Designated Hitter

Yesterday afternoon, I was putting the finishing touches on my week at school. I put Monday's schedule on the board. I made a few copies. I straightened some desks. I put math tests in my bag to take home and grade. I was intentionally lingering on a Friday afternoon. I was lingering because I was also listening to the final three innings of the Oakland A's and Minnesota Twins playing game three in their American League Division Series.
When Marco Scutaro (anyone outside of the East Bay area will be excused for asking, "Who?") slapped a drive down the right field drive and drove in three runs, I fought back the urge to hoot and holler. I did raise my hands in the air as the score moved from a comfortable 5-2 lead to an insurmountable 8-2. My team was about to sweep the Twins and move along to play for the American League Championship.
It was good news for a change. It was happy news in a town that doesn't get a lot of it. I wasn't always an A's fan. When I moved to Oakland, I had expected to latch on to the Giants of San Francisco - the National League franchise. There is a deeply held belief in my family (okay, my brother and I) that everybody should have to hit, even the pitchers. I went to a few games at Candlestick (or Monster.com) Park and watched an upper-middle class crowd take in the show with a mixture of pride and smugness. I made the mistake - once - of wearing a Colorado Rockies cap to a Giants game. Fiercely loyal to the point of absurdity, Giants fans were ready to tear into anyone who wasn't "of the body." A few years passed, and I went out to see a game at their new telecommunications-related park. I can't for the life of me remember what company is currently holding the naming rights on their stadium. It's a nice place to watch a game - an even better place to watch a Bruce Springsteen concert. The snobbery of the Giants and their fans along with the ugly drama that is the Barry Bonds show kept me from rushing back.
By stark contrast, I was able to wander into the Oakland Coliseum (now sponsored by a computer security company - why?) and sit in the upper deck for a much lower price and watched the game with a group of knowledgeable fans. This is a much more urban, working class crowd. They love their team with the same passion as the folks across the bay, but are more tolerant of visitors, at times even welcoming. Sure, the pitchers don't have to bat, but you can watch the game without fearing for your life.
There is something about having a hometown connection. My son is proud to call the A's his team. He is fortunate to be born into a baseball world with a rich history: The 1989 "Earthquake Series," Reggie Jackson, Dennis Eckersly, Ricky Henderson, and now Marco Scutaro. It's a vicarious little thrill ride, but every day is a new chance. We're a line drive away from taking the lead, and that feels good.

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"I like to tell people when the final history is written on Iraq, it will look like just a comma because there is -- my point is, there's a strong will for democracy."
From the UPI: U.S President George (Pinhead) Bush's comment in Arizona that the Iraq war would be "just a comma" in history books became more an exclamation point in lively debate.
Do we need more proof of just exactly what sort of Pinhead has taken up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Tiny-brained, heartless Pinhead with the moral conscience and historical perspective of non-stick cookware. Pinhead's handlers are quick to try to shoot down the "hidden message" suggestion and the Washington Post pointed out it originated with comedian Gracie Allen and no religious text. Many religious Web sites, on the left and on the right, use Gracie's original quote: "Never place a period where God has placed a comma." The Great Communicator, Ronald "Gumby" Reagan would at least have given it a better line reading. Instead, we are left with a sloppy rendition of a partially formed thought. The Christian take on the phrase is that Jesus's death was the comma and that the rest of the world moved on from that moment in time.
That's comforting. Is Pinhead suggesting that the ill-advised and worse-fated mission into Iraq is in any way comparable to the resurrection? Or is he simply grasping at verbal straws as his approval rating shrivels and his part begins to pack their bags? Sadly, it would seem that this guy trips and falls on his own sword much more often than history's most noble klutz, Gerald Ford. Suggesting that Pinhead was sending some kind of hidden message would be akin to suggesting that Jerry, while being very athletic, was in fact quite graceful. Let's give credit where (and when) credit is due, shall we? Say goodnight, Gracie.

