Gunophobia in the news.

Two pieces for your attention:

1. A New Hampshire high school senior had his yearbook picture taken holding a gun. He's a trap and skeet shooting enthusiast, and the picture shows him in competition gear, including his shotgun.

Naturally, the administration was appalled, found it inappropriate and prohibited him from using it as his senior picture.

Perhaps just as naturally, a lawsuit is in the works.


2. In New York, vigiliant authorities arrested a teen with a firearm in his trunk.

Well, OK, it's a replica Civil War musket.

Without bullets.

As it turns out, er, um, it's not actually capable of firing them.

That's because, as the hapless teen's enraged mother tersely noted, it's what's known as--and I hate to use technical bafflegab--a "fake gun."

Because, as the authorities acknowledge, the lad's a Civil War re-enactor, who after re-doing Chancellorsville (ouch) a week ago, tossed his gear into his trunk and forgot it was there.

Did I mention that the re-enactor unit heavily recruited at the high school?

But, for all that, Joshua Phelps was cuffed, led out of the school and charged with misdemeanor possession of a firearm. Why do I smell a lawsuit?

Everything you think you know about "the Curse of the Bambino"...is wrong.

So goes the provocative thesis of Glenn Stout's impeccably-researched essay, A "Curse" Born of Hate. An instant classic, and one for the Snopes files.

The notion of the "Curse" rests on several pillars, most of them false. In brief, the story claims that Boston owner Harry Frazee, a failed theatrical producer, sold Ruth to line his own pocket, bail out his theatrical productions, and eventually bankroll his successful production of the musical "No, No Nanette," earning him a fortune. Furthermore, the Yankees provided Frazee with a second mortgage on Fenway Park worth $350,000, turning the $100,000 cash sale into a larger transaction of nearly a half million dollars. Over the next few years the cash-strapped Frazee gleefully sold the guts of his club to the Yankees, receiving little of value in return, making the Yankees a dynasty and forever dooming the Red Sox to also-ran status. After finally selling the club in 1923 and making millions on "Nanette," the inept Frazee squandered his fortune on more failed productions and died in 1928 with an estate worth less than $50,000.

Virtually none of this is factually accurate. As I have written in detail in "Red Sox Century," "Yankees Century," and in several articles subsequently here and on ESPN.com, the only "facts" that withstand scrutiny are that, indeed, Frazee was a theatrical producer, he did sell Babe Ruth and he did make several million dollars on "No, No, Nanette." The rest resides between utter fiction and imagination.

So, the facts about the principals are wrong, the timing is wrong and even the phrase itself only dates back to Dan Shaughnessy's 1990 book, itself based upon the first articulation of a curse by a New York sportswriter.

Two nights later, when the Mets won the [1986] World Series, [NY Times sportswriter George] Vecsey better articulated that premise. "All the ghosts and demons and curses of the past 68 years continued to haunt the Boston Red Sox last night," he wrote. He then evoked Babe Ruth and 1918, writing, "Yet the owner sold him to the lowly New York Yankees to finance one of his Broadway shows, and for 68 years it has never been the same." Now Vecsey added his own headline, "Babe Ruth Curse Strikes Again."

There, for the first time, he articulated the "Curse" that blamed Boston's failures on the sale of Ruth by Harry Frazee. Today Vecsey admits that, "I kind of thought I invented it [the Curse] but it never meant anything to me." He does not recall precisely where he got the notion. "It was just a device," he says. "I had no sense of creating something. We're all magpies in this business. You're always picking something out of somebody else's nest whether you know it or not. It's in your brain, but you easily could have gotten it from [sportswriters such as] Dick Young or Fred Lieb. Call it collective wisdom, whatever you want." However it happened, Vecsey inadvertently gave a villain to a franchise that needed one -- Harry Frazee.

