Summer Ends

The end of the summer makes me a bit melancholy. Listless, balmy days gone by and tucked into the crook of fall. When I was a kid, I went with my folks to the beach a lot. Sometimes just for a dip and other times we’d barge in on friends who had a spot on the bay, out past the Rockaways. There were always kids my age for me to toss a ball with, fish off the pier, or ride the boogie boards Oceanside.

The thing I remember most about our visits to the Smiths was that we’d stay with them till dusk. Eggplant waves of sky shaded above the wispy trees. Crickets chirping a mile past the walkway and the air redolent with creosote. I kept picking at the charred burger on my paper plate and nursing sips of Yoo-hoo. I could have easily slipped off to whizz firecrackers through Coke bottles over by the dugout, where all the other pre-teens dwelled, but I liked it better with the adults. I felt like I was budding into a grownup.

Mainly, we talked about old times I’d never lived through, but was eager to hear more about. Hot dogs for a nickel, pony rides, parachuting in Coney Island, it all sounded like a brave new world to me. To them, it was a touch of nostalgia. Another topic near and dear to our hearts was “The Honeymooners”, a show I’d grown addicted too. The reruns ran past midnight, but they were all new to me and wanted to catch as many as I could. Channel 11 referred to some as the Lost Episodes. Whenever we visited I played the ham— belted out both Ralph’s and Norton’s parts. “Official space helmet on Captain Video.” “Can it core a apple, oh, it can core a apple.”

If my dad tried to get a word in edgewise I’d push my eleven-year-old weight as far as it budged. Kenny, my dad’s buddy, let me play Ralph to his Norton or vice versa, whatever I wanted. And Lonnie, Mrs. Smith, would bring me another Yoo-hoo, as if I needed another sugar rush. My folks would say it’s time to go (Chop, chop) but I’d hang on for dear life. My back pressed into the stretchy fabric of my director’s chair, refusing to slip into my topsiders.

The Smiths were fun, but I had this odd feeling, even as a snot-nosed kid, that they didn’t have much company. When it was time for the final goodbye they wouldn’t let us go. One more laugh, brownie square, there was always a long lost picture to share. Lonnie would pack a goodie bag for me, complete with Crackerjacks, saltwater taffy, Pringles, Swedish fish, and baseball cards. My mother would reprimand her for being too generous, but Lonnie quipped she didn’t have anybody else to spoil.

I never thought much of this until I got to about fourteen, awkward of awkward ages. I guess I was spoiled, but I was even more spooked by Lonnie’s need to treat me in her auntie way. We really didn’t get to see the Smiths that much, only once in a while. I know they wanted to make the most of it. But, in my mind it was getting to be too much.

Nothing tragic happened to keep us from getting together. Things change. I was glad to get my break from them. It wasn’t till I was college age that I’d missed seeing them. I even mentioned it in passing what the Smiths were doing for Labor Day. Since I was home for the holiday, I figured it would be nice if we crashed in on them. That’s how we usually did it. Sometimes we brought over cold cuts, coleslaw, and potato salad, sometimes just a pie or two. And so we did, one last time drove to the Rockaways. The place looked exactly the same weeping willow greeted us by the porch and I pulled open the rusty hinged wooden front gate. The smell of beach, burnt corn on the cob, and the last embers of summer filled the air. I scratched the few prickly hairs growing on my chin. For a moment, it looked like nobody was home. Then we walked to the back deck and there, in the back, tending to a barbecue pit was a tall middle-aged man, one eye on his basting fork the other eye on his scampering kid.

“Pardon the intrusion,” my dad said.

And my mom and I followed cue. We didn’t really need to know anything else. My dad would’ve said something if he wanted to, but he didn’t. I had my first craving for Yoo-hoo, I hadn’t had in years and I licked my lips. I tasted seawater.

We spent that Labor Day at the public beach. Sand in my sandwich and a warm can of soda in my hand. I watched a skywriter streak a dusty white message across the cloudless blue. I looked for traces of the past with my bright blue future pushing forever into the sun-flecked sea.

