Steinfeldt to Evers To Chance

Religious celebrations of spring to the rear thank you. The true renewal of life, of faith, hope, and belief comes tonight.

The long winter of our admittedly smug contentedness is over. Tonight Jon Lester will throw the first pitch in anger since Madison Baumgarner coaxed a foul pop up into the glove of Pablo Sandoval on a near Halloween night in Kansas City.

Baseball has returned. Some things are right with the world.

Today every team is undefeated. Every player bats 1.000. Every pitcher has a 0.00 ERA. It is the only moment of perfection for a game predicated on the need for failure. It's a moment to stop and cherish before it whiffs into the ether.

That's one of the many reasons I love baseball. It's not just about the great ones. It's about the not so greats, the barely remembered,  the never remembered. The mediocres and the failures are as much a part of the mosaic of the game as the superstars. For every Buster Posey there is a Steve Decker. Actually there are more Steve Deckers than Buster Poseys. For every player celebrated in story and song there are hundreds who toiled in anonymity, remembered only by those who memorize the Baseball Encyclopedia.

It's doubtful you recognize any of the players in the photo below, but three of them are the most famous double play combination in the history of the game. Tinkers to Evers to Chance. The names dance across the tongue as nimbly as the men danced across the infield and through the poetry of Franklin Pierce Adams. So who's the guy on the far left? That's Harry Steinfeldt. The third baseman. I'd have to check, but he probably was involved in as many double plays as the other three. Ah, but his name didn't scan well and his stats were not as note worthy as the others. Still he hit .268 lifetime and played in four World Series (yes, I got out my Baseball Encyclopedia to check). Nowadays you'd get seven years and $140 million for that. Yeah I'm looking at you Pablo. Oh, and Steinfeldt holds a record that might be the very definition of journeyman ballplayer. He had three sacrifice flies in one game. That's a record that has stood since 1909. It ain't flashy, but it was what was needed at the time.

So as the season winds it's way through spring, summer, and into the fall, take a moment to appreciate the "other" guys. They are as part of any fan's memories as their more famous teammates.

Play Ball!

The Land of God, Guns, Grits, and Gravy

So the other night I was watching Bill Maher's show and he had on as one of his guest former Govenor Mike Huckabee. Huckabee was there to flack his new book called "God, Guns, Grits, and Gravy". The book is so named because the purported author claims that is what he replies when he is asked where he is from, the "land of god, guns, grits, and gravy".

Forgetting for a moment that true to his political nature Huckabee can't give a straight answer to a direct question, he went on to define his little corner of the earth as being where civility rules the day, where people ask after your kin folk, have manners, and care about the next fella. Maher chided him that people in California or New York also care about the next guy, but Huckabee countered that he was trying to bring his form of civility to the rest of the country because his was a truer form.

Someone needs to explain to this jackass that there aren't different forms of civility. You either are civil or you are not. Civility does not mean merely asking after someone's family or that person's health. It means actually being concerned with the answer to the question. It means opening up your heart and having compassion for what the other person is going through. It means that not only do you truly care about that other person, but that you want to make sure that no one is ever subjected to the slights, put downs, or out right discrimination that person is or was subjected to. It's about making sure that everyone, everywhere, is treated with respect.

You see Mr. Huckabee we in those states you mock as having no civility in fact have greater compassion for our fellow human beings than it appears the state you hail from has. We aspire to a higher state of civility, one where the color of ones skin, or where they are originally from, or who they choose to spend their life with is of no matter. We in the "destination states" (as opposed to the "fly over states") wish to live in a world that doesn't see diversity as an anathema, but rather as a strength. That's why we take the time to enact laws that make civility a component of justice, a rock in the foundation of society.

So when you and your compatriots on the conservative side of the aisle look to sow distrust and hatred among the population by creating laws that say go ahead and refuse service if you have a personal problem with someone different from you, I have to tell you that you are not being civil at all. You are not standing up for any principle of civility that is recognizable. And hiding behind religion as the bulwark of your excuse simply demeans religion and shows a narrow mindedness that no religious person or institution should abide.

