Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Letter re: Wiffle Ball

The July 14, 2013 issue of the Boston Globe Magazine printed this letter:

Just a quick note to tell Jack Cheng (Connections, June 23) that he wrenched my attention away from the crossword with his first paragraph: “A 70-year-old man is blocking the base path .  .  .  . As he stumbles, I race toward second base.” It was a good wrench, as wrenches go. Loved the images, the sense of Wiffle camaraderie, teaching by showing the kids about proper rule bending — the whole piece, actually. Thanks.
David Sylvestro
Easton, Connecticut

Friday, July 19, 2013

Cognoscenti: Trying Not To See Race Means Closing Your Eyes To Reality

My original title was "The Opposite of Racism is not 'Race-Blind'" for what it's worth. Here's how it starts:

Only white people think the opposite of racism is “race-blind.”
That was one of the first thoughts that came into my head as I heard about the process of the George Zimmerman’s trial. (Just to be clear, I’m not saying all white people believe this, but rather that non-white people decidedly do not.)
I have to admit, I did not follow the trial closely, and I have sympathy for the position that there may be legal reasons that Zimmerman was not found legally culpable in the death of Trayvon Martin.
What threw me, however was this statement by the anonymous juror known as B37: “I think all of us [on the jury] thought race did not play a role. We never had that discussion.”

Monday, July 01, 2013

Boston Globe Connections: What Wiffle Ball Reveals

My latest contribution to the Boston Globe Magazine came in the Connections column on Sunday June 23, 2013 begins this way:

A 70-YEAR-OLD MAN IS BLOCKING THE BASE PATH. He’s clearly in the wrong here, so I shove him forward, and as he stumbles, I race toward second base.
Wiffle ball is not to be trifled with at our house. Each year when the weather warms, we invite my wife’s family over for a midday meal. Cousins bring their kids, aunts and uncles arrive from out of state, and invariably someone brings a college roommate. We shake hands and politely ask how retirement is treating them, how the job hunt is going, ask for updates on the sibling who didn’t make it this year. After lunch, before satiety turns to somnolence, my wife announces: “Time for the game! Only winners get dessert!”
We trudge out to the backyard where my son is practicing his swing while an older cousin pitches. The teams are formed like this: Some people head out to the field while the laggards wait their turn at bat. In other words, the enthusiastic people end up on one team while the people who are just hoping for cake and coffee shuffle onto the other.
Read the entire piece with illustration on the Globe website here.