Category Archives: Culture Nights

A ghost of Christmas programs past

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The Mall Diva’s Christmas program, Eclectica, went off as scheduled last Sunday before a packed house that included my mother who flew in from Missouri. The show was great with the only flubs being the charming ones that somehow make a show a more personal experience for everyone. Oh, and a couple of young angels from the manger scene got stage fright and refused to go on, but I’m sure it was noticeable only to their parents and the cast.

Of course, it all reminded me of the many Christmas programs I had participated in as a child, especially since I had my mom sitting next to me. The first one I can remember (barely) was when I was three or four and it must have been at an Air Base where my father was stationed. As I recall there wasn’t a stage as such, just something like a gymnasium floor with rows of seats in front of the performance area. I can remember sitting in a chair at the back of the “stage” while other acts performed before my group got to do our thing. I have no idea what our act was, but my parents caught my solo performance as I waited…casually picking my nose. Hearing about it often afterwards helped keep that in my memory banks.

My next solo was in kindergarten when our class of 12 performed “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. I was “Five golden rings!” I also couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, which makes me think that perhaps my kindergarten teacher had some kind of twisted sense of humor. After all, she also assigned the kid with the lisp the part of “Seven swans a’swimming.” It’s safe to say we brought down the house.

But the one performance I’ve especially been thinking about the last few days came when I was in fourth, or perhaps fifth, grade, when my dad was out of the service and we were living in Indianapolis. It was at Harrison Hill Elementary, either in Mrs. Boaz’s class in 1968 or Mrs. Zinn’s in ’69. The Viet Nam war was going on and I remember our teacher, whichever one it was, telling us that a local soldier had written a poem (he may have even been a former student of hers), and that it had been set to music and that a group of us boys were going to sing the new song in the program. Pretty cool beans for a bunch of boys at that time, especially for my best friend Trey and I, because it meant we could wear our toy army helmets and bring our guns (I was especially proud of my Thompson submachine gun replica). We practiced that song for several weeks, and I remember it was a pretty grim one. It didn’t seem much like a Christmas song at all, but the teacher said that it was going to fit into the program.

This show was just going to be a passing reference as I recounted some other programs, but I remembered the opening lines of that song and started wondering who the author was and what ever had happened to him. With the power of Google I searched the opening line:

“Take a man and put him alone, put him 12,000 miles from home.”

To my amazement, I found the poem on several websites, including that of a sometime commenter here, joatmoaf’s I Love Jet Noise. None of them had an author name, but several included the citation that it was found in the pocket of a dead Marine in the Quang Tri Province, June of ’69. Joatmoaf listed the whole poem, although updated for Iraq. The first verse was pretty much how I remembered it, though:

Take a man and put him alone,
Put him twelve thousand miles from home.

Empty his heart of all but blood,
Make him live in sweat and mud.


The rest of the poem doesn’t register with me, though it does seem even grimmer than what I remembered. Definitely not Christmas program material. While I don’t remember all the words of the song we sung, I know they weren’t happy ones. I do remember what happened next. The emcee of the program was a sixth-grader, dressed as Santa Claus. He’d been a great and jolly Santa all evening, but this time he came out, as planned, and spoke to us “soldiers” kneeling on the stage. He said that once upon a time there had been a young family with a new baby that hadn’t even been able to find a room in an inn and had had to give birth to their son in a stable. He said that even though things looked bad for them, they had had hope. When he finished his speech we exited backstage while an adult came up. As I led our small group down some steps I heard the adult say that the author of the poem was in the audience that night, and I heard a loud round of applause. I never did see or meet him. The show continued with Christmas carols about the newborn king.

Viewed through the fog of nearly 40 years, it almost seems like another world. Indeed, a world where kids could wear army gear and bring toy guns into the building, and where a Christmas program could mention the Savior and sing songs about His birth. It is also almost surreal that I could have been that close to the origins of what some might consider almost an urban legend in our internet age. The dead marine in Quang Tri might be apocryphal, but I remember what our teacher told us and I remember singing that song, and I remember the soldier being introduced, even if I never saw him.

I wish I had been able to shake his hand.

Nothing to see here

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Driving to a dentist appointment and then to work this morning I heard two news reports on KFAN summarizing the weekend shootings in Colorado. Each time the report said that the shooter, Matthew Murray, died of a self-inflicted gunshot. No mention was made of the role New Life church member and volunteer security guard Jeanne Assam played in preventing further carnage by using her personal sidearm to wound and knock down Murray. On the one hand, it’s probably a good thing for her that she has already drifted from the news (and that she take comfort in knowing she didn’t kill anyone), given the treatment she’d already experienced from her unintended notoriety.