Until that moment, no one ascribed Boston's failure to win a World Series since 1918 to anything resembling a curse connected to Babe Ruth and Harry Frazee. After each previous painful loss no one evoked the names of Ruth and Frazee. To be fair, local sportswriters occasionally floated the notion of a Red Sox-related curse, from Peter Gammons' 1981 reference to "the Fenway Park curse of the Yankees" and Dan Shaughnessy's 1986 mid-season mention of a "dueling curse" involving both California Boston, but the concept had no protagonist and little traction. Only Boston Globe editorialist Marty Nolan previously intimated the Ruth sale caused the Red Sox serial failure. In 1983 he mentioned the "Curse of gonfalis interupptus," and in an October 6, 1986 story on Fenway Park, Nolan made the first (and erroneous) claim that Frazee sold Ruth to finance "No, No, Nanette," adding, "Pinstripe paranoia has been a Boston curse ever since." Now, Nolan can't recall where he came up with the "Nanette" connection but admits he may actually have been responsible for that bit of misinformation. Yet at the same time these and other writers also referred to Boston "jinxes" and various other vexations, the term "choking" among the most popular. Calling it a "Curse" was just another way to phrase frustration.

Vecsey's Ruth and Frazee-based curse took a while to gain a foothold, for over the next two years no one blamed Harry Frazee for anything. Although Boston Globe sportswriter and columnist Dan Shaughnessy later wrote the notion of the "Curse" had been kicking around for "seven decades," Vecsey was the first to put the words on the page -- Shaughnessy himself did not mention it in his 1987 book, "One Strike Away," and a database search of the Globe from November 1986 until the summer of 1990 reveals that the words "Frazee" and "Curse" appeared together only once, as an aside in a story by Peter Canellos.

As detailed in Shaughnessy's "The Curse of the Bambino," the impetus for his book came from Red Sox fan and Dorchester native Arthur Davidson. He mimicked Vecsey's headline in a conversation with his niece, Meg Blackstone, mentioning a "Curse of the Bambino."
Blackstone, a publishing editor, smelled a book in the title. In August of 1988 she asked Shaughnessy to write it. He agreed.

There's also a fascinating recounting of the strong stench of Jew hatred which permeated baseball ownership at the time, and the role of the rabidly anti-Semitic Henry Ford and his deservedly-dead Dearborn Independent newspaper in helping to drive Harry Frazee (a truly decent man, from the account) from the game.

RTWT.

Dale Price's Sports Machine.

1. The NFL, still not getting it. Good for Jake Plummer. I hope the NFL realizes what a black eye it's going to get with this fine, and modifies the policy quickly.
2. MLB [Bob Dole voice]: Come on--this is the series everyone wanted. You know it. I know it. The American people know it.
3. MLB, II: I don't hate the Atlanta Braves, but I certainly don't wish them well--especially against the 'Stros. Atlanta is the worst sports town in North America, hands down.
4. NFL II, Pod People: Who are you, and what have you done with my hapless football team? I'll tell you the difference. E.g., watch the defense, and notice the following, Lions fans: these guys close to the ball very, very quickly. It's called team speed, and the Lions now have it, on both sides of the ball. No more watching Todd Lyght flail helplessly as yet another mid-grade NFL receiver is made to look like Randy Moss by a leadfoot squad. That, and Shaun Rogers is a lead pipe cinch for All Pro--the best defensive tackle in the league this year, to date.
5. Meeechigan. Finally, Lloyd unchains the offense. Not that I expect to see Air Carr, or Fun 'n' Gun North, but a little more trust in the gunslinger is all I ask. And apparently, I shall receive. Sometimes I think Lloyd has flashbacks and is determined to crush Woody and the Buckeyes with three yards and a cloud of dust, running Harlan Huckleby behind Dierdorf and Brandstatter on three straight downs. Either that, or he's afraid that if his QB regularly puts up 300 yards a game, he's going to have to do his press conferences sounding like Snoop: "Yo, don't hate the playah--hate the game." "Word is bond: Chad Henne is the shiznit." Don't entirely discount the latter as a possibility.

If I seem a little curt in the comment box below...

Consider this the apology for the tone. Sort of.

Frankly, waving the "Patient Suffering From X" is a 21st Century equivalent of waving the bloody shirt. It is usually done, as was the case below, with a "You'd cut off his pain meds, too" tone that poisons the well quite nicely, thanks. Hey, I can do it too: I know a patient suffering from an advanced case of Parkinson's who lives in Italy. He drools on himself, shakes uncontrollably, and slurs his speech. Here's the catch: He's passionately--passionately--opposed to embryonic stem cell research.