Men in Black

Somebody did a study of all competitive sports and found that the red jersey was the most menacing. Teams that wore red had better records too. That’s all well and good, but it means zilch for tennis pros. Have you noticed the trend toward black garb? Living Legend Roger Federer has made it his signature outfit and has socked away quite a few commercials in his tennis tux attire. The ATP tour plays the “Imperial Attack” from Star Wars when Roger enters the stadium. It pumps up the fans.

Now, it seems like his comp is dressing in his style. More macho head games? Maybe. I’ve noticed that this US Open, more than any before, has more black-jerseyed baseliners. Jo-Wilfred Tsonga and Fernando Gonzalez both wore it for their fourth-round match today. Gonzalez edged the Frenchman, but is moving toward the Brobdingnagian black-shirted Argentine, Juan Martin Del Potro. Rising in their respective quadrants they might get a chance to put their punishing forehands to the test in a semifinal shootout. Gonzalez will first have to dump Nadal.

Roger still rides high in the top spot, naturally, he’s the originator. He needs to dispel the French Open Finalist Soderling. After that he’d dispose of Djokovic or Verdasco before tangling with any proshop copycatters. Not that Roger is worrying much. He’s already got his coveted 15 Slams. But, now he’s ignited a fashion fury. The workhorse has gone clotheshorse. He has to settle this last score as a matter of pride.

I’m feeling like that classic ACDC tune, which will remain nameless, would set the right mood booming throughout the Arthur Ashe sound system. Or if the match is more of a slugfest then maybe Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” would add better pomp.

Prediction: black-shirt in four sets.

Monkey See Monkey Do

Does it bother you if somebody refers to a chimpanzee as a monkey? It irks me. And it’s done all the time. I’m not always sure if it’s intentionally, but I take it personally. Primatologically speaking, they are close relatives. The Old World monkeys are closer related to chimps. Baboons and the Barbary ape, for example which are both monkeys, do not have tails and neither does the chimp. They are from different families, genus, species, and so on. It gets a bit confusing, but what is simple? New World monkeys have prehensile tails that are used for hanging and swinging around.

One reason I suspect people call chimps monkeys is because the word monkey is apparently funny. This might ring a bell from the television programs, movies, and even magazines. I once wrote a letter to the editor at Details magazine to make a stink about their referring to a baboon as an ape which they are not, but they didn’t bother to print my quibble.

When we poke our heads in at the zoo I’d like to think our hairier cousins are having a bit of a laugh at us, especially at parents who tell their kids “Look, there’s a monkey” – when in fact its Pan troglodytes, the common chimp they are looking at. Maybe this is what prompts a chimp to spit out at the gawkers or let out lengthy, but syncopated pant hoot.

They know sign language, at least have the ability to learn the skill, they are very emotional, and if you looked up documented studies on them you would see they have had incidents of kidnapping, warfare, and rape. Bonobo chimps, Pan paniscus, the more gracile, more evolved version of the common chimp tends to walk around bipedally for shorts stretches. They are experts in foreplay and have quite a sexual repertoire. With all these distinguishing characteristics you’d think these dumbbells who gape at them all the time would want to pay their respects by calling them what they are— remarkable.

I’m not saying I want to be a chimp in the afterlife. I think maybe a rock star. I haven’t given it too much thought lately, but I have taken it upon myself to stand in as the good-natured informer.

Termite-eater doesn’t roll off your tongue, but it does underscore a favorite snack choice of the African ape. In fact, they make a tool to acquire their tasty treats removing all the leaves from a branch and dig their awl into the rotted bark of the tree and pull out the goodies. Yum. They suck’m down like Gummy Bears.
I propose Primate Awareness Day. This way all the apes, monkeys, prosimians, and so-called educated apes (Homo sapiens), can have a meeting of the minds. Long drawn-out conversations on world peace, global poverty, poaching, and primate trafficking would be optional. Mainly, everybody’s voice should be heard to prevent future misunderstanding.

Order in the court I say— that category sandwiched between class and family. Who knows how long we are going to be on this planet? Forever how long that might be we owe it to ourselves to get along. We wouldn’t want things to digress to the point of a Planet of the Apes situation, no matter how much we may have enjoyed seeing Charlton Heston tortured by the gorillas.

Multi-tasking at the Open

My buddy Tomas had a special request. He asked me to do another tennis blog. So here it is.

