'Tis the season, and so, while engaging in one of my favorite -- and most useless -- pastimes, which readers of this blog are already aware of, surfing the television airwaves, I chanced upon George C. Scott's masterful portrayal of the penurious curmudgeon, in what is surely the most famous -- and most often performed -- Christmas tale of all time, excepting, of course, the Biblical one. So entrenched is this fable in our consciousness and so familiar is its ill-tempered protagonist that his name no longer requires capitalization but has assumed a singular status in the English lexicon as a noun and verb signifying, well, a decidedly un-Christmas-like spirit.
While his creator, Mr. Dickens, is rightfully recognized as one of literature's most artful and engaging notables, what greater accolade can accrue to him -- or any other writer -- than having a fictional character's name be incorporated into everyday language? One wonders whether some other moniker from the Dickens anthology -- Heep, Fagin, Pickwick, or Haversham, for example -- if substituted for Scrooge, would have been similarly popularized. To me, "Scrooge" sounds a lot like "screw," which, aside from its prurient connotation, conjures up an image of a person unfairly losing out or being taken advantage of in a contest or negotiation -- a predicament which Mr. Scrooge might well be able to facilitate -- as well as a tightening up, as a screw is tightened, synonymous with stinginess. The fact that these word associations are both slang and contemporary makes it unlikely that they contributed to Dickens's thought process, but does prompt the curious speculation as to whether the usages themselves became some iteration of the "Scrooge" name, which would make its invention even more historic.
My first cognizant encounter with the Scrooge personality came in the third grade, when I was invited to play the part of Tiny Tim in a sixth grade production of "A Christmas Carol." It's difficult enough to be one of the smartest kids in the class -- it never compensates for one's athletic deficiencies -- but even more embarrassing to be transplanted summarily into a class three levels above one's own. I assume I was selected for this role because (1) my diminutive stature suitably contrasted to that of my sixth-grade costars; (2) my memorization skills were sufficiently developed to regurgitate on cue the climactic line "God bless us every one"; and (3) I could easily afford to miss a few third-grade classes to attend rehearsals. I suppose I could have declined the honor, but, really, what nine-year-old could have resisted the glare of the spotlight and the insistent prodding of proud parents and enlightened teachers?
What made this episode even more anomalous and ironic was the fact that I was Jewish -- probably, I don't remember, the only Jew in the class. So there I was, up on the stage, or whatever served for a stage, at the old Garland-Rodes School, in front of an audience of hundreds, the sole non-Christian in the crowd (other than my beaming parents and grandparents), a veritable Christmas icon, resurrected from certain death (as revealed to Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Future) by the former's transformation, whose only line was a prayerful entreaty to a merciful deity to bless the Cratchit family and, by extension, the entire assemblage.
Although the political correctness of religious impartiality was not as pronounced fifty years ago as it is today, it was common knowledge among my peers that, while Jews did not celebrate Christmas and its gifting rituals, they did observe an alternate seasonal holiday, Hanukkah, which, serendipitously, offered its own opportunities for receiving gifts, eight nights of it, as a matter of fact, a glorious phenomenon which evoked half-serious declarations of envy from some friends, mindful of their own holiday's one-day limitation. My two siblings and I were especially fortunate since our parents, in an egregious demonstration of Jewish guilt and not wanting us to feel deprived, nurtured our blind faith in an ecumenical Santa Claus by surprising us on Christmas morning with a spate of presents -- bicycles, sleds, electric trains -- all in addition to those we had already received for Hanukkah. They did spare themselves the aggravation of erecting (and decorating!) a Christmas tree, correctly deducing that the presents were what really mattered.
I always had a trough of toys to wallow in. For as long as I can remember, the flagship Schewel store on Main Street in Downtown Lynchburg operated a toy department in its basement during the months of November and December -- and, in the days before Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us cornered the market, did a brisk business in bicycles, tricycles, pedal cars, board games, dolls, coloring books, erector sets, cap guns, costumes, and other 1950's and 1960's kiddie paraphernalia.
Legend has it that my grandfather, Ben Schewel, whose own father immigrated to this country from Russia in the 1890's and who grew up in a household markedly devoid of playthings (whatever kind may have existed at the turn of the century), other than those of a severely primitive nature, pledged to himself that, if it were up to him, no child would be left behind. Consequently, he established Schewels Toyland, where he didn't exactly hand out toys for free but did offer cash-strapped parents the option of stuffing their childrens stockings on credit, which otherwise might go empty. Mr. Ben gave away toys, too, lots of them, to mentally ill patients at the Lynchburg Training School and Hospital at a Christmas Party he hosted every year and to every Agudath Sholom Religious School student at an annual Hanukkah Party.
Is it possible that my own Scrooge-like proclivities are somehow a perverted reflection of Mr. Ben's profligate munificence? After all, the image persists of my merry grandfather perched up on a stage lavishly doling out Toyland treats to one hundred Jewish youngsters -- who were certainly not destitute -- like a Santa Claus in dark suit and skullcap, until he arrived at the grand prizes -- a boy's and girl's bicycle -- for the final lucky pair chosen by lottery, a lengthy, excruciating production which never failed to leave me quivering and ashen-faced. Surely all my envious compatriots were staring at me and thinking to themselves: "You could have all these toys yourself, couldn't you? If your grandfather can give them away to us, why couldn't he do the same for you? You could make a clean sweep of Schewels Toyland any time you wanted to."
Sixty years later, I find the giving and receiving of holiday gifts troubling, even painful.
Comparatively speaking, I am sure I have little to complain about, especially on the giving side. I don't give that many gifts -- and of those it is necessary for me to select only a few.
After several years of foolishly believing that I could divine my wife's taste in clothing -- even with the confident advice of her favorite salesladies -- and of trying to decipher her quizzical expressions as she perused a pink blouse or lavender sweater as if it were covered with grease, I smoothly transitioned to jewelry as less trendy, less subject to error, universally prized and, naturally, more expensive. I declared victory -- prematurely. A series of surreptitious exchanges and closet confinements finally convinced me to take my wife along on my shopping excursions -- with the result that, although my beautifully wrapped package retains a semblance of mystery and, when opened, prompts (faked?) orgasmic exclamations of joy, its contents are no surprise.
When I described my current and much-improved method of spousal gift selection to an acquaintance, she smiled pleasantly before offering the blunt opinion that she wanted to know that her husband had employed some effort in the activity and thus preferred to abandon him to his own hapless resources. To which my silent (even I wasn't so brash as to blurt it out) response was: "Well, effort is certainly a noble aspiration. But what's the value in expending precious time, money, and energy to produce a dubious outcome of blatant disappointment or feigned glee?"
In truth, I did exert some effort this season, with mixed results.
Other than his accompanying me occasionally to a men's store, I never saw my father do any shopping. Yet every Christmas he would bestow gifts -- what they were or how he collected them remains obscure -- on all the female employees at the Schewel corporate and downtown offices, a practice I thought admirable (while cynically questioning whether his motive was altruistic or obligatory) and came to emulate after his death. For a number of years I purchased poinsettias to support a local non-profit fundraiser -- which, I was told more than once, could be had at Wal-Mart for half the price -- before switching this season to a mixed assortment of Florida grapefruit and oranges. Although the poinsettias were always gratefully accepted and lauded for their blood-red beauty (I discarded yellow as less popular after the first go-round) -- and after all, what other response could be accorded a beneficent boss -- I believe the fruit was a refreshing change.
I also send a gift to Schewels fifty store managers, usually a small tin of cookies or toffee, selected, wrapped, and shipped by the proprietress of a downtown sundries emporium in a turnkey job that spares me all the work and decision-making. Alas, she shuttered her doors a year ago, casting me hopelessly adrift, waiting for the inevitable panic to set in when Thanksgiving should appear in the rear-view mirror. As time was winding down, like a hungry pigeon I finally lighted on a Hickory Farms packaged nut assortment, fifty of which I ordered, picked up at the Mall, and transported to Schewels Central Warehouse (only a mile away) for distribution by tractor-trailer (along with furniture) to each store, thus avoiding an outrageous seven-dollar-per shipping charge.
Since my wife was going to be out of town for our family's annual Hanukkah dinner at my mother's home, I implored her to share her considerable shopping expertise and assist me in choosing gifts for son, brother, brother-in-law, mother, nieces, and nephews, a task I am pleased to report we completed in a one-hour whirlwind tour of J.C. Penney. "Why Penny's?" I innocently inquired of her on the way home. "Because," she replied, applying a peculiar but typical logic to the query, "it's where I always park whenever I visit out-of-town malls."
The purchase I was most proud of was the one for my mother -- a friend of every merchant in town, for whom trying to find an item she doesn't already possess is a futile exercise, unless it be of the living, breathing variety, which of course she would never allow to cross the threshold of her immaculate domicile. She warmly embraced my surrogate, however, a battery-operated, walking, talking white poodle that required no feeding or house training.
A riskier proposition was a shirt for my younger son, Matthew. (I wasn't worried about my older son and daughter, whose New York and Philadelphia abodes were too distant for return visits so soon after their Thanksgiving homecomings; I effortlessly mailed each cash in a card.) How does a fifty-nine-year-old ultra-traditional dresser -- that is, one who wears old clothes -- pick suitable attire for a twenty-something? Only by sheer luck. I liked the shirt -- under normal circumstances, a certain guarantee that its recipient would not -- for its soft cotton hand, bold burgundy coloration, and narrow white striping, and it was on sale, only $24.99.
Matthew is a healthy six-foot-three, an extra-large I thought, for sure, but, as he later explained to me, contemporary fashion now dictates a snugger fit -- a clever ruse on the part of apparel purveyors, I submit -- which meant that, after he tried on the shirt, he and I would visit Penney's for a reshopping adventure, an accidental opportunity for me to ascertain if he really liked it: would he simply trade sizes or would he reselect altogether? Much to my suppressed delight, he chose the same shirt, in a large, a development that so intoxicated me I bought one too, size small (opting for the fashionable fit). Our pleasurable experience was further enhanced by our discovery, upon check-out, that the shirts were now reduced an additional six dollars each. We consummated our transaction and jauntily emerged from the store with enough savings pocketed to pay for our Panera Bread lunches.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't pay to try to save money. The day I was cruising the Mall looking for Hickory Farms, I stopped in the lobby to examine a display of interesting board games, thinking one might make a suitable gift for an employee and his family. Since my antiquated knowledge of such games is limited to Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit (for all three of which, by the way, there are now innumerable variations), I stood wide-eyed and confused by the mind-boggling choices, until a woman nearby, in an eruption of enthusiasm, pointed out her favorite, "Sequence," which, she explained, her friends never failed to purchase for themselves after she introduced them to it.
"You can buy it at Target for $16.99," she added, a savings of half the Mall price. I started to grab the one I was looking at, reluctant to attack the snarl of traffic between River Ridge and Target. It wasn't the $20 so much as the idea of unnecessarily overpaying that finally lured me to my car, Ward's Road, and the bright orange bull's eye. Of course, Target was sold out of "Sequence," and by the time I got back to the Mall to buy the game, I had wasted a good forty minutes, and saved nothing.
I confess that I did use that side trip to slide into Barnes and Noble to search out a particular book for my sister, Donna; she had read and raved about another work by the same author. Here was a popular novel, published six months ago, well-reviewed in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, available only in hardcover -- and Barnes and Noble didn't have a copy. I wasn't surprised; the Lynchburg branch is decidedly substandard, in my humble opinion, testimony to the company's bleak but telling assessment of the local market. As it turned out, Givens had one copy, which I greedily snatched up and took to Schewels for my able assistant to wrap. (Remember, my wife was out of town, and gift-wrapping presents for me the same manual dexterity challenges of DVD programming, furniture assembly, golf, tennis, and Wii.)
When my sister handed me my own Hanukkah gift a few nights later, a festively-disguised book, it had a suspiciously familiar heft and thickness. Like a skilled surgeon at work, I patiently removed ribbon and bow, delicately separated tape from paper, and carefully began to peel back the protective tissue, when a distinctive teal and orange jacket design brazenly peeked from concealment and confirmed my dolorous premonition. Yes, it was indeed "The Yiddish Policeman's Union," the same book my sister was simultaneously unwrapping, the Holy Grail of my determined quest. What made this O. Henryesque development even more revolting was her now predictable admission that she already owned a well-thumbed copy. I was too dispirited to even think about returning the book, and thus passed it on to my brother, upon whose bookcase it is fated to rest, forever pristine.
While I will undoubtedly read the book -- affirming my compulsive eccentricity that no tome shall be left unturned -- and eagerly await the proper time and place to don the tee shirt given me by my children -- muted gray bearing the provocative insignia "Ask me about my blog" (Now that took some effort!) -- my innate uneasiness in the face of such favors remains intact.
Perhaps this anxiety is some remnant of low self-esteem lingering from childhood, which would deem me an unworthy recipient of largess, or simply evidence that the aforementioned ethnic trait (guilt) has been passed to another generation. I also need to be clear that these musings should in no way be interpreted as disrespectful of the pervasive Christian mythology, according to which man's Creator gifted to him His Only Begotten Son, at whose birth there appeared three Wise Men bearing from afar gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and who, years later, sacrificed his own life so that his disciples might be saved.
That's enough on those subjects. In my view, much of the joy of the event stems from the mystery of the unknown.
Does not the anticipatory thrill of contemplating a seductively adorned future possession often exceed the satisfaction reaped from its unveiling? Is not the revelation of the putative object of our desire usually anticlimactic to our admiration of its glamorous packaging? Like eager children, we rip away the glitzy camouflage, only to come hard up against a pitiless disillusionment.
Why should we be surprised? How often do the contents of our own overstuffed shopping bags, once stashed away in closets or drawers, suffer an inglorious demise, their formerly delicious attributes suddenly as sour and disposable as spoiled milk? Unless we have informed our donors of our specific wants and needs -- the substance and permanence of which, I maintain, are problematic -- how can we expect them to make judicious and pleasing choices?
Nevertheless, we smile graciously and proffer the appropriate declarations of appreciation -- not only for effort and thoughtfulness, but also, I suspect, for gift receipts and liberal return policies. Isn't the day after Christmas one of the busiest in the retail universe?
Food, however, can not be returned -- except in a most unbecoming manner. And I receive a lot of edibles over the holidays, in the form of business gifts, all sinfully gratuitous, including the most recent to arrive, which instigated this whole diatribe. (Astute readers may already be salivating at the self-contradiction contained in my condemnation of this common practice while resorting to it myself, to which my feeble retort would be: Such is life, or Do as I say, not as I do.)
My idealistic wife would contend that the friendly folks who send these delicacies are performing genuine acts of kindness in keeping with the spirit of the season. I suggest that they are expressing gratitude for business past and not-so-subtly enticing me to keep our relationship ongoing.
There may be an cadre of customers who anxiously await the arrival of holiday gifts from their vendors, but I am not one of them. I once wrote my business associates and asked them to donate the equivalent cost of their gift to me to charity, a suggestion that was unanimously ignored, probably because of that cost's relative immateriality. I imagine, however, that the combined expenditures of one vendor's total gifting would make some non-profit's Christmas very merry.
One objection I have to these business gifts mailed from distant places is admittedly frivolous yet nonetheless valid: the sheer nuisance of unpacking and transporting them. One vendor is sensible enough to ship his super-sized box of Florida grapefruit and oranges (ah yes, how ironic) to my home; yet I still shudder when I read the chilling words: "Contents perishable; open immediately." There are at least three dozen of each fruit stacked inside on cardboard trays which have to be removed and carried to my downstairs refrigerator (it takes about five exhausting trips), where they will enter hibernation and trickle out slowly over the course of the next three months, unless I should be so fortunate as to be able to pawn some off on children or friends. (As I write this, I'm thinking that, instead of whining, I should just take them to the food kitchen or the Salvation Army.)
My second objection is that, except for the fruit and a box of Christmas wrap (we now have ten of them, each half-empty, gathering dust in our attic), most of what I receive is quite frankly not very nutritious, loaded with empty calories, and at my age best avoided. Oh, it all looks wonderful, and one small bite will leave your taste buds begging for more; the problem is that the generous provisioners never consider that not everyone eats this stuff.
I'm speaking of moist, tender homemade cookies speckled with oversized chocolate chunks; crispy, flaked wafers rolled around chocolate and vanilla filling; Godiva chocolates laced with rum, fruit, caramel, or darker chocolate; mouthfuls of sweet Hershey kisses dressed in shiny red, green, gold, and silver foil; handfuls of popcorn -- caramel, buttered, and cheese -- overflowing a large, seasonally decorated, cylindrical container; Harry-and-David gift boxes (each one of which has to be pried open) offering delicate pastries, assorted cheeses, fancy crackers, smoked beef, choice preserves, and juicy pears and apples; a gorgeous pre-sliced cheesecake, complete with freezing plate, featuring natural, chocolate silk, raspberry, and peanut butter flavors; several Virginia Diner tins of gourmet peanuts, pistachios, and salted almonds; homemade blackberry jam (tasty and useful); a pungent, honey-smoked, spiral ham-and-a-half (my family will enjoy it, even if I won't); a luxurious Montana Plains raisin and honey bread loaf (appreciated by all); and the outrageous piece de resistance, a huge basket filled with boxes and containers of chocolate peppermint smoothies, Ghiradelli peppermint squares, Lindt cappuccino sweets, chocolate-covered graham crackers, more Godiva chocolates, Walker chocolate fruit, King Leo mint puffs, Brown and Haley butternut toffee, Old Dominion peanut brittle, chocolate cream-puff cookies . . . well, you get the idea.
This ultimate cornucopia wasn't even sent by a vendor, but rather by a non-profit furniture buying group, whose other members would certainly be justified in protesting its president's holiday perquisite if they ever found out about it.
All the cookies, candy, nuts, and cake I laid out for my employees to dispose of, which they did in short order (I even ate half a piece of cheesecake myself), except for that last monstrosity, which, having been sent to the house, my wife decided to keep, more as a display of ostentatious indulgence than something one really wants to ingest.
I did receive one handy gift from a manufacturer's representative, a stubborn Republican who, after seven years in the wilderness, may be seeing the error of his ways. This inveterate prankster sent me a roll of toilet paper, on each panel of which is imprinted a likeness of George Bush mouthing some infamous malapropism. Since I haven't opened it yet, intending to regift it (perhaps to the sender!), I am only able to reveal the first three (I doubt my readers will mind, after 3000 words): "Bring 'em on" (Bush on Iraqi militant attacks, July 3, 2003); "They misunderestimated me " (Bush on Bush, November 6, 2000); and "We need an energy bill that encourages consumption" (Bush on the environment, September 23, 2002). Although you can't eat it, you can still use it to wipe the crumbs off your . . . smiley face.
Sometimes, though, even a Scrooge receives a gift he cannot spurn. This morning, Christmas Day, when I went to my mailbox, I found a mysterious white envelope, its stomach bulging like a pregnant woman's, its flap and ends so meticulously sealed and wrapped in protective tape that no loose edge was visible. As I struggled to open it, cursing its security, I noticed the return address: Macey R., a high school friend, now living in Berkeley, whose only recent contact with me was one e-mail six weeks ago, to which I had responded by sending this blog link. Finally, I was able to dislodge the letter inside, on which was typed a brief message: Natalia (Macey's significant other) and I thought you might like these. "These" fell out into my hand: twenty-two baseball cards, the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates, World Series champions, surprising victors over the invincible Yankees in the Greatest Game Ever Played, which I witnessed sitting beside my father in Forbes Field forty-seven years ago.
They were all there -- Gino Cimoli, Hal Smith, Rocky Nelson, Harvey Haddix, Roy Face, Bill Virdon, Vern Law, Bob Skinner, Don Hoak -- and now they rest on my dresser beside the signed photograph of their teammate Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his unforgettable home run, simple but magnificent reminders of youthful avocations, baseball lore, enduring friendships, and the power and poignancy of an ingenious gift. Bah Humbug!
