Three ideas that will change the world

1. Universal health care–world wide

2.  global unionization of workers

3.  mandatory world-service, one-two years– armies of service to humanity

The Boy Who Loved Beowulf (the beginning of a story)

Marshall loved Beowulf.  Walking the halls of Portis International Urban School (PIUS) with its polished marble floors and endless rows of maroon and gold lockers, he would pretend to be Beowulf.  It didn’t always sit that well with other students, especially those who didn’t know who Beowulf was, let alone Marshall.  “I’ll rip your arm right out of its socket, Grendel,” he would growl at kids who were complete strangers to him or to kids he’d seen a hundred times but couldn’t remember.  Marshall didn’t have it easy.  Ex-ed, autistic, in all special classes except one—British Authors Survey from Mr. Ortiz, because he loved Beowulf so much.  Marshall didn’t like any of the rest of the Brits. Shakespeare did nothing for him.  Nothing revved his motor like Beowulf, which is why they gave him the class four years in a row, and because Mr. Ortiz liked him.  No one could act out Beowulf in class better than Marshall and Mr. Ortiz loved sparring with him over Shakespeare, who Marshall said “couldn’t write anything as good as Beowulf.”

Not a bad beginning, Jeeves.

Anika Holt: A tribute, continued

Anika from the first day of class until the last, of the year in which she was in my English class, had nothing but a smile.  There were a few days where she wanted to be left alone, and there were days she just didn’t show up, but most of the days, she was there, and she was happy to see everyone, happy to be alive, happy to be here.

That is a bit of a mystery to me.  As I said previously, Anika was not a good student, academically.  But she loved school. She loved wandering the halls, popping her head into classrooms during class and shouting out a “Hey, Mr. Biel! Was up? How you doin’ today?”  There were times when I was so rapped into teacher mode that I could find this mildly annoying—a student randomly interrupting class.  And yet, the way she did it, it was hard to be annoyed for long, and you realized that a simple hello and a smile and a friendly inquiry as to how you’re doing goes a long ways in making your day a little better.  Like she was looking out for you.  For me.

She looked out for me in other ways too.  While she tuned English and literature out and never did an assignment, she would make sure that whenever there was an opportunity she would try to teach me some hip hop.  Her I-pod was ubiquitous.  Music always in her ear.  She was way more about music than school.  If you wanted to describe Anika, you could say she herself was like a song.

Her favorite day in class that year was a day in which for some reason ¾ of the class was gone.  She was in 10^th hour, last hour of the day.  There was no point in doing anything so we sat around and horsed around, B.S’d, and listened to tunes.  Anika tried to get me to do a few of my smoothest moves, which with some persuasion, I would bust out, briefly, momentarily, awkwardly.  No one got a kick out of it more than Anika.  She loved those moments.  And I did too.  That little burst of me trying to dance was something she communicated with and something she taught me.  I have a lot to learn about how life is a dance, but she taught me more than I knew before.

So thank you, Anika Holt.  May you rest in peace.

Anika, A Tribute, cont.

The day we found out at school that Anika died, I remember the whole thing feeling unreal, like it was more a part of a movie than actuality.  That she would not be here tomorrow, would not be walking in the halls tomorrow was unfathomable.  I think that’s why we had so many kids fainting.  It’s unfathomable–sudden death of a young person, of a young and lovely soul, of a dear friend to many.

For some reason, one of my first responses besides disbelief was one of anger.  Like I felt this slight direction in me that accused her of doing something stupid that brought her life to an end.  Which shames me that I made such a judgment. I was thinking as a teacher, one who expects certain lines to be colored within. Because Anika did not color between the lines, I had this worry that life would eat her up.  I was concerned for her future.  I acquainted being a good student–the chase-the-carrot-type-student–with success, and I worried for hers.

So I thought she must have done something crazy that brought this on.  Got mixed up with the wrong people.  Did something foolish.  I immediately associated her death with blame.

That was wrong, for who can blame another without knowing? And why blame anyone whose life is cut short and whose life while lived had such great beauty in it?

I apologize for making a judgment before an acceptance.  Anika, you were a smile, and a hope, and a kind person.  You were always, always kind to me, and that is a gift in my life that I owe you.

I will make one more post on this tomorrow.

Anika Holt A Tribute

Every school year leaves its unique print, like the unrepeatable design of each snowflake.  A school year has so much pattern to it, so much repetition, yet each one will stand out or stand down for a specific reason.  This year, it was a death.

Anika Holt suddenly died.  She was here one day and gone the next.  It is diffiuclt to process, that sudden nonbeing.  You go on, the school day went on, and yet there is a vital piece of the whole synergetic structure that is a school missing.  One vital piece.  On vital person.  And you feel the nudge of the other side of life, of death.

I knew Anika pretty well as a student.  She was not a good a student in the way of grades, of doing homework, of being on task, of following the rules. But all the rules she broke, all the contrary directions her life took her, she never went there without a smile, without kindness, without love for people.  For everyone in her circle.

