Wars and Fighting

 21st century, three decades in now; we have ever been thus, for all known history. We fight with weapons, or without. We as advanced primates fight for whatever reasons:

Hate

Hunger

Power

Fear

Jealousy

Covetousness 

Money

Control

Paranoia

Feelings of Superiority

Taxes

Perceived Rights

Ethnic rivalries

Ideological differences

Scarcity

In Defense of the weak, defenseless

Boredom

Cruelty

Evil

Selfishness

Trade Imbalances

Misunderstandings

Border disputes

Offenses and murder

Kidnapping  

Land grabbing

Ethnic "cleansing"

Bullying

Terrorizing 

Ally backing

Poverty

Stealing

Greed

 

There are some false reasons for war and fighting:

 

Religion

Defense 

Okay, that is not really true.

    Defense and religions do cause their share of wars and violence, which are suppose to be altruistic pursuits in preserving and protecting the masses, in helping and protecting the regular people. The other nefarious principles shared above insert themselves in otherwise altruistic and good institutions.

     People in power, autocrats, power crazed despots, cool headed technocrats, even regular otherwise peaceful leaders who wish for the public peace and good, and many regular local and world leaders get wrapped up in wars and violence. Some wolves and hawks sense opportunities and weaknesses among lambs and doves initiate plans and attacks, some of which resonate for years. Sometimes spontaneous uprisings swell into bigger popular actions and violent waves that continue. This is somewhat true to the Arab Spring, with Syria, Yemen, and Libya continuing as bifurcated and divided republics and kingdoms, states and failed states.

I will do a sweep of the continents and islands, according to wars and violence, starting with the WHEM, as of 2021.

 

 Western Hemisphere, North, Central, South America

Most of the Western hemisphere is absent of war, but there are a few countries where violence and some mayhem are widespread due to gangs and internecine lack of government control.

Mexico has the most amount of violence in the current years, where some of the regional drug cartels are waging their own bloody and awful wars. Some of these competitive struggles are worse than other world conflicts as far as body counts, arms, offensive and defensive maneuvers, commanders, hyperbole, terror, sheer ammo and artillery blasts. There are major and powerful cartels that are waging wars among themselves and the government. Dozens of government officials are killed routinely, and many law enforcement and military trying to quell the drug traffic and production, and the gangs themselves terrorize and torture each other's people in an ongoing feud of blood and bodies.

   Second worst in the WHEM might be El Salvador, where the violence among the gangs and thieves is bad. Honduras is no walk in the park either, and Guatemala probably has its share of local intrigue and violence. Not sure about Nicaragua. Economics are not great there.

    Across the Caribbean, there is unrest as far as those wanting to leave Cuba, but no war. Haiti, Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Puerto Rico have crime problems and violence, but no violence to be qualified as war. The smaller islands, even a not so small place as Trinidad, have some terrorist threats but no major conflicts.

   South America has had political and economic unrest in Venezuela, which spills over into Colombia, and a few other border nations, where there are some armed groups and threats that have largely defused over time (the cartels of Cali and Medellin and the former militias have come down from their hay day), but by and large the whole continent of the South is doing okay with war and violence. Brazil has major gangs, Argentina has criminal violence, but the whole continent is doing better than most. Some threat groups exist in Peru, as they traditionally do, Bolivia has its pockets of potential insurgency, but South America looks to Venezuela as its problem of the era.

Europe

     With well over a billion citizens, Europe is mostly economically stable and violence is at a minimum. This past year on the fringe of the border with Asia, Azerbaijan and Armenia had a pretty big dust up in Nagorno-Karabakh, where bigger powers Russia and Turkey got involved. The ethnic Armenians in the enclave, or exclave, mostly lost out. A bit like the ethnic tensions of North and South Ossetia of Georgia back in 2008, but Russia drove that more. South Ossetians and Georgians lost then. Russia keeps gaining ground and territory.

    Speaking of Russia, the Crimea in the Ukraine became bad as recently as 2014-15, and the tensions of that mini-war/armed conflict still reverberate, but things are more or less at a status quo. Ukraine has basically lost major ground to Russia.

   The rest of Europe is not bad, with some political unrest and spark in Catalunya of Spain, but not too bad. NATO Baltic countries feel threatened by Mother Russia, as always, or the Kurds of the eastern and southern mountains are in their perpetual state of strife, but only the periphery of Europe has signs of armed conflict.

Africa

 This continent has its share of armed conflicts and violent groups, probably the most in the world, but Asia has its share, too. We already mentioned Libya; that large Mediterranean land has been broken up since Khadafy was deposed in 2011. While two factions fight over the country proper, the far south is considered "under-governed."

   Where is the worst violence and armed conflicts of the African continent?

    

    Somalia. Three separate areas for generations, Al-Shabaab ISIS affiliate has been terrorizing for a long time. 

 

    Ethiopia. Bad fighting and ethnic violence in the northern Tigray region.

 

    Nigeria. Muslim terrorists, mostly in the north.

    Mali. More Muslim terrorists.

   Burkina Faso. Some remnants of the Mali kind, which lingers into Niger.

   Cameroon. Some upstarts in this country cause some violent problems.

   Western Sahara. Separatist movement has been at odds with Morocco for generations.