Does that even the playing field? Are we equal now--each of us with passionate suffering advocates on opposite sides of the equation? If that's what it takes, so be it.

Moving on--consider this fact: embryonic stem cell research supporters present the case for their caused as the panacea for all human infirmities. Consider Ron Reagan, Jr.'s speech at the Democratic National Convention:

And another thing, these embryonic stem cells, they could continue to replicate indefinitely and, theoretically, can be induced to recreate virtually any tissue in your body. How’d you like to have your own personal biological repair kit standing by at the hospital? Sound like magic? Welcome to the future of medicine.

Leaving aside the oddity of a former ballet dancer with no medical background purporting to accurately describe the advantages of advanced medical research in its initial stages (somewhat like the Cardinal Archbishop of Los Angeles purporting to describe the technical advantages of the latest generation of snowblowers), not only do all of us know a Patient X--each of us is Patient X. Have a family history of dementia, heart disease, various cancers--like mine? You can now weigh in on ESCR with full credibility--even if you obviously happen to be a heartless theocrat one step removed from burning Galileo at the stake.

Like me.

If I might, I'd like to offer an alternative approach--let the kids live, and harvest the cord blood instead, which is a truly rich source of stem cells. With upwards of 200,000 embryos in "storage," just think of the possibilities--and the families desperate for children who can now have them--two problems solved at once.

A final aside, a chilling thought for the morning: what if ESCR does achieve breakthroughs? You might want to hope that Christian Scientists and Jehovah's Witnesses continue to win court cases regarding forced medical treatment. Think about it. Though I have real doubts as to how long a conscience exemption would last against the demands of "public health."

Deathwalkers.

I concur with Mark Shea--Babylon 5 is the finest science-fiction television show ever. Period. End of story. Sure, some seasons were better than others, but overall, it blew everything bearing the Trek trademark away.

One of the interesting aspects of the show is a consistent willingness to explore moral issues, quandaries and decisions. Perhaps the most consistently haunting episode for our day and age is the one entitled "Deathwalker."

Quick, as non-geeky-as-possible synopsis: "Deathwalker" is the nickname borne by the chief bioweapons scientist for a particularly nasty race of would-be conquerors who were barely defeated by the Good Guys, led by the lads of Terra. The nickname was given to her by her few surviving victims, who watched as she experimented on millions of beings on a large number of planets, many of which were left utterly destroyed. DW is believed to be dead, but turns up at the B5 space station, where she is in the midst of offering a Faustian bargain to the government of Earth: during the course of her hideous experiments, she stumbled upon the recipe for immortality--a serum that stops aging and restores youth.

Ah, but there's a catch (see Faust): the only way the serum can be obtained is through destroying the living--it cannot be synthesized in the lab. DW taunts Our Hero with the observation that that's not a bug, it's a feature:

"You and the rest of your kind take blind confidence in the belief that we are monsters--that you could never do what we did. The key ingredient in the serum cannot be synthesized; it must be taken from living beings. For one to live forever, another one must die. You will fall upon one another like wolves. It will make what we did pale by comparison. The billions who live forever will be a testimony to my work, and the billions who were murdered to buy that immortality will be the continuance of my work. Not like us? You will become us. That's my monument, Commander."

Indeed, the powers that be on Earth prove tempted, but that temptation...well, see the episode for yourself for the resolution.

Anyway, the episode happened came to mind because of a recent political ad just hitting the airwaves. Just sixty years ago we thought Mengele was a monster. How much further do we have to go before we begin to see our striking resemblance to the Nazi Doctor in the mirror?

Great job, Eistein!

The funniest story I've read in a long time:

It didn't take a nuclear physicist to realize changes were needed after a $40,000 ceramic mural was unveiled outside the city's new library and everyone could see the misspelled names of Einstein, Shakespeare, Vincent Van Gogh, Michelangelo and seven other historical figures.

Wait--it gets better:

Our library director is very frustrated that she has this lovely new library and it has all these misspellings in front," said city councilwoman Lorraine Dietrich, one of three council members who voted Monday to authorize paying another $6,000, plus expenses, to fly the artist up from Miami to fix the errors.

