Going through some boxes tonight, I found an old scrap of paper on which I’d drawn a diagram. Hold on to your hats, folks, this one’s about chess.
Once upon a time in Clemson, some friends of mine owned a coffee shop called the Wired Café. It was an internet cafe, but by the time this story took place the university’s computers and connections were far faster than the ones at the Wired, so they had to rely on the drinks, food, camaraderie and ambiance to attract customers. It didn’t last long.
One of the many things one could do at the Wired, aside from drink coffee, use the obsolete computers, or meet the girl who would transform you into a source of perpetually renewable bitterness, was play chess. There was usually someone around who was up for a game, either an owner, or a barista, or one of the regulars. Over time the games became more competitive, skill-wise and pride-wise. It was always loads of fun.
Well, late one night–and the date was recorded on the scrap of paper but I care not to relate it here–late one night, a stranger, called himself “Rhett,” found his way up the steps of the Wired. He was clearly drunk and probably a little bit high. He had straggly, mussed hair and wore flannel that suggested he hadn’t been told that Seattle grunge had been passé for a good five years.
Anyhow, Rhett wandered into the big room where the chess games usually took place. He saw some people playing, and called winner. The winner was a regular, a decent player, and Rhett beat him so quickly that we assumed the regular had made a silly mistake early in the game from which he could not recover.
Next up was a somewhat stronger player, a computer graphics major, who had improved dramatically as a player over the brief course of the Wired’s existence. He’d beaten me more than a few times, and Rhett, still drunk and now getting a little bit talkative, beat him almost as quickly as he beat the first guy. The CG major was gracious and humble about it, but he was gracious about everything.
Third in line was a girl who eventually married one of the owners. She was a math major, incredibly intelligent, and a bit more prickly than the CG major. I watched this game with great interest, because she was going to put up more of a fight than the CG major had, and she’d fire right back at Rhett if he annoyed her. Well, he annoyed her, partly because he was beating her despite not-quite-having-sobered-up yet, and partly because while beating her, he was waxing eloquent about matters she held quite dear. She might not have been offended by his opinions, but she was certainly pissed off that he was philosophizing and pontificating while beating her so handily.
Rhett finished her off, and he asked me if I was up for a game. I said sure. He went to the front to get a fresh cup of coffee and the math major turned to me and said, “Please beat him.” I said I’d see what I could do. Rhett returned with his coffee, and we began. He played white, I played black.
I will admit that I was nervous. This guy had drunkenly stumbled into our abode and beaten three players, each one stronger than the last, all while carrying on deep discussions. And now, now that he was about to play me, he was sobering up. I’d have to remain calm and collected, and pray that he screwed up.
My dad taught me to play chess many years ago. He often smoked a pipe when we were playing, and if the pipe smoke ended up in my face and distracted me, then so be it. If memory serves, I didn’t beat him until after he stopped smoking.
I don’t smoke now, and I didn’t smoke then, but beating Rhett would require a little gamesmanship. I took my sweet time and didn’t rush any moves. I was thinking as far ahead as I could, sometimes deciding on a move quickly and waiting for Rhett to show signs of impatience before making the move. When he talked–and he did talk, but the only thing I specifically remember him discussing was the possibility that the Magi were Zoroastrians–I would barely respond with a bored “That’s interesting” or a “Hm.” I could tell without looking directly at him that my refusal to banter was frustrating him.
Aside from that, I really did feel like it was the best I’d ever played. I was thinking further ahead than ever before. I didn’t fall into the traps that he set. I didn’t capture his pieces just because I could. I moved pieces into seemingly unguarded positions, knowing that if he took them I could set up some pretty strong pins and forks.
But Rhett was beating me anyway. He didn’t take those pieces that I left out to dry. He moved pieces into seemingly unguarded positions, and I hesitated to take them for fear of a trap. His pronouncements were becoming more thought-provoking and more eloquent. He was taking an awful lot of my pieces and not losing very many of his own. I was playing the game of my life, and he was still beating me.
