Hey, Mikey

 

One of the disturbing bits of news during the current Trump transition is that Mike Johnson’s job as
Speaker of the House might be in jeopardy. I must admit I’ve grown accustomed to Speaker Johnson’s image—clean shaven, Mr. Peeper’s glasses, every hair in place. If I have to look at politicians on my television screen, I much prefer choirboy Mike Johnson to any other I can think of.

In an age when theories abound, I have one of my own. Remember the Life cereal commercial from way back in 1972? Three brothers are gathered at the breakfast table confronted with a bowl of cereal they’ve never seen before. The two older brothers decide they are not going to taste it. Instead, they say, “Let’s get Mikey. He hates everything.” Mikey digs in and begins devouring the cereal. The older brothers are shocked. “He likes it! Hey, Mikey!”

The acting credits for this classic ad go to the Gilchrist brothers, with Mikey played by four-year-old John Gilchrist. My theory is that Gilchrist was a pseudo name. John Gilchrist was, in reality, Mike Johnson, the future Speaker of the House. “Hey, Mikey,” indeed!

Life cereal aside, I’d rather see Mike Johnson pop up on my cable news channel than Kash Patel, or Boris Epshteyn, or (God forbid) Steve Bannon. Let’s all hope Speaker Johnson keeps the coveted gavel.

 

 

 _____

The Truth Shuffle

 

Watching cable news the other day, I happened to catch a compilation of film clips of President-elect Trump dancing to “YMCA.” I know Mr. Trump has marketed many products in his time, including Trump Steaks, Trump Ties, golden sneakers, and trading cards, to name just a few. And who could forget Trump University and Trump Institute? But I think he has something special going here. How about the Donald J. Trump School of Dance? Since his social media platform is called Truth Social, he should call his signature dance move the Truth Shuffle.

 The Truth Shuffle would have broad appeal, especially to Baby Boomers and Pre-Boomers. A short series of lessons and we’d have the Shuffle down pat. Think of all the fun at weddings and Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, all of us shuffling to “YMCA.”

 The Trump School of Dance would be easy to promote. Remember the 1985 Chicago Bears doing the Super Bowl Shuffle? Picture all of Trump’s cabinet picks on a tiered platform, shuffling away, the music blaring:

 

“We ain’t here to cause no trouble / We’re just here to do the Truth Shuffle.”

 I know there will be some skeptics. I heard a commentator say that Trump’s dance move was not original, that its roots date back to the movie, When Harry Met Sally, what was then called the White Mans’ Overbite. I don’t have time to watch that old movie, even if I could find it on Netflix or Prime, but that doesn’t matter. The movie came out in 1989, so I’m sure the statute of limitations has run out. The Overbite (i.e., the Shuffle) is fair game.

 Here's another promotional idea: each time one of President Trump’s cabinet picks is confirmed, all Republican Senators should stand and do the Truth Shuffle while “YMCA” fills the Senate chamber. It would be fun to see Susan Collins and Lindsey Graham boogie together. Heck, I think even Chuck Grassley who is 140 years old could do it. And if there are any resisters who won’t dance (we’re looking at you, Lisa Murkowski), they will be primaried in the next election cycle.

There is a Chili’s restaurant in my neighborhood that recently closed. I think it would make a fine dance studio, the perfect home for the Donald J. Trump School of Dance. Who’s with me?

_____

 

Down at the Long Shot

 

The neighborhood tavern in East Sacramento was half full on a Wednesday afternoon in November. Griffin sat hunched over his beer, an empty shot glass on the bar in front of him, mumbling to himself. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder and turned to see his friend Raj smiling at him.

“Griff! What’s up, man? Why so glum, chum?”

“Hi, Raj. Just thinking about Tuesday’s results. I just can’t believe it.”

“Hey, it is what it is. Come on over and join us at the table. Karen, Kareem, and Paco are here.”

“Thanks, Raj, but I’m not very good company today.”

“Ah bull puckies! Come on, man, we’ll cheer you up.”

Raj tugged Griff off the bar stool and led him to the large, high-boy table where his friends greeted him warmly.

“Look who I found crying in his beer.” Raj laughed.

