Happy New Year?

Yes. I am eager to see 2021 depart. And yet, I can't honestly say I'm similarly eager for 2022 to begin.

Given the nation's political mood, which seems to favor a morally-bankrupt conservatism over a democracy which seeks inclusion and a smattering—however faint—of equality, things look pretty grim.

But the Chicago Bulls' re-do is blossoming right under our noses, catapulting them from underachievers to contenders. The anticipated chemistry problems betwixt LaVine and DeRozan and Vucevic haven't materialized, with the play of all three elevated by the acquisitions of Lonzo Ball and Alex Caruso.

Add the number-one steal of the 2021 NBA draft (Ayo Dosunmu) and things look as bright as they appear dark nearly everywhere else.

That said, I will wish everyone a Happy New Year as we leap—however cautiously—into 2022.

May your god watch over you. And us. 

 

Quiet Comfort

Few things in life work as well as a calendar. Pandemics, supply chain interruptions, racial strife, climate change, political extremism nonwithstanding—my calendar continues its methodical march to 2021's conclusion in the fashion espoused by head coaches everywhere: one day at a time.

Inflation is spiraling at rates not seen since the early days of the Reagan administration? The larger and more-violent storms predicted by scientists thirty-years ago are now a thing? Louis DeJoy has done to the Post Office what Trump couldn't quite do to democracy?

No matter. The linear flow of my calendar continues unabated.

And thank God. Like its forebearer, 2021 hasn't been a year to remember. It's mostly been an unwanted sequel to 2020, with virus fatigue thrown at no extra charge.

Sure, there were a handful of good movies and some pop music that didn't inspire commentary along the lines of “Oh, that sounds like ___________.” Talking to you, Dua Lipa.

And there was that epic trip out west in my trusty Accord. And the Sky's WNBA championship. And the beautiful fall afternoon I got to drive a Porsche 911 4S around a race track with no worries of drawing law enforcement's attention.

But so much else remains up in the air.

Am I ever going to be able to safely travel internationally before I'm too old but do anything but sit on a tour bus? Is my hideously over-taxed home ever going to appreciate to anyone outside of the county assessor's office? Is the legal matter which has inserted itself into my life ever going to move forward?

Sigh.

Yet my calendar remains firmly and intractably rooted in its mission. It relentlessly (and in the case of 2021, thankfully) moves forward, even if my attorney seems incapable of doing so.

In the meantime I'll quibble with the company who didn't/couldn't/wouldn't cancel an order placed just minutes beforehand and who won't fully refund the unwanted item after it showed up seven weeks later.

Or ponder why five business days wasn't enough time for my local post office to move a piece of mail the 5.32 miles between my bank and the village hall, resulting in multiple late fees the post office is—curiously enough—uninterested in assuming.

Or why my cell phone routinely turns off its Wi-Fi. Or why drivers in my area have such a tough time aligning the number on speed limit signs with the readout on their speedometers. Or if those filmy, plastic produce bags in supermarkets will ever be easy to open.

At least my calendar works. Yesterday was the twenty-eighth. Today is the twenty-ninth. Tomorrow will be the thirtieth.

What comfort.

Looking Skyward

Not quite sure why I keep thinking of the Chicago Sky and their out-of-left-field WNBA title.

Maybe it's a matter of context. The world is full of division and conflict amidst a lingering pandemic. Their championship stands in stark relief; a beacon of collaboration, unselfishness and perhaps even hope.

It was revealed last October that following their underachieving 2020/21 season, the Sky were as frustrated as their fans. Despite the arrival of a difference-maker (Candace Parker), they had struggled to a 16 and 16 record.

For a franchise still feeling the sting of Sylvia Fowles' and Elena Delle Donne's unceremonious departures, the arrival of free-agent Parker was a big deal. But after yielding such tepid results, it threatened to become another disappointment in a city grown used to them.

But the Sky embraced the maxim that the post-season is a new season—one where everybody is 0 - 0. And in that embrace, they re-committed to each other. They looked each other in the eye and said “I'm here for you. I'm playing for you.”

Forgive my bias, but it's a little hard to imagine a male team doing the same. As I imagine it, I see lots of finger-pointing. Accusations. Chest-puffing. Agitated calls to agents. “Get me out of here!”

Which is the exact opposite of what happened at Wintrust Arena.

The results speak volumes. The Sky went on an 8 – 2 run, beating statistically-superior teams in three consecutive rounds. I admit to not watching every post-season every professional sports franchise has ever embarked on, but the Sky's triumph was—if not singular—extraordinary.

Sport is rich in metaphor. Their ascent following an underachieving and potentially fractious regular season is the living embodiment of clear-eyed assessment. Of moving on. Of knowing how to re-boot. Of how to start fresh and finish strong.

Do I even need to spell out the lesson here for our ruptured civilization?

The Sky didn't win because they stomped around the lockeroom in a vain (and ultimately self-destructive) attempt to prove who the alpha dog was.

No.

They won because they regarded each each as equals and strengthened their bond. It was about we, not me. Unity—not control. They forged an identity as unbreakable as an ingot and handily defeated all comers.

You might construe this post as an editorial on toxic masculinity and I could only reply “perhaps.” Looking at a world largely created by men, I can't honestly say we kicked ass. In the most literal sense, yes. But in the larger one of creating a good and just and sustainable civilization?

Nope.

The most startling picture I ever saw was the one taken by the crew of Apollo 17. There was planet Earth in all its gorgeousness, hanging like a Christmas ornament and set against the infinite darkness of space.

(I mean, can you even imagine the effect it would have had on Galileo or Copernicus?)

And while man has expertly plundered its riches and created immense wealth for the few in the process, we haven't done such a great job of caring for it and, by extension, us.

So if the future is indeed female, fine. Maybe gender double-x can restore our humanity and bring to the table policy not centered on profit and control. And wouldn't it be the biggest kick in the ass ever if the Sky's championship helped light the way?

Just sayin'. 

 

Evincing Magic

The year of the shortage continues, with seemingly everything except congestion, inflation and political rancor in short supply. But know there is a light. A beacon of beauty. A lumen of ingenuity just over the not-so-distant horizon.

Yes, the clarion call of genius has never sounded so clearly. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the GlowBowl.

Since its web site claims over one-million sold, it's conceivable I might be a little late to the GlowBowl party. But for those of you whose lives have yet to be touched, know this: it is transformative.

It's true. I can scarcely believe my eyes. Imagine infusing one of life's most-mundane acts with (gasp) wonder!

So. There you are. Your bladder beckons. You head to the bathroom. I ask you: is there a point in the day when expectation are lower? Of course not. Pee. Flush. Move on.

And then, just feet from the bowl, everything changes. 

Your toilet is a kaleidoscope of color! It is luminous! As your choice of thirteen colors caresses the ceramic bowl, revelation: your toilet isn't just a toilet. It's a canvas!

I'm supposed to go back to sleep after this? Or watch Squid Game? Are you kidding me? Oh no—I'm heading straight for the fridge and downing gigantic quantities of fluids as fast as I can!

