The Other Invisible Art

School is back, which generally does two things for me:
1. I get excited for hockey season.
2. I get excited for school.
I was recently thinking back to a first day of classes a couple years ago. It began with the usual getting to know you stuff where you introduce yourself to the person next to you, get some info about them, then later introduce them to the rest of the class. We had to say our favorite book, and I wanted to say something socially conscious like Ellison's Invisible Man or something from a "higher" culture like Ishiguro's Remains of the Day. I do indeed consider those to be among my favorite books, but went with the one that got me excited to read again, the always boring university student answer of Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. The student replied to me with something that sounded far more learned, an obscure Malaysian writer and a book title I cannot recall, because she then followed it up with a favorite book on literary theory. It was kind of a smarty pants thing to do I guess, but it immediately got me thinking, why do I not have one of those?

Turns out I do. I had taken the usual theory and criticism classes and dug to varying degrees everything from Aristotle's Poetics, to the much more recent work of people like Haraway and Bordo (My most recent favorite feminist text is Tarantino's Death Proof). It was only after looking at all sorts of ideas of what art is and where it exists that I realized that the definition was stated most clearly and accurately in something that I had already read. That book was Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, and it is another of many indirect reasons for taking on the WCTSS project. I know you may find it odd that a book about comics would have any sort of influence on a future work discussing the importance of the fielding of Jimmy Rollins, or the pace and construction of game #32 in the Columbus Blue Jackets' 2009-10 season (It should really be something, btw). The truth is, its mission and mine are really quite similar.

At the risk of getting cheesy and such, I believe that the main job of the next few generations is to bridge gaps. I am speaking about the gaps between the rich and the poor, the left and the right, the elite and the lower class, interest groups on either side of debates like big oil and environmentalism, and of course, the notions of high and low art. Early on in Comics, McCloud writes that as a kid he "realized that comic books were usually crude, poorly-drawn, semi literate, cheap, disposable kiddie fare - but they don't have to be!" I despise the entire concept of Kitsch because I think it is no one's place to decide what constitutes qualification to be seen as "pseudo-art" (that term alone makes my stomach churn). McCloud continues later on, "Art, as I see it, is any human activity which doesn't grow out of either of our species two basic instincts: survival and reproduction." This may seem like an extremely broad definition, but it definitely brings high and low a lot closer together.

Sport and athletics are just as capable of providing discussion in an academic setting. McCloud's idea of a "pure" artist is one that proclaims, "My art has no practical value whatsoever! But it's important!" So that means when Wayne Gretzky tucks his jersey in to the right side of his hockey pants, it is art. When Jim Caldwell, his offensive coordinators and coaches, Peyton Manning and the entire Indianapolis Colts' eleven offensive on-field players agree to a designed play to start a football game that results in a major, it is clearly of merit and worthy of further analysis. When something happens that has never really occurred before, like Prince Fielder and his teammates' impromptu walk-off theatrics it should be celebrated and speculated upon as to where this development within the form will go next.

So yeah, a return to classes and a return to new sports seasons brings this return of my mission statement. Or maybe we are just furthering the examination, because this is really what this whole get-up is all about. I run in to a lot of smart people in my classes, but I like to think that I have a leg up on them. Aside from my knowledge of the material we are discussing, which I can at least say is comparable, I know that Grady Sizemore is the first Cleveland Indian in the history of the franchise to go 30-30-30 in one season. In fact, in many cases I can safely say I am the only one that knows what those numbers even mean or why it should be part of what makes me come closer to becoming the elusive "renaissance man." Inspiration comes from the most unlikely sources sometimes, as McCloud has shown us here, but it is up to us to recognize those sources, no matter how unlikely as significant and/or of distinction.

My Little Empire or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bronx Bombers

My royalty it does not exist
It is extinct for the eye to see
My ideology it is dead and gone
Almost forgotten for the eye to see
- "My Little Empire" - Manic Street Preachers


Living on the West Coast of Canada, I have had the fortune/misfortune of admiring the Majors from a distance. I was brought up in Calgary during the 80's, so I have always had a certain kinship with the underdog. Three hours north were the big boys of hockey and most of the time our team was the one watching the hoisting. I guess this spilled over in to baseball, because I always saw a player in pinstripes as pure evil.

It made sense. They have been trying to buy championships for as long as I can remember, there is the hardly endearing over-confident swagger, and they have been winning more often than not, so you know, it gets old. In 2004, I cheered the greatest comeback in the history of sports from Roberts' stolen base to Damon's game seven heroics. I guess at the time I ignored that Boston had broken the curse by becoming precisely what they had claimed to hate. That would be the three qualities I mentioned earlier about the Yanks. Except for the winning part, but a funny thing happened over the last five years. From my Uecker seats out here just off the Pacific, they became interchangeable. The pinstripes and the red, white, and blue jerseys were now synonymous.

I do understand this rivalry. If you have any team that you love, chances are there is one that you detest with "a hatred that only love can understand." An old Brooklyn dodgers fan once said that. I do have that. I know that there are players that the other team may not like especially, and you especially love it when that player succeeds against the team you hate because it is an extra dagger through the heart.

