Our Thanksgiving colors were red and black

My greatest Thanksgiving memory was the big football rivalry between the two Flint, Mich. high schools, Central and Northern. They were perennial state powerhouses and they played the last game of the season against each other on Thanksgiving Day before some 20,000 people in Atwood Stadium.

My mother, aunt, uncle and myself all graduated from Central, so there was rarely a Thanksgiving when one of us wasn’t a student there. The big game was so important that it literally determined whether we would be joyously thankful or merely somberly appreciative on Thanksgiving.

Our Thanksgiving décor wasn’t comprised of shades of orange and brown and yellow. It was red and black, the colors of the Flint Central Indians.

Sometimes we all went to the game, sometimes not. A lot depended on the Michigan weather. But we always listened on the radio and got a firsthand report from whoever was attending Central at the time.

I remember one Thanksgiving when Aunt Elaine, then a student at Central, came home after the big game sobbing. All through dinner, she was absolutely inconsolable.

Aunt Elaine is in her 70s now and in the process of moving to Surprise, Ariz. to retire. We met in Phoenix for breakfast recently. She told me that Flint Central had finally closed, and she had attended a farewell event at the beautiful old school where thousands of former students came to raise their collective voices to sing the alma mater one last time.

Music was important at Central. I went there in the late 50s, the dawn of rock and roll, when the Platters, Little Anthony and the Imperials, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers and other early black groups were just bringing doo wop to prominence.

Flint has a high black population and there were a host of wannabe doo wop vocal groups that had formed among Central students. It was common for them to perform in various nooks and crannies of the hallways between classes. Some of them were very good.

Being a honky, I ended up playing the trumpet in the 120-member marching band, a band that was one of the best in the state thanks to director Bruce Robart – one of those teachers who demanded nothing less than perfection. Performing at the big Thanksgiving game was obviously the highlight of my musical career.

In my junior year, 1959, Central was en route to becoming the state champion. That Thanksgiving, we beat a good Northern team 51-0.

It was a happy Thanksgiving indeed, marred only by the fact that the Flint Journal was on strike so there would be no story about the game the next day. Also looming just ahead was the fact that a third high school was being built and those of us in its geographical area would be forced to transfer for our senior year.

I doubt that they’d get away with that dictate today.  We'd be given the choice of finishing our senior year at the old school.  But that was 50 years ago, before kids had “rights,” back when we were told what to do and we did it.  A time, by the way, when we never complained about being bored or having nothing to do.

Anyway, the new school, Flint Southwestern, just wasn’t the same. No tradition. No wonderful old brick building. And most important, no Thanksgiving Day football game.

So when The Consort and I went back to Michigan last month, I had to take her to downtown Flint to see if Central High was still there.

It was, and she insisted I pose in front of it.  Of course it was raining, but what a rush of memories. I am standing just feet from where I got my first two traffic tickets – at the same time.

And there was the tower atop the third floor. They would never tell us what was up there, so we, of course, let our imaginations run wild. We were pretty sure it housed a torture chamber lined with skeletons of recalcitrant and intractable students. Or, more likely, just the skulls. You could only fit so many skeletons in there. And that would certainly explain that mystery meat they served in the cafeteria.

Then there was the graffiti. It was such an old school, even when I attended, that every desk (they were made of real wood in those days) was carved with romantic messages, slogans, insults and profanities.

The most frequent message on the desks, I recall, was, “Vera Shrigley is a bitch.” Vera Shrigley was an English teacher who was long gone by the time I got there, but her legacy obviously lived on.

I didn’t know at the time that I would become a high school English teacher, but I never forgot how unforgiving high school kids can be. You have to wonder if someone carved that infamous message into Vera Shrigley’s tombstone.

I vowed to pattern myself as a teacher after Bruce Robart, not Vera Shrigley. I never checked the carvings on the desks at Wayne Memorial High School to see if I succeeded.

But this is about Thanksgiving, a time to count blessings, not skulls. Hopefully, your turkey will not resemble mystery meat in any way, shape or form.

The good news at our house: Flint Central cannot lose the big game this Thanksgiving Day.

Can't trust Roundup's reliability, impartiality

There is much confusion and many false rumors about the landscaping being done at the roundabout at the Beeline Highway and Tyler Parkway.

The work is paid for and all the labor is being done by volunteers from the Payson Gateway Committee, a not-for-profit group which has spent two years and a lot of red tape unwinding to get this job done. It is a labor of love given freely to the town and all citizens. It certainly looks far better than the old pile of dirt which sat there for several years.