Later, going onto CNN.com and FOXnews.com, however, I discovered that not only had Ms. Assam disappeared from the front page, so had the entire story. A search of both sites turned up several stories from December 10 and 11 and one or two from the 12th but nothing posted today. Yes, time and the news march on and there’s literally fresh meat every day, but it sure seems as if this story faded fast, especially when you think of the ongoing coverage that followed the recent Omaha mall shooting (there’s still stories appearing this week) and the earlier Virginia Tech massacre. VT in particular brought many ongoing articles about the killer’s background, the victims and the vulnerability of the public. Now it seems, for the most part, that the “public’s right to know” is being under-served in comparison. That’s a good thing if it means that the media has learned to tread more respectfully around the lives of people suddenly thrust into tragedy who now find their suffering part of the nation’s entertainment menu.

Or are there other reasons? Think of it, you’ve got a madman “loner”, multiple guns, “assault rifles,” revenge motives, dead white women (always good for two or three nights of headlines and at least one Special Report on Fox) and beautiful blondes — you’d think Colorado would be covered with TV vans, news choppers and producers looking for anyone to sign away the movie rights. And all of this while there’s a TV-writer’s strike going on. Is the story being dismissed with a shrug because mass shootings are now so commonplace? That shouldn’t be an issue this time because you’ve got the perfect “man bites dog” novelty angle — an armed private citizen stopped the killer.

Say, you don’t think this has quickly faded because an armed private citizen … nah, it can’t be that.

It’s probably just as well. First, Jeanne Assam was mugged by the media and her former employer (isn’t it funny how chatty the Minneapolis Police Department is getting on personnel matters and when slandering innocent victims of crimes like Mark Loesch) and then Youth With a Mission (YWAM) gets called a cult in the most recent story on the Fox site:

Several former missionaries have accused YWAM (generally pronounced “Why-Wam”) of being a cult that uses brainwashing methods.

Rick Ross, founder of the Ross Institute of New Jersey, which tracks cults, does not agree.

“Youth With a Mission is not a cult,” he said. “However, I have received very serious complaints about Youth With a Mission from former staffers, family members and also others concerned, such as Christian clergy.”

Rev. Jonathan Bonk, the director of the Overseas Ministries Study Center in New Haven, Conn., said that missions like those YWAM offers appeal to those looking for something other than the consumerist lifestyle.

“They want to be attached to a cosmic project that gives their little lives some kind of sense of purpose or meaning,” Bonk said.

“They want to be attached to a cosmic project that gives their little lives some kind of sense of purpose or meaning.” Great, first smear a hero, then sneer at the victims. Matthew Murray writes “You Christians have got it coming” and from the media pews comes a hearty “Amen.”

To give credit where it is due, the Denver Post has done a very good job of developing the story and bringing additional information to light, including a story that described how Murray was able to get his weapons and included a report of an earlier incident he had had with staffers at New Life Church. The paper also reports on how one of the staffers killed at YWAM had once been as spooky as Murray, and has a touching story about how the Christian families of the killer and the victims had reached out to each other.

Finally, I will refer you to the Anderson Cooper interview with a wounded witness of the New Life shooting that also includes a very interesting discussion with Murray’s one-time roommate at YWAM.

Update:

Here’s another good article from the Denver Post that looks at more of Assam’s past than just the Minneapolis PD incident.

The black days of October

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Twenty years ago this month the Twins won their first World Series and my wife and I were married. Stellar events to be sure, but in the last week has been a lot said and written about Black Monday — October 19, 1987 — the day the Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped more than 500 points (don’t blame me, I was out of the country on my honeymoon).

Then, just a few days later, another dark day — as noted by this morning’s Writer’s Almanac:

It was on this day in 1987 that the United States Senate rejected the Supreme Court nomination of Robert H. Bork on a 58-to-42 vote. Bork was one of the leaders of a judicial theory called “original intent,” which is the idea that Supreme Court justices can only base their decisions on what the framers of the constitution originally intended. If the constitution doesn’t mention a “right to privacy” then there is no such thing as a “right to privacy.” This idea was controversial, but Bork decided to enter the debate head on, and he openly discussed his constitutional philosophy with the senators. Democrats portrayed him as a radical, and when the final vote of the full Senate came on this day in 1987, Bork was rejected by 58 to 42. Republicans have since argued that Bork was the target of a smear campaign, and they began using his last name as a verb, saying that they wanted to prevent future nominees from getting “borked.” The word “bork” was recently added to Webster’s dictionary, defined as, “[Seeking] to obstruct a political appointment or selection, also to attack a political opponent viciously.” Robert Bork said, “My name became a verb, and I regard that as one form of immortality.”

