The magical run of the Royals

The Kansas City Royals are in the World Series. Repeat after me. The freakin' Kansas City Royals are in the World Series.

No, it's not the 1980s. George Brett isn't playing third base and nearly hitting .400 for the season. Dan Quisenberry isn't saving games with his submarine delivery. Willie Wilson isn't stealing bases and flying around the outfield. Don Denkinger is nowhere to be seen. But somehow, someway, the Kansas City Royals have made it back to the World Series for the first time in 29 years.

What's going on? How did a team with a low payroll, a team that's been synonymous with failure for nearly thirty years, a team that was barely playing .500 baseball at the All Star Break, reach baseball's pinnacle? A combination of factors.

The first is that it seems we are now truly in the post-steroid era. Offensive numbers have been down across the board in baseball, which means that good pitching (especially relief pitching), great defense, great execution and timely hitting can take a team far in a limited number of games. And it means that a team that hit the fewest home runs in baseball can beat a team that hit the most home runs if they do everything else right. So far, the Royals have been doing everything right.

The second factor is that a number of players on this team are getting hot at the right time. The term "small sample size" is often used in sports, especially baseball, to deride players who play well in short spurts but get exposed with more playing time. Nearly every player has a 2-3 week stretch where they play above the mean, where every hit finds a gap. That might not account for much in a 162-game season. But when it happens in October, it's magical.

Let's look at some have the players who've shined for the Royals this postseason. There's Mike Moustakas, who hit .212 for the year with 15 home runs, and was sent to the minors in May after a terrible start to the season. He's hit 4 home runs during the postseason, in addition to playing spectacular defense. Outfielder Lorenzo Cain hit .533 in the series against the Orioles. First baseman Eric Hosmer, a .270 hitter during the season, has hit .448 in the playoffs. If you believe in the concept of clutch performance, then these guys are clutch. Or they just have just fantastic timing.

Then there's the bunting. Oh, the bunting. Baseball fans in general are in two camps on bunting: there are those who hate the idea of giving up an out to advance a runner (and will show you the statistics to prove it's a bad idea), and those who believe that finding any way you can to push a run across home plate is perfectly acceptable. Ned Yost likes to bunt, even when he's got a guy hitting over .500 at the plate. And while not every sacrifice has worked for the Royals this postseason, many have. Again, they're making the most of a small sample size. You can call it small ball, call it boring, call it terrible strategy. But the Royals have yet to lose in the playoffs.

Whatever happens in the World Series, this is a great story for baseball. Yes, the Royals are proving that a small market team that has no big-name stars and a manageable payroll can go far. That should give hope to every fan of  small-market teams. But all the stars have to align. In the big picture, the statistics still show that in baseball, spending equals winning. Maybe what we're seeing this year is an anomaly. If it is, we should all enjoy it while it lasts.

Requiem for a lost season

  
There's a certain ennui to the waning days of the baseball season, particularly when a team has long lost hope of making the postseason. The crowds thin out, the buzz that accompanies the early weeks of the season is gone, the players are just trying to make it to the end of the season without getting hurt. Nearly everyone involved—the players, the fans, the coaches—want it to be over with, but they also want to see things end on a positive note. To send everyone into the gloom of winter with the promise of light and warmth. Nowhere is this more true than in Minnesota.

It's been a rough stretch for the Minnesota Twins and their fans. They've just finished their fourth straight season of 90-plus losses, once again came in last in the American League Central, and they don't appear close to turning the corner. They don't pitch well, they don't hit well, they don't field well. They're not particularly fun to watch, and they have little personality. They're not lovable losers. They're not a team of former champions whose time has passed. They're not a team of talented youngsters exhibiting growing pains but on the verge of greatness. They're just a bad baseball team.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. In 2010, after nearly three decades of playing in the sterile confines of the Metrodome, the Twins moved to their new outdoor ballpark in the heart of downtown Minneapolis. Outdoor baseball was back, frigid northern weather be damned. The timing of Target Field's opening was fortuitous, as the Twins were in the midst of a run of success that had seen them win eight AL Central crowns in ten years. This after they had been mentioned as possible candidates for contraction. Much like the Moneyball Oakland As, the Twins were seen as a small market success story, a team that had built its success on developing players and managing its payroll wisely.

At the center of this success were the M&M boys, Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau. Mauer, Minnesota born and bred, was on his way perhaps to becoming the greatest offensive catcher of all time. He was coming off an MVP season and had already won three batting titles. Morneau, also a former MVP, had established himself as one of the more formidable sluggers in the game. They were surrounded by solid young veterans Michael Cuddyer and Jason Kubel, and the Paul Bunyon-esque slugger Jim Thome. Their pitching was strong from top to bottom, despite not having a true ace. Their defense was solid.

Most of all, what they had going for them was "the Twins way," a term that has been uttered with much derision the past few years. What was the Twins way? Playing solid fundamental baseball, taking advantage of every opportunity, not beating themselves with dumb mistakes. Twins hitters got hits with men on base, the fielders didn't commit many errors, and the pitchers pitched to contact because they trusted their fielders to catch the ball. While this style of play never got the Twins to the World Series, it did win them much admiration.

That success, combined with their beautiful new outdoor ballpark, made the Twins the hottest ticket in town. Target Field was the place to be on a summer night in Minneapolis. It didn't really matter how well the Twins were playing, or that hitting home runs in the new park was a bit of a challenge. There was beer, food, people watching and warm weather. Sure, half the people in the crowd weren't watching, but who cared. It was a party.

The party ended, at least on the field, in 2011. One year into a massive eight-year, $184 million contract, Joe Mauer was felled by a mystery ailment that doctors with the team described as "bilateral leg weakness." Justin Morneau, who had suffered a concussion in 2010, continued to feel the affects of that concussion and was not the same player. A pitching staff that at one point had seemed to have several members capable of being aces was exposed as having none. Ill-conceived trades brought in players not familiar with the Twins Way. The fundamentals disappeared. The party in the stands went on, but on the field an era was ending.

It's a Wednesday night in mid-September at Target Field, and the buzz has faded. The 64-87 Twins are taking on the mighty Detroit Tigers, who are in a fight with the Kansas City Royals for the division crown. Target Field is maybe a third full, as fans soak up the dying days of summer. It's about 70 degrees at game time, but as the sun goes down you can feel autumn creeping in. It's a gorgeous night. I keep thinking of this song.

Try to remember the kind of September

when life was slow and oh so mellow

The fans around me show varying degrees of interest in the game. Behind me, a man talks to his son about his carpal tunnel syndrome. It could be the way he's holding his mouse. He also might need new glasses, because the HR person says his prescription could be affecting the angle at which he views the computer screen. Another young man talks about his brother, who's so taken with his new girlfriend that he immediately heads over to her house after work. An older man in front of me is wearing a Mauer jersey and diligently keeping score. He's brought his own peanuts with him. A young woman in front of me flips through Facebook on her iPhone.

Between the third and fourth inning, I wander over to the Twins Town Tavern, a bar with windows over looking the field. During the early months of the season, this place is packed with fans trying to keep warm. As the weather gets warmer, the crowds thin out. On this night, most of the people at the Twins Town Tavern have no interest in the game. At the bar, five women in Twins gear are doing shots of Tequila. They appear at least halfway to being half in the bag.

The only one not drinking is Sue Nelson, longtime organist for the Twins. Her organ sits in front of one of the open windows at the bar, overlooking the field. She only plays when Twins players are at bat. As part of the intricate musical choreography of a modern-day ballpark, she wears an earpiece, through which she's told when she can play. In between innings, Sue says hi to kids and takes pictures with anyone who asks. I ask Sue if she ever gets depressed when the season is winding down. "Always" she says. "It's so depressing." Even at the end of a fourth straight losing season, she remains cheerful and passionate about her Twins.

On the field, the Twins are trying to give fans something to be passionate about. Pitching for the Twins is Kyle Gibson, a young pitcher who team officials are hoping can be a top of the rotation starter, if not an ace. Gibson was called up in the middle of the 2013 season, and the organization hoped he might provide a spark. He quickly proved he wasn't ready, and got hit hard. This year, he's been maddeningly inconsistent, brilliant in one start, dreadful the next. 

