Emerald Bowl? Awesome. Emerald Nuts? Not So Much.

My second consecutive post violates our unwritten rule that we go back and forth on this blog. But Sermons on the Mound ain’t no game o’ ping-pong. And I have thoughts.

I haven’t been to a live sporting event in 2 ½ months. If you don’t understand the severity of this drought, it would be the equivalent of you going 2 ½ years without beef. So you can imagine my elation when I tore open a Christmas gift from my parents and discovered tickets to the 8th annual Emerald Bowl at San Francisco’s AT&T Park, home of baseball’s Giants.

The game pinned my alma mater, the University of Southern California, against the best football program from the city to which I currently hail, Boston College. And even though this was a JV Football Bowl promoted by a nut company, I was in!

Frankly, SC sucked this year.

And by “sucked”, I mean “didn’t live up to the grossly unfair expectations we spoiled, ungrateful SC fans put on them after seven years of utter domination.”

Does anyone in Trojanland remember Paul “Can’t” Hackett?

It was my sophomore year at SC. Notre Dame came to town on its annual trip to the West. Since the hallowed Knute Rockne brought his Fighting Irish to the Southland over 80 years ago, this matchup has been considered the most heated national rivalry in all of college football. (Did you know that Rockne scheduled the first game at SC back in the 1920s because his wife wanted to vacation in Los Angeles?)

Anyways, Notre Dame is opening up a can o’ whoop ass. And from my seat in the SC student section, the roar of the Irish fans is getting louder and louder with every quarter. At one point, the out-of-towners begin to serenade us in a deafening chant of “GOOOOO!!!!! … IRISHHHHHH!!!!!” Our section retaliated with its own cheer but the “GO!” and “IRISH” drowned us out. I remember a friend of mine turning to me and saying with hope, “Maybe they can hear us just as loud as we can hear them?”

“If we can’t even hear ourselves,” I replied, “Ihey can’t hear us at all.”

Pete Carroll be praised! After he took the reins in 2001, the Pac-10 has been our doormat, we produced three Heisman trophy winners, lost only once to UCLA, never lost to Notre Dame, collected two national championships and came within Vince Young’s legs from a third.

But after seven straight invitations to BCS Bowls, including four consecutive trips to the Rose, the Trojans finished 8-4 and played its very first bowl game before New Year’s Day since my junior year in college. I’m not all that bitter. It was a remarkable run.

Was the Pac-10 more competitive this year? Outside of 1st place, 9-3 Oregon, 5 schools finished 8-4. Was Mark Sanchez leaving a year early for the NFL the kiss of death? We fielded our first true freshman quarterback in school history. Was the defense depleted? Our entire linebacker corp was drafted and is Pro Bowl bound.

Whatever the reasons for this “disappointing” season, I was grateful the journey led them here, to my parents backyard, during my winter break. (Shhhhh… don’t tell anyone but I secretly rooted for Arizona to beat SC on the last week of the season so that they would fall into an Emerald Bowl bid. A win would have put them in San Diego’s Holiday Bowl and would’ve extended my live sporting events drought to another 2 ½ months. And before you wonder how I could ever root against my team for the sake of attending a game, there is precedence for my behavior. Back when I was 8 years old, the Dodgers improbably won the division and were pitted against the Mighty New York Mets of the NL East. My dad submitted his name in the Playoff Ticket Lottery. The odds were piled up against us. We had about as much chance of getting tickets as a Koala Bear has at getting into Harvard. But my dad submitted his name anyway. I remember the evening dad returned from work, with an envelope in his hand stamped with the Dodgers logo. My dad was glowing and handed it to me. I peeled it open and found, inside, a pair of tickets to Game 7!!! You can imagine the sheer euphoria my little 8-year old soul felt at that moment. Anyways, fast forward to Game 6. The Dodgers are up 3 games to 2, one win away from a World Series. One win away from toppling perhaps the greatest team in National League history. And who did I root for that night? That’s right. The Mets. Those two tickets were burning a hole in my soul and my desire to see LA advance was drowned out by my selfish desire to see LA advance in person. Can you blame me? I was 8!!! You know the rest. The Mets DID win that night. Orel pitched Game 7. The Dodgers advanced and Dad and I were there to see it.)

4 thoughts from the 2009 Emerald Bowl, one thought for each hot dog consumed at the game.

1a. The football game was played in a baseball stadium. And not just any baseball stadium. The home of our historical rival, the San Francisco Giants (I say “historical” because I argue the honor of most “heated” rival goes to the Orange County Angels of Disneyland, but that’s another column.) Even though the Giants were not represented in any way outside of the black and orange caps the concession stand employees wore, I attended the game with an air of defiance. After all, I was in enemy territory. And to signify my allegiance, I proudly donned a Junior Dodgers wristband, which I made sure was in plain view as I handed the hot dog girl my money.