Going in to the August 6th-9th series between baseball's behemoths, the New Englanders had won 8 straight against the Bombers this season. New York managed to win the first game of the series by a bunch, then somehow, as it often does with these two, a classic wandered in to New Yankee Stadium. I did not get to see it live, but when the highlights came on at a bar I was at with my brother, I got the idea something special had happened that night at the ballpark. Five and a half hours of two teams giving their all to beat the ones they wish to beat the very most, and neither side faltering. As I watched, I somehow found myself wanting the Yanks to pull it out. In the bottom of the 15th I got my wish. Alex Rodriguez hit a two-run shot to walk off the field the hero. My transformation to the dark side was was complete as I shouted out at the screen, "Attaboy, kid!" You see, I know how this player is the most hated player to a majority of the Red Sox fans, so there is that extra dagger I was talking about.

I was sympathizing with the enemy. Again, it makes sense. I have no real dyed-in-the-wool relationships with either team, they are now the ones not winning as much, and let's be honest, that "aura and mystique" is actually pretty sexy. The heartbeat of baseball pumps out of New York and has for a long time. A brief look back at the best the game has ever had to offer reveals this to be so. They still spend more on their team than anyone else, but it really is because they can. There is some cash in New York. If you don't believe me, check out which team has the second highest payroll. Even so, to understand the Yankees is to love the excess that comes with it. I understand that now.

Now, I have not abandoned my underdog roots altogether. It would take the second greatest comeback in the history of sports for my team to make it to the post-season this year. I know that to be a real sports fan for most teams requires humility. Just look at the Cubs. Their entire fanbase is centred around the concept. The Yankees are not like most teams. Were A-Rod to be more humble, it just would not fit. It is OK for their fans to say, "The boys are gonna win it all this year" after one game with more than a quarter of the season left to play. This is something I hate hearing from any pseudo-sports fan, but you know why we pinstripe supporters can get away with it?

Because there is a very good chance we will win it all, ya bum.

I can tell from all the way over here.

History

Lyons and Manks did their best of the year so far the other day and I concurred with their choices that I had also seen. I do not necessarily agree with everything they review either. I am sure I have called at least one of them a pinhead, in fact. I will give you a clue, it wasn't Manks. However, I really do want to check out Sin Nombre from what they describe.

It is a great year for American film early on in 2009. Up is Pixar continuing to find ways to be a revelation. I Love You, Man is a very funny movie that resembles a new genre. (And no, I am not going to dub it the label given by faaar too many critics. If you are not sure what I am referring to, then you are quite simply a better person.) The Hurt Locker is intense and important and ugly and beautiful and the best film that I have seen this year.* It is in the humble opinion of this narrator (Look, I just dodged another overly used media-created moniker. If you are not sure what I am referring to this time, it rhymes with the classic Arcade game that Costanza is the master of.) that the directors of these films deserve their mid-season accolades.

None of them touch Mark Buehrle. The best five and half minutes you will spend this week is here and shrunk down to 27 pitches. Even that is brilliant and incredibly moving, much like Up's early montage. It truly is the pitcher that acts as director if you compare the hardly new, and oft discussed genre of the baseball game to those found in films like Paul Rudd and Jason Seigel's gooch-ma-goochfest. (I'm not becoming one of them in trying to avoid them am I?) Buehrle provided a masterpiece if looking again at this video only at his pitch placement. Again, we are not even seeing the balls, strikes, and foul tips that lead up to these 27 outs but you can also find incredible performances from the ensemble cast. Some are understated in their brilliance, like Beckham's grab and throw out to start the 6th. Wise's grab to get the first out of the ninth is absolutely legendary, excrutiatingly intense and it ends up kind of ugly. Bigelow's masterpiece on modern war is indeed beautiful, and Ken Harrelson provides some of that with his call of the final out. I was always kind of bugged by how much of a homer he is, but in this case it is perfect. I guess Obama was right when he said that "today everybody is a White Sox fan."

I stress again that I do not always see eye to eye with the newest critics to take the balcony seats. The films I mentioned that they likewise applaud are indeed great, but it is impossible to argue that the pieces are perfect. On July 23rd, 2009 Mark Buehrle was indisputably so. I hear often that baseball is an individual sport disguised as a team sport, and it was in this piece that he was its unflinching auteur.

*- Before everyone starts freaking out and asks why I have not mentioned Sugar, I saw it in 2008 at the VFF. Now that is a film that is as close to perfect as you can get.

- I have to mention this link that WCTSS's most loyal follower, Aaron sent me. It is an anniversary worth celebrating.

- Also gotta mention that I am on twitter now. Stop by twitter.com/wctss if you feel so inclined.

Two ways to get carried off the field

So it has always been a thing of mine to educate folks in my one-sport one-team town about baseball and its history. My girlfriend and I were recently watching one of those "Best Damn Top 50 Baseball Moments" thingamijigs, and I could see that my efforts to reach her had not been entirely in vain. She correctly guessed that Bobby Thomson's shining moment would be #1. Notice I said not entirely in vain, because shortly after she asked why the footage of the kitten getting rolled out in the bullpen mat did not make the cut. I explained to this long-time lover of felines that while this may be especially memorable to her, the folks at Cooperstown ain't exactly thinking of dedicating a wing, so to speak.