Eventually we got to a point in the game where I knew I was beaten. Below is a version of the diagram I drew on the aforementioned scrap of paper. I’m showing it from my point of view, black at the bottom, with A1 in the top right corner and H8 in the bottom left.
Needless to say, I was in a lot of trouble. [Note: I just found a chess simulator online, set up this position, and had the computer play black. It resigned immediately.] He had an extra knight and four extra pawns, including one just two moves from promotion.
I saw no way to win… except for one extremely fluky possibility that would rely entirely on Rhett failing to notice something. I was almost embarrassed to think about even trying it, because if he noticed it, my defeat would turn from “hard-fought” into “humiliating” pretty durned quick. If he saw my ploy, I’d resign.
While waiting for me to move, Rhett was looking back and forth between his queen and the big scrum of pieces in the bottom left corner. I needed him to keep focused on my half of the board and forget about his own half. I stared intently at the pieces on my side of the board, and eventually looked over at the two pawns on the right as if I were thinking about taking them out.
After a few minutes, I moved my queen to A4…
…and crossed my fingers. It was like he hadn’t even noticed my move, or wasn’t concerned at all about his pawns. He was still locked on the pieces bunched around my king. I leaned in close to those pieces, hoping he’d think I was focusing on them, too, and hoping that’d cause him to stay focused on them. I’d just weakened my defense, and he did not want to screw up this opportunity. He was probably thinking about taking out my rook and checkmating me in two moves when he slid his queen to E7:
I took a moment to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. They weren’t. My Hail Mary worked. I calmly picked up my queen and placed it on C2:
He looked like he thought it was a silly, desperate move as the smug little bastard went to take my queen with his king. Just as he picked up my queen, I said, “Checkmate.”
Rhett blinked. He put the queen back down and looked puzzled. Then he noticed my bishop, which was protecting her majesty from capture.
That sobered him up. He was stunned. I was stunned, but I was happily stunned. I had beaten the best player I’d ever faced and defended the Café’s honor. True, it was through guile and sheer luck, but sometimes–and this was one of those times–that tastes a little sweeter than winning through superior ability.
Rhett stood up, said “Good game,” and looked ruefully at the board before he walked out. He knew he had it won, and should have won, and let me off the hook. I didn’t mind.
Merry Christmas! Here’s hoping that your day is full of whatever weather you wish for, or at least whatever weather you can bear!
This evening at dinner we discussed when we learned that Santa Claus wasn’t real (or, more precisely, that the real Santa died in the 4th century AD). It came up because this is the first Christmas that a particular cousin of mine no longer believes in Santa Claus. I’m told she was devastated when she finally figured it out. Hopefully this will cause no more strum und drang than is usual for a teenager.
I deduced there was no Santa Claus when my older sister, who already knew The Truth, told me that Santa was real. As best as I can recall, her inflection suggested that she was lying to me. I remained calm, knowing that there’d be gifts under the tree for me regardless (this was before adopting my anti-gifting policy).
It hasn’t really snown (that’s right, snown) here since 1989, at least not as far as I can remember. There’s been a little bit here and there, but never enough to stick on the ground. Anyhow, snow and ice had formed on my folks’ car door handles, and my friends and I went around lifting the handles to make the ice pop up in the air. It turned out that may have broken all the handles on my mom’s station wagon; it’s also entirely possible that they broke on their own at precisely the same time by coincidence or divine action. I concede nothing.
One Christmas, I would like to wake up and look outside and see a carpet of snow here in Florida. Not a dusting that’d melt a few hours after impact, not so much that you have to hike your knees up to trudge through it. Just a couple of inches, enough to last a couple of days. Enough to scare the drivers around here off the roads, and the milk and bread off grocery store shelves. Just enough to dampen city sounds and to crunch underfoot, to blanket the grass and the pavement and bushes and tree branches and roofs, to scrape together a few decent snowballs, to leave meaningful footprints and snow angels and hearts with lovers’ initials. Maybe next year.
