J. Edgar in a dress? Give it (and him) a rest!

    In the new movie, "J. Edgar," Clint Eastwood resuscitates one of the stalest of urban legends; namely, that the late director and founder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was a cross-dresser, and publicly appeared in drag.  One doesn't have to be a fan of Mr. Hoover, or the F.B.I., to come to the defense of a reputation he is unable to defend.
   Mr. Hoover was many things, some bad and some good, but there is no evidence that he was a cross-dresser.  I don't know what Hoover did in the privacy of his bedroom (and for that, I'm most thankful), but his public life appeared to be free of scandal. A recent article in the New York Times's "Styles" section, reveals that "J.Edgar," written by Dustin Black, includes a "Bates Motel" scene, in which Hoover is shown trying on the dress and pearls of his late mother.  While the rumors of Hoover's cross-dressing at parties supposedly attended by (surprise, surprise) Roy Cohn and Sen. Joseph McCarthy and accompanied by a retinue of blond boy playthings, took on a life of their own, regardless of their absence of veracity.  Forget that the source of the rumors, Susan Rosenstiel (ex-wife of  Schenley founder, Lewis Rosenstiel), had her own axe to grind, blaming Hoover for his imagined role in her divorce trial. Mrs. Rosenstiel, who later did time for perjury, was hardly a person of impeccable credibility.  And yet, the lurid details of these imagined hotel scenes became as real as if the incidents were filmed by "You are There."  There is no suggestion that the Mafia (hardly fans of Hoover or his Bureau) or anybody else, had any such "evidence."  If they did, they would not have hesitated to surface it.
   Even if Hoover was a repressed homosexual, he was clearly a product of his time, and no self-respecting public figure (especially one of Hoover's make-up--no pun intended) would have ever risked parading himself in public, at parties in  the Waldorf-Astoria no less, without fear of exposure. When Mrs. Rosenstiel badgered U.S. Attorney (and later N.Y. County District Attorney) Robert Morganthau to investigate claims (about Hoover) he dismissed them as "baseless."  These "charges" were similarly dismissed by the Justice Department.  Anyone old enough to remember the 50's and 60's would know that not even J. Edgar Hoover could have survived such a scandal.
  I know that no film biography can ever be done without some degree of "poetic license."  I remember when my oldest son, then in college, saw Oliver Stone's  movie, "J.F.K.," he was amazed that such strong (cinematic) evidence of a conspiracy to assassinate President Kennedy could have been ignored.  While I agreed that it was a good movie, it was just a movie, and bore little resemblance to the historical truth.  I was living in Biloxi, Mississippi at the time, and New Orleans was our nearest "big city."  New Orleans District Attorney "Big Jim" Garrison, portrayed by Kevin Costner as the epitome of rectitude and the very picture of the crusading D.A., was widely considered to be a buffoon and a demagougue, trampling upon both reputations and the truth.  At the risk of picking on Oliver Stone, remember the film, "W?" Presumably, former President George W. Bush (like virtually every human being) spends some portion of his or her life sitting on a toilet seat, but did we really need Stone to include such a scene in the movie?  Even Mr. Black's earlier biographical film, "Milk," necessarily had to contain some fictional dialogue in order to provide for dramatic exposition, and no one can blame him for doing so in "J. Edgar."  Most recently, the ill-fated docu-drama, "The Kennedy's" was (after family and other pressures were brought to bear) was rejected by the History Channel, and had to cast about before finally finding a home on the barely-known "Reelz" channel?  As with any historical cinematic recreation, the screenwriter has to be given some scope, and I don't begrudge either Mr. Black or Mr. Eastwood theirs.  What I do take issue with is their feeling the need to circulate what they both believe to be, if not a falsehood, a rumor totally lacking in supporting evidence.  I know I sound like a spoilsport, but even Mr. Black (the gay activist screenwriter of "Milk"), grants that there was no evidence to support Mr. Hoover's cross-dressing.  For this reason, there was no way they would include the "party dress" scenes at the Waldorf.  But still, it must have been irresistible to avoid including some scene of Hoover in a dress--something most everyone was hoping to see, even if it never happened.  So what did Mr. Black cleverly create?   Mourning the loss of his just deceased mother, a distraught Hoover tries on both her pearls and her dress.  He then tears off the pearls and sinks to the floor in tears.  Now, of course, no one was present in these moments of his private mourning, so all we can do is imagine his reaction to the passing of the woman whose "tough love," both captivated and controlled him.  Wouldn't it have been enough for him to take the dress and press it to his lips?  Perhaps, but that wouldn't have sold the popcorn. It's easy to say "What the hell, the guy's dead, lots of people hated him, and what fun to see the old red-baiter in a dress."  Dramatic license aside, I'm surprised at Mr. Eastwood for taking such a cheap shot (this time, Harry Callahan, the pun is intended).
  The Time's "Styles" article is accompanied by a caricature of  Eastwood (in cowboy garb) lassoing  Hoover attired in a strapless evening gown.  Okay, class, let's see a show of hands.  How many of you think such a drawing would have appeared in the Times, The Washington Post, or any-damn-where when Hoover was still running the Bureau? If, as would doubtless be asserted, it would have been unethical to portray a public figure in a manner bearing no relation to fact, why do so now?  The paper(s)  that had the courage to publish the Pentagon Papers, are not only silent in the face of the lies being spread about Hoover, but have made this troubled (and troubling) man the subject of ridicule.  There's a dirty little secret I'd like to let some of our younger readers (and perhaps a few of our older ones as well) in on.  J.Edgar Hoover was not simply kept in office for over fifty years by Democrats and Republicans alike because of fear. Hoover was considered a necessary evil.  He did a lot of good in professionalizing law enforcement and virtually invented forensics.  In the course of doing so, he carefully built up a personal image as managed as as any a Madison Avenue campaign.
   Along with going after many of the well-publicized "bad guys," he was late to take on organized crime, and reluctant to enforce and investigate civil rights violations.  His secret files ruined a lot of people's careers, and kept a lot of potential critics quiet.  He may have been wrong to trail and bug Martin Luther King, but was he wrong to confront Dr. King about his extra-marital affairs, or to warn Robert F. Kennedy about the dangers of his brother continuing an affair with former Mafia mol Judith Exner?  I think not.  After all, both men had vital public images to maintain and were just as vulnerable to being blackmailed for their real activities as Hoover would have been for his imagined cross-dressing. Perhaps President Lyndon Johnson (a pragmatic man if ever there was one) got it right. When once asked why he kept Hoover in office,  LBJ was said to respond, "I'd rather have him on the inside pissing out than on the outside pissing in."
  For every person who criticized the excesses of "Cointelpro," there were many others who were glad that someone was keeping an eye on the reality of Communist espionage in the United States, the Black Panthers and other groups who were perceived as threats to the public order.  (Wouldn't the more recent activities of FBI turncoat and communist spy Robert Hanssen have been enough to make Hoover turn over in--and perhaps arise from--his grave?) Yes, Mr. Hoover was heavy-handed in how he pursued his enemies (both real and imagined), posed a threat to civil liberties, and was obsessive about his fears, but let's not forget that he was doing our bidding.
   I propose neither sanctification nor excommunication for the soul of J. Edgar Hoover, just a simple reminder of Marc Antony's eulogy of Caesar:  "The evil that men do lives after them.  The good is oft interred with their bones."  So let it be with Caesar, but let Hoover rest in peace.
 
   

Cardinals Win World Series in 7 Games!