Several years ago I read Bork’s “Slouching Towards Gomorrah: Modern Liberalism and American Decline.” As the two parts of the title suggest, I found the book an interesting juxtaposition of being both acerbicly entertaining and accessibly academic. Here’s one quote that describes the author’s life path:

In many ways, I understand the Sixties generation because at that stage of life, I reacted similarly. Suburban, middle-class life seemed stifling. Dixieland jazz was my rock and roll. All night partying was my escape, political radicalism my protest. The superintendent of schools in a heavily Republican suburb had to be brought in to prevent me from running an editorial in the high school newspaper calling for the nationalization of industry. Denunciations of bourgeois values rolled easily off my tongue. Fortunately, mine was not a large generation and very few of my high school classmates-none to be precise-felt the same way. There was no critical mass. By the time I got to the University of Chicago, where there were student radicals, I had been in the Marine Corps, an organization well known for teaching the reality principle to its recruits; and the Chicago school of free market economists educated me out of my dreams of socialism. I was fortunate; the Sixties generation was not.

Maybe not so “far and wee…” after all

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Courtesy of The Writer’s Almanac, yesterday was the birthday of poet e.e. cummings, known for his unusual punctuation and his way of arranging words and spaces on a page to create a rhythm for his poems. Less well known is that he was also frozen out by the literary and academic communities for being “politically incorrect”:

It’s the birthday of poet E. E. (Edward Estlin) Cummings, born in Cambridge, Massachusetts (1894), who became interested in communism as a young man and traveled to Russia to see it firsthand. He was horrified to find the theaters and museums were full of propaganda, and the people were scared to even talk to each other in public. Everyone was miserable. Cummings went home and wrote about the experience, comparing Russia to Dante’s Inferno.

His view of communism was not popular in the literary world at the time, and magazines suddenly began refusing to publish his work. For the next two decades, he had a hard time publishing his books, and he got terrible reviews when he did. Critics thought his exotic arrangements of words on the page were silly, and they said he wrote like an adolescent. Then, in 1952, his friend Archibald MacLeish got Cummings a temporary post at Harvard, giving a series of lectures. Instead of standing behind the lectern, Cummings sat on the stage, read his poetry aloud, and talked about what it meant to him. The faculty members were embarrassed by his earnestness, but the undergraduates adored him and came to his lectures in droves. He began traveling and giving readings at universities across the country, even though he suffered from terrible back pain, and had to wear a metal brace that he called an “iron maiden.” He loved performing and loved the applause, and the last 10 years of his life were the happiest.

E. E. Cummings said, “If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little — somebody who is obsessed by Making.”

Today our theaters and museums (and Nobel nominating committees) are full of propaganda and things such as so-called Fairness Doctrines and Hate Crimes proposals still try to make people afraid to talk to one another. And if your views aren’t acceptable to the gatekeepers at the Ivory Towers you won’t get invited or, if you do, you get food thrown on you.

It’s nice to see how far we’ve come.

A praying nation

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I wrote this essay for another publication, back in September, 2001.

Ultimately, America’s secular façade crumbled even before its material symbols collapsed. I first turned on my radio — and heard the first words regarding Tuesday’s disaster — moments before the second tower was struck. The voices of the national news team were already urging Americans to pray for the safety of those involved. It sounded almost glib at first, but as the unreal became real and the horror increased by the minute, the references became more heart-felt, even desperate.

As our true helplessness and vulnerability became apparent, the call to pray was in every report and every story. And pray we did: alone, with our families, and in special services and vigils that themselves became news. All of this flying in the face of a culture and media that has said for years that faith and divine intervention are, at best, inappropriate if not impossible. It must have been like discovering that the kooky old aunt you’ve been keeping in the attic is the only one who knows where the family silver is buried.

But which is the true picture of America? Are we a secular society that merely pays lip service to faith when a crisis looms, or are we a nation of quiet faithful who allow ourselves to be cowed by society until circumstances give us a chance to break out? I know how our attackers would describe us.