Let's see if I have this straight: Library commissions artist to do mural, paying her forty large. Artist proves incapable of spelling "cat" if you spot her the C and A. Artist gets another six K plus expenses to fix her own error.

If your mechanic installed a muffler where the new alternator was supposed to go, then got hissy and demanded another eleven percent to fix his own incompetence, you'd brain the chump with a tire iron first.

"I'm not going to pay a lot for this muffler."

But, since it's someone else's money, what the hey?

Here's a photograph of the handiwork.

[Link via Christopher Johnson.]

Beslan, U.S.A.?

I am a little more anxious this morning:

Schools in six states in particular are being watched closely based on information uncovered by the U.S. military in Baghdad this summer, law enforcement and education officials told ABC News.

A man described as an Iraqi insurgent involved in anti-coalition activities had downloaded school floor plans and safety and security information about elementary and high schools in the six states, according to officials.

School officials in Fort Myers, Fla.; Salem, Ore.; Gray, Ga.; Birch Run, Mich.; two towns in New Jersey; and two towns in California have been told to increase security in light of the discovery.

And here's one for the Doyoyoy File:

Law enforcement officials said they had no easy explanation why an insurgent in Baghdad would be gathering such specific information about American schools, some of them in small towns.

Translated: "Law enforcement officials said they had no easy, reassuring, go-ahead-and-hit-that-snooze-bar-again explanation why...."

Birch Run is a little town--the "Welcome To" signs unabashedly call it a "Village"--about fifteen minutes south of Saginaw. Statewide, it is known for precisely one thing: a huge outlet mall just off I-75. God willing, it will stay that way.

If you get the sense there is no safe place, congratulations!

You have been paying attention.

So, why do I get the feeling that we'll hear more about Vietnam the next few weeks than this story?

It's a boy!

Jim and Jessica Cork's first child was born today. Everyone is doing well.

Congratulations on the blessing!

You won't miss the sleep--but forget about giving up java for Lent.

Or any other time of the year, for that matter.

Picture from the Indult Mass last Sunday.

Taken from the choir loft.

I'm not in it.

Some people find Hell to be an unjust concept. I don't.

Here's why:

DR. GEORGE TILLER runs an abortion facility in Wichita, Kansas. He sent the Kerry campaign a contribution of $1,000, recorded March 17, 2004.

A full-term pregnancy is 40 weeks (counted from the end of the last menstrual period). Tiller performs abortions on request through 26 weeks, or near the end of the sixth month. He uses various methods, but often favors killing the fetus by injecting digoxin into his or her chest to stop the heart, followed by induction of labor and/or manual removal of the dead baby.
Tiller's clinic website (www.drtiller.com/mainpg.html) explains, "We are able to perform elective abortions to the time in the pregnancy when the fetus is viable. Viability is not a set point in time."
* * *
What about abortions after 26 weeks? In a 1995 speech, Tiller spoke of performing abortions as late as 36 weeks.

Nope. Sometimes, the dogma makes perfect sense.

The Return of the Tridentine Mass to Detroit.

The Price family was present for this historic occasion at 9:30am, Sunday, October 4.

Some basic observations first.

1. St. Josaphat's is a magnificent church--nothing short of awe-inspiring. The website photos fail to do it a lick of justice. Despite a small congregation (at least until October 4), the place is lovingly maintained. As one of the priests pointed out afterwards, none of the three clustered parishes has had a lick of "renovation" done (the tone of his voice was disapproving upon hitting the quoted term). They are all too poor for it.

Only the rich can afford the Cult of Fugly. Put another way: Dick Vosko doesn't work pro bono (praise God). Which means that if you want to find architectural gems of the Catholic heritage, go to your local metropolis' downtown. St. Albertus and Sweetest Heart of Mary were also recommended to me by a nice gentleman who goes on regular Detroit church tours during the holidays.

For those worried about such things: St. Josaphat's is in a fairly decent area, right next to the Harper Hospital/Wayne State complex along I-75. There's a police station very near by, making security a non-issue. Parking is good, too.

