Liberals Have Deserted Me.

I'm seriously considering leaving a club to which I've belonged for my entire life—the liberals.

All my life, friends and acquaintances who are moderate in political and social outlook have regarded me as extremely left-wing in attitude—one close friend openly thinks of me blatantly socialist. But lately my liberal sisters and brothers are beginning to piss me off in the extreme, mostly because they project false arrogance and superiority that is just insufferable. The liberals who are bugging me come in several sub-species, among them:

The restaurant and coffeeshop snobs
Lord, am I tired of the aristocrats for whom the only thing acceptable is the newest, most

Seriously?  I asked for a cup o' Joe, black. 

expensive restaurant in town. Very rarely I've found some of these places to be really nice dining experiences, but generally speaking the busiest restaurants have little legitimate to recommend them other than the fact that human lemmings are swarming them for the moment. Fully ninety percent of these trendy places offer fare that has less taste than what you'd eat at a simple Perkins family restaurant. It's entirely false snobbishness that fuels the silly popularity of these places.

Similarly, I'm terribly tired of the coffee boutiques specializing in syrupy fluids with flavor that reminds you of the bottom of an ashtray. Let's face it: old time diners offered coffee with a pleasantly nutty flavor that surpassed most of the nonsense served in the upscale coffee boutiques.

The health food nuts
At various times lately, I've heard it said that virtually all world health problems, from autism to dementia, are due to:
• Gluten
• Sugar
• Lactose
• Statin drugs
• Red meat
• Protein
• Carbohydrates
• Caffeine
• Artificial Sweeteners
• Too many intestinal bacteria
• Not enough intestinal bacteria

Good grief. It's interesting to me that the folks frantically afraid of these health nemeses seem to be the ones who then develop them. (The real health problem is narcissistic hypochondria).  Meanwhile, I know perfectly healthy octogenarians who have consumed liquor and stiff coffee, smoked cigarettes and practiced all manner of debauchery and are are still alive and kicking rigorously.

It wouldn't be so bad if these food neurotics didn't insist on preaching to you their brand of insanity. At a recent neighborhood picnic, one fellow interrogated each person who had brought a potluck dish on whether their recipes were "gluten free" or not. Several were asked to go check labels to find out if he could eat without farting up a storm a couple of hours later.

And I have no need to convince vegetarians and "vegans" that their practices are somewhat against the biological heritage of homo-sapiens. It's no skin off my nose if they want to live this way. So why is it that when you eat a bit of fish and a sour-dough roll in front of them,  they can barely disguise their contempt?

Pseudo hippies
I really don't have anything against the true children of the 60s and 70s who continue to live the

Sorry pal. Abbie Hoffman you ain't. 

principles of that era, though it often seems just a little silly. Most of us from that generation have evolved a bit, or at least become a little more realistic about some aspects of the world, but it seems to me that these folks have earned the right to practice a philosophy that's natural to them. And there is a political genuineness (though perhaps not practical realism) that I rather admire.

But I'm increasingly surprised by the number of young (late 20s to early 40s) liberals who adopt a kind of false hippie aesthetic without any real idea of the underpinnings. On the commuter bus one casual Friday, I heard two young women comparing the quality of tie-dye skirts between Macy's and Nordstroms, one arguing that paying $250 was a good investment, as the designer was much more on-trend.  The idea that such garments were created by hand back in the day was utterly alien to them, I imagine.

These pseudo hippies are frankly as blatantly materialistic as any 1970's yuppie that we used to ridicule. They've just deluded themselves into believing they are superior to other people.

Lords of craft beer
Here's another trend that's starting to annoy me—the obsession with "craft" beer. Surely this has about run its course. It's really nothing more than the latest iteration of wine snobbery. if you ask me. I've nothing again microbreweries—who could be against having more pubs around the neighborhood? But the level of gourmet pretension has become pretty unbearable. Beer is beer, and its the act of tipping back with your pals that is significant, not silly debate on the aesthetics of the decor and furnishings in one microbrewery over the other.