Once upon a time, one of my friends allowed a group of door-to-door missionaries into his home, and let them evangelize. He even let them arrange a series of follow-up appointments, and each time they’d bring more books, more pamphlets, and more missionaries than the time before. After the fourth of six scheduled meetings, they finally realized that my friend knew far more about their religion than they did (partly because he was a voracious student of theology), and that he was screwing with them (though he’d never admit that).
I was reminded of this yesterday. Whilst driving about, I happened across a truck with a decal advertising rapid-response paranormal investigations. I briefly thought about concocting some wild story about an apparition haunting my fireplace (or microwave, or ecto-containment grid, or whatever) just so I’d have the opportunity to see them at work. This thought was muscled aside by the thought of having con artists or lunatics–or worse, con lunatics–in my home.
It occurs to me upon editing this that it sounds like I’m equating religious missionaries with these paranormal investigators. That is not my intention. The missionaries generally aren’t charlatans trying to sell me something they know to be bovine scatology.
Not having eaten at a Waffle House in ages, I had a late lunch at one on the Far, Far West Side yesterday. There were two patrons sitting at the counter. Both were wearing NASCAR ball caps, but only the younger one wore an eyepatch. The elderly waitress who took my order had a leathery face and was missing her right arm below the elbow. I felt like I was on a hidden camera show and the producers were going to keep throwing stereotypes at me.
The waitress, in exactly the sort of Southern twang you’re imagining right this second, greeted me. I tried to be pleasant and asked, “How are you doing?” My accent was clearly out of place; she gave me a look that suggested my voice reminded her of them yankee boys that burned her great-grandpappy’s farm in the Late Unpleasantness. No other response.
I placed my order: ribeye medium, eggs scrambled, hash browns well-scattered (which the cook interpreted as scattered and well-done, i.e., nearly cremated), and hot tea. I listened as the other patrons, the waitress, and the cook complained about the recent cold weather (it’s been in the 40s here) and the possibility of putting chains on tires for driving in the snow. They kept looking over at me, possibly because I wasn’t a regular, possibly because my accent led them to expect I had something to say about driving in the snow. I didn’t; there’s not much to say aside from “slow down a little bit.”
Then the guy with the eyepatch changed the subject. He said he’d recently found a job, and was afraid of having to go back on unemployment because the price of groceries had gone up faster than unemployment insurance benefits had. It was now cheaper, he claimed, to eat out at the right restaurants every night of the week than to buy groceries. I thought that was a bit of a stretch, but at least it was a topic that piqued my interest.
The waitress responded that Social Security benefits hadn’t risen because inflation was flat, and there might’ve even been deflation, so there would be no cost-of-living adjustment this year. There might not even be one next year. Was he sure that prices had risen that much?
Eyepatch replied that there may have been no inflation according to SS, but grocery prices had risen. So had fuel prices, by more than a dollar on average in the last two years. And then (please believe me because I’m not making this up) he said that core inflation excluded food and fuel prices, so by some traditional measures like CPI, sure, it would look like there was no inflation. However, when he was on unemployment, the same-sized check bought less and less fuel and fewer and fewer groceries over time–hence, there was inflation that CPI didn’t register.
My jaw would’ve dropped if it weren’t busy chewing. This would’ve been the ideal time for the hidden cameras to pop out, and for Eyepatch to rip off his mask, revealing that he was in fact my thesis advisor, Dr. Shannon, who had faked his death years ago just to set me up for this moment.
No hidden cameras. Just thoughtful people having a thoughtful discussion, and me getting caught judging books by their covers. I finished my meal, paid, tipped, and left.
A not-too-recent dream:
It is late in the movie. I am dying of something that was presumably revealed earlier.
I sit in an office writing a letter of resignation, trying to get everything taken care of before it’s too late. I realize that this is doing nothing to prolong my days, and that someone else can take care of my paperwork after I’m gone. I leave the office.
I walk through a park on a perfect day. The only cloud in the sky is right in front of the sun. It is bright but not too bright. It’s wear-anything weather. A cartoonish airship lands in the park. It looks like an ornate gondola, covered in gold. This doesn’t strike me as the least bit odd.
