A backward/forward look

We have been immersing ourselves in intermittently glorious, surprisingly dreary Oxford: first showcased in Inspector Morse (1987–2000); continued in Inspector Lewis (2006–2015), which features Morse’s former Detective Sergeant; and prequeled in Endeavour (2012–2023), which is titled after Morse’s Christian name. It’s the last of these we’ve started with. Long ago we saw some of “Morse Proper,” and knowledge of it gives Endeavour a foreboding air: this young 1960s constable will turn into a first-rank curmudgeon, an object of near-horror. There are some explicit portents – Endeavour Morse is solitary, has a savior complex, relishes crosswords and classical music perhaps too much – yet the dread is largely inchoate. There is unease even as this hero, with each new success, rises in his profession. There is gravitas although the genre trundles out its tropes. The classic “Morse” theme music, equally suited to a mountaineering documentary, has been retained. As Young Endeavour, Shaun Evans is brusque, skinny, and sallow, with a deer-in-headlights expression. The show’s real human treasure, however, is Endeavour’s mentor, Detective Inspector Fred Thursday (Roger Allam) – surely one of the genre’s wisest men. Had he been higher-born, he could have been a don; as it is, he holds his own against the silly college men he questions, who consider him beneath them. Rank is all in Thursday’s world (and at Oxford). And yet, unlike his own superior, Thursday doesn’t lord it over Morse. The show’s other great virtue is its artifact selection. I’ve not seen another in which beer mugs and wallpaper were so lovingly displayed. The story could be nonsense, the historic University could be ignored, and I’d still watch just for that.

Our chemical romance

Ziva (cat no. 2) and Dory (no. 3) used to fight several times each day, really brutally; but since we’ve been using air fresheners to pump feline pheromones into our house, they’ve gotten along much better. This gives me hope for the harmony of our household, and for that of humankind.

Seriously, things are more peaceful now.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

We attended a quite lovely wedding after-party this evening, in someone’s back yard. There were many children. There were dogs of very different breeds and sizes, to warm the heart. The music was from the nineties and early aughts; the catering was local Mexican. There also was much uninhibited vaping. I was amused to see the bride and groom puffing away together at their special table. But they weren’t the only ones. Everyone was at it. Perhaps all the vaping was what made everything harmonious. Halfway through the party, it started raining, and no one really minded.

The children played in a sandbox and got filthy. They had a precious time; afterward, we had to drag Daniel, kicking and screaming, to the car.

Apparel

Warm congrats to my cousin, Matthew, and his wife, Megan, on the birth of their second daughter.

Most of my paternal grandparents’ grandchildren began having children rather late in life. So, although perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me, it always does – pleasantly – when another little niece, nephew, or once-removed first cousin comes along.

What a world to come into, though.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Then again, things arguably were worse in Genesis-time. I have a couple of colorful t-shirts with the caption, “Need an Ark? I Noah Guy.” There’s a picture of the ark on the shirts. (Alas, I can’t find the picture online – just other shirts with the same caption but different artwork.) I obtained these shirts after a children’s program at my church. They were spares.

I wear them around because I’m edgy like that. And because they fit.

No one ever has commented on them – the occasional raised eyebrow is as far as things have gone – until today, when I wore an ark shirt to the to the Salvation Army Kroc Center. (The boys have been taking swim lessons there.)

My goodness, how many laudatory remarks I got.

Did you go to the Ark Encounter?, one man asked.

My people.

Now what I need is a Coach Cignetti shirt to wear to the Kroc.

August’s poem

… is “If – ” – by Kipling, of course.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;

If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

One of the best poems. Kipling thought it too popular for its own good. No doubt the parodies irked him. Some are clever indeed: see Elizabeth Lincoln Otis’s “An ‘If’ for Girls” (but her last couplet is nothing as fine as Kipling’s; it’s his “my son” that makes the difference).

“The jellyfish that has cracked the secret to immortality”

From the Guardian:

[Turritopsis dohrnii] “is unique,” [says marine biologist Maria Pia Miglietta,] “because when faced with unfavourable conditions – and I mean high temperature, physical cutting, starvation, chemicals in the water, you name it – when you try to kill the jellyfish, it doesn’t die.”

Most normal jellyfish start off life as larvae. They metamorphose into polyps (tiny, stationary soft bodies) that bud off swimming medusas, which grow up to become adult jellies. Eventually, after reproducing, most will stop swimming, crumble a little and then die.

But the immortal jellyfish escapes that fate. It reverts to a juvenile form, and starts its life cycle again.

The process is called “cellular transdifferentiation,” Miglietta says. The jellyfish looks like it’s dying and sinks to the bottom. Then – like a butterfly returning to a caterpillar – it shrinks into a ball, and within 24 to 48 hours, buds off a new polyp with the same identical genome, she says. …

In the lab, where Miglietta studies them, these jellies can theoretically live for ever. However, for some in the wild, getting eaten may eventually end that dream run.

(My italics.)

Some more quotes:

James Lenman (“On Becoming Extinct,” p. 254):

The Second Law of Thermodynamics will get us in the end in the fantastically unlikely event that nothing else does first.

Peter van Inwagen (“The Possibility of Resurrection,” p. 121):

Perhaps at the moment of each man’s death, God removes his corpse and replaces it with a simulacrum which is what is burned or rots. Or perhaps God is not quite so wholesale as this: perhaps He removes for “safekeeping” only the “core” person – the brain and central nervous system – or even some special part of it.

John 3:3:

Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.

And see Lewis’s Mere Christianity – especially its last chapter, “The New Men,” to which everything in the book conduces.

Body-text fonts, pt. 53: Equity

… which is Matthew Butterick’s update of the classic Ehrhardt typeface.

Equity (darker version; lighter version) is excellent – and underused. I’ve seen it “out in the wild” only in books by Butterick or by his enthusiasts: e.g., Bryan A. Garner’s Legal Writing in Plain English.

(Of course, Ehrhardt already is good enough for most uses. Perhaps Equity is superfluous.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Equity is this month’s featured font because private equity is in the soccer news. Infantino is trying to make room for investors – Trump associates! – to buy a substantial share in FIFA’s tournaments.

Some FIFA member nations expect to benefit from the deal. Others – those that have no trouble paying for their soccer operations – staunchly oppose ceding business control to outsiders.

The European nations have resolved, unanimously, to boycott all FIFA competitions unless Infantino’s proposal is withdrawn or voted down.

I hope they get their way – without the boycott. I am not taken with Europe’s “principles.” Europe has a long history of thinking itself too good to play with anybody else.

Tim Vickery, in this video, explains:

Vickery’s diagnosis and proposal are very nearly my own, and so I’ll leave the matter there. But this is not to treat it lightly. The World Cup’s continuance is in danger.

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

P.S. Tens of thousands of Moroccans illegally crossed into the tiny Spanish semi-exclave of Ceuta yesterday. Spain and Morocco, along with four other countries, are slated to host the 2030 World Cup together.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 101: The Big Green

I try not to review bad movies. If I watch a movie and don’t admire or enjoy it, I don’t review it. The Big Green (1995) is an exception.

I chose it because I have just finished watching the World Cup.

