Bosox on the Brink as the MUGGER Clan Heads to Carolina
Bosox on the Brink
I've always liked Jimy, but since Pedro Martinez landed on the disabled list his strategy's been schizophrenic, declining to use pitchers Ugueth Urbina and Casey Fossum in the late innings, continuing with the overworked Rod "Call Me Mr. Gopher Ball" Beck and Derek Lowe. A degree of stability in the lineup from new manager Joe Kerrigan would be welcomed too?like finding an everyday spot for rookie Shea Hillenbrand, whose recent hitting streak was snuffed by Williams' constant shuffling of the roster. And purging Bill Pulsipher, Darren Lewis and perhaps Jose Offerman (whose fielding makes Dick Stuart look like Brooks Robinson) wouldn't be bad either.
That Kerrigan can pull off a winning streak like mid-season replacement Joe Morgan did back in '88 is a wager I'm not prepared to take. Logic says the Oakland A's are cruising for a slump, Roger Clemens is due for several bad outings and the Anaheim Angels will quit playing over their heads. Reality, however, is more brutal: my Uncle Pete, who's 81, was born two years after the Sox last won a World Series championship. Maybe my two boys will see The Curse broken in their lifetime, but it's infinitely more likely Vermont will secede from the United States.
On Aug. 17 The Boston Globe editorialized that Duquette's move was riddled with "desperation." Horsefeathers. In fact, keeping Williams, who'd lost the confidence of his team, would be like President Bush taking Tom Daschle's advice to leave the anachronistic ABM treaty intact.
Still. The Red Sox, no matter what team they field, have a habit of breaking your heart and then stomping on it. My nieces Xela and Kira were in from San Luis Obispo this past week, and one of our destinations was Sunday's afternoon game at Yankee Stadium. It was splendid: the Mariners jumped on Andy Pettitte for four runs in the first inning and never looked back, winning 10-2. When we left, with the Yanks fairly vanquished, George Steinbrenner's slow and chintzy scoreboard showed the Sox over the Orioles by a 6-2 score, courtesy of a Manny Ramirez grand slam. By the time we got home, Boston was down 7-6. I took a nap before going out for Xela's 14th birthday celebration at Bar Odeon; after I woke up I found the Bosox?thanks a lot, Hipolito Pichardo and Sun Woo Kim?had lost 13-7, falling another game behind Oakland in the wildcard race. I'm not giving up, at least until after Pedro Martinez returns next week. But watch him leave in the fourth inning with another injury: that'll be the day the season's over, and I'm mentally prepared.
As it turned out, on Sunday night I switched on Larry King Live, drinking castor oil by just looking at CNN's number-one embarrassment because it was a rerun of a Nov. 2, '99, appearance by former President Bush. The subject was a book of letters GHWB had written over the course of half a century, and when King presented one that described the loss of his daughter Robin to leukemia at the age of three, Bush couldn't read it, the tears welling up in his eyes. My devotion to the Bosox is sheer psychosis, but it's an affliction I chose, and of course their travails can never compare to the tragedy of parents burying a child. Bush mused that perhaps had he shown more emotion during his presidency, he'd have defeated Bill Clinton in '92, but said mixing politics and Gail Sheehy "passages" was just too unseemly.
Perhaps historians, despite being dominated by hurdy-gurdy liberals, will offer a more balanced portrait of this extraordinarily decent man than have the journalists who covered, and often lampooned, his presidency. I hope so, but have serious doubts. The media, especially those in the me-me-me Washington/New York/Boston mutual-admiration bubble, draws the lowest common denominator of nominally educated Americans today. I'm at a loss right now to name even one pundit or reporter who possesses the character of the first President Bush.
