Thank You Notes

With apologies to Jimmy Fallon, here are a few things I am grateful for:

Thank you, sports beat reporters, for shamelessly sucking up to postgame interview subjects by providing both the question and answer (“You have to be pleased with today’s win”) for them.

Thank you, network programming executives, for those excerpts you choose to promote as the highlight of your sit-coms and allowing us to recognize in advance just how witless those shows are.

Thank you, convenience store cashier, for petulantly asking if I want a bag for my groceries and grudgingly depleting your bag inventory.

Thank you, Republicans, for cutting spending on education and social welfare so that billionaires can revel in luxury and stylish charm.

Thank you, pitch-by-pitch replays, for slowing down the pace of baseball more than anyone could have thought possible and proving that watching paint dry is infinitely more fascinating.

Thank you, push buttons on traffic lights, for giving unimaginative pedestrians the illusion of power.

Thank you, Fox Sports TV directors, for occasionally diverting your cameras from the crowd and dugout to the field and reminding us that there is a game being played during your broadcast.

Thank you, professional writers, for misusing the words “disinterested,” “fortuitous,” and “presently” and proving that your editors are as benighted as you are.

Thank you, distracted SUV-driving mom on cell phone with toddler in child seat and stick figures of family on back window, for ignoring that stop sign and allowing a jogger to perform his deer-in-the-headlights imitation.

Thank you, baseball players who point to heaven, for having the hubris to think that God took the time to notice you jog into second base.

Thank you, bottled water, for underestimating P.T. Barnum and proving that there are now thousands of suckers born every minute.

Thank you, people who use apostrophes in simple plural words. The education of your children is in your hand’s.

Thank you, officious church ushers, for forcing tiny devout widows to squeeze ever deeper into the pew to accommodate late-arriving sweaty fat men in shorts.

Thank you, mute button, for the opportunity to silence instantly the E-trade talking baby, Geico gecko, Bud Light actors, and humming Honda passengers.

Thank you, drivers who use the breakdown lane to zoom past the waiting cars and cut in at the exit ramp for reminding me that Dante did not designate your own personal circle of hell.

Thank you, fat baseball trainers, for being role models for poorly conditioned players.

Thank you, print ad sales reps, for being eager to sell out any or all parts of editorial for your miserable commission.

Thank you, funeral-mass cards, for the fill-in-the-blank line that allows me to determine just how many years of prayers I want for the deceased.

Thank you, lawn-service workers, for Saturday morning’s three uninterrupted hours of leaf-blowing my neighbors’ blades of grass down the length of the street.

Thank you, NBA athlete, for pounding your own chest to show us you have heart while your counterpart just blew past you to put his team ahead.

Thank you, MLB relievers, for throwing 11 pitches every other day and redefining the word “courageous.” 

Thank you, sabermetricians, for dramatizing just how little you value free time via your arcane formulas that prove what is obvious to fans who merely watch the games.

God, He's a Huge Sports Fan

Ever since King Saul successfully sent up David to pinch-hit for the Israelites against Goliath and the Philistines, players have been pointing skyward after an individual athletic accomplishment.

Nowadays, it’s commonplace to see a player hit a home run, score a touchdown, or slam home a dunk and then gesture to the heavens—or at least to the top of the dome or arena. But before David, who knew that God was such a sports fan? 

I once asked the writer Frank Deford about that.

“Well, [God] is,” Deford said. “And we should all know that. He takes time out from his busy schedule to root for various teams. And those teams that pray the most, I think God favors. Now, it’s always tricky when two teams that pray equally meet each other. This makes it very tough for God. And sometimes he just doesn’t know what to do, and so as a consequence, he turns his back and lets the athletes decide without him getting involved.”

You mean God’s indifferent at that point?

“He’s neutral,” Deford said, “but most of the time, as any sensible person knows, God determines what happens on the field. And I think that’s the way that it should be. It’s foolish for us to think that we should play these games without spirituality mattering more than athleticism.”

You have to feel for God, what with all the demands on his attention in the sports-mad world he created. Someone’s always giving a shout-out to him, and not necessarily at climactic moments.

“I can’t imagine in this day and age that God actually cares when Barry Bonds hits his thirteenth home run of the year,” ESPN sports columnist Rick Reilly once told me. “I don’t know…maybe he does. What I like are the guys that make a tackle and stop someone for a one-yard loss and point to God. And even God goes, ‘Come on. It’s still second-and-11. So what!’ ”

It seems only sporting to allow God to kick back in his skybox, at least on his traditional day of rest, and take a timeout from worldwide strife, the foibles of Wall Street and the GOP, and the ineptitude of the Yankees with runners in scoring position. Still, who could blame him for pulling some strings and exerting his influence on some personal favorites? The Angels, for example, whose ascension owes at least an assist to the grace of Mike Trout. And heaven apparently can wait for the Devils, eliminated in six games by the Kings.