(Alas, I’d forgotten that the conclusion of Captain Tsubasa, a.k.a. Supercampeones, was released in 1995.)

Having written the review, though, I wonder if The Big Green might not be as bad as all that.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Roger Ebert didn’t care for The Big Green. His review bemoans its triteness.

A team of small-town misfits are inspired by their offbeat coach to master a sport. They start out incredibly bad. They are humiliated by the ace team from the big city, with the expensive black uniforms and the obsessive coach. Then they start getting better. No prizes for who wins their big rematch. … Why soccer? Because their teacher is from England, and is visiting tiny Elma, Texas, on an exchange program. … Under the influence of this inspirational teacher and the discipline of the sport, [the youngsters] transform themselves. This will come as a shock to anyone who has not seen Dangerous Minds, The Dead Poets Society, and the countless other homages to the same idea.

Of course, some such “homages” – Hoosiers, notably – are not bad movies. It helps when the story is traceable to something that actually happened. This imposes constraints of accuracy – or, at least, of plausibility.

Plausibility is not the aim of The Big Green. Many of its elements are unabashedly fanciful. For example, racial groups from every major landmass but Australia and Antarctica are represented in the little Texas town, although the population is low enough that the schoolhouse has just one room.

But let us grant that diversity and inclusion, no matter how unlikely in a given location, befit an idealized tale of the global game.

It’s still important that characters be compelling individuals.

Alas, the individual children in The Big Green are stock figures with particularly unappealing traits. These range from cloying cuteness to frightening psychosis to clichéd hardbittenness.

The runtiest boy is recognizable as Alfalfa from the previous year’s Little Rascals movie. (The Big Green has improved his hairdo.) This lad shows no aptitude for soccer but nonetheless is chosen to take the decisive penalty kick.

Meanwhile, the boy who tends goal – Patrick Renna, reprising his “fat kid” role from The Sandlot – hallucinates that the opponents are ninjas, pirates, knights on horseback, etc.

He copes by redirecting his hallucinations into a productive channel.

Finally, the “tough” girl’s father is a drunkard. (Recall, from Hoosiers, the Dennis Hopper character.) This is the movie’s sole attempt to provide background detail for any of the children.

No, that’s not quite right. A new boy’s reason for coming to the town is withheld during most of the movie; then, near the end, it is revealed. This gets the plot over the hump.

The grownup characters fare better.

The most conspicuous local grownup is a none-too-zealous sheriff’s deputy (Steve Guttenberg). He is serviceably obnoxious as the love interest of the new teacher-coach.

About that teacher-coach, then – the genre’s central figure. This particular coach is an odd duck. It’s traditional for these movies to identify the coach’s personal demons. Happily, Miss Montgomery appears to have none.

She’s played by the fresh-faced Olivia d’Abo, the 1980s and ’90s equivalent of Felicity Jones.

It is Miss Montgomery’s mission to bring British jollity to disaffected U.S. youth.

MISS MONTGOMERY

I believe that you’re all special because you live here in America, and America is a place where you can be anything you want to be.

THE FAT KID

I think that was before Reaganomics, Ma’am.

(Not bad, kid.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’ve been treating The Big Green as a genre piece, transposed, awkwardly, into a comedic and fantastical key. But I believe that despite its perfunctoriness about the sport itself – the gameplay is wholly unbelievable – the movie does capture various Hoosiers-style social truths.

Children and youths in mid-’90s U.S. prairie towns really were this jaded (or worse). I know because, in 1996, I went to school in rural Missouri.

Soccer really was viewed as a curiosity there. My classmates knew more about The Big Green than about the 1994 U.S. World Cup.

The movie is correct that pickup soccer didn’t exist in such places, and that the only way to play was to join an urban or suburban league. This still is the case. Millions of U.S. children have no access to the world’s game. The harvest is ready but there are too few Miss Montgomeries; and, if there were more, their efforts would be appropriated by the pay-to-play industry. Indeed, this is what appears to happen in The Big Green.

The movie is correct, or nearly so, that ultra-competitive coaches of the city youth leagues pace the sidelines shouting through bullhorns, brandishing swords, and leching after any Miss Montgomeries who cross paths with them.

COACH HUFFER
[Jay O. Sanders]

You know, we have a little tradition down here among the coaches. Before the final game, we always make a little wager.

MISS MONTGOMERY

Really? What are we betting?

COACH HUFFER

Well, now, I couldn’t take your money from you, but, you know, I’m divorced. I wouldn’t say no to a kiss.

MISS MONTGOMERY

Deal. But if you lose, you have to kiss our mascot, Ernie. He’s that lovely little green goat over there. He’s divorced, too.

(My favorite line. All right, the movie has some charm.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Perhaps the oddest and, to me, most intriguing thing about The Big Green is that its skies are so dreary. Indeed, all the lighting is rather dim. (The poster misleads.) The story is hokey nonsense. Why not prettify the visuals, then? Would it have been too costly? Or could it be that behind the story lurks a somber attitude? Hoosiers, which takes place during the winter, is awash with radiant color; but then, Hoosiers is uplifting. Nothing about The Big Green is; not really. The cheerful Miss Montgomery is not inspiring so much as freakishly out of place.

J. L. Carr wrote a novel, The Battle of Pollocks Crossing (online here), about an English schoolmaster who accepts a temporary job at a school in rural South Dakota. The Booker judges shortlisted the novel. I doubt anybody reads it nowadays.

It’s supposed to be a quirky story. The schoolmaster involves himself in some sort of campaign, on behalf of the “Have-Nots,” against the “Haves.” Farce ensues. The resolution is perhaps less than triumphant. (Bear in mind, I haven’t actually read the book.)

The sky of the book’s cover looks a lot like the sky of The Big Green.

My own fanciful idea, almost certainly false, is that someone set out to turn this oddity into a movie. The script was fed through different writers’ groups. The profit motive was accorded too much weight. Eventually, only the barest outline of the original tale remained. The U.S. World Cup was approaching, and so soccer was grafted onto the story as an afterthought – or perhaps as a vestige of fidelity to Carr (who also wrote a soccer novel, How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won the F.A. Cup).

If anyone wants to buy Pollocks Crossing for me, I’ll gladly read it and report whether this daydream is true.

“Bad” and “good” guys

Bots must have read my previous entry and decided that I would approve of this Substack post: it has come up a few times in my feed (in Spanish, more often than not). The post is by one Éamann Mac Donnchada, “an Irishman resident in Barcelona, deeply marked by his years in Argentina.”

Indeed, I found it moving.

(See also this post of Mac Donnchada’s, written before the final.)

Mac Donnchada offers a nice counterpoint to what I have been reading and viewing elsewhere. For example, the Guardian – don’t think it doesn’t have an axe to grind! – would have us believe that Argentinians are morally undeserving, as indicated by the fact that some U.S. Blacks and some non-Argentinian Latin Americans prefer not to cheer for Argentina.

(The piece on Latin America begins, amusingly, with a Brazilian – a citizen of Argentina’s chief sporting rival – saying, I *would* cheer for Argentina, *but* … )

Of course, I can’t speak for – or to – everyone belonging to these groups. But the obvious rejoinder to the argument is: Look closely at Spain. Look closely at Europe. Look at their histories and their present attitudes (which are cosmeticized, as Mac Donnchada notes). Are the Argentinians really so much worse?