I don’t know what your method for watching matches at the US Open is or if you’ve ever been to the event, but I have a particular modus operandi. It varies based on first week or second week matches. I take in consideration all the players I’d like to see, but also the ones I haven’t seen before. I’m also a big fan of unsung hero matches, the ones that don’t get top billing and are usually spurned to a distant court— far away from the concession stands and the restrooms.

In the first week, I tend to look out for newcomers— the fresh crop who might soon become household names. I prefer not to commit myself to a court. Court 11, for example, has a neat set of bleachers right behind the service line. There’s always crowd lined up to get their view from that vantage point. If you sit there you won’t have to twist your head from left to right to follow the path of the ball because you’ll have both players in focus, right in front of you. There’s also that slight problem of haven’t acquired the plum seat you won’t want to get rid of. Not on a single changeover.

I wouldn’t say what I have is ADD, but when I first at the matches I sometimes wander, get a feel for the tennis I want to see. I might stay for a changeover then check out another court. I might return. I caught a bit of a young American, Jesse Levine, playing Marin Cilic. Most of the crowd was behind Levine, the local. He had raw energy and raced down balls. His shots weren’t as pretty as Cilic and his serve wasn’t as solid, but I enjoyed watching him for a bit. I wasn’t ready to commit to the match just yet.

I trailed off past 13. I knew Juan Carlos Ferrero was there, and both bleacher sides were packed. I’ve never been a fan of his, but appreciate his spirited game. I’d get to him when I was ready. First, I trailed off to Julien Benneteau and Victor Troicki. I’d never seen either of them play, but knew of both. Benneteau had plowed through the first set and Troicki was throwing a tantrum when I got there. He smashed two racquets and got a warning from the chair umpire. I’d stayed for a bit and Troicki picked up his game for the 2nd set, but was still testy.

When I made it to Ferrero’s match he was already down two sets to love. I’m always impressed at the resourcefulness of fans who want to be where the action is. Some folks stand on the bleachers of the adjacent court. No shame turning their backs on the lesser match. Somebody had procured line’s judges chair, it sat unattended between the space of the next door court’s bleachers, it was practically whispering to me. I couldn’t disappoint. I got up on the seat and watched from a vertically-enhanced POV. Petzchner, the German, was giving the Spaniard a run for his money. Ferrero, from what I could see, was playing well, pounding his shots. Petzchner was cranking them with more authority and nabbing the lines. Ferrero managed to change the momentum and took the third set. Indeed, it was a good match, but I had other fish to fry.

I was in a bit of a pickle because I wanted to catch both Juan Martin Del Potro and Jo-Wilfried Tsonga which were going on simultaneously. Now the grandstand and the Louie Armstrong stadium are right next to each other, but the event’s organizers have made it more of a challenge to get from one to the other. Also, there are more fans to contend with, some who have a similar strategy as mine of catching many matches— that’s why so many of those grounds passes get gobbled up.

You can a little from both matches if you sit all the way at the top of Louie Armstrong and look over the top rail down onto the grandstand court, but then you see neither match too well. My solution was simple. I really wanted to see Del Potro and I was content to catch a glimpse of Tsonga’s play. Is this necessarily a good use of my time waiting on line to catch two seconds of a match? Well, I saw more than two seconds— only a few games, but Tsonga has electricity. He blasted a few forehands so I think that was worth it. Plus, I was already technically in the stadium.

The problem was all the reserve gates in Louie Armstrong were full. The ushers weren’t letting anybody else through without tickets. Oh, yeah, tickets. I’d forgotten that Armstrong had its own tickets. So an Arthur Ashe holder like myself couldn’t get a reserved seat there, but I supposedly had the coveted— more expensive ticket. I wasn’t even using it. Hantuchova had already blown through her opponent in Ashe Stadium. In the early rounds many of the seeded women had lopsided matches.

