Euclidean Determinations and Beguiling Irregularities

Watching the Red Sox game and its aftermath on Friday night, I was struck by the appropriateness of a couple of famous comments on the significance of baseball: Bart Giamatti's assertion that "It is designed to break your heart," and the longer, perhaps more apt (for this meditation) suggestion by John Updike that Fenway Park in particular, but, we can conclude, all baseball stadiums in general, offer a "compromise between Man's Euclidean determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities. . . ." Alone of America's major sports, baseball combines the rigid order of the infield structure (90' between the bases, 60'6" from pitcher's mound to the rearward tip of home plate, which is exactly 17" in width) with random outfield distances, foul areas, and distances to the backstop. Such irregularities lead to inconsistencies, marked particularly by the saying in Fenway that "The Wall giveth and the Wall taketh away": a lazy pop fly that happens to arc 310' lands in the first row of the monster seats (cf: Bucky bleepin' Dent), while a crushed line shot that never gets above 50' high ricochets from the wall so quickly that it holds the hitter to a single. In any other park the home-run/easy-fly-out conditions would be reversed. And what's a foul ball out in one park is but a souvenir in another, giving the batter another pitch and possibly keeping a rally going.

But how is this Euclidean symmetrical/Nature asymmetrical combination designed to break your heart? Because, as Giamatti also says, it proceeds along deep rhythms of threes: three strikes, three outs, three times three innings; the only disruption is four, as in a walk. Its apparent symmetry leads us to believe in the possibility of predicting any given situation. For example: the Yankees lead the Orioles by three in the bottom of the ninth, with Mariano Rivera needing but three outs to keep the Yankees in the hunt for at least a tie with the Bosox for the Eastern Division Championship. Case closed. In fact, several of the Bosox regulars shower, dress and are headed home, knowing that they will have to wait until Saturday for the next opportunity to clinch. The Orioles, after all, are a team at the nadir of their season, having fallen into an inability to pitch, field or hit, particularly in the second half of the season against the Yankees. Yet, against the historically best closer in the major leagues, the Orioles load the bases; with two outs, a triple clears them and: tie game.

Go to the tenth, when the symmetry/asymmetry of baseball plays amazing tricks on our expectations. Jeter leads off with a double, is sacrificed to third. One out, lead run on third. The basic baseball strategy is to walk the bases loaded in order to provide force outs at all bases, which the Orioles do. Now any fly ball, base hit, error or other anomaly will score the lead run. Molina, the catcher, in the game only because Posada (having his best offensive season ever) has been rested, given the insurmountable Yankee lead. He fouls out to the first baseman (a ball that is in the stands in Fenway, merely the second out at Camden Yards), bringing up Giambi. Menacing, grimacing, the veritable image of brute force, he seems the very embodiment of Euclidean order and certainty. But he's jammed, and hits a little fly ball to left. No runs; the strategy has worked.
Now the bottom of the tenth: Redmond doubles with one out, takes third on a wild pitch. One out, winning run on third. The Yankees employ exactly the same strategy as was practiced on them, and walk the bases loaded. Kevin Millar is up: more symmetry. Millar, who with the Bosox in '04 was the Cowboy-Up guy; one of the most verbal members of a team that dismembered the Yankees with four straight in the ACLS after falling behind 3-0, a comeback unprecedented in playoff history, Millar, who eats up fastballs as greedily as Giambi. Wouldn't it be grand and fitting, say all the fans still waiting in Fenway, watching this distant game on the Jumbotron high above center field, wouldn't it be absolutely appropriate for Millar to drive in the run that clinches the title for his old team? Millar watches a change-up split the plate for called strike three, perhaps the most heinous sin for any batter: to keep the bat on his shoulder with the winning run on third and less than two out. A swinging strike: OK, you tried. But a Called Third Strike? Melvin Mora up, who has the longest tenure with the team of any present Oriole. Physically the antithesis of Giambi, but at bat under exactly the same conditions. With the infield playing back to gobble up any ground ball and find a force at any base, he bunts. Totally unexpected, totally asymmetrical: this play is against all sane baseball strategy. But because the third baseman is playing so deep, all he can do is dash in, pick up the ball in his bare hand, and walk dejected past the third base line towards the dugout. Game over, Bosox clinch, fans in Fenway, who have been waiting for over an hour, shriek with delight, champagne corks pop, madness descends.