As Mac Donnchada remarks:

Football has acted as a socially acceptable pretext for saying things that would have been unacceptable in any other context. National sporting rivalry has licensed people to express prejudices that normally remain hidden behind progressive language.

To wit, prejudices against Argentinians.

Which isn’t to say that Argentinians aren’t themselves prejudiced. But it does shed light on the team’s conduct. When the Argentinian players turned their backs on Spain’s post-game celebration, it may not have been entirely a matter of bad sportsmanship. It may also have been a refusal to applaud a country where Argentinians suffer prejudice.

(Argentinians often are bad losers; I’ve seen Ecuador beat them enough times to know that. 😆 Even so, I’ve noticed that Argentinians tend, after the obligatory period of fisticuffs and grousing, to bestow grudging respect.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Politics aside, the more I think about the final, the less convinced I am that Spain dominated Argentina as thoroughly as it seemed. Yes, the stats – possession, passing, shooting, etc. – favor Spain; but how were those figures achieved? As Hannah Frye explains, in tennis, the scoring system allows the side that returns service just a little better to tally many more games and sets. Soccer is thought to exhibit the opposite tendency – goals are not predictable amplifications of modest superiority – but, as every devoted viewer understands, the focus on goals is misleading. It’s other metrics that predictably get amplified. The Spanish were able to record better numbers, and to look vastly superior, by repeatedly exploiting a single weakness that the Argentinians were aware of but almost powerless to correct. The Spanish understood that the Argentinians were too old and tired to effectively press Spain’s back line. (This was evident as early as Argentina’s match against Cape Verde.) This allowed the Spanish to constantly advance their teenaged central defender, Cubarsí, into the midfield; and the resulting numerical advantage in that sector allowed them to control possession. Yes, the Spanish are good at passing and recovering; but are they so much better than these same Argentinians who, four years earlier, overran the French? The answer is: Yes, with more youthfulness and rest and an extra player in the middle. That’s all we really can tell. The Argentinians, of course, knew that they were being made to look inept. And they knew how. Their response was logical. Fernández occasionally would leave his place in the middle and join the front press – not to generate turnovers but to “persuade” Cubarsí to retreat. It was desperate but necessary, and it resulted in Fernández’s expulsion. It was an altogether more proactive gambit than, e.g., England’s total retreat into the box.

Hannah Frye: “The resilience to losing that you have to have [in tennis] is, I think, unlike any other.”

But much the same could be said about Argentina in this final. The team showed more resilience than any other I can think of, despite the humiliating amplification, all over the field, of the failure of the press. The Argentinians were so resilient, they almost won. The Spanish, for all their “dominance,” almost didn’t. This was no 2009 Champions League final, no low-scoring affair with an outcome nonetheless settled early; this was a live contest until the end. The Spanish never did pass all the way through Argentina: they hoofed a ball into the box, where a couple of fresh substitutes got to it first. (And yes, the earlier goal’s disallowal was correct.)

There was, then, a certain reactiveness to Spain’s game, a certain fundamental preoccupation with the opponent rather than with proactive excellence (e.g., the Spanish were in no hurry to obtain a lead). And, I daresay, a certain smugness. I’m reminded of a story of my Uncle John’s. The classical guitarist, Andrés Segovia, once listened to an earnest amateur’s performance. He then took the guitar and played it back, cruelly replicating each mistake. What is an opponent to do in the face of a virtuoso’s calculated meanness? I don’t say that Spain played as cruelly as Segovia. But it was a virtuoso one-trick performance. Spain could have tried different things but didn’t – until the end. Then the ball simply was hoofed into the box. Argentina tried more things. (It’s a mistake to claim the opposite.) None worked. That’s all.

Let me end with a quotation from a different Spanish youngster: Gavi, who took a few knocks after the final whistle.

No, to be honest, I don’t think [the Argentinians] should be suspended. I realize it doesn’t set a good example for the children, but there’s also that side to football that’s a bit more violent.

He’s magnanimous because he’s young, the pundits say. Perhaps. Or perhaps Gavi is wise enough to put himself in the other’s place. Or perhaps he’s not especially proud of how Spain approached the game. That’s not to say he should be ashamed. You play the way you know; you try to win the way you can.

Postmortem

The World Cup has ended. I congratulate the Spanish. They are deserving champions. If I never see another World Cup, I won’t regret having seen Spain win last.

I also hugely admire the Argentinians. Outclassed, they came close to winning through sheer determination. They were the tournament’s most antagonistic team – and, from the competitiveness-prizing point of view, its finest.

After the final, Western European pundits tarred the Argentinians – and, alas, all South Americans – as violent and uncouth. The good guys won, the bad guys lost, was the pundits’ gloat. Football was saved. Even supposing it were true, the self-righteousness astounds. Europeans also misbehave. Harald Schumacher, Zinedine Zidane, and Sergio Ramos all played more despicably, for all the world to see, than any Argentinian did in this tournament. Italian squads have been as defensive as Argentina, and as petulant. The Dutch of the 2010 final, and the Dutch and Portuguese in their notorious match of 2006, were shockingly, comically violent. (The English – poor people – have mostly just harmed themselves.)

I also recall that many pundits – not French ones, of course – worshipped these same “uncouth” Argentinian players when they won in 2022. I suppose that like most people, pundits are knee-jerk home supporters first, rival haters second, victory worshippers third, and objective judges fourth; and, all the while, hypocrites.

A more respectful and realistic European is Tim Vickery; he points out that Argentina’s initial strategy was not just to defend and foul. (Ignore the other pundit.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Organization-wise, the tournament is broken. There are too many games. Temperatures are miserable. Players look tired. Distances between host cities are too great. Tickets are too costly. Price-gouging for amenities is unrestrained. Refereeing isn’t credible. Political interference by the hosts, once deemed unacceptable, has become the norm.

Only four years ago, this still was the most watchable event in sports. Say what you will about how Qatar prepared, the spectacle was lovely.

This time, I just wanted it all to end.

The 2030 World Cup will be held in six countries, including Spain and Argentina, and on three continents. The number of teams may be raised.

It is rumored that the USA will bid for the World Cup of 2038.

The best players, managers, referee, goal, and games of this World Cup

Bear in mind, the final has not been played.

(I’ve italicized the Best XI.)

Front-line players: Mbappé (France), Haaland (Norway), Kane (England), Messi (Argentina).

Midfielders: Ødegaard (Norway), Bellingham (England), Fernández (Argentina), Rodri (Spain), Xhaka (Switzerland), Ruiz (Spain), Tielemans (Belgium), Olmo (Spain).

Defenders: Cucurella (Spain), Mazraoui (Morocco), Laporte (Spain), Lisandro Martínez (Argentina), Akanji (Switzerland), Lucumí (Colombia), Muñoz (Colombia), Porro (Spain).

Goalkeepers: Bounou (Morocco), Nyland (Norway), Emiliano Martínez (Argentina), Pickford (England).