In short Mr. Huckabee and Governor Pence and all the others who defend these laws, your so called civility is nothing more than lip service. Please don't presume to lecture the rest of us on how uncivil we are - it just rings false.

Little Robin

Let us pray.

I've been sitting here reading friends' reminiscences since about four o'clock this afternoon. It's taken me all that time to get over the shock.

The world lost a comic genius. The Bay Area lost our favorite son. To those of us who were part of the San Francisco comedy scene of the late 1970's we have lost The One.

I'd like to say there was never a doubt in my mind that he would be The One, but that would be false. From the first time I saw him at the Holy City Zoo, a small comedy club where they literally would turn the lights out on a performer who went beyond his allotted ten minutes, I knew he was genius. But I also thought how in the world could anyone translate this manic energy, this mile a minute mind meld, into a anything more than an exhausting club comic. TV would kill the creativity, film -- yeah right can you see him playing anything other than himself? Even comedy recordings couldn't capture the half of his act that was spot on mime or that look in his eye as he calculated instantly just the perfect retort, barb, or non-sequitor.

Yet still you had to believe he was The One. Comedy clubs could fill on just the rumor he was going to come in and do ten minutes. The Other Cafe had a stage that backed up onto a window along the street. If so inclined passing pedestrians could stop and watch a few minutes of a comic's set, though hearing what was being said was dicey. The street would be jammed when word spread he was there. And this was a world without Twitter or Facebook. He came in second in the first San Francisco Comedy Competition and turned coming in second into a badge of honor for a legion of soon to be great stand-ups. Only The One could do that.

The energy he brought into a club was insane. He fed the audience, the audience fed him, the dynamo filled with electricity till a mere raised eyebrow or sudden change of body language was enough to bring tears of joy and aching of ribs to everyone. Other comics were in awe of that ability. He'd drop in at the Old Spaghetti House in North Beach to work with the improv  group Spaghetti Jam and it was a point of honor to just keep up with him.  Oh some griped, natural jealousy and professional envy are a bad mix. I don't think you could have a conversation about him without hearing "you know he stole that line from (insert name of comic)", but it was also acknowledged that he didn't do it conscientiously. It was just his mind working at warp speed, sucking in something he heard and using it to propel his jet engine.

Everyone has their story of their encounters with him. A party, a club, in the grocery store, he seemed to be everywhere at once. And at the same time he seemed to be nowhere. The yin of the energy on stage was balanced by the yang of the quiet thoughtful off stage persona. You had to think the off stage person was decompressing from the onstage persona, gathering strength quietly like a tropical storm at sea moving towards hurricane status so that it could wreck havoc once unleashed. What we didn't know, what I came to deal with myself years later, was that the "decompression" was really the dark cloud lowering.

Those of us who live with the cloud know the power of those uplifting powders. Let me tell you, cocaine might be a high for you, but for us it allows a brief moment of what we perceive to be regular life. "This is it!", you think, "this is what it feels like to be normal! This is why all those people are happy. I want to feel like this all the time. I want to feel normal."

And that's how you slide into addiction. You think the Blue Fairy has made Pinocchio into a real boy, but in reality the Blue Fairy is the Wicked Witch and she's just fattening you up for the oven.

You don't notice that as the star begins to ascend. Or maybe it was just the times, the age of "everyone's doing it". Still I couldn't see how he was going to go beyond stand up comic. I think everyone thought that. The feeling was so prevalent that the biggest laugh he got one night at the Great American Music Hall was his last comment about how he had to finish so he could catch a plane for Los Angeles to shoot an episode of HAPPY DAYS. Really? HAPPY DAYS? Oh yeah, sure, what a gag.

I guess I was wrong.

Still the cloud followed. It followed Mork and Popeye and Garp and Vladimir and Adrian. It followed him up the stairs to hold the gold statue, an event that truly had me shaking my head in amazement. It followed him to the worldwide fame and the millions of dollars and the adulation. It followed him to Tiburon, that most exclusive of exclusive towns in the Bay Area. It was there that the cloud swallowed him.

I've been reliving my young adulthood over the past few hours, mourning not only him but the harsh reality of getting older. The cloud sits up on the ceiling, a comfortable distance away. I have learned the skills necessary to keep it at bay. My heart breaks that he could not.

