The Road is ugly. Every setting is caked in ash and grime. Every window is seemingly shattered, and shards of glass are scattered everywhere. Auto bodies are mutilated and rusted down to the tires, which are blown out or slashed. Weeds poke up through cracks in asphalt and cement. Entire forests are denuded; felled logs clog rivers. Human and animal carcasses frequently litter the ground, or are gathered in piles. The few humans that populate the bleak landscape are in no better condition. To a person, they have grimy skin and greasy, matted, hair. Their teeth are black or missing, and all too often they have amputated limbs or digits gnawed off at the knuckle.
If you can look past all that, The Road is worth seeing. I watched in last week, but not before driving to Evanston because the film is inexplicably not in wide release. That's hard to fathom given its star billing (Viggo Mortensen, Charlize Theron); if that's not enough, the source material won the Pulitzer Prize, and the previous Cormac McCarthy novel that hit the screen (No Country For Old Men, 2007) raked in 4 Oscars, including Best Picture. Nonetheless, The Road is out there for the viewing, even if you have to travel further than your local cineplex. The story takes place a decade or so after an unspecified apocalypse has wiped out all plant and animal life save a handful of humans. A character known only as "the man" roams the abandoned highways with his son ("the boy"), searching for the last vestiges of humanity. Others still alive are generally on the move to merely survive, which means not only finding food and shelter, but also eluding cannibalistic clans that rape and pillage their way across the post-apocalyptic wastelands.
This is one of the rare books I've read in recent years that has been turned into a film, and I'm glad for that because my familiarity with the text proved to be a good basis by which to judge the film. And the film doesn't disappoint. The story remains mostly intact, at least as much as a story can when it goes from paper to celluloid and has to operate within a Hollywood system that generates far more turds than treasures. Like the book, the film strives to define what it means to be human even in the face of the most unimaginable horror. The man is unwilling to concede his life or his belief that good people remain in the world. However, it's a delicate balance throughout. He carries a pistol with two bullets remaining: One for the boy and one for himself if things should reach the point where death is the best option. Early on (and throughout the film), he tutors the boy in the best way to kill himself using the pistol. At one point, he has the weapon pressed against his son's head with the hammer cocked as cannibals close in on them. It's the film's willingness to create those scenes that helps it have an impact the likes of which the book achieved, even though the film isn't as brutal or violent as the book.
As can be expected given the setting, the film is full of dillemas that would be ethical if only there were still ethics in a post-apocalyptic world. The man is forced to kill another person in direct sight of his son on several occassions; at other times he has to withhold food, clothing, or mercy from other travelers in order for him and his son to survive. In this regard, it's no surprise that that cinematographically there is so much gray in the sky and physical surroundings; everything is a gray area, all the way down to the basic beliefs held by the man and his son.
Unfortunately, the film is unable to convey two important elements of style that McCarthy employs in the novel. One is the fragmented narrative structure that subtextually conveys so much about post-apocalyptic human existence. All that is left of the world are fragments of what we used to know: pieces of roads, buildings, ships, humanity. Throughout the book, McCarthy writes in short passages that are frequently only a paragraph or two; there are no chapter or section divisions. The closest the film comes to parallelling McCarthy's structure is the backstory that explains what happened to the mother who was part of the family structure before the boy and his father set off down the road. Her story comes to the audience by way of several flashbacks throughout the film (it's odd to think, however, that Charlise Theron "stars" in the film as the mother; she's only in it for about 5 minutes).
Another issue is the dissolution of language. Even a decade after the apocalypse, chunks of language have dissolved into non-existence. The father has to explain at several points what even some of the simplest objects are (a can of Coca-Cola, for instance). The film touches only briefly on this idea. It does this most effectively at one point in which the boy and father make a horrible discovery at a farmhouse. The father is unaware that the residents of the house are returning, and as the boy watches them approach, he seems unable to find even the most basic words to convey the approaching danger.
One thing I found compelling, and that was in both the book and film, was a scene in which the man and boy stumble upon an unused fallout shelter, fully stocked with canned food and clean water. They make a big scene out of bathing themselves, which in the world of literary analysis is a symbolic baptism that is usually followed by a drastic change in the character's circumstances. McCarthy, however, reverses that expectation by following it with scenes in which their lives don't just remain the same-- they get worse. The scene pushes the story further into the realm of post-modernism in that it represents a reversal in the standard expectations we have with most any literature we experience.
In the end, the film did exactly what I hoped it would do for me, which was to make itself inseparable from the book. It's hard for me to recommend it without attaching the novel to it. Each enhances the other, and together they make a satisfying (if disturbing) package that manages to make deep, meaningful commentary on the human condition.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Once Again a Cross Country Runner
I thought I was back; I thought I had recovered from all that happened Thanksgiving morning 2007. By the end of last winter, I was routinely experiencing strong half-hour treadmill runs at the gym, and was throwing in frequent turns on the elliptical machine . My Achilles felt flexible and as strong as it had since I hurt it 18 months previous.
Then I went for a 3-mile run outside.
It was 2 weeks before the same 5K race that ended my comeback the year before. I figured I would rip off a few outdoor 3-milers to prepare myself. The day after my first training run, my ankle and foot were so sore that I could barely walk. I figured that was because the rigors of road running are far greater than those of treadmill running; for one, there's a great deal more pounding. I thought if I rested a few days and just stuck to the elliptical, the pain would work itself out. So I did, and for the most part the pain subsided.
I went out the next week, and it happened again. The next day, my ankle was a rusty hinge, like I could hear it grate when I walked or when I rotated my foot. It was hard to walk the next 2 days. I could walk 5 days later, though, when the race came around, which to me meant that I could run. So I did.
The next day, forget it. I couldn't move my foot. It stayed like that for 3 days. I thought I was finished running. Forever. There's no way I could run if every time I did I had to spend 3 days or more recovering. Hell, if I had to spend three days barely being able to walk, I would never be able to mold myself into any kind of running shape.