I opted to take the back stairs up to the nosebleeds. Del Potro’s match was underway. He and Meltzer were evenly matched. For the first set anyway which went to a tiebreaker. The first chance I had I snuck down as far as I could go. Then when I spotted another, better seat, I moved down farther. I was close enough to the grip changes between strokes. A bunch of Argentines chanted “Ole, ole, ole, ole— River” which is the cheer for the red-jerseyed soccer team from Buenos Aires. The Americanos abbreviated the baseline-slugger’s name to “Del Po”. Wasn’t crazy about it, but I was more focused on the lightning fast rallies. I also noticed that Del Potro had a little difficulty with a jerky ball boy. I think the kid was flustered too and kicked the player’s towel to the back fence instead of placing it on the platform that was reserved for it.

These are some of the silly things I pay attention to. When I caught Fernando Gonzalez’s match later in the day the chair umpire reprimanded Gonzalez’s opponent for taking too much time to retie his shoelaces. It actually was ridiculous. It lasted seven minutes. Gonzo twirled his racquet between his thumb and forefinger. He was about to do some juggling before Ouanna got up to play. There were a lot of stragglers who kept pushing their way to see the match on court lucky number 13.

Before the day was marked in the books I’d also seen Lapentti, Gilles Simon, Gael Monfils, two seconds of Tomas Berdych, and that other guy, the number two seed, Andy Murray. My first visit to Arthur Ashe so far this year. Like I said I tend to prefer the outside courts, but I never turn down a good ticket.

My Chess Grand Poobah

As a kid, I wanted to play chess like Garry Kasparov. His mastery of pins, forks, and skewers excited the nascent pawn-pusher in me. I studied his annotated games, printed in the newspaper and stayed abreast of his doings in my Chess Life subscription. What impressed me most about Kasparov was that he treated chess as a sport— he cross-trained for it. I latched onto him before he was champ.

In 1984, Kasparov was a top contender vying for the crown. Anatoly Karpov was then the Champ. The rules of title matches were much different than they are now. Some head-to-heads turned into marathons and could last a month. The Karpov/Kasparov matchup of ’84 seemed like it was going to be a washout. Karpov was already up 4 – 0. The combination of 2 draws equals a win didn’t count for their title defenses so the wins had to be outright. Karpov only needed 2 more wins, but Kasparov hung in there and kept drawing. Seventeen in a row. The Champ could taste victory but it eluded him. Finally, in the 27th game Karpov won his 5th point. He only needed one more; the contender stuck to his guns. Five more draws followed and then Kasparov took a game. The dynamics had shifted. Frustration ensued. It was like Jake Lamada taunting Sugar Ray Robinson. “You can’t knock me down Ray.” Lamada was losing, but wouldn’t kiss the mat.

Kasparov hung on, the federation called the contest a draw, and the next year Garry would rise to the top of the chess world.

He paid homage to the Ancient Greek maxim, “Keep a healthy mind and body. In addition to sparring with fellow players and his computer-based program, he put together an intensive workout regimen that included running miles and weightlifting. He wasn’t planning to run the Boston Marathon or bulk up into Nikolai Volkov, but he was steadfast in his belief in keeping fit.

Kasparov was innovative. Whereas other players stuck to book openings that accepted classical chess wisdom, Kasparov shattered tradition. He was notorious for what is called theoretical novelties— strong moves that run against the grain of established chess theory.

I’d copy some of his lines up to a point then made my own variations. Sometimes to test the waters on moves I found intriguing, but other times, frankly, because I’d forgotten what to do in certain positions. Before I moved my own piece, I loved to snatch my opponent’s knight off the board and watch his look of incredulity. I’d make a slight pause to mess with his head then slide my bishop to the captured square. Was this a Kasparovian thing to do? Not really. His captures were handled with kid’s gloves, but the way he launched his attacks was genius.

When my chess club skittled we’d each play the part of a different Grand Master kind of the way jocks pretended they were different ball players. But, instead of choosing to see who would be Don Mattingly, Pedro Guerrero, Cal Ripkin Jr., Kirby Puckett, or Mike Schmidt we’d take turns being Garry Kasparov, Anatoly Karpov, Nigel Short, Lev Alburt, Mikhail Tal.

Hak-bin, a third-grade wunderkind, would pick Bobby Fischer. He carried a paperback that had pictures of the great American Phantom King of castling. Hak-bin was good enough to be on the varsity team. He suckered many kids in my class with scholar’s mate— kind of a thumb-wrestler’s sneak attack, but for chess. He’d bag his opponent’s king in four moves. No remorse. His crushing tactics elicited a myriad of curses from glass-jaw opponents.