“Man, that’s never a good thing,” Kareem flashed a gleaming smile.

“Hey, I think we have a country song here,” Karen chipped in. She sang the chorus: “Don’t let the tears fall in your beer / Don’t let the Dems break your heart…”

“Sit down, homes, tell us what’s wrong.” Paco moved his chair to make room for Griff.

“It’s the damn election. I can’t believe we lost every battleground state, plus the Senate, and probably the House.” The knot in Griff’s stomach tightened.

“Yeah, well you know what they say. ‘Shit happens.’” Raj looked around the table and everyone nodded—except for Griff.

 “You guys sure are taking it well,” Griff said. His friends mumbled and sipped their drinks, averting their eyes. “Oh, wait a minute … hold the phone … don’t tell me … you all voted for Trump!”

More mumbling and averted eyes.

“Karen, certainly not you—college educated, suburban white woman—we were counting on your vote.” Griff stared at Karen.

“Relax, Griff. I didn’t vote for him.”

“Oh, thank God!”

Karen continued, “I didn’t vote. Period. I stayed home.”

“You what?” Griff could not believe what he was hearing.

“Hey, I knew California’s electoral votes were going to Harris/Walz. So why bother?”

“But … but … what about your congressman, what about down ballot?”

Karen shrugged. “My rep is in a safe seat, and who can understand all the damn propositions?”

“And what about you, Kareem? A proud Black man. Surely you stayed with the coalition.”

“No, I did not!” Kareem wasn’t smiling now. “I voted for Trump. The Dems only want to talk to us once every four years, and even then they talk at us. The rest of the time it’s You’re on your own, brother.”

Griff was shaken, ready to shed more tears in his beer. He looked at Paco with pleading eyes. “And you, Paco, a son of immigrants, a union member, what about you?”

“Trump all the way, Bro. No hesitation. Look, my folks came legally from Mexico, worked hard, became citizens. We don’t appreciate all the illegals pouring in, claiming asylum. They come to the border and make their problem our problem.”

“Oh, Paco, no—” Griff was distraught.

“And don’t call us ‘LatinX’ and don’t take our vote for granted!” Paco slammed his empty mug on the table and signaled for another round.

Griff turned to Raj, his oldest and closest friend. “Raj, please don’t tell me—”

“Yep, buddy, me too. Hey, you know what our local guy Hasan Minhaj says: ‘Give us green cards, low taxes, don’t bomb our home country, and we’ll vote for you.’”

The new round of drinks arrived, including a shot of Irish Whiskey for Griff. It was quiet for a moment.

Paco broke the silence. “Listen, homes, our man Minhaj is totally right about one thing. All of us folks from Beigeistan are way more practical than we are progressive. Harris was talking progressive. Not what we wanted to hear.”

Kareem chimed in. “Yeah, they talk about ‘The rich have to pay their fair share.’ So, what is their fair share? How are you going to adjust the tax brackets? No answer. Soak the rich doesn’t sell anymore. We don’t want to soak the rich. We want to be the rich.”

“Right on!” Paco added. “MicroSoft, Apple, Google, Amazon, Intel—we work for those companies. We don’t want taxes driving them—and our jobs—offshore.”

“Look, Harris just had a lot of baggage to carry,” Karen offered. “Afghanistan. The border. Inflation. Just enough to lose all seven battleground states.”

Raj clapped a hand on Griff’s shoulder once again. “Come on, Griff, cheer up. After all, four more years of Trump, how bad can it be?”

Griff downed the shot, grimaced as the heat raced down his throat, and looked at his friends around the table. He burst into laughter … and he could not stop.

_____

Note: Last week the University of Texas announced plans to provide tuition-free admission  to students from families earning less than $100,000 per year. M.I.T., Carnegie-Mellon, and Brandeis followed with similar programs. The essay that follows was published here in 2020 at the height of the George Floyd demonstrations. It bears repeating. 

Was Bernie On The Right Path?

On January 6, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt addressed a joint session of Congress. As Hitler was taking control of Europe, the sentiment in the U.S. was to stay out of the war. Roosevelt believed our involvement was inevitable. In his address, he argued that all people deserved to live under the protection of four freedoms: Freedom of Speech; Freedom of Religion; Freedom from Want; Freedom from Fear.