1b. The football game was played in a baseball stadium. At some point in the 3rd quarter, I receive this text from our friend Shannon, who is watching the game at home. “That Coke Bottle is giving me Sports Vertigo.” Couldn’t have said it better myself. Perhaps the most fascinating wrinkle of this year’s Emerald Bowl, beyond SC’s disappointing season, beyond Joe McKnight’s absence due to an NCAA investigation and even beyond the mystery that is Pete Carroll’s impeccably coifed hair despite the precipitation, was the reconfiguration of a baseball diamond into a gridiron. I have to admit, I was impressed. The first base line served as one end zone, while the left field wall served as the other. In right field, a large bank of bleachers were built, running parallel to one sideline, while the opposing sideline ran adjacent to the left field foul line. There was a time when I was vehemently opposed to facilities housing two franchises in different sports. But I was talking to my girlfriend about it recently and she, a champion of conservation, remarked on how environmentally and fiscally responsible it is to have one stadium, and multiple franchises play multiple sports in it (she’s clearly the businessperson in the relationship). You have to admit, she and Walter O’Malley would agree. O’Malley was the first to spearhead this idea back in the ‘50s. He was even the first to propose the idea of domed stadiums so that teams could play in all manner of weather. It makes so much sense. Unfortunately, as we witnessed with all those “cookie cutter” stadiums built back in the 70s, fiscal and environmental responsibility stripped franchises of ascetically pleasing venues. The era produced a dozen oval stadiums, all alike, with neon green Astroturf. Ballparks lacked identity. (See Cincinatti, Pittsburg, St. Louis, San Diego and Philadelphia.) And in each one, both baseball and football was played. But when those ovals began to decay, retro ballparks became the new craze. Stadiums with funny angles and quirky dimensions. Ballparks had identities again. But it resulted in a flurry of construction which produced one stadium for each franchise. Now the Eagles and the Phillies have separate venues in Philadelphia. All they share is a parking lot. There’s a lot more to say on this subject so I’ll save it for a rainy day.

2. USC fans do not own proper coats. There was a 38 degree wind chill and a steady rain for half the game, yet the heaviest outerwear I saw was a cardinal and gold hoody. Two rows ahead of us, there was a 12 year old boy dressed in a white SC road jersey and a pair of cargo shorts. His only protection? One of those clear plastic ponchos without a hood. I’m sorry Angelenos, but Saran Wrap does not make for good insulation.

3. Dad and I discovered the Academy Road of AT&T Park. An alley, just four blocks from the ballpark, without permit parking signs or coin operated meters and about 37 feet from a Bay Bridge onramp. I think my dad was more excited about the free parking spot than the Trojans 24-13 victory. That’s all the details I’ll give. Gotta keep this place a secret.

4. Emerald Nuts suck! And by “suck” I mean “are the worst nuts I’ve ever eaten in my entire life.” Seriously. I’m not kidding about this one. How can you screw up nuts? Emerald found a way. No wonder Emerald Nuts commercials are so funny. All of a sudden, I understand why its ad campaign is so aggressively quirky. Funny commercials are the only way they can breed brand loyalty because the taste of their nuts certainly isn’t going to do it. We could easily call this the “Axe Deodorant Theory.” A company must aggressively advertise with nonsensical, uniquely crafted commercials because the quality of the product is poor. Seriously. Have you ever smelled Axe Deodorant? The scent is a combination of curry and cat urine and Axe has duped an entire generation of teenage boys into thinking girls will fight to the death to be with someone who sprays it underneath their armpits.

You're Never Too Old to Join the Junior Dodgers!

So it’s Christmas Day. But you wouldn’t know it in Los Angeles. It’s 75 degrees outside. My buddy Todd, a native Coloradan, has lived in the Southland a little more than two years now and the only way he recognizes the changes in seasons is when Starbucks tells him.

Peppermint Mochas? Cinnamon Stick stirrers? Must be the Yuletide.

But this year, Christmas is being wrung in at the Chamberlins’ East Bay home in NorCal. (That’s right. We reside in enemy territory. My mom even admits she roots for…gulp… Tim Lincecum. Ray, put the gun down.)

Nat King Cole serenades us while we sit ankles deep in a pile of shredded wrapping paper and I’m reflecting on the best Christmas gift ever… membership in the illustrious JUNIOR DOGERS, courtesy of my loving father.

Do you remember the Blue Crew? Back in the day, when I was wearing Velcro sneaks and short shorts, I was a proud member of the Dodgers fan club for kids. I remember the day the package came. I tore open the box, examined each item and treasured its contents as if they were fashioned in the bowels of Chavez Ravine by Tommy Lasorda himself. The gifts are emblazoned on my memory.