It makes me ill to read smug writers like Anna Quindlen (in the current Newsweek), spluttering that the current president ("a robot") ought to see that all citizens take as much time off as he does. Never mind that Quindlen's annual salary exceeds that of George W. Bush (perhaps her net worth as well); for this elitist, like the vast majority of her colleagues, the notion that the President would figuratively flip the bird to vacation spots like the Hamptons, Martha's Vineyard or Malibu is just more evidence that he's a moron not worthy of serious attention. Besides, Al Gore's grown a beard: that's the real news this summer (aside from Clinton's book advance and the crooked Al Sharpton's 19th political rebirth) for the vermin that dominate unfortunately large-circulation publications like The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek and Time.
Quindlen predictably cites the relaxed working schedule of Europeans, and concludes: "George W. Bush has it in him to become the Vacation President, to lead a grateful and very tired nation to a place in which its citizens can stop and smell the onion rings." Even though her column was a feeble attempt at humor, Quindlen's slurs are dead-serious.
Anyway, it was an impromptu excursion to South Carolina, a state I'd never visited and one that I have affection for because of Bush's comeback primary victory against John McCain more than a year ago (after the Arizona Saint smeared the Texas governor by equating him with Bill Clinton), and also the presence of Rep. Lindsey Graham, who was among the most courageous House members in the impeachment battle against Harlem's periodic gladhander. But because of short notice we got burned on lodging, landing at the Hilton Oceanfront Resort, an alleged luxury establishment that could use a new cleaning crew. Perhaps they might think of vacuuming the elevators once in a while.
The staff was uniformly gracious, especially a courtly concierge named Don, but man, there was a stink from the fridge in our room?my bet was a dead mouse trapped inside?that kept me?horrors!?humming "That Smell" by the horrid 70s band Lynyrd Skynyrd. We were on the terrace one afternoon (the floor covered with astroturf), overlooking the "adult" pool, and got an eyeful: two teenagers screwing in the water, oblivious to other swimmers, like it was Woodstock '69. That didn't really bother Mrs. M or me?a mere curiosity?but since the boys aren't yet 10, we retreated downstairs to the "kids" pool, which was mobbed and dirty, the water a mixture of chlorine and piss. On the other hand, we had more pleasant sightings early one morning, spotting five different birds, which would perch on the railing, looking at MUGGER III in hopes of snagging a Froot Loop or two.
It was my kind of weather, hot and muggy, but as is typical in the modern South, if you enter any store or lobby, the air conditioning is cranked so high it's worse than a movie theater or airplane. I think residents of the Palmetto State might give a nod to energy conservation, not to get too enviro on you. The food at the hotel was awful: local fish ruined by layers of melted cheese, inedible "tempura" shrimp and hotdogs that made the clinkers at Shea Stadium seem like an offering from the egocentric but talented Bobby Flay.
In fact, though I'm loath to admit it, our best meal was the aforementioned lunch at an outside mall called Harbour Town (very cool lighthouse there and an awesome marina) in a restaurant called, gulp, the Crazy Crab. The seafood boils, she-crab soup, grouper and Old Bay-smothered pick 'n' eat steamed shrimp were all delicious. I mention this because the day before, on a fascinating trip to Savannah, GA, we eschewed the gentrified River St. and hunted down an off-the-beaten-track spot to find regional food that hasn't been spoiled by the antiseptic Seaport/Faneuil Hall/Harborplace phenomenon that James Rouse pioneered in the 70s.
Not far from the Bonaventure Cemetery, a worthwhile diversion, was an unassuming cafe that featured Georgian bbq, gumbo and catfish nuggets. The results weren't pretty?assuming that we could find an "authentic" restaurant down there willy-nilly is like believing that every independent pizza joint in NYC serves A-plus pie. The red beans and rice were like glue; instead of sausage in the gumbo were chunks of hotdog; and the pulled pork sandwich was mediocre, nothing you couldn't find in several takeout shops in Tribeca.
Mrs. M asked for a glass of white wine, but after 10 minutes the overworked waitress returned to say she couldn't find a corkscrew. There was a poker machine that the boys fooled around with, but aside from getting the check and taking a powder, that was as good as it got in this rural Southern hamlet.