  It is an unseasonably cold and snowy October 29th, and the baseball season is finally (and appropriately) over.  After 162 regular season games (almost 163 in a couple of cases), two rounds of playoffs, and a World Series that went the distance, the summer game (once again) almost made it to November.
  As a Yankee fan, my team (as usual) won their division but, alas, lost to the Detroit Tigers in the fifth game of the short Division Series in which anything can--and frequently does--happen.  The Yankees played a lacklustre fifth game, with little in the way of offense.  Alex Rodrigues was coming off a season racked with injuries, and had an almost silent bat in the post-season.  Once the Yanks were out of it, I was able to sit back and watch the balance of a great post-season unfold.
   At the beginning of the season, the pundits had already scheduled the World Series as being between the Red Sox and the Philadelphia Phillies and, I had to admit, it sounded all too likely.  The Sox had a strong starting rotation and bullpen, and had added sluggers Carl Crawford and Adrian Gonzales to a lineup that already included such stalwarts as David Ortiz and AL MVP Dustin Pedroia.  Shades of murderer's row!  As for the Phillies, they had added the incomparable Cliff Lee to what was already the best starting rotation in the majors, and had a great lineup.  As we say in New York---fugedaboudit!  Who knew that the Phillies would be handily dispatched by the Milwaukee Brewers in the first round of the playoffs, and the Red Sox would experience one of the greatest end-of-season collapses in baseball history.  While the Yankees and Red Sox had traded first place in the Division after the All-Star break, the Sox entered September 1 1/2 games over the the Yankees in the Division lead and 9 1/2 over the struggling Tampa Bay Rays.  After a 7 and 20 September, the Red Sox found themselves in a dead-heat tie with the Rays going into the last game of the season.  They were guaranteed a tie-breaking playoff with the Rays if either they won or the Rays  lost.  Even though they were locked in a tight game against the Baltimore Orioles (who were cherishing their role as spoilers) , the Sox were leading when a 2 1/2 hour rain delay intervened.  But not to worry, the Fenway Faithful (suddenly born-again Yankee fans) were buoyed by the Yankees' 7-0 lead over the Rays.  Shortly after the rain stopped, the Sox were beaten by an inspired come-from-behind win by the Orioles, and the Rays' extra-inning win over the Yanks.  While stranger things may have happened in baseball, I'd never seen it.  Never, that is, until game six of the World Series.
   Usually, we hear more about epic collapses, than we do to come-from-behind surges. I, for example, still bristle over the Yankees losing the 2004 ALCS after leading the Red Sox three games to none, with one out to go in the 9th inning of game four and with the great Mariano Rivera on the mound. But the St. Louis Cardinals were 10 1/2 games out of the Wild Card race on August 25th, and, they, too, had their shot at the post-season on the last day of the regular season--and won.  They went on to win the NLDS and the NLCS and made it to the World Series.  After splitting the first two games, the Cardinals won game three, only to lose the next two to the resilient Texas Rangers.  So the Redbirds, underdogs against the powerhouse Rangers, found themselves down three games to two, encouraged only by their returning to St. Louis for the final two games (courtesy of a rare All-Star Game win by the National League) and a blessed day of rain, which enabled them to catch their breath (and rest their ace, Chris Carpenter for a possible game seven).
  What happened in Game Six was one of the most amazing things I'd ever witnessed on a baseball diamond.  In the interest of full disclosure, I'm old enough to remember Bobby Thompson's "shot heard 'round the world" in the final of the (best of three) NL playoff games in 1951, as well as Don Larsen's perfect game in the 1956 World Series---not to mention the Yankees' single-game playoff victory against the Red Sox in 1978-- thanks to Bucky Dent's home run, and Aaron Boone's extra-inning walk-off blast in Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS.  (Interestingly, both Dent and Boone share the same middle name in Boston--"Bleeping.")  And, as both the New York Mets and the Boston Red Sox recall, Mookie Wilson's  two-out grounder that--instead of resulting in a World Series victory for the Sox--rolled through the hapless Bill Buckner's legs, and forced an anti-climactic game seven.
   But Game 6 of the 2011 World Series took the cake.  In a see-saw battle marked by sloppy defense on both sides, the Rangers kept going ahead by one run, only to have the Cards tie it up.  And then, in the top of the 7th inning, the Rangers took the air out of the Cardinal's balloon by back-to-back home runs by Adrian Beltre and Nelson Cruz, followed by a run scoring single by Ian Kinsler.  The Rangers were up by a three-run cushion with three innings to go.  To be sure, such a lead is not insurmountable, but it was formidable, with the Rangers exuding nothing but confidence.
  By the time the ninth inning arrived, the Cards had trimmed the Rangers' lead to two runs, but closer Neftali Feliz had a 1-2 count on David Freese, and was one pitch away from victory. ("One Pitch Away," also happens to be the title of an excellent baseball book by Mike Sowell, which looks at the 1986 season, a year replete with single pitches that changed winners into losers.)  Freese connected on a 98 mph fastball on the outside corner, and hit a scorching line drive to deep right field.  Ranger outfielder (and ALCS MVP) Nelson Cruz was playing fairly deep in what is called the "no doubles defense." Cruz ran quickly back toward the fence and then, apparently having the ball in his sights, noticeably slowed down, only to watch the ball sail over his his glove and off the wall for a game-tying triple.  This play is already the topic of what used to be called the "hot stove league," where fans sit around the mythical pot-belly stove in the mythical small-town general store, and replay the last season until the spring thaw.  While the ball was not an error (with a capital "E"), it certainly was misjudged.  Not an easy catch to be sure, but one a major league right-fielder is expected to make.  It was doubly sad, given Cruz's great post-season.  He had, in fact, hit one of those back-to-back homers in the 7th which seemed to put the game on ice for the Rangers.  But now, the Cardinals had risen from the abyss, and had put the game into extra innings.  For a while, it seemed as if the Cards had blown a golden opportunity in not bringing Freese home for the winning run, for the Rangers bounced back with another two runs in the top of the 10th, courtesy of a rare home run by ailing slugger Josh Hamilton.  This was the fifth lead of the game for the Rangers, and while the Cardinals had battled back four times, this seemed a bridge too far to cross.  Although the first two batters got on in the bottom of the 10th, and were bunted to third by a pinch-hitting pitcher Kyle Lohse (the Cardinals had no more position players available to pinch hit), sacrificed the runners to second and third.  Ryan Theriot grounded out, narrowing the Rangers' lead to a single run.  Albert Pujols was walked intentionally to load the bases.  (I would have walked him, too.  In one game, he was intentionally walked three times.)
  Up came Lance Berkman.  Hey Yankee fans, remember Lance from last year?  He pinch-hit a few times, and occasionally platooned at DH when righties were pitching.  As a regular with the Cardinals, he hit 31 home runs in the regular season, and was having a great post-season.  Once again, down to their last strike, Berkman delivered a game-scoring single, the Cardinal's fifth come-from-behind tying hit of this remarkable game.  While Scott Feldman retired the next batter, the damage had been done.  The game was tied yet again, and we went into the 11th.  When Texas failed to score in top of the 11th, the stage was set for (soon-to-be Series MVP David Freese) to hit the game-winning home run to force a game seven.  (It was a pretty good game for Freese: a 9th inning game-tying two-out, two strike triple, and an an 11th inning game winning homer on the first pitch.  We should all have memories like that!)
  Although either team "could" have won game seven, it was as we baseball fans love to say, "all over but the shouting."  Texas was so devastated, it would have taken a miracle for them to win.  Think about game seven of the 1986 World Series.  After the Mets' last out win in game six, no less a Red Sox fan than radio personality Jonathan Schwartz observed, "even if they (the Sox) win game seven, they will have lost."  I knew what he meant.  In 2004, when the Red Sox came back from three games down in the ALCS to force a game seven, there was no way the Yankees were going to win. Too much damage had already been done.  All that remained was the death blow.
  To my surprise, the Rangers started things off in game seven with a two-run first.  But those were the only runs they scored in the game. The Cardinals immediately tied things up, and slowly built up to an inevitable 6-2 victory. Thanks to a day of rain, Chris Carpenter gave the Cardinals a strong six innings, and the bull-pen did the rest.  People following sporting contests have been pointing to "the agony of defeat" since the days of Grantland Rice, but the camera's focus on Nolan Ryan said it all.  But for every defeat, there is a victory, and while baseball--lone among the major sports-- has no time limit, someone has to win and someone has to lose.  This is, of course, why we watch, and root and--hopefully--come back for more.  And, oh yeah; just wait 'til next year!

