November’s poem

Tonight I recall Amy Macdonald’s stirring intonation, fifteen years ago, of “Flower of Scotland” (it preceded a defeat at Hampden Park).

I heard the anthem sung again today before Scotland played Denmark. Too rousing, I thought. Just watch, the Scots’ll come out pistols blazing and then get drubbed again. And, after McTominay scored a chilena in minute 3, Denmark did outplay the Scots, up and down the field – even, from m. 61, a man short. But the Scots, against the run of play, converted a tap-in (from a near-olímpico), then a blast from outside the box, and finally a lob from the center circle. They won, 4 to 2, and qualified for the World Cup. Yes, they were poor, but they clattered over the line. ESPN’s Scottish pundits were delighted.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

O Flower of Scotland

When will we see

Your like again

That fought and died for

Your wee bit hill and glen

And stood against him

Proud Edward’s army

And sent him homeward

To think again

The hills are bare now

And autumn leaves

Lie thick and still

O’er land that’s lost now

Which those so dearly held

That stood against him

Proud Edward’s army

And sent him homeward

To think again

Those days are past now

And in the past

they must remain

But we can still rise now

And be the nation again

That stood against him

Proud Edward’s army

And sent him homeward

To think again

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Roy Williamson, 1967)

Not Robbie Burns, not William McGonagall, just ordinary folk dreaming of having thrashed the English centuries ago and of maybe doing it again some day.

The “51st state,” pt. 2

A message from my high school French teacher and gentle fellow blogger, Madame Lorrie:

Good evening, JP – I just read your recent post regarding our sovereign nation. Most Canadians are spitting angry at the US President. I am one of them. We are refusing to purchase goods made in the USA, even groceries, which makes for some creative shopping. Stores are responding and are sourcing fruits and vegetables from countries other than the US with great success. We will not be traveling to the US for the foreseeable future.

I do thank you for the link to the list of Canadian literature. I have read 18 of them, mostly the fiction works, in my CanLit courses and my French courses. Alligator Pie is a fun book that my grandchildren enjoy listening to. Lots of rollicking rhythm and pure silliness that makes us all giggle.

We will not be conquered!

Hope you and your family are doing well.

I really ought to set up a decent commenting function for this blog.

Madame always was the best commenter.

Bless Canada. And Panama, and Greenland (and Denmark).

P.S. And Gaza. And Ukraine.

I shudder to think what other places will be added to the list.

December’s poems

Samuel plays with imaginary people. He used to give them borrowed names (“Batman,” “Robin,” “The Joker,” “Little Jack Horner”) or bland descriptors (“The Little Guy”). But his latest inventions are original: “Ms. Javey” and “Lorianna de Jour,” who season their food with something called cat de brun sauce.

(I don’t recall having put on any French TV recently.)

He also makes up soccer players and moves their tokens around on a little paper field. My favorite is a Dane named “Ontoast” – presumably, a combination of toast (Samuel’s favorite breakfast) and onside or on target (he talks a lot about “shots on target”).

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Daniel has been keen on George and Martha: One Fine Day, a book by James Marshall. This book is my inspiration for December’s poetry selections.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

A hippopotamusn’t sit

On lawn chairs, stools, and rockers.

A hippopotamusn’t yawn

Directly under tightrope walkers.

A hippopotamusn’t roll

In gutters used by bowlers.

A hippopotamusn’t fail

To floss his hippopotamolars.

The awful things a hippopotamusn’t do

Are just

As important as the lawful things

A hippopotamust.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(J. Patrick Lewis)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyterus autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo. – S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.

And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.

The broad-backed hippopotamus

Rests on his belly in the mud;

Although he seems so firm to us

He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,

Susceptible to nervous shock;

While the True Church can never fail

For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo’s feeble steps may err

In compassing material ends,

While the True Church need never stir

To gather in its dividends.

The ’potamus can never reach

The mango on the mango-tree;

But fruits of pomegranate and peach

Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo’s voice

Betrays inflections hoarse and odd,

But every week we hear rejoice

The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus’s day

Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;

God works in a mysterious way –

The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the ’potamus take wing

Ascending from the damp savannas,

And quiring angels round him sing

The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean,

And him shall heavenly arms enfold,

Among the saints he shall be seen

Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,

By all the martyr’d virgins kist,

While the True Church remains below

Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(T. S. Eliot)

“I want a hippopotamus for Christmas; only a hippopotamus will do … ”

A brush with death; an unnecessary tournament; baseball

Martin told me that I could watch the Euros with Univisión’s free Prende TV app. I kept an eye on all three of today’s games.

There was a harrowing episode: Denmark’s Christian Eriksen collapsed on the field, apparently due to cardiac arrest. CPR was administered to him. Players, fans, officials, commentators, Eriksen’s wife – all seemed traumatized (as Karin & I were, at home).

I was affected to see the Danish players, clearly anguished, forming a privacy wall around Eriksen and his caregivers.

Eriksen survived.

After a long delay, play was resumed, and the Finns earned their first victory at a major tournament.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Another edition of the Copa América is due to commence. I am not interested in this. The Copa was just played in 2019, in Brazil; this edition also will be held in Brazil. The venue was switched over from Colombia and Argentina. Why those countries should have been chosen is mysterious to me.