On this night, against a terrific Tigers lineup, Gibson quickly gets in trouble. Two runs in the first inning, then two more in the second as Miguel Cabrera rips a two-run double to left field. This after the Twins had scored three runs in the bottom of the first. It looks like it's going to be one of those nights for Gibson. But after the second inning, Gibson remarkably settles down and keeps the Tigers off the scoreboard as he slogs through four more innings. Sometimes, the guys you want out on the mound are the ones who can give up a few runs early on and then bear down to keep their team in the game. Maybe Gibson can be one of those guys.

David Price, pitching for the Tigers, has already proven himself to be one of those guys. Tonight, he's not. He's already thrown 89 pitches by the fifth inning. He's hanging on, showing stretches of dominance. In the fifth he strikes out Joe Mauer on three pitches. But in the sixth, it all caves in. Doubles by Aaron Hicks and Jordan Schaeffer. A triple by Brian Dozier. A soft opposite field double by Joe Mauer. By the end of the sixth, the Twins have take the lead, 6-4. Against the powerful Tigers lineup, that doesn't appear to be a safe lead.

At this point in the game, only the hardcore fans are paying attention. Even to them, this game means little. Tonight, the big star of the game is the giant water bugs dropping from the sky. They're two inches long. They live mostly near water, but are attracted to lights, which would explain why they're spending the evening at the Twins game. Every few minutes, one of them drops near an unsuspecting fan, causing panic. A couple in the front row of my section bolts for the concourse when one of the bugs lands near their feet.

On the big screen, it's time for kiss cam, a staple of most modern-day stadiums. These days it's one of the highlights of Twins games. Some couples give each other a quick peck on the lips. Others go to town. Inevitably, the camera lands on two people who clearly aren't a couple, eliciting a chuckle from the crowd. At the end, a young man gets on his knee and pulls out a ring for his gal. She cries, they kiss and embrace, the crowd cheers. The camera lingers a little too long for my comfort.

Kyle Gibson isn't the only bright spot for the Twins tonight. Rookie shortstop-turned-center fielder Danny Santana, who's been a revelation this year, collects three hits and drives in two runs. Joe Mauer also has three hits. He's been hitting well since he returned from a pulled stomach muscle suffered in June. Still, he's only hitting around .270, nearly 50 points below his career average. Before the injury, Twins fans were turning on the hometown boy and booing him with increasing frequency. After a late season concussion in 2013, the Twins decided to move Mauer from catcher to first base, hoping that would keep him in the lineup for more games. Some observers even suggested that moving him to a less physically taxing position might result in more productivity at the plate. It hasn't worked out that way.

For many Twins fans, the frustration with Mauer has been growing for awhile. Some cite the injuries, some harp on the inability to hit for power or in the clutch, and some are just bugged by a low-key manner that can appear as lack of desire. To his detractors, Mauer hasn't lived up to his massive contract. While his beautiful swing and patient, careful approach to each at bat has produced three batting titles and a high on-base percentage, it drives some fans crazy. A trait that particularly irks fans is his penchant for taking the first pitch of an at-bat, which has led many pitchers to throw first-pitch fastballs for a strike. Most great hitters would accept the invitation, but not Mauer. Every once in a while he'll turn on one for a home run, and make it look graceful and easy. And every time he does it, you wonder why he can't do it more often

It's the eighth inning now, and the game has slowed to a glacial pace. There's been a lot of talk this season about the length of games, which now regularly last three hours at a minimum. And the eighth inning seems generally be the biggest culprit, especially in close games. It's when managers get into the chess game. One will make the first move by bringing in a pinch hitter, and the opposing manager will counter with a pitching change. Each is weighing the cold data of the stats sheet against the gut feel of who has the hot hand. In the eighth inning of an October playoff game, this maneuvering can make for great theater. The eighth inning of a meaningless game in September is interminable. Tonight, the eighth takes about 45 minutes, and includes four pitching changes between the two teams. The Twins score two more runs to increase their lead to 8-4.

There's been an increasing amount of chatter that this might be manager Ron Gardenhire's last season with the club. Gardenhire has, for the most part, remained blameless for the current string of futility. Much of the blame has landed on ownership for being unwilling to spend enough to bring in top shelf talent despite the increase in revenue produced by Target Field. That criticism goes back to when the team was regularly winning the division. In its quest to prove their fiscal responsibility, Twins ownership decided it couldn't afford to keep players like Torii Hunter and Johan Santana, players who might have put them over the top. Management has also taken the heat for bad trades, bets on bargain basement free agents, and a farm system that hasn't produced any significant talent.

The Twins have had a lot of stability at the manager position, and that's admirable in the current sports landscape. Tom Kelly, who led the team to World Series victories in 1987 and 1991, managed for 16 years. Gardenhire is currently in his 13th season. Both have been loyal to the organization, and thoroughly committed to the Twins way. And the organization rewards that loyalty. After the World Series victory in 1991, and a 92-win season in 1992, Kelly suffered through eight straight losing seasons, and the threat of contraction, before the Twins turned it around in 2001. Gardenhire was his heir, preaching the Twins way and overseeing the team's run of success in the first decade of the new century . 

Still, it's hard to stay above the fray when you're the manager of a team that's had four straight 90-plus loss seasons. And Gardy just seems tired, all too often relying on the stock clichés about "tough nights" and "battling" in his post-game press conferences. While most fans recognize he doesn't have a lot of talent to work with, there's still a sense that another voice might be able inject some new energy, and get more out of the players than Gardy has been able to.

[Editors note: Ron Gardenhire was fired today]

And maybe it's time for a change in the Twins way, which has become more of a term of ridicule than praise in this town. For years Twins fans have reflexively cringed every time they see a highlight of former Twin David Ortiz pulling a monstrous home run to right field at Fenway Park, something he's been doing regularly for the past 13 seasons. Ortiz came up with the Twins, and the club let him go in 2002 as a free agent after a few injury-plagued, underwhelming seasons. After signing with the Red Sox in 2003, all Ortiz has done is become one of the greatest clutch hitters of his generation and a future Hall of Famer. One of the keys to his success in Boston is that Red Sox coaches encouraged him to be a slugger, to use his size and strength to pull the ball to right field. Twins coaches had wanted him to focus more on hitting the ball up the middle and to the opposite field. Why? Because that was the Twins way. For an organization that's made a lot of smart moves, that was easily it's dumbest.

Touch me

take me to that other place

reach me

you know I'm not a hopeless case

But tonight, at least for one night, things are looking up. In the ninth, reliever Jared Burton sets down the Tigers in order, and what's left of the crowd goes home happy. As the fielders line up to shake hands with the closer, and fans head to out into the cool September night, U2's "Beautiful Day" plays over the speakers.

I didn't feel very good about attending this game. I wanted to go with my daughter, Martha, but it was a school night, and she didn't really feel like going. But my wife and I have been separated for nearly a year, and Wednesday's are one of my nights with Martha. When I told my wife I was going to the game anyway, she was furious, with good reason. I chose a meaningless baseball game over spending a night with my daughter. It was a bad decision on my part, one of many thoughtless decisions I've made over the past year. But it was my last game of the season, and it was a beautiful night, and I wanted to be there, to be reminded why a meaningless baseball game in dreadful season can be a thing of joy and beauty and sadness. Just like life.

Why sports and morality don't mix

In an article for Minnpost today, Doug Grow asked whether the Adrian Peterson case will cost the Vikings. I'd like to widen the lens on that issue a bit and ask a larger question. Will the Peterson story—on top of the Ray Rice story, the Ray McDonald story, and the Greg Hardy story (not to mention the overlooked one-in-three players likely to suffer from brain trauma story)—cost the NFL? The likely answer is no.

There will certainly be short term consequences for both the team and the league in the wake of the team's decision to activate Peterson for Sunday's game. Earlier today, hotel chain Radisson announced it was suspending its limited sponsorship of the team, and Nike stores in the Mall of America began removing Adrian Peterson Vikings jerseys. Governor Dayton, a man who spent a lot of political capital to get partial state funding for the new Vikings stadium, called Adrian Peterson a public embarrassment to Minnesota. U.S. Bank, who many believe will ultimately buy the naming rights for said new Vikings stadium, said it will continue to monitor the situation.