(Note: Scotch snobbery is not to be criticized, under severe penalty)

Parents who "befriend" their children 
This isn't all that new; some fellow liberals back when we started having kids were also practicing this way.  What I'm speaking of are those parents who have no ability to distinguish between the adults and the children. They treat their kids as friends, sometimes even encouraging kids to address mom and dad by first names. And in the homes of these folks, you'll find no distinction between spaces for the kids and those for adults—toys and games are scattered everywhere, and the entire family culture is dominated by the needs and wishes of kids. These are the folks who will never leave kids with a baby-sitter in order to go out and get stinking drunk and screw in the backseat. Because they are ordained by god almighty to raise supermen and superwomen, they are likely to home school their kids, because of course contact with other people is not necessary for a growing kid. They are the ones who insist that you need not discipline kids; only "reason" with them. (One fellow preached this to me, then in the next breath lamented that his 10-year old son had begun stealing from the neighbors after breaking through their windows).

Spare me. Parents should have no fear of being parents and making sure their kids understand that that they are the kids. Give the kids some space; your constant presence in every aspect of their lives is not very healthy.

The bicycle frauds
I work with some of these folks, who exhibit an insolent moral superiority in the fact that they

Got news for you. This ain't the tour de France. 

ride bicycles everywhere while others drive automobiles. Does a 50-year old bicycle commuter really have any reason to where spandex biking togs with racing numbers on the back?   In cultures where bicycling is far more ingrained (England, for example), folks ride bikes in comfortable clothing, not ridiculous costumes.

And I'm entirely weary of the indignant, defiant way that bicyclists now treat traffic laws, living in constant deliberate combat with automobiles. Now, I have no problem if bicyclists want to run a stop sign or red light, frankly, Generally, it's no skin off my nose, and I frankly am ready to offer some social leniency to those who are saving gasoline.  But at the same time, you do this at your own risk, and running a traffic stop means you must be willing to take responsibility for the consequences. Everywhere today I see bikes whizzing through intersections as though they have god-given right of way, paying no attention to cross traffic, and then filing lawsuits if they plow broadside into a car.

The television snobs
I know quite a number of educated liberals who sniff with superiority if you mention that you enjoy a particular television program or frequently watch ballgames on the tube.  Apparently they only read greek literature and study classic music for entertainment in the evenings. These are the folks who deny their kids television viewing or access to computer games due to a sense of moral superiority: it's the "we practice arts and crafts at our house rather than watch TV" group.

Yup. That's me, Mercurious. And proud of it. 

This is just horse crap. Television is inherently no more corrupting (and likely less so) than reading romance novels, or listening to Taylor Swift on the ipod, which is what a lot of these holier-than-thou sorts do on the sly. Steven Spielberg acknowledges that he watched television constantly as a youth, as did any number of creative and famous individuals. Probe a little bit and you'll find that these folks who claim to have never watched television can sing you the theme song to most every 1970s sitcom.

So I'll just say it: the big-screen, high-def television is illuminated and talking quite a bit of the time at our house, and we kind of treat it as a window that can be looked through when you want. As Joseph Campbell noted, studying a society's  popular culture tells you far more about it than scholarly tomes.

I read three books a week, on average.  But I also can't wait for the next episode of "Hillbilly Handfishin'" on the History Channel. It airs right before "Say Yes to the Dress."


.....I clearly need a new club. Time was when liberals were a 'live and let live' crowd, not a bunch of moralistic namby pambies.

 I wonder the entry requirements are for the Libertarians.

Citizens of 4F: June 28, 2013

During the spring, when I sat on left (east) side of the 4F bus in the morning as it traveled into downtown,  I frequently saw Sally on her bicycle at the corner of 42 st. and Bryant Avenue, Sally looked to be about 12 or 14 years old, and when I saw her she was usually paused at the curb straddling her bike, waiting for traffic to clear so she could cross.  Presumably she was heading to school.