As we witness the upheaval in our country today two things are clear. Without question we enjoy freedom of religion. And, based on the massive demonstrations sparked by the death of George Floyd—covered 24/7 by a free and vigorous press—we certainly enjoy freedom of speech.

Tragically, the peaceful demonstrations have been marred by violence, arson, and looting. Whether the bad actors are anarchists or opportunists doesn’t matter. They demean a just and righteous cause.

Why does this happen in the United States, again and again? I’m old enough to remember Watts in 1965, Martin Luther King’s assassination in 1968, Rodney King in 1992, and now the violence on the fringes of demonstrations for George Floyd.

The answer is rooted in what has happened to our society over the past six decades. In a 2010 study of the distribution of wealth in the U.S., a study group was asked what they thought the ideal distribution of wealth should be. Dividing the population into five equal parts (quintiles), the respondents said the ideal distribution should be (from top to bottom): 32% / 23% / 20% / 14% / 11%.

The study group was reportedly shocked to learn the top quintile owned 85% of all wealth, and the bottom two quintiles combined owned less than 1%. (See the chart at right.) Since 2010, the top quintile has only increased its share.

This illustrates the devastating decline of the Middle Class in our country. But it is something more. It is a prescription for disaster, if not insurrection. Is it any wonder that in times of public upheaval, there are gangs of opportunists ready to break windows, loot, and burn?

So, what do we do about it? I suggest Bernie Sanders was on the right path.

Bernie advocated all public colleges and universities should be free. One immediate pushback was why should college be free for kids from wealthy families? They can certainly afford the cost of a four-year degree and more. I agree.

Instead, let’s start with all the kids from the bottom two quintiles of wealth distribution and guarantee a college or university education. Let’s also recognize that not all kids have the interest or aptitude for college. Let’s provide a vocational track for those so inclined. We need doctors, lawyers, business majors, educators, etc. We also need plumbers, electricians, carpenters, mechanics, and welders—all skills that provide a living wage.

What if every child from the poorest segments of society knew that college, or training for a vocation, was guaranteed upon graduation from high school? What impact would that have on our communities and our nation? Can we lift people out of poverty through education?

People with education and the skills to earn a living wage become consumers, not looters. They buy homes, refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers, cars, and all the other goods and services that make up our economy. Why not create more consumers?

You might say, “Great goal, pal. But who’s gonna pay for it?” First, we are already paying for it—in our prison systems, our frayed social safety net, anarchy in the streets, and so many other negative ways. Second, we can afford it. Look at the trillions of dollars appropriated to fight the coronavirus pandemic. We can find the money if we have the will.

The elementary school I attended opened in 1942 during FDR’s third term. You entered the school through the front door into a modest rotunda. Around the cornice of the rotunda, in bold letters, were Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms: Freedom of Speech; Freedom of Religion; Freedom from Want; Freedom from Fear.

I passed through that rotunda nearly every day for seven years. I grew up believing those ideals were what America was all about. Today we have a firm grip on religious freedom and freedom of speech. We do not have Freedom from Want or Freedom from Fear. As a nation, we can choose to provide those freedoms. The time to begin is now.

_____

November 5, 1968

from ’68 – A Novel

 

A small Tuesday night crowd gathered at Skip’s Place, watching the election returns trickle in, waiting for one of the three major networks to declare a winner. After a while, they grew bored with the coverage and Skip switched to a channel showing I Love Lucy reruns; that is, until the polls closed in California. Then it was back to Skip’s favorite network, CBS, where he expected to hear the straight scoop from the veteran team anchored by Walter Cronkite. Little did Skip and his customers know that they’d have to wait until Wednesday morning for a winner to be declared.

            “I can’t believe it’s this close. Humphrey was so far behind coming out of Chicago in August, I didn’t think it was possible for him to make up the ground.”

“Yeah, but he waited too long to break with Johnson and come out for an end to the bombing. He should have done that right off the bat.”

“And what about Nixon? Losing to Kennedy in ’60. Losing for governor in ’62. I thought he was dead. What a comeback!”