The only solution was to go back to the doctor. Both he and the physical therapist shook their fingers and heads at me throughout the summer. They fit me for two pairs of orthotics; one for my everyday shoes, and one for my running shoes. Oddly, Julie (the physical therapist) found that when she pulled my heel and extended it outward from my ankle, I was experiencing pain. Lots of pain. Like there was some kind of twisted blade inside my ankle that was slicing in any which direction, slashing and scarring whatever it could. It made no sense... how often is your heel pulled away from you when you run ? I thought for sure I was having an "impact" injury from striking the pavement. But what do I know? I'm the guy who ran myself into the same injury 3 times in the past two years.
In between going to the doctor and the arrival of the "foot levelers," I was in therapy twice a week. Julie again twisted, turned, pushed, and pulled my ankle as she had done a year before. She heated it up, iced it, and showed me ways to strengthen it. She coaxed it with electrical impulses, and massaged it until it was so loose that it felt like my foot might float away from my body. Whatever she was doing about the odd heel pain seemed to work intermittently. I had my doubts with the whole process, and grew frustrated.
Once the orthotics arrived, they were difficult to get used to. It felt like I was cramming my feet into my shoes every time I slid them on. The first week I had them, my feet were so sore and swollen after 2 or 3 hours that I couldn't bear to wear shoes. If I had them on all day or did a lot of walking around, my feet were as sore as my ankle had ever been. But, the orthotics slowly loosened up a bit (actually, my shoes stretched in the right ways to accomodate the inserts and my foot, in addition to any sockage I was sporting). Once I adjusted, I could almost feel the inserts healing my Achilles. It seemed that some nights my tendon felt noticably stronger, and all I would have done was wear my shoes and go through my daily routine.
I was out of PT by the middle of August. At the end of September, I visited the doctor for a follow-up. He cleared me to run, but only if I started at 10 minutes maximum on the treadmill and worked up no more than 5 minutes per week. If I wanted to run outside, it was no more than 1 mile, and I would have to work myself up at the same increments. It was a maddeningly slow process. I wanted to strip my gears, to get out and run run run. But I had to remember that I am mortal, and that for two years I have been laid low by an injury that resulted from carelessness in the first place. I ultimately realized that it wasn't a matter of condition myself physically, but also emotionally. I was going to have to adjust my head if I wanted to run, and that adjustment demanded every bit as much discipline as the physical conditioning.
Then I went for a 3-mile run outside.
It was 2 weeks before the same 5K race that ended my comeback the year before. I figured I would rip off a few outdoor 3-milers to prepare myself. The day after my first training run, my ankle and foot were so sore that I could barely walk. I figured that was because the rigors of road running are far greater than those of treadmill running; for one, there's a great deal more pounding. I thought if I rested a few days and just stuck to the elliptical, the pain would work itself out. So I did, and for the most part the pain subsided.
I went out the next week, and it happened again. The next day, my ankle was a rusty hinge, like I could hear it grate when I walked or when I rotated my foot. It was hard to walk the next 2 days. I could walk 5 days later, though, when the race came around, which to me meant that I could run. So I did.
The next day, forget it. I couldn't move my foot. It stayed like that for 3 days. I thought I was finished running. Forever. There's no way I could run if every time I did I had to spend 3 days or more recovering. Hell, if I had to spend three days barely being able to walk, I would never be able to mold myself into any kind of running shape.
The only solution was to go back to the doctor. Both he and the physical therapist shook their fingers and heads at me throughout the summer. They fit me for two pairs of orthotics; one for my everyday shoes, and one for my running shoes. Oddly, Julie (the physical therapist) found that when she pulled my heel and extended it outward from my ankle, I was experiencing pain. Lots of pain. Like there was some kind of twisted blade inside my ankle that was slicing in any which direction, slashing and scarring whatever it could. It made no sense... how often is your heel pulled away from you when you run ? I thought for sure I was having an "impact" injury from striking the pavement. But what do I know? I'm the guy who ran myself into the same injury 3 times in the past two years.
In between going to the doctor and the arrival of the "foot levelers," I was in therapy twice a week. Julie again twisted, turned, pushed, and pulled my ankle as she had done a year before. She heated it up, iced it, and showed me ways to strengthen it. She coaxed it with electrical impulses, and massaged it until it was so loose that it felt like my foot might float away from my body. Whatever she was doing about the odd heel pain seemed to work intermittently. I had my doubts with the whole process, and grew frustrated.
Once the orthotics arrived, they were difficult to get used to. It felt like I was cramming my feet into my shoes every time I slid them on. The first week I had them, my feet were so sore and swollen after 2 or 3 hours that I couldn't bear to wear shoes. If I had them on all day or did a lot of walking around, my feet were as sore as my ankle had ever been. But, the orthotics slowly loosened up a bit (actually, my shoes stretched in the right ways to accomodate the inserts and my foot, in addition to any sockage I was sporting). Once I adjusted, I could almost feel the inserts healing my Achilles. It seemed that some nights my tendon felt noticably stronger, and all I would have done was wear my shoes and go through my daily routine.
I was out of PT by the middle of August. At the end of September, I visited the doctor for a follow-up. He cleared me to run, but only if I started at 10 minutes maximum on the treadmill and worked up no more than 5 minutes per week. If I wanted to run outside, it was no more than 1 mile, and I would have to work myself up at the same increments. It was a maddeningly slow process. I wanted to strip my gears, to get out and run run run. But I had to remember that I am mortal, and that for two years I have been laid low by an injury that resulted from carelessness in the first place. I ultimately realized that it wasn't a matter of condition myself physically, but also emotionally. I was going to have to adjust my head if I wanted to run, and that adjustment demanded every bit as much discipline as the physical conditioning.
Today, right now, I consider the process well under way. It may never be complete, but I've made enough positive strides in the past few weeks to know that I'm Back. Twelve hours ago, I ran the First Annual 5K Turkey Stampede in Elkhart, Indiana. It wasn't the race I wanted; I wanted the one in Gurnee where I flirted with mortality two years ago and got burned. I wanted to balance the scales on the same course; it seemed like it would be perfect justice. But my family plans changed, and I found myself heading back to my hometown. On the way, I found a chance to run. So I did.