Sally rides one of the old-fashioned bikes for girls, with the dropped front cross bar designed for easy use by girls. These bikes are somewhat rare these days, as most bicycling girls ride standard 10-speed or 15-speed bikes with the straight crossbar. But this type of traditional girl's bike is very helpful for Sally, because she is particularly tiny of stature.

Sally is very short for her age, although her facial features and arms and legs are fairly average in shape,  Sally's genetic condition makes her what political correctness now calls a "little person."  Some years ago we would have called this condition dwarfism. So the this bike is particularly useful for Sally, since a traditional bicycle would be difficult indeed for her to ride comfortably.

Sally's facial expression most mornings is one of melancholia, so often that  on the rare occasion when some private thought makes her look happy, it stands out as the exception to the rule. It makes me wonder at the reasons for the sad expression she wears nine days out of ten.

Is Sally simply one of those people who takes a while to wake up in the morning?  Will she grow steadily cheerier as the day goes on, as is the case with some people? Is she simply glum about going to school on nice spring days?  That's not usually in healthy young adolescents. Do I pay more attention to her because of her physical unusualness?  Is she really just like everybody else? After all, when people don't know you're looking at them, the expression you see is usually one of worried consternation, if not outright unhappiness. Members of the human species rarely look happy when viewed in social isolation.

What I imagine, though, is that her unusual condition creates a special isolation for Sally. Dwarfism, I've read, is a steadily decreasing phenomenon, which means those living with it have steadily fewer genuine peers. Sally is much more unusual now than she would have been 20 years ago, and perhaps it's the fact that she alway draws second looks that creates her melancholia. What teenager, except for cheerleaders and performance athlete, likes to be stared at? In the dozens of days I've seen Sally on the street, she has never looked up at the bus as it passes; she doesn't need to, because she knows full well that people above notice her and swivel their necks to keep looking as the bus passes.

I wonder if Sally, as she enters her teen years, will have a particularly difficult time developing relationships. Is this part of what's on her mind in the mornings? It would take a particularly mature  and sensitive male teenager to look past Sally's physical condition to the possibilities of romance. Mature and sensitive teenage boys aren't exactly common. Sally almost certainly will feel more isolation than most teenagers in this regard.

Suddenly one day Sally stopped appearing at the corner in the morning, and for a brief time I was worried about her—until I realized that the school year had ended and she no longer had the need to venture out early each morning. When school starts in the fall, Sally may well have now moved on to high school that requires a different bike route, so it's entirely possible I won't ever see her again.

But I'll continue to wonder how she's doing.

Is Tolerance Always a Virtue?

It's widely believed that tolerance and patience is a virtue that most of us need to cultivate. Liberals, especially, like to pretend they are supremely tolerant, especially on issues such as free speech. Now, my friend The Professor sometimes argues with good merit that this is a bit disingenuous, because liberals can be shrill indeed when it comes to verbal intolerance of conservative political ideals. He says, with some justification, that had a conservative president made the kind of recent public policy faux pas of the Obama group, the outrage would be deafening. But I'd argue that political discourse exists on a different level that everyday moral tolerance or intolerance that occurs outside the realm of political discourse.

After all, vocal though they might be, it's rather rare for liberal social intolerance to reach the level of violent reaction. You really can't imagine, for example, that right-to-choose proponents would routinely murder church leaders who preach against abortion, or those who argue against birth control.  No, the intolerance of liberals is generally political, and is of the verbal, passive, argumentative type. The last time liberals seemed really ready to physically fight for their beliefs, it was 1972 or so. Since then, we've elevated passivity to a virtue. 

Yesterday on Nicollet Avenue, one of those extreme evangelists on a soap box held a placard that said "God Hates You," printed on the back side with by list of bullet points enumerating the behaviors that made each of us worthy of Yahweh's loathing:  

"Fag thoughts" 

"Dressing like a whore"
"Loving animals"
"Israelites"

"Cursing"

"Recycling" 

(Yep. He was actually arguing that recycling is a sin).

This guy was, as far as I can gather, of the same ilk as those people from Westboro Baptist Church who picket the funerals of fallen soldiers, arguing that God has killed them in retribution for society's evil ways. 

