Diary of the Blue Ridge

Rob Neyer at ESPN has a nice piece on Warren Spahn , and in one of the winter's great pleasures, Roger Angell's season recap has been published in the New Yorker. Angell is one of our country's best essayists; his step-father was E.B. White, of Charlotte's Web and Elements of Style fame--Angell was given the recent task of revising Elements, which is the one essential book for any writer of prose. It is a wonderful fourtune that of all the the subjects Angell could turn his skill to, he has chosen baseball; for the last forty years, he has functioned as its unofficial bard--his books are worth buying for anyone interested in baseball or enjoys good writing. He writes particularly beautifully this year about the seventh game of the Red Sox-Yankees series, in which his Sox failed to beat their rivals again. Enjoy.

It comes to a seventh game—could anyone have doubted it? This will be the twenty-sixth time the Red Sox and Yankees have faced off this year—a record for any two teams in the annals—and while there have been stretches when the latest renewal held all the drama of a couple of cellmates laying out a hand of rummy, this is another killer dénouement. For all we know, it’s up there with the 1978 Bucky Dent playoff and the DiMaggio late return of 1949. There’s a wired, non-stop holiday din at the Stadium, which dies away only with the first intensely watched pitches. Everything matters now. Clemens is back and so is Pedro—but this Roger appears frail and thought-burdened. The No. 2 Boston batter, Todd Walker, raps a safe knock after a ten-pitch at-bat, and Nomar Garciaparra lines out hard to right. An inning later, Kevin Millar singles, and Trot Nixon, from his flat-footed left-handed stance, delivers a businesslike homer into the stands in right: his third two-run job in the post-season. With two out, the bearded, dad-like Jason Varitek doubles into the right-field corner. Johnny Damon’s grounder looks like the last out but—geez!—third baseman Enrique Wilson mishandles the ball and his throw pulls first baseman Nick Johnson off the bag, as Varitek turns the corner and scores. It’s 3-0, and when the teams change sides the Stadium has gone anxious and pissed-off conversational: fans up and down the stuffed tiers complaining to their seatmates or sending the bad news home on their cells, with gestures: . . . plus Wilson is in for defense, right? . . . our only chance was stay close to [sic] Pedro.

Martinez, for his part, survives some first-inning wobbles and is soon in rhythm: the stare-in from behind his red glove, the velvety rock and turn, and the strikes arriving in clusters. After each out, he gloves the returning ball backhand, and gazes about with lidded hauteur. No one else in the world has eyes so far apart. The Yanks go down quickly again, and we’re at the top of the fourth—and the startling sound, it’s like a tree coming apart, of Kevin Millar’s solo shot up into the upper-deck left-field stands. Clemens, down 4-0 and almost helpless, gives up a walk and a hit-and-run single to Mueller and departs, maybe for the last time ever. A ten-year-old Yankee fan I know named Noah has by this time gone down on his knees on the concrete in front of his seat near first base, hiding his head.

There were Sox fans here, too, of course—you could see them in red-splashed knots and small parties around the Stadium, and pick up their cries. The Boston offense had been a constant for them all year, including the sixteen-hit outburst in the series-tying 9-6 win the night before. This year, the Sox set major-league records for extra bases, total bases, and slugging percentage. The Boston front office, headed by the twenty-nine-year-old G.M., Theo Epstein, had traded vigorously to build a batting order with no soft sectors or easy outs in it. Mueller, the double-grand-slam switch-hitter, was batting eighth today. For me, Kevin Millar, a free agent acquired for cash from the Marlins last winter, was the genius pick. On April 1st, the second day of the season, he contributed a sixteenth-inning game-winning home run in Tampa, and in June pinch-hit a grand slam that helped pull off a seven-run turnabout against the Brewers. With his blackened cheekbones and raunchy grin, he became the model for the Sox’ newfound grunginess—dirt-stained uniforms and pine-smudged helmets, and an early-October outburst of shaved heads that transformed sluggers and pitchers and old coaches into plebes or pledges. His “Let’s cowboy up!” rallying cry from the dugout and the on-deck circle caught on with d.j.s and schoolkids and Green Line subway riders, inundating Greater Boston in “Cowboy Up!” caps and T-shirts and fan towels and diapers and souvenir glassware. Somebody found a clip of eighteen-year-old Kevin mouthing the lyrics to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” in a Beaumont, Texas, karaoke solo, which became a staple on the Fenway message board. The unimaginable had happened: the Sox were loose.