The Victorian cemetery, though, hard by the Wilmington River, was a solemn yet absorbing pitstop. Our driver Skip, an engineer-turned-tour-guide, who was about the friendliest fellow we've encountered in that capacity, had some difficulty finding the site, but his jolly patter made up for his suspect sense of direction. Skip's a big guy, with a full head of white hair and matching beard, and spends three weeks each Christmas season playing Santa Claus, splitting his time between New Jersey and South Carolina. With Junior and MUGGER III in the backseat, he never mentioned the name "Santa," instead pulling at his whiskers as code, which was typical of his easygoing and thoughtful nature. My younger son is still in thrall with the milk and cookies myth of the man from the North Pole; Junior, had he been listening to the conversation, probably would've piped up that the Norman Rockwell version of St. Nick is a bunch of hokum, but he was engrossed in a book about the history of The Simpsons.
Anyway, we parked at Bonaventure and immediately came upon a huge plot of graves dedicated solely to the Jewish population of Savannah, a mixture of simple headstones and grand mausoleums. We wandered around, admiring the Spanish moss that hangs from oak trees, and when we approached a patch that contained a sizable family of Smiths, it got a little creepy for me, although MUGGER III was tickled to see his last name spelled out in stone. That led to his inevitable questions about life and death, asking about my parents in heaven, Mrs. M's grandparents, and his hope that his mother and I would never die. Grasping the inevitable, he promised to build a time machine when he was an old man?maybe even 46, "your age, Dad!"?and visit us in the past.
There was a sad multiplicity of graves commemorating children who lived less than a year, often next to their mothers who died during childbirth. And then everyone who fell to the influenza plague in the early 20th century, rows and rows of them, people of all ages. It was sobering to think of the hospitals and limited medical facilities in the United States more than 80 years ago. Even an institution like Johns Hopkins was helpless in so many cases; imagine what it was like in less fortunate sections of the country, whether it was Savannah, Biloxi, Sacramento, San Antonio, Ann Arbor or Buffalo.
Understandably, there was a smattering of Confederate flags decorating some of the graves, but one lavish plot particularly caught my eye. It was for a family named Burke, and the patriarch lived, amazingly, from 1855-1945. Just imagining that spell in American history, including the Civil War, abolition of slavery, lynchings, Reconstruction, the invention of electricity, telephones, cameras, planes, films, radio, indoor plumbing, television, the first and second World Wars and the unique manners and atrocities of the Old South, gave me plenty to think about in the following 24 hours.
On the drive back to Hilton Head, once you cross the South Carolina border, there are a slew of fireworks outlets right off the highway, which left the kids slackjawed. Me too, actually, and so, against Mrs. M's common sense, we stopped at one of these outposts, and I'd never seen anything like it. There were huge packages of explosives, meant for July 4th celebrations, and probably summer barbecues as well, with row upon row of firecrackers, cherry bombs, spinners, parachutes, Roman candles, sky rockets and glittery oddities I'd never seen before. We confined our purchases to "Magic Black Snakes" that expand when lit by a match and several boxes of multicolored sparklers, which satisfied the little guys.
Before dawn last Thursday and Friday we'd sneak down to the parking lot at the Hilton and thrill at the green, blue and red sparklers in the dark, the boys mighty impressed when I'd twirl them in the air and do a jig with one in each hand. Trouble was, it was windy and so took forever to light the darn things, and now I've got a blister that's purple with blood that I'm itching to lance. Fortunately, that was a lesson to the kids not to get mixed up in serious fireworks, just the most minor example of the danger involved. It quelled, at least for the time being, MUGGER III's big talk of lighting bottle rockets and M-80s.
South Carolina's one of only 18 states I know of where you can actually legally purchase fireworks (not surprisingly, made in China). When I was a kid, in Huntington, it was easy to buy packets of firecrackers and sparklers at the local general store, but too many accidents on Long Island led to a ban sometime later, after I was no longer interested. I do remember, however, going down to visit my brother Doug in Baltimore during the mid-60s, and on tours of Washington, DC, you couldn't walk a block without seeing huge signs for explosives. We'd bring some back, along with then-regional specialties like Dr Pepper and Almond Smash soft drinks, Utz potato chips (far inferior to New York's original Wise chips) and of course tins of crabmeat, which back then were bought for a pittance.