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Mega-Church
Except for an occasional sporting event or news program, I am not a frequent television watcher, an embarrassing admission when you consider that my older son earns a living as a film editor. Like many males, however, I am guilty of periodically planting myself in front of our modest 28-inch flat screen and surfing through the wastefully abundant one-hundred-plus channels at my disposal, just to see what's on, rarely pausing more than ten seconds on any particular selection, a habit that never fails to elicit from my wife, when she can bear to stay in the room, exclamations of unmitigated rage.
Several times in recent weeks, while engaged in such exercises, I found myself lingering over a broadcast which not merely attracted my attention but so fascinated and intrigued me that I actually put down the remote for a good fifteen minutes: Sunday morning church services at Thomas Road Baptist Church.
The orchestra, the choir, the hymns, the stage production, the energy -- which even the filter of television could not dissipate -- the poised performance of Reverend Jonathan Falwell, all seemed more theater than theology, more entertainment than edification, more revelry than religion -- more watchable, really, than the dismal alternatives I had summarily discarded: the controlled, insulated violence of clashing football pads and helmets, punctuated by innumerable replays and interminable interruptions; the feverish fluency, expert eloquence, and plastic pronouncements emanating continuously from a bevy of talking heads; the inane, tasteless, slapstick humor of situational comedy; the artificial, hyperbolic, melodramatic depiction of afflicted lives whipsawed between triumph and tragedy and conveyed through the magnified facial expressions and cliched dialogue of every player; and any one of an overwhelming supply of narcoleptic B-movies, whose convoluted and incomprehensible plotlines demanded a more serious and extensive allocation of time and attention than this random viewer was willing to invest.
I thought to myself: if Thomas Road is this affecting on television, I wonder what it's like in the flesh -- as in the spirit made flesh.
My barber, Dickie P., is an interesting character. He's short, stocky, amiable, with a sly grin, pudgy cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye, a Santa Claus without the beard. He's a wellspring of local gossip (where better to unveil your innermost thoughts and secrets than in the comfort of a barber's chair?), a loyal, outspoken Conservative Republican, and a shrewd practitioner of his art, always managing to leave just enough foliage to necessitate a return visit to his shop every two-and-a-half weeks, a talent that has apparently served him well: he has a swimming pool (or had one; it's now full of dirt, but that's another story), owns a 1956 antique Thunderbird (concerning which, my query, "How much did you pay for it?" evoked the response, "I can't tell you how much I paid for it, but I'll tell you how much I want for it."), and drives a late-model shiny black Mercedes. A modulated aggressiveness lurks beneath his easy banter, a remnant, I suspect (but cannot prove), of an adventuresome and rakish past. Now, however, he's a bona fide, born-again, devoted Falwell acolyte, and, I recently learned, a church usher. When I mentioned that I might like to attend a Sunday service, his excitement was irrepressible.
"Come on over any time, Mr. Schewel," he exhorted, dreams of conversion dancing in his brain. "I'll show you around. But it's best to come at 8:15, when the crowd is manageable," he cautioned. "OK," I replied. "I'll be there, one of these days."
And so, I went, Sunday, November 4th, Friend's Day, as it turned out, auspiciously enough, but with a delayed launch time of 9:00, giving me the opportunity -- after I had arrived an hour earlier -- to savor a bracing cup of coffee at Starbucks, in case I might be tempted to doze off during the service, a totally unnecessary precaution, as it turned out.
At this juncture, it would seem appropriate to offer a few comments about my own religious beliefs. I do not intend to wax prolifically on this subject, simply because I am not as conversant in the tenets of my professed faith -- Judaism -- as I ought to be, although I was raised Jewish, attended religious school for ten years, was Bar Mitzvahed and confirmed, observe -- at least symbolically -- the major Jewish Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, and Passover), and support Jewish charitable organizations. If challenged to articulate the difference between Judaism and Christianity, my feeble, superficial answer would sound like this: Jews believe in the Word of God as revealed through a book, the Torah, and subsequent prophetic and rabbinical commentary on same; Christians -- with significant sectarian variations -- believe in the Word of God -- and the promise of salvation and eternal life -- as revealed through the birth, death, resurrection, and teachings of His Son, Jesus Christ.
Both religions present dilemmas for me. While reluctant to categorize myself as an atheist or agnostic, the term I prefer, skeptic, is, I admit, nothing more than a euphemistic avoidance of those pejorative labels, for which I would cautiously submit the following backdoor definition: a belief in a primary life-force is not a prerequisite for me to appreciate the miracle of creation, the wonder of the universe, the beauty of nature, the power of love, the rewards of righteousness, the joy of giving, or the mystery of mortality. And if it's one leap of faith to envision an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent deity, it's even more problematic to contemplate that deity incarnate.
That's enough on that subject. My trip to Thomas Road is strictly curiosity-driven.
Any uneasiness I might have anticipated is immediately dispelled by the gracious reception extended to me (and every other congregant). Here is a giant, jolly teddy-bear reaching out to smother me in a protective embrace and gather me to its bountiful bosom. As I climb the short stairway from the lower parking lot, two Wal-Mart-like -- but decidedly more youthful -- sentinels flash glittering smiles and repeat the formulaic yet nonetheless effective salutation: "Welcome to Thomas Road Baptist Church. Thank you for coming this morning." The sky is clear, the air cool and crisp, and I wonder whether they man their posts as faithfully in the cold, rain, and wind. Their hospitableness is reinforced by the fortuitous appearance of my friend Dickie P., ecstatic (and probably surprised) at seeing me, and only too eager to conduct me on a personal tour of the premises.
The imposing neo-colonial facade and entrance is Lynchburg's newest landmark. Four massive columns support a large overhanging porch that rises to a triangular peak fifty or sixty feet high and is flanked on either side by similar three-columned structures -- the naves of the cross, I assume. Of course, this is the former G.E.-Ericsson home, miraculously transformed -- by faith, prayer, and some outlandish gifts -- from a dour, industrial building into a sprawling, yet tasteful, religious and educational complex.
While the expansive lobby's quaint appellation, Main Street, conjures up visions of a small-town nostalgia, its design, amenities, and spaciousness are, to me, more suggestive of a luxurious (dare I say Las-Vegas-style?) resort hotel. Located on each side of the aisle are intimate social areas, with sofas and chairs arranged for conversation or study (on quieter days). Even at 8:35, twenty-five minutes before the service is to start, this town center is a crowded, bustling, flurry of activity, as people greet friends and acquaintances. The focal point is a coffee and refreshment bar doing a brisk business, oddly replicating the Starbucks I had so recently patronized, and a striking image of the pervasive, inviting, customer-friendly ambiance. Main Street is as much an interactive, social destination as it is a church site, as evidenced by the fact that, as I later learned, it is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
My guide is justifiably proud of the place. He points out two elaborate children's play areas -- one indoors, one outdoors -- each stocked with enough slides, tubes, see-saws, and climbing equipment to put a half-dozen McDonald's to shame. He insists I peek into the Sam Pate Chapel -- a small church in itself -- where the choir -- a small congregation in itself -- is rehearsing its repertoire. He leads me through a maze of Sunday school classrooms, where the walls, desks, tables, and play-to-learn paraphernalia are as bright, sparkling, clean, and colorful as the children milling about.
I beg off a tour of Lynchburg Christian Academy and its indoor track and gymnasium, having seen those facilities a few months before while attending a breakfast meeting, and an introduction to Jonathan Falwell, who, I fear, will remember a joke I told about his father (he was still alive then) on the same occasion, to which, I was informed, his reaction was a suppressed grimace.
Dickie directs me into the auditorium from a side door adjacent to the stage, which gives me the opportunity to take in all 6000 seats -- including 1000 in the balcony -- from the pastor's point of view. Even if one supposes only a two-third's occupancy during the course of three morning services (on a normal Sunday), that 12,000 attendance figure represents a significant percentage (over ten) of Lynchburg's population. And it does not include any of the 9000 Liberty University student body, who, I am told, worship en masse at the Vines Center.
I take a seat slightly left of center and no more than ten rows from the stage. If this is to be my first and last visit, I certainly don't want to miss anything.
My attention is immediately drawn to two large television screens suspended high on either side of the stage, which are displaying silent, continuous announcements of a multitude of church programs: Christmas Eve Services, a Women's United for Christ Fitness Program, Mountain Blend (coffee, I assume) Tuesday Morning Bible Study, Mother's Morning Out, the Virginia Christmas Spectacular, LCA Choir in Concert, Thomas Road Flea Market, Kid's Sports Leagues, the Singles Ministry, the Barrick Family Revelation Celebration. No wonder Main Street is open around the clock.
The twenty-piece orchestra -- complete with strings, brass, percussion, and conductor -- takes its place in the center of the stage. The two-hundred-member choir positions itself in eight ascending rows on either side, not its usual station, I understand, which is a more dramatic arrangement on a proscenium now hidden by a black curtain and which has been usurped by the rapidly growing Living Christmas Tree, a spectacular production which I have yet to experience. The choir, even as it is, duly impresses me.
Three other objects occupy the stage: the pulpit, a fixture for the portly former pastor, but largely abandoned by his youthful, roving successor; a large upholstered pull-up chair, for the pastor's relaxation during musical interludes; and a kingsize i-pod, the metaphorical inspiration for the pastor's recent series of sermons (the last of which I will hear this morning): Life Lessons for the I-Pod Generation.
That series wasn't designed for me: I have no ear for music, do not listen to music (except as a last resort, when all AM talk radio signals have faded into a deafening static), and blithely confess a tuneless ignorance when it comes to Christian or gospel melodies. But, honestly, who would not be moved to exhilaration if not rapture by the symphonic strains of the orchestra, the soaring harmonies of the vocalists, and mellifluent tones of Charles Billingsley? As they break into song, most of the hymns are of a hand-clapping, toe-tapping, head-shaking variety that seems to combine all the elements of rock, country, and jazz in a melting pot reflective of the diversity of the 5000-member audience. Reverend Jonathan smoothly ramps up the enthusiasm with his rhythmic bodily accompaniment, a signal to his disciples to join in.
As the words flash up on the screen, I try to digest the titles or refrains: I Exalt Thee; To Only a God Like You Do I Give my Praise; These Are the Days of Elijah (in the words of Master Billingsley, one of our favorites, and with a familiar Old Testament reference, too); How Great is our God. And, later in the service, Oh the Wonderful Cross, and an emotional Billingsley solo, I Believe in a Hill Called Mount Calvary, which wrings beads of perspiration from his forehead and builds to a soul-stirring climax, at which point he implores his impassioned devotees to rise and sing along.
Religion and salvation come easily here. There are no cumbersome hymnals or prayer books to hoist and manipulate. You sit (or stand, when instructed), absorb the music and message almost by osmosis, gaze hungrily at the television, if you choose, to follow the song lyrics and the pastor's key points, and passively allow the service to rush over you, cleansing you of sin and soil -- that is, if you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. In all fairness, I have been informed that more ambitious congregants will attend Thomas Road's Sunday School, where they are exposed to rigorous courses in theology and scripture.
Jonathan Falwell is a polished, professional preacher. He does not confine himself to the pulpit and read from a prepared text, but cuts himself loose like an eagle from its nest and roams the broad platform, addressing the huge assemblage in a pleasing, conversational manner. I watch his eyes to see if he is referring to the teleprompters nestled beneath the lip of the stage; but, no, either he has memorized his sermon or is a remarkably gifted extemporaneous speaker, whose words roll off his silky tongue like waves washing ashore with never a pause, misstatement, or ellipsis for thirty-five uninterrupted minutes.
Having watched Jonathan on television, I know by now that he structures his sermons logically, by identifying specific topics and explicating them using Biblical references. I also know that, although the themes ostensibly vary, the message, ultimately, is repetitive. This is not in any way meant to disparage the energy, expertise, or sincerity which he invariably projects.
This Sunday's life lesson is on prayer, the last of the i-truths, which you might think puts me at a disadvantage, since I haven't heard about the others; then again, all the New Testament (and most of the Old) -- from which Jonathan will quote frequently -- is foreign to me. Furthermore, prayer is not in my realm of behavior, nor do I believe in its efficacy -- when conducted by preachers or anyone else. Jonathan has some real convincing to do.
The sermon is previewed by a brief video, which is intended to illustrate the futility of praying for material gain. It features a familiar Liberty professor posing as a genie, the humor of whose role-playing is lost on me since I don't know this individual.
Stretching for differentiation in my view, Jonathan defines prayer as our ability to call on God in our time of need, our opportunity to depend on God, a time to commune with God, and the realization that we need God's help in our lives. He introduces five principles of prayer, cleverly employing the acronym i-p-r-a-y, and uses verses from the Bible -- all New Testament, I believe -- to develop each principle.
Prayer is an individual choice. Prayer is a personal conversation -- with the God who loves you. Prayer expresses our relationship to God and -- the crux of the matter -- it is a relationship based on the salvation granted us by a merciful God, who saves and cleanses us only by that mercy and not by our works or righteousness. (I know this is what Christians believe, yet it startles me in its bare simplicity.) In prayer we are given God's assurance that he can count on us (for what, I wonder, other than to believe, which is all that is really required). And, finally, in prayer we yield to God, give our lives to Him, that is, to Christ, who died for our sins.
It seems to me that one could take any number of words -- not just those beginning with i-p-r-a-y -- and construct a vocabulary that would enable one to understand prayer. But that's not the point. If a listener can remember "i-pray," then he has a reasonable chance of remembering five words -- individual, personal, relationship, assurance, and yield -- which, today, offer him a pathway to grasping the Christian concept of prayer. In that sense, the message is clear and perfected.
The conclusion is inevitable and -- not to sound cynical -- probably the same one that any number of these sermons portend. Jonathan's five principles of prayer are valid only if one accepts without reservation God's love through Christ and surrenders to it. And so he beckons those in the audience not yet saved to come forward to the altar and receive that love, asking other congregants to close their eyes, so prospective converts will not be intimidated or embarrassed.
Not surprisingly, about twenty persons make their way to the stage, where they are welcomed by Jonathan as brothers or sisters in Christ. If others feel the urge but are still reluctant to make a public declaration, they have only to complete the form conveniently provided in every pew and turn it in to a church official, and the pastor will give each and every one a personal call.
As I stand and watch the proceedings draw to a close, I am struck by two compelling revelations of my own. First, the summons to salvation is very seductive; all that is required here today is faith, submission, and acceptance. And as one looks around and studies the thousands who have rejoiced in song, sermon, and show, who exult in a love of God which inspirits their minds and invigorates their bodies, and who fear not death, confidently anticipating a glorious resurrection, he is sorely tempted to join the party.
Finally, the presence of the late Dr. Jerry Falwell is palpable; he smiles upon and blesses his creation like a proud father; he permeates the atmosphere and circulates through the prayer venues, classrooms, and social spaces like -- excuse the analogy -- a Holy Ghost. One cannot enter the place and behold its grandeur and substance without reflecting on the passion, genius, determination, and vision that created this huge enterprise. However one views the man's politics, his sanctimonious morality, and his self-aggrandizement, one cannot help but admire his monumental achievement and respect his powerful legacy.
Several times in recent weeks, while engaged in such exercises, I found myself lingering over a broadcast which not merely attracted my attention but so fascinated and intrigued me that I actually put down the remote for a good fifteen minutes: Sunday morning church services at Thomas Road Baptist Church.
The orchestra, the choir, the hymns, the stage production, the energy -- which even the filter of television could not dissipate -- the poised performance of Reverend Jonathan Falwell, all seemed more theater than theology, more entertainment than edification, more revelry than religion -- more watchable, really, than the dismal alternatives I had summarily discarded: the controlled, insulated violence of clashing football pads and helmets, punctuated by innumerable replays and interminable interruptions; the feverish fluency, expert eloquence, and plastic pronouncements emanating continuously from a bevy of talking heads; the inane, tasteless, slapstick humor of situational comedy; the artificial, hyperbolic, melodramatic depiction of afflicted lives whipsawed between triumph and tragedy and conveyed through the magnified facial expressions and cliched dialogue of every player; and any one of an overwhelming supply of narcoleptic B-movies, whose convoluted and incomprehensible plotlines demanded a more serious and extensive allocation of time and attention than this random viewer was willing to invest.
I thought to myself: if Thomas Road is this affecting on television, I wonder what it's like in the flesh -- as in the spirit made flesh.
My barber, Dickie P., is an interesting character. He's short, stocky, amiable, with a sly grin, pudgy cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye, a Santa Claus without the beard. He's a wellspring of local gossip (where better to unveil your innermost thoughts and secrets than in the comfort of a barber's chair?), a loyal, outspoken Conservative Republican, and a shrewd practitioner of his art, always managing to leave just enough foliage to necessitate a return visit to his shop every two-and-a-half weeks, a talent that has apparently served him well: he has a swimming pool (or had one; it's now full of dirt, but that's another story), owns a 1956 antique Thunderbird (concerning which, my query, "How much did you pay for it?" evoked the response, "I can't tell you how much I paid for it, but I'll tell you how much I want for it."), and drives a late-model shiny black Mercedes. A modulated aggressiveness lurks beneath his easy banter, a remnant, I suspect (but cannot prove), of an adventuresome and rakish past. Now, however, he's a bona fide, born-again, devoted Falwell acolyte, and, I recently learned, a church usher. When I mentioned that I might like to attend a Sunday service, his excitement was irrepressible.
"Come on over any time, Mr. Schewel," he exhorted, dreams of conversion dancing in his brain. "I'll show you around. But it's best to come at 8:15, when the crowd is manageable," he cautioned. "OK," I replied. "I'll be there, one of these days."
And so, I went, Sunday, November 4th, Friend's Day, as it turned out, auspiciously enough, but with a delayed launch time of 9:00, giving me the opportunity -- after I had arrived an hour earlier -- to savor a bracing cup of coffee at Starbucks, in case I might be tempted to doze off during the service, a totally unnecessary precaution, as it turned out.
At this juncture, it would seem appropriate to offer a few comments about my own religious beliefs. I do not intend to wax prolifically on this subject, simply because I am not as conversant in the tenets of my professed faith -- Judaism -- as I ought to be, although I was raised Jewish, attended religious school for ten years, was Bar Mitzvahed and confirmed, observe -- at least symbolically -- the major Jewish Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, and Passover), and support Jewish charitable organizations. If challenged to articulate the difference between Judaism and Christianity, my feeble, superficial answer would sound like this: Jews believe in the Word of God as revealed through a book, the Torah, and subsequent prophetic and rabbinical commentary on same; Christians -- with significant sectarian variations -- believe in the Word of God -- and the promise of salvation and eternal life -- as revealed through the birth, death, resurrection, and teachings of His Son, Jesus Christ.
Both religions present dilemmas for me. While reluctant to categorize myself as an atheist or agnostic, the term I prefer, skeptic, is, I admit, nothing more than a euphemistic avoidance of those pejorative labels, for which I would cautiously submit the following backdoor definition: a belief in a primary life-force is not a prerequisite for me to appreciate the miracle of creation, the wonder of the universe, the beauty of nature, the power of love, the rewards of righteousness, the joy of giving, or the mystery of mortality. And if it's one leap of faith to envision an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent deity, it's even more problematic to contemplate that deity incarnate.
That's enough on that subject. My trip to Thomas Road is strictly curiosity-driven.
Any uneasiness I might have anticipated is immediately dispelled by the gracious reception extended to me (and every other congregant). Here is a giant, jolly teddy-bear reaching out to smother me in a protective embrace and gather me to its bountiful bosom. As I climb the short stairway from the lower parking lot, two Wal-Mart-like -- but decidedly more youthful -- sentinels flash glittering smiles and repeat the formulaic yet nonetheless effective salutation: "Welcome to Thomas Road Baptist Church. Thank you for coming this morning." The sky is clear, the air cool and crisp, and I wonder whether they man their posts as faithfully in the cold, rain, and wind. Their hospitableness is reinforced by the fortuitous appearance of my friend Dickie P., ecstatic (and probably surprised) at seeing me, and only too eager to conduct me on a personal tour of the premises.
