Civil Warrior

I have a new hero: Ulysses S. Grant.

That's a surprising choice for a born-and-bred Southerner, a proud graduate of Washington and Lee University, and a man whose truncated armed forces career consisted of two weeks at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center in Chicago, Illinois, and two weeks aboard a destroyer that never left its berth in Jacksonville, Florida.

Not long after that stillborn voyage -- which marked the completion of a year-long reserve training course -- my Commanding Officer at the Naval Reserve Center in Lynchburg summoned me to his office, informed me that the Navy had a surfeit (my word, not his) of recruits, and offered me a voluntary discharge, ostensibly because my college degree overqualifed me for two year's active duty as an enlisted man, but most likely because my total ineptitude in all the requisite skills of seamanship (like swabbing the deck, painting the hull while suspended overboard on a scaffold, and swearing with unrelenting frequency) was painfully evident. By a stroke of good fortune, my original motive for enlisting -- to avoid the draft and a tour in Vietnam -- was no longer operative, the Selective Service having instituted in the intervening period a lottery system and consequently having assigned me a number which made the likelihood of induction extremely remote. After a pregnant moment of serious reflection, I thanked the Navy profusely and jumped ship.

That forgettable episode was a rude awakening to a fellow whose notion of military affairs was circumscribed by a youthful fascination with the Civil War -- an interest that was shared by several of my peers but which I have failed to observe in the current generation, at least in those in my family circle: sons, daughters, nieces, nephews. Granted, one's affinity for any particular subject is a matter of personal taste, but I suspect that historical studies as an avocation -- for all us non-athletes, that is, who had plenty of time for such diversions -- has fallen prey to stiff competition from a myriad of technological leisure time options -- like computers, cell phones, and Wii games. I would also argue, counterintuitively, that the popularity some years ago of Ken Burns's documentary was more an indication of a curiosity and lack of knowledge about the Civil War than a reflection of some widely-held, deep-seated enthusiasm.

In today's environment of political correctness, the classroom discussion of Southern Secession and the War is no doubt a sensitive subject. Intellectual honesty requires that teachers freely acknowledge slavery and its politics as their root causes and firmly reject the coded euphemisms of my segregated era, which defined the irrepressible conflict as a clash between industrial and agrarian societies, protectionists and free-traders, and federalist and states-rights advocates -- and minimized, if not ignored, slavery as the critical factor.

This benign neglect of the Peculiar Institution, coupled with a cavalier indifference towards the War's appalling devastation and loss of life (630,00 dead, 2% of the nation's population, equivalent to 6 million today), allowed students like me to invest it with a naive romanticism. With all the horror and inhumanity bleached out, the Civil War was reduced to an exercise of identifying obscure villages on a map (many of which were located in my own Virginia backyard), moving army units around like pieces on a chessboard, assigning politicians and generals their proper roles as heroes or villains, and imagining glorious might-have-beens in the service of a Lost Cause.

I remember a seventh-grade chronicle composed of handwritten text and cut-out illustrations painstakingly pasted on blue construction papers neatly tied together; one year later, a scholarly exposition of the crucial three-day struggle at Gettysburg, complete with my own crudely-traced maps, typed by my father's secretary, and bound in a green folder; a board game of the same name, its piece de resistance a large-scale rendering of the battlefield, on which my friends and I spent many hours maneuvering miniature brigades in imaginary contests of strategy and tactics; laboring over, at the insistence of another precocious military expert, the impenetrable but authoritative tome, "Campaigns of the Army of the Potomac," penned in 1866 by one William Swinton, a journalist who, I recently read, barely escaped execution after he was discovered eavesdropping outside General Grant's tent one night; and devouring the much more accessible "Stillness at Appomattox," by Bruce Catton, my youthful introduction to the joys of finely crafted narrative history.

Is there any doubt that the lens through which my fellow devotees and I peered into the past was clouded by a Southern (and Eastern) bias? Our demigods were the saintly patrician, Robert E. Lee, and his eccentric but brilliant lieutenant, Stonewall Jackson; their foils a series of incompetent Union commanders against whom the two teamed up to inflict one ignominious defeat after another: McClellan at Mechanicsville, Pope at Second Manassas, Burnside at Fredericksburg, Hooker at Chancellorsville, McDowell, Banks, and Fremont in the Valley. Even the draws -- Antietam and Gettysburg -- were moral victories; the Confederacy would not succumb until the brutal, remorseless Ulysses S. Grant, flush with his success in the western theater (although achieved against generals hardly comparable to Robert E. Lee) , came east in 1864, poured thousands of soldiers into the crucible of the Overland Campaign, and eventually subdued his invincible -- and more astute and humane -- opponent only through the sheer force of numbers. Or so went the myth.

A few years ago I picked up another book by Bruce Catton, this one entitled "Grant Moves South." After reading a few pages, in a sudden, apocalyptic correction of my juvenile myopia, I realized that, while I, a Virginian (like Robert E. Lee), had always thought of my home as the battleground state, upon whose sacred soil this War would be won or lost, there was another furious conflict raging 800 miles to the west, where the North was shredding the Confederacy with a number of stunning victories and where, inexorably, Ulysses S. Grant was moving South. I began to acquire a new respect for the man.

Grant was a man of the West -- he was born in Ohio and later moved to Illinois -- but he was also a man for the Union. His persona, fostered by those who knew and wrote about him and cultivated by himself in his "Memoirs," is that of an iconic Western (and, by extrapolation, American) hero (as described in Jean Edwards Smith's "Grant" and Catton's "Grant Moves South): quiet; careless of style, formality, and show; slouching, unmilitary, very ordinary; yet possessed of a good deal of common sense; and of whom it was said that, when he came around, things started to happen.

In some mysterious way, he embodied what Catton terms, dialectically, (in "U.S. Grant and the American Military Tradition") the lofty idealism and gross materialism of the Western pioneer, who saw his destiny as limitless, embracing the whole continent, and who was prepared to react with violence and energy against anything (read secession) which "threatened the unity and continuity of the American experiment."

Initially, Grant was not an Abolitionist, but he came to believe that the War was precipitated by the unwillingness of the "intelligent, well-to-do, and non-slave-holding free state population to secure, police, and protect the South's favorite institution." As John Keegan writes in "The Mask of Command," he understood that "American propriety required humility to the sovereignty of the people," that the majority must triumph over the minority for the two disparate Americas -- North and South -- to become one; afterward, he yearned for their citizens to commingle in peace and harmony.

A British journalist, quoted in Smith's biography, called Grant a "genuine commoner, a commander of a democratic army from a democratic people." According to Keegan, Grant grasped what many of his fellow generals did not: this was an ideological war fought by volunteers; men of "social standing, competence, wealth, and independence of character" were risking their lives for a principle. Instinctively, he came to employ the populist touch that made him master of the people's war, commanding by consent rather than by diktat -- "the great majority favored discipline," he later wrote -- and instilling the value of military routine by experience (marching, fighting) rather than by precept.

Grant's reputation as a "butcher" was initiated by early apologists for the "Lost Cause" and bolstered by Southern memoiralists and Northern historians disgusted by the scandals of his Presidency and angered by his Administration's efforts to protect the rights of freed blacks and to resolve ongoing hostilities with Native Americans. Recent scholarship has shown that Grant suffered no greater casualties -- proportionately or in real numbers -- than other generals on both sides, and, in many cases, fewer. For the entire war, Grant imposed 190,000 casualties on his foes while incurring 154,000. Grant had 18.1% of his men killed or wounded while killing or wounding 20.7% of the enemy; Lee had 20.2% of troops killed or wounded while killing or wounding 15.4% of the enemy. (Granted, Lee's forces were usually outnumbered.) Lee lost more soldiers than any other general in the war. "If a general could be called a butcher, Lee is probably more of one than Grant," says historian Gordon Rhea.

Major-General J.F.C. Fuller characterizes Grant as the "Master of Predicaments," and convincingly argues that therein lies his genius. When everything was right and orderly, in peacetime and prosperity, "he shrank into his shell of mediocrity," and managed to lose everything he had. When all was chaos, or when the occasion demanded desperate action, he emerged from anonymity, and "nothing would induce him to withdraw into it until normality had been re-established."

"He loved pitting his will against seeming impossibilities -- taming a buck-jumping circus pony, leaping over a battery of six guns in succession, fighting the bayous around Vicksburg, creating order out of confusion at Chattanooga, and pursuing Lee all over the bottomless road to Appomattox."

It was this theme I seized upon when I addressed my seven hundred employees at a company sales meeting on January 31st. In full regalia, of course.

It's not every one who gets to impersonate his hero -- and in front of an audience. Two years ago, on the same occasion, I had donned my all-white, all-bright Elvis Presley outfit and lip-synched "Blue Suede Shoes," but an encore performance seemed derivative and shallow.

I thought the story of Ulysses S. Grant's metamorphosis and unflinching resolve in moments of crisis could be a meaningful message in these uncertain economic times. The company had just suffered through its worst sales month since January 2001. It was the tenth consecutive month of sales declines on a comparable basis from the previous year. I was already engaged in a research project on Grant. And my corporate sales manger was insisting that I get out in front with some well-chosen words of motivation (or just make a fool of myself).

Although I have spoken many times before large groups and so no longer face them with fear, trembling, and perspiration, I believe that whatever lingering inhibitions one might secretly harbor magically evaporate beneath the transformative masque. Thus it was with a studied confidence that I strode out on the naked stage at the Roanoke Civic Center, in step with the patriotic beat of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," disguised in an authentic borrowed Union soldier's uniform, complete with gloves, boots, and sidearm belt, sporting a scruffy pasted-on black beard, cowboy hat, and unlit cigar, and spoke these memorized and mesmerizing (in my humble opinion) words:

"Mr. Schewel asked me to speak to you this morning because he believes that the lives of famous people can inspire us to excellence.

"My name is Ulysses S. Grant. Some say I was the greatest general of the Civil War. Some say I was the greatest general in U.S. military history. While others will have to judge the validity of those claims, certain facts speak for themselves: in four years, I never lost a battle, and I received the surrender of three Confederate armies.

"My childhood was unremarkable, although there were precursers of my future greatness.

"My father owned a tannery and a livery stable. I became an expert horseman and often drove horse-drawn wagons carrying trade and travelers to distant places. During these journeys, I developed a peculiar habit: if I accidentally went past my destination, I would take any kind of out-of-the-way detour to get back to it, even at a considerable inconvenience. I detested, even feared, retracing my steps; in other words, I hated to retreat.

"Because my father wanted me to get a good education, he secured an appointment for me to attend West Point. I doubted my ability to complete the course of study and couldn't bear the thought of failing. When I told my father that I wouldn't go, he said, after a brief pause, that he thought I would go, after which I said, after a brief pause, that I thought I would go, too. Which proves that, in order to be successful, a person must often do things he does not want to do or thinks himself incapable of doing.

"After graduating from West Point, I went off to war, the Mexican War, where I served under a general who made a lasting impression on me, Zachary Taylor. Known as Old Rough and Ready, he disliked military formality. He wore blue jeans, a linen duster, and a straw hat, and he lounged around headquarters like a backwoods farmer. But he was a fighter, and showed that, beneath all the glitter and brass, what really mattered was how you performed under pressure. And there must be some truth to that, because when Robert E. Lee surrendered to me at Appomattox, he was decked out in his finest dress grays, while I, swordless, was wearing a private's shirt and mud-stained boots and pants.