As the crowds waited for stoplights to change at crosswalks, this fellow screamed insults at everyone in the most blatant display of intolerant hatred you can imagine. If a pretty girl walked by in a short skirt, the abuse was cruel indeed, as it was for a couple of fellows who may or may not have been gay. It was not mental illness we were witnessing; this fellow was well groomed,  had professionally printout hand-outs, the whole nine yards. But the civilized, and oh-so-tolerant response of the liberal downtown Minneapolitans was....complete non-response. To a person, the good citizens ignored the hate monger utterly. I watched for 20 minutes, and not once did anyone confront this fellow. There wasn't so much as a disgusted shake of the head. Only supreme, utter tolerance for extremely bad behavior. 

Now, perhaps this sounds like a mature, responsible citizenry respecting the right of all to speak their minds. But where is it written that a crackpot's right to speak hate is more important that our rights to a peaceful walk along the streets at lunchtime?  I wonder, really, if it is really responsible and wise, as citizens, to make such a Herculean effort to tolerate the intolerable. 

How long would this jackass continue his effort if people expressed more outrage when people behave so badly? When did we come to believe that when faced with unacceptable, intolerable behavior, the correct thing to do is tolerate it?

Maybe our moral imperative is swift, decisive intolerance of some things.

Citizens of 4F, June 20, 2013

Ned is an older gentleman, perhaps 70 or 75. He is lean, quick and lithe as he boards the bus, with no evidence of arthritic joints. He wears with a long full beard and dresses in expensive casual clothes. Now that the weather is warm he frequently wears a crisp long-sleeved button-down shirt, sleeves carefully folded up to mid forearm, under a high-quality trout fisherman's vest. Perhaps he has actually done some fly fishing in his day, but I don't think so. This vest, at least, seems to be more fashion statement than practical garment. I would guess he likes the outdoors, but perhaps more as a hiker or birdwatcher than as an active fisherman.

His trousers are carefully pressed khaki of a color that exactly matches his vest, and his footwear is clearly expensive, walking shoes of supple brown leather. Upon boarding the bus, he immediately switches to a pair of reading glasses, his hands very precise as he dons the reading glasses, tosses the lanyard over his head and carefully folds his other glasses and places them in his shirt pocket. His hands draw your attention; old hands but flexible and quick, without age spots or serious wrinkles. A man who has used his hands for finely detailed work; not muscular labor.

He immediately takes a book from his bag; it is a good quality illustrated book, and from my vantage point appears to be a book of color prints from modernistic art done in the 1930s or thereabout. There is precision about the way Ned turns the pages; his hands are elegant and careful, and I wonder if he might be a retired art director or graphic designer. The fact that his book carries the stamp of the public library supports the possibility that he's retired and on fixed income, as does the fact he's riding the public bus. His clothes and book bag are clearly quite expensive, though, and were perhaps purchased at a more affluent time in life.

Other days have supported my hunch about his artistic background; sometimes Ned pulls a sketch book from his bag and quietly sketches quick profiles of the passengers around him with a charcoal pencil to pass the time on the bus ride into downtown.

One morning I decided to stop a few blocks early in downtown to get coffee at a favorite shop, and realized that Ned is already in line ahead of me. He was obviously a regular (the fact that the shop owner greeted him familiarly is the reason I know Ned's name), and I began to get a mental picture of what Ned's days might be like. A leisurely start at the coffeeshop, followed by a stroll to the public library for a scholarly few hours, and then perhaps lunch with old colleagues at a former office or a walk along the shady Mississippi riverfront before taking the bus back home in the afternoon.

Much to envy there.

Early Sunday morning, my dad and I sit in the living room and watch the swarms of prairie birds swarm around his feeders outside the picture window. The nectar that attracts these flocks to the yard is, believe it or not, large dishes on the top of the fence,heaped with mounds of ordinary grape jelly, which my Dad buys in huge tubs at the Cosco store in Brookings SD. I can't imagine that true bird experts would see this as good nutrition for birds, but it makes Dad happy to see these flocks, and frankly I find it pretty amazing, too.