Baseball: The last day of the regular season

   When I was a kid, baseball was played with two eight-league teams, the American and the National.  The team that did the best in each league was said to have "won the pennant" and would meet each other in the World Series.  Sometimes, the battle for first place went down to the final day of the season, and, very rarely, two teams in each league ended the season in a dead-heat tie, necessitating a one-game playoff in the American League (Cleveland vs. Boston in 1948) and a two-out of three in the National League (Brooklyn vs. the New York Giants in 1951).
    What happened on Wednesday was just as rare, and far more exciting.  It was, in fact, one of the most thrilling days in regular season baseball history.  Although I was never a fan of the wild card, I recognize that it can add an exciting component to the season's end especially when, as here, two teams in each league were tied with identical records. (As you read on, keep that 1951 Giants-Dodgers game in mind, for the 2011 season was to end with a walk-off home run second only to Bobby Thompson's "shot heard 'round the world.")
   What made the day even more interesting is that the two teams that had commanding leads in the wild card race at the beginning of September (the Atlanta Braves were 8 1/2 games over the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Boston Red Sox were a full 9 games in front of the Tampa Bay Rays) had squandered those leads and were on the verge of losing their bids for the wild card.  The odds of either of these teams losing such leads were remote; that both of them would do so was almost beyond comprehension. And yet, that is precisely where we found ourselves on September 28th.  But even then, Boston and Atlanta would have been assured of of a one-game playoff the next day, unless they both lost and Tampa Bay and St. Louis won.  Although St. Louis had won their game decisively (and knew they faced no worse than a tie with Atlanta), the Braves were locked in a nail biting, extra inning struggle that did not end until the 13th inning. When the Phillies scored the decisive run, the Braves were sent back to Atlanta, their season over. The Braves, by the way, had been within one out of victory, something that set the stage for what was yet to happen in the American League.
   Boston had split the first two games of the season-ending series with the last place Baltimore Orioles.  In the "rubber game" Boston had started one of their best pitchers, John Lester, on short rest, but he was in top form.  Lester is an admirable man and remarkable pitcher, having not only overcome cancer, but returning to be one of the best starting pitchers in the game.   Baltimore had nothing to lose, and were playing only for their pride.  As the last team in their division, they seemed to relish the role of spoiler.  Few people were unaware that the O's manager, Buck Showalter, had once managed the Yankees, and Bench Coach (and fomer Mets' manager) Willie Randolph had been a star second baseman for the Yankees throughout most of his distinguished career.  Neither had any love lost for the Boston Red Sox.
   The inevitable scoreboard watching gave the faithful of Red Sox Nation even more cause for comfort: their strange bedfellows, the New York Yankees (normally fierce rivals) were well on their way to assuring the Sox no less than a season-ending tie with the Rays, and the Sox were rooting for the Bombers to shut down the resurgent Rays.  The Yankees were coasting to victory over the Rays, up 7-0, through seven innings, a seemingly insurmountable lead.  The Red Sox, too, could glimpse victory, up 3-2 in the middle of the seventh inning, when a rain delay put their game on hold.  A Red Sox victory (coupled with Tampa Bay's inevitable loss) would have eliminated the Rays and given the Red Sox the wild card birth they had so nearly blown.  As Boston sat through the nearly hour and a half of rain, they (must have) watched in disbelief while the Rays came back with six runs in the bottom of the eighth inning.  By now, more than half the Yankee starting team was out of the game, and the Yanks had no desire to tire their trio of late-inning relievers to preserve a game of no real consequence (to them).  This is not to suggest that the Yanks didn't try hard to win.  You simply can't play 12-innings without a considerable effort.  Those who fault them for not having Robertson or Rivera pitch the 8th and the 9th are in need of reality therapy.  I think that all the teams that played on that final day (whether it "mattered" to them or not) reflected well on the professionalism of the game of baseball. But back to the game.  The Yankees brought in Corey Wade to pitch the 9th, and he got two outs and two strikes on pinch-hitter Dan Johnson.  When Yankee announcer commented that Johnson "had a lot of power and could hit the long ball," I laughed to myself as I looked at his meager record in 2011: one home run and a .108 batting average. ( .108 is simply beyond pathetic; something no National League pitcher would take pride in.)  I had forgotten that just a year ago, the same Dan Johnson had hit two homers against the Yanks in a 4-3 Rays' victory.  In any event, Johnson came through again with a home run in a move that made Rays' manager Joe Maddon look like the genius he is.  By the time play resumed in Baltimore, It was now 7-7 in the Bronx, and going into the 10th inning. By now, journeyman reliever Scott Proctor, back for a second tour of duty with the Yankees was on the mound and would remain for the duration.
  Boston meanwhile, having won the night before, was on the verge of winning consecutive games, something they hadn't done in the entire month of September.  For a team that had dominated all baseball for much of the season, this, too, was hard to believe. But Lester, working on short rest, struggled manfully through six innings, and left the game with a 3-2 lead, and the appreciation of both his team and its devoted fan base.  Although the Red Sox missed two golden opportunities to increase  their lead (one a base-running error by the otherwise excellent Marco Scutaro in the 8th, which led to him being thrown out at the plate, and substitute catcher Ryan Lavarnway's hitting into a bases-loaded double play with with one out in the 9th), closer Jonathan Papelbon (one of the game's very best relievers) struck out the first two Orioles he faced, and got to within one strike of securing a Red Sox win (and with it the certainty of ending the day in no worse a position than tied for the wild card).  What happened next seemed so fast as to have not been possible. Bang, a double by Chris Davis.  Bang, a double by Nolan Reimhold scoring pinch-runner Kyle Hudson to tie the score, and bang, a game-winning sinking liner to left by Robert Andino, bouncing just out of the clutches of the disappointing (and disappointed) Carl Crawford. The lowly Baltimore Orioles celebrated as if they had won the wild card, rather than spoiling another's chances of doing so.  The Red Sox, up 'til then had been 76-0 when leading after the 8th inning, but--of course--records like that never last forever.   Without a moment's pause, beleaguered manager Terry Francona turned on his heels and descended into the visitor's locker room.
  Everything now was up to the Yankees, who hadn't blown a 7-0 lead in the 8th inning since 1953 (the year, by the way, in which they were to win their 5th consecutive World Series).  Proctor pitched well through the 10th and 11th, but there was no one left to replace him when Tampa Bay star Evan Longoria led off the 12th with a line drive home run barely clearing the left field fence and foul pole, an almost mirror-image of Dan Johnson's 9th-inning game tying shot. (This has been compared as second only to Bobby Thompson's 1951 game-winner homer, but I think the Thompson home run is still way in front.)           For a relatively slow-moving game (compared to, say, basketball or football) a lot of crucial things occurred in a very short period of time, almost one on top of the other. In a span of less than half an hour, the Atlanta Braves had lost their extra-inning quest for the wild card, the Baltimore Orioles came from behind to beat the Red Sox, and the Rays, as the cliche goes, snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.  These were three strory-book finishes, each less likely than the one before.  Within minutes of the Braves setting the record for the greatest September collapse in baseball history, that unenviable achievement was eclipsed by the hapless Red Sox.
   In the interest of full disclosure, it must be recalled that the Red Sox, despite their well-publicized losses in critical games (often at the hands of the Yankees), turned the tables on the Yankees in 2004 by coming back from a 3-0 deficit in the ALCS to not only win the pennant, but go on to trounce the Cardinals in a four-game World Series sweep.  I must admit, I went into a two-week funk, something hardly becoming in a man of my years.  Was 2004 a worse collapse than those of the Braves and Red Sox?  Probably, but the pain for their fans is more than likely the same.  What was saddest of all was the dismissal of Terry Francona, the only Red Sox manager to have won a World Series for the Sox since 1918--and he won two, one in 2004, the other in '07.  Francona was a good manager and a classy guy, who deserved better.
    Most importantly, we sometimes need to remind ourselves that the reason we root for teams is because sports is (supposed to be) a pleasant distraction from our real lives.  Sports only "matters" if we choose to let it.  When I listen to fans at both Fenway Park and Yankee Stadium, screaming out that the Yankees or Red Sox "suck," I think they are missing the point (not to mention being bad sports).  You're supposed to be rooting for your team, not against the other.  In point of fact, these two teams not only don't "suck," but have pretty consistently been ranked among the top teams in the game.
   And so, the season may have ended for the Red Sox and the Braves, but disappointments await seven of the eight teams now engaged in the playoffs.  Four of the eight will see their seasons end in a matter of days. Ultimately, of course, there can be but one winner.  But that's baseball, and--as Ecclesiastes tells us--to everything there is a season.   But year from now, people will recall the end of the 2011 season as one of the most exciting they will ever have witnessed.  And for that, every fan can take pride in what is, after all, a great game.