Several people, drawn like cartoon and video game characters, get out of the ship. A leader emerges: a diminutive handyman just different enough from Mario to avoid any pesky copyright-infringement lawsuits. He says they want to visit and pay tribute to the newly-minted mother and her newborn.
I take them to the hospital. We move quickly because I don’t want to get slowed down by people giving me their sympathies and their well-wishes; there’s too much left to do.
We get to the maternity ward. I bring Not-Mario in and leave the others in the hallway. The mother is glowing with pride and cradling her sleeping newborn daughter. I step back and watch as Not-Mario bows and speaks with great reverence to the mother and heralds the arrival of the baby.
I turn and see my girlfriend standing in the doorway. She looks confused and panicked, and she asks if the baby is mine, if I am seeing this other woman. I tell her that it’s not my child, that I’m not seeing the woman, but that my job was to protect them. She is not assured.
Not-Mario invites the other cartoons into the room. I tell my girlfriend that I’ve told her the truth and that there’s nothing more I can do and I can’t stay. I leave her in the doorway and Not-Mario and his people at the mother’s bedside.
I wander back into the park feeling like the movie is coming to a blissful end. Crowds are leaving the park and heading towards the hospital to greet the newborn.
I see that the villain, vanquished earlier, has tried to escape in his aircraft, but he is shot down in the far-away sky. I expect a massive mushroom cloud upon impact, but it never comes. Maybe he escaped after all. I don’t worry about it.
I look for Not-Mario’s gondola, which is now somehow parked near a bar. To get to it I walk past a tree that seems to have a face that might be smiling. I tell the tree that the mother and baby are fine. Now the tree is definitely smiling.
I worry for a moment about my family and friends. And then I think to myself, they’ll be fine. I climb into the gondola and it launches.
As I fly away, music rises in the background. The music reminds me a little bit of “Tempted” by the Squeeze, but more upbeat, with more triumphant lyrics, and with more horns. The credits roll. Rough sketches of the movie’s cartoon characters appear in the margins alongside the autographs and self-portraits of the artists.
I typed this up in the last half-hour when I realized I hadn’t posted anything in almost a week, which would violate 2010 Resolution #5. In response to near-total brainlock and writer’s block, I dug through some old files and found my notes about this particular Roger Rabbit-ish dream from nearly three years ago. I’d almost forgotten about it, and would probably have been able to include more detail if I’d written about it in a more timely fashion. I still have no idea what could possibly have happened earlier in the dream/movie.
For the district-level TOTY competition, I had to send in an application packet that included responses to questions about public education and my own teaching practices. One of the questions was about accountability in public education:
Who should be accountable in public education and for what should they be held accountable? Please include how this/these should be measured and evaluated.
I’m not sure that I responded to the prompt the way they wanted. My original answer was longer and included numerous swear words and death threats, but I figured that out of respect for my coworkers (who voted for me) and my current and former students (who helped out with the application and recommendations), I should probably tone it down a bit. Here’s my response:
The people with the most accountability, whether they realize it or not, whether they want it or not, are the students. They are the most accountable in the sense that they will eventually leave the public education system, and they will either reap the benefits or suffer the consequences of their education. Their parents, teachers, administrators, and school board officials can’t live their lives for them. But we can’t exactly fire the students, so let’s move up the ladder a bit.
Among education professionals, teachers are the most accountable because we have the most direct influence on the students—we are the ones who teach them about academic subjects. I think measuring and evaluating teacher performance should have an objective and subjective component. Principals and administrators need to be able to observe teachers in the classroom, monitor grades, talk to mentors about newer teachers, possibly even talk to students about teachers, in order to develop a subjective sense of the teacher’s performance. In doing so, principals and administrators must also take into account the circumstances of the teaching assignment: the available materials, the group of students being taught, whether students have been placed in classes they can reasonably be expected to succeed in, and so forth.
