and extended families and sweethearts and friends, and just about everyone. The story of Hanukkah is about a rebellion against a ruling group that attempted to impose its mores on the Jews and extinguish what Jews considered to be their essence, their emmess/their truth. The holiday celebrates the emancipation from the suppression of light. In that way, it is illuminating and should encourage us to attempt to brighten the days for everyone.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Sweet Home Alabama
I am in Auburn Alabama on this football Sunday. I have some business tomorrow at Auburn University. It is my first time here.
I've been in town for only half a day but thus far the town is very impressive. I am staying on a street called, appropriately, College Street. Across the way from my hotel is a beautiful looking library. Down a little bit beyond that is what I imagine was the very first building on campus. It is majestic and it is in front of this building where the sign for the university is displayed. I took a stroll to a CVS and saw in the distance the football stadium which looks as professional as NFL facilities.
What readers of this blog might be most interested in is my experience in an establishment called Halftime. It may seem like frivolous to some, but as anyone who read the Madness of March knows, I have written about sports fans and am one myself. I arrived early enough today to watch the games and scouted out a place that had "the ticket" before I left Boston. The ticket is the NFL television package that allows establishments to broadcast all the NFL games on football Sundays. Halftime has the ticket. So there I went. Above the bar, five televisions were broadcasting five different contests.
What was interesting to me was that here in Auburn Alabama I sat next to a man wearing a Tom Brady jersey who knew more about the Patriots than I do. To his left were a couple swearing their allegiance to the Green Bay Packers. To my right was a man whose knowledge about all teams seemed encyclopedic and he was parked at noon central awaiting the 3 pm Detroit Lions game. And to his right was a fellow bursting alternatively joyously and with frustration as the fortunes of the Carolina Panthers ebbed and flowed. Behind me was a very sad fellow who was from Erie Pennsylvania and watched unhappily as so called Johnny Football (aka Johnny Manziel) played like a pop warner substitute in the Browns-Bengals game.
Within twenty feet there were reps from many places east of the Mississippi. What's more the conversation throughout the game could have taken place in hundreds of taverns that had the Ticket across America. There was no difference about anything in Halftime than there is in places I have been to in Boston or Chicago or Buffalo or New York or New Jersey or Maine or anywhere.
I've been in town for only half a day but thus far the town is very impressive. I am staying on a street called, appropriately, College Street. Across the way from my hotel is a beautiful looking library. Down a little bit beyond that is what I imagine was the very first building on campus. It is majestic and it is in front of this building where the sign for the university is displayed. I took a stroll to a CVS and saw in the distance the football stadium which looks as professional as NFL facilities.
What readers of this blog might be most interested in is my experience in an establishment called Halftime. It may seem like frivolous to some, but as anyone who read the Madness of March knows, I have written about sports fans and am one myself. I arrived early enough today to watch the games and scouted out a place that had "the ticket" before I left Boston. The ticket is the NFL television package that allows establishments to broadcast all the NFL games on football Sundays. Halftime has the ticket. So there I went. Above the bar, five televisions were broadcasting five different contests.
What was interesting to me was that here in Auburn Alabama I sat next to a man wearing a Tom Brady jersey who knew more about the Patriots than I do. To his left were a couple swearing their allegiance to the Green Bay Packers. To my right was a man whose knowledge about all teams seemed encyclopedic and he was parked at noon central awaiting the 3 pm Detroit Lions game. And to his right was a fellow bursting alternatively joyously and with frustration as the fortunes of the Carolina Panthers ebbed and flowed. Behind me was a very sad fellow who was from Erie Pennsylvania and watched unhappily as so called Johnny Football (aka Johnny Manziel) played like a pop warner substitute in the Browns-Bengals game.
Within twenty feet there were reps from many places east of the Mississippi. What's more the conversation throughout the game could have taken place in hundreds of taverns that had the Ticket across America. There was no difference about anything in Halftime than there is in places I have been to in Boston or Chicago or Buffalo or New York or New Jersey or Maine or anywhere.