Make no mistake, this is a spiritual and religious war. Those who attacked us chose as their main target what they perceived to be the symbolic spiritual center of our nation. Perhaps we need to ask why the most recognizable symbol — and target — of a country founded on Christian principles should turn out to be the World Trade Center.

My opinion, however, is that we are primarily a nation of faith even if the cultural spin obscures this. There are just too many blessings in our lives and too few fruitful external assaults on our freedom and security for it to be otherwise. Our country could not have developed the abundance we experience (or manage our enormous debt) without God’s favor and the generally well-intentioned (if unfocused) spiritual character of our people. The vicious and ungodly in-fighting of our leaders and factions in an attempt to garner power and divvy up the fruit from our foundational blessings is both sad and laughable in comparison to the desperation that much of the rest of the world lives in: we’re fleas fighting over the dog, but our biting and scratching just may drive the dog crazy (to which the dyslexic, atheistic flea shouts “there is no dog!”)

But if we’re stronger spiritually than we realize, what is the meaning of the September 11 attacks?

She is missed

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“No person was ever honored for what he received. Honor has been the reward for what he gave.”
— Calvin Coolidge

Ten years ago a great woman died. Her life was an example of selfless service to others, especially the poor and ill-used. Her fame was merely a tool she was given to advance her cause, and like many a tool it chafed and left it’s share of calluses, all of which she bore without complaint or retaliation, considering it unworthy of her mission.

A week-end long tribute where so many of those touched by her life could speak of her gifts and her sacrifice, of the ongoing effect and inspiration of her life, and express an awestruck admiration for the deprivations she endured and embraced would have been fitting.

I saw no such tribute last weekend.

No more stalling for Senator Craig

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Now that Larry Craig has belatedly done the honorable thing and resigned from the Senate we are spared the torturous explanations to the effect that he is not gay but was merely tapping his foot in time to the Pat Boone tunes he was listening to on his iPod. Nor will we have to hear that in reality he has silently suffered from Restless Leg Syndrome (as a result of childhood trauma) and has now realized the need to place himself under a doctor’s care and hopes other sufferers will be inspired by his example to get the help they need before it’s too late and their own actions are horribly and publicly misconstrued.

My objection to Craig’s behavior isn’t so much because he was allegedly cruising for gay sex (not that there’s anything wrong with that. of course) in a public restroom, but that he was doing so in violation of his wedding vows. Whether it happens in the men’s room of the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport or in a windowless hallway outside the Oval Office study, infidelity is sleazy and despicable. How can you trust anyone who has sworn to protect the Constitution against “all enemies foreign and domestic” on behalf of millions of people he’ll never meet when he’s already disregarded the “love, honor and cherish” promise to someone he’ll have to face the rest of his life?

The most disappointing thing about the whole Craig episode and its coverage is that it is the gay-sex angle is what is sensationalized and not the faithlessness. Strangely, in today’s supposedly metrosexual, Will & Grace, Queer As (just plain) Folk, just-another-form-of-normal culture it’s the gay angle that gets the Man-bites-dog treatment while the marital infidelity aspect is apparently so common as to be unremarkable.

And really, aren’t all of these scandals becoming so common that they barely justify the shock treatment in the media? It’s looking as if the page-abusing, hooker-visiting, perv-inducing legislators in D.C. are the norm and the front-page, 24-hour-news-cycle treatment should be reserved for the men and women who don’t lower themselves. It’s to the point where saying, “A pox on both your houses” isn’t a curse of disgust but a prophetic statement.

Parade the lawyers

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It’s County Fair season and the time of the year when many small communities throw a party in honor of some historical, agricultural or commercial claim to fame; hence a succession of berry festivals, Pioneer Days and okra feeds. All of these occasions, of course, must be launched with a parade.

Since the events themselves are all about tradition, it’s a good idea not to mess too much with the traditional parade fare. For example, you’ve got to have the loveliest young local women waving from open cars. This tradition goes back, I think, to ancient times when each year’s crop of virgins would be escorted to the volcano or cenote as part of a lobbying effort for another fruitful year. Along the way they would throw out treats, either as a representation of Mother Nature bestowing her generosity or as small bribes to anyone they might induce to step forward and get them out of there before they reached the sacred sacrificial platform. This custom continued even long after the sacrifices were all but eliminated, with local businesses throwing out candy in an effort to curry goodwill by encouraging the children of the community to eat things found on the road.