“You know, I think he’ll be a pretty good president.”

The lone woman sitting at the bar spoke up then, her voice heavy with emotion. “Ah, they’re all a bunch of crooks … a bunch of lousy crooks, every damn one of ’em.”

“Come on, Alice, why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Look what they do: stage some phony Gulf of Tonkin incident so they can bomb North Vietnam. Send five hundred thousand of our kids to prop up those crooks in Saigon. And then, at the last minute, a week before the election, Johnson declares a halt to the bombing and says a peace agreement is close, just to try to throw the election to Humphrey.”

“Well, hell—”

“Do you think LBJ cares about the kids that are dying while he plays politics with their lives? He doesn’t give a rat’s ass! All they care about is power. They’ll do anything to get it, and they’ll do anything to keep it.”

“Hey, calm down, Alice. Come on—”

She was crying openly now. “My best friend just lost her son. He’s coming home in a box. And for what? Half the country is against the damn war. They’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Well, Nixon says he’s got a secret plan to end the war.”

“And you believe that crap? If he’s got a plan, why doesn’t he tell us what it is? And what about Humphrey? He didn’t come out for a bombing halt until he saw he was getting his ass kicked in the polls. They’re a bunch of damn crooks.”

“You know, Alice may be right. Remember that Orson Welles film, where his character Harry Lime is way up in a Ferris wheel or something, and he says to Joseph Cotton, ‘See those people down there, all those little black dots? If one of those dots stopped moving forever, would you really care?’ That’s our politicians, up there in that Ferris wheel, looking down at all of us little black dots on the ground.”

“Well, listen to you, Mr. Philosopher. Since when did you get so intellectual? Orson Welles, my ass.”

Their attention returned to the election results.

“Hey, how ’bout George Wallace? Looks like he is going to carry about five states— Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi and Arkansas.”

“Geez, Humphrey could really use those electoral votes.”

“Hell, those votes were never going to Humphrey. They would have gone to Nixon. The old ‘solid South’ hates the Democrats now, because of the civil rights laws.”

“Wallace was never going to win the election. What was he trying to do?”

“He wanted to keep Humphrey and Nixon from getting two hundred and seventy electoral votes, throw the election into the House of Representatives.”

“How the hell does that work anyway? Since they’re mostly Democrats, wouldn’t they just vote for Humphrey?”

“Damned if I know. I’m sure if it looks like it’s going that way, Uncle Walter will explain it to us.”

And so it went as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Alice’s friends took her home. Skip resisted the temptation to switch channels in search of something to laugh about. Eventually Walter Cronkite advised his viewers that it was all coming down to Ohio, Illinois, and California—all three states too close to call. Nixon would wind up carrying those three states and the country would wake up to the news that he, Richard M. Nixon, would become the thirty-seventh president of the United States, winning three hundred and one votes in the Electoral College. The true election wonks noticed right away that if Humphrey had carried California, George Wallace would have achieved his goal.

Nixon’s secret plan took another seven years to bear fruit. In the meantime, many more sons and daughters came home in flag-draped coffins, black dots on the ground that simply stopped moving forever.

_____

 

 

The Gaetz Maneuver

 

Three old friends (and I do mean old) were watching cable news, enjoying a tall cold one. A reporter introduced a film clip from the archives in which a Republican member of the House spoke on air about his colleague Matt Gaetz. He said Gaetz flashed photos of his young girlfriends and bragged to his colleagues about crushing ED medication to a powder, then washing it down with an energy drink, so that he could “go all night.” This report caught the attention of our three pals.

 

Chad: Did you hear that? Wow! What do you think of Matt Gaetz?

Mick: You mean as Attorney General? I don’t know—

Chad: No, I mean what do you think of the Gaetz Maneuver? Crushing the Viagra, taking it with an energy drink?

Mick: I don’t know, seems kind of risky to me.

Chad: Damn, I’m gonna try it!

Mick: Dude…you’re 85 years old. Think of your heart!

Chad: Hey, Bill, you’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think?

Bill: About the Gaetz Maneuver?  I already gave it a try.

Chad: Oh man, I gotta hear this. What happened?

