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Books, Sports and Life
Monday, October 8, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Must See TV
Now comes the counterpunch.
Last night’s festivities in Tampa
at the Republican National Convention concluded a week which brought us some of
the brightest lights of the GOP (and Clint Eastwood) united in bashing the
presidency of Barack Obama. Marco Rubio,
Cuban-American Senator from my home state of Florida, referred to Obama as “a
bad president,” a statement which echoed the underlying theme of the night: “It
is time for a change” – or, as Clint told the partisan crowd and the empty
chair to which he repeatedly turned: “It may be time for someone else to come
along and solve the problem.”
The problem is the state of the
U.S. economy, and the “someone else” is, of course, Mitt Romney, who accepted
his party’s nomination near the end of the evening.
Pundits are busy breaking down and
analyzing the impact of the Convention’s final evening. CNN.com ran a piece with the heading: “Did Mitt Romney Gain Ground”?
The answer is obvious: of course
he did.
This happens every election
year. A party’s National Convention
leads to an immediate boost in the polls for that party’s candidate. So we should not be surprised when Romney’s
numbers reflect an upward swing in the coming days. How could the result be different when that
candidate has dominated the national airwaves (in prime time, no less) for the
better part of a week?
Governor Romney should enjoy his
upswing while it lasts because logic dictates that the numbers will readjust at
the end of next week, when Democrats complete their swing through
Charlotte. There will be no one at the Democratic
National Convention indicting President Obama’s record. Rather, the blame will be placed on his
predecessor, George W. Bush, and a Republican Congress whose stated goal was to
ensure that Obama became a one-term president.
This past week did not win the
election for Romney, and the coming week will not lose it. They are simply part of a process which began
more than two years ago, when prospective presidential candidates commenced
vetting their chances, and will end in early November, when votes are cast and
a winner declared (unless, of course, we relive the uncertainty of 2000 when,
thanks to many “hanging chads,” the election was not decided until close to the
new year).
It all makes for compelling
television, particularly when an election appears as close as this year’s.
September will be a busy month
for television, with the networks introducing their new schedules and many of
cable’s best shows (Dexter, Boardwalk Empire, Homeland) returning for new seasons.
But the focus in the coming days
will be on the conclusion of perhaps the most important two weeks of Reality
TV, which will set the stage for the next three months, and will undoubtedly
impact the path our nation follows for the next four years.
In the end, two question emerge:
Who will Democrats choose to counter Clint Eastwood’s star power? And will they bring their own chairs?
Monday, July 30, 2012
A Life
She was more sister than
cousin. Memories of my early years are
filled with images of the frail, pretty girl whose infectious smile and large
hazel eyes masked the pain and uncertainty she carried inside.
She was not supposed to live past
five. When doctors first diagnosed her
heart ailment soon after birth her prognosis was poor. She underwent open heart surgery at age two,
the first of several invasive procedures she would endure throughout her life. Doctors were far from optimistic about her
long-term prospects. They encouraged my
aunt to have another child to lessen the pain of her eventual loss.
Courage is often defined as
action in the face of fear. The way she
conducted her life exuded such courage.
As a child she refused to be constrained by her condition. She danced, played and lived as if no malady
existed. My aunt would warn her to slow down,
worried that physical exertion would place undue strain on her heart. But she laughed off such fears and continued
dancing, never admitting or letting anyone know that there was anything wrong.
She travelled, befriended and
loved. The photographs of her wedding
depict her glowing with excitement and anticipation, as she entered the next
phase of her life. Her marriage lasted
more than a decade, surviving further surgeries, illnesses and setbacks. In the end, her marriage would not survive
the stroke she suffered at the age of thirty, leaving her incapacitated, with
limited movement over half of her body.
Still she carried on, never
feeling sorry for herself, and never losing her sense of humor or thirst for
life. Her laugh was infectious, and she
laughed often. She remained the little
girl we all wanted to protect, even as she entered middle age.
She struggled with her computer,
which became her constant companion and allowed her to stay in touch with the
many people who came to know and love her.
And love her we did –how could we feel differently for one who exuded such
mischievous innocence?
She was far from perfect. She was set in her ways and stubborn to the edge
of exhaustion. But I firmly believe that
it was precisely this quality that enabled her to endure everything that life
threw at her. She endured because she
believed, and she believed because she loved life.
Carmen died last week in a
hospital bed, a few days before her fifty-third birthday. In the end, her frail body could no longer
withstand the complications of her affliction, and she moved on, leaving behind
a world of memories.