Gross, yes, but who wants to mess with tradition? According to Cathy in the Wright, there are some who just don’t get it:

This year, the Cokato Corn Carnival Committee made the executive decision that there would be NO CANDY allowed in the parade.

A heartfelt letter to the editor, from said CCCC, explained that safety concerns were behind the measure. After receiving complaints, apparently about the velocity of sugary booty being hurled at parade-goers, the committee requested last year that all parade entrants who wanted to toss candy, do so by having volunteers walk along the curbs and gently distribute treats to all the little urchins lining the street. But, alas, some renegade scofflaw had the nerve to chuck candy from a moving float and therefore (say it with me) FOR THE CHILDREN, the safety of whom is surely squeezed in the middle of that cleanliness/godliness bond, no candy.

General discontent was widespread, and I was already looking forward to a round of terse Letters to the Editor in the next few weeks denouncing the Communist take-over of this annual event. But now I’m positively exploding with anticipation. A local landscaping company bucked authority and threw the forbidden Tootsie Rolls from their float.

The whispers and murmers rolled down Broadway Avenue. Some people cheered, some clapped, and some wondered when Wright County’s finest were going to descend on the outlaws. But overall, I think most people were ready to give the landscapers a standing ovation. Personally, I’m thinking of ripping out the grass in my front yard just so I can hire them to come replace it.

Apparently the annual carnage of broken childish bodies bleeding on the Norman Rockwell streets of our fair communities (which has, nevertheless, been successfully hushed up) has spurred people on to DO SOMETHING. Actually, it reminds me of the first parade I ever went to. I was about to enter kindergarten and we had moved back to my parents’ small hometown. A couple of my cousins who were my age were riding on one of the floats and they told me in advance that they’d be sure to throw some candy to me. As we got to the parade route, however, my father expressly forbid my little brother and I from running out into the street for candy.

Oh, the agony, as we stood on the curb, quivering, as float after float passed by, flurries of candy being eagerly snatched out of the air and off the ground before it could get to us. Finally, the float with my cousins came by, and a handful of promised bounty was cast in our direction, only to fall short just two and one half strides in front of me. My brother and I completely forgot ourselves and our obedience. We lunged for the windfall; one big step, an outstretched hand, and — “STOP!” My father’s command yanked us back as surely as if we wore barbed-wire choke-chains. I can still see the candy on the asphalt — a butterscotch lozenge (which I didn’t like anyway), a couple of sourballs (green and yellow) and a Bit-O-Honey — and the grubby hands of the kids around us as they snatched up what had been promised to ME. But I’m not bitter or scarred, not me.

The bridges of Minneapolis and San Luis Rey, and the Tower of Siloam

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Who, what, when, where? Those are the first things we want to know when a disaster makes the news. Close on their heels comes the question hardest to answer: Why?

That question breaks into two parts, the physical and the metaphysical. Why did the bridge fail structurally, and why were these particular people apportioned to survive, die or be injured? The first question will eventually be known to the millimeter; the second will remain fuzzy. Implicit in the second one, however, is the fear that everything is random, that there is no justice, or that justice is applied on a scale so grand that we can’t calculate it; either way we are left with uncertainty as to just what measure is due us personally. The thing is, we want there to be a reason and order to things, and optimistically assume (or hope) that our own accounts will balance to the “good”; promising or justifying our own deliverance from calamity.

We easily extend our version of grace to others (as long as they’re victims and not members of the opposition party), generously judging them good or innocent by the most general of categories: he was a “nice guy”, she was a young mother. “Why do bad things happen to good people?” we cry. Other people, or other times, might view calamity as judgment or karmic justice.

Similarly, was it chance or God’s plan that resulted in the deaths in the collapse of the 35W bridge in Minneapolis? Was it God’s indifference that lead to the fall, or God’s providence that the calamity was not more catastrophic? If there is such a “goodness” scale, by what measure can the survivors claim deliverance and what comfort can be given to the families of those who didn’t? How can a former missionary go missing while a child abuser survives?

People didn’t start asking these questions just when President Bush took office, either. In his 1927 novel, “The Bridge at San Luis Rey,” Thornton Wilder tackles similar questions and circumstances in the person of Brother Juniper who tries to ascertain the central failing in the lives of five people who perish when the titular bridge falls into a chasm. (He could come to no conclusion). Going back a bit further, in John 9:2, Jesus was asked about a blind man, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.” Whereupon he made mud and put it in the blind man’s eyes and then sent him to wash in the pool of Siloam, healing his blindness. Interestingly, Siloam is mentioned again in Luke 13 when people suggest to Jesus that calamity overcame certain people as a judgment. His response: “… those eighteen on whom the tower in Siloam fell and killed them, do you think that they were worse sinners than all other men who dwelt in Jerusalem? I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish.”