It did get me thinking, however. Cats constantly show up at Major League baseball games! Just this year, the home opener at the New York Mets' new stadium had an uninvited guest. A cat is even involved in the most famous running curse in baseball. On August 14th in the 1969 season, a black cat wandered past the Chicago Cubs on deck circle. The Cubs would go on to finish the month of September 8-17, losing the NL East pennant to the surging Mets.

These really are the proverbial iceberg tips of the on-field appearances of our fuzzy friends, and it initially made me think what most of you are probably thinking right now. That of course would be, "how the hell are cats getting in to baseball games?" Once I got past that, I started thinking about how it would have felt to be at these games. It is a brief passing moment with little or nothing to do with the outcome of the game, but it would directly affect the game's mood. One can only imagine Mets' fans driving home from Citi Field's home opener: "Boy, that was something when Reyes turned two to get us out of the 4th. But hey, how great was that cat?"

My point is, this is part of what makes up the game as a piece of art. The storylines as well as the thrills and chills of the game itself make up the skeleton and most of the meat. I would argue that aside from a majority share belonging to the competitors themselves, at least some of the soul comes from occurrences happening at the park that are not part of the actual game. Game six of the 2004 AL championship had Schilling's sock of course, but you cannot tell me the 8th inning presence of the NYPD in riot gear did not change the feel of that game. Especially if you were there. Think of it like art direction in a film. It is needed to create atmosphere, and in sports, it is the randomness of happenings like this or the cats, or even the weather that serve as its art directors.

So maybe my favorite little baseball protege is right and these types of moments are in need of a little more attention. Signatures for the petition in favor of the exhibit/section can be directed here.

The Big Cat could even cut the red ribbon.

"How often do you see that?"

Peoples that knows me knows I gots my favorites. For everything. Rob Fleming from High Fidelity type stuff. I love hockey. It is my favorite sport. I live and die with it and have more emotional attachment to it than I do with any other. Right now I am so deep in it with the playoffs that I want to rant and rave about all sorts of things. My friends and their text message receiving machines know this all too well.

But I cannot, nay will not do that here.

I must say that it is because of this emotional roller coaster that I am glad baseball has started up again. Baseball is sooo much more fun to write about. If I were to continue to speak about hockey right now, I feel as though my biases would cloud my judgment, and I could possibly say something based on said bias. There is the chance that something will happen in the Stanley Cup Playoffs that simply must be written about, but until then, hello opening day!

To me, baseball is the most excitingly unique in terms of game construction and composition. I am not entirely sure how to start a top five list for that, so take of it what you will. Think about it though, of the four major North American sports, it is the only one that is not all about getting the object across the line or in to the goal. There are a thousand other things that the purists go on about, (lack of a clock, different ideas like The Zen of Baseball) but that one difference is so important because it creates a bigger snowflake effect with the games. There is less and less chance of two games being alike than say, a pair played by the Minnesota Wild*. As I mentioned a while back, the possibilities of different, new creation and overall randomness and probability of events is honestly invigorating to me.

For instance, all last year I was way in to the walk-off home run. It has got to be the greatest feeling in baseball, save a perfect game or a no-no from a pitcher. Its symbolism is gorgeous with the hero's family waiting at home for him, his return often punctuated with a tossing of his hat to accentuate the Ozzie and Harrietness of the whole thing. Also, it can only happen in a home ballpark, so the crowd is by definition a part of what makes the Good Night Irene's appearance all the more special. It is the genuine, sheer bliss kind of roar, unlike that of what the good people of Montreal did to Carey Price in what is surely his last game as a Hab**. Yeah, I was thinking that the walk-off was pretty great, but then Opening day 2009 arrived.

I like it when a certain stat reveals just how rare an occurrence in team sport is. Take the April 6th game between the Washington Nationals and the Florida Marlins, probably a game that most of you reading right now could honestly care less about. Something happened in that game that had not happened in 41 years. Check it out, in all its safe-to-distribute-to-the-public-in-the-eyes-of-the-MLB glory, set to the soothing sounds of Benny Hill here. A better example is Granderson from last season that for some reason has not been shut down yet. It is obviously a better version, because it remains in its original broadcast form, and you get the idea of how rare this event is as you hear the crowd react. Particularly when they can tell that he is going to keep rounding third.
This is one of those things in baseball that again, no one really expects to occur after a pitch. To put some perspective on it, Ichiro got one in the 2007 All-Star Game. That was the first time that happened in the history of the game, and baseball is older than dirt. Unlike the no-hitter which is slightly more rare, it is something that only takes 10 seconds to occur. It is also one ball player creating and doing something that makes the uninformed ask, "Why don't they always do that?" You know what I mean, it is the same kind of uninformed that are so blinded by Alex Burrows' great, clutch play that they ignore his more Sean Avery-like tendencies that also make up the kind of player he truly is***. In seeing an inside-the-park round tripper, everyone in attendance has witnessed the hitter just plain take over and put up a run (or runs) the old fashion way, and it will more than likely be the last time they see it for a while. Watch the same Granderson homer through a fan's camera off in nowhereland here and you will see just how fortunate they know they are to have witnessed it.

So the 2009 season is all about the inside job for me. I will keep my eyes out for whatever I can find, and if any of you should happen to see something, please feel free to send it to me. Not just the majors either. Who knows, maybe we can get together and exchange our top 5.