Mr. Kushing, our coach, collected quarters for bastard and shits and fifty cents for fuck and one dollar for the uncensored motherflower. The proceeds went for equipment: new vinyl boards, felt-bottomed pieces, game clocks, and sometimes for soda and chips.

Hak-bin and I had many draws like Karpov and Kasparov. This would’ve been fine if I was eight like he was, but I was thirteen, a foot taller and I had matured into a young man who carried a plain green Trapper Keeper instead of a bunch of Thundercats and Voltron folders. I had also moved onto paper bag lunches instead of the lunchbox and thermos combo.

Hak-bin’s mom picked him up after practice. I could see her pressed up to the classroom window, peeking in to see her four-foot-tall pride and joy. I could almost feel her boundless glee fogging the glass pane. Sometimes I was a coward and hoped she’d snag her boy when I was wallowing over a losing scenario. There I’d sit slumped forward, hands folded in prayer to nobody and jiggering thoughts whirring in my mind. Sweat dotted my forehead and I had this nervous bounce in my right leg. I crossed them, but that never seemed to do the trick. Hak-bin would wipe his palms on his trousers then bring his hands to his nose and smell them.

We’d sit like that for hours. The good thing about our practices was that we didn’t have clocks so we could take our time. The bad thing about it was that we could take our time. Without clocks we really didn’t prep ourselves for the true time-fleeting conditions.

During my college years, I phased out of chess. I played a few games here and there with friends or I logged onto a Yahoo Game Room. I allotted myself thirty minutes max. And I preferred two-minute blitzes.

Coincidentally, Garry Kasparov stopped playing. A bit later then I did, but still— he decided to tackle politics. Vladimir Kramnik, Viswanathan Anand, and Veselin Topalov would go on to rise to the top of the chess world.

Two years ago I had the chance to see Garry Kasparov give a lecture on Russian politics. He gave a decent canned spiel, but was underwhelming with his glib responses during the Q & A. I had a few questions about Russian politics and International Relations in general that I wanted to share with the audience. There were maybe two hundred people tops in the auditorium.

I wondered if it was better tossing out a question about the anarchical structure of global societies. I’d reading up on Hedley Bull. The other thing I wanted to bring up was the mysterious disappearances of journalists and elected officials in Russia. Three people revisited that very question. Each time I cringed because I knew I needed to come up with something good and time was running out. I imagined my red chess flag popping up which I hadn’t seen in forever.

A short man in a crumpled olive suit asked Kasparov what was his fondest memory when he competed in the Chess Federation. Kasparov pinched his left brow and said, “Let’s stay on topic.” Then he pointed to a young Asian woman in the front row. I forgot what her question was because the MC briefly interrupted her to say there would only be one more question, but that the lively banter would continue in the private room reserved for hors d'oeuvres and drinks.

For a moment, I went blank. One point 21 Gigawatts. I had this stupid notion that by the end of the night, I’d be able to call the Grand Master by his first name, Garry. I wanted him to think that even though he could wipe the board with me in chess in matter of politics I could hold my own.

Well, I never got called on during the open forum, but Garry was kind enough to wait a while on stage. A few dorks-on-the-pond lined up to bend his ear. Some people straggled onto line with canapé, crackers, a few slabs of gouda, and a glass or two, God help us, of Pinot Grigio. At least I had the willpower to take care of the business I had come for. Personal satisfaction. Ten minutes later I shook hands with Kasparov. It wasn’t a firm shake as I’d expected, but it wasn’t a dead fish either. He tucked his arms to his chest before I said anything, perhaps to mess with my head. Shock of shocks I proffered a bit of eloquence. I was too conscious of myself and I let Garry ponder my question. Less a question and more of an observation really. I had no idea what I said, but the vein above Garry’s temple twitched.