Surely it’s no coincidence that the fortunes of the Rays took a turn for the better once the Tampa Bay franchise dropped “Devil” from its nickname. Then again, God seems to have turned his back on the Saints after the revelation of their ugly bounty program.

Late last September, after the Red Sox were eliminated from contention in the American League, first baseman Adrian Gonzalez said, “God has a plan. And it wasn’t God’s plan for us to be in the playoffs.” Who knew that God had a sense of humor?

But to be fair, Gonzalez might have been thinking of Zeus, who in fickle moments would throw down a thunderbolt on the hapless mortals.

And just last month, in a conversation with Susan Slusser of the San Francisco Chronicle, Manny Ramirez reassured the fans of the Oakland A’s, his newest team. “The thing people don't understand is that God didn't bring me to Oakland to fail,” Manny said.

“No, God sent Manny to Los Angeles for that,” said Slusser’s colleague Scott Ostler.

Perhaps it’s best to attribute everything in sports, as in life, to predestination. You know, the outcome of all the games having been ordained from the beginning of time. Takes everyone off the hook of individual responsibility and allows God to be a fan, just like the rest of us.

Father's Day Gifts

What’s everybody doing for Father’s Day, I asked the second graders today. Is anyone planning something special for dad?

“I’m taking him to Florida,” said Ashley.

“I’m getting him a pet,” said Eddie.

What a surprise that will be for dad, I thought.

“Both grandmas and grandpas are coming,” said Joey. “We’re going to Long Beach Island tomorrow, and then they’re all going to sleep over.”

You guys are too much, I told them.

“That’s what my mom always says,” said Kira, who has two siblings in the same elementary school.

“We’re going swimming,” said Emma.

Do you have your own pool, I asked her.

“No, we’re going to the town pool. But guess what? I’m getting a pool next year. My dad said he is going to dig one for us.”

In the back yard?

“Yes. And you know what the best part is?”

The possibilities there were endless.

“It’s going to be right next to the trampoline.” Her excitement was palpable.

Oh, so you can bounce right into the pool then. I bet you can’t wait for next summer.

“I know.” Accompanied by an ear-to-ear smile.

But I hope you are all going to take it easy on dad on his special day, I said. You know, give him a break, do something nice, maybe bring him a cold drink when he’s in the hammock (wondering at the same time if dads anywhere ever spent time in a hammock and if any of the children even knew what a hammock is).

Part two of that was quickly answered. 

“We have a hammock,” said Eddie, “but it’s broken because we were all playing in it.” 

Youthful Introspection

With the last day of school looming, the first-graders turned introspective. Their two-part assignment called for an honest self-appraisal in which they were asked to list (1) their strengths and (2) areas in need of improvement. Their priorities revealed an emphasis on sports and an overall blithe innocence.

Things I’m Good At:

Speling

Resling

Rok climeing

Soker

Holding breth in water

Drawing picktchurs

Resuling

Hoolahoopeing

Boling

Telling time

Jumpropeing

Hopping

Base boll

Twrling

Things I Need to Work On:

Wrasling

Han spring

Counting money

Hooiopeng

Gymnaskx

Redeing books

Playing tag

Making cupcakes

Reeding

Helping cook

Blowing bubbles with gum

Bacin cucese [baking cookies]

Sokr

Lisuning

Lost in Translation

Subbing for the Spanish teacher at the elementary school, I played “Stuart Little 2,” as instructed. There was some initial complaining from the students when they realized that the movie was neither in English nor included English subtitles. So, to make it interesting, I assigned them to write down as many Spanish words as they could identify, with the corresponding English translation alongside.

“But they talk too fast,” said Mackenzie.

Do the best you can, I told them. You know more than you think. As an incentive, I offered a prize to the student who recognized the most Spanish words.

“What’s the prize?”

A hundred dollars.

“What?” This was too much for Anastasia, who came to the front of the room to verify for herself what she had just heard.

“Really?”

No, I don’t have that much money with me, I confessed.

“What’s the prize then?

How about a pen?

“Can we see it?” asked Daniel.

Sure, I said, extracting a TD Bank ballpoint. It’s practically brand-new, I said. That was true. Good enough. More than half of the students started paying close attention to the soundtrack.

At one point early in the movie, the husband (Hugh Laurie) and wife (Geena Davis) kiss at breakfast. It drew a predictable response from third graders: “Ew, gross!”

Mairead was having none of that. “Uh, you’ll have to do that some day when you’re married,” she advised her classmates, giving them perhaps their first hint of matrimonial bliss but for now seeing the kiss more as obligation than desire.

Fast forward to the end of the period. We tallied up the recognizable Spanish words, and the pen went to Daniel, who listed an impressive 92 words in about 30 minutes.

Second Grade but First-Rate

Second-grader Sean told me this morning, “If I knew you were going to be here today, I would have worn my ‘Dude’ T-shirt.”

Too bad for me, I said. I wish I could have seen that.