That said, teacher evaluation must also include an objective component—and here, I’m talking about standardized test results. Using test results as part of the evaluation process is not a very popular position among teachers, but when discussing the matter with others I use the following example. I am fortunate to have taught APUSH to International Baccalaureate (IB) students at my school for six years—they are, on average, the hardest-working and most intelligent students at my school. If my IB students do far worse on a standardized test (such as the APUSH exam) than the non-IB students do, then I think the principal and administrators have the right to take that into account when evaluating my performance. Conversely, if I had non-IB students, and my students did far better on a standardized test than IB students, I’d want the principal and administrators to take that into account if they ever have to decide whether to keep me or the IB teacher.
I don’t know what the proportion of subjective judgment to objective measurement should be, but I believe it’s appropriate to use both in evaluating teachers. Similarly, principals and administrators should be held accountable for the performance of their schools, and district personnel need to directly observe their performance often enough to blend a subjective judgment with the objective measurement of the school’s test scores. I think that laws mandating reassignment (if not firing) of administrators at low-performing schools are well-intentioned but inadequate to solving the problems at those schools. They may even serve to spare higher-level personnel the effort of direct observation and making subjective judgments, and perhaps permit these higher-level personnel to dodge whatever accountability they should bear for a schools’ poor performance.
I bring this up with a particular issue in mind: in this district, we seem to be forcing as many students as possible into as many college-level classes as possible with no consideration of their reading level, the coursework they’ve taken, or teacher recommendations. Too many students are forced into these classes unprepared and fail the year-end standardized tests such as the AP exams. Well, in the next few years, school evaluations will be based not simply on the number of AP exams taken, but also on the pass rates. When that happens, if we continue to place students in college-level courses without regard to their preparation, pass rates will remain low, teachers and administrators will be transferred or fired—and worst of all, students will have not learned as much as they could, or performed as well as they could. Using pass rates on standardized tests to evaluate teachers and administrators can be useful and productive as long as we are allowed to put students into courses that we can reasonably expect them to succeed in. Allow teachers to use students’ standardized reading and math scores, student performance in prerequisite courses, and teacher recommendations to determine student placement, and then test scores will be a much more reliable tool for evaluating teachers and holding them accountable.
I’d also like to address political accountability. I believe that elected officials at the national, state and local levels should only have as much power over education as they can be held accountable for. While there will always be arguments about how much power should be wielded by administrators or school boards or state departments of education, I think today’s greatest accountability concern lies at the federal level. It is difficult for the general public to hold federal official accountable for education because federal elections arise at best every two years, people tend to see education as a state and local issue that doesn’t translate well to national politics, and it is difficult for a voter to trace a path of accountability from a child’s performance in school directly to a congressman’s or President’s performance in office. Due to the difficulty of holding federal officials accountable for the educational system, I believe that there should be no federal funding of or control over public education beyond enforcing civil rights legislation. Funds currently distributed through the federal government should be returned to the states and school districts and should be used at the states’ and school districts’ discretion.
Pretty tame. I don’t think it’ll cause any hurt feelings or bruised egos. It’s a little choppy and a little sloppy because I had to fit this and my responses to several other questions into a 15-page packet, and I didn’t spend a whole lot of time on editing. But that was my answer, in eleven-point Times New Roman.
Today was my seven-a-side team’s first game in three weeks. And for the first time since August, we not only had a full side, but also subs! Two subs! Who could come on the field and replace us if we got winded or injured! And we wouldn’t have to play down a man or two!
I could run around and not have to worry about saving my breath for later in the game. I could walk off the field to examine my knee, which used to have skin on it, without having to worry about putting my team at a disadvantage. When I got dizzy after a twisting, turning run past one defender down the touchline, past another defender along the goal line, and past the keeper for my third goal of the game, I could afford to walk off the field and wait for the world to stop spinning, my mind at ease. And when I sprinted most of the way down the field for my fourth goal, I could, without breaking stride, sprint over to the sideline and sub out so I could reinflate my lung.
We won, 5-2, but the highlight of the day was being able to watch the game for a few minutes at a time from the bench. Those fleeting moments of recuperation were like nectar and ambrosia with a side of manna. It was beautiful.
I’ve been asked to write my opinions about a number of pedagogical matters, fifteen pages max. I’m down to twenty-seven. They should’ve just asked me to give my opinion in person, I would’ve just shrugged and said, “Ah… you know.” But no, they asked me to write, and to write about matters I’m angry about. How the hell did I get to twenty-seven pages?