It was a beautiful morning for a race, everything an old cross country runner dreams of: wet, cold, and windy. It's the same kind of stuff that helped forge an iron will 23 years ago. Part of the course ran along a river, and I noticed numerous large puddles of water throughout the course as I made my way to the park where I was to register. I was salivating by the time I made my way to the start line, and after several minutes of waiting, I snapped to the woman standing next to me, "Is there really going to be a race this morning, or are we just gonna stand here and get our asses rained on?"
The horn sounded, and we were off. I settled into my familiar place in the back of the pack, and worked on my breathing. My Achilles felt strong, though my calves were a little weak and crampy. They have been for the past few weeks, ever since I worked myself back up to running 3 miles outdoors. I focused on one thought: Run my race. I wasn't going to focus on anything but breathing and finishing, position be damned. I thought it was the perfect plan, and it worked perfectly up until the final quarter mile. I was feeling strong, and could see 15 people between me and the finish line. I knew I could smoke at least twelve of them, and as soon as I realized that, a familiar thought flashed through my mind with the speed of a synapse firing: once a cross country runner, always a cross country runner. I envisioned myself flipping on a long-unused afterburner that would enable me sprint through to the end, upping my standing in the race and reducing my time.
Instead, I maintained pace and coasted across the finish line in a little over 29 minutes. I've been happy with that all day long, and that's because of another thought that streaked through my brain as quickly as the cross country truism had. Perhaps it was another truism, perhaps a reminder of past wisdom; perhaps it was an epiphany born from the adrenaline and meditative state that results from the steady breathing and repetitive physical motion of running. Whatever it was, it's something I will cling to as I continue my running rehabilitation: There is a force that pulls us to normalcy; it steers us to what we cherish the most. It has pulled me back to running; to be able to run, which I know as normal for some of my teenage years and most of my adult life. But this normalcy is at its truest only in brief moments that can pass so quickly that they may have almost never happened. Other times, that normalcy can be snatched away in an instant of carelessness or unwarranted bravado. It wasn't worth risking losing that normalcy for another two years.
So I coasted.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Cheating on my Girlfriend-- Epilogue
I started compiling these notes once Johnny Damon found third base empty and stole it, too, after stealing second base in the top of the ninth inning of Game 4 Sunday night. It came to me then in a sad rush of reversed denial that the Yankees are too good to beat. They aren't dominant necessarily, but are too good in too many ways for Philadelphia to defeat. The damned Evil Empire has done it again, they way they usually do-- by springing loads of cash for the best of the best, and letting the dominant players do the heavy lifting. They have turned artistry into industry, and the game is worse off for having such an overpowering force.
It's just as well that baseball has ended. The game commanded a lot of my attention for the past month; it has kept me up far too late on far too many school nights, and occupied 80% of my writing time and energy. It's time to put it all to bed and steel myself for the cold, dark winter. At least I have 3 more months of football to occupy my mind (my prediction? Colts over the Vikings in the Super Bowl).
*
It's good to see a Japanese player win the World Series MVP, though Hideki Matsui's selection is dubious in light of him being a designated hitter, and in comparison to Derek Jeter's overall consistency. Matsui clobbered the ball at a .615 clip, but Jeter hit .407 in more than twice the at-bats (27, compared to Matsui's 13). Jeter also had 3 more hits than Matsui, and scored 5 runs to Matsui's 3. Matsui's home runs and runs batted in tower over Jeter's numbers, though (3 and 8, compared to 0 and 1). It doesn't help that Jeter hits lead off. There has been only 1 leadoff hitter to win World Series MVP in who knows how long (maybe ever?), and that was David Eckstein in 2006. The decision stands nonetheless, and I can live with it becasue it also serves as a benchmark regarding the international scope of the game.
General Managers around the league should pay attention to how important it is to Japanese players. Four of the last five World Series Champions have had a Japanese player on their roster. It seems that they tend to be hot commodities because of their consistently excellent play. It helps that there are so few of them, and we only really see the most excellent players of out Japan. It makes me wonder how Sadaharu Oh would have done had he come across the Pacific. He totally kicks ass in NES Baseball Stars, though the Japanese Robins typically lift him late in the game for speed and defense.
*
This is how I know I'm slumping. And this isn't even the killer part of this story.
Halfway through the evening, I was heading back to the dance floor from the bathroom, and ran right into my ex-girlfriend from last year. The one I called recently. The one who didn't want to go to the corn maze because she's starting to date someone. The one I was referring to on Day 19 when I said the corn maze denial wouldn't be the last time we talk (it turns out that is the only prediction I've been right about throughout this serial). She was there with a bunch of friends, same as me. The guy she's starting to date was there; I thought it wise to slink away before I ended up meeting him. So I slinked, but not before I twice noticed some peculiar eye contact she was giving me.
That won't be the last time I see her.
I know I'm a streaky hitter. I can hit for a high average when I'm on (I went 9 for 19 vs. Matt's pitching at one point during the final day of my quest in 2006). When that happens, it's like I'm pulling the ball to my bat, and I can hit everything at my whim. And slumps disappear, if sometimes slowly. It's important to focus on your stance, how you're holding the bat, watching the ball from the pitcher's hand, and watching it as you make contact with the barrel of the bat. More than anything, you have to keep swinging.
You have to keep swinging.
*
This serial took on a greater life than I ever imagined it would. Such is life, and such should be the life you father. It was full of the unexpected, which I didn't really think about as I started this. As a writer, thought, nothing but good can happen when you have to deal with the unexpected. It stretches your mind and your ability, and after that mutation, you'll never return to being the writer you were, even if that mutation is to the tiniest degree.