Down double match point, Djokovic beats Federer

That someone could beat Roger Federer after being down double match point in the fifth set is remarkable enough.  To do it in two consecutive U.S. Open Semi-finals is almost enough to start the "Twilight Zone" music playing.  And yet, history repeated itself in Djokovic's astonishing 6-7, 4-6, 6-3, 6-2, 7-5 victory over the man widely considered the greatest tennis player in the history of the sport.  Few yardsticks can compare with Federer's 16 "Grand Slam" championships--the most of any man to ever to pick up a racquet.  (Technically, what we have come to call "Grand Slams" should be called "Majors," but I will resort to the more common parlance because, as a fan, that's the way I think of them.)
   There are, however, some asterisks we must factor in when viewing the "Slams."  Happily, these asterisks do not involve steroids.  In the overlapping period between the years in which the major championships were limited to amateurs and the "Open Era" (in which both amateurs and professionals could compete), there were a number of years in which greats such as Rod Laver were ineligible after he turned pro after his 1962 "Grand Slam."  (Laver, by the way is one of only two men to ever win the "Grand Slam," which involves winning, in the same calendar year, each of the Majors: The Australian Open, The French Open, Wimbledon, and The U.S. Open.  The other man was the great Don Budge.  Laver, however, won the Grand Slam twice, an astonishing feat.  But more of that later.)
   While it is almost impossible to compare players across generations (e.g. Tilden vs. Borg),  virtually every serious student of tennis grants that Laver's seven seasons of ineligibility for the "Slams" cost him one, perhaps, two championships per year. (Fellow Aussie Ken Rosewall, who turned pro a few years before Laver--and who was his greatest rival-- might have had a shot at that all-time record as well.) But Laver was still Laver, and stood head and shoulders above his competition. Just imagine someone winning the Grand Slam in 1962, and then winning again seven years later in his first year of regained eligibility. In any event, he would have had a good chance of matching or exceeding Federer's heady achievement.  The are, of course, a lot of "what ifs" in sports.  Ted Williams, for example, missed a  number of seasons as he fought in two wars as a Marine aviator. Clearly, this cost him many home runs, perhaps even another .400 season.
  Another serious argument against Federer's claim to preeminence is Rafael Nadal's clear dominance in head to head competition.  If he is the greatest player of all time, what does that say about Nadal, who holds a 17-8 record over him, including a 5-2 edge in Grand Slam finals?  None of this is meant to diminish Roger Federer's status as an all-time great.  He is clearly that, and is still--at thirty--easily one of the top players in the game.  While no longer number one, being number three in the world is, as they say, not too shabby.
  Without laboriously dissecting Saturday's almost four-hour semi-final match, a short overview will be helpful.  The first set found both players feeling each other out, playing good--but not great-- tennis.  It ended in a close and exciting tie-breaker, with Federer emerging the victor.  The second set was 6-4, and although close on paper, was all Federer.  Federer had the amazing record of dominance (182-1) when up by two sets to love in a best of five format.  His only loss was, tellingly, just last year, when the flashy Frenchman, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga came back from two sets down.  That it happened at the relatively advanced age of 29 only signifies the slight differences that can begin to emerge with the passage of time. Djokovic faced a steep uphill climb, having only once in his career come back from two sets down in a Major.
   The third set was also decided by a single break (6-3), with Djokovic cautiously doing what he had to do to get on the board.  The fourth set was all Djokovic, so much so that it almost seemed as if the great Federer was "playing possum" in preparation for the inevitable--and decisive--5th set.  We got a hint that Federer still had plenty "in the tank" when he came back from double set point to force Djokovic to serve for a 6-2 set.  This insured that Federer would begin the 5th set as server.  And serve he did.
  While Djokovic had crawled back to even the match at two sets all, and seemed to have the momentum, Federer promptly snatched it back. Federer began the set at the top of his game, holding serve easily through his first three service games.  Djokovic did so as well, but not as easily as Federer.  Djokovic's improved serve has been one of the keys to the great year he has had in 2011, but Roger Federer still has one of the game's great (i.e effective) serves, something that he can call upon in times of need. Still "on serve" at 3-4, Djokovic ran into trouble on the first point.  Federer had a frame-shot (a mis-hit that caroms off the frame of the racquet rather than firmly off the strings) that barely caught the right sideline, allowing Federer to smack Djokovic's off-balance return into the open court.  Clearly frustrated by the partisan New York crowd, Federer held up his racquet and tapped the frame as if to say, "come on guys, this is nothing to applaud." It should be noted that the crowd was so pro-Federer that they were even applauding Djokovic double-faults, something once unheard of even among the most enthusiastic tennis fans. While we sometimes (secretly) welcome double faults both as competitors and spectators, it is not what fans have come to see, and certainly not something worthy of applause.  Djokovic went on to lose the game "at love," and Federer, at 5-3, was finally serving for the match and a berth in the rain-delayed final, scheduled for late Monday afternoon to give both players a much-needed day of rest.  Djokovic won the first point to go up 0-15, but Federer quickly served an ace, evening the score at 15-all.   He won the next two points, and, at 40-15, victory seemed a foregone conclusion.  Announcer Dick Enberg and "color" commentators John McEnroe and Mary Carillo had all but anointed Federer the victor.  In truth, so had I.
  And then, a strange thing happened.  Deep in a hole against a man known for great serves, Djokovic was shown to nod, grimly.  Was he conceding defeat?  Hardly, it turned out.  The camera focused again on Federer, stoic and determined.  It then showed Djokovic, who nodded again, shaking his head, and pursing his lips downward.  While psychologists can debate was this means in body language, to me it was a gesticulation that said, "stay tuned, you ain't seen nothin' yet."  Now, mind you, I was as surprised at this as anyone, and later replayed my recording of the match to make sure I hadn't misunderstood it.  I don't think I did.  Djokovic was far from giving up.  Ferderer served a wide serve, "only" 108 mph,  but sharply angled.  Djokovic returned it with a "go for broke" cross-court winner faster than the serve.  The tennis fans who saw it will remember it forever.  I know I will.  The crowd went wild.  John McEnroe commented, "not too shabby."  Djokovic turned to the crowd, arms aloft, basking in the adulation he had been seeking for almost three and a half hours, and was finally receiving.  All smiles, Djokovic, still down match point was jammed by a marvelous Federer first served that skidded deep and right into his body.  Amazingly, he returned the serve.  Federer, was in perfect position to hit an inside-out forehand winner--a shot he owns.  But the ball hit the tightly stretched net just a little to the "ad" side of center, and bounced off the court.  In an alternate universe (or at Wimbledon where the nets are not as tightly stretched), the ball might have trickled over the net as a match-winning net-cord.  Federer would have then graciously raised his hand in the tennis tradition of "apologizing"  for such shots.  Instead, amazingly, it was deuce.  Even though Federer still had the serve and the match on his racquet, there was a palpable sense that the momentum had shifted.  Before you knew it, it was advantage Djokovic.  Federer then hit an ace (which Dick Enberg called "a champion's ace") to even it once again at deuce.  But a clearly reinvigorated Djokovic reeled off the next two points, and sat down at the cross-over, still trailing, but once again "on serve."  He then held serve easily, and it was now 5-5.  Everyone was wondering whether the great Federer could reach back and hold serve to force the tie-break that many in the crowd saw as the inevitable (and only fitting) conclusion to such a match.  But, alas for the Federer faithful, it was not to be.  Federer lost the first point when he sprayed a forehand wide.  After evening the game at 15-all on an easy overhead,  Federer netted what seemed like an easy backhand, to go down 15-30.   At this point, commentator Dick Enberg observed that Federer was handling things "as well as any man we could imagine."  He was obviously referring to the two blown match points, which, clearly, had gotten under Roger's skin. But hadn't Djokovic, in fact, handled the pressure far better than Federer, and isn't that what separates winners from losers, especially in tight matches such as this?  Regardless, both Roger and Nole played a great point, lasting twenty-five exchanges until Djokovic painted the baseline on a shot, which Federer blocked back, setting up a Djokovic forehand winner (At this point, McEnroe referred to the shot clipping the baseline as another "get out of jail card" and he couldn't "believe he's in this position." I couldn't either and, I suspect, neither did Federer.)  At 15-40, another extended rally (twenty-two exchanges) ended in  (yet another) inside-out forehand winner.  Federer had played well, but Djokovic was clearly on a roll.  When the two were awaiting the cross-over in their seats, John McEnroe then observed that you couldn't tell by looking at Federer what was going on in his mind, even suggesting that it might have been a "practice session"  for all one could tell. I disagree.  While Federer was expressionless, this was clearly not a "happy camper."
   The only question now was whether Djokovic could hold serve for the match, or whether Federer could break him to force a tie-breaker, something which would have driven the already crazed crowd completely out of their minds.  When Djokovic netted a forehand on the second point to tie the game at 15-15 after Federer sprayed a forehand on the first point, we were at a moment of high drama.  But that was where the drama ended.  Federer netted the next two points, setting up double match point, the same position Federer had put Djokovic in ten minutes (and what seemed a lifetime) ago.  After twenty-one ("count-em") bounces of the ball, Djokovic got the serve in, and Federer returned the serve long.  With apologies to the late T.S. Eliot, this was how game set and match ended, "not with a bang, but a whimper."  For Federer, it was a ghastly deja vu of his 2010 semi-final with Djokovic, when once before, dazzling strokes by Djokovic saved two match points.  This was less a case of "who blinked first," than Federer being blinded by the light of Djokovic's "go for broke" strokes.  When, in a post-match interview, Federer was asked about the loss, he replied in a manner both uncharacteristic of him and unbecoming of a great champion.  He said--and I'm paraphrasing--that some people are taught from the juniors, when they are down 5-2 to hit the ball as hard as they can. That's not the way I learned. I rely on hard work and that's the way I've always played.  The implication was somehow that Djokovic either didn't work as hard as Federer, or was somehow reckless or undisciplined in his approach to the game.  To my eye, as a long-time student of the game (albeit still an amateur), Djokovic is every bit as disciplined as Federer.  Indeed, as the record shows, Djokovic, upgraded his skill level from last year by working on his forehand and serve.  The result elevated his ranking from a distant number three in the world (behind Nadal and Federer) to an undisputed number one.  To the extent that this sometimes necessitates some audacious shot-making, Djokovic should be applauded for taking such risks.  Federer simply would not be the great champion he is without taking such chances of the big points.  In his heart of hearts, I suspect Federer understands this now all too well.
     Regardless, it was Djokovic who would be facing Nadal in Open final, in his crack at making 2011  the career year it has been to date.  As this blog goes to print, Djokovic went on to decisively beat Nadal in the Monday final, 6-2, 6-3, 6-7 (3), and 6-1.  While the scores appear to indicate an easy victory, almost every point was hard-fought, with numerous rallies going beyond fifteen (and sometimes twenty-plus) exchanges.  Nadal did all he could, and played a great match.  But, as with Federer, it was not enough to stop the steamroller that Novak Djokovic has become.  It is a marvelous thing that our three top men's players are not only as good as I any I can recall (clearly on a par with Borg, Connors and McEnroe) but outstanding gentlemen who are a credit to the sport.