(English journalists have been savaging Pickford for letting in two goals that weren’t his fault. All the more reason to choose him.)

Most valuable player: Messi.

Best-all-around player: Bellingham.

Outstanding old player: Messi (39).

Outstanding young player: Bouaddi (Morocco) (18).

Outstanding substitutes: Lukaku (Belgium), Lautaro Martínez (Argentina), Quintero (Colombia).

Best managers: De la Fuente (Spain), Scaloni (Argentina).

Best referee: Barton (El Salvador), especially for Türkiye vs. Paraguay …

… and for France vs. Spain.

(The final will be refereed by Vinčić, the Slovenian. I thought him too generous toward Mexico; Argentina will eat him alive.)

Best goal: Kane’s second versus the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Best games: Türkiye vs. Paraguay; Ecuador vs. Germany; Netherlands vs. Morocco; USA vs. Belgium; Norway vs. Brazil; Mexico vs. England; France vs. Spain; and every knockout contest involving Argentina (may the final be the same).

Semifinals: France 0, Spain 2; England 1, Argentina 2

Which manager was worse?

(I) Thomas Tuchel, for:

(a) ceasing to attack …

and

(b) permitting Messi & Co. to hammer away at the English goal …

for forty minutes;

OR:

(II) Didier Deschamps, for:

having no response for anything that Spain did.

I vote: Deschamps. This is the second time he has “crashed the Ferrari” in the World Cup. (I’m not considering France’s Euro defeats.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Deschamps almost “crashed the Ferrari” in the 2018 World Cup final. The Croatians were passing through the French at will, and had scored once. But then the referee gave France a second goal.

Deschamps’s tactics with France always have been simple.

(1) He fields three or four prodigious scorers – even if they don’t maintain possession, defend, etc. He values their scoring so much that he requires little else of them.

(2) He overpopulates the defense. He prefers central midfielders and fullbacks who are defensive specialists. (That is putting it kindly; at times, he seems to prefer that they have offensive limitations.)

(3) He ignores transitional midfield play. He figures that as long as (a) his attackers seize on mistakes and put in goals and (b) his defensive multitudes keep goals out, the middle of the field doesn’t matter.

In short, he gambles on offensive talent, which of course France has in spades.

Well, these tendencies bit him in 2022, against Argentina, and again in this tournament, against Spain. The vaunted attackers weren’t outplayed, exactly. Rather, the opposing midfielders cut off their supply. I had expected that Mbappé, Dembélé, et al. should have enough chances provided them. Everyone expected this. Instead, they were starved. Rodri, Ruiz, and Olmo – great players – bossed the middle. But they were aided by Deschamps’s abdication of that zone.

Halfway through, it was clear that France sorely missed the few polyfunctional midfielders employed during Deschamps’s tenure:

• Griezzman, an attacker willing to drop back to defend and to build up play. (Retired.)
• Kanté, ball-winner extraordinaire, known also for jump-starting the attack. (Old; languishing on the bench.)
• Camavinga. (Left at home.)

(Moussa Sissoko was discarded after featuring in the 2016 Euros; Steven Nzonzi was a bit-player in 2018; Manu Koné, in this World Cup, has been an occasional substitute for the not-fully-fit, defensively-minded Tchouaméni. These are versatile players that, at different times, Deschamps has not preferred to use.)

I said, at the beginning of the tournament, that the French could win any match with just twenty good minutes. Spain granted five. By then, for France, it was too late.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Spain’s midfield is tactically and technically superb; but so is Argentina’s. And Argentina has grit, grit, grit. Only the Croatians approximate them. This should be a fascinating final. I’ll bet on Argentina; these Spaniards have yet to meet such willful adversaries. But I wouldn’t mind if Spain won. Both these teams are worthy.

I’m afraid that this is just not your day, my friend

CLOUSEAU

I’m afraid that this is just not your day, my friend.

DREYFUS

But it is my day. It is, my friend. After three long, terrible years, it is at last my day. I will not permit, repeat, not permit anything – repeat, anything – to spoil it. Now, I will walk you to the gate, and I will kiss you goodbye –

[He kisses CLOUSEAU’S cheeks]

– and you will drive off in your new car – which should rightfully be mine – and I will have my interview with the Sanity Commission, and they will set me free. And then: I will kill you!

[Chasing]

Kill you!

CLOUSEAU
[Fleeing]

François!

DREYFUS

Kill you!

CLOUSEAU

Start the car!

DREYFUS

Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill you!

[Restrained by sanitorium guards]

I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him! Let me go. … Ha, ha, ha! I want to kill him.

(The Pink Panther Strikes Again)

July’s poem

This poem is for the eliminated World Cup teams. The thing about international soccer is, you can’t just go out and buy the crucial missing pieces. You make do with what you have. (But if you’re France, you’ve already “imported” so many pieces that everybody else is scrambling for your castoffs.)

It’s demoralizing knowing that, however well you use what you have, you or whoever beats you will eventually surrender to France.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

For want of a nail the shoe was lost,

For want of a shoe the horse was lost,

For want of a horse the rider was lost,

For want of a rider the battle was lost,

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost –

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(From The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, edited by Iona & Peter Opie. Recited, in The Clocks, by Hercule Poirot. Previous versions due to: Benjamin Franklin, in Poor Richard’s Almanack; the poet George Herbert; the Germans; and the French.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Is the “want of a horseshoe nail” an “INUS” condition? (That is: an insufficient but necessary part of an unnecessary but sufficient condition; in ordinary English: a cause. See: J. L. Mackie.)

Losing the battle might suffice for losing the kingdom, even if the kingdom could be lost in other ways: e.g., due to a meteor strike.

Losing the rider might suffice for losing the battle, even if the battle could be lost in other ways: e.g., due to a meteor strike.

And so on, for each preceding line. (Let’s say the meteorite gets smaller and smaller.)

Or is causation better analyzed in some other way? I’m getting too old for this.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Q: What was the “horseshoe nail” that Ecuador wanted?

A: Goals. And (controversially), according to some journalists, avoiding getting death threats from Mexican cartels.

Canada 0, Morocco 3; Mexico 2, England 3; USA 1, Belgium 4

So, the co-hosts of this rotten World Cup have been eliminated, pop-pop-pop, in the same early knockout round, and I couldn’t be more pleased; I’ve waited eight years for this moment. Canada, I fault only for having joined a corrupt alliance. (I didn’t much like how the Canadian team played, but put let’s put that aside.) Mexico, I fault for having long ago entered into faustian hosting arrangements with the United States, in this World Cup and in other tournaments; for having greedily sought to host the World Cup a third time, ahead of countries that haven’t had a turn; and for gross inhospitality. All of Ecuador cheered when England beat Mexico. I certainly did, even though I cheer for England as little as possible (just three times since the 1998 World Cup).

As for the USA, well, it may not be gracious to “pile on,” but certain matters must be addressed. If you don’t know the immediate context, you can read about it here or in countless other sources.

Know this, at least: a certain U.S. politician admitted – bragged – that he’d interfered in a supposedly neutral disciplinary process.

