Oscar Brand, R.I.P.

      Oscar Brand passed away on Friday, at the ripe old age of 96, and, with him, went his encyclopedic and unparalleled  memory of folksongs and folksingers.  Interestingly, I would guess that few people outside of the still-inbred world of folk music aficionados even recognized his name.
     And yet, to anyone who cared about folk music, Oscar's radio program on WNYC, "The Folksong Festival," was the premiere venue for appearing on, or simply hearing, the best in folk music. As the New York Times obituary pointed out, Oscar's program tops the list for longest continuous running programs--from 1945 to his final show, September 24, 2016.
     Folk music--as those of you too young to remember what James Taylor called "the great folk scare of the 60's"--had mostly been a genre limited to either musicologists, campfires (think "Kumbaya," "Michael, Row the Boat Ashore," etc.), beatniks, or the rest of us fiercely nonconforming conformists who filled its limited ranks.  But, for those of us who loved both playing and listening to the songs, it was pretty close to the end-all and be-all of music.  There was, of course, an exception to this niche status, and that was the during that "scare" period, which began in the late 50's with the advent of the Kingston Trio who (following in the footsteps of "The Weavers"), were soon themselves followed by a myriad of clean-cut folk groups ("The Limeliters," "The Highwaymen," "The Tarriers," "The Journeymen," Peter, Paul and Mary," etc.)  Without exception,  these groups--whose surviving members would readily concede--would never have gotten where they did without the groundwork laid by Oscar Brand.  Prior to that, popular folksingers had been limited to the cabarets and Hootenanny halls, and those gaining national recognition were limited to Burl Ives,"The Weavers," Harry Belafonte, and a literal handful of others.
    Interestingly, although never a household name, Oscar was among this handful, largely due to the success of a sub-genre of folk music he called "Bawdy Songs and Backroom Ballads."   Before this series began, the only proponent of such off-color songs was "Dirty" Ed McCurdy, who had his own series of lesser-known albums of mostly Elizabethan ballads called "When Knighthood was in flower" and subtitled "and maidens lost their heads."  (McCurdy, by the way, had a much greater claim to fame, also largely unknown,  He was the writer of the classic, "Last Night I had the Strangest Dream") 
    I was introduced to Oscar's music at summer camp through Volume Three of his bawdy songs albums, which had been smuggled in by an older camper, and included a less graphic version of a camp favorite called "The Bastard King of England."  Another of his bawdy songs, "A gob is a slob," told about the dangers of getting too close to a sailor (be it in bar, bedroom, or shower), and was cleaned up by Oscar and turned into a number one single by Doris Day, called "A Guy is a Guy."  In point of fact, Oscar was brilliant in rewriting--at the expense of, as he put it--"bowdlerizing" many of the old bawdy folksongs so that they were suitable for album release, if not airplay.  Oscar's songs were staples at the camps I attended or worked at into my early twenties.
      But the bawdy songs series was just a small--if the most commercially successful--part of Oscar's repertoire.  I think the Times's obit did him a disservice, in referring to his voice as "gravelly" and sometimes "off-key." Although the advancing years certainly took its toll on his vocal skills, I found the timbre of his announcing voice mellifluous and his singing voice lilting, in fine pitch, and most enjoyable to listen to. Oscar, along with Pete Seeger, were among the earliest post-Leadbelly players of the twelve-string guitar, doubtless inspiring the many who went on to popularize this once esoteric instrument.  Oscar was a pioneer (along with guitar genius Les Paul) in overdubbing his voice in harmony.  Working on the sonically experimental label, Audio Fidelity--one of the very first to feature stereophonic sound--Oscar's albums on that label were landmarks in sound recording. His bawdy series featured the fine banjo work of Dave Sear and the aforementioned vocal overdubbing. While this piece is not meant to be a discography of his works, several albums stand out for those who want to have more familiarity with Oscar's oeuvre.  Two of these are on the old Riverside label: "G.I. American Army Songs," and "American Drinking Songs." On the first, Oscar is accompanied by Weaver Fred Hellerman and, on the second, by  (former Tarrier, Weaver and Rooftop Singer) Erik Darling.  Among the "Bawdy Songs" series, Volumes 3, and 5 and 6 ("Bawdy Sea Shanties" and "Bawdy Western Songs") are standouts. "Oscar Brand Sings for Adults," also accompanied by Fred Kellerman, is a concert album, and a good introduction to Oscar as a "live" performer."
    I first met Oscar at one such concert, at New York's Cooper Union.  I brought along my then-six year old son Jason who--along with his younger brother, Larry--had grown up with Oscar's "lullabies" in the background. After the show, I brought Jason up to meet Oscar, who had just finished a program of children's songs.  Jason asked him if he would sing, "Can't you dance the Polka?" a bawdy classic which referred to  a sailor's rueful night spent in a brothel.  (Sorry, P.C. Police, too many years have passed to prosecute me for tampering with the morals of a minor.) Oscar stepped down from the stage and  obliged by playing the "clean" chorus of the song, much to Jason's (and my) delight.  This was the kind of man he was; friendly, approachable, and generous. Lastly, "American Dreamer," is a good example of Oscar's work  as a songwriter.  Any of these albums is well worth your time and  attention.