"When Taylor took his army on a 250-mile march through Central Mexico, I was appointed regimental quartermaster -- much to my disappointment, because I preferred to be on the front lines. I was responsible for collecting and organizing vast quantities of food, clothing, forage, and ammunition and transporting it by wagon train and pack mule -- a task which taught me that no matter how grand were the forces one had at hand and no matter how masterful was one's planning, success on the field depended on the logistics and equipment backing them up.

"After the Mexican War, I was sent to California. It was too far away. I missed my wife and sons so much that I resigned my commission and moved back to Ohio -- where, for seven lean years, I failed at one venture after another: farming, peddling, selling real estate, collecting rents, collecting taxes. If the Civil War had not broken out, I would have lived out my days as an unassuming clerk in my father's dry goods store. In 1861, the Governor of Illinois appointed me a colonel in charge of a regiment; a few months later, I was promoted to Brigadier General and given command of three divisions.

"Early on, I discovered that I possessed an unusual talent for reading maps and understanding topography. I perceived that the key to dominating the states of Kentucky and Tennessee was gaining control of two parallel rivers in northern Tennessee, the Tennessee River and the Cumberland River. In February 1862, with the help of a gunboat bombardment, I captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River. I then marched my 15,000 men ten miles east and invested Fort Donelson on the Cumberland River.

"Those Confederates would not give up easily, however. They attacked the right end of our line and were near to breaking the siege and fleeing to safety, when, seven miles away, I mounted my horse and raced to the sound of gunfire. I saw that many Confederate soldiers had abandoned full knapsacks, and I realized that they were more demoralized than my own men and had fled the field in panic. 'The one who attacks now will be victorious,' I told General McClernand. Riding to the other end of the Union line, I informed General Smith: 'All has failed on the Union right; you must take Fort Donelson!' He led his men in a gallant bayonet charge; they drove the Confederates back into the fort -- and my terms of unconditional surrender were accepted two days later. We had turned a grievous defeat into the greatest Union victory in the war.

"Two months later I found myself in command of 35,000 troops encamped one hundred miles upriver at a place called Shiloh. I was overconfident and hardly expected what happened at daybreak on Sunday, April 6th: 40,000 Confederates launched a massive surprise attack. A savage battle ensued all morning; Union forces gave ground inch by inch, at a tremendous loss of life. I arrived on the scene at 8:30 and rode from one end of the line to the other, trying to stem the tide and maintain order in the midst of horrific destruction. In one area, known forever after as the Hornet's Nest, Union soldiers repulsed twelve separate attacks before giving way. By the close of the day, the Confederates had occupied our camps and driven us back almost into the river.

"At ten o'clock that night, General McClernand reported to me that one-third of our army was out of action and the rest downcast and disheartened. 'What do you propose to do?' he asked, 'Retreat?' 'No,' I responded, 'I propose to attack the enemy at daylight and whip them.'

"The next day was a mirror image of the previous one, only in reverse. Fortified by the timely arrival of reinforcements, we struck at dawn, caught the Confederates off guard, and fought them to exhaustion for six hours. This time they withdrew, and we reclaimed our former campsites. It was another victory snatched from the jaws of defeat but a costly one; both sides were learning that this war would be long and deadly.

"One year later I was again facing a daunting situation. My objective was the town of Vicksburg, perched high atop bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River, its gun batteries preventing free passage of the river from Ohio to New Orleans. Seven times I tried to master the defenses of Vicksburg and seven times I failed. I tried a head-on attack from the north up the face of the bluffs. I tried digging a canal to divert the Mississippi and bypass the town. I tried to create a circuitous waterway through the Louisiana swamps and emerge below the town. I tried riding the Yazoo River flood waters up close to the Confederate defenses but was blocked by a sunken steamer. I tried bringing troop-laden gunboats through the swollen ship channels but was driven off by sharpshooters.

"Finally, after studying my maps long and hard in the solitude of my tent, I devised a daring campaign that even my most trusted associates questioned but which would later be acknowledged as one of the most brilliant in military history. Twice, in the dead of night, I floated transports and steamers past the Vicksburg defenses. I marched my troops on a roundabout course fifty miles south of the town, used the transports to cross the river, cut loose from my supply base, and moved inland. During the next three weeks, my three corps fought and won five separate battles, defeated two enemy armies, occupied the capital of Mississippi, fed themselves from local farms, and eventually drove the remaining Confederates back into Vicksburg. After a one-month siege, that army became the second to accept my terms of unconditional surrender.

"In 1864, President Lincoln summoned me east to take command of all Union forces, but particularly the Army of the Potomac, which, after three years of combat against Robert E. Lee, was no further along than when it had first left the environs of Washington. We crossed the Rapidan River, stepped cautiously into the Virginia Wilderness, and on May 5th locked horns with the Army of Northern Virginia. It was a fierce two-day battle, fought amidst a dense, tangled undergrowth that impeded movement and visibility. At various times, each side appeared on the verge of a smashing victory (or disastrous defeat) only to be reversed by the arrival of reinforcements, a counterattack, or the missteps of a confused commander. Overnight fires burned alive hundreds of wounded soldiers lying helpless in the darkness. When the smoke dissipated, I had lost 17,000 men, Lee, 11,000.

"My soldiers were expecting retreat. After all, had not that been the all-too-familiar pattern of behavior in all their previous encounters with Robert E. Lee? That night I told a reporter on his way back to Washington to convey this message to President Lincoln: 'Whatever happens, there will be no turning back.' At 6:30 the next morning, I gave the order to march south. My men were astonished, then elated. They cheered, clapped, swung their arms, and tossed their hats into the air. They had been whipped to a draw -- yet they were moving forward, and would not rest until, eleven months later, Lee surrendered.

"In 1868, I was elected the eighteenth President of the United States. But I was no politician. Those qualities which had served me so well in wartime -- simplicity, candor, modesty, and magnanimity -- were of little value in the White House. I was undermined by greedy robber barons, jealous legislators, corrupt administrators, and the intractable problem of the freed slaves. When I retired eight years later, it was with a sense of relief.

"I had one more battle to fight. In 1880, I went into business with a man named Ferdinand Ward. I invested all my capital and encouraged others to follow suit, which many did, trusting in my reputation and good name. But Ward was a con artist and a swindler; the firm failed in 1884 and I was broke.

"My friend Mark Twain came to me and suggested that I write my Memoirs, my story of the great war in which I had risen to prominence and led the Union to victory. At first I was reluctant; who would want to read my writings, I thought. When Mr.Twain convinced me that it would be a way to make some money, I acquiesced.

"Late that summer I was sitting on my porch, making some notes, when I bit into a peach. I felt a sharp pain in my throat. When I rinsed my throat with water, it burned like liquid fire. My doctor diagnosed me with incurable throat cancer, and, suddenly, writing my Memoirs became a race against time and a last chance to leave something to my beloved wife and family.

"Only the courage, determination, and will power that had made me a great general enabled me to complete the task. I persisted through excruciating pain, debilitating weakness, and grogginess brought on by medication. Twice I almost died. When I became too weak to write, I would dictate to a secretary, and when it became too painful for me to speak, I would take up my pen again. Miraculously, I finished the work one week before my death on July 23rd, 1885. The sales of my Memoirs exceeded those of any previously-published book and earned a remarkable $450,000.

"I stand before you this morning as an ordinary man who performed extraordinary deeds -- by never giving up. Remember: when you are perplexed by an insurmountable predicament, when failure is staring you in the face, when all your efforts seem futile -- this is when true heroes rise to the occasion, and turn adversity into prosperity, defeat into triumph.

"But it's not easy. It requires the proper application of courage, determination, and will power, planning, preparation, and execution.

"Now, is the Schewel army ready to reverse the tide of ill fortune that has plagued it these past few months? Is the Schewel army ready to claim victory in the furniture and mattress wars? Is the Schewel army ready for its biggest HCP contest and biggest three-day sale ever?

"As I depart this stage to return forever to Grant's Tomb, let me leave with you one final message -- my formula for success. Like me, it's simple and straightforward. If you're a Civil Warrior, you take these words literally. But if you're a Pseudo-Warrior like Mr. Schewel here -- who has never fired a weapon -- you are to take these words metaphorically and apply them to the appropriate personal or business situation.

"Find out where your enemy is. Get at him as soon as you can. Strike him as hard as you can and as often as you can and keep moving on."

Team of Rivals

Since it would be disingenuous at this point to proclaim a disinterest in television viewing, this being my third consecutive blog inspired by that activity, let me begin with the frank admission that, like the proverbial couch potato, for past two weeks I have found myself fixated on the silver screen for extended periods of time, entranced by all manner of sound bites, speechmaking, interviews, commentary, and analysis relative to America's quadrennial exercise in presidential selection.

Is this season's circus any more intriguing and seductive than others of recent memory -- or is it just the fact that, like a championship sporting event, it's this week's game of the century? I will not be the first -- nor last -- putative pundit to point out two obvious reasons for a heightened level of interest: (1) This is the first presidential election year since Eisenhower ran against Stevenson in 1952 in which neither party is offering up a natural successor, that is, a sitting president or vice-president; (2) The number of viable candidates is unusually large, nine at this writing, although some may fallen from favor by the time I post -- or you read -- this article.

Nine is a number which should resonate with my faithful readers, at least those perspicacious enough to recall my past and present reverence for the game of baseball. Yes, nine players constitute a traditional baseball team -- minus the anomalous designated hitter -- a conceit I propose to expand upon in this political meditation. Since, of course, these contenders are rivals rather than teammates, I seized upon the title noted above, fully aware that I might be justifiably castigated for plagiarizing it from Doris Kearns Goodwin's best-selling history of Lincoln's Administration, among the members of which were, at Mr. Lincoln's invitation, three men whom he had bested for the Presidency: William H. Seward, Salmon P. Chase, and Edward Bates.

The sight of these players rushing to their assigned positions prompts me to reflect on just what this game is all about: the quest to become the President of the United States, the most powerful man on earth, leader of three hundred million diverse souls, commander-in-chief of 1.5 million uniformed men and women scattered throughout the globe, administrator of a $2.8 trillion budget, manager of two million civil service employees (and 10.5 million more when federal contractors and grantees are included). Baited by the press, we, his constituents, yearn for a Chief Executive invested in the shimmering aura of royalty and endowed with the superhuman powers each candidate claims to possess, only to be cruelly disillusioned when Shakespearian flaws erupt like ugly boils, the most painful of which is a stubborn inability to forecast the consequences of one's actions, whether personal, as in the case of Bill Clinton, or geopolitical, as in the case of George Bush.

While striving to lead, each candidate presents himself as a servant of the people. Speaking as a cynic or a realist, I submit, however, that what drives these seekers of our highest office is a synergistic combination of a will-to-power and the desire to promote a particular -- though often fluid -- agenda. And while these forces are actively informing the psyches of each individual, they are just as vigorously propelling two influence groups surfing in their wake: party functionaries and a tangled potpourri of special interests. For with victory come the spoils of war: appointments to be made, contributors to be rewarded, platform-driven legislation to be proposed, executive orders to be promulgated.

The imposing figures of Ronald Reagan -- actor as politician -- and Bill Clinton -- politician as actor -- and unrelenting media attention have transformed presidential campaigns into stage shows where performance trumps solidity. Through the unfiltered camera lens and the unforgiving microphone every grin, grimace, voice inflection, pause, body movement, and spoken word is amplified, scrutinized, and analyzed ad infinitum. Viewers are challenged to choose between authenticity and plasticity, experience and novelty, competence and likeability, humor and gravitas. Some rare stars -- like Reagan and Clinton -- are charming enough to project these contradictory traits simultaneously, setting lofty standards for their aspiring successors to emulate.