As it turned out, the meddling hurt rather than helped the intended beneficiary. The U.S. team already was out of sorts when it took to the field against the Belgians. Those opponents carved up the U.S. with professional, surgical precision – until the last minutes, when the ball was trickling into the U.S. goal every which way; then, they unleashed the “Trump” dance.

It’s gratifying to see on-field retribution. But the urgent lesson is that stricter and more explicit rules against political interference must be adopted, or else matches themselves will lose whatever credibility they once had. (Today, undue controversy surrounded Argentina’s victory over Egypt.)

Moreover: in a better world, certain FIFA officials would be impeached. And a certain country would be barred from the World Cup, for at least as long as the Chileans were barred in the early 1990s for their procedural violation.

It might be objected that in the present case, the politician’s meddling backfired, and so no harm was done. I couldn’t disagree more. A legal analogy: specific instances of bribery, intimidation, or jury tampering might backfire; but they should be punished anyway, because such offenses corrode the integrity and the trustworthiness of the court.

Mexico 2, Ecuador 0; Portugal 2, Croatia 1; predictions

Still he was a pius man in his way and found relief in prayer.

(Daisy Ashford, The Young Visiters)

We lost because Mexico was the home team. It pretty much boils down to that.

Mexico shouldn’t have hosted this tournament, but that’s a topic for another day.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

To my dismay, I’ve been driven very close to embracing a conspiracy theory.

Not because Ecuador lost, but because of how Portugal beat Croatia. A penalty kick was bogusly awarded to the Portuguese; later, Croatia’s tying goal was disallowed due to a tiny spike on a chart. The spike indicated an otherwise undetectable touch registered by a chip inside the ball.

Not even video review could corroborate it.

It’s not that I don’t believe the technology works. It’s that I’m not convinced that this chart isn’t a fabrication.

(It doesn’t help that this technology’s only other beneficiary has been Real Madrid, for a notorious judgment that decided a Champions League series.)

Or, to retreat just a little, a Croatian who chose to doubt the chart would be within his rights.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Enough lamenting (for now). These are my predictions for the rest of the tournament (see the bracket). I may revise them after the round of 16, should Spain lose to Portugal, Norway to Brazil, or Colombia to Switzerland.

The Belgium/​USA match is hard to predict, too, but its winner shouldn’t last longer than one more round.

Morocco over Canada

France over Paraguay

Belgium over the USA

Spain over Portugal

Norway over Brazil

Mexico (at home again) over England

Colombia over Switzerland

Argentina over Egypt

France over Morocco

Spain over Belgium

Norway (unless undone by Miami’s heat) over Mexico (no longer at home)

Colombia over tired-looking Argentina

France over Spain

Colombia over Norway

Spain over Norway (or vice versa; it’s just a consolation match)

France over Colombia

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 100: Late night with Conan O’Brien

Ecuador will play against Mexico in a few minutes, so I don’t have time to review a feature-length movie.

Please enjoy this joke by the late Norm Macdonald. It’s about a pig with a wooden leg.

What more is there to say?

Go Ecuador.

Ecuador 2, Germany 1

As one would expect.

That’s Gonzalo Plata poking the ball past Manuel Neuer, after Kevin Rodríguez’s flick-on. This was our winning goal, in minute 77.

Nilson Angulo had leveled the score in the ninth minute. He was assisted by Pedro Vite.

Immortals.

Disgraced: Tori Penso (referee, USA) and Joe Dickerson (VAR assistant, USA) for allowing Germany’s goal to stand although Germany had fouled Vite.

Our reaction was tremendous. We overcame the Germans and officials and claimed our just reward. The yellow-clad New Jersey crowd was overjoyed. Our players, so harshly criticized, were overjoyed. I was overjoyed, as were my parents and siblings and our spouses; we all watched together.

Just before the winning goal, I was holding Abel, and I thought, When the ball goes in, I’ll try to avoid shouting, so as not to frighten him. Please, God, let him not be frightened. Ecuador scored, I shouted – we all shouted – and Abel was calm, so calm, greeting the occasion as a matter of course.

I got a little misty when you all shouted, Karin said afterward. She suffered before the game, worrying she’d have to bear a houseful of anguished in-laws. No doubt our friends felt the same. Then the game ended and our phones exploded with congratulations.

Facebook reel: tying goal.

Facebook reel: winning goal. (Dale con fe.)

Facebook reel: winning goal. (Gol hjpta.)

Facebook reel: postgame. (Una moneda.)

The woebegone

I’d hoped to write a long entry about Ecuador’s companions in misery in this World Cup. But, scanning the list, I found just two, maybe three, comparably disappointing teams: Türkiye (eliminated, having lost twice); Uruguay (nearly eliminated, having drawn twice); and Senegal (nearly eliminated, having lost twice). (I fancy Senegal’s chances against Iraq, however; I don’t fancy Uruguay’s against Spain.)

UPDATE: As I type, the South Koreans are losing to the South Africans; if the result holds, they’ll finish third in the group. And if they don’t scrape through in that position, it will be a tremendous disappointment.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Other teams have been eliminated or soon will be, but none came into the tournament with the expectations of Türkiye, Uruguay, Senegal, or Ecuador (UPDATE: or South Korea). There’ve been no shocking breakthroughs (UPDATE: not unless the South Africans preserve their victory, anyway). But some teams have exceeded expectations on the field, if not in the standings. I tip my hat to the eliminated Panamanians. I tip it to Cape Verde and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, each of which may yet pull through. I tip it to New Zealand (in dire straits) and Iran (in straits slightly less dire).

I might be expected, for graciousness’s sake, to tip my hat to the Curaçaoans. But I won’t unless they acquit themselves against the Ivorians. Ecuador outplayed Curaçao, after all.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

More notes. This is turning out to be a World Cup for top-drawer strikers. Messi, Haaland, and Mbappé have astounded. Vinícius Júnior and CR7 have shown flashes, if less consistently. And the whole Dutch front line looks good.

Less famous but also excellent: Germany’s Deniz Undav; Morocco’s Ismael Saibari.

I couldn’t say the same for any of the defenses, except maybe Argentina’s – which is considered fragile by some pundits. (Nor have the Mexicans and Spanish conceded, but they hardly have been tested.) The best individual defensive performance was by Bosnia & Herzegovina’s captain, Sead Kolašinac, against Canada.

As late as yesterday, it was mathematically possible for Ecuador to win the World Cup without ever scoring. I told my brothers I’d gain pleasure from such an outcome. I don’t think they agreed. Their Internet silence was rather loud.

Postmortem

So, we failed to score against Curaçao, arguably the World Cup’s weakest participant – certainly its smallest. This is no surprise. Scoring is the surprise. Every goal of the last two four-year cycles has seemed miraculous. Enner, our country’s greatest scorer, is not a reliable scorer; he, too, is gripped by the national malaise.

My blood ran cold very early on, after Enner’s first miss. I knew it would be almost impossible to win.

It wasn’t a matter of not creating chances. Enner (and others) had chances.

It wasn’t a deficiency of technique. Enner has technique. And he has noûs. He does brilliantly until the final touch, and then he scuffs, or aims at the wrong side, or shoots too softly.

What of the longer-term perspective? How might the strategists have failed?