An 8x10 photograph of Steve Sax, half a dozen stickers and pencils with the Dodgers logo printed on them, a handful of coupons for Farmer John hot dogs, courtesy of the local Ralph’s, and my personal favorite… a Koala Bear dressed in a Dodgers t-shirt and cap, the official mascot of the Blue Crew. The lasting impact that simple fan club kit had on my life was indominable. I worshiped Steve Sax from that point on. His picture lofted on the wall in my room like a baseball god. I cradled that Koala in my arms, perched atop my dresser and embued it with near-idol status in my proud collection of Dodger memorabilia.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I ripped open this mornings gifts and found, neatly packed in an old school Dodgers lunch box with Andre Either and Russel Martin adorning the outside, the proud belongings of a Junior Dodgers member. And lemme tell ya’, the Dodgers fan club has beefed up its gift items since 1987.

The package included a collector’s pin picturing a cartoon Joe Torre on a surfboard, temporary tattoos with the JR Dodgers official shield, a black lanyard with interlocking blue “LA”s, Dodger wristbands (one of which I’m wearing as I type), a Dodger bracelet in the vane of Armstrong’s yellow “Live Strong” bracelets (sadly, its too small for even my dainty wrists), two coupons to the Long Beach aquarium, eight vouchers good for eight free tickets to any Sunday home game in the Lower Reserve section at Chavez Ravine, 3 baseball cards (Jonathan Papelbon, Ryan Howard and Matt Holiday**), a pen in the shape of a baseball bat and a doorknob sign (like the ones you get at hotels that read “Do Not Disturb”, only this one features a Dodgers logo and reads “Jr. Dodger Kicks it Here!” It’s going on my bathroom door, the moment I get back to Boston.) The kit also includes a poorly made baseball in which the “leather” isn’t fully pulled taught around the sphere. My dad suspects that one swing will make the batter look like Roy Hobbs’ first at-bat when lightning struck and he tore the cover off the ball.

And last but not least, tucked in a corner of the lunchbox is a tiny, stuffed Koala bear. Sans t-shirt and cap, but fur with a shade of baby Dodger blue.

Sidenote: Did you know that the Koala Bear is the DUMBEST beast in the animal kingdom? It’s scientific fact. Everybody loves Koala Bears because they’re so damn cute and foundations have been created to save them from extinction but they’re as dumb as rocks. Eucalyptus is a brain cell killer, in the classification of marijuana and Koala Bears feast on it like I feast on my mom’s chocolate chip cookies. Koala Bears are stoned. All. The. Time. The Dodgers would be better served sending stuffed dolls of Cheech and Chong in Dodgers caps.

Anyways, I stand up to be counted. The proudest (and perhaps the oldest) member of the Junior Dodgers. How ‘bout I fly out some weekend this summer and we put those vouchers to good use? Spend a Sunday afternoon at Church and take in a sermon from Pastor Kershaw.

Merry Christmas Raymond! And a Happy Off-Season!

**Who’s minding the store? How curious is the collection of cards placed in the Junior DODGERS membership kit? Not one of them dons the blue. In fact, all 3 (save for maybe Holiday-who is considered a Dodgers hero for dubious reasons, the goat of this year’s NLDS) are Dodger enemies. They might as well have thrown in Matt Stairs and Jimmy Rollins while they were at it. Was it random and out of LA’s control? Was it an accident made by an Upper Deck intern? Was it a vindictive move by a disgruntled Dodger employee? Instead of Matt Kemp, Andre Ethier and Manny Ramirez, I get a Phillie, a Cardinal and a Red Sock. And not just any non-Dodgers. Jonathan Papelbon: the famous closer of the franchise I committed adultery with. Ryan Howard: the famous slugger of the franchise which defeated us in back-to-back NLCS. Only Matt Holiday can be considered a Dodger hero, and he is wearing the opponent’s uniform: the famous goat of this year’s NLDS. He tried to catch the last out of Game 2 with his belly button, the Dodgers put another runner on, then miraculously won the game on a game winning bloop single by Mark Friggin’ Loretta, causing the series moment to shift and me to erupt with such loud bellows of triumph that I woke up a whole floor of blind kids.

There can be only one explanation for this. Mrs. McCourt was sitting beside the pool, putting together Junior Dodger kits together right after her husband fired her.

Merry Christmas To All And A Very Funny Story

From TMZ.com via the Los Angeles Times

More Dodgers in TMZ-land: Chan Ho Park sues Chad Kreuter
December 23, 2009 | 6:42 pm

Chan Ho Park is suing his former Dodgers teammate Chad Kreuter for more than $200,000 arising from an unpaid loan, reports TMZ.com. The suit was filed today in Los Angeles County Superior Court.

According to the suit, Kreuter signed a promissory note for the debt, but only made one payment for $290,000.

Now Park wants the remaining $170,000 plus interest and fees for the loan -- totaling $226,358.76.

Kreuter and Park were Dodgers battery mates in 2000 and 2001. The pair started together in the Dodgers' opening-day 1-0 shutout over Milwaukee in 2001. Kreuter is now USC's baseball coach.

I don't know what I find more interesting. Park suing for a loan, or Kreuter being the USC baseball coach.

Pray Without Ceasing

I admire your attempt at “pray without ceasing.” Paul’s instructions to the Thessalonians have always captivated me. It seems so impossible. And yet, we try. I suppose living can be like that.