I used to believe that Presidents could not make a significant difference in my own -- or anyone's -- life, until the advent of George Bush. Now, seven years later, I am compelled to admit that his tax cuts -- passed at his behest by a malleable Republican Congress -- saved me money, lots of money, by reducing my earned income and capital gains rates. Whether economic growth and the stock market's meteoric rise during the same period -- which benefited my retail furniture business and increased my personal wealth -- can be attributed to these policies, experts wiser than I will have to determine. And whether these same policies have laid the groundwork for severe negative long-term results, manifestations of which may already be upon us, those experts also will have to judge.

At least one thinks they have. Writing in the December issue of "Vanity Fair," Joseph Steglitz slams the Bush Administration's economic policies and catalogues a litany of missteps and their consequences: passing the aforementioned tax cuts, which, skewed towards the wealthy, have deepened the gulf between rich and poor; enacting the Medicare prescription drug benefit, the largest increase in entitlements in four decades, which, in a sop to pharmaceutical companies, has prevented subscribers from purchasing cheap foreign-sourced medications and the government from negotiating with those same companies for lower prices; launching a preemptive war in Iraq, which has destabilized the region, driven up oil prices, and cost our government almost $1 trillion; failing to diversify America's energy resources, to invest adequately in a decaying infrastructure, and (this one is mine) to address our massive unfunded future Social Security and Medicare obligations; and fostering, by example and lack of oversight, a fiscal irresponsibility that has encouraged lenders and borrowers to accumulate unsustainable levels of home mortgage debt.

I believe a divided government -- a Democratic Congress and a Republican President, or vice versa -- where one branch checks the excesses of the other -- reflecting the brilliant design of the Founding Fathers -- causes the least harm, and offers the opportunity for the greatest good for the American citizenry. Whether voters, in their ultimate wisdom, will produce that outcome remains to be seen. In any event, I now believe our next president will have as great an impact on our individual lives as the current one. And he (or she) will be one of the following members of our baseball team.

Standing on the pitcher's mound is Mitt Romney, a surprising choice, since, given his catchy proper name, one would expect to find him ensconced behind home plate. But how callous would it be to veil that handsome visage -- the nobly chiseled features, the sparkling black eyes, the blindingly pearlescent smile, the luxuriously coiffed hair -- beneath leather and iron. (Of course, he poses capless.) The mystique enveloping Mitt -- flanked by his wife, sons, and daughters-in-law, all gorgeously stamped from the same mold as he -- is that he's too perfect; one speculates whether the delicately struck blow of a jeweler's hammer might not shatter him like a diamond. As one satirist remarked, when he goes into his windup to deliver a pitch, he's like Robocop eating paste.

Voters are not yet convinced that his positions are any more durable than the fragile shell that encases him. Anyone who has slipped so smoothly from moderate (or liberal) positions on social issues like abortion and gay rights can just as easily blow back -- which might make him more appealing to me, except for the confusion and shoddiness of his flip-flopping. And although Washington may indeed be broken and in dire need of a fixer -- the newest of his themes, which change colors like a chameleon -- does anyone believe bureaucracies and legislatures can be re-engineered like the companies Mitt's venture capitalist firm bought and sold? And, more to the point, does the man on the street really care?

Crouched behind the plate, giving Mitt the finger, is the scrappy, pugnacious, bulldog of a catcher and, by virtue of his seniority, the designated team captain, John McCain, whose scarred mug, crooked arm, and uneven gait are not only the vestiges of prison camp torture but the symbolic wounds of political warfare, including the battle he lost in 2000, when the Republican establishment and religious right, weary of his independence (read, liberalism) and fearful he might derail George Bush's coronation, threw him under the bus. Ironically, he turned out to be one of Bush's strongest war and immigration reform supporters, and is now riding the surge to a renewed primary popularity.

Of all the candidates, McCain seems less driven by naked ambition than by a genuine desire to serve and lead his countrymen, or, as he refers to them, ad nauseum, "My friends." When attacked by his opponents on issues like the Bush tax cuts and immigration and forced to compromise and qualify his convictions, his pain and disgust are palpable. Smiling doesn't come easily to him, another reminder of his life story -- but no one can doubt his sincerity, courage, or gentlemanly conduct; except on rare occasions, he is too kind to his rivals.

I fear, however, that his time has passed. At age 72, McCain would take office as our oldest first-term president. His advisers, apprehensive about what the unleashed "Straight Talker" might say, prefer that he avoid speaking extemporaneously; he read a ten-minute prepared acceptance speech after winning the New Hampshire primary. While I applaud his hawkish crusade against out-of-control government spending, I thought he passed the ball when he used a question about a possible recession to reassert his reputation as the congressional "Sheriff" and to congratulate himself for sinking a $6 billion tanker expenditure.

Anchoring first base is the tall, lean, craggy-faced, Tennessee-drawling, former actor, Fred Thompson. This position requires less mobility, less pure athletic skill, than the others and is ideal for the player whose engagement and commitment have disappointed his supporters ever since he bubbled up from the underground and his immediate name recognition boosted him into the thick of the race. I believe that the Republican establishment was desperate for a candidate whose conservative credentials were untarnished and consistent and that his hungry trophy wife persuaded him to throw his hat in the ring.

As one pundit remarked, Thompson has played many roles well, except the one he must play now: himself. (He reminds me of Henry Fonda -- the President -- in the 1964 movie "Fail-Safe.") He stumbled early, appearing lackadaisical and uninformed. He was articulate enough and serious-looking -- which only served to deepen his wrinkled brow; he just didn't seem to know, or care, what he was talking about. He's been a quick study, though, and performed well in the Republican South Carolina debate (one focus group pegged him the winner), pouncing on his direct opponent in that primary, Mike Huckabee, as too liberal for Reagan Republicans. I was surprised to hear him express concern over the looming insolvency of Social Security and Medicare, an issue on which all other candidates and the media have been resoundingly silent. I expect Fred's flare-up is ephemeral and will expire soon from lack of energy and oxygen.

The man with two first names, Ron Paul, holds down second base, where limited range and a weak throwing arm will do minimum damage. Paul's libertarian philosophy has mobilized a sympathetic base, generated millions of internet dollars, and garnered a tolerable number of primary votes. In public appearances he has criticized both parties for enlarging the federal government, pursuing unnecessary and expensive foreign missions, and weakening the dollar and endangering our economy through uncontrolled deficit spending -- valid arguments, to be sure. Yet, in my view, his rambling, unfocused, isolationist, whining diatribes have sadly undermined his own and his disciples' credibility. Reduced violence in Iraq and the success of the surge have also negated his cause. Libertarians deserve a better spokesperson; it's time for Ron (or Paul) to retire.

The hot corner, third base, is capably defended by former New York mayor, Rudi Giuliani, the Italian stallion (or stud, according to some reports), Sylvester Stallone without the hair, who spears line drives as deftly as he deflects terrorist attacks. Based on his expertise in national security and his perceived edge in a mano-a-mano contest with Hillary, and in spite of his un-Republican pro-abortion and pro-gun-control leanings, before any votes were cast, Rudi was the front-runner -- that is, until Hillary squandered her inevitability, a revived McCain co-opted national security, and Huckabee made social issues relevant.

Rudi is struggling mightily to recover from this flurry of hard-hit balls as well as a strategy that has him banking on a victory in the Florida primary -- which has left him out of sight, out of mind, out of the conversation, and out of the running in Iowa, New Hampshire (where his poor showing has made his staff downplay the considerable time he actually spent there), Michigan, and South Carolina. Rudi is shrewd, well-spoken (even with rocks in his mouth, which he sometimes evinces), and sure-footed, but at the same time passive, in that he never challenges an opponent; maybe he fears a counterattack against his vulnerable left. His latest proposals (they may not be new) smack of panic: a one-page income tax return, featuring three simplified levels of taxation, 10%, 15%, and 30%, with about as much chance of adoption as Rudi's being named father of the year; and an impractical and intrusive national ID card to register illegal immigrants and, I assume, legal citizens (which sounds to me like just another identification to be stolen). I doubt Rudi can regain traction.

Meanwhile, he's been overtaken by our slick-fielding, nimble, witty shortstop, Mike Huckabee. I am embarrassed to admit it, but, in the words of the slogan plastered all over his bumper stickers, signs, and lapel pins, "I like Mike." Who can resist his hucksterish country-boy charm, self-deprecating humor, and crooked, congenial grin, all of which remind me of a cross (no pun intended) between Gomer Pyle and Ronald Reagan? Who cares if he's an Evangelical Christian and former Baptist preacher? I've always felt that the Republican Party of recent vintage was the product of an unholy coalition between big business and socially conscious middle-class churchgoers who would one day find themselves at odds. It takes tax dollars to build better roads and schools -- and often to provide food, shelter, and health care to the impoverished -- and if Mike Huckabee raised taxes in Arkansas for those ends -- which I have no doubt he did, in spite of his equivocations -- more power to him. He's preaching an economic populism and compassionate conservatism that is luring audiences, contributions, and votes.

I won't deny that Mike has his problems, and they won't be easily salved with snake-oil. Ghosts of corruption haunt him from his days in the governor's mansion. His lack of knowledge and experience in foreign affairs and security matters is painfully evident -- but so was Reagan's at a similar time in his career. Running constitutional amendments banning abortion and gay marriages up a Confederate flagpole will win him few friends and lots of enemies. His Fair Tax Plan is unfair, flawed, going nowhere, and mostly a carrot dangled in front of economic conservatives. But wouldn't it be refreshing to have a president who took his job seriously but not always himself; who hadn't sworn allegiance to multinational corporations and special interest groups; and who espoused a brand of warmhearted Christianity that even a Jew like me can appreciate?

Although my readers will no doubt argue that all three Democratic contenders belong in left field, proper defense dictates an occupant for each outfield position. And of the three, furthest to the left is the boyishly handsome, toothy, silver-tongued son of a . . . mill worker, John Edwards, former trial lawyer, former Senator, former nominee for Vice-President -- to review his laundry list of qualifications for our Highest Office. By all accounts, Mr. Edwards's Senate record wasn't all that remarkable (he voted to authorize military action in Iraq, and for other measures which he now apologizes for) and he ran for President in 2004 because he knew his Senate re-election chances were slim. Along the way he appropriated the role of spokesperson -- or defender, as in a courtroom -- for all the underrepresented, uninsured, dispossessed, disadvantaged, and forgotten elements in our society (the Other America, to recoin a phrase), and embarked on a crusade in their behalf, in 2004 and, deja vu, in 2008.

At the risk of offending those whom Mr. Edwards (it just doesn't sound right to call him John) is championing, I find his tone and invective so strident, belligerent, and repetitive that they distort him into a caricature of himself. While I acknowledge that the great divide between rich and poor in this country has widened in the last twenty years -- a condition exacerbated by the current administration's fiscal policies -- I submit that assailing corporate America and health insurance companies as cold-blooded sinners and staking a presidential campaign on a handful of victims tragically underserved by our health care system is futile rhetoric at best and demagoguery at worst. Mr. Edwards's railings may indeed be the only way to draw attention to some fundamental inequities, but, if I may take a cheap shot, their authenticity and purity are blemished by exorbitant hairstylings, lavish residences, and cozy hedge fund relationships.