So under identical conditions in the tenth inning, the clearly superior team and batter fail the demands of symmetry, while the down and dogged team and batter spectacularly succeed, with an anomalous phenomenon perfectly executed. Baseball leads us to expect symmetry, but in its closest moments, surprises us with a beguiling irregularity. If you were a Yankee fan, that broke your heart. If you were Red Sox fans, it filled the heart with mindless joy as celebratory as the fizzed champagne that the players showered on them. We wait for these beguiling irregularities, these asymmetries, and delight or despair in them. Is there symmetry now in the reversal of the 86 World Series, in that the Bosox have won the Eastern Division Championship where the Mets have collapsed in the National League East as catastrophically as the ground ball to Buckner? It depends on our loyalties. For Red Sox and Yankee fans, at least, summer will last a while longer. But beware, both, of hope congealing into expectation, for baseball is designed to break your hearts with its beguiling irregularities.

Over the Notch to Mt. Holyoke. . . .

Last Tuesday night I went with several other people to hear Susan Cheever talk at Mt. Holyoke College. The weather was perfect, the drive gracious and chatty, and Cheever was funny, open, and entertaining. Afterwards, I held up her book-signing line while we chatted a bit about her most recent book, American Bloomsbury. I only had a chance to glance at it, but it seems to be in the mode of popularization fiction--that is, biography in the hands of a novelist. In fact, you could call it a group biography, which Susan did: she was fascinated, she said, with the shifting and complex relationships surrounding the Transcendentalists of Concord--Emerson, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller, the Hawthornes, and particularly the elder Alcotts and their ungovernable brood, including, of course, Louisa May. It's just out in paperback last week, and I wonder if any of you have noticed it; it does sound like a fun background read (and Cheever is a pretty good researcher, so she knows the major critical approaches to the Transcendentalists).

It also reminds me of two fictions based on actual people (are historical figures featured in novels a la Doctorow becoming ever more popular?): Matthew Pearl's The Dante Club (which SunHee assigned to Capstone a few years back, and I had a keen time yakking about one day for that class), a novel that features Longfellow (who was translating The Divine Comedy just after the Civil War), James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendel Holmes, James T. Fields, and a walk-on appearance by my old grad school favorite and meal ticket, William Dean Howells. It's a murder mystery, uncannily enough, that centers around a serial killer in the Boston area who frames his murders according to the various tortures inflicted on the unfortunate sinners in the Inferno. The other is more recent and even closer to home: Jed Rubenfeld's The Interpretation of Murder. Catch this: its protagonist is a young assistant professor of Psychology recently hired by G. Stanley Hall at Clark University, and whose task is to greet Freud and Jung at the docks in New York and escort them to Worcester for the famous conference. But a murder interrupts their journey. This novel is striking for its attempts to characterize a reluctant and somewhat haughty Freud who is but gingerly braving the wilds of the American continent--but who does solve the murder before he has to appear at Hall's university.

There's some bedside reading for you guys. Love those mysteries, no?

By the way, if those links work, woo-hoo! I learned something! If they don't, damn! back to the drawing board.

Finally, magic number = 2. That's a deuce, BH. One-sixth of a dozen. Half a quartet. (But I do have to congratulate you on making the Wild-card. Til we meet again. . . .)

Jay

Update 1: All well, so the MN is still two. C'est la vie. . . .

Re-posting from "comment" to topic

I'm reposting the comment I made and turning it into a thread so it's a little more visable.