As I think back over her years
and picture her as she once was, I recall the closing lines of the 1971 TV
film, Brian’s Song:
Brian Piccolo
died of cancer at the age of 26. He left
a wife and three daughters. He also left
a great many loving friends who miss and think of him often. But when they think of him, it’s not how he
died that they remember – but how he lived.
How he did live!
Carmen lived well beyond all
predictions, touching the lives of all with whom she came into contact. How she did live! If time is measured by impact, rather than
hours and days, then her life was long and fruitful. She lived beyond time and stretched five
decades into a thousand years.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Words With Friends
I see nothing but vowels; not a consonant in sight.
How do I create a word with three I’s sitting before me?
I am hooked. I no
longer contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Instead, I focus on word structure and ponder
how to make the most of what my I-Phone has given me.
The game is an electronic version of Scrabble. It can be played over hours, or days, or
weeks (with some nudging for opponents who linger before making moves). I place letters into boxes, some marked DL or
TL for “double or triple letters;” others labeled DW or TW, doubling or
tripling the value of words.
Strategy will dictate what I do: Do I create a double value
word even if it gives my opponent the opportunity to triple the value of his?
Do I save my 10-point Z until I can enhance its value? Or does waiting create the risk that I will
be unable to dispense of the letter and lose the 10 points when the game ends?
My friend Jeff is on a roll.
In this match, he has come up with multiple words that have used all the
letters before him, thereby earning additional bonus points. My letters, on the other hand, are unworkable. They sit before me and mock my linguistic
impotence.
Three I’s?
Really? How can I possibly hope
to compete?
What finally sends me over the edge is VAULTING. The word has earned 60 points for Jeff, the
third time in the past few hours he has eclipsed the half-century mark.
I reach out to him (texting is a prominent feature of the
game, which is as much social media as contest): “Where are you getting these letters?”
He responds in typical Jeff fashion: “I assure you that
whining and kvetching will not help – and I don’t use words like TALUK. What the heck was that?”
For the record, TALUK is a noun used in India. It is defined as “a hereditary estate” and “a
subdivision of a revenue district.” I
happened upon the word accidentally, while attempting to fit both an L and a K
into a 5-box space.
My response to Jeff’s barb earns an electronic laugh: “No,
but I am certain you will get the chance to use KVETCHING shortly.”
Some say that our increasing reliance upon smart phones has
lessened our ability to communicate. We
no longer look others in the eyes, but prefer instead to exchange short-hand
electronic messages. The Norman Rockwell
family of our era sits around the dinner table not sharing the day’s events,
but doubled over phones, busily texting.
Perhaps they are right.
Perhaps the dawn of instant communication is more curse than blessing,
something we will regret in coming years, as each of us becomes increasingly
isolated.
But I prefer not to dwell on such thoughts. Instead, I focus my energies on obtaining an U to go with my Q.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The Greatest
The crowd is electric. Eyes move restlessly, excitedly taking it all
in: large Budweiser sign beyond the centerfield fence, tacky near-psychedelic
home run structure (so Miami), men in military uniforms parading on the infield
dirt. The retractable roof softly opens,
unleashing rays of sun, like a blanket spreading over the green lawn.
It is opening day at the new
Marlins Park. The sold-out stadium
inches towards the first pitch, while fans in the stands celebrate, a buzzing
of anticipation drowning out the PA announcer.
And then it stops.
All eyes turn to the giant
scoreboard. A golf cart moves slowly from
the outfield fence towards the infield.
We can see Jeffrey Loria, Marlins’ owner, sitting beside a frail, old
man. The PA announcer welcomes Muhammad
Ali, former heavyweight champion, who won his first title in Miami, who once
laughed and shouted for all to hear: “I AM THE GREATEST FIGHTER OF ALL TIME!”
He has been ill for years. Parkinson’s has eaten away at his once
classic physique, leaving behind a shadow of what once was.
Loria holds Ali’s left hand, preventing
the uncontrollable shaking that has invaded the rest of his body. Many in the crowd look away. It is a difficult sight to behold.
The PA announcer urges fans to
join in celebration of the man: “ALI! ALI!” he shouts. But few join in the chant, which is less
celebration of life than wistful longing for a dead era.
I close my eyes and see him as he
once was: strong, and brash, and young.
He bounces gracefully around the ring, throwing jab jab jab, mixes
left-right-left combination and then dances away. All the while taunting, boasting, talking – echoes
of his voice like whispers through long-darkened arenas, like Ali himself ravaged
by the passage of time.
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