Even away from home GlowBowl works its magic.

Imagine your self-satisfaction when, in the midst of a tough day at work, you are able to content yourself with the knowledge that in contrast to the mass of humanity all around you, your bowl glows.

Yes. Your bowl glows. In thirteen different colors.

It is the best of all possible worlds.

Re-imagining Pearl Harbor

Herein, we re-imagine the attack on Pearl Harbor as taking place today, with the not-quite-greatest generation (defined as 'us', not 'you') left to react and muddle its way through the debris.

It kicks off with Franklin Delano Roosevelt's historic 1941 address, updated to reflect 2021's realities. We at the Square Peg hope you enjoy it.

“Madam Vice President, Madam Speaker, Members of the Senate and of the House of Representatives:

Yesterday, December 7, 2021—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by missles originating from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, better known to you as North Korea.

The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of the Democratic People's Republic, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking towards the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.”

It didn't take long for social media platforms to light up.

“It's a hoax!” cried redstatepatriot26. “More lies from Sleepy Joe” added Joe6pak. “This is a gr8 start! Now We take up Arms and Finish DC!” advised 67militiaMan. “Biden's media puppets are already marching in lockstep with this, people!!! Grab your guns!!!” wrote US representative Lauren Boebert (R-CO).

Despite mountains of evidence originating from the military, independent observers and local and state governments confirming the attack and the attendant carnage, a motion to declare war fell strictly along party lines, passing 221 to 213 in the House and requiring a tie-breaking vote from Vice President Kamala Harris to pass in the Senate.

Presidential mandates limiting home construction and automobile production in order to conserve materials required for the war effort are being met with hundreds of lawsuits. Additional mandates rationing (among other things) meat, gasoline, natural gas and electrical consumption are likewise having their veracity contested.

Even the distribution of non-military ammunition is being curtailed, provoking perhaps the strongest outrage from bands of protesters calling themselves the 'Legion of Trump'. They allege this is tyranny of the highest order and urge their brethren to take up arms against a hostile and pernicious government denying them their Second Amendment rights.

With the rest of the world quickly taking sides in the wake of the assault, a global war appears inevitable. With no other choice but to resurrect the draft, resistance is peaking in red states such as Florida, Alabama, Kansas, Oklahoma and Texas. Anti-draft protesters are burning American flags and demanding citizenship in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.

There, they believe, they will be free to exercise their Second Amendment rights without inhibition, eat as many double-cheeseburgers as they can stomach and spend as many hours playing Mortal Kombat as a case of Red Bull will see them through.

When advised of the realities of life in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (starvation and deprivation among other things), they uniformly point to a tweet by former president Donald Trump advising them that anything that doesn't emanate from his lips are lies. 

With strident resistance to virtually every mandate exacerbated by yet-another COVID variant and sustained by virulent anti-vaxxer factions, political observers believe the United States could fall to North Korea and its allies.

The same observers caution that those resisting President Biden's mandates would likely be viewed as enemies of the state should North Korea emerge victorious and summarily executed.

 At least they won't be made to suffer under a hostile democracy.

Adulting

How do you wrap your brain around parents who are alleged to have not only gifted their emotionally-troubled son with an early Christmas present of a handgun, but gave him full and unrestricted access even after he showed signs of intending to do harm with it?

I mean...how? What the fuck?

Your kid's teacher finds him shopping for ammo on his phone and they're the bad guy? Another teacher finds a disturbing note—accompanied by an equally-disturbing drawing—and they're what? Radicalized socialists intruding on your son's privacy? Second Amendment rights? First Amendment rights? All of the above?

Given your uninvolvement, I'm shocked you visited the school when summoned. In the most towering example of not-my-kid we have ever been unfortunate-enough to witness, you refused to intervene and schedule counseling, much less take a peek at his backpack. What right would that have violated, Mr. and Mrs. Crumbley?

You even resisted the request to remove your child from school. I'm thinking that as taxpayers, you were determined that your son receive every cent of every tax dollar you paid to support his public school.

Wondering: do you seek life advice from Alex Jones? Do you remain perturbed that last year's attempt to assassinate Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer failed? And finally, Trump didn't really lose, did he?

Can I get your thoughts on COVID vaccines?

That's right. I'm accusing you of being Trumpers. Because the stupidity you repeatedly showed in this tiny week-long window is staggering. And frankly, only a Trumper is capable of it.

Word is that you left Oxford “for your own safety.” It's a shame your son's victims didn't have that option, isn't it? If it isn't bad enough we have the NRA writing our nation's gun policy—such as it is—we have “parents” like you doing everything but engraving invitations to their kids to slaughter their classmates.

It's not easy being green—or Trump—is it?

I can't wait to hear your justification. Ditto that of your son. In a world that truly valued life (nope—overturning Roe v. Wade doesn't count), the three of you would rot in prison.

Here's hoping.

 

Change Is the Only Constant? Seriously?

Depending on how you look at it, the Chicago Bears are either swathed in—or suffocated by—history.

Just one of a handful of NFL franchises owned by descendants of their founders, the Bears make a great story insofar as tradition and lineage are concerned. What could be better for a franchise and its legacy than to have a tangible link to perhaps the most pivotal man in NFL history?

On the surface, not much. Pretty cool, right?

Wrong.

George Halas, Sr. died on Halloween, 1983. The last great thing Bears' leadership did for the franchise was Halas' hiring of GM Jim Finks in the mid-seventies. Already credited with turning two franchises into contenders, Finks was the perfect candidate to resurrect the Bears.

And resurrect he did. While no longer with the franchise by the time the 1985 Bears laid waste to the NFL, that team had Finks' fingerprints all over it. But the ascent and the championship obscured an emerging problem within the organization: in the aftermath of Halas' death, who would lead them?

Heirs by marriage, various members of the McCaskey family assumed control. They were now responsible for hiring the people best-suited to sustain the Bears' recent success.

But as teams do, the Bears grew old. Got injured. And got traded. With the conveyor belt Finks built no longer in service, the supply of savvy draft picks and prescient free-agent signings which earmarked his stay in Chicago disappeared.

And suddenly the Bears weren't so good anymore.

Looking at the ensuing decades, the Bears have mostly been mediocre (if not downright awful). While fans and the media debate incessantly this GM or that coach or trades and free-agent signings, there is but a single common denominator that stretches across three decades of futility: the McCaskeys.

They don't know what they're doing.

They're in charge of hiring the people who evaluate, develop and assemble talent. And for thirty long years they have failed. Their hand-picked executives have produced a long string of ineffectual quarterbacks. Forgettable receivers and tight ends. Anonymous offensive linemen. All of it leading to a moribund tradition of hapless and inept offenses.

Their coaches are over-matched and out-witted.

Yes, the Bears can still uncover defensive talent like the New York Mets once did pitching. But in a game constantly being tweaked and massaged to favor offense, this is only a minor advantage. 

There are aberrations. Like 2001 and 2006 and, most-recently, 2018. But these vanish as quickly as they appear, returning Bears football to its natural state of being.