Bill: Well…there’s bad news.

Mick: Yeah, go on…

Bill: While I was waiting for it to kick in, I dozed off.

Chad: Ah, bummer.

Bill: But there’s good news…I woke up a few minutes later and it was working.

Mick: Oh my God!

Bill: But there’s more bad news…by that time, my wife was sound asleep.

Chad: Ah, shoot. So, what are you gonna do?

Bill: We’re gonna try again, after a good night’s sleep, first thing in the morning, right after we brush our teeth and put our partial plates in.

Mick: Good luck, buddy. Keep us posted…no pun intended.

Bill: Roger that. You guys wanna watch Hannity or Anderson Cooper?

Chad: How ’bout another beer?

Mick: The Gaetz Maneuver…gives a whole new meaning to Make America Great Again.

And so it goes, in family rooms across America.

_____

 

 

 Perfect Storm, Silver Lining

 

What an adventure! Let’s take the silver lining first. My book, The Short Stories of C.W. Spooner, is now “Live” at Amazon.com in all three formats: Kindle, paperback, and hardbound. It wasn’t easy. I had to weather the perfect storm.

First, through my own stupid mistakes, I botched the release date of the paperback and hardbound editions. They should have gone live October 31. I managed to delay the release until November 5. Or maybe it was the 6^th. (sigh) I was finally able to speak with a person at Kindle Direct Publishing (thanks to a major assist from my colleague Billie Kelpin) and get my mistakes corrected.

Then my laptop was attacked by ransomware. I wound up taking it to the Geek Squad where it stayed for five days. When I was able to pick it up, the geeks advised me the battery was failing and needed to be replaced. It was expanding, trying to explode, forcing the case to open. Oy vey! The Geeks removed it and told me where to order a replacement, which is now in hand. All I have to do is make an appointment to have it installed and “calibrated.” (No, I will not attempt to install it myself. I know better.)

I was able to use my laptop, sans battery, via the power cord, and discovered I was locked out of Facebook. So, if you’ve missed my pithy comments on FB and are wondering whatever happened good ol’ Spooner, now you know. I’m still trying to find a way back in. Stay tuned.

And there you have it. The book is out there for your reading pleasure. I bought a copy of the Kindle edition (I think I was first!) and it looks pretty good. I invite you to enjoy it in the format you prefer—and leave a review on Amazon.com, if you are so inclined. You don’t have to read all 540 pages. The beauty of a story collection is that you can browse the Table of Contents and pick a title that strikes your fancy. They all stand alone.

As the saying goes, that’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. I wish you happy reading, and thanks for your patience.

_____

 

 

Island of Garbage

 

I must admit I was shocked. I’ve been off the grid for a couple of days, not paying attention to Fox News, or my favorite podcasts. I hopped back online to discover we are mad at Puerto Rico. I had no idea!

I tuned in to the coverage of Donald Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally, and his warm-up act, What’s-his-name the comedian, is slamming Puerto Ricans for making babies, and saying Puerto Rico is “…an island of garbage.” I had no idea we were going full-on snarky with the PR’s.

Sorry about that, J.Lo. Sorry, Rita Moreno.

I’m hoping Sean Hannity or Tucker Carlson will jump in to explain it to us, just as Tucker did recently when he told us, Dad is home and he’s pissed and you are going to get a spanking because you’ve been a naughty girl and it’s going to hurt you more that it hurts me… I think there was more, but like I said, I’ve been off the grid.

Until Sean or Tucker ’splains it to us, I have two theories. First, the comedian, What’s-his-name, has been watching too many reruns of West Side Story, the sequence where the Sharks sing and dance to “America.”

Always the hurricane blowing

Always the pop-u-la-tion growing…

Theory two is that the Puerto Ricans were not sufficiently appreciative of President Trump’s visit to the island after it was devastated by Hurricane Maria. I remember the poignant pictures of him tossing rolls of paper towels to the folks suffering from the effects of the storm. Perhaps they made smart remarks. Maybe they did not express their gratitude through the media.

Until Sean or Tucker explains the real meaning of What’s-his-name’s remarks, I know one thing for sure: the next time a storm hits Puerto Rico, they’re not getting any paper towels.