Mike Mussina, called into the crisis with Boston runners at first and third, and no outs—Clemens had just gone—went into his ceremonial low-bowing stretch and struck out Varitek, the first batter, on three pitches. Three more brought a handy 6-6-3 double play at Damon’s expense. “MOOOOSE!” the bleacherites cried. It was Mussina’s first relief appearance after four hundred lifetime starts, but he understood the work. Jason Giambi, struggling at .190 in the series, hit a homer barely into the center-field seats, for a first dent in Pedro, and, liking the range, did it again to the same sector in the seventh, bringing us to 4-2, with the old house roaring and rocking. The press-box floor thrummed under my feet, as I had felt it do on an autumn late night or two before. Young Noah had lifted himself off the deck by this time and stood by his seat, yelling.

I had been looking about the familiar Stadium surround in valedictory fashion—the motel-landscape bullpens, the UTZ Potato Chip sign over in right—but from here to the end sat transfixed by the cascade of events, scarcely able to draw a full breath. No other sport does this, and even as we stare and cry “Can you believe this?” we forget how often it comes along, how it’s built into baseball.

Joe Torre, patching in relievers after Mussina’s three-inning stint, produced David Wells, whose first pitch was sailed deep into the bleachers by Sox d.h. David Ortiz. 5-2 now. Checking the video monitor, I saw Wells’s top teeth hit his bottom lip with the expletive. But Pedro had been long at his tasks, and when Jeter doubled to the right-field corner in the eighth and was singled home by Bernie Williams, the margin narrowed again to two, and here came manager Grady Little, out to hook his ace and pat him on the rump as he left. Little likes to stand below a pitcher, on the downslope of the mound, and here again, looking up at Pedro like a tourist at the Parthenon steps, he said a few words and walked away. This could not be. Martinez had thrown a hundred and fifteen pitches, and given up ringing hits to five of the last seven batters. A Sox-fan friend of mine, Ben, watching in his apartment on West Forty-fifth Street, had gone on his hands and knees, screaming. But Pedro stayed on: a ground-rule double by Matsui, then the dying bloopy double by Posada that landed untouched out beyond second base, for two runs and the tie. “There’s a lot of grass out there,” Posada explained later. Grady Little, in his own brief post-game, said, “Pedro Martinez has been our man all year long, and in situations like that he’s the one we want on the mound,” which was understandable but untrue. This had been only the fifth game in thirty-one starts in which Martinez was allowed to pitch into the eighth.

It was Mariano Rivera time—the waiting Boston bad dream—and Mo, defending the tie, poised and threw, poised and threw, whisking through the ninth. There was a scary double to left by Ortiz with two gone in the tenth, but Rivera, sighing, delivered the cutter to Millar, who lined gently to Jeter. Midnight had come and gone, but the Yankees could do no better against Embree and then Timlin, the tough Sox relievers Grady Little had slighted in extremis (the two surrendered no runs at all in this series, in sixteen-plus combined innings). The top of the eleventh went away, to noisy, exhausted accompaniments; the latest Boston pitcher was Tim Wakefield, the tall knuckleballer who had embarrassed the Yankees with his spinless stuff, twice beating Mussina in close, low-scoring games. Mo was done: the balance had swung the other way. I looked at my scorecard to confirm the next Yankee batter—Aaron Boone, who had come into the game as a pinch-runner in the eighth—looked back, and saw the ball and the ballgame fly away on his low, long first-pitch home run into the released and exulting and rebelieving Yankee crowds. I yelled, too, but thought, Poor Boston. My god.

In a press conference on November 20th with British Prime Minister Tony Blair, President Bush finally cleared up all the confusion about what he really believes about the relationship between Yaweh and Allah. The excerpted transcript is as follows:

QUESTION: Mr. President, when you talk about peace in the Middle East, you've often said that freedom is granted by the Almighty. Some people who share your beliefs don't believe that Muslims worship the same almighty. I wondered about your views on that.

BUSH: I do say that freedom is the Almighty's gift to every person. I also condition it by saying freedom is not America's gift to the world; it's much greater than that, of course. And I believe we worship the same god.

As I've chronicled before, President Bush has often been confusing in regard to his religious beliefs. But this time he traded vague language and actions for a clear statement: Islamics and Christians worship the same god.

What's really disturbing is the predictable reaction of evangelicals. A Washington Post article published November 22nd reports that some Christians are upset about the President's remark, but it won't really hurt his political fortunes.

A Baptist Press report quoted Richard D. Land, president of the public policy arm of the Southern Baptist Convention, the nation's largest Protestant denomination, as saying that Bush "is simply mistaken."

"We should always remember that he is commander in chief, not theologian in chief," Land said in a telephone interview yesterday. "The Bible is clear on this: The one and true god is Jehovah, and his only begotten son is Jesus Christ."

But Land, who [is a] frequent visitor to the White House, doubted that the remark would cost Bush votes in 2004.

"This president has earned a lot of wiggle room among evangelicals," Land said. "If he had said that Islam is on a par with Christianity, it would be a more serious case of heartburn. This is just indigestion."