Which isn't to infer the McCaskeys are clueless. On the contrary, they have developed the Bears assets to the point where the Bears are the eighth most-valuable franchise in the NFL, worth 2.45 billion-dollars. Which I think we all can agree is a pretty heady return on Papa Bear's original investment.

And with a billion-dollar monument to their legacy soon to be erected in the suburb of Arlington Heights, that valuation will increase still further. But the red wine stain on this pristine linen tablecloth of good fortune remains the McCaskeys.

If it even needs to be said, football is measured in championships, not valuations.

Oh, the McCaskeys and Ted Phillips still deign to descend from their ivory towers and mingle with the great unwashed once a year, polishing their brand as they advise exasperated fans and a befuddled media they understand what's going on and are going to act on it immediately.

All that's missing are results.

But with a string of sold-out games stretching back to 1984, you have to wonder why the Bears would bother. Like the fans of the baseball team that plays on the north side of town, Bears fans will bitch up a storm on Monday morning talk radio and then dash off checks for season tickets with eager and unquestioning obedience.

And with more seats to sell in their new stadium, money will roll in in even greater quantities.

3 - 13? 12 - 4? It matters not, people. Bears' fans have demonstrated they will buy whatever the McCaskeys are selling. And until the tickets and the merch remain unsold and the games unwatched, rest assured Matt Nagy and Ryan Pace's successors will be more of the same.

Again: the McCaskeys are the sole common denominator across thirty-years of crappy football and questionable football decisions. What does that say to you?

A long time ago, an Englishman sang “Meet the new boss/Same as the old boss.” Is it possible he was a Bears' fan?

Random Thoughts, Vol. 14

Yes, you are correct. Previous editions of 'Random Thoughts' contained ten items, while this installment contains only seven.

Unfortunately, the ripple of shortages washing over the world is now lapping upon the shores of 'The Square Peg', and as a consequence we have but seven items to offer.

Thank you for your understanding.

My dad was a nuclear physicist. So I'm thinking it's not that surprising that he'd wake me with the words up and atom?

I suffer from low self-esteem. I blame this on the fact I was born and raised in the Lesser Antilles.

The only people in my neck of the woods who drive with a sense of urgency are the people behind me.

Is it true that language-app Babbel is developing a new program based on Bears' coach Matt Nagy?

If I get the message “We are experiencing an unusually high call volume” every time I call a business, is their call volume really unusually high?

Now that strike-outs frequently outnumber hits in a given month in Major League Baseball, is it fair to question when single 'A' ball got so expensive?

So, let me get this straight. in direct opposition to their cult leader's repeated cries for deregulation and lessened governmental oversight, Trumpers are concerned the COVID-19 vaccines didn't receive enough?

Resisting Quantification

I will admit that more NFL Hall-of-Famers were drafted in the first-round than any other. And that this probably applies to MLB, the NBA and the NHL as well.

But judging by the rampant hysteria surrounding the value of first-round picks, nothing so much as a reliable starter was ever drafted afterwards. The all-or-nothing premium placed on them borders on mental illness.

Anyone out there remember JaMarcus Russell? Brian Bosworth? Tony Mandarich? All had a yellow-brick road paved to Canton, OH. They merely had to show up.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Hall of Fame. None of them made it. Career-wise, none of them even made it out of the driveway.

So. Fasten your seat belts: first-round picks are a crap shoot. Yep. With odds only marginally better than the rounds that follow. Humans continue to resist the most detailed and intrusive examination. We flower when no one thought us capable. And granted, we sometimes fail when—again—no one thought us capable.

We are difficult. Unquantifiable.

In a sport ruled by “experts”, I relish the fact that so many of the best quarterbacks I ever saw were drafted well outside of the first-round: Johnny Unitas, Bart Starr, Roger Staubach, Joe Montana, Brett Favre and (drumroll, please) Tom Brady.

If the “can't miss” tag overlooked so many of the all-time greats at the sport's most-scrutinized position, what does that say about our scrutiny? Our evaluation?

Not a whole lot, I'm afraid. Is anyone asking “What are we missing?”

Given the time, I'm confident I could assemble an All-NFL squad of third rounders every bit as potent as one crafted from first rounders. As I could in every other sport.

And yet our belief in this delusion persists and carries with it powerful consequences. For instance, the salaries enjoyed by first-round picks versus those picked in subsequent rounds.

For an NFL prospect, simply falling out of the first-round and into the second translates into a financial hit of 20%.

Without doing a survey on the relative success of first-round picks versus second-round picks, this is a startling difference. Is there really that much difference between number thirty-two and number thirty-three?

Alas, we are a society heavily invested in name brands and image and reputation. “How can you miss with a __________________ from Alabama versus a __________________ from Black Hills State University? You can't!”

Right?

It goes without saying I was delighted by the 2016 Major League Baseball Hall of Fame class, which featured Ken Griffey, Jr. and Mike Piazza. One was a can't-miss prospect lauded from the day he spouted pubic hair. The other was an afterthought.

Without enlisting the services of Google, can you tell me which was which?

Didn't think so.

If we are going to be utterly and completely honest, we need to admit the only thing drafts accurately predict are the sizes of signing bonuses and rookie contracts. Everything else is, like I said, a crap shoot.

 

A Little Bit of Light

It is ugly. It is a billion-dollar behemoth that rolls, unimpeded, over everything. A cash spigot that seemingly will not be turned off. It fills cup after cup of generational wealth for all who can crowd close enough.

Those lucky souls consume multi-million-dollar homes and Lamborghini SUVs like you and I do water and bagels. In this exalted income bracket, vast, unimaginable amounts of money become de rigueur, their new normal.

Money can buy anything. And everything.

With the exception of happiness.

We have only to consider the parade of misshapen personalities that have emerged in the first half of this NFL season: Jon Gruden, Henry Ruggs III, Aaron Rodgers, Odell Beckham, Jr. and now, Dalvin Cook. Despite the ocean of riches offered them and the bounty of benefits that accompanies being rich and famous, it's just not enough.

Beauty, it is said, is skin-deep. But ugly goes all the way to the bone.

The riches aren't enough to wash away their hatred or their arrogance. Ditto their selfishness. The immersion course in entitlement and impunity works so very, very well.

But there is a break in the display of racism, sexism, battery and the flaunting of privilege. There are people who, despite the mountains of cash and (in this case at least) less-than-ideal professional circumstances, manage to act like grown-ups.

I speak of former Detroit Lions quarterback Matthew Stafford.

I don't know him. I don't even live in Detroit. But even without close-in access to either the team or Detroit's media, will hazard the opinion that Stafford is an okay guy. He persevered for a dozen years with mostly not-so-great Lion teams, rarely throwing an undue number of interceptions much less petulant, trade-me-now tantrums.

In a sea of ineptness and futility, Stafford was a island of ability. A player who produced at a high level regardless of whomever he was surrounded with.