I just flashed back to first grade… my reading group was assigned to read the first half of a particular short story. I read the whole thing, and blurted out the ending without thinking (it had something to do with kids thinking a house was haunted; it was actually a bird–oops, ruined it again). Miss Tammany gave me a look that I have no doubt mimicked many a time in my career, and resignedly banished me from the reading area. @#^$*.
Now I’m flashing back to post-graduate Clemson life… coming home from work, my goofy Muppetish roommate and his pals watching a movie. I ask what movie, they answer Event Horizon. Without thinking, I asked, “Is that the one where the ship goes to hell?” The collective groan was so awesome it washed away any guilt I felt over having ruined the ending.
Not necessarily a logical thought process, but I got less than two hours of sleep last night. Cut me some slack. I’ll post parts of my pedagogical rant when I finish it.
Your Humble Narrator is going to “live-blog” my 34th birthday. It’ll be a full day at school, no planning period, followed by coaching a game at Sandalwood, followed by God-only-knows-what since I don’t have to get up early tomorrow morning. The official familial birthday dinner was this past Sunday, so I’ll be munching on leftover lasanga rolls, meatballs, steak and cake throughout the day. Here goes:
12:01 AM: Hitting the sack and hoping that I can fall asleep.
3:17 AM: Awake.
4:41 AM: Awake.
6:19 AM: Alarm. Snooze.
6:28 AM: Alarm, out of bed. Shower.
6:55 AM: Off to work. Helped some lady catch her dog in the parking lot. I’m a hero.
7:23 AM: At work. Birthday cards waiting for me in the mailbox.
7:45ish AM: Received TOTY recommendation letters. Huzzah!
9:06 AM: Watched DVD about Hugo Black in class. I enjoyed it even if nobody else did.
Period 2A: Received and consumed birthday cookie-cake from former students. Tolerated birthday song.
11:55 AM: Feasted on reheated lasagna rolls, flank steak, and a meatball.
12:10 PM: Helped former student jumpstart her car because she left it running the whole time she was on campus. I’m still a hero.
2:48 PM: Prepping for the game.
7:32 PM: Ugly first half, fell behind 1-0, but the kids stayed cool and everything came together in the second half. Two late goals, we win 2-1.
8:14 PM: Eating cake.
8:19 PM: Eating more cake.
8:59 PM: Returning calls, thanking folks for birthday wishes.
9:33 PM: Heading out.
1:38 AM: Rest of the night was a blur. Bus full of orphans broke down on a railroad crossing, I pushed it out of the way with my bare hands just before the train bearing down on it would have obliterated it. Well, it turns out that terrorists with a doomsday virus had hijacked the train, and— wait, that was all after midnight! Wasn’t on my birthday, shouldn’t write about it. Never mind.
All in all, a good day. I’ll do it again next year.
I recently learned that the December 1st episode of Psych is going to be a Twin Peaks reunion, starring Laura/Maddy, Leland, Audrey Horne, Bobby Briggs, the Log Lady, the mayor’s trophy wife, and the shut-in. I am stoked.
The first season of Twin Peaks was… I can’t think of anything to say about it that isn’t hackneyed, so I’ll just go with “mind-blowing.” Every so often you’ll hear “there’s never been a show like this before,” in reference to some edgy, dark new TV drama… and then they’ll compare it to Peaks. I’m not a television historian, but if there’d ever been anything like Twin Peaks on TV before, I haven’t seen or heard of it. Perhaps some of our more seasoned readers can correct me. Either way, find the pilot episode and the first season, watch them, and then pretend that the season finale was the end of the series and that you’d always wonder what would have happened next.