Deuces Wild: Jeter gets 3,000th hit!

    While there certainly was an inevitability to it, all the hoopla cannot take away the enormity of reaching the 3,000 hit milestone.  To become only the 28th person in the history of baseball to accomplish such a feat is remarkable enough; to become the first person to do so as a New York Yankee is historic.  For people of my generation who started following baseball when Joe DiMaggio was still patrolling center field, I am among those fortunate to have seen many wonderful players in pinstripes: Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford and Phil Rizzuto just to name a few.  But even those at the very pinnacle of what is called the Yankee's "storied franchise," DiMaggio, Gehrig and the incomparable Babe Ruth, were unable to match yesterday's achievement by Derek Jeter.  Ruth, of course, should be cut some slack in this regard; he spent several years as an excellent pitcher, which deprived him of hundreds of plate opportunities.  DiMaggio's career was foreshortened by both military service and injury, and--of course--the first Yankee Captain, Lou Gehrig's by a career (and life) ending disease.  But still, there are always reasons "why not."  Doing it is the tough thing. Simply stated, 3,000 hits means 15 seasons of 200 hits.  This is incredibly hard to do, but Derek has done it.   It goes without saying that Jeter's number 2 will be retired when he hangs up his spikes, and that he'll get a plaque in Monument Park and will be inducted in the Hall of Fame on the first ballot.  The Jeter memories are legion, and can be recalled by short-hand: the "flip play," "Mr. November," and the "dive into the stands" are but three.  Let's put these to the side for a moment, and focus on the improbability of his day at the plate on July 10, 2011.  In doing so, let's be brutally candid.  Derek Jeter is in what we baseball fans euphemistically call "the twilight of his career."  Talk about deuces wild, Yankee announcer Michael Kay focused on the mystical quality to what happened.  Up comes number 2, in the second game of the series against the Rays, two hits shy of 3,000.  At precisely 2:00 pm, in his second plate appearance, he gets his second hit of the day, a home run.  In doing so, he becomes the second man in history to do so with a homer (Wade Boggs was the other), and the second man to get five hits on the day he reached 3,000 (Craig Biggio was the first, but it took him six at-bats to do so).  But enough about synchronicity, let's talk baseball and unlikeliness.
   Derek Jeter is, by and large, an opposite field hitter.  He knows how to hit the ball "inside out," and when he does so, the shot is known so well, it is called "Jeterian."  And it is usually a single or, less often, a double.  So what happens for hit 3,000?  He pulls the ball into the left-field seats for something more "Ruthian" than "Jeterian."  And, lest we forget, he goes on to hit the game-winning single for hit number five.
   Baseball is a wonderful game, prone to fall in love with its own lore to the point of forgetting the cold-eyed business that it is.  Even this game reflected that.  After Friday's rain-out, the Yankees and Rays split over whether to make it up in a double-header.  The Rays would have done it back-to-back, but the Yankees insisted it be a day-nighter with, of course, separate admissions.  But be that as it may, two things happened that reminded me of why my love affair with baseball has continued through six-decades plus.  When Derek rounded first on his 3,000th hit, Rays first-baseman, Casey Kotchman, doffed his hat.  And then Christian Lopez, the young man in the stands who caught the ball,  (arguably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on the memorabilia "market") returned it to the Yankees, saying it was Jeter's accomplishment and he deserved the ball.  So hats off to both Kotchman and Lopez and--most of all--to Derek Jeter, who rose to the occasion in a manner beyond his (and our) wildest dreams.

Baseball, Bonds, and Era Comparisons

  There's an old French saying, "Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose," which--freely translated-- means the more things change, the more they stay the same.  People often like to say that baseball games are one of the few events that a time-traveler from, say, 1910, would find had changed the least.  Baseball fans tend to be purists (except when it suits them not to be), and are resistant to change.  While I am hardly a fan of the designated hitter rule (although, as a Yankee fan, it has served me and my team very well), it is absurd to have the two leagues play by such different rules.
  In viewing baseball statistics with a telescope, it will be pretty easy to measure the height of the steroid era by the number of players who had career-high home run years.  Amazing as the Maris-Mantle 61 and 54 home runs were in that asterisk year of 1961, the McGwire/Sosa experience of 70 and 66 was positively astonishing, only to be soon eclipsed by Barry Bonds's 73 in 2001 (the year Sammy Sosa hit 66!).  What in the world, we wondered, was going on?  All too soon alas, we knew.  Steroids, which had seemed to be (medical uses apart) the sacred precinct of grotesquely developed bodybuilders, was apparently the drug of choice of many of our favorite ballplayers.
   When I was a kid in the early 50's, the only active-duty players who had ever hit over 50 home runs in a single season were Pittsburgh slugger Ralph Kiner, and the New York Giants' Johnny Mize.  The others were an incredibly small circle of greats: Babe Ruth (four times), Jimmie Foxx (twice), and Hank Greenberg and Hack Wilson once each.  That was it until a couple of New York boys named Mantle and Mays joined the club, followed by Roger Maris's finally breaking the Babe's record.  From 1961 until 1990, only a single player had joined the elite 50+ club, and that was Cincinnati stalwart, George Foster in 1977.
    Since 1990, it has been done no fewer than twenty-five times, with Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire leading the pack with four 50+ seasons each (50, 63, 64, and 66 for Sammy, and 52, 58, 65 and 70 for Mark, respectively), and Alex Rodriguez three times (52, 54, and 57). Interestingly, Bonds's record-breaking 73 home runs in 2001 was the only time he ever hit more than 49 in a single season.  While we will never know how many of these homers would have been hit had these men not been "under the influence," their records will be forever tainted. What seemed too good to be true,  as with most things in that category, turned out to be just that, at least in the sense of being unaided.  One thing which is ironic (and a bit sad) is that Alex Rodriguez (like Bonds, a great player with or without steroids) has almost certainly fared as well without steroids as he did with them.
    Whatever your (or my) opinion on whether or not these "steroid era" achievements should eliminate any (known) players from Hall of Fame contention, it certainly has had an effect on McGwire and Sosa, and will doubtless be a major issue with the recently (and barely) convicted Barry Bonds.  One of the things that prompted this blog was an article in the April 15th edition of the New York Times, in which sportswriter William Rhoden raised the "era" issue, in (somewhat) equating the record-distorting effect of steroids giving players an advantage analogous to hitters who didn't have to face black pitchers (in the pre-Jackie Robinson days), and that this advantage somehow inflated their batting achievements due to the presumed lessened competition.  While there is no question that integration has greatly increased the talent pool in major league baseball (much as its absence constituted a moral outrage that outraged all too few until Branch Rickey, as it were, stepped up to the plate), we have to be careful not to let all sports records be rationalized in the name of "moral equivalence."
  Baseball has been a game of many changes, some large, some small.  While many people remember the advent of the designated hitter rule (extending the life of many an aging slugger no longer able to play the field--hell, Babe Ruth could still be playing if the DH rule applied in the mid-30's), few recall the 1969 decision to lower the pitcher's mound from fifteen to ten inches--a clear concession to struggling batsmen.  The increase (by eight games) from a 154-game season to the current 162 caused quite a stir when Roger Maris broke Babe Ruth's then record of 60 home runs in a single season.  Many demanded that an asterisk be placed next to Maris's accomplishment, lest anyone think that he had beaten the Babe fair and square. One thing, however, that is rarely discussed in comparing statistics from one era to another is, what, in my view is the single most distorting "innovation" on baseball history.
   Most of today's fans are (understandably) too young to remember the days two leagues with eight teams each.  With twenty-five man rosters, the major leagues were limited to (hopefully) the best 400 players in professional baseball, with the rest relegated to the minors, where they would strive, with some degree of success, to make it to the Show.    Some genius (or geniuses) decided that baseball would be twice as popular and twice as much fun (not to mention twice as profitable) if they doubled the number of teams.  We now have an American League of fourteen teams, and a National League of sixteen teams (Why fourteen and sixteen?, I hear you ask. It's a good question.  Apparently, an odd number of teams in each league--say, 15 each--would have caused scheduling problems.  Bud Selig solved this problem by volunteering that his Milwaukee Brewers move from the A.L. to the N.L.  Odd as the 14/16 split may appear, a different number of even teams is less odd than the same number of odd teams. )
  When you virtually double the number of major league baseball players (from 400 to 775), where do these new players come from?  Either from washed up major-leaguers no one else would sign on waivers--think the '62 Mets--or from the minor leagues.  One does not have to be a sabermetrician to measure the likely diminution in the talent pool when you double the number of players.  The math is simple--approximately half of the hitters will be facing pitchers (half of whom) they will not be able to hit at the "major league" level, and, correspondingly, half the pitchers will not be up to the task of getting out half the batters they face with the degree of ability and consistency now required of them.  But hey, it sold tickets.  Obviously, this is ancient history, and perhaps the combination of lesser batters and lesser pitchers facing better pitchers and better batters (or some combination thereof ) cancel each other out and the record books don't change all that much.  (And, in fairness, the records didn't change that much until the steroid era. True, we haven't seen any .400 hitters since 1941 or 30 game winners since Denny McClain, but maybe night baseball and five-pitcher rotations have made such records unbreakable.)
  That said, I submit that the increase in roster size was a change in kind (and not simply in degree), and this has altered the equation in ways that are hard to measure.  What is clear, is that many people wearing major league uniforms would not have made those same teams forty years ago.   As a result, good pitchers will, by and large, have an easier go of it than did their predecessors, and good hitters will similarly do better against a lesser universe of pitchers.
  I'd be especially interested in hearing from retired ball-players (or coaches) who have been able to judge the changes in the talent pool on a first-hand basis.  Until then, I rest my case. And, oh yeah, play ball!  

