Like a string of Christmas lights bursting into color or a full Menorah displaying its nine flickering candles, a host of provocative titles lit up my brain this morning, December 7, 2010.
Should I label this article "Happy Days," recalling the halcyon high school adventures of Richie Cunningham and Fonzie Fonzarelli, since, indeed, who among us should not be mindlessly blissful at the prospect of savory tax treats graciously bestowed upon us for the holidays by our indulgent President and his suddenly amicable Republican cohorts -- except for a handful of liberal Grinches, like me?
Or how about "Height of Hypocrisy," since, while sanctimonious Congressmen and Senators from both parties -- but particularly Republicans eager to flay their opponents at every opportunity -- and the White House have been almost unanimous in "warning about the existential threat posed by large deficits and mounting federal debt," (Christopher Hayes, The Nation, December 9, 2010) no one expressed undue concern that the just-consummated tax deal will add $900 billion to a two-year accumulated deficit of $2 trillion?
Or how about "Kick the Can" (down the road), the simple game we have all played in our youth (which required only a well-worn tennis shoe and a discarded soda can), since once again our cowardly politicians, looking no further than their next campaign, have refused to face up to the fiscal facts of life and chosen to defer their responsibilities to future generations, whose burden was just made a little more onerous?
Or how about "Blackmail," since no less odious a term can be applied to the process by which the Republican leadership negotiated with President Obama, threatening an "all or nothing" expiration of the Bush tax cuts of 2001 and 2003, which compelled him to keep them all in place, even for high-income earners, lest he renege on his promise not to raise taxes on families making less than $250,000?
But I finally settled on "Day of Infamy," with no disrespect to the 2403 Americans killed in Japan's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor sixty-nine years ago. Because if December 7, 2010, will soon be forgotten -- indeed has already been forgotten -- the deal struck that day -- if it stands, which it surely will, despite sporadic fulminations by a few feckless Democrats (and an eight-hour filibuster by one) -- says as much about the sorry state of our Republic as World War II did about its enduring grandeur, now consigned to history.
While Obama staggers under attacks from the Left, who accuse him of spinelessness and betrayal for abandoning his principles, and from the Right, who resent his characterization of them as "hostage takers" and still didn't get their wish list complete -- the tax cuts made permanent and the unemployment benefits "paid for" by spending cuts -- I believe he will emerge from this battle unscathed.
Democrats can posture and protest until Santa Claus flies over the Capitol, and some even vote their conscience, but enough will support the bill to assure its passage, loath to forgo the sackful of bounty lavished upon their lower and middle class constituencies. On the other side of the aisle, even the most glib commentators seem flummoxed -- even outfoxed -- by their enemy's tax-cutting oneupmanship, and have been reduced to a vacuous critique of his rhetoric and demeanor.
The two-year deal sets the stage for a showdown in 2012. The Republicans, emboldened by their success, will argue that if the economy is still soft, it's no time to raise taxes (it never is), or if conditions have improved, lower taxes were the reason. Obama's position is more problematic; having conceded on "tax cuts for the wealthy," he will be hard-pressed to revive it as the centerpiece of his reelection campaign.
Undoubtedly, both parties will decry the escalating federal debt -- which by that time will have reached an unfathomable $15 trillion -- and the looming insolvency of Social Security and Medicare, bemoan the burden being foisted upon our grandchildren, blame each other for the deplorable situation -- and persist in piling deficits upon deficits. Because whether Tax-and-Spend Democrats or Borrow-and-Spend Republicans are steering the titanic ship of state, it's headed for a perilous day of reckoning.
As best I can determine, according to Department of Treasury Revenue Estimates, the tax cut deal will add $540 billion to an already bloated 2011 budget deficit and a somewhat lesser amount in 2012 assuming its one-year provisions (the payroll tax reduction and the unemployment benefits extension) are terminated.
Reducing the payroll tax, whose trust fund is already stuffed with Government IOU's, from 6.2% to 4.2% will cost $120 billion.
Extending unemployment benefits for thirteen months will cost $55 billion.
Maintaining the Bush marginal tax rates will cost $90 billion, $30 billion more than if the rates were kept for all but the high (over $250,000) earners.
Maintaining capital gains and dividend tax rates at 15% rather than allowing them to revert to pre-2003 levels (20% for capital gains and the taxpayers' ordinary income rate for dividends) will cost $30 billion.
Fixing the Alternative Minimum Tax, which would impact 24 million additional households, will cost $70 billion.
Continuing the Earned Income Tax Credit, the Child Tax Credit, the American Opportunity Tax Credit, and certain business tax extenders will cost $40 billion.
Establishing an estate tax rate of 35% on spousal estates of $10 million and up (as opposed to the pre-2001 rate of 55% on estates of $1,350,000 and up) will cost $35 billion.
Allowing businesses to accelerate depreciation of new equipment purchases will cost $100 billion in 2011 (and $50 billion in 2012).
As this schedule reveals, the current contentiousness over "tax cuts for the wealthy" is largely a distraction. While $100 billion -- their sum total -- is hardly a pittance, it's only 20% of the whole package, which includes some juicy new delicacies as well as some old favorites. For years Congress has failed to address the Alternative Minimum Tax, which, like a creeping quicksand, would ensnare more unsuspecting families unless, once again, temporarily fixed. The two-year $150 billion price tag on accelerated depreciation is more like a loan than a credit, since it will all be recouped by the Federal Government in future years.
Although many economists and politicians -- most notably Dick Cheney -- have reassured a skeptical public that "deficits don't matter," common sense would suggest to a layman that they do.
While this may be a gross oversimplification, I understand that, because the dollar is the reserve currency of international trade, the United States is the only country that can print money at will to purchase its own government debt -- an activity which Mr. Bernanke is engaged in as I write, supposedly to ward off deflation. But all that cash floating around reminds me of a tinderbox, just waiting for a spark of recovery to ignite into a roaring inflation, a poisonous stealth tax I'm not sure Mr. Bernanke would be able to suppress in a timely manner.
Second, isn't borrowing just as pernicious a means of feeding the insatiable maw of the government beast as taxation? Both practices suck marginal investment dollars out of the private sector and deposit them into the public coffers, where they may not be allocated as efficiently.
Third, one would have to think that the Federal Government's voracious appetite for credit would at some point boost interest rates -- as indeed was the case after the announcement of the tax deal; mortgage rates surged fifty basis points, in contravention of the Federal Reserve's Quantitative Easing, which was supposed to have the opposite effect. Furthermore, rising interest rates in a healthier economic climate will unproductively consume an ever-increasing portion of the federal budget, enriching foreign bondholders and a domestic rentier class -- unless those foreigners should lose confidence in America's financial strength and seek other outlets for their savings, an even more frightening prospect.
Finally, a debt approaching $14 trillion is not the only liability weighing down the national balance sheet. The present value of projected scheduled benefits for Social Security and Medicare retirees exceeds the earmarked revenues for those programs by $46 trillion over the next seventy-five years -- not to mention the brand-new Health Care entitlement, which no reasonable person could view as a money-saver, in spite of Congressional and Presidential assertions.
How ironic that just one week before President Obama and Republican Congressional leaders hatched a plan to add $900 billion to the national debt, the co-chairmen of the National Commission on Fiscal Responsibility and Reform, Erskine Bowles and Alan Simpson, warned that the greatest threat to the economic and political stability of the United States is the fiscal crisis," a cancer that will destroy this country from within unless checked by tough action from Washington," and that "without the sacrifice [their report] calls for, the reckoning will be sure and the devastation severe."
Their draconian recommendations, which included the following, with some editorial comment, barely made it out of the starting gate before being savaged by self-interest groups and representatives from one end of the political spectrum to the other.
Eliminate the mortgage interest tax deduction on homes over $500,000. Why should the government subsidize this vulgar flaunting of wealth and egregious misappropriation of resources?
Make health care benefits taxable to employees. After all, it's a form of income; a 1099 form and a tax bill may encourage recipients to be more judicious in utilization.
Raise the Social Security eligibility age to 68 in 2050 and 69 in 2075. With people living longer, healthier lives, seventy in five years would be my target.
Raise the gasoline tax $0.15 a gallon, to foster a transition to more fuel-efficient vehicles and to finance infrastructure improvements.
Make capital gains taxable as ordinary income.
Raise the payroll tax cap rate to $190,000, a fair share for high-income earners.
Cut military spending and farm subsidies. Reduce Social Security benefits to wealthier retirees and offer less generous cost of living adjustments. Freeze the federal payroll for three years, and reduce the workforce 10% by 2020.
After paying obligatory lip service to this "take no prisoners" report, Obama and the Republicans filed it where the sun doesn't shine and turned their attention to a more pleasant pastime -- doling out more Stimulus, although that terminology was avoided like the plague, which is not surprising, considering the dismal track record of the first go round, and, indeed, when one looks back, of the entire Bush tax-cutting regime. As others far wiser than I have opined, "If these things work so well, where are all the jobs?"
Low marginal tax rates are a relatively recent phenomenon. In the early 1960's, high income earners paid as much as 91%, with hardly an objection from Democrats or Republicans, including President Eisenhower, who said, "The only way to make more and more tax cuts is to have bigger and bigger deficits and borrow more and more money. This is one kind of chicken that always comes home to roost. An unwise tax cutter . . . is no friend of the taxpayer."
From 1953 to 1963, U.S. Real Gross Domestic Product grew an average of 3.o6% a year, jumping to an average of 3.75% for the ten years after John Kennedy cut the marginal rate to 70% in 1965.
Ronald Reagan reduced the marginal rate to 50% in 1981 and then to 28% in 1986 -- although other provisions of the Tax Reform Act of that year partially offset the lower rate by eliminating some deductions. The fashionable argument that total federal revenues doubled during Reagan's two terms conveniently ignores the fact that they had doubled every single decade since the Great Depression -- and that part of the Reagan increase must be attributed to a rise in the FICA tax from 6.13% to 7.65%. Average GDP growth for the ten-year period was 3.33%.
In 1993, Bill Clinton and a Democratic Congress raised the marginal tax rate in three stages to 31%, 36%, and 39.6%. From 1993 to 2002, GDP grew an average of 3.48% per year, and 26 million jobs were created. By 1998, the $300 billion budget deficit Clinton had inherited had been turned into a surplus, which lasted until 2002.
In 2001 and 2003, George W. Bush and a Republican Congress implemented two rounds of tax cuts -- lowering marginal rates at all income levels and reducing the rates on capital gains (to 15%) and on dividend income (to 20%). They maneuvered around Senate rules regarding projected deficits by agreeing to a ten-year sunset provision.
These cuts contributed to federal revenues as a share of the economy dropping to their lowest level since 1950 -- and to a surge in the deficit even before the onset of the Recession in 2007. In 2002, receipts as a per cent of GDP fell from 19.8% to 17%, and to 16.4% and 16.5% in 2003 and 2004 before recovering to an average of 18% in the next four years. Accumulated deficits during the Bush years reached $2 trillion, a number that would be exceeded by 50% during the first two years of the Obama Administration, as government receipts fell 20% and spending exploded, the harrowing consequences of a Recession-driven perfect storm.
To whatever one might attribute the country's sudden and severe economic collapse -- an overheated housing industry precariously constructed on easy credit, artificially low interest rates, and irrational exuberance; the federal government's misguided subsidization and ill-conceived promotion of the ownership society; the greed and chicanery of Wall Street bankers and investment firms, who packaged mortgage-backed securities and invented abstruse instruments to trade and speculate on them -- the verdict is in on the Bush tax cuts.
From 2001 to 2010, U.S. Real GDP grew an average of 1.66% a year -- about half the average growth rate for the previous five decades since 1950. Even without the Recession, the average growth rate from 2001 to 2007 was still abysmal -- 2.39% a year.
Nor did lower taxes increase employment. In June 2001, when the first round of the Bush tax cuts passed, there were 132 million Americans employed; in November 2010, that number had fallen to 130.5 million. In all fairness, from June 2003 to December 2007, the number of Americans employed rose from 129.8 million to 138 million before contracting. But work force participation -- the percentage of the population 16 and over which is employed -- never grew at all during the Bush years, falling from a high of 64.7% in 2000 to 62.7% in December 2007 to 58.2% today, the lowest since 1983.
Wrote David Leonhardt in The New York Times, November 18, 2010: "The theory why tax cuts should create growth and jobs is a strong one. When people are allowed to keep more of each dollar they earn, they are likely to work longer and harder [and they will have more money to spend]. The uncertainty is the magnitude of this effect. With everything else that's happening in a $15 trillion economy, how large of an effect on growth do tax cuts have?"
Nobody like to pay taxes, including me. And as the owner of a business classified as Subchapter S Corporation -- the profits of which flow directly to my personal income tax return -- I fall into the "over $250,000" income level, which means my personal (and business) marginal tax rate would rise from 35% to 39.6% should the Bush tax cuts be repealed. In years when profits are good (which hasn't been recently), that difference translates into a substantial amount of money.
I'm not an economist, so I wouldn't pretend to speculate on the optimum rate of taxation, either on a macro- or micro-economic level. When Bill Clinton and the Democrats raised taxes in 1993 -- by one vote -- with the purported goal of balancing the budget -- which they did, six years later -- my business prospered, experiencing a period of sustained growth which reached a peak in 2006. With the advent of the Recession, sales fell 18%, until by 2009 the company's volume was exactly the same as it had been in 2001, when George W. Bush took office, and it was making considerably less money -- in spite of those lower tax rates.
While I'm happy when the government takes less of my profits, I can unequivocally state that in my forty years in retail furniture -- like the video business owner I saw quoted on television -- I have never considered the tax rate when hiring or deciding whether to open, close, or expand a store. Much more likely to influence me -- and other entrepreneurs -- are optimism about the future, market opportunities, management expertise, and the availability of credit.
The benefits that the Bush tax cuts provided to different groups varied dramatically. In 2004, households in the middle 20% of the income spectrum received an average tax cut of $647, an 8.9% share of the total cut, and a 2.3% increase in their after-tax income. The top 1% of households received an average tax cut of $35,000, a 24.2% share of the total cut, and a 5.3% increase in their after-tax income. And millionaires, the top 0.2% of the population, received an average tax cut of $124,000, a 15.3% share of the total cut, and a 6.4% increase in their after-tax income.
These statistics would seem to confirm the widespread suspicion that Conservatives are intent on dismantling this country's long-standing system of progressive taxation and thus further exacerbating a problem of growing income inequality. From 1950 to 1980, the share of the nation's income going to the top 10% of the population averaged about 35%. From 1982 to 1987, it spiked to 40%, and to 50% by 2010. During the same period 1950 to 1980, the inflation-adjusted average income for the other 90% grew from $17,719 to $30,941 -- where it remains today, thirty years later.
The richest 1% of Americans take home almost 24% of the income, up from 9% in 1976; the richest 20% own 84% of the nation's wealth. CEO's of the largest American companies earned 42 times as much as the average American worker in 1980 but 531 times as much in 2001.
According to Timothy Noah of Slate Magazine, the U.S. now may have a more unequal distribution of wealth than traditional banana republics like Nicaragua, Venezuela, and Guyana.
If some see no harm in this trend, others point to financial distress on a micro-economic level -- as people end up in debt and bankruptcy trying to keep up with their wealthier neighbors -- to an erosion of political consensus as economic self-interests fracture our common purpose, and to the crises of 1929 and 2008 as periods of our greatest income disparity. Is it not conceivable that exorbitant compensation -- and low taxes -- created strong incentives for executives to take excessive risks, engineering new and dangerous types of securities?
Sooner or later, Democrats and Republicans, and the voters who elect them, will have to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth that taxes -- for everybody -- have to rise. In my view, the most desirable outcome to last week's private palaver -- but one which I am not so gullible as to think even slightly possible -- would have been to do nothing , let all the Bush tax cuts expire, and thus "Do No Harm."
According to Alan Binder, writing in The Wall Street Journal, December 17th, reverting to pre-2001 tax rates would achieve budgetary savings of $4 trillion over ten years, an amount equal to that generated by the recommendations of the Bowles-Simpson Commission.
As coldhearted as it sounds, even the 2% payroll tax stimulus and the extension of unemployment benefits are problematic. Economists have argued that wage earners have a tendency to save -- not spend -- rollbacks and rebates which are temporary, and that the unemployed have a greater motivation to look for work when their checks run out.