Our kids, raised in the Giuliani-era, can't remember the annual chaos of Chinatown in early July, which reached a crescendo about 14 years ago. For days before and after Independence Day, Mrs. M and I were hammered by the sound of blasts during the night, so loud that our cat Etta would hibernate in an obscure closet. It wasn't so much fun walking around Mott, Bayard and Canal Sts., with rude Chinese kids trying to sell their wares and then cursing you if you didn't oblige.
One late afternoon, walking home from the old New York Press Puck Bldg. offices, Mike Gentile and I had just passed Walker St. on Broadway when some idiot threw a beer bottle out of a speeding car, missing our heads by inches and then smashing to bits on the side of a building. I fully embrace the oddities of street life, and the small attendant illegalities?whether it's a dive bar staying open past the 4 a.m. curfew or the wary scalpers at Madison Square Garden or Yankee Stadium?but Giuliani's total shutdown of the annual fireworks disruption in Chinatown was just one of his many triumphs, even if it was enforced in a typically fascistic manner.
My Swiss-watch routine was disrupted by our cramped quarters, with the boys hogging the tube at night to watch Nickelodeon and in-house movies, so I missed the usual political talk show fare. Just as well. On our first night in SC, I made a stab at the Aug. 20 New Yorker and couldn't get past Hendrik Hertzberg's "Comment," which once again mucked up "The Talk of the Town."
Hertzberg, a bit out of date after President Bush's flurry of activity, was about the 118th smartass to take the cheap shot about GWB's "extended" vacation in Texas. The utility journalist's real motive, however, was to favorably compare Bill Clinton and John F. Kennedy, two young presidents, one of whom lived to reap millions for a memoir that might air some self-serving dirty laundry, the other who died by the same sword he brandished freely at the height of the Cold War.
Assuming this brief essay wasn't ghostwritten by Arthur Schlesinger Jr. or Ted Sorenson, Hertzberg comes up with a doozy of a postpresidential life for JFK had the libertine rich-kid served out a likely two-term administration. He writes: "Health permitting [a huge assumption, given Kennedy's history of life-threatening illnesses and reliance on Dr. Feelgood's medicine bag], Kennedy would have remained a power through the nineteen-nineties and beyond. 'Clear it with Jack' might have become the Democratic mantra. If he were alive today he would be eighty-four?just right for a pinochle game with Saul Bellow, Nelson Mandela, and the Pope."
I realize Hertzberg is stuck in Outer Limits quicksand, but I don't think the Pope would be seen in the same company as the philandering ex-president. Maybe, in the unlikely scenario that JFK were still alive, he'd be playing strip poker, hookers on the side, with Clinton, Jesse Jackson and (given Kennedy's good-natured cynicism) Newt Gingrich. Besides, as Camelot collapsed in the succeeding decades, I don't think "Clear it with Jack" would be heard too often, aside from clambakes on Cape Cod. The more interesting questions are whether Bobby Kennedy?who'd be unable to run for president in '68 with JFK alive?would've had a successful political career (my guess is yes) and saved many of his children from their self-destruction, and if Teddy Kennedy could've avoided his assorted dates with destiny (probably not).
There's no telling on what note JFK would've left office in '69, but with the sheaves of modern investigative reporting (Times writers might not have been on the payroll) during the 70s and 80s, it's valid to wonder if he'd been a welcome figure at Democratic conventions for years after he completed his tenure in the Oval Office. In fact, the revisionist biographies?his qualities outweighing the scandals?probably wouldn't have started appearing until the late 80s.
Hertzberg, on the wrong side of 50, has too much hair growing in his ears to hear today's political truth. In any case, after reading his "Comment" and then seeing a "Talk" piece by the awful Adam Gopnik, I tossed the magazine aside and confined my reading for the next several days to a collection of H.L. Mencken's columns and the local South Carolina daily. Cleared my head.
Aug. 20
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