Patrolling center field is the graceful, lithe, charismatic upstart, Barack Obama, only last year an unknown minor leaguer but now, suddenly, a major player. I must admit that my conceptualization of Mr. Obama is as vague as, well, some of his policies. Maybe I've been watching too much Fox News, but I haven't seen that much of him on television. I did catch a snippet of his and Oprah's revival -- where the size, excitement, and enthusiasm of the crowd clearly eclipsed comparable events. On a superficial level, I find it amusing that, as his poll numbers have risen, Mr. Obama has largely abandoned his much-discussed, trend-setting, suit-with-no-tie attire and is sighted now usually sporting a blue appendage. Is it possible that, having won over the dress-down constituency, he has been advised to expand his base?

My younger readers (and some older Democrats, too) may cringe at my opinion that Mr. Obama's credentials are of even lighter weight than Mr. Edwards's -- a speech at the Democratic National Convention and three years in the Senate. (At least the latter completed a full term before running for President.) So what, I am sure they will respond; where we're headed, no experience is necessary, conjuring up images of John Kennedy, although, since Kennedy served fourteen years in Congress, I believe a more apt comparison would be Abraham Lincoln, except for the incongruity that Mr. Lincoln started a war and Mr. Obama wants to end one. This movement is all about the future, hope, change (you can believe in), vision, leadership, unity, and, quite frankly, a powerful voice, and so historic that its herald, in a rather peculiar declaration of independence, has even invoked the name of hallowed Hall of Famer Ronald Reagan as an inspiration. A testament to Mr. Obama's durability is the fact that the spark that ignited his campaign -- his initial opposition to the War in Iraq -- has in recent months lost its luster. Meanwhile, he has ridden his own surge to equality with the presumed front-runner, courageously kept to the high road, and, in his own inimitable style, successfully projected his personality as the message.

Which leaves only right field, manned (!) by Hillary Rodham Clinton, HRC in blogspeak, because, as the only female on the team, it's where her suspect defense will do the least harm, even though she may ultimately turn out to be the best player.

MSNBC brought our three outfielders together a few nights ago in Nevada in what was billed as a debate, but which, with Obama pulling his punches, Hillary sheathing her fangs, and Edwards dancing around the edges, quickly evaporated into a mild-mannered coffee klatch. YouTube voters said Obama won, but I thought Hillary, seated royally in the center of the semi-circular table, a magnet for the camera, clothed in red and black, emerged as dominatrix, calm, controlled, commanding. She spoke more authoritatively and specifically on the issues -- executive management, economics, and energy -- than either of her opponents. I winced at her proposals to ban home foreclosures for ninety days and to freeze interest rates on adjustable mortgages for five years -- problematic disruptions of free markets -- but, in reality, her pandering is no worse than Obama's or Edwards's.

The Clintons as a team, however, disturb me. I liked Bill as president, although, after a while, I had to tune out his gravelly voice, interminable speeches, and slippery rationalizations. I never thought sexual misbehavior and its attendant lies (who's going to admit to adultery?) were grounds for impeachment. Early in the campaign, when Hillary looked unstoppable, I grudgingly accepted her as the Democratic nominee and the person I would be voting for if I were to remain true to my Democratic roots. But lately, the more I see of her and the more I see of him, I've come to realize that George Washington had the right idea when he walked away from a third term in 1797. I know that Hillary and Bill are two different people and that I'm probably guilty of some sexist, anti-feminist prejudice when I reject a spouse simply because she's a spouse, but the facts are that these two are inextricably and permanently linked, and that when she goes into the White House, he comes along. That doesn't sound like change to me.

It's possible I've been listening to too much right-wing talk radio, but I am also no longer willing to turn a blind eye to the Clintons' unscrupulous lust for power. Politics is a ruthless business, and maybe it's just more Clinton fatigue on my part, but their brand seems egregiously hypocritical and mean-spirited. Slyly-leaked insinuations about Obama's drug use, dredging up old abstention votes on abortion rights in the Illinois Senate, clumsy back-handed attempts to inject race into the race -- followed by patronizing protestations of innocence -- are typical of the nasty tactics and behavior that will shadow another Clinton Administration. It may well be beneficial for the country -- and an improvement over the current one -- but, in my view, will suffer mightily from the burden of too much baggage.

We are now in the fifth inning of our imaginary game, with players singling, doubling, tripling, and striking out. Sooner or later, somebody on this team is going to hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth. My guess is that the opposing parties will rally around Mitt and Hillary, and, with the 2008 election a referendum on the economy and George Bush, HRC will prevail.

Scrooge

'Tis the season, and so, while engaging in one of my favorite -- and most useless -- pastimes, which readers of this blog are already aware of, surfing the television airwaves, I chanced upon George C. Scott's masterful portrayal of the penurious curmudgeon, in what is surely the most famous -- and most often performed -- Christmas tale of all time, excepting, of course, the Biblical one. So entrenched is this fable in our consciousness and so familiar is its ill-tempered protagonist that his name no longer requires capitalization but has assumed a singular status in the English lexicon as a noun and verb signifying, well, a decidedly un-Christmas-like spirit.

While his creator, Mr. Dickens, is rightfully recognized as one of literature's most artful and engaging notables, what greater accolade can accrue to him -- or any other writer -- than having a fictional character's name be incorporated into everyday language? One wonders whether some other moniker from the Dickens anthology -- Heep, Fagin, Pickwick, or Haversham, for example -- if substituted for Scrooge, would have been similarly popularized. To me, "Scrooge" sounds a lot like "screw," which, aside from its prurient connotation, conjures up an image of a person unfairly losing out or being taken advantage of in a contest or negotiation -- a predicament which Mr. Scrooge might well be able to facilitate -- as well as a tightening up, as a screw is tightened, synonymous with stinginess. The fact that these word associations are both slang and contemporary makes it unlikely that they contributed to Dickens's thought process, but does prompt the curious speculation as to whether the usages themselves became some iteration of the "Scrooge" name, which would make its invention even more historic.

My first cognizant encounter with the Scrooge personality came in the third grade, when I was invited to play the part of Tiny Tim in a sixth grade production of "A Christmas Carol." It's difficult enough to be one of the smartest kids in the class -- it never compensates for one's athletic deficiencies -- but even more embarrassing to be transplanted summarily into a class three levels above one's own. I assume I was selected for this role because (1) my diminutive stature suitably contrasted to that of my sixth-grade costars; (2) my memorization skills were sufficiently developed to regurgitate on cue the climactic line "God bless us every one"; and (3) I could easily afford to miss a few third-grade classes to attend rehearsals. I suppose I could have declined the honor, but, really, what nine-year-old could have resisted the glare of the spotlight and the insistent prodding of proud parents and enlightened teachers?

What made this episode even more anomalous and ironic was the fact that I was Jewish -- probably, I don't remember, the only Jew in the class. So there I was, up on the stage, or whatever served for a stage, at the old Garland-Rodes School, in front of an audience of hundreds, the sole non-Christian in the crowd (other than my beaming parents and grandparents), a veritable Christmas icon, resurrected from certain death (as revealed to Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Future) by the former's transformation, whose only line was a prayerful entreaty to a merciful deity to bless the Cratchit family and, by extension, the entire assemblage.

Although the political correctness of religious impartiality was not as pronounced fifty years ago as it is today, it was common knowledge among my peers that, while Jews did not celebrate Christmas and its gifting rituals, they did observe an alternate seasonal holiday, Hanukkah, which, serendipitously, offered its own opportunities for receiving gifts, eight nights of it, as a matter of fact, a glorious phenomenon which evoked half-serious declarations of envy from some friends, mindful of their own holiday's one-day limitation. My two siblings and I were especially fortunate since our parents, in an egregious demonstration of Jewish guilt and not wanting us to feel deprived, nurtured our blind faith in an ecumenical Santa Claus by surprising us on Christmas morning with a spate of presents -- bicycles, sleds, electric trains -- all in addition to those we had already received for Hanukkah. They did spare themselves the aggravation of erecting (and decorating!) a Christmas tree, correctly deducing that the presents were what really mattered.

I always had a trough of toys to wallow in. For as long as I can remember, the flagship Schewel store on Main Street in Downtown Lynchburg operated a toy department in its basement during the months of November and December -- and, in the days before Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us cornered the market, did a brisk business in bicycles, tricycles, pedal cars, board games, dolls, coloring books, erector sets, cap guns, costumes, and other 1950's and 1960's kiddie paraphernalia.

Legend has it that my grandfather, Ben Schewel, whose own father immigrated to this country from Russia in the 1890's and who grew up in a household markedly devoid of playthings (whatever kind may have existed at the turn of the century), other than those of a severely primitive nature, pledged to himself that, if it were up to him, no child would be left behind. Consequently, he established Schewels Toyland, where he didn't exactly hand out toys for free but did offer cash-strapped parents the option of stuffing their childrens stockings on credit, which otherwise might go empty. Mr. Ben gave away toys, too, lots of them, to mentally ill patients at the Lynchburg Training School and Hospital at a Christmas Party he hosted every year and to every Agudath Sholom Religious School student at an annual Hanukkah Party.

Is it possible that my own Scrooge-like proclivities are somehow a perverted reflection of Mr. Ben's profligate munificence? After all, the image persists of my merry grandfather perched up on a stage lavishly doling out Toyland treats to one hundred Jewish youngsters -- who were certainly not destitute -- like a Santa Claus in dark suit and skullcap, until he arrived at the grand prizes -- a boy's and girl's bicycle -- for the final lucky pair chosen by lottery, a lengthy, excruciating production which never failed to leave me quivering and ashen-faced. Surely all my envious compatriots were staring at me and thinking to themselves: "You could have all these toys yourself, couldn't you? If your grandfather can give them away to us, why couldn't he do the same for you? You could make a clean sweep of Schewels Toyland any time you wanted to."

Sixty years later, I find the giving and receiving of holiday gifts troubling, even painful.

Comparatively speaking, I am sure I have little to complain about, especially on the giving side. I don't give that many gifts -- and of those it is necessary for me to select only a few.

After several years of foolishly believing that I could divine my wife's taste in clothing -- even with the confident advice of her favorite salesladies -- and of trying to decipher her quizzical expressions as she perused a pink blouse or lavender sweater as if it were covered with grease, I smoothly transitioned to jewelry as less trendy, less subject to error, universally prized and, naturally, more expensive. I declared victory -- prematurely. A series of surreptitious exchanges and closet confinements finally convinced me to take my wife along on my shopping excursions -- with the result that, although my beautifully wrapped package retains a semblance of mystery and, when opened, prompts (faked?) orgasmic exclamations of joy, its contents are no surprise.

When I described my current and much-improved method of spousal gift selection to an acquaintance, she smiled pleasantly before offering the blunt opinion that she wanted to know that her husband had employed some effort in the activity and thus preferred to abandon him to his own hapless resources. To which my silent (even I wasn't so brash as to blurt it out) response was: "Well, effort is certainly a noble aspiration. But what's the value in expending precious time, money, and energy to produce a dubious outcome of blatant disappointment or feigned glee?"

In truth, I did exert some effort this season, with mixed results.

Other than his accompanying me occasionally to a men's store, I never saw my father do any shopping. Yet every Christmas he would bestow gifts -- what they were or how he collected them remains obscure -- on all the female employees at the Schewel corporate and downtown offices, a practice I thought admirable (while cynically questioning whether his motive was altruistic or obligatory) and came to emulate after his death. For a number of years I purchased poinsettias to support a local non-profit fundraiser -- which, I was told more than once, could be had at Wal-Mart for half the price -- before switching this season to a mixed assortment of Florida grapefruit and oranges. Although the poinsettias were always gratefully accepted and lauded for their blood-red beauty (I discarded yellow as less popular after the first go-round) -- and after all, what other response could be accorded a beneficent boss -- I believe the fruit was a refreshing change.

