"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

O.K. Michael Corleone, I know how you feel.  I have not posted since last May, but I have been sucked back in by the St. Louis Cardinals.  The baseball season came to a close for me and the San Francisco Giants at the end of September, but then I happened to watch the Cardinals, the team I grew up with in St. Louis, as they defeated the Phillies in game five of their National League Division series.  It was a compelling game, a 1-0 victory, and I was hooked watching Chris Carpenter and company.

What can I say.  I am a fair weather fan, but I have been riding this wave with the Cardinals, with Carpenter and "King" Albert Pujols, as well as Lance Berkman, Matt Holliday, Yadier Molina, Rafael Furcal, and Alan Craig.  Add Dotel, Rzepczynski, a name I can spell, and Motte.  Add a vegetarian manager. too.  So, I sit in front of the television set, transfixed. I even watch the MLB commentary with Al Leiter giving me insight on pitching.

Oh, it hasn't been easy.  Last night's loss was painful.  Albert struck out at a critical moment on a ninth inning hit and run play and called a hit and run play earlier that ended poorly. Watching on TV is difficult, too, because I cannot abide Joe Buck, and I only tolerate Tim McCarver because he was Bob Gibson's catcher.  Give me Jon Miller,  or even John Smoltz and Ron Darling, who did well in the playoffs.   And still I watch until the final out, enjoying the pleasure of having a team to follow and root for in the World Series.  There's still hope, too, with the team returning to St. Louis for game six.

Win or lose, it's been a great ride, and I have a new explanation for my affliction, thanks to a good friend, Dr. Thomas Singer, who grew up in St. Louis, as I did.  Tom is a psychiatrist and Jungian psychoanalyst, and he has explained my attachment to the Cardinals in Jungian terms.  I am caught up in the “urobotic mysticism” of my birthplace, the St. Louis swamp and its baseball team.  Yes, I am caught up in a state of tribal mystical identity symbolized in animal form by the bright red Cardinal.  As Tom says: “The Cardinal red signifies to those of us who participate in its mystery the experience of oneness between ourselves, our souls, our baseball team and our city.”

To understand all this, I suggest you read Tom's excellent article,"Long Live The Fever: Baseball and The Soul of St. Louis," which he wrote a few days ago for the St. Louis Beacon. http://stlbeacon.org/arts-life/neighborhoods/on-the-cardinals/113696-analysis-cardinals-are-essential-part-of-citys-soul

A postscript:  My last posting before this was about Toby, our ancient and esteemed Norwich Terrier.  I must report now with great sadness that the old guy left us several weeks ago, and we all miss him very much.

Nobody Knows You're A Dog On The Internet

Years ago, there was a cartoon in the New Yorker that showed a dog sitting at a desk in front of a computer.  The dog at the computer was talking to another dog, who was lying on the floor next to him, and the caption was something like "Nobody knows you're a dog on the internet.”

That certainly is true. In our household, when we are on-line and a name is requested in situations where we do not want to reveal our actual identity, we use the name of the dog pictured in the photograph above, an ancient Norwich Terrier, named Toby, who receives a great deal of mail and many email messages.  Indeed, Toby has won prizes and even subscribes to magazines.

No, Toby does not write this blog, but he is lying here next to me at my feet, and after finding my blog in the same category as "It's All About The Cats,” I decided to go to the dogs, literally.  I have several animal companions in my household, but Toby has been with us longer than the others, and I thought he deserved some sort of tribute.

Right now, Toby is asleep, as he is much of the day, and he works hard at it.  Barely breathing, he hugs the floor. We got him for one of my daughters when he was a young puppy, a small, barking ball of fur that looked more like a Steiff stuffed animal than a living creature. At the time, we already had a Labrador Retriever, as we do now, but my daughter wanted another dog, “a small dog that would stay small."  My mother-in-law has had Norwich Terriers for many years.  As a result, we were familiar with them, and we obtained Toby from my mother-in-law's breeder.

