Archives for June 2005

Like some people who are taking a lot of heat of a rather ugly and blustery variety for saying so, I’m no fan of the writing workshop. I was in one good one once, though. That anomalously great fiction-writing workshop took place in the later 1980s and was taught by one Luis Alberto Urrea. The new novel by my old teacher, The Hummingbird’s Daughter, is quick becoming this summer’s literary sleeper: the much to be trusted Moorish Girl, who reviewed it for the Oregonian last weekend, provides links to other enthusiastic notices as well.

Although this is all happening because Urrea’s a marvelous writer, and although my brush with him occurred awfully long ago, I feel compelled to add that it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy or a more inspiring teacher. Bravo. (And yes, I’m certainly going to read the novel when I can work it in.)

Like some people who are taking a lot of heat of a rather ugly and blustery variety for saying so, I’m no fan of the writing workshop. I was in one good one once, though. That anomalously great fiction-writing workshop took place in the later 1980s and was taught by one Luis Alberto Urrea. The new novel by my old teacher, The Hummingbird’s Daughter, is quick becoming this summer’s literary sleeper: the much to be trusted Moorish Girl, who reviewed it for the Oregonian last weekend, provides links to other enthusiastic notices as well.

Although this is all happening because Urrea’s a marvelous writer, and although my brush with him occurred awfully long ago, I feel compelled to add that it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy or a more inspiring teacher. Bravo. (And yes, I’m certainly going to read the novel when I can work it in.)

“‘So tell me, Superintendent,’ he said in a voice which stayed just this side of patronizing. ‘This was your first trip to America? What did you think of it?’

“Dalziel thought for a while, then said with saloon bar judiciousness, ‘Well, what I think is, it’ll be right lovely when they finish it.'”

Reginald Hill, Recalled to Life

“‘So tell me, Superintendent,’ he said in a voice which stayed just this side of patronizing. ‘This was your first trip to America? What did you think of it?’

“Dalziel thought for a while, then said with saloon bar judiciousness, ‘Well, what I think is, it’ll be right lovely when they finish it.'”

Reginald Hill, Recalled to Life

The White Sox are playing the Tigers, so I’m watching baseball. The play-by-play guys for the Sox are driving me crazy, though. In what seems to me an insincere display of folksy familiarity, they call all the Chicago players by their first names, adding a “y” whenever plausible, never mind felicitous: Pauly (Konerko), Scotty (Podsednik), Hermy (I don’t know who this refers to, but I’m sure I heard them say it). For one thing, “Konerko” is a great, spiky name that it’s a shame to squander. That’s bad enough. What’s really objectionable, though, is the attempt to manufacture a chummy, affectionate bond between fans and players that should spring up organically or, if it doesn’t, be left alone. Maybe that is the case here, but to me it sounds like they’re pushing it.

Mind you, I grew up on the comparatively dry style of the great Ernie Harwell, whose relative formality didn’t preclude a definite down-home appeal. Harwell, of course, had that gently cadenced southern purr going for him, making it sound like politesse and respect but not stiffness when, say, he called opposing players “Mr.” Like anyone in his line of work, he had the trademark phrases that never fully escape becoming a bit of a schtick: the most theatrical and probably my least favorite was the home run call, “it’s looooooong gone”–though, gosh, it was a pretty little tune–and the one I most delighted in was his standing strikeout call, “He stood there like the house by the side of the road and let that one go by,” stresses in all the right places. But the best thing about Harwell’s work was everything he didn’t say, his modesty and his economy. You got from him crisp accounts of the action, frequent reminders of the score, and the occasional well-placed anecdote–but mostly you got what what you needed to know.

These guys I’m suffering now cloy in (admittedly unfair) comparison to Harwell–not to mention being some of the worst homers I’ve heard. The ones on the radio are, I think, more respected by the fans but share this tendency. I’ve seldom heard a Sox game in the car without them letting loose something along the lines of “if this Sox batter gets on and the player on deck hits a home run, we’ll have a tie game.” Or “if this guy hits a single in just the right location, the runner on first could score,” rash speculation stated as if it’s considered expert opinion. Sigh. Is it so hard to simply report what happens on the field? If that most unlikely circumstance occurs, does the Sox fan find it enhanced by having been predicted in about the same way a broken clock is right twice a day? Somehow I doubt it.

Also, this game is now going to the twelfth inning, tied 3-3. There’s little doubt the White Sox are the better team on the field–they’re the best team in baseball, comfortably–but the fact is that the Tigers have threatened in each of the last four innings while the White Sox have mostly been quiet. Do the play-by-play guys acknowledge this, the characterizing feature of the late going of the game? Hell, no. I don’t think that’s in their job description. They say this: “The White Sox have only had two hits since the 9th, so the Tigers bullpen has done its job–as has our bullpen. Neither side has given up a run” (emphasis added). No, but one has had six hits and stranded a bunch of runners in scoring position! Seriously, these guys are the Pravda of baseball announcing. One of the things that was awesome about Ernie Harwell, and made all of us who listened to him a little bit better too, was his unfailing generosity toward the opposition. He announced for the Tigers, and his pleasure was discernible when the Tigers did well, but at bottom what the man served was the game.

