October’s poem

Not a horror poem but a love poem.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(William Butler Yeats, “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

October is for baseball, too.

Shohei Ohtani enjoyed an historic night in the NLCS. He pitched six innings and struck out ten batters, allowing two hits and zero runs. He batted three times and hit three home runs.

(Very roughly, it’s as if Erling Haaland or Pelé had tended goal for sixty minutes in a Champions League semifinal, stopped several good shots, given up a few corners, kept a clean sheet … and scored three goals.)

Freddie Freeman, pt. 2

John-Paul: “Children, what should I blog about?”

Samuel: “Blog that we’re getting a new brother – ‘Pip’.”

A heartwarming answer.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Let us again salute Freddie Freeman, who has homered in every game of this World Series. (As I type, it’s the third inning of Game 3.)

Freeman looks just like Mike, my next-door neighbor. Talks like him, too.

I mentioned it.

“It’s been pointed out before,” Mike said. “It’d be nice to be him.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Is it strange that I want to read a 900+ pp. textbook of British criminal law?

Is my anglophilia/​crime lit appetite out of control?

Today I learned of Lon Fuller’s “speluncean explorers” (1949), which I am a little ashamed not to have come across before. I had read about R v Dudley and Stephens (1884) and Philippa Foot’s “fat man stuck in the cave mouth” (1967), a sort of Lon-Fuller-Meets-Winnie-the-Pooh scenario (see p. 7; Foot says the case is “well known to philosophers,” although I confess I don’t know who previously discussed it).

Similar cases involve the shipwrecked guys who fight over a plank; and, in Candide, James the Anabaptist, whose plight, perhaps not interesting to the theorist, is (I hope) especially poignant to the person on the street.

The sports

You’ll have to enlarge this to read it.

I would choose the sushi, the ham-and-cheese pizza, the pasta salad, the Nutella sandwich, the bologna-and-chorizo sandwich, and the fruit.

(I doubt the authenticity of this. Was there no second fullback?)

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It’s time for my annual baseball peek: Dodgers vs. Yankees, World Series Game 1. No runs yet. I’ll watch until the Fox Sports app’s free preview expires. We need a TV antenna. … The celebs are out in droves. … It’s nice to see such plain uniforms on both teams. I appreciate the subtle palm trees on the Dodgers’ socks. … Shohei Ohtani sure is … tall. … I like it that so many people in Japan are watching the Dodgers at 9:00am.

Karin: “Sports ads are garbage.”

First run scored: triple, then sacrifice fly. Dude wore a mitten to slide home hand-first. I’d never seen that.

Update: First walk-off grand slam in World Series history:

He is a “sixth-generation Salvationist” (Wikipedia; cf. the source article).

D1 and D2; Alan Jacobs

Daniel’d been having trouble seeing through his bangs, so we gave him the most drastic haircut of his life.

“Wow … different kid,” his Uncle David remarks.

I’m inclined to agree: I’d assign metaphysical import to this haircut. One boy, D1, used to live with us; another, D2, has taken his place. The genetic, psychological, and behavioral characteristics remain unchanged; but whereas D1 was innocent (if mischievous), D2 is responsible for misdeeds.

The leading corporeal, mental, and biographical theories of personal identity fail to account for this. I have more evidence, then, for my outrageous pet theory that personhood and personal identity are response-dependent properties. … I don’t really subscribe to this but suspect it’s as defensible as any response-dependent theory of anything.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

People in my orbit have been quoting from and forwarding blog posts by the consistently enjoyable Alan Jacobs. I never thought I’d have much interest in Thomas Mann’s Joseph and His Brothers, but Jacobs has changed that; and here is his nice little manifesto, “Bring Back the Blog,” of which I wholeheartedly approve.

Today, reading about Goodhart’s Law (but how well does it describe sports?, I wondered), I followed links and came across, in someone’s book, a reference to Jacobs’s admission that baseball, one of his lifelong passions, has come to a dead end. And my respect for him grew tenfold.

The year of the dandelions

Jasper, poor boy, is walking around with a silly-looking shaved leg where the veterinarian put in an IV. She made him unconscious so that she could clean his teeth. (One especially bad tooth had to be extracted.)