If we're lucky.


*- I can use this example because they have been out for a while now.
**- Uh, didja see the game?
***- OK, probably unnecessary; however, he did pull an opponent's hair in a recent fight like a woman, you guys. Like a goddamn woman.

The Book of Sir Doan de Halkirk

It was a peasant born Bernard that had been with his wife, and within a while she waxed great with a child. There was great joy betwixt them from his birth, and they named him Shane under their family crest of Doan. It fell upon that day that this boy would emerge from their village of Halkirk to find the ice, on which he would create and search for glory. 'Twas not knowledge then, but this family possessed strong bloodlines that would lead towards the frozen surface. Cousin Lady Catriona Le May was born within the land of the sweetest berries and would fon to rice while wearing longer, sharper steel upon her feet. More distant was young Price of Loch Williams of the county known for its mystical herbs. Born within the west of the kingdom of Her Majesty, Sir Doan has remained there throughout his frigid knighthood. His father would beset the wisdom of the Book upon him in his journey, most importantly to not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

Sir Doan would begin his battles as an adolescent combatant among this coastal county of mystical herbs. It was within this land where rivers meet and wolves camp that he would first fight along side Sir Iginla de Albert, a land named for its prairie Saint. The skills and talent of Doan fall in actuality somewhere behind this warrior Iginla and somewhere above Sir Smyth, also of Western birth, but currently crusading in a land separate from our country that ascends hundreds of fathoms. In these younger days side by side with Sir Iginla, he would discover the glory not only of a grail memorial, but the battles and conquests on behalf of Her Majesty's country and kingdom. He would show his undying loyalty to her early on, something that would somehow later be shamefully questioned.

As a mature member of Her Majesty's service, Sir Doan would migrate to a more central part of her kingdom. What would be a beginning for him in a county whose followers reside along the valley of a river that runs red, and harbours a battlefield that honours Her Majesty by displaying her immense visage among her followers, would be an end for his squadron. Its fighters were rumored to soar through the heavens like giant birds of steel, but they would be grounded, sent to a desert land named for an ascending fire bird where ice was only rumoured to reside. This battalion often lacks foundation and frequently finds themselves removed from the Grail crusade, seeking instead the rare eagle and albatross along green paths.

Sir Doan wishes to remain in battle despite this repeated occurrence, and never declines a chance to do so in her royal highness's name. He has been known to take on the role as leader when doing so, but it has not been without disputation. In a past tournament of skill and strength, the decision to beset this honour upon Doan was called in to question by her majesty's loyal opposition. They accused him of slander towards the New France within his kingdom. This was later revealed to be a move of pure politicking by one not clear on the nobleness of Sir Doan, revealed through his silence during the ordeal. He continued to heed his father's words and kept courage from the high Queen of Heaven. For this reason the knight had her portrait painted on the inside of his shield, so that when his glance fell on it, his heart never faltered. His regiment would go on to capture the sacred gold within Siberia's frozen land.

He will return to lead them again, as his howling canines of the badlands are once again forced to remain on the outside of the Grail quest. Despite their strategic lead falling on the greatest of warriors, King Wayne, it is unclear whether the army can survive. It is said that where every other brigade seeks profit to forward their crusade, Doan's company has chosen allocation. This is hindering the progress of the wild mongrels he represents, prompting some to suggest a return to the valley where the river runs red. This remains unclear but what does not is Sir Doan's nobility as well as his devotion to not only the competition's battlefield and its kingdom of origin, but also his lineage, his Queen, and his God.

*-Big thanks to Max for the Doan image!

The Songs of Wandering Shortstops

The dunk competition from NBA's All Star weekend showed some real creativity on the part of their athletes. Check it out at this link at The Huffington Post of all places. I don't know about you, but I prefer my reverse jams a little to the left. I must say that I do not really see a place for discussion about the dunk comp or any judged sport on this site. I love a lot of judged sport, do not get me wrong. I thought it was great to see Dwight Howard being what wrestlers would call a "good worker" by putting over the young talent. The point is at WCTS, we are trying to get a form of competitive sport recognized as an art form that is as yet unseen. It's like, of course something being judged on style points is art. Basically, all judged sporting events are beyond this discussion. That's someone else's blog. This is something quite different.

I guess a good place to start is Yeats' "The Song of Wandering Aengus." This is one artist trying to describe another artist creating and the constant need to do so. The act begins "Because a fire was in my head," and maps out this eternal and universal desire by the artist to forever seek out this inspiration that allows one to create through their own creations. This is all done while constantly knowing that it is something they will never truly encapsulate or reproduce. Everybody still with me? It is about how inspiration cannot be manufactured, but requires a quest of sorts. The same thing can be applied to sports and their athletes. They have their quests to try and create within. They are called plays, downs, at bats, shifts, possessions, games, series, seasons, careers. Each one produces different sorts of opportunity for creation to varying degrees of success.