If you follow these things at all you’ll remember that in 1992 the Tigers organization experienced a brain freeze that remains inexplicable and outrageous to this day, and let Ernie Harwell go. I was living in New York City at the time, and when the Tigers came back without the great man the following season, I was certain I could sense from my Bowery digs the difference in the timbre of a Michigan summer night. They brought him back, of course, and all was well in the world of Detroit baseball again, even with terrible teams and even after his proper retirement three years ago at the age of 84. As was only fitting, he was ultimately the one to choose the time and manner of his departure from the game. One misses him, though–some nights more than others.

(Postscript: Looks like the White Sox might take this one in the 13th inning. Even if they don’t tell it this way in Chicago, they were lucky to get out of more than a couple scrapes along the way.)

The White Sox are playing the Tigers, so I’m watching baseball. The play-by-play guys for the Sox are driving me crazy, though. In what seems to me an insincere display of folksy familiarity, they call all the Chicago players by their first names, adding a “y” whenever plausible, never mind felicitous: Pauly (Konerko), Scotty (Podsednik), Hermy (I don’t know who this refers to, but I’m sure I heard them say it). For one thing, “Konerko” is a great, spiky name that it’s a shame to squander. That’s bad enough. What’s really objectionable, though, is the attempt to manufacture a chummy, affectionate bond between fans and players that should spring up organically or, if it doesn’t, be left alone. Maybe that is the case here, but to me it sounds like they’re pushing it.

Mind you, I grew up on the comparatively dry style of the great Ernie Harwell, whose relative formality didn’t preclude a definite down-home appeal. Harwell, of course, had that gently cadenced southern purr going for him, making it sound like politesse and respect but not stiffness when, say, he called opposing players “Mr.” Like anyone in his line of work, he had the trademark phrases that never fully escape becoming a bit of a schtick: the most theatrical and probably my least favorite was the home run call, “it’s looooooong gone”–though, gosh, it was a pretty little tune–and the one I most delighted in was his standing strikeout call, “He stood there like the house by the side of the road and let that one go by,” stresses in all the right places. But the best thing about Harwell’s work was everything he didn’t say, his modesty and his economy. You got from him crisp accounts of the action, frequent reminders of the score, and the occasional well-placed anecdote–but mostly you got what what you needed to know.

These guys I’m suffering now cloy in (admittedly unfair) comparison to Harwell–not to mention being some of the worst homers I’ve heard. The ones on the radio are, I think, more respected by the fans but share this tendency. I’ve seldom heard a Sox game in the car without them letting loose something along the lines of “if this Sox batter gets on and the player on deck hits a home run, we’ll have a tie game.” Or “if this guy hits a single in just the right location, the runner on first could score,” rash speculation stated as if it’s considered expert opinion. Sigh. Is it so hard to simply report what happens on the field? If that most unlikely circumstance occurs, does the Sox fan find it enhanced by having been predicted in about the same way a broken clock is right twice a day? Somehow I doubt it.

Also, this game is now going to the twelfth inning, tied 3-3. There’s little doubt the White Sox are the better team on the field–they’re the best team in baseball, comfortably–but the fact is that the Tigers have threatened in each of the last four innings while the White Sox have mostly been quiet. Do the play-by-play guys acknowledge this, the characterizing feature of the late going of the game? Hell, no. I don’t think that’s in their job description. They say this: “The White Sox have only had two hits since the 9th, so the Tigers bullpen has done its job–as has our bullpen. Neither side has given up a run” (emphasis added). No, but one has had six hits and stranded a bunch of runners in scoring position! Seriously, these guys are the Pravda of baseball announcing. One of the things that was awesome about Ernie Harwell, and made all of us who listened to him a little bit better too, was his unfailing generosity toward the opposition. He announced for the Tigers, and his pleasure was discernible when the Tigers did well, but at bottom what the man served was the game.

If you follow these things at all you’ll remember that in 1992 the Tigers organization experienced a brain freeze that remains inexplicable and outrageous to this day, and let Ernie Harwell go. I was living in New York City at the time, and when the Tigers came back without the great man the following season, I was certain I could sense from my Bowery digs the difference in the timbre of a Michigan summer night. They brought him back, of course, and all was well in the world of Detroit baseball again, even with terrible teams and even after his proper retirement three years ago at the age of 84. As was only fitting, he was ultimately the one to choose the time and manner of his departure from the game. One misses him, though–some nights more than others.

(Postscript: Looks like the White Sox might take this one in the 13th inning. Even if they don’t tell it this way in Chicago, they were lucky to get out of more than a couple scrapes along the way.)

Once more, dear friends, I hit the road, this time to see the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival‘s production of The Tempest and Barrington Stage Company‘s revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. Our Girl will post my weekly Wall Street Journal drama-column teaser and the almanac entry for Friday, but otherwise you’ll hear no more from me until next week.

Have a glorious Fourth. If you live in a firecracker-friendly locale, shoot one off for me!

Once more, dear friends, I hit the road, this time to see the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival‘s production of The Tempest and Barrington Stage Company‘s revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. Our Girl will post my weekly Wall Street Journal drama-column teaser and the almanac entry for Friday, but otherwise you’ll hear no more from me until next week.

Have a glorious Fourth. If you live in a firecracker-friendly locale, shoot one off for me!