So I was happy when I learned he'd been traded to the Los Angeles Rams. If anyone deserved a shot with a contender, it was (and is) Stafford. And even with my moderate interest in professional football, can see he is making the most of it.

As of this writing, Stafford stands as the highest-rated quarterback in the NFL. Not Patrick Mahomes. Not Tom Brady. Not (eyeroll) Aaron Rodgers. Nope. It's the dude from Detroit. Playing with actual NFL-quality personnel, Stafford has the Rams in the thick of the highly-competitive race for the NFC bye.

I'm no Rams fan, but am thrilled that Stafford has at last been given a platform from which to shine. With a multitude of character-free personalities being handed a disproportionate amount of life's riches, it is a relief to see a fully-developed, mature human being get some.

Rock it, Matthew.

Kyle Rittenhouse

What follows is a conversation that might have taken place in the Rittenhouse home on the night of August 25^th, 2020. Not knowing Kyle Rittenhouse or his mom, it is extremely unlikely I was there to record the conversation verbatim.

Kyle: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yes?”

Kyle: “I'm going out.”

Mom: “Oh. Where're you going?”

Kyle: “Kenosha.”

Mom: “Okay. What's going on up there?”

Kyle: “People are rioting after a recent police shooting. I thought I'd grab my AR-15 and assist in bringing law and order to a troubled community and in so doing, protect America.”

Mom: “Okay, honey. You know where it is?”

Kyle: “No.”

Mom: “That's because you never put it back where it belongs. Can you start to work on that?”

Kyle: (sighs) “Yeeesssss.”

Mom: “It's in the hall closet. You have ammunition?”

Kyle: (pause) “No.”

Mom: (sighs) “How old are you?”

Kyle: (exasperatedly) “Moommm...”

Mom: “There's a new carton of shells on the workbench in the garage. You know where that is?”

(Kyle sighs)

A door slams.

Mom: (under her breath) “The world was gonna end if he didn't get that dad-gum gun for Christmas. And now that he has it, he doesn't know where it is half the time. Lord almighty.”

A door opens and closes. Kyle re-enters the room.

Kyle: “Okay, mom. I'm going.”

Mom: “Okay, honey. You all set?”

Kyle: “Locked and loaded.”

Mom: “Be careful! Home by midnight!”

Kyle: (resignedly) “Okay.”

 

And so it was that seventeen year-old Kyle Rittenhouse set out and made the drive from Antioch, Illinois to Kenosha, Wisconsin. Stuffed with right-wing propaganda, young Rittenhouse (the very definition of a cop wanna-be) was going to patrol the streets of Kenosha just like a real, live cop.

Except he wasn't one.

If you're keeping score at home, Rittenhouse was prohibited from possessing a firearm in the state of Wisconsin, much less parading down the street with one in an urban fire zone. In the most unassailable example of white privilege I can imagine, Rittenhouse was reportedly welcomed by the law enforcement on-site.

Can you imagine had he been Black?

Strolling through that socioeconomic divide, Rittenhouse attracted the consternation of various onlookers. Despite Rittenhouse's claims that he was there in a quote-unquote medical capacity, the sight of a white guy carrying an assault rifle sent an unmistakable message to those around him.

Can you say vigilante?

As they always do, the presence of a gun exacerbated the situation. Inflamed it. Escalated it. If you're even a moderately-literate person, you know none of those words are good things in the middle of an already-volatile civic uprising.

Rightly concerned that Rittenhouse was there to administer right-wing justice, several onlookers attempted to take his gun away. Rittenhouse reacted to this self-created drama by killing two of them.

Naturally, he claimed self-defense.

“They were trying to take away my assault rifle which had no business being there in the first place!” remains the fullest, most-complete version of his would-be testimony.

With conspiracy and pre-meditation difficult to prove, I'm hoping Rittenhouse gets hit with two counts of second-degree murder. Whatever pity I feel for him is in having a mom as clueless as she was spineless, and existing in a void of sound parental guidance. 

Consequently, he fell prey to propaganda that led him to believe he could achieve the status he craved by possessing a gun. Guess you know better now, don't you Kyle? And if you don't—all the more reason to keep you behind bars for a long, long time.

You took two things that night you can't ever give back.

But that really isn't important, is it? What's really important is that a gun could be put into your hands—above all else. Because if one couldn't, we would be a lawless, heathen civilization at the mercy of bad guys with guns. (Not to mention naive, not-so-bright guys that think they're cops.)

Yeah. 

God bless America.

 

Election Day

I have mostly resisted writing about politics these past months because I can't handle it. Not only have Republicans stymied Democrats (whose inexplicable razor-thin margins in the House and Senate make them vulnerable), they have benefited from a rogue, opportunist senator from West Virginia.

(Gosh, Joe. So relived the nation can suffer the effects of climate change so that the good citizens of West Virginia may remain employed. The greatest good for the greatest number, right?)

So yeah, the Republicans are winning the battle. Mitch McConnell, with an healthy assist from Manchin, has effectively blocked Biden's forward-thinking legislation addressing our nation's badly-neglected infrastructure, climate change and so much else.

Yay!

So I resist clawing my eyes out by ignoring it. By watching the local WNBA franchise take a title. By driving Porsche 911s on a race track. By taking a two-week road trip I can't afford.

But reality is like having kids. It's always there. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There are no off days. And our current generation of Americans, not exactly suited to enduring things like COVID lockdowns and shortages and inflation, are angry and impatient. They want it to go away.

As do I.

But instead of reacting, we need to understand. Yes, the resumption of the normal we crave has been very slow in coming. But ask yourself why. Is it Joe Biden and his agenda or Republican resistance?

Again, Republicans have resisted virtually every public health measure intended to curb the COVID virus and eventually eliminate it. By delaying its containment and preventing its elimination, how is our economy ever to recover? How are we ever to resume our normal?

But Republicans don't really want our economy to recover. Not with a Democrat in the White House, anyway. They will stop at nothing to make Biden look weak, ineffective and clueless. And if you and yours suffer, well too fucking bad.

Sadly, many of the folks participating in polls that measure Biden's approval rating don't seem to realize this. In their ignorant, short-sighted opinion, Biden is screwing up and that's all there is to it.

He isn't struggling with in-house DINOS or wafer-thin majorities or a minority Speaker of the House eager to drive the car off the cliff to prove to his former high-school classmates that all these years later, he is a bad ass.

Can I be prom king? Will you invite me to your parties? Can I eat lunch with the cool kids?

Like his Democratic predecessor, Biden inherited a steaming heap of shit from the candidate he defeated. President forty-five did little but cultivate a bromance with Kim Jong-un and give billionaires and their corporations a big, giant tax cut.

It couldn't be more-obvious Biden has been tasked with a bit more.

So before we assign him and his party a single star on Yelp, can we please make the effort to appreciate the context? I'm aware the cost is our Instagram and YouTube time, but it might be really, really worthwhile going forward.

With solid Democratic majorities, we can at last begin to move forward. 

Vote Democratic, my friends. What's left of your futures depends on it. 