Elizabeth Taylor

  I learned of Elizabeth Taylor's death late yesterday afternoon.  Like so many fans, I felt saddened and, of course, older. There was an excellent extended obituary in today's New York Times by the late Mel Gussow, written in 2005.  Obviously, the Times (and doubtless other newspapers) has obituaries on famous people already written and "ready to go" when the death actually occurs.  What was interesting was reading a posthumous obituary, written by someone whose own death preceded that of his subject--in this case by more than five years.  The photograph on the front page shows Miss Taylor at her most beautiful, probably taken when she was in her late twenties or early thirties.  The black and white head and shoulders photo could not, of course, do justice to those beautiful violet eyes, let alone her ample bosom.
  When I was a pre-pubescent boy of eleven, I was asked by a more mature lad of twelve whom I found more attractive, Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor.  Aware that this was a "taste test," I knew I was supposed to choose Miss Taylor, but to me, it was no contest.  Although unaware of it at the time, I'd already been hard-wired for brunettes, and in that category, not even Gina Lolabrigida or Sophia Loren--great beauties in their own right--could hold a candle to Elizabeth Taylor.  In any event, Taylor and Monroe were the reigning American beauties of the early 50's and neither choice could have been wrong.  I suppose that Miss Taylor exuded a kind of sophisticated elegance to which Miss Monroe neither sought nor achieved, although one could argue that Marilyn's appeal (at least in choice of husbands) was felt by our very best athlete (Joe DiMaggio) and most prominent playwright (Arthur Miller).  (Tennesse Williams was exempted from that universe by virtue of sexual preference, but he certainly recognized Miss Taylor's qualities by selecting her to play at least two of his movie heroines.)
   Miss Taylor (she, apparently, hated being called "Liz," so I will refrain from so addressing her) was married eight times (twice, as is well known to the same man--Richard Burton) and admittedly loved not wisely, but too well.  The marriages I remember most were those to Michael Todd, whose name I knew best as the producer of "Around the World in Eighty Days," and Eddie Fisher, his successor in interest.   I saw a pregnant Miss Taylor beaming at the Oscars, accompanied by Todd, and envied him for putting her in the condition for which I would have so gladly substituted as an adolescent surrogate.  When Todd tragically died in the crash of his small private plane, she was the beautiful, grieving widow with whom all America sympathized.  In a blog from last September, I wrote about the passing of Eddie Fisher, who was headlined in one obit as "Princess Leia's father."  For those readers too young to remember,  Fisher had been a teen-aged heart-throb almost on the scale of Elvis Presley, who succeeded Fischer as America's most popular vocalist.  Apparently, Miss Taylor, who was informed of Fisher's death by his daughter Carrie (she of the above Princess Leia reference), wept over his passing.
  But, marriages apart, Elizabeth Taylor lives on through her movie roles.  While she won Oscars for "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe (which I saw) and "Butterfield 8" (which I didn't), those are not her most memorable roles to me.  She was at her unattainable peak at 19 in "A Place in the Sun," the 1951 movie of Dreiser's "An American Tragedy."  She was the rich man's daughter for whom the upwardly socially mobile Montgomery Clift forsook his pregnant everywoman, Shelley Winters, and ultimately paid the price of sin (and crime).  Watching this movie, you can feel Clift's pain, years before Bill Clinton popularized the expression.  I felt it, too.  Some years later, in "Suddenly, Last Summer," Miss Taylor again played opposite Montgomery Clift (as a grant-seeking psychiatrist) and Katherine Hepburn. This time, she played the beard of a doomed young man named Sebastian, who literally got eaten alive (no kidding) by a band of natives on a beach to which he was accompanied by Miss Taylor.  The movie is among Tennessee Williams's lesser, but more sensational efforts, most memorable for the white, skin-tight bathing suit Miss Taylor wore, complete with plunging neckline, in which she aroused more libidinous interest for my cohort of teen-agers than the most explicit pornography was to do less than ten-years later for the next.
      I saw Elizabeth Taylor at a charitable event in 1982, an evening memorable for me because I had the opportunity of visiting with another legend, the late Lena Horne who had just concluded her Tony-award winning show, "A Lady and Her Music."  She was gracious, friendly, and astonishingly beautiful at sixty-five.  Sadly, Miss Taylor, at fifty-one, had not held up as well.  Struggling with her own battle to control her weight, she was surrounded by a fawning retinue of three or four men and women, desperately applying powder to her lined and aging face.  I write this not to speak ill of the dead, but to underscore the shock I felt at seeing her, finally, and flawed, "in the flesh."  I suppose that one of the drawbacks of being the most beautiful woman in the world--and she was--is that it is a designation which is, by its nature, fleeting.  Like a former heavyweight champion of the world who has become become fleshy and ungainly in middle-age, so Miss Taylor found herself confronted by the battle of time, the one fight that is impossible to win.
    But that painful memory is supplanted by my visions of her on the silver screen, a legacy that she has left us all; for when I see her as, say, Maggie the Cat (in Williams's "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"), she makes one pause in disbelief at how even Paul Newman (as her tormented--and sexually conflicted-- husband) could have resisted her incomparable beauty.  It is equally important to mention that Miss Taylor was universally regarded as a kind and caring person, beloved by fans and friends alike.
    In the "Critics Notebook" that accompanied Gussow's obituary, Manohla Dargis began her reminiscence of Elizabeth Taylor's movie career with a sentence that is a fitting ending to this piece:  "The last movie star died Wednesday."  Indeed.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

   The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ("the Hall") recently announced its 2011 Class of inductees, and among the new members are Neil Diamond, Tom Waits. Dr. John (AKA: Mac Rebennack), Darlene Love, and Jac Holzman. The main point of this blog is to congratulate the Hall on these new additions, and say a few words about the inconsistent selection criteria employed by the Hall over the years.
   Darlene Love, of course, was one of the Crystals ("He's a Rebel") and was part of Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans, who did the great cover of "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah").  (Trivia question: which other 2011 inductee has recorded a Disney classic?  Stay tuned.)  Love will forever be associated with Phil Spector and his "wall of sound," and songs like "Da Doo Run Run." She sang the best version of  "River Deep, Mountain High," I've ever heard, and it remains a still under-appreciated rock classic.
  Tom Waits is an enormously talented and indiosyncratic musician.   He is the composer of "Jersey Girl," and while an "acquired taste," he, like good scotch, is a taste worth acquiring.
   Jac Holzman was the founder of Electra Records, and introduced the music world to such greats as Judy Collins, the late Phil Ochs, Carly Simon, the Doors and many others.  (While he didn't introduce the world to the great Josh White, he greatly increased White's exposure to a new generation of blues enthusiasts.)  The face that Josh White has not been admitted to the Hall as an "early influence" is a glaring omission.  Ask any blues guitarist worth his licks.  As for Holzman's taste, just look through the Elektra catalogue of the 60's and 70's, and you'll find it a folk and folk-rock who's who.
   Dr. John is a great New Orleans musician, whose piano playing and singing carry the tradition of Dixieland jazz to a new audience, all while advancing his own, unique style.  Listen to him sing "Making Whoopie" (with Ricki Lee Jones), the old Eddie Cantor staple, and you'll know what I mean. That said, a rock and roller he ain't.
   Last, but far from least,  is the long-overdue induction of Neil Diamond.  The Hall requires a performer to  have a twenty-five year reign as a musician before becoming eligible.  They sometimes gets a little too "purist" for my taste, and bend over backwards to honor people who can hardly lay claim to being rock and rollers.  Miles Davis and Johnny Cash were great musicians, but rock was not their genre, nor did they have much influence on the development of rock qua rock.  Look, Tony Bennett, nd Ella Fitzgerald have each made immeasurable contributions to American popular music, but no one should seriously bemoan their absence from the Hall.  Based on his Brill Building credentials, Neil Diamond could have made the Hall as a songwriter alone.  Among other songs, he wrote "I'm a Believer," for the Monkees.  Speaking of the Monkees, their omission from the Hall strikes me as an oversight.  To be sure, they were an "invented" group, an admitted knock-off of the Beatles, and created for TV.  Even so,  they recorded "Last Train to Clarksville," "Daydream Believer," "Pleasant Valley Sunday," and enough other good songs to qualify.  While we're looking at overlooked performers, where' are Carly Simon and Linda Ronstadt? Even Carole King (whose blockbuster "Tapestry" remains one of the great rock albums of all time, is not in the Hall as a performer.  Yes, I know she made the hall with (ex-husband) Gerry Goffin as songwriters, but, come on, she is certainly a performer worth recognizing!  Getting back to Diamond, the fact that so many of us grew up singing and dancing to his songs shouldn't be a disqualifier. Please don't dismiss him as more of a "pop" singer than a rocker.  If so, why is Bobby Darin in the Hall?  Diamond's "You Don't Bring me Flowers" (in fairness, hardly rock and roll),  remains one of the most poignant, adult laments I've ever heard.
    As for other notable omissions, Meat Loaf (and lyricist and pianist Jim Steinman) created the great "Bat Out of Hell" as a reaction against what it saw as the "wimping out" of rock in favor of the folk-rock crooners James Taylor, Jackson Browne and the like.  While I greatly admire Taylor and Browne, doesn't Meat Loaf deserve a shot?  As for the oldies' Carl Perkins and Gene Vincent had basically one-hit each, and made the Hall.  If these country singers made it, what about the multi-talented Kris Kristofferson.  Isn't "Me and Bobby McGee" as worthy as "Be-Bop a Lula?" And as for old rock n' rollers, where pray tell, are the Cleftones? (Oldsters like me fondly remember "Little Girl of Mine," "Can't we be Sweethearts, "You, you, you," and others.  They were real street corner singers.)
  So, two cheers for the Rock  and Roll Hall of Fame.  You usually do get it right,  but sit back one night and give a listen to the people whose songs should be considered knocks on the door.  It may be hard to believe, but Rolling Stone (long considered the rock bible), originally dissed, Elton John, Billy Joel, and the Eagles!  Now they're in the Hall, where they belong.  More importantly (as my son Jason points out), these artists--and their songs--have stood the test of time.
  I believe the Hall should have a "veteran's" committee, like the Baseball Hall of Fame at Cooperstown, which periodically reviews (and corrects) earlier oversights.  As someone present at the creation of rock and roll, I've always believed it is an emotional music, something that you feel.  While rock criticism has its place, don't rule people out who know how to write the kinds of songs people enjoy hearing.  They came not just from the Brill Building, but from Nashville, St. Louis, Tupelo, New Jersey and Hibbing, Minnesota.