   Tunisia. Some terrorists hang out in the mountains.

 

   Tanzania. Some armed terrorists have sway in the north, going into northern Mozambique.

 

   Democratic Republic of Congo. Thugs and armed groups have hustled here for a long time, killing many.

 

   Kenya. Al-Shabaab remnants who are Somalis have some presence in Kenya.

 

   South Sudan. Bad civil conflict between ethnic groups.

   There is civil conflict and unrest that rears up in another dozen African nations, but not too much to be mentioned for now. Although ...

    Egypt has had a militant Muslim group in the Sinai Peninsula for a long time.

Asia

We mentioned the issues in Turkey and Azerbaijan; those are part European, but meander into Asia. It is one super-continent, anyway.

   Hot sports of violence and conflict still rage in the aforementioned:

   Syria.

   Yemen.

    Iraq.

   Afghanistan.

   Civil unrest in Myanmar, aka Burma.

   Insurgency in the Philippines. 

   Armed unrest in Nepal.

   North Korea is its own armed junkyard dog.

   Iran draws the wrath of Israel and others.

   Palestine is an occupied threat to millions, which circles back closer to Syria, and Iraq.

   Pacific and Australia

   When crossing down to Indonesia, Papua New Guinea, into the South Pacific, there is not much armed conflict. Things go sideways sometimes in the East Indies, with Christians and Muslims and ethnic Chinese getting hard feelings in Indonesia. Papu New Guinea also gets riled up over strange phenomena; the South Pacific is largely that, peaceful, except for some occasional strife in Fiji. Australia and New Zealand are paradigms of tranquility, extensions of the British Commonwealth.

   Thus, the world is summed up as thus in 2021.

   Our major threats are the COVID-19 and hunger, by and large.

Oh, yes. China and Indian came to some blows last year, but that border flare up seems resolved. Pakistan has issues with some insurgents and independents, as perhaps a few of the Central Asian 'stans, like Kryrgiz and Uzbek. 

    Thus our world turns on war and violence at present.

 

 

Ida Medlyn, Age 94

     I did not know her very much; she seemed nice, she tried to help me in her job and responsibility. Looks like she lived a good, long life.

She was a part of my life for a bit in the 1980s, which might have affected me in a few things later, since.

This last year during the pandemic I have tracked about 50 websites, give or take, on my phone. Some pages I check daily, others every few days. A few I may review after a week or so. One of the sites that I catch up on regularly is my hometown Hoosier Times obituaries. I see some people on occasion that I know, and I see the pattern of those who pass. Most are older, but there are a surprising number of younger ones.

   Ida came up yesterday or the night before in the obits. I know her! The face, the name. Was she my college English teacher my senior year? No, I consulted my year book. That was Mrs. Clapacs. Mrs. Medlyn was my high school counselor, for all four years. Yes. I only recall two interactions with her.

    First, I remember she met with my mom separately from me. It was maybe my junior year, when math was killing me (Mr. Girdley!) and a few other subjects were flagging, probably even Spanish. My mother told me that she, Mrs. Medlyn told my mom that she thought I was maybe taking drugs.

   I don't, nor have have I ever, taken drugs. I have taken prescriptions, yes. Also, while some freshmen and sophomores at Bloomington High School South met with and consulted with their respective high school counselors in their early years, I avoided mine. I thought that I was doing fine back then. And I was, more or less.

    Junior year was catching up with me, though. She saw some erratic grades, maybe I appeared dazed a few times when she observed me ... Not sure. I was going to bed generally late and waking up early.  I attended early morning church seminary more than an hour before school, daily. I needed naps after school to survive. I had an after school paper route, I did some extra-curricular things like church and Scouts. That junior year we hosted my Spanish student, Ricardo. I would stay up late watching TV and reading, occasionally getting some home work done.

   My mom lived in another house; I would visit with her at her place on Sundays and Thursdays. We were close, but she did not observe me everyday. I was driving and possessed a car inherited from my older sisters, afforded by my dad; I was generally responsible. I saw three big rock concerts that year, staying on the street overnight to get better seats for one of them...

 

     Near the end, somewhere, of my junior year in high school, 1988, I met with Mrs. Medlyn and my mom at her office. My first and only time. Prior to that I had a goal to avoid her all four years. Part of the reason was I wanted to see the person who alleged that I was on drugs (I knew plenty of people who actually did), and now that my math career had turned into a dumpster fire (not passing), I was trying to regroup what I could plan out my senior, and final year of my K-12. 

     She talked me (us, my mom, too), into taking Chemistry, and I made the severe mistake of signing up with Mr. Lumbley instead of an easier teacher like Mrs. Rambo. She asked me if I was sure that I could take him. I thought that I could. But I couldn't. Whoops. One mistake. I learned about a day by day math class for strugglers like me, which I could do at my own pace and recover some of the junior classes and concepts that I did not pass. That was smart planning.

    And that was it; I never talked to her again.

   I am not sure how long she worked at South, how many students she guided. Must have been thousands.

   She is gone now, I guess her legacy cemented, having retired by at least 2000. Born 94 years ago... let me do the math: born in 1926-7?

