Loyalty

Last evening Barak Obama claimed victory over Hillary Clinton in the Democrat Party primary.

As I listened from my office to the blaring speech on a blaring TV in another room, my thoughts turned to the idea of loyalty; what it once meant, what it means now and what it could mean in the future.

There was a time I was a loyal democrat. I was absolutely loyal to the party when the party principles were absolutely loyal to mine. Then abortion on demand was legalized by the courts and the waters were muddied a little and my loyalty to the party weakened some. I still could not align myself, however, with Republicans. It just wasn't in my bones as my Americanism has always been more defined by Benjamin Franklin than by Thomas Jefferson. I am and am for the working person. When Jefferson wrote in the Declaration of Independence that all men are created equal, he really meant all white men of high birth to counter the popular notion that kings were given divine rights not offered to others, not to suggest that common laborers, merchants and teachers were as privileged as was himself or others, like George Washington. When Franklin made such statements, however, he meant them to apply to everyone (with the possible exception of women - but even that is questionable), including black men and Indians.

Now I see elitists taking over the party and really losing the connection with the people. Bill Clinton might have been the last of the common men to hold the highest office in the land.

Obama pretends pretty well, but the only people he is convincing are African-Americans because, in my opinion, his race offers them a kind of hope they have never before had in the nation; but he clearly has never shared their struggles.

I am surprised there has not been more backlash from that community over his abandonment of his church. First he slightly distanced himself from the good Rev, Wright but he didn't abandon him, then, after a visiting minister grabbed the media attention, Obama flushed 20+ years of loyalty down the toilet in the name of political expediency.

Any thinking person living in Chicagoland knows Father Pfleger to be a media-grabbing nutjob who doesn't represent the majority of the Catholics in the area. His parish does a lot of good, but he is eager to shout his goodness from the street corners rather than following Christ's admonition to do good secretly.

I have a lot of respect for Rev. Wright, even if I don't agree with him on many things. Unlike Obama, Wright didn't change to expedite a politically smooth road for Obama. He didn't apologize for being who he has always been. While I don't think the pulpit is the place for much of his rhetoric, it's only because my Mormon culture makes me see such things as inappropriate. I do know one thing. I know what it's like to be abandoned by people that were thought to have been friends when my life didn't fit well into theirs.

I was thinking about one of them yesterday and I was saddened that I couldn't call him and have a "remember the good old days" chat. He was my favorite companion in the mission field and the best man at by marriage to Deb in 1972. He was always an example to me of someone who could resist temptation and make good choices all the time. I thought he was a friend, but it turned out that my definition of friendship was different from his.

I have not read anything about Rev. Wright throwing Obama under the bus. Have you?

So Wright isn't as smooth or universally appealing as is Obama, but he is loyal.

I thought then about all those super delegates who once blew the trump of victory for Hillary Clinton that were found sharpening their knives and waiting for her back to become exposed.

Truly, there is no such thing as loyalty when it comes to politics.

So, I am going to vote for John McCain who, among them all, has demonstrated his loyalty to both men and the nation in ways Obama can't even imagine.

I would have likely voted for Obama until he dumped his friends to placate bloodthirsty voters.

I would also invite my friend in, were he to show up at my door in need, even after he slammed his in my face all those years ago... but that's just me.

Newton's Third Law

One of my most vivid memories is my first home-run.

I was 10 and playing shortstop for the Orioles sponsored by the 14th Infantry Division - The Golden Dragons - at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. It was the second game of the season and the last inning of the game.

Since I started playing in Little League just after my 8th birthday, I had always maintained a good batting average which was only topped by my on base percentage as I was walked or beaned almost as often as I hit for bases. At that game in June of 1961, I had been at bat three times before the final inning and had hit a single, a double and a triple, although not in order. When it became obvious I would bat a 4th time, my coach taught me about hitting for the cycle.

I had never heard of the phrase, let alone the event. My coach, a former minor league player, told me he had never witnessed anyone hit a single, double, triple and home run in a single game - the cycle - in his entire life. At that time, I was 10 and he was an old guy; probably all of 25.

I have since learned that in the history of major league baseball, there have been only 277 times a player has hit for the cycle, beginning in 1882 until this moment. Only 23 players have done it more than once and only 3 players have done it three times. I did not know it in 1961 on that sultry Hawaiian afternoon that I was about to join a very exclusive club.

The coach's final words were "Don't think about it; just hit away."

Easy for him to say...

I swung at three pitches, missing the first two. As the third pitch was being delivered, I decided that three hits that game were enough and that a strike-out wouldn't kill my average. I decided to really, really strike out and swung harder and faster than I had ever remembered swinging the bat before... CrrrRRRackkk!

Now let me tell you about that ball field.

The diamond, backstop, dugouts (that's what we called them but they were really only benches) and bleachers were located on one corner of a large parade field located in the center of the base. This meant there were no fences that would facilitate a walk-off home-run. Lot's of speedy players turned doubles into home-runs because they could outrun the outfielders. I was not a speedster. My top speed has never been faster than pathetically slow and on that afternoon, with the heat and humidity, I had settled for one double and one triple that others would have turned into home-runs.

My last at-bat, however, produced the hardest hit ball in my short baseball history and I was able, by only a few seconds, beat the throw from the cut-off man to home plate.

I had hit for the cycle.

My dad was there but he didn't really understand what hitting for the cycle was, nor, apparently, did anyone else except my coach.

My dad was proud, of course, because I had actually hit a home-run. The rest of my team did the expected cheering for the run and the families in the bleachers either cheered me or booed me, depending on the team to which they were loyal. My coach, though, actually had a tear in one of his eyes as he thanked me for allowing him to witness such a sacred event. I was ten and thought he was a little queer.