The true story could have, and should have, been told by the Payson Roundup. They were furnished a complete press release with pictures. They even sent a reporter over to take a look at the project.

Tothis day, however, they have refused to print a single word or show a picture about this splendid civic project. Instead, they have allowed, perhaps encouraged false rumors.

Is this what is expected from a newspaper which recently beat its chest over being awarded a "Best" in its class?

The reason for this outrage lies directly at the feet of the editor. He has a personal bias toward several members of the Gateway Committee, and refuses to allow anything connected with them to appear in HIS newspaper.

Can you imagine this, folks, really?  Does this sound like America to you?  If he can get away with this, then how can you ever trust this newspaper's reliability and impartiality again?

I repeat - one man, who happens to be the editor of the Payson Roundup, is withholding a fine civic story because of his personal bias.

It's been over a month since all the facts were given to the paper; the work has been going on for all to see. There is absolutely no excuse or explanation for the lack of coverage other than the small minded, petty actions of the editor.

Freedom of the press, you chant?

More likely control of the press by a tyrant.

Noble Collins

Why is it the good papers that are dying?

Trib's demise follows trend

Another newspaper bites the dust, and this one – like the Gazette – is too close to home for comfort.

On Dec. 31, the East Valley Tribune will close its doors after 118 years in business. In the last few years, it was regarded by most journalists as the best daily newspaper in the state.

Even more significantly, in April two of the Tribune’s reporters won journalism’s ultimate honor – the Pulitzer Prize. Paul Giblin and Ryan Gabrielson earned the coveted award for their series on the impact of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s illegal immigrant crackdown on police protection.

Green bologna and pink underwear Joe. What a colorful guy.

You can like him for being a hard ass, but in the end he sure makes heroes out of a lot of journalists and lawyers who challenge him for abdicating his first responsibility in favor of causes that guarantee his re-election. We are either a nation of law or we are not, and Sheriff Joe, of all people, is supposed to set an example.

But this is about newspapers. Especially dead newspapers.

Why is it that the good ones seem to be the ones that are folding – the ones with the highest journalistic standards, the greatest public conscience?

Maybe that’s a question that answers itself. Maybe it’s because of the dumbing down of our society. The papers with the best chance of making it today are the ones that pander to the public’s basest instincts – to the lowest common denominator.

Right here in River City, we have two papers that appeal to all that is mean in human nature – to our desire to know who got caught doing what, whose marriage didn’t work out, what 13-year-old was able to kill an innocent and unwary animal to prove his or her manhood, and all the fears and prejudices a cowboy columnist can stoke – all the while oblivious to the intentions and motives of those with the power to negatively impact our quality of life.

A mayor with an ego the size of a seven-story building is glorified by a reporter hellbent on building his own stature on a tower of superfluity. Winking, meanwhile, is a bulbous photographer turned editor who doesn’t seem to have a clue. And a rapacious publisher whose sole motive appears to be a return to power and profitability at any cost – even the truth.

In the process, two town councils are allowed to run amok (term limits be damned) and the water problem that divided them, that defines our communities is pronounced “history.” As, by the way, is the drought that may ultimately prove our undoing, as it did of those who occupied this land before us. This past week, when a forecast storm piddled out, offers yet another example of the tenacity of the drought the Roundup pronounced over – twice. Drought is bad for growth, so let’s pretend it’s behind us.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are being duped. By one newspaper that has absolutely no scruples. And by another newspaper that doesn’t have a clue – that can’t even spell a notable citizen's name correctly in a front page headline while accusing him of being a child pornographer (and that better be careful lest it end up with a John Hanna on its hands). Wouldn’t it be deliciously ironic if the Jesus freak, good news publisher from Globe was brought down over a child pornography story?

Now we hear that the ladies who broke off from the Gazette are about to break off again – to found, get this, their own newspaper. Rumor has it the Rim Country News is bleeding big time, and its parent the Copper Country News isn’t in this fight for truth and justice.

But, you ask, aren’t they in it for Jesus? Until, it would appear, they start losing money, and then all bets are off, Jesus be damned. Isn’t it amazing how Jesus and money get intertwined and which one invariably comes out on top?

Mark my words, if the girls start a new paper they will fail miserably because there isn’t a true journalist among them. And in the process, the Roundup will laugh all the way to the bank.

Because a weak and harmless competitor is really better than no competitor at all. Remember The Backbone?