   God bless her family and loved ones, I suppose here life was good, and she did me a few solids, trying to warn me about the the toughest chemistry course. We learn through successes and failures.

 

   And for me, still no drugs. Not even alcohol or much caffeine.

    Still learning.

    Moving on.

Writing About Something ... In this case Archie Miller

Writing About Something ... In this case Archie Miller (begun Feb. 26, 2021)

    I am no Ernest Hemingway, nor Franz Kafka, or George Orwell, or James Michener, nor am I an amazing author, great, or famous... or J.D. Salinger, or even a sports writer like my hometown Bob Hammel, or the dozens or hundreds of excellent or super talented writers who have written for Sports Illustrated or the other magazines and newspapers and now blogs and other journals or news outlets across the earth. I am me, and that is good. I am not an Alabama football fan, nor do I like the Los Angeles Lakers. I appreciate or admire them, but I am tired of Tom Brady and his championships. And the other uber winners.

   I like my own teams and players, that lose a lot. Too much. They lose too much, at least in the case of the Indiana Hoosiers. The men's basketball team. I have written on them before. Coach after coach, player after player, squad after squad, and there is me

   I am me; just a guy from my part of the United States with my perspective and interests, and sometimes I have wanted to write the novel that would make me feel accomplished, like a huge portion of people who have ever put pencil or pen to paper, or now in the more modern age 

UPDATE 15 March 2021.

IU is firing Archie Miller.

 

From the day in February that I was writing the above, IU kept losing. So, instead of waiting one more year and saving 7 million or so, Indiana has pulled the plug today.

 

We wish Archie the best, but we need better.

 Tough Guys, Machismo

   Growing up as a boy and male as I did, I took clues from family, friends, and media as to what toughness was. For some, that is "being a man", a "manly man", or being a strong dude, to be able to work hard, run hard, not cry, stand up for the weak and yourself, chase the bad guys, be stoic and overcome all. To a certain extent, being a guy, a male, and tough were big parts of the equation, but not always. There were some females that I knew that were pretty strong and tough; I could define grit and strength and power of will through them, too. But since I am a boy, a male, I will focus on the macho male part of being tough.

    My dad was a pretty tough guy, because he would go to work super early with work boots on, and if it were really cold, he would put on a thick hat and coat and gloves and brave whatever elements were out there to wire houses. For those who have never wired a new house or apartment complex or store, you are exposed to a lot of the elements; very often there is copious amounts of mud and dirt and deep trenches and gravel, exposed rocks and boards and nails and dark, hairy carpenters, at times loud music blasted from ghetto blasters and loud saws and hammers shaking the foundations, missing stairwells descending into deep cavernous basements and guys yelling from the roof to the basement and all kinds of treachery that will get you hurt like exposed slivers and shards, sharp edges and scary heights, and the very tools that my father wielded would punch holes in your hands and fingers or maybe a sledge hammer would punish your knee or foot. Dad would proudly show us his war wounds. He would simply go back for more. Every day. Electricity and chemicals could be quite hazardous, too, plus the bee that stung him and sent him to the hospital before he went into anaphylactic shock.

   The stories my dad would tell often had tough guy morals and lessons. Sleeping overnight in a small boat in the Atlantic and almost not figuring out where land was the next morning. Checking a potato sack with a stick in the West African bush and seeing a deadly black mamba slither out. Getting hit in the forehead with a rock hurled by a kid at school intended for someone else; he still has the scar, and came "that close" to getting his eye. Accidentally yanking the head off a big mother hen that would not give up her eggs and would peck my dad's hand when he came to gather the daily quota. Breaking his hand playing soccer in college. 

    Being caught in the bowels of a B-52 bomber when someone started it up and he had to escape for his life before the engine roar would blast his eardrums. Barely made it, but he still has the inner eardrum scars from that one. Helping a roadside traveler who needed his trailer tipped right side up, joining in with a dozen others and all of them dropping it without warning. Horses that want to edge their owners into barbwire, always tales of warning and woe, that all served a purpose. Be tough, but be careful, be wary, come back in one piece. Don't be foolish and watch your back. Be streetwise, that was a thing for sure. Being tough was not about being foolhardy.

 

      My Uncle Bill was another kind of tough guy. He was bigger than my dad, and was more athletic. Bill had lots of tough man stories, because he had been a near-Olympic athlete in tough man events like the hammer and track and field, played college football, and even when older was a good enough kicker to be considered by the Dallas Cowboys, but he lied about his age, and they gave up hopes on him. But that is pretty good, pretty strong, that he made it to the stage he did. He kept his physique up and still threw the hammer competitively until his seventies. 

    Bill would travel the country and win the event at his respective age all over, like in Florida or when I saw him compete in Utah when I was attending college there. He worked house rentals and would stay active, often shirtless and tan well into adulthood. He talked tough and I thought he was. He would tell his little sons not to cry and "knock it off" if they were going to be babies. Don't come whining to me about your boo boos, Markie! Rub some dirt on it. Get back on that bike and ride the trails! You are four years old! You are not wearing diapers anymore.