I saw this movie last Spring (and by “Spring” I mean “Late Winter.” There is no “Spring” in New England). The movie was called Enlighten Up! It was a documentary about an ordinary 20-something American male who is chosen by a filmmaker to practice Yoga every day for half a year. The man was a skeptic, an agnostic. But the filmmaker hypothesized that strict, repetitive devotion to this ancient spiritual exercise would result in transformation, no matter who the subject. I liked the movie so much I saw it twice in a weekend, the second time by myself.

The skeptic’s journey takes him all the way to Northern India, amongst the ashrams and its mahatmas. There’s this scene in the film that sticks with me. A devotee, a man wearing nothing but a loin cloth and a turban, journeyed thousands of miles to reach this sacred rock. Once he arrived at his destination, he performed this ritual. He circled the rock, pebbles in hand. He genuflected to the ground then lied prostrate for a full second, spilling the pebbles in the dust. He raked his knees forward, gathered the pebbles and lifted his body off the ground, standing for just a moment. And then repeats. And repeats. And repeats. Rising and falling. Crawling ‘round the rock, circling it day and night. And with each breath he mutters in his own language, “God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God. God.”

The scene stirred me.

I don’t know what Paul meant exactly when he told the church at Thessalonica to “pray without ceasing” but I wonder if this half-naked Indian man could explain it to me. His focus and his faith were so singular. So steadfast. So resolute.

God.

If I had to model my prayer life after anyone, I’d choose Tevya. You know. From Fiddler on the Roof. I could write a term paper on the musical. And expect a full theological analysis one of these days.

I absolutely adore the way Tevya communes with God. Tevya approaches God as if He’s a drinking buddy. Like Tevya strolled down to the local pub and found God sitting at the bar.

I love how Tevya speaks to God so candidly. Even going so far as questioning Him!

“Dear God!” Tevya barks, “Was that necessary?” motioning towards his limping horse, “Did you have to make him lame just before the Sabbath?” Tevya sighs, shakes his head and rolls his eyes, “That wasn’t nice. It’s enough you pick on me, bless with me with five daughters, a life of poverty, that’s alright!... But what have you got against my horse?!”

I think we often forget that it’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to be confused. It’s okay to question. Even to question God! Tevya understood this.

I’ve also developed an appreciation for how physical space and objects can facilitate prayer. I don’t collect many things (I think I might be a minimalist at heart). But I have a handful of rosaries, even a couple from the Vatican. (Sidenote: Did you know that rosaries are a spinoff of Mala beads? Some Catholic priests were travelling through the East and saw these monks using these beads to pray. The priests added a crucifix and called it a rosary). I’m also intrigued by the ancient Temple that King Solomon built. The steps leading up to the Temple varied in width and length so that parishioners had to concentrate on each step. The focus and careful attention it took to ascend those steps was supposed to encourage a steady immersion into a “divine” state of mind. Israelites climbed the many steps, and slowly left behind distractions like “what am I going to do for lunch?” “I can’t believe the exchange rate right now!” or “My brother Hezekiah is such a jerk!”

There was a time, long ago, when I prayed daily. I tried to follow our Savior’s example. “Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.” Add a serving of Bible reading and I was digesting a balanced quiet time each and every morning. But, truthfully, I haven’t had a consistent time with God that spanned more than a season since I was in high school. I’ve made several attempts to go back on the diet, but for many of the usual reasons, I slip back into old habits.

I recently heard this Indian Swami speak (“dots. not feathers.”) At the end of his sermon, he prayed that “God would be ever present in my thoughts and actions.” The prayer resonated with me and I repeated these words like a mantra all day long. I thought to myself that I should make this a daily prayer. Dare I say, a “ceaseless” prayer.

Whether it be in the fashion of the half-naked Indian man or with the flavor and flair of Tevya’s conversations with Yahweh, I’d like to make praying a daily exercise again. I think I need that. How do you it?

PS: For Love of the Game

Experience Rambling

And with the third week of Advent come the first theological posts, amen.

No worries about your mini-sabbatical from the blogosphere, I am more than happy for your academic achievements, and I applaud you for them, I know I want to continue to learn in an academic environment, I have felt that way since I walked down the aisle at my commencement, but to study what?, and for what purpose?  Those are the questions that have plagued me, so for now I just read a lot.

I have to say it sounds as though our upbringings were somewhat similar, yet different.  The McCormick’s as a clan, are not distinctly religious.  Friendship and family were the prime activities.  Large family gatherings during the year and membership in various fraternal orders were the standard operating practice.  Church was where you went for funerals, weddings, and to impress a date’s parents.

My parents enrolled myself and my brothers in an evangelical private school primarily on the basis of quality of education not religious instruction.  Not that my parents did not believe in God or want us to learn about Him, but that wasn’t the big reason.

Pre-school through high school was experienced between the walls of Desert Christian Schools; a fine school in itself but distinctly evangelical, dispensational, and conservative.  And my church was the Independent Baptist of Lancaster Baptist Church.  Oddly enough despite the education and church life I lived a fairly moderate modern suburban American existence, I listened to pop music, went to movies and had HBO at home.

