A Winning Move

 

At the end of the NCAA basketball games, the players and coaches line up to shake hands. When Michigan defeated Tennessee, Juwan Howard, the Michigan coach,  noticed that a player from the losing team was in tears.  He took the time to embrace the young man and comfort him.  This beautiful moment reminded me of one of my blogs:

Why We Shake Hands

After the Sixers' playoff run came to an end when they lost to the Celtics, Joel Embiid walked off the court without shaking hands with the winning team.  Bad sport.  I immediately remembered when Isiah Thomas and the Pistons turned their backs on the Bulls.  The Bulls had finally defeated them after so many tries.  He and his team were criticized for being such bad sports.  I never liked Isiah again.

So, I was disturbed when one of my favorite sportswriters, Jemille Hill, defended Imbiid.  "He was showing passion for winning. Showing he was serious."

Yes, of course we root for our favorites.  But we understand that both are serious.  Both sides are passionate.  We shake hands to acknowledge the beauty of engagement.  The winning is sweet because this time it's your turn.  Next time maybe not.

A Northwestern Memory

 

Isabel Wilkerson is going to give the commencement address at Northwestern this year.  Things were different when I went to NU. There was one black student who sat with us sometimes at the coffee place.  He was the son of a big shot at the Post Office.  There was another black person in one of my classes.  I was teamed up with him on a project for the class.  He came over to the sorority house where I lived to work on the project.  The house mother called me aside and said I should not have invited him. "It doesn't look good."   “Did you know” I said: “he’s a Prince.  He’s the son of a tribal king in Africa.”  “Oh my,” said the house mother.  “We should invite him to speak.  I’m sure he’s so interesting!"

A Dog and Then Two

 

Shortly after my father died when I was a child, my mother decided my brother should have a dog.  He was a black and white cocker spaniel who my brother named Snuffy.  Snuffy didn’t know that I thought of myself as the “outsider” in the trio left behind by my father’s sudden absence.  He was willing to love me too.  As if I belonged.  

A few years ago, a couple moved into the large condo at the end of my hallway.  Like me, they are up and out early.  Most important, they usually are taking their two cocker spaniels for their morning walk.  These two beauties are not black and white, but everything else about them brings back all of the memories of acceptance that Snuffy gave me when I needed it most.

The couple knows me as the friendly lady who stops to give them a smile and gives the dogs an occasional pat.  The rest remains with me.

What Fate Awaits?

 

During lunch with my friend Jim he expressed concern about his upcoming move into assisted living: “Do you know where I can send my volumes of the Encyclopedia Brittanica? I can’t bear to throw them away.  I trust them more than anything from google.”  I sympathized.  I’ve been looking fondly at my own bookshelves lately and wondering about the fate of my favorites.

“Since we’re in another era of book burning now Jim, maybe the best fate of the

Encyclopedia would be to offer it up in an exchange for saving Toni Morrison books, or Maus, or whatever else is being threatened to go into the pyre,” I replied jokingly.

But it’s no joke, is it?

Hot Stove League

 

Barry Bonds, Roger Clemmens, and -- local hero to some -- Sammy Sosa, had their last chance to get voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame on the regular ballot.  They didn't make it.  The steroid era is still despised. David Ortiz, the Red Sox's Big Poppy, was the only player who got in.  

That set off an email exchange with my great friend Gerry.  He says the players from the steroid era cheated the game and don't deserve a place in the Hall.  He referred to various sports sources who agree.

I hesitated, thought it over, listened to my favorite sports commentators, and decided: "Let them in."  My first thoughts were that drugs have been used so many times to create our corrupt society so why get all morally correct about this?  

Who is in the Hall is only a reflection of the times in which they were up for a vote.  Many members never faced competition from black players whose stats were many times stronger.

Finally, we are living in times where "unfair competition" infects every aspect of our lives.

It's so much fun to have these debates.  But it's no fun that baseball owners locked out the players.  Nothing has been resolved.  Spring training is supposed to start in weeks.

I want to talk about my White Sox!

A Lifetime in Fur

 

There's nothing that says "oldster" like a closet full of furs.  I think of them smiling as they say: "You think climate change has made us irrelevant, but we've still got a few more good years left."  Each one of my coats brings along a trip down memory lane.

My mother's designer mink jacket was an emblem of her hard earned success as a business woman.  The fluffy raccoon was sold to me for pennies when my great friend Beverly decided to go cloth. I'm so glad I have it, especially now that she's gone.  The one I reached for this morning was my sheared beaver.  I was proud when I bought it for myself as I was emerging as Joan Chandler.

I gave my black mink to my friend Margaret.  She loved it.  I wonder if she still wears it.  I was wearing my grey fox when Wilt Chamberlain smiled at me and said: "Nice jacket."

See what I mean?  Furs are a great source of warmth ... on our back and in our mind.

Memories of MLK

 

I went to hear him speak at the old Chicago Stadium. Men wearing trench coats and hats walked up and down the aisles taking pictures of us. We knew they were FBI. My good friend Chuck Markels went south to help register voters.  Later, he was one of the lawyers who drafted and fought for the Chicago fair housing law and scattered public housing.

We marched and sometimes we registered our presence on the sidelines.  We were proud of our stance.