He offered a serious response and I nodded when he spoke. I was too excited. I was ready to jump out of my skin. And then a budinsky leaned into my comfort zone. I stayed quiet and Garry held his stoic pose. He offered his hand again. I was lulled by the fact that he’d taken his time to consider my political observation. I turned to leave the stage, my stomach already grumbling. And then I stopped short. A wild rush of words rolled to the tip of my tongue, what I imagined Tourette’s syndrome to be like. Gary’s eyes narrowed and I said it louder, what I thought I’d previously said.

“What if you played again?”

“No more.”

“You could use your political currency,” I said. “Like Bono.”

“I’m done.”

And he threw his arms out as if he were a spoiled brat refusing to play the game he was about to lose. I slipped off, dumbfounded, my head eight sizes too large and nowhere to hide it. I accidentally smacked into a piece of canapé. The cool greasy guck splotched onto my hand. I don’t know what made me do it, but I licked it off and kept walking. I waited a little while in the reception area but Garry never showed. I wondered how he left and if anybody else had flustered him or if he was so miffed by my remark that he stormed off stage. Probably not though. I’m sure one of the hosts would’ve had me escorted out.

I stood around, noshed. Really, I’d lost my appetite but I needed to keep my hands, my mind busy. I wished I’d never met him.

The Hermit’s Story

Rick Bass sometimes gets billed as a writer of great landscapes, and an environmentalist to boot. He’s also been pigeonholed into the dirty category short story writer. That last one might have some truth, but his prose is stunning. His characters proudly wear their battle scars. In his collection “The Hermit’s Story”, survival is at stake, but the larger theme is fighting against the twofold nature: one’s surroundings and oneself. The natural environment lays the bones for this collection, but the characters’ interior landscape seems to be made up of the earth’s basic elements.

Bass limns the animal in us in “Swans”. Billy’s sense of smell seems primal, like a bear’s; he can smell Amy’s bread for miles. The narrator has seen people exert incredible strength, deep in the woods. Billy, the rugged outdoorsman, is fighting within himself to be as strong as he once was. Slowly, however, his inner fight whittles him down. Well-intentioned, he had been chopping down trees for years, putting aside money to buy his wife a piano. His good intentions are his Achilles Heel. Amy too is fighting nature trying to put music behind her, but it isn’t possible. She plays the piano and the swans huddle together, listening to her music as if attending a concert. The swans themselves, fighting nature, swim in tight circles to keep the lake from icing up.

The title piece “The Hermit’s Story”, is set on the Canadian tundra. It is the pinnacle of man against nature. Ann, a dog-trainer, sets out with Gray Owl to teach him how to work his huskies. It is grueling work, “sweat freezes on her like frozen skin,” but she is strong and determined. She could be a sculptor. She talks about the dogs “as if they are rough blocks of stone whose form exists waiting only to be chiseled free.” For six months, she had been training them to hunt and now she was about to hand them over to their rightful owner.

There is an accident. Searching for water Gray Owl falls beneath a sheet of ice. Ann is sorry for Gray Owl, for the dogs, but what bothers her most is that Gray Owl had the tent and the emergency food rations fastened to his backpack. With the blizzard approaching, she feared having to dive into the icy water after him, probably naked. She would freeze to death if she returned without him because all of the dry clothes and food was in his backpack. Turns out, he was below the dry lake, eight feet deep. They stayed down there for almost two whole days. The air was unlike any she had ever breathed before, a different essence. “It had a different density to it, so that smaller, shallower breaths were required; there was very much the feeling that if they breathed in too much of the strange, dense air, they would drown.” All eight of them slept atop one another for warmth, ice crackling above and around them. The next day Ann traveled underground with the dogs, lighting fires from time to time to keep warm. There was no true vantage point except for the fires that they left behind. Then she saw snipes. She hadn’t the faintest idea how they found their way in such a severe landscape— a great parallel between displaced animals and humans. Ann wonders if the snipes’ freedom is vertical rather than lateral as they all seemed trapped until it warms up which mirrors their own plight. This is what makes Bass such a compelling craftsman, the subtle, but poignant philosophical issues he grapples with are so vivid, alive, what a lesser writer would make strictly an adventure, Bass textures with acrylic depth.