Reaction from league sponsors to these recent stories hasn't been quite as strong. Long-time NFL sponsor AnheuserBusch released a rather tepid statement of disapproval, saying "we are not yet satisfied with the league's handling of behaviors that so clearly go against our own company culture and moral code." Still, the fact that they said anything that could possibly upset the NFL should be of concern to league officials.

[Note: Early Wednesday morning, the Vikings reversed course and put Adrian Peterson on something called the exempt/commissioner's permission list, which will keep him away from the team until the legal process is settled.]

In the long run, though, I think we can all be fairly certain that Anheuser Busch will continue to be an NFL sponsor, and that A-B products will continue to flow from the taps at NFL stadiums across the land. Just as we can be sure that Radisson will at some point come back to th w home of the Vikings. Why? Because all is ultimately forgiven in sports.

To be sure, many Vikings fans are likely done with Adrian Peterson. I'd count myself among that group. I'll let others engage in the debate over the merits of discipline and corporal punishment, and the role of culture. For me, hitting a 4-year-old with a tree branch until they bleed is child abuse. Whether a jury in Texas believes that to be the case remains to be seen. But I don't believe he should play again until that gets sorted out. And once it does, then he needs to get some parenting help.

But what's interesting to me is the moral and ethical gymnastics that sports fans perform when it comes to cases like this. I'd like to believe the majority of Vikings fans were appalled by this story, and I'd be willing to bet that if the perpetrator were a Target executive, or a politician, or a teacher, they'd expect (and perhaps demand) that the person be fired from their job immediately. But when it comes to a star athlete, we suddenly start talking about due process and rush to judgement. That's exactly what we've seen from some fans in the Adrian Peterson case. Ultimately what matters to us most is this: Our team needs him!

This attitude has always distorted the way fans view athletes and criminal behavior. As a sports fan myself, I'm no less guilty. In other cases of athletes-gone-wrong, I've found  myself willing to give the accused the benefit of the doubt. There's even a part of me that feels some sadness for Adrian Peterson, that this incident will tarnish what seemed destined to be a legendary career, one that he worked very hard to achieve. Would I feel the same sympathy for your average citizen accused of a similar crime? Likely not.

I wish I better understood the psychology behind this, but I have some ideas. To some extent, sports has always been seen as a refuge from the messiness of the world and our lives. Call it our bread and circus if you want, but I've always thought that term has an air of moral superiority to it. Yes, we like the entertainment, but we also crave the clarity of sports. Teams win or lose. Players either succeed or they fail. There is no nuance in the final score. And we don't want that clarity to be muddied by the issues and problems that plague our society. When those problems encroach on the playing field, what we really want to say is "can't we just go back to talking about the game?"

That's the refrain you've been hearing from a lot of football fans over the last few days. And while many are disgusted by Adrian Peterson and Ray Rice, and perhaps more than a few are concerned about brain damage among players, they'll see their way through the current storm with their fan-dom intact. And when this all blows over, some might be bigger fans than ever. Because many need this game in their lives. And that's why, in the long run, these stories won't cost the NFL a dime.

Favorite Album Friday: It's All About The Replacements

Well, after a good start, I've kind of dropped the ball with the Favorite Album Friday posts. But on the eve of this weekend's big Replacements reunion concert, I figure now is as a good a time as any to get back on track. Throughout the week here in Minnesota, there have been plenty of tributes to the band and reminiscences about their inconsistent and drunken live shows. And so tonight I pay tribute to my favorite album by one of my all-time favorite bands: Tim, by the Replacements. Because if there was ever a poster-band for failing to live up to expectations, it was the Replacements.

At one time, for many hardcore Replacements fans, Tim was more than just the first major-label for the band. It was a dividing line that separated what kind of fan you were. You were either one of the fans who loved their early, faster, more ragged period, culminating in Let it Be, or you were one of the fans who latched on to the band after Tim, a period that saw them make increasingly poppy, more slickly produced records as they tried to chase after the ever-elusive brass ring of pop stardom. That, of course, was the narrative of many Indie bands from the 1980s: low-fi beginnings, the establishment of small yet devoted fan bases, and the struggle to make into the mainstream. And in many cases, you had the fans who believed the early years were the truest iteration of the band.

In retrospect, the narrative is ridiculous. All bands change and evolve over time. Musicians get better at their craft and expect more from themselves. Songwriters become more introspective. Bands learn that better production can add depth to their songs. That's the path that the Replacements tried to follow but never really could. But for the Replacements, the one thing that never changed was the thing that people loved about them: their attitude, their spirit, and their sense of humor. And all of that is captured on Tim.
 
I know a lot of people who don't care for the Replacements, and they are people whose musical taste I respect. I hesitate to say that they don't "get" the Replacements, because that makes it sound Replacements fans are part of some club that has special insight into music. It's not that at all. Nor is it a Minnesota thing. I'm not from here, and even though I've lived her for more than a decade, I'll never be a Minnesotan. But I do think that many Replacements fans discovered the band at a particularly impressionable time in their lives, and for that reason they will always be special.

That was the case for me. I first heard the Replacements in the fall of 1986, when I was a shy 15-year-old who loved the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin and was just beginning to discover Indie music. The song was "Kiss Me on The Bus." I heard it on WLIR, a long Island station that played a lot of new wave music. I couldn't get that song out of my head for days. I was intrigued. Who was this band? Who names an album "Tim"? Where's Minneapolis? So I went out to the "record store" and bought the "cassette" of Tim. And everything changed after that.

How? Well, I just heard music, and thought about it, differently after listening to Tim. There was nothing great about the musicianship. Paul Westerberg wasn't a great singer. But his songwriting was real, and his singing was heartfelt. He sang about wanting to be something, and about the fear that he would never be anything at all. That kind of vulnerability was unlike anything I had heard in pop or rock music, and for a 15-year-old, it was easy to relate to. Listening back to it now, Tim is the sound of a band giving it everything its got, and hoping that would be enough. You can feel it in every song.

I could spend a lot of time on every song from Tim, but I won't. They're all great. Whether he's pushing off adulthood in "Hold My Life," expressing adolescent cynicism and angst on "Bastards of Young," or wallowing in regret on "Here Comes a Regular," Paul Westerberg is at his best on this album. His humor, sincerity, anger and pathos are on full display. And the spirit of the music is undeniable.

There might be some Replacements fans out there who still don't care for Tim, who think it tried too hard to smooth the band's rough edges. If there are, I'd recommend they give it another listen. I try to listen to it at least once a year, and nearly 30 years after I first heard it, it still hits me in the place only great music can reach.

And with that, I'll leave you with my favorite Replacements song, and one of the greatest videos of all time. Here's "Left of the Dial". If you've never heard the band before, this will tell you everything you need to know.

Am I Ready For Some Football?

Several years ago, when I was a senior in college, I sat down to watch a football game in the living room of the off-campus apartment I shared with two friends. The game, if I remember correctly, was between the New York Giants and the Green Bay Packers. I had little rooting interest in the game, but it was Sunday, it was football, and I was trying to avoid whatever work I had to do (a habit I've never been able to shake).

At one point in the game, and I can't be sure if I'm remembering this correctly, I recoiled at a particularly violent hit that left a player immobile for several moments. And it was at at that moment that I thought to myself "I can't watch this game anymore. It's too violent." I was thinking, of course, not just about that particular game but about the game of football itself. I had been a football fan all my life, but in that moment, I felt like I needed to take a stand. As a liberal, enlightened soon-to-be college graduate, I was going to cut football from my life as a protest against the violence of the sport and the culture that it embodied. I was done.

More than twenty years later, I have yet to follow up on that bold proclamation. I may have stopped watching football for a few weeks, maybe even a month, but my boycott was fairly short lived. "I'll just check in to see what the score is" turned into "maybe I'll just watch the first quarter," and pretty soon I was back to watching games from start to finish. My discomfort with the violence of the game remained, but it didn't stop me from being a fan. It's one of many statements of intention I've made in my life that I've either forgotten or failed to see through.