Your post got me thinking about the impact our favorite writers have on our lives. I'd say that we've all come across novels that have made us feel a part of the action. Characters become a fully-realized person we've just met, and their stories reach out and speak to us.Sunday, a well-known author died and left behind a world, and a story, largely unfinished. Robert Jordan, the writer of the Wheel of Time series, finaly succumbed to a disease he had been battling for years.Although I have never met him, the news struck me down nonetheless. It's amazing how writers manage to capture a bit of themselves within their work, and that small piece can make us feel kinship with them.Jordan's goal was to create a 12 book series, but he has passed before the twelfth could be written. The news articles I've read suggested that he had the first and last chapter written, as well as the outline for the rest of the plot, and kept within a safe. But I doubt it will be the same. As selfish as it sounds, I wonder how satisfying a finale the next book can be. I am torn as a reader--do I soldier on and finish the series so I can discover how it ends, or do I put it aside, fearing disappointment since it cannot be written with the same caliber?

Back to Books

Junot Diaz's new novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, promises to be an incredible read. Diaz talked with Tom Ashbrook on ON POINT recently, and the interview is worth a listen. Here's a description of Diaz on Ashbrook's site:

Son of the Dominican Republic and New Jersey, Junot Diaz made a huge splash a decade ago with a tough, vivid collection of short stories on Latino ghetto life called "Drown." Now, Diaz is back with a debut novel that is knocking the socks off critics.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" tracks one heart-torn family from surreally brutal dictatorship in Santo Domingo to a sexy, urban, sci-fi, Spanglish tragicomedy in the USA. Time magazine calls it "astoundingly great."

You can listen to the broadcast HERE.
- BH.

Is this the Clark baseball blog?

Sorry, Jay. Beckett had his day, and likely bagged the Cy Young, but ultimately it all ended well for us New Yawkers at Fenway. Great game last night, though I have no nails left.

OK, and now a play. . . .

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Potluck Pix

Some photos from our department shindig:







And yes, Jay, the Bombers are creeping up, slowly but surely. They'll have the wild card at the very least.

Sunday Evening

Humph. Sunday night. Why do weekends fly by so fast? There I was, driving back after the marvelous Friday night pot-luck, thinking that this great swath of time was laid out at my feet, and now. . . . Speaking of which, Betsy has promised to post some of her photos of the soiree, so all of the grad students can see what they look like candidly. As well as the faculty. Anyway, I hope the left-over food found its way to deserving and discriminating palates. I also hope someone scammed with the rest of the parmesan cheese I brought; it's damn good stuff and will prime a pasta presentation in no time.

Elvis the cat seems to want to say hello: kl;;; Oh well, a feline of few words. He's more interested in the mouse.

Maybe I did get something done this weekend, though. MA theses, check. Seminars prepared, check (well, sort of--I did review some stuff). Dog walked, check. Daughter and son-in-law moved all their stuff from the basement, check (Woo-hoo!). RPI football game won, check (but Colin didn't play, boo). Red Sox won, check. Patriots steam-rolled the Jets, check (108-yard kickoff return? You're kidding me. NFL record. Hell, the longest return possible is 109 3/4 yards--the end zone is only 10 yards deep!). Yankees won, boo. It could very well be the Red Sox-Yankees in the ALCS once again. Not good for my heart rate.

If any of my honors and directed readings students come upon this entry, I have to apologize in advance if I've double-booked anyone. I'm promising myself that I will discover what Daily Planners are and try to abide by them.

Looking forward to another week--a busy one at that. I hope many of you can start conversations here and contribute to others. I'll leave you with my signature line for one of the "platform blogs" I'm a member of: "One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives"--Mark Twain. Seems to me to be an appropriate observation for these perilous political times.
Jay

OK, A Story. . . .

Urk. Thinking about a Red Sox sweep, particularly after a long day, with good meetings and a useful colloquium. But not so, with the bullpen giving it up in the 8th and the Stockings committing a giant squander in the bottom of the 7th. All the while the Bronx B's explode on the M's; ARod hits two dingers in one inning. Lead's now 6 games. And BH is creeping up behind me. . . .
By dint of requests, herewith is my 2004 umpiring story "In the Zone." Enjoy.