It’s not a matter of not having dredged the talent pool for better strikers. I doubt there are better ones. One could always scout farther afield or try out prolific scorers from the domestic league. But … I’ve watched Ecuador a long time. Even our best strikers have had miserable conversion rates with the national team.

We have no automatic scorers. No Ecuadorian believes that scoring for Ecuador is his God-given right.

Ecuadorians can believe in themselves to keep goals out, to win the ball, to pass or dribble around opponents. But tabulation is of another order.

It’s like accumulating riches. Talent, luck, and elbow grease can bring in large sums. But financial dominance requires illegal or legal ruthlessness: cheating, gouging, strongarming, or hoarding. In any case: a tremendous sense of entitlement.

For better or worse – for better, I’d say – an entitled attitude is something very few Ecuadorians have. Especially when they measure themselves, as Ecuadorians, against other nationalities.

It’s a thousand times easier for another smallish and good-willed country – Norway – to produce a goal-gobbler like Erling Haaland. Firstly, because his sort never worries about getting enough to eat. And secondly, because the Norwegians know their ancestors were Vikings. (If you don’t think old history inspires them, well, you need to watch more reels of Norwegian soccer players.)

Not that Haaland is a baddie. But one can understand why he has no trouble accepting that his destiny is to score goals.

Our next game is against Germany. Ecuador must win to advance. We could outplay the Germans. They’ve not impressed, and I do think we’re that good. But will we score?

It could happen. But it would be a miracle.

World Cup notes; body-text fonts, pt. 52: Fairfield (old and new), Fanwood, and Fanwood Text

Tuesday evening, we were without Internet. I couldn’t stream Norway’s first World Cup match since 1998 – Iraq’s first since 1986. Norway won, 4–1.

Then I missed Argentina’s brushing off of Algeria. Messi equaled Miroslav Klose’s scoring record. After his third goal, I relented and tuned in to Fox. The commentators asked how the Argentinians would motivate themselves. They played for Messi’s sake in 2022, they said, but now that Messi has won the World Cup, what will they play for?

It’s for such imbecilities that I avoid tuning in to Fox.

We reprogrammed our TV and, happily, gained offline access to Telemundo before the midnight match. I caught the Austrians’ first World Cup appearance since 1998. I went to sleep before they finished putting the Jordanian debutantes to the sword.

Iraq and Jordan were the first Asian teams to lose. Iran, on the previous night, salvaged a point against New Zealand. Humorists produced this headline: Kiwis Learn How Trump Feels after Stalemate with Iran (or words to that effect).

The French had a glorious second half against Senegal. Along with Argentina, they are the favorites (Spain failed to defeat Cape Verde). The French are frightening. They could win the tournament with just twenty good minutes in each game.

I have kind feelings but few words for: Belgium, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Uruguay, England, Croatia, Ghana, Panama, Colombia, and Uzbekistan. Their games were entertaining.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Fairfield (des. Rudolph Ruzicka, 1949) was shortened and fattened by 1990s digitizers. This is what one comes across in, e.g., recent Norton Critical Editions:

(There is a lighter body-text weight.)

Compare with the original metal-type in Henry Hazlitt’s influential primer. This type has longer ascenders and descenders:

(More Hazlitt:

Actually, “in the long run we are all dead” is a problem for “longrunism.”)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The newer Fairfields may be easier to read at small sizes, but the original is more beautiful. Thankfully, the metal-type’s dimensions have been digitized as Fanwood (lighter) and Fanwood Text (darker).

The Fanwoods have no boldface. But they are free to download and use. And lovely. It’s gratifying to come across them in new books.

E.g., in Freida McFadden’s.

(Our sofa is like the cop’s.)

The piano (cont.); World Cup notes

The piano has been moved to the kitchen, its likely resting-place for as long as we live in this house.

Now we must learn to play the thing.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

What follows is highly selective.

Ivory Coast 1, Ecuador 0: An even, chaotic contest decided by an 89th-minute goal. Chaos doesn’t favor Ecuador. Our strength is tidy defending.

Piero Hincapié had trouble marking 19-year-old Yan Diomande. The goal came from an attack down that flank.

Thrice we hit woodwork. Our attacking woes continue. I will say, it’s hard when foulers aren’t penalized. The Ivorians were spared a couple of second yellow cards.

Brazil 1, Morocco 1: Has-been vs. emerging superpower. The same is true of their respective continents. The Moroccans were breathtaking in the first half; having established their superiority, they ceded the initiative. Brazil had a single brilliant moment.

Australia 2, Türkiye 0: The most entertaining game so far.

(Some would choose the Netherlands vs. Japan [2–2].)

I love watching the Turks. They attack at breakneck pace, slickly, all game long. But the Australians defended stoutly and landed two counter-punches.

USA 4, Paraguay 1; Germany 7, Curaçao 1; and Sweden 5, Tunisia 1: Three blowouts that tell little about the winners (and not much more about the Tunisians, who fell apart late but weren’t consistently bad).

Mid-half hydration breaks, twice per game: I am sick of them.

Mexico 2, South Africa 0; South Korea 2, Czechia 1

Karin came home from the office.

John-Paul: “So, are your colleagues excited that the World Cup is about to begin?”

Karin: “Oh, yes, it has been mentioned many times.”

John-Paul: “Really?”

Karin: “No, it hasn’t been mentioned at all. HA, HA, HA, HA, HA …”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

However competently the New York Times might report on the logistics, economics, and politics of the World Cup, I’m afraid the journal doesn’t credibly judge how well or poorly the sport is played.

How could any reader take seriously an article titled, “Re-ranking the 48 World Cup Teams after Day One of the Tournament”?

(As if two matches involving four also-rans warranted a comprehensive re-think.)

It’s the praise for Mexico’s curtain-raiser, however, that’s just bonkers:

An accomplished, drama-free opening victory against South Africa was pretty much everything Mexico hoped it would be. The excellent Julian Quinones’ early goal settled any nerves[,] and then came the emotive, heart-rending second from talisman Raul Jimenez in the second half. With potentially more to come from Edson Alvarez (left out as he builds up his fitness) and wonderkid Gilberto Mora, Mexico may feel the benefit of home advantage more than anyone, what with that unbelievably passionate Azteca crowd.

accomplished: Hardly.

drama-free: Nope. His side having assured victory, César Montes, Mexico’s captain, needlessly got himself ejected.

pretty much everything Mexico hoped it would be: I don’t know what Mexicans hoped for, but see the previous comments.

excellent Julian Quinones: (Is basic Spanish orthography too much to ask for? His name is Julián Quiñones.) He was decent, not excellent.

emotive, heart-rending second [Mexican goal] from talisman Raul Jimenez: (Ditto: it’s Raúl Jiménez.) These sentiments aren’t relevant to ranking teams.

with potentially more to come: Ditto. Not relevant.

The Mexicans then were catapulted up six places in the NYT’s rankings. If such effusion is lavished on the USA’s co-hosts, I shudder to think what will be written about the USA.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Koreans and Czechs then staged a much better contest. Neither side oozes talent, but both at least operate with clarity, and each managed one rather clever goal last night. The pressure is now on the Czechs to make up ground against the Mexicans. Neither Czechs nor Koreans should have trouble with the South Africans, who are out of their depth.