   Oscar's achievements as a collector and musicologist are often overlooked by many who know him (if at all) as a performer.  The late Dave Van Ronk said, in his autobiography, "The Mayor of MacDougal Street (with Elijah Wald),  in what can only be describe as mild hyperbole, "Oscar knows 575 trillion songs; if any living human being has a larger repertory than Pete Seeger, it could only be Oscar."
     The last time I saw Oscar, was when he was on-stage at the Brooklyn College salute in honor of the hundredth anniversary of Woody Guthrie's birth.  Sadly (and astonishingly) he had not been selected to perform, and only made it onstage at the behest of some of the performers.  Although a bit unsteady afoot, Oscar still was slim, tall, and handsome at 93.  He gave a brief reminiscence of Woody and joined the company in the closing "This Land is Your Land." That, coupled with the surprise--and one of the last appearances of Pete Seeger (who was subbing for Arlo Guthrie, who could not attend for personal reasons)--made it a truly memorable evening for me.  Pete, of course, received well-deserved recognition upon his death.  While Oscar's will likely be more muted, it is equally merited, for his contribution to this most enduring form of American music is unmatched. Oscar's program was one of the few which welcomed blacklisted performers like Pete Seeger and The Weavers during those dark years.  While never a "political" folksinger in the Guthrie-Seeger tradition, Oscar was a "lower-case" progressive, who championed freedom of expression, and opposed both the blacklist and all totalitarian forms of government, something about which most of the folk-singing left remained silent  when it came to communism. Oscar's show was open to anyone who made good music.  Indeed, there was not a folksinger of note, from Woody Guthrie, Burl Ives, and Leadbelly up through Bob Dylan, who were not, at some time, featured on his program.  While usually thought of as a popular (as opposed to "ethnic" or "roots") performer, Oscar knew and performed more roots music than just about anyone I could name.  As but one example, Appalachian dulcimer player and singer Jean Ritchie was a friend a frequent guest of Oscar's.
    Please (assuming you've read thus far) permit me a personal note. As a (sometime) singer/songwriter myself, I always thought of a being played on Oscar's show as the very height of artistic (if not material) recognition one could achieve.  About ten years ago, my wife and I were returning from a visit to the family home of our by then grown son, Jason.  It was a Saturday night, and (even though I'd become less diligent in doing so) tuned the dial to Oscar's "Folksong Festival," then in its 50th year or so on the air.  To my astonishment, Oscar introduced a song of mine called "The Glory of their Times," and said some very nice things about me before playing the song.  While I had previously appeared on radio and TV, this was the first (and only)  time I have heard one of my songs played unexpectedly.  I nearly drove off the road, and was so excited that it took me hours to fall asleep.  For me and, I guess, numerous other performers, this was my greatest thrill as a musician.
    Oscar always ended his show by inviting us to join him the following week under what he called "yon Municipal moon."  While that moon will continue to rise and set, it was dimmed last night by Oscar's passing. That said, he will join the many folk greats who will continue to wink down at us from their stars in the folksingers sweet bye-and-bye.  It is a firmament in which Oscar Brand's will shine most brightly.

Alex Rodriguez Hangs up his Spikes

  Alex Rodriguez is at once one of the greatest players to ever wear a baseball uniform as well as bring disgrace upon it.
   I watched Alex's press conference with great sadness.  He was graceful and gracious in his departure, a true mensch. He fought back tears, and I--as a long-time Yankee fan--did so as well. If someone asked why Alex was emotional, that should be self-evident; he is leaving the game he loves. As for me, I mourned the end of an era dating back to before most fans, let alone active players, were born.  With the retirement of A-Rod and Mark Texeira, the New York Yankees will be devoid of a superstar for the first time in many years.  With Jeter and the rest of the "core four" retired, and with people like Roger Clemens, Dave Winfield and Reggie Jackson long gone, the Yanks are a team of good--but not great--veterans, and largely untested rookies.  I also mourn the taint that is upon Alex's superlative achievements.  Just imagine how we would assess his stats were it not for the steroids issue--an ugly reality that twice tarnished everything he ever did.  Just as with otherwise all-time greats like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, we will never know what they would have achieved had PED's not been in the picture.  Doubtless--and this is a large part of why I feel bad--Bonds , Clemens and A-Rod would have been first-ballot Hall of Famers without the steroids, an honor none of them is now likely to ever achieve.  This is made even sadder by the strength of his work ethic and obvious love for the history of the game.
   As Alex said, he has played Major League baseball for over half his life, and played it better than almost anyone else who ever wore the uniform.  In addition to his "scary-good" slugging achievements, Rodriguez was a great (two-time gold glove) shortstop, and solid third baseman with an arm like a cannon. To his credit, he also said that he had been "to hell and back, and made every mistake in the book."  So not only will we never know what his numbers would have been but for the PED's, he will never know either.  Once again, as with Bonds and Clemens, the numbers would doubtless have been great ones, but perhaps not as great.