_____

 

 

 

 

October Surprise

 

Our presidential elections have been famous for the so-called October surprise. Just look at 2016, an election cycle that had several. First, there was the Access Hollywood tape, and on the same day, Wikileaks’ publication of hacked Democratic Party email communications. Finally, James Comey announced the reopening of the investigation into Hillary Clinton’s missing emails.

 That’s a lot of surprises for one October. Now I fear we are on the verge of another. Last weekend, for reasons known only to the candidate himself, Donald Trump chose to make comments about the physical endowment of Hall-of-Fame golfer Arnold Palmer. That’s surprising in itself, but I think the real danger lies in how the media follows up on Mr. Trump’s comments.

 It’s only a matter of time before some cynical reporter prods the former president by asking how he compares to Mr. Palmer. The nightmare scenario is that Mr. Trump will reenact the closing scene from the movie Boogie Nights. Remember Mark Wahlberg’s dialog, “I am a star, a big, bright, shining star,” as he displayed the proof?

 I hope the broadcast and cable networks deploy a five-second delay on their live coverage in order to protect the viewing public. I shudder to think of Mr. Trump’s reprise of Mr. Wahlberg’s performance. It is an October surprise we can do without.

_____

 

Election Season

 

I will miss election season when it is over. It has been exciting to receive the daily barrage of email and text messages, especially the ones from some of my favorite celebrities. Every day I can count on messages from Martin Sheen, Barbra Streisand, and Jon Stewart. I feel like we are on a first-name basis. I’ve started to send replies but so far have received very terse responses, which I could sum up as, Do NOT reply to this message. Hit the DONATE button, dumbass!

 I’m sure those responses are AI-generated and not written by Marty, Babs, and Jon-boy. I’m sure because I continue to receive warm and friendly messages from the three of them, though it is surprising they never thank me for my contributions.

 We don’t always get the presidential candidates that we’d prefer. I’m sure you agree. If I had my choice, it would be Jonathon Lawson, the guy from Colonial Penn Insurance. Jonathon Lawson strikes me as the nicest guy in the world. I think he would be a great president. He could charm the sox off all the world leaders, including the nasty ones. I can picture his campaign theme. It would go like this:

 

Lawson: In choosing a president, just remember the Three P’s.

Gray-haired lady: What are the Three P’s?

Lawson: A President you can afford. A President that will not change. And a President that fits your budget.

Gray-haired lady: I just turned 80. What can I afford?

Lawson: Just send $9.95.

Gray-haired gentleman: I’m 65 and take medication. How about me?

Lawson: $9.95 for you too.

 

If this were a town hall, I’d ask Jonathon what’s the difference between a president we can afford and one that fits our budget. I’m sure he’d have a good answer. It’s too late for Jonathon Lawson to jump into the 2024 race, but how about 2028? I’m keeping my fingers crossed and I have my check for $9.95 ready.

 Oh wait, I have to run. I just received a text from Streisand. Gotta reply…

 Babs! Hi, girlfriend! Whaazzuup?

_____

 

 

 

A Farewell to Arms

An appreciation…

 

“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

 I’ve often read that quote from Hemingway used in the context of encouraging words, as in, “Buck up, Sparky, if it didn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger.” It makes for a good one-liner, but it is totally out of the context Hemingway intended. The line appears in Chapter 34 as Fredrick Henry lies awake in the night next to Catherine Barkley, amazed at what has happened between them. Here is a more complete recounting of his thoughts:

 

…But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

I read A Farewell to Arms when I was in my 20s, and I blew right past that passage, anxious to get on with the action. I picked up the book recently and was stopped cold when I read Chapter 34. Hemingway doesn’t often “tell” you what his protagonist is feeling, which makes this passage rare. And it is a profound foreshadowing of how the book ends. I’ve read that the author struggled with the ending, writing more than thirty versions before he was satisfied. But the four sentences highlighted above could very well have served as the end of the novel.

Hemingway was a great discovery for me as a young man, beginning with his short stories, then extending to The Sun Also Rises, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and The Old Man and the Sea. I always thought A Farewell to Arms ranked at the bottom of that list. I was wrong. I’m glad I found it again at the ripe old age of 82.