The imposing neo-colonial facade and entrance is Lynchburg's newest landmark. Four massive columns support a large overhanging porch that rises to a triangular peak fifty or sixty feet high and is flanked on either side by similar three-columned structures -- the naves of the cross, I assume. Of course, this is the former G.E.-Ericsson home, miraculously transformed -- by faith, prayer, and some outlandish gifts -- from a dour, industrial building into a sprawling, yet tasteful, religious and educational complex.
While the expansive lobby's quaint appellation, Main Street, conjures up visions of a small-town nostalgia, its design, amenities, and spaciousness are, to me, more suggestive of a luxurious (dare I say Las-Vegas-style?) resort hotel. Located on each side of the aisle are intimate social areas, with sofas and chairs arranged for conversation or study (on quieter days). Even at 8:35, twenty-five minutes before the service is to start, this town center is a crowded, bustling, flurry of activity, as people greet friends and acquaintances. The focal point is a coffee and refreshment bar doing a brisk business, oddly replicating the Starbucks I had so recently patronized, and a striking image of the pervasive, inviting, customer-friendly ambiance. Main Street is as much an interactive, social destination as it is a church site, as evidenced by the fact that, as I later learned, it is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
My guide is justifiably proud of the place. He points out two elaborate children's play areas -- one indoors, one outdoors -- each stocked with enough slides, tubes, see-saws, and climbing equipment to put a half-dozen McDonald's to shame. He insists I peek into the Sam Pate Chapel -- a small church in itself -- where the choir -- a small congregation in itself -- is rehearsing its repertoire. He leads me through a maze of Sunday school classrooms, where the walls, desks, tables, and play-to-learn paraphernalia are as bright, sparkling, clean, and colorful as the children milling about.
I beg off a tour of Lynchburg Christian Academy and its indoor track and gymnasium, having seen those facilities a few months before while attending a breakfast meeting, and an introduction to Jonathan Falwell, who, I fear, will remember a joke I told about his father (he was still alive then) on the same occasion, to which, I was informed, his reaction was a suppressed grimace.
Dickie directs me into the auditorium from a side door adjacent to the stage, which gives me the opportunity to take in all 6000 seats -- including 1000 in the balcony -- from the pastor's point of view. Even if one supposes only a two-third's occupancy during the course of three morning services (on a normal Sunday), that 12,000 attendance figure represents a significant percentage (over ten) of Lynchburg's population. And it does not include any of the 9000 Liberty University student body, who, I am told, worship en masse at the Vines Center.
I take a seat slightly left of center and no more than ten rows from the stage. If this is to be my first and last visit, I certainly don't want to miss anything.
My attention is immediately drawn to two large television screens suspended high on either side of the stage, which are displaying silent, continuous announcements of a multitude of church programs: Christmas Eve Services, a Women's United for Christ Fitness Program, Mountain Blend (coffee, I assume) Tuesday Morning Bible Study, Mother's Morning Out, the Virginia Christmas Spectacular, LCA Choir in Concert, Thomas Road Flea Market, Kid's Sports Leagues, the Singles Ministry, the Barrick Family Revelation Celebration. No wonder Main Street is open around the clock.
The twenty-piece orchestra -- complete with strings, brass, percussion, and conductor -- takes its place in the center of the stage. The two-hundred-member choir positions itself in eight ascending rows on either side, not its usual station, I understand, which is a more dramatic arrangement on a proscenium now hidden by a black curtain and which has been usurped by the rapidly growing Living Christmas Tree, a spectacular production which I have yet to experience. The choir, even as it is, duly impresses me.
Three other objects occupy the stage: the pulpit, a fixture for the portly former pastor, but largely abandoned by his youthful, roving successor; a large upholstered pull-up chair, for the pastor's relaxation during musical interludes; and a kingsize i-pod, the metaphorical inspiration for the pastor's recent series of sermons (the last of which I will hear this morning): Life Lessons for the I-Pod Generation.
That series wasn't designed for me: I have no ear for music, do not listen to music (except as a last resort, when all AM talk radio signals have faded into a deafening static), and blithely confess a tuneless ignorance when it comes to Christian or gospel melodies. But, honestly, who would not be moved to exhilaration if not rapture by the symphonic strains of the orchestra, the soaring harmonies of the vocalists, and mellifluent tones of Charles Billingsley? As they break into song, most of the hymns are of a hand-clapping, toe-tapping, head-shaking variety that seems to combine all the elements of rock, country, and jazz in a melting pot reflective of the diversity of the 5000-member audience. Reverend Jonathan smoothly ramps up the enthusiasm with his rhythmic bodily accompaniment, a signal to his disciples to join in.
As the words flash up on the screen, I try to digest the titles or refrains: I Exalt Thee; To Only a God Like You Do I Give my Praise; These Are the Days of Elijah (in the words of Master Billingsley, one of our favorites, and with a familiar Old Testament reference, too); How Great is our God. And, later in the service, Oh the Wonderful Cross, and an emotional Billingsley solo, I Believe in a Hill Called Mount Calvary, which wrings beads of perspiration from his forehead and builds to a soul-stirring climax, at which point he implores his impassioned devotees to rise and sing along.
Religion and salvation come easily here. There are no cumbersome hymnals or prayer books to hoist and manipulate. You sit (or stand, when instructed), absorb the music and message almost by osmosis, gaze hungrily at the television, if you choose, to follow the song lyrics and the pastor's key points, and passively allow the service to rush over you, cleansing you of sin and soil -- that is, if you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. In all fairness, I have been informed that more ambitious congregants will attend Thomas Road's Sunday School, where they are exposed to rigorous courses in theology and scripture.
Jonathan Falwell is a polished, professional preacher. He does not confine himself to the pulpit and read from a prepared text, but cuts himself loose like an eagle from its nest and roams the broad platform, addressing the huge assemblage in a pleasing, conversational manner. I watch his eyes to see if he is referring to the teleprompters nestled beneath the lip of the stage; but, no, either he has memorized his sermon or is a remarkably gifted extemporaneous speaker, whose words roll off his silky tongue like waves washing ashore with never a pause, misstatement, or ellipsis for thirty-five uninterrupted minutes.
Having watched Jonathan on television, I know by now that he structures his sermons logically, by identifying specific topics and explicating them using Biblical references. I also know that, although the themes ostensibly vary, the message, ultimately, is repetitive. This is not in any way meant to disparage the energy, expertise, or sincerity which he invariably projects.
This Sunday's life lesson is on prayer, the last of the i-truths, which you might think puts me at a disadvantage, since I haven't heard about the others; then again, all the New Testament (and most of the Old) -- from which Jonathan will quote frequently -- is foreign to me. Furthermore, prayer is not in my realm of behavior, nor do I believe in its efficacy -- when conducted by preachers or anyone else. Jonathan has some real convincing to do.
The sermon is previewed by a brief video, which is intended to illustrate the futility of praying for material gain. It features a familiar Liberty professor posing as a genie, the humor of whose role-playing is lost on me since I don't know this individual.
Stretching for differentiation in my view, Jonathan defines prayer as our ability to call on God in our time of need, our opportunity to depend on God, a time to commune with God, and the realization that we need God's help in our lives. He introduces five principles of prayer, cleverly employing the acronym i-p-r-a-y, and uses verses from the Bible -- all New Testament, I believe -- to develop each principle.
Prayer is an individual choice. Prayer is a personal conversation -- with the God who loves you. Prayer expresses our relationship to God and -- the crux of the matter -- it is a relationship based on the salvation granted us by a merciful God, who saves and cleanses us only by that mercy and not by our works or righteousness. (I know this is what Christians believe, yet it startles me in its bare simplicity.) In prayer we are given God's assurance that he can count on us (for what, I wonder, other than to believe, which is all that is really required). And, finally, in prayer we yield to God, give our lives to Him, that is, to Christ, who died for our sins.
It seems to me that one could take any number of words -- not just those beginning with i-p-r-a-y -- and construct a vocabulary that would enable one to understand prayer. But that's not the point. If a listener can remember "i-pray," then he has a reasonable chance of remembering five words -- individual, personal, relationship, assurance, and yield -- which, today, offer him a pathway to grasping the Christian concept of prayer. In that sense, the message is clear and perfected.
The conclusion is inevitable and -- not to sound cynical -- probably the same one that any number of these sermons portend. Jonathan's five principles of prayer are valid only if one accepts without reservation God's love through Christ and surrenders to it. And so he beckons those in the audience not yet saved to come forward to the altar and receive that love, asking other congregants to close their eyes, so prospective converts will not be intimidated or embarrassed.
Not surprisingly, about twenty persons make their way to the stage, where they are welcomed by Jonathan as brothers or sisters in Christ. If others feel the urge but are still reluctant to make a public declaration, they have only to complete the form conveniently provided in every pew and turn it in to a church official, and the pastor will give each and every one a personal call.
As I stand and watch the proceedings draw to a close, I am struck by two compelling revelations of my own. First, the summons to salvation is very seductive; all that is required here today is faith, submission, and acceptance. And as one looks around and studies the thousands who have rejoiced in song, sermon, and show, who exult in a love of God which inspirits their minds and invigorates their bodies, and who fear not death, confidently anticipating a glorious resurrection, he is sorely tempted to join the party.
Finally, the presence of the late Dr. Jerry Falwell is palpable; he smiles upon and blesses his creation like a proud father; he permeates the atmosphere and circulates through the prayer venues, classrooms, and social spaces like -- excuse the analogy -- a Holy Ghost. One cannot enter the place and behold its grandeur and substance without reflecting on the passion, genius, determination, and vision that created this huge enterprise. However one views the man's politics, his sanctimonious morality, and his self-aggrandizement, one cannot help but admire his monumental achievement and respect his powerful legacy.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
October Surprise
Although my workout regimen on the Cybex equipment at the YMCA -- which I tackle two or three days a week -- is not particularly strenuous (I haven't increased the weights in ten years, nor do I subscribe to the well-substantiated theory that slower is better), I have a tendency to loiter between machines and daydream, examining bodies both shapely and not or gazing at one of the silent but scrawling televisions perched above the crowd.
I was in just such a pose about a week ago -- actually the eve of World Series Game One -- when I saw it, at least the end of it: ESPN's countdown of the ten most memorable moments in World Series history (filched from the Internet I later determined). I stood entranced, expectant, fascinated, wondering whether the mysterious individuals whose judgments on these matters are accepted as gospel had been sufficiently perspicacious to overcome their natural bias towards more recent personally-witnessed events and crown the proper champion.
And when, suddenly, it flashed up on the screen, the grand finale of the dramatic seventh game of the bizarre 1960 World Series, its grainy black-and-white footage flickering like an old newsreel, I could barely contain my emotions. "Yes!" I wanted to shout to the pained, perspiring, panting masses, immersed in their exertions (and i-pods) and oblivious to the ephemeral imagery on display. "Look up, sports fans. I was there -- at the greatest World Series game ever played," I silently exhorted, the hyperbole rolling off my silver tongue as glibly as if it were Howard Cosell's.
Those of you who may have read on this blog my defense of Barry Bonds and my lamentation on September will know by now that I am a baseball fan, infatuated and intrigued by (not to reprise myself): the perfect symmetry of the game -- nine positions, nine innings, three strikes, three outs, four balls, four bases; the unique physical and mental confrontation between pitcher and batter; the pristine beauty of the delicately manicured field, its green and sandy areas in bold contrast, upon which each player has staked out his exclusive territory; the graceful agility of a pitcher in motion, a batter unleashing his power, a diving shortstop, a fleet-footed outfielder; the seemingly endless, but nevertheless too soon concluded, 162-game season, necessary to separate the contenders from the pretenders; the mesmerizing statistical record -- of every pitch, every at-bat, every play, every game -- posted and archived for cowhide devotees to ponder and analyze.
The numbers are what lured me to baseball; it certainly wasn't athletic proficiency, since I lacked the strength, speed, and coordination to play it -- or any other sport -- at even a mediocre level. As a youngster, I could always withdraw from the playing field to the printed word -- I was a child let loose in a candy store after I learned to read, sampling one tasty treat after another -- a refuge that became more problematic when I was sent away to summer camp in the White Mountains of West Virginia at the tender age of eight. There I was thrust into a gaggle of budding baseball enthusiasts who were not only reasonably adept at hitting, fielding, and throwing -- and these were Jewish kids to boot -- but also amazingly well-versed in all sorts of Major League trivia. When camp lights went out, they would chatter on incessantly about teams, players, and averages, conversation to which I had nothing to contribute.
Upon returning home, I resolved never again to find myself adrift in a sea of sports ignorance -- even if I couldn't play the game. I embarked on a voyage of self-education, investing as much time and energy in baseball lore and current events as I did in school work, and thus became a fan. I was first out the door every morning to retrieve the newspaper, not for the front page, but for the comics, the sports section, and the box scores. I became an avid collector and trader of baseball cards, reveling in the statistics of even obscure players. I learned how to keep score, diligently recording hits and putouts on composition paper as reported by Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese on their Saturday Game of the Week. And I would listen to AM radio broadcasts while lying in bed in the dead of night, including the remarkable performance of Pittsburgh Pirate Harvey Haddix when, on May 29, 1959, he pitched twelve perfect innings against the Milwaukee Braves only to lose in the thirteenth.
Of course, every baseball fan -- especially a burgeoning one -- needs a team to root for. Inaugurating a personal foible that persists to this day, I became hopelessly enamored of two lovable losers: the Washington Senators in the American League, probably because their home was closest to my own (or maybe it was their early sixties eclectic flavor: who could ever forget Camilio Pascual and Pedro Ramos?) and the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League -- in their case because my mother hailed from the Pittsburgh area and whose father, as she was fond of relating, was a diehard Pirate fan who himself had played semi-professional baseball. Sadly, this family athletic gene expired permanently with his death from a heart attack in 1955.
If you were attracted to underdogs, the Pirates were an insightful choice. From 1950 through 1959, they averaged 61 wins and 93 losses, finished last five times, and posted winning records only in 1958 and 1959. Their one star, slugger Ralph Kiner, the League leader in home runs from 1946 to 1952, was traded the next year to the the Chicago Cubs after a contract dispute with General Manager Branch Rickey, who told him the Pirates could finish in last place without him.
But before he himself was fired in 1955, Rickey had laid the foundation for a competitive team: moving the quick, nimble Bill Mazeroski from shortstop to second base where he became, according to statistician guru Bill James, the position's premier defensive player; shipping diminutive reliever Elroy Face to Double A New Orleans in 1954 to learn to throw a forkball (today the split-finger fastball); drafting the gifted Puerto Rican outfielder, Roberto Clemente, from the Brooklyn Dodger's farm system; and signing Duke basketball All-American Dick Groat and the two pitchers who would become the backbone of the staff, Vernon Law and Bob Friend.
Although these capsule descriptions I have borrowed from William Nack's October 23, 2000, Sports Illustrated article, the names are as familiar to me today as my own children's, as well as others added by Rickey's successor, Joe Brown: the catching tandem of left-handed hitting Smokey Burgess and righty Hal Smith; the "fiery third baseman," Don Hoak; the aforementioned "wiry, chain-smoking Harvey Haddix, a crafty lefty nicknamed the Kitten because he had studied at the paw of St. Louis Cardinal veteran Harry (the Cat) Breechen"; the "sweet-fielding, bespectacled" Bill Virdon, also a former Cardinal; the well-traveled minor leaguer Rocky Nelson, mistaken by one of Brown's colleagues for television wonder boy Ricky Nelson; and the "tobacco-chewing, beagle-faced" manager, Danny Murtaugh, himself a former Pirate second baseman.
In searching my memory to reconstruct that 1960 line-up, only two names escaped me: outfielder Bob Skinner and utility infielder Gino Cimoli.
In 1958, Murtaugh's first year, the Pirates won 84 games and lost 70, finishing second to the Milwaukee Braves, if not a traditional rival, certainly one in my mind, since they were the favorite of my across-the-street neighbor, Randy E., who gloried in the exploits of that star-studded team's high-octane performers: Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, and Joe Adcock.
After reverting to form the next year and slipping to fourth place, in 1960 the Pirates shocked the baseball world, winning 12 of their first 15 games, ninety-five in all, and cruising to the National League pennant, seven games ahead of those despicable Braves. "Groat hit .325 to win the NL batting title. Law won 20 games, Friend 18, and Face saved 24. Mazeroski led major league second basemen in putouts, assists, double plays, and fielding average."
It's best for those who religiously follow the fortunes of perennial losers never to elevate their hopes too high and calmly to anticipate the worst so as not to be crushingly disappointed when inevitable disaster strikes. Thus, in spite of their wire-to-wire run, could it have been anything but a total surprise when the Pirates clinched the pennant, their first in thirty-three years?
Their World Series opponent, however, was no surprise: the mighty New York Yankees. If the Braves had stars, the Yankees had Hall-of-Famers, up and down the line-up, and you didn't have to be a Yankee fan, even much of a baseball fan, to regurgitate those names: Yogi Berra, Bill Skowron, Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Elston Howard, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and the manager, Casey Stengel. The Yankees had claimed eight pennants and six World Series in the fifties. They finished the 1960 season by winning their last fifteen games and hitting 193 home runs, a new American League record.
No one gave the Pirates much of a chance against that powerhouse, and after humiliating 16-3 and 10-0 defeats in Games Two and Three, such prognostications seemed well-founded -- except for the surprising outcome of Games One, Four, and Five, in which the over-matched upstarts triumphed by the slim margins of 6-4, 3-2, and 5-2, prompting manager Murtaugh to observe between expectorations: "The Series will be decided on games won, not on total runs scored."
If the Buccaneers' bumptiousness wasn't exhilarating enough, imagine my reaction when sometime that week sitting at the dinner table, my father, in the ceremonious and portentous manner he was prone to exhibit in such situations, announced that he had in hand two tickets to Games Six and Seven of the World Series. My eyes widened in disbelief; surely I must have assumed he was playing the kind of subtle practical joke he was fond of, like reading from the newspaper bogus stories featuring a friend or family member. But, no; it was all true. Apparently, some connection or friendship involving my mother's spate of relatives from the Pittsburgh area had delivered the goods, a magic carpet ride to Forbes Field, my second Major League destination, the first having been Yankee Stadium during a family sightseeing tour of New York a few years earlier.
Back then baseball was still America's pastime, and the World Series was its preeminent sporting event. There were only three television networks; sports broadcasts were few and far between; the Super Bowl had yet to be invented; and the widespread popularity and continuous exposure of football and basketball were futuristic phenomena. The World Series was, refreshingly, a daytime event, and scores were snatched like lightning bugs from transistor radios smuggled into school bathrooms and hallways those autumn afternoons. Some teachers were accommodating or interested enough themselves to allow students to listen to the games in class -- but not my eighth-grade history teacher, Mr. Eddie H., who, in spite of a boundless adoration of the Yankees and a boisterous jealousy of my good fortune, was too strict a disciplinarian to interrupt his lesson plans.
To attend the World Series -- at the expense of missing a couple of days of school -- was quite a coup.
I suppose this adventure can also be depicted as a father and son bonding experience, one of the few we ever had -- that is, until we went into business together, after which we were permanently in bondage, so to speak. I do not mean to be derogatory; if there is blame to be cast, an equal amount must be borne by me.
My father and I had little in common. He was a gregarious, garrulous, extroverted, magnetic individual who never met a stranger; I was cerebral, reserved, introverted, and, in spite of my academic prowess, rife with insecurities. He was also intensely preoccupied with his growing business and with various community organizations, working six, sometimes seven days a week and traveling frequently -- a pattern I was fated to replicate years later. Looking back, I'm not sure if he really held any enthusiasm for baseball or the Pittsburgh Pirates or if he could name any of the players; I have to believe this trip was a genuine, heartfelt attempt to reach out to me, a shared activity he knew I would enjoy.