While I believed I was saved during the 5^th grade God was never intensely personal to me during childhood or adolescence.  School had taught me the basic theological concepts of Christianity and through church I understood the mentality and morality of Christian evangelicals and fundamentalists, and I suppose I believed it all but more than likely it beliefs based on training rather than real faith.  Kind of like after you finish your first few days at a new job, and you have learn how to do everything the company way, but you haven’t figured it all out for yourself or recognized some of the really inane or absurd practices that you are just going along with because that is what you have been told to do.  That was me, going with the flow because I didn’t know any better,.

I left a Christian high school for a Christian university.  Biola University is a well-respected center of conservative evangelical thought in evangelical academia.  In both student life and academics it was not as conservative as some or as liberal as others but it felt to me like God really worked there, and I enjoyed the campus and the location.

While there I was exposed to the enormous world of evangelical based academia.  There was so much to learn, to know, to research, and while it wasn’t my primary area of study (Radio/TV/Film, “When a Communications degree seems too useful”), I think I enjoyed my Bible and Christian Thought classes more than anything.  The only problem was that when surrounded by this much “God Talk” and forced study of the Word, I like many others reached a personal spiritual dry spell.  And that along with a few other occurrences actually drew me away from the school and a serious walk with God.

In the following years I was actually truly on my own.  I had an apartment, I paid my bills, I had a real job, I did my own taxes and shopped and paid for my own insurance.  And this new found independence pulled me even farther away from God.  Talking to God, or reading the Bible was something that I only seemed to do when I was feeling guilty or empty.

Amazingly it took marriage and coming home for me to find God again.

Life brought me back to Antelope Valley with a serious girlfriend in tow with whom I had intentions of starting life together with.  But if I was going to do that I wanted a solid foundation; so I found a church, I went back to finish my degree at Biola, and I started to find God again.

So 700 words to get me to this: I was always bothered a little bit by the fact that all of my former churches and schools the company line was that we had all the answers about God.  Every question had been answered; we knew where God stood on all of the issues, no need for discussion.  And even though that is how I had been raised I just never felt copacetic about it, probably the rebellious Irish in me.  But I didn’t believe God meant for life to be that straight forward and black and white.

I know God is infinitely complex, there is just so much that we don’t know about God, questions that we don’t have answers for, so we ignore them or don’t consider them relevant.

His creation is infinitely complex, as much as science understands and explains there is still so much that we have no clue about.  Be it the inner workings of an atom, to why we yawn, to how the heck people built the pyramids and ziggurats.

And humanity’s various understandings of God are just as complex.  I know I don’t understand it hardly at all. 

Why is most of the special revelation I have about God and what He wants me to do over 1900 years old? 

Was the book of Revelation written for the Christians of the 1^st century or the church of the 21^st?

Why does a Church whose principle teacher and savior, Jesus, instructed his followers to clothe and feed the poor, spend millions upon millions of dollars on megachurch campuses?  And yes I have to take a very hard look back at my own past on that one. 

Why does the church instead of loving the outcasts of society, be they gay, lesbian, homeless, drug addicted or sick instead picket and support laws that hurt others and do anything but show love and acceptance.

Suffice to say I don’t know or have answers to any of these questions and that makes experiencing and knowing God harder today than it has been at any other point in my life.  It was much easier when I had a standard line to follow from my school or church.  Now I feel like Karl Barth “Man as man can never know God: His wishing, seeking, and striving are all in vain.”

Despite this I still have an intense desire to know God.  I echo the feelings of Jürgen Moltmann when he said “It is simple, but true, to say that theology has only one, single problem God.  We are theologians for the sake of God. God is our dignity. God is our agony. God is our hope.”  And I know God is personal but I also believe “God is personal, but personal in an incomprehensible way, in so far as the conception of his personality surpasses all our views of personality (Barth).

So in trying to connect on a personal level and experience God I have two particular works that have and are profoundly influencing me;  “The Practice of the Presence of God” by Brother Lawrence and “Letters by a Modern Mystic" by Frank Laubach.

To boil it down they both come to the “Pray without ceasing concept” and really put it to work.  Actively make efforts to be in constant conversation with the Lord.  I have been trying this for some time now, and first of it is not easy.  Modern distractions make really hard.  But I know it can be done, and with practice I find that there are small moments of transcendence, where I do experience God in a very real and personal way.  And it is at those times that I think I understand what David was doing in the fields watching sheep, or lying in a tent, or hiding in a cave; and I can understand where all of those Psalms come from.

It is a work in progress, much like I am.  And even though I go through rich and dry spells in my life with God, I know He is there.  In a postmodern culture it is almost too easy to disavow any idea of a supreme being, but I just can’t buy into that.  I refuse to ignore that little bit inside me that draws me to Him, instead I search for Him, try (Often in vain) to understand Him, and let Him use me.