This memory of kind-of-but-not-really taking a stance has been rekindled not only by the upcoming football season, but also by Steve Almond's new book, "Against Football: One Man's Reluctant Manifesto" (excerpted in the latest Village Voice). In the book Almond lays out his arguments for why he can no longer morally stomach a game that he has followed for more than 40 years, and why we should take a hard look at the role the "Football Industrial Complex" plays in our society.

Almond is a terrific writer and an insightful cultural critic. His arguments against football are multifaceted. He takes on the violence of the game and its impact on the long-term health of players, the greed of the league and its owners, the hypocrisy of the people who cover the sport, and the impact of the sport on our institutions of higher learning. Most significantly, he doesn't let fans off the hook by blaming it all on the coaches, Roger Goodell, TV, or the NCAA . He argues that we fans are the ones who have enabled football to become a sanctified, morally palatable form of entertainment. And the power of his critique of the game comes from the fact that he is a fan.

Almond is not alone in his stance. Malcolm Gladwell wrote a piece for the New Yorker in 2009 in which he compared football to dog fighting, and in an interview with Slate asked whether it is ethical to watch football. Writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, in a 2012 piece for the Atlantic following the suicide of former NFL linebacker Junior Seau (a suicide that is widely believed to stem from the brain trauma he had suffered as a player), concluded that, at least for him, it was not. For Coates, the NFL's refusal to acknowledge the damage the game was doing to its players was the last straw. "For me," Coates wrote, "the hardest portion is living apart--destroying something that binds me to friends and family. With people whom I would not pass another words, I can debate the greatest running back of all time. It's like losing a language."

I remember reading that article at the time, and feeling uncomfortable because, despite similar concerns, I was not ready to take that step. Steve Almond's arguments make me feel uncomfortable as well. I applaud the decision he's made, but I'm not there yet. I love watching football, and talking about football, and listening to guys talk about football. But I can't deny my discomfort with many aspects of the game has grown, and gets stronger every season. Like Coates, I'm uncomfortable with being a fan of a game that impacts the brains of those who play it, and I have questions about the ethics of supporting a business that clearly has little regard for the safety of its employees. And I'm uncomfortable with the knowledge that my continued support of the game makes it unlikely that the NFL or the NCAA will ever seriously address brain injuries.

But what makes me most uncomfortable is the knowledge that I am a moral agent in this. In Steve Almond's view, I'm complicit in feeding the beast. I can't argue against that judgement. The question for me is whether I'm willing to accept that.

Death and the Cult of Celebrity

Years ago, when I was in high school, I had a friend over at my house and we were watching television. As I flipped around the channels (I think I actually had to go up to the cable box and turn the dial), there was a news report about the death of former New York Yankees and Kansas City Royals manager Dick Howser from a brain tumor. I commented that it was sad. "Why is it sad?" my friend asked me. "Did you know him?"

Of course I didn't know Dick Howser personally. But his death, after a very public battle with cancer, struck me as sad. He wasn't that old, he had put on a very brave face despite knowing his fate, and he seemed like a nice guy. I had no better answer than that. And I've thought about that conversation since the news broke last night that Robin Williams had been found dead, of an apparent suicide. I think of it every time someone in the public eye dies before their time.

Many articles have appeared today extolling the talents of the hyper-kinetic Williams, while others have explored his battles with addiction and the connection between creativity and mental illness. All I can add is that Robin Williams made me laugh, and that it's clear that many artists have demons that they cannot keep at bay. If there is anything good to come of Williams's death, it is that it will remind people of how crippling a disease depression can be, how relentless it is.

But what I'm interested in is how we react to these deaths. The death of Robin Williams comes in the midst of a summer of carnage and mayhem around the world. Just within the past few weeks we've seen war in Gaza, violence and brutality in Iraq, an outbreak of Ebola in West Africa, and the senseless shooting down of a commercial airliner. Yes, we notice these things, we express our outrage and our fear, but we keep them at bay. But if you spent any time on social media last night, you saw an outpouring of grief and shock and sadness over the death of a single, albeit very talented, individual. And there was a palpable sense that everyone needed to stop what they were doing and acknowledge what a loss this is.

And so again I come back to that question my friend asked me years ago. Why is the death of Robin Williams so sad to so many people? Why is it sadder than the unnecessary deaths of people in Gaza, Iraq, and Sierra Leone? Or, for that matter, the thousands of people who take their lives each year? It isn't. But I think it's hard for many of us to wrap our heads around the violence and death and poverty that exists in many parts of the world. Many of the problems in the world are complex and deep-rooted, and to dwell on the dark side of humanity for too long would make many of us want to curl up in the fetal position.

I don't necessarily think this is all about our obsession with celebrity, although in some cases that may play a role. We do, in some sense, live vicariously through famous people. But ultimately, it seems we come together to mourn for actors and writers and musicians and athletes because they've brought us joy, they've touched us with their art, they've shown us the better side of humanity. And losing that source of joy, that connection to something larger, can be incredibly sad. I have no better answer than that.

Favorite Album Friday #4: Joe Henry's Trampoline

For this week's Favorite Album Friday selection, I've chosen the album Trampoline by singer/songwriter Joe Henry.

Never heard of Joe Henry? That's too bad. He's a gem, and he might be one of the most overlooked singer/songwriters of his generation. If there's a word to describe Joe Henry's career, it would be eclectic. His catalog veers from straight ahead rock to folk to alt-country to jazz to trip hop to Tin Pan Alley, and even when you think he's going far beyond his range he somehow manages to pull it off. In a way, his career reminds me of Tom Waits, who started off as a balladeer before venturing into more avante-garde territory. Trampoline, released in 1996, is an album that seems to mark Henry's transition into more varied and experimental territory, both musically and lyrically.

From the opening strains of "Bob and Ray," Trampoline is an album of whispers and sighs, distant voices and dreams, dark and smoky songs driven by sinister guitar lines and snapping drums. Its songs are tales of plane crashes, murder, dreams, and lost love. But mostly it's an album about ghosts, with the word itself appearing in several songs. We all, Henry seems to be saying, are haunted by some kind of ghost.  "I kept your ghost, but I don't know how to give it back to you," Henry sings over a mournful steel guitar in the song "Parade." It's a pretty dark album, but not overwhelmingly so. Pump organ, strings, horns, mellotron, and samples of an opera singers add to the sonic layers of the album, creating a dreamlike quality to the music. And amidst the darkness there is the improbably sunny, mandolin-driven "Go With God," a song in which Henry channels Paul Simon.

Ultimately, as I'm finding, Trampoline is an album that's hard to capture in words and defies categorization, so best to just go and listen to it yourself. Here's a taste:

Appreciating Jeter

On Tuesday I attended the MLB All Star Game at Target Field. Now, going to an all star game hasn't exactly been a top item on my bucket list. I'm a huge baseball fan, but the game simply isn't the event it once was. Maybe it's because of free agency, or interleague play, or the fact that on most nights you can find a way to watch any of baseball's great players. When I was younger, the All Star Game was exciting because there were certain players you rarely got to see play. And seeing a member of your team (in my case, the Mets) playing among baseball's greats was a vicarious thrill. That luster is gone. Nonetheless, when the opportunity to attend this year's game arose, I gladly took it.

The star of this night, aside from Target Field, was New York Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter, making his final appearance in the All Star Game before his retirement. I'll admit upfront that I've never been as enamored of Jeter as other, and that's put me in a lonely place. I'm not going to argue that he's over-rated. His career numbers will speak for themselves. But I have always believed that he benefits from the Yankee myth-making machine and from playing in the country's largest media market. Maybe that's a distinction without a difference. But had Derek Jeter spent his career in a smaller market (say Pittsburgh or Kansas City), would he have become the face of the game? That's the question I've always asked myself.

Of course, I'm not a Yankee fan either, and Derek Jeter was the face of the Yankee dynasty of the late '90s. I despised those teams. And Jeter was everywhere for them, getting big hits when they were needed, stealing bases, playing solid (and sometimes spectacular) defense. There were times it seemed he came up to bat every single inning, especially late in the game. And every time he came up he'd work the count, taking balls, stepping out of the batter's box, and fouling off pitches until he found just the right pitch to do something with. If you were rooting for the other team, it was spirit crushing. Especially in the playoffs, where Jeter excelled. And he did it all cleanly, in an era that will always be tainted by the widespread use of performance enhancing drugs.