  Alex Rodriguez, in his twelve years with the Yankees, won the MVP twice, and hit more Home Runs in those twelve years than all but 92 people in the history of baseball  did in their entire careers.  His records--and the exalted company of those with whom he shares them--are legendary.  Only he and the great Hank Aaron ever had more than 3,000 hits, 2,000 RBI's and 600 home runs.  No mean feat, that. He's tied with Hammering Hank as well as the only man with 15 seasons of 30+ home runs.  I once watched him reach that 30-homer goal on the last day of the 2009 season.  He had entered the game with 28 home runs and 93 RBI'a.  Not a bad year for anyone, especially since he had missed 28 games due to hip surgery.  Even so, there's something magical about 30 homers and 100 RBI's.  He pulled it off with two home runs and seven RBI's in the 6th inning, an American League record. It was almost as if he willed it in order to reach that plateau.  He went on to have an outstanding post-season, and was a key factor in bringing the Yankees their most recent World Championship.
    As I said earlier, "scary good."  A-Rod's 25 Grand Slam home runs and 14 seasons of 100+ RBI's stand alone among the greats. And yet, we will never know how many of those homers and RBI's he would have gotten, had he been playing clean.   He lied about it to boot, threatened to take the Yankees and Major League baseball to court on more than one occasion, and acted like a man who thought himself bigger than the game.  That is something no one should ever do, and shame on him for having done so.
   That said, he has admitted his shortcomings, and earned his chance at redemption.  That came last season, when--at age 40, he had 33 homers and 86 RBI's after sitting out a year's suspension.  That someone could do so under those circumstances is about as astonishing as anything this great ballplayer ever achieved.  All the pundits had said that no one could turn on a big-league fastball at his age after such a layoff.  Even this season, he seemed to be on a roll before an injury put him on the Disabled List, something from which he could never recover.
   Regardless about how one feels about Alex Rodriguez, no one can deny the special attention we paid to his every at bat. Among batters, only a handful of superstars before him that I can recall having seen play have that kind of charisma--DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Jackie Robinson, Musial, Mantle, Mays and,  Bonds come quickly to mind.  (Hank Aaron was so quiet in what he accomplished that his greatness somehow caught us unawares.)  When Alex came to the plate, however, the air was always electric with possibility.  I'll miss that.
    Alex will (barring the unforeseen) play his last game on Friday, August 12th.  As manager Joe Girardi, who praised A-Rod's work ethic as something the likes of which he had never seen said, "Alex has earned his right to go out as he sees fit."  Girardi also said  (and this is what makes the enduring kid that lives on in the heart of every baseball fan feel a little bit older) , "players die twice;"  once when they retire from baseball, and later at their natural death.  As someone who remembers when Mickey Mantle came up to replace Joe DiMaggio, I need no reminders that time is a thief.  Alex Rodriguez is still a handsome and fit young man, but his playing days are now behind him.  He has much of life ahead of him, and much that he will be able to give back to the game of baseball he so genuinely loves.
     I only wish that all of us were able to appreciate his accomplishments more than we can because of the PED factor.  Doubtless, he wishes  so as well.  But America (which loves second--and, possibly, third acts), learned a little about redemption from Alex Rodriguez over the past couple of years and a little more today.  As Girardi also said during today's press conference, "he tripped and fell, but kept getting up."
    And not everybody in American life achieves that, either.

"The straw that broke the camel's back"--Raonic beats Federer in Wimbledon Semi"

  Most of my blogs involving Roger Federer have, of late, related to his losses in Major tournaments. This one does as well, but is more of a salute to the excellence he displayed, albeit in a losing cause, then the fact of his loss. In the recent past, he has wound up on the short end of finals against his two greatest active rivals for the "GOAT" title ("greatest of all time), Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic.
It has long seemed to me that this great Swiss champion has reached a point where he can no longer win a "Grand Slam" tournament. After all, this almost 35-year old tennis genius, has to endure the challenges of a best-of-five set format, which challenges many a younger body.  And yet, here was Nadal (who virtually "owns" Federer by a 2-1 margin) out of the tournament with a strained wrist and current nemesis Novak Djokovic upset by journeyman American Sam Querry in the third round.  (Apart from the big-serving Querry playing the match of his life, Djokovic may well have suffered from the kind of combat fatigue that felled Serena Williams while en route to last year's "calendar slam."  At some point, even our tennis gods show us that they're all too human.)
  Djokovic was coming off of his first French Open victory, netting him the "career Grand Slam" (a feat achieved by only eight men in history) and his fourth consecutive major (a feat eluding both Federer and Nadal, and achieved by only two others--Don Budge and Rod Laver--who did it twice).  As the clear front-runner in this year's Wimbledon (and winner of the coveted All-England cup in 2014, and '15), no one expected Djokovic to be out of the running, let alone so early.  While his loss was characterized by not being on centre court--the only court with a roof--his match with Querry took two days and four rain delays to complete.  In fairness, this was an equal challenge (but not an equal slight) to Querry, who also had to keep restarting his engine as the pressure mounted.  Although Djokovic's lackluster second set loss at 6-1 remains a mystery, there is no question that Querry deserved the victory and went on to win the round of sixteen as well.   So hats off to the man they call "Yosemite Sam," the most successful American man at the tournament.
   Enter Federer (master of the SABR, or "sneak attack by Roger"), quickly but quietly working his way through a relatively easy draw.  Now no longer facing the prospects of meeting Djokovic in the semis, he--and many others--suddenly saw the possibilities looming large.   And yet, one by one, the others fell by the wayside, Kyrgios, Tsonga, Gasquet, Isner, Nishikuri, Goffin and Theim.  Save one--the number two seed and perennial also-ran to Djokovic, Scotsman Andy Murray.  Murray, long the best number four player in tennis history has had, to date, a dismal record in Grand Slam finals.  You would too, considering the other three are among the greatest men to have ever played professional tennis.