The Hyper-Bowl

Former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark, a member of Saddam Hussein's defense team, suggested today that if his client were executed there would be a bloodbath. At a news conference, Mister Clark maintained "catastrophic violence" would follow that would lead to "the end of civilization as we know it in the birthplace of civilization, Mesopotamia. Total, unmitigated chaos."
I have the impression that Ramsey isn't following the news these days. At least 13 American soldiers have been killed around Baghdad since Monday. This is the highest four-day U.S. toll in the capital since the 2003 invasion. This number is likely to grow as the U.S.-led forces step up their campaign to root out the extremist militias, death squads and terrorist cells. U.S. commanders have defined victory as reducing violence in the capital to the point where Iraqi civilian police could handle security. U.S. officials won't say how they define defeat — insisting there is no choice but to win.
Meanwhile, back in Ramsey Clark's head, Saddam's Sunni Muslim tribe of one and a half million would be enraged over what they would consider the revenge killing of the former president by the Shiite-controlled and U.S.-sponsored government. I find myself wondering just how one would notice that level of chaos in the midst of all the chaos in which we find ourselves currently engaged. In a recent interview,General George Casey, the top U.S. general in Iraq, told The Associated Press that Baghdad is "the center of gravity for the country. Everybody knows that." And so it would seem that we find ourselvesengagedd in a battle not just for truth, justice and the American Way of Life, but for the very Laws of Physics. These are heady times, indeed.

Terrific

Today, as an icebreaker at the beginning of our meeting, we were asked to share our favorite children's book. The smart aleck in me reached immediately for "Lord of the Flies," but then I thought again. I knew what the real answer was. I listened patiently while other teachers brought up their personal recollections of reading and being read to: "Where The Red Fern Grows," "Ramona the Pest."
I started to flinch when the guy next to me said that he always loved "Where The Wild Things Are." My mind immediately filled with the illustrations from the pages of Maurice Sendak's masterpiece. They rolled their terrible eyes, and clawed their terrible claws. And the wild rumpus. My son's middle name is Max, after all. I could feel myself being swayed.
Then I stopped and focused on my original thought: "Charlotte's Web." I remember the sounds and smells of that barn as well as I remember my childhood home. I can see the web, glistening with morning dew: "Some Pig." I love to read it aloud to my kids. The goose talking so very fast and repeating repeating words that make me smile. Templeton is a rat with the proverbial heart of gold, but he is still a rat. And Charlotte? Who better to introduce young pigs and young children to the wonders and harsh realities of life?
I have yet to get through the last two chapters without getting completely choked up. My son, the realist, looked at me and wondered what the big deal was. I tried to explain about how Wilbur was finding out how hard it is to lose a friend. I thought about a discussion of the loss of innocence might be a little premature, so I exhaled and told him that I believed that Wilbur was very lucky to have a friend like Charlotte. My son agreed.
I know someday he'll read "Charlotte's Web" to his kids. And it will be his favorite book then, too.

Excuses, Excuses

Working in an elementary school affords me endless opportunities to hear a litany of excuses for the many and sundry offenses that life offers up in our hallways, classrooms and playground. "Why did you punch him in the head?"
"He was messin' with me."
"Messin' with" seems to cover a large variety of perceived slights, most of which cannot be adequately described by your garden variety eight to twelve year old. I recommend that no one messes with anyone so that no one will end up getting punched in the head.
Another frequently heard line of reasoning is this: "My mom told me I had to (fill in the blank)." Most of the time this is used to explain why a larger student has chosen to inflict some sort of bodily harm on a smaller, but usually more annoying classmate. This, I am told, is "fighting back" because his or her parents insist that they "defend themselves." About half of the time, a phone call home reveals that the kid is simply reflecting back the training that they have soaked up at home.
You get the idea. Kids will be kids. And Congressmen will be congressmen - then send filthy text messages to kids. Former Republican Representative (former for both, I suspect, since the Republicans have already voted them off their island) Mark Foley said, through his lawyer, that he was molested between ages thirteen and fifteen. He declined to identify the clergyman or the church, but Foley is Roman Catholic. At this point, savor our Constitutionally guaranteed separation between church and state.
Charles Carl Roberts IV, the psychopath who shot up the Amish school yesterday, explained in his suicide note that the death of his prematurely born daughter in 1997 haunted him. "I haven't been the same since it affected me in a way I never felt possible. I am filled with so much hate, hate toward myself hate towards God and unimaginable emptyness it seems like everytime we do something fun I think about how Elise wasn't here to share it with us and I go right back to anger." That's why he felt compelled to go to an Amish school and molest and torture young girls before he took his own life. A sad, sick story.
What can we learn from this moral train wreck of a week? Maybe accepting responsibility for one's actions is a lesson best learned early in life. Before age thirteen. Before getting elected to Congress.