I say that because the second season went horribly awry, and showed that the whole thing probably just should have been a single-season series on cable for maximum effectiveness. It had some great moments, but there was rampant making-it-up-as-you-go-along-ism that made certain subplots (James Hurley’s trip down the coast, Richard and Andy joining the Big Brother program, the Miss Twin Peaks pageant, the paternity issue near the end of the series) very hard to care about. The only saving grace was there was enough Lynchian weirdness to sustain the diehard fans’ interest, and then the show was (perhaps mercifully) cancelled. A year later, there was a prequel/sequel movie, Fire Walk With Me, that cleared up nothing while being simultaneously moving and disastrous.
And that was it. No more Peaks, but plenty of shows since then which clearly bore its influence and learned from its failure. I’ve never seen Psych, so I don’t know if it falls into that category, but the mere prospect of revisiting Twin Peaks–even with names changed and roles swapped around–will compel me to tune in. (Is “tune in” the right term to use for watching something on cable?)
One of the key elements of the show was a dream/vision in which Agent Cooper saw himself 25 years in the future. Well… 25 years later works out to either 2014 or 2015. Some of the actors behind big roles (Pete, BOB, Major Briggs) have passed on to one of the two Lodges, but it would be ridiculously awesome of Lynch to gather everyone else up and direct another coupla hours of Twin Peaks. Since that’s unlikely to happen, I’ll have to settle for a hopefully-enjoyable mini-reunion on Psych.
I dreamt that there was a typo in the ZIP code on my new driver’s license, and as a result I was forced to move back to on-campus housing at Clemson. The apartment building was on east campus, wedged in between the President’s mansion and Calhoun Courts. In real life there isn’t enough room for such a building. Now I can’t get back to sleep.
Bad news: Jim McMahon, one of my two most favorite football players ever, quarterback of the Super Bowl XX Champion Chicago Bears, and renowned rap artist, seems to be suffering from brain damage. Now, it is possible that the brain damage is karmic punishment for having played for the Packers in ’95 and ’96, but on the off-chance that it’s due to the physical abuse suffered over the course of a 15-year career in the NFL, McMahon has agreed to support the Sports Legacy Institute’s studies of the long-term effects of concussions on athletes. From the article:
“My memory’s pretty much gone,” McMahon recently told the Chicago Tribune. “There are a lot of times when I walk into a room and forget why I walked in there. I’m going through some studies right now, and I am going to do a brain scan. It’s unfortunate what the game does to you.”
A long career in the NFL can have a deleterious effect on one’s body and mind, but when I read this sentence…
In a recent interview with ESPNChicago.com, McMahon talked about the aftereffects of his 15-year football career and said he was in pain every day, hasn’t worked out in 15 years and can’t run.
…I wondered, how is that any different from his playing days? Back then, he was in pain every day, he didn’t work out, and he couldn’t run. He head-butted his offensive linemen to celebrate touchdowns, dove head-first on scrambles more often than he slid, and he drank too much, going so far as to show up for his first interview after getting drafted with a beer in hand. He was a drunken, reckless maniac. That, of course, is why he was awesome.
But he, more so than most pros, kept getting blasted over and over and over again. In 1984 he got hit hard enough that he suffered a lacerated kidney and missed the last eight games. In 1985 he missed five starts due to injury. In 1986 he was the victim of the Dirtiest Play Ever when Charles Martin bodyslammed him. Bastard ruined my birthday that year; McMahon didn’t come back until the next October.
Anyhow, that kind of punishment–even if it doesn’t involve getting hit directly in the head–makes your brain rattle around your skull, especially if you’re being driven into the artificial turf Soldier Field had back then.
The article says that McMahon is having great difficulty remembering particular games, including a spectacular performance against the Vikings in 1985 (he got subbed in late and threw three touchdowns in seven plays to bring the Bears from behind). That may be due to the passage of time and the fact that in that particular game he was so doped up on painkillers that he nearly fell over after taking his first snap, but it sounds likely that a brain scan will suggest otherwise.
I hope McMahon’s work with the Sports Legacy Institute is productive, that they can find ways to reduce brain trauma in athletes, and that they can find a way to help him make his life a little better. The Bears may need him again before too long.