That, of course, is what made Derek Jeter so great. And the flip side to my argument that Jeter benefited from playing in New York is that he not only withstood the intense scrutiny of the city's baseball fans but flourished under the white hot spotlight. Yankee Stadium is a place where many previously great players have failed. And unlike players like Reggie Jackson and Alex Rodriguez, who wanted to be the brightest stars on and off the stage, Jeter somehow managed to go about his business as quietly and as professionally as possible. He could hold a master class on how to conduct yourself as a professional athlete.

So, in the end, I was happily among the 41,000 fans who gave Derek Jeter four standing ovations on Tuesday night,  a night on which he (of course) got two hits and scored the first run. I even found myself getting a little choked up (forgive me, Mets fans) as he walked off the field to the strains of "New York, New York." It was probably a little bit more than he wanted, but he handled it with his usual grace. One would hope the other players on the field were taking note.

Favorite Album Friday #3: You've Heard This Somewhere Before

When I was younger and first beginning to appreciate rock/pop music, I often wondered if there would ever be a point where there would be no more "new" songs to create, if there was a finite limit to the melodies, choruses, and hooks that bands could invent. One could argue that we've already reached that point, and that bands now are simply regurgitating material we've heard before. The trick is making it sound fresh and original.

In that vein, today's selection is the album Egyptology by the band World Party. Created by English singer/songwriter Karl Wallinger in 1989 after he left The Waterboys, World Party is essentially a one-man band, with Wallinger handling most of the duties in the studio. World Party had a pretty good run from the late 1980s through the mid-90s, releasing a string of critically praised and modestly successful albums (Private Revolution, Goodby Jumbo, and Bang). Though he never had any major hits, Wallinger's smart, meticulously crafted, socially conscious pop became a staple on college and alternative radio.

Egyptology, World Party's fourth studio album, continued with the template Karl Wallinger had established on his earlier albums. Beatle-esque harmonies and chord progressions, layered and lush arrangements, and lyrics that channeled some of the optimism of the late 60s with a dash of Gen X cynicism. It's joyously and unapologetically retro. Even a casual listener will hear the chiming Sgt. Pepper guitars, horns lifted from Van Morrison's Moondance, and operatic jams reminiscent of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. It's musical time travel.

 

While Egyptology is probably not as much as an artistic statement as Goodbye Jumbo or Bang, its become my favorite World Party album simply because it's a joy to listen to from start to finish. From the opening drumroll of "It Is Time to Remember," and the  ELO-inspired "Call Me Up," each song on the album is a highly buffed pop gem. Sure, almost every element in every song is familiar, but Wallinger puts them together in a way that makes it more than musical mimicry. He's channeling his love of the music he grew up with into something new, and the joy that comes through is hard to deny.

 

Here's a taste (and a really cool video, to boot):

 

 

Riding the Rails

My daughter and I took a ride on the Green Line the other day. It was a lazy summer day, with nothing planned, and my attempts to get Martha away from the TV and her various devices were being met with resistance until I mentioned, off the top of my head, taking a ride on light rail. "Where are we going?" she asked excitedly. "I don't know," I replied. "Maybe we'll just take it St. Paul and back." For some reason, that piqued her interest.

Though it seemed like nothing more than a time-killing, I was pleased that Martha wanted to join me on this urban adventure. Since I don't actually have a reason to use either of the the Twin Cities' light rail lines on a daily basis, I was curious to see what the experience was like. And I also like riding on trains. Having grown up in New York City and lived in another major city (Boston) for several years, I'm a supporter of a varied and thriving transit system, even if I don't use said system very often. To me, any city that has designs on being considered a modern, world-class city should offer people as many options to get around as possible, and understand that those options will always require public subsidies. I'll happily pay for that with my tax dollars.

I know there are many in this region who fundamentally disagree with my views on transit. And for those people, light rail is a lightning rod, another example of liberals, public officials, and urban planners shoving an expensive, unnecessary, and unsustainable transit system down people's throats. And even among supporters of light rail, questions remain about costs, ridership estimates, speed, equity, and the ability of the system to promote development. As a result, it seems every step in the creation and expansion of the light rail system has been a battle, and that is certain to continue with the contentious Southwest LRT line.

To me, the addition of more transit options is a way for the Twin Cities to come closer to the ideal of New Urbanism, which promotes the creation of denser, more compact and walkable neighborhoods that contain a mix of housing, commercial buildings, and open space. When I first moved to Minneapolis in the mid-1990s, it seemed like the embodiment of everything that New Urbanism intended to correct. I was struck by the delineation between where people worked and where people lived, and by the fact that so few people seemed to actually live downtown. I took the bus to and from work, but felt like I had to use my car for everything else. And walking to a destination, even in the city, just wasn't very interesting.

I knew that not every city could be like New York, where walking is not only a way to get around but a way to entertain yourself. But Minneapolis, aside from the chain of lakes in the summer, felt like a city whose street life had been decimated by car culture and suburban sprawl, and no one seemed bothered by that. I didn't want to live in New York, but I wanted to be in a place that felt more like a city.

Twenty years later, the Twin Cities feel more like the type of urban environment I want to live in. It has become denser and more walkable. Downtown Minneapolis, at least, doesn't feel like a ghost town on a weeknight. But I've changed too. I no longer look down on the suburbs. Hell, I live in one, though I'm right on the edge of Minneapolis. I shop at strip malls on occasion. People shouldn't feel bad about wanting to live in a place that's less dense, less urban. There are many good reasons to live in the suburbs. But I do think that public officials should do everything they can to make it easier for people without cars to get from point A to point B. And having those options could help knit the city and the suburbs together.

I thought about all of this as Martha and I rode the Green Line from Target Field to Union Station and back. I'll admit that at first I found the ride to be annoyingly pokey and much less efficient than your average big city subway line, and I wondered how tolerable the 55 minute end-to-end commute would be on a daily basis. But as we crossed over the Mississippi and cruised through the University of Minnesota campus, I began to enjoy the ride. Even if only in a passing manner, I was introduced to parts of St. Paul that I hardly, if ever, see, and hopefully will explore more. After we reached the end of the line Martha and I played ping pong in the echoing great hall of Union Depot and I pondered how many hours behind schedule the Amtrak Empire Builder would be. And then we made the return trip, taking turns sitting in the backwards facing and forward facing seats and talking about which we liked better. We both agreed that sitting backwards was kind of cool.

That conversation alone was worth the price of the ride.

Favorite Album Friday, Fourth of July Edition

It seems fitting on Independence Day to select an album that speaks to the American experience, so my nominee for today's #faf post, in all its sepia-toned glory, is The Band, the eponymous second album by The Band.

Released in 1969, The Band evokes a different time in America, but not the time you would expect. While other bands of their generation were addressing the tumult of the era, The Band put out an album of songs that seem as if they could have been composed in 1869. "You can feel the wood in this album," guitarist and primary songwriter Robbie Robertson has been quoted as saying. And it's true. The songs have an organic, homespun quality that goes beyond the music itself. In the immortal words of former Red Sox pitcher Oil Can Boyd, "it feels old-timey." And for a group that was made up mostly of Canadians, the album captures America in its beauty and its contradictions in a way that maybe only outsiders could. From the heights of the Rockies ("Across the Great Divide") to the shores of Lake Erie ("Lookout Cleveland") to the bayou ("Up on Cripple Creek") and to the front porch of a home in Virginia ("Rocking Chair"), The Band takes you on a journey across an America that feels real and yet mythic at the same time.

The most well-known track on the album is "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," a song told from the perspective of Virgil Kaine, a Tennessee farmer and Confederate soldier who's seen everything around him destroyed by the Civil War. It's a beautiful song, sung by drummer Levon Helm in a voice that's as old as the hills, highlighted by a lovely three part harmony on the chorus with pianist Richard Manuel and bass player Rick Danko. But it's also a difficult song that gives me pause every time I hear it, because it asks you to step in the shoes of a man fighting who's fought for the South and all it represents, even if it's not a fight he's asked for. Ultimately, songwriter Robbie Robertson doesn't seem to be asking you to sympathize with Virgil Kaine, or celebrate the South, but rather understand that the Civil War had many victims.