But instead, on this Day of Infamy, in a Height of Hypocrisy, eager for Happy Days, succumbing to Blackmail, our lawmakers decided to Kick the Can further down the road. To ask why is to expose one's naivete, opacity, disingenuousness. Nevertheless, I offer this pathetic explanation: We have become a society of entitlements -- for the poor and for the rich. Which is why those who say the solution to this tax problem is simply to cut spending are blowing smoke.
For if the former want their earned income tax credits, their food stamps, their welfare checks, and their Medicaid, the latter want their Social Security at 65 with no diminution of benefits, their Medicare, even in the last hopeless months of life, their mansion mortgage deductions, cheap gas for their suv's, and their bank bailouts.
Wrote Uwe Reinhardt in The New York Times, November 18, 2010: "With the notable exception of the latter part of the 1990's, the American people have consistently demanded from their government more spending -- particularly in the form of benefits to older Americans -- than they have been willing to pay for with taxes, increasingly relying on foreign savers to fill the gap.
"They want to enjoy overpowering military might that can be swiftly projected to any corner of the globe.
"With one of the most unequal distributions of wealth and income in the industrialized world, they want ever-more expensive basic services -- education, justice, and health care -- available to all citizens on roughly equal terms.
"They never want to say no to any health care benefit, however small it is to the relative cost . . . Because about half of American health care is tax-financed, this preference requires added taxes." And let someone be so audacious as to mention rationing -- or end-of-life counseling -- and he is summarily scorned as a pariah and death merchant.
Yes, no one wants his piece of the pie purloined or his backyard uprooted. If the last three years have taught us anything, it is that, regardless of what Capitol Hill and the White House keep professing, we can't have it all -- without pain, sacrifice, and compromise. Somehow I have to hope that, in spite of this most recent Christmas present, most celebrants don't believe it either.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Sports Fan
With the World Series in full swing, the NFL taking a few hits but still invincible, and a "heated" NBA season tipping off, what more can a sports fan ask for?
Especially if he has the time, inclination, and patience to plant himself squarely in front of the biggest, flattest, highest-def plasma-pixelated screen he can find for at least three hours, which, although I don't, millions of others do.
Last night (November 1, 2010), for the eighth consecutive week, Sunday Night Football was the most-watched program, as 11.8% of 116 million households (13,700,000) and 18% of those with their televisions on (called the "share") tuned in to witness the Pittsburgh Steelers whip the New Orleans Saints 20-10 -- compared to 10.4% and a 16% share for Game Four of the World Series.
I didn't get the memo; after checking the baseball score at 10:00 PM (2-0 Giants) with the wishful thought that the game might be in the late innings so I could persevere until the end (alas, it was only the sixth), I surrendered to common sense and went to bed.
I'm not totally averse to sports -- just sports on television, and particularly football, unless it's a rare appearance by my beloved Oakland Athletics, who as a West Coast stepchild sneak into a national broadcast only when their opponent is the Yankees or Red Sox. And full disclosure compels me to admit to camping out in my burgundy velvet La-Z-Boy for an occasional final round of a major golf tournament -- especially if Tiger Woods (pre- or post-sex scandal, it doesn't matter) is in contention.
Failing the television test, perhaps I should more accurately be characterized as a sports follower, since I faithfully track team won-lost records, peruse league standings, and study individual statistics and game box scores with the diligence of a detective dusting for fingerprints. I'll wager my locker-room expertise and cocktail party chatter against that of the most bloodshot-eyed tube addict.
When it comes to live spectator sports, my affection for baseball and distaste for football have been well-documented on this site. While I can readily appreciate the social, gastronomic, and intoxicative pleasures of tailgating (which I am ashamed to admit I have yet to experience, but which I have inferred is at least half of the latter's appeal -- especially if it's the UVA version), my suspicions were unequivocally confirmed last year when I broke a fifteen-year record of indifference and attended a Wake Forest-Navy game at Annapolis, Maryland (the ambulatory exploration of which made it all worthwhile).
Seated ten rows back on the twenty-yard line, I could see nothing beyond a mass of black, blue, and gold jerseys metamorphosing like a giant amoeba -- except for brief intervals when it actually flowed in my direction -- a tedious exercise from which my companions and I were gratefully excused when shortly after halftime a torrential downpour dispatched us to the warmth and dryness of our hotel rooms. The highlight of this adventure was a heart-thumping flyover by the Blue Angels just before kickoff.
On the other hand, I will range far and wide to attend a major league baseball game -- especially if those distant A's are within striking distance (such as Baltimore, although this year I flew to Toronto); recently, with one son staked out in Washington, D.C., and a daughter formerly in Philadelphia, the Nationals and the Phillies have been deemed worthy of support.
My initial sighting of the placid, pristine, pastoral field of dreams never fails to elicit paroxysms of rapture. Stretching from home plate between two intersecting white-chalked boundaries, past an slightly-elevated pitcher's mound, through the exquisitely-manicured two-tone diamond, into the luxuriantly-carpeted parabolic outfield, it patiently waits its nine defenders -- ordinary human beings, neither towering oddities nor thickset behemoths enshrouded in protective armor -- who, after a stirring rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner," spring from their dugout and sprint to their assigned positions.
In an instant their languorous but expectant solitude is shattered by the pitch, the swing, and the crack of the bat, launching them in a sudden burst of energy to chase, capture, and release the ball, either to erase the runner or concede one, two, three, or four bases to his skill, or luck.
The beauty of this quiet game is revealed in one's panoramic perspective of the field -- and action -- even when, from a remote vantage point, the pitcher and batter are reduced to miniature combatants. Sadly, this vista is not easily translated to the small (or big) screen, and, while the viewer enjoys magnified renderings of players and plays in isolation -- every pitch, swing, catch, and throw -- the overall effect is diminished.
Conversely, football is a sport invented for television. Even for long passes down field, the total play -- the huddle, the break, the lining up, the few seconds of relevant movement (which add up to all of twelve minutes in a three-hour broadcast), the piling on, the sorting out -- fits the frame like a tailor-made suit fits Commissioner Roger Goodell, as does its subsequent ad nauseum dissection from multiple camera angles, which amplify with shocking clarity the object of this scrimmaging: controlled violence and vicious contact. With concussions and torn ligaments of increasing concern, why should anyone be surprised when a player suffers a career-threatening injury?
As for my own purpose, after that didactic digression, it is to conduct a Halloween experiment, to masquerade as a veritable sports fan, to watch uninterrupted, from start to finish, a World Series Baseball Game and the Fox NFL Game of the Week, the former on Saturday night, October 30th, and the latter the next afternoon. My ulterior motive, blatantly self-evident, is to provide an appetizing treat for my faithful followers.
One reason I choose Saturday's game -- besides not having been invited to any Halloween parties -- is its 7:00 PM start time, the earliest since 1987, which gives me a fighting chance of maintaining consciousness until the last out. After insisting for years that earlier start times meant lower ratings, especially on the West Coast, baseball and network officials agreed to this one in an attempt to woo younger (and some older) viewers.
Apparently they know what they are talking about. Sunday's rating of 6.7 will be the second-lowest in World Series broadcast history, and beat only the 6.1 reported for Game Three of the Phillies-Rays in 2008 -- which was delayed ninety-one minutes and didn't start until 10:00 PM in the East.
It doesn't help that this game (and Series) pits two perennial lightweights, the Texas Rangers and the San Francisco Giants, each of whom slew their respective Goliaths in their League Championships, the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies, teams with recognizable star power and a national fan base.
The proud Yankees -- boasting a $206 million payroll ($45 million more than the second-place Red Sox) and the four highest-priced players in the Majors (Rodriguez at $33 million, Sabathia at $24.3 million, Jeter at $22.6 million, and Texeira at $20.6 million) -- of whom I harbor not a deep-seated hatred but merely a queasy disgust rooted in their bottomless pocketbook and the slavish devotion of a besotted media -- failed to show up for the close-out game of their series with the Rangers and slunk meekly into the sunset after a 6-1 spanking.
On the other side of the ledger, the Phillies' fourth-ranking payroll and stable of number-one pitchers -- Halladay, Oswalt, and Hamels -- were equally embarrassed by the upstart Giants, who would prove to be, in their manager's own words, a ragtag team of destiny, clawing their way to a sixth-game 3-2 victory on the strength of an eighth-inning home run by the well-traveled Juan Uribe and seven shutout innings by a bullpen which included Cy Young starter Tim Lincecum.
Even with the favorites eliminated, there is no dearth of interesting story lines.
Before the season started, Rangers' manager Ron Washington -- whose Oakland A's pedigree entitles him to a healthy dose of respect -- admitted to cocaine use, which, while illegal, at least was not a steroid nor offensive enough to warrant a House of Representatives subpoena.
Center fielder and Most Valuable Player candidate Josh Hamilton was a former number one draft pick who injured his back in a car accident in 2001, was out of baseball for five years, and overcame a crippling drug and alcohol problem to resurrect his career.
Like dispersed mountain streams merging into the Rio Grande, the team's top three starting pitchers rendezvoused in Texas after following circuitous routes: Cliff Lee -- who sported a 7-0, 1.26 era, post-season record before his opening game shellacking -- from Cleveland via Philadelphia and Seattle; C. J. Wilson, from the Rangers' bullpen, where he labored for the past five seasons, saving 52 games; and Colby Lewis, from the Hiroshima Carp, where he led the Japanese Central League in strikeouts in 2008 and 2009.
Designated hitter Vladimir Guerrero was signed away from Division rival Los Angeles after a mediocre 2009, and responded splendidly by hitting 29 home runs and driving in 115.
Catcher Benjie Molina was obtained from none other than the Giants in a midseason trade, thus assuring him of a World Series ring and a share of the spoils, regardless of who wins.
The Giants have been carried this far on the youthful arms of their four homegrown starters -- Lincecum 26, Cain 26, Sanchez 27, and Bumgarner 21 -- who have held their opponents to three runs or less in five nail-biting one-run playoff wins. Although it has been inconsistent all year, an explosion of 11 and 9 runs in the first two games illustrated the versatility of a makeshift lineup compiled through a series improbably fortuitous or astonishingly astute moves by General Manager Brian Sabean (except for the wretched signing of Barry Zito, his highest-priced player, whose lackluster production earned him a postseason benching).
Center fielder Andres Torres, who at thirty-one had batted only ninety times in the Major Leagues and had spent the previous three seasons in the Minors, was signed in 2009 for $450,000 a year, and surprised the skeptics by sparkling in the lead off position.
The thirty-two-year-old Uribe took over third base when last year rookie sensation Pablo Sandoval put on thirty-five pounds.
Cody Ross, claimed off waivers from the Florida Marlins in order to keep him out of the clutches of Division opponent San Diego, blossomed into a postseason hitting phenom, blasting five home runs.
Closer Brian Wilson -- whose Mohawk haircut, black-dyed beard, indecipherable tattoos, lemon-yellow suit, orange shoes, zany interviews, intellectual profundity, and crossword puzzle and chess expertise have earned him cult status -- turned in the fearless and dominating performance that has garnered him a record 209 saves since 2008.
Twenty-three-year-old rookie Buster Posey hit for average and power immediately upon his May call up from the Minors and within weeks established himself as the team leader from the catcher position.
With the Giants up 2-0, Game Three is a must win for the Rangers.
Broadcasting this contest will be the experienced duo of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Officials have wisely dispensed with a superfluous third person in the booth -- as if he could ever get a word in among the endless spate of trivia and pitch-by-pitch commentary gushing from these inexhaustible fountains of knowledge. As they read from their teleprompters and computer screens, it's apparent that neither one -- especially McCarver -- ever met a fact or statistic he didn't like, or to which he would attach anything less than momentous implications.
Thus in the space of three hours on Halloween Eve, viewers are served up a smorgasbord of baseball treats.
The Giants' Jonathan Sanchez walked more batters, 96, than any other pitcher in the Major Leagues.
Pablo Sandoval is ambidextrous and learned to throw righthanded so he could play catcher.
Colby Lewis returned to the States in order to obtain health insurance for his wife, who suffers from a thyroid condition.
C. C. Sabathia (not playing tonight since he is a Yankee) has gone from preventing them in-season to promoting RBI off-season -- Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities, where, I assume, basketball has surpassed it as the sport of choice, offering a faster and more lucrative path to fame and fortune.
Bruce Bochy, Giants' manager, was a teammate of Rangers' owner Nolan Ryan on the 1980 Houston Astros.
The stars of the 1967 movie The Dirty Dozen -- one of Bochy's nicknames for his team -- were Lee Marvin, Jim Brown, Trini Lopez, and John Cassavetes (not to mention Ernest Borgnine and Charles Bronson).
The last American League team to win its first World Series Game at home -- the AT&T trivia question of the night, and one I expect few viewers know the answer to and hardly any care about -- was the Toronto Blue Jays in 1992, on a game-winning hit by the appropriately christened (my observation, not McCarver's) Candy Maldonado.
Forty-eight thousand beers and fifteen thousand hot dogs will be consumed during the game (that is, in the stadium). The hamburger was invented seventy miles away, in Athens, Texas (although McCarver fails to mention that New Haven, Conn., and Seymour, Wisc., dispute that claim, thus cautioning one not believe everything he hears on television).
Ian Kinsler, Rangers' second baseman and one of my favorite players (he's Jewish), possesses a "rare combination of speed and power" -- a McCarver cliche I'm not sure is accurate either in its description of Kinsler or its rarity among accomplished Major Leaguers.
McCarver mangles the name of Rangers' rookie relief pitcher -- who saved forty games this year -- calling him Neftali Perez instead of Neftali Feliz, an unhappy blunder he or Buck later tries to make amends for by lamely informing us that "Feliz" means "happy."
Also, according to McCarver, the largest World Series comeback by the Giants -- now trailing by four runs -- occurred in 1921, two years after World War I ended, a totally gratuitous piece of information, and incorrect to boot, since the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918.
Bruce Bochy has managed his baseball pieces like Bobby Fischer (or maybe his own Brian Wilson).
And the next tidbit I miss.
As I do the key hit of the game -- a three-run home run by Rangers' rookie first baseman Mitch Moreland in the second inning. Oh yes: my well-intentioned plan not to miss a minute of the broadcast and record every one for posterity is foiled when I am summoned to the dinner table by a lovely lady and her darling daughter, at whose home I am engaged in this earnest activity, perched on a stool in the kitchen, peering at an ancient ten-inch screen (at least it's color), assiduously taking notes.
That the meal -- salad, salmon, and broccoli -- is delightful is irrelevant to what I have always contended about a baseball game. While it often appears to move at a snail's pace, one cannot turn away for a moment, lest he miss a crucial play.
As best I can reconstruct it -- because the announcers are of little help (while churning out reams of useless information, they myopically assume a captive audience) -- Cruz doubled to lead off; Kinsler and Francoeur made outs; Molina walked; and then the ninth-batting Moreland "hit his first ever home run against a lefthanded pitcher."
The Rangers add another run in the fifth inning on a blast by Hamilton, this after Young hit into a double play, negating a leadoff single by Andrus. Since the Giants' two runs also cross the plate on solo shots -- one by the irrepressible Ross and the other by Torres -- I'm curious as to how many, if any, World Series games featured all their scoring via the home run -- the most significant fact about this otherwise tepid contest, yet the one that fails to surface amidst the plethora of detail regurgitated by our garrulous announcers.
Also noteworthy are four strikeouts by the atrocious Pat Burrell, a Tampa Bay castoff, somehow batting fifth for the Giants, who will ultimately go 0-13 in five Series games, striking out eleven times. His futility is surpassed, however, by the mystifying appearance of White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen, whose onfield expert analysis is entirely unintelligible.
Of course, this experiment would hardly be complete without a conscientious examination of all the commercials that make it possible, and so I duly suffer through an endless succession of thirty-second sound bites, slogans, sales pitches, claims, offers, and promises -- a genuine revelation for this infrequent viewer and relentless surfer.