He's earned wiggle room? By what, signing the partial-birth ban? And saying that the god of Christianity is the same as the god of Islam is "just indigestion"? What will it take for evangelicals to consider voting 3rd party in 2004? Bush worshiping in a Islamic temple?

Evangelicalism's addiction to power and relevance is what is damning it to irrelevance; now it is even causing it to look the other way at heresy.

The New York Times has published an obituary for Warren Spahn, who died yesterday at the age of 82. Spahn was the winningest left-handed pitcher in baseball history, and a World War II vet who fought in the Battle of the Bulge and received a Bronze Star and Purple Heart. Spahn's distinct pitching style, with his high leg kick (shown in the photo) was a large part of his success, as he disguised the ball from the batter until the last possible moment. The Times' piece quotes him as saying that the "hitters said the ball seemed to come out of my uniform." Throwing a fastball, curve, screwball, changeup and slider, Spahn was successful because of his control more than the speed with which he threw the ball. And successful he was, winning 20 games in 13 different seasons and retiring with 363 victories, 5th best of all time.

Newsweek is running an interesting article on the upcoming final piece of Lord of the Rings trilogy. Rumor has it that theaters around here will be showing The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers consecutively on the night before TROTK is due to come out, and then showing the new film at midnight. My memories of the books go back to the nights dad read them to us over a period of at least a few years. He was often tired and would seemingly always nod off at the most dramatic points, at least until one of us kids yelled in protest. As epic as the films have been, they in no way replace those images which were burned into my memory as I drifted off to sleep at the sound of my father's voice. In a way the movies are sad really, as they inevitably limit the lengths my mind will go to now to recall the story. My best remaining memories are of The Hobbit, and I don't think it's coincidental.

My employer, The Rutherford Institute, has published a recent essay I wrote, entitled Naked Christs and Balaam's Ass: A blueprint toward a renewed Christian aesthetic. My work at The Rutherford Institute has been an eceletic experience, to say the least. Some days (today) I mostly stuff envelopes. Other days I write essays about art. It's a good job. Rereading my essay today, which I actually wrote a few months ago, I'm realizing that it's long on vision and short on nitty-gritty. Hopefully I can flesh out some of those details here in the coming weeks.

Coming this week: reviews of two recently-read novels, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler, and Enduring Love by Ian McEwan. Both are highly recommended to anyone who enjoys a well-told tale.

Some essays of note: David McNair examines celebrity culture in America, and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. writes on imperialism and Iraq.

This post is the second in series which I have adapted from the introduction to my senior major thesis, where I essentially outlined my blueprint for poetics. The first section was a personal reflection on the visceral beauty of language music. This section broadens my argument.

Ultimately, I want to create a poetry that is read and enjoyed again by the layman (and woman). Today, most contemporary poetry has lost contact with the mainstream culture of America. People still turn to poetry to make sense of their lives, but they more often do it by switching on the radio dial and listening to pop music rather than heading to the “Poetry” section of their bookseller. Some amongst the academic elite would like to argue that this rejection of current poetry is due to a general cultural demise that has deadened audience’s ears to the quality of the art that is being made. While there is something to this argument, especially given our culture's rejection of written language as the primary medium of communication and entertainment, the idea also demonstrates the academic snobbery that has much to do with the current situation; it focuses on maintaining the status quo rather than dealing with the real disconnect that exists between contemporary poetry and the general public. As an art form, a large part of contemporary poetry has deserted its foundations of accessibility and pleasure in the last eighty or so years to insulate itself within the academic castle, and it is the consequential production of so much weak, self-absorbed and “difficult” poetry that has caused the larger culture to look elsewhere for its bards, its truth-tellers. It is past time to remember what makes poetry enjoyable and crucial as an art from, how it can succeed, and what good it can do.

My argument for rejuvenation of poetry consists of three elements. First, poetry should be musical. It is the musical nature of its language and rhythms that sets poetry apart from all other forms of written speech. Many of us, including myself, learn to love poetry at a young age because of the pleasing music it creates. It is this physical pleasure that sustains poetry as an art form, which sticks it in the reader’s ear and mind. Novels depend on plot, and dramatization, but poetry depends upon the music of the line. We don’t all remember “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo” simply because of its story, or because of the images it creates. It is the music of the words that carves its space in our crowded memories.