In the Zone

What I’m gonna tell you never should have happened. But it did. Baseball Digest says they never heard of it. My friend Johnny, they call him Double-Deuce, the old red-head, he was there. And he says that if you scrinch down and really peer between the teeny lines in the rule book—Section 3, Topic II, Rule 6, Sub-head 13, I think he said—you can see that there’s a wee little space in amongst all those “ifs” and “whens” and “whereas’s.” Yup, if you stare for a couple of minutes, he said, why, you can almost see it happen. The rules’ll let it happen. The paper’s didn’t know what to do with it, the local beat scribes were scratchin’ their noggins to beat all. Pioneer Regional wins the Western State High School Scholastic Varsity Baseball Championship and gets the number one seed in the state tournament play by hitting into a triple play! Impossible? That’s what Baseball Digest said.

I almost didn’t get to call that game, you know. Stan, he’s the commissioner of Umps for the Western State, he called Johnny right before and asked if I had enough experience to do it, such an important game and all. But Johnny, he stood right behind me. “Oh yeah,” he says to Stan. “I think he’s ready.” Didn’t know that, though, until after the game. Good thing, too. My confidence was shaky enough, I still have a lot to learn about this trade, even if it’s just my hobby.

See, this wasn’t supposed to be a real big game when Stan did the assignments at the beginning of the season. Pioneer was heavy favorites to take it all, and Smith Academy was nowhere on anybody’s radar. I think the local papers had ‘em picked for next to last or something. Pioneer had a returning crew that most of ‘em went to the State semis the year before, and a big kid, a senior, Matt, who could bring it with the best. If there’s anyone I’ve seen this year who’ll go pro, it’s Matt. But he’s got to decide between baseball and a football scholarship, ‘because he led Pioneer to the Division III Super Bowl in the fall. Recruiters camped out on his doorstep, the way I hear tell. But Smith put together a season like you’ve never seen—all teamwork, small ball, steals, bunts, scratch runs, make ‘em stand up with sneaky pitching and defense. Warmed your heart, those boys did, and they were the darlings of all the local scribes by the time they hit the championship. “Hoosiers II,” one of the headlines said, mixing up the sports a bit. They were the underdogs, you bet, and poor nervous Stan suddenly realizes he’s got the plate assigned to one of his newer guys and has to call Johnny to calm that cuisinart in his gut. But Stan told me after the game I did good, and I’ll probably do mostly varsity next year instead of mostly JV. After all, I’ve paid my dues.

I called Johnny too, the night before. I couldn’t hardly believe that the game was so big, and Stan had kept me on it, behind the plate, no less, but he simmered me right down. “You’re really improving out there,” he told me. “You look more relaxed, and you’ve got your timing down. Just stay within the play, don’t anticipate, go with your instincts, and watch the ball at all times!” I figured he’d bail me out if I got into big trouble—he’s the one got me into umpiring in the first place, and he’s always giving me little tips. Always teaching, Johnny is, been doing kids’ baseball and basketball for years, taking pitchers aside after the game and giving them instruction. See, he was in the New York Giants organization for a few years back before they moved west, but he didn’t ever have the heater to make the show. Crazy guy to watch working, too. Got these ways of calling pitches like I’ve never seen; he sorta leans out from behind the plate to the side like he’s uncurling, his right arm slowly comes up until it’s straight out and then, “Strike!” Calls a combined count, too. “Eleven,” he yells for one-and-one. “Twenty-one” for two-and-one. “Full house” for a full count. And of course “Double-Deuce” for two-and-two. That’s how he got his nickname, though I don’t know how many says it to him face-to-face. They all respect him too much.