I also send a gift to Schewels fifty store managers, usually a small tin of cookies or toffee, selected, wrapped, and shipped by the proprietress of a downtown sundries emporium in a turnkey job that spares me all the work and decision-making. Alas, she shuttered her doors a year ago, casting me hopelessly adrift, waiting for the inevitable panic to set in when Thanksgiving should appear in the rear-view mirror. As time was winding down, like a hungry pigeon I finally lighted on a Hickory Farms packaged nut assortment, fifty of which I ordered, picked up at the Mall, and transported to Schewels Central Warehouse (only a mile away) for distribution by tractor-trailer (along with furniture) to each store, thus avoiding an outrageous seven-dollar-per shipping charge.

Since my wife was going to be out of town for our family's annual Hanukkah dinner at my mother's home, I implored her to share her considerable shopping expertise and assist me in choosing gifts for son, brother, brother-in-law, mother, nieces, and nephews, a task I am pleased to report we completed in a one-hour whirlwind tour of J.C. Penney. "Why Penny's?" I innocently inquired of her on the way home. "Because," she replied, applying a peculiar but typical logic to the query, "it's where I always park whenever I visit out-of-town malls."

The purchase I was most proud of was the one for my mother -- a friend of every merchant in town, for whom trying to find an item she doesn't already possess is a futile exercise, unless it be of the living, breathing variety, which of course she would never allow to cross the threshold of her immaculate domicile. She warmly embraced my surrogate, however, a battery-operated, walking, talking white poodle that required no feeding or house training.

A riskier proposition was a shirt for my younger son, Matthew. (I wasn't worried about my older son and daughter, whose New York and Philadelphia abodes were too distant for return visits so soon after their Thanksgiving homecomings; I effortlessly mailed each cash in a card.) How does a fifty-nine-year-old ultra-traditional dresser -- that is, one who wears old clothes -- pick suitable attire for a twenty-something? Only by sheer luck. I liked the shirt -- under normal circumstances, a certain guarantee that its recipient would not -- for its soft cotton hand, bold burgundy coloration, and narrow white striping, and it was on sale, only $24.99.

Matthew is a healthy six-foot-three, an extra-large I thought, for sure, but, as he later explained to me, contemporary fashion now dictates a snugger fit -- a clever ruse on the part of apparel purveyors, I submit -- which meant that, after he tried on the shirt, he and I would visit Penney's for a reshopping adventure, an accidental opportunity for me to ascertain if he really liked it: would he simply trade sizes or would he reselect altogether? Much to my suppressed delight, he chose the same shirt, in a large, a development that so intoxicated me I bought one too, size small (opting for the fashionable fit). Our pleasurable experience was further enhanced by our discovery, upon check-out, that the shirts were now reduced an additional six dollars each. We consummated our transaction and jauntily emerged from the store with enough savings pocketed to pay for our Panera Bread lunches.

Sometimes, though, it doesn't pay to try to save money. The day I was cruising the Mall looking for Hickory Farms, I stopped in the lobby to examine a display of interesting board games, thinking one might make a suitable gift for an employee and his family. Since my antiquated knowledge of such games is limited to Scrabble, Monopoly, and Trivial Pursuit (for all three of which, by the way, there are now innumerable variations), I stood wide-eyed and confused by the mind-boggling choices, until a woman nearby, in an eruption of enthusiasm, pointed out her favorite, "Sequence," which, she explained, her friends never failed to purchase for themselves after she introduced them to it.

"You can buy it at Target for $16.99," she added, a savings of half the Mall price. I started to grab the one I was looking at, reluctant to attack the snarl of traffic between River Ridge and Target. It wasn't the $20 so much as the idea of unnecessarily overpaying that finally lured me to my car, Ward's Road, and the bright orange bull's eye. Of course, Target was sold out of "Sequence," and by the time I got back to the Mall to buy the game, I had wasted a good forty minutes, and saved nothing.

I confess that I did use that side trip to slide into Barnes and Noble to search out a particular book for my sister, Donna; she had read and raved about another work by the same author. Here was a popular novel, published six months ago, well-reviewed in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, available only in hardcover -- and Barnes and Noble didn't have a copy. I wasn't surprised; the Lynchburg branch is decidedly substandard, in my humble opinion, testimony to the company's bleak but telling assessment of the local market. As it turned out, Givens had one copy, which I greedily snatched up and took to Schewels for my able assistant to wrap. (Remember, my wife was out of town, and gift-wrapping presents for me the same manual dexterity challenges of DVD programming, furniture assembly, golf, tennis, and Wii.)

When my sister handed me my own Hanukkah gift a few nights later, a festively-disguised book, it had a suspiciously familiar heft and thickness. Like a skilled surgeon at work, I patiently removed ribbon and bow, delicately separated tape from paper, and carefully began to peel back the protective tissue, when a distinctive teal and orange jacket design brazenly peeked from concealment and confirmed my dolorous premonition. Yes, it was indeed "The Yiddish Policeman's Union," the same book my sister was simultaneously unwrapping, the Holy Grail of my determined quest. What made this O. Henryesque development even more revolting was her now predictable admission that she already owned a well-thumbed copy. I was too dispirited to even think about returning the book, and thus passed it on to my brother, upon whose bookcase it is fated to rest, forever pristine.

While I will undoubtedly read the book -- affirming my compulsive eccentricity that no tome shall be left unturned -- and eagerly await the proper time and place to don the tee shirt given me by my children -- muted gray bearing the provocative insignia "Ask me about my blog" (Now that took some effort!) -- my innate uneasiness in the face of such favors remains intact.

Perhaps this anxiety is some remnant of low self-esteem lingering from childhood, which would deem me an unworthy recipient of largess, or simply evidence that the aforementioned ethnic trait (guilt) has been passed to another generation. I also need to be clear that these musings should in no way be interpreted as disrespectful of the pervasive Christian mythology, according to which man's Creator gifted to him His Only Begotten Son, at whose birth there appeared three Wise Men bearing from afar gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and who, years later, sacrificed his own life so that his disciples might be saved.

That's enough on those subjects. In my view, much of the joy of the event stems from the mystery of the unknown.

Does not the anticipatory thrill of contemplating a seductively adorned future possession often exceed the satisfaction reaped from its unveiling? Is not the revelation of the putative object of our desire usually anticlimactic to our admiration of its glamorous packaging? Like eager children, we rip away the glitzy camouflage, only to come hard up against a pitiless disillusionment.

Why should we be surprised? How often do the contents of our own overstuffed shopping bags, once stashed away in closets or drawers, suffer an inglorious demise, their formerly delicious attributes suddenly as sour and disposable as spoiled milk? Unless we have informed our donors of our specific wants and needs -- the substance and permanence of which, I maintain, are problematic -- how can we expect them to make judicious and pleasing choices?

Nevertheless, we smile graciously and proffer the appropriate declarations of appreciation -- not only for effort and thoughtfulness, but also, I suspect, for gift receipts and liberal return policies. Isn't the day after Christmas one of the busiest in the retail universe?

Food, however, can not be returned -- except in a most unbecoming manner. And I receive a lot of edibles over the holidays, in the form of business gifts, all sinfully gratuitous, including the most recent to arrive, which instigated this whole diatribe. (Astute readers may already be salivating at the self-contradiction contained in my condemnation of this common practice while resorting to it myself, to which my feeble retort would be: Such is life, or Do as I say, not as I do.)

My idealistic wife would contend that the friendly folks who send these delicacies are performing genuine acts of kindness in keeping with the spirit of the season. I suggest that they are expressing gratitude for business past and not-so-subtly enticing me to keep our relationship ongoing.

There may be an cadre of customers who anxiously await the arrival of holiday gifts from their vendors, but I am not one of them. I once wrote my business associates and asked them to donate the equivalent cost of their gift to me to charity, a suggestion that was unanimously ignored, probably because of that cost's relative immateriality. I imagine, however, that the combined expenditures of one vendor's total gifting would make some non-profit's Christmas very merry.

One objection I have to these business gifts mailed from distant places is admittedly frivolous yet nonetheless valid: the sheer nuisance of unpacking and transporting them. One vendor is sensible enough to ship his super-sized box of Florida grapefruit and oranges (ah yes, how ironic) to my home; yet I still shudder when I read the chilling words: "Contents perishable; open immediately." There are at least three dozen of each fruit stacked inside on cardboard trays which have to be removed and carried to my downstairs refrigerator (it takes about five exhausting trips), where they will enter hibernation and trickle out slowly over the course of the next three months, unless I should be so fortunate as to be able to pawn some off on children or friends. (As I write this, I'm thinking that, instead of whining, I should just take them to the food kitchen or the Salvation Army.)

My second objection is that, except for the fruit and a box of Christmas wrap (we now have ten of them, each half-empty, gathering dust in our attic), most of what I receive is quite frankly not very nutritious, loaded with empty calories, and at my age best avoided. Oh, it all looks wonderful, and one small bite will leave your taste buds begging for more; the problem is that the generous provisioners never consider that not everyone eats this stuff.

I'm speaking of moist, tender homemade cookies speckled with oversized chocolate chunks; crispy, flaked wafers rolled around chocolate and vanilla filling; Godiva chocolates laced with rum, fruit, caramel, or darker chocolate; mouthfuls of sweet Hershey kisses dressed in shiny red, green, gold, and silver foil; handfuls of popcorn -- caramel, buttered, and cheese -- overflowing a large, seasonally decorated, cylindrical container; Harry-and-David gift boxes (each one of which has to be pried open) offering delicate pastries, assorted cheeses, fancy crackers, smoked beef, choice preserves, and juicy pears and apples; a gorgeous pre-sliced cheesecake, complete with freezing plate, featuring natural, chocolate silk, raspberry, and peanut butter flavors; several Virginia Diner tins of gourmet peanuts, pistachios, and salted almonds; homemade blackberry jam (tasty and useful); a pungent, honey-smoked, spiral ham-and-a-half (my family will enjoy it, even if I won't); a luxurious Montana Plains raisin and honey bread loaf (appreciated by all); and the outrageous piece de resistance, a huge basket filled with boxes and containers of chocolate peppermint smoothies, Ghiradelli peppermint squares, Lindt cappuccino sweets, chocolate-covered graham crackers, more Godiva chocolates, Walker chocolate fruit, King Leo mint puffs, Brown and Haley butternut toffee, Old Dominion peanut brittle, chocolate cream-puff cookies . . . well, you get the idea.

This ultimate cornucopia wasn't even sent by a vendor, but rather by a non-profit furniture buying group, whose other members would certainly be justified in protesting its president's holiday perquisite if they ever found out about it.

All the cookies, candy, nuts, and cake I laid out for my employees to dispose of, which they did in short order (I even ate half a piece of cheesecake myself), except for that last monstrosity, which, having been sent to the house, my wife decided to keep, more as a display of ostentatious indulgence than something one really wants to ingest.

I did receive one handy gift from a manufacturer's representative, a stubborn Republican who, after seven years in the wilderness, may be seeing the error of his ways. This inveterate prankster sent me a roll of toilet paper, on each panel of which is imprinted a likeness of George Bush mouthing some infamous malapropism. Since I haven't opened it yet, intending to regift it (perhaps to the sender!), I am only able to reveal the first three (I doubt my readers will mind, after 3000 words): "Bring 'em on" (Bush on Iraqi militant attacks, July 3, 2003); "They misunderestimated me " (Bush on Bush, November 6, 2000); and "We need an energy bill that encourages consumption" (Bush on the environment, September 23, 2002). Although you can't eat it, you can still use it to wipe the crumbs off your . . . smiley face.