“I have two of them: one long sleeve and one short sleeve.”

The short-sleeved one is to show off the guns, right? 

“Oh, yeah!” he said, flexing.

“Mr. K., I’m drawing a picture of you,” announced his classmate Anthony. “You can have it when I’m done.”

How flattering, I thought. And then I saw the drawing. Do I really bear such a strong resemblance to SpongeBob SquarePants, I wondered.

“I’m giving you a six-pack,” said Anthony, joyfully pointing to his illustration’s abdomen. O.K., that is about as close to six-pack abs as I’m ever going to have. And as Anthony proceeded to add details to his composition that enhanced the value of the artwork, he unremorsefully reconsidered his pledge. “Take a picture of it, Mr. K,” he said. “I’m going to give it to my father next week.”

I regret that I did not have a camera to record for posterity the finished product, which was inscribed “To Dad: Happy farthers day. From: Anthony”

Baseball Candy

Today’s Major League Baseball draft brought back memories for me of the only MLB draft that had any personal significance. Forty years ago my old friend and boyhood teammate John Candelaria was taken by the Pittsburgh Pirates in the second round.

Candy was in a league of his own as a kid pitcher, competing up one division because he was so overpowering for his own 10- 11-year-old age group in 1963. A terrific all-round player, he was our switch-hitting No. 3 batter. During one stretch, Candy threw three consecutive no-hitters. One day in seventh grade he brought to school a note he received from the St. Louis Cardinals. We knew it was the real thing because it was on the team’s letterhead. The message: We’ve heard about you. Keep working hard in school and at baseball.

There was no Little League in our Brooklyn neighborhood, so we played on one team all summer in two different leagues: CYO and the Parade Grounds League. That was in the day before scheduled play dates, micromanaging parents, video games and texting, branding, one-sport specialists, and pitch counts.

We didn’t pre-arrange any activities. We woke up, ate a quick breakfast, and met on the city street or in the Parade Grounds, where we played until reluctantly called home (and not via cell phone) for dinner. Dads were too busy working at least one full-time job to supervise our impromptu games and moms did not coach. We read the Hardy Boys and Chip Hilton and comic books.

There was no Gatorade, Powerade, vitaminwater, bottled water, or even garden hoses to quench our thirst. No one went to camp, wore designer sneakers, had personal coaches and trainers, or concentrated on one sport. The rotator cuff and oblique muscle had not yet been discovered, and if your arm ached from throwing a ball all day every day, you ignored the pain. The alternative was worse: no play.

Candy was no one-sport athlete. An all-city 6-7 forward at La Salle high school in Manhattan, he set a state record for rebounds and had numerous high-profile college basketball coaches recruiting him, including Al McGuire, who tried to entice Candy with a Marquette blazer and NIT watch.

After the 1972 draft, the Pirates sent Danny Murtaugh, who had managed the team to a World Series championship the previous season, to Brooklyn to sign Candy. He was accompanied by Pirates legend and future Hall of Famer Roberto Clemente, like Candy’s parents a native of Puerto Rico. It was thought by management that Clemente could convince the prize prospect to sign quickly. During the discussion, however, Clemente, in Spanish, successfully advised the Candelarias to hold out for more money.

Candelaria did sign and went on to play 19 seasons, mostly with Pittsburgh, including an auspicious 14-strikeout game as a rookie vs. Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine during the 1975 playoffs. He threw a no-hitter the following year and then went 20-5 in 1977, leading the National League in ERA (2.34) and winning percentage. He retired in 1993, having won 177 games for nine teams, including his hometown New York Mets and Yankees.

The Best Way to Make Children Good...

“The best way to make children good is to make them happy,” wrote Oscar Wilde. I try to keep that in mind whenever I’m fortunate to be a substitute teacher in a nearby elementary school. The rewards of working with the children are great. Take today, for example.

Are you learning a lot this year? I asked the kindergarten class, anticipating an unpredictable answer. I was not disappointed.

“Not really,” said one guileless little boy matter-of-factly.

Really?

“School’s almost over, so we’re relaxing now,” he explained.

I see. We started to watch a sing-along music video.

“I’ve seen this a hundred thousand times,” said Hailie.

“I’ve seen it a hundred million times,” countered Aidan.

One-upmanship already at their age? I wondered.

Despite her professed familiarity with the content, Hailie would turn repeatedly to me and ask, “Can we dance?”

Let’s wait until the end of the video, I said, unwilling to risk losing my tenuous grip on classroom decorum.

With about five minutes remaining until lunch, Hailey asked again. Recalling Wilde’s wise words, I relented and gave Hailey the O.K. to dance. But the moment she rose and began to move, one of the three class aides barked, “Who said you could get up!”

“He did,” Hailie said, hooking her thumb at me as I tried to affect an unabashed look.

Wait, why did I feel guilty? I probably felt more of a kinship at that moment with the children. After all, they appeared quite happy and their behavior was admirable.