At the Pioneer field he drove up just as I was starting to put on my gear. Sometimes, when I work with him he gifts me with about five or six boxes of crackers and such with the dates expired. He’s some kind of high-up regional manager for a local bakery company—so when I work with him I’m always heading home with something for the cupboard. Does it for all the guys he works with, I hear. Me, I’m just a working stiff—UPS delivery. But I like that he pushed me to get into umpiring. Gives me a chance to do something, make decisions that mean something. Otherwise the only decisions I can make is stepping on the brake or pushing the gas pedal. “Ho, ho, Mr. E,” he says—always calls me that, don’t know why—“fine day for the great American pastime, yes?”

I shook his hand and went on with my buckling and adjusting. “Yep,” I said. “Really great weather.” It was a perfect day, with that late spring New England sunshine that you want to rub up on your sleeve for safekeeping like a quarter you just picked up off the street. The field is pretty, too, tucked into a hollow between the road and the river, 325-foot fence all around the outfield, neat as a pin. Us Association guys always call it “Field of Dreams” because right up to the left-field fence is a strip of cornfield between it and the river, and in the summer, when the corn’s full grown, I always expect Shoeless Joe Jackson to come sauntering out of it. Groundskeepers’d done themselves proud, too, no grooves in the dirt skin between the bases, and the infield grass was new mowed to a little shorter than the outfield. Balls would skip true on this field. There wasn’t any dugouts, but the benches were nicely placed behind more fences up and down the baselines. I breathed in that mild air that seemed to echo with the green of the grass and the sharp, white baselines all the way down to the foul poles. There was more people already than I’d ever done a game in front of; they were laying blankets on the slope behind first base leading up to the road like it was a picnic. Photographers from the local rag in Northampton wandered here and there, snapping the local color.
We did the ground rules with the coaches and captains, Johnny jogged out to behind first base in his shambling trot, and we got down to business. I took a deep breath, pulled the mask down over my face, and felt that silent rush just before I yelled “Play ball!” and pointed to the pitcher.

Well, I tell you, I’ve never felt a game like that one. Johnny and me worked perfect, all our calls were right. One time there was a foul tip on a third strike, and it looked to me like the catcher had juggled it, so I immediately pointed out to Johnny behind first base and yelled, “Blue! Did he catch it!” Johnny paused a beat, then uncurled his right arm upwards like he was about to shake his fist at me. “Out!” he said. “Good call, blue!” the pitcher blurted, and looked in at his catcher for the sign as the next batter approached. Yeah, we were invisible. No grouching, no complaints, no controversial calls—they accepted what we gave and the game moved right along without any hitch at all. My strike zone was real consistent, if I do say so myself, and I was in the right position for every call. The papers had a picture the next day of a call I made at home—real close, and the caption read, “Safe or Out?” ‘cuz you couldn’t tell from the picture. But in the background, perfectly placed to see the tag, is me from the waist down, in a slight crouch. Wait a beat, find the ball in the catcher’s mitt, and “Got him!” I yelled, pumping my right fist down as I held my mask in my left. I thought I’d catch some flak on that one, but the base runner just got to his feet, grimaced, banged his hand on his thigh, and walked back to the bench.

I found that I was moving inside the game, the decisions just seemed to flow from me as natural as that river does behind left field. I even called every foul ball back in play, something I usually forget to do at least once a game. I was in a “zone,” as they say, and the only time I’d felt like that was in basketball way back in high school when I just knew everything I tossed up was goin’ in. No doubts, no second-guessing, just everything felt right. The kids had something to do with that, too, I mean big Matt was bringing it in with power and a little twist at the last minute that’d catch the corner or blow the batter away. And the little lefty from Smith? Changin’ speeds all the time, but always around the plate. Pioneer couldn’t quite figure him out ‘cuz he was always a step ahead of ‘em. And to me, those corners looked big that day—a little outside, and I’d stand: “Ball!” But zip across the corner, my right arm would fly out: “Stri-i-i-i-ke!” I make sure they heard it. Both pitchers keep nodding slightly, as if they was saying, yeah, just missed that one, or, OK! Got it then.
So it gets to the bottom of the seventh, 1-1. Matt’s got a one-hitter, that’s the Smith second baseman leading off the fourth. Even when Johnny’d called “Safe!” on that bang-bang play, nobody’d complained. It was a slow bouncer along the third-base line, and I noticed the third baseman looked in his glove after the call like he was thinking, man, if I’d only gotten it out a fraction sooner, I’d have got him. The kid promptly steals second. Man, is he quick! Then he advances on a ground ball to the right side and scores on a medium fly. That was an easy call—he did a fade slide around the Pioneer catcher and was by the plate just as the ball was caught. And Pioneer, they couldn’t seem to string three hits together except once—seems like they had men on base almost every inning, but Smith’s fielding—boy, were they smooth!