The Tale of the Blue-toothed Mouse

Okay, if you saw the title of this, say, twenty years ago, you might have thought it to be a strange fairy tale, or, perhaps, the title of a bad Science-Fiction novel.  But since this is D.A. 2011 ("Digital Age"), you know what I speak of is an Apple bluetooth mouse, a critical accessory to my new (and, in other respects, terrific) MacIntosh Desktop  OS X 10.6.6.  When I first set it up and installed all the software, the wireless mouse and keypad worked fine.  Soon, alas, I saw a "battery low" indication on the computer.  I disconnected the bluetooth mouse and plugged my old trusty "USB" mouse, which worked just fine.  Since there are nice features peculiar to the bluetooth mouse, I brought it into the local Apple store, and sought the guidance of one of their resident "geniuses." While he had no explanation for  the quick wear-down of the factory supplied batteries, he did suggest that the solution lay in my  purchasing an Apple charger and four Apple rechargeable batteries to obviate the likelihood of the batteries wearing out in the future.  This, I was told, could be had for a mere $29.00.  Why such an accessory was not included in my otherwise state of the art (and pricey) computer, was not explained, apart from the obvious fact that such needed accessories are yet another reason for Apple's extraordinary success.
       Imagine my surprise when the rechargeable batteries did not help my bluetooth mouse move the dormant arrow on my computer screen.  I reluctantly reconnected my faithful "USB" mouse, which worked just fine, and charged my "rechargeable" batteries overnight.  The next morning, sad to say, the supposedly reinvigorated batteries failed to get a rise out of my impotent bluetooth mouse.  I went on-line and typed in my problem (as described above), not once, but twice.  I was then told that an on-line"genius" could answer my question if I agreed to a $38 fee.  Now, I have both the original plus an extended warranty I purchased for the product, and found the "offer" of the $38 charge for a covered service was adding insult to injury. (Permit me, please, a brief  digression on Apple marketing.  Given the $29 cost of the re-charger and the $38 fee for the promised assistance of the on-line "genius," one can't help but wonder about the process by which Apple decided on what to charge for these products.  It's like the old gimmick of charging $19.99 to make it seem less than $20.00.  I wonder who the "genius" is who suggested those odd prices.)
     Reluctant to pay for Apple's on-line assistance, I opted to patiently wait my turn to speak to a real live Apple person.  When he at last came on the phone and announced his name as "Hal," I couldn't help but flash on the Kubrick's  "2001."  He was, however, "real," and, as luck would have it, couldn't have been nicer.  He assured me that there would be no charge for his assistance.  After trying numerous tests, he couldn't figure out why my keyboard should work and my mouse remain hiding in its digital hole.  Excusing himself to consult his supervisor, he returned to have me disconnect, than reconnect my bluetooth software.  At long last, my bluetooth mouse regained its teeth, and I am typing the very blog you see with its assistance.
    Much is made about the impatience of the younger generation and how they now lack the attention span to write a e-mail let alone a ("snail-mail") letter, and how they can barely skip from tweet to abbreviated tweet  (one is reminded of the old Speedwriting subway ad "If u cn rd ths, u cn gt a gd jb & hi pay").  I think this is a bum rap. After having navigated (in the digital equivalent of hunting and pecking) my way around my computer, iPod, iPad, Blackberry, and fax/printer/copier/scanner, and having to endure seemingly endless waits to establish human contact (including, in its preposterous extreme, trying to call a number to get assistance on an inoperable computer only to be advised by the voice robot--just before disconnecting the call-- that I should seek assistance by going on-line), I have nothing but respect for the endurance of  the younger generation.  They have to have inexhaustible patience to endure the waits, end-runs, misdirections, and dead ends that are the way-stations of cyber-space.  Bravo, young folks!  In an earlier day, I would have called or written the President of the company in question and--after being foisted off to an earnest underling-- been able to more easily air my complaint (and vent my frustrations).  With luck, I would have received a coupon redeemable for an industrial sized box of Cheerios.
    Now, even the telephone company (or, more accurately, companies), utilizes voice robots and refers you their websites when you attempt to get information relevant to a device which, after all, is meant to facilitate oral conversation.  If there is one type of business that you might expect to have retained person-to-person contact, it would have been the telecommunications industry. Believe me, if they want to communicate with you to, say, expand your services, they know how to reach out with a human being and contact you in the middle of dinner by phone.
    But, in the spirit of being wary of getting what you wish for, after waiting to speak with a friendly representative from (fill in name of company), you may wind up having your horizons broadened by a polite young man or woman from Calcutta, who hasn't the slightest idea of how to address, let alone, redress, your problem.  LOL,
                                            John
    

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Duke Snider, R.I.P.