Of Monsters and Men

Apologies to the Icelandic band of the same name, but I could not locate a more-appropriate title for this post than, well, the name of your estimable band. I apologize for any and all confusion.

It's brutal. Another sexual assault involving moneyed and privileged organizations was swept under the rug in service of their ongoing reputations and revenue streams.

I speak of the Chicago Blackhawks denial and cover-up of events dating from May, 2010, where a Blackhawks employee (Brad Aldrich) assaulted a young prospect (Kyle Beach) in the former's apartment.

We've seen this time and again. The victim's complaints are ignored and then buried in the hopes they will turn to dust and just blow away. Be it the Catholic church, Penn State University, Gymnastics USA or a billionaire Wall Street financier, the wealthy and the powerful are allowed to continue in their lives without reproach.

The victims, who rarely enjoy those luxuries, get crushed underfoot. How dare they intrude on these Important and Sacrosanct lives!

But there is a rabbit and the hare dynamic at work here. Yes, wealth draws the curtains very quickly and is expert at getting out in front of these scenarios. But the creaking wheels of justice thankfully catch up, and while not exactly swift, justice is nevertheless served.

And the entities that engaged in the cover-up are left shamed; attempting to pull-up their pants even as they stand on them.

While the Blackhawks have acted somewhat creditably in the wake of their internal investigation, let's not forget it took over a decade for them to do so. Let's also not forget that a code of silence was enacted and spread all the way up the chain of command—even after Aldrich wreaked sexual havoc on still-more victims.

Nope. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

It makes the recent resignations, terminations and the request to remove Aldrich's name from the 2010 Stanley Cup ring a bit hollow.

I'm not a hockey fan, and so can't withdrawal my fandom. Much less my season tickets. But the organization's shushing of this so that they might bask in the light of a championship without inhibition paints them as one with a very serious morality problem.

I only hope people don't forget. 

 

Crushing on Rahimi

Maybe it's because I'm a music nut. I enjoy it because I'm sensitive to sound, and the variety of sounds found in music push my buttons in a very pleasing and engaging way. So it follows that certain human voices would resonate with me as well.

This is reason number-one I'm crushing on Leila Rahimi. I love her voice.

On the surface, this appears to be a rather flimsy foundation on which to base a crush. Tradition requires that it be rooted in some aspect of their personality or physical appearance, and yet with no actual contact with Ms. Rahimi to speak of, I must content myself with the radio show she shares with Dan Bernstein.

And it is there that I am alternately delighted, enchanted and yes—seduced by the dulcet tones of her voice.

There's a trace of a rasp which connotes authenticity and genuineness. Inflections that suggest engagement and passion. Together, they are indicative of a buoyant personality deeply connected to the world (or at least the sports) around her.

Is this not someone you'd love to watch a Bulls' game with?

Which isn't to overlook her expansive vocabulary. It bespeaks a powerful and agile intellect able to articulate any thought passing through her cerebellum. For better or for worse, she is as opinionated as you are.

There's definitely some acuity going on here.

And finally there is the laugh. Ebullient. Hearty. All-in. It is a truly great laugh. It's the sort you can't hear without smiling.

Sigh.

Alas, I am a faceless listener. A number in a ratings report. And it must be said that to some extent, she is a performer, performing.

How does she sound calling in an order to her favorite pizzeria? Or reporting a cable outage to her provider? Or telling her (presumed) significant other to stop finishing-off the Cheetos? Or letting wet laundry to molder in the washing machine?

Ah, but real life doesn't intrude upon crushes, does it? Crushes exist in a theoretical world of romantic perfection. There are no fumbled words. No awkward silences. No missed cues. No disagreement.

All concerned get everything they want. And everything they need. All the time. Does it get any better than that?

No.

And yet, I long for the opportunity to find out. What fools we mortals be.

 

Truth Decay

I only wish the most detestable thing I ever had to do for a job was get a shot. Or share my vaccination status. Or get tested for COVID twice a week.

Apparently it is for Chicago police officers and many of the city's municipal employees. Even with their lavish pensions and hearty salaries, they are outraged by Mayor Lightfoot's COVID vaccine mandate and have filed suit against the city.

Gulp.

I had to take all manner of shit while employed as a cashier for Home Depot during the Great Recession. While the lowest-paid employees in the store, the position also featured its most-demanding metrics. They were a circular firing squad of contradictory and mutually-exclusive demands.

For instance, the 'Security' metric required me to root through a contractor's flatbed cart to search for saw blades and silver solder hidden between bags of cement mix and boxes of shingles while simultaneously delighting them with radiant customer service.

Oh, and this needed to be done very quickly. Because beyond meeting the 'Friendly and courteous' metric I needed to fulfill the 'Speed of checkout' one, too. Since they were already put-off by the assumption of theft we certainly didn't want them hanging around any longer than necessary, did we?

“Thank you for shopping at Home Depot and have a great day!”

One example of the surly gentlemen who frequented our store were the pair who commented “Wish I could stand around with my hands in my pockets all day” as they passed my register.

First off, my hands weren't in my pockets. And secondly, store policy required me to stand at the head of the aisle when I wasn't actively processing a customer and could theoretically flag down anyone ready to check-out.

As an inveterate customer service professional and an endlessly helpful soul, I couldn't let this customer's wish go unfulfilled. Which is why I responded “You can! At Home Depot dot com slash jobs!”

My insouciance wasn't taken in the spirit in which it was offered and the toxic twins leveled a complaint about me to persons unknown. Not only did I hear from my department manager but the store manager as well.

After listening to their spiels about the importance of our customers, I told them I didn't care who the complainants were—I wasn't going to be a punching bag for our customers merely because I had a Home Depot apron on.

Mystifyingly, I neglected to thank them for their support.

The memory smolders, still.

You'll excuse me if I can't quite recall the details of my pension and other benefits because there weren't any. I did mention I earned $8.40 an hour, right? And that my hours were strictly limited to spare Home Depot the ruinous financials presented by full-time employees?

Yeah.

But at least I wasn't required to get a shot.

So yes, my heart bleeds for Chicago's cops and the scores of municipal employees being made to bear the outrage of having to inoculate oneself during a pandemic. It's like being made to exit a burning building, is it not?

Lead Fraternal Order of Police troll John Catanzara, whose sole talent in life is intransigence, is threatening a massive call-in by Chicago's finest should Mayor Lightfoot follow through on the expectations outlined in her mandate.

Catanzara's mental acuity is on display when, after his predecessor's death from COVID last week, he refused to acknowledge the existence of the virus or the threat it presents to the members of his union.

(It is interesting to note that despite his public anti-vaxxer stance, Catanzara is vaccinated. And exactly what do the chumps who elected him think of that?)

It is again on display when the fact is made public that more cops have died from COVID than from all Black Lives Matter protests combined. (It isn't even close.) But is COVID a threat? Should cops vaccinate? Nope.

I'm reminded of Monty Python's Argument Clinic, wherein Terry Jones attempts to explain to John Cleese that “...an argument is a connected series of statements to establish a definite proposition”, to which Cleese answers “Not it isn't.”