I suppose that's the cosmic deal if you are anointed to be The One.

And the congregation says "Amen".

Spaghetti Jam Improv June 1978. Photo by yours truly. 

Hey There, It's Yoga Bear!

Did you miss me?

I've taken a couple of months off from the blog in order to get back into the swing of real life. I've gone back to work, which at first was a bit daunting since nearly everything I was selling before the surgery had been discontinued in favor of new models. The nomenclature of home technology normally requires a glossary of terms to understand, but when you've been away from it for several months a Rosetta Stone would be more appropriate. I felt like I was floating in a sea of  indecipherable vocabulary, occasionally having a shark come up and nudge my leg, reaching out for a lifeboat that keeps moving just out of my reach.

And then it all made sense again.

On the foot front things are progressing as they should be. The wounds have now pretty much closed up. The last to go was the largest one on the left side of the foot, the source of all gauze related discomfort at one time. Now it has neatly scabbed over and per the instructions of, well, everyone I am not picking at the scab. However any time someone mentions not to pick at the scab the only thing I want to do is pick at the scab. Otherwise I never think about it. And if I blink or yawn, you will blink or yawn as well.

Yesterday as I was driving up to The City for another physical therapy appointment I grumbled to myself that this was going to be the last one. For two months I've been going there, riding the bike, making circles with my foot, tracing the alphabet with my foot, bending my foot back and forth, and occasionally having someone twist and turn my foot in one direction or another. Save for the last bit, everything else I could do at home. I didn't need to drive through traffic twice a week, struggle to find parking, and put up with a smelly old gym (yes, the gym's charms wore off a few weeks ago). I was going to go to this last appointment, tell them I'd call about the next one, and quietly slip off into that wormhole of customers who never return.

My resolve to do that only strengthened when my PT assistant of the day turned out to be a kid I have nicknamed Caspar Milquetoast. I'm sure he's a nice kid but as a physical therapist he leaves a lot to be desired, mostly because he refuses to put any strength into the only thing I really need a therapist for -- the resistance work. Whereas all the other guys really force me to push against them, Caspar retreats like a friendly ghost, offering little if any resistance. Having him was just another nail in the coffin of physical therapy as far as I could see.

I'm riding the bike and Caspar asks when was the last time I saw Mr. Miyagi, the actual physical therapist. Not in a couple of months I reply, so off he goes to fetch the elusive Miyagi. I must have turned my head or closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, but suddenly he appeared next to me asking how everything was and had all the wounds healed. When I said they had, he clapped his hands together like a miniature Oliver Hardy and exclaimed that it was now time to really start working on my foot. He turned to Caspar, told him to do ultra sound therapy all the way up to my knee and then a deep massage on my calf and ankle. Mr. Miyagi would then come back and do some resistance work.  Okay, I thought, let's see where this goes.

The ultra sound went fine and then I prepared myself for what I assumed would be the worst leg massage I've ever had.

A BRIEF INTERLUDE: Years ago Betsey and I went up to Calistoga  for mud baths and massage at Doc Wilkinson's Spa. When asked what type of massage I wanted I opted for the Shiatsu massage because I had never had one. After half an hour of having elbows pile driven into my muscles and fingers literally wrap themselves around various tendons and ligaments, I swore I would never have one again. That was until yesterday.

Caspar Milquetoast turned into the Incredible Hulk ("Hulk like to smash things"). I have never felt pain like I was feeling then. My calf muscles were on fire. I suddenly understood that I could never stand up to torture. If I have the secret codes you will get them with little effort on your part. I swear I thought at one point he was going to ask me if it was safe. I have never in my life asked a masseuse to stop because it hurt too much but I found myself just on the edge of crying out for Caspar to cease when, in fact, he stopped. I'm laying on the table completely drenched in sweat, completely spent, and all I've been doing is nothing.

But damn my leg and foot felt GREAT!