_____

 

 

Charlie Hustle

 

Peter Edward Rose died Monday, September 30, 2024. He was eighty-three years old. I had a complex relationship with Pete Rose, though I never met the man. Let me explain.

           My introduction to baseball began with my dad. Family legend holds that he began playing catch with me in the backyard when I was three. Not long after that, I began organizing backyard games with my pals in the neighborhood. Baseball became an obsession for me, from sandlot ball to Little League, Peanut League, High School, American Legion, all the way through my first year in Junior College.

Somewhere along the way, it was etched on my baseball soul that you had to hustle. That meant running out every ground ball or pop-up, running to your position at the start of an inning, running back to the dugout after the third out, and giving one hundred percent effort on every play. In my mind, hustle was a rule, every bit as important as three-strikes-you’re-out.

When my sons, Matt and Gabe, reached Little League age in 1987 and 1988 respectively, I began a coaching “career” that spanned ten seasons. I had a program with four major goals: have fun; teach fundamentals; teach teamwork and sportsmanship; teach the value of hustle. I knew if we did those things well, winning and losing didn’t matter much. And that’s where Pete Rose came into my life. I used him as a prime example of the way the game should be played. He was “Charlie Hustle,” always giving one hundred percent effort.

And what was the value of hustle? I stressed two things with my players. First, hustle makes good things happen in a ballgame. Second, coaches absolutely love hustle. Show that you are a hustling ballplayer, and there will always be a place for you on a team.

In August1989, Pete Rose was declared “permanently ineligible” by Commissioner Bart Giamatti for betting on baseball. Several players, including my sons, came to me and said, “So, what do you think of Pete Rose now, Coach?” There was no defense. I had to find a new example, a new hero to sell the value of hustle.

The baseball pundits are likely to hold lively debates over Pete Rose’s legacy. How is it that the man who holds so many all-time records, including the most hits with 4,256, is not in the Hall of Fame? Can we separate the near-perfect ballplayer from the imperfect man? What about all those guys in the Hall who we know were not choir boys? (Hello, Ty Cobb. Raise your hand, Babe Ruth.) And if we forgive Pete and let him in, what about the steroid users like Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, and Roger Clemens?

Americans are quick to forgive and offer a second chance if someone comes clean, confesses his or her misdeeds, and offers a sincere apology. Maybe if Pete had done that way back in 1989, we would have put it all in the rearview mirror. Let bygones be bygones. After all, he racked up all those records before he started betting on baseball. Didn’t he?

Pete couldn’t do that. He kept up the lie. He said, It ain’t so! And when each new scandal broke (cocaine, steroids, sign stealing), he said, See, I never done none of that. He finally confessed in 2004. Everything the Dowd Report alleged was true. And that was the tip of the iceberg. His personal life was even more of a mess: tax evasion, paternity suit, statutory rape. He was a deeply flawed human being.

But, man, wasn’t he fun to watch? Ripping line drives from both sides of the plate, flying headfirst into bases, playing infield and outfield positions with equal effectiveness, the heart of The Big Red Machine, three times a World Series champ. And always, day in and day out, the relentless hustle, hustle, hustle.

Pete Rose is dead, RIP. Long live Charlie Hustle.

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 “You can take the boy out of Vallejo, but you can’t take Vallejo out of the boy.”

My new book, The Short Stories of C.W. Spooner, will be released October 31. Check out the cover image over there on the right—an aerial shot taken at dawn, Mare Island to the right, the City of Vallejo to the left, Mt. Diablo in the background. Many of my stories take place in Vallejo. Simply put, it will always be home.

The Kindle edition is available now to pre-order from Amazon.com, which means Amazon will automatically send a copy to your Kindle on the release date. The paperback and hardbound editions will also be released on October 31.

You may ask, “Dude, why are you doing this now? Why collect all your short stories in one volume?” The answer is simple: I always wanted to be a writer, but I got a very late start. In rushing to make up for lost time, I made mistakes. This is my opportunity to correct those errors and put my stories in final form. Did I fix everything? Is this volume perfect? Probably not. But I know it is much improved.