Will the citizens of this community ever rise up again? Not likely without another issue of the magnitude of the Star Valley water heist and another leader with the stature and political savvy of Bob Edwards.

Right now, Kenny is playing it safe – stirring college town visions in our head, and it appears that no one from Edwards’ camp is willing to pick up the bicycle helmet knocked from his head in that mysterious, still unexplained mishap.

These are not happy times for people who value the things that good newspapers stand for.

Sparkling wine one of four holiday favorites

En Vino Veritas
Fermented spirits encourage
lifting of emotional spirit

By Noble Collins
Gazette Columnist
The most festive period of the year is upon us: Thanksgiving, Chanukah, Christmas and New Year’s Day packed together within a few short weeks. Also, reluctant to give up the holiday atmosphere, we more and more stretch it out to include the conclusion of football season, right up to the Super Bowl. Then, another week or so and we have Valentine’s Day. The more intrepid among us make it through without a scratch, but most likely not without a stretch (in our waist size).

Around the world, in the richest and poorest places, folks battle the increasing cold and lengthening darkness with bright lights and their best food and drink. It is during this period when we are most often introduced to new tastes, flavors and especially libations.

The emphasis is on gaiety and celebration.

Four wines, in particular, come into their own during this period – Sparkling wine, Port, Sherry, and Brandy. These are, of course, year-round favorites for many reasons, but more of them are consumed during holiday season than at any other time of year.

Sparkling wine leads the list by a wide margin. Bubbles are the reason. They convey visual fun as much as they are physically pleasing. They encourage a lifting of emotional spirit along with the fermented spirits. The bubbles are trapped CO2 gas which take the express route to our brain, delivering their cargo of ethyl alcohol with a Fred Astaire stylishness.

It most likely originated in France, and the means for storing it within a bottle definitely did. That credit goes to a monk by the name of Dom Perignon. Although some facts are disputed, great contributions were made by this man toward making Champagne the widely heralded wine it has become.

Sparkling wine is made around the world. Only within the Champagne district of France, however, with its chalky soil and cool climate, can it legally be called Champagne. This was always the case, but somewhat ignored until recently when international agreements with the ECU (European Common Union) became recognized and binding. Spain calls their sparkling wine Cava. In Australia, the particular varietal is featured, such as Sparkling Shiraz or Sparkling Grenache. In much of the rest of the world, it is still called Champagne, but that will change rapidly.

The wine from Champagne is strictly controlled. The rules restrict the types of grapes which can be used to three: Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier. The various batches of juice go through a normal fermentation as usual and are separated into many different “lots.” The winemaker then chooses from among the various lots for the final blend, looking for an individual style and taste. When the blend is finalized, a small amount of “tirage” is added, consisting of yeast, sugar and wine. This is bottled and tightly capped.

As yeasts consume the sugar, a second fermentation occurs creating slightly more alcohol and a resulting carbon dioxide gas trapped within the wine. The bottles are racked at a slight angle and are slowly turned downward until the spent yeast cells and any other sediment is eventually captured in the bottle’s neck. This usually takes at least one year. Once the bottles have finished this “riddling” process, the plug of sediment is removed by flash freezing the neck and disgorging the plug. The small volume of liquid which is lost is replaced by topping off the wine with a “dosage” consisting of reserve wine and sugar. This ultimately determines the level of sweetness in the final product. The various levels of sweetness (or dryness) are classified as Brut, Extra Dry, Sec, Doux, etc. Curiously, Extra Dry is sweeter than Brut.

Carbon dioxide gas remains trapped within the wine under enormous pressure, requiring a thick bottle, a wire-bound very tight cork, and usually a heavy foil “cape” to contain it. Great care must always be exercised when opening a bottle. Once the pressure is released, millions of tiny bubbles form as the gas attempts to escape. An old adage states that, “The tinier the bubbles, the better the wine.”

Serving Champagne cold is absolutely necessary in order to slow the bubbling activity. Good Champagne should never be degraded by “exploding” it from the bottle - either from warmth or by shaking it. This is dangerous and it spoils good wine.

The highest rated sparkling wines all use this traditional method or something quite similar in creating their product. It is known as methode champenoise or methode traditionale (fermented in the bottle) and will be indicated as such on the label. A cheaper and widely used method is called the bulk or Charmat process in which CO2 gas is injected into large (usually stainless steel) vats of bulk wine and quickly bottled. They are, perhaps, festive and fun, but they hold no comparison to the elegant champenoise wines. Labels must indicate the process used, and are, thus, one of the first means of selecting the desired product.