Whenever I drive past a ball diamond, I always think of the stories that have unfolded there. Whether it be a well-looked-after pro-quality park or some old, neglected weed haven behind an elementary school, drama of all sorts has occurred at these places. It is both upsetting and inspiring to know that there are so many games at so many levels that will forever go unnoticed and unmentioned. At the same time, much like a freshly zambonied sheet of ice, it represents possibility. It is the canvas that which the "fire in the heads" of the athlete brings them to. What makes team sports particularly unique, aside from the astonishing fact that they have generally a few split seconds to create in their medium, is that it does contain tangible moments of concrete success. However, the truth is that they are just as fleeting as Inspirado herself. You will never score the very last goal, hit the final home run, even win the last championship. A select few have and will retire after a championship, but because the form endures through new games, seasons, etc., the sport itself remains a driving force. It's that clean sheet of ice or that old ball diamond, that "hazel wood." With each athletic opportunity, the athlete will continue to go here, and "pluck til time and times are done."


- Update regarding last week's post - A method to Mickey's madness?

"Who is this Rey Mysterio? And what does she do?"

So yeah, it was only a matter of time before I wrote about wrestling. I had been meaning to do it for a while, and seeing Mickey Rourke on a Kimmel rerun with Roddy Piper gave me that final kick in the ass that I needed. You see, I grew up with pro wrestling and it remains something to which I still have a genuine interest. I'm not entirely sure when I realized the matches were pre-determined. One day I was feeling thrilled to do the chore of bringing wood up to our fireplace in freezing Alberta winter, (something I usually detested) simply because Strike Force had won the tag belts. Some time later I was hoping that Bret would get a bigger push beyond his Intercontinental Champion status.

There were a lot of reasons why I began the presentation that started this project of mine with a quote from Bret Hart. First, wrestling is the only forum in which acting styles used by Chaplin and Keaton still thrive. The faces are always BIG, right? Add to that the snobbish attitudes of modernism running parallel to the present day average person's view of wrestling. Perhaps most important is the fact that pro wrestling is a blend of athletics and performance. They work to try and produce the thrills, chills, and plot twists that some real sporting events have to hope will happen (see previous post).

I loved The Wrestler of course, and a big reason had to do with the little man behind the curtain being revealed just a little bit more. How it got ignored for a Best Picture nom (along with Bruce's Best Song snub) is beyond me. Especially when Slumdog keeps winning awards. Say it with me: it's just a movie about a guy from India trying to get his girlfriend back. Gah. I'm not sure why I still get pissy about these things when it happens every year. Seen Juno lately? Anyways, The Wrestler. Super good. Like I said though, I have always liked getting to see a little more about wrestling's backstage going-ons. For instance, I actually watched Hogan's Celebrity Championship Wrestling series, and despite it looking like one big work from the start (my friend Kelly asked me, "Isn't all reality TV one big work?"), it somehow revealed to me that Brian Knobbs is a great match writer. I had never even really thought about that job existing in the manner that it did.

Anyways, Aronofsky's film got its critical acclaim, and we have all seen Rourke's announcement that he would wrestle for realzies at Wrestlemania 25. Then he backed out on Larry King after Chris Jericho spoke via satellite. Even though press releases said he had backed out, my initial reaction was that this was all a work. Chris Jericho would comment further on the next Raw about how Mickey ran away with his tail between his legs and the angle would progress. The interesting thing was that as I was thinking about this, my non-wrestling fan friends started telling me that they had heard Randy "The Ram" would not get another shot. It was at that point that I started hoping it was a work, mostly because there remains a belief among wrestling fans that it may well be. If this backing out were to end up being all part of the story, that same general public that thinks wrestling is stupid would have been outsmarted by wrestling.

So, I tuned in to Raw and sure enough, Jericho took a dig at Rourke backing out, but there have been no developments in the week or so since regarding the match being "back on." So it may all be my personal pipe dream that this match takes place. I really hope it does though, because that kid that loved Strike Force in me wants to see a "Ram Jam," the wrestling observer in me wants to see what kind of story these two men could tell, as well as what kind of bumps they are willing to take in the process, and the absolute adoration I have always had in me for these guys and their sport/art form wants to see it eke closer to a place that for them has always seemed unreachable: artistic credibility.

"You are a good and beautiful game."

When Paul Thomas Anderson was in the process of finishing Magnolia, he commented on how he was taking things from real life. As the great Ricky Jay would say as the narrator, "...we generally say, 'Well if that was in a movie I wouldn't believe it.'" Do we sometimes forget how ridiculously unlikely some occurrences are?

Sometimes it rains frogs. Really, it does. And sometimes we get a really great Superbowl. The fact that if it was in a movie, it would seem ridiculous only amplifies its importance. There is a reason why people will remember not just the one big play, but remember the game itself and the plays within. Think of the storylines. Will the Steelers defence really show how bad-ass they can be? Uh, sure. And in doing so, produce what many are already calling the greatest single play ever seen in the big game. Wanna bet they'll still remember the game more though? Fitzgerald lived up to his billing as the greatest wide receiver in the world, and Roethlisberger showed that he could move past his self-admitted "tarnished" first ring. If there was a big question about Kurt Warner going in to last Sunday, it was whether or not he belonged in the hall of fame. Another part of what made this year's show extraordinary and unique was that he confirmed his place in the hallowed halls as a losing quarterback.
This all led to Santonio Holmes making a catch that is iconic of what makes the NFL, for me the most consistently entertaining sport going. To really appreciate it through two separate images, go from the one above to #13 on this site. I can explain to you why it resonates so much for me but by now, you have no doubt seen this play dissected from every-which angle. I could gush forever about how brilliant the LeBron homage in the endzone celebration was for God's sake. We can say the same about the other events I touched on too, but I guess that makes my point.