We've made it through all the difficult estate planning issues the day before, when I was pleased to find Dad's  comprehension pretty intact. He asks perceptive, sharp questions, even though he occasionally forgets some of the things we've talked about just a few minutes earlier. The new oxygen dispensing pump doesn't have the annoying click of the old one, and now that we're done with the issues I've been dreading, the visit is relaxed. I find myself considering the oddities of the rural Midwest culture as we comfortably watch the birds outside.

We're also watching the series of half-hour morning programs on television as we drink coffee and watch the birds. We're only a couple hundred miles west of Minneapolis, a relatively modern little city that lies at the top of the Mississippi bluff country valleys, but the feeling of this area is light years different. South Dakota is literally visible from the house, and we're in the dead center of the massive wheat and corn belt that runs all the way from Texas to Canada. Some of these farms are more like ranches, with spreads of 1,000 or 2,000 acres. Agriculture and fundamental ethics are the heart of the region. In this part of the world, the half hour Sunday TV programs alternate: a evangelical Christian program for 30 minutes, then a half hour of farming information for the owners of the big grain farms in the area, then back to the Bible-banging.

 In the first Christian program, viewers call in to ask trivia questions regarding the Bible.  "So what are exactly are the demons that come to visit people in the old testament?"  asks one viewer the host, a fellow with carefully slicked-back hair and a suit of the style we used to call a "leisure."

Now, with my more or less broad education, I have come to view the Bible and other religious texts as folk literature that offer allegories articulating some aspect of the human experience. For example, I see the idea of "demons" as symbolic of some human mental disturbance.  Such a story of demons is an ancient fable, in other words, that refers to what we would now call depression or pyschosis.

But the host of the 7:00 am program corrects my misunderstanding. "Some people think that demons are visitors from the land of the dead," he said on high-definition, big screen TV from a signal beamed thousands of miles, bouncing off a satellite positioned in space. "This is not true, however. Demons are not visitors from the land of the dead," he says, as though imparting a thrilling secret.  " The demons the Bible speaks of are actually simply fallen angels....thank you for your question, Denise."

The next program is for farmers, in which incredibly sophisticated soil chemistry is discussed by soil scientists. Today's farmers in this region are remarkably well educated, and the most demanded master's degree programs at South Dakota State university are in agriculture. It can also be among the most lucrative of careers, as successful farmers out here can be quite wealthy indeed. With this farm land now assessed at $7,000 per acre, you can imagine what 1,000 tillable acres is worth. Here, though, that gap between the haves and have-nots is enormous. These counties of Minnesota and South Dakota are among the very poorest, per capita, of any in these states. A lot of the family farms have collapsed because the sheer cost of running the places is so prohibitive. But a few people of great wealth thrive, provided they are landholders of substance.

Last night, I met a local entrepeneur who owns a feel of 40 huge, industrial-grade wheat harvesting machines (combines) that he sends out from late March to late November, to work the big fields all the way from northern Texas to Canada. An entirely different form of migrant farm worker. Each of the combines comes with a huge semi-trailer truck to transport it, and each of combine/semi teams comes with the nifty price tag of $600,000. And he owns 40 of them.

After the TV show announces that the "weed of the week" is leafy spurge, a new Christian program starts, this one a ventiloquist who uses a hideous stuffed doll to tell Bible stories to kids. Quite horrifying, but it seems quite ordinary in this culture.

My Dad nods off to sleep now and then, and finally I shut of the TV and simply enjoy the sunny day outside the picture window.  There are literally hundreds of birds at the feeder, meadowlarks, and
Baltimore orioles, and new bird I've not seen before—an orchard oriole. Some things never change: when I was a child, my dad was a dedicated bird-watcher, and in his declining years, it's the one pastime that he can still enjoy in comfort. His other passions were golf and gardening, but both are long since impossible.