The single greatest exception to this rule is found in Italy, where the world’s largest quantity of sparkling wine is produced. The wines are known as Spumante (foaming) and the best come from an area in the Piedmont known as Asti, named for the town and region of Asti. These wines are made by a modified version of the Cremant (bulk) process, but are more controlled by holding the original crush in near freezing conditions which prevents immediate fermentation. As needed, batches are then revived and fermented in a controlled manner which does not allow all the sugar to be converted into alcohol. A wide variety of grapes is allowed in the mix, and those with a degree of sweetness and floral qualities make the best wines.

Many of these wines found their way into the U.S. after WWII. Unfortunately the most popular were the cheap “sweeties” which gave them a lower class designation and still cloud the reputation of some very fine and unique wines. Foaming wine from Asti (Asti Spumante) can be as thrilling and elegant an experience as any sparkling wine, depending upon the care taken to produce it. The bubbles don’t last as long as good Champagne, though.

This brief overview of sparkling wine is certainly not meant to be comprehensive. Many excellent books have been written on the subject and should be mined for a more detailed
investigation. As always, I believe wine “should be enjoyed by the enjoyer,” but it is rarely a one dimensional experience, and the mind can play a definitive role in the enjoyment.

Next - The fortified wines - Brandy, Port and Sherry.

Salud!

POETRY: Autumn's Gold

Autumn's Gold
By Hubert Herrmann

Oh yes, I've had my hopes for gold,
Like any man whose life's been sold
To doctors, bankers, Master's, Sears,
Whose April tax is in arrears.

Who later on with hand-cupped ear,
In fear says, "Eh, what's that I hear?"
"I said," shouts out the office hack,
"Your Old Age Pension's been cut back."

And sure, I've had my fantasies
Of thumbnail wins on lotteries,
And bought Ed's magazines to win
On sweepstakes tickets I'd send in.

I've rolled three sevens in a row;
The next throw snake eyes took my dough.
I've bet the favorite to place;
The long shot's rump was in its face.

But with all that I have to say,
I never was so in the sway
Of bandit's arm and dealer's choice
That gold but had a passing voice.

It wasn't that my wants were few.
But way down deep, inside, I knew
There was, somewhere, a gold so pure
It brings about confusion's cure.

I found it one vacation day
As I unwound the long highway
Far from the city's murk and mire
In autumn's land of yellow fire.

Luck led me to a treasure trove
Within an ancient aspen grove.
Amidst this amphitheater,
I felt a long lost yearning stir.

Gold leaf-shaped coins were everywhere,
Thrown on the ground, flung in the air,
Then scattered on the molten stream
Beyond my wildest treasure dream.

Slant shafts of gold sprang from the ground;
They glowed and hovered all around
Like Jedi swords prepared to route
The shadow thieves that lurked about.

The coin-hung ceiling's tracery
Threw flecks of gold all over me.
My heart sang out a joyful note
Instead of pounding in my throat.

I stayed until the landslide night
Had buried every coin from sight
And to this day I've never sold
My treasured share of autumn's gold.

Green Valley Park is Payson's crown jewel

(Editor's note: The following column is reprinted so Noble's two articles about Payson's parks are available on the blog.)

Prospectors came to Rim Country, as to many other places, searching for silver, gold and other valuable minerals.

Their finds were few and rather meager, but there were other attractions holding them here magnetically. The relatively mild weather, breathtaking scenery and abundance of tall timber appealed to early homesteaders, and lush grass valleys were ideal attractions for ranchers looking for suitable spreads for cattle raising.

Before long, a small community developed in spite of the small but lingering presence of indignant Apaches who could never adapt to the White Man's notion of private ownership. Cowboys replaced Indians, and shopkeepers and saloon owners moved in to supply their needs.

Green Valley was the most common name given to the area, but Long Valley, Big Valley and Union Park were also used. Finally, when a post office was made possible through the assistance of a U.S. Senator named Payson, it was decided to give the community the single name, Payson. That has remained the official name of the town ever since, but Green Valley best describes it.

The town was a natural gathering place. Ranchers rode in for supplies. Cowboys rode in for entertainment or perhaps some improvement for their hard, lonely lives. Soon, homesteaders wanted schools, churches, and doctors, and businessmen wanted banks, mills and hotels.

Inevitably, the little settlement began to grow. It was endowed with all the necessary resources but one – water.