In “Fireman,” Kirby plods through his flavorless office job only to come alive putting out fires. He is a volunteer, but is consumed by fire. He feels his shoes, his limbs blazing when he isn’t on a call. He longs to be inside burning buildings with his fellow volunteers their tunnel vision fixes on the helmets before them swinging their pikes around to feel each other, one giant heart ablaze. They push into burning buildings the way Kirby has seen bats dive down chimneys to save their babies.

The danger of fire is Kirby’s private miracle it keeps his marriage intact. “As long as the city keeps burning, they [he and his wife Mary Ann] can avoid being weary and numb.” His failed first marriage still troubles him. Sometimes he perches atop his ex-wife’s house wondering if he could have saved his marriage, he listens for her and his daughter’s breath. There is no such thing as a real rescuer. He knows fireman who have saved so many lives. All it takes is to lose one life, a child’s, and then one is ruined.

Kirby doesn’t think of himself as a hero, he has been trying to teach the raw recruits to fight fires with intelligence— bravery means nothing, it’s all biological to him now. The only way his wife can deal with all the scars on his back is envisioning them as stars in an elaborate constellation. All she sees are fires; she is just as consumed as her husband. When she goes to church and sees a baby being baptized she pictures the fireman hosing off a fire. She isn’t sure if there is greater power in setting a fire or putting one out. Her dreams blur, unsure whether Kirby is burning to death or being born, shooting flames like an iron being.

Bass’s stories are filled with that molten core.

Accelerated Reader

I’d like to comment on Susan Straight’s essay in this past Sunday’s The New York Times Book Review section. It made me realize what a reward-conscious society we are. We’re driven by metrics. And it starts in elementary school. I understand the importance of establishing percentiles for math and reading scores. Children need to acquire basic competency in order to move along in their nascent educational careers. Regent exams will gear them for advanced placement and the SATs, GREs, LSATs, MCATs will hopefully prep them for life. If only it was that easy.

I’ve heard of Accelerated Reader before, but didn’t really know its mechanics. They use a software program to rank books by complexity and page total and spit out a number. That number represents the point score kids will chase to outrank their peers. There are prizes to be won too. Kids obviously want to gobble up books with the highest points and I’m not blaming them. What troubles me is the attempt to quantify something which is supposed to be a visceral joy.

A quick peek into titles showed me that Harry Potter piled on the points. Reading “Goblet of Fire” earns 32 points, “Deathly Hallows” adds 34 points, and “Order of the Phoenix” rakes in 44 points. Now, “Prisoner of Azkaban” only garners 18 points, but s does “Huckleberry Finn”. Startling as this may seem, Stephen Meyer’s “Twilight” earns just as many points as Twain's magnum opus. Software that makes these computations needs to be revamped. If the goal is to get kids excited about literature they need to read classics. Especially, ones that are lively, voice-driven that have inspired generations of writers— and readers.

How can you quantify a book’s worth? It’s a task I wouldn’t leave to a number, a book report maybe and for the precocious young mind a thoughtful critique. Focusing solely on the number squeezes the ethereal joy from reading great works. It makes me think of Oscar Wilde’s apt quote describing cynics, “A man who knows price of everything and the value of nothing”. Is literature about quantification, page numbers, word count? How does one measure the poignancy of sentence or weigh the emotional resonance of an image? I think there might be a fear in today’s educational community that children will one day lose interest in reading with all of the distractions out there.

There’s a great Bernard Malamud short story called “A Summer’s Reading” about a teenage boy who wants to read his way through the library. His neighbor is impressed and says that one day he’d love to sit down with the boy to discuss the books. Well, the kid doesn’t read as he said he would, but feels terribly guilty every time he passes his neighbor. Late one night, while the kid is loping through the neighborhood he sees his neighbor who’s drunk. The man gives the kid some change to buy an ices. Not necessarily a transformative moment, but it is for the kid. The weight of his own worries and a grave need to take personal responsibility and better himself overcome him.

I identify with this story because I was never a big reader when I was a kid either, but when the day arrived that I was engrossed in books I couldn’t get enough. The words, the sentences, the emotions that erupted in me from reading challenged and changed me. In my mind, ratings would have made no difference for me. Maybe I'm being a cynic. I don’t know if this is the case for all kids, but I truly believe that reading for a literary experience should not be grounded in the metrics of scholastics, but should lean toward the sublime.