   So, we had suddenly arrived at the Quarterfinals, and there was Federer, still in the mix.  It looked, however,  as if he had met met his match in Marin Cilic, a six-foot six power server with some of the heaviest groundstrokes in the game.  Although having but one Major to his credit (the U.S. Open in 2014), Cilic showed he was more than just a big server when he played Federer in the quarters.  Cilic won the first two sets, one in a tie-breaker in which he jumped off to a 5-1 lead. TV loves to flash on-line surveys throughout the matches, showing what percentage of people think is going to happen in a match.  At two sets down, few of the "voters" thought that Fed stood a chance. And, yet, Federer came back, slowly but surely.  I, who had doubted his endurance, saw the reason why this man has won more Major titles than anyone in history.  He has an ability to play at a high level more than almost anyone the game has produced.  Apart from the fact that his one-handed backhand cannot handle the high-kicking serves and groundstrokes (e.g. Nadal) as well as those "newcomers" with their two-handed backhands, Federer is without a weakness.  He has a great serve (not as powerful as some, but equally effective), a great forehand, a great net-game, and one of the classiest one-handed backhands in tennis (although landsman Wawrinka and Frenchman Gasquet clearly give him a run for his money in that department). Add to the mix that intangible ability to know how to hit the right shot at the right time.  Forget that it had been four years since his last victory at a Major.  He remains one of the greatest grass-court players in the game today--even at almost 35.  Next thing we knew, Roger won the final three sets, and was into the semi-finals, the oldest male to reach the semis at Wimbledon since the ageless Ken Rosewall.  (Jimmy Connors did it while turning 39 at the U.S. Open, in his improbable run in 1991, only to be crushed by Jim Courier in straight sets.  I had great seats for that semi-final, but it was as they say, "all over but the shouting."  Needless to say, there was little to shout about.  This, however, was different.  Federer was continuing to show that he belonged to be just where he was.   The hugely talented Canadian, Milos Raonic, had all the shots, but had yet to prove his mettle on the big stage of a grand-slam semi, let alone on the storied centre court at Wimbledon.
  Raonic had recently added John McEnroe to his team, as a special grass-court advisor.  Mac, to be sure, knew a thing or two about pressure matches at Wimbledon, having finally dethroned the great Swede, Bjorn Borg, who had previously won Wimbledon an unbelievable five times. Mac's advice was simple: "leave everything you've got out on the court." Raonic is known for his emotionless play, stolid, workmanlike and powerful.  His weaknesses seemed to be in winning the big points. In addition to this, a big serve has to occasionally be followed to net, something Raonic was yet to do effectively.  On this occasion, however, the big Canadian (6'5") used his power serve, crushing ground-strokes, and newly-found savvy at the net, to win the first set. (Why did I suspect that, too, had been whispered in his ear by McEnroe? Come to net, big guy!) It seemed to me that Federer's marvelous string of Wimbledon wins was drawing to its end.  But, before I knew it, Fed had handily won the second set in  a tie-breaker, and, after a single break of Raonic's serve, cruised through the third to take a quick 2-1 lead.  Suddenly, whatever doubts I had about Federer's ability to still play the big matches at Wimbledon were forever erased.  With all due respect to Marin Cilic, his ground game is nowhere near that of Raonic, especially when you factor in the marvelous touch (and stretch) Raonic has developed at net.  That said, the pressure on Raonic was palpable.  Twice (at 2-2 and, more critically, 4-4), Raonic saved break points that would have given Federer the momentum, edge, and--of course--incentive to serve out the set.  But Raonic held serve both times, and the ball was on Federer's racquet to force a fourth set tie-breaker and possible trip to the finals for the man the announcers were already lauding for his Houdini-like escapes from elimination. It was now 5-6, and Federer quickly won the first three points to go up 40-love.  After losing a well-played first point, Federer served two consecutive double-faults. While I have seen Federer "choke"  (especially with Djokovic on the other side of the net), I'd never seen him double-fault twice in a row, let alone at such a critical juncture in a match. All of a sudden it was deuce.  While Federer was able to hold off two more break points, Raonic won on the third, and the match was squared at two-sets all.
   The 5th set, which started off nip and tuck, effectively climaxed in the fourth game.  In a point calling for the kind of split-second adjustments that Federer is famous for, he got quickly pulled to his  right while in close to the net and successfully hit a ball behind him, only to immediately pivot and run cross court to reach an expected Raonic return.  Suddenly, Federer fell and sent his racquet careening about ten feet across the  court.  It looked as if his knee had simply given way, but he may have simply tripped.  I thought the torque involved in retrieving the shot behind him on the Ad side of the court and pivoting to move counter-clockwise and then spring across the court, may have put too much strain on his surgically repaired knee.   In any event, after treatment,  he was able to stave off a break-point (and played a pretty terrific balance of the game following the fall), Raonic won it in what (for them) was a long rally, to go up a break he never gave back.
  The title of this blog was "The Straw that broke the Camel's Back," taken from the old Aesop's fable about the ultimately overloaded camel.  Seeing Federer, racquetless, stretched out across the court in symbolic abject submission, I knew he had reached his limit.  He continued to play some beautiful points, but one break was all the unforgiving Raonic needed.  The final game Raonic served was so overpowering, there was nothing Federer could do other than await the inevitable.
