Who Asked Me?

Ask any long-time Giants or Cubs fan and they’ll tell you that it indeed ain’t over ’til it’s over.  They won’t be using the quote in its original Yogi Berra “we’ve got a lot of fight left in us” sense, though. It will instead be uttered with memories of the likes of Bobby Richardson and Steve Bartman – obscure names having come and gone and meaning little to anyone other than those who truly cared and dared to entertain the thought “maybe this year ..” In Bartman’s case the association isn’t even deserved. He’s merely a marker, a guy who was there at a particular time in Cubs history to signal the inevitable changing of the postseason tide in the wrong direction. Richardson caught a Willie McCovey line drive in ’62 – I wasn’t around, but those who were are occasionally said to make it out as a more spectacular play than it really was. No matter; whether it was a leaping grab or an act of self-preservation, like Bartman it simply had to be. It represented the original moment in which the Giants confirmed that moving west negated all possibility for going all the way. Historical and sobering perspective was conveniently provided a day or two later with the Cuban Missile Crisis and impending end of the world.

Why then, would I be bothering to write anything with the Giants up three games to one in the 2010 National League Championship Series? I don’t know – it might have something to do with age and perspective; with realizing that I only tend to write about baseball, television, and depressive insight anyway. Really, though, it has to do with three separate pieces that I wrote in recent weeks, concerning loudmouths, living in the moment, and one hell of a rookie catcher.

Buster Posey is the antithesis of a loudmouth. After going four for five last night, including a sublime ninth inning at-bat against veteran Roy Oswalt to put the winning run at third base, he remained characteristically subdued and focused. His comments centered mostly on the task in front of him – to win another game in this series and get to the Big Show. It’s almost as if he was there in ’62 and again in ’02, and knows instinctively what can happen. It’s like he was there in ’87 against the Cardinals – the same year he was born. The feeling one gets watching and listening to this kid is that he’ll be there again, if only because at an unusually young age he already knows something about living in the moment, and playing each game as though none have come before and there are no more to follow. As a gifted athlete, his is an integral role in the process; as a fan, mine is simply to appreciate and learn. And as cliched as it may be, you can learn something from this game.

Pressed by the post-game media to comment on a night that included executing a supremely difficult tag-out at home plate, and becoming only the second rookie in franchise history to have a four-hit game in the postseason, Posey was characteristically level-headed. One writer tried to lend a little perspective by asking  if he realized he’d had an epic night not just for a rookie, but for any player. “Well,” Posey responded, pausing momentarily to consider the question, “thank you.”

The Giants bounced into the playoffs on Sunday on the strength of some solid pitching, a little bit of here-and-there hitting, and one big fly from a rookie catcher who plays as though he’s had some kind of Cal Ripken Jr poise-transplant. To call Buster Posey “old school” is a misnomer; there weren’t many 23 year-olds like this back then, either. I wouldn’t say that faith is my strong suit as a baseball fan, and my early sense in both of the first two San Diego games was that the Giants would lose. But the final game had a different feeling, and despite a largely average offense, when their pitching has been on it’s really been on. I called Posey’s home run, despite his 0 for 12 mark to that point in the series. “Right here Buster – take him deep,” I said aloud and to myself, watching my small computer screen. Outside of a few profanities, it had been the only thing I’d muttered in three days. I make no predictions moving forward to the playoffs, and those hung up on such things obviously don’t get it. This was the culmination of a 162 game season and the Giants won the West. If you can’t wrap your head around that, then you’re a Yankee fan, and one who misses the point that even their most stirring recent season came in 2001 when they came up short in the World Series.

In a less competitive realm, I took in two movies in recent weeks – Woody Allen’s You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger and David Fincher’s The Social Network.  The decision to see both was based largely on positive reviews – specifically David Denby’s for the Allen film. I’ll generally take a chance on most things Woody does, and have no real problem with his tireless insistence on life’s meaninglessness. But I failed to channel Denby’s experience of the film and can’t bring myself to proclaim it “perverse and fascinating.” Much of Allen’s late-life work is reminiscent of George Carlin’s final routines, minus the overt bitterness and served in a slightly more urbane manner. Still, it’s always inspiring to see Josh Brolin portray a dumpy, middle-aged, has-been novelist who can seduce the stunningly beautiful and engaged young woman across the courtyard by explaining that he’s been spying on her through the window.

Social Network was a different deal entirely, and despite my initial resistance to the subject matter I found it to be a quick-moving two hours. While by no means a flattering portrayal of Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg, I wouldn’t call it a hit piece, either. As the credits rolled, the well put-together dude sitting next to me with his girlfriend remarked “that movie did its job – I wanted to punch that guy in the face.” Curiously, my experience was quite the opposite, and while assuming that much of the content was highly fictionalized, my post-viewing impression of the Zuckerberg character was more favorable than what little I’ve pieced together about the real-life kid billionaire. Maybe if Zuckerberg had the West Wing writer feeding him the same snappy, condescending dialogue, he’d come off as equally unlikable but a bit more defined. In any case, The Social Network’s message that life is unfair is still marginally more palatable if no more reasonable than Woody Allen’s that it has no point at all.