One of the things I've always enjoyed about revisiting favorite albums is that every time I do, I find something new to appreciate. Maybe it's a song I haven't previously paid attention to, a bass line I've never noticed, or the phrasing of a lyric. In listening to The Band over the last few days, I've discovered the song "Unfaithful Servant," a song about betrayal, dignity, and regret. What stands out to me now more than ever is the gorgeous vocal performance by Rick Danko, who sings the song in a plaintive, melancholy voice that makes you ache. Like Helms's vocals on "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down," Danko's performance makes you feel the emotions of the narrator.

So whatever you're doing this Fourth of July, take some time to listen to this album and reflect on our shared history. Here's a cut to get you in a celebratory mood:

Crazy.gov

American politics has historically been full of colorful characters, a motley assortment of goofballs, cranks, and crooks. And for whatever reason, the Governor's mansion seems to have a magnetic attraction for many of them. Maybe because, outside of the presidency, it's one of the few political  positions of real power in this country, a place where politicians who are smart, ambitious, and politically savvy can craft policy, make a name for themselves, and build a case for higher office. And they can generally do so while avoiding some of the glare of the national media (unless your name is Chris Christy).

Let's review some of the more notorious governors of recent history.

• Rod Blagojevich, governor of Illinois from 2003-2009. While much of his time as governor was marked by controversy, Blago wasn't content to be just another in a long line of corrupt Illinois governors. He shot to the top of that list when he was caught on tape in 2008 conspiring to sell the vacated Senate seat of newly elected president Barack Obama, then spent two years trying to convince everyone of his innocence. He was ultimately convicted on corruption charges in 2011 and sent to federal prison. But word has it that he might be getting out sooner than expected.
• Huey Long, governor of Louisiana from 1928-1932. Perhaps one of the most famous governors in American history, Long embodied everything we love and hate about politicians. He rose to power as an advocate for the poor and the powerless, and during his time as governor he took on the special interests to push through legislation that provided free schools textbooks, extended public education into the more rural parts of the state, and expanded the state's health and transportation systems. But he was as corrupt and ruthless as they come. Long was the the model for Willie Stark, the governor in Robert Penn Warren's classic "All the King's Men."
• Jimmie Davis, governor of Louisiana from 1944-1948 and 1960-1964. Louisiana seems to come up a lot in these lists. Known as the "Singing Governor," among Davis's other major contributions to U.S. history is composing the song "You Are My Sunshine." He also acted in several B Westerns, taught yodeling, convinced the taxpayers of Louisiana to build him a really big mansion, and tried really hard to keep the state's schools segregated. Still, he seemed to be more universally beloved than Huey Long.
• Jesse Ventura, governor of Minnesota from 1998-2002. No list of colorful governors would be complete without The Body, even though Ventura was in reality much tamer, and certainly less corrupt, than the other listed. Still, he had his moments. During his time in office, the former professional wrestler offended hunters across the state when he told a columnist "until you've hunted man you haven't hunted yet," told a Playboy reporter that religion is a "crutch for weak-minded people" and that he'd like to be reincarnated as a bra, repeatedly ridiculed the state press corps (whose members he liked to call "jackals"), and officiated a WWF event. Minnesotans generally don't like to talk about that era.

And that's just the short list. Remember South Carolina governor Mark Sanford and his mysterious Appalachian Trail hiking trip? Or New York Governor Elliot Spitzer, the anti-corruption crusader who spent thousands of dollars on high-end prostitutes?

What bring this all to mind is a recent story about Maine Governor Paul LePage. Elected in 2010, LePage made it clear from early on that he was no ordinary governor. His tenure has been marked by failed attempts to roll back state environmental laws, making jokes about wanting to bomb one of the state's largest newspapers, ridiculing the state's public schools, and comparing the IRS to the Gestapo and its enforcement of Obamacare to the Holocaust. You know, the basic level of nuttiness that you can get away with when you're the governor of a state that doesn't get a ton of national media attention.

That might change with the allegations in a new book by political blogger Mike Tipping. According to Tipping, LePage held several meetings over a period of nine months in 2013 with members of the Consitutional Coalition, a group of far-right conspiracy theorists who consider themselves part of the Sovereign Citizens movement, a loose collection of groups that generally believe that the federal government is illegitimate and the source of all evil in this country. The 9/11 attacks, the shootings at Sandy Hook, and the Boston Marathon bombing are just a few of the acts these groups believe are hoaxes perpetrated by the U.S. Government to lay the groundwork for the eventual takeover by the New World Order. Standard tinfoil hat stuff.

Among the items discussed during these meetings, according to Tipping, is the belief of this group that the president of the Maine Senate and the Speaker of the Maine House of Representatives should be arrested for crimes of treason. And what crimes would those be? Why accepting and using unconstitutional currency (dollars, as opposed to gold and silver), of course, and conspiring with a variety of international organizations (UN, NATO, etc.) to take away Americans' property rights.

Now, maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge on this one. Maybe Paul LePage is an open-minded guy who just likes to meet with his constituents and get the pulse of the people. And he ceratinly wouldn't be the first conspiracy theorist to sit in the governor's chair (see Ventura, Jesse). But if Tipping's claims are true, Governor LePage might be setting a new standard of irresponsible behavior for a U.S. governor. And that's no small feat.

Favorite Album Friday #1

In an attempt to write more about one of my favorite things in life, and to stimulate my lazy ass to do more with this blog, I'm starting a new feature called "Favorite Album Friday," or #faf if you're so inclined. In this space I'll be writing about some of my all-time favorite albums, and the albums that are currently bending my ear. Who knows, maybe it will become a thing. And yes, it does seem weird to talk about "albums" in the age of digital music. But that's a conversation for another time.

For my inaugural #faf post, I've chosen the album Southeastern by "alt country" singer/songwriter Jason Isbell, which came highly recommended to me by a former colleague (and for that I can't be thankful enough). Originally a member of the band Drive-By Truckers, Isbell has been putting out solo records since 2007. Southeastern is his fourth solo effort, and though I've not yet heard his previous albums, I can't imagine how they could be better than this one.

I've long had a tendency to associate albums with seasons, a habit that's generally based on when I first immersed myself in the music. But some music just lends itself to certain seasons, beyond the simplicity of winter=dark music and summer=happy music. REM's Reckoning, which I first heard in the summer of my 13th year, always reminds me of that summer and how I felt when I first heard it. But there's also a lushness to the sound of that album, particularly Peter Buck's guitar, that reminds me of the warmth of a summer in full bloom. Southeastern, to me, is a winter album. It has moments of darkness, both musically and lyrically, with songs driven by despair, loneliness, and regrets. But it also has moments of light.

One of the great tricks of the "confessional" singer/songwriter is in being able to craft incredibly personal songs that draw from the artist's experience, yet have a universal appeal. When done well, it's a revelation. When done poorly, it's comical. Southeastern would be a great album on those merits alone. But the craft is elevated when singer/songwriters use their own experiences to become and inhabit other characters. Isbell does just that on Southeastern, creating a cast of characters clearly drawn from his life and acting as the narrator to their (and his own) tales of despair and failed dreams. In the end you almost feel as if you've caught a glimpse into the lives of a small community somewhere in the southeastern U.S, perhaps in northern Alabama, where Isbell grew up. 

Southeastern is a beautiful, sad, and yet somehow hopeful album. Part of that comes from the warmth of Isbell's voice and delivery, which conveys the hope of someone who's seen hard times and made it through to the other side. It reflects his own battle with addiction and his experience with sobriety. As hard as life can be, he seems to be saying, it's still worth living. In a collection of songs about cancer, suicide, addiction, and abusive relationships, Isbell comes up with lines like "god bless the busted boat that brings us back" and "you should know compared with people on a global scale, our kind has had it relatively easy." That kind of attitude keeps the album from being a complete downer.

So while it might not exactly happy happy funtime music, Southeastern is well worth a close listen, even in the light of summer. 

Here's a taste to get you started:

Acts and Results

For those who thought the Iraq War was a thing of the past, yesterday's announcement by President Obama that the U.S. will be sending 300 military advisers to assist the embattled Iraqi government should serve as an important reminder of one thing: the impact of decisions made without thought given to the consequences can have a long shelf life.