I learn that "it's time for a phone to save us from our phone," which is supposed to be the Windows phone, but could just as easily be the Sprint phone, or the HTC power phone, or the Blackberry Torch, or the EVO-4G phone, or the I-phone-4; that as a Visa credit card holder, I may win a trip to the Super Bowl for the rest of my life (oh boy); that Abbott Laboratories may have the cure for Low T (low testosterone, which may be responsible for low you-know-what); that, while the Ford Mustang, with 305 hp at $305 per month, is the "biggest, baddest car on the road . . . when the big dog moves in, what more does one need than a dog and a Chevy"; that one in four will experience "the simple joy of winning" by playing Monopoly at McDonald's and splitting $200,000,000; that Megamind soars, Due Date is the funniest film of 2010, someone is out to kill Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows Part I, and Unstoppable is, well, unwatchable; and, finally, that one television show not to be missed is the Fox NFL Game of the Week, when Randy Moss, now a Minnesota Viking, returns to New England to take on the Patriots.
Which I am eagerly anticipating as a serious sports fan. Which one doesn't have to be to appreciate the intrigue. If there were any regular season NFL game I might be enticed to watch, this would be the one.
Because while Central Virginia is predominantly Redskin territory, my sympathies gravitate toward the Patriots, a perverse choice for an habitual advocate of the underdog. It goes back to 2001, when the Patriots shocked the world by getting to the Super Bowl and unheralded Tom Brady, in his first season as quarterback, engineered a final minute upset of the powerful Rams.
I confess a grudging admiration for the tight-lipped, stoic Bill Belichick -- in spite of his alleged cheating several years ago -- and his focused, disciplined management style, which has propelled his team to nine consecutive winning records and seven playoff appearances, and enabled him to reinvent himself routinely whenever it became necessary to discard aged, expensive, or troublesome players. I rooted in vain for the Patriots to complete their undefeated season in 2007, not only to vindicate Belichick but also to silence forever those obnoxious 1972 Miami Dolphins.
Lining up against Belichick and Brady are a team and a quarterback in turmoil. If the tiresome Bret Favre -- whose annual retirement melodrama is an embarrassment to the League and his team, but a boon to a ravenous media -- weren't exposed enough, his juvenile flirtation with former Jets sideline reporter Jenn Sterger and his recurrent injury problems have intensified the scrutiny. Suffice it to say that I count myself among a host of disinterested observers who believe Favre's indisputable legacy as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time would have been better served by a graceful ride into the sunset several years ago -- in spite of his resilient ability to amaze with occasional flashes of brilliance.
And so at 4:15 I settle comfortably into my La-Z-Boy, press the power button on my remote control, and await the kickoff to this week's Clash of the Titans -- when what should I behold but a Washington Redskins-Detroit Lions game still in progress, and an egregious demonstration of all that's wrong with football on television. Because the last 2:30 of this game take one-third of an hour to play.
With Detroit leading 28-25, viewers are subjected to two Washington time-outs and the proverbial two-minute warning -- which serves no purpose other to allow more sponsors to identify themselves -- before the Lions kick a field goal. Once again the clock stops.
After the ensuing kickoff -- and more commercials -- Redskins' coach Mike Shanahan makes the controversial move of substituting backup quarterback Rex Grossman for the ineffective and immobile (or so we are later informed) Donovan McNabb. On his first play from scrimmage, Grossman is sacked and fumbles; rookie defensive tackle Ndamukong Suh picks up the ball and rumbles for a Lion touchdown.
The game is essentially over, but apparently some esoteric contractual obligations require Fox to keep broadcasting it. The Lions take a time-out to prepare a totally unnecessary two-point conversion pass play, which is successful, following an interminable review by the officials.
The announcers toss out the gleeful tease that America's Game of the Week is coming up next -- but only after the agonizing final sixty ticks of the clock. By the time the Redskins' rout is complete, I've missed twelve minutes of the Vikings-Patriots -- but not to worry; there's been no scoring.
Favre is playing -- an uncertainty up until game time. Trying to fill in the blanks for millions of latecomers like me, Thom Brennaman and Troy Aikman report that Vikings' running back Adrian Peterson has already rushed for 54 yards on eight carries. Within minutes he finishes off a "heck of a drive" by leaping into the end zone, barely breaking the plane of the goal line. Play is stopped for a challenge, which, after ten replays from five camera angles, seems to Aikman "a good challenge," until the ruling on the field stands, at which point he corrects himself: "Maybe it wasn't such a good challenge."
New England answers with a drive of its own, highlighted by a long pass that goes right through the defender's hands (Madieu Williams) to Brandon Tate; the catch is upheld after a challenge and four commercials. Two plays later, shoehorned between a time-out and eight commercials, the diminutive (5'9") Danny Woodhead takes a direct snap and darts three yards up the middle for a touchdown.
Favre is playing well; at 7:30 in the second quarter, he's 7 of 8 for 74 yards, although none have been completed to Randy Moss. In an obvious reference to Favre's gambling reputation, Aikman quotes Vikings' coach Brad Childress: "There's nothing wrong with punting more often" -- as opposed to throwing interceptions.
After Brady misses a wide-open Dion Branch and rookie punter Zoltan Mesko booms a 55-yarder, Farvre takes over again. Completing two passes to Percy Harvin, one of which is his 10,000th career attempt, he moves the Vikings to a fourth-and-goal at the one-yard line. Aikman "doesn't disagree" with Childress's decision to "go for it," but in a slow-developing play Peterson -- "who hasn't been racking up yards like he did in the first quarter" -- is dropped for a loss.
I'm looking forward to seeing how many words, scores, and statistics the Fox NFL Sunday team of Curt (Menefee), Terry (Bradshaw), Howie (Long) and Jimmy (Johnson) can squeeze in between commercials during halftime -- when once again I'm summoned to another dinner engagement. It's been a rather uneventful game -- only two scores so far -- so I'm not all that concerned about lingering a little too long (after all, one can't just eat and run).
Alas, when I resume the position at 6:43 of the third quarter, the score is 14-10, Patriots. I've missed Randy Moss's first (and only) catch of the day, a Minnesota field goal, and the game's biggest play -- a Brady 65-yard touchdown pass to Brandon Tate. Oh well; that's football. Turn away for a moment and . . .
On fourth-and-one at the fifty-yard line, Childress, apparently intimidated by his last failure, chooses to punt. I don't agree with Aikman's assessment: "No question you punt." The Vikings trail; they have a greater than fifty per cent probability of success; and it shows no confidence in his defense (or offense).
After three-and-outs by both teams, Favre's good day -- he's 17-23 for 194 yards -- is spoiled when New England rookie Devin McCourty grabs the ball out of Percy Harvin's hands for an interception. Spearheading a surprisingly effective running game, BenJarvus Green-Ellis, the man with four proper names, dashes thirteen yards for a Patriot touchdown. On their next possession, another obscure Belichick rookie find, Aaron Hernandez, who leads the team in receiving yards and yards per catch, makes two receptions.
But the old man's not done yet. Favre rolls out and completes a perfectly thrown pass to Harvin for a 30-yard gain. Aikman's commentary during this drive is insightful and enlightening. On a Bernard Berrian incompletion: "That's a play he's got to make." On coverage of Randy Moss: "I've never seen a safety play that deep in the NFL in fifteen years." On Adrian Peterson's not running of bounds after a catch: "I'm curious to see how many years he'll play." On Favre's intentional grounding: "You don't lose anything; he would have been sacked." On Brandon Meriweather's pass interference against Moss at the eight-yard line: "It would have been a touchdown."
Three plays later, in a bone-jarring tackle, Myron Pryor manages to get his helmet underneath Favre's face mask, breaking open his jaw in a blow that would require eight stitches. Favre is carted off the field "in tremendous pain" -- apparently its severity has been relayed from the field to the announcers in the booth -- another brutal sacrifice to the insatiable Gods of Football. Isn't this what we all watch for? Aren't hits and injuries like this "just part of the game?"
Even Favre haters have to be a little unsettled. After all, Brennaman reminds us, "People can say what they want about his coming out of retirement, but you're looking at a forty-one-year-old man playing a game with the biggest, strongest, fastest athletes in the world who are trying to hit him on every play."
Tavaris Jackson replaces Favre and completes a one-yard touchdown pass (interference was called on the Favre knockout) and a two-point conversion, closing the deficit to 21-18 Patriots, with seven minutes left, plenty of time (how well I know).
New England won't be denied today, however. Their running game is cranked up, and Green-Ellis is, well, unstoppable, biting off big chunks of yardage -- 14, 9, 5, 8, and 26, the last just after Brennaman tallies him at 84 in 15 carries -- before somersaulting into the end zone, maybe. Another excruciating review enables us to revel in the acrobatics six times before confirming the touchdown.
In the last desperate two minutes, which are mercifully shown without interruption, Jackson's best play is a 30-yard scramble.
That doesn't mean I haven't seen plenty of commercials during this broadcast -- most at least refreshingly different from those of the previous night. If I thought I had learned anything about smart phones, how wrong I was. The AT&T Torch makes broadband more affordable, and with it, "any moment could be the moment." The Droid can be its own security. The EVO-4G streams live video from the web. The I-phone-4 features the amazing retina display. (Does that mean I don't have to wear my glasses?)
Moving on to products closer to my level of sophistication, I learn that Toyota has total roadside assistance and great deals this month, especially at Danville Toyota; that Applebee's has one appetizer and two entrees for $2o; that Denny's has a nineteen-ingredient omelette for $4.99; that Lowe's valspar paint has hi-def color; that an ad for vloric includes more disclaimers than benefits; that Direct TV has new movies one month before Netflix; that Southwest is your low-cost airline (the best commercial I saw in two days); and that, inevitably, two days before the election, Tom Perriello, with his votes on health care and the energy tax, was Their Congressman, not Yours, but that all those hits he's been taking, like a punching bag, or a valiant Bret Favre, have been for You.
And with that, it's over -- six hours on the couch (actually, on the stool and the La-Z-Boy): four hours of sports programming, two hours of commercials (according to most estimates), and two rather uninspiring exhibitions. And as much as I hate to admit it, the football game had more action, more suspense, more excitement -- but not much more.
But in the final analysis, I believe the best way to enjoy a sporting event is to dial in periodically to the live play-by-play and statistical record on the Internet while reading a book and then catch all the highlights on Sports Center the next morning. Because I'll never watch another one start to finish -- until the next Game of the Century comes along.
Especially if he has the time, inclination, and patience to plant himself squarely in front of the biggest, flattest, highest-def plasma-pixelated screen he can find for at least three hours, which, although I don't, millions of others do.
Last night (November 1, 2010), for the eighth consecutive week, Sunday Night Football was the most-watched program, as 11.8% of 116 million households (13,700,000) and 18% of those with their televisions on (called the "share") tuned in to witness the Pittsburgh Steelers whip the New Orleans Saints 20-10 -- compared to 10.4% and a 16% share for Game Four of the World Series.
I didn't get the memo; after checking the baseball score at 10:00 PM (2-0 Giants) with the wishful thought that the game might be in the late innings so I could persevere until the end (alas, it was only the sixth), I surrendered to common sense and went to bed.
I'm not totally averse to sports -- just sports on television, and particularly football, unless it's a rare appearance by my beloved Oakland Athletics, who as a West Coast stepchild sneak into a national broadcast only when their opponent is the Yankees or Red Sox. And full disclosure compels me to admit to camping out in my burgundy velvet La-Z-Boy for an occasional final round of a major golf tournament -- especially if Tiger Woods (pre- or post-sex scandal, it doesn't matter) is in contention.
Failing the television test, perhaps I should more accurately be characterized as a sports follower, since I faithfully track team won-lost records, peruse league standings, and study individual statistics and game box scores with the diligence of a detective dusting for fingerprints. I'll wager my locker-room expertise and cocktail party chatter against that of the most bloodshot-eyed tube addict.
When it comes to live spectator sports, my affection for baseball and distaste for football have been well-documented on this site. While I can readily appreciate the social, gastronomic, and intoxicative pleasures of tailgating (which I am ashamed to admit I have yet to experience, but which I have inferred is at least half of the latter's appeal -- especially if it's the UVA version), my suspicions were unequivocally confirmed last year when I broke a fifteen-year record of indifference and attended a Wake Forest-Navy game at Annapolis, Maryland (the ambulatory exploration of which made it all worthwhile).
Seated ten rows back on the twenty-yard line, I could see nothing beyond a mass of black, blue, and gold jerseys metamorphosing like a giant amoeba -- except for brief intervals when it actually flowed in my direction -- a tedious exercise from which my companions and I were gratefully excused when shortly after halftime a torrential downpour dispatched us to the warmth and dryness of our hotel rooms. The highlight of this adventure was a heart-thumping flyover by the Blue Angels just before kickoff.
On the other hand, I will range far and wide to attend a major league baseball game -- especially if those distant A's are within striking distance (such as Baltimore, although this year I flew to Toronto); recently, with one son staked out in Washington, D.C., and a daughter formerly in Philadelphia, the Nationals and the Phillies have been deemed worthy of support.
My initial sighting of the placid, pristine, pastoral field of dreams never fails to elicit paroxysms of rapture. Stretching from home plate between two intersecting white-chalked boundaries, past an slightly-elevated pitcher's mound, through the exquisitely-manicured two-tone diamond, into the luxuriantly-carpeted parabolic outfield, it patiently waits its nine defenders -- ordinary human beings, neither towering oddities nor thickset behemoths enshrouded in protective armor -- who, after a stirring rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner," spring from their dugout and sprint to their assigned positions.
In an instant their languorous but expectant solitude is shattered by the pitch, the swing, and the crack of the bat, launching them in a sudden burst of energy to chase, capture, and release the ball, either to erase the runner or concede one, two, three, or four bases to his skill, or luck.
The beauty of this quiet game is revealed in one's panoramic perspective of the field -- and action -- even when, from a remote vantage point, the pitcher and batter are reduced to miniature combatants. Sadly, this vista is not easily translated to the small (or big) screen, and, while the viewer enjoys magnified renderings of players and plays in isolation -- every pitch, swing, catch, and throw -- the overall effect is diminished.
Conversely, football is a sport invented for television. Even for long passes down field, the total play -- the huddle, the break, the lining up, the few seconds of relevant movement (which add up to all of twelve minutes in a three-hour broadcast), the piling on, the sorting out -- fits the frame like a tailor-made suit fits Commissioner Roger Goodell, as does its subsequent ad nauseum dissection from multiple camera angles, which amplify with shocking clarity the object of this scrimmaging: controlled violence and vicious contact. With concussions and torn ligaments of increasing concern, why should anyone be surprised when a player suffers a career-threatening injury?
As for my own purpose, after that didactic digression, it is to conduct a Halloween experiment, to masquerade as a veritable sports fan, to watch uninterrupted, from start to finish, a World Series Baseball Game and the Fox NFL Game of the Week, the former on Saturday night, October 30th, and the latter the next afternoon. My ulterior motive, blatantly self-evident, is to provide an appetizing treat for my faithful followers.
One reason I choose Saturday's game -- besides not having been invited to any Halloween parties -- is its 7:00 PM start time, the earliest since 1987, which gives me a fighting chance of maintaining consciousness until the last out. After insisting for years that earlier start times meant lower ratings, especially on the West Coast, baseball and network officials agreed to this one in an attempt to woo younger (and some older) viewers.
Apparently they know what they are talking about. Sunday's rating of 6.7 will be the second-lowest in World Series broadcast history, and beat only the 6.1 reported for Game Three of the Phillies-Rays in 2008 -- which was delayed ninety-one minutes and didn't start until 10:00 PM in the East.
It doesn't help that this game (and Series) pits two perennial lightweights, the Texas Rangers and the San Francisco Giants, each of whom slew their respective Goliaths in their League Championships, the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies, teams with recognizable star power and a national fan base.
The proud Yankees -- boasting a $206 million payroll ($45 million more than the second-place Red Sox) and the four highest-priced players in the Majors (Rodriguez at $33 million, Sabathia at $24.3 million, Jeter at $22.6 million, and Texeira at $20.6 million) -- of whom I harbor not a deep-seated hatred but merely a queasy disgust rooted in their bottomless pocketbook and the slavish devotion of a besotted media -- failed to show up for the close-out game of their series with the Rangers and slunk meekly into the sunset after a 6-1 spanking.
On the other side of the ledger, the Phillies' fourth-ranking payroll and stable of number-one pitchers -- Halladay, Oswalt, and Hamels -- were equally embarrassed by the upstart Giants, who would prove to be, in their manager's own words, a ragtag team of destiny, clawing their way to a sixth-game 3-2 victory on the strength of an eighth-inning home run by the well-traveled Juan Uribe and seven shutout innings by a bullpen which included Cy Young starter Tim Lincecum.