Exasperated, Jones goes on to complain that this isn't an argument—it's contradiction. Cleese's response? “No it isn't.”

But in the end this isn't really about masks and vaccines, is it?

Nope. It's the same dynamic playing out between President Biden and Mitch McConnell in Washington DC. It's about control. Republicans created this power-at-all-costs dynamic and it's about nothing more than resisting Democrats.

Slit your throat. Or the public's. We don't care. But don't ever accede to a Democrat!

With things like the greater good and public health thrown under the bus for a prolonged sibling rivalry more appropriate for the sandbox than our halls of government, it's tempting to feel the looming global warming cataclysm couldn't have come at a better time.

Sorry for the misanthropic streak, but there you go.

Consider Ass Kicked!

Wow. I don't know where to begin. I'm overwhelmed. Overstimulated. I. Am. Buzzed. (Which is probably why I set a personal-best on my morning constitutional today.) Like some other people I could name, I am feeling it.

So. The Chicago Sky concluded their playoff run yesterday afternoon. It was one which culminated in a stirring 80 – 74 victory over the Phoenix Mercury and a WNBA championship.

But it didn't go according to script.

The team I saw through the first the three quarters was one I haven't seen in a while. Perhaps a dozen missed lay-ups and point-blank shots. Threes lofted early in the shot clock with no one underneath to rebound. 

And considering they were shooting just eighteen-percent, there were lots of them.

Errant passes. Rushed passes. Sluggish defensive rotations. It was not pretty. But considering how fast the Sky had gone from zero to sixty these past weeks, it would be entirely understandable if they were feeling the heat of a white-hot spotlight.

Nevertheless, it served to mute the sold-out crowd. Their unmet expectations pooled behind them like water in a reservoir. The faces gathered at the Sky bench during time-outs were dour. Disappointed. This was not happening.

After being outshot and outscored in each of the first three quarters, the scoreboard read Mercury 63, Sky 54. Not an insurmountable margin, to be sure. But with so little evidence it would be, fans could be forgiven for steeling themselves against the possibility the Sky might not clinch this day. 

I know I was.

I'm not sure exactly when it changed.

In my happy haze, I remember Allie Quigley hitting several threes. Then it was Candace Parker's turn. A match had been lit. Fans expressed their pent-up delight. The arena was stirring.

Something was definitely afoot.

The revitalized Sky continued to score. Defend. Pass. To play like the team they had been throughout their wondrous run. It was one of Stefanie Dolson's shots from the paint that finally put them on top. The crowd erupted. Delirium was Wintrust Arena's new normal.

A Courtney Vandersloot jumper and and two free throws put the icing on the cake. The screaming and the cheering and the bedlam did not stop. So this was what it's like to be at a championship clincher!

I was beside myself, but in a healthy, non-multiple-personality-disorder kind of way. This couldn't be happening, could it? Not after those first three quarters? I checked the guy next to me. He was beaming. “Can you believe this?” he said. I shook my head “No.” I was smiling beneath my mask.

I raised my arms above my head and howled.

On the Mercury's final possession, Brittney Griner put up a three. It bounced off the rim and fell. Parker picked-off the rebound and dribbled up court. Only seconds stood between the Sky and a title.

The horn sounded. Disbelief. They had done it!

The realization that it was over was both a happy and sad one. I watched the players congregate at center court, where bits of gold and blue foil floated down from above. Hip-hop boomed over the PA. To (almost) quote David Bowie, I was floating in a most peculiar way.

At last I exited the arena. The late-afternoon sky was cloudless and brilliant blue. Perfect. I went for a walk to soak up whatever ambiance might be lying around. The Phoenix team bus was stationed at the southeast corner of the arena. Two players exited to applause from a pair of die-hard fans.

It was not acknowledged.

(I later learned that Griner, Diana Taurasi and Skylar Diggins had boycotted the post-game press conference. Their petulance reminded me of the Detroit Pistons and the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals, where Isiah Thomas and Bill Laimbeer (among others) skulked off the floor before the game four rout had even concluded. Is it possible Taurasi and the two Pistons are somehow related?)

Finally, I must give a shout-out to Dolson and starting center Azura Stevens. They endured the brunt of inexplicable calls against the Sky. To wit, Griner and Mercury forward Kia Vaughn appeared to body, shove and grab Stevens and Dolson with impunity, while the Sky centers were hit with fouls if they so much as perspired on their Phoenix counterparts.

Ditto an invisible offensive foul on Quigley. Huh? In one aspect at least, the WNBA has achieved parity with the NBA: its officiating is equally inconsistent and arbitrary. In the context of that officiating, yesterday's game was a horror show.

Okay. Enough.

I drove home in contented silence, happy for all concerned. I hope they keep this memory close for the remainder of their lives. It is so very, very special.

A New Leaf

At the risk of appearing unbearably sensitive to one group and unbearably pretentious to another, I am going to admit that yes, I read poetry. It is the literary equivalent of a chef's reduction sauce; language distilled to its purest essence.

At its best, every syllable, the very sound of the words, contributes to its message. Poems are a world of thought expressed in a few dozen lines.

So it was with great relish that I read this one, which appeared in Heidi Stevens' Balancing Act column in last Sunday's Chicago Tribune. It was written by Maggie Smith and is titled Rain, New Year's Eve.  

It couldn't be more perfect for a world (and a population) as battered and broken as ours.

   The rain is a broken

piano,

   playing the same note

over and over.

   My five-year-old said

that.

   Already she knows

loving the world

   means loving the

wobbles

   you can't shim, the

creaks you can't

   oil silent – the jerry-

rigged parts,

   MacGyvered with twine

and chewing gum.

   Let me love the cold

rain's plinking

   Let me love the world the

way I love

   my young son, not only

when

   he cups my face in his

sticky hands,

   but when, roughousing,

   he accidentally splits my

lip.

   Let me love the world

like a mother.

   Let me be tender when it

lets me down.

   Let me listen to the rain's

one note

   and hear a beginner's

song.

There's Something Happening Here...

On the surface, the season was a letdown. After the signing last May of two-time MVP and future Hall-of-Famer Candace Parker, you could say the sky was the limit. Armed with a pair of all-star guards in Courtney Vandersloot and Allie Quigley, the Sky seemed primed to make some serious noise.

But injuries to Quigley and Parker helped stunt what should have been a coming out party, and the Sky stuggled to a .500 record, finishing 16 – 16.

But as innummerable promotional campaigns have stated: That was then. This is now.

Edging into the playoffs as the number-six seed, the Sky defeated the Dallas Wings in a win-or-go-home contest 81 – 64. Considering Dallas went 14 – 18 during the regular season, was the number-seven seed and that the game was played in Chicago, well, it could almost qualify as a foregone conclusion.

The surprise came in round-two.

Facing the four-time WNBA champion Minnesota Lynx (22 – 10) in Minnesota, the Sky had a great big challenge in front of them.