   The movies and TV shows my dad watched always had tough guys: Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, Jack Nicholson, Robert Conrad, Sean Connery, Charlton Heston, James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, James Garner, on and on... By the time I got into the newer movies there were the new tough guys: Sylvester Stallone, Christopher Reeves, Harrison Ford, Mel Gibson, Henry Winkler as the Fonz. There were some tough leading women, too, but again, I took my cues from the guys.

    Among my friends and social circles there could be some occasional tough guys. There were the natural neighborhood rivals that we had on my dead end, the Jones boys. Not sure why. They talked and acted tough, but I was coming into my zone of toughness. In second grade I was wearing my Cub Scout uniform to school, (you have to respect a man in uniform!), in third grade I was taking weekly tae kwon do classes and getting some pretty powerful reflexes and muscles for my age; some kids feared me a little, especially if they made me mad, but I was usually defending the small guy. That is what real tough guys did, after all. They stood up to bullies, like David in the Bible or Ammon in the Book of Mormon. (If you do not know the Book of Mormon, Ammon was the servant of the enemy king who lopped off many arms of the thieving bandits of the royal flocks to prove his worthiness and loyalty to the man he wanted to impress in the name of God.)

   Tough guys were cool, they were strong, they worked hard, they did they right thing, they won, they were sexy, they were favored of God. I saw myself as a tough guy, and a few others did too. I was still forming, still pretty little. But I had some big, tough, ideas.

    What about sports? Of course, that. Sports are in the realm of toughness, for sure. That is what competition in the field of play simulates, right? Mock battle? In Bloomington we had the legendary Robert Montgomery Knight, aka "the General". He had coached first at Army and then came back to the Midwest from West Point; at Ohio State he had won the national championship as a player with former tough man Hall of Fame Coach Fred Taylor. 

    Knight became both a legend and his own worst enemy in my town, winning huge successes but also accruing a large debt of poor behavior and bullying, sycophantic words over the years against referees, opponents, Indiana University administration like the presidents and athletic directors, his bosses, some alleged abuse against his own players, violence against Puerto Rican law enforcement (it involves a trash can), and other somewhat bizarre and provocative acts like taking his team off the court when playing an exhibition game against the Soviets early in the second half, throwing a chair across the court against arch rival Purdue, choking a player, getting in trouble for a poorly chosen metaphor in a personal interview with nationally known journalist Connie Chung (there were street protests for his removal after that one), and a host of other somewhat shocking or crude incidents, like the post-game interview where he purposely used the F word the whole time so that no one could use his quotes.

Ahh, Bobby. We had him for 29 years! And, he was finally fired for grabbing a young freshman's elbow, trying to correct the kid from small town Nashville, 16 miles from campus, on how to address him as Coach Knight or Mister Knight, not just "Knight", as the young triplet mistakenly but excitedly tried to share with his friends. Zero tolerance for that offense, sir. Gone. Fired.

The tough man of my college town was shown the tough love door. He didn't come back for another 20 years. Tough lessons to be learned about toughness.

When I was 15 my older cousin asked me if I liked Bobby Knight. I replied not really, but I liked the team. Cousin Philip said, "Eddie, that is like saying you like the kernel but not the corn!" He had a point. By then Coach Knight had won two March Madness tournaments, which was a big deal. It was hard to separate Bobby's teams and him. He had heroic athletes who were tough, like rugged seven foot blonde Kent Benson who was part of Knight's first championship, the last undefeated NCAA championship team since, in 1976, who back then came into my parents' shop on 10th street, me a wee kinder gardener, and this living giant scraping the door frame and ceilings to make copies or get a paper typed at the little Crosstown shop where I would hang out after morning classes. My parents and everyone were in awe.

Bobby Knight basketball players: tough, tough, tough. They were more afraid of their coach than anyone else. He was tough. In eighth grade, two years before his final championship team, he kicked talented sophomore forward Mike Giomi off his squad. Dismissed a starter from his team, period, for skipping classes. Bobby, he was tough, on and off the court. Play by the rules. Go to class. A student does the right thing, or there was tough love. Adios, amigo. We don't need lazy, softies who cut classes. Toughen up or get out, just leave.

Tough love.

Tough love was the word for a concept of how to deal with unruly teenagers or drug addict alcoholics, or non-repentant thugs and criminals. Show them the business, show them that life is tough and tough love will fix them, or no more chances. Tough love was like Army boot camp, and that was the mentality of Knight as a coach. He, like his protégé Mike Krzyzewski at Duke, who went on to surpass the master, were tough because U.S. Army cadets were built to take orders, charge at enemies, stay clean, try hard always, not cut corners, make beds with hospital corners, go to war, literally, when called upon, get your gear packed and store your ammo and load up the weapons and drop down on the enemy and crush them.

      Army tough. Knight said if he could not be hard on the Army soldiers at West Point Academy, who could he be tougher on? The Marines didn't have a basketball team. The General molded young men and made them tougher, winners, champions on and off the court. Knight was friends and hunting and fishing buddies with people like baseball great Ted Williams, U.S. Commander General Norman Schwarzkopf, hero of the Persian Gulf War, former president and WW II hero George H.W. Bush, and the King of Spain. Knight lived and acted tough. A man's man. He also accidentally shot his friend with a shot gun while hunting. The guy lived. Tough luck, though.

