EYE-HAND

                She hit line drive after line drive in the playground.  She drew spectators.   Nine years old, but her gender unclear to onlookers.   Someone asked, “How old is he?”  I replied that she was a girl.  “No way” came the reply.  The daughter picked up bouncing ball and threw it to me.  One boy said, “That’s a boy.  No girl throws like that.”  (The daughter credits me for teaching her how not to throw like a girl.  I don’t remember that.  I think it was her innate ability, but I confess her throwing pleases me.)

                She had those skills, but she did not want to join the school’s softball team.   She was intensely shy, did not talk much, and did not really make friends.  (Today she and I half jokingly say she was semi-autistic.)  I thought that with her abilities, her classmates would notice and appreciate her more, but she did not join the team.  She did not voice her fears, but I could picture the discomfort of the being the center of attention and the potential panic if another player yelled, “Throw the ball to second.  Throw the ball to second.” And perhaps even worse, in a team game, you can let your teammates down.  That would have been terrible.

                A summer or two afterwards, we had an August rental in a community with tennis courts.  The daughter’s eye-hand coordination was again on conspicuous display.  Soon she could hit the fuzz off a tennis ball. A few years later after I had started to play tennis, I found that she could hit the ball harder than most of the men (admittedly not great tennis players) I played with.   

Tennis seemed just right for her. She loved being active, and almost instinctively she had great form on forehands, backhands, and serves. Not so much on volleys and overheads, but that could come. Her school did not have a tennis team, but perhaps that was good.  She would not have the team pressures.  She could just shine on her own.

                She did seem to enjoy hitting a tennis ball, but she never enjoyed playing games, whether pickup or in the little regional tournaments we went to.   She lost more than her innate ability warranted.  There were good reasons for that.  Tennis, especially in the city, has become a rich child’s game.  There are public courts, but it is not always easy to get time on them.  Private courts, of course, cost, and kids today don’t just hit with each other; they take clinics and private lessons and go to tennis camps.  It takes money.  Book a private court and a tennis pro and more than $100 is gone.  And since none of her few friends played, or even had much athletic ability, on the days without a clinic or pro, she could only hit with me, and she had soon exceeded my ability.  I felt that Peter the Pro could have improved her game tremendously if she was with him a couple times a week, but this would have cost thousands, thousands we did not have.  She often lost because she simply had less instruction and practice than the city and suburban kids she played against.

But it was more than that.  Although she was bright, brighter than she realized, she seemed to lack competitive instincts or knowledge.    I asked her, “When you are behind in the first set and look like you are going to lose it, have you considered trying different tactics—bringing your opponent into the net; hitting looping balls—to see what might work in the second set?”  She simply replied, “No.”

I once asked after a tournament whether when she was warming up with her opponent if she tried to see her competitor’s strengths and weakness? Did she hit to the backhand to see if it was a weakness or how the person volleyed and so on?  If she  could see that the person had a weak backhand, did she  try to hit a lot to the backhand during a match?  She told me that she did not do that because if she did that her opponent would do the same.  I didn’t say anything, but I thought, “Your opponent is likely to do that whether you do or not.”  The daughter thought that it was somehow unfair to try to figure out the opponent and take advantage of any weakness.

I had not played much tennis until the daughter started playing and did not know much about the game. From her I learned a lot. I don’t mean that I learned how to have good strokes and hit good shots. I do not have her ability. Instead, I realized how lonely and brutal tennis is. The player may have had much coaching, but during the competition she is out there all alone with no help. She is the one who has to adapt strategies in the midst of the match. She cannot look to someone else to give her a boost or to bail her out. An individual wins, and that also means that an individual loses. The winner has beaten someone else. That victor has made someone else a loser. It is a zero sum game; there is always a clear winner and a clear loser. 

The daughter did not like to lose, but she also did not like to win because she felt sorry for making someone else a loser. Losing did not feel good, but winning was not satisfying either. Once she was no longer required to compete (note the passive. I was the one doing the requiring), she gave up playing games. She still enjoys hitting tennis balls, but that’s it. I continue to play at my less-than-mediocre level, but her choice makes perfect sense to me.

Snippets . . . . Snippet It Real Good

For your novel, short story, or screenplay. At the urinals of a successful Broadway play, a man to my right speak..  It takes me a beat to realize that he is not talking to himself. His ‘free’ hand is holding a phone to his ear. I hear him say, “I auditioned yesterday.” I look over at an ordinary looking young man.  He continues, “It wasn’t a big part.” Pause. “It was a bartender.” Pause. “He is basically the best friend of the main character.” Pause. “I will talk to you later, Mom.” Write a page or a paragraph.