This game will definitely continue to be remembered as it fades away in to NFL films of lore, somehow the talk of it will also give it this weird kind of legendary feel. Whether you want to call it the "best game ever" is simply up to whoever wants to call it that or not. A lot of people are still sticking with Tyree over Harrison's play above, so go figure. The important thing to remember is best revealed through a revisiting and paraphrasing of Ricky Jay's Magnolia closing monologue. See if you can picture his voice saying it: "In Tampa Bay on February 1st, 2009, there were stories of coincidence and chance and intersections and strange things told and which is which and who only knows... and someone's so and so passed the ball to someone's so and so and so on --."

Unlike Jay's closing words that follow, what makes sports truly a mark of importance is that "these strange things" do not "happen all the time." For about 4 hours it did though. It really did. And I didn't even mention The Boss.

Richards of Arabia

In my last post I wrote about film being in its very early stages in the era of Keaton and Chaplin. I just watched The Cameraman last night incidentally, and for an artist unhappy with his lack of creative input with a new studio, Buster shows just how much he still rules the school. Jumping on to the fenders of moving buses for starters.

If there is an area in sports that is still in its infancy, it is the shootout. Yeah, they actually have been around forever, particularly in international and amateur events. I can even remember them from my tween and teen times on the ice. I am a perfect 100%, fyi. One for one. Nothing too fancy. One move deke to the backhand. Shelf. If I recall it was the only move I had. I know that even through those past occurrences we have seen some pretty groundbreaking stuff, my move excluded. Forsberg in Lillehammer and Datsyuk anywhere come to mind. If there is a film parallel, again they are akin to the great comedy shorts or even Melies' A Trip to the Moon.

Since the shootout's inception and obvious added frequency within the era henceforth known as "new" NHL, we have seen variances on things like leg kicks added to the deke. For the most part, it is between this or the pick-your-poison quick shot, to which some players display ridiculous amounts of loyalty. Recently we have seen some somewhat interesting advancements like Rolston with his straight-up blast, but this is still all creativity only on display during the ending of the event. What's that? Where else can we find creativity but in the brief moments before the shot? You need only look as far as Dean Youngblood to find that answer. I know that is a crazy-pretty finish, but he had that Gilles Gratton rip-off beat the moment he skated away from the puck. The shootout attempt begins right after the ref blows the whistle, letting you know it's your turn to shoot, not when you cross the hash marks.

Over the last season or two, we have started to see some players trying the preliminary cut to one side of the rink move, and more advanced variations to varying results, but things really got interesting in the early portion of the program department last weekend. If the players we discussed earlier were Keaton and Melies, then Mike Richards went and pulled out a D. W. Griffith. He dropped The Birth of a Nation on our asses. Only slightly less racist. Should I have said Intolerance? Anyways, it all occurs at the :40 mark of this clip and was met to differing responses from critics. You can hear Dutchie give a gimme-a-break sort of "What's he doing?" in the background. I guess that would put him in the "disapproving" camp.

Richards may not have scored, but his epic length and scope caused immediate ripplings. One night later, enter: pacing. In a game between the Habs and Sens, Maxim Lapierre discovered that this new medium called the shootout is capable of providing an interesting drama with plot twists and a slow but effective finale. It's what Pauline Kael might refer to as "ludicrous at times..." but shows "more spectral atmosphere, more ingenuity, and more imaginative ghoulish ghastliness than any of its successors." Or maybe we've just reached Murnau's Nosferatu.

Btw, notice how Lapierre finished? One move deke to the backhand. Shelf.

You're welcome.

Opening Day

Hello sports fans!

This blog is the start of a project that will hopefully evolve in to something much bigger. Friends who have spent any time with me over the last three months know that this finally begins what I seem incapable of shutting up about. I will extrapolate further in a minute, but right now I feel we need an introduction to explain how this all came about.

Last September, I began the final two classes leading towards my English degree, one of them a 400-level Modernism course that was entirely centred around the year 1922. This was a big year for Modernism. Ulysses' last pages were published then, as was Eliot's The Waste Land. We looked at these along with works by Lawrence and Woolf. Also included were some of the "fringe" artists of the era, including Claude McKay and Mina Loy. You see, there is a definite aura of elitism that looms when reading and examining modernist texts. There came a time to propose presentations to lead class discussion at future dates. I chose the week in which we were looking at film and Charlie Chaplin, but asked for two deviations: 1. - that I can look at Buster Keaton (a personal favourite) as well and, 2. - that I can also write about baseball and Babe Ruth's 1922 season.

There are a lot of reasons for this choice, and those who know me understand that I do not have to explain the main reason. Within the confines of the class, however, the driving force was the idea of art being for a certain group of people. It views its prized texts as "high" art, and one could definitely see this as rightfully so. I cannot imagine anyone who is not extremely well-read reading the aforementioned Joycean epic and well, "getting" it. If I had not read it within the confines of a classroom and the benefits of discussion, there is so so so much that would have gone over my head. I am not saying that you should all marvel at this novel's sheer intellectual might because it was capable of confusing my seemingly perfect brain. I'm just saying, tough read. No, what I was really concerned with was the idea of one form of art failing to be recognized in holding as much merit as another. At the time, the medium of film was still in its infancy and seen as "low." I never reference it in my presentation, but a look at Gilbert Seldes' The 7 Lively Arts discusses this along with other forms and their perception.