In the distance, big electricity-generating wind turbines peek over the prairie horizon. These

carbon-fiber turbines, with blades 50 or 60 feet long, are state of the art, and the farmers who lease the land on which they're built can earn  $100,000 per year or more in royalties. One of the many advantage of land ownership out here.

On the way out here from Minneapolis, I drove right through one forest of these towers. At the end of the driveway, the farmer owning this high-tech grove of carbon fiber monsters had posted a bill-board with 10 directions for living. The top bullet point says, in letters 2 feet high:  "I am the Lord your God. Ye shall have no other gods before me."

This kind of collision of primitive and modern in Rural American is so common that there's not even any sense of irony when you see it.

Citizens of 4F: June 4, 2013

Now that the spring has finally come to Minneapolis, new characters have reemerged on the early hours of morning in downtown. I sometimes see them on those mornings where I go to the office very early.

On mornings when I exit the 4F bus near my office shortly after dawn, they rise ghost- like from the freight track canyon that runs into the east side of downtown from the north and south. Sometimes it is literally up from the mists they rise, one, two or sometimes three purposeful, mysterious human figures. Where these wanderers are going is unclear, though logical destinations might be the either the downtown bus depot  or perhaps the industrial area that blankets the gritty midway zone between Minneapolis and St. Paul. The midway district is where other freight train highways come in and out of the metro area.

It's not exactly fair to think of them as hobos or tramps, because they look a little more like modern cowboys, with their jeans and boots and stetson hats. But it's clear they carry all their worldly belongings in expensive but well-worn backpacks as they drift across the countryside. They are indeed homeless, but homeless in a much different way than the unfortunate, often mentally-ill beggers you see more frequently on  city streets everywhere.

These modern nomads are simply dressed but manage to stay relatively clean and neat in appearance, and the odor you catch as you pass them on the street isn't unpleasant at all: they smell like the prairie, like the desert, like the alfalfa fields. They carry the atmosphere of wherever they've just come from. And unlike the unfortunate street beggars, who don't really look at you at all unless they're actively pleading for coins, these fellows have a slightly jaunty, fearless air about them. They stride the streets with shoulders back and wide, and they will meet your glance willingly.

It seems unfair to even think of them as drifters, as there is nothing shiftless about the purposeful pace with which they march across the city in the early mornings. I always imagine that they are migrating across the land following seasonal work patterns, but I don't know for sure. Some may be headed for work up for that recent mecca—the new oil-field bonanza in North Dakota. By 7:00 am, they will have vanished; like rare birds, they are visible only in the early hours.

One morning as I turn the corner for the final leg up First Avenue to my office in the Wyman Building, one of these fellows tips his Stetson in greeting as he passes me on the street. "'Ello there, friend," he says to me in a slightly sing-song voice . "Isn't it just a fine morning, then?" There is no trace of irony. He's indeed simply pleased to be roaming on foot on a fine early June morning, happy to be just about as free as is humanly possible.

It's the Scottish brogue that causes me to pause a few steps later and look back at him as he pauses at

the intersection. He's waiting for the green light in order to cross the street legally, even though there is nary a vehicle to be seen at that hour.  How, I wonder, did this fellow make his way from a distant British nation to our city?

In my mind's ear, I've been giving them all the drawl of the American Southwest. But the fact that all along I've been imagining this incorrectly makes the world seem all the richer, somehow. Fiction just isn't nearly as fine as a full experience of the here and now.  

Play Ball!

Contemporary culture offers many reasons for the discerning geezer to be concerned: politics is toxic, the national deficit is monstrous, and,of course, there’s global warming.  We geezers must resist the impulse to play Chicken Little and declare that the sky is at risk.  We’ve been around for awhile now, and it behooves us to project a certain calm stoicism.   Which is all fine until news comes along to confirm what we’ve been suspecting but denying all along:

Children are not playing baseball anymore. 

More precisely, they are playing the game in ever-decreasing numbers relative to other organized games.  Over the last ten years, participation in organized baseball by children is down 31%.  During that same time period, children participating in soccer have increased over 15%.  In community after community, official and unofficial “little league” programs are shrinking or folding.  Summer camps are converting their baseball/softball fields to soccer fields. 