  Of course, Raonic still has a steep hill to climb, and faces the heavily favored Andy Murray in the final.  But he, Raonic, has proved he can play with the big boys, even if in doing so,  had to beat one of the game's most beloved champions.  But that, of course, is what winning is all about.  Somebody always has to lose.  I listened on the radio as a kid when the great (but over-the hill) Joe Louis was beaten by the equally great (but up and coming) Rocky Marciano.  Athletes (like the rest of us lesser mortals) reach a point of no return.   I had thought Federer had already reached that point a few years ago, but his run at this year's Wimbledon, like Connors's in '91, have proven me wrong.  It's nice to know the old guys have one more run in them.  What made this one especially poignant, is how close he came to winning.
  In his post-match press conference, Federer was gracious to Raonic, but tough on himself.  He said he was both angry and sad at what had happened.  It's always tough to see one slip away, especially with victory (seemingly) within your grasp. As mentioned above, I hadn't thought he could do it it, and was so close to being proven wrong that I believe the great Federer achieved more in defeat than most players do in victory.  Rock on!

O.J. and Me

    In recent weeks, I've had an overdose of O.J.  Two extended pieces on the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson and Andrew Goldman were recently shown on television, one as a dramatic reenactment, the other as documentary.  Both were excellent.
   It's hard to realize that this event and its aftermath took place over twenty years go.  It held an unpleasant mirror (up close and personal) to the faces of both black and white America.  I'm not sure either liked what was looking back at them across the racial divide.
  As a white man who came of age during the civil rights movement, I've always considered myself committed to equal justice for all.  Watching the two "O.J." series brought back images that I had either long suppressed, or simply just not thought about for a long time.  Chief among these memories was the absurdity of the Ford Bronco chase in which Simpson (supposedly armed and sucidal) and a friend traveled across the California countryside. The accompanying cortege included numerous police vehicles and  helicopters.  When the Bronco pulled off the highway, the streets were filled with enthusiastic onlookers cheering on the procession with shouts of "go Juice," and the like. To the casual (and even to the informed) onlooker, it seemed absurd that no order to intercept the Bronco had been given.  After all, hadn't the LAPD been faced with intercepting escaping felons before?  Hadn't the Rodney King beatings begun as a car chase and ended in an entire nation watching the apparently unprovoked clubbing and kicking of an unarmed and unresisting man?  When the all-white jury acquitted all the officers concerned in the beatings, it resulted in riots and lootings and black on white assaults including dragging people from their vehicles whose only offense was to be white.  When I say only, I realize that word belongs in italics.  For too many years, black people had become accustomed to two different forms of justice, a justice that was hardly blind, let alone color blind.
    What was ironic about the O.J. case, is the kid gloves (pun fully intended) with which Simpson was treated.   People being arrested on multiple murder charges are not usually allowed to turn themselves in the next day.  But then again, O.J. wasn't your ordinary citizen, black or white.  He was American royalty; a football icon, face of Hertz Rent-a-Car, movie actor.  As he himself said so well, "I'm not black, I'm O.J."  And indeed he was.  And so, the LAPD treated Simpson with the special respect it would accord any Hollywood superstar.  The trial was a tragedy of errors. Despite overwhelming forensic evidence, the prosecution found itself saddled with a lead witness, Detective Mark Furman, with a not-so-secret history of overt racism.  Once again, ironically, he had not only not acted improperly in handling and discovering evidence in the case, he had distinguished himself ion the scene and appeared on the stand as a handsome and articulate representative of LA's finest.  When asked, among other things, if he had ever used the word "nigger," his response was an unequivocal "no."  Sadly, this turned out to be not only a lie, but caused him to (presumably under lawyer's advice) to invoke his 5th Amendment privileges and refuse to answer all further questions, including one asking whether he had wanted evidence in this case.  o call this a prosecutor's worst nightmare is understating it in the extreme.
  When the defense team decided to play "the race card" (an expression made famous during that case), it was a carefully thought-out strategy.  O.J. hadn't been singled out for prosecution because he was black; he was acquitted because he was black, something a dispassionate observer would be hard-pressed to deny.   There's an old expression trial lawyers love to invoke when describing the necessary trial tactics:  "If you're weak on the facts, argue the law.  If you're weak on the law, argue the facts.  And if you're weak on both, say whatever you need to say."  The "Dream Team,"--and indeed it was--knew that adage all too well.  While the prosecution was taken to task for belatedly adding a black Assistant D.A. to its team, Robert Shapiro certainly knew what he was doing when he brought Johnnie Cochran on board.  Cochran, say what you will, was an extremely effective trial lawyer.  And while neither Shapiro nor friend, Robert Kardashian, were not known for their courtroom abilities, F. Lee Bailey and Alan Dershowitz were nothing less than household words, and an invaluable addition to any defense team.  Children, can you say "the best lawyers that money can buy?" I say that, by the way, not as criticism.  Simpson was, at the time, a very wealthy and prominent man.  Such people usually get the best defenses when on trial in capital cases.  If I could have afforded it in a similar situation, (which, fortunately, I have found myself in) I would have done the same.  Can any of us blame the defense team (whose job, after all, is to get their client off whether guilty or innocent) for putting the police on trial in such  case? Was it "nice?" No.  Fair? Probably not.  Legal?  You bet.  It was their only hope of acquittal.  What defense lawyers across the country know how to do is to plant seeds of doubt in the prosecution's case, and hope those seeds take root and become "reasonable."