Film, along with its early works from the likes of Chaplin and Keaton, has of course reached a recognition much higher as a medium. I would argue in my presentation that the heroes of the two shorts we would watch, The Pawn Shop and Neighbors share motivations with what one would describe as the "modernist hero" that we would see in other texts. Within that argument would be Ruth's 1922 season. Why? What is the connection? Well, it is no mystery that academia does not recognize athletics and sport. Some might even suggest an elitism towards it. There are obviously a number of reasons for this phenomena to exist. For instance, the brain and what you do with it is in general, universally seen as containing more importance than someones physical strength and ability. Sports also receives enough recognition from the Philistine population, aka almost everybody. Why should it get something else, something grander? Another big factor is the fact that every egghead that made it to some position of power within the hallowed halls of Wherever University, North America and beyond, let's face it, got picked last in every gym class he ever took.

So I guess I was suggesting a couple of things: 1. - Baseball is an art and deserves recognition as so. 2. - Babe Ruth was its most groundbreaking artist, much like those that would be changing the rules of an art form like film. The presentation was prefaced by the two films mentioned, as well as the first six minutes of "The Fourth Inning" of Ken Burns' Baseball*. If you can find it before you read this, it aids in presenting The Babe's importance.

Lovers, Tramps, and Sultans: A Look at the Modernist Hero and the Attitudes Attached Through Keaton, Chaplin, and Ruth
“Who is this Baby Ruth? And what does she do?”
- George Bernard Shaw

“Sometimes when a hero fails, it only makes him more human and real and you love him even more.”
- Bret Hart

Following the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, George Herman Ruth saved baseball by chasing aside the daisy-cutters and small ball, single-handedly ushering in the era of the moon shot. The Maharajah of Mash belted 54 dingers in the 1920 season, more than any other team’s combined total for the year, save the Phillies, whose roster produced one more. He would repeat this feat in the next season, adding 5 more bombs for good measure. These wonders, aided by the articles of the sports writers of the day made him the biggest name in America, a hero to all whose own legend neared that of Paul Bunyan. In regards to a New Jersey hospital visit by the Bambino, New York Daily News scribe Paul Gallico wrote, “It was God himself who walked into the room, straight from the glittering throne. God dressed in a camel’s hair polo coat and flat camel’s hair cap, God with a flat nose and little piggy eyes, a big grin, and a fat black cigar sticking out of the side of it.”

The protagonists in the short films The Pawn Shop and Neighbors demonstrated the incredible talent of their respective real-life stars, Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton, and in doing so, produced characters that seemed capable of anything. Audiences would marvel at the quick thinking and leaps in logic that would often produce desired results for each film’s main character. In The Pawn Shop’s most celebrated scene, Chaplin’s tramp character is forced to deem whether a customer’s clock is suitable for purchase. He is unqualified to make the decision, as he is merely the shop’s custodian, yet he embraces the role of shopkeeper and seemingly on the fly goes through a number of tests to judge the piece of merchandise. Writer Kyp Harness explains, “an alarm clock becomes a doctor’s patient, a can of tuna, and a host of other intricate devices and organisms we can only dare to imagine” (Art, 70). After destroying the clock, he returns it to the customer in his own hat, and denies the transaction. This illustrates a quality of fearlessness in the tramp character that would endear Chaplin to millions.
In the case of Keaton, it was his ability to do stunt work disguised as slapstick that would make him a film legend. In Neighbors, his character’s intentions may be more honourable than Chaplin’s, but the lengths he goes to in order to be with his true love are just as outrageous. In an early scene, he climbs three stories in rapid fashion, is chased out by an angry father, zip-lines across one clothesline, and inadvertently slides down a banister that leads to another clothesline zip across back to the same father. Buster is then clothes pinned by his feet to the line and pulleyed back to his own father, who, in the middle of beating the dust out of an old rug, mistakenly gives Buster a whooping himself. Much like Chaplin’s outside-of-the-box reasoning, Keaton’s physical ability would aid in producing a character that was easy to root for.

The 1922 season would not begin with The Behemoth of Bust continuing his horsehide destruction. The newly ordained commissioner of baseball, Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis announced that Ruth would be suspended for the season’s first seven weeks, due to a forbidden barnstorming tour in the off-season. In his sixth game back, after being called out for trying to stretch out a two-bagger from a single, the Babe threw dirt in the umpire’s face, was thrown out of the game, then stood atop the dugout and challenged two hecklers to a fight. The season’s woes continued through the summer, as his bat was not producing like it could. In September, he was suspended for his “vulgar and vicious language” towards an umpire. It was originally to be a three game ride on the pine, but was stretched to five after The Sultan of Swat confronted the umpire the next day. His boorish behaviour stretched beyond the field as well. He was known for his hard-drinking, long nights of carousing, and a general disregard for authority. When his roommate Ping Bodie was asked what it was like to live with the Caliph of Clout, he replied, “I don’t know. I never see him. I room with a suitcase.” Through all of this turmoil, the Babe’s popularity never dwindled.