Now my daughter is twenty years old, and Toby is almost seventeen. He can barely see. He can't hear much, either.  Nonetheless, when he is awake, he still patrols the house as best he can, bumping into walls, tangling himself up in chairs, and getting trapped in corners. Sometimes his hind legs give out, and I give him doses of Tramadol twice a day to help him get around. I carry him up and down the stairs, and outside, too.

Still, the old guy keeps on going. He has been a good companion to me and my family, and he is an inspiration to all of us, although his aging has challenged us, for Toby is sometimes incontinent. As a result, he wears what we call a blue denim "man band," in which we place a disposible adult diaper. He doesn't seem to mind that, but he does appear to be troubled, even embarrassed when on occasion he also will leave deposits around the house that require us to watch our step as we move about.

Cleaning up after Toby is annoying, but it is difficult to be upset when he presses up against me with his muzzle, as he often does now.  He seems to want the physical contact much more now than he did as a younger dog.  He likes to be held much more, too, and when I bring him up onto a couch next to me, he burrows into the cushions and leans against me as he sleeps.  It's the least I can do for the old guy, who has given so much to me and my family over the years.

Back Again And Then Gone To The Dogs

Yes, I said I was back and then I disappeared again for almost two months.  And, yes, I know that if you are going to maintain a blog you must post regularly. With renewed determination, I begin again today, but I must admit that I do so with some hesitation.  I wonder if anyone reads this thing and ask myself why they would, because when I check my blog I sometimes click on the option of going to the next blog, and usually I get some ancient family posting from 2010 about granddad's visit,  a long story about the Lego part that the baby swallowed, or a description of what someone had for breakfast yesterday. Then I find myself moving on to bedroom decorating, perhaps, and my excitement grows when I find myself reading a blog about, say, “canning crunchy dilly beans.”  Once I hit the jackpot; I actually got two baseball blogs, "Twin Geeks," and "Blue Heaven.”  Today, I did it again, starting off with "When I Fell In Love With Sports," and "Keys To The Game." That made me feel a bit better, but clicking on "Next Blog" is something like Russian roulette for me. I never know what I'm going to get, and after "Keys to the Game,” I pressed my luck.  I doubled down and landed on "If You Lived Here You'd Be Home By Now,""Grace Design," and "Mama T Keeps You In Stitches." I ask myself how do I fit into this category of blog? What algorithm is used?  Is it the title?  Several times I have ended up at "It's All About Cats."  Maybe I should start posting photographs of my dogs.

Baseball Is Back And So Am I

            Yes, baseball is back. Today is opening day for the World Champion San Francisco Giants. Tim Lincecum starts against Clayton Kershaw of the Dodgers this afternoon in Los Angeles, and I am excited.  But baseball already has lifted my spirits for a few weeks now, not just today.  While I have watched events in Libya and the sad, horrific situation in Japan, I have had the solace of Jon Miller's soothing voice on the radio as the Giants finished up the spring training season in Arizona, and played the A's back in San Francisco and Oakland.  

            There is something reassuring and comforting about having major league baseball once again on the radio as part of one’s everyday life.  Even as background noise that fades in and out of one’s attention, the sound of the game on the radio or even broadcast on television is a constant that makes life better, as it evokes memories of the past and stirs up hopes for the future, especially at the beginning of the season. 

             Of course, baseball also is back with the ongoing trial of Barry Bonds for perjury and obstruction of justice, but I prefer to think about Brandon Belt, the Giants’ rookie first baseman, who has not been sent back down to the minors and will start this afternoon. Instead of Bonds and his shrinking body parts, I also will think about Barry Zito’s unfortunate moustache and automobile accident, switch hitter Andres Torres starting in centerfield, Pablo Sandoval’s “weight loss,” the aging Miguel Tejada at shortstop, and the crossword puzzle prowess of Brian Wilson, who is the "answer" for the Giants as 30-Down in today’s New York Times puzzle.  Like Wilson, I am a devotee of the Times daily puzzle, and I am delighted by his appearance in the puzzle on opening day, although the gimmicks in the Thursday crosswords often annoy me.