Even with the favorites eliminated, there is no dearth of interesting story lines.
Before the season started, Rangers' manager Ron Washington -- whose Oakland A's pedigree entitles him to a healthy dose of respect -- admitted to cocaine use, which, while illegal, at least was not a steroid nor offensive enough to warrant a House of Representatives subpoena.
Center fielder and Most Valuable Player candidate Josh Hamilton was a former number one draft pick who injured his back in a car accident in 2001, was out of baseball for five years, and overcame a crippling drug and alcohol problem to resurrect his career.
Like dispersed mountain streams merging into the Rio Grande, the team's top three starting pitchers rendezvoused in Texas after following circuitous routes: Cliff Lee -- who sported a 7-0, 1.26 era, post-season record before his opening game shellacking -- from Cleveland via Philadelphia and Seattle; C. J. Wilson, from the Rangers' bullpen, where he labored for the past five seasons, saving 52 games; and Colby Lewis, from the Hiroshima Carp, where he led the Japanese Central League in strikeouts in 2008 and 2009.
Designated hitter Vladimir Guerrero was signed away from Division rival Los Angeles after a mediocre 2009, and responded splendidly by hitting 29 home runs and driving in 115.
Catcher Benjie Molina was obtained from none other than the Giants in a midseason trade, thus assuring him of a World Series ring and a share of the spoils, regardless of who wins.
The Giants have been carried this far on the youthful arms of their four homegrown starters -- Lincecum 26, Cain 26, Sanchez 27, and Bumgarner 21 -- who have held their opponents to three runs or less in five nail-biting one-run playoff wins. Although it has been inconsistent all year, an explosion of 11 and 9 runs in the first two games illustrated the versatility of a makeshift lineup compiled through a series improbably fortuitous or astonishingly astute moves by General Manager Brian Sabean (except for the wretched signing of Barry Zito, his highest-priced player, whose lackluster production earned him a postseason benching).
Center fielder Andres Torres, who at thirty-one had batted only ninety times in the Major Leagues and had spent the previous three seasons in the Minors, was signed in 2009 for $450,000 a year, and surprised the skeptics by sparkling in the lead off position.
The thirty-two-year-old Uribe took over third base when last year rookie sensation Pablo Sandoval put on thirty-five pounds.
Cody Ross, claimed off waivers from the Florida Marlins in order to keep him out of the clutches of Division opponent San Diego, blossomed into a postseason hitting phenom, blasting five home runs.
Closer Brian Wilson -- whose Mohawk haircut, black-dyed beard, indecipherable tattoos, lemon-yellow suit, orange shoes, zany interviews, intellectual profundity, and crossword puzzle and chess expertise have earned him cult status -- turned in the fearless and dominating performance that has garnered him a record 209 saves since 2008.
Twenty-three-year-old rookie Buster Posey hit for average and power immediately upon his May call up from the Minors and within weeks established himself as the team leader from the catcher position.
With the Giants up 2-0, Game Three is a must win for the Rangers.
Broadcasting this contest will be the experienced duo of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver. Officials have wisely dispensed with a superfluous third person in the booth -- as if he could ever get a word in among the endless spate of trivia and pitch-by-pitch commentary gushing from these inexhaustible fountains of knowledge. As they read from their teleprompters and computer screens, it's apparent that neither one -- especially McCarver -- ever met a fact or statistic he didn't like, or to which he would attach anything less than momentous implications.
Thus in the space of three hours on Halloween Eve, viewers are served up a smorgasbord of baseball treats.
The Giants' Jonathan Sanchez walked more batters, 96, than any other pitcher in the Major Leagues.
Pablo Sandoval is ambidextrous and learned to throw righthanded so he could play catcher.
Colby Lewis returned to the States in order to obtain health insurance for his wife, who suffers from a thyroid condition.
C. C. Sabathia (not playing tonight since he is a Yankee) has gone from preventing them in-season to promoting RBI off-season -- Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities, where, I assume, basketball has surpassed it as the sport of choice, offering a faster and more lucrative path to fame and fortune.
Bruce Bochy, Giants' manager, was a teammate of Rangers' owner Nolan Ryan on the 1980 Houston Astros.
The stars of the 1967 movie The Dirty Dozen -- one of Bochy's nicknames for his team -- were Lee Marvin, Jim Brown, Trini Lopez, and John Cassavetes (not to mention Ernest Borgnine and Charles Bronson).
The last American League team to win its first World Series Game at home -- the AT&T trivia question of the night, and one I expect few viewers know the answer to and hardly any care about -- was the Toronto Blue Jays in 1992, on a game-winning hit by the appropriately christened (my observation, not McCarver's) Candy Maldonado.
Forty-eight thousand beers and fifteen thousand hot dogs will be consumed during the game (that is, in the stadium). The hamburger was invented seventy miles away, in Athens, Texas (although McCarver fails to mention that New Haven, Conn., and Seymour, Wisc., dispute that claim, thus cautioning one not believe everything he hears on television).
Ian Kinsler, Rangers' second baseman and one of my favorite players (he's Jewish), possesses a "rare combination of speed and power" -- a McCarver cliche I'm not sure is accurate either in its description of Kinsler or its rarity among accomplished Major Leaguers.
McCarver mangles the name of Rangers' rookie relief pitcher -- who saved forty games this year -- calling him Neftali Perez instead of Neftali Feliz, an unhappy blunder he or Buck later tries to make amends for by lamely informing us that "Feliz" means "happy."
Also, according to McCarver, the largest World Series comeback by the Giants -- now trailing by four runs -- occurred in 1921, two years after World War I ended, a totally gratuitous piece of information, and incorrect to boot, since the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918.
Bruce Bochy has managed his baseball pieces like Bobby Fischer (or maybe his own Brian Wilson).
And the next tidbit I miss.
As I do the key hit of the game -- a three-run home run by Rangers' rookie first baseman Mitch Moreland in the second inning. Oh yes: my well-intentioned plan not to miss a minute of the broadcast and record every one for posterity is foiled when I am summoned to the dinner table by a lovely lady and her darling daughter, at whose home I am engaged in this earnest activity, perched on a stool in the kitchen, peering at an ancient ten-inch screen (at least it's color), assiduously taking notes.
That the meal -- salad, salmon, and broccoli -- is delightful is irrelevant to what I have always contended about a baseball game. While it often appears to move at a snail's pace, one cannot turn away for a moment, lest he miss a crucial play.
As best I can reconstruct it -- because the announcers are of little help (while churning out reams of useless information, they myopically assume a captive audience) -- Cruz doubled to lead off; Kinsler and Francoeur made outs; Molina walked; and then the ninth-batting Moreland "hit his first ever home run against a lefthanded pitcher."
The Rangers add another run in the fifth inning on a blast by Hamilton, this after Young hit into a double play, negating a leadoff single by Andrus. Since the Giants' two runs also cross the plate on solo shots -- one by the irrepressible Ross and the other by Torres -- I'm curious as to how many, if any, World Series games featured all their scoring via the home run -- the most significant fact about this otherwise tepid contest, yet the one that fails to surface amidst the plethora of detail regurgitated by our garrulous announcers.
Also noteworthy are four strikeouts by the atrocious Pat Burrell, a Tampa Bay castoff, somehow batting fifth for the Giants, who will ultimately go 0-13 in five Series games, striking out eleven times. His futility is surpassed, however, by the mystifying appearance of White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen, whose onfield expert analysis is entirely unintelligible.
Of course, this experiment would hardly be complete without a conscientious examination of all the commercials that make it possible, and so I duly suffer through an endless succession of thirty-second sound bites, slogans, sales pitches, claims, offers, and promises -- a genuine revelation for this infrequent viewer and relentless surfer.
I learn that "it's time for a phone to save us from our phone," which is supposed to be the Windows phone, but could just as easily be the Sprint phone, or the HTC power phone, or the Blackberry Torch, or the EVO-4G phone, or the I-phone-4; that as a Visa credit card holder, I may win a trip to the Super Bowl for the rest of my life (oh boy); that Abbott Laboratories may have the cure for Low T (low testosterone, which may be responsible for low you-know-what); that, while the Ford Mustang, with 305 hp at $305 per month, is the "biggest, baddest car on the road . . . when the big dog moves in, what more does one need than a dog and a Chevy"; that one in four will experience "the simple joy of winning" by playing Monopoly at McDonald's and splitting $200,000,000; that Megamind soars, Due Date is the funniest film of 2010, someone is out to kill Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows Part I, and Unstoppable is, well, unwatchable; and, finally, that one television show not to be missed is the Fox NFL Game of the Week, when Randy Moss, now a Minnesota Viking, returns to New England to take on the Patriots.
Which I am eagerly anticipating as a serious sports fan. Which one doesn't have to be to appreciate the intrigue. If there were any regular season NFL game I might be enticed to watch, this would be the one.
Because while Central Virginia is predominantly Redskin territory, my sympathies gravitate toward the Patriots, a perverse choice for an habitual advocate of the underdog. It goes back to 2001, when the Patriots shocked the world by getting to the Super Bowl and unheralded Tom Brady, in his first season as quarterback, engineered a final minute upset of the powerful Rams.
I confess a grudging admiration for the tight-lipped, stoic Bill Belichick -- in spite of his alleged cheating several years ago -- and his focused, disciplined management style, which has propelled his team to nine consecutive winning records and seven playoff appearances, and enabled him to reinvent himself routinely whenever it became necessary to discard aged, expensive, or troublesome players. I rooted in vain for the Patriots to complete their undefeated season in 2007, not only to vindicate Belichick but also to silence forever those obnoxious 1972 Miami Dolphins.
Lining up against Belichick and Brady are a team and a quarterback in turmoil. If the tiresome Bret Favre -- whose annual retirement melodrama is an embarrassment to the League and his team, but a boon to a ravenous media -- weren't exposed enough, his juvenile flirtation with former Jets sideline reporter Jenn Sterger and his recurrent injury problems have intensified the scrutiny. Suffice it to say that I count myself among a host of disinterested observers who believe Favre's indisputable legacy as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time would have been better served by a graceful ride into the sunset several years ago -- in spite of his resilient ability to amaze with occasional flashes of brilliance.
And so at 4:15 I settle comfortably into my La-Z-Boy, press the power button on my remote control, and await the kickoff to this week's Clash of the Titans -- when what should I behold but a Washington Redskins-Detroit Lions game still in progress, and an egregious demonstration of all that's wrong with football on television. Because the last 2:30 of this game take one-third of an hour to play.
With Detroit leading 28-25, viewers are subjected to two Washington time-outs and the proverbial two-minute warning -- which serves no purpose other to allow more sponsors to identify themselves -- before the Lions kick a field goal. Once again the clock stops.
After the ensuing kickoff -- and more commercials -- Redskins' coach Mike Shanahan makes the controversial move of substituting backup quarterback Rex Grossman for the ineffective and immobile (or so we are later informed) Donovan McNabb. On his first play from scrimmage, Grossman is sacked and fumbles; rookie defensive tackle Ndamukong Suh picks up the ball and rumbles for a Lion touchdown.
The game is essentially over, but apparently some esoteric contractual obligations require Fox to keep broadcasting it. The Lions take a time-out to prepare a totally unnecessary two-point conversion pass play, which is successful, following an interminable review by the officials.
The announcers toss out the gleeful tease that America's Game of the Week is coming up next -- but only after the agonizing final sixty ticks of the clock. By the time the Redskins' rout is complete, I've missed twelve minutes of the Vikings-Patriots -- but not to worry; there's been no scoring.
Favre is playing -- an uncertainty up until game time. Trying to fill in the blanks for millions of latecomers like me, Thom Brennaman and Troy Aikman report that Vikings' running back Adrian Peterson has already rushed for 54 yards on eight carries. Within minutes he finishes off a "heck of a drive" by leaping into the end zone, barely breaking the plane of the goal line. Play is stopped for a challenge, which, after ten replays from five camera angles, seems to Aikman "a good challenge," until the ruling on the field stands, at which point he corrects himself: "Maybe it wasn't such a good challenge."
New England answers with a drive of its own, highlighted by a long pass that goes right through the defender's hands (Madieu Williams) to Brandon Tate; the catch is upheld after a challenge and four commercials. Two plays later, shoehorned between a time-out and eight commercials, the diminutive (5'9") Danny Woodhead takes a direct snap and darts three yards up the middle for a touchdown.
Favre is playing well; at 7:30 in the second quarter, he's 7 of 8 for 74 yards, although none have been completed to Randy Moss. In an obvious reference to Favre's gambling reputation, Aikman quotes Vikings' coach Brad Childress: "There's nothing wrong with punting more often" -- as opposed to throwing interceptions.
After Brady misses a wide-open Dion Branch and rookie punter Zoltan Mesko booms a 55-yarder, Farvre takes over again. Completing two passes to Percy Harvin, one of which is his 10,000th career attempt, he moves the Vikings to a fourth-and-goal at the one-yard line. Aikman "doesn't disagree" with Childress's decision to "go for it," but in a slow-developing play Peterson -- "who hasn't been racking up yards like he did in the first quarter" -- is dropped for a loss.
I'm looking forward to seeing how many words, scores, and statistics the Fox NFL Sunday team of Curt (Menefee), Terry (Bradshaw), Howie (Long) and Jimmy (Johnson) can squeeze in between commercials during halftime -- when once again I'm summoned to another dinner engagement. It's been a rather uneventful game -- only two scores so far -- so I'm not all that concerned about lingering a little too long (after all, one can't just eat and run).
Alas, when I resume the position at 6:43 of the third quarter, the score is 14-10, Patriots. I've missed Randy Moss's first (and only) catch of the day, a Minnesota field goal, and the game's biggest play -- a Brady 65-yard touchdown pass to Brandon Tate. Oh well; that's football. Turn away for a moment and . . .
On fourth-and-one at the fifty-yard line, Childress, apparently intimidated by his last failure, chooses to punt. I don't agree with Aikman's assessment: "No question you punt." The Vikings trail; they have a greater than fifty per cent probability of success; and it shows no confidence in his defense (or offense).
After three-and-outs by both teams, Favre's good day -- he's 17-23 for 194 yards -- is spoiled when New England rookie Devin McCourty grabs the ball out of Percy Harvin's hands for an interception. Spearheading a surprisingly effective running game, BenJarvus Green-Ellis, the man with four proper names, dashes thirteen yards for a Patriot touchdown. On their next possession, another obscure Belichick rookie find, Aaron Hernandez, who leads the team in receiving yards and yards per catch, makes two receptions.
But the old man's not done yet. Favre rolls out and completes a perfectly thrown pass to Harvin for a 30-yard gain. Aikman's commentary during this drive is insightful and enlightening. On a Bernard Berrian incompletion: "That's a play he's got to make." On coverage of Randy Moss: "I've never seen a safety play that deep in the NFL in fifteen years." On Adrian Peterson's not running of bounds after a catch: "I'm curious to see how many years he'll play." On Favre's intentional grounding: "You don't lose anything; he would have been sacked." On Brandon Meriweather's pass interference against Moss at the eight-yard line: "It would have been a touchdown."
Three plays later, in a bone-jarring tackle, Myron Pryor manages to get his helmet underneath Favre's face mask, breaking open his jaw in a blow that would require eight stitches. Favre is carted off the field "in tremendous pain" -- apparently its severity has been relayed from the field to the announcers in the booth -- another brutal sacrifice to the insatiable Gods of Football. Isn't this what we all watch for? Aren't hits and injuries like this "just part of the game?"
Even Favre haters have to be a little unsettled. After all, Brennaman reminds us, "People can say what they want about his coming out of retirement, but you're looking at a forty-one-year-old man playing a game with the biggest, strongest, fastest athletes in the world who are trying to hit him on every play."
Tavaris Jackson replaces Favre and completes a one-yard touchdown pass (interference was called on the Favre knockout) and a two-point conversion, closing the deficit to 21-18 Patriots, with seven minutes left, plenty of time (how well I know).
New England won't be denied today, however. Their running game is cranked up, and Green-Ellis is, well, unstoppable, biting off big chunks of yardage -- 14, 9, 5, 8, and 26, the last just after Brennaman tallies him at 84 in 15 carries -- before somersaulting into the end zone, maybe. Another excruciating review enables us to revel in the acrobatics six times before confirming the touchdown.
In the last desperate two minutes, which are mercifully shown without interruption, Jackson's best play is a 30-yard scramble.