I had planned on this being a nostalgic "I told you so" trip to a championship for St. Louis in the World Series, something that would return me to a time 3 years ago when I wasn't necessarily happy, but unexpectedly found joy and meaning through what I would usually use as a distraction to life's worries. But I don't have the power to say what something is going to be in the future, especially when everything hinges upon how the 108 stitches on a baseball spin, if and where that ball makes contact with a piece of polished pine, and what direction it bounces after it impacts sod or soil. I only have the power to respond to what is set in motion by the actions of others, and to make sense of it within its own context and the context of my universe. That has proven to be more than enough for me, and I hope I have proven myself worthy to the task. If nothing else, I have found a reason to write (and I have never produced so much new material over a 5-week span in my life).
But I think, too, that I've fully realized why baseball resonates so strongly in my life. I see so many parallels between the two. Both are fluid entities wherein several elements flow and intermingle: power, finesse, speed, defense, reaction, endurance, strategy, and the ability to recover from defeat. Both are in a constant state of delicate balance, and without any particular element, the flow is unpredictable.
It's just as well that baseball has ended. The game commanded a lot of my attention for the past month; it has kept me up far too late on far too many school nights, and occupied 80% of my writing time and energy. It's time to put it all to bed and steel myself for the cold, dark winter. At least I have 3 more months of football to occupy my mind (my prediction? Colts over the Vikings in the Super Bowl).
*
It's good to see a Japanese player win the World Series MVP, though Hideki Matsui's selection is dubious in light of him being a designated hitter, and in comparison to Derek Jeter's overall consistency. Matsui clobbered the ball at a .615 clip, but Jeter hit .407 in more than twice the at-bats (27, compared to Matsui's 13). Jeter also had 3 more hits than Matsui, and scored 5 runs to Matsui's 3. Matsui's home runs and runs batted in tower over Jeter's numbers, though (3 and 8, compared to 0 and 1). It doesn't help that Jeter hits lead off. There has been only 1 leadoff hitter to win World Series MVP in who knows how long (maybe ever?), and that was David Eckstein in 2006. The decision stands nonetheless, and I can live with it becasue it also serves as a benchmark regarding the international scope of the game.
General Managers around the league should pay attention to how important it is to Japanese players. Four of the last five World Series Champions have had a Japanese player on their roster. It seems that they tend to be hot commodities because of their consistently excellent play. It helps that there are so few of them, and we only really see the most excellent players of out Japan. It makes me wonder how Sadaharu Oh would have done had he come across the Pacific. He totally kicks ass in NES Baseball Stars, though the Japanese Robins typically lift him late in the game for speed and defense.
*
MLB needs to address the issue about the playoffs running too long. It took 4 full weeks to get through everything, and I can't help but think that at least 5 days could have been cut from all of that. I saw this happening a few years ago when the NBA tried to stretch the first round of the playoffs out over an ungodly amount of time. Unfortunately, that causes the playoffs to drag. It kills excitement and anticipation, and allows teams to rest up and recharge in ways that they can't during the regular season.
In the case of this World Series, all that rest could have enabled the Yankees to pitch their premier horse 3 times if it had gone to 7 games. That's unconscionable-- it's like MLB is slanting the playoffs in favor of their their largest television market. I hope that's not the case, because I hate to see my beloved baseball floating in a toilet bowl of money. That's what killed the NBA around the late 1990s in my eyes-- it became impossible for a small market team to win a championship. That isn't the case in the NFL, where it seems to happen pretty frequently. There have been a number of small market teams to win the World Series this decade (Arizona, Florida, St. Louis), and I hope that trend continues. I think a salary cap could help this situation, too. It would help maintain a competitive balance, and could possibly help resuscitate franchises like Kansas City and Pittsburgh, both of whom have been floundering for far too long.
*
Ryan Howard isn't the only one who has been swinging and missing the past few weeks (3 for 23 in the World Series; he whiffed 13 times). It seems I can't get my bat around fast enough, or make solid contact when I do. Last Friday night was a perfect example of this. I was at a club where a friend was celebrating her birthday; there was a band playing that she wanted to see.
I met several women, two of whom asked my friend about me. One is early in a relationship, the other doesn't seem my type. There was a third one with whom I made a real solid connection. She not only looked like my ex-girlfriend from 2006, but had the same name. I was picking up some greenlight vibes, thinking it's a cinch that we'll talk or get together some time. It turns out she's dating someone.This is how I know I'm slumping. And this isn't even the killer part of this story.
Halfway through the evening, I was heading back to the dance floor from the bathroom, and ran right into my ex-girlfriend from last year. The one I called recently. The one who didn't want to go to the corn maze because she's starting to date someone. The one I was referring to on Day 19 when I said the corn maze denial wouldn't be the last time we talk (it turns out that is the only prediction I've been right about throughout this serial). She was there with a bunch of friends, same as me. The guy she's starting to date was there; I thought it wise to slink away before I ended up meeting him. So I slinked, but not before I twice noticed some peculiar eye contact she was giving me.
That won't be the last time I see her.
I know I'm a streaky hitter. I can hit for a high average when I'm on (I went 9 for 19 vs. Matt's pitching at one point during the final day of my quest in 2006). When that happens, it's like I'm pulling the ball to my bat, and I can hit everything at my whim. And slumps disappear, if sometimes slowly. It's important to focus on your stance, how you're holding the bat, watching the ball from the pitcher's hand, and watching it as you make contact with the barrel of the bat. More than anything, you have to keep swinging.
You have to keep swinging.
*
This serial took on a greater life than I ever imagined it would. Such is life, and such should be the life you father. It was full of the unexpected, which I didn't really think about as I started this. As a writer, thought, nothing but good can happen when you have to deal with the unexpected. It stretches your mind and your ability, and after that mutation, you'll never return to being the writer you were, even if that mutation is to the tiniest degree.