This is a line from another baseball movie and I kind of think it applies to my relationship with God too “I used to believe, I still do, that if you give something your all it doesn't matter if you win or lose, as long as you've risked everything put everything out there.”*

 *I too caught the Field of Dreams reference.  Can you name this one without googling?

There is a God. And I'm not Him.

Forgive me for going M.I.A. As you know, I’ve been in not-so-hot pursuit of a second master’s degree (I collect degrees like I used to collect baseball cards). During the past fortnight, I’ve written 75 pages, assessed three blind kids, decoded dozens of eye exam reports and am suffering from diplopia as a result. No one’s ever gone from being the evaluator to the evaluated this fast.

I’m gonna save my Hall of Fame Snubs for another day (Insert Andre Dawson Here). For now, I’m making a U-turn and opining on matters divine.

Our first God column. (After 5 ½ years of graduate school “I could use all the Karma I can get right now.”**)

To lead us off… I quote Father Cavanaugh, the priest in RUDY who helps Ruettiger get into Notre Dame. “Son, in 35 years of religious study, I have only come up with two, hard, incontrovertible facts… There is a God… And I’m not Him.”

I second Father Cavanaugh.

I grew up in a Christian home. People may wonder what that means exactly. To me it meant never being allowed to believe in Santa Claus and listening to bedtime stories from Genesis instead of Where the Wild Things Are. I sandwiched five years of public school between even more years of private, fundamentalist Christian education. My adolescence was less about drug experimentation and more about Bible verse memorization. It was during this time that God became more personal. I came to believe that what Genesis meant by God creating us “in his own image,” was that, like God, we are relational beings. And having a unique, personal relationship with God was possible, like relating to a parent, or a best friend.

While attending USC (that’s Southern Cal, not South Carolina-as easterners suppose), I developed a more academic approach to studying religion and an appreciation for perspectives other than my own. I studied Judaism through the eyes of a lesbian rabbi. I examined the arc of Malcolm X’s journey through Islam. I attended services at a Hindu temple and discovered that Hinduism is a lot more monotheistic than it appears.

My world was widening and I went to Harvard to map it out. There, I joined a circus of seekers, spiritual vagabonds. Among this band of misfits, I looked out onto the expanse of the world’s religions and tried to reconcile their many permutations with their many singularities. Peter Gomes taught me “to read is to interpret.” My friend Todd taught me “crazy begets crazy.” I cried in class while listening to the Muslim call to prayer. I read apocryphal Christian literature about Jesus’ childhood and Mary Magdalene’s discipleship. I studied how ancient Meso-American peoples prescribed to beliefs in the redemptive power of blood. I watched films documenting the spirit possession of African tribesmen.

All over the world, people are trying to capture who God is. As if God is a blurry image and humankind has its hand on a camera lens, attempting to bring Him into focus.

For Muslims, God appears in the written and recited Word. The “Quran” literally means The “Recitation” and the word “Allah” is more than a name for God. The Word is God. Muslim artists are strictly forbidden from depicting Allah in any form other than the four Arabic letters which make up His name. I love how Mosques are decorated in words. No pictures. No paintings. No scenes from its holy text-just passages upon passages in Arabic, wallpapered from floor to ceiling. As a wanna-be journalist, I could get behind this “word worship.”

For Hindus and Buddhists, God is as ethereal and as mysterious as light. God is a “-ness.” A Oneness. A Consciousness. For some, God can be found in Creation. Pramahansa Yogananda, a 20th Century Yogi, said, “God sleeps in the rocks, dreams in the flowers, begins waking in the animals and is fully conscious in humankind.”

For others, God is a She. I once bought this t-shirt from Urban Outfitters with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the front. When my not-yet girlfriend saw me wearing it the first time we ever hung out socially, she asked, “are you religious?” I found myself admitting “Well…I’m not Catholic. But I like the idea of praying to a woman.”

For Christians, God is a Person. A being we relate to. A being that is so invested in our experience, that He humbled himself and became a human. God very God, on Earth. Christians call him Jesus. I have to admit that this depiction of God resonates with me the most. To me, God is a walking, talking, thinking, emoting, living, breathing being.

But beings have personalities. They have characteristics and qualities that define them. They have flavor and sound and texture. So what does God feel like? What does God taste like? What does God sound like?

If I were to guess, God is a cross between Santa Claus and Sidney Poitier. Let me explain.

I believe God is jolly, cozy and generous. He’s quick to laughter, in a constant state of amusement. He’s a representative of Goodness and Tenderness like Santa Claus must be. But, like Poitier, God is also regal. He is well-spoken, intelligent, decisive. Like the actor, God is a revolution. He brings about change. He has a transformative power. As much as I can hear God bellow “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I can also hear God shouting, “They call meeeee Mister TIBBS!”

If I were to rotate my lens and attempt to bring God into focus, I would find God from the TopDeck at Dodger Stadium, during the national anthem, when the crowd is still and standing together. Seriously, I’m not kidding about this one.