That doesn't mean I haven't seen plenty of commercials during this broadcast -- most at least refreshingly different from those of the previous night. If I thought I had learned anything about smart phones, how wrong I was. The AT&T Torch makes broadband more affordable, and with it, "any moment could be the moment." The Droid can be its own security. The EVO-4G streams live video from the web. The I-phone-4 features the amazing retina display. (Does that mean I don't have to wear my glasses?)
Moving on to products closer to my level of sophistication, I learn that Toyota has total roadside assistance and great deals this month, especially at Danville Toyota; that Applebee's has one appetizer and two entrees for $2o; that Denny's has a nineteen-ingredient omelette for $4.99; that Lowe's valspar paint has hi-def color; that an ad for vloric includes more disclaimers than benefits; that Direct TV has new movies one month before Netflix; that Southwest is your low-cost airline (the best commercial I saw in two days); and that, inevitably, two days before the election, Tom Perriello, with his votes on health care and the energy tax, was Their Congressman, not Yours, but that all those hits he's been taking, like a punching bag, or a valiant Bret Favre, have been for You.
And with that, it's over -- six hours on the couch (actually, on the stool and the La-Z-Boy): four hours of sports programming, two hours of commercials (according to most estimates), and two rather uninspiring exhibitions. And as much as I hate to admit it, the football game had more action, more suspense, more excitement -- but not much more.
But in the final analysis, I believe the best way to enjoy a sporting event is to dial in periodically to the live play-by-play and statistical record on the Internet while reading a book and then catch all the highlights on Sports Center the next morning. Because I'll never watch another one start to finish -- until the next Game of the Century comes along.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Rush Week
In August 1965 the protagonist of this poignant morality tale arrived on the campus of Washington and Lee University with high hopes, buoyant optimism, and undaunted resolve, despite having been rejected by four other notable institutions -- Princeton, Yale, Amherst, and Williams -- which, had he been more attuned to mystical foreshadowing, should have alerted him as to what was shortly to transpire.
Indeed had it not been for the legacy of his father, a 1941 graduate, he might have received a similar pink slip from Washington and Lee, although he doubts it, since back then even its stellar reputation placed it in a second tier of schools just below those in the Ivy League.
To add insult to injury, a close friend, in his humble opinion no more qualified than he, was accepted at Williams.
It certainly wasn't his grades that betrayed him. For eleven years -- not the mandated twelve, his precocity having enabled him to leapfrog the fifth -- he logged report cards rarely blemished with even a "B," except in the one subject in which intelligence accounted for naught: Phys Ed.
Blessed with a beautiful mind, enamored of the written word, motivated by some compulsive gene to excel in all matters academic, he was a model student, promptly completing all homework assignments, producing exhaustively researched and lengthy term papers, and efficiently regurgitating textbook material and classroom lectures on demand -- en route to graduating fifth in a class of four hundred at E. C. Glass High School and posting a 1300 score on his College Boards.
Apparently brainpower wasn't enough. Although his mother maintains to this day that it was a Jewish quota system that denied him the Ivy League, an equally plausible explanation is that, with thousands of scholarly applicants storming their gates, maybe he just wasn't the well-rounded type of student these schools had the luxury of selecting.
Athletic competence was, and always would be, a challenge and an embarrassment to him, as evidenced early in elementary school by his relegation to the bottom of the order in the simple exercise of kickball. Not only did he lack the speed, strength, and coordination to perform respectably at the conventional sports of that era -- football, baseball, and basketball -- he could never summon the competitive spirit or the consistent determination which were prerequisites for success on the field or court and which could often compensate for one's physical shortcomings.
Then, as now I assume, athletics were a socialization mechanism for adolescent males -- engendering camaraderie, promoting teamwork, building self-esteem, ensuring one's acceptance into at least one admired elite, and, an ancillary benefit, garnering the attention of a bevy of rapidly maturing females.
But I'm not sure even a letter sweater would have helped the introverted, cerebral, distracted youth soaring through high school on the wings of his intellect yet shackled by the manacles of social insecurity. Aside from lackluster sightings on the Debate Team, the Latin Club, and the Literary Magazine (proof of the latter two having recently been emailed to him from a pair of nostalgic classmates), he wasn't much of a joiner, nor a thespian (mustering enough courage to try out for the Senior Play, he was the only one of eleven males not to get a part), nor a musician (unable to carry a tune, he was admonished by his seventh grade teacher not to sing so loudly). When school was out, he was content to retreat to the solitude of his room for reading and study.
Oh, he had a coterie of close friends -- all males, although he pined for wet kisses and the tender touch of a soft hand -- with whom he spent his weekends -- mastering bridge or board games, watching westerns and an occasional ball game, playing ping-pong, chugging a few illicit beers. As for parties, dates, dances -- even the High School Prom -- he doesn't remember too much of them, always too shy to ask out one of the handful of girls who deigned to cast a friendly glance or encouraging word his way.
He heard whispers of one beauty he fancied himself madly in love with -- a cheerleader, no less -- going steady with a stalwart of the football team, two classes above her, inciting him to silent jealousy, of passionate encounters at drive-in movies and remote parking places, of wild parties to which everyone except him and his friends had been invited. But his feeble attempts to ingratiate himself with those whom he identified as icons of popularity were met with cool indifference, and left him circling the perimeter of an invisible fence, banished to the fringes of inclusiveness.
His matriculation at Washington and Lee presented him the unique opportunity to reinvent himself. Here was a clean slate, a fresh environment, a host of new, well-scrubbed faces, including his own, all his soiled baggage left behind. And he knew exactly what he wanted.
In 1965, the social life at Washington and Lee revolved around the fraternity system. Ninety per cent of the student body were Greeks, and those who weren't -- either by choice or by lack of invitation -- were condemned to social purgatory and saddled with the ignominious label "nufus" -- non-fraternity undesirables.
There was still one active all-Jewish fraternity, Zeta Beta Tau, and, although a few others were beginning to open their doors to Jewish students, it was usually their first choice and home to most of the approximately eighty Jews on campus. ZBT had a reputation for academic superiority, student leadership (The president of the student body that year was a ZBT.), intramural excellence, pretty girls, and frenzied weekends.
Much further down the social pecking order was Phi Epsilon Pi, a formerly all-Jewish fraternity, known as Phi Ep back in the days when our eager freshman's father had been a proud member, but now bearing the rather chick-like sobriquet "the Peep House," a disparaging description of its members, who, having been rejected by most, if not all, of the other sixteen Greek houses -- because of their homely appearance, inelegant attire, boorish conversation, and awkward mannerisms -- were grateful to find themselves welcome among a cadre of similar outcasts.
This is an exaggeration, but it makes the point. There were some "Peeps" no doubt who chose to affiliate because they liked the fellows they met.
Just a few years prior to 1965, as more and more Jewish students pledged ZBT, Phi Epsilon Pi -- which, ironically, occupied one of the newest houses in town (none were actually located on campus) -- had been on the verge of extinction. It had been resurrected by the heroic efforts of half a dozen brothers, who had made the courageous decision (at that time) to open it to non-Jewish students, and then to offer membership to just about any freshman who managed to find his way to the front door during Rush Week.
Back in 1965 Washington and Lee conducted a peculiar (at least by contemporary mores) orientation program: Freshman Camp. Whether this four-day festival was held on campus or at a scenic remote site like Natural Bridge is irrelevant. All our protagonist remembers is that, having unearthed the college's social hierarchy, he is anxious to join ZBT; he assumes most of his Jewish compatriots harbor the same objective; and that it behooves him to identify and befriend as many of them as possible. Which he does, making the Camp sojourn worthwhile. After all, they are his presumptive fraternity brothers, with whom he will live, study, and play for the next four years.
Not only that, as fate would have it, once he and his classmates take up permanent residence in the historic Freshman Dorm, the three-story, u-shaped, gray stone edifice surrounding the Quad gathering place, he immediately falls under the spell of a chubby, red-haired, freckle-faced preppie, S. A., who regularly holds court in his smoke-filled room just down the hall, regaling him and other acolytes with an endless repertoire of bawdy jokes, grandiose adventures, female conquests, and athletic exploits, and captivating him with his effusive charm, brash self-confidence, and elusive sophistication.
And of course S. A.'s Jewish and destined to pledge ZBT. But he's not sure that his gawky classmate will survive the fraternity screening process, and undertakes a personal mission to help him become more "cool."
He doesn't have much time; the school year is barely under way when the curious phenomenon known as Rush Week descends upon the campus.
One can hardly conceive of a system more irrational, yet at the same time one more perversely effective. Here are four hundred young men, from all parts of the country -- although most were from the South -- from various socioeconomic backgrounds -- although most were financially comfortable, some even wealthy -- and with diverse educational experiences -- although all had to have met high academic standards -- thrown together in a novel environment and trying to acclimate themselves to the rigors of a college schedule, who, within days, must make a momentous decision as to who will be their closest companions for the next four years -- or have it made for them by fifty upperclassmen whose only qualification is their own veteran status.
On the other hand, Rush Week is certainly an appropriate appellation. During the course of six frantic days, through word of mouth or the recommendation of his new friends or acquaintances, one chooses from a list of fifteen or sixteen indistinguishable Greek-lettered institutions eight or ten to visit, his dance card of potential suitors, so to speak.
Have the current members of these houses researched the resumes of their prospective brothers in order to determine whom they will court the most vigorously and send the flashiest car to pick up? Who knows? At any rate, a "hard rush" -- or sales job -- is foisted upon the young men who have been anointed "studs" by some fraternal deity. And, no doubt, with all the drinking, glad-handing, backslapping, and false jocularity -- not unlike a heated political campaign -- the "rush" of a psychological high is as intense as the one concurrently induced by alcohol (or chemicals).
Those possessing the undeniable handsomeness which the coeds of neighboring colleges will swoon over, or the burnished athletic credentials of high school stardom, or the practiced savoir faire of a S. A. will find their dance cards overflowing and their decisions increasingly difficult. As the week winds down, they are still evaluating each suitor's pros and cons, holding closed door sessions with others in the same luxurious predicament, or lingering in the Quad waiting for yet another "Rush" date."
When all is said and done, they sort out as neatly as a stacked deck of cards divided into Aces, Kings, Queens, Jacks, and on down to the lowly deuces.
No such quandary confronts our earnest protagonist. His choice is clear -- ZBT, where his long-repressed social facility will germinate and his college career flourish among friends and mentors. He even has an "in." A prominent member of ZBT's sophomore class is the nephew of a friend of his father, an old Phi Ep fraternity brother, ironically enough. Driving a Corvette, this fellow picks him up at the Dorm for his first date.
After forty-five years he remembers what he was wearing that night when he "rushed" ZBT, the traditional garb of a Washington and Lee gentleman: yellow shirt, gray slacks, blue blazer, and hideous paisley tie.
He also remembers what he drank: too much beer. But, isn't that what one was supposed to do at these fraternity parties? And he's quite confident about the outcome of the whole affair, seeing it really as a fait accompli; after all, he's made friends with the other Jewish students, he has that inside connection, and he's an excellent student, which will help ZBT in its quest to maintain the highest fraternity grade average on campus. He believes a little alcohol, just a little, will fortify him, make the conversation flow, enhance his sociability.
When it's all over, it's a blur, no clearer then than it is now. Whisked to the fraternity house, our ingenue is led to a large, brightly-lit room, usually the basement, crammed with blue blazers, jacketless ties, rolled-up shirt sleeves, a uniformity interrupted by an occasional sweater-skirted female (no slacks or jeans back then). While the beer flows freely and the room buzzes with the noise of mindless chatter, he is welcomed with enthusiasm, both feigned and genuine, depending on the place, and passed like a dollar bill from one brother to another so he can be assessed and evaluated -- his appearance, his demeanor, his poise, his fluency, his charm -- while out of the corner of his eye he sees important fellows retreating to back rooms for secret consultations.
He's having a grand time. Everyone at the ZBT House is warm, friendly, glad to see him, eager that he meet as many brothers as possible. He likes them; he has a lot in common with them; he will be a perfect fit here. Exhibiting an uncharacteristic audacity, he spots the President of the Student Body, also a varsity basketball player, across the crowded room, and makes his way there to introduce himself. Whether appropriate or not, it seems to work. He believes he has made a good impression.
As for the other fraternities he visits -- if one can call it that, as he is shunted through revolving doors of confusing sights, cacophonous sounds, and transparent posturings -- their gatekeepers determine rather quickly, after a smile and a handshake, that, like those Ivy League schools, he's just not their type. Only two others demonstrate serious interest: his legacy, Phi Epsilon Pi, and another, to remain unnamed, which also is content to stock itself with pledges who have been turned away by the more prestigious houses.
He's not worried. He's been invited back for another "rush date" at ZBT two nights later. He compares notes with his Jewish friends; a few have already been extended membership "bids."
That second date is staked out in his memory like a recurring nightmare. This time, he is consigned to the care of an uncouth, bespectacled, bookish fellow (resembling himself, perhaps), not your typical ZBT, obviously, who has been charged with the task of keeping him occupied, of running interference between him and the other brothers, who are busy "rushing" all his friends, even taking them into those back rooms, where they are offering them bids to join. But he, alas, like a dog on a leash, is not permitted to stray far from his master.
One is either asked back to a fraternity, or not, which means he has been "blackballed" -- by one, two, three, or however few members are permitted by its by-laws to determine whether he is suited to be one of them. And thus the sledgehammer drops on our slightly befuddled but still expectant "rush" prospect when, returned to the Dorm by his annoying escort, he is summarily dismissed with the chilling valediction, "We'll see you around" -- but not, obviously, at the ZBT house.
Is this how Rush Week ends, with a whimper, a consummation heretofore inconceivable, now so devastating, so heartbreaking, so desensitizing? All his high hopes for four years of joyous camaraderie, gorgeous women, social preeminence, crushed like empty beer cans; all his budding friendships tossed aside like wilted flowers.
Where did he go wrong, he asks himself, and his sympathetic confidante, S. A., already a gleeful ZBT pledge -- a question for which there is no answer, other than the painful truth: "Haven't you figured it out yet? You're just not 'cool' enough to be a ZBT?" If only he could turn the clock back a few days, and be given a second chance to make a better first impression.
What little self-confidence he had is decimated. Unable to suppress the tears, he calls his father, the most socially adept person he knows; though supportive, he's powerless, beyond making a futile plea to his Phi Ep fraternity brother. He knows his son well; maybe he's not all that surprised.
"It's not the end of the world," he says. But it is, really.
Social elitism is a fact of life, although its causal factors, manifestations, and impact on an individual evolve as one passes through stages in his life. Young people can be mercilessly cliquish, basing their acceptance of peers on gross superficiality -- appearance, athletic proficiency, prowess with the opposite sex. Not only do adults become more tolerant of personality differences in general and idiosyncrasies in particular; one's success in business and professional life has a natural leveling effect, earning him the respect, even the admiration, of those who formerly would have regarded him of lesser status. Of course, people still choose their friends on commonalities of interest and lifestyle.
For our ostracized Washington and Lee freshman, that mature paradigm lies in a distant future. For the moment, he is so emotionally distraught that he cannot envision a comfortable four-year tenure and contemplates a transfer -- not an immediate option, unless he tucks his tail between his legs and flees home, but one which will require him to struggle through at least the next nine months.
Some of his ZBT friends hold out a carrot; they will try to find out who "blackballed" and why and lobby to secure a bid for him before the year is out -- a long shot at best.
One ironic moral to this pathetic allegory is immediately evident; the other emerges slowly over time.
First, wasn't our naive protagonist guilty of the same prejudices that shattered his dreams? If he aspired to ZBT as the pinnacle of social approbation, wasn't he, in effect, scorning those of his peers who, for whatever reason, could not meet its standards? And now, having been rebuffed and desperate for some measure of normalcy, he is compelled to swallow his pride and join those whom he had a week ago patronized -- Phi Epsilon Pi, the "Peep House," where he is gradually enlightened.
A number of his Phi Epsilon Pi fraternity brothers, it turns out, are not there by default. No, they have chosen to pledge there, spurning other offers, because during Rush Week they met upperclassmen and fellow freshmen for whom they felt an affinity, with whom they believed they could forge enduring bonds. While by no means as selective as the other houses, that year, 1965, Phi Epsilon Pi inducts one of the Greek Council's largest pledge classes.