The Professor has learned his lessons well

OK, you might say,,but is this a crisis?  The basic, careful and rational response to this question is…..yes, of course it is!!!  Baseball is losing popularity precisely for those same qualities which make it such a virtue to the process of growing up.  Baseball teaches a young person many lessons, but—like most valuable lessons—they are tough ones. And let’s face it— tough lessons are not exactly in vogue these days.  Now, it must be admitted that in our geezer youth we were often guilty of  trying to avoid hard lessons in life, but in those distant days, our parents were usually somewhere about to insist that we learn such lessons. Our parents were tough, and they did us a great service by passing that toughness on to us.

But the impulse of many parents today is to exempt their children from the tough lessons of life, for fear that a little self-esteem might be eroded.   (Just the New Testament for us, please; don’t bother with that pesky Old Testament with all of its demands and judgements. ) 

Among the many things we learned through playing baseball, here are a few of the most useful:

THINGS TAKE AS LONG AS THEY TAKE.   One of the qualities of baseball that children and parents alike  now seem to struggle with  is that it takes time—sometimes a lot of time.  (Sometimes it takes very little time, of course; it all depends.)  But generally you need to plan to invest a good amount of time, and then hope for the best.   If people took the same approach with their driving plans, road rage would be reduced  by at least 50% .  Harried drivers expect traffic to behave in predictable ways, but of course it doesn’t.  It’s unpredictable—just like baseball.  The right attitude toward this unpredictability can be the difference between life and death on the road.

Or take the notorious DMV. We all deal with bureaucracy, and it drives us crazy.  But we know going in that it might take a ridiculous amount of time to renew our driver’s license….but we’re just not sure.  Geezers who have grown up with baseball find it much easier to accommodate both the predictable two hour wait in line and the once-in-a-blue-moon occasion in which the person “helping” us actually helps us.  Baseball players are at peace with the fact that many things in life take as long as they take.

...though in his very young years, he threw like a girl. 

WAITING IS A SKILL WE SHOULD GET GOOD AT.  One of the most amusing events  to witness during a little league baseball is when the ball (finally) is hit by the batter, and the ball rolls out into the field and right past the little-leaguer second baseman who is dreamily oblivious to the ball scooting past him about ten inches to his or her right.  They are gazing away thinking about who knows what (or who knows whom?)  The demands that baseball places on young attention spans just got to be too much for them.  For this young geezer-in-training, baseball offers a way to experience patience while at the same time developing observant attention.

On the other hand, another little league phenomenon to observe (and address, if a coach) is the kid who just wants to “get on with it.”  This kid just can’t wait to bat again; just can’t wait for the ball to come to him/her in the field.  These kids certainly pay attention, but they are impatient with their teammates , they are restless on the bench, will ask fifteen times each game if they can be the pitcher.  They want action, they want their action steady, and they want to be the center of that action.  This is the youngster who need to learn about waiting.  As much as it drives themselves and everyone else around them nuts, it’s good that they’re playing baseball.  It slowly, patiently teaches them how to wait.

To be comfortable with waiting, but not so comfortable that when your opportunity is presented you miss it—that is the timeless body/mind wisdom that playing baseball imparts.

LEARN TO ACCEPT HUMILIATION WITHOUT QUITTING THE “GAME.”  When you talk to

 people who have played baseball while disliking it, again and again you hear about the trauma of getting up to the plate all alone, and having everyone look at you as you face a kid pitcher who for some reason is 4 inches taller than you and has the start of a ten-year-old version of a beard who throws a pitch impressive in both its speed and in its unpredictability of flight path. One stands there—risking life and limb—and inevitably is paid back for this gallant stand by hearing those immortal words (always shouted with what seemed like glee by the umpire) "Stee-rike three...You're Out!" 
 

....soon, he found his natural position in the field. 

