Standing On The Shoulders Of Giants

I'm marking this date down. Monday, May 8, 2006. What's the significance you ask? Simply, that two months from today I am making a promise to myself to check the sports pages and see if anyone still cares about this whole Barry Bonds doping scandal. My prediction is that this story will disappear long before then, but I'll give it 60 days just for good measure.

Now, I realize that folks from outside the Bay Area see things differently from people around here. As a matter of fact, Giants fans could turn on their TV's and see live pictures of Barry Bonds shooting up in the dugout and still not believe in his guilt. "He's never failed a drug test" is what they'd say, and they'd be right. But just as no one actually saw the Titanic hit an iceberg, that didn't stop people from talking about it and coming to their own conclusions.

But this whole steroids and baseball thing, though, I don't know. Give it another month or two and it'll all fade away. Sure, there is plenty of criticism now. I even read one sportswriter who asked "Where does Barry go from here?" Are you kidding me? I'll tell you where he goes. He goes to the ballpark and swats home runs into the San Francisco Bay, that's where. Barry knows that. He knows that the more baseballs he hits out of the yard the less credible his critics become and the more adulation he receives from the fans. Do you think Barry's worried?

No way. Like I said, another 60 days and no one will be talking about steroids. They'll be talking about the record. That's what the sportswriters will be writing about, that's what the sportscasters will be talking about, and I wouldn't be suprised if that's what they'll be promoting on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

Think I'm wrong? Just check back here in 60 days.

As for this other question about Barry's place in the Hall of Fame, well, I'm already on record as saying I think he should go into the Hall but with one qualification. That is put him in the Hall but alongside the photos and the uniform and the record breaking bat and ball be sure you also display the syringes, the vials, the creams and pills and everything else that went into his record-breaking achievement. I think if Baseball is going to accept the dollars that come from it's drugged atheletes, then it should at least be honest enough to own up to the fans and admit it. I mean, it's not like people don't know what's going on here. And yes, that includes those freckle-faced little kids too. Believe me Mr. Major Leage Baseball, they aren't as dumb as you think they are.

And finally, for all the purists and dewy-eyed baseball romantics out there who are horrified that a cheater should be allowed into the baseball's holiest shrine I say "get over it." Sports is a business and under those terms what is really wrong with what Barry has done. Like any go0d businessman he has merely taking some idle cash and reinvested it in new technologies to increase his productivity. More importantly, he gave the fans what they wanted, generated above average returns for his investors, and, in the end, that's all that matters. What the purists don't understand is exactly what Bud Selig and Peter McGowan and Barry Bonds have understood all along. Namely, if the fans don't care then why should they.

Be sure to check back in 60 days.


The Literary Life

Geez, it's Wednesday already and I haven't blogged about the big awards ceremonies last week. I guess it's old news by now but the winner wasn't really that much of a suprise. I'm talking about "The March" by E.L. Doctorow, of course, which has just won the 2005 National Book Critics Circle Award for fiction. (Oh, you thought I was talking about that three and half hour borefest they had in Hollywood last Sunday, didn't you? No, I TIVO'd that sucker and fast-forwarded my way through most of it)

Yes, "The March" won and I went out and bought it last week. I haven't finished it yet but so far I'd say not bad, not bad. Right now we're marching through North Carolina and the narrative is beginning to lose a little steam, but there have been some moments of brilliance along the way. If you haven't read the book then I should explain that it's a historical novel recounting the famous march of General William Tecumseh Sherman through Georgia and the Carolinas back during the Civil War. It's one of those sprawling epic type of books where you drop in out of the lives of various characters and follow them as they weave and intersect their way through an unfolding drama wrought with sex, violence and unlikely coincidence .

Well, something like that.

Think James Michener or Herman Wouk, although Doctorow is probably a better writer than those other two. All in all it's a good read and since I haven't read any of the other nominated books yet I guess I agree with the judges decision. Not that anyone's asked me.

Anyways, it got me to thinking about my own great literary opus. You know, that one I'm going to write someday. I'd like a National Book Critics Circle Award too and sooner or later I'm going to have to get going on it. Problem is I don't know where to start. There are probably thousands of topics I could write about like...like...well,

Actually, I'm not sure if I want to be a literary giant. Sure, the critical acclaim and the praise and the honorary doctorates and all that other stuff would be nice (and the money - let's not forget the money). But you know what happens to you when you became a famous author, don't you? That's right, they make you go out on book tours. Geez, there you are. Ten o'clock at night in Tuscon, Arizona signing books for a lot of blue-haired old ladies that have nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than come out to the local Barnes and Noble and listen to some bore read a couple of pages from his latest masterpiece. No thanks.

And of course the worst part, as every author knows, is that your signature doesn't really become worth anything until you're dead. A book signed by a living author is worth about $1.95, but a book signed by a dead author is worth two-and-a-half, maybe three bucks. So as the line slowly moves past an author knows these people are all wondering the same thing.

"When is he gonna die?"

It's true. I've been to a few book signings and I know how these things work.

"Oh Mr. Jones, I just loved your last book."

"Well thank you very much. It's always nice..."

"Oh, and my sister Clara. She's read all of your books and she just thinks you're the best writer she's ever read. She even likes you better than that Will Shakespeare 'cause, she says, you're not so fancy with your words and such. It's true, I can hardly understand that Shakespeare myself but I always understand your books because they're so simple."

"Well, thank you."

"Yeah, and in that last book of yours. That Custus. Where'd you ever come up with a character like him. So mean all the time and yet so gentle with Cassie when they got married. I mean at first, of course, before that Deborah come and stole him away."

"Actually, that wasn't my book. I think you must have me confused with Foster Simons."

"Oh, my lord, I think you're right. You know, you two write so much alike."

"Thank you."

"Could you sign that 'To Ethel and Clara'. Clara's my sister but she couldn't be here tonight. She has the gout, you know, and the doctor told her..."

"To Ethel and Clara?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Ok, where would you like me to sign it. Here, inside the front cover be OK?"

"Yes, that'd be wonderful. Clara will be so thrilled when I tell her I talked to you tonight."

"Well that's wonderful. Give Clara my (oooooohhh...)"

"Are you alright."

"Yes, it was just a little pain that's all."

"A pain?What kind of pain? Are you alright?"

"Yes.It's nothing really. I think my arm's a little stiff from signing books all night, that's all."

"The pain is in your arm? Is there pain in your chest or your shoulders too?"

"No, it's just a little stiffness, that's all."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"Excuse me."

"I mean, that's too bad you're having pain."

"Thanks. I'll be alright."

"You're not a smoker are you? Or a drinker? I know a lot of writers are heavy smokers and drinkers. You know, like that William Faulkner."

"No, I don't smoke or drink. I try to stay healthy. You know, eat light and exercise everyday."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"I'm sorry."

"I mean that's too bad for William Faulkner. He was only 64 when he died you know. To die at such an early age. That's really too bad. By the way, do you mind my asking how old are you? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

"Oh, I'm not so old as Faulkner. Don't worry, the doctor says I have lot's of good years ahead of me."

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"Years."

(pause)

"There's your book Ethel. I hope you enjoy it and it was a pleasure meeting you."

"Oh no. Thank you, Mr. Jones. It was so nice to talk to you."

"Okay, who's next?"

"Oh, me. I'm next. It's such a pleasure to meet you Mr. Jones. I've read all of your books."

"Thank you."

"Oh, you're such a wonderful writer. Would you mind if I asked you for a small little favor?"

"Sure. You want to take a picture?"

"Well, no. Actually, would you mind if I took your pulse?"