And from that group, with many of whom he lives, studies, parties, laughs, and cries for four years, come the closest friendships he will form in his sixty-two years, making his college career -- despite, true to form, his spending many long hours in the Library, his head buried in the stacks -- one of the happiest periods of his life.
Five in particular stand out:
R. M., the Cat, tall, slender, black-haired, with the sly grin and sleek, silent grace of his feline namesake and the silver Avanti he loved to accelerate through the streets of Lexington, whose subtle wit never failed him as he churned out one stinging nickname after another, found humor in every aspect of the college routine, and charmed the ladies with effortless banter;
T. N., the Incredible Hulk, whose speed afoot, innate athleticism, and keyboard dexterity (he could pound out any tune by ear on the house piano) belied his solid girth; whose jovial smile and twinkling eyes occasionally succumbed to flashes of temper; and who reveled in the Tampa cigars his father manufactured and the antique cars he collected, although his own GTO was of the most recent vintage;
W. F., Troy, so named for his striking resemblance to the blue-eyed, blond-haired beach idol, Troy Donahue, more an aficionado of beer brands, willowy brunettes, soul music, and loud motorcycles than college textbooks, yet who somehow managed to muddle through on the strength of sociology and history courses;
A. L., Aloo, big, gullible, blundering, cursed with a too-easily-mocked nasal New Jersey accent, the butt of too many cruel pranks because, on scholarship, he studied feverishly to maintain his grades, earn his business degree, and validate the faith of his adored, and adoring, mother;
And, finally, B. F., the Bee, a nickname he despised, because of the raspy buzz and resounding swat his approach habitually elicited, but one which was somehow reflective of his curly hair, which his finger was always twirling, his slightly-cocked head, his wandering eye, and his peculiar gait, a fellow English major and post-graduate European traveling companion, too much of a good thing, apparently, since he never surfaced again.
Were any of them blackballed? Who knows? But if they were, it was a blessing.
Indeed had it not been for the legacy of his father, a 1941 graduate, he might have received a similar pink slip from Washington and Lee, although he doubts it, since back then even its stellar reputation placed it in a second tier of schools just below those in the Ivy League.
To add insult to injury, a close friend, in his humble opinion no more qualified than he, was accepted at Williams.
It certainly wasn't his grades that betrayed him. For eleven years -- not the mandated twelve, his precocity having enabled him to leapfrog the fifth -- he logged report cards rarely blemished with even a "B," except in the one subject in which intelligence accounted for naught: Phys Ed.
Blessed with a beautiful mind, enamored of the written word, motivated by some compulsive gene to excel in all matters academic, he was a model student, promptly completing all homework assignments, producing exhaustively researched and lengthy term papers, and efficiently regurgitating textbook material and classroom lectures on demand -- en route to graduating fifth in a class of four hundred at E. C. Glass High School and posting a 1300 score on his College Boards.
Apparently brainpower wasn't enough. Although his mother maintains to this day that it was a Jewish quota system that denied him the Ivy League, an equally plausible explanation is that, with thousands of scholarly applicants storming their gates, maybe he just wasn't the well-rounded type of student these schools had the luxury of selecting.
Athletic competence was, and always would be, a challenge and an embarrassment to him, as evidenced early in elementary school by his relegation to the bottom of the order in the simple exercise of kickball. Not only did he lack the speed, strength, and coordination to perform respectably at the conventional sports of that era -- football, baseball, and basketball -- he could never summon the competitive spirit or the consistent determination which were prerequisites for success on the field or court and which could often compensate for one's physical shortcomings.
Then, as now I assume, athletics were a socialization mechanism for adolescent males -- engendering camaraderie, promoting teamwork, building self-esteem, ensuring one's acceptance into at least one admired elite, and, an ancillary benefit, garnering the attention of a bevy of rapidly maturing females.
But I'm not sure even a letter sweater would have helped the introverted, cerebral, distracted youth soaring through high school on the wings of his intellect yet shackled by the manacles of social insecurity. Aside from lackluster sightings on the Debate Team, the Latin Club, and the Literary Magazine (proof of the latter two having recently been emailed to him from a pair of nostalgic classmates), he wasn't much of a joiner, nor a thespian (mustering enough courage to try out for the Senior Play, he was the only one of eleven males not to get a part), nor a musician (unable to carry a tune, he was admonished by his seventh grade teacher not to sing so loudly). When school was out, he was content to retreat to the solitude of his room for reading and study.
Oh, he had a coterie of close friends -- all males, although he pined for wet kisses and the tender touch of a soft hand -- with whom he spent his weekends -- mastering bridge or board games, watching westerns and an occasional ball game, playing ping-pong, chugging a few illicit beers. As for parties, dates, dances -- even the High School Prom -- he doesn't remember too much of them, always too shy to ask out one of the handful of girls who deigned to cast a friendly glance or encouraging word his way.
He heard whispers of one beauty he fancied himself madly in love with -- a cheerleader, no less -- going steady with a stalwart of the football team, two classes above her, inciting him to silent jealousy, of passionate encounters at drive-in movies and remote parking places, of wild parties to which everyone except him and his friends had been invited. But his feeble attempts to ingratiate himself with those whom he identified as icons of popularity were met with cool indifference, and left him circling the perimeter of an invisible fence, banished to the fringes of inclusiveness.
His matriculation at Washington and Lee presented him the unique opportunity to reinvent himself. Here was a clean slate, a fresh environment, a host of new, well-scrubbed faces, including his own, all his soiled baggage left behind. And he knew exactly what he wanted.
In 1965, the social life at Washington and Lee revolved around the fraternity system. Ninety per cent of the student body were Greeks, and those who weren't -- either by choice or by lack of invitation -- were condemned to social purgatory and saddled with the ignominious label "nufus" -- non-fraternity undesirables.
There was still one active all-Jewish fraternity, Zeta Beta Tau, and, although a few others were beginning to open their doors to Jewish students, it was usually their first choice and home to most of the approximately eighty Jews on campus. ZBT had a reputation for academic superiority, student leadership (The president of the student body that year was a ZBT.), intramural excellence, pretty girls, and frenzied weekends.
Much further down the social pecking order was Phi Epsilon Pi, a formerly all-Jewish fraternity, known as Phi Ep back in the days when our eager freshman's father had been a proud member, but now bearing the rather chick-like sobriquet "the Peep House," a disparaging description of its members, who, having been rejected by most, if not all, of the other sixteen Greek houses -- because of their homely appearance, inelegant attire, boorish conversation, and awkward mannerisms -- were grateful to find themselves welcome among a cadre of similar outcasts.
This is an exaggeration, but it makes the point. There were some "Peeps" no doubt who chose to affiliate because they liked the fellows they met.
Just a few years prior to 1965, as more and more Jewish students pledged ZBT, Phi Epsilon Pi -- which, ironically, occupied one of the newest houses in town (none were actually located on campus) -- had been on the verge of extinction. It had been resurrected by the heroic efforts of half a dozen brothers, who had made the courageous decision (at that time) to open it to non-Jewish students, and then to offer membership to just about any freshman who managed to find his way to the front door during Rush Week.
Back in 1965 Washington and Lee conducted a peculiar (at least by contemporary mores) orientation program: Freshman Camp. Whether this four-day festival was held on campus or at a scenic remote site like Natural Bridge is irrelevant. All our protagonist remembers is that, having unearthed the college's social hierarchy, he is anxious to join ZBT; he assumes most of his Jewish compatriots harbor the same objective; and that it behooves him to identify and befriend as many of them as possible. Which he does, making the Camp sojourn worthwhile. After all, they are his presumptive fraternity brothers, with whom he will live, study, and play for the next four years.
Not only that, as fate would have it, once he and his classmates take up permanent residence in the historic Freshman Dorm, the three-story, u-shaped, gray stone edifice surrounding the Quad gathering place, he immediately falls under the spell of a chubby, red-haired, freckle-faced preppie, S. A., who regularly holds court in his smoke-filled room just down the hall, regaling him and other acolytes with an endless repertoire of bawdy jokes, grandiose adventures, female conquests, and athletic exploits, and captivating him with his effusive charm, brash self-confidence, and elusive sophistication.
And of course S. A.'s Jewish and destined to pledge ZBT. But he's not sure that his gawky classmate will survive the fraternity screening process, and undertakes a personal mission to help him become more "cool."
He doesn't have much time; the school year is barely under way when the curious phenomenon known as Rush Week descends upon the campus.
One can hardly conceive of a system more irrational, yet at the same time one more perversely effective. Here are four hundred young men, from all parts of the country -- although most were from the South -- from various socioeconomic backgrounds -- although most were financially comfortable, some even wealthy -- and with diverse educational experiences -- although all had to have met high academic standards -- thrown together in a novel environment and trying to acclimate themselves to the rigors of a college schedule, who, within days, must make a momentous decision as to who will be their closest companions for the next four years -- or have it made for them by fifty upperclassmen whose only qualification is their own veteran status.
On the other hand, Rush Week is certainly an appropriate appellation. During the course of six frantic days, through word of mouth or the recommendation of his new friends or acquaintances, one chooses from a list of fifteen or sixteen indistinguishable Greek-lettered institutions eight or ten to visit, his dance card of potential suitors, so to speak.
Have the current members of these houses researched the resumes of their prospective brothers in order to determine whom they will court the most vigorously and send the flashiest car to pick up? Who knows? At any rate, a "hard rush" -- or sales job -- is foisted upon the young men who have been anointed "studs" by some fraternal deity. And, no doubt, with all the drinking, glad-handing, backslapping, and false jocularity -- not unlike a heated political campaign -- the "rush" of a psychological high is as intense as the one concurrently induced by alcohol (or chemicals).
Those possessing the undeniable handsomeness which the coeds of neighboring colleges will swoon over, or the burnished athletic credentials of high school stardom, or the practiced savoir faire of a S. A. will find their dance cards overflowing and their decisions increasingly difficult. As the week winds down, they are still evaluating each suitor's pros and cons, holding closed door sessions with others in the same luxurious predicament, or lingering in the Quad waiting for yet another "Rush" date."
When all is said and done, they sort out as neatly as a stacked deck of cards divided into Aces, Kings, Queens, Jacks, and on down to the lowly deuces.
No such quandary confronts our earnest protagonist. His choice is clear -- ZBT, where his long-repressed social facility will germinate and his college career flourish among friends and mentors. He even has an "in." A prominent member of ZBT's sophomore class is the nephew of a friend of his father, an old Phi Ep fraternity brother, ironically enough. Driving a Corvette, this fellow picks him up at the Dorm for his first date.
After forty-five years he remembers what he was wearing that night when he "rushed" ZBT, the traditional garb of a Washington and Lee gentleman: yellow shirt, gray slacks, blue blazer, and hideous paisley tie.
He also remembers what he drank: too much beer. But, isn't that what one was supposed to do at these fraternity parties? And he's quite confident about the outcome of the whole affair, seeing it really as a fait accompli; after all, he's made friends with the other Jewish students, he has that inside connection, and he's an excellent student, which will help ZBT in its quest to maintain the highest fraternity grade average on campus. He believes a little alcohol, just a little, will fortify him, make the conversation flow, enhance his sociability.
When it's all over, it's a blur, no clearer then than it is now. Whisked to the fraternity house, our ingenue is led to a large, brightly-lit room, usually the basement, crammed with blue blazers, jacketless ties, rolled-up shirt sleeves, a uniformity interrupted by an occasional sweater-skirted female (no slacks or jeans back then). While the beer flows freely and the room buzzes with the noise of mindless chatter, he is welcomed with enthusiasm, both feigned and genuine, depending on the place, and passed like a dollar bill from one brother to another so he can be assessed and evaluated -- his appearance, his demeanor, his poise, his fluency, his charm -- while out of the corner of his eye he sees important fellows retreating to back rooms for secret consultations.
He's having a grand time. Everyone at the ZBT House is warm, friendly, glad to see him, eager that he meet as many brothers as possible. He likes them; he has a lot in common with them; he will be a perfect fit here. Exhibiting an uncharacteristic audacity, he spots the President of the Student Body, also a varsity basketball player, across the crowded room, and makes his way there to introduce himself. Whether appropriate or not, it seems to work. He believes he has made a good impression.
As for the other fraternities he visits -- if one can call it that, as he is shunted through revolving doors of confusing sights, cacophonous sounds, and transparent posturings -- their gatekeepers determine rather quickly, after a smile and a handshake, that, like those Ivy League schools, he's just not their type. Only two others demonstrate serious interest: his legacy, Phi Epsilon Pi, and another, to remain unnamed, which also is content to stock itself with pledges who have been turned away by the more prestigious houses.
He's not worried. He's been invited back for another "rush date" at ZBT two nights later. He compares notes with his Jewish friends; a few have already been extended membership "bids."
That second date is staked out in his memory like a recurring nightmare. This time, he is consigned to the care of an uncouth, bespectacled, bookish fellow (resembling himself, perhaps), not your typical ZBT, obviously, who has been charged with the task of keeping him occupied, of running interference between him and the other brothers, who are busy "rushing" all his friends, even taking them into those back rooms, where they are offering them bids to join. But he, alas, like a dog on a leash, is not permitted to stray far from his master.
One is either asked back to a fraternity, or not, which means he has been "blackballed" -- by one, two, three, or however few members are permitted by its by-laws to determine whether he is suited to be one of them. And thus the sledgehammer drops on our slightly befuddled but still expectant "rush" prospect when, returned to the Dorm by his annoying escort, he is summarily dismissed with the chilling valediction, "We'll see you around" -- but not, obviously, at the ZBT house.
Is this how Rush Week ends, with a whimper, a consummation heretofore inconceivable, now so devastating, so heartbreaking, so desensitizing? All his high hopes for four years of joyous camaraderie, gorgeous women, social preeminence, crushed like empty beer cans; all his budding friendships tossed aside like wilted flowers.
Where did he go wrong, he asks himself, and his sympathetic confidante, S. A., already a gleeful ZBT pledge -- a question for which there is no answer, other than the painful truth: "Haven't you figured it out yet? You're just not 'cool' enough to be a ZBT?" If only he could turn the clock back a few days, and be given a second chance to make a better first impression.
What little self-confidence he had is decimated. Unable to suppress the tears, he calls his father, the most socially adept person he knows; though supportive, he's powerless, beyond making a futile plea to his Phi Ep fraternity brother. He knows his son well; maybe he's not all that surprised.
"It's not the end of the world," he says. But it is, really.
Social elitism is a fact of life, although its causal factors, manifestations, and impact on an individual evolve as one passes through stages in his life. Young people can be mercilessly cliquish, basing their acceptance of peers on gross superficiality -- appearance, athletic proficiency, prowess with the opposite sex. Not only do adults become more tolerant of personality differences in general and idiosyncrasies in particular; one's success in business and professional life has a natural leveling effect, earning him the respect, even the admiration, of those who formerly would have regarded him of lesser status. Of course, people still choose their friends on commonalities of interest and lifestyle.
For our ostracized Washington and Lee freshman, that mature paradigm lies in a distant future. For the moment, he is so emotionally distraught that he cannot envision a comfortable four-year tenure and contemplates a transfer -- not an immediate option, unless he tucks his tail between his legs and flees home, but one which will require him to struggle through at least the next nine months.
Some of his ZBT friends hold out a carrot; they will try to find out who "blackballed" and why and lobby to secure a bid for him before the year is out -- a long shot at best.
One ironic moral to this pathetic allegory is immediately evident; the other emerges slowly over time.
First, wasn't our naive protagonist guilty of the same prejudices that shattered his dreams? If he aspired to ZBT as the pinnacle of social approbation, wasn't he, in effect, scorning those of his peers who, for whatever reason, could not meet its standards? And now, having been rebuffed and desperate for some measure of normalcy, he is compelled to swallow his pride and join those whom he had a week ago patronized -- Phi Epsilon Pi, the "Peep House," where he is gradually enlightened.
A number of his Phi Epsilon Pi fraternity brothers, it turns out, are not there by default. No, they have chosen to pledge there, spurning other offers, because during Rush Week they met upperclassmen and fellow freshmen for whom they felt an affinity, with whom they believed they could forge enduring bonds. While by no means as selective as the other houses, that year, 1965, Phi Epsilon Pi inducts one of the Greek Council's largest pledge classes.
And from that group, with many of whom he lives, studies, parties, laughs, and cries for four years, come the closest friendships he will form in his sixty-two years, making his college career -- despite, true to form, his spending many long hours in the Library, his head buried in the stacks -- one of the happiest periods of his life.