            Yes, Baseball is back, and I must add that several weeks ago, while out for a long bike ride in West Marin, I happened upon the opening day game of the Little League season in the town of Nicasio.  I had pulled off the road for a break in my ride, next to the beautifully manicured ballpark in the center of town, across the street from the local church and the Rancho Nicasio, a popular roadhouse, bar and restaurant, that turned out to be the sponsor of one of the teams on the field. (“Rancho Nicasio” was inscribed on the back of one team's uniforms.) The backstop and the stands had been decorated with red, white, and blue bunting for the occasion, and there was a small but enthusiastic crowd of family and friends cheering the young kids on.  My intention had been to just glance at the game for a minute or two, but I stood there for several innings, watching these kids, who were not yet even teenagers, take their swings at the plate, throw strikes, make some good fielding plays, and run around the bases in their crisp, new, brightly colored uniforms.  I was enjoying the slow pace of the game, the warm sunshine, and the beautiful symmetry of the diamond.  It was as if time was standing still.  

            

Another Word From Our Sponsor

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My Mother and Von McDaniel

       This past weekend I was in St. Louis for a memorial service for my mother, who died at the age of 88 this past November, and although I have been reluctant to do so, I have been persuaded to post my eulogy for her in its entirety:

        

       Von McDaniel.  I want to talk about Von McDaniel. We are here today to honor the memory and celebrate the life of my mother, Mary Gendler Zorensky, and when I think of her now the name Von McDaniel comes to mind.

       Of course, as we know, my mother was a beautiful woman, whose great beauty did not diminish with age.  Her beauty was matched by her intelligence, too, and the gentle, sweet quality of her temperament.  Moreover, as we have heard, she was a woman who devoted herself not just to her family but to the many philanthropic and charitable causes that she held dear, including the Jewish Federation, various institutions of the City of Saint Louis, and this university. 

     But I do not want to talk about my mother’s many accomplishments and honors.  I want to talk about Von McDaniel, a pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals back in 1957.  I want to talk about Von McDaniel because I still remember the experience of riding in the car with my mother and all my siblings on a warm night in June, back in 1957, when I was twelve years old.  We sat in the car,  listening to Harry Caray on the radio, as the Cardinals played the Brooklyn Dodgers, the defending National League champions, and Von McDaniel, a young 18-year-old kid, just out of high school, a $50,000 bonus baby, was brought in as a relief pitcher in the late innings of a very close game.

       In those days, my mother often would pack all of us in a pale blue Ford Country Squire station wagon for long car rides on hot summer evenings, while our father was working late at the office.  First, we would go out for a quick dinner and ice cream.  Then, in the long twilight of early summer, my mother would drive west, taking us on meandering routes with no specific destination.  There was no air conditioning in the car, no satellite radio, not even a cassette player, just melting ice cream, five restless, sweaty, squabbling kids, my mother at the wheel, and Harry Caray’s beer-soaked play-by-play voice on KMOX.

       My mother would drive at a steady pace on winding roads, away from the main highways.  She was a very good driver, too.  Actually better, I think, than our father, in spite of his great love of the automobile.   She handled the car well, and there we were, all packed in the Country Squire, with no idea where we were going, gazing out at the passing farmland as the sun slowly set on a hot summer night. 

       I am not sure all my siblings were giving as much attention to the game on the radio as I was, but I remember sitting in the front seat next to my mother.  She had her eyes on the road ahead, but from the concerned look on her face I could see that she was caught up in the tense drama of the moment along with me.

       It was the bottom of the ninth inning, and the Cardinals had a one-run lead, but the Dodgers had a man on base, and Duke Snider, Brooklyn’s great slugger, a mighty hitter whose baseball card I cherished, was coming to the plate to face this new kid, Von McDaniel.  Yes, Von McDaniel, who was making only his second major league appearance after coming straight out of high school.