My career in the news media began shortly before the Bush administration invaded Iraq in 2003, when I was working as a producer at a public radio station in Boston. During my time in news radio, I was involved in producing programs in which analysts and pundits discussed and debated the run-up to the war, the invasion and the toppling of Saddam Hussein, the post-invasion chaos and the shame of Abu Ghraib, the bloody descent into quagmire, the surge, and ultimately the withdrawal of U.S. troops. I spoke with soldiers who were proud  of what they had achieved in Iraq, and those who felt like it had been a waste. I heard from listeners who were furious about the decisions made by the Bush administration, and those who applauded them.

Though it did not divide the nation the way the Vietnam War did, for several years the Iraq War dominated political discourse in America. But by the time Obama came into office and the war dragged to a close, the public had grown weary of Iraq. Most people, it seemed, wanted move on. There was a recession, and another war, to deal with.

But the news that's come out of Iraq in recent weeks, and the recent scandal at VA hospitals, are reminders that the Iraq War never really went away. For many Americans who fought there, it has continued, in the form of shattered bodies and shattered minds. For Iraqis, the disruption and chaos of the war has remained. The tribal and sectarian hatreds unleashed by the U.S. invasion have only grown stronger. Whether you're inclined to blame this reality on the Bush administration for invading Iraq, the Obama administration for leaving Iraq, or the Sykes Picot Agreement, depends on where you sit on the political spectrum. And yesterday's announcement by the President indicates that Iraq, for the foreseeable future, will remain an American problem.

I just recently finished reading Richard Ford's "Canada," a novel set in 1960 about a teenage boy in Montana named Dell Parsons. The lives of Dell and his twin sister, Berner, are torn apart when their parents decide to rob a bank in North Dakota. The mastermind behind the ill-conceived plot is Dell's father, a recently discharged air force bombardier whose life hasn't turned out as well as he had hoped, despite his good looks and southern charm. Dell's mother, a quiet, intense woman who aspires to be a poet, reluctantly goes along with the plot, making adjustments that ultimately lead to their capture.

The entire second half of the novel, told by Dell as he verges on retirement from a teaching career, revolves around the consequences of that act. After their parents are arrested, Dell and his sister are thrust out into an uncaring world, both taking distinct paths that will shape who they become. While we are given first-hand account of the trials that Dell has to face on his own, we only get a sense of how poorly life has treated Berner. And while we're led to believe that Dell has had a fulfilling life, it's clear that the decisions made by his parents have haunted him, and will do so for the remainder of his life. Dell says of his parents:

"The past was cruelly ended, the future jeopardized. Though this may also be what joined them: an unexpected mutual awareness of consequence. Neither of them had been richly imbued with that. Lacking an awareness of consequence might've been their greatest flaw. Though each of them had reasons to know that acts had results."

Reading this passage, and contemplating what has happened in Iraq over the last few weeks, makes me think of Donald Rumsfeld's "unknown unknowns," which he translated to mean "the ones we don't know we don't know." In telling the story of his parents, Dell can see clearly the terrible choices they made, but understands their lack of awareness. While Rumsfeld should have had some awareness of what could go wrong in Iraq, as many others did, I'm not sure if he could have envisioned the rise of an organization even more violent and intolerant than al qaeda. And while President Obama likely had reservations about leaving Iraq in the hands of Nouri al-Maliki, as many others did, he clearly did not foresee the country verging on collapse less than three years after the withdrawal of U.S. forces.

But clearly, these acts have had results. How long we will have to live with these results is another question.

Kevin Love's Not Sayin'....He's Just Sayin'

Now that the NBA Finals are over, pro basketball fans in Minnesota can turn their attention to an annual rite of passage: waiting for the next inglorious moment in the history of the hapless Timberwolves.

This particular moment, a few years in the making and for many easy to predict, is now coming to fruition. Over the pasts several weeks it's become abundantly clear that talented power forward Kevin Love wants to be as far away from Minnesota as possible. It's a familiar template. Player signs a lucrative contract, players fails to bring his team success, player suggests that he may not be happy with his current situation, player ultimately tells the team and the media that he wants to be elsewhere. It's one of the more distasteful elements of modern professional athletics. And for Minnesotans, it's a painful reminder of the Kevin Garnett saga.

For awhile, Love seemed to be trying to play it a little differently. He spoke little about his future during the season. When the season ended, he initially stayed out of the spotlight and let his agent do the talking for him. Then he made a rather suspicious trip (with his agent) to Boston, where he took in a Red Sox game and chatted with current members of the Boston Celtics, a team with a storied history and 16 championships. And in one particular media appearance last week, he spoke of the frustation of not making the playoffs, referred to the the Timberwolves as "they," suggested that he needed to get better teammates, and said he hopes "everything works out for all the parties involved." Translation: "I hope they get a good deal for me."

Notice that he never said he wants to be traded. Because what's clear is that while Love wants everyone to know that he doesn't want to be here anymore, he doesn't want to actually come out and say it. As others have pointed out, it's classic Minnesota passive aggressive. It might make him feel like less of a prima donna, but the effect is just the same. Just tell us you don't love us anymore, Kevin.

You knew it was going to come to this. Ever since Love signed a four year extension in 2011, a deal that allowed him to opt out after three years, you just knew that he wasn't going to be in a Timberwolves uniform for too much longer. For starters, from the moment he signed the contract, he complained about not getting the maximum deal allowed under the collective bargaining agreement. (While that was one of former GM David Kahn's most egregious mistakes, I've always wondered if it helped Love build a straw-man argument for leaving; the oft-used "they didn't appreciate me enough" line, intended to imply that he's been slaving away for an organization that never really respected his talent.)

The bigger reason is that despite the efforts of current GM and coach Flip Saunders, the Timberwolves are a long way from being a playoff team, let alone a team that can compete for a championship. I don't doubt that Love wants to be on a team that wins and has success in the playoffs. That's what every professional athlete wants, with a few notable exceptions. I just can't help but wonder if part of it is a desire to be seen as a winner, as someone who puts team before his own numbers.

My feelings about the impending loss of Love are mixed. He's arguably one of the ten best players in the NBA, and he seemingly gets better every year. His offensive game has expanded exponentially since his rookie season, when he appeared too small to be a productive power forward, and his second year, when columnist Pat Reusse derided him as nothing more than a "garbage-time stats collector." His combination of three-point shooting, low-post moves, and deft passing makes him extremely hard to defend. He plays hard, and he might be the most intuitive rebounder in the league. Does he play defense? No, not very well. But his attributes far outweigh his deficiencies. And the Timberwolves are unlikely to get equal value in return.

But as good as Kevin Love is, trading him doesn't have to be a devastating blow for the Timberwolves. While it's certainly not all his fault, Minnesota has never made the playoffs with him. In a season where the team finally had the talent to be truly competitive, he couldn't get them into the playoffs. That's what great players, transcendent players, do, no matter what their supporting cast lacks. Sure, Love put up great offensive numbers and seemed to do everything he could to help the team win, but truly great players do things that don't show always up on the stat sheet. Sometimes it's instilling a belief in teammates, or setting a tone that losing (or lack of effort) is unacceptable. Love hasn't succeeded on that level.

So yes, Kevin Love will likely be leaving Minnesota soon, and yes, it's unfortunate. He's a pleasure to watch. But we'll get over it. We'll find another player who embraces the cold as much as he embraces the challenge of resurrecting a franchise that hasn't seen too many good times. And then he'll probably want to leave, too.

A Bad Stretch for the Beautiful Game

For the soccer players, fans, and officials alike, the World Cup can't start soon enough. And that's not just because they're giddy with anticipation.

Over the past several weeks, the soccer world has been hit by an avalanche of bad news. It started a few weeks ago with a detailed investigation by the New York Times into widespread match fixing in the run-up to the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. Just days later, the U.K. Sunday Times ran a story alleging that a former executive of FIFA, soccer's governing body, paid out nearly $200,000 to current FIFA delegates to persuade them to vote for Qatar as the site of the 2022 World Cup. The selection of Qatar, a tiny desert nation where temperatures are well over 100 degrees in the summer, has always raised eyebrows, and allegations that the country is essentially using slave labor to build stadiums haven't helped. In May, FIFA president Sepp Blatter even admitted that choosing Qatar as host was a mistake. "Yes, it was a mistake of course, but one makes lots of mistakes in life," Blatter told Swiss broadcaster RTS.