Do you ever notice at a sporting event, when asked to “rise for the singing of the national anthem,” how the masses of seated specks seem to elongate? In that moment, it’s almost as if the stadium gets taller. At first sight, it’s an optical illusion, but it’s as real as the dirt on the mound. I love looking out on the crowd during the signing of the Star Spangled Banner. I love the way the crowd appears stretched from top to bottom, like the Rocky Mountains appear while covered in tall pine trees. The masses stand up, and the whole world seems to stretch with it. This is God to me. An experience.

That seems to be a fundamental truth about God, no matter how your lens brings Him into focus. If God is a word, He is meant to be read. If God is a –ness, he is meant to be accessed. If God is a person, He is meant to be talked to. God is meant to be experienced.

How do you experience God?

**Name the baseball film from which this quote came.

The Class of 2010

Whitey Herzog and Doug Harvey? I don’t think I would show up to that induction ceremony even if they were giving away free food. Well, maybe if they were giving away those Doubleday Park hot dogs. I still think about those suckers. I just can’t imagine a giant contingent of fans showing up for that induction ceremony.

Normally I am inherently opposed to umpires being in Hall of Fame. The umpire is the enemy; he is friend to neither the fan nor the player. I feel it is like giving a meter maid the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Doug Harvey only has a few things going for him in my book. He was the crew chief of the 1988 World Series. I can’t say anything bad about that, we won, there were no blown calls I remember, so he earns some points for that contribution. He was prematurely grey, going silver by his mid thirties, this is an obvious distinction and a sign of superior intelligence and I guess he earns some more points for that. And look at the shoes he is wearing in this photo, dude was rocking patent leather dress shoes during a game. I find that pretty cool. However, he is a the guy that started the delay of making calls, instead of making the ball/strike or safe/out call right away, he was the guy who put in that little pause. I hate umpires like that. Either way I guess he was respected by players and managers, I would love if guys like Tommy Lasorda and Dick Williams start jeering him during his acceptance speech. Then Harvey could turn around and eject them, just a thought.

Whitey Herzog, I guess this is just a Cardinal fan favorite. The man managed the Cards for pretty much the whole 80’s. The won one world series and two pennants, I guess that is a pretty good job, he was only a below average ballplayer in his playing days. I guess Herzog gets in on the niceness vote, because his style of ball was boring. Give me Earl Weaver and the three run home run over good pitching, bunting and running. I can only imagine that people feel bad that he had to look at Willie McGee 162 days a year for almost ten years and this is his reward for all of that. If that is the case I guess I the guy really deserves it.

However there were quite a few guys passed up that I think deserved induction, I list them as follows:

Pete Rose, we have already dedicated a post to this, Charlie Hustle belongs in the hall.

Bert Blyleven, 287 wins and 3700 strikeouts, two world series rings, and a work horse. He was not always the ace of his team’s rotation, but he was a gamer with a great bender, and he once flipped off a camera during a national televised game. He belongs.

Mark McGwire, okay he juiced, but he juiced while it was legal. Let’s just get over it and put him in the hall, even when he wasn’t nut shrinkin’ the guy was a powerhouse. And his home run race helped save baseball after the strike. He belongs.

Lee Smith, was the preeminent closer of the 80’s to mid-90’s. Didn’t get injured often and was a seven time all star. Not always a lights out closer, but still great and belongs, unless you think the save and the closer are overrated, which you are probably right about, but right now I think he belongs.

Billy Martin, as a person, a bat-shit crazy paranoid sociopath; as a manager a bat-shit crazy paranoid strategic genius. He was an above average player, and as a manager maybe only average according to his managing record, but he produced some of the greatest moments in baseball with his time as the Yankee’s skipper. He was a one of a kind manager that you just don’t see any more today. Ozzie Guillen wishes he were as bad ass as Billy Martin was.  And he is giving the finger on his baseball card. He  belongs.

So that is what I think, thoughts?

Frank Musta Missed that Sermon

It’s been said here a couple of times already. The Dodgers are headed into the Dark Ages. Frank’s divorce will suck every dollar from the franchise and Ned will be given 37 cents and a ball of lint to work with. Part of me wants to see the glass half full. The Dodgers are returning all of the important pieces, Manny’s in a contract year and Billingsley and Kershaw are still young and could be primed for breakout seasons. But your Chavez Latrine is convincing. We don’t have an ace, our closer has coughed it up in back-to-back NLCS and our farm system is suffering from a drought. To top it off, Frank’s breakup will reduce Ned’s allowance.

Interestingly enough, our boys aren’t the only ones in the NL West suffering from the fallout of its owner’s divorce. I refer you to Exhibit Ex: The San Diego Padres. In 2005, the Padres won the West. In 2006, they repeated. In 2007, they finished only a game-and-a-half outta the playoffs. San Diego was contending on a yearly basis. They never do that. And then, just before pitchers and catchers reported in 2008, the wife of San Diego’s Owner John Moores filed for divorce. Moores swore the legal proceedings wouldn’t affect big free agent signings. He promised San Diegans their Padres would still compete. But Mrs. Moores was relentless. The financial burden of his divorce froze player signings, reduced franchise investment in its prospects and ultimately caused a fire sale that turned a division contender into a JV squad. In the end, Moores was forced to sell majority ownership to his partners, leaving the impossible job of rebuilding to a depressed city.