Anyway, bottom of the seventh, and the Smith lefty’s getting tired, I can tell. He’s reaching down, but he’s missing the outside corner a little more, and he doesn’t have quite as much speed to contrast with his slower stuff. Pioneer’s lead-off hitter works a walk, and the next batter crashes an inside curve down the third-base line. Neat bit of hitting. Second and third, no outs. Nothing to do but walk the next guy and set up a force at home. The folks are yelling, both benches are hanging on the fences, everyone’s standing. The Smith coach brings in a new pitcher, big kid, throws hard, and the Smith fans go berserk cheering the lefty as he leaves—he deserves it, he’s shown a lot of stuff out there. As I stand a little up the first base line watching the warm-ups with my mask under my arm, I hear a voice from behind the plate—a scribe, most likely—say into a sudden quiet pause: “With their run of luck this year, Smith’ll get a triple play.”

Well, that’s exactly what they do. For the first time all game, a Pioneer batter looks a little confused. He swings at the first pitch, hits it down by the hands, and nubs a soft little hump-backed liner out between first base and the pitcher. The first baseman—a rangy kid—dives toward the pitcher and snares it—if he’d been right-handed and if the grass had been a quarter of an inch higher, he’d never of snatched it, so close to bouncing it was. Johnny yells “Out!”—no beat this time. The runners on first and second—too anxious, I guess, or maybe it was a hit-and-run—take off with the crack of the bat, but the runner on third hangs on. I still don’t know if he did it because he was confused or missed a sign or because he had great baseball smarts or what, but I see him hang on to third. I’m standing off in foul territory beside the plate on the first-base side, and I see him break for the plate as the first baseman, realizing he has the runner caught, rolls over, gets up, and dashes for the first-base bag. Seeing that, the runner on third breaks for the plate. So when the first baseman tags first and Johnny yells “Out!” again, the kid on third is churning home. Meantime, the runner on second misreads the third-base coach’s gesture—he’s yelling “Back! Back!” trying to push him back to second and the kid thinks he means slide, and, hell, nobody can hear anything because there’s so much noise all at once. Then he realizes he’s got to get back to second, puts on the brakes and steams back with a head-first slide. The first baseman turns around after tagging the bag for the second out, and the shortstop, covering second, is screaming for the ball. That gets first’s attention, I don’t think he sees the runner coming home, or he’s suddenly thinking “triple play,” so instead of firing to the plate, he guns it to second. But just before the ball gets to the shortstop for the third out, the runner from third crosses the plate right in front of me. Johnny calls “Out!” for the third time, and the Smith fans go nuts.

“I told ya! I told ya!” the voice keeps yelling from behind the backstop, but I start walking toward Johnny, who’s just behind the pitcher’s mound, shaking his head with a funny little half smile.

“Johnny,” I say. “It’s over. Run’s scored. Timing play.” He looks at me, lifting his bushy red eyebrows, takes his hat off and runs his hand through his thinning hair. I explain the fact that the runner has tagged up, not left until after the catch, and crossed the plate before the third out. He looks at me for a moment longer, then his thin face splits into a wide grin. “You’re sure, Mr. E?” I nod, and he says, “One for the books. Let’s go lay the news on ‘em.”