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Tiers
I had, at one point, become a decent competitive tennis player. At my level I had won a number of consecutive tournaments, and had a string of victories against strong USTA players rated at my level.
I saw an advertisement for a tournament for those 45 years and older. I was 48 or 49, in good shape, and had had the successes referred to above. So, I signed up and figured this would be a whole lot easier than beating the 20 somethings and 30 somethings who typically played in my league.
Very wrong. These tournaments were populated by former high school and college players. Very strong players who, as time went on, kept their competitive energies active by traveling to these age-level tournaments. I did not know this when I signed up.
As I warmed up with my first round opponent I saw that I was in for trouble. This guy looked good. My tennis game was about getting the ball back. I was a retriever who could find a way to stay in points and then when the opponent was tired from a long rally see him deposit the ball in the net, or get out of position so I could hit a winner. I figured that I would have to be at my retrieving best to have a chance against this guy. And I was. The first point itself took twenty or so shots. And for each point I chased down the balls and retrieved as many as I could. It was as good as I can play.
And he killed me. Destroyed. 6-0, 6-1. He must have fallen asleep in the game I won. The guy was just in another league.
In these tournaments, you have only an hour between matches if you are victorious. As the loser I had all weekend. So I went into the locker room and took a long shower. Sat in the steam room. Dawdled. I came back outside to the courts to see how the guy who had pummeled me was doing in his second match. I figured this guy would win the tournament. He just was great.
When I got to the courts, I saw his match was over. He had been shellacked 6-0, 6-0. So the guy who destroyed me 6-0, 6-1, had been clobbered by someone else. And I had had a winning streak going against very competitive players for quite a stretch.
So, the point is that in sports there are levels. And the amateur folks like me, have no real sense of how good the really good players are. When we yell at our tv screen at someone who we think is underperforming, the likelihood is that this underperforming object of our wrath--is great. He or she is just playing against someone who is a level up.
Annually, I find myself following the Division 3 football championship tournament. Division 3 does it right. They have a tournament at the end of the year which involves the top 32 teams in the country. And then each weekend beginning around Thanksgiving they play a one and done tournament.
This year I had an added interest because the Massachusetts Institute of Technology--the school that makes Harvard look like a third tier community college--had had an undefeated season. There is a quip that it doesn't take a rocket scientist to play football. Well, (and this is not original, I read it in Sports Illustrated a while back) the MIT guys ARE rocket scientists--or at least rocket scientists in training. Yet they were undefeated and were invited to participate in the Division 3 tournament.
The Engineers won their first game of the tournament with a thrilling overtime victory. Then they went to play Wesley College in their second round. Wesley won by over 50 points.
Fifty points! The MIT Engineers had had an undefeated season and won a playoff game and in the second round lost by fifty points to Wesley.
Today Wesley is playing in the semi finals. The last time I looked they were losing 42-0 in the first half.
This phenomenon of significantly different levels of skill is likely a reality in all fields: Teaching, Medicine, Lawyering. You think you are a great lawyer. Well, you may be. But someone else makes your ability to make sense of the law seem primitive.
Yet in sports it has seemed to me to be more glaring.
I saw an advertisement for a tournament for those 45 years and older. I was 48 or 49, in good shape, and had had the successes referred to above. So, I signed up and figured this would be a whole lot easier than beating the 20 somethings and 30 somethings who typically played in my league.
Very wrong. These tournaments were populated by former high school and college players. Very strong players who, as time went on, kept their competitive energies active by traveling to these age-level tournaments. I did not know this when I signed up.
As I warmed up with my first round opponent I saw that I was in for trouble. This guy looked good. My tennis game was about getting the ball back. I was a retriever who could find a way to stay in points and then when the opponent was tired from a long rally see him deposit the ball in the net, or get out of position so I could hit a winner. I figured that I would have to be at my retrieving best to have a chance against this guy. And I was. The first point itself took twenty or so shots. And for each point I chased down the balls and retrieved as many as I could. It was as good as I can play.