I had planned on this being a nostalgic "I told you so" trip to a championship for St. Louis in the World Series, something that would return me to a time 3 years ago when I wasn't necessarily happy, but unexpectedly found joy and meaning through what I would usually use as a distraction to life's worries. But I don't have the power to say what something is going to be in the future, especially when everything hinges upon how the 108 stitches on a baseball spin, if and where that ball makes contact with a piece of polished pine, and what direction it bounces after it impacts sod or soil. I only have the power to respond to what is set in motion by the actions of others, and to make sense of it within its own context and the context of my universe. That has proven to be more than enough for me, and I hope I have proven myself worthy to the task. If nothing else, I have found a reason to write (and I have never produced so much new material over a 5-week span in my life).
But I think, too, that I've fully realized why baseball resonates so strongly in my life. I see so many parallels between the two. Both are fluid entities wherein several elements flow and intermingle: power, finesse, speed, defense, reaction, endurance, strategy, and the ability to recover from defeat. Both are in a constant state of delicate balance, and without any particular element, the flow is unpredictable.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Cheating on my Girlfriend-- Day 28
Joe Girardi was banking on CC Sabathia being able to pitch effectively on 3 days rest going into Game 4 last night. It's a significant gamble, especially since the Phillies have beaten Sabathia both times they faced him in the playoffs the past two years. They seem to have him figured out, at least as much as a horse like Sabathia can be figured out. They know to work him late into the count, be patient, make him prove his control.
It seems, though, that Girardi had the perfect countermeasure for what he knew the Phillies were going to do. He must have told his boys to be aggressive-- Derek Jeter hit the 2nd pitch of the game for a single, and then Johnny Damon hit the fifth one to put Phillie in trouble before there was even one out. The objective was to get out to an early lead, which the Yankees did. They were up 2-0 before the Phillies even dug in. Getting out to the early lead would hopefully force the Phillies to press in their at-bats, to swing early and at bad pitches. All told in the first, Yankee batters faced 1 pitch twice, 2 pitches 3 times, and 3 pitches once.
This also points to how damn good the Yankees are-- they can beat you by playing in any of a number of ways. I have to admire their flexibility.
Girardi's approach worked. The Yankees never trailed, and were only tied for brief stretches during the top of the 5th and the 9th. They jumped all over Brad Lidge's mistakes with 2 out in the top of the 9th, and that was the game. It's not necessarily fair to say "Brad Lidge's mistakes," because it was actually Charlie Manual's mistake to not pitch him at all thus far in the Series, until he needed him to hold a lead.
*
For about three seasons now, I've been paying attention to which players wear full socks, and which players wear their pants all the way down to their cleats. It piqued my curiousity at some point, though I can't remember why. I've noticed that Alex Rodriguez in particular has been wearing full socks throughout the playoffs. It seems there are pros and cons in both directions. On one hand, wearing full socks at mid-calf or above can tip the pitcher off to the bottom of your strike zone, or at least get him close to it (the strike zone is from knees to shoulders, approximately). On the other hand, socks at or above mid-calf can keep your pants out of the way so they don't get caught on a cleat or otherwise impede the motion of your foot as you run. I guess that would be important to speed guys like Juan Pierre. For some clarity on what the official league rule is regarding socks, I checked the rule book on MLB.com. I found no rules regarding socks.
*
Game 5 starts in 90 minutes. It's not looking good for the Phillies. I think they can win tonight courtesy of Cliff Lee, but I doubt they can return to New York and win games 6 and 7.
Damn Yankees.
It seems, though, that Girardi had the perfect countermeasure for what he knew the Phillies were going to do. He must have told his boys to be aggressive-- Derek Jeter hit the 2nd pitch of the game for a single, and then Johnny Damon hit the fifth one to put Phillie in trouble before there was even one out. The objective was to get out to an early lead, which the Yankees did. They were up 2-0 before the Phillies even dug in. Getting out to the early lead would hopefully force the Phillies to press in their at-bats, to swing early and at bad pitches. All told in the first, Yankee batters faced 1 pitch twice, 2 pitches 3 times, and 3 pitches once.
This also points to how damn good the Yankees are-- they can beat you by playing in any of a number of ways. I have to admire their flexibility.
Girardi's approach worked. The Yankees never trailed, and were only tied for brief stretches during the top of the 5th and the 9th. They jumped all over Brad Lidge's mistakes with 2 out in the top of the 9th, and that was the game. It's not necessarily fair to say "Brad Lidge's mistakes," because it was actually Charlie Manual's mistake to not pitch him at all thus far in the Series, until he needed him to hold a lead.
*
For about three seasons now, I've been paying attention to which players wear full socks, and which players wear their pants all the way down to their cleats. It piqued my curiousity at some point, though I can't remember why. I've noticed that Alex Rodriguez in particular has been wearing full socks throughout the playoffs. It seems there are pros and cons in both directions. On one hand, wearing full socks at mid-calf or above can tip the pitcher off to the bottom of your strike zone, or at least get him close to it (the strike zone is from knees to shoulders, approximately). On the other hand, socks at or above mid-calf can keep your pants out of the way so they don't get caught on a cleat or otherwise impede the motion of your foot as you run. I guess that would be important to speed guys like Juan Pierre. For some clarity on what the official league rule is regarding socks, I checked the rule book on MLB.com. I found no rules regarding socks.
*
Game 5 starts in 90 minutes. It's not looking good for the Phillies. I think they can win tonight courtesy of Cliff Lee, but I doubt they can return to New York and win games 6 and 7.
Damn Yankees.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Cheating on my Girlfriend-- Day 26
Mr. October was the name of the piece about learning how to hit a baseball, and it came in at a hair under 4500 words (14 pages). The first draft was twice that long. I never got it published, and to this day it remains my greatest heartbreak as a writer.
I first submitted the story to Elysian Fields Quarterly, and they rejected it (EFQ is the same place I sent Strategy, Innovation, and 91 Meltdowns, my story about Earl Weaver, which I referred to in this blog as "Earl and Me"). At about the same time, I received a call for submissions for a collection of writing by established and emerging Illinois writers. So, I sent the story to the editors who were compiling the collection. After a few months, they sent me the non-standard rejection letter, which included a note explaining that I should be aware that I was very close to making the final edit. Since then, the piece has been rejected by 6 or 8 other publications. I've pretty much given up on trying to get the piece in print, but figured I could at least include excerpts from it in this serial since there are a lot of parallels with the time of year and the baseball playoffs.