Once again Mr. Miyagi appeared at my side asking me this time if I had ever done yoga. Other than in college when I did it in order to ogle the girls and one time at a Club Med when I was dared to do it, I had not. Then we will start slow he said and guided me down to the floor and onto a yoga mat. This will be for the stretch of your foot he told me and had me kneel down and place my feet under my butt. Then he had me lean back and apply pressure to my calves and feet. You will do this for ten seconds he commanded and we will build up to one minute. In my mind Mr. Snark came out to play. Ten seconds? Really? We gotta build up to.....

OH MY DEAR GOD THE PAIN!!!!

I was cursing every sugary snack I ever ate in life, every time I went back for seconds at the buffet, every time I laughed at my dancer friends who warmed up while I sat there making fun of them. A minute, are you insane?! My knees will pop out and my thigh muscles will explode if I do a minute.

And it was when I was doing that last one, the one lasting a minute, that Mr. Miyagi bent down and asked, "When will we see you again?"

"Next Wednesday", I croaked.

An American Hero

A little something different for this Memorial Day. I wrote this piece about five years ago and truth be told I meant to post it again a few weeks ago on the first anniversary of Jim's passing. Memorial Day seems like a good choice for a second chance.

Today we remember the one small step for man and that giant leap for mankind. Rightfully so we celebrate Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins. Their voyage to the moon and back is legendary, the stuff of American heroes. Much will be written and spoken about them today. In-between all the where are they nows and the looking backs, I’d like to take a moment to talk about someone else entirely. 

I’d like to talk about another American. His name is Jim Freshour and he didn't go to the moon. Instead in the mid 1960’s he got to pack up and move from Sunnyvale California to Huntsville Alabama. The mid 1960’s. Huntsville Alabama. He didn't go to the moon, he went to a whole new planet. And he took his family along with him. 

Those of you my age or older may recall that Huntsville Alabama was dubbed “Rocket City USA” back then. From all over the country came young engineers and scientists to work on the absurd challenge that a martyred president had put forth; to put a man on the moon and return him safely to the earth by the end of the decade. And as if it weren't crazy enough that all these over-educated, underpaid, slide rule gunslingers were plopped down in the middle of the segregated South, they ludicrously were led by a group of former Nazi bomb makers who had just a few years earlier been trying their best to bury London under a blitz of V2 rockets. The whole lot of them were met by a welcome wagon of race baiting, fifteen year olds in the sixth grade, tobacco chewing, George Wallace loving, reddest of redneck natives. 

The Cold War meets Jim Crow. What a sight that must have been. 

Jim did his job. Every morning he went off to work and every afternoon the ground around Huntsville would shake with the testing of the thunder he had created. Every evening he would come home and play with his children and avoid talking about what he had done at work all day. Like everyone else imported to Huntsville, Jim couldn't talk about what he did. The constraints of national security made the merest whisper of what was said or done in the buildings behind the fencing on “that side” of town not simply local gossip, but a matter of treason. 

Everyone knew what those rockets with their red glare were really about. Oh getting a man to the moon was nice, a good story to tell the kids, but what we were really saying to our vodka swilling competitors across the ocean was “Don’t mess with us. If we can put one of these on the moon we can sure as hell land one in Moscow packed with a multiple kiloton nuclear surprise.” 

It’s a beautiful day in Dr. Strangelove’s neighborhood. 

So secrecy ruled the day. Scientists and engineers are not by nature communicative types. The guise of the absent minded professor is a socially acceptable way to avoid human interaction and they like it that way. It’s easier to appear to be lost in the clouds thinking great thoughts than to have to hold a conversation with the next door neighbor. However deep down inside, even the professor needs to reach out to other humans; being unable to can make a life difficult. When life turns difficult there are any number of coping mechanisms that we humans have. Some find comfort in religion. Back then it was hard to be a Baptist in the deep South. Having a Catholic wife made it even more difficult. Compromising on Presbyterian didn’t seem to do the trick. But there is something about that communion wine… 

Alcohol is another coping mechanism. The history of the space program (on both sides) is filled with a roster of Bill W.’s friends and unfortunately many who should have been but never made it to the meetings. Jim fell into that vat and it took many years, a divorce, and many tears for him to finally crawl out again. Still he never talked about what he did. And as the years passed and his kids wanted to know just what it was he did for a living, the simple answer was “I work for (insert name of military contractor)” followed by silence. Asking what he did for (insert name of military contractor) would elicit no further communication. When asked who built the ships that made it possible for men to scramble across the surface of the moon the answer was always (insert name of military contractor).