Sometimes, though, even a Scrooge receives a gift he cannot spurn. This morning, Christmas Day, when I went to my mailbox, I found a mysterious white envelope, its stomach bulging like a pregnant woman's, its flap and ends so meticulously sealed and wrapped in protective tape that no loose edge was visible. As I struggled to open it, cursing its security, I noticed the return address: Macey R., a high school friend, now living in Berkeley, whose only recent contact with me was one e-mail six weeks ago, to which I had responded by sending this blog link. Finally, I was able to dislodge the letter inside, on which was typed a brief message: Natalia (Macey's significant other) and I thought you might like these. "These" fell out into my hand: twenty-two baseball cards, the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates, World Series champions, surprising victors over the invincible Yankees in the Greatest Game Ever Played, which I witnessed sitting beside my father in Forbes Field forty-seven years ago.

They were all there -- Gino Cimoli, Hal Smith, Rocky Nelson, Harvey Haddix, Roy Face, Bill Virdon, Vern Law, Bob Skinner, Don Hoak -- and now they rest on my dresser beside the signed photograph of their teammate Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his unforgettable home run, simple but magnificent reminders of youthful avocations, baseball lore, enduring friendships, and the power and poignancy of an ingenious gift. Bah Humbug!

Mega-Church

Except for an occasional sporting event or news program, I am not a frequent television watcher, an embarrassing admission when you consider that my older son earns a living as a film editor. Like many males, however, I am guilty of periodically planting myself in front of our modest 28-inch flat screen and surfing through the wastefully abundant one-hundred-plus channels at my disposal, just to see what's on, rarely pausing more than ten seconds on any particular selection, a habit that never fails to elicit from my wife, when she can bear to stay in the room, exclamations of unmitigated rage.

Several times in recent weeks, while engaged in such exercises, I found myself lingering over a broadcast which not merely attracted my attention but so fascinated and intrigued me that I actually put down the remote for a good fifteen minutes: Sunday morning church services at Thomas Road Baptist Church.

The orchestra, the choir, the hymns, the stage production, the energy -- which even the filter of television could not dissipate -- the poised performance of Reverend Jonathan Falwell, all seemed more theater than theology, more entertainment than edification, more revelry than religion -- more watchable, really, than the dismal alternatives I had summarily discarded: the controlled, insulated violence of clashing football pads and helmets, punctuated by innumerable replays and interminable interruptions; the feverish fluency, expert eloquence, and plastic pronouncements emanating continuously from a bevy of talking heads; the inane, tasteless, slapstick humor of situational comedy; the artificial, hyperbolic, melodramatic depiction of afflicted lives whipsawed between triumph and tragedy and conveyed through the magnified facial expressions and cliched dialogue of every player; and any one of an overwhelming supply of narcoleptic B-movies, whose convoluted and incomprehensible plotlines demanded a more serious and extensive allocation of time and attention than this random viewer was willing to invest.

I thought to myself: if Thomas Road is this affecting on television, I wonder what it's like in the flesh -- as in the spirit made flesh.

My barber, Dickie P., is an interesting character. He's short, stocky, amiable, with a sly grin, pudgy cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye, a Santa Claus without the beard. He's a wellspring of local gossip (where better to unveil your innermost thoughts and secrets than in the comfort of a barber's chair?), a loyal, outspoken Conservative Republican, and a shrewd practitioner of his art, always managing to leave just enough foliage to necessitate a return visit to his shop every two-and-a-half weeks, a talent that has apparently served him well: he has a swimming pool (or had one; it's now full of dirt, but that's another story), owns a 1956 antique Thunderbird (concerning which, my query, "How much did you pay for it?" evoked the response, "I can't tell you how much I paid for it, but I'll tell you how much I want for it."), and drives a late-model shiny black Mercedes. A modulated aggressiveness lurks beneath his easy banter, a remnant, I suspect (but cannot prove), of an adventuresome and rakish past. Now, however, he's a bona fide, born-again, devoted Falwell acolyte, and, I recently learned, a church usher. When I mentioned that I might like to attend a Sunday service, his excitement was irrepressible.

"Come on over any time, Mr. Schewel," he exhorted, dreams of conversion dancing in his brain. "I'll show you around. But it's best to come at 8:15, when the crowd is manageable," he cautioned. "OK," I replied. "I'll be there, one of these days."

And so, I went, Sunday, November 4th, Friend's Day, as it turned out, auspiciously enough, but with a delayed launch time of 9:00, giving me the opportunity -- after I had arrived an hour earlier -- to savor a bracing cup of coffee at Starbucks, in case I might be tempted to doze off during the service, a totally unnecessary precaution, as it turned out.

At this juncture, it would seem appropriate to offer a few comments about my own religious beliefs. I do not intend to wax prolifically on this subject, simply because I am not as conversant in the tenets of my professed faith -- Judaism -- as I ought to be, although I was raised Jewish, attended religious school for ten years, was Bar Mitzvahed and confirmed, observe -- at least symbolically -- the major Jewish Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, and Passover), and support Jewish charitable organizations. If challenged to articulate the difference between Judaism and Christianity, my feeble, superficial answer would sound like this: Jews believe in the Word of God as revealed through a book, the Torah, and subsequent prophetic and rabbinical commentary on same; Christians -- with significant sectarian variations -- believe in the Word of God -- and the promise of salvation and eternal life -- as revealed through the birth, death, resurrection, and teachings of His Son, Jesus Christ.

Both religions present dilemmas for me. While reluctant to categorize myself as an atheist or agnostic, the term I prefer, skeptic, is, I admit, nothing more than a euphemistic avoidance of those pejorative labels, for which I would cautiously submit the following backdoor definition: a belief in a primary life-force is not a prerequisite for me to appreciate the miracle of creation, the wonder of the universe, the beauty of nature, the power of love, the rewards of righteousness, the joy of giving, or the mystery of mortality. And if it's one leap of faith to envision an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent deity, it's even more problematic to contemplate that deity incarnate.

That's enough on that subject. My trip to Thomas Road is strictly curiosity-driven.

Any uneasiness I might have anticipated is immediately dispelled by the gracious reception extended to me (and every other congregant). Here is a giant, jolly teddy-bear reaching out to smother me in a protective embrace and gather me to its bountiful bosom. As I climb the short stairway from the lower parking lot, two Wal-Mart-like -- but decidedly more youthful -- sentinels flash glittering smiles and repeat the formulaic yet nonetheless effective salutation: "Welcome to Thomas Road Baptist Church. Thank you for coming this morning." The sky is clear, the air cool and crisp, and I wonder whether they man their posts as faithfully in the cold, rain, and wind. Their hospitableness is reinforced by the fortuitous appearance of my friend Dickie P., ecstatic (and probably surprised) at seeing me, and only too eager to conduct me on a personal tour of the premises.

The imposing neo-colonial facade and entrance is Lynchburg's newest landmark. Four massive columns support a large overhanging porch that rises to a triangular peak fifty or sixty feet high and is flanked on either side by similar three-columned structures -- the naves of the cross, I assume. Of course, this is the former G.E.-Ericsson home, miraculously transformed -- by faith, prayer, and some outlandish gifts -- from a dour, industrial building into a sprawling, yet tasteful, religious and educational complex.

While the expansive lobby's quaint appellation, Main Street, conjures up visions of a small-town nostalgia, its design, amenities, and spaciousness are, to me, more suggestive of a luxurious (dare I say Las-Vegas-style?) resort hotel. Located on each side of the aisle are intimate social areas, with sofas and chairs arranged for conversation or study (on quieter days). Even at 8:35, twenty-five minutes before the service is to start, this town center is a crowded, bustling, flurry of activity, as people greet friends and acquaintances. The focal point is a coffee and refreshment bar doing a brisk business, oddly replicating the Starbucks I had so recently patronized, and a striking image of the pervasive, inviting, customer-friendly ambiance. Main Street is as much an interactive, social destination as it is a church site, as evidenced by the fact that, as I later learned, it is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

My guide is justifiably proud of the place. He points out two elaborate children's play areas -- one indoors, one outdoors -- each stocked with enough slides, tubes, see-saws, and climbing equipment to put a half-dozen McDonald's to shame. He insists I peek into the Sam Pate Chapel -- a small church in itself -- where the choir -- a small congregation in itself -- is rehearsing its repertoire. He leads me through a maze of Sunday school classrooms, where the walls, desks, tables, and play-to-learn paraphernalia are as bright, sparkling, clean, and colorful as the children milling about.

I beg off a tour of Lynchburg Christian Academy and its indoor track and gymnasium, having seen those facilities a few months before while attending a breakfast meeting, and an introduction to Jonathan Falwell, who, I fear, will remember a joke I told about his father (he was still alive then) on the same occasion, to which, I was informed, his reaction was a suppressed grimace.

Dickie directs me into the auditorium from a side door adjacent to the stage, which gives me the opportunity to take in all 6000 seats -- including 1000 in the balcony -- from the pastor's point of view. Even if one supposes only a two-third's occupancy during the course of three morning services (on a normal Sunday), that 12,000 attendance figure represents a significant percentage (over ten) of Lynchburg's population. And it does not include any of the 9000 Liberty University student body, who, I am told, worship en masse at the Vines Center.

I take a seat slightly left of center and no more than ten rows from the stage. If this is to be my first and last visit, I certainly don't want to miss anything.

My attention is immediately drawn to two large television screens suspended high on either side of the stage, which are displaying silent, continuous announcements of a multitude of church programs: Christmas Eve Services, a Women's United for Christ Fitness Program, Mountain Blend (coffee, I assume) Tuesday Morning Bible Study, Mother's Morning Out, the Virginia Christmas Spectacular, LCA Choir in Concert, Thomas Road Flea Market, Kid's Sports Leagues, the Singles Ministry, the Barrick Family Revelation Celebration. No wonder Main Street is open around the clock.

The twenty-piece orchestra -- complete with strings, brass, percussion, and conductor -- takes its place in the center of the stage. The two-hundred-member choir positions itself in eight ascending rows on either side, not its usual station, I understand, which is a more dramatic arrangement on a proscenium now hidden by a black curtain and which has been usurped by the rapidly growing Living Christmas Tree, a spectacular production which I have yet to experience. The choir, even as it is, duly impresses me.

Three other objects occupy the stage: the pulpit, a fixture for the portly former pastor, but largely abandoned by his youthful, roving successor; a large upholstered pull-up chair, for the pastor's relaxation during musical interludes; and a kingsize i-pod, the metaphorical inspiration for the pastor's recent series of sermons (the last of which I will hear this morning): Life Lessons for the I-Pod Generation.

That series wasn't designed for me: I have no ear for music, do not listen to music (except as a last resort, when all AM talk radio signals have faded into a deafening static), and blithely confess a tuneless ignorance when it comes to Christian or gospel melodies. But, honestly, who would not be moved to exhilaration if not rapture by the symphonic strains of the orchestra, the soaring harmonies of the vocalists, and mellifluent tones of Charles Billingsley? As they break into song, most of the hymns are of a hand-clapping, toe-tapping, head-shaking variety that seems to combine all the elements of rock, country, and jazz in a melting pot reflective of the diversity of the 5000-member audience. Reverend Jonathan smoothly ramps up the enthusiasm with his rhythmic bodily accompaniment, a signal to his disciples to join in.