They played tough in a see-saw battle until mid-way through the third quarter, when a series of fast-break opportunites broke the game open. Outscoring the Lynx 27 – 20 in the fourth-quarter, the Sky walked away with an 89 – 76 win.

Four players finished with between fourteen and nineteen points (Vandersloot, small forward Kahleah Copper, center Azura Stevens and reserve Diamond DeShields) while another (Quigley) ended with eleven.

And what of power forward Candace Parker? Eight points, three assists and four rebounds.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the beauty of it. Up against a team six games ahead of them in the standings and on their floor, the Sky beat the Lynx by thirteen with their most-prominent player suffering through a mediocre game.

Kaboom.

And the Sky have continued that onslaught against the Connecticut Sun.

The Sun ended their season on a fourteen-game tear to finish with the WNBA's best record at 26 - 6. Four of their starters were named to the All-WNBA Defensive first or second team. And the Sun owned the legue's best defense, finishing with a defensive rating of 91.7.

All the Sky have done is beat them in a double-overtime thriller that featured just the second triple-double in WNBA playoff history and then apply their own defensive clamps while pulling out a 86 – 83 victory yesterday afternoon in Chicago.

On the cusp of a WNBA Finals appearance for just the second time in franchise history, fans can be excused for looking forward. I've been following sports for half a century, and this team has every earmark of being a Cinderella.

They're peaking at just the right time after a season of stops and starts. With that season under their belts, they're gelling and surging and appear to have that magic combination of talent and grit.

Forcing fourth-quarter turnovers against the Sun and then watching as Vandersloot tore down court and fired the ball to Copper or Quigley or hit the shot herself was as thrilling as anything I've seen in professional sports lately.

Especially from a team with 'Chicago' on its chest.

I can't speak for other WNBA franchises, but seeing the Sky perform in an arena at seventy-percent of capacity was heartening. The NBA's poor cousin, the WNBA—however deserving—doesn't enjoy the wall-to-wall coverage and isn't the mass-marketed colossus its big brother is.

But like seeing a band on the verge of breaking through, yesterday's game was played in front of passionate fans not-at-all hesitant to vocalize their support. No, it wasn't a sell-out. Scalpers aren't salivating over game-four.

But the fans in attendance were genuine. Real. No one was there to be seen. (And if they were, there weren't enough ESPN cameras to capture their on-trend prescience.)

Something's happening here. The Sky are rocking the WNBA, and it is so very, very cool to witness. At the risk of sounding like some deranged BDSM submissive, I am going to beg these women to kick my ass. 

And kick it hard.

Fucked

When I can withstand the way too-frequent five-minute commercial breaks, I enjoy listening to Thom Hartmann. He's knowledgeable and his moral compass unerringly hews to due north. You know, like those guys on the other side of the aisle.

A few days ago, he was reporting on the social media posts consumed by anti-vaxxers yet frequently posted by entities hostile to the United States. For the anti-vaxxers, the source of the post doesn't matter. As long as it reinforces their beliefs it is all to the good. 

Even as the Republicans all around them are hospitalized and die.

And I'm fine with that. To paraphrase a quote attributed to nineteenth-century Army general Philip Sheridan, the only good Republican is a dead Republican.

Hartmann read one post in particular that stopped me in my tracks, at least metaphorically speaking. (I was actually behind the wheel of my beloved 2015 Honda Accord Sport at the time.)

It alleged that the COVID vaccine alters human DNA to the point where those injected are no longer considered human and as a consequence, forfeit their human rights. This was given as reason number-one for the epidemic of government-led gun seizures we see happening in every nook and cranny of the United States.

Funny how often things lead to (supply name of sitting Democratic president here) gonna take away your guns. 

I'm not sure when we became so stupid, but I'm pretty sure it aligns with the popular acceptance of social media posts as an unswerving source of truth. Because with all the empirical evidence one needs to supply before positioning a post to go viral, it's no wonder, is it?

I again suggest a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Translated, this means we're fucked. Hopefully it'll happen quickly.

Happy?

I call them Justinites. Have since spring. They're the folk who have alternately clamored, begged, whined and demanded that Justin Fields start as quarterback for the Chicago Bears since the day he was drafted.

They are the folk who ran roughshod over the considered acquisition of respected veteran quarterback Andy Dalton, treating him like sewage in the process.

What they lack in things like perspective and understanding they make up for in volume and persistence. Without a shred of evidence to back their perspective, they relentlessly push their witless agenda.

They remind me of the folk who back a certain ex-president: noisy and stupid.

This shouldn't be construed as a rip in any way, shape or form of Justin Fields. Hell, I feel sorry for the guy. He's a young man forced to shoulder the unconsidered expectations of a delusional and desperate fanbase thirsting for a messiah.

And Fields is their mirage. A mirage of NFL contention and Super Bowl trophies.

Amidst their delusions, the Justinites ignore the realities of the unproven coach. The pathetic offensive line. And this weird sense of voodoo that hovers over the team and prevents them from ever enjoying a functional offense.

Building a football team is tough. I get it. Whereas other major sports field teams ranging from five to nine players, football has eleven—just on offense. There's another eleven on defense. Plus kickers. And holders. And punt returners and kick-off returners and special teams and....

That's a lot of personnel to assemble. And manage. Contracts to juggle. And beyond that, one has to make sure they're fairly compatible, healthy and, of course, talented. What's more, ideally the offense and the defense are being constructed simultaneously.

Whew. Can I take a break now?

Via Dalton's banged-up knee, the Justinites got their wish yesterday. Their savior would start an NFL game. Can we just skip the rest of the season and anoint the Bears as Super Bowl champions please?

There were just a few problems. The offensive line still sucked. (You saw Myles Garrett and Jadeveon Clowney objectify the Bears' line and turn them into turnstiles, right?)

And Matt Nagy was still calling plays. Hired as an offensive whiz kid, he continually bungled the play-calling and failed to make any useful adjustments, piloting this creaking, wheezing car into a swamp of ineptness.

Overlooked in the carnage is that young Fields, effectively playing behind a sheet of Kleenex, wasn't injured in any of the nine sacks he endured.

(It's a minor miracle, really.)

He may one day be a fine NFL quarterback. Fine as in Ryan Tannehill or fine as in Patrick Mahomes. No one knows for sure.

What is known is that the Bears aren't getting any better. Yeah, they've had some bad luck. But gifted with a fourth season as coach, it's becoming increasingly clear Nagy is merely the Bears' latest example of the Peter Principle.

And you Justinites? A quarterback does not a team make. 

 

Gone Fishin'

Yep. I went fishin'. For two weeks. Just jumped in the car and drove.

It having been twenty-two years since I last went on an extended pleasure trip, you could say I was due.

And oh my God was I.

Getting out of the municipality and the state I call home was a gift. It was like sex. Yes, having a place to call home is not to be underestimated, but...

Seeing new places, driving unfamiliar roads and meeting new people is immensely refreshing. Invigorating.