So while the fly-boys got the cover of Life Magazine and the visits to the White House, Jim and all the thousands of other Jims just like him sunk into the anonymity of the corporate structure and national security. They never got the recognition for their accomplishments. They didn’t get to ride the rocket. They didn’t get the parade. Their names weren’t household; their faces didn’t adorn the front pages. Yet without them Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins wouldn’t have made it to Sea World let alone the Sea of Tranquility. Their sacrifice, and the sacrifice of their families, needs to be remembered today. They are the heroes too. 

Here’s to my father-in-law Jim Freshour. Forty years ago today he put a man on the moon and returned him safely to the earth.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar....

I've been to physical therapy a few times now and as much as it would be comedic to report that I've been folded, spindled (does anyone still use a spindle?), and mutilated, I really haven't. The exercises I've been doing are mostly centered on loosening the muscles and ligaments of my foot in order to regain range of motion. It's a lot of toe lifts and heel extensions, resistance training on the foot ("Point down, now point up, now to the side, no the other side, use just your ankle") and finally Julian the PT assistant bending my foot further down then I've ever had it bent. Not that I haven't always, but I now have a new found respect for ballet dancers who are on point. Oh dear god, you voluntarily bend your foot like this? But oh how it feels so good when it's brought back to normal position.

Of course it also feels so good when the guy hitting you with a ball peen hammer stops doing it.

As well I do a fair amount of time on the stationary bike to get blood circulating better through my leg and to get me back into something of a shape I might have been in prior to all of this. Julian hasn't asked me what kind of shape I was in prior to the surgery and I'm certainly not going to volunteer that information. It's on a need to know basis and he doesn't need to know.

In addition I have been following the news stories surrounding the release of the movie FED UP and I've decided to make some changes in the way I eat. No, that's a little too nice. I have decided to take back control over what is in the things I eat. Specifically sugar, an addiction I have to admit I have been in the throes of since childhood. Reading these reports and seeing even the trailer for the movie I've gone through a Kubler-Ross style progression: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

At first I denied it could be true that sugar is as powerful an addiction as cocaine. Then I looked at my own life and realized how true that comparison is. I always thought my craving was for carbs, but look at most breads, pretzels, chips, etc and prominently in the ingredients you will find sugar. Whether you call it refined sugar or high fructose corn syrup it's feeding that addiction.

So I moved on to anger. I was angry that I'd been duped by large corporations into thinking even supposedly "healthy" processed food was good for you when in fact it's just as loaded with sugar as a can of Coke. So called "diet" products are just as filled with sugar as their regular versions, it's just sugar under a different name. Food you don't associate as having sugar in it, a can of soup for instance, is loaded. Why? Because sugar is a cheap preservative. And it makes you crave that product again. Which will make the producer more money. And who cares if our citizenry becomes obese and lethargic and 33% of them have diabetes cause that's gonna keep the health care companies the food producers have invested in making, you guessed it, more money! Hey all you food companies, why are you acting like the tobacco companies when we found out their products were causing cancer. "Oh our products aren't loaded with sugar. Well maybe they are but it's not a public health risk. OK it is a public health risk but people make their own decisions and it's just a lack of will power on the consumer's part. Yeah that's it, let's blame the people we've addicted for their addiction." Is it shocking to find out that many of our largest food producers at one time or another were tobacco producers?

Talk about drinking the Kool-Aid.

Let's make a deal. I won't eat the stuff that has obvious sugar in it. Ice cream, sweets, that kind of stuff. Just let me go on with the soups and the frozen egg rolls, and the other stuff that's down the middle aisles of the local Safeway Nob Hill Lucky's. I'll eat the fresh fruit and vegetables, just give me an occasional pass on the frozen pizza. What the hell do you mean it doesn't work that way? I'm trying to change, be healthier, give me my occasional frozen pizza for chrimeny sake.