This is not to say he didn't take advantage of an opportunity to indulge himself along the way. I don't recall any details: what car we took (it wasn't his infamous Ford Galaxie convertible, a 1962 model) -- most likely my mother's Country Squire wood-paneled station wagon -- or where we stayed -- probably we economized and lodged with one of my mother's relatives -- but undoubtedly we detoured to Harrisonburg, Luray, and Winchester to pay business calls on Schewel managers Wilburn, Moore, and Lucas.
The question arises: What did we talk about, joined at the hip, just the two of us, for at least sixteen hours, eight on the drive up, eight on the drive home? Who remembers conversations half a century old? I can with confidence attest to the subjects we avoided: hunting and fishing, about which we were, and forever would be, blithely ignorant, and sex, about which he only spoke to me once, advising me to consult him if I ever found myself in a troublesome situation, in itself a depressingly unlikely prospect. I suspect that mostly he talked, I listened, and we stopped a few times to eat and for him to make telephone calls.
Not having attended a college or professional football game in many years, I can only make an educated guess as to what draws zealots to brave the elements week after week: a slavish devotion to their team; the communal energy flowing through the stadium like an electric charge; the violence seen and heard from a ringside seat; a submersion of one's identity in the synergistic clamor of the crowd; or maybe it's just the tailgating. I experience a similar thrill at a Major League baseball game, but would propose a slightly nuanced and largely ignored distinction.
I believe one reason baseball has suffered as a spectator sport over the last twenty years is that it does not translate to the television screen as facilely as football and basketball. To appreciate the subtleties and intricacies of a baseball game, one must be able to survey the whole field, all its components -- pitcher, batter, fielders -- and observe their reactions to the pitch and the ball in play. You can't see that on television, even in replays, whereas football (and basketball) broadcasts show almost all players in movement when action commences, afterwards isolating coverage in the critical areas. The camera actually diminishes the game of baseball while enhancing our viewing of those other sports.
I couldn't articulate that thought in 1960, but, perhaps, subconsciously, I felt it after passing through the concrete portico into the open stadium, for surely I paused, smiled, looked around in awe and excitement, and absorbed the breathtaking expanse of diamond and outfield, which would be frozen in time while the game ran its course.
Like a rocketing home-run ball disappearing over the fence, Forbes Field and that first game have faded into oblivion. Was there a fearsome conflict roiling in my brain, between the loyal fan's prayer for victory and the anxious twelve-year old's yearning for another contest? If so, it was quickly resolved by another Bronx blowout, 12-0, in which lightweight Bobby Richardson continued his uncharacteristic power surge, hitting two triples and driving in three runs, including a record-setting twelfth.
The next day, Thursday, October 13, would be the last of the season, no matter the outcome. My father and I had hardly settled in our seats -- somewhere on the first base side -- when the fireworks started. I remember three moments; for the rest, I refer again to William Nack's Sports Illustrated article, published on the fortieth anniversary of what he called "the Wackiest World Series of Them All."
The Pirates raced to a 4-0 lead on the strength of a first-inning two-run home run by Rocky Nelson and a second-inning two-run single by Bill Virdon. Casey Stengel replaced starter Bob Turley with 5'6" lefty-sinkerballer Bobby Shantz, who silenced the Pirate bats for the next five innings, allowing only a single by Smokey Burgess. In a move with significant implications, Burgess was lifted for a pinch runner, and his catching position was filled by Hal Smith.
Meanwhile, the Yankees clawed back. Vern Law, unable to push off from the rubber due to an injured foot, was throwing his arm out and courageously lasted until the sixth inning, giving up one run. But when Murtaugh turned to the dependable, indefatigable Roy Face, 68 appearances and 114 innings (this was a time when star relievers pitched one, two, or three innings, whatever was necessary) finally took its toll. Face gave up a run-scoring single to Mickey Mantle, a towering three-run homer to Yogi Berra that just avoided the right foul pole, and two more runs in the eighth. The Forbes Field faithful were restless and distraught; with only six outs left, the Yankees led 7-4 and looked like sure winners.
To quote Nack: "Then came the most bizarre half-inning of this bizarre series." With Gino Cimoli on first after a dink single to right, Bill Virdon hit a hard grounder to shortstop Tony Kubek, a sure double play. The ball hit a rock in the infield, bounced up sharply, and struck Kubek in the throat. I can see him now, lying on the ground, writhing in pain, clutching his throat -- the game turning, the crowd sensing something mystical in the air. Was this truly a team of destiny?
Dick Groat singled, scoring Cimoli, the Pirates' fifth run. Then, Stengel inexplicably pulled Shantz -- "the greatest fielding pitcher in the history of baseball," according to Joe Brown -- for Jim Coates. Bob Skinner sacrificed Virdon to third and Groat to second. Rocky Nelson flied out. Roberto Clemente came to the plate with two outs, and hit a bouncer to first baseman Bill Skowron, who fielded it cleanly and looked to throw to the pitcher Coates covering first, a routine play. But Coates -- no Bobby Shantz -- wasn't there; his mental lapse cost the Yankees the third out. Virdon scored, Groat moved to second, and Clemente was safe. The score was now 7-6, and back-up catcher Hal Smith stepped into the batter's box.
I will never forget Smith's home run, because, like every other frenzied fanatic in the grandstand, I was sure he had won the game and the Series for the Pirates. The prosaic name Hal Smith should have been etched in baseball marble forever; he had put his team ahead 9-7 with three outs to go.
But Bob Friend, a starter who had also pitched too many innings, couldn't hold the lead. The Yankees scored two runs in the top of the ninth, thanks to a miraculous play by Mickey Mantle. Leading off first, he dove back to the base when the batter was forced out on a hard grounder, allowing the tying run to score from third.
Bill Mazeroski was first up for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth.
He was an unlikely hero, the slick-fielding second baseman, hardly a power hitter, the son of an Ohio coal miner, who grew up in a little wooden house with no electricity or running water, "listening to his battery-operated radio tell stories of his beloved Cleveland Indians," Maz, as he was known. But after the second pitch -- "a high hummer delivered by Ralph Terry at 3:36 PM just where he wanted it" -- he would be legendary.
Nack writes: "He swung and struck the ball flush, sending it in a rising white arc to left center field. He was racing towards first base when he saw what everyone else saw, what Virdon and Skinner and Skowron and Richardson saw, what thousands saw from the stands, what millions who were watching on TV saw" -- and what I saw from my seat behind first base and will never forget seeing -- "Yogi Berra crabbing back to the warning track, turning to face the wall, looking up, and watching the ball sail over his head and clear the wall."
Final score: 10-9.
In 1993, Joe Carter hit a game-ending home run to win the World Series for the Toronto Blue Jays in Game Six. But Bill Mazeroski's walk-off home run remains the only one ever hit to win a seventh game.
The improbable champs had been outscored 55-27 and outhit 91-60; but, in the end, they prevailed.
A few years ago I attended a fund-raiser honoring Lynchburg icon and former Mayor Jimmie Bryan, at which various items of sports memorabilia were being auctioned off. I was casually examining the merchandise when I abruptly stopped, stared in astonishment, and delicately lifted from the table a most valuable object -- an autographed plastic-encased photograph of Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his historic home run. In a foolish gesture of braggadocio, I pointed out to a friend that I had been there and seen it all, which only encouraged him to enter the auction -- and bid up the price. Nevertheless, I bought it, took it home, and propped it up on my dresser, where it sits today, a simple but magnificent reminder of the day forty-seven years ago when my father took me to the greatest baseball game ever played.
I was in just such a pose about a week ago -- actually the eve of World Series Game One -- when I saw it, at least the end of it: ESPN's countdown of the ten most memorable moments in World Series history (filched from the Internet I later determined). I stood entranced, expectant, fascinated, wondering whether the mysterious individuals whose judgments on these matters are accepted as gospel had been sufficiently perspicacious to overcome their natural bias towards more recent personally-witnessed events and crown the proper champion.
And when, suddenly, it flashed up on the screen, the grand finale of the dramatic seventh game of the bizarre 1960 World Series, its grainy black-and-white footage flickering like an old newsreel, I could barely contain my emotions. "Yes!" I wanted to shout to the pained, perspiring, panting masses, immersed in their exertions (and i-pods) and oblivious to the ephemeral imagery on display. "Look up, sports fans. I was there -- at the greatest World Series game ever played," I silently exhorted, the hyperbole rolling off my silver tongue as glibly as if it were Howard Cosell's.
Those of you who may have read on this blog my defense of Barry Bonds and my lamentation on September will know by now that I am a baseball fan, infatuated and intrigued by (not to reprise myself): the perfect symmetry of the game -- nine positions, nine innings, three strikes, three outs, four balls, four bases; the unique physical and mental confrontation between pitcher and batter; the pristine beauty of the delicately manicured field, its green and sandy areas in bold contrast, upon which each player has staked out his exclusive territory; the graceful agility of a pitcher in motion, a batter unleashing his power, a diving shortstop, a fleet-footed outfielder; the seemingly endless, but nevertheless too soon concluded, 162-game season, necessary to separate the contenders from the pretenders; the mesmerizing statistical record -- of every pitch, every at-bat, every play, every game -- posted and archived for cowhide devotees to ponder and analyze.
The numbers are what lured me to baseball; it certainly wasn't athletic proficiency, since I lacked the strength, speed, and coordination to play it -- or any other sport -- at even a mediocre level. As a youngster, I could always withdraw from the playing field to the printed word -- I was a child let loose in a candy store after I learned to read, sampling one tasty treat after another -- a refuge that became more problematic when I was sent away to summer camp in the White Mountains of West Virginia at the tender age of eight. There I was thrust into a gaggle of budding baseball enthusiasts who were not only reasonably adept at hitting, fielding, and throwing -- and these were Jewish kids to boot -- but also amazingly well-versed in all sorts of Major League trivia. When camp lights went out, they would chatter on incessantly about teams, players, and averages, conversation to which I had nothing to contribute.
Upon returning home, I resolved never again to find myself adrift in a sea of sports ignorance -- even if I couldn't play the game. I embarked on a voyage of self-education, investing as much time and energy in baseball lore and current events as I did in school work, and thus became a fan. I was first out the door every morning to retrieve the newspaper, not for the front page, but for the comics, the sports section, and the box scores. I became an avid collector and trader of baseball cards, reveling in the statistics of even obscure players. I learned how to keep score, diligently recording hits and putouts on composition paper as reported by Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese on their Saturday Game of the Week. And I would listen to AM radio broadcasts while lying in bed in the dead of night, including the remarkable performance of Pittsburgh Pirate Harvey Haddix when, on May 29, 1959, he pitched twelve perfect innings against the Milwaukee Braves only to lose in the thirteenth.
Of course, every baseball fan -- especially a burgeoning one -- needs a team to root for. Inaugurating a personal foible that persists to this day, I became hopelessly enamored of two lovable losers: the Washington Senators in the American League, probably because their home was closest to my own (or maybe it was their early sixties eclectic flavor: who could ever forget Camilio Pascual and Pedro Ramos?) and the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League -- in their case because my mother hailed from the Pittsburgh area and whose father, as she was fond of relating, was a diehard Pirate fan who himself had played semi-professional baseball. Sadly, this family athletic gene expired permanently with his death from a heart attack in 1955.
If you were attracted to underdogs, the Pirates were an insightful choice. From 1950 through 1959, they averaged 61 wins and 93 losses, finished last five times, and posted winning records only in 1958 and 1959. Their one star, slugger Ralph Kiner, the League leader in home runs from 1946 to 1952, was traded the next year to the the Chicago Cubs after a contract dispute with General Manager Branch Rickey, who told him the Pirates could finish in last place without him.
But before he himself was fired in 1955, Rickey had laid the foundation for a competitive team: moving the quick, nimble Bill Mazeroski from shortstop to second base where he became, according to statistician guru Bill James, the position's premier defensive player; shipping diminutive reliever Elroy Face to Double A New Orleans in 1954 to learn to throw a forkball (today the split-finger fastball); drafting the gifted Puerto Rican outfielder, Roberto Clemente, from the Brooklyn Dodger's farm system; and signing Duke basketball All-American Dick Groat and the two pitchers who would become the backbone of the staff, Vernon Law and Bob Friend.
Although these capsule descriptions I have borrowed from William Nack's October 23, 2000, Sports Illustrated article, the names are as familiar to me today as my own children's, as well as others added by Rickey's successor, Joe Brown: the catching tandem of left-handed hitting Smokey Burgess and righty Hal Smith; the "fiery third baseman," Don Hoak; the aforementioned "wiry, chain-smoking Harvey Haddix, a crafty lefty nicknamed the Kitten because he had studied at the paw of St. Louis Cardinal veteran Harry (the Cat) Breechen"; the "sweet-fielding, bespectacled" Bill Virdon, also a former Cardinal; the well-traveled minor leaguer Rocky Nelson, mistaken by one of Brown's colleagues for television wonder boy Ricky Nelson; and the "tobacco-chewing, beagle-faced" manager, Danny Murtaugh, himself a former Pirate second baseman.
In searching my memory to reconstruct that 1960 line-up, only two names escaped me: outfielder Bob Skinner and utility infielder Gino Cimoli.
In 1958, Murtaugh's first year, the Pirates won 84 games and lost 70, finishing second to the Milwaukee Braves, if not a traditional rival, certainly one in my mind, since they were the favorite of my across-the-street neighbor, Randy E., who gloried in the exploits of that star-studded team's high-octane performers: Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, and Joe Adcock.
After reverting to form the next year and slipping to fourth place, in 1960 the Pirates shocked the baseball world, winning 12 of their first 15 games, ninety-five in all, and cruising to the National League pennant, seven games ahead of those despicable Braves. "Groat hit .325 to win the NL batting title. Law won 20 games, Friend 18, and Face saved 24. Mazeroski led major league second basemen in putouts, assists, double plays, and fielding average."
It's best for those who religiously follow the fortunes of perennial losers never to elevate their hopes too high and calmly to anticipate the worst so as not to be crushingly disappointed when inevitable disaster strikes. Thus, in spite of their wire-to-wire run, could it have been anything but a total surprise when the Pirates clinched the pennant, their first in thirty-three years?
Their World Series opponent, however, was no surprise: the mighty New York Yankees. If the Braves had stars, the Yankees had Hall-of-Famers, up and down the line-up, and you didn't have to be a Yankee fan, even much of a baseball fan, to regurgitate those names: Yogi Berra, Bill Skowron, Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Elston Howard, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and the manager, Casey Stengel. The Yankees had claimed eight pennants and six World Series in the fifties. They finished the 1960 season by winning their last fifteen games and hitting 193 home runs, a new American League record.
No one gave the Pirates much of a chance against that powerhouse, and after humiliating 16-3 and 10-0 defeats in Games Two and Three, such prognostications seemed well-founded -- except for the surprising outcome of Games One, Four, and Five, in which the over-matched upstarts triumphed by the slim margins of 6-4, 3-2, and 5-2, prompting manager Murtaugh to observe between expectorations: "The Series will be decided on games won, not on total runs scored."
If the Buccaneers' bumptiousness wasn't exhilarating enough, imagine my reaction when sometime that week sitting at the dinner table, my father, in the ceremonious and portentous manner he was prone to exhibit in such situations, announced that he had in hand two tickets to Games Six and Seven of the World Series. My eyes widened in disbelief; surely I must have assumed he was playing the kind of subtle practical joke he was fond of, like reading from the newspaper bogus stories featuring a friend or family member. But, no; it was all true. Apparently, some connection or friendship involving my mother's spate of relatives from the Pittsburgh area had delivered the goods, a magic carpet ride to Forbes Field, my second Major League destination, the first having been Yankee Stadium during a family sightseeing tour of New York a few years earlier.
Back then baseball was still America's pastime, and the World Series was its preeminent sporting event. There were only three television networks; sports broadcasts were few and far between; the Super Bowl had yet to be invented; and the widespread popularity and continuous exposure of football and basketball were futuristic phenomena. The World Series was, refreshingly, a daytime event, and scores were snatched like lightning bugs from transistor radios smuggled into school bathrooms and hallways those autumn afternoons. Some teachers were accommodating or interested enough themselves to allow students to listen to the games in class -- but not my eighth-grade history teacher, Mr. Eddie H., who, in spite of a boundless adoration of the Yankees and a boisterous jealousy of my good fortune, was too strict a disciplinarian to interrupt his lesson plans.
To attend the World Series -- at the expense of missing a couple of days of school -- was quite a coup.
I suppose this adventure can also be depicted as a father and son bonding experience, one of the few we ever had -- that is, until we went into business together, after which we were permanently in bondage, so to speak. I do not mean to be derogatory; if there is blame to be cast, an equal amount must be borne by me.
My father and I had little in common. He was a gregarious, garrulous, extroverted, magnetic individual who never met a stranger; I was cerebral, reserved, introverted, and, in spite of my academic prowess, rife with insecurities. He was also intensely preoccupied with his growing business and with various community organizations, working six, sometimes seven days a week and traveling frequently -- a pattern I was fated to replicate years later. Looking back, I'm not sure if he really held any enthusiasm for baseball or the Pittsburgh Pirates or if he could name any of the players; I have to believe this trip was a genuine, heartfelt attempt to reach out to me, a shared activity he knew I would enjoy.
This is not to say he didn't take advantage of an opportunity to indulge himself along the way. I don't recall any details: what car we took (it wasn't his infamous Ford Galaxie convertible, a 1962 model) -- most likely my mother's Country Squire wood-paneled station wagon -- or where we stayed -- probably we economized and lodged with one of my mother's relatives -- but undoubtedly we detoured to Harrisonburg, Luray, and Winchester to pay business calls on Schewel managers Wilburn, Moore, and Lucas.
The question arises: What did we talk about, joined at the hip, just the two of us, for at least sixteen hours, eight on the drive up, eight on the drive home? Who remembers conversations half a century old? I can with confidence attest to the subjects we avoided: hunting and fishing, about which we were, and forever would be, blithely ignorant, and sex, about which he only spoke to me once, advising me to consult him if I ever found myself in a troublesome situation, in itself a depressingly unlikely prospect. I suspect that mostly he talked, I listened, and we stopped a few times to eat and for him to make telephone calls.
Not having attended a college or professional football game in many years, I can only make an educated guess as to what draws zealots to brave the elements week after week: a slavish devotion to their team; the communal energy flowing through the stadium like an electric charge; the violence seen and heard from a ringside seat; a submersion of one's identity in the synergistic clamor of the crowd; or maybe it's just the tailgating. I experience a similar thrill at a Major League baseball game, but would propose a slightly nuanced and largely ignored distinction.
I believe one reason baseball has suffered as a spectator sport over the last twenty years is that it does not translate to the television screen as facilely as football and basketball. To appreciate the subtleties and intricacies of a baseball game, one must be able to survey the whole field, all its components -- pitcher, batter, fielders -- and observe their reactions to the pitch and the ball in play. You can't see that on television, even in replays, whereas football (and basketball) broadcasts show almost all players in movement when action commences, afterwards isolating coverage in the critical areas. The camera actually diminishes the game of baseball while enhancing our viewing of those other sports.
I couldn't articulate that thought in 1960, but, perhaps, subconsciously, I felt it after passing through the concrete portico into the open stadium, for surely I paused, smiled, looked around in awe and excitement, and absorbed the breathtaking expanse of diamond and outfield, which would be frozen in time while the game ran its course.
Like a rocketing home-run ball disappearing over the fence, Forbes Field and that first game have faded into oblivion. Was there a fearsome conflict roiling in my brain, between the loyal fan's prayer for victory and the anxious twelve-year old's yearning for another contest? If so, it was quickly resolved by another Bronx blowout, 12-0, in which lightweight Bobby Richardson continued his uncharacteristic power surge, hitting two triples and driving in three runs, including a record-setting twelfth.
The next day, Thursday, October 13, would be the last of the season, no matter the outcome. My father and I had hardly settled in our seats -- somewhere on the first base side -- when the fireworks started. I remember three moments; for the rest, I refer again to William Nack's Sports Illustrated article, published on the fortieth anniversary of what he called "the Wackiest World Series of Them All."