Charlie Chaplin’s character in The Pawn Shop behaves in a manner that is far from virtuous. He comes to work late, and eventually gets in to a fight with his co-worker. He then concentrates on earning the affections of the shop owner’s daughter. He seems to want to do everything but work when at his job. It gets worse when a thief has made his way in. In his book, Silent Clowns, Walter Kerr writes that Chaplin’s tramp character is “both coward and hero of the occasion” (93). He hides out in a trunk, and waits for the opportunity to spring on the thief, levelling him with a rolling pin. Kerr continues, “Charlie hops from the trunk, turns directly to us, and goes into a cross-ankled, spread-eagled dancer’s applause-finish, quite as though the orchestra were now blaring out a sign-off ‘Ta-taa!’” Despite his morally questionable tactics, Chaplin finds a way to place a twinkle in his eye, maintaining his protagonist status.
Keaton similarly behaves in ways that could be considered childish in Neighbors. He devises a contraption described as a “flyswatter” on the title card, but it is there, simply to smack his potential bride’s father upside the head and in the rear end, while confusing him in the process. As it happens, he sits atop the fence and hides behind a piece of clothing on the line, just to watch the show. He is creating chaos for chaos’s sake and revelling in it. Eventually even policemen are involved. Policemen are seen in relatively the same way by Keaton and Chaplin in the two pieces as well. Each is busted at times by officers, and the characters’ way of escaping their clutches is through proclaiming innocence by springing in to dance, of all things. Authority is seen as something that can be outsmarted by both Chaplin and Keaton, and they are recognized as champions in doing so.

The Rajah of Rap was anything but in the 1922 season. He finished with 24 less round-trippers than he had in 1921. Even though his Yankees made it to the World Series, he was a loathsome 2 for 17 at the plate. Rumours flew that the reason for his team’s inability to win in the October Classic were due to his non-stop partying and disciplinary action was expected. On November 15, Ruth attended a baseball writers’ dinner at the New York Elks Club. State Senator James Walker was the guest of honour and stunned the onlookers by loudly proclaiming, “Babe Ruth is not only a great athlete, but also a fool!” He continued, by adding that he had let down every child in the United States:
You carouse and abuse your great body, and it is exactly as though Santa Claus himself suddenly were to take off his beard to reveal the features of a villain... the other day a ragged, dirty-faced little kid asked me for a dime to make up a quarter he was trying to get together.
‘And what will you do with a quarter?’I asked him.
‘I wanna get me a cap with Babe Ruth on it, like the rest of the gang.’
If we did not love you, Babe, and I myself did not love you sincerely, I would not tell you these things... Will you solemnly promise to the dirty-faced kids of America, to mend your ways?
The Babe replied through tears, “So help me Jim, I will. I’m going back to the farm and get in shape!”

*

Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin would go on to produce the only two comedy epics of the Silent era, The General and The Gold Rush.

Babe Ruth would begin the 1923 season by hitting one out of a park filled with more than 74,000 people, a stadium built only for him. He finished his career with 714 homeruns, a record that would stand for nearly forty years.

Works Cited
Burns, Ken, dir. “Fourth Inning: A National Heirloom 1920-1930.” Baseball. DVD. Warner
Bros, 1994.
Chaplin, Charlie, dir. The Pawn Shop. With Chaplin and Henry Bergman. Mutual, 1916.
Dickson, Paul, ed. Baseball’s Greatest Quotations. New York: HarperCollins, 1991.
Harness, Kyp. The Art of Charlie Chaplin: A Film By Film Analysis. Jefferson, NC: McFarland
& Co., 2008.
Keaton, Buster, dir. Neighbors. With Keaton and Virginia Fox. Metro, 1920.
Kerr, Walter. The Silent Clowns. New York: Random House, 1975.
Montville, Leigh. The Big Bam: The Life and Times of Babe Ruth. New York: Doubleday, 2006.
Wagenheim, Kal. Babe Ruth: His Life & Legend. New York: Praeger, 1974.

So, the presentation went well, I had a ball writing it, and I found myself thinking something that I had never once in my life thought previously: I should write a book. Not just about this, but sports in general. A game of baseball or any team sport for that matter, can be seen as a piece, with its different events, moods, atmospheres, and even textures that are contained within one. You will often hear coaches after an "ugly win" remark something along the lines of, "it wasn't a Rembrandt, but we'll take it." This is sort of what I am getting at, but to sum up the real reason I want to write a book came from something I thought before I even took this class. It will be the mantra for this project and it goes like this:

A goal from Alexander Ovechkin is capable of producing as much artistry and creativity that there is found in a line from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land.

I was explaining this to my friend Marissa just before this Christmas and she remarked, "they call them superstars."

This conversation helped produce a book title perhaps, a blog title for sure. I will continue to write about the works and sports that I watch and follow most in relation to this topic, and look forward to any input from those willing to aid me on my journey. I also welcome discussion on my initial presentation, as it is the heart of this endeavor. This is an obvious labour of love, but I will definitely need all the help that I can get. With that in mind - let's play ball.

* - Great News!