   But let's get back to Mark Furman.  He had once acted as a consultant to someone making a movie about police practices.  Unfortunately for (a) him, (b) the prosecution, and (c) the cause of criminal justice, these conversations were taped by the screenwriter.  Whether he was telling the truth to the prospective screenwriter or simply playing a role he thought she might want to hear, Furman spiced his dialogue with more uses of the N-word than any gangsta-rapper ever has.  Even worse, he freely admitted to planting evidence and lying on the stand if that's what it took to get a conviction.  Once those tapes came into evidence, the case was effectively lost.  What juror couldn't justify having a "reasonable doubt" after hearing that (whether or not they actually doubted his guilt).  If a juror said to me, "how can I believe anything the police say after hearing that," dissuading such a juror would be an uphill battle that all the evidence to the contrary could (and didn't) dislodge.
   There's another old concept that has floated around the criminal courts for years, and that is "jury nullification."  You won't fond it in any casebook or court reports, but it is invoked whenever a jury doesn't want t convict.  They either don't like the law (think about marijuana prosecutions), the facts (think about a police department with a long and brutal history regarding minorities), or a defendant who symbolizes all their hopes and dreams being tried by a system that has wronged them for years (think O.J.).

Djokovic finally wins French Open via "Djoker" Slam

   There were two pretty significant things that happened this chilly Sunday afternoon in early June at the finals of the French Championships at Roland Garros.  Novak Djokovic not only became the eighth man in history to have won the so-called "career Grand Slam," (i.e. winning all four majors--Australia, French Open, Wimbledon and the U.S. Open) but did so in his fourth successive victory in a major. The last time that was done was 47 years ago by one of the sports's true legends--Rod Laver.  Indeed, only Laver (who did it twice) and Don Budge have ever done won four consecutive majors.  More remarkably, their achievements were done in a single calendar year.  Djokovic is halfway there in 2016, but--as we saw in last year's stunning upset of the great Serena Williams by journeyman player Roberta Vinci--the pressures to win a Grand Slam are enormous.  The last woman to do that was the equally great Steffi Graf.  Right now, only Steffi stands between Serena and the most majors won by a woman, but Serena (even at 34) seems to have plenty of tennis life left in her.
   If someone were to ask you what Jimmy Connors, Boris Becker, John McEnroe and Pete Sampras have in common, you would certainly be right in saying they are among the greatest players of the Open era, each of whom can lay claim to multiple victories in the Majors.  Interestingly, however, none of these court stalwarts ever won Roland Garros.  What soil erosion exists in the Red Clay of France that erodes the skills of such great champions?  To be sure, the French Open has probably hosted more champions that have only won there than at any other major.  To succeed at Roland Garros, a big serve and volley are unlikely to be nearly as determinative as they would be on the pristine grass of Wimbledon or the faster hard-court surfaces of Melbourne or Flushing Meadow.  In order to win the French Open, a player must be prepared to endure (and prevail in) endless rallies, as the red clay slows down the most powerful shots as it quickly makes new balls heavy with age.  While winners of the French Open have included many of the game's greatest players (Borg, Lendl, Federer and Nadal among others), many of its victors and finalists remain anonymous to all but the most devoted tennis aficionados. Remember when Andre Gimero beat Patrick Proisy, or when Martin Verkerk was a finalist?  Me neither.  The reason is simple.  The slow clay of Roland Garos appeals to players who concentrate on that surface.  This is why we see so many players from Spain (and elsewhere in Europe) do better there than anywhere else.  Obviously, an important exception is Rafael Nadal, who has won Major championships at all four venues (fourteen overall) including an astonishing nine at Roland Garros.  But Nadal, of course, is one of the all-time greats, second only to Roger Federer, whose seventeen major victories leads the pack.  But even the great Federer's record of seventeen--once threatened by Nadal's fourteen--is within reach of the elastic Novak Djokovic.
   As someone who has both played and rooted for tennis since I was a teen-ager, I can recall the great amateurs (and the then handful of touring professionals) who led the game in the 1950's.  I have been fortunate to have seen players like Laver, Pancho Gonzales, Tony Trabert, Ken Rosewall, Arthur Ashe and Lew Hoad.  With the advent of the Open Era in 1969, we have seen the men's game dominated by the people mentioned above.  On the women's side, we have such greats as Billie Jean King, Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf, Monica Seles and, of course, the Williams sisters.  Sadly, we will never know how great Seles might have become, had her rivalry with Graf not been truncated by her being stabbed by of a crazed Graf fan.
  But back to the amazing Djokovic, who is ever more clearly the dominant male player of the past several years.  Up until today, the French championship was the sole major to have eluded him. He was the odds-on favorite last year--especially after taking Nadal apart in the quarter-finals, only to run into a flawless Stan Wawrinka, who--after after playing in the shadow of his fellow Swiss, Roger Federer--overpowered Djokovic.  Given Djokovic's defensive skills, this is no mean feat.  Simply stated, Wawrinka played the match of his career, and well deserved his victory.  In the 2016 semifinals, Andy Murray did to Wawrinka what "Stan the Man" had done to Nole in last year's finals.      So the stage was set.  All that stood between Djokovic and history was Andy Murray, numbers one and two in the world.