    My childhood friend Eric (name changed) was pretty tough. He would talk tough, and sometimes raise his voice loud and brash, and curse like a tough guy. I thought he would grow out of it, as far as the talk. He did, in some ways, and now I wonder where all the bravado went, or what it ever was. Eric would study like a fiend and do well in the hardest chemistry and math classes, and later in his adult years get into some pretty big arguments with others and talk tough. He was vociferous at odd occasions, but he was super studious and excelled at school and work. 

    Eric got good jobs and did business school after the undergrad in economics, leaving the Ivy League with his choice of high-powered jobs; I sat in the passenger seat of his minivan when he once got into a heated and almost physical altercation with a young punk on the road in our hometown, both of us having moved away but back to visit with family. He was ready to go tough on this guy, for an offense and obscene gestures on the road, a little adrenaline-charged road rage.  Life has been tough for him lately; I am not sure if the toughness was an act, or if not an act, if it was not a posture or attitude that can be continued throughout life. Eric used to have well paid jobs, in many parts of the country. Now he depends on his family to pay the bills. Not the other way around. He is the dependent, like he was when he was six. At seven he was carrying his own.

How tough is that?

Tough, tough, tough. Some in the U.S. streets have called it "hard", like "hard core". Intense.

What does tough mean? Is it a male characteristic? Is it an attribute of physical prowess and strength? Is it a person who can shout down another and get his way? Is it an animalistic trait and inner power?

Brashness, loudness, yelling: those are attributes of a bully and a boor, a potential despot or tyrant, a possible abuser or exploiter. Perhaps it fits a former president or governor, here or there, in this great republic of ours. Mostly men, but not always. Some ladies think that getting loud and abusive is a good, tough, attribute.

Macho in Spanish means "male", "masculine". In English it connotes a sometimes-chauvinistic male, sexist, who show or exhibit a presence of being hard, tough, "manly", too harsh, too extreme. It can mean being callous and rude. Some can take macho positively, like cool and tough, where others interpret it negatively. (Sexy being good, not sexist, which is bad).

The world needs tough guys, tough gals. Tough people. Not those who exploit. Those that commit and contribute and help others move up and onward. As they say, tough times deserve tough measures. And the people to implement and live those values. Sure. Tough love, tough talk: live straight, decent, and true.

But, we could do with less of the machismo. Being macho is not tough. It's foolhardy.

That's where we stand, Coach Knight. You were a tough coach. But the machismo, or lack of rational speech and behavior, we could do without that.

From kid to teen to young adult to middle aged, I have seen and heard about my share of tough, macho, people.

The toughest ones?

The dogs that don't bark; they just sink their teeth in and won't let go. And these dogs will fight to the death, not to strike fear into others for show, but because that is a what a tough dog is: a fighter who does not give up when the softies give up.

Tough guys are macho in the sense that they have things figured out; they realized long ago it requires tenacity, endurance, and compassion to be the strongest and best version of themselves that they should be, to help themselves and those around them.

Tough guys: Chuck Norris. Jackie Chan. Mark Wahlberg. Matt Damon. Liam Neeson. Benecio del Toro. Josh Brolin. The big, bad athletes of the public stage. A billion other people assorted around the planet doing their everyday arduous, sometimes tedious, but often times dangerous jobs, week after week, month after month, year after year, most to little aplomb or acclaim.

My dad. My mom. My sisters. My uncle. My aunts. My cousins. My friends. My church members. My wife. My coworkers, my countrymen and countrywomen. The farmers, the miners, the laborers, the ones who work and toil and keep going on and on. They are the tough ones.

Tough times require tough measures, tough people. 

Not jerks.

(Re-read, edited and touched up a bit, 12 May 2024). Read out loud to my wife when she requested "bike" as a search.)

Charlie Buffington went 48-16 at age 23, his third professional season

     Fair to say most of us do not know much about professional baseball before 1900. The major leagues are only counted since the turn of the 20th century from the 19th. A lot of people know little about the game in general, or do not know much before the year 2000. Hank Aaron passed away not too long ago; he was a seminal figure who made big baseball history in 1974, before most people on the planet currently were born, now into the third decade of the 21st century. The United States and Canada baseball are a part of our lives, whether we participate or pay attention or not. If you did not consider Henry Aaron, Hammerin' Hank, a large part of American history, and who we are as a people, then I suggest that we read a little more American history. Ruth, Aaron, Bonds. The last one introduces the modern day conundrum of chemicals and cheating. Befitting the 21st century, all the intrigue and greed.

Baseball has never been bereft of cheating, graft, hate, or racism. But much of it has been pure, nonetheless.

 

    Baseball defines America, in my opinion; we have a lot of other foreign partners in the sport now. Baseball is not the flashiest nor the fastest paced sport, but it allows us to focus on a few things, and prosper. Throw hard. Swing wisely. Be in the right position. Practice. Smile and have a good time, win or lose. Smell the grass, enjoy the outdoors. Enjoy the family time, or pore over stats in your own quite hours...

Root, root, root! for the home team.

    Americana. Some will eat, some will drink, some bring their gloves to catch a fly ball. Organs chortle and public announcers emit their comments over loudspeakers or on the radio. Entertainers makes us play silly games between innings, or give away free prizes. Fireworks ensue on warm, late nights. The minor leagues have their own world, as well as the college venues.