June’s poem

Wilfred Owen’s:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. –

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Better to chase glory in the World Cup than in war.

It’s Iran’s privilege to do both. The soccer team will be forced to fly into and out of the United States, each game day, to keep appointments.

Africa’s top-rated referee – a Somali – has been refused entry by the U.S. government.

The piano (cont.); bridging; teething

The good news is, we won’t have to keep our new piano in the garage, even if we’re never able to fit it through our front door. We’ve agreed on a “Plan B” destination for it.

The bad news is, that destination is the kitchen.

The other bad news is, we would have to clear a path through the garage and “mud” room to get the piano into the kitchen. A monumental task.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Samuel completed Kindergarten. We attended his “bridging” ceremony. (“Bridging” is Montessori lingo for graduating.) During the ceremony, students crossed an actual bridge which had been set up in the gymnasium. This symbolized the passage from Kindergarten to the first grade. A first-grader greeted each graduate on the far side of the bridge.

Then the students sang two songs and their parents shot video.

One of the parents I spotted was R., with whom I’d gone to college. “Hi, R.,” I said, “remember me? I’m John-⁠Paul.” “Yeah,” he said, and walked away. A shrinking violet, R.

The next day, Samuel nonchalantly lost a tooth – his first. It lies among his Lego bricks somewhere. Already, a new tooth emerges from his gum.

He has been listening to Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.

The piano; the sports

We’re not a musical family. Karin plays her clarinet sometimes, and a smidgeon of guitar. The children strum on toy ukeleles. That’s all.

BUT today we acquired a piano from my cousin, Annie, and her husband, Johnny, who are moving out of their house and distributing their possessions.

(I’ve long dreamed of learning to play the Rach. 3.)

Alas, we couldn’t fit the piano into our house. Our entrance is too small. We had to leave the piano in our already-too-cluttered garage.

This story isn’t over. (It had better not be.)

STAY TUNED.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This morning, I wore my Chicago Bears t-shirt to a medical appointment and then endured a barrage of small-talk on that subject.

Caleb Williams is on the cover of this year’s Madden, said the doctor.

I did see that, I acknowledged.

Do you believe in the Madden curse?, said the doctor.

I told him I did not.

(We returned to the reception area.)

Don’t let Andrew know you’re a Bears fan, the doctor said in a loud voice, tilting his head toward one of his half-dozen flunkies.

Yes, the Bears are very bad, I said, attempting to nip the issue in the bud. (Actually, the Bears weren’t bad last year.)

But you’re loyal, right?, they all insisted.

I gave them a woeful look, to convince them of my bonafides.

(I am loyal to the Bears, but I do not respect them.)

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 99: The castle

(Not based on Kafka’s novel.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Seldom viewed outside of Australia, The Castle (1997) is revered in that country. Wikipedia tells us that this movie

can be seen as a social study [of] the lives and aspirations of the inhabitants of suburban Australia. The central character, Darryl Kerrigan, ties into the stereotypical depiction of an “Aussie battler,” a man who will protect and serve his family through bold and sometimes ruthless assertion.

I’ve not observed Australians in their natural habitat. Doubtless, there’s much about this movie that I don’t understand.

Even so, I love The Castle.

One begins by snickering at the protagonists – Greater Melburnians pursuing the Australian Dream in their dismal, airport-adjacent cul-de-sac. But in the end, one is touched by these people. One wishes they were one’s neighbors.

(It’s gratifying when one well-heeled outsider – a broadminded constitutional lawyer, played by the grave but twinkling Charles “Bud” Tingwell – is admitted into their circle.)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Darryl Kerrigan (Michael Caton), patriarch and hero, is lovable because there is so much that he loves: his family, his dogs, his tchotchkes, his boat, his garden, his pre-fab country house on a nondescript lake, and of course his family’s suburban home (his “castle”). Not to mention his neighbors and his lawyers. Having thrown in his lot with X, Darryl loves X proudly and unconditionally. We hear him declare, in a wedding speech, his family’s love for the new son-in-law; and what goes for that adoptee goes for every animal, vegetable, and mineral that Darryl claims as his own (or as his own’s own). It doesn’t matter that Darryl’s wife and children are pitifully ordinary, or that one son – in what I believe to be a reference to Australia’s colonial origin – is in prison. Darryl treats each family member with something approaching veneration. And each of them responds in kind.

Darryl is not a rich man. He earns his living towing cars (i.e., clearing away others’ property). His boat, house, house-extensions, holiday house, and dogs – purebred racing Greyhounds – have been accumulated opportunistically. The Kerrigans scour the trade papers for bargains. Once acquired, each purchase is accorded quasi-heraldic status. Non-purchases too: witness how the household acquires its front gates.

The Kerrigans are consummate appropriators. It is a sly irony. The movie recounts their struggle against appropriation by outsiders.

One day, the Kerrigans receive notice that their house is to be compulsorily acquired by the airport, so that the runway might be extended. The Kerrigans and their neighbors oppose this order in the courts. But their lawyer is out of his depth, and the airport is backed by powerful business interests.

“I’m starting to understand how the Aborigines feel,” mutters Darryl.

(It’s a sign of comedic deftness that this low-key political statement produces one of the movie’s biggest laughs.)

It isn’t hard to guess that the Kerrigans’ misfortunes will be reversed. In time, the lawsuit is heard by Australia’s highest court. The judgment favors the Kerrigans, and the “castle”-dwellers end up better off than before. The legal aspect of the story is, I suspect, sheer fantasy. The movie’s really interesting questions aren’t about law; they’re about value. There are questions about ownership and appropriation, and there are aesthetic questions. Can a life of utter tastelessness be good? How important is the aesthetic component, comparatively speaking?

Proverbs 15:17 says: “Better a vegetable dinner with love than a stall-fattened ox with hate.” The movie illustrates this principle.

For it leaves us in no doubt that the Kerrigans’ aesthetic capacity is very, very poor. Indeed, it’s their utter non-descrimination, their determination to embrace absolutely every piece of kitsch, that enables them to love each other as they do. This is made clear from the beginning, in brilliant faux-naïf voiceover, by Darryl’s youngest son, Dale (Stephen Curry):

I believe the movie is responding to a particular book – a classic Australian work of architectural and social criticism – The Australian Ugliness (1960), by Robin Boyd. (See the book’s Wikipedia article, and its Text Classics webpage.) Images of jet planes, electrical wires, and large TV antennae feature prominently in both works. It can’t just be a coincidence.

Some day, I’ll read the book, and then I’ll understand The Castle better. As funny, touching, and socially observant as it is, it’s an “ideas” movie, really.

A public service

I hope this is useful: a document listing the World Cup match times.

(They’re all set to the time zone in which I reside. If you’d like a list of match times set to a different time zone, let me know, and I’ll make one for you.)

The document can be printed on two sides of one sheet. I intend to fold up my printout, and to carry it in my pocket. I don’t want to always have to fire up the Internet to find out when the next game is.

The games will be played at different times every day.

(Why so?

This wasn’t always the case.)

The crash; Should I marry a murderer?