Five in particular stand out:
R. M., the Cat, tall, slender, black-haired, with the sly grin and sleek, silent grace of his feline namesake and the silver Avanti he loved to accelerate through the streets of Lexington, whose subtle wit never failed him as he churned out one stinging nickname after another, found humor in every aspect of the college routine, and charmed the ladies with effortless banter;
T. N., the Incredible Hulk, whose speed afoot, innate athleticism, and keyboard dexterity (he could pound out any tune by ear on the house piano) belied his solid girth; whose jovial smile and twinkling eyes occasionally succumbed to flashes of temper; and who reveled in the Tampa cigars his father manufactured and the antique cars he collected, although his own GTO was of the most recent vintage;
W. F., Troy, so named for his striking resemblance to the blue-eyed, blond-haired beach idol, Troy Donahue, more an aficionado of beer brands, willowy brunettes, soul music, and loud motorcycles than college textbooks, yet who somehow managed to muddle through on the strength of sociology and history courses;
A. L., Aloo, big, gullible, blundering, cursed with a too-easily-mocked nasal New Jersey accent, the butt of too many cruel pranks because, on scholarship, he studied feverishly to maintain his grades, earn his business degree, and validate the faith of his adored, and adoring, mother;
And, finally, B. F., the Bee, a nickname he despised, because of the raspy buzz and resounding swat his approach habitually elicited, but one which was somehow reflective of his curly hair, which his finger was always twirling, his slightly-cocked head, his wandering eye, and his peculiar gait, a fellow English major and post-graduate European traveling companion, too much of a good thing, apparently, since he never surfaced again.
Were any of them blackballed? Who knows? But if they were, it was a blessing.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Trollopeian Treat
Having recently digested such scholarly works as Collapse, Jared Diamond's hefty treatise on How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed, and American Creation, Joseph Ellis's briefer but more pleasantly enlightening analysis of the Triumphs and Tragedies of the Founding of the Republic -- thus giving the lie to my previously documented addiction to contemporary detective fiction -- I now offer for my readers' edification a commentary on one of the best-kept secrets in English literature, the Victorian novelist, Anthony Trollope.Ellen Moody observes that until recently Trollope commanded little respect from academics, and that, consequently, he is a writer whom readers often discover on their own, unlike required-reading literature course fixtures like Herman Melville, James Joyce, Jane Austen, George Eliot, and William Makepeace Thackeray.
And, in fact, in my four years as an English major at Washington and Lee University in the late sixties, the man's name never surfaced. I stumbled upon him by accident, browsing through another obscure book store, spying the eight-hundred page paperback version of The Way We Live Now hiding in the classics section, remembering the author's name from some subconscious encounter, buying it out of curiosity and an obsession to sample, at least once, all the immortals, watching it lie pristine and intimidating on my bookcase for months, and finally reading it, much to my delight. I shouldn't have been surprised; both Newsweek and the UK Observer rank it as one of the fifty best books of all time.
A scathing expose of social hypocrisy, callous greed, and financial chicanery, the plot of the novel revolves around Auguste Melmotte, a financier recently arrived in London, whose personal wealth and grandiose behavior win him immediate acceptance in high society, despite rumors of his nefarious origins. Among the avaricious aristocrats, ambitious politicians, and envious status seekers ensnared by his schemes are Lady Carbury, who earns the family bread by churning out fatuous potboilers, and her shiftless son Felix, whose gambling, drinking, and poor judgment will bring them both to the brink of ruin, but not before he sets his sights on the hand of Melmotte's daughter, Marie. Meanwhile, Felix's cousin Roger, a gentleman farmer, pursues his sister Henrietta, who prefers Paul Montague, a business associate of Melmotte, who himself is encumbered with an American widow rumored to have shot her husband. When Melmotte's credit collapses and a forgery fails to gain him possession of his daughter's trust fund, his devotees desert him, and he succumbs to a tragic fate.
If Melmotte -- whose empire was a house of cards built on confidence, audacity, and ostentation -- is a modern-day Madoff, the way they lived then is the way we live now; the title defines a Trollopeian universe which is timeless in its conceptualization and universal in its depiction of human nature. While the social mores of Victorian England may be different from ours -- particularly the peculiar rites of courtship -- the characters speak, act, and think, prosper and suffer, rejoice and repine, in ways that are startlingly contemporary. Granted, the pace is leisurely -- part of the beauty of these meandering tales -- but that is because the author takes time to explore every nuance of motivation. Even the most despicable villain emits a glimmer of morality; even the most admired angel is tainted by a blemish or two.
Writes Henry Denker in an introduction to the Alfred A. Knopf 1950 edition of Orley Farm, "What is it about Trollope that warrants our enthusiasm? The plots are neither engrossing nor thrilling." In his Autobiography, Trollope says "that he paid little attention to his plots and relied on his intimate acquaintance with his characters to insure their logical development of the story. Nothing very exciting happens. You can stop almost anywhere, and go on the next evening; but you always want more. The charm is in the vivid reality with which everyday doings are portrayed, in the wholesomeness of it all, and in the little incidental touches of Trollope's humor . . . The reason we like it is because it is obviously unpremeditated, utterly unaffected, usually unexpected; and is always good-humored, never bitter or spiteful."
In the January 1863 issue of National Review, a critic wrote, "More than a million people habitually read Mr. Trollope . . . because the personages in his stories correspond to something in themselves: the hopes, fears, and regrets, are such as they are accustomed to experience; the thoughtfulness is such they can appreciate; the standard of conduct just that to which they are prepared to submit." His stories reinforce the notion that the personal, moral, and emotional problems of day-to-day life are the same ones humans have pondered since the beginning of time, that they are not unique to any family, any culture, any generation.
The typical Trollope novel is at least six hundred pages long and contains three or more plotlines, one of which is always a love plot. Within the first one hundred pages, a young man and a young woman fall in love. But there is always something obstructing the consummation of their union. The woman may have chosen the wrong man first; the man may have a previous engagement; the man or woman may not have the proper parentage or breeding; the couple may have no money; one or both sets of parents may object. These problems are almost always resolved in happy endings.
Other plots involve such wide-ranging subjects as a perjury trial, the collapse of a marriage, bribery, ownership of a valuable necklace, a clergyman accused of theft, and British parliamentary shenanigans; they give Trollope the opportunity to plumb the thematic depths of religion, money, power, politics, woman's rights, and social and domestic philosophy. These plot endings are bittersweet, tragic, redemptive, conflicted.
After The Way We Live Now, I was hooked, and embarked on a crusade to tackle as many of Trollope's forty-eight novels as I could track down, at a comfortable pace of about two a year, starting with the best-known. To date, I have read sixteen, with two more lying in reserve; I actually own a copy of all eighteen, most of which I found hardbound buried in the used stacks at Givens Books, priced at less than $5.00.
In Can You Forgive Her? the first of the six Palliser novels dealing with 19th century British politics, Plantagenet and Glencora Palliser court and marry, Plantagenet launches his political career, and Alice Vavasor and Aunt Greenow must each choose between two suitors.
In Phineas Finn, the handsome, clever, ambitious Irishman becomes a member of Parliament, dallies with the rich and influential Lady Laura Standish but loses her to an unlikeable landowner, courts another heiress, Lady Violet Effingham, only to end up in a duel with her brother, refuses the hand and fortune of the widowed Mme. Max Goesler in favor of his hometown fiancee, and loses his Treasury appointment when the Irish question brings down his party.
In The Eustace Diamonds, Lizzie Greystock, a pathological liar refuses to relinquish the family heirloom to her deceased husband's estate, seeks a new husband among three respectable prospects, and fails to land any of them when the actual theft of the diamonds exposes her having falsely reported them stolen.
In Phineas Redux, young Finn, reelected to Parliament, survives a shooting attempt by the estranged husband of a woman he previously proposed to, is accused of murdering a disappointed politician with whom he quarreled, and is acquitted with the help of the seductive Mme. Goesler, whom he subsequently marries.
In The Prime Minister, Plantagenet Palliser assumes that title, Glencora and Mme. Goesler fulfill their social obligations, and Emily Wharton is swept off her feet by the dishonest share pusher, Ferdinand Lopez, who causes the Prime Minister a great deal of aggravation and comes to a violent end when his duplicity is exposed.
In The Duke's Children, Plantagenet Palliser, grief-stricken by the death of his wife, must deal with the imprudent love affair between his daughter and a penniless suitor, the betrayal of Mrs. Phineas Finn, who supports the daughter, his son's involvement with a shifty racing crook, and his increasing isolation in a world he had previously been accustomed to rule.
In The Warden, the first of The Barcetshire Chronicles, the gentle, beneficent clergyman, Rev. Septimus Harding is caught in a clash between his individual conscience and public sentiment, when a local reformer -- who is courting Harding's daughter -- denounces as church abuse the disparity between Harding's comfortable annual salary and the paltry allowance of the twelve almsmen living in his hospital, ultimately forcing Harding's resignation.
In Barchester Towers, Mrs. Proudie, the wife of the newly-appointed Bishop -- "a tyrant, a bully, a would-be priestess, a very vulgar woman" -- struggles for supremacy in the diocese with the chaplain, the hypocritical Obediah Slope, while the mysterious Madelina Neroni torments Mrs. Proudie with her wicked flirtatiousness and encourages Eleanor Bold, the widowed daughter of Rev. Harding, to rebuff marriage proposals from Slope and Bertie Stanhope, Madelina's spendthrift brother, and marry the brilliant clergyman, Frances Arabin.
In Doctor Thorne, Frank Gresham falls in love with the doctor's niece, Mary, much against the wishes of his mother, who wants him to marry for money, since the Gresham estate is heavily mortgaged to the ruthless millionaire -- and habitual drunk -- Sir Roger Scatcherd; Sir Roger's demise -- along with that of his son, also an alcoholic -- paves the way for the revelation of Mary's true parentage (she is Sir Roger's illegitimate niece), her inheritance of great wealth, and her marriage to Frank.
In Framley Parsonage, the new vicar, Mark Robarts, faces public humiliation when an unscrupulous Member of Parliament refuses to repay two notes Robarts has foolishly guaranteed, while his lower-class sister Lucy overcomes the objections of the snobbish Lady Lufton to marriage to her son by her tender ministrations to the long-suffering wife of the penurious curate, Josiah Crawley.
In The Small House at Arrington, Lily Bart, who lives with her widowed mother and sister rent-free on her uncle's property, spurns the the attentions of the young "hobbledehoy" Johnny Eames in favor of the caddish Augustus Crosbie, who jilts her and suffers a loveless marriage to the more respectable Lady Alexandrina de Courcy; Eames himself cruelly flirts with Amelia, whose mother runs a seedy boarding house.
In The Last Chronicle of Barset, the penniless Josiah Crawley is accused of stealing a cheque, and hardly knows whether he is guilty or not; his daughter Grace is courted by the son of the Archdeacon, who doesn't think she is worthy of him, in either social status or wealth; and Mrs. Proudie meets her match and her fate in a dramatic confrontation with Mr. Crawley and Dr. Tempest.
In He Knew He Was Right, Louis Trevelyan, is incited to insane jealousy when his wife Emily disobeys him and entertains an old family friend with a philandering reputation; he kidnaps their son, flees to Italy, descends into further madness, is pursued by his wife, and eventually returns to England where he dies -- a victim of delusion and self-inflicted suffering; meanwhile, Hugh Stanbury, a struggling journalist, courts Emily's sister, while his wealthy spinster Aunt tries to promote a match between his sister Dorothy and an insufferable clergyman before blessing her marriage to the charming nephew of her former fiance.
In Rachael Ray, Luke Rowan goes to Baslehurst to protect his interest in the family brewery, falls in love with Rachael Ray, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Tappitt, who wants him to marry one of her own daughters, and to the dismay of Rachael's mother and sister, who don't think him sufficiently pious.
These summaries bring me to Orley Farm, my most recent Trollopeian treat -- a captivating tale of forgery, perjury, revenge, guilt, sacrifice, love, compassion, and justice, replete with memorable characterizations, dramatic confrontations, and vivid set-pieces -- like traveling salesmen exchanging ripostes in the "commercial room" of a popular inn; prospective lovers awakening to each other's charms at an innocent country-manor Christmas party; and fox hunters leaping over double barriers, or falling from their mounts to suffer injuries critical to the furtherance of romance.
The story opens twenty years after a bitterly fought court case confirmed the codicil to the will of Joseph Mason of Groby Park. That will left his estate to his elder son, also Joseph, but the codicil -- in the handwriting of his much younger second wife, and sworn to by three witnesses, two of whom are still alive -- left Orley Farm to her, Lady Mary Mason, and her infant son.
Now the son, Lucius, having come of age and desiring to implement modern scientific farming methods, informs Samuel Dockwrath that he must vacate the two fields on the Orley Farm property that Lady Mason has been renting to him for a nominal sum. "Terribly aggrieved," and well aware of the circumstances of the original case -- his deceased father-in-law was old Mason's attorney and one of the witnesses to the codicil -- Dockwrath, himself an attorney, vows revenge -- in spite of the many kindnesses Lady Mason has bestowed upon his wife and their sixteen children. But "there are men who take special delight in abusing those special friends whom their wives best love, and Mr. Dockwrath was one of those."
In searching through his father-in-law's papers, Dockwrath discovers a second deed signed by the same witnesses on the same date, suggesting a possible forgery of the codicil. He travels to the home of Joseph Mason the younger to inform him of his suspicions, urge him to reopen the case, and hire Dockwrath to represent him. He could not have found a more receptive client.
Mason "was a bad man in that he could never forget and never forgive. His mind and heart were equally harsh and hard and inflexible. He was a man who considered that it behooved him as a man to resent all injuries, and to have his pound of flesh in all cases . . . He wanted nothing that belonged to any one else, but he could not endure that aught should be kept from him which he believed to be his own. . . He had always believed that [Lady Mason] had defrauded him . . . There had been no day in his life on which he would not have ruined her, had it been in his power to do so."
Mason's wife is no less an object of the author's scorn, "a woman one can thoroughly despise, and even hate," a hypocrite who typifies the "true spirit of parsimony. It is from the backs and bellies of other people that savings are made with the greatest constancy and the most satisfactory results . . . On matters eatable and drinkable . . . did Mrs. Mason [so] operate, going as far as she dared towards starving her husband. But nevertheless she would feed herself in the middle of the day, having a roast fowl with bread sauce in her own room."
Lady Mason's trusted confidante is Mr. Furnival, who had been employed as junior counsel in the original case -- "and that acquaintance had ripened into friendship, and now flourished in full vigor -- to Mrs. Furnival's great sorrow and disturbance." For success had corrupted Mr. Furnival. "As a poor man . . . [he] had been an excellent husband, going forth in the morning to his work, struggling through the day, and then returning to his meager dinner and his long evenings of unremitting drudgery." But now "he, at the age of fifty-five, was running after strange goddesses," or so his wife imagines, and imbibing healthy doses of the port wine he had formerly disdained.
Lady Mason rushes to Mr. Furnival's chambers seeking his assistance should Dockwrath decide to prosecute his case; overcome by her tears Mr. Furnival embraces the agitated woman -- in which position they are discovered when Mrs. Furnival unexpectedly bursts into the office. Her worst fears seem confirmed, yet they are ultimately false -- "unconcealed and undeserved jealousy on the part of a wife" being "as disagreeable" as any of the drawbacks of matrimony. The narrator informs us that "a propensity to rob Mrs. Furnival of her husband's affection had not hitherto" been one of Lady Mason's faults, and "that while Mr. Furnival liked his client because she was good-looking . . . there was nothing more to it than that."
Mr. Furnival's interview with Lady Mason introduces the central theme of the novel -- the effect of her guilt or innocence on the other major characters. Lady Mason's excessive grief at Dockwrath's discovery of "some old paper," and her curious suggestion that Mr. Furnival offer Dockwrath a bribe to keep him quiet arouses his own suspicions. "Nothing could be more natural than her anxiety, supposing her to be aware of some secret which would condemn her if discovered; -- but nothing more unnatural if there were no such secret."
And then Mr. Furnival reflects that such a forgery would not be terrible, but in fact wonderful. "Could it be possible that she, soft, beautiful, graceful as she was now, all but a girl as she had been then, could have done it unaided, by herself? . . . and forged that will, signatures and all . . . so skillfully as to have baffled lawyers and jurymen and resisted the eager greed of her cheated kinsman?"