I hope you will find a few stories you like. Maybe you’ll keep the book around to reread an old favorite now and then. Or just let it lay around in plain sight as a conversation piece. If nothing else, at 540 pages, it makes a good doorstop.

One thing I know for sure: a book is no good without readers. Thank you for reading!

C.W. Spooner

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Dear faithful readers,

Have I got a book for you! It is The Truth That Can't Be Told 3 (TTTCBT 3 for short.) It is the third
anthology of short stories and poems from the Lake Forest Writers' Roundtable, and there is a lot to like in this volume. For example, my two stories: "Chasing History," co-authored with Jarold "Jerry" Warren; and "A Score to Settle."

The hero of "Chasing History" is none other than the great Willie Mays. Jerry and I began working on this story about a year ago, and it is ironic that TTTCBT 3 was released the same week Willie passed away. I think you'll enjoy the story, especially all you old Vallejoans out there. 

"A Score to Settle" is, in reality, two stories. One an account of actual events, and the other a fantasy quest for redemption. I should warn that it may tug at your heartstrings.

There are many more stories and poems for you to enjoy from authors you met in Books 1 and 2 of this series. Book 3 will give you a glimpse into what they've been up to lately, and it just might motivate you to seek out more of their published work. I highly recommend TTTCBT 3. You'll find it on Amazon.com. Add it to your bookshelf or e-reader library. You'll be glad you did.

Sincerely,

C.W. Spooner 

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 The “Say Hey Kid”

 

Willie Mays died Tuesday, June 18, at the age of 93. In my late-teens and early-twenties, I was fortunate
to see him play, first at Seals Stadium, then later at Candlestick Park, fortunate to witness several of his 660 homeruns.

In all the accolades that have poured in, I find one thing missing. No one has mentioned the way Willie played the game. He played with joy and excitement, and the understanding that he was playing a kids’ game and getting paid to do it. When you saw Willie before a game, he was smiling, laughing, the guy on the field having the most fun. When the game was underway, he swung hard, ran hard, slid hard, and ran down every ball he could get a glove on. There were no poses when he executed a homerun swing, no dramatic bat flips, no showing up the pitcher, no taunting the opposing dugout. He simply ran the bases and touched home plate.

In other words, he played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

It wasn’t all roses and tickertape parades when the Giants moved to San Francisco to begin the 1958 season. The New York City media may have created the legend of Willie Mays, but the San Francisco press was more than willing to tarnish the idol. Willie was the target of many snarky articles that questioned his character and commitment. One season (I can’t remember the year), Willie collapsed on the field. Whether it was from illness or sheer exhaustion was never clear. If memory serves, he missed only a couple of games. The press had a field day, suggesting Willie was “dogging it.” One line in particular I will never forget: a columnist in the San Francisco Chronicle quoted an anonymous teammate as saying, “We may have lost our centerfielder, but we gained an Academy Award.”

Willie never complained about the bad press. In fact, to my knowledge, he never complained about anything. He just played his game, year after year, compiling one of the greatest records in the history of baseball. Check out his five full seasons in New York, and then his prime years in San Francisco—1958 though 1966. His record speaks for itself. And it made him a perennial All Star selection. The All Star Game became a Willie Mays showcase. Everyone wanted to interview Willie, to share the smiles, the laughter, the pure joy of the game.

A few years ago, I was listening to a Giants’ game and Willie joined the broadcast team for a few innings in the booth. He was asked if he was at all bitter about having to play the heart of his career at Candlestick Park, where the howling winds turned homerun balls into pop fly outs. Willie said, “Oh no, no, no. I’m happy with my 660 homeruns. That’s a good number.”

As I said, no complaints.

Tony Kornheiser, a host of the ESPN show “Pardon the Interruption,” said that Willie wasn’t the greatest in any one category. There were better hitters for average, better homerun hitters, better base stealers, better fielders, and so on. But Willie was in the top five in EVERY category. In the history of the game, he was the most complete all-around player.

There is another category to consider: respect. Listen to what Willie’s contemporaries—the guys who competed with and against him—have to say. It is quite possible that, on and off the field, he was the most respected player ever.

He played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

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