And he killed me. Destroyed. 6-0, 6-1. He must have fallen asleep in the game I won. The guy was just in another league.
In these tournaments, you have only an hour between matches if you are victorious. As the loser I had all weekend. So I went into the locker room and took a long shower. Sat in the steam room. Dawdled. I came back outside to the courts to see how the guy who had pummeled me was doing in his second match. I figured this guy would win the tournament. He just was great.
When I got to the courts, I saw his match was over. He had been shellacked 6-0, 6-0. So the guy who destroyed me 6-0, 6-1, had been clobbered by someone else. And I had had a winning streak going against very competitive players for quite a stretch.
So, the point is that in sports there are levels. And the amateur folks like me, have no real sense of how good the really good players are. When we yell at our tv screen at someone who we think is underperforming, the likelihood is that this underperforming object of our wrath--is great. He or she is just playing against someone who is a level up.
Annually, I find myself following the Division 3 football championship tournament. Division 3 does it right. They have a tournament at the end of the year which involves the top 32 teams in the country. And then each weekend beginning around Thanksgiving they play a one and done tournament.
This year I had an added interest because the Massachusetts Institute of Technology--the school that makes Harvard look like a third tier community college--had had an undefeated season. There is a quip that it doesn't take a rocket scientist to play football. Well, (and this is not original, I read it in Sports Illustrated a while back) the MIT guys ARE rocket scientists--or at least rocket scientists in training. Yet they were undefeated and were invited to participate in the Division 3 tournament.
The Engineers won their first game of the tournament with a thrilling overtime victory. Then they went to play Wesley College in their second round. Wesley won by over 50 points.
Fifty points! The MIT Engineers had had an undefeated season and won a playoff game and in the second round lost by fifty points to Wesley.
Today Wesley is playing in the semi finals. The last time I looked they were losing 42-0 in the first half.
This phenomenon of significantly different levels of skill is likely a reality in all fields: Teaching, Medicine, Lawyering. You think you are a great lawyer. Well, you may be. But someone else makes your ability to make sense of the law seem primitive.
Yet in sports it has seemed to me to be more glaring.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
eppur si muove
Eppur si muove
Sixty five laps around the track, a memory that is better than decent, and a tendency to read more than the average bear. How is it that I had never come across eppur si muove.
I figure I have seen it, I must have--in one class or book or another--but it never stuck before. And that is remarkable only because it stuck to my consciousness like the mother of all glue when I saw it, in all places, on an espn blog a few days ago.
Didn't know what it meant of course, so I looked it up.
It seems as if Galileo was forced by those open minded folks who brought us the Inquisition (descendants of those who brought us the Crusades), to take back his claim that the earth revolved around the sun. They insisted that the opposite was true.
Eppur si muove. And yet it moves, Galileo, allegedly said.
There are truths. Whether we can explain them or not. There are truths and when we try and suppress these truths the long term, if not the short term, damage is inevitable.
Go ahead and claim that the sun revolves around the earth. Tell yourself that 2 and 2 is 5. Try and suppress the truth.
Eppur si muove.
Sixty five laps around the track, a memory that is better than decent, and a tendency to read more than the average bear. How is it that I had never come across eppur si muove.
I figure I have seen it, I must have--in one class or book or another--but it never stuck before. And that is remarkable only because it stuck to my consciousness like the mother of all glue when I saw it, in all places, on an espn blog a few days ago.
Didn't know what it meant of course, so I looked it up.
It seems as if Galileo was forced by those open minded folks who brought us the Inquisition (descendants of those who brought us the Crusades), to take back his claim that the earth revolved around the sun. They insisted that the opposite was true.
Eppur si muove. And yet it moves, Galileo, allegedly said.
There are truths. Whether we can explain them or not. There are truths and when we try and suppress these truths the long term, if not the short term, damage is inevitable.
Go ahead and claim that the sun revolves around the earth. Tell yourself that 2 and 2 is 5. Try and suppress the truth.
Eppur si muove.
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