Millions dream of the big time majors, where millions of dollars and fame and fortune are at stake.

Fields of dreams lie across the continent, and now the world. The Far East is dotted with diamonds and traditions and amazing talent, as well as the Caribbean and parts of Mexico, Central America, and into Colombia and Venezuela. Parts of Europe have tried to develop their clubs and teams. Some Asian Indians have been scouted and played America's pastime. 

We play it across the American landscape, especially in the suburbs.

Even some girls go far in the sport of boys, where some push the talent into the world of the grown up men.

History beckons us with the voices, sights, sounds, of baseball. Memories and statistics, legends and songs. Joe Dimaggio, Lou Gehrig, the Babe, the Mick, Willie Mays and Roberto Clemente. These names resonate with us over the decades and centuries. Clemente, an angelic Puerto Rican Black man dying while delivering aid to Nicaragua. Gehrig, with a rare disease named for him. Dimaggio, made more famous through folk music of Simon and Garfunkel. Eternalized, these baseball giants, their names and mentions evoking poetry and nostalgia. We all deeply empathize with Mighty Casey, at the bat, but he did not even exist. He is us, like Charlie Brown pitching from the mound and losing all his clothes. We empathize with ball players, even from one hundred years ago.

In 1884, long before most of us knew or cared about a game with a leather ball and wooden bats, there was a young man named Charlie Buffington who accomplished a rather astounding feat: he won 48 games that year. He also lost 16, appearing in 67 total that season. 5 no-decisions.

1884.

 

   A decade before some of my long, lost great grandparents were born, close to 20 years after the tragic U.S. Civil War, and before all the segregation of the Black players from America's game (there was a Black player that played with the rest in the 1800s, I think), in a decade when most of us Americans would be hard pressed to name a single U.S. president or personality from those years. Cleveland? Edison? Twain? Likely those three, although Thomas Edison would still wait to be better known. Maybe Samuel Clemens was not as popular by then as well. 

 

   The northeast United States had its first paid baseball teams in industrial cities like Boston and Philadelphia, with colorful nicknames like the Cincinnati Red Stockings. Boston's team, would eventually become the Braves, but were first baptized the Beaneaters.

Buffington was a Beaneater, and he won 48 games. In one calendar year.

That is hard to beat. I have to do more research, but that might be the record.

48 wins!

Growing up in the 1970s and 80s, I observed baseball at the major league level and sometimes an ace thrower might win somewhere in the mid-twenties, and might have the chance to win 30 by the end of the season. But inevitably it would not happen. A modern day pitcher is lucky to get 40 starts in a season, let alone close to forty wins. I don't know the last time a major leaguer won 30 decisions in a season. Pitchers as starters do not pitch as much per game as they used to, and earn less wins and losses because of it. Middle relievers and other closers have become the norm. A starter, even a great one, can go weeks without pitching into the 8th, let alone the 9th inning. And he can still receive no decisions if the game is tied as he leaves.

I scanned around the other major game winners of the all time list, some having many more career wins than Buffington, some with much more popular names: Cy Young, Warren Spahn, Walter John,Christy Mathewson. The most wins that I saw for any of them at their best years were 37 wins. 37 is a ton.

A far cry from 48.

Buffington was done with baseball by 1892, at the decent age of 31. His 233 career wins, with about six teams, over 11 years may not have paid many of life's bills; he probably had to get some real 33s birth year was 1861, the first year of the Civil War. Born where he died, perhaps the same house?

Charlie, the record breaker.

Another American in the sport of legends, the game of hot summers and cool autumns, of popcorn and ice cream, leather gloves and long fly balls.

And history.

 Ay, Hermana Celinda e Hija

    I was trying to remember their names since ... a long time ago. Since the 1990s, it must have been. In 1995 I wrote the mother's name down. I had not remembered the daughter's, but I did annotate their ages when I knew them, a few years later, as I was finishing college; I knew them when they were 40 and 14, respectively, as I recorded it five years later. More so, I tried to recall them in 2005, when I returned to the town for a few months where I knew them, taught them, and baptized them when I was twenty. Elder Potter was there, too. We did it as a team, it was not just me. Plus I think some local members were involved. Hopefully. Maybe he, my junior partner, knew them better than me, (I can explain why), and maybe he remembers them still, unlike me. I will explain.

   This little post is trying to compensate for lost memories, perhaps recovering hopes, blessings, or achieving lessons learned and ...

 Some call it Proselytizing, Others Proselyting, Some "Recruiting"

    When we go on full time missions, many of us wish to ambitiously teach and baptize as many people as possible. Going to the Chile Concepcion Mission of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the early 1990s I was afforded this opportunity. And, as we learn and memorize in Doctrine and Covenants Section 4, we know that "lo, the field is white, already to harvest." That means: baptize new converts robustly! My trainer and I would read and re-read the pamphlets of early Church leaders like Heber C. Kimball and Wilford Woodruff who baptized thousands in England in the 1830s and 1840s. We wanted to emulate them. Teach and baptize many (thousands!) into the fold. Like a time of miracles and the fulfillment of the Fullness of Times, the Spirit of God overcoming us and those that we met was our aim. Our faith filling the Earth, as it were. "Why not?" the Church pamphlet implored.