Second, poetry should be explicit. The annals of 20th century poetry that dwell in the abstract and the obscure are long, and are, to the average reader, too ambiguous to make sense of. We can marvel at a convoluted poem, or wonder at its complexity, but excepting the occasional Ph. D. student, we likely will never love it, unless it allows us a way into its intricacies. Much of academia has forgotten that poetry has at least as much to do with the senses as it does the intellect, that its concern is physical pleasure as well as metaphysical delight. Explicit should not imply that poems be simplistic, or readable on only one level. But it should mean poetry that is accessible on some level. As Stephen Dunn writes in his essay, Bringing the Strange Home, “Poets can say what they mean, if they are wise and skillful enough. And when poets resort to metaphorical or analogic language, their poems can still be as clear as Christ’s parables. That they might be more difficult, demand more of us, is of course understandable and fine. But the poet must not love difficulty.” Instead of using abstract and ineffable language to get only at the equally abstract and ineffable, effective poetry uses distinct and concrete language to reveal the intangible and hint at the mystery. The chaos of life takes no effort to recreate in poetry. But to make order of the chaos, to dance with the hurricane, to find the eye, and live to tell the tale—there is the real work and risk.

Finally, poetry should be redemptive. In a time of cultural relativism and post-modern attitudes, there are some who would question the very possibility of redemption. But I would argue that the poet often redeems simply through his choice of subject matter—William Wordsworth redeemed the language of the common man by his decision to reject the prevailing culture of the time and write with words people actually used. For years, Phillip Levine has striven to redeem hard labor in the American consciousness. Langston Hughes did much the same with race. Poetry has always been about the work of redemption, and the short, concentrated lyric is often more effective than any memoir or novel.

As I write these words, I realize though that I'm not sure what I still mean by "redemption," or if I even believe that is part of the work of poetry. More thoughts on this later. But, for now, a poem by Rita Dove, an old teacher of mine, that demonstrates wonderfully what good poetry can do--in the hardest form invented, the simple love poem.

Cozy Apologia

For Fred

I could pick anything and think of you--
This lamp, the wind-still rain, the glossy blue
My pen exudes, drying matte, upon the page.
I could choose any hero, any cause or age
And, sure as shooting arrows to the heart,
Astride a dappled mare, legs braced as far apart
As standing in silver stirrups will allow--
There you'll be, with furrowed brow
And chain mail glinting, to set me free:
One eye smiling, the other firm upon the enemy.

This post-postmodern age is all business: compact disks
And faxes, a do-it-now-and-take-no-risks
Event. Today a hurricane is nudging up the coast,
Oddly male: Big Bad Floyd, who brings a host
Of daydreams: awkward reminiscences
Of teenage crushes on worthless boys
Whose only talent was to kiss you senseless.
They all had sissy names--Marcel, Percy, Dewey;
Were thin as licorice and as chewy,
Sweet with a dark and hollow center. Floyd's

Cussing up a storm. You're bunkered in your
Aerie, I'm perched in mine
(Twin desks, computers, hardwood floors):
We're content, but fall short of the Divine.
Still, it's embarrassing, this happiness--
Who's satisfied simply with what's good for us,
When has the ordinary ever been news?
And yet, because nothing else will do
To keep me from melancholy (call it blues),
I fill this stolen time with you.

by Rita Dove

One of the most distinctly Christian songs I've heard in a long time is on Johnny Cash's IV (and final) album. The Man Comes Around features an sparse acoustic guitar and piano instrumentation behind Cash's powerful baritone booming out a vividly apocalyptic vision. The song is a bold proclamation of the certain return of our King; the glory of his merciful redemption alongside the fury of his wrath. It's a stunningly beautiful song, haunting with its call and echo of our deep and lasting hope in the Risen Christ.

The Man Comes Around

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder:
One of the four beasts saying: "Come and see."
And I saw.
And behold, a white horse.

There's a man goin' 'round takin' names.
An' he decides who to free and who to blame.
Everybody won't be treated all the same.
There'll be a golden ladder reaching down.
When the man comes around.

The hairs on your arm will stand up.
At the terror in each sip and in each sup.
For you partake of that last offered cup,
Or disappear into the potter's ground.
When the man comes around.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers.
One hundred million angels singin'.
Multitudes are marching to the big kettle drum.
Voices callin', voices cryin'.
Some are born an' some are dyin'.
It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come.

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree.
The virgins are all trimming their wicks.
The whirlwind is in the thorn tree.
It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

Till Armageddon, no Shalam, no Shalom.
Then the father hen will call his chickens home.
The wise men will bow down before the throne.
And at his feet they'll cast their golden crown.
When the man comes around.

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still.
Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still.
Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still.
Listen to the words long written down,
When the man comes around.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers.
One hundred million angels singin'.
Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettle drum.
Voices callin', voices cryin'.
Some are born an' some are dyin'.
It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come.

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree.
The virgins are all trimming their wicks.
The whirlwind is in the thorn tree.
It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

In measured hundredweight and penny pound.
When the man comes around.

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts,
And I looked and behold: a pale horse.
And his name, that sat on him, was Death.
And Hell followed with him.