         Whenever he returns to Brooklyn on his trips east, my old friend, fraternity brother (and unreconstructed Brooklyn Dodger fan), Don Burris, loves to point out the vacant lot in Flatbush on 17th Street (between Tennis Court and Albermarle Road) which was once home to Edwin Snider, illustrious Brooklyn Dodger center-fielder and "Silver Fox," best known as "Da Duke of Flatbush." In a (slightly "on its heels") neighborhood of apartment houses, the lot was once the only private home on the block.
       The Duke died on February 27, 2011 at the age of 84, leaving only Willie Mays as the surviving member of the greatest municipal triumverate of center-fielders the baseball world will ever know.  (I could have said "has" with certainty, but say "will"with some confidence, given the unlikelihood of any city ever again housing three major league baseball teams.)  But New York was, for much of my youth, such a town, and Giant, Yankee and Dodger fans would (and often did) fight to defend their choice of Willie, Mickey, or the Duke as the premier center-fielder in baseball.  As a lifelong Yankee fan, I  pretend to no objectivity on the point, but admit that statistics can be arranged to support any of the three as the best.
      "What?" I can almost hear you say in shock. After all, in its listing of the 100 best players of the 20th century, "baseball bible," The Sporting News, listed Willie Mays as #2, with Mantle trailing at #17, and Duke Snider, a respectable, but distant #83.  "How," you ask, can the Duke, though good even be spoken in the same breath as his fellow hall-of famers?  Batting skills apart, the Duke, like Mantle and Mays, was an excellent fielder. Though much is made of of Mantle's speed, and Mays's arm, it is easy to forget the skill with which Snider patrolled centerfield; his arm a rocket, overshadowed only by the thunderbolt of his right-fielder, Carl "Skoonj" Furillo.
       It was not for nothing that Snider earned the sobriquet, "Duke."  Prematurely grey in his 20's, Snider cut a handsome and dapper figure, both in and out of uniform.  He broke in with the Dodgers in 1947, and was an early champion of Jackie Robinson, and one of the first players to scotch a petition circulated by Fred "Dixie" Walker urging players to refuse to play with Jackie.  The Duke was a great clutch hitter, twice tying the then World Series record of four homers in a single series.  (While Reggie Jackson and Chase Utley have since broken that record with five, no one has ever hit as many as four twice.)
      So yes, statistics will argue that--despite the fact that Snider's lifetime batting average of .295, trails Mantle's .298 by only three points, and Mays's .302 by seven--Willie and Mickey stand head and shoulders over their Brooklyn counterpart.  But consider this: in the critical "Wins above Replacement," category  (which measures the value of replacing a player with a nondescript minor-leaguer) from 1953-1957, Snider's 8.55 beats Mantle's 7.3, and trails Mays's 8.62 (time adjusted for his having missed the '53 season due to military service) by a mere .07.  Consider further this question about the the 1950's.  Who would you say (not only among the three, but across a baseball landscape including such stalwarts as Ted Williams, Stan Musial, Ted Kluszewski, Yogi Berra, and Eddie Mathews) led the majors from 1950-59 in (a) home runs and (b) runs batted in?  The answer for both (a) and (b) is Duke Snider.  Who'da thunk it?  A bunch of aging Brooklyn Dodger fans (like my wife, Riki--although she's ageless), that's who!
    Sportswriting (and sportswriters) have changed.  The peccadilloes of our heroes have long been the stuff of sports headlines. Mickey Mantle, by his own admission, was an habitual alcoholic and womanizer, and the Duke was found guilty of tax-fraud for not disclosing income from baseball-card shows. Even Willie Mays was banned from baseball for a short period due to his connections with a gambling casino.
   When Snider was traded by the (by then Los Angeles) Dodgers, it is said that Don Drysdale wept. So did the ("'buked and scorned") Flatbush faithful.  Let's face it, (apart from moving to L.A. along with the turncoat Giants), the Dodgers had already set a precedent of sorts, when they prompted Jackie Robinson's retirement by trading him to the (gasp!) Giants.  While baseball loves to wallow in nostalgia, it is clearly revisionist, as the sport is (and has always been) a strictly bottom-line venture.  But enough about baseball as the business that it is.  I choose to look at it with the rose-colored glasses through which my youth always seems, well, rosier.
    About fifteen feet from the computer on which I'm typing this blog, there is a section of wall that is my shrine of baseball memorabilia.  By far its most treasured photograph is one taken from an old-timers day at Shea Stadium.  It is an autographed picture of the four best center-fielders to ever play for New York Teams.  It is Willie, Mickey and the Duke (and, oh yeah, a guy named DiMaggio).  Of the four, of course, only Willie survives (and long may he live!).  The others live on in the memories (however distant) of our sun-dappled youth, when we sat in the bleachers and screamed our lungs out for the best center-fielder in New York--whoever that might have been.  For many--and not without reason--it was the Duke of Flatbush.
 
   

I am curious about the butter (Yellow)

In what must be the work of the gods, two women who--Linda Lovelace notwithstanding--had more to do with the advent of mainstream erotica than any others I can recall, died within a day of each other.  If someone had mentioned the names Lena Nyman and Maria Schneider to you out of context, say, last week, you might well not have remembered the two and the incredible notoriety they caused when first they burst upon the scene.  On February 6th, the NY Times reported the death of Lena Nyman, the blonde-haired girl-on-the-street interviewer cum-politico of the landmark 1968 Swedish (nu, vu den?)  film,  "I am Curious (Yellow).  A day earlier, I had seen a web posting announcing the death of Ms. Schneider.  It seemed an almost unimaginable coincidence that these two child-women had died in late middle-age, one after the other.  While it doesn't take much to make me feel older these days, trying to imagine Maria and Lena, dead at 58 and 66, respectively, certainly did the trick.
    When "I am curious (Yellow)" opened in New York City in 1968, I, along with many curious New Yorkers (including the late Jackie Kennedy Onassis), literally lined up to see the movie.  Apart from a good bit of fleshy full-frontal nudity on the part of Ms. Nyman, it featured the first instance of female on male oral sex, at least in the non-pornographic film genre.  The day I attended, an audible gasp could be heard in the audience when the ever inquisitive Ms. Nyman took the penis of her co-star into her mouth.  With that bold move of oral audacity, the then 22-year-old Ms. Nyman, secured her place in movie history.  While years later, she played a supporting role in Ingmar Bergmann's "Autumn Sonata," nothing could compare to her auspicious debut.
    When, the day before, an internet blurb notified the blogosphere on the passing of Maria Schneider, I immediately"googled" her name.  Not surprisingly, references to "Maria Schneider and Butter," and "Go get the Butter," immediately flashed on the search screen.  The latter was, of course, Marlon Brando's famous post-anal rape improvised line.  (Before, Marlon, before!) Indeed, prior to going to the movie with a friend who is now a distinguished journalist, his pre-film review was succinct:  "Johnny, we've gotta see this.  Brando actually sodomizes a girl!"  The prospects of such a cinematic experience was difficult for any red-blooded American male to pass up, although the notorious scene itself was more suggested than graphic.  That said, the young (20 year-old) Ms. Schneider paraded around naked throughout much of the (otherwise undistinguished) film, much to the pleasure of the (mostly) male audience.  (Apparently, the film as originally shot, included some "full Monty" by Brando as, well, but director Bertolucci chickened out, saying that it would be like parading himself nude on screen, and he was too embarrassed to do such a thing.)  The pre-film hype talked up the possible attraction between the fifty-year old Brando and the twenty-year old Schneider, who shrugged it off as only the young can.  "He's overweight and old enough to be my father," was the quote that has stayed with me 'lo these many years.  While the movie was passed off as an "art film," which--back then--meant that you didn't have to avoid eye contact with your fellow cineasts as you entered and left the movie theater, it was marketed with what a Supreme Court opinion once described as "the leer of the sensualist." What was interesting was how the film's producers decided to charge the going rate for porno flicks--a then-astonishingly exorbitant $5.00.  There was, then and now for that matter, a good bit of hypocrisy about what passes for art. People who never would have set foot in a XXX movie house flocked to see both "I am curious" and "Last Tango."
   Until their deaths, I had neither any idea, nor interest in how their lives turned out. Sadly, it was all too mundane.  The fetching Ms. Schneider, after a couple of co-starring roles in first run-movies (e.g. "The Passenger," with Jack Nicholson), faded into oblivion.  A lifetime of well-publicized affairs with both men and women, coupled with some serious substance abuse, rounded out the biography ending in her death at  the too-young age of 58.  Ms. Nyman, too, quickly faded into obscurity, surfacing (as mentioned above) in "Autumn Sonata"in 1978, and was rarely heard from since.  It is hard to believe that "I am Curious" remains (when adjusted for inflation) the highest grossing foreign film ever.  "Last Tango," (which I re-saw a couple of years ago on cable) has had a mixed history.  For many years, it was banned it its native Italy, but has finally been released to Italian audiences. I don't think the muddled film, has improved with time, although some movie critics (the late Pauline Kael, and Roger Ebert) think it one of the great films of our age.  Judge for yourself, but be prepared to stifle a yawn or two in the process. But great films or not, the two were certainly landmarks, and their heroines remain in (my admittedly dim) eyes as forever young and nubile.

"Peng Liyuan, the Very Model of a Modern Major General"

   In today's New York Times, there is an article about China's "heir apparent" premier, Xi Jin-Pang. In it, I came across something that struck such a wonderfully dissonant chord, I had to re-read it to make sure my eyes were not deceiving me. The sentence in question was with respect to Mr. Xi's wife, who was described as "a celebrity folk-singer and army major general."  I suppose this could only be possible in  countries like China --and, possibly, Israel-- whose revolutions are within the memory of many people still living.  In the United States, for example, the revolutionary fervor of the founders (the Tea Party notwithstanding) has been tempered by more than two-hundred years of relative stability.
   For us, folk singers have usually been of a radical and counter-cultural bent.  In China, the spirit of revolution would not be as inconsistent with being a career military officer (let alone a general) than it would be in the U.S.  Just imagine the wife of one of the leading contenders for president of the United States being described in that manner.  I remember when I (in the face of a draft notice), reluctantly entered Officer Training School  back in the mid-sixties, being asked, "how could you, an english major and a folk-singer, enter officer training?" It was, I guess, not that unusual a question, as my contemporaries, Bob Dylan, Phil Ochs, and Paul Simon had somehow resisted the "lure" of military service in pursuit of their muse.  They either knew something I didn't, or successfully claimed the little-known "folkie" exemption to the draft.
     But getting back to Peng Liyuan, hardly Gilbert & Sullivan's "model of the modern major-general," I leave you with the following imaginary headline from the 60's: "Tonight, Senator Carl Reynolds of South Dakota will be giving the keynote address at his party's national convention.  His wife, Major General Joan Baez, accompanying herself on guitar, will perform the national anthem as well as "With God on Our Side."  Not!