I made a number of mistakes in the overall process of writing Mr. October. Foremost, I had pinned my hopes too high for the type of writing I was attempting, which was participatory journalism. The piece was great fun to write, but it was also a tremendous ego trip. It didn't have any significance other than that which I assigned to it in my own mind. There was no social impact, no shocking discoveries, nothing but me trying to set right something that went wrong 20 years earlier. To make matters worse, I chatted the piece up endlessly to friends, family, and anybody else who would listen. I talked about how it was destined to be published, how it would be my first mark in the world of publishing, because it was the best thing I had ever written. I flaunted my new-found knowledge of hitting any time I watched baseball, and debated with friends about what was wrong with any particular hitter. It was all very hubristic, and the heartbreak that resulted was painful, but well-deserved.
Despite all that, good things came from my heartbreak (I've found the same to be true after the hardest romantic breakups... eventually, I emerge as a better person, and as a better partner in future relationships). The writing process alone was transcendent, especially when it came to having to reduce the original draft by half. That helped me understand a lot about self-editing. There are several passages that I still consider some of my best writing, and I even used an excerpt from the piece to help score an independent study with Brenda Miller. The story was also a bridge from what I used to write and what I now write. Before Mr. October, I was writing memoir almost entirely, which for my tastes is too self-centered, more akin to emotional masturbation than anything else. As soon as I started working away from that direction, I started to find a lot more success and satisfaction as a writer. Perhaps most importantly, I learned the significance of having emotional separation from my writing. I don't pin my hopes on anything getting published; I focus more on the satisfaction I get from writing the best piece I can and how each story changes me and helps me become a better writer. It's some kind of zen thing.
There's a lesson to be learned here that can be taken into my relationships, but I'm not quite sure what it is at this particular moment.
*
I'm starting to see the end of this affair materializing on the horizon. Best case scenario: I'm still running around behind the Cubs' back until next Thursday night. It could all end sooner, though... maybe as early as Monday night. It's at this point in all my affairs that I focus only on the present and try to enjoy every minute as much as I can. When it's all over, then I'll worry about the emotional numbness that always follows.
It's been interesting to watch the heart of the order of both teams. Outside of the stellar pitching, that's where both games have been decided. The Yankees are holding up decently against the Phillies, thanks in part to their 3-4-5 hitters stroking the ball at a .348 clip. That is mostly due to Jorge Posada and Hideki Matsui playing out of their minds. Alex Rodriguez and Mark Teixeira have been hacking for the most part, though Teixeira came through with a critical homer in Game 2. The Chase Utley / Ryan Howard / Jason Werth combination has at least been a little more consistent; they've spread 6 hits evenly among themselves while striking out only 8 times in 22 at-bats (the 3-4-5 part of the Yankees lineup has whiffed 13 times in 26 at-bats). Neither superstar has lived up to his billing, though-- Howard and A-Rod have each struck out 6 times.
I think Joe Girardi has cause to be concerned with his offense, and he's going to have to find a way to keep Matsui in the lineup after his excellent effort in Game 2. But how's he going to do it? Sacrifice defense by putting Johnny Damon on the bench? He's already having trouble keeping Nick Swisher in the lineup, which has compromised his outfield and Swisher's spot in the lineup.
I first submitted the story to Elysian Fields Quarterly, and they rejected it (EFQ is the same place I sent Strategy, Innovation, and 91 Meltdowns, my story about Earl Weaver, which I referred to in this blog as "Earl and Me"). At about the same time, I received a call for submissions for a collection of writing by established and emerging Illinois writers. So, I sent the story to the editors who were compiling the collection. After a few months, they sent me the non-standard rejection letter, which included a note explaining that I should be aware that I was very close to making the final edit. Since then, the piece has been rejected by 6 or 8 other publications. I've pretty much given up on trying to get the piece in print, but figured I could at least include excerpts from it in this serial since there are a lot of parallels with the time of year and the baseball playoffs.
I made a number of mistakes in the overall process of writing Mr. October. Foremost, I had pinned my hopes too high for the type of writing I was attempting, which was participatory journalism. The piece was great fun to write, but it was also a tremendous ego trip. It didn't have any significance other than that which I assigned to it in my own mind. There was no social impact, no shocking discoveries, nothing but me trying to set right something that went wrong 20 years earlier. To make matters worse, I chatted the piece up endlessly to friends, family, and anybody else who would listen. I talked about how it was destined to be published, how it would be my first mark in the world of publishing, because it was the best thing I had ever written. I flaunted my new-found knowledge of hitting any time I watched baseball, and debated with friends about what was wrong with any particular hitter. It was all very hubristic, and the heartbreak that resulted was painful, but well-deserved.
Despite all that, good things came from my heartbreak (I've found the same to be true after the hardest romantic breakups... eventually, I emerge as a better person, and as a better partner in future relationships). The writing process alone was transcendent, especially when it came to having to reduce the original draft by half. That helped me understand a lot about self-editing. There are several passages that I still consider some of my best writing, and I even used an excerpt from the piece to help score an independent study with Brenda Miller. The story was also a bridge from what I used to write and what I now write. Before Mr. October, I was writing memoir almost entirely, which for my tastes is too self-centered, more akin to emotional masturbation than anything else. As soon as I started working away from that direction, I started to find a lot more success and satisfaction as a writer. Perhaps most importantly, I learned the significance of having emotional separation from my writing. I don't pin my hopes on anything getting published; I focus more on the satisfaction I get from writing the best piece I can and how each story changes me and helps me become a better writer. It's some kind of zen thing.
There's a lesson to be learned here that can be taken into my relationships, but I'm not quite sure what it is at this particular moment.