The Pirates raced to a 4-0 lead on the strength of a first-inning two-run home run by Rocky Nelson and a second-inning two-run single by Bill Virdon. Casey Stengel replaced starter Bob Turley with 5'6" lefty-sinkerballer Bobby Shantz, who silenced the Pirate bats for the next five innings, allowing only a single by Smokey Burgess. In a move with significant implications, Burgess was lifted for a pinch runner, and his catching position was filled by Hal Smith.
Meanwhile, the Yankees clawed back. Vern Law, unable to push off from the rubber due to an injured foot, was throwing his arm out and courageously lasted until the sixth inning, giving up one run. But when Murtaugh turned to the dependable, indefatigable Roy Face, 68 appearances and 114 innings (this was a time when star relievers pitched one, two, or three innings, whatever was necessary) finally took its toll. Face gave up a run-scoring single to Mickey Mantle, a towering three-run homer to Yogi Berra that just avoided the right foul pole, and two more runs in the eighth. The Forbes Field faithful were restless and distraught; with only six outs left, the Yankees led 7-4 and looked like sure winners.
To quote Nack: "Then came the most bizarre half-inning of this bizarre series." With Gino Cimoli on first after a dink single to right, Bill Virdon hit a hard grounder to shortstop Tony Kubek, a sure double play. The ball hit a rock in the infield, bounced up sharply, and struck Kubek in the throat. I can see him now, lying on the ground, writhing in pain, clutching his throat -- the game turning, the crowd sensing something mystical in the air. Was this truly a team of destiny?
Dick Groat singled, scoring Cimoli, the Pirates' fifth run. Then, Stengel inexplicably pulled Shantz -- "the greatest fielding pitcher in the history of baseball," according to Joe Brown -- for Jim Coates. Bob Skinner sacrificed Virdon to third and Groat to second. Rocky Nelson flied out. Roberto Clemente came to the plate with two outs, and hit a bouncer to first baseman Bill Skowron, who fielded it cleanly and looked to throw to the pitcher Coates covering first, a routine play. But Coates -- no Bobby Shantz -- wasn't there; his mental lapse cost the Yankees the third out. Virdon scored, Groat moved to second, and Clemente was safe. The score was now 7-6, and back-up catcher Hal Smith stepped into the batter's box.
I will never forget Smith's home run, because, like every other frenzied fanatic in the grandstand, I was sure he had won the game and the Series for the Pirates. The prosaic name Hal Smith should have been etched in baseball marble forever; he had put his team ahead 9-7 with three outs to go.
But Bob Friend, a starter who had also pitched too many innings, couldn't hold the lead. The Yankees scored two runs in the top of the ninth, thanks to a miraculous play by Mickey Mantle. Leading off first, he dove back to the base when the batter was forced out on a hard grounder, allowing the tying run to score from third.
Bill Mazeroski was first up for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth.
He was an unlikely hero, the slick-fielding second baseman, hardly a power hitter, the son of an Ohio coal miner, who grew up in a little wooden house with no electricity or running water, "listening to his battery-operated radio tell stories of his beloved Cleveland Indians," Maz, as he was known. But after the second pitch -- "a high hummer delivered by Ralph Terry at 3:36 PM just where he wanted it" -- he would be legendary.
Nack writes: "He swung and struck the ball flush, sending it in a rising white arc to left center field. He was racing towards first base when he saw what everyone else saw, what Virdon and Skinner and Skowron and Richardson saw, what thousands saw from the stands, what millions who were watching on TV saw" -- and what I saw from my seat behind first base and will never forget seeing -- "Yogi Berra crabbing back to the warning track, turning to face the wall, looking up, and watching the ball sail over his head and clear the wall."
Final score: 10-9.
In 1993, Joe Carter hit a game-ending home run to win the World Series for the Toronto Blue Jays in Game Six. But Bill Mazeroski's walk-off home run remains the only one ever hit to win a seventh game.
The improbable champs had been outscored 55-27 and outhit 91-60; but, in the end, they prevailed.
A few years ago I attended a fund-raiser honoring Lynchburg icon and former Mayor Jimmie Bryan, at which various items of sports memorabilia were being auctioned off. I was casually examining the merchandise when I abruptly stopped, stared in astonishment, and delicately lifted from the table a most valuable object -- an autographed plastic-encased photograph of Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his historic home run. In a foolish gesture of braggadocio, I pointed out to a friend that I had been there and seen it all, which only encouraged him to enter the auction -- and bid up the price. Nevertheless, I bought it, took it home, and propped it up on my dresser, where it sits today, a simple but magnificent reminder of the day forty-seven years ago when my father took me to the greatest baseball game ever played.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Race Relations
I ran into Jim E. a few days ago at the YMCA and complimented him on the Sphex Club paper he had delivered the evening before: "How Shall We Answer Dr. Johnson?" -- an erudite examination of the slave-holding practices of the Founding Fathers -- Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and George Washington -- whose behavior, the Club concluded, can variously be characterized as inexplicable, blatant hypocrisy, bonafide adherence to their perverse rationalizations and racial prejudices, or a simple manifestation of Dr. Samuel Johnson's aphorism: "Why is it we hear the loudest yelps for liberty from the drivers of Negroes?"
This theme prompted a brief interchange between the two of us, his perspective on the prevailing racial attitudes in the Tennessee community where he grew up eliciting similar comments from me and subsequently inspiring me to reflect more extensively on the subject.
Although I have no empirical evidence at hand, it would seem safe to allege that no one is born a bigot and that our prejudices are products of parental, peer, and institutional -- religious, educational, and social -- influences, with parental being the strongest, at least during the first decade of one's life. Therefore, in thinking about my own evolving racial attitudes, I tried to assess how each of these factors might have impacted me, especially the parental one.
I have an early memory of my father taking me to a black family's Christmas Day celebration. (I use the term "black" because it is the one I am most comfortable with, even though it may be anachronous. The most common appellation in the fifties was, of course, "colored.") An extended multi-generational group seemed to be in attendance, exchanging gifts and enjoying an abundance of savory dishes: children, grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins, in spite of the fact that the house -- located, I believe, on Wise Street, off Fifth Street -- wasn't very big. The patriarch of the gathering was a tall, thin white-haired gentleman of quiet demeanor and regal bearing named Hylan H.
Hylan H. was a man whom my father held in high regard. Whether he was still employed by Schewel Furniture Company at the time of this visit or had retired, I do not recall. But in either case, he was -- or had been -- its warehouse manager.
In the mid-fifties, a period of vigorous economic growth, the Lynchburg Schewel store, a Main Street anchor, was undoubtedly thriving. While the dollar volume of revenue was far less than it is now, when one considers that the items comprising that figure -- sofas, chairs, beds, chests, tables, etc. -- were much less costly, it is entirely conceivable that the number of pieces received and delivered in a given period would match that of today. The warehouse manager, then and now, held an important position, one critical to building good customer relations, since a satisfactory selling experience could be spoiled by poor delivery service.
Hylan H. -- and his successor, another black man named Tom L. -- were responsible for hiring, training, and firing warehouse personnel, unloading trailers and rail cars, checking in new merchandise accurately, putting it away systematically, pulling and prepping it for delivery, and seeing that orders were delivered to customer homes in good condition and in a timely manner. Although not highly educated, these men had to be common-sense smart; they had to be able to judge and manage entry-level employees; and they had to be honest. In a day when there was no automated inventory control system, owners depended solely on the integrity of their supervisors for theft prevention.
I believe my father's and grandfather's racial attitudes were conditioned by their working association with black men like Hylan H. and Tom L. Because the success of their business depended on the talents of these men, they were less likely to see them as inferior and as objects of opprobrium, vilification, and abuse.
In addition to the employment factor, there was a second complementary mechanism by which blacks were drawn into a symbiosis with my father and grandfather: the merchant-customer relationship. In this segregated post-war era, black income levels were severely restricted, and if blacks were going to buy any furniture, appliances, or electronics, it would have to be on credit -- which was not as accessible or widespread as it is today. Schewel Furniture Company was willing to extend credit -- to blacks and whites -- when many other firms would not, and thus its customer base increasingly came to include many blacks, another reason for its owners to view that community with tolerance and sensitivity. (In a striking example of customer appreciation and astute marketing, the Schewel store was one of the few Main Street establishments to provide facilities for blacks; in a peculiar iteration, there were two female rest rooms in the basement, one for blacks, one for whites, and one male rest room, apparently used by both races.)
I experienced a similar acculturation on a personal level when I began working at Schewels in the early sixties during the summer and Christmas breaks. Since I was relegated to light warehouse and assembly duty, my cohorts were all black men, for whom I developed a curious admiration and reverence -- for the strength and stamina they exhibited in effortlessly unloading truck after truck; for their jovial camaraderie and constant verbal jousting; for the skill and efficiency with which they were able to perform any task requiring manual dexterity (at which I was sorely deficient); for their prodigious exploits with women, about which I heard daily, their confident boastful expressions the only evidence I needed to be convinced of their veracity; and for their easy acceptance of me, whether because I was the boss's son, or in spite of that fact, I could never quite fathom.
It amazes me now that I can picture these men so clearly and even remember their names: Eugene P., known as "Hot Dog," a tall, lean, gangling former Dunbar High School basketball star; Smith F., soft-spoken but tough, a coiled spring of belligerence lurking beneath his sly, smug grin; Phil Q., a gentle, grandfatherly giant of a man, his existential nature a consistent, calming presence; Henry J., a chattering, illiterate, middle-aged rogue, whose principal preoccupations were chasing and escaping women and losing and regaining his job, which he appeared to do with unrelenting frequency; and Dry Bones (I don't remember, don't think I ever really knew, his real name), all-purpose janitor and later chauffeur to Messrs. Abe and Ben Schewel, whose paper-thin fragility belied a sinewy strength, and who, it seemed, would crumble to dust in the face of a harsh wind.
Finally, there was the aforementioned Tom L., the Schewel Warehouse manager at the time I came to work there permanently in 1970. Tom L. was short, rotund, round-faced, and bald -- a flurry of activity, brash, outspoken, proud, demanding respect from blacks and whites alike, competent, dependable, and honest, Hylan H.'s protege, with an entirely different personality. He acknowledged me as the boss, or the boss's son, but never failed to put me in my place when I ventured into territory I knew nothing about -- like running his warehouse. Looking back, I believe Tom L., in spite of his genial, garrulous, exuberant manner, saw himself as somewhat of a tragic figure, who subconsciously believed he was worthy of greater achievements if he had been born in another skin, place, or time.
My other youthful exposure to blacks came in the form of my family's female servants, or maids, who were a common sight in many Southern households in those days -- and still are. I remember a series of these women passing through our homes, some even staying for extended periods on a live-in basis, and my mother's constant refrain that she could never find a "good one," whatever that meant.
The maid most clearly delineated in my consciousness is the classically christened Eula Mae L., a diminutive, vivacious, coal-black workaholic with a squeaky, high-pitched voice that never seemed to abate -- a female version of Tom L., if you will. When charged with the task, she was a stern disciplinerian, which ultimately only endeared her to my siblings and me more. Her most compelling attribute -- really the primary prerequisite for any accomplished maid -- was her cooking skill, exemplified by her tasty fried chicken, which we devoured one Sunday evening, only to discover afterwards that we had enjoyed the three chicks our father had brought home six months earlier as pets but had handed over to Eula to raise to maturity in her back yard when they outgrew their tiny cage.
My grandmother's maid, Alice, a fixture in her home for many years, conformed to the model more closely. She was so shy, laconic, and unobtrusive that she seemed to melt into the woodwork.
The question at hand, now, is whether these encounters with blacks -- as customers, as menial handlers of furniture, and as household servants -- engendered authentic liberal, open-minded thinking or whether they merely substantiated a traditional, paternalistic paradigm -- through which blacks were viewed as contented in their roles and inferior in the sense that they were qualified only for these roles.
No matter how fairly we treated her or how sincerely we attempted to define the relationship as one between an employer and employee, it is difficult for me to divorce the the black female's role as a maid from the paradigm defined above; it resembles a little too much an ante-bellum Southern plantation scenario.
The other two circumstances -- black males as menial laborers and blacks as customers -- seem less problematic, the former because of the level of responsibility entrusted to the black supervisor (but, admittedly, ignoring the condition of his subordinates); the latter because it presupposes a certain independence on the part of the customer. Such reasoning induces one to ask: if blacks were so capable, why were they not promoted to better, higher-paying positions? Which leads me to some concluding remarks in further support of my argument that these forms of black-white interaction -- the two noted in this paragraph, at least -- effectively counteracted prejudice and fostered tolerance and understanding.
Like the Founding Fathers -- who, in spite of their genius and courage, were unable to break through conventional racial barriers -- Southerners of the fifties and sixties were constrained by contemporary mores, especially segregation. Other than the contacts I have described, blacks were invisible to us, and the curtains were drawn to keep them that way. I remember blacks banished to the back of the bus and to the balcony of the movie theater, practices which, according to her, shocked my Pennsylvania-bred mother when she first came South. If my parents and grandparents weren't bigots or racists, neither were they by any stretch of the imagination activists, never openly promoting equal justice or the redressing of dimly-perceived (at that time) wrongs. In fact, my father declined to join the Civil Rights March on Washington when invited by a former Lynchburg rabbi, fearful of negative business repercussions. And it would have been too revolutionary -- and too threatening to employees and customers alike -- to place a black person on the sales floor or in the credit office -- even if such a thought ever entered his mind.
In further defense of my forbears, their language and behavior towards blacks were, to my knowledge, considerate, respectful, and non-abusive. I suppose in making that claim, I am absolving my grandfather and father -- particularly the former -- of the use of the derogatory Yiddish term for blacks: "svartzers," or, as they pronounced it, "swatzas" -- excusable, I submit, because its meaning was unknown to the general populace, including those to whom it referred. Yes, it was the "n" word in Yiddish, but it wasn't the "n" word, which I never heard either man speak, in a time when it was a fairly common epithet. Thus, I interpret their posture towards their black employees as genuinely caring and not patronizing.
I would also assert that with respect to all three generations -- myself included as the third -- a more tolerant attitude was informed by our Jewish heritage, and not by any prescribed religious beliefs but rather by a knowledge of ethnic persecution. It was surely no secret to any family member that my great-grandfather had fled Czarist oppression in late nineteenth-century Russia, where Jews were deemed second-class citizens, excluded from certain professions, and not allowed to own property, a state of affairs eerily similar to that confronting Southern blacks. While my religious school textbooks were ominously silent on the Holocaust -- this was a period when American Jewry was reluctant to broadcast its victimization and martyrdom -- they consistently emphasized the forceful separation and confinement of Jews throughout history to selected and less attractive living areas, called ghettos, another phenomenon echoed by the contemporary treatment of blacks. The parallels were subtle, never openly expressed, but they were undeniable; and it was left to the individual, student or adult, to look to his own conscience and draw the analogy.
If, looking back on my formative years in a segregated society, I regret anything, it would be an obtuseness, an obliviousness, a bland incurious acquiescence in the shameful standards of the day, a failure to move beyond the benign, isolated connections I forged with a handful of black people. When E. C. Glass High School was integrated in 1963 (or 1964) -- with the admission of two students, one male, one female, into a corpus of fifteen hundred -- reactions were predictable: some violently and vociferously opposed, a small minority supportive, a silent majority in the middle, where I place myself. At least I tried to be cordial and helpful, if not overtly friendly, as both students were in several of my classes. I am proud to report that I had a few friends who actively reached out to the boy and invited him to join their rock-and-roll band. (Or was that just another stereotype: the rhythmic black singer enhancing his white musician back-ups?)
Today, fifty years later, in spite of revolutionary changes that have created a myriad of opportunities for blacks and raised their standard of living significantly, de facto segregation persists as the order of the day. While public institutions are integrated, I suspect interracial socialization is minimal at best, just as it in the greater society. Outside the workplace, I rarely cross paths with blacks, other than at an occasional non-profit meeting or the YMCA. Many individuals harbor hostile feelings towards blacks and some profess them openly. They resent the deployment of tax dollars for social services and public assistance for blacks (and whites), refusing to acknowledge that not every person brings into the world the same intelligence, interpersonal skills, and parental and peer nourishment required for upward mobility and success.
Great minds struggle with these issues every day. The conundrum of our Founding Fathers espousing liberty and equal justice for all while failing to manumit their slaves suggests that solutions will remain elusive.
This theme prompted a brief interchange between the two of us, his perspective on the prevailing racial attitudes in the Tennessee community where he grew up eliciting similar comments from me and subsequently inspiring me to reflect more extensively on the subject.
Although I have no empirical evidence at hand, it would seem safe to allege that no one is born a bigot and that our prejudices are products of parental, peer, and institutional -- religious, educational, and social -- influences, with parental being the strongest, at least during the first decade of one's life. Therefore, in thinking about my own evolving racial attitudes, I tried to assess how each of these factors might have impacted me, especially the parental one.
I have an early memory of my father taking me to a black family's Christmas Day celebration. (I use the term "black" because it is the one I am most comfortable with, even though it may be anachronous. The most common appellation in the fifties was, of course, "colored.") An extended multi-generational group seemed to be in attendance, exchanging gifts and enjoying an abundance of savory dishes: children, grandchildren, aunts, uncles, and cousins, in spite of the fact that the house -- located, I believe, on Wise Street, off Fifth Street -- wasn't very big. The patriarch of the gathering was a tall, thin white-haired gentleman of quiet demeanor and regal bearing named Hylan H.
Hylan H. was a man whom my father held in high regard. Whether he was still employed by Schewel Furniture Company at the time of this visit or had retired, I do not recall. But in either case, he was -- or had been -- its warehouse manager.
In the mid-fifties, a period of vigorous economic growth, the Lynchburg Schewel store, a Main Street anchor, was undoubtedly thriving. While the dollar volume of revenue was far less than it is now, when one considers that the items comprising that figure -- sofas, chairs, beds, chests, tables, etc. -- were much less costly, it is entirely conceivable that the number of pieces received and delivered in a given period would match that of today. The warehouse manager, then and now, held an important position, one critical to building good customer relations, since a satisfactory selling experience could be spoiled by poor delivery service.
Hylan H. -- and his successor, another black man named Tom L. -- were responsible for hiring, training, and firing warehouse personnel, unloading trailers and rail cars, checking in new merchandise accurately, putting it away systematically, pulling and prepping it for delivery, and seeing that orders were delivered to customer homes in good condition and in a timely manner. Although not highly educated, these men had to be common-sense smart; they had to be able to judge and manage entry-level employees; and they had to be honest. In a day when there was no automated inventory control system, owners depended solely on the integrity of their supervisors for theft prevention.
I believe my father's and grandfather's racial attitudes were conditioned by their working association with black men like Hylan H. and Tom L. Because the success of their business depended on the talents of these men, they were less likely to see them as inferior and as objects of opprobrium, vilification, and abuse.
In addition to the employment factor, there was a second complementary mechanism by which blacks were drawn into a symbiosis with my father and grandfather: the merchant-customer relationship. In this segregated post-war era, black income levels were severely restricted, and if blacks were going to buy any furniture, appliances, or electronics, it would have to be on credit -- which was not as accessible or widespread as it is today. Schewel Furniture Company was willing to extend credit -- to blacks and whites -- when many other firms would not, and thus its customer base increasingly came to include many blacks, another reason for its owners to view that community with tolerance and sensitivity. (In a striking example of customer appreciation and astute marketing, the Schewel store was one of the few Main Street establishments to provide facilities for blacks; in a peculiar iteration, there were two female rest rooms in the basement, one for blacks, one for whites, and one male rest room, apparently used by both races.)
I experienced a similar acculturation on a personal level when I began working at Schewels in the early sixties during the summer and Christmas breaks. Since I was relegated to light warehouse and assembly duty, my cohorts were all black men, for whom I developed a curious admiration and reverence -- for the strength and stamina they exhibited in effortlessly unloading truck after truck; for their jovial camaraderie and constant verbal jousting; for the skill and efficiency with which they were able to perform any task requiring manual dexterity (at which I was sorely deficient); for their prodigious exploits with women, about which I heard daily, their confident boastful expressions the only evidence I needed to be convinced of their veracity; and for their easy acceptance of me, whether because I was the boss's son, or in spite of that fact, I could never quite fathom.