Payson is not located on a lake, a river or even a stream of any size. Precious water had to be hauled in or brought up from wells. Fire was a threatening enemy then as now, and destroyed many important and loved dwellings or gathering places.

Water was primarily used for animals and humans to drink. Other uses were pretty much rationed, such as bathing and clothes washing. Sanitation was maintained as well as possible, but this was not Martha Stewart country.

As the town grew, more and more wells were dug, and, fortunately, Payson lies atop a series of large aquifers (areas holding water underground.) Water was obtainable, but ironically its availability just about kept up with the demand, and no more.

More wells were dug, and more water was found, but usually at a deeper and deeper level. It began to be obvious that water was being used at a far greater pace than rains or snows could replace it.

Serious thinkers looked into the future and contemplated a dire dilemma. A number of factors, in play over many years, ultimately contributed to the survival, indeed, the prosperity of Payson and the surrounding area.

A century ago, early Arizona settlers faced harsh desert conditions. Water was scarce and undependable. Moving further west held no great promise. Water was needed. Lots of it, and a bright future seemed assured if it could be obtained.

In 1903, settlers formed The Salt River Valley Water Users Association. They looked toward the Federal Government, which in those days was considered an ally. A massive water storage and delivery system was needed, and “our” government was called upon to help out. No one thought of it as socialism or a government “takeover.”

The year before, the National Reclamation Act had been passed by a largely bi-partisan Congress led by a Republican majority and endorsed fully by the new Republican President, Theodore Roosevelt. The government agreed to loan certain approved parties as much money as needed to construct water storage and reclamation projects.

In this case, the Salt River Association put up 200,000 acres of their land as collateral for a loan. (There is no record of a “government bailout!” accusation.) The ultimate result was Lake Roosevelt and the Roosevelt power dam, which furnished water and electric power to the entire Phoenix area watershed. At this time, water draining into this reservoir became protected.

Later, as more water was needed, a canal was constructed bringing water from the Colorado River all the way to Phoenix. This is known as The Salt River Project (SRP), again government financed. Apparently, some of the early Payson families had no knowledge of this. No opposition is recorded.

Back in Payson, as early as 1970, a possible large reliable source of water was identified. The Phelps Dodge Corporation had captured a river in a deep valley north of Payson, built a dam and used the surging water to create electricity to power its mining efforts. The mines had played out, however, and the water and dam were no longer being used, but promised to SRP.

Over the next 20 years, the town of Payson attempted to find a way to have access to that water. Only recently has the effort found success. (Yes, the federal government is involved, sigh!) By the year 2015, if all goes well, Payson will finally be guaranteed all the water it needs to sustain present life and future growth. Finally!

In the meantime, two paths also converged which brought about a boon for Payson and an intermediate solution to the water problem. In 1984, The Northern Gila County Sanitary District was mandated to build a wastewater treatment plant, capturing and cleaning used water from the Payson area.

The “reclaimed” water was initially intended to be used for irrigation on school or town property or the Payson Golf Course, replacing and enhancing supplies of potable water. As it turned out, however, much more water was being re-claimed than was being used for these purposes. Thousands of gallons were being pumped into the Verde River as excess.

The Payson Water Department, under enlightened leadership, and in response to a mandate from SRP to use the water more efficiently, proposed a water containment area which would hold the effluent excess and distribute it only as needed. Also, the underground percolation from this facility would be cleansed and resupply the water table being rapidly drained by hundreds of wells.

Instead of a mundane water reclamation pond, however, a brilliant proposal came forth to create a beautiful park surrounding the pond. In 1989, a partnership was formed between The Payson Water Department and Northern Gila County Sanitary District , and plans began to create a multi use public park in conjunction with the water reclamation pond.

Three lakes were ultimately proposed - a small one just to capture run-off sediment from storms. The other two would be another small pond and a relatively large lake to contain and regulate water flow. Effluent water would be pumped into the largest lake and ultimately percolate its way back into the regional aquifer. Non-potable water would have a large source from which to draw to irrigate many areas, saving the pure drinking water for public consumption. Land was purchased from The Forest Service to build the facility.

Today, beautiful Green Valley Park is the result. Some original plans had to be changed, but a multi-use public park is in place which is unrivaled by any in small town America. It is a beauty which should be shown to all visitors.

There is more to this story, but I believe the important facts are covered. Payson should be extremely proud of this accomplishment. It illustrates how a trusted relationship between public and private entities, or even various government agencies, can accomplish great things for the common good.