   For me statistically, I was not among the high baptizers of my mission. We would receive the numbers of the elders and sisters who baptized the most by newsletter every month; I do not think I was ever a part of those missionaries recognized and lauded for doing so. Some had the gift, some were teaching and helping considerable numbers to join. 10 in one month. 15 in one month. These numbers accumulate pretty soon. As a mission we would baptize collectively over 400 souls in a month in 1990; some companionships had many, some had none. The "none" list seemed to be a time of shame or redoubt, like it or not. I had a few of those; that made me question my efficacy, and even my worthiness as a full time missionary of my faith.

    Chile in the 1990s was a baptizing place, across our then six missions from north to south. Some of the contiguous missions to the north would baptize over a thousand people in one calendar month. The country might baptize 8 or more thousand in a month, depending on each mission's monthly success. I heard from a reliable source in Chile that the Southern/Concepcion Mission of 1980 had a month where they baptized 5,000 souls. The former missionary, a Chilean, said he felt like a robot, teaching and baptizing. He could not remember many of those that he taught. My seventh missionary companion, also a native Chilean, was one month from finishing his two years served; he said he had taken part in upwards of 175 conversions, and there were people in former areas that he could not recall.

    I had five areas during the course of my two year mission; my companions and I ended up baptizing the most in my first area, the small town of Mulchen. There in the space of four plus months my three consecutive native companions and I baptized three in January, four in February, six in March, and four more in April, to make a list of 17. I usually remember all their names and faces, their families and situations, their ages and personalities. I suppose with the passage of time additional converts can be less memorable, easier to forget, but in my case there were fewer converts in my later areas. So it should not be as hard to recollect as those missionaries who were baptizing dozens and dozens per sector.

 

     But I could not remember Celinda or her daughter, from my penultimate area, for many years, even decades. Even when going back there for many weeks years later (2005), searching the streets and my memories. I wanted to find them, or simply recall who they were. Not to forget them, as some forget their conversions...

     In the six months of my second ward in Concepcion city in 1990, with four different companions we baptized eight individuals: I still recall all of them and I can show you where they lived. In my third area of five months, a small town and a fledgling branch, Santa Juana, we baptized only three. That seemed like a frustrating time of poor growth for me and us, apart from the numbers officially joining. 

    It was in Angol where I served for four months that I could not remember Celinda nor her daughter. Not the names, the faces, the streets, or even the part of town, although I had my suspicions by process of elimination. It had to be, as I had long supposed, in the poorest area of Angol, to the far west, in the foothills abutting the mountains. This side of Angol had its own small branch, which was in its death throes when I returned 14 years later with my wife and two small girls. I thought that we had taught some young men up there, some that Elder Watson had baptized with Elder ... his former companion. But Elder Potter and I must have taught and baptized 40 year Celinda and her 14 year-old daughter, now unnamed. Forgive me.

 When I returned in '05, Sister Celinda would have been 54, and her daughter 28. I was 34, turning 35. Life was passing me by, as so many memories do. What had become of these sisters? Did they have their own husbands and children? had they stayed in the forgotten house and far off street going about the hill of west Angol, in a little heard of Ninth Province of Chile? Or, had they moved on to another part of the country, or even delved abroad?

     I re-read the notes from my mid-nineties recollections now in March of 2021. Celinda would be 70 and the daughter 44. Where are they now? Do they remember a gringo missionary that befriended, taught, and baptized them, or is their memory as bad or worse than mine of that time? Do they remember jovial and easy- going Elder Potter, of little Shelly, Idaho, more than me? What do they remember? Were there aspects that were not positive, as I fear may have occurred? Am I sub-consciously blocking out parts of that time and these people? Is it one great stupor of thought?

     I was a Zone leader for those four months in Angol, three of them with Elder Potter. As such I was required to travel to other sectors of the zone, to the south side of Angol and Huequen, to farther off Collipulli and Los Sauces and Puren; I would leave our two Angol branches sometimes twice per week, staying over night fro my area, dwhich meant I had less time to fellowship with our pools of investigators. Hence, I did not meet with Celinda and daughter as much as Potter, presumably, and I was not as involved in their teaching and final joining of the faith. Along with those two, we taught and baptized five other people in the total of four months that I resided in this "ideally sized town for living", all of whom I recall and I could indicate where they lived, who they were, what was their conditions upon joining us in worship.

    Excuses, excuses. I should not have forgotten them, I should have taken better notes and consulted them occasionally for my own purposes of maintaining my memory of them. Each person was not a stat in the end, but an individual and soul of immense worth, like all of us. I remember all the rest, but not so much these two. But, thinking of Elder Olea in 1990, who could not remember all his close to 200 converts, or the older former missionary who was part of the 5,000 baptism month in 1980, I cannot blame him for not recalling all the dozens of people that he was probably teaching and baptizing. Although, he should have a record of them, and be able to know where they attended, lived when coming to Church. As a native of Chile he has a better chance to visit and re-connect with many of them.