2. What kind of job did the archdiocese do? Somewhat mixed, if more to the good. On the plus side of the ledger: the durable (I spilled plenty of water on mine, running the eldest back to the toilet multiple times) missals explaining the Mass were very well done, and quite helpful. There were plenty for all the attendees, and they helpfully explained the differences in the 1962 Mass (many people were toting missals from 1961 and earlier). The people were friendly, too--even grateful. It's the largest crowd the parish has seen in a while, by all accounts. To the negative: the initial, trumpeted announcement said the Mass was scheduled for 10am, however "tentative." It was moved back to 9:30am, with much, much less fanfare. I suspect many were screwed up by this decision. Bad, bad move (however inadvertent), and one likely to engender suspicion among the very people the Indult is attempting to reconcile. Another bad signal: no bishops attended. Not a sausage, to use the British vernacular. I was hardly expecting Tom Gumbleton (wouldn't that have been entertaining!), but not a single one? Nothing says grudging quite like that silent thunderbolt. After all, the Bishop of Covington (Kentucky) is personally celebrating the first Indult Mass for his diocese. The civil war downtown continues, and score one for the forces of progress, I suppose.

3. Who was there? Speaking of the unreconciled: they weren't. Granted, I didn't talk to a large cross section of attendees, but everyone I did speak with hailed from an archdiocesan parish. Assumption Grotto was well-represented. I think Metro Detroit's sizable separated traditionalist community is playing "wait and see" with the goings on at St. Josaphat.

Also, it could have been me, but there seemed to be flickers of surprise when I mentioned my registered parish, an unspoken "Really?" I don't know quite what to make of that. We don't attend Detroit's answer to St. Joan of Arc (Minneapolis).

4. Numbers? Not SRO, but still large: I'd put it in the neighborhood of 500+. I'm convinced it would have been SRO if any of the things I mentioned above had occurred properly: better advertising, especially of the changed time, and the attendance of, oh, say--the Cardinal.
And, to pre-empt any nostalgia claims: the average age was about 40, skewing toward the younger demographic. I haven't seen that many young Catholic families in one place...ever. Infant car seats were a trip hazard. There was a ten minute wait in line to get into the parish hall after Mass, where tables threatened to sink under the weight of missals, old and reprinted (mine is the 1960 Maryknoll, my wife's the 1959 St. Joseph's Daily version).

Now, to the substance: what do I think of the Tridentine Mass?

Phew. Well, I'm still digesting it, to be honest. It appeared to be (remember: I was raised Methodist) a sung High Mass, and there was more "participation" than I was led to believe was the case. Initial gut observation: I can understand why people find it off-putting, to be candid. It's hard to tell what's going on, and what is happening when. It is alien (more on that later), strange and mystifying. Okaaaay--what's he doing now? I found myself flipping through the missal and still getting lost quickly, which was a bit frustrating. I received the best advice after the fact: just go and put the missal down for the first few weeks. Things will start to percolate in time.

The National Blogging Service has just issued a Qualifier Warning, meaning an impending qualifier has just been spotted heading toward the post you are now reading. If you dislike posts which shift gears, the NBS advises you to please take cover immediately.

BUT.

I also understand why people love it and connect with the Latin liturgy in a way that is difficult to put into words. For the first time in a long time, I found myself not reacting against the music or other idiosyncrasies that pop up. I also saw--clearly--the sacrificial focus of the Mass in a way I hadn't before. It reminded me that only Christ could do what He did on our behalf. When I wasn't wrestling my restive toddlers (they loved the church, but were less big on the decorum), I found time to reflect and pray, in a way I hadn't before. I was left with the definite sense of Divine Mystery: there's Something going on here, Something just beyond the range of the senses, much like the Apostles must have felt more than once in the presence of Jesus. And now, for the really weird part--even in its alien-ness, it seemed oddly familiar, in a way I am at a loss to explain.

Which brings me to my continuing disquiet: Why is it alien? By all rights, it should not be--but it is. In too many places, reform became revolt, and the past was cast aside entirely. That was my past, too, thank you very much--why did it get tossed into the fire? I'm not particularly happy about it, truth be told.

However, I am thankful for St. Josaphat's window into that past--and I will be back.