All the CONMEBOL countries take turns hosting, and the next turn should have been Ecuador’s. Ecuador might host the 2024 tournament, but this year’s tournament is unnecessary.

Whatever happens in 2024, all I hope for this competition is that it somehow helps, rather than hinders, Ecuador’s quest for World Cup qualification.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

We took Samuel to his first baseball game, at the South Bend Cubs’ stadium. We were in a club box with Karin’s coworkers. Samuel wouldn’t sit still, of course, so I spent most of the evening trailing him back and forth in the (rather crowded) club box.

The first knockout stage

… has been played out.

I just finished watching England defeat Colombia in a penalty shootout. This game had a villain: U.S. referee Mark Geiger. He called a very dubious penalty against Colombia, forfeited his credibility with the players, and was generally incompetent. In fact, he was a jackass. Given his history, he shouldn’t have been assigned to the World Cup in the first place.

With Colombia’s disqualification, one half of the playoff bracket looks utterly dismal. One of these sorry teams will reach the final game:

• Russia (KO’d Spain in a penalty shootout after playing bunker defense)
• Croatia (KO’d Denmark in a shootout after an utter snoozefest)
• Sweden (KO’d Switzerland with a goal from a deflected shot, mercifully ending an utter snoozefest so that extra time wouldn’t have to be played)
• England (toothless)

So far, all knockout games between two European teams have been deadly dull. We can expect more of the same for the quarterfinal and semifinal games in this half of the bracket.

The other half is much better. These are its surviving teams:

• France (scored four goals against Argentina)
• Uruguay (scored twice, and at will, against Portugal – seven minutes after beginning to play, and seven minutes after having been scored upon – and with breathtaking technique; dominated play without possessing the ball)
• Brazil (broke down Mexican resistance with two well-crafted goals)
• Belgium (showed attacking prowess by surmounting a two-goal deficit vs. Japan)

Even if France and Belgium should defeat the South Americans in the quarterfinals, we can expect them to give us a rousing semifinal game.

I list all the World Cup teams

Last night, I watched Peru defeat New Zealand, 2–0, to qualify for the World Cup. Earlier yesterday, Australia defeated Honduras, and the previous day, Denmark defeated the Republic of Ireland. And so the qualification cycle has ended.

Before I went to sleep, I recited all of the qualified teams to Karin:

Egypt
Morocco
Nigeria
Senegal
Tunisia

Australia
Iran
Japan
Saudi Arabia
South Korea

Belgium
Croatia
Denmark
England
France
Germany
Iceland
Poland
Portugal
Russia
Serbia
Spain
Sweden
Switzerland

Costa Rica
Mexico
Panama

Argentina
Brazil
Colombia
Peru
Uruguay

Iceland (not Ireland) and Panama are first-time participants. Peru last reached this stage when I was less than a year old.

I have vivid World Cup memories of all the other teams.

Illness; my mom’s birthday; libraries; Norman Podhoretz; Napoleon; the famous Danish book about traveling to Yemen

Jasper is over his gingivitis (but not the disease that caused it). He’s also past the sneezing and eye-running that plagued him last week. Now Ziva has both of those ailments. To my knowledge, this is her first illness.

Yesterday, she huddled miserably in remote corners of the apartment. Tonight, she’s more active – but no less afflicted.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

My mom’s birthday was today. I gave her some leftover pork that Karin cooked awhile ago. Then my mom asked for the recipe, and so I typed it up on LaTeX and sent it to her as a PDF.

Later, we held a supper for my mom, and Mary asked: “Mother, how does it feel to have all your children with you?” (In fact, David wasn’t there.) After the supper, we had a dessert, and after the dessert, Karin & I went to Walmart to buy medicine for the kitties.

It appears that Walmart sells The Oxford Handbook of Value Theory:

“Only 1 left!”

Even reduced by thirty dollars, the price isn’t nearly in reach. Nor does the Indiana University library system own a printed copy of the book. Nor can the e-book be accessed at my campus.

This leaves Interlibrary Loan. Thankfully, ILL is a marvel, a privilege that exceeds what any person could deserve, a manifestation of the grace of God and Caesar.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’m also using the library system to haul in old copies of three books recently re-released by NYRB. The first is Making It by Norman Podhoretz. A comprehensive review by Louis Menand is here.

The book itself is naturally witty, but also incorrigibly grasping. However, the author faces up to this problem rather well:

A critic with a very good pair of ears once wrote that he could hear in some of my essays “the tones of a young man who expects others to be just a little too pleased with his early eminence.”

Indeed. Podhoretz also observes shrewdly the guiding myths of Brooklyn Judaism, of the universities of Columbia and Cambridge (England), and – I haven’t quite got to it yet – of the New York magazine scene.

Still to come from the library: The Death of Napoleon, a short novel by Simon Leys, whose essays collected in The Hall of Uselessness are elegant, empathetic, and astute; and Thorkild Hansen’s Arabia Felix, about an eighteenth-century expedition of Danes to what is now Yemen. The Danes did not get on with one another. I hope to read about the details at this year’s church camp, to which, on Thursday, Karin & I will travel.