Or, (excuse my jump in character but not in context), in the words of Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven, “We’ve all got it coming.” The point being made was that no one is innocent, but each may come to the revelation of salvation by grace; by the work of God, not man.

I’m not trying to be dark. In fact, I believe that there is an order and justice in the universe even if we can’t see it all at once. I believe that because, in fact, we are able to see beauty and justice from time to time. If it weren’t so, all would be chaos and despair. Instead, in the midst of the refining fire of a disaster there are gleaming streaks of gold rising through all the impurities; the acts of courage, altruism and goodness in the survivors and rescuers (perhaps even unplumbed in their lives up until that point), and of a community pulling together in empathy and faith.

Bridges are aspirational; tangibly they are an example of our ability to overcome an obstacle to achieve what we want. The failure of one is not just a challenge to getting what we want, it is a repudiation of our ability to even conceive of it; the cutting of the tight rope woven of our doctrines that we walk to find our own salvation. In Mark Helprin’s book “Winter’s Tale” the allegorical and eternal Jackson Mead, an engineer representing either Lucifer or man (I go back and forth on this), strives to bend steel, nature and his will into casting a tremendous bridge of light to Heaven that — like our human understanding — touches the far shore for a moment and falls. Yet one of the messages of the book is that the balances are exact; and one thing cannot fall without something else rising and even more gloriously.

The 35W bridge fell in a crush of broken steel, concrete and bodies — and though the dust sought to obscure it, we could suddenly see something clearly: we are the bridges, standing in or reaching across the gap for and to one another.

Standing, always.

Tonight on ESPN

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I have this picture in my mind of Barry Bonds frantically peddling a racing bike through the French Alps as he’s chased by pit bulls, all while an NBA referee uses his cellphone to check the scores before deciding whether to call traveling or not.

There are so many crash and burns going on in sports right now you’d have to be a NASCAR fan to keep track of them all. This year in the Tour De France the yellow jersey isn’t given to the leader, but to the guy who collects the urine samples.

At least there the teams have the decency to shove their disgraced cheaters over a cliff. In San Francisco Giants fans embrace Barry Bonds — or they would if they could get their arms around head, that is. I’ve had my differences with MLB Commissioner Selig over the years (though I thought his son-in-law was a real nice guy when he was with the Twins and I worked for the Sports Commission), but I give Bud credit for not wanting to be anywhere near the stadium when Bonds breaks the record.

The only reason I would go would be for the chance to catch the record-breaking ball — so I could call a press conference the next day, use a big ol’ hypodermic needle to inject the ball with gasoline and then set it on fire. (Sure, I’d miss out on a lot of money, but on the plus side I’d never have to buy myself a drink for the rest of my life). I know, you can’t “prove” that Bonds is a juicer (though his post-career endorsement options may be limited to Hamilton Beach and the Waring Company) but who are you going to believe — Barry, or your own lying eyes?

I remember 30-some years ago when Hank Aaron was closing in on Babe Ruth’s record and how much hate mail he received from folks who didn’t like the idea of a black man breaking the mark. Those fears seem even more ridiculous today when a cheater is about to do it.

As for Michael Vick, I have no doubt the Feds put a lot of heat on his lower-level associates in order to bag him and I think he’s (justifiably) in serious trouble and in for serious jail-time…unless he now becomes the key to blowing the whole dog-fighting sub-culture in professional sports wide open by naming names. Somehow I just don’t think he’s the only young athlete with a lot of time and money on his hands and a taste for violence and gambling. I remember an article in Sports Illustrated a couple of years ago that focused on how a number of NFL players loved raising pitbulls. It was all positive on how much they loved these dogs, but now you’ve got to wonder.

If there’s anyone who’s got to be sweating about tips of icebergs, however, it’s Daniel Stern and the NBA. In a game who’s rules have always seemed rather whimsically officiated, the reactions I’ve seen to the fact that a referee will be indicted for fixing games has been less, “You stink!” and more, “Ya think?” No worries, though, Mr. Stern; Pro Wrestling is still packing them in and they’ve got the trifecta: steroids, mad dogs and pre-determined outcomes!