You’d think the Smith team had won, the way they were slapping each other on the back and carrying on. The Pioneers kids were like sleepwalkers trudging out to their positions. Oh, yeah, momentum had really swung to the underdogs. I called both coaches over behind the plate and explained the rule to them and what it meant. Pioneer had won—like they were supposed to, but not in a way that did them proud. Both coaches stared at me with open mouths. The fans on the hillside and behind the backstop were quiet now, knowing something was up. And when both coaches went back to their benches to explain the play to their teams, I announced it on the PA system. A weak little cheer went up from the Pioneer folks, but they seemed too stunned to acknowledge their good luck. It seemed like everyone—Pioneer and Smith folks alike—were shaking their heads.

So that’s how it ended for Smith Academy. And for Pioneer, they never seemed to get it together after that and lost their first game in the State Tourney to a number 8 seed. But it’s not over for me. I’ll never forget that feeling of being in a “zone” where every call, every decision, especially the last one, was right. It’s like I was caught up in something bigger than me, bigger than the teams or the game, some big force. I wasn’t me during that game. I was hardly even aware of me. I’m not that decisive or that right all the time, believe me. Something was using me to teach something else to the kids, to the coaches, the scribes and all the folks at that game—humility maybe.

When I said this to Johnny later, he looked at me for a minute. “You know our Association meetings?” he asked. “You know how Big Freddy and Sam and a few others are always talking about games with ‘I called this’ and ‘I said that to the stupid coach’ and ‘this was the ruling I made?’” I nodded. “Those are the guys doing this in their spare time for their egos. They think they’re really big time and are in control of the game. They want to be the center of attention or recapture some athletic youth they’ve lost. But the really good ones, like Dave and Wayne and Richie—you never hear them talk like that. Everyone has good, clear mechanics—else they wouldn’t be allowed to stay; but the good ones feel what you just said. They know that they don’t really matter; if the game is really fitting together, something else is controlling it—chance, or providence, perhaps. It’s being totally absorbed into the flow of the moment.” He gave a little grin. “I call it joy. That’s the ‘zone’ you’re talking about. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—if you’re really on you can catch that zone—you can’t ever create it, it just happens, it’s like a gift that you’ve got to be ready for—and then all the rest of it—the arguments, the missed calls, the mistakes of other games—are worth it.” He stared over my shoulder. “It’s like so many things,” he mused. “We do our best work when we get out of our own way.” He looked at me again. “You’ll be a good one, Mr. E. Keep doin’ games, as many as you can, and you’ll get better and better. Maybe you’ll find that zone again.”

--Jay

Copyright The Elysian Fields Quarterly, 2004

Loomings

Since it is the day after Labor Day, there's a hint of coolness in the air (though extended weather report says hot and humid by the end of the week), and, most importantly, the University has re-opened its doors to another fall semester, it's time to begin the Clark English Blog.

Although, if you check my interview on the English Department web site, I have been dipping into various blogs over the last 18 months to get a sense of the narrative features of these phenomena, it's clear that the best way of researching is doing: and so I'm starting in. Here's my thinking:

This blog is basically belongs to the English Department, and although I will be the chief poster, I invite everyone and any0ne to contribute. As soon as I figure out and explore some of the useful features of this technology, I'll try them out periodically in order to increase the traffic.

I'd like to see as much commentary as possible: within and without the English Department , its graduate students, its majors and minors, as well as faculty and staff. The subjects are open: whatever concerns, personal and/or academic, might move one to comment. I see this as the opening for a community, a gathering place for opinion and observation, centered around Clark people, curricula and events--though mention of the Red Sox might creep onto the screen. . . .

This blog does not serve the same purpose as Blackboard, though perhaps some of the same general concerns may be posted--just not class readings and assignments.

Finally, I hope this blog will offer some insight into the informal workings of the Clark English Department for all those prospective students who might consider attending this university. Certainly you too can ask questions and get a flavor of our conversation.

This post, then, is the opening and welcoming salvo: welcome back to Clark students and faculty; and welcome to all those first-years who are just now making the transition to the intimidating but ultimately fascinating world of college.

Jay