She also found a single flea. Jasper now must undergo a de-fleaing regimen.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I mowed again today – not that it’ll make much difference, tidinesswise. The lawn is infested with dandelions. They regrow themselves in one or two days.

And not just our lawn. The whole neighborhood; maybe, the whole city. On our block, even the neat freaks’ lawns have dandelions this year.

But not the lawn directly across the street. That neighbor – an old woman – has an immaculate lawn, tended to by her middle-aged children, who take turns coming over to work on the yard. I used to think them overly fastidious, but now that I see how they’ve overcome the plague of dandelions, I tip my hat.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’m no baseball lover, but this documentary about Yogi Berra looks wonderful. This review begins with an illuminating story.

One night, a friend of mine who lives in Montclair, New Jersey, drove me around the exclusive neighborhood on the hill to show me all the mansions. … We came to a fork in the road, and my friend said, “No matter which fork you take, you get to Yogi Berra’s house.” He then drove me around the circular road to show me.

The World Serious

This blog entry’s title is due to Ring Lardner, who, in my estimation, is the all-time greatest Son of Michiana (he was born in Niles and began his reporting career in South Bend). So much lore surrounds baseball, I wish I liked the sport. I try to watch some of the Serious each year, if only to root against the Yankees (or, lately, the Astros); often, I end up rooting against almost everyone in the stadium, but I do cheer for this or that player. A pitcher in his late, late thirties, usually. One who glares like Clint Eastwood.

This year, the Astros and the Phillies have split the first two games. It’s been exciting. (But then, watching homemade YouTube videos of marbles racing each other down the gutter can be exciting.) For reasons of moral decency, I want the Phillies to win, even though that Bryce Harper fellow carries himself obnoxiously and, let’s face it, the city’s reputation isn’t good. But perhaps virtue is irrelevant in the World Serious. The sport is hardly without blemish.

“How did MLB get to [the] point where no African American players on a World Series roster isn’t a surprise to many?” asks a Yahoo! columnist, inelegantly.

The answer: economics. “Baseball is a white, suburban game reinforced by foreign labor.” Clubs can pay to develop players, or the players can pay to be developed (I mean, their parents can pay). And so the players come from two sources: academies in countries like the Dominican Republic, where it is cheap for the clubs to operate; and domestic pay-to-play leagues, which are even cheaper, because the clubs don’t pay. Pay-to-play. What an idea. Not only is it exclusionary, it’s, like, one step removed from giving your money to a casino. There’s a lot of that around South Bend, and not just in baseball.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

South Bend novelist makes it big

Here’s a pretty typical “rags to riches” story for this part of the country. One parent works for a Catholic high school; the other works for Notre Dame. Kid gets free tuition. Skips town as soon as possible. Moves to New York, then Los Angeles. Writes debut novel about how challenging it is in the Rust Belt. Becomes establishment darling.

Back in South Bend, the dozen-plus copies in the library system are all in use. People here love to root, root, root for the home team.

Newpaper profile 1 (The Guardian).

Newspaper profile 2 (Los Angeles Times).

Library event.

The sports

We watch the White Sox’s starting pitcher give up his first hit against the Twins, after 8 2/3 innings. He looks like his dog just died.

We tried, he says. But they got us.

Yeah, if by “they got us” he means they spoiled his no-hitter but still lost thirteen to zero and ran out of pitchers. (Two of their position players had to take the mound. What’s wrong with that guy’s wind-up? What’s wrong with his hair? Since when do pitchers look like that?, I wondered before I realized what was going on.)

Still, I bet the Twins are drinking champagne and dancing a conga back in the clubhouse. Back in Minneapolis, even. Because the Sox didn’t get a no-hitter against them.

Well, maybe they are doing those things. What do I know. Baseball culture is so bizarre to me.

Why is that player spitting so much?, Karin asks.

They always spit.

You know what I miss from playing tee-ball and softball? she says. When we’d line up and tell each other “Good game.”

Then:

Who is that ancient guy in the Medicare commercial?

I squint at the TV. It’s late. My contact lenses are drying up inside my eyelids.