Later, Mr. Furnival wishes "he knew the truth in the matter . . . and for a moment or two he thought he would ask her the question." But that was impossible, because a confession of her guilt would require restitution and "would be incompatible with that innocence before the world which it was necessary she should maintain. Moreover, he must be able to proclaim aloud his belief in her innocence; and how could he do that, knowing her to be guilty -- knowing that she also knew he had such knowledge?"
Lady Mason's son, Lucius, is irate when he hears rumors implicating his mother. He visits Dockwrath, calling him a "mean low vile scoundrel." He sits in silence with his mother, never for a moment suspecting her of wrongdoing, "but under these circumstances, he cannot understand how she could consent to endure without resistance the indignities which were put upon her." He goes to Furnival, who advises him to "do nothing and say nothing."
Believing his client guilty, Mr. Furnival resolves to stand by her to the end. He rationalizes the "bitter malicious justice" of Joseph Mason "as more criminal than any crime of which Lady Mason may have been guilty." Her pale face, the soft tone of her voice, the tear in her eye, all have a mesmerizing effect on this middle-aged man. For, our narrator tells us, although "the body dries up and withers away, and the bones grow old; [and] the brain too becomes decrepit, as do the sight, hearing, and the soul . . . the heart that is tender once remains tender to the last."
In her distress, Lady Mason finds further comfort in the attentions of Sir Peregrine Orme, a fine English gentleman, seventy years old, master of the Cleeve, the neighboring estate, where he resides with the widow of his son, Mrs. Orme, and his grandson, also Peregrine.
"A man singularly devoid of suspicion, in whose estimation the ungentlemanly Joseph Mason did not rank high," Sir Peregrine offers his services and his home to Lady Mason -- "as sure of her innocence as he is of his own." Her grief at her situation brings tears from his own eyes; her head falls upon his shoulder; they embrace, and leaning over, he kisses her on the lips. As Lady Mason hastens to her chamber, Sir Peregine asks himself, "Why should I not?" Why should he not make her his wife?
And he does propose -- after first telling Mrs. Orme, who, although fearful such a marriage will injure the old man's reputation, says that, if it will make him happy, she will say nothing against it. And of course Lady Mason accepts him, fully aware that her friend Mrs. Orme and young Peregrine, the old man's heir, may come to hate her, that Mr. Furnival may take offense, and that her own son Lucius, will greatly dislike this second marriage. Yet "a great necessity for assistance had come upon her. It was necessary that she should bind men to her cause, men powerful in the world and able to fight her battle with strong arms."
At least she decides to postpone the nuptials until her trial is decided -- with its potential for "disgrace and ruin, and an utter overthrow."
"The idea that their fathers and mothers should marry and enjoy themselves is always a thing horrible to be thought of in the minds of the rising generation." And so Lucius Mason and young Peregrine Orme are outraged by this May-December romance, and conspire to abort it.
Nor does Mr. Furnival approve, declaring "Oh, indeed," when informed by Sir Peregrine of his great purpose. Whereas previously he has looked forward to "the idea of washing" Lady Mason from her probable guilt, "this dragging down of another -- and such another -- head into the vortex of ruin and misery was horrible to him." And, "had anyone told him that he was jealous of the preference shown by his client to Sir Peregrine, he would have fumed with anger, and thought he was fuming justly. But such in truth was the case," though "he had formed no idea that the woman would become his mistress."
Sir Peregrine's successful courtship contrasts with the failure of his grandson to win the hand of the graceful yet staid Madeline Staveley -- not yet perfect in her beauty, says the author, though a safe prophecy is "that she will some day become so." Madeline is the daughter of Judge Staveley -- "one of the best men in the world, revered on the bench, and loved by all men" -- master of another country estate, Noningsby, where the novel's major subplot will unfold -- the love affair between Madeline and the outspoken attorney, Felix Graham -- "by no means a handsome man . . . but full of enthusiasm," and later recruited to help defend Lady Mason.
Young Peregrine is hopelessly in love with Madeline, yet struck dumb by her beauty -- though "he had never yet feared to speak out in any presence . . . But now [at Noningsby] he stood there looking and longing, and could not summons courage to go up and address a few words to this young girl . . . Twice or thrice during the last few days he had essayed to speak to her, but his words had seemed dull and vapid, and to himself they had appeared childish." Thus, it is hardly surprising that, when he asks her to be his wife, her answer is "No, no, no."
"It had never entered her head that she had an admirer in him . . . He had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover . . . she knew not how to speak . . . All her ideas too, as to love . . . were confounded by this abruptness. She would have thought . . . that all speech of love should be very delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite care. Even if she had loved him, or had she been in a way towards loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and scared her love away."
On the other hand, Lady Mason, when importuned by Sir Peregrine, barely hesitates.
Young Peregrine unwittingly becomes the instrument by which Madeline is attracted to another man. During a fox hunt, Felix Graham's horse fails to negotiate a double jump and ditch, throws his rider, and rolls over him, breaking Graham's right arm and two ribs. Noble Peregrine abandons the hunt to care for his friend.
It is while recuperating from his injuries, laid up in a private bedroom at Noningsby, that Felix wins the love of Madeline, ironically while speaking fewer words to her than even Peregrine. Madeline's feelings are warmed by thoughts of the poor invalid, and the burgeoning romance is abetted by the match-making housekeeper, Mrs. Baker, who leaves the bedroom door open, so Madeline can steal a peek while passing in the hall.
Felix must first dispose of a young woman whom he is in the process of moulding to be his wife.
"The operation takes some ten years, at the end of which the moulded bride regards her lord as an old man." Trollope observes that the ordinary plan is better, and safer. "Dance with a girl three times, and if you like the light in her eye and the tone of the voice with which she, breathless, answers your little questions about horseflesh and music -- about affairs masculine and feminine -- then take the leap in the dark. There is danger, no doubt; but the moulded wife is, I think, more dangerous."
The problem conveniently resolves itself when "the subject of the experiment," Mary Snow, catches the eye of another man.
A second subplot involves the antics of the gregarious tradesman, Mr. Moulder -- who never appears without a glass of wine in one hand and piece of meat in the other -- in promoting a match between his wife's brother, John Kenneby, and the well-established widow, Mrs. Smiley, and, since Kenneby was one of the witnesses to the Mason codicil twenty years ago, in counseling him on his upcoming testimony at Lady Mason's trial. While this comical portrait of middle class daily life is meant to contrast with that of the aristocracy at Noningsby and the Cleeves, in some respects the solemn proceedings there are no less humorous.
Unable to resist the blandishments of young Peregrine -- who warns that "old family friends would look down on his grandfather and ridicule him were he to make this marriage" -- and of Mr. Furnival -- who now believes the verdict will go against her and further disgrace the baronet -- Lady Mason decides to break off her engagement to Sir Peregrine.
And so, it is at this point, a little over half way through the novel, that the story turns, in a climactic scene. When Lady Mason says to her betrothed, "It is impossible that we should be married," he protests. "For the world's talk, which will last some month or two, I care nothing," he says. "In doing this I shall gratify my own heart, and also serve you in your great troubles." Lady Mason, torn between her dependence on Sir Peregrine and her desire not to dishonor him, rises above her own self-interest and makes a courageous sacrifice. "I am guilty," she says. "Guilty of all with which they charge me . . . I forged the will. I did it all. I am guilty."
After her confession, Lady Mason feels that "all of evil, all of punishment that she had ever anticipated, had now fallen upon her." But "neither would the mountains crush her, nor would the earth take her in. There was her burden, and she must bear it to the end."
Staunchly supportive of Lady Mason in her agony is the equally heroic Mrs. Orme, Sir Peregrine's daughter-in-law. Informed of her friend's crime, she is forgiving. "The guilt of twenty years ago did not strike her senses so vividly as the abject misery of the present day. There was no pity in her bosom for Joseph Mason when she heard the story, but she was full of pity for her who had committed the crime. It was twenty years ago, and had not the sinner repented?" Mrs. Orme, "pure and high, so shielded from the world's impurity that nothing ignoble might touch her . . . took [Lady Mason] to her heart" and forgave her.
While Sir Peregrine does not think it right that Lady Mason should remain at the Cleeve -- where she might contaminate "the one cherished lady of his household" -- Mrs. Orme convinces him otherwise. "Who else is there that can stand by her now? What other woman?" she says. "What are love and friendship if they cannot stand against such trials as this?"
Sir Peregrine is less forgiving but still conflicted. In spite of Lady Mason's sin, "was he not under a deep obligation to her -- under the very deepest? Had she not saved him from a worse disgrace -- saved him at the cost of all that was left to herself? Was he not still bound to stand by her? And did he not still love her?"
He considers informing Mr. Furnival of what he now knows, but hesitates, realizing that to do so would risk the latter's deserting his client. He goes to Joseph Mason's lawyer, Mr. Round, seeking a compromise, a means by which the case might be quietly settled, and suggests that Lady Mason might be amenable to surrendering the property, an offer Mr. Round must decline but which convinces him of her guilt.
With the load placed upon his back "too heavy to be borne," Sir Pergrine confines himself to his house, listless, "for the few days that remained to him in this world . . . contented to abandon the turmoils and troubles of life." He expresses a desire to turn over complete management of his estate to his grandson, but young Peregrine protests: "You should never give up as long as you live . . . one should always say to oneself, No surrender." A foolish falsehood, responds the baronet, whose "heart and spirit and body have all surrendered."
Back at Noningsby, Lady Staveley is promoting Peregrine as the proper match for her daughter. He "was fair and handsome . . . bright of eye and smooth of skin, good-natured . . . a young man to be loved by all the world, and -- incidentally -- the heir to a baronetcy and a grand estate." On the other hand, Felix Graham was "hideously ugly . . . not soft and pleasant . . . heir to nothing, and as people of his own he had none in particular."
Madeline's father, the Judge, is less Victorian in his view of young love. He admires Madeline for preferring "mind over matter . . . wit and intellect and power of expression" over "good looks and rank and worldly prosperity." To facilitate matters and encourage Felix, he promises 5000 pounds to Madeline upon her marriage.
With Lady Mason's guilt no longer in doubt, her trial becomes the vehicle by which Trollope explores the morality of a legal profession committed to exonerating her. While Mr. Furnival's enthusiasm falters under the burden of the truth, and he must fight the battle without belief -- "the sorriest task which ever fell to the lot of man" -- and Felix Graham confronts his own demons, for two other barristers engaged in the defense, Mr. Chaffanbrass and Solomon Aram, "the escape of a criminal under their auspices would of course be a matter of triumph."
Trollope leaves no doubt where his sentiments lie. "I cannot understand how any gentleman can be willing to use his intellect for the propagation of untruth, and to be paid for it."
As the trial approaches, Lady Mason's anguish intensifies. Implored by Mrs. Orme to reveal the truth to her son, she refuses; she has done it all for him, and she is tormented by the thought that now "he should be doomed to suffer so deeply for her sin." Lucius, firmly convinced of her innocence, finds her stubborn silence disconcerting; against his will, bowing to her wishes, he harnesses his impulse to act and speak in her defense.
Lady Mason yearns to be true and honest -- "to go back and cleanse herself of the poison of her deed . . . But that task of cleansing oneself is not an easy one; the waters of that Jordan in which it is needful to wash are scalding hot."
Trollope depicts the trial as a contest of opposing wit and rhetoric, and makes much of the common practice of attorneys' abusing their opponents' witnesses, in order to impugn their testimony. Chaffanbras exposes Dockwrath's selfish motive when he elicits an admission that he will regain the tenancy of Orley Farm should it revert to Joseph Mason -- much to the disgust of a disillusioned Felix Graham. In his mind the "iniquities and greed" of Dockwrath have nothing to do with the validity of the long-lost documents he discovered.
In cross-examining John Kenneby, witness to the twenty-year old codicil, Mr. Furnival so browbeats and confuses him that he is reduced to not remembering anything. His associate, Chaffanbras, is less successful with the other witness, the former chambermaid. Bridget Bolster. "He could not force her to contradict herself . . or to utter words of which she herself did not know the meaning. . . He could not make a fool out of her, and therefore he would make her out to be a rogue," one who had been bribed by the prosecutors with a hearty breakfast and a thimbleful of brandy.
It was a triumph, however small. "As for himself, Mr. Chaffanbras knew well enough that she had spoken nothing but the truth. But had he so managed that the truth might be made to look like falsehood, -- or at any rate to have a doubtful air? If he had done that, he had succeeded in the occupation of his life, and was indifferent to his own triumph."
With stunning eloquence, Mr. Furnival recaptures his old fire when he rises in defense of his client -- a second time. He dismisses Kenneby as possessing a "mind so inconsequential, he literally did not know truth from falsehood," and Bridget Bolster as unworthy of belief, "who had come into court drilled and instructed to make one point-blank statement and stick to it."
As evidence of Lady Mason's character, he commands the gentlemen of the jury to notice the presence of her loving friend, Mrs. Orme, and her devoted son, Lucius. He asks them "whether so fair a life is compatible with the idea of a guilt so foul?" and how they could believe "that such a deed [requiring such skilled artifice] was done by a young wife, of whom all that you know is that her conduct in every other respect had been beyond all praise!" They must sympathize with her, and "think what she must have suffered in being dragged here and subjected to the gaze of all the country as a suspected felon."
He has no doubt that they will pronounce her not guilty. "And yet as he sat down he knew that she had been guilty . . . and, knowing that, he had been able to speak as though her innocence were a thing of course. That those witnesses had spoken truth he also knew, and yet he had been able to hold them up to the execration of all around them as though they had committed the worst of crimes from the foulest of motives! And more than this, stranger than this, worse than this, -- when the legal world knew -- as the legal world would soon know -- that all this had been so, the legal world found no fault with Mr. Furnival, conceiving that he had done his duty by his client in a manner becoming an English barrister and an English gentleman."
The unpleasant task of disclosing the truth to Lucius falls to the indomitable Mrs. Orme. "I do not believe it. I cannot believe it," he says, before sinking into his own misery, hardly considering, "as he should have done, that mother's love which had led to all this guilt . . . It was not only that she had beggared him . . . but she had doomed him to a life of disgrace which no effort of his own could wipe away."
Despite his affliction, he resolves to be always near her, although he cannot give solace, affirming the maxim: "Of all the virtues with which man can endow himself, surely none other is so odious as that justice which can teach itself to look down upon mercy almost as a vice!"
The lawyers have done their duty; the jury returns a verdict of "Not guilty." Yet Lucius cannot abide the stigma of his mother's sin. He surrenders to his half brother, Joseph Mason of Groby Park, all his claim to Orley Farm, and, in doing so, relinquishes the hand of the witty, coquettish Sophia Furnival, daughter of the attorney, who had previously accepted his marriage proposal but now finds it necessary to renege, her betrothed having been stripped of his reputation and his inheritance.
Nor can Sir Pergrine's undying love for Lady Mason overcome his better judgment. "He was as a child who knows that a coveted treasure is beyond his reach, but still covets it, still longs for it, hoping against hope that it may yet be his own. It seemed to him that he might yet regain his old vitality if he could wind his arm once more about her waist, and press her to his side, and call her his own. It would be so sweet to forgive her . . ."
But he cannot offend the laws of society. As Mrs. Orme says, while they may forgive, other will not do so. Espousing his love, Sir Peregrine bids Lady Mason "Farewell."
As she departs the stage, though a sinner, she has earned our sympathy, and the narrator's, who, he says, has "learned to forgive her, and to feel that . . . [he] too could have regarded her as a friend."
She and her son flee to Germany. The vindictive Joseph Mason tries but fails to reopen criminal proceedings against her for forgery. Sir Peregrine pines away, never returning "to that living life which had been his before he had taken up the battle for Lady Mason . . . waiting patiently . . . till death should come to him." The only marriage consummated is that between the mismatched, but happy, Noningsby couple, Felix Graham and Madeline Staveley.
Like a glass of fine wine, another Trollopeian treat has been toasted, tasted, aerated, savored, and sipped, until the last swallow leaves one thirsting for more. And just as there is always another bottle to be uncorked, so too, after a sweet sixteen, there still remain thirty-one more virgin Trollopeian treasures to be unearthed. And, if that's not enough, one can always start over.
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