   I have long believed that Murray is the single toughest opponent Djokovic can currently face.  In part, it is because their games are so similar, it can seem as if each is playing a mirror.  While Andy usually comes up short in best of five situations, that is hardly the case in two of three.  I attribute this to two things:  endurance and focus.  Djokovic is as fit as anyone who has ever picked up a racquet, and has the ability to rebound from his rare lapses in play.  Remember when he outlasted Nadal (who was then at the top of his game) at the longest final in the open era? The Australian Open finals of 2012  lasted close to six hours, with the Djoker the last man standing.  Actually, the two of them requested chairs for the trophy ceremony, as neither could remain on their feet.  Hopes of a Nadal-Djokovic semifinal this year were dashed when Rafa had to withdraw due to an injured left wrist.  With Federer already hors de combat due to an aching back,  Djokovic benefited from the weakened draw as well as challenges to his quest for history.  Unfortunately, for him. the weather did not cooperate, and he found himself having to play five matches in six days.  Fortunately, most of the matches were short, with only one going beyond three sets.  Of most interest to tennis fans was his semi-final against the up and coming Dominic Thiem, a 22 year-old slugger from Austria, who has an elegant one-handed backhand and a powerful forehand, both of which he hits with heavy topspin.  Along with Thiem's quarterfinal opponent David Goffin, the two are considered part of tennis's future.  Thiem, however, was not up to Djokovic's vast array of skills, and fell in straight sets.
  In the finals, Djokovic started like a house of fire, breaking Murray's serve at love.  But, from that point on, Murray dominated the first set, playing better and harder than the (somewhat) tentative Djokovic.  At one point, Murray had won 10 out of 11 points! But once the first set was over, Djokovic turned his game up a notch or two and gave up a total of three games over the next two sets, to take a 2-1 lead.  Djokovic continued his flawless play to go up two breaks in the fourth set, and smiled at the 5-2 cross-over.   And then, serving for the match,  Murray broke Djokovic, and went on to hold his serve. Again with victory at hand, (and no longer smiling) Djokovic successfully served for the match, the championship, and his place in history.
   And just what is that place?  If Djokovic retired tomorrow, he would already be part of the discussion as one of the game's greatest,a certain Hall-of-Famer.  As mentioned above, he becomes one of eight men to have won the career slam (along with Fred Perry, Don Budge, Laver, Roy Emerson, Federer, Nadal, and Agassi) and the first since Laver to have won all four in a row.  He's also won five out of the last six majors, and is second to Federer among active players in semi-finals and finals  reached.  He holds a winning edge over every player of any consequence including Federer and Nadal although--in fairness--Roger spots him over five important years in age.  Amazingly, however, he is far from retiring.   Indeed, he is in his prime--and at the top of his game.  And to anybody who hasn't been following tennis too closely, what a game it is.  In fact, nobody does it better.

Cross Words

    I've been on a bit of a skein with the New York Times crossword puzzles.  I use the word "skein" advisedly, as it was (in a different context") a word that had me stumped on last Friday's puzzle.  To add insult to injury, I had just had a four-day (a tie for "personal best") streak stopped for a most frustrating reason.  On Thursday, 4/21, I had already broken the "code" with which (puzzle editor) Will Shortz and his scheming partners in crime delight in trying to confuse us.  The puzzle had a "name" ("Tee Time"), itself a kind of a clue, but one that only appeared in the print edition, and not on the digital one I pursue when I'm either traveling or when my wife--the original crossword puzzle buff in the family--has hold of the paper.  The key to the clue, which was essential in solving four cross-the-page puns was that a "d" had been strategically located in place of what--had it been a "t"-- would have changed the meaning of the answer to the clue to something more familiar.  Permit me a maddening example or two:  The clue to 57-across was "Fishing boat at summer camp."  The answer was "Childrensdory" ("Children's Dory").  But, if you say the answer aloud, it sounds like "Children's Story,"  a play on words with a different meaning.  One more example: 41-across was "Counterfeit Dodge."  Now, "Dodge" is capitalized, which makes one think of either the City, or the car (as opposed to "avoidance," as in "tax dodge").  The answer was "Falsedart" ("False Dart"). Once again, substitute the "t" for the "d," and it becomes "false start." Anyway, these are the kind of games Shortz & Co. begin playing with us long about Thursday (and sometimes, alas, on Wednesday's). Okay, so you get the idea.  I'd gotten everything else  on the puzzle, but was stumped on a lousy three word answer to the clue "Vitamin World competitor." All I could think of was "QVC," which I thought stood for something (turns out it's a home shopping network, but not a vitamin place.)  This left me with a "q" to begin the answer to 48-down, "nervous and apprehensive." I first thought "quirky," but knew that wouldn't cut it.  I then thought the only way I could answer the question was to use the "rebus" function to have parts of one word going across and another going down (in the same box).  If this makes no sense, welcome to the club.  Late week puzzles frequently have clues whose answers snake around corners (e.g "steams" going across to one corner and "ship" going down).  In another example of how they mess with our heads, sometimes two or three letters will grace a single box (e.g. o-r-ang-es going across and "s-t-r-ang-er" going down.  As they used to say on SNL (abbreviated answer to a frequent clue), my wife hates when that happens.  I've learned to live with it.  Long story Short(z), it turned out to be a straight across and down answer.  The vitamin competitor was "GNC," and the nervous & apprehensive one was "gunshy"("gun shy"). This was not particularly difficult, but I was so sure they were playing with me to have different letters going across and down, that I failed to pursue the obvious.  Fair enough.