*
I'm starting to see the end of this affair materializing on the horizon. Best case scenario: I'm still running around behind the Cubs' back until next Thursday night. It could all end sooner, though... maybe as early as Monday night. It's at this point in all my affairs that I focus only on the present and try to enjoy every minute as much as I can. When it's all over, then I'll worry about the emotional numbness that always follows.
It's been interesting to watch the heart of the order of both teams. Outside of the stellar pitching, that's where both games have been decided. The Yankees are holding up decently against the Phillies, thanks in part to their 3-4-5 hitters stroking the ball at a .348 clip. That is mostly due to Jorge Posada and Hideki Matsui playing out of their minds. Alex Rodriguez and Mark Teixeira have been hacking for the most part, though Teixeira came through with a critical homer in Game 2. The Chase Utley / Ryan Howard / Jason Werth combination has at least been a little more consistent; they've spread 6 hits evenly among themselves while striking out only 8 times in 22 at-bats (the 3-4-5 part of the Yankees lineup has whiffed 13 times in 26 at-bats). Neither superstar has lived up to his billing, though-- Howard and A-Rod have each struck out 6 times.
I think Joe Girardi has cause to be concerned with his offense, and he's going to have to find a way to keep Matsui in the lineup after his excellent effort in Game 2. But how's he going to do it? Sacrifice defense by putting Johnny Damon on the bench? He's already having trouble keeping Nick Swisher in the lineup, which has compromised his outfield and Swisher's spot in the lineup.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Cheating on my Girlfriend-- Day 24
Notes on World Series Game 1:
Philadelphia started to wear down CC Sabathia from the start. They made him throw 24 pitches to get out of the first inning; 19 came after 2 outs when the heart of the Phillies' lineup forced Sabathis to show his control. He gave 2 free passes and loaded the bases before Raul Ibanez grounded out 4-3. All told, Sabathia had to throw 23+ pitches in 3 different innings, and Philly scored in two of those innings.
After the division and league series' officiating blunders, it was great to see the umpires make the right call on Robinson Cano's shot to shortstop in the 5th (part of me loved seeing that, too, because it went against the Yankees and I'm still sore from the Jeffrey Maier incident). It was a double play all the way, albeit aided by Hideki Matsui's baserunning blunder coming from first base. The call sparked a debate with the guy sitting next to me at the bar where I was watching the game. I argued that regardless of what happened after Rollins' shoestring catch, Matui should have been called out because he was standing on the infield grass, which put him pretty far outside the base paths. I checked the MLB rules, and found this in section 7.00, The Runner:
Philadelphia started to wear down CC Sabathia from the start. They made him throw 24 pitches to get out of the first inning; 19 came after 2 outs when the heart of the Phillies' lineup forced Sabathis to show his control. He gave 2 free passes and loaded the bases before Raul Ibanez grounded out 4-3. All told, Sabathia had to throw 23+ pitches in 3 different innings, and Philly scored in two of those innings.
After the division and league series' officiating blunders, it was great to see the umpires make the right call on Robinson Cano's shot to shortstop in the 5th (part of me loved seeing that, too, because it went against the Yankees and I'm still sore from the Jeffrey Maier incident). It was a double play all the way, albeit aided by Hideki Matsui's baserunning blunder coming from first base. The call sparked a debate with the guy sitting next to me at the bar where I was watching the game. I argued that regardless of what happened after Rollins' shoestring catch, Matui should have been called out because he was standing on the infield grass, which put him pretty far outside the base paths. I checked the MLB rules, and found this in section 7.00, The Runner:
- 7.08 Any runner is out when—
(a) (1) He runs more than three feet away from his baseline to avoid being tagged unless his action is to avoid interference with a fielder fielding a batted ball. A runner’s baseline is established when the tag attempt occurs and is a straight line from the runner to the base he is attempting to reach safely; or
(2) after touching first base, he leaves the baseline, obviously abandoning his effort to touch the next base
So I was right!
Ryan Howard could learn a lot from Chase Utley about hitting left-handed pitching. Howard is a sucker for inside pitches especially, and struck out on a low, inside pitch to end the 3rd. His other whiff happened when he chased a low ball in the 6th. This must have something to do with Howard's hulking physique. Pitchers are thowing to his blind spot (he hit .207 vs. lefties this year), and he hasn't compensated for that yet. He probably needs more bat speed, and maybe a stance that helps him open up more when facing lefties. I'm sure Charlie Manuel will fix the problem.
The Yankees melted down once again when they were forced to go to their bullpen. 5 of their middle relievers combined to give up 4 hits, 4 runs, 3 walks, and only 1 strike out over 2 innings. If somebody doesn't step up before Mariano Rivera comes out of the bullpen, it's probably going to cost them the Series.
These could be Johnny Damon's last days in pinstripes. He's been moved out of his natural position in center, and his bat has been real weak throughout the month. He had one hit last night, but not until garbage time in the bottom of the ninth. The Yankees can't bury his bat in the bottom of the order, either. They already have Cano, Cabrera, and Swisher flailing away down there. I wouldn't be bothered at all if this was it for Damon. I used to like him quite a bit when he played for Boston, but have thought less of him since he sold out to The Evil Empire.
Finally... I made it out to a bar called The Last Chance Saloon in Grayslake to watch the game. You could have shot a cannon through the place by the time the Phillies dug in to start the 4th inning. I didn't stay there for the whole game, nor would I have even if the place had been jumping. But I did get a reminder of who goes out to bars on Wednesday nights in the northern suburbs: Nobody. I also got a reminder of why I hardly ever go to a bar on a school night: It's too damn hard to get my brain working once I get to school the next day.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Cheating on my Girlfriend-- Day 23
October 28th, 2006: Matt and I meet at a park he claims is Zion’s best for baseball. My stomach feels queasy from the moment I get out of my car. I’m confident that I’m going to make contact with the ball, but don’t know how effectively because Matt will be pitching off a mound. I know it will only increase his velocity, which has been around fifty miles per hour, topping off around sixty.