It amazes me now that I can picture these men so clearly and even remember their names: Eugene P., known as "Hot Dog," a tall, lean, gangling former Dunbar High School basketball star; Smith F., soft-spoken but tough, a coiled spring of belligerence lurking beneath his sly, smug grin; Phil Q., a gentle, grandfatherly giant of a man, his existential nature a consistent, calming presence; Henry J., a chattering, illiterate, middle-aged rogue, whose principal preoccupations were chasing and escaping women and losing and regaining his job, which he appeared to do with unrelenting frequency; and Dry Bones (I don't remember, don't think I ever really knew, his real name), all-purpose janitor and later chauffeur to Messrs. Abe and Ben Schewel, whose paper-thin fragility belied a sinewy strength, and who, it seemed, would crumble to dust in the face of a harsh wind.
Finally, there was the aforementioned Tom L., the Schewel Warehouse manager at the time I came to work there permanently in 1970. Tom L. was short, rotund, round-faced, and bald -- a flurry of activity, brash, outspoken, proud, demanding respect from blacks and whites alike, competent, dependable, and honest, Hylan H.'s protege, with an entirely different personality. He acknowledged me as the boss, or the boss's son, but never failed to put me in my place when I ventured into territory I knew nothing about -- like running his warehouse. Looking back, I believe Tom L., in spite of his genial, garrulous, exuberant manner, saw himself as somewhat of a tragic figure, who subconsciously believed he was worthy of greater achievements if he had been born in another skin, place, or time.
My other youthful exposure to blacks came in the form of my family's female servants, or maids, who were a common sight in many Southern households in those days -- and still are. I remember a series of these women passing through our homes, some even staying for extended periods on a live-in basis, and my mother's constant refrain that she could never find a "good one," whatever that meant.
The maid most clearly delineated in my consciousness is the classically christened Eula Mae L., a diminutive, vivacious, coal-black workaholic with a squeaky, high-pitched voice that never seemed to abate -- a female version of Tom L., if you will. When charged with the task, she was a stern disciplinerian, which ultimately only endeared her to my siblings and me more. Her most compelling attribute -- really the primary prerequisite for any accomplished maid -- was her cooking skill, exemplified by her tasty fried chicken, which we devoured one Sunday evening, only to discover afterwards that we had enjoyed the three chicks our father had brought home six months earlier as pets but had handed over to Eula to raise to maturity in her back yard when they outgrew their tiny cage.
My grandmother's maid, Alice, a fixture in her home for many years, conformed to the model more closely. She was so shy, laconic, and unobtrusive that she seemed to melt into the woodwork.
The question at hand, now, is whether these encounters with blacks -- as customers, as menial handlers of furniture, and as household servants -- engendered authentic liberal, open-minded thinking or whether they merely substantiated a traditional, paternalistic paradigm -- through which blacks were viewed as contented in their roles and inferior in the sense that they were qualified only for these roles.
No matter how fairly we treated her or how sincerely we attempted to define the relationship as one between an employer and employee, it is difficult for me to divorce the the black female's role as a maid from the paradigm defined above; it resembles a little too much an ante-bellum Southern plantation scenario.
The other two circumstances -- black males as menial laborers and blacks as customers -- seem less problematic, the former because of the level of responsibility entrusted to the black supervisor (but, admittedly, ignoring the condition of his subordinates); the latter because it presupposes a certain independence on the part of the customer. Such reasoning induces one to ask: if blacks were so capable, why were they not promoted to better, higher-paying positions? Which leads me to some concluding remarks in further support of my argument that these forms of black-white interaction -- the two noted in this paragraph, at least -- effectively counteracted prejudice and fostered tolerance and understanding.
Like the Founding Fathers -- who, in spite of their genius and courage, were unable to break through conventional racial barriers -- Southerners of the fifties and sixties were constrained by contemporary mores, especially segregation. Other than the contacts I have described, blacks were invisible to us, and the curtains were drawn to keep them that way. I remember blacks banished to the back of the bus and to the balcony of the movie theater, practices which, according to her, shocked my Pennsylvania-bred mother when she first came South. If my parents and grandparents weren't bigots or racists, neither were they by any stretch of the imagination activists, never openly promoting equal justice or the redressing of dimly-perceived (at that time) wrongs. In fact, my father declined to join the Civil Rights March on Washington when invited by a former Lynchburg rabbi, fearful of negative business repercussions. And it would have been too revolutionary -- and too threatening to employees and customers alike -- to place a black person on the sales floor or in the credit office -- even if such a thought ever entered his mind.
In further defense of my forbears, their language and behavior towards blacks were, to my knowledge, considerate, respectful, and non-abusive. I suppose in making that claim, I am absolving my grandfather and father -- particularly the former -- of the use of the derogatory Yiddish term for blacks: "svartzers," or, as they pronounced it, "swatzas" -- excusable, I submit, because its meaning was unknown to the general populace, including those to whom it referred. Yes, it was the "n" word in Yiddish, but it wasn't the "n" word, which I never heard either man speak, in a time when it was a fairly common epithet. Thus, I interpret their posture towards their black employees as genuinely caring and not patronizing.
I would also assert that with respect to all three generations -- myself included as the third -- a more tolerant attitude was informed by our Jewish heritage, and not by any prescribed religious beliefs but rather by a knowledge of ethnic persecution. It was surely no secret to any family member that my great-grandfather had fled Czarist oppression in late nineteenth-century Russia, where Jews were deemed second-class citizens, excluded from certain professions, and not allowed to own property, a state of affairs eerily similar to that confronting Southern blacks. While my religious school textbooks were ominously silent on the Holocaust -- this was a period when American Jewry was reluctant to broadcast its victimization and martyrdom -- they consistently emphasized the forceful separation and confinement of Jews throughout history to selected and less attractive living areas, called ghettos, another phenomenon echoed by the contemporary treatment of blacks. The parallels were subtle, never openly expressed, but they were undeniable; and it was left to the individual, student or adult, to look to his own conscience and draw the analogy.
If, looking back on my formative years in a segregated society, I regret anything, it would be an obtuseness, an obliviousness, a bland incurious acquiescence in the shameful standards of the day, a failure to move beyond the benign, isolated connections I forged with a handful of black people. When E. C. Glass High School was integrated in 1963 (or 1964) -- with the admission of two students, one male, one female, into a corpus of fifteen hundred -- reactions were predictable: some violently and vociferously opposed, a small minority supportive, a silent majority in the middle, where I place myself. At least I tried to be cordial and helpful, if not overtly friendly, as both students were in several of my classes. I am proud to report that I had a few friends who actively reached out to the boy and invited him to join their rock-and-roll band. (Or was that just another stereotype: the rhythmic black singer enhancing his white musician back-ups?)
Today, fifty years later, in spite of revolutionary changes that have created a myriad of opportunities for blacks and raised their standard of living significantly, de facto segregation persists as the order of the day. While public institutions are integrated, I suspect interracial socialization is minimal at best, just as it in the greater society. Outside the workplace, I rarely cross paths with blacks, other than at an occasional non-profit meeting or the YMCA. Many individuals harbor hostile feelings towards blacks and some profess them openly. They resent the deployment of tax dollars for social services and public assistance for blacks (and whites), refusing to acknowledge that not every person brings into the world the same intelligence, interpersonal skills, and parental and peer nourishment required for upward mobility and success.
Great minds struggle with these issues every day. The conundrum of our Founding Fathers espousing liberty and equal justice for all while failing to manumit their slaves suggests that solutions will remain elusive.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Waylaid at Wal-Mart
To paraphrase my previous blog, it's Sunday in late August -- although it could have been any day in this or any other year -- and my wife and I are in Wilmington, N.C., visiting our daughter, Adrienne. In the midst of such pleasant outings, usually after a meal has been completed and future dining options have been thoroughly vetted, which business can absorb the greater part, but, unfortunately, not the whole part, of a day, invariably the conversation turns to that activity upon which so many females of our species depend for sustenance and invigoration and so many males, including myself, cast their most intense aspersion -- shopping.
It's not the idea of spending money that irritates me. I am blessed with a wonderful wife, among whose many attributes is a feverish frugality, most often expressed in proud purchases of stylish, flattering clothes at bargain prices. Rather it is the interminable, indeterminate nature of the enterprise -- browsing racks and shelves, examining, touching, trying on, modeling, seeking approval or rejection -- which I find analogous to strategic planning sessions -- which I also despise and which consume untold hours generating problematic prescriptions seldom practiced.
In addition, I would much prefer to avoid physically forking over the funds, and, instead, pay the bill blindly when it arrives in the mail months later, thereby assuming that every item contained therein is a necessity and not the result of some frivolous impulse (or non-impulse).
If the inevitable decision to shop wasn't grievous enough, the emporium chosen was even more troubling. Somehow I was persuaded, cajoled, or enticed with the possibility of future rewards, to abandon all rationality, risk the equilibrium of a cheery vacation day, and brave the jungle of a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Why is it that, when we are away from home, we gravitate to the maw of the beast?
Now, I've been to Wal-Mart before, but, for a 59-year-old man, I believe my scorecard of infrequent visits -- less than ten -- must be close to a record. I acknowledge two perfunctory and satisfactory morning excursions to our local Wards Road store to purchase desperately needed items -- folding lawn chairs and crude sign materials -- and to nighttime grocery shopping in Myrtle Beach--two time periods when the crowds, though certainly sizable, were at least manageable, thus leaving me completely unprepared for what I was to confront that Sunday afternoon.
Our first obstacle -- not easily overcome if you are from out of town -- was finding the store. Oh, we could see it all right, but getting there was a different matter. Apparently, the Wilmington Wal-Mart is located off a side street connecting two busy thoroughfares, and the access from this street is all but invisible to foreigners. We circled our object at least once before sneaking up on it from the rear--whereupon we were immediately confronted by our second daunting Wal-Mart challenge: the parking lot.
I believe the entire ministry in Wilmington, N.C., must have preached the same sermon that Sunday morning: "May God bless you, my congregants. Now, go forth and shop." Not only was every parking space occupied, but the connecting arteries were clogged with vehicles (not to mention the isolated shopping cart carelessly abandoned in the roadway), mostly pick-up trucks and SUV's (in my opinion, a totally gratuitous and wasteful mode of transportation in a place where the temperature never drops below 40 degrees), entering, leaving, or greedily seeking an opening close to the building.
There we were, stranded in a parking lot traffic jam. We might spot a space a row or two away, only to watch helplessly while it evaporated in the shimmering heat. When, after about ten minutes of anxious hunting, we did find a place to park, of course we were facing the wrong direction, and had to creep past it and, in a delicate but rapid manuever, dart in backwards, lest it be cruelly snatched from us in the interim.
To me, Wal-Marts are the concrete and steel manifestations of the current era's weirdly inverted economic realities. They are our modern-day factories: expansive, enclosed arenas with broad, straight aisles, exposed beams overhead, and bleached fluorescent lighting, seething with a contained energy robotically propelling finished consumer goods out the door, differing from their precurors only in the fact that the merchandise has arrived in house already perfected, having been produced in mirror-image, if less pristine, structures on distant continents.
Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly sales statistics are tabulated instantaneously by an incessant blip-blip-blip which greets us -- and all visitors -- immediately upon our entrance: the sound of purchases being swiped across a bar code machine and audible evidence that customers are buying at a frantic pace, luring the newly-arrived to join the party.
At this point, I must confess that my wife and I were not so demented as to brazen Wal-Mart without an objective in our sights: a bicycle for our daughter, which objective promptly became obscured in the frenzy which attacked us like an epileptic seizure when we strolled through the inviting automatic retracting doors. Actually, those doors seemed permanently locked in the retracted position, so constant was the traffic passing to and fro.
"Honey, I believe I'll look around," said my wife, words guaranteed to spark fear in the heart of any obedient husband, frightening enough when spoken in a traditional department or clothing store, but particularly terrifying when echoing through a cavernous Wal-Mart. "Sure, honey," was the only meek response I could muster. "I guess I'll look around, too."
"Look around at what?" I muttered to myself, as my wife merrily disappeared into the bowels of this organic building, leaving me to my own meager resources. When I go into a store, there are only three areas I am even minimally interested in scoping out: mens clothing, books, and furniture. And Wal-Mart's inventory in each of these categories is understandably bleak and quickly dispensed with. What passes for a mens department is shelf after shelf of blue jeans and slacks (also mostly blue); the only books on hand are the top twenty hardback and paperback bestsellers and a worthy assortment of Bibles; and the furniture display is confined to one short aisle of ready-to-assemble desks, television stands, and bookcases, for which I should be eternally grateful.
But what an array of other delectable material is spread out before us patrons -- like a Golden Corral buffet in front of a homeless man: rack after rack of apparel, for women and children, anchoring the center of the store, surrounded by: paper, paper, and more paper; detergents and cleaners; small appliances of every make and model; cookware; dinnerware; bath and bed furnishings; lamps and lighting; shoes and boots (male and female); rugs, blinds, and shades; rolls of fabric; electronics and DVD's; tires, batteries, and motor oil; sporting goods; camping, fishing, and hunting supplies; tools; bath and kitchen decor; health and beauty aids; lawn and garden equipment; jewelry; and of course, groceries, fresh, frozen, canned, cooked, processed, and packaged -- none of which held any attraction for me. Yes, there I was, cast adrift in a sea of delights upon which normal folks would engorge themselves, yet which to me tasted only of salt.
I was struck by one undeniable phenomenon: the prices, as best I could judge, based on my limited shopping experience, were, as advertised, consistently low. I do buy some articles of clothing on occasion, but this was virgin territory: $9.84, $10.76, $11.92, $12.67. I hardly see how they can transport the stuff from Bangladesh for much less than that. And even commodities like gum, candy, and bottled water I found to be 20 to 30 per cent less than what I have paid in other places.
Say what you want about Wal-Mart -- its underpricing and undermining of local retailers; its transformation of green fields and farmland into asphalt and big boxes; its dumbing down of service sector wage rates and benefit packages; and its embracing of offshore sourcing, regardless of the consequences, in a relentless quest for lower costs -- it is raising the American consumer's standard of living by saving him money.
Suddenly, my contemplation -- and boredom -- were interrupted by an unfamiliar (to me, that is) sound: my cell phone was ringing. Yes, I had it with me, turned on, even, for how else was I to reconnect with my wife in this supersized labyrinth, both of us wandering aimlessly.
After we exchanged obligatory "Where are you's," ("I'm in Wal-Mart. Where are you?") she abruptly summoned me to the vicinity of the toy department, reminding me of our putative purpose: a bicycle for our daughter.
Of course, since I stubbornly refused to ask directions (Is that really necessary in a store?), it took me more than a few minutes to navigate the packed aisles and dodge the ubiquitous shopping carts, hazards for which one must constantly be on the alert, thus making it even more difficult for me to locate and reach my goal.
If you think modern marketers obsessed with proliferating choices have made selecting a tube of toothpaste confusing, try looking at bicycles. Upon my encountering two long rows of spokes and wheels, one stacked on top of the other -- and basically out of reach -- perplexity and panic set in. Well, we knew we wanted a girl's model, but should it 24 or 36 inches; a roadster, speedster, coaster, or mountain climber; three-speed, five-speed, ten-speed, or twenty-speed; and, the most important question, what color?
After some discussion and surprisingly little disagreement, my wife and I settled on a 26-inch ten-speed, violet roadster with a quirky rear-wheel kickstand, which was securely lodged on the upper level. We managed to corral a horsey-looking store employee, distinguishable from hordes of shoppers only by an apron and his name tag, who grimly pried our newest fixation from its moorings and manipulated it to the floor.
Since we were concerned about fitting the bicycle in our car, I asked the fellow if he could detach the front wheel. "Company policy won't let me," he replied, sincerely apologetic. "But you can buy a wrench in the tool department and do it yourself," he offered, exhibiting add-on salesmanship of the highest order. Following his directions, I stumbled upon bin after bin of fixed and adjustable iterations ("So many wrenches, so little time," to paraphrase a famous wench herself), before deciding on one of each, at the disposable price of $1.19.
I was about to wheel the bicycle to the front of the store when my wife spoke up: "Honey, would you take this?" I looked around in bewilderment for a few seconds, before my gaze came to rest upon a surfeited shopping cart parked innocently on the sidelines, which I had assumed belonged to someone else.
"What this?" I asked, with an obsequious grin. "Just a few supplies for Adrienne's new apartment. Since we were here, I thought I might as well help her out," she replied, thus validating the seductive power of those blip-blip-blips and row after row of irresistible, inexpensive merchandise.
Either the cart was too unwieldy for her, or she wanted me to demonstrate uncharacteristic gentlemanly chivalry and run interference for her on the way to the checkout counter, more aware of the pitfalls of the course than I was. Looking back, I would submit that the vehicular aisles in Wal-Mart in Wilmington, N.C., on a Sunday afternoon are about as congested as I-81 between Roanoke and Blacksburg and just as perilous.
Since I did not see an octagonal sign at the end of the bicycle aisle, I did not stop and look both ways before entering moving traffic, upon which I was rudely and resoundingly struck by speeding shopping carts (or reckless drivers, depending on one's point of view), first on my left and then on my right. Other than the shock which reverberated up through my hands grasping the cart handles to my shoulder blades, little harm was done, all three of us embarrassed cart-mishandlers exchanging polite "Excuse me's."
From that point, I carefully made my way to the checkout counter -- its blip-blip-blips growing progressively louder like a metal detector striking gold -- my eyes peeled for wayward carts and self-absorbed shoppers. I danced between two counters, trying to ascertain the shortest line, and eventually sidled up to a register, where a young lady -- the factory conveyor belt's last stop -- routinely swiped every item, including the bicycle, and took my payment. I finally got to experience all those blip-blip-blips up close and personal.
I blasted through the retractable doors, joyous at escaping the insatiable beast, only to realize that one is not Wal-Mart free until one has exited the parking lot -- no easy task. Oh, our car was where we had left it; we just weren't sure exactly where that was. And once we found it and loaded it with our newest most cherished possessions, we still had to extricate ourselves from the same traffic jam we had barely escaped two hours earlier.
As we pulled onto the main road, I breathed a welcome sigh of relief -- until my wife commented that we needed a few more things for Adrienne's apartment and, on a wing and a prayer, serenely directed me to our next destination: Target.
To add insult to injury, we later determined that the bicycle's front brakes were defective and returned it to Wal-Mart for credit.
All in all, I'd rather run ten miles.
It's not the idea of spending money that irritates me. I am blessed with a wonderful wife, among whose many attributes is a feverish frugality, most often expressed in proud purchases of stylish, flattering clothes at bargain prices. Rather it is the interminable, indeterminate nature of the enterprise -- browsing racks and shelves, examining, touching, trying on, modeling, seeking approval or rejection -- which I find analogous to strategic planning sessions -- which I also despise and which consume untold hours generating problematic prescriptions seldom practiced.
In addition, I would much prefer to avoid physically forking over the funds, and, instead, pay the bill blindly when it arrives in the mail months later, thereby assuming that every item contained therein is a necessity and not the result of some frivolous impulse (or non-impulse).
If the inevitable decision to shop wasn't grievous enough, the emporium chosen was even more troubling. Somehow I was persuaded, cajoled, or enticed with the possibility of future rewards, to abandon all rationality, risk the equilibrium of a cheery vacation day, and brave the jungle of a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Why is it that, when we are away from home, we gravitate to the maw of the beast?
Now, I've been to Wal-Mart before, but, for a 59-year-old man, I believe my scorecard of infrequent visits -- less than ten -- must be close to a record. I acknowledge two perfunctory and satisfactory morning excursions to our local Wards Road store to purchase desperately needed items -- folding lawn chairs and crude sign materials -- and to nighttime grocery shopping in Myrtle Beach--two time periods when the crowds, though certainly sizable, were at least manageable, thus leaving me completely unprepared for what I was to confront that Sunday afternoon.