Squash Hashanah

I make no claim to being a photographer, but my great-grandfather was one by trade. It seems to me there have been two kinds of memorable pictures taken since the invention of picture-taking: those given much thought prior to execution, and those that came about because some guy had a camera. And just about every guy has a camera these days, outside of self-professed Luddites and some prisoners. The second part of the photography equation used to involve darkness and chemicals, but with the advent of limitless digital storage this necessity is gone. Now, whether it’s an old glass plate or an iPhone snap, it comes down to if anyone does anything with it after. In this sense my father has been as responsible for his grandfather’s notoriety as was the man himself, by virtue of getting his images out there. There are no doubt countless examples (now multiplying daily and exponentially) of magnificent photographs that nobody will ever see. But this isn’t unusual, and can be said for a lot of things.

The three snaps above, while not technically impressive, are relevant because they were taken with my new cell phone in late August and early September. Sequentially, they are of California, Nevada (Lake Tahoe), and New York (Brooklyn). If part of who we are can be ascertained from where we’ve been, then this new technology is of some worth even if we’re just flicking through our phone with a finger. Don’t ask me to break down what it’s worth though; I personally think it’s an example of a little too much all moving a little too fast.

God it’s such a drag when you’re living in the past – Petty

I received an email from my buddy Denis Munro last week, commenting on a piece I’d written some time ago. Denis had a long and successful career as head of city planning in Perth, Scotland, and now keeps his feet wet with consulting work several days a week. It was from this office that he’d written, confessing apologetically that he was reading my stuff within the context of downtime googling. He was going through my entire site systematically and comprehensively, reading each post date by date. While I’m not entirely devoid of self-promotional instinct, this seemed an act of penance better suited for the Lockerbie Bomber. He also commented on the pressures that might arise trying to write regularly to “meet reader expectations.” I didn’t bother to explain that those expectations could be easily assuaged with a CC’d email to four; the other part of his point was relevant. I hadn’t felt much like writing lately.

Why write, after all? This question came up yesterday while on the phone with my other buddy Scott (Coleman) Miller, who now lives in Chicago. He’d been out with friends recently, and one woman told him that he needed to write a book. “Your stories are so great,” she reasoned. I asked which stories she was referencing and he mentioned one he’d told her about serving jury duty in San Francisco. One of the attorneys was questioning him as a potential juror and asked if he’d ever been mugged. When Miller answered in the affirmative the guy asked when the incident had taken place. “I’m not sure of the exact date,” he told him, “but it was the night Redd Foxx died.” I had to agree that this was book-worthy material, but it’s so much easier delivered as cocktail party banter, and particularly if you’re a guy like Scott. His ability to interject during tepid conversation and boost the volume from three to eight is unrivaled. Why bother with sitting down at the keyboard and coming up with a clever Sanford and Son intro when you can just spit it out? And, in a nutshell, this covers my frequent aversion to writing – too much pretense and assumption when a conversational volume boost could render it over and done with.

So it was I’d skipped over several writing ideas recently for lack of motivational oomph. I thought of piecing something together about the Tom Petty show I’d seen at Madison Square Garden; how his new CD is better than anything he’s done in years and has been largely misinterpreted. I was going to write something about more “sophisticated” music fans who have dissed Petty over the years because his commercial success and ability to craft intelligent but infectiously catchy singles offends their priggish David Byrne sensibilities. But I refrained, and probably wisely. At another juncture, walking through Manhattan, I saw the large, two-story inflatable rat that NYC labor unions erect in front of non-complying businesses. I considered some opening sentences for a post on when one actually becomes a New Yorker – the subtle psychological shifts and transitions from novel to familiar. But my brain soon tired and I let go of the idea, letting things settle while staring up at the giant, 15-foot rodent balloon.

A few days on I was in my Brooklyn hood getting some keys made for my landlord who is renting her place back from me this month. This was probably my fourth visit to this particular locksmith – the landlord has returned on several occasions and tends to lose the keys after each visit. I joked with the guy that it was good business for him and he corrected me. “Actually, I don’t pay the rent cutting keys.” This led to an extended conversation as he carved away at the blanks about how, exactly, he did pay the rent. His bread and butter is house calls, but it turns out that even his business is being usurped by the digital age and house keys are going the way of car keys and an electronic swipe. The machinery necessary to replace these new devices is licensed at an exorbitant rate and requires a shop owner to buy “tokens” with each use – a practice this guy said would put him out of business. I sympathized, explaining that my family was in the film business and digital technology had greatly affected our customer base and the way we invested.

He finished the last key and told me it would be eight dollars and forty-five cents. “My customer base is largely gone,” he said, making change. “When people lock themselves out now, they use one of these things to find a locksmith ..” He mimed gripping an iPhone and flicking through the Internet choices with his finger. “Guess we’re getting old,” I told him, mostly because it seemed like the kind of thing I was supposed to say at that point in the conversation. He smiled knowingly, apparently pleased, and I left the shop. My own smartphone was arriving Fed Ex that afternoon.