Yesterday whilst looking for a coat–just a nice, plain coat, button-up or zippered, a couple of pockets–I was talking to my good pal DFJ3. I wanted a nice, plain coat, not too long, not too short, not too heavy or light. We talked about whether certain church folk would–hold on, I mean not fancy at all; no suede, no epaulettes. Not one with buttons on top of the zipper, or worse, a double-zipper system with an internal and an external zipper. No zippered pockets on the sleeves, no obnoxious logo placement. I must’ve gone to four or five places and couldn’t find one decent coat that fit. May have to go name-brand generic and head over to Wal-Mart or Target.
So I was talking to DFJ3 and we talked about all kinds of fun stuff, such as whether certain church folk he knows would be more agitated by his belief that young earth creationism should not be taught in science classes (shocking, I know), or by his opposition to dispensational premillennialism. I’m not a church-goer, but I guessed the latter, knowing how much some folks love that Left Behind series. He said it depended on the audience.
Anyhow, at one point he mentioned that he and his girlfriend, a professor, started to have a debate but then she cut it off. When he asked why, she told him that he was a closed-minded person because “you always have to be right.” He disagreed– which may have been the wrong move. His response, which I am both proud and deeply disturbed to say that I predicted almost verbatim, was, “I do always have to be right, and that’s why I’m open-minded.”
These days, it seems (I haven’t run a survey so I can’t prove it) that we usually use the term “closed-minded” to criticize those who disagree with us. It’s a term that’s on the verge of becoming a thoughtless epithet instead of a meaningful description, much like “unfair” is used to describe situations we don’t like.
I try to be a little more precise with language than that. In my book, “open-minded” means I’ll carefully consider your beliefs. Like DFJ3, I will do this because I want to be right about everything; I accept the possibility (however remote) that I might not be right about everything; and I am willing to change my beliefs so that I will be even righter than ever before. But please note that I used the words “carefully consider your beliefs” and not “automatically accept your beliefs just to make you feel better.” That won’t happen unless we’re dating or married; then I’ll cave strategically.
If it turns out that my beliefs are more true, more correct, more provable than yours, if my beliefs explain or predict reality better than yours do, then after careful consideration, I’m throwing your beliefs out. Sorry. In fact, if your beliefs involve my area of expertise, I probably already give those beliefs careful consideration on a regular basis, and have a pretty good idea of which ones have merit and which ones don’t. There’s a risk you’re going to get shut down real fast.
But here’s the larger point: neither the inadequacy of your beliefs nor your inability to change my mind makes me “closed-minded.” Hopefully you will reciprocate by being “open-minded,” i.e., carefully considering my beliefs and changing yours if truth, fact, reality, and your own pursuit of rightness compel you to.
Happily, DFJ3’s girlfriend saw his point and agreed. Crisis averted.
Still no coat.
The new season began today. We played two men down the first half and fell behind 4-0. Then two more players showed up–we had a full side for the first time since August! We still lost, 4-1, but were ecstatic at having seven players on the field. Well, maybe not ecstatic, that’s overstating it, but pretty damned happy.
Because my French maid vampire costume doesn’t fit anymore, I had to throw something together pretty darn quick for last night’s Halloween shindig. So I figured, I have a better-than-average grounding in theology and philosophy, a red shirt, and a crabby big sister. Throw in a blue security blanket, make a sign, and voilà…
…Linus van Pelt. My striped red shirt was in the laundry, but he’d respect and appreciate the minimalism either way.
Creative? No. Well-executed? Not really. But with so little time to plan, it was either this or go as a “control group” again (i.e., wear regular clothes). The costume got a few chuckles, was called appropriate for the occasion, and cost less than ten bucks. And they had pulled-pork sandwiches, deviled eggs and enough milk-and-cookies at the party. Mission accomplished.
I always wondered why Linus–well-enough-versed in the Gospels that he could recite from Luke at Christmastime–had no clue about the religious background of Halloween. True, we abandoned the deeper meaning of the holiday ages ago, but you’d think he’d know something about All Hallow’s Eve or Samhain instead of waiting for the Great Pumpkin.
Broken-ankled Brett Favre getting carted off for a lacerated chinny chin chin? Excellent. That man cannot suffer enough indignity for my tastes.