Our first obstacle -- not easily overcome if you are from out of town -- was finding the store. Oh, we could see it all right, but getting there was a different matter. Apparently, the Wilmington Wal-Mart is located off a side street connecting two busy thoroughfares, and the access from this street is all but invisible to foreigners. We circled our object at least once before sneaking up on it from the rear--whereupon we were immediately confronted by our second daunting Wal-Mart challenge: the parking lot.
I believe the entire ministry in Wilmington, N.C., must have preached the same sermon that Sunday morning: "May God bless you, my congregants. Now, go forth and shop." Not only was every parking space occupied, but the connecting arteries were clogged with vehicles (not to mention the isolated shopping cart carelessly abandoned in the roadway), mostly pick-up trucks and SUV's (in my opinion, a totally gratuitous and wasteful mode of transportation in a place where the temperature never drops below 40 degrees), entering, leaving, or greedily seeking an opening close to the building.
There we were, stranded in a parking lot traffic jam. We might spot a space a row or two away, only to watch helplessly while it evaporated in the shimmering heat. When, after about ten minutes of anxious hunting, we did find a place to park, of course we were facing the wrong direction, and had to creep past it and, in a delicate but rapid manuever, dart in backwards, lest it be cruelly snatched from us in the interim.
To me, Wal-Marts are the concrete and steel manifestations of the current era's weirdly inverted economic realities. They are our modern-day factories: expansive, enclosed arenas with broad, straight aisles, exposed beams overhead, and bleached fluorescent lighting, seething with a contained energy robotically propelling finished consumer goods out the door, differing from their precurors only in the fact that the merchandise has arrived in house already perfected, having been produced in mirror-image, if less pristine, structures on distant continents.
Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly sales statistics are tabulated instantaneously by an incessant blip-blip-blip which greets us -- and all visitors -- immediately upon our entrance: the sound of purchases being swiped across a bar code machine and audible evidence that customers are buying at a frantic pace, luring the newly-arrived to join the party.
At this point, I must confess that my wife and I were not so demented as to brazen Wal-Mart without an objective in our sights: a bicycle for our daughter, which objective promptly became obscured in the frenzy which attacked us like an epileptic seizure when we strolled through the inviting automatic retracting doors. Actually, those doors seemed permanently locked in the retracted position, so constant was the traffic passing to and fro.
"Honey, I believe I'll look around," said my wife, words guaranteed to spark fear in the heart of any obedient husband, frightening enough when spoken in a traditional department or clothing store, but particularly terrifying when echoing through a cavernous Wal-Mart. "Sure, honey," was the only meek response I could muster. "I guess I'll look around, too."
"Look around at what?" I muttered to myself, as my wife merrily disappeared into the bowels of this organic building, leaving me to my own meager resources. When I go into a store, there are only three areas I am even minimally interested in scoping out: mens clothing, books, and furniture. And Wal-Mart's inventory in each of these categories is understandably bleak and quickly dispensed with. What passes for a mens department is shelf after shelf of blue jeans and slacks (also mostly blue); the only books on hand are the top twenty hardback and paperback bestsellers and a worthy assortment of Bibles; and the furniture display is confined to one short aisle of ready-to-assemble desks, television stands, and bookcases, for which I should be eternally grateful.
But what an array of other delectable material is spread out before us patrons -- like a Golden Corral buffet in front of a homeless man: rack after rack of apparel, for women and children, anchoring the center of the store, surrounded by: paper, paper, and more paper; detergents and cleaners; small appliances of every make and model; cookware; dinnerware; bath and bed furnishings; lamps and lighting; shoes and boots (male and female); rugs, blinds, and shades; rolls of fabric; electronics and DVD's; tires, batteries, and motor oil; sporting goods; camping, fishing, and hunting supplies; tools; bath and kitchen decor; health and beauty aids; lawn and garden equipment; jewelry; and of course, groceries, fresh, frozen, canned, cooked, processed, and packaged -- none of which held any attraction for me. Yes, there I was, cast adrift in a sea of delights upon which normal folks would engorge themselves, yet which to me tasted only of salt.
I was struck by one undeniable phenomenon: the prices, as best I could judge, based on my limited shopping experience, were, as advertised, consistently low. I do buy some articles of clothing on occasion, but this was virgin territory: $9.84, $10.76, $11.92, $12.67. I hardly see how they can transport the stuff from Bangladesh for much less than that. And even commodities like gum, candy, and bottled water I found to be 20 to 30 per cent less than what I have paid in other places.
Say what you want about Wal-Mart -- its underpricing and undermining of local retailers; its transformation of green fields and farmland into asphalt and big boxes; its dumbing down of service sector wage rates and benefit packages; and its embracing of offshore sourcing, regardless of the consequences, in a relentless quest for lower costs -- it is raising the American consumer's standard of living by saving him money.
Suddenly, my contemplation -- and boredom -- were interrupted by an unfamiliar (to me, that is) sound: my cell phone was ringing. Yes, I had it with me, turned on, even, for how else was I to reconnect with my wife in this supersized labyrinth, both of us wandering aimlessly.
After we exchanged obligatory "Where are you's," ("I'm in Wal-Mart. Where are you?") she abruptly summoned me to the vicinity of the toy department, reminding me of our putative purpose: a bicycle for our daughter.
Of course, since I stubbornly refused to ask directions (Is that really necessary in a store?), it took me more than a few minutes to navigate the packed aisles and dodge the ubiquitous shopping carts, hazards for which one must constantly be on the alert, thus making it even more difficult for me to locate and reach my goal.
If you think modern marketers obsessed with proliferating choices have made selecting a tube of toothpaste confusing, try looking at bicycles. Upon my encountering two long rows of spokes and wheels, one stacked on top of the other -- and basically out of reach -- perplexity and panic set in. Well, we knew we wanted a girl's model, but should it 24 or 36 inches; a roadster, speedster, coaster, or mountain climber; three-speed, five-speed, ten-speed, or twenty-speed; and, the most important question, what color?
After some discussion and surprisingly little disagreement, my wife and I settled on a 26-inch ten-speed, violet roadster with a quirky rear-wheel kickstand, which was securely lodged on the upper level. We managed to corral a horsey-looking store employee, distinguishable from hordes of shoppers only by an apron and his name tag, who grimly pried our newest fixation from its moorings and manipulated it to the floor.
Since we were concerned about fitting the bicycle in our car, I asked the fellow if he could detach the front wheel. "Company policy won't let me," he replied, sincerely apologetic. "But you can buy a wrench in the tool department and do it yourself," he offered, exhibiting add-on salesmanship of the highest order. Following his directions, I stumbled upon bin after bin of fixed and adjustable iterations ("So many wrenches, so little time," to paraphrase a famous wench herself), before deciding on one of each, at the disposable price of $1.19.
I was about to wheel the bicycle to the front of the store when my wife spoke up: "Honey, would you take this?" I looked around in bewilderment for a few seconds, before my gaze came to rest upon a surfeited shopping cart parked innocently on the sidelines, which I had assumed belonged to someone else.
"What this?" I asked, with an obsequious grin. "Just a few supplies for Adrienne's new apartment. Since we were here, I thought I might as well help her out," she replied, thus validating the seductive power of those blip-blip-blips and row after row of irresistible, inexpensive merchandise.
Either the cart was too unwieldy for her, or she wanted me to demonstrate uncharacteristic gentlemanly chivalry and run interference for her on the way to the checkout counter, more aware of the pitfalls of the course than I was. Looking back, I would submit that the vehicular aisles in Wal-Mart in Wilmington, N.C., on a Sunday afternoon are about as congested as I-81 between Roanoke and Blacksburg and just as perilous.
Since I did not see an octagonal sign at the end of the bicycle aisle, I did not stop and look both ways before entering moving traffic, upon which I was rudely and resoundingly struck by speeding shopping carts (or reckless drivers, depending on one's point of view), first on my left and then on my right. Other than the shock which reverberated up through my hands grasping the cart handles to my shoulder blades, little harm was done, all three of us embarrassed cart-mishandlers exchanging polite "Excuse me's."
From that point, I carefully made my way to the checkout counter -- its blip-blip-blips growing progressively louder like a metal detector striking gold -- my eyes peeled for wayward carts and self-absorbed shoppers. I danced between two counters, trying to ascertain the shortest line, and eventually sidled up to a register, where a young lady -- the factory conveyor belt's last stop -- routinely swiped every item, including the bicycle, and took my payment. I finally got to experience all those blip-blip-blips up close and personal.
I blasted through the retractable doors, joyous at escaping the insatiable beast, only to realize that one is not Wal-Mart free until one has exited the parking lot -- no easy task. Oh, our car was where we had left it; we just weren't sure exactly where that was. And once we found it and loaded it with our newest most cherished possessions, we still had to extricate ourselves from the same traffic jam we had barely escaped two hours earlier.
As we pulled onto the main road, I breathed a welcome sigh of relief -- until my wife commented that we needed a few more things for Adrienne's apartment and, on a wing and a prayer, serenely directed me to our next destination: Target.
To add insult to injury, we later determined that the bicycle's front brakes were defective and returned it to Wal-Mart for credit.
All in all, I'd rather run ten miles.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Race Day
It's late September, and if you find yourself in the company of a fellow past or present, pseudo-athletic, compulsive distance runner, sooner or later the conversation invariably turns to the event by which all Hill City natives of that ilk define themselves.
"I've never really enjoyed running the Ten-Miler," remarked just such an acquaintance, a veteran of well over one hundred races, including many marathons, now, predictably, sidelined by knee injuries. He was in no way disparaging the organization of the race -- which is superb in every respect -- but rather implying that its grueling finish -- one and one-half miles straight uphill -- effectively negates the pleasure and satisfaction normally evoked by such sporting exercises.
Since it is the only race I enter -- and has been for the last twenty years -- it is impossible for me to compare the Virginia Ten-Miler -- race or course -- to any other. However, I believe a mind-numbing familiarity with each -- spawned by thousands of recreational runs and twenty-five serious ones -- humbly qualifies me to articulate a knowledgeable opinion and, in the process, add some insight, both sensory and imaginative, to the term "enjoyment."
I begin by praising the beauty and variety of our journey.
We start -- and end -- in Midtown, to use the newly-coined nomenclature, at E. C. Glass High School, the sprawling, red-brick edifice which majestically straddles the former Lynchburg Fairgrounds, still, after fifty years of expanding boundaries, the natural, if not the geographical center of the city, and, thus, a fitting icon for this annual ritual.
From there, over a gentle uphill and then downhill slope, we pass through a light retail-industrial corridor, highlighted by a small church, a television station, a bank building, a fast-food restaurant, and, on the north side of the road, a recent addition to the landscape, the imposing Centra Health Cancer Center, replacing a two-decades-old former department store and Thomas Road facility, and now gateway to the Lynchburg General campus, its own massive new wing towering in the foreground.
As we coast downhill, leaving behind two more banks, a service station, a florist, and Holy Cross School, development tapers off; natural vegetation sprouts briefly on our left before we encounter a medical center, an apartment complex, and a synagogue, but more luxuriantly on the opposite side, where the overgrown topography declines into Blackwater Creek.
We glide by the Farm Basket and turn sharply uphill, entering a residential neighborhood, a diminutive Greek Church on one side, a prominent red brick ranch set back on the other, its roadside mailbox decorated with an American flag.
Though still tracking uphill, the course levels off, and we contemplate a marvelous assortment of structural and horticultural designs which continues another mile along Langhorne Road: mini-mansions with circular driveways, hidden courtyards, elaborate lawns; comfortably modest ranch and Cape Cod homes with brick or wood siding; ivy-lined brick and stone walls, white picket and rail fencing, huge boxwood barriers; oak, pine, poplar, and dogwood trees of all shapes and sizes shading the sidewalks and front yards.
We crest the Rivermont Terrace incline and swing east down Rivermont Avenue, which exhibits on both sides an enchanting array of private and institutional architecture: stately, spacious Cape Cod houses; the grand, elegantly landscaped, Randolph College presidential home; the sweeping vista presented by the distant, white-columned superstructure of the Villa Maria overlooking its extensive grounds and forest; two impressive churches; apartment buildings of ancient and contemporary vintage; the curiously-located and impossible-to-characterize Cavalier sports bar/diner/pool hall; and, finally, on our left, the distinctive red-brick wall lining the perimeter of Randolph College, now educating males and females, its two historic landmarks, Main Hall and Smith Hall, rising to dominate the Avenue.
The next block, according to legend, unveils Lynchburg's first strip center, which offers a pleasant collection of small shops, offices, and (two) restaurants, planted eclectically in the midst of a traditional neighborhood. From here, it's only a few hundred yards to the venerable, yellow-brick Garland-Rodes School, housing the Virginia School of the Arts and gateway to Riverside Park, itself a repository for odd and interesting sights: well-worn public tennis courts and playground equipment; a sentinel-like gazebo; a decrepit, grass-filled swimming pool, the vestige of a bygone segregated era; a yet-to-be-restored, steam-powered passenger train; the remains of Stonewall Jackson's packet boat, recently sheltered from further deterioration; a stone platform overlooking storied Treasure Island -- all surrounding a vast, open field, the site, on non-race days, of airborne golf balls, footballs, and baseballs.
We emerge from the Park's second entrance, between two thick stone columns, and turn back up the Avenue, just before the streetscape begins to show its age, and embark on the long trek homeward, retracing our steps, the splendid panorama now seen in reverse, like a DVD tracking backwards.
It's a joy to behold -- unique, extraordinary, memorable.
Not only is the Virginia Ten-Miler my only race, unless I'm traveling it's essentially the only course I dine on, starting from my home, either biting off the 5.5-mile loop through Riverside Park or consuming the full ten by continuing to the High School. Thus, the race serves up refreshing and gratifying delicacies in contrast to my routine, tedious outings.
First of all, it validates my putative training regimen: one or two five-milers a week, and one ten-miler, following the pattern described above. My short runs supply all the mental relaxation and physical conditioning I (or anyone) really need; the only reason I run farther, I tell myself, is to maintain the state of fitness presumably required for a decent showing come September. Of course, if the Virginia Ten-Miler were tragically to expire, my obsessive personality would no doubt compel me to persist in those needless extensions, putting the lie to my self-delusions.
Secondly, race day is the one time during the year I can revel in the open road, unconfined to narrow, constricting sidewalks. The broad expanses of Rivermont Avenue and Langhorne Road spread out before me like the parting of the Red Sea, and, oh, what rewards lie therein: a shorter distance, granted by a handful of yards but measurable nonetheless; a more forgiving surface, if the oft-promulgated contention that asphalt is softer than concrete has any substance; a smoother path, absent the curbs and uneven pavement which induce trips and falls; and a safer passage, purged of the vehicular traffic usually clogging the roads and lurking in the shadows of side streets.
Third, in a paradox that informs road races, I am forever solitary, but now part of a crowd. I prefer to run alone; I don't have to adjust my (slow) pace to match that of my partner, or consume valuable energy engaging in idle chatter. But the herd effect does yield two explicit benefits, my companions colorfully camouflauging my stark visibility as a crazed distance runner while quickening my competitive juices to generate a little more speed.
And, finally, like bees to honey, race day rouses interested observers from their hives, who, though slimmer in number than when headliners led the pack, deliver a much-appreciated buzz along the way. When I hear those friendly, encouraging acclamations, "Looking good," or "Go, Marc," I raise my weary head from its habitual downward concentration and respond with a forced smile or limp wave.
In spite of these enticements, I must admit that, as my seventh decade looms on the horizon, my enthusiasm for this runfest may be diminishing, as it already has for so many of my contemporaries, who have gracefully retired from the contest, either for physical reasons or simply because they would prefer to avoid all the gratuitous pain. It's becoming more arduous for me, too -- not to run it, but to post a respectable time, under eighty minutes, eight-minute miles, which I have never failed to attain, and significant because I believe it is the number which separates running from jogging. But just as each passing year inexorably produces another birthday, so too does it add precious seconds, even minutes, to the Ten-Miler record book. In fact, practice runs of 80:50 and 81:35, the only two I could stomach in the stifling heat that blanketed us all summer, suggest that I may never again see 80:00 when I cross the finish line.
I suspect, however, that just as my measure of success has steadily regressed over the years -- from 62:00 (my best time) to 70:00 to 80:00 -- once that standard has fallen, I'll keep running, with the bar set a little lower (actually, in raw numbers, higher, since this game is scored like golf).
Thus it is with studied apprehension that I rise this morning at 6:00 AM, and commence my pre-race routine: stimulate my facial nerves with a splash and a shave; awaken my slumbering muscles and constricted blood vessels under a hot shower; don my pink-and-yellow Elvis tee-shirt, reserved annually for this day only, to which is attached my entrant's identification; perform my normal stretching exercises; nourish myself with two pieces of dry toast; and, forgoing wallet and license, taking only a single car key, drive to E. C. Glass High School, park on Murrell Road, and surreptitiously conceal said key behind my right front tire. Now I'm ready.
And, along with one thousand others, I am in luck. It's a perfect day for running, the first like it we have seen in three months: 55 degrees, low humidity, a cloudless blue sky overhead, a personal best performance there for the taking -- unless, of course, you are 59 and your best days are far behind you.
Warming up, I jog slowly across the overflowing parking lot toward the broad greensward which fronts the school auditorium and is bustling with activity. I skirt booths and tables displaying an amplitude of goods and services, all gratis -- memorabilia, massages, refreshments, medical advice -- en route to the water stand, where I quickly down two cups of lukewarm water, which, in a matter of minutes, tickle my bladder. I hurry towards a lineup of portajohns and wait impatiently to relieve myself; hardly anything comes out.
The race announcer, his voice booming like a brass horn over a loudspeaker, shepherds us to the staging area, interrupting his commands for frequent, but totally unnecessary, weather updates and to introduce today's favorites and three alumni of all thirty-four Ten-Milers (two mutually exclusive groups). I wander among the dense assemblage -- multi-colored tee shirts, sport tops, drooping shorts, and athletic shoes intermingling like magnified pixels -- catch the eye of a familiar face, wish him or her well, and snake towards the front of the pack, even though it will rapidly outdistance me. An imperfect but nonetheless stirring rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner sends shivers up and down my spine -- or maybe it's the chill in the air, or the irrepressible excitement of yet another ten-Miler. I glance to my left at the iron sculpture of an Olympian in flight, by Umana, strategically placed adjacent to the starting line, lean forward in imitation, take a deep breathe -- and then, a sharp retort, and we're off.
The initial downhill mile poses a vexing question for first and old-timers: how fast? I believe I will have to run a 7:30 to have any chance of breaking 80:00, but too swift a pace will surely sap my reserves. Inspired by a surge of adrenalin and the mass of fellow travelers, I lengthen my stride. The mile marker is always deceptive; after rounding the curve and passing Holy Cross, I feel it should be right there. It doesn't matter this morning, because I'm cruising in this crisp, cool, Canadian air, my concern now that I've been too quick -- is that possible -- when I see the numerals flashing: 7:15.
Now the grade increases -- in our favor -- and I let gravity pull me downhill. Like hands clapping, my feet noisily slap the pavement, crunching the minimal padding in my aging (four months old) Brooks Terminators. I smile at my neighbor, because I can read his mind: The return trip won't be this kind. Across Blackwater Creek, the first signs of exertion emerge: beads of perspiration on my forehead, a circle of moisture staining Elvis's nose, forced inhalations in lieu of easy breaths -- and a slackening pace as I climb Langhorne Road. I know this hill too well: the closing half-mile of my long runs from home, but today only the second mile, which I complete at 15:10.
After that steep incline, the third mile appears to level out, another cruel illusion; it's all uphill. Pockets of spectators are scattered along the roadway, including a gathering at my own street, whose encouragement I acknowledge with a nod and a wave. I'm holding a comfortable pace, nestled in a sweet spot between adequate speed and energy conservation. My confidence is growing; no longer a mere possibility, eighty minutes is suddenly a probability. I sweep through the Langhorne Road s-curve into a slight declivity, accelerate, and stretch for the mile marker: 23:00.