       I was excited because McDaniel was pitching his fourth inning of shutout relief, and he actually was on the way to his first major league victory, but at that moment, as Duke Snider stepped into the batter’s box, both my mother and I feared the worst.

       Of course, even then I knew about Von’s brother, Lindy, who already was an established Cardinal pitcher, and who with Von would eventually lead the Cardinals to a second-place finish in 1957.  My mother knew who Lindy was, too.  Indeed, she already had become an ardent fan of the Cardinals that year, with a considerable knowledge of the team, because she had been forced to listen to Cardinals games on the radio whenever my brother and I were around. 

       Perhaps, I shouldn’t say, “forced.”  In truth, my mother chose to listen to the games because she knew it was something her sons cared about very much, and she became an enthusiastic Cardinal fan with an interest in baseball that stayed that with her for the rest of her life.

       Yes, even in her later years, with all her children grown up, she still would watch the Cardinals play on television. But it isn’t just her appreciation of baseball that I want to talk about today. 

       There I was on that summer evening in 1957, anxiously listening as Duke Snider came to the plate, and my mother was there, too.  She was present, caught up in the moment with me, as she always was when I needed her, and that really is the point of all this. 

       As the mother of five children, she had many demands placed on her and, in those days, not always a great deal of help.  But somehow she managed.  She was not an absentee parent. She was always there. Certainly, it was not always easy.  She was a woman married to a very strong-willed man, a woman who tried to remain loyal to both her husband and her children when it was sometimes difficult to do so. But she did the best she could, and when I was a young boy growing up, she always was there for me, and for my siblings, as well. 

       She picked us up from school, helped us with our homework, tucked us in at night, and tried to amuse us on hot summer nights when our father was working.   But she did much more than that.  She also was genuinely eager to share our interests, like baseball, and to support us in our efforts to reach our goals.  It was not always easy for her, but she was always there, listening to our hopes, helping us with our problems, cheering us on when we were successful, and commiserating with us when we were not. 

       That’s all I want to say.  My mother was there -- a constant presence I could rely on when I was growing up, and back in June of 1957, when Von McDaniel faced Duke Snider and got him to ground out, she sighed with relief, as I did. 

       I still remember the look on her face at that moment.  She smiled at me and nodded. It was a smile I will not forget. 

       

Peace Corps Daze

As a former volunteer, I found myself pausing for a moment to reflect on my past, when I heard that Sargent Shriver, the founding director of the Peace Corps, had died last week.  He was no longer head of the Peace Corps when I graduated from Yale in 1968 and went overseas to Togo as a volunteer, but he had set the tone and inspired many of us with his passionate, always good-spirited dedication to the mission of the Peace Corps. Indeed, as a public servant, working with such programs as the War On Poverty and Legal Services, he set an example for all of us throughout his life. (Yes, he was a Yale graduate, too, even chairman of the Yale Daily News -- additional reasons to admire him, as if there was any need.) And I was particularly moved by Bill Clinton's eulogy for Sargent Shriver, because the former president touched upon how “tough” and “cynical” the late sixties and early seventies were in this country, torn apart by assassinations and the bitter division of the Vietnam war, and how, in spite of all this, Sargent Shriver’s unshakeable idealism and his indomitable commitment to helping others to a better life still guided so many of us, disaffected as we were.  I was going to say more about this disaffection and alienation during the Vietnam war, about the inequities of the draft, about the death of Robert Kennedy in 1968, and about Richard Milhous Nixon, who granted me a presidential deferment as a Peace Corps volunteer, but I would rather smile and think about Sargent Shriver.  Excerpts from President Clinton’s remarks can be found at the following link:  

http://www.cnn.com/video/?/video/us/2011/01/22/funeral.clinton.shriver.pool.