I finished that season as the league's MVP. I hit 31 home-runs (all the others were produced on fields with fences) and closed the season with a batting average of over .800. I also managed, as a substitute for a pitcher who got the flu, to pitch a no-hitter after which my right shoulder has never, to this day, been the same. The Orioles won the state Little League championship.

It was a great season where I learned a lot about baseball but turned into a cocky, little punk.

The next season, we had a different coach as our old coach had served his time in the Army and went back to his dream of playing in the Bigs. I don't think he ever did but since I have long ago forgotten his name, perhaps I am wrong. I had a good year but not as good. I made the All-star Team and our team won the base championship but we lost to a team from Wahiawa in the first round play-offs.

I played baseball every summer until I graduated from high school but never came close to my best year; the year I hit for the cycle. My dream of playing pro-ball was never even approached, although my best friend in 9th grade, Leon Roberts, went on to a successful career that started with the Tigers when he made the show and ended as a Kansas City Royal before becoming a manager in the Minors.

So what's all this have to do with the title of today's entry?

I learned, at that third swing at my last at-bat in that game in 1961, that the harder I swung the bat, the farther a ball would travel assuming a solid hit was made. I later learned that it's easier to hit a home-run with a fastball than it is with any other pitch. Then, finally, in 9th grade, I learned why. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction... Newton's Third Law of Motion.

I have also learned that Newton's Third Law can also apply to things having nothing to do with motion, but rather, with emotion.

In yesterday's entry, I wrote of a the tension that generally accompanies the close proximity of me to my oldest son. Some may have taken my words to mean that it is my son who creates the tension and that I didn't enjoy being with him because of the anxiety. Nothing could be further - or farther - from the truth.

I love him with all my heart and look forward to seeing him whenever it's possible. Any pain he feels, ever, I inflicted. Any distance he feels that is between us, I created. Any anger he might ever feel I caused. I was never a good father to him and, at times, I wasn't a father at all.

If I could shoulder his pain and remove his burden, I would gladly do it.

While I have changed and repented of my evil past, I began that process after he had left home. He has never experienced the fruits of either my repentance or my affection as a repentant father. I can and have, talked to him, but we all know how cheap talk can be.

Frankly I owe him a debt, I doubt I can ever repay but I can continue to try.

Some may think, because of my entry yesterday, that I am not looking forward to his upcoming visit. They are wrong. I wish, in fact, that he could stay longer. I wish he would want and be able to join me on the trout fishing camp in July. I wish we were neighbors. I wish, with all my heart, that we were friends. I love him. I respect him. I honor him. He, unlike me, has never been anything but a great father.

I wish him every happiness and pray daily for his life to be filled with joy.

I am hoping that the terrible at-bat that wounded him, took place in a field where there are no fences; where there are no walk-off runs from which there is no chance for a tag-out at home plate. I want him to catch me there and tag me out.

I want him to love me as much as I love him, but more than that, I want him to be happy.

Last evening my wife wished out loud that I would be less inclined to write such personal feelings in this blog. I considered her request but determined that it's really good to reveal my warts, my sorrow and my joy. If I offend or anger, I apologize. It is not my intent and I hope, someday, all who read this will understand that I am merely drawing a caricature of myself that highlights my weaknesses with the hope others, who might be tempted to do things I have done that bring sorrow, might think twice.

Anticipation

In a little over a week, my oldest son and his family will be visiting Deb and me. I am looking forward to seeing my oldest and youngest granddaughters, the second of whom, I have never met. I am also happy I will be seeing my son, even if our meetings are always awkward, at best as he continues to both irritate and lick the wounds I inflicted when he was young. It will also be good to see his wife.

Visiting with him always comes at a price. I am forced to measure every word so as not to "offend" him. I do this less for him than for my wife as I refuse to be responsible for causing a rift between those two.

Thus the upcoming visit will be both enjoyable and emotionally arduous.

In a little more than a month, though, I will be leaving for the trout fishing camp-out attended only by men or men almost as 14 is the youngest allowed on the trip. We figure if a 14 year-old breaks his neck, cuts off a finger or drowns, the men have no real culpability as no one is there to babysit. The Indiana/Illinois group will include:

Myself - Committed

Joe - Committed

Al - Half-way Committed

Travis - Maybe Committed

Charles - Checking his calendar

Colton - Committed

Brayden - Likely

Ross - Committed

Hector - Committed

Hector's 14 year-old son - Committed by his father.

The Michigan crew includes:

Bret - Committed

Andy- Committed

Lance - Maybe

Scott - Maybe

We will rendezvous in Paw Paw and travel north on 131 to the Deward Tract where we will camp as near the river as we can.

This is the place the Manistee is born; where the water is crystal clear and the trout wild.

While we all hope to catch fish, I am not sure that is the main purpose for the excursion.

Everyone going is a Mormon so we don't have to worry about things said or done that make us feel guilty. Guilt born of either weakness or too much strength. As Mormons, we all have a common headwater. There will be no shortage of conversation and in those conversations bonds will be formed that will last forever.

Where we are going there is little to no cell phone signal and only an occasional modern toilet. In the process of this "roughing it", we will all leave the world we worry about to its own devices as we create memories that will sustain us until the next time.

My one regret is that none of my sons will be going. One because of distance and expense and the other two because they would prefer being somewhere else - although they can both use distance and expense as an excuse.

In spite of that regret, my plan is to wallow in outdoor indulgence as I forge new and deeper friendships. I also plan to sleep in and nap between casting flies, feeding myself and solving the problems of mankind in our small council of men as we exchange ideas around a campfire.

I will write a lengthy report after I recover from the adventure.