Karin returned to the office after a week’s vacation. I am at home with the boys – including Samuel, who has been puking – and with the three cats.

“School of Hard Knocks” Dory still fights with Ziva and Jasper. We worry for her permanency in our house.

She is gentle with humans, only occasionally biting them (in self-defense).

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Two noteworthy Netflix docs:

(a) The Crash

(b) Should I Marry a Murderer?

I don’t often look at Instagram or TikTok, so these two shows were something of a revelation for me.

Text messaging has for some time been a staple exhibit of the true-crime genre. (See, e.g., Lover Stalker Killer.) But, to my knowledge, only in the last year or so have documentarians made much of compulsive video posting.

The first show’s protagonist is a villain. The other show’s protagonist is a victim/​witness. The former is a teenager just out of school; the latter is a thirty-ish professional – a forensic pathologist (!).

It’s the teen who’s coldly calculating. The corpse dissector is warm-hearted, loyalty-torn, and ultimately heroic.

What they have in common is, they’re always posting video.

And, in the footage they post, using drugs.

(Each program goes to some length to explain that its protagonist’s drug use doesn’t affect the outcome.)

Both protagonists have unconditionally supportive parents, for better or for worse.

One show is as chilling as can be; the other is almost heartwarming. I recommend them both.

Body-text fonts, pt. 51: De Vinne

Our ten-year anniversary festivities continue. On the day itself – Thursday – we took Daniel and Abel to the beach; Samuel was in school, but Karin’s mom joined us. Then, today, Karin & I left all three children with Karin’s dad and traveled to Niles. We watched The Sheep Detectives and ate cheap hot dogs at the cinema, strolled through the park, bought books and fancy candy, and dined on pizza. It was very “us.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Penguin typeset a 1988 edition of The Virginian (1902) in De Vinne, a font from the late nineteenth century …

… only to re-set and reissue the book in Stempel Garamond, a little later. I guess the initial nod to quaintness was regretted.

Time was, this book was taught in schools.

On holiday in the “Region” (Northwest Indiana)

Karin & I will soon have been married ten years.

To celebrate, we dropped off Jasper, Ziva, and Dory at a cats’ hotel and headed west with our three little sons.

Not very far west.

Not as far as Illinois. Not even as far as Gary, Indiana. We did cross over into the Central Time Zone.

Our activities in the “Region” were zoological, botanical, athletic, culinary (White Castle), and commercial.

We toured: Michigan City, Valparaiso, Merrillville, Hobart, and – unpremeditatedly – Beverly Shores.

Beverly Shores is a beach town next to the Indiana Dunes National Park. Our phone GPS took us there because we asked it to find a playground. But we couldn’t park the car without a city-issued permit, so our children didn’t play in Beverly Shores.

Instead, we drove and gawked. We could see Chicago across the lake, and there were spectacular houses that looked out in that direction. Some had been built for the Chicago World’s Fair of 1933 and then transported east, by boat.

I hadn’t known that there was such glamor in the “Region.”

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Our hotel was in Portage. It had a breakfast buffet and an indoor swimming pool. We used those conveniences daily.

It took all our effort to keep the children from destroying our suite. Abel, in particular, was a menace.

Samuel asked to go home and, the first night, was physically ill. He improved.

It was Daniel who took to the holiday with especial keenness. We hardly could coax him out of the pool.

One night, our family was bathing when a man and a woman came into the pool area. They looked very sheepish (they had come in and gone out once before). They disrobed, got into the hot tub, worked up some courage, and, I daresay, proceeded to do the deed while we were across the room. You’d think it was their honeymoon or anniversary; such was their involvement. But I suspect they were adulterers who had come to the “Region” to escape detection.

Come on, Hearts

As I type, the most important Scottish club match of the last forty years is being played at Celtic Park, where the hosts must defeat league leaders Hearts to retain the title. Only Celtic and Rangers have won the title since Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen did so, in 1985.

It’s almost halftime, and the score is 0–0.

I watched Celtic and Hearts play other teams earlier this week. Hearts looked the better side. But Celtic are at home.

I can’t stream the match. The browser won’t load. It must be that so many people are watching, Paramount+ can’t handle the volume.

That can’t be right. Paramount+ broadcasts the Champions League.

Well, some things are bigger than the Champions League.

Update: Hearts have scored.

Update: Celtic have equalized. Halftime.

Update: Celtic scored two late goals.

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Disheartening: publishing a book with Oxford (!) now involves negotiating with robots.

Pacho vs. Piero

Happy birthday to Mary.

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Some old-ish news:

For the second straight year, an Ecuadorian will win the UEFA Champions League. Paris Saint-Germain (the holders) and Arsenal will contest the final. Willian Pacho plays for PSG, and Piero Hincapié plays for Arsenal.

Both play for the national team, and they used to be teammates at Independiente del Valle.

I don’t care which club wins the Champions League. Arsenal once were purists; now they’re pragmatists. PSG are delightful to watch, but one can muster only so much enthusiasm for a propaganda arm of the Qatari state.

What about the players? Should I cheer more for Pacho or for Piero? Pacho won last year, and Piero hasn’t won. (Advantage: Piero.) But Pacho is likelier to play more minutes. (Advantage: Pacho.)

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Recent news:

CR7’s club failed to clinch the Saudi league title because of this very late “own” goal:

May’s poem

… is from Bernard Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees (the poem, “The Grumbling Hive,” was first published in 1705).

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The worst of all the multitude

Did something for the common good.

This was the state’s craft, that maintain’d

The whole of which each part complain’d:

This, as in music harmony

Made jarrings in the main agree,

Parties directly opposite,

Assist each other, as ’twere for spite;

And temp’rance with sobriety,

Serve drunkenness and gluttony.

The root of evil, avarice,

That damn’d ill-natur’d baneful vice,

Was slave to prodigality,

That noble sin; whilst luxury

Employ’d a million of the poor,

And odious pride a million more:

Envy itself, and vanity,

Were ministers of industry;

Their darling folly, fickleness,

In diet, furniture, and dress,

That strange ridic’lous vice, was made

The very wheel that turn’d the trade.

Their laws and clothes were equally

Objects of mutability!

For, what was well done for a time,

In half a year became a crime;

Yet while they altered thus their laws,

Still finding and correcting flaws,

They mended by inconstancy

Faults, which no prudence could foresee.

Thus vice nurs’d ingenuity,

Which join’d the time and industry,

Had carry’d life’s conveniences,

Its real pleasures, comforts, ease,

To such a height, the very poor

Liv’d better than the rich before.

And nothing could be added more.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Lines 167–203)

Speaking of changes in fashion: time was, there was a market for satirical political philosophy written in verse, and now there is none.

Dory

The kitten – now named Dory – is still with us. She came through her surgery just fine.

She’s a sweetheart. The children love her.

This photo is cute, but it doesn’t show how long-bodied and scrawny Dory is.

We mostly confine her to the bathroom. We’re introducing her to the house and to the other cats a little at a time, as advised in books. We’ll keep her if: (a) she and Jasper and Ziva get along, and (b) we don’t find anyone else who would like a cat.

A photo of Karin and Dory:

As you can tell, Dory already has ruined some of our blinds.