1. I’m heading to Boston and Fenway Park in a few hours to meet with two of my high school classmates and together pay our respects to the 1967 Boston Red Sox, the spiritual beginning of Red Sox Nation, and a group of men, then barely more than boys, who had as profound an effect on my life and view of it as anything I have ever experienced.
It’s the 50th Anniversary of that amazing team and the heart-stopping pennant race it won against all odds, in a four team race that came down to the final game of the regular season. I mean heart-stopping literally: the team wasn’t called “The Cardiac Kids” for nothing. TWO of my father’s colleagues at the Boston Five Savings Bank died of heart attacks while attending Red Sox games, during one of the 9th inning desperation rallies for which the team was famous. The only reason I didn’t perish in like fashion is because I was just 16 years old.
Why was this team, and that summer 50 years ago, so important to me? I don’t have time or space to answer that question well, and you’d probably wonder what I was babbling on about anyway. A 2017 film by Major League Baseball called “The Impossible Dream” does a fair job of explaining it, but it’s too short to do the job right.
I had listened to, watched or attended every Boston Red Sox game for five years, as the team lost and lost. From those bad teams, followed weakly by the city in those days, in a crumbling old park that seemed destined to be abandoned and torn down, I learned that winning wasn’t everything, that loyalty wasn’t easy, that Hemingway was right, and that baseball was about courage, humility, perseverance, doing your job every day, sacrifice, and hope, as well as usually losing at the end. That summer of 1967 taught me that hope is worth the effort even though hope is usually dashed by the ice water of reality, that you should never give up, that miracles do happen, and that nothing is as wonderful as when a community is united in a single, inspirational goal, no matter what that goal might be…and that you should never be afraid to give everything you have in pursuit of a mission, even when it is likely that you will fail.
I learned difficult, discouraging lessons, too. When an errant pitch hit Red Sox right-fielder Tony Conigliaro in the face on August 18, 1967, it was the beginning of a lesson that revealed its tragic last chapter 23 years later. That one taught me that life is horribly, frightening unpredictable, and that we envy others at our peril. It taught me that we need to do what we can to accomplish as much good as we can as quickly as we can, because we may lose our chance forever at any moment.
Tony C, as he was and is known as, was a beautiful, charismatic, local kid, the idol of Boston’s huge Italian-American community, in his fourth season with his home town team at the age of 22. He dated movie stars; he recorded pop songs; he had a natural flair of the dramatic, and was destined for the Hall of Fame. One pitch took it all away. Although he had two comebacks and played two full seasons facing major league fastballs with a hole in his retina and his field of vision, Tony was never the same. After his final attempt to keep playing failed at the age of 30, he became a broadcaster, and at 37 was seemingly on the way to stardom again in 1982 when he suffered a massive, inexplicable heart attack—Tony did not smoke, and had no family history of heart problems– that left him brain damaged until his death in 1990.
As Henry Wiggin, the star pitcher protagonist of the novel, play and movie “Bang the Drum Slowly” observes as he reflects on the death of his catcher and roommate, everyone is dying, and we have to remember to be good to each other. But it’s so hard. Ethics is hard. The ethics alarms ring faintly when we are about the task of living, or not at all…
At the end of the story, the narrator, the best friend of the catcher (but not really that close a friend) recalls how quickly everyone on the baseball team went back to their selfish ways after their teammate went home to die Even the narrator, who was the leader of the effort to make the catcher feel loved and appreciated in his last days, ruefully recalls his own failing. The catcher had asked him a favor, just to send him a World Series program (the team won the pennant after he had become too ill to play), and he had forgotten to mail it until it was too late. How hard would it have been, the narrator rebukes himself, to just put it in an envelope and mail it? Why are we like that, he wonders?
1967 was the beginning of my exploration of that mystery too.
So I am going to Boston for the 30 minute ceremony. I can’t even stay for the game; I have a seminar to teach tomorrow morning, and the last flight out of Logan is at 9 PM. There will probably be just a small contingent from the Cardiac Kids: most of them are dead now, or too infirm even to walk onto the field. But Yaz will be there, and Gentleman Jim Lonborg; Rico Petrocelli, Mike Andrews, and maybe even Hawk Harrelson and Reggie Smith. I will be there to say thank-you, that’s all.
And to show that I remember.
2. Today’s New York Times leads with the “J’ccuse!” that President Trump again said that both sides were at fault for the violence in Charlottesville.
Gee, apparently I’m Donald Trump, because I also say that both sides were at fault for the violence in Charlottesville, because that is undeniably so. It is disturbing if not surprising to see the Times wholeheartedly adopt the latest unethical false narrative of the Left, which is that the antifa thugs who engaged the white nationalists engaged in good violence, so it is somehow endorsing white supremacy to point out the fact that if they had just allowed the legal demonstration to take place, there may have been no violence at all.
The President also said that tearing down statues was unwise, and I agree with that, too.
I’m just an ethics blogger though, speaking to mostly intelligent people who are capable, most of them, of seeing the nuance and ethical conflicts that arise in such controversies. The President is not articulate or careful enough to be sufficiently clear on such matters, and he also knows that he has a large, biased, hostile news media exemplified by the Times that is going to represent whatever he says as inadequate or worse. Thus he shouldn’t have said anything after his obligatory denunciation of racism. It was foolish. He obviously can’t stop himself.
3. The irresponsible political posturing and virtue-signaling by Hollywood celebrities these days isn’t even worthy of an Ethics Dunce post, but a special place in Ethics Hell should be reserved for Jennifer Lawrence, who called on her millions of fans—I was once such a fan, as the actress is spectacularly versatile, lovely, charismatic and talented, but after this I will no longer watch her work, no matter how excellent it is—to identify marchers on the bad violent side in Charlottesville and get them shamed, shunned and fired.
A Twitter account called @YesYoureRacist has been working to follow Lawrence’s bidding by doxxing the citizens exercising their free speech rights.
“If you recognize any of the Nazis marching in #Charlottesville, send me their names/profiles and I’ll make them famous #GoodNightAltRight,” the account tweeted Saturday.
Among the account’s victims was a 20-year-old college student who was fired from his job at Top Dog, a restaurant in Berkeley, California. Yes, multi-millionaire Jennifer Lawrence is using her influence to get 20-year-olds fired from minimum wage jobs. She’s an arrogant, vicious and irresponsible bully, and she’s the one who should be shamed.
The President also said yesterday, “Not all of those people were neo-Nazis, believe me. Not all of those people were white supremacists by any stretch.” That is also probably correct. However, the apparent rule is that if you march with white nationalists, you must be a white nationalist, but if you march with hooded antifa thugs, you are just exercising your Constitutional rights.
No, actually, I don’t.