It might seem like a bit of an overstatement to describe this ever-repeating moment as “humiliation,” but that is exactly what it is.  That’s why baseball is such a good teacher.  It is essentially a series of one-on-one encounters with the ball, each one offering an opportunity to make a mistake.  (Does this sound familiar…It sounds a lot like life as I’ve encountered it.)  The pitcher can’t get the ball over the plate; if he DOES get it over the plate, the batter can’t hit it.  If by some miracle the ball is thrown over the plate and the batter hits it, the fielder will likely miss  the ball (or not even realize the ball had been hit—see above.)  If the fielder DOES field the ball, they inevitably throw over the head of the first baseman.  If the throw DOES reach target, the first baseman will drop the ball (if, in fact, he even realizes that ball is coming toward him.) Is there any other 5-second event in life that offers more opportunity for failure and humiliation?

You get the idea.  Unlike a sport like soccer—where you can hide within a gaggle of twenty two  manic kids kicking a ball up and down an enormous field  (with few—parents or children included—knowing the rules), in baseball you are out there on your own, and everyone knows that three strikes and you're out is how it works.  You do your best and you take your lumps;  a tough but important lesson.

The Professor was always envious of
Dr. Golf's natural skill. 

SUCCESS IS  RARE:  APPRECIATE IT AND REMEMBER IT.  Some people have the luxury of serialized success in life.  Good for them.  Most of us, though, experience life as a series of well-meaning attempts punctuated by a rare instance of progress or success.  And those of us lucky enough to have played baseball know that those rare successes are moments that can be savoured for a lifetime.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit how vividly I remember the few times when I really got  hold of a baseball in an important game.  I can still almost feel the sweet tingle of a ball solidly hit by 34 ounces of ash.  Good vibrations indeed.  The vividness of these memories are—of course—inextricably related to the many, many failures at the plate which so out-numbered (but were a necessary prelude to) the rare visitation of victory. 

YOGI WAS RIGHT—IT REALLY ISN’T OVER UNTIL IT’S OVER.  It’s such a cliché, but really—there just isn’t that much of a point in giving up in life before the game is up.  But, alas for the poor souls who have only played basketball or football,  that is exactly what is taught by those games (wonderful as they might be in other respects.)  There comes a time in every game played under the strict autocracy of the clock when there simply isn’t any chance…the only thing to be gained from further intense effort is an injury. 

Not baseball.  There is always a chance.  This assertion is often greeted with a condescending smile by those who don’t know the game well.  Their smile says: “oh, sure TECHNICALLY there can be a comeback, but you know it isn’t going to happen.”  To them, I tell the tale of The Curious Incident of Dave Winfield in Omaha.  In the final game of the College World Series in 1973, future hall of famer (and all-around great guy—he learned the lessons of baseball very well) David Winfield brought a one-hit, fifteen strikeout game into the ninth inning, pitching for the University of Minnesota against the Trojans of Southern Cal.  He had a 7-0 lead.  7 runs!  A one-hitter going!  Suffice to say, it wasn’t over, and the Golden Gophers did not become NCAA champions.  We thought it was over.  It wasn’t over. 

Until it was over.

And finally, of course:

IT’S ONLY A GAME.  It’s a bizarre game, with hard-to-fathom rules—a game that is arbitrary, harsh

and many times unfair.  We have to cooperate with teammates, some of whom we may not even like.  It can drive you crazy.  But in the end, baseball ‘s ability to reflect life is best seen in the example of two children—a boy and a girl—from far upstate New York whom I sat behind during a twi-night double

The four Geezers, and some kid
we eventually shunned. 

header when the Twins played the Yankees at Yankee Stadium.  The first game started at five o-‘clock…the second a little before nine.  In about the eighth inning of the close second game, one kid turns to the other and says: “wouldn’t it be great if it went extra innings?” Even at near-midnight with a long drive ahead, even with jokers like Bud Selig in charge of the professional game, even with the indignity of being born in New York and having to root for the Yankees; despite all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that baseball and life bring our way, we still don’t want the game to end.