As the words flash up on the screen, I try to digest the titles or refrains: I Exalt Thee; To Only a God Like You Do I Give my Praise; These Are the Days of Elijah (in the words of Master Billingsley, one of our favorites, and with a familiar Old Testament reference, too); How Great is our God. And, later in the service, Oh the Wonderful Cross, and an emotional Billingsley solo, I Believe in a Hill Called Mount Calvary, which wrings beads of perspiration from his forehead and builds to a soul-stirring climax, at which point he implores his impassioned devotees to rise and sing along.

Religion and salvation come easily here. There are no cumbersome hymnals or prayer books to hoist and manipulate. You sit (or stand, when instructed), absorb the music and message almost by osmosis, gaze hungrily at the television, if you choose, to follow the song lyrics and the pastor's key points, and passively allow the service to rush over you, cleansing you of sin and soil -- that is, if you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. In all fairness, I have been informed that more ambitious congregants will attend Thomas Road's Sunday School, where they are exposed to rigorous courses in theology and scripture.

Jonathan Falwell is a polished, professional preacher. He does not confine himself to the pulpit and read from a prepared text, but cuts himself loose like an eagle from its nest and roams the broad platform, addressing the huge assemblage in a pleasing, conversational manner. I watch his eyes to see if he is referring to the teleprompters nestled beneath the lip of the stage; but, no, either he has memorized his sermon or is a remarkably gifted extemporaneous speaker, whose words roll off his silky tongue like waves washing ashore with never a pause, misstatement, or ellipsis for thirty-five uninterrupted minutes.

Having watched Jonathan on television, I know by now that he structures his sermons logically, by identifying specific topics and explicating them using Biblical references. I also know that, although the themes ostensibly vary, the message, ultimately, is repetitive. This is not in any way meant to disparage the energy, expertise, or sincerity which he invariably projects.

This Sunday's life lesson is on prayer, the last of the i-truths, which you might think puts me at a disadvantage, since I haven't heard about the others; then again, all the New Testament (and most of the Old) -- from which Jonathan will quote frequently -- is foreign to me. Furthermore, prayer is not in my realm of behavior, nor do I believe in its efficacy -- when conducted by preachers or anyone else. Jonathan has some real convincing to do.

The sermon is previewed by a brief video, which is intended to illustrate the futility of praying for material gain. It features a familiar Liberty professor posing as a genie, the humor of whose role-playing is lost on me since I don't know this individual.

Stretching for differentiation in my view, Jonathan defines prayer as our ability to call on God in our time of need, our opportunity to depend on God, a time to commune with God, and the realization that we need God's help in our lives. He introduces five principles of prayer, cleverly employing the acronym i-p-r-a-y, and uses verses from the Bible -- all New Testament, I believe -- to develop each principle.

Prayer is an individual choice. Prayer is a personal conversation -- with the God who loves you. Prayer expresses our relationship to God and -- the crux of the matter -- it is a relationship based on the salvation granted us by a merciful God, who saves and cleanses us only by that mercy and not by our works or righteousness. (I know this is what Christians believe, yet it startles me in its bare simplicity.) In prayer we are given God's assurance that he can count on us (for what, I wonder, other than to believe, which is all that is really required). And, finally, in prayer we yield to God, give our lives to Him, that is, to Christ, who died for our sins.

It seems to me that one could take any number of words -- not just those beginning with i-p-r-a-y -- and construct a vocabulary that would enable one to understand prayer. But that's not the point. If a listener can remember "i-pray," then he has a reasonable chance of remembering five words -- individual, personal, relationship, assurance, and yield -- which, today, offer him a pathway to grasping the Christian concept of prayer. In that sense, the message is clear and perfected.

The conclusion is inevitable and -- not to sound cynical -- probably the same one that any number of these sermons portend. Jonathan's five principles of prayer are valid only if one accepts without reservation God's love through Christ and surrenders to it. And so he beckons those in the audience not yet saved to come forward to the altar and receive that love, asking other congregants to close their eyes, so prospective converts will not be intimidated or embarrassed.

Not surprisingly, about twenty persons make their way to the stage, where they are welcomed by Jonathan as brothers or sisters in Christ. If others feel the urge but are still reluctant to make a public declaration, they have only to complete the form conveniently provided in every pew and turn it in to a church official, and the pastor will give each and every one a personal call.

As I stand and watch the proceedings draw to a close, I am struck by two compelling revelations of my own. First, the summons to salvation is very seductive; all that is required here today is faith, submission, and acceptance. And as one looks around and studies the thousands who have rejoiced in song, sermon, and show, who exult in a love of God which inspirits their minds and invigorates their bodies, and who fear not death, confidently anticipating a glorious resurrection, he is sorely tempted to join the party.

Finally, the presence of the late Dr. Jerry Falwell is palpable; he smiles upon and blesses his creation like a proud father; he permeates the atmosphere and circulates through the prayer venues, classrooms, and social spaces like -- excuse the analogy -- a Holy Ghost. One cannot enter the place and behold its grandeur and substance without reflecting on the passion, genius, determination, and vision that created this huge enterprise. However one views the man's politics, his sanctimonious morality, and his self-aggrandizement, one cannot help but admire his monumental achievement and respect his powerful legacy.

October Surprise

Although my workout regimen on the Cybex equipment at the YMCA -- which I tackle two or three days a week -- is not particularly strenuous (I haven't increased the weights in ten years, nor do I subscribe to the well-substantiated theory that slower is better), I have a tendency to loiter between machines and daydream, examining bodies both shapely and not or gazing at one of the silent but scrawling televisions perched above the crowd.

I was in just such a pose about a week ago -- actually the eve of World Series Game One -- when I saw it, at least the end of it: ESPN's countdown of the ten most memorable moments in World Series history (filched from the Internet I later determined). I stood entranced, expectant, fascinated, wondering whether the mysterious individuals whose judgments on these matters are accepted as gospel had been sufficiently perspicacious to overcome their natural bias towards more recent personally-witnessed events and crown the proper champion.

And when, suddenly, it flashed up on the screen, the grand finale of the dramatic seventh game of the bizarre 1960 World Series, its grainy black-and-white footage flickering like an old newsreel, I could barely contain my emotions. "Yes!" I wanted to shout to the pained, perspiring, panting masses, immersed in their exertions (and i-pods) and oblivious to the ephemeral imagery on display. "Look up, sports fans. I was there -- at the greatest World Series game ever played," I silently exhorted, the hyperbole rolling off my silver tongue as glibly as if it were Howard Cosell's.

Those of you who may have read on this blog my defense of Barry Bonds and my lamentation on September will know by now that I am a baseball fan, infatuated and intrigued by (not to reprise myself): the perfect symmetry of the game -- nine positions, nine innings, three strikes, three outs, four balls, four bases; the unique physical and mental confrontation between pitcher and batter; the pristine beauty of the delicately manicured field, its green and sandy areas in bold contrast, upon which each player has staked out his exclusive territory; the graceful agility of a pitcher in motion, a batter unleashing his power, a diving shortstop, a fleet-footed outfielder; the seemingly endless, but nevertheless too soon concluded, 162-game season, necessary to separate the contenders from the pretenders; the mesmerizing statistical record -- of every pitch, every at-bat, every play, every game -- posted and archived for cowhide devotees to ponder and analyze.

The numbers are what lured me to baseball; it certainly wasn't athletic proficiency, since I lacked the strength, speed, and coordination to play it -- or any other sport -- at even a mediocre level. As a youngster, I could always withdraw from the playing field to the printed word -- I was a child let loose in a candy store after I learned to read, sampling one tasty treat after another -- a refuge that became more problematic when I was sent away to summer camp in the White Mountains of West Virginia at the tender age of eight. There I was thrust into a gaggle of budding baseball enthusiasts who were not only reasonably adept at hitting, fielding, and throwing -- and these were Jewish kids to boot -- but also amazingly well-versed in all sorts of Major League trivia. When camp lights went out, they would chatter on incessantly about teams, players, and averages, conversation to which I had nothing to contribute.

Upon returning home, I resolved never again to find myself adrift in a sea of sports ignorance -- even if I couldn't play the game. I embarked on a voyage of self-education, investing as much time and energy in baseball lore and current events as I did in school work, and thus became a fan. I was first out the door every morning to retrieve the newspaper, not for the front page, but for the comics, the sports section, and the box scores. I became an avid collector and trader of baseball cards, reveling in the statistics of even obscure players. I learned how to keep score, diligently recording hits and putouts on composition paper as reported by Dizzy Dean and Pee Wee Reese on their Saturday Game of the Week. And I would listen to AM radio broadcasts while lying in bed in the dead of night, including the remarkable performance of Pittsburgh Pirate Harvey Haddix when, on May 29, 1959, he pitched twelve perfect innings against the Milwaukee Braves only to lose in the thirteenth.

Of course, every baseball fan -- especially a burgeoning one -- needs a team to root for. Inaugurating a personal foible that persists to this day, I became hopelessly enamored of two lovable losers: the Washington Senators in the American League, probably because their home was closest to my own (or maybe it was their early sixties eclectic flavor: who could ever forget Camilio Pascual and Pedro Ramos?) and the Pittsburgh Pirates in the National League -- in their case because my mother hailed from the Pittsburgh area and whose father, as she was fond of relating, was a diehard Pirate fan who himself had played semi-professional baseball. Sadly, this family athletic gene expired permanently with his death from a heart attack in 1955.

If you were attracted to underdogs, the Pirates were an insightful choice. From 1950 through 1959, they averaged 61 wins and 93 losses, finished last five times, and posted winning records only in 1958 and 1959. Their one star, slugger Ralph Kiner, the League leader in home runs from 1946 to 1952, was traded the next year to the the Chicago Cubs after a contract dispute with General Manager Branch Rickey, who told him the Pirates could finish in last place without him.

But before he himself was fired in 1955, Rickey had laid the foundation for a competitive team: moving the quick, nimble Bill Mazeroski from shortstop to second base where he became, according to statistician guru Bill James, the position's premier defensive player; shipping diminutive reliever Elroy Face to Double A New Orleans in 1954 to learn to throw a forkball (today the split-finger fastball); drafting the gifted Puerto Rican outfielder, Roberto Clemente, from the Brooklyn Dodger's farm system; and signing Duke basketball All-American Dick Groat and the two pitchers who would become the backbone of the staff, Vernon Law and Bob Friend.

Although these capsule descriptions I have borrowed from William Nack's October 23, 2000, Sports Illustrated article, the names are as familiar to me today as my own children's, as well as others added by Rickey's successor, Joe Brown: the catching tandem of left-handed hitting Smokey Burgess and righty Hal Smith; the "fiery third baseman," Don Hoak; the aforementioned "wiry, chain-smoking Harvey Haddix, a crafty lefty nicknamed the Kitten because he had studied at the paw of St. Louis Cardinal veteran Harry (the Cat) Breechen"; the "sweet-fielding, bespectacled" Bill Virdon, also a former Cardinal; the well-traveled minor leaguer Rocky Nelson, mistaken by one of Brown's colleagues for television wonder boy Ricky Nelson; and the "tobacco-chewing, beagle-faced" manager, Danny Murtaugh, himself a former Pirate second baseman.

In searching my memory to reconstruct that 1960 line-up, only two names escaped me: outfielder Bob Skinner and utility infielder Gino Cimoli.

In 1958, Murtaugh's first year, the Pirates won 84 games and lost 70, finishing second to the Milwaukee Braves, if not a traditional rival, certainly one in my mind, since they were the favorite of my across-the-street neighbor, Randy E., who gloried in the exploits of that star-studded team's high-octane performers: Warren Spahn, Lew Burdette, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews, and Joe Adcock.