   The next day, I began a new streak--unusual-- because I rarely solve Friday's puzzle.   But, lo and behold,  even though I was stumped on 11-down, whose clue was "Crocheter's purchase," I stuck with an answer that made no sense.  All the other "across" answers fit to spell out "skein."  Well, I semi-cheated and looked up "skein," which has an additional meaning than "streak."  Seems it also means "ball of yarn."  Okay, I was off and running on a new streak, unfortunately beginning on a very tough day and the day before the toughest day of the week, Saturday.
  Let me pause to tell you how I got bitten by the bug.  My late brother-in-law always worked on the Sunday puzzle (about the same difficulty level as Thursday, but longer).  Dick would do the puzzle accompanied by a dictionary, something my wife has always eschewed.  When I retired, the first puzzle awaiting me in my copious spare time was the Monday puzzle.  I got through it pretty quickly and boasted to Riki that these puzzles she struggled with weren't so hard after all.  She (who never deigned to work on a puzzle before Wednesday) said "just wait," and--of course--she was right.   I soon realized that I could count on solving Monday and Tuesday pretty quickly and (sometimes) Wednesday.  The rest of the week--fuggetaboudit! On one particularly trying week in which Riki had multiple doctor's appointments, I solved my first Sunday puzzle.  It was only the hours spent in waiting rooms that made this possible, and I was rightly proud.  Since that time, I've become pretty solid through Wednesday, with off and on success on Thursday and Sunday. But, to my surprise, my Friday breakthrough encouraged me enough to complete Saturday's.  I only checked the dictionary (or Google) to confirm answers once I had what I believed to be the only one that "fit," but didn't recognize the word. In the past, I would never have done that. But once my answer was affirmed, I stayed with it.  What I would have done if the answer had been proven wrong I don't know.  Fortunately, that was not the case. If that be cheating, I plead guilty.
   The problem with the Times's puzzles is they sometimes ask for answers to questions that you only know if you know (and cannot be guessed).  If, for example, they ask who was Secretary of Agriculture under President Eisenhower, you either know it or you don't. (Come on, kids, it's Ezra Taft Benson, as anyone old enough to remember him knows.)  But if it's the name of Dr. Dre's second album of 2006 and you're over, say, 55, lots of luck! Sometimes, you can glean it from other letters you've already answered that criss-cross it, but if--as sometimes happens, that is the answer to 1-down, you're in for a tough time. Fortunately, here it was an "across" clue, so I  had answers to other "down" questions with which to compare it. Unfortunately, the clue was  "stat," which looked either like a typo, or some synonym for "statistics," such as "figure."   The only answer that fit was "atonce" (at once). I stuck with it and happily discovered that "stat" meant "right away."
  Bottom line, the puzzles are challenges to make people think.  Most of the time,  most of the answers lurk somewhere in that mass of ganglia and neurons we call a memory bank. Although we usually "know" the answers, we just can't always dig them out.  You must also be sensitive to different meanings.  When the clue is, say, "class," do they mean it as "category," "caste,"  " place in school," or "style" (as in "class act)?" These, of course, are the things that make the puzzles either fun, challenging, maddening, or all three.
  My streak, by the way--and the reason behind this blog--is that I've done six days in a row, (and 9 out of 10). This is far better than my previous "skein" of four (there, I've said it again.) Tomorrow--Thursday-- would be (for me) a dazzling achievement of seven consecutive days, since I'm not likely to hit the Friday-Sunday trifecta again.
Keep your fingers (and words) crossed.

Aftermath:  As predicted, my streak ended today (Thursday, April 28th), "not with a bang but a whimper. " The puzzle gods would simply not let me solve the puzzles seven days in a row.  There were some answers that simply did not fit with others, even though I was sure of certain words that would have (otherwise) answered the clues.  Here's how they did it; and, for me, this was a famous (or infamous) first.   Some of the answers were straight across (or down) and others were spelled backwards (or, if, down) upside-down.  This was all of the left side of the puzzle, and a little bit of the right side.  In other words (pun intended), without rhyme or reason.  An example of but one of these zingers was a two word answer to a writers reference.  It was (and this was my first thought)  "Rogets Thesaurus" Thesaurus was 17-across, and  spelled "forwards" and Stegor (Rogets backwards) was 27-across.  The clues for each referred to the other. Here's another: you might think that if you knew "London theatre district" was "West End," and that didn't fit with other words criss-crossing it, why not spell it backwards, since everything else on that side was backwards.  But it was just backwards across, not down; although the top left half was both backwards and upside down.  If this makes no sense to you and you're wondering why anyone would bother with such nonsense, you simply don't know what it means to be a puzzle addict.
  But this I will ask Mr. Shortz.  What's a nine-letter answer to the clue "X-rated body of water?" As he will doubtless, and quickly respond, it's "dirty pool."  My sentiments exactly.