Barroom philosophy. Some of the division in the country stems from drug use. Those Hollywood and Hampton elites grew up on cocaine, and coke users want open borders and prefer wide open trade. They often find themselves dealing with connections of differing nationalities and ethnic groups. A different portion of the country, however, desires meth. They don’t have to engage vicariously or otherwise with the whole world. They need venture no further than the nearby basement lab and the local pharmacy. No racial lines need be crossed. Don’t you think where the cocaine culture is strongest, the voters favored Clinton and where the meth culture is strongest, the voters favored Trump?

I had an Inauguration Day rule I wanted for the Poconos, but it might apply elsewhere. By Inauguration Day all outdoors Christmas decorations must be taken down.

As I am walking past a restaurant featuring fresh fish, I seeing being delivered to the kitchen a pizza. Hmmm.

Is this story true? Margot Asquith met Jean Harlow, and Harlow kept pronouncing all the letters in Margot.  In exasperation, Asquith finally said, “The ‘t’ in Margot is silent just like the ‘t’ in Harlow.”

Was he right? A distinguished academic who had spent most of his career in New Haven had moved to New York. He stated that in New Haven he saw lots of movies because there was little else to do.  Now he had little time for them, partly because his wife had mapped out an extensive social life for him.  He indicated that sometimes it seemed a bit too much, but still he said, she is filled with all this energy, and she knows lots of interesting people.  His luncheon companion agreed that his wife knew lots of interesting people, but there was a failing in the people she knew.  The companion continued, you would think better of the social life if she knew more 28 year olds with cleavage. The academic laughed and laughed and said, “28 with cleavage.  What a great movie title.”

Heard a woman on her phone, “He is self-aware of that.”

Who knew that Tarzan lived in Wisconsin.

It can’t matter whether the toilet paper goes over or under, but I care.

First Street between 1^st and 2^nd. Strong Coffee. Juice Cleansing. the great aussie bite. The Art of Everyday Life. Ghostism. 1on 1 Chiropractic. Esperanto Fonda. Catholic Workers St. Joseph’s House (oh, how we could use Dorothy Day today). And, of course, Prune (her memoir was awfully good, but Well-boiled Brussel Sprouts?). And no Starbucks.

COULD THAT BE THE FAMOUS WRITER?

When I picked up the tickets, I heard the ticket seller say that the play was sold out.  I had made my purchase online from a discount source, as I almost always do, and that site enjoins buyers to pick up tickets early.  This time I had, and I went outside to seek a quick bite to eat.  The theater doors had not yet opened, and a ticket-line monitor was trying to herd the early arrivals into an orderly procession.  Someone behind me spoke, and I heard “Jonathan.”  I assumed he was giving his name to the TLM in case tickets were not picked up or returned.  I was about to continue my quest for a sandwich (later found at Pret), when I heard, “Jonathan and the last name is F-O-E-R.”  I turned around and saw a man, not that tall, with scruffy facial hair.  A striking woman behind him saw my movement and smiled a bit, but my attention went to the TLM, who had stopped writing on a pad to ask, “Like the writer?”  Almost as if embarrassed, he silently replied with a small head movement.

My thoughts ping ponged.  Should I say how impressive I had found Everything is Illuminated and that friend Judy thought it was one of the best things she had ever read?  Would I have to pretend I had read Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close?  Should I try for a brief conversation and ask if he was working on anything?  (Since this incident, he has published another book.) Should I offer him my one ticket and then ask that striking woman, from whom I averted my eyes because I did not want to stare, for a drink?  If I said anything, was I really trying to give him a compliment or just trying to show off that I was literate enough to have read him?

With these thoughts ricocheting, I walked away.  I have felt that we unique-in-our-way-but-ordinary-people should not intrude on celebrities. Some of this feeling comes from decades ago when I attended a Liza Minnelli concert, and whispers in the audience said that Jackie Onassis was there.  I looked down from my first-row balcony seat, and yup, she was right below.  At intermission, what seemed like half the audience walked towards the stage in the aisle where she sat, turned around, and walked back in order to see her.  She sat in her seat, composed, ignored the parade, and talked to her companion.  I thought how hard it could be for a celebrity to do what the rest of us can take for granted, and I vowed not to be such a gawker.

I have, however, found myself nodding.  At the intermission of another play which I don’t remember, I saw the actor who did the ads where he dared you to knock a battery off his shoulder.  Our eyes met.  I nodded.  He nodded back.  He was standing alone, and I did wonder if he, like I, had come alone.  When I saw Sam Waterston approaching on West 23^rd Street, I again nodded, and he nodded back.  Once before, I almost broke my nod policy.  Shortly before a performance of the Flying Karamazov Brothers (I am a sucker for juggled chainsaws), I was at a urinal, when Jerry Orbach appeared at the adjacent spot.  I wanted to say how much I had enjoyed his performance in 42nd Street and that I hoped besides Law and Order he would do more song and dance roles.  Few were better than he, but he and I only exchanged nods. And, of course, in New York, there have been other celebrity sightings, but almost always with no external reaction from me.