A Case of the Mondays

Last week, the morning after the shootings at yet another Colorado high school, the folks on the radio read the recap of the story on the news and then segued into the Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays." For those of you unfamiliar with the tune, here's an excerpt:
"and the playing stopped in the playground now
she wants to play with her toys a while
and school's out early and soon we'll be learning
the lesson today is how to die"
Written by Sir Bob "Feed The World" Geldof, it was inspired by actual events. On 29 January 1979, 16-year-old Brenda Ann Spencer opened fire on children arriving at Cleveland Elementary School in San Diego from her house across the street, killing two men and wounding eight students and a police officer. Principal Burton Wragg was attempting to rescue children in the line of fire when he was shot and killed, and custodian Mike Suchar was slain attempting to aid Wragg. Spencer used a rifle her father had given her as a gift. As to what impelled her into this form of murderous madness, she told a reporter,''I don't like Mondays. This livens up the day.''
In 1979, I confess I gnawed on this bit of arcane mental illness and reveled briefly in the extreme oddness of it. A quarter century later, I find myself in the front of a classroom wondering when it became so easy to kill. Today, a milk-truck driver carrying three guns and a childhood grudge stormed a one-room Amish schoolhouse, sent the boys and adults outside, barricaded the doors with two-by-fours, and then opened fire on a dozen girls, killing three people before committing suicide. Add this to an attack last week at Platte Canyon High School in Bailey, Colorado, where a man singled out several girls as hostages in a school classroom and then killed one of them and himself. Authorities said the man in Colorado sexually molested the girls.
If you really have a death wish, why not strap some egg cartons to your chest with duct tape and run screaming through the security checkpoint at your local airport shouting, "Death to America! I've got a bomb!" Better yet, why not drop a four-slice toaster into your next bath? I have a hard time imagining that this recent wave of shootings doesn't begin and end with the voracious beast that is twenty-four hour network media news. Or maybe it's "Grand Theft Auto." Or perhaps Marilyn Manson. Or maybe there is a silicon chip in our heads that gets switched to overload.
Whatever the source, we're left with more aftermath. Broken glass and shattered minds - picking up the pieces and wincing in anticipation of the next one. The first things I remember learning in teacher school were Maslow's hierarchy of needs. The second one, right after things like food, water and air, was safety. As new teachers, we were asked to ensure that our classrooms were safe places where learning could take place. Not today. Not this Monday.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
I want to shoot
The whole day down.

One Small Step For Grammaticians...

As a fourth grade teacher, I have a certain degree of patience (that is very little) for bad grammar and usage. I have a standing threat for the kids in my room that says that I will swat them in the back of the head if they use an apostrophe in a plural. So far, the threat has been sufficient, but there's still an element of danger in written language for my students.
So how would I feel if one of them grew up to be the first person to set foot on Mars, and they said, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind?" I want to believe that I would be so impressed with the accomplishment that the missing article ("a man") wouldn't be my initial concern. But over time - seeing it on coffee mugs, plaques, t-shirts, and hearing the tape loop played endlessly - it might start to grate on me that one of my students was clever enough to manage interplanetary travel, but not practiced enough to come up with the proper grammar to announce the momentous occasion.
Imagine how relieved Neil Armstrong must feel, thirty-seven years after the fact, to find that poor recording techniques may be to blame for his omission at Tranquility Base. In a graphical representation of the famous phrase, computer programmer Peter Shann Ford said he found evidence that the missing "a" was spoken and transmitted to NASA. Imagine the relief he must feel, knowing that he no longer has to wait in fear of his fourth grade teacher sneaking up on him and whacking him in the head.