After reverting to form the next year and slipping to fourth place, in 1960 the Pirates shocked the baseball world, winning 12 of their first 15 games, ninety-five in all, and cruising to the National League pennant, seven games ahead of those despicable Braves. "Groat hit .325 to win the NL batting title. Law won 20 games, Friend 18, and Face saved 24. Mazeroski led major league second basemen in putouts, assists, double plays, and fielding average."

It's best for those who religiously follow the fortunes of perennial losers never to elevate their hopes too high and calmly to anticipate the worst so as not to be crushingly disappointed when inevitable disaster strikes. Thus, in spite of their wire-to-wire run, could it have been anything but a total surprise when the Pirates clinched the pennant, their first in thirty-three years?

Their World Series opponent, however, was no surprise: the mighty New York Yankees. If the Braves had stars, the Yankees had Hall-of-Famers, up and down the line-up, and you didn't have to be a Yankee fan, even much of a baseball fan, to regurgitate those names: Yogi Berra, Bill Skowron, Bobby Richardson, Tony Kubek, Elston Howard, Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, and the manager, Casey Stengel. The Yankees had claimed eight pennants and six World Series in the fifties. They finished the 1960 season by winning their last fifteen games and hitting 193 home runs, a new American League record.

No one gave the Pirates much of a chance against that powerhouse, and after humiliating 16-3 and 10-0 defeats in Games Two and Three, such prognostications seemed well-founded -- except for the surprising outcome of Games One, Four, and Five, in which the over-matched upstarts triumphed by the slim margins of 6-4, 3-2, and 5-2, prompting manager Murtaugh to observe between expectorations: "The Series will be decided on games won, not on total runs scored."

If the Buccaneers' bumptiousness wasn't exhilarating enough, imagine my reaction when sometime that week sitting at the dinner table, my father, in the ceremonious and portentous manner he was prone to exhibit in such situations, announced that he had in hand two tickets to Games Six and Seven of the World Series. My eyes widened in disbelief; surely I must have assumed he was playing the kind of subtle practical joke he was fond of, like reading from the newspaper bogus stories featuring a friend or family member. But, no; it was all true. Apparently, some connection or friendship involving my mother's spate of relatives from the Pittsburgh area had delivered the goods, a magic carpet ride to Forbes Field, my second Major League destination, the first having been Yankee Stadium during a family sightseeing tour of New York a few years earlier.

Back then baseball was still America's pastime, and the World Series was its preeminent sporting event. There were only three television networks; sports broadcasts were few and far between; the Super Bowl had yet to be invented; and the widespread popularity and continuous exposure of football and basketball were futuristic phenomena. The World Series was, refreshingly, a daytime event, and scores were snatched like lightning bugs from transistor radios smuggled into school bathrooms and hallways those autumn afternoons. Some teachers were accommodating or interested enough themselves to allow students to listen to the games in class -- but not my eighth-grade history teacher, Mr. Eddie H., who, in spite of a boundless adoration of the Yankees and a boisterous jealousy of my good fortune, was too strict a disciplinarian to interrupt his lesson plans.

To attend the World Series -- at the expense of missing a couple of days of school -- was quite a coup.

I suppose this adventure can also be depicted as a father and son bonding experience, one of the few we ever had -- that is, until we went into business together, after which we were permanently in bondage, so to speak. I do not mean to be derogatory; if there is blame to be cast, an equal amount must be borne by me.

My father and I had little in common. He was a gregarious, garrulous, extroverted, magnetic individual who never met a stranger; I was cerebral, reserved, introverted, and, in spite of my academic prowess, rife with insecurities. He was also intensely preoccupied with his growing business and with various community organizations, working six, sometimes seven days a week and traveling frequently -- a pattern I was fated to replicate years later. Looking back, I'm not sure if he really held any enthusiasm for baseball or the Pittsburgh Pirates or if he could name any of the players; I have to believe this trip was a genuine, heartfelt attempt to reach out to me, a shared activity he knew I would enjoy.

This is not to say he didn't take advantage of an opportunity to indulge himself along the way. I don't recall any details: what car we took (it wasn't his infamous Ford Galaxie convertible, a 1962 model) -- most likely my mother's Country Squire wood-paneled station wagon -- or where we stayed -- probably we economized and lodged with one of my mother's relatives -- but undoubtedly we detoured to Harrisonburg, Luray, and Winchester to pay business calls on Schewel managers Wilburn, Moore, and Lucas.

The question arises: What did we talk about, joined at the hip, just the two of us, for at least sixteen hours, eight on the drive up, eight on the drive home? Who remembers conversations half a century old? I can with confidence attest to the subjects we avoided: hunting and fishing, about which we were, and forever would be, blithely ignorant, and sex, about which he only spoke to me once, advising me to consult him if I ever found myself in a troublesome situation, in itself a depressingly unlikely prospect. I suspect that mostly he talked, I listened, and we stopped a few times to eat and for him to make telephone calls.

Not having attended a college or professional football game in many years, I can only make an educated guess as to what draws zealots to brave the elements week after week: a slavish devotion to their team; the communal energy flowing through the stadium like an electric charge; the violence seen and heard from a ringside seat; a submersion of one's identity in the synergistic clamor of the crowd; or maybe it's just the tailgating. I experience a similar thrill at a Major League baseball game, but would propose a slightly nuanced and largely ignored distinction.

I believe one reason baseball has suffered as a spectator sport over the last twenty years is that it does not translate to the television screen as facilely as football and basketball. To appreciate the subtleties and intricacies of a baseball game, one must be able to survey the whole field, all its components -- pitcher, batter, fielders -- and observe their reactions to the pitch and the ball in play. You can't see that on television, even in replays, whereas football (and basketball) broadcasts show almost all players in movement when action commences, afterwards isolating coverage in the critical areas. The camera actually diminishes the game of baseball while enhancing our viewing of those other sports.

I couldn't articulate that thought in 1960, but, perhaps, subconsciously, I felt it after passing through the concrete portico into the open stadium, for surely I paused, smiled, looked around in awe and excitement, and absorbed the breathtaking expanse of diamond and outfield, which would be frozen in time while the game ran its course.

Like a rocketing home-run ball disappearing over the fence, Forbes Field and that first game have faded into oblivion. Was there a fearsome conflict roiling in my brain, between the loyal fan's prayer for victory and the anxious twelve-year old's yearning for another contest? If so, it was quickly resolved by another Bronx blowout, 12-0, in which lightweight Bobby Richardson continued his uncharacteristic power surge, hitting two triples and driving in three runs, including a record-setting twelfth.

The next day, Thursday, October 13, would be the last of the season, no matter the outcome. My father and I had hardly settled in our seats -- somewhere on the first base side -- when the fireworks started. I remember three moments; for the rest, I refer again to William Nack's Sports Illustrated article, published on the fortieth anniversary of what he called "the Wackiest World Series of Them All."

The Pirates raced to a 4-0 lead on the strength of a first-inning two-run home run by Rocky Nelson and a second-inning two-run single by Bill Virdon. Casey Stengel replaced starter Bob Turley with 5'6" lefty-sinkerballer Bobby Shantz, who silenced the Pirate bats for the next five innings, allowing only a single by Smokey Burgess. In a move with significant implications, Burgess was lifted for a pinch runner, and his catching position was filled by Hal Smith.

Meanwhile, the Yankees clawed back. Vern Law, unable to push off from the rubber due to an injured foot, was throwing his arm out and courageously lasted until the sixth inning, giving up one run. But when Murtaugh turned to the dependable, indefatigable Roy Face, 68 appearances and 114 innings (this was a time when star relievers pitched one, two, or three innings, whatever was necessary) finally took its toll. Face gave up a run-scoring single to Mickey Mantle, a towering three-run homer to Yogi Berra that just avoided the right foul pole, and two more runs in the eighth. The Forbes Field faithful were restless and distraught; with only six outs left, the Yankees led 7-4 and looked like sure winners.

To quote Nack: "Then came the most bizarre half-inning of this bizarre series." With Gino Cimoli on first after a dink single to right, Bill Virdon hit a hard grounder to shortstop Tony Kubek, a sure double play. The ball hit a rock in the infield, bounced up sharply, and struck Kubek in the throat. I can see him now, lying on the ground, writhing in pain, clutching his throat -- the game turning, the crowd sensing something mystical in the air. Was this truly a team of destiny?

Dick Groat singled, scoring Cimoli, the Pirates' fifth run. Then, Stengel inexplicably pulled Shantz -- "the greatest fielding pitcher in the history of baseball," according to Joe Brown -- for Jim Coates. Bob Skinner sacrificed Virdon to third and Groat to second. Rocky Nelson flied out. Roberto Clemente came to the plate with two outs, and hit a bouncer to first baseman Bill Skowron, who fielded it cleanly and looked to throw to the pitcher Coates covering first, a routine play. But Coates -- no Bobby Shantz -- wasn't there; his mental lapse cost the Yankees the third out. Virdon scored, Groat moved to second, and Clemente was safe. The score was now 7-6, and back-up catcher Hal Smith stepped into the batter's box.

I will never forget Smith's home run, because, like every other frenzied fanatic in the grandstand, I was sure he had won the game and the Series for the Pirates. The prosaic name Hal Smith should have been etched in baseball marble forever; he had put his team ahead 9-7 with three outs to go.

But Bob Friend, a starter who had also pitched too many innings, couldn't hold the lead. The Yankees scored two runs in the top of the ninth, thanks to a miraculous play by Mickey Mantle. Leading off first, he dove back to the base when the batter was forced out on a hard grounder, allowing the tying run to score from third.

Bill Mazeroski was first up for the Pirates in the bottom of the ninth.

He was an unlikely hero, the slick-fielding second baseman, hardly a power hitter, the son of an Ohio coal miner, who grew up in a little wooden house with no electricity or running water, "listening to his battery-operated radio tell stories of his beloved Cleveland Indians," Maz, as he was known. But after the second pitch -- "a high hummer delivered by Ralph Terry at 3:36 PM just where he wanted it" -- he would be legendary.

Nack writes: "He swung and struck the ball flush, sending it in a rising white arc to left center field. He was racing towards first base when he saw what everyone else saw, what Virdon and Skinner and Skowron and Richardson saw, what thousands saw from the stands, what millions who were watching on TV saw" -- and what I saw from my seat behind first base and will never forget seeing -- "Yogi Berra crabbing back to the warning track, turning to face the wall, looking up, and watching the ball sail over his head and clear the wall."

Final score: 10-9.

In 1993, Joe Carter hit a game-ending home run to win the World Series for the Toronto Blue Jays in Game Six. But Bill Mazeroski's walk-off home run remains the only one ever hit to win a seventh game.

The improbable champs had been outscored 55-27 and outhit 91-60; but, in the end, they prevailed.

A few years ago I attended a fund-raiser honoring Lynchburg icon and former Mayor Jimmie Bryan, at which various items of sports memorabilia were being auctioned off. I was casually examining the merchandise when I abruptly stopped, stared in astonishment, and delicately lifted from the table a most valuable object -- an autographed plastic-encased photograph of Bill Mazeroski crossing home plate after hitting his historic home run. In a foolish gesture of braggadocio, I pointed out to a friend that I had been there and seen it all, which only encouraged him to enter the auction -- and bid up the price. Nevertheless, I bought it, took it home, and propped it up on my dresser, where it sits today, a simple but magnificent reminder of the day forty-seven years ago when my father took me to the greatest baseball game ever played.