This country was created to insure justice for the common good. It is OUR government, and the system of checks and balances should insure that no dictatorship will ever rule.

In the past, we have always found a way to work together, even if we disagree. The bond issue funding the Green Valley Project passed on a ratio 65/35. One third voted “NO”

Many people were heard to complain that they were being “forced” to vote too soon by “the government.” Too much money was being spent. More time was needed to study the plan. The majority prevailed.

It's a nice park, and it serves a great purpose. It is well named “Green Valley – Payson’s Crown Jewel.”

Time for Jesus to put a curse on Yankees

With the New York Yankees’ World Series victory, another baseball season is mercifully over.

The moral of this story is easy – the more you can afford to pay your players, the better chance you have of being world champions. The Yankees have, by far, the highest payroll in baseball – just because they can.

A sub-moral also emerges: the baseball season is way too long. When teams start the season with a chance of snow and the World Series ends with a possibility of snow, that’s too long. The Boys of Summer become the Boys of All Seasons.

Actually, baseball offers a lot of morals – at all levels. A Chandler, Ariz. author has just released an inspirational book for kids “using baseball as a fun analogy,” according to a press release.

Titled “Imagine That,” “the book takes youngsters to the ballpark to see a little slugger turn to Jesus in the midst of a nail-biting inning. The author shows children in a fun and exciting story that Jesus is our friend who desires for us to put our trust in him for whatever life pitches.”

Get it? “Whatever life pitches.”

But I’m not sure I’d consider that “a fun analogy. And I would have thought that Jesus might be too busy with important matters to help a “little slugger” succeed in a game of absolutely no consequence to the human race. Or that maybe He would figure that it’s character-building for “little sluggers” to learn to fight their own battles.

Apparently not. Apparently little leaguers can ask
Jesus to help them beat the snot out of other little leaguers, and He’ll do it.

But then I’m also surprised that nations ask Jesus to help them destroy other nations with whom they’re at war. You would think Jesus would just say, “Enough. I don’t condone war so I am not going to help you win. I don’t care if they are Muslims. They still have a right to live.”

But this is about baseball.

Growing up in Michigan, I hated the Yankees. Those were the days when Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s home run record. Then there was Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra and Bill Skowron and Billy Martin and on and on and on. They might as well have all been carrying pitchforks and sporting tails.

That was before the playoff era, and my beloved Detroit Tigers competed in the American League against the Yankees each year. Each year they won and we lost. Back then, like today, the big market Yankees had an unfair advantage.

Of course, it’s not just the Yankees spending the big bucks. The Los Angeles Dodgers will pay Manny Ramirez $20 million next year. Will the Diamondbacks ever be able to pay a player that kind of money? Not likely.

But we adults can deal with it better than kids. As Stephen Colbert pointed out the other night, at least the Yankees World Series victory is proof that the free enterprise system works.

As a kid, it was harder to understand – and to take. But I didn’t realize back then how Jesus might have helped. If I had been able to read “Imagine That” during my childhood, I would most certainly have sicced Jesus on those damn Yankees.

It may be impossible for the Tigers or the Diamondbacks to take out the Yankees (2001 notwithstanding), but I’m willing to bet that Jesus could do it without even working up a sweat.

Not long ago, on a trip back to Michigan, I took The Consort to the ballfield where I played little league baseball 55 years ago. It was behind my really old elementary school, which is still in use.

While the ball field has been replaced by a fancier field right next to it, the old backstop was still standing. I walked over to it, stood right about where home plate used to be, and displayed for her the infamous stance (see photo) I used to blast a total of three home runs during my entire multi-year little league career.

Photo by The Consort

Here I am back on my little league field 55 years later.  Back then, it was all dirt.  Amazing how grass grows in Michigan.

It was great to re-live that modest career, but I couldn’t help feeling cheated. I don’t know what Jesus was doing back when I was playing little league ball, but it never once occurred to me back then to ask him to help me poke a few more out of the park.

I have to wonder if “Imagine That” isn’t yet another example of how adults can’t leave kids to their own devices these days. Our little league games were played during the day when parents were at work.

While my parents never saw me play, that meant they never interfered, argued with the umps, or put extra pressure on me either. And we didn’t have to contend with books written by adults suggesting that we invoke Jesus to help us through that “nail-biting inning.”

But maybe it’s not too late. Maybe, just maybe, I can still make a request. What have I got to lose?

Dear Jesus: would you please put a hex or a curse or something on those damn Yankees?