Raw fish has had cultural significance in Japan. I highly recommend the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, but sushi dreams have now spread. Little League World Series players were recently asked questions about their favorite athlete or their dream job. (Retirement was the best answer.) When favorite food was the topic, a surprising number from all over the world replied sushi. That certainly would not have been my answer when I was twelve. Recently I went to a Japanese-named restaurant touted for its sushi, and it was, indeed, very good. The sushi master (do you say sushi chef? Surely not sushi cook.) was named Jesus Hernandez. He hailed from a Mexican town famed for its traditional mole. Go figure.

In Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill a character whose family emigrated to the UK after World War II says, “I am glad my family ended here, not the States. They have no rules over there, just laws.”

I am ahead of my time. For decades I have walked around with my shirt tucked in the front for about eight inches with the rest of garment flapping about me on the sides and back. Of course, this was just sloppiness. But I must have been attractive because now I see this look on models and high school and college kids. I am taking credit for the new fashion trend.

Sports seasons often overlap. At this moment, the football season is beginning while baseball still has a long way to go before the World Series. I am reminded of an overlap between the two sports that I encountered on an unusual trip. Phil and I had gone to grade and high school together and played on the same sports teams. In his thirties, Phil went to theological school and became ordained. When he became the minister of a church in the outer reaches of Queens in New York City, he called me. We invited him for Thanksgiving dinner a few times, and he and I got together several other times, but as he became settled in the church and got to know more people there, we drifted apart. Then one day he called and said that he had won a contest. The prize was a trip for two to travel to ballparks around the East Coast. He asked if I would go with him. The invitation was not particularly flattering. He didn’t want to ask anyone from his church because the contest’s sponsor was a beer company, and his (Dutch) Reformed Church frowned on alcohol. Phil continued that he had two brothers, and he did not want to choose between them. And, thus, the invitation descended to me. I accepted. Phil and I were together with about a dozen others from around the country and Canada for five or six days going to major league ballparks. It was great fun. One of our stops was to what then was called Jacobs Field in Cleveland. During the game we chatted with some young guys who were, shall we say, heavily into beer. They insisted again and again without too much slurring that we go to a bar with them near the stadium after the game. We went. I was surprised that upon entrance I saw a picture of Max McGee. And then I saw pictures of Bart Starr, Jerry Kramer, Willie Wood, and Ray Nitschke, all Green Bay Packer players from my youth. Packer memorabilia, mostly jerseys but also some cleats, covered the walls. I saw nothing about the hometown Cleveland Browns, who also had great teams, or any other. I was puzzled and asked one of our new friends about this. He looked at me as if he wanted to say, Duh, and then did say, “This is a Packers bar.” Apparently, that explained everything.