Joe Namath.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Were I a loyal South Bender, I’d watch Notre Dame get beaten by Ohio State. But I must not be one, because no matter what I do with the antennae and the remote control, I can’t get ABC to come in on the TV.

I really do want to watch, honest. I really do want to see the Irish lose. How the years have changed me.

This game is all they were talking about at work today, Karin says.

Is it being played here, or in Columbus?, I ask. (Don’t shake your head at me. I really don’t know. I seldom leave the house.)

Traffic hasn’t been all that bad, says Karin.

So the game must be in Columbus.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

For several years, I’ve been watching video highlights of Erling Haaland without ever seeing him in real time. Until today, that is, when he suits up for his new club, Manchester City, against Aston Villa.

Some stats from the TV:

In his first half-dozen English Premier League matches, Haaland has scored ten goals; only one other person has done that.

During the season’s first five matches, Haaland scored one goal for every fifteen touches of the ball. One goal per twenty-five touches is supposed to be a world-class scoring rate. (The announcers don’t explain what they mean by “world class,” but I assume it’s something good.)

In six games, Haaland has scored more goals from within the six-yard box than any other EPL player has scored – except for one other (unnamed) player – since the beginning of last season. That is, he leads virtually everyone in that category even though he’s been eligible during 30–40 fewer games.

Scoring so many goals from inside the six-yard box means this. The player has a knack for being in the right place at the right time. And the defenders know this about him, and they still lose track of him.

In other words, he’s very, very smart.

Haaland gets today’s goal from inside the six-yard box; indeed, he scores it with his very first touch from inside the penalty box. He’s been marked so carefully that it’s taken him until the second half to get that touch. (It isn’t as if his positioning has been bad. His runs into open spaces have been impeccable all day long, although the passes to him haven’t been.)

But what most impresses me is his hold-up and linking play. Even with defenders climbing up his back or wrenching him to the ground, he controls waist-high passes and lays the ball off, smoothly and with perfect timing, to onrunning teammates. I’d start him on my team even if he never scored any goals. Teams have won with non-scoring strikers who did superb hold-up work. Haaland does that, and he’ll probably end up scoring more goals than anybody else.

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.

Dodgers 3, Red Sox 2

Last night, Karin & I watched the first half of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca. Then we turned it off, agreeing to save the rest for later. We were tired, and we wanted to see what was happening in Game 3 of the World Series.

The Dodgers and Red Sox were tied with one regular inning to go. We decided to watch the rest of the game. (It was about eleven o’clock.)

Ha! The game went into its tenth, eleventh, and twelfth innings. The managers made moves and countermoves. Runners populated the bases but were stranded by gritty pitching.

Long after midnight, Karin went to bed.

The thirteenth inning was wild. Each team committed a blunder that allowed the other to score. The game was still tied at the beginning of the fourteenth inning.

Then, the quality of play worsened. Batters stopped trying to get on base: they swung hard at every pitch, hoping to quickly finish the contest. There were many flyouts and strikeouts. At the end of the seventeenth inning, I decided that nothing of interest would follow, and I went to bed. It was after 3:00am.

Sure enough, the Red Sox failed to reach first base in the top of the eighteenth, and the Dodgers then won by hitting a leadoff home run. It had been the longest game in World Series history – the equivalent of two games, inning-wise; and, time-wise, longer than the entire World Series of 1939. I’d watched half of it.

As I type, the teams are tied in Game 4. It’s the top of the ninth. …

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Update: The Red Sox scored five runs in the top of the ninth.

Update: The Dodgers managed just three more runs.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Update (Sunday): The Red Sox won Game 5 and clinched the World Series.

Under the bridge

At work, Karin earned two tickets to a local minor league baseball game, along with two free ballpark suppers. To avoid the $7 parking fee, we rode the bus; upon arriving, however, we found we’d left the baseball tickets at home.

We would’ve eaten elsewhere downtown, but the heavens opened up a torrent. We ended up staying at the bus station for about an hour. Then we rode to a McDonald’s near our apartment.

After our supper, as we were walking home, it started raining again – very hard – and so we took shelter under a bridge. I was busy explaining why extant theories of bodily resurrection leave a great deal to be desired. Karin snapped this photo of me:

It’s a bit dark, which probably is a good thing, considering my disheveled state.