Soccer in America hasn't been exempt from all of this bad PR. Just read Buzzfeed's fascinating story on Bill Blazer, the man who simultaneously put U.S. Soccer on the world map while bilking it of millions of dollars. Blazer happens to be a good friend of Jack Warner, a man who's no stranger to FIFA scandals.

And if that weren't enough, the host of this year's World Cup, the country that might love soccer more than any nation on earth, doesn't seem all that happy about hosting the event. "We are like the Romans — we spend everything on wine and sport,"a Brazilian woman told USA Today. Between pissed off transit workers and citizens who are simply disgusted by the $11 billion dollars being spent on the event, Brazilians seem more interested in protesting the games then watching them.

How did it come to this for the beautiful game? Perhaps because off the field, it's pretty ugly business. There have long been corruption scandals in international soccer. A line from the Times' investigation on match fixing may provide a clue as to why:

"Many National Soccer federations with teams competing in Brazil are just as vulnerable to match fixing as South Africa's was: They are financially shaky, in administrative disarray and politically divided."

International Soccer is a huge business, and any time business collides with national interest, large-scale construction projects, and personal greed, there's bound to be corruption.

On Thursday, however, the games will start, the hearts of soccer fans from Algeria to Uruguay will swell with national pride, and some of these scandals will be forgotten (at least by Americans, who once the Cup is over, will go back to not caring about soccer). One of the great things about the World Cup, like the Olympics, is that it can unite people through a shared love of sport and the thrill of watching world-class athletes compete. As hokey and naive as that may sound, I believe on some levels that it's true. But perhaps this World Cup, and the issues it's bringing to light, can also force us to rethink these "mega events."

The problems highlighted by the 2014 World Cup go beyond soccer. Brazilians are not just unhappy about money being spent on soccer stadiums being built in the Amazon. They're also unhappy about the billions being spent on venues for the 2016 Olympics, many of which will become obsolete the moment those games end. They're unhappy because that money could be used to address crime, poverty, and infrastructure. The economics of hosting major international sporting events may have made sense at one point, but not anymore. Just ask the people in Socci or Athens. Paying billions of dollars for a few weeks of tourism and publicity doesn't seem to have much lasting economic value, unless I'm unaware of the endless earning potential of velodromes and speed skating venues.

Maybe these events have simply become too big, too expensive for their own good. Maybe we should think about picking a handful of cities that could host World Cups and Olympic games on a rotating basis. That might deny some countries their turn in the international spotlight, but it might mean less corruption and fewer wasted dollars. Because, in the end, we tune into these events for the competition and the human spectacle, and the setting means little. At least it does for me. 

A Moment With Maya

It's not often that you get to spend time with people who are giants in their field. In my previous job as a producer for Minnesota Public Radio, I had that experience on several occasions, and while it eventually became routine, I often reminded myself that having the chance to meet and interact with extraordinarily talented individuals should always be appreciated. And so today, when I heard the news that poet Maya Angelou had died, I took a moment to remember and appreciate the hour I spent with her in October 2007.

Ms. Angelou was in town that October for a speaking engagement, and I had spent several weeks trying to arrange for her to be interviewed by Kerri Miller on MPR's Midmorning program. While her handlers indicated she was interested in doing an interview, they also made it clear that she would not be able to come to the MPR studios to do an interview. Her time was limited, and her lack of mobility made travel difficult. So we improvised and decided to bring the interview to her hotel.

We met Ms. Angelou in a section of the hotel restaurant that had been closed off to the public. She was a tiny, frail-looking woman, impeccably dressed. After introductions, the first order of business was a cocktail. She ordered a screwdriver, took a few sips, and then the interview began. And while Ms. Angelou might have been small in stature, the moment she started speaking her presence filled every crevice in the room, and she suddenly seemed larger than life. It was astonishing.

During the interview, Ms. Angelou was warm, wise, humble, funny, and sharp as a knife. She quoted Shakespeare and recited poetry with ease. She spoke about the difficulty of writing, of truly being able to capture what you're thinking, how words "run from the writer," and how hard she works at her craft. Despite all the accolades and the critics who call her a "natural writer," she said, "I've never been able to say exactly what I mean." It was impossible not to hang on every word, because every word seemed so imbued with meaning and wisdom.

Kerri Miller's interview with Maya Angelou can be found here.

Frank Sinatra, Jim Crow, and the Argument for Reparations

I've been having trouble coming up with a topic to write about this week, so I thought I'd share some reading recommendations. Here are two examples of terrific nonfiction writing that have captivated me this week, for different reasons.

The first is "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold," written by Gay Talese for Esquire Magazine in 1966. The article is a terrific piece of creative nonfiction and is considered a landmark in new journalism, not only for the beauty of Talese's writing but also for his use of techniques associated with fiction. Here's how it starts:

FRANK SINATRA, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stood in a dark corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blondes who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private club in Beverly Hills he seemed even more distant, staring out through the smoke and semidarkness into a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of folk-rock music blaring from the stereo. The two blondes knew, as did Sinatra's four male friends who stood nearby, that it was a bad idea to force conversation upon him when he was in this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been uncommon during this first week of November, a month before his fiftieth birthday. 

Perhaps what is most remarkable about the piece is what Talese was able to do when faced with an uncooperative interviewee. Sinatra didn't want to be interviewed by Talese. In addition to the aforementioned cold, Sinatra was preparing for the fallout from a  CBS documentary that he felt was prying too closely into his personal life, while also working on a movie and an NBC special that called for him to sing 18 songs. Unable to get the interview with Sinatra, Talese instead embedded himself in Sinatra's world, talking to the myriad people around the singer, and becoming an invisible observer.

What resulted was a piece of writing that gives the reader a fuller portrait of the man than any sit-down interview could have. It's Sinatra unfiltered. And more than just a portrait of the man, it's a rumination on the nature of celebrity, American myth-making, and the nation at mid-century. Sinatra, in Talese's portrait, is not just a singer. Without making any overt mafia references, the character that Talese draws is a variation on the Godfather: a man with tremendous power, a man who's loved, respected, and feared all at once. Talese's Sinatra is also much more complex than the Rat Pack caricature. He's a family man who stays out until the wee small hours of the morning. A private man who spends much of his time surrounded by dozens of hangers-on. A tough-guy who's very being can be threatened by a cold.

If you're a fan of Sinatra, or just someone who enjoys great writing, go read this article right now. It's well worth it.

The second piece is "The Case for Reparations" by Ta-Nehesi Coates, the cover story of the June edition of The Atlantic. Coates has been a national correspondent for the Atlantic for several years now, and in that time has become one of the most thoughtful and provocative writers on race. He rarely approaches the issue from an ideological standpoint, and he often challenges conventional wisdom. On a side note, he was also an occasional guest on the radio program I used to produce, and he's a really nice guy.

Whatever you think of the idea of reparations, the article is a must-read, not only for the carefully-constructed argument but the power of the writing. Coates builds the piece around the story of Clyde Ross, born in Mississippi in 1923 to sharecropper parents. In his lifetime Ross has been the victim of the most overt and covert forms of racism. After escaping the violence and institutionalized racism of the Jim Crow-era south, Ross served in World War II and made his way to Chicago, where he was victim of the more insidious yet no-less-institutionalized bigotry of housing discrimination, (which Coates calls "elegant racism").

Coates uses Ross's story as a springboard for a systematic review of how White America has colluded to deny black Americans the fruits of their labor and prevented them from achieving economic parity. Coates does not attempt to present a plan for how reparations could work, nor does he present reparations as a solution to the problems of black America. Instead, he asks us to consider it not as a "harebrained scheme authored by wild-eyed lefties and intellectually unserious black nationalists" but as a legitimate idea worthy of rigorous, thoughtful debate. Reparations, he argues, could mean "a reconciling of our self-image as the great democratizer with the facts of our history."

The article will no doubt get a lot of buzz over the next few weeks, as it should, and likely provoke all sorts of derision from the pundits of the world, which is unfortunate. Because whatever your stance on this issue, you'll learn something from reading this article.