We go through a bucket of soft toss to get warmed up. When I criticize several of his tosses, he counters, “I can tell you’re getting to be a real hitter. You’re complaining about pitches.” After a bucketful of warm-up tosses off the mound, we begin the final test.
Matt puts on a good show, considering he has no catcher and is sliding in mud on his follow through. I can’t do anything with his first eight pitches except foul back four of them, chop two in front of home plate, and miss two others entirely. I have mud problems of my own. My pivot foot makes a thrkkkk sound and is clumped with mud every time I move it, veritably nullifying the effects of squashing the bug.
I pause to collect my thoughts and clean mud off my shoe. I return to the batter’s box and steady myself for the ninth pitch. I watch the ball from Matt’s hand, test the ice, point the knob, and in the time it takes a synapse to fire between neurons in my brain, my cardboard strike zone appears like a template in my mind’s eye. The ball is coming into the seven slot in slow motion, and as if by divine intervention, I get my hands across my chest faster than ever before. There is a satiating crack as I rocket the ball over third base, looping to the right. The crack echoes off the trees behind the third base dugout. It is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Before I can stop to think, the tenth pitch is barreling towards me in the four slot. I launch it hard into left.
A flood tide of adrenaline is surging through me. I don’t know what to say, but think that my smile is saying it all. I’m lost in giddiness and foul off or miss the next five pitches. I have twenty-one balls left. I do some quick math in my head and realize I have to hit over .280 from here on out. I step out of the batter’s box again, wipe sweat off my face, snap into focus, and then slap the next pitch down the first base line into right field. I scatter nine of the next nineteen pitches around the shallow to middle parts of left and center field. Matt does his part to keep me humble by making me miss a few altogether and foul off the rest, but I can see his pitches coming into most of the slots in the strike zone as I focus on watching the Big Stick hit the ball.
Before I’m ready to return to Earth, Matt calls out, “These are the last two.” I tell him it doesn’t matter now; I’ve surpassed my own expectations and it’s all gravy from here on out. He chucks the thirty-fifth pitch and I rip it right back to him, forcing him off the mound. He sees me smiling and smugly announces, “You shouldn’t show up your pitcher like that.” He reaches back and lets loose with an inside curve that looks like it’s coming into the seven slot. It drops faster than I can move and thumps the middle of my calf. I pogo-stick around the batter’s box on my right leg, too stunned to do more than laugh and exclaim over and over how I never thought he’d do it.
We pick up the balls, make notes about my hitting pattern, and I thank him for everything before I head home. His final words are, “You can definitely hit sophomore pitching.” It figures. That’s exactly where I left off 20 years prior.
*
Later, before I finally make it to bed, I grab the Big Stick, stand in front of the cardboard strike zone, and swing through numbers seven and four a few more times. My smile grows bigger with each swing as I relive the jolt and crack of contact. When I’m finally too tired for nostalgia, I limp to bed and fall asleep as my calf throbs and the last beads of sweat dry on my forehead.
We go through a bucket of soft toss to get warmed up. When I criticize several of his tosses, he counters, “I can tell you’re getting to be a real hitter. You’re complaining about pitches.” After a bucketful of warm-up tosses off the mound, we begin the final test.
Matt puts on a good show, considering he has no catcher and is sliding in mud on his follow through. I can’t do anything with his first eight pitches except foul back four of them, chop two in front of home plate, and miss two others entirely. I have mud problems of my own. My pivot foot makes a thrkkkk sound and is clumped with mud every time I move it, veritably nullifying the effects of squashing the bug.
I pause to collect my thoughts and clean mud off my shoe. I return to the batter’s box and steady myself for the ninth pitch. I watch the ball from Matt’s hand, test the ice, point the knob, and in the time it takes a synapse to fire between neurons in my brain, my cardboard strike zone appears like a template in my mind’s eye. The ball is coming into the seven slot in slow motion, and as if by divine intervention, I get my hands across my chest faster than ever before. There is a satiating crack as I rocket the ball over third base, looping to the right. The crack echoes off the trees behind the third base dugout. It is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
Before I can stop to think, the tenth pitch is barreling towards me in the four slot. I launch it hard into left.
A flood tide of adrenaline is surging through me. I don’t know what to say, but think that my smile is saying it all. I’m lost in giddiness and foul off or miss the next five pitches. I have twenty-one balls left. I do some quick math in my head and realize I have to hit over .280 from here on out. I step out of the batter’s box again, wipe sweat off my face, snap into focus, and then slap the next pitch down the first base line into right field. I scatter nine of the next nineteen pitches around the shallow to middle parts of left and center field. Matt does his part to keep me humble by making me miss a few altogether and foul off the rest, but I can see his pitches coming into most of the slots in the strike zone as I focus on watching the Big Stick hit the ball.
Before I’m ready to return to Earth, Matt calls out, “These are the last two.” I tell him it doesn’t matter now; I’ve surpassed my own expectations and it’s all gravy from here on out. He chucks the thirty-fifth pitch and I rip it right back to him, forcing him off the mound. He sees me smiling and smugly announces, “You shouldn’t show up your pitcher like that.” He reaches back and lets loose with an inside curve that looks like it’s coming into the seven slot. It drops faster than I can move and thumps the middle of my calf. I pogo-stick around the batter’s box on my right leg, too stunned to do more than laugh and exclaim over and over how I never thought he’d do it.
We pick up the balls, make notes about my hitting pattern, and I thank him for everything before I head home. His final words are, “You can definitely hit sophomore pitching.” It figures. That’s exactly where I left off 20 years prior.
*
Later, before I finally make it to bed, I grab the Big Stick, stand in front of the cardboard strike zone, and swing through numbers seven and four a few more times. My smile grows bigger with each swing as I relive the jolt and crack of contact. When I’m finally too tired for nostalgia, I limp to bed and fall asleep as my calf throbs and the last beads of sweat dry on my forehead.
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