No.  Not an A student.  But she had game. She had life.  Lots of it.

I will write more on Anika tomorrow.  She was a beautiful young soul.

Sports Writer of the Day: Brewers

About the 2010 Brewers.  I listen to a lot of Brewers games.  I listen to the pregame, game, and post game shows, not just show, but shows, the 620 call in show with Dan O’Donnell, or Jeff Falconio, I can never keep those two straight.  This is my opinion right now on the Brewers.

I think they should begin to play for next year now.  It is time that we stop trashing this team because we expect them to be more than they are.  It is time to realize what they are rather than continue to hold out unrealistic hopes and far- fetched scenarios for somehow getting back into the playoff race.  The writing for that one is on the wall.

The Brewers are a pretty good fielding and hitting team.  They’re not bad, they’ve got guys doing enough in the field and offensively to hold their own.  They have superstars doing okay, electrifying players, some overachieving and some underachieving a bit, but playing hard.  Everyone knows their Achilles heel is their pitching.  I’m staying away from the scornful negative adjectives thrown their way from every angle of reporting and call in radio.  The pitching staff simply is not good enough to beat major league hitting.  They have bright spots, sore spots, and age spots.  With our pitching, we won’t make a playoff run.

What we can expect and should expect from this team is recognition that they are playing for the future.  We should expect them to go out and play hard (which they do) and have fun, give it their all, and make ball games out of ballgames.  They should win more than .500 at home.  No more 13-4 blowouts that are either over by the third inning or in the sixth inning, when the dams burst and the locusts descend.  No more of that.  We should be searching for the young guys who are  going to compete and some bloom.  There are arms in the system that will become successful big league arms, but we need to find them, get them in the rotation this year, and prune back the tired arms.  Find the young pitchers who have a fire in them. Develop them now.

That’s what we need.  Fire, fun, and close ball games, decent, tough pitching. Play .500 baseball through August. That’s realistic. From now until August, .500 baseball.  They will need to play loose and have fun.  Play with passion.  Then, maybe just maybe, in September, they can go on that run, play lights out, get on a roll, and know that next year, they’ve figured some things out and are ready to play some ball and kick some ass.

Summers

Summers as a teacher are bliss.  Simple as that.  My most blissful summers were the ones when I was a young teacher in Montana.  I was single, had no responsibilities other than to myself and my dog and my car.  That was about it.  My car was a 1980 Datsun pickup that ran forever.

My summers were filled with two of my passions: tennis and fly fishing.  Now, I’m not that good at either, but not bad either, and how good or bad you are at something doesn’t really matter if you’re loving it.  And I loved playing tennis and fly fishing in the the Montana summers.

So when school got out, I’d basically just do these three things: play tennis, fly fish, and drive.  In those times, there were good times with friends, moments of the ecstasy that comes with standing in a clear cold river running through a craggy rock canyon with eagles and the insect Circe du soleil and a trout maybe waiting at the verge of that rock you just cast out to.  And there were moments of solitude too–the drives, the beautiful drives through Western Montana.

A typical weekend would be to drive to the tournament site that weekend. Set up camp or stay with friends.  Fish on the way over.  Play two days of intense tennis in hot summer weather and chill with friends.  Drink bloody marys and cold beer.  Then go find a river and fish. On the way home, take the old roads, some not even paved, and fish whatever water was enroute, big river or tiny hidden stream, the best of course being upper Rock Creek where a beautiful but lazy cutthroat lay under bank branches every time.

Those were easy days.  Great vacations.  A fond memory.

My Wide Eyed Little Easter Boy

I have a four and a half your old son who is all wide eyed about holidays and decorations.  At a day care survey–they survey us all the way through life–Leo claims that Walgreens is his favorite place.  That’s because Walgreens has his three favorite things:  candy, toys, and decorations.  These three things are interchangeable in degree of anticipation.

Just a quick note on this wide eyed need:  I just picked up Leo and took him back to his bed from in bed with his mother where he loves to sneak to.  On the way into his bed, in his sleep, he says, “Dad, can we see about Easter things at Walgreens tomorrow?”  This right out of his sleeping mind.  He’s dreaming about Walgreens.  And Easter.

Now that’s an interesting juxtaposition.

Warrior Anger Intallment 4

This should be the last . . .

The score is suddenly 3-5,  and I’m pissed.  I play the next game, Mike’s serve, mad, attack, hit out, play with some recklessness, but I end up losing that game, and I’m down 3-6.  I played better, even if I lost. He hit great shots, seeing-eye shots.  I stayed pissed, aggressive, but dialed down the recklessness and played with more control and started the come back.