For advice on how to deal with the imminent return to mediocrity, I sought the wisdom of a good friend… Pastor Jim.

Pastor Jim is both a Family Therapist and the only San Diego Padres fan I know. Pastor Jim is well-equipped with the proper credentials to counsel us through Frank and Jamie’s breakup. Pastor Jim is a student of both Baseball and the Bible and he’s clinically trained to guide both fans and the McCourts through this difficult time.

Pastor Jim’s advice?

“Don’t get married.”

Gee. Thanks Jim.

Digesting Jim’s deflating words; I wondered how a family therapist could make such a hopeless statement. But after further reflection, I am reminded of the Holy Scriptures. Pastor Jim’s words are echoed by the Apostle Paul. You remember them, don’t you?

I Corinthians 7:1, “It is good for a man not to marry.”

I don’t know if the Apostle was thinking of our national pastime when he wrote that letter to the church in Corinth, but I bet Frank wish he was a regular in Sunday School now.

Four more thoughts concerning the Divorce

1. If Frank has to sell (and he will sell), I vote for turning the Dodgers public. The Green Bay Packers are the only professional sports franchise which issues public stock and is represented in ownership meetings by its own delegate chosen by the people. The Packers are a Democracy! Could you imagine reading in the LA Times that the Dodgers are considering a trade that would bring Roy Halladay to the Southland, AND THEN GETTING TO VOTE ON IT?!?!? Yup. That’s my hand raised in the air. I’m seconding my own motion.

2. My favorite re-told story about Frank and Jamie: When Frank was trying to make his pitch to buy the Boston Red Sox, the former owners were clearly not convinced. Frank, sensing rejection, babbled on, trying to save face, when Jamie blurted out, “Shut up, Frank! Sit down!”

3. I think my brother Tim was right. Jonathan Broxton suffered a meltdown in Game 4 of the NLCS like a little kid who just witnessed mommy and daddy fighting. It’s no surprise that LA lost to Philly again, days after the separation went public. The Dodgers were doomed even before that series began.

4. I’m so tired of hearing people complain about Frank’s and Jamie’s extravagant spending. How they spent thousands of dollars on hotel rooms and dinners and designer jeans, but didn’t have enough to get Cliff Lee. This is such hypocrisy. You mean to tell me that the McCourts shouldn’t have lived a lavish lifestyle, so that they could pay some athlete millions of dollars so HE could live a lavish lifestyle? Even though he contributes nothing to society but for his ability to entertain? The Professional Sports Industry is so outta whack.

So It Begins

You know a drink I have really come to enjoy, the Gin & Tonic.  It really is a magical combination.  Gin being a classic tipple from England, I would normally not be caught dead drinking it over my beloved Irish Whiskey (Bushmills to be specific) but something about the juniper and citrus flavors of a London Dry Gin and how they mix with the bitter effervescence of the tonic water all you need is a wedge of lime and you are near mixology perfection.  Gin was the primary spirit of choice for the common Englishman for many years.  The tonic didn’t get into the act until the English colonization of South Asia.  The hot humid climate was a breeding ground for mosquitos, and quinine helps prevent malaria, although it is bitter as all hell.  Leave it to and Englishmen to think to add gin to tonic water to make it palatable.

Now the real question, why bring up this drink?  Well I have been consuming 2 to 3 of these concoctions a night ever since the Dodgers refused to offer arbitration to any of their eligible players this year!  None, not one, not a good player or a bad player, even though Kim Ng is probably the best person in contract arbitration in the whole of MLB; we didn’t offer it to anybody.  Why?

It is the beginning of the slide down.  The divorce has put such a tight squeeze on things that we can afford contract salaries we could get out of arbitration, and even if the players declined arbitration, we probably couldn’t afford to sign the first round draft picks we would get in compensation.  I mean the Dodgers could afford it, they raised tickets prices in the top deck and pavilion, but they don’t want to spend that money. 

Colletti just signed a new contract and he will have nothing to work with now.  I fear this is the first in a string of disappointing moves by the team.  Letting so much good mid priced talent go only to try to sign one ace and then have no bench or remaining rotation to back him up.

Can you rationalize these moves? Sure you can.  I can also rationalize the way I used to dress in high school and the fact that I had star wars bed sheets until I was in my mid 20's.  But that doesn't make it right.  My fears are slowly come true.  I guess I am glad that just down the 5 freeway there is an owner who has money and is not afraid to use it.  But I think everyone will be pleaded a down economy when there are no superstar contract signings.  In fact I think we will not see any one make ARod money for a long long time.  And the Dodgers will not contend for years to come.