Oh man how am I ever going to get through this? Everything I like to eat will be gone. I want to crawl underneath the covers and come out when they've replaced all the sugar with something not addictive. I want the food companies to suddenly realized how wrong they've been and change their ways. Yeah, like that's gonna happen. Leave me alone, I'm gonna sit here in the dark.

All right, all right. The only way to beat an addiction is to go cold turkey, I accept that. I'm getting off the sugar carousel. Fresh food only. More trips to Segona's and fewer to Safeway. I'm gonna read labels on anything even remotely processed and put it back on the shelf if it contains sugar. Fruits for breakfast, nuts and berries for snacks, gulp, no frozen pizzas for a quick dinner. Club soda. Shh, once in a while a bit of bourbon, heck that's natural sugar. All right maybe not.

When it's time for a change, think fresh fruits and vegetables. It might just save my life.

Let's Get Physical

I started physical therapy today. I had been warned by Dr. Knee that the place she was sending me to was going to be Hans and Franz. She was mistaken. Instead of getting Hans and Franz, I got Mr. Miyagi.

Wax on, wax off.

First of all the therapy took place in a gym on Valencia Street in San Francisco called Mission Fitness. For those of you not familiar with Valencia Street in San Francisco, once upon a time tough men would not walk down the street in fear of the even tougher women who frequented the local bars. But that was long ago and far away in a time known as college. Today it is Ground Zero, the capital of Hipsterville. Got a trend? It's a pretty safe bet it started around here. Gourmet toast. I'm not kidding you can look it up. It's also where old time residents and tech nerd newcomers duke it out over rising rental prices, gourmet restaurants replacing coffee shops, and high end clothing stores replacing the local shoe repair.

Mission Fitness (named so because the entire area is called the Mission, not because it's a play on words name) falls squarely in the old resident column. It's an old style place, crammed full of  equipment that hasn't been updated in years. Don't call it "retro", there has to be a small amount of nostalgia for something to be that. No, Mission Fitness isn't "retro". It's a dump. The smell of sweat and lineament wafts through the place, encouraged on by the giant fans blowing constantly. The carpet is torn and stained, the desk is two filing cabinets with a plank across them, and I can't be certain but I'm pretty sure the hot water in the showers is at best tepid. No fancy individual TVs or juice bars or a girl walking around refilling your water bottle here. This is a place to work out, to sweat and groan under the weight of heavy objects or the exertion from climbing a never ending staircase. It's population is longtime locals unconcerned about looking good in the mirrors combined with those like me looking for physical therapy. Paris Hilton would be appalled to be seen in here.

I fell in love with it right away.

In a side room off the main floor resides Orthopedic Physical Therapy. I was ushered in by an assistant therapist who took my info and did all the basic work up. Then in came John Soriano PT. I am not exaggerating when I say he looks exactly like Pat Morita's Mr. Miyagi from THE KARATE KID, right down to the small pony tail and the Fu Manchu beard. Even the accent is the same which is strange since it's obvious he's Philippino and not Japanese. I'm talking the real one, not that crappy remake.

He studies my foot for a moment, then asks if he can smell the wound. He assures me this is not out of some fetishistic desire, but to determine if there is an infection. I place my foot on a chair and he bends down, breathing deeply of what I can imagine is nothing that smells anything like pleasant.  His verdict is that there is a small infection, not too bad, but the wound should breath more and makes me promise to not wrap it in all the gauze that it's been wrapped and re-wrapped in for the past several weeks. Just use a large band-aid over the gauze inside the wound. Well he didn't have to tell me twice, I've fought the Battle of the Gauze far too long.

From his expressions and body language I was sure the next step was going to be him running out to the local herbalist to concoct some lethal smelling plaster for my foot to live in, but instead he outlines a course of exercises and massage therapies they I will do over the next several weeks. Then he hands me back to his assistant Josh and off he goes.

Josh puts me through some pretty basic exercises and stretches informing me that oh yeah tomorrow you're not going to be loving life. At least for the moment I'm doing okay. And next week I go back again.

Maybe this time I'll try the gourmet toast.