Every point was difficult, and I yelled a few f-bombs–also not encouraged club etiquette.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone else crank out a few f-bombs.  I could be the most foul mouthed player at my club.  If I were Mike, I’d either be getting annoyed or I’d be thinking, “I’ve got him where I want him.”  But I like playing angry.  It has an energy you usually don’t use, at least I don’t.  It’s ugly, true, but it is gas.

I run off four straight games and actually go up 7-6, but Mike keeps playing at a high level, for us, and we hold serves.  I’m trying desperately to keep this out of a tie break.  When I toe the line, I say to myself, “You’re a warrior.  You’re a warrior.”  It keeps me positive.  I could turn that anger into something negative, and feel embarrassed for myself, which I often do, but this time I think, it’s just warrior anger, and it’s the pitch of battle that has it going and it is just a tennis court that is receiving it.

I keep thinking the same thought and need all the energy I can get.  Mike keeps hitting balls where they are not supposed to go.  When I’m serving at 7-7, we’re at 30-30 and I hit a good solid approach deep and to his backhand, which he takes up and lifts a lob that not only is out of my reach but lands exactly in the middle of where the singles line and the baseline intersect.  Right in the middle.  An amazing shot and I say something stupid like, “I can’t believe this!”  That’s the self pity anger, but it is anger nonetheless and I keep thinking, you’re a warrior, you’re a warrior.

This is the great thing about sports.  This is why we do it.  We can channel warrior anger and strength in a symbolic war, a game against an opponent you’re trying to take down.

Down a break point at a crucial game we play the classic pusher point.  It’s about 7 strokes each, me trying to hit deep and look for an opening, Mike playing defense, floating balls back that angle to the lines, come in with underspin, everything within a foot to six inches of the lines.  He’s got me on the go and I’m way off the court on the duece side and he slides my return all the way over spinning off the court on the ad side , and it’s a low shot too, but I am going to get to that ball.  I sprinted and carried all of my 20 lbs overweight self determined to get a racket on it, which I did and zinged a quick cross court passing shot with Mike at the net for a winner.

I held and won the game.  He held too, never relenting.  Tie break.  Dead tired. I knew that I would have to win this thing at the net, which I don’t like to do, but it was the only way.  In the tie break, I kept my shit together.  I kept the warrior chant going, but let the anger slide.  Now it was just playing.

And the match was mine.

Warrior Anger, Installment 3

Let me cut to the chase and stop making a short story long.  As I predicted, the match was tough.  Mike’s ball floats, has underspin, stays low, loops, dives, finds nooks and crannies on a court you wouldn’t know existed.  It is these kinds of shots that drive me nuts, and probably other players like me. We’re not good enough to generate our own power on a real consistent basis and still hit with great accuracy.  I’m an old school player–not that heavy top spin on my shots.  With floaters and balls that look as tempting as melons, with very little spin on them at all, or underspin, it is easy to come up and try to unload a winner that will sail long.  With players who hit with pace, you keep the spin going, the ball will be more likely to dive in, and you hit where you are comfortable hitting, and besides, with power players points are over in a few strokes.  With the unrelenting defender-type player, they’re suddenly about six to ten.  And you run side to side, up and back.  And at fifty-six, after about forty-five minutes of this, you’re beginning to feel the agony a little bit.

Of course, the other thing that you’re beginning to feel is the anger.  It’s been brewing ever since you told yourself to make sure you control your temper. Because if you have to remind yourself of that, chances are, you will lose it.

I began losing mine when I found myself down 4-3, me serving.  And I was losing the game 15-30, when I missed another shot, probably swore, huffed back to the baseline, grabbed a towel to take a moment to get ready for the next point, when Mike says, “That’s game.”

But it wasn’t game.  But he came up to the net asserting it was game.  Not considering negotiation.  I appr0ached the net protesting that it was 15-40; he didn’t back down and try to recount the points, he just flat out, in a pretty aggressive way, insisted he was right.  I was pissed.

If he had just said, “Let’s think about this,” and we were able to talk it over and at least try to recall the points (another goddamned nuisance that will be increasing over the next ten years, I’m sure), then I would have been calmed down enough to acknowledge that there were two sides to the story.  But he didn’t allow that, and though I could have reasoned another step or two, I didn’t.

I turned away in sharp anger and fired the ball in my hand with my racket as hard as I could against the back wall.  With everything I had.  A violent gesture way out of line for the tennis conduct codes.  Would’ve been a game penalty for sure in a tournament.  Definitely shitty sportsmanship.

I’ve had this problem before, as I’ve mentioned.  But I’ve really controlled it over the last ten years.  Not since playing nearly every Sunday with a guy named Victor in Ecuador have I really exploded in bursts of anger and profanity.  The nice thing about playing with Victor though was that we both did it.  We were volatile at the same time, or it was one guy’s day one day and the other guy’s the next.  We respected each other’s asshole-ship.

Every once in a while now, the monster will rear its ugly head.  And it had.

(This is long.  So be it. To be cont. . .)