Yesterday, the Rivermont Terrace hill would have presented its usual stern test; today it's a minor inconvenience, peremptorily surmounted. A large group of well-wishers is gathered at the crest, spurring us around a hard right and onto the four-lane Avenue. The runners are spread out by now, each in a mobile cocoon, struggling to break free of his limitations. We head straight into a rising sun, its warming effect pleasantly moderated by the dry air, the smooth downhill, and my breathing eases on the flatland fronting Randolph College. Just as the four-milers are peeling off towards campus and their finish line, I see the hard-charging race leaders streaking by us on the opposite side of the road, their arms and legs pumping like pistons, and watch the mile marker clock 30:40.
The fifth mile is another flirt, seducing us with a steady run through Rivermont's picturesque storefronts and a gauntlet of cheerleaders, inspiring me to charge up the short rise into the Park and then down the trail which leads to the river, almost floating, I feel so light, my feet barely skimming the surface. I hear a voice calling out the times from above, it's so close, when, like a slap in the face, I confront an almost vertical climb that reduces me to a crawl, while the pregnant seconds tick on, tick on. Grabbing for air, I keep my legs churning, and cross the mile marker at 38:30, still not over the crown.
The sixth mile is critical for me. Halfway home, I peer into the future where the finish line awaits, yet to achieve it I must repress all such visions, and take one mile at a time. I burst free of the Park shadows and feel a wall ahead, the sensation of approaching exhaustion. I'm tempted to slow down, slacken the pace, rest, but I will my body forward, drawing on the reserves of oxygen all those training miles have manufactured and stored, and, like a gear downshifting, my determination is rewarded: a second wind kicks in. My lungs begin pumping reflexively; my stride lengthens. I repass Randolph College at 46:10.
Now I'm counting the hills -- only two more until the Big One, both in this seventh mile, a modest one up Rivermont Avenue, easily scaled, and the other up Rivermont Terrace, where the downward opposite slope almost propels me over the top and to the mile marker. It's best now to block out all externalities and concentrate on the task at hand -- lean into the run and put one foot in front of the other; in this mode, I'm surprised at my own strength. I repass the Williams Home at 54:00.
Believe it or not, the eighth mile is an opportunity to make up a few seconds; once you navigate the s-curve, it's all downhill. A nagging question hovers on the edge of your consciousness: Should I run faster? Or, in actuality, can I run faster? The answer lies somewhere in a Twilight Zone between both. My mind says "yes," my body says "no." Or is it the other way around, since my mind is well aware of the suffering that awaits, and wants to conserve the body's strength. It engages in some wishful thinking, too: if only the the last two miles were like this one, I could cruise in, just like I'm cruising now as I hit the eight-mile marker at 61:30, a 7:30 pace, my fastest since mile one.
My strategy, such as it is, for those last two miles never varies in its naked simplicity: gut it out. I shoot down the hill to Blackwater Creek, and I feel a slight ache stirring in my calves and thighs, foreshadowing a deeper soreness tomorrow. It becomes irrelevant as I hit bottom, tease myself up and over a little hump, and collide with Farm Basket Hill. If I don't stop, I know I can complete the last two miles in, at worst, seventeen minutes. And how tempting it is, with my lungs pumping and my legs carrying dead weight, to slow down, to walk, to catch my breath, just for a few seconds -- but I persist, hardly running, jogging, looking ahead for small victories along the endless climb: Kulman Place, Hill Street, the Jewish synagogue. The grade levels a bit, then resumes its angle, and I'm fighting it, actually conquering it, all the way to the nine-mile marker, which I pass at 69:35.
Now the roadway flattens for a hundred yards in front of Holy Cross, affording a bit of relief and the opportunity to gather oneself for the long, slow incline that is the last mile. I look up, lower my head, and go after it, whispering to myself, "Almost home," echoing the cries of support and polite applause emanating from a few scattered spectators. As Hardee's, then CVS fall in my wake, at the false summit of the hill, I pass a tired runner who gasps, "This is the hardest part," while all I am thinking is how each step is bringing me closer to the end.
I crest the hill, see the goal ahead, and dig deep for a closing kick, not much, but enough to hold my place, I'm sure, until someone sprints by me, intent on saving a couple of seconds. The shouts of the crowd, the announcer counting off the times, the instructions of the chute officials, are all empty noise. I'm almost there, and suddenly I am there; I fall forward across the finish line, and slow, finally, to a walk, stop, bend over, grab my shorts, and breathe the sweet, cool air.
And then I remember the clock, winking at me from overhead: 77:35. I'm still a runner! Old age vanquished for another year! What a race! What a day!
"I've never really enjoyed running the Ten-Miler," remarked just such an acquaintance, a veteran of well over one hundred races, including many marathons, now, predictably, sidelined by knee injuries. He was in no way disparaging the organization of the race -- which is superb in every respect -- but rather implying that its grueling finish -- one and one-half miles straight uphill -- effectively negates the pleasure and satisfaction normally evoked by such sporting exercises.
Since it is the only race I enter -- and has been for the last twenty years -- it is impossible for me to compare the Virginia Ten-Miler -- race or course -- to any other. However, I believe a mind-numbing familiarity with each -- spawned by thousands of recreational runs and twenty-five serious ones -- humbly qualifies me to articulate a knowledgeable opinion and, in the process, add some insight, both sensory and imaginative, to the term "enjoyment."
I begin by praising the beauty and variety of our journey.
We start -- and end -- in Midtown, to use the newly-coined nomenclature, at E. C. Glass High School, the sprawling, red-brick edifice which majestically straddles the former Lynchburg Fairgrounds, still, after fifty years of expanding boundaries, the natural, if not the geographical center of the city, and, thus, a fitting icon for this annual ritual.
From there, over a gentle uphill and then downhill slope, we pass through a light retail-industrial corridor, highlighted by a small church, a television station, a bank building, a fast-food restaurant, and, on the north side of the road, a recent addition to the landscape, the imposing Centra Health Cancer Center, replacing a two-decades-old former department store and Thomas Road facility, and now gateway to the Lynchburg General campus, its own massive new wing towering in the foreground.
As we coast downhill, leaving behind two more banks, a service station, a florist, and Holy Cross School, development tapers off; natural vegetation sprouts briefly on our left before we encounter a medical center, an apartment complex, and a synagogue, but more luxuriantly on the opposite side, where the overgrown topography declines into Blackwater Creek.
We glide by the Farm Basket and turn sharply uphill, entering a residential neighborhood, a diminutive Greek Church on one side, a prominent red brick ranch set back on the other, its roadside mailbox decorated with an American flag.
Though still tracking uphill, the course levels off, and we contemplate a marvelous assortment of structural and horticultural designs which continues another mile along Langhorne Road: mini-mansions with circular driveways, hidden courtyards, elaborate lawns; comfortably modest ranch and Cape Cod homes with brick or wood siding; ivy-lined brick and stone walls, white picket and rail fencing, huge boxwood barriers; oak, pine, poplar, and dogwood trees of all shapes and sizes shading the sidewalks and front yards.
We crest the Rivermont Terrace incline and swing east down Rivermont Avenue, which exhibits on both sides an enchanting array of private and institutional architecture: stately, spacious Cape Cod houses; the grand, elegantly landscaped, Randolph College presidential home; the sweeping vista presented by the distant, white-columned superstructure of the Villa Maria overlooking its extensive grounds and forest; two impressive churches; apartment buildings of ancient and contemporary vintage; the curiously-located and impossible-to-characterize Cavalier sports bar/diner/pool hall; and, finally, on our left, the distinctive red-brick wall lining the perimeter of Randolph College, now educating males and females, its two historic landmarks, Main Hall and Smith Hall, rising to dominate the Avenue.
The next block, according to legend, unveils Lynchburg's first strip center, which offers a pleasant collection of small shops, offices, and (two) restaurants, planted eclectically in the midst of a traditional neighborhood. From here, it's only a few hundred yards to the venerable, yellow-brick Garland-Rodes School, housing the Virginia School of the Arts and gateway to Riverside Park, itself a repository for odd and interesting sights: well-worn public tennis courts and playground equipment; a sentinel-like gazebo; a decrepit, grass-filled swimming pool, the vestige of a bygone segregated era; a yet-to-be-restored, steam-powered passenger train; the remains of Stonewall Jackson's packet boat, recently sheltered from further deterioration; a stone platform overlooking storied Treasure Island -- all surrounding a vast, open field, the site, on non-race days, of airborne golf balls, footballs, and baseballs.
We emerge from the Park's second entrance, between two thick stone columns, and turn back up the Avenue, just before the streetscape begins to show its age, and embark on the long trek homeward, retracing our steps, the splendid panorama now seen in reverse, like a DVD tracking backwards.
It's a joy to behold -- unique, extraordinary, memorable.
Not only is the Virginia Ten-Miler my only race, unless I'm traveling it's essentially the only course I dine on, starting from my home, either biting off the 5.5-mile loop through Riverside Park or consuming the full ten by continuing to the High School. Thus, the race serves up refreshing and gratifying delicacies in contrast to my routine, tedious outings.
First of all, it validates my putative training regimen: one or two five-milers a week, and one ten-miler, following the pattern described above. My short runs supply all the mental relaxation and physical conditioning I (or anyone) really need; the only reason I run farther, I tell myself, is to maintain the state of fitness presumably required for a decent showing come September. Of course, if the Virginia Ten-Miler were tragically to expire, my obsessive personality would no doubt compel me to persist in those needless extensions, putting the lie to my self-delusions.
Secondly, race day is the one time during the year I can revel in the open road, unconfined to narrow, constricting sidewalks. The broad expanses of Rivermont Avenue and Langhorne Road spread out before me like the parting of the Red Sea, and, oh, what rewards lie therein: a shorter distance, granted by a handful of yards but measurable nonetheless; a more forgiving surface, if the oft-promulgated contention that asphalt is softer than concrete has any substance; a smoother path, absent the curbs and uneven pavement which induce trips and falls; and a safer passage, purged of the vehicular traffic usually clogging the roads and lurking in the shadows of side streets.
Third, in a paradox that informs road races, I am forever solitary, but now part of a crowd. I prefer to run alone; I don't have to adjust my (slow) pace to match that of my partner, or consume valuable energy engaging in idle chatter. But the herd effect does yield two explicit benefits, my companions colorfully camouflauging my stark visibility as a crazed distance runner while quickening my competitive juices to generate a little more speed.
And, finally, like bees to honey, race day rouses interested observers from their hives, who, though slimmer in number than when headliners led the pack, deliver a much-appreciated buzz along the way. When I hear those friendly, encouraging acclamations, "Looking good," or "Go, Marc," I raise my weary head from its habitual downward concentration and respond with a forced smile or limp wave.
In spite of these enticements, I must admit that, as my seventh decade looms on the horizon, my enthusiasm for this runfest may be diminishing, as it already has for so many of my contemporaries, who have gracefully retired from the contest, either for physical reasons or simply because they would prefer to avoid all the gratuitous pain. It's becoming more arduous for me, too -- not to run it, but to post a respectable time, under eighty minutes, eight-minute miles, which I have never failed to attain, and significant because I believe it is the number which separates running from jogging. But just as each passing year inexorably produces another birthday, so too does it add precious seconds, even minutes, to the Ten-Miler record book. In fact, practice runs of 80:50 and 81:35, the only two I could stomach in the stifling heat that blanketed us all summer, suggest that I may never again see 80:00 when I cross the finish line.
I suspect, however, that just as my measure of success has steadily regressed over the years -- from 62:00 (my best time) to 70:00 to 80:00 -- once that standard has fallen, I'll keep running, with the bar set a little lower (actually, in raw numbers, higher, since this game is scored like golf).
Thus it is with studied apprehension that I rise this morning at 6:00 AM, and commence my pre-race routine: stimulate my facial nerves with a splash and a shave; awaken my slumbering muscles and constricted blood vessels under a hot shower; don my pink-and-yellow Elvis tee-shirt, reserved annually for this day only, to which is attached my entrant's identification; perform my normal stretching exercises; nourish myself with two pieces of dry toast; and, forgoing wallet and license, taking only a single car key, drive to E. C. Glass High School, park on Murrell Road, and surreptitiously conceal said key behind my right front tire. Now I'm ready.
And, along with one thousand others, I am in luck. It's a perfect day for running, the first like it we have seen in three months: 55 degrees, low humidity, a cloudless blue sky overhead, a personal best performance there for the taking -- unless, of course, you are 59 and your best days are far behind you.
Warming up, I jog slowly across the overflowing parking lot toward the broad greensward which fronts the school auditorium and is bustling with activity. I skirt booths and tables displaying an amplitude of goods and services, all gratis -- memorabilia, massages, refreshments, medical advice -- en route to the water stand, where I quickly down two cups of lukewarm water, which, in a matter of minutes, tickle my bladder. I hurry towards a lineup of portajohns and wait impatiently to relieve myself; hardly anything comes out.
The race announcer, his voice booming like a brass horn over a loudspeaker, shepherds us to the staging area, interrupting his commands for frequent, but totally unnecessary, weather updates and to introduce today's favorites and three alumni of all thirty-four Ten-Milers (two mutually exclusive groups). I wander among the dense assemblage -- multi-colored tee shirts, sport tops, drooping shorts, and athletic shoes intermingling like magnified pixels -- catch the eye of a familiar face, wish him or her well, and snake towards the front of the pack, even though it will rapidly outdistance me. An imperfect but nonetheless stirring rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner sends shivers up and down my spine -- or maybe it's the chill in the air, or the irrepressible excitement of yet another ten-Miler. I glance to my left at the iron sculpture of an Olympian in flight, by Umana, strategically placed adjacent to the starting line, lean forward in imitation, take a deep breathe -- and then, a sharp retort, and we're off.
The initial downhill mile poses a vexing question for first and old-timers: how fast? I believe I will have to run a 7:30 to have any chance of breaking 80:00, but too swift a pace will surely sap my reserves. Inspired by a surge of adrenalin and the mass of fellow travelers, I lengthen my stride. The mile marker is always deceptive; after rounding the curve and passing Holy Cross, I feel it should be right there. It doesn't matter this morning, because I'm cruising in this crisp, cool, Canadian air, my concern now that I've been too quick -- is that possible -- when I see the numerals flashing: 7:15.
Now the grade increases -- in our favor -- and I let gravity pull me downhill. Like hands clapping, my feet noisily slap the pavement, crunching the minimal padding in my aging (four months old) Brooks Terminators. I smile at my neighbor, because I can read his mind: The return trip won't be this kind. Across Blackwater Creek, the first signs of exertion emerge: beads of perspiration on my forehead, a circle of moisture staining Elvis's nose, forced inhalations in lieu of easy breaths -- and a slackening pace as I climb Langhorne Road. I know this hill too well: the closing half-mile of my long runs from home, but today only the second mile, which I complete at 15:10.
After that steep incline, the third mile appears to level out, another cruel illusion; it's all uphill. Pockets of spectators are scattered along the roadway, including a gathering at my own street, whose encouragement I acknowledge with a nod and a wave. I'm holding a comfortable pace, nestled in a sweet spot between adequate speed and energy conservation. My confidence is growing; no longer a mere possibility, eighty minutes is suddenly a probability. I sweep through the Langhorne Road s-curve into a slight declivity, accelerate, and stretch for the mile marker: 23:00.
Yesterday, the Rivermont Terrace hill would have presented its usual stern test; today it's a minor inconvenience, peremptorily surmounted. A large group of well-wishers is gathered at the crest, spurring us around a hard right and onto the four-lane Avenue. The runners are spread out by now, each in a mobile cocoon, struggling to break free of his limitations. We head straight into a rising sun, its warming effect pleasantly moderated by the dry air, the smooth downhill, and my breathing eases on the flatland fronting Randolph College. Just as the four-milers are peeling off towards campus and their finish line, I see the hard-charging race leaders streaking by us on the opposite side of the road, their arms and legs pumping like pistons, and watch the mile marker clock 30:40.
The fifth mile is another flirt, seducing us with a steady run through Rivermont's picturesque storefronts and a gauntlet of cheerleaders, inspiring me to charge up the short rise into the Park and then down the trail which leads to the river, almost floating, I feel so light, my feet barely skimming the surface. I hear a voice calling out the times from above, it's so close, when, like a slap in the face, I confront an almost vertical climb that reduces me to a crawl, while the pregnant seconds tick on, tick on. Grabbing for air, I keep my legs churning, and cross the mile marker at 38:30, still not over the crown.
The sixth mile is critical for me. Halfway home, I peer into the future where the finish line awaits, yet to achieve it I must repress all such visions, and take one mile at a time. I burst free of the Park shadows and feel a wall ahead, the sensation of approaching exhaustion. I'm tempted to slow down, slacken the pace, rest, but I will my body forward, drawing on the reserves of oxygen all those training miles have manufactured and stored, and, like a gear downshifting, my determination is rewarded: a second wind kicks in. My lungs begin pumping reflexively; my stride lengthens. I repass Randolph College at 46:10.
Now I'm counting the hills -- only two more until the Big One, both in this seventh mile, a modest one up Rivermont Avenue, easily scaled, and the other up Rivermont Terrace, where the downward opposite slope almost propels me over the top and to the mile marker. It's best now to block out all externalities and concentrate on the task at hand -- lean into the run and put one foot in front of the other; in this mode, I'm surprised at my own strength. I repass the Williams Home at 54:00.
Believe it or not, the eighth mile is an opportunity to make up a few seconds; once you navigate the s-curve, it's all downhill. A nagging question hovers on the edge of your consciousness: Should I run faster? Or, in actuality, can I run faster? The answer lies somewhere in a Twilight Zone between both. My mind says "yes," my body says "no." Or is it the other way around, since my mind is well aware of the suffering that awaits, and wants to conserve the body's strength. It engages in some wishful thinking, too: if only the the last two miles were like this one, I could cruise in, just like I'm cruising now as I hit the eight-mile marker at 61:30, a 7:30 pace, my fastest since mile one.
My strategy, such as it is, for those last two miles never varies in its naked simplicity: gut it out. I shoot down the hill to Blackwater Creek, and I feel a slight ache stirring in my calves and thighs, foreshadowing a deeper soreness tomorrow. It becomes irrelevant as I hit bottom, tease myself up and over a little hump, and collide with Farm Basket Hill. If I don't stop, I know I can complete the last two miles in, at worst, seventeen minutes. And how tempting it is, with my lungs pumping and my legs carrying dead weight, to slow down, to walk, to catch my breath, just for a few seconds -- but I persist, hardly running, jogging, looking ahead for small victories along the endless climb: Kulman Place, Hill Street, the Jewish synagogue. The grade levels a bit, then resumes its angle, and I'm fighting it, actually conquering it, all the way to the nine-mile marker, which I pass at 69:35.
Now the roadway flattens for a hundred yards in front of Holy Cross, affording a bit of relief and the opportunity to gather oneself for the long, slow incline that is the last mile. I look up, lower my head, and go after it, whispering to myself, "Almost home," echoing the cries of support and polite applause emanating from a few scattered spectators. As Hardee's, then CVS fall in my wake, at the false summit of the hill, I pass a tired runner who gasps, "This is the hardest part," while all I am thinking is how each step is bringing me closer to the end.
I crest the hill, see the goal ahead, and dig deep for a closing kick, not much, but enough to hold my place, I'm sure, until someone sprints by me, intent on saving a couple of seconds. The shouts of the crowd, the announcer counting off the times, the instructions of the chute officials, are all empty noise. I'm almost there, and suddenly I am there; I fall forward across the finish line, and slow, finally, to a walk, stop, bend over, grab my shorts, and breathe the sweet, cool air.
And then I remember the clock, winking at me from overhead: 77:35. I'm still a runner! Old age vanquished for another year! What a race! What a day!
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