Restored, revitalized and renewed, I can again begin to supply The Square Peg with the sort of sparkling content you, dear reader, have come to expect.

And if not that, something to at least fill the time until your favorite binge-able TV show returns from a commercial break.

Be well. And thanks for visiting.

What's My Problem, Anyway?

It is said we are a product of our times. Or depending on your perspective, a victim. I plead guilty.

I grew up in the nation's second or third-largest city, depending on how you quantify that. But we were, essentially, invisible. New York had Broadway and Manhattan, and Los Angeles had Hollywood and nice weather. 

Chicago was flat and...well, O'Hare was the world's busiest airport. Yay. 

But we who lived there felt it was a jewel. We were fiercely proud and became defensive when it was attacked. 

And even beyond that, I was influenced by a parent. Go figure. Yes, I had a father who was openly contemptuous of the superiority assumed by so many in the Northeast and the West coast towards the rest of the country—and for the Midwest in particular.

(Which makes my current disdain for the south a bit ironic, no?)

Their attitude was best espoused by their referring to Midwesterners as “the flyover people”—a glib reference to their cross-country travel. I preferred the New Yorker covers of Saul Steinberg, who created maps poking fun at New Yorkers and their self-obsession.

When I look back on it, the media's focus on New York was a natural extension of the fact they were based in New York. But as a proud citizen of the second city, one admittedly with an inferiority complex crystalized by the 1969 baseball season, I grew weary of the constant attention afforded New York.

That went for their sports franchises, too.

While grateful to have come of age after the Yankees' suffocating domination of major league baseball, a succession of teams came to dominate the national stage in my youth. The 1969 Mets were one. The early-seventies Knicks were another.

For a time, it seemed as if the moment an injured Willis Reed walked on court prior to game seven of the 1970 NBA Finals was the end all and be all of sport. This was exacerbated by the insufferable Howard Cosell, who remarked afterwards “You exemplify the very best that the human spirit can offer.”

Sigh.

No wonder I used to joke that hitting .270 in New York was like hitting .300 anywhere else.

Yes, this was all media-induced. I didn't even know any New Yorkers. But as life and my social circle expanded, I came to know many New Yorkers. To my surprise, some of them were quite affable and didn't talk about New York all the time.

Of course, others weren't. And did.

So much has changed since then. Chicago enjoys a far-higher profile than it did during my youth. They shoot movies here. TV shows are set here. Chicago even had a music scene for a time in the nineties, spearheaded by the success of the Smashing Pumpkins.

The Mekons called Chicago home. So did Wilco. Shrimp Boat, Ministry, Eleventh Dream Day, Precious Wax Drippings, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, the Ponys and Naked Raygun all flowered and bloomed here.

Good times. But I've digressed.

Fortunately, at this point I can see the media's New York obsession and its New York-centric coverage for what it is. I'm sure it's the same in England, where news coming out of London crowds out news originating from any place else. Ditto Japan and Tokyo. Or Mexico and Mexico City. Big trumps not-big. I get it.

And the New York versus Chicago pizza thing? The NY food critic who referred to thick crust pizza as a casserole was the funniest thing ever. I'm sure if it had been topped with crumbled foie gras sausage and a pear and white wine reduction sauce he'd have been falling all over himself.

And if New Yorkers continue to consider me and my ilk staid flyover people?

Meh. Whatever.

Better staid and flown-over than neurotically scrolling through our phones to make sure we didn't sleep on a breaking trend.

Isn't that like a felony or something?

Look. My empathy for NYC following 9/11 was absolute and unwavering. Ditto Sandy Hook and Sandy and most-recently, Ida. I don't wish that stuff on anyone.

But I still hate the Mets.

Ditto the Yankees. And the Knicks. And the Giants. And the recently-relocated Nets, who caved to their craven desire for assimilation. Or as I prefer to call it, guilt by association.

I just feel sorry for the Jets.

(Not being a hockey fan, I can't quite work up the requisite antipathy for the Rangers or Islanders.)

So. There it is. My appreciation of New York City. 

Such as it is.

 

It Seems the Big Apple Has Worms

 Amidst the darkness of another Cubs' season gone sour, I am grateful for the chuckle provided by a former Cub.

It's been a rough couple of years for Javier Baez. After contending for the Most Valuable Player award in 2018, he battled injuries in 2019 which put a dent in his playing time as well as the Cubs' ability to contend.

The up-is-down-and-down-is-up nature of the post-COVID outbreak world has not been kind to him. Baez struggled mightily in 2020, claiming the lack of a proper spring training and access to video hurt his preparation.

But he has continued to struggle this year as well.

Always a free-swinger, Baez somehow made it work. But his strikeout percentage has become alarming. Alarming to the point where it leads the major leagues. Which isn't a good look for a player expectinging to cash in on a ginormous free-agent contract this winter.

Traded to the New York Mets at the now-infamous 2021 trade deadline, Baez landed on a team whose season has mirrored that of the Cubs. The Mets looked like world-beaters in May and have regressed ever since. To the point where their 8 and 19 record this August rivals that of the Cubs' 6 and 20.

Ugh.

Pair a frustrated ballplayer known for speaking his mind with an equally-frustrated fan base which expected its team to contend for a division title and things become flammable, as we witnessed over the weekend in New York City.

To be fair, the Mets have been hit by injuries and hit hard. Off-season acquisition Francisco Lindor under-performed, got injured and continues to under-perform. The Mets' traditional strength—pitching—hasn't quite been that, led by Jacob deGrom's recurring arm problems.

The un-hittable pitcher remains un-hittable, but only because he's on the sixty-day IL. As are so many Mets pitchers.

So. Met fans are pissed. In a world wracked by chaos and upheaval, watching your guys contend would be a very welcome distraction. But when they don't, sport becomes just another irritant. Fans boo.

Whatever the reason, several players on the Mets (including Baez) felt entitled to rate their fans performance as well, responding during recent home games with a thumbs-down gesture after getting on base.

Baez admitted it's a way for he and his teammates to boo the fans back.

Pitcher Marcus Stroman even went so far as to blame the media for the controversy.

Hmmm.

Because they saw it, Marcus?

At any rate, I take a not-insubstantial amount of glee at this tempest in a teacup, if only because I'm an old Cubs' fan who can't quite put 1969 behind him.

It was bad-enough the Cubs tanked after such a promising start. But having a team from New York—New York!—sweep in and grab the glory only added insult to injury for this Second City native.

I've disliked the Mets ever since. And for that matter, all New York teams, basically. (Yep. It's a Chicago thing.)

Finally, one of the big disadvantages to being a professional athlete is that when you do your job poorly, you do it poorly in front of tens of thousands of people. The smart thing to do is admit that yes, you sucked today. You screwed up.

That takes the wind out of hypercritical fan's sails.

The stupid thing to do is deflect the blame and the criticism. Like blame the media for that misplayed fly ball. Or in the case of Mr. Stroman, something your teammates did entirely of their own free will.

And yet, this being New York and the Mets, I can only smile at Baez's insouciance.

Rock the boat, baby.