Do any celebrities out there have advice on how the rest of us should act.  Do you want to be acknowledged?  Do you tolerate it?  What is your reaction if a stranger wants to engage in conversation or give words of praise? Take your picture?  Does it matter the source of the fame?  I assume that well-known actors may be approached often and this can be wearing, but is that true for writers whose faces may not have been imprinted on us?  I certainly would not have known that the man behind me had written a book that I admire if I had not heard him give his name.  I did feel more of an urge to say something to him than I have had to the actors I have passed. Perhaps that is because I expect that a well-regarded author would have interesting things to say while I am not sure that that holds true for other celebrities.

What would you have done if you were standing next to Jonathan Safran Foer?  And would your answer change if, as I am 80 percent sure, his companion was Michelle Williams?  (Since then I have seen her in Certain Women and Manchester by the Sea. A very good actor.)

If anyone knows him, tell Jonathan that he looks much too young to be such a distinguished author.  And I truly have admired his writing.  Also tell Joshua that I found his memory book fascinating.  (I wish I could remember that book’s title.)

Back to the Future? Really?

My parents rained on parades.  This was partly because although we had enough money to get by, we did not have more than that.  The family would not have the latest model car, a second home, or exotic vacations.  There would be a used Oldsmobile  (my father’s invariable choice) and a week on a nearby lake if some friend or boss made a cottage available.  There would be adequate clothing, but no one would be a fashion plate.  And who needs to go to restaurants?   This was not a terrible hardship perhaps because things like smartphones and Air shoes and overly expensive dolls and other toys did not seem to exist.  On the other hand, I remain frugal today, perhaps excessively so.

The dampening, however, was not just about material expectations; it was about life in general.  Some typical interchanges:  It’s a beautiful day today.  Yes, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.  We won the ballgame!  Yes, but you play the (powerhouse) next game.  The Halloween party is going to be great.  Well, it is probably going to be much like the one last year, and I am sure you remember that.

The point, I guess, was to avoid disappointments.  If you did not expect much, you would not be dashed, crushed, frustrated  by what did happen.  And if good things did happen, then you could feel good.  But, of course, only for a brief time because disappointments were always looming.  My Mom and Dad, by spritzing on expectations, no doubt thought they were being good parents by shielding us from disappointment.

My daughter when young often had great enthusiasm for some coming event.  Often I knew that occasion would not live up to her excitement. My instinct was to act like my parents.  I needed to protect that precious little one by referring to my experiences to show her how boring, or whatever, it was going to be. Then she would not be disappointed.   Perhaps I initially did that, but then I realized that such a condescending speech only  deprived  her if her pre-event excitement. If the event itself truly was a bust,  then there was no enjoyment whatsoever. My daughter actually taught me what had been drilled out of me in childhood, enjoy the buildup to something.  Get that enjoyment no matter what happens later.

This practice was put to a severe test at Orlando’s Universal Studios when she spotted the Back to the Future. She had loved the movie and was so eager to go on the ride. But I did know some things about my daughter, and I did know that did not like thrill rides. (Another reason to love her.  If she had liked roller coasters, I might have to endure them with her. But the last times I have been on such attractions, admittedly quite some time ago, I felt sick for hours afterwards.)  I have no idea what she thought this was going to be, but I knew it was going to be awful for her.  As we endued the long line, her excitement grew and grew, and I kept debating with myself about telling her we were not going to do it.  The more time I internally waffled, the more excited she became.

We did it.  It was not a ride that plunges and twists.  It was worse.  It was one of those virtual reality things where you do not get sick from teal motion, but through the trickery of projections.  You know it is a trick, but still it makes you scream.  You feel scared and stupid.

We came out, and it was clear she had been terrified and was not a happy person.  I am sure that it lasted but a few minutes, and the wait, with its buildup in her mind had been much longer—the period of enjoyment had been much longer than the period of disappointment (and terror)–but this time in not taking away her expectations I was not sure that I had done right.

What should a good parent have done?

Recently she and I had dinner, and the Back to the Future ride came up.  Although decades ago, she still remembers it vividly.  I asked her if I had been a bad parent.  She shook her head no.  But then again she was expecting me to pick up the restaurant bill.  (If you meet her, ask her about the Disney ride, It’s a Small World, and you should be convinced that, at least some of the time, I was a good father.)