    Remembering the 99 and 1

     This whole exercise of remembering them, these people that we fellowshipped, taught, and baptized and confirmed members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is a metaphor or allegory for the love and presence of God Himself, in certain senses. Does our Eternal Father remember us, or does He disappear in the shadows and recesses of our collective and personal consciousnesses? Was all this Church idea just some random or even nefarious way of shaping and manipulating emotions, hopes, expectations, and dreams? As some detractors accuse: is it for profit, control, and coercion of the masses? 

    Heaven forbid.

    Was the very notion and existence of God a false flag, a canard, a hoax and a scheme, a lie and a hoodwink? Were organized religions simply mechanisms and tools to serve the people the opiates of control, as Lenin (or was it Marx?) would insinuate and decry?

   I tell myself, and others, and dear (now) old Celinda, age 70, and the daughter, age 44, perhaps herself a mother and grandmother, that we are not forgotten.

 

   You are not forgotten, nor abandoned, nor cast off. God loves, remembers you. I do too.

 

   I hope this wish and missive, these thoughts and prayers, ruminations and good wishes, find you well.

 

   God bless you and all yours. God bless Angol, God bless Chile. Redeem us all, O Lord of the Heavens and Sovereign of the Universe: Save and exalt us from our earthly stains and faults. Forgive us, Oh Lord, our debts as we forgive our debtors.

 

  Whether 30 years later or a hundred years from now, we knew you, loved you; God and His faiths are ever moving, consoling, adapting, progressing, and delving into the corners and avenues of our hearts, minds, and beings. Our souls are indeed of great worth; Celinda and daughter are there shining bright, even among the distorted or dilapidated passages of time that rack us all.

   We gringos of the north have not forgotten; we look back with nostalgia, remembrance of a time of hope and spiritual longing for cleansing and oneness, unity; love and life.

Ay, Celinda e hija.

Agradezco el hecho de haber puesto conocerles. 

Que nos encontremos en el futuro: cercano or lejano, distante o proximo.

Nos veremos con sonrisas. Gracias.

Letter from Nigeria; 2021, 1921

Hello, my maternal grandfather. 

 

You are my eternal [insert Fon language word for grandfather], and I honor you in my life and my intentions. 

I have not seen you for five years. Beside the difficulty of seeing you in person, it is hard to take the time to write you in this fashion that you prefer, because in these times of modernity I usually send out messages in a much faster and sure fire method, not depending on a dozen feeble mail delivery people who want to pillage your wares half the time. And, no one knows if the letter will ever arrive at where you want it. I tried to make copies of some of my old letters in case they never made it to you the first or second times.

Grandpa! Life is good and hard in Nigeria. We have had good rain and the crops are growing, but unlike back in Benin, the streets and houses outnumber the fields and gardens, and we spend much less time working in the dirt and soil and summoning water for the crops and the chickens or goats, but more time and effort securing our bicycles and cars, some who have the buses and lorries. Also, there are the people with computers and cell phones, even the ones they call "Smart"; life is more technologically advanced here than there. However, mother reminded me that more phones and Internet cafes have arrived into the town and even some of the surrounding countryside.

Times are changing. I am trying to be a part of if. I use my ciclo and trailer to pass fruits, meats, and wares between the farmers and vendors, and I make some good money. Sometimes I hoist an elcctric refrigerated cooler on my trailer.  I can move frozen foods, and ice creams and goods, which people love, and sometimes just the smaller coolers and containers do the trick to preserve the freshness of the products to sell to my clients and customers. I have only been robbed three times, and that is good for 17 months, compared to the other transport salesmen.

I have gotten to know the region pretty well in the 17 months that I have been doing this business. It can be dangerous with all the motor traffic, the other pedal bikes, and the people and the animals. Robbers do not want to hurt me like the natural catastrophes that abound here. I particularly have problems with the buffalo that some herdsmen let do their own thing. Also, some dogs can be a pestilence to my welfare. But I manage and I stay on my toes, and try to avoid traveling at night. That is when more accidents and deaths occur. I try to be somewhere safe every night, if not at home with the family then usually a local church or public depot.

Muddy or dusty roads can be very treacherous, too, and sometimes the erosion creates larger than believable rivulets and mini-canyons that force me to go over and around, even trespass into other peoples' property. But they understand; sometime it is fortuitous for me to circumvent the trails because I can do spontaneous business with them. Like, the other day I was heading south 10 kilometers and going to make a tidy profit in the southern town of the prefect where I have made some good runs before, and the creek about halfway down had overwhelmed the road. Buses and cars and most bikes could not pass. Some hikers and walkers made their way down side gullies. I needed to make this work, going around to the east or west would take me overnight in order to arrive at my destination. And whats more, I had separate sales to the north to make the next day. I had to move on! I went through a farmer's field well off the road, and he had a large watcher approach me, telling me not to step on their yams and pineapples. I assured the man that I would not, and that I could facilitate a special sale for chocolate fudgicles, which were frozen in my main cooler. 

The watcher, a giant man named Kiyuba Oro, replied that he did not know what fudgicles were or looked like, so I pulled one out and had to show him how to eat it, and then he took another from me and was so happy he bought five. I made seven naira, which is not the normal profit, but well worth the sell and the access to pass on through. It is what was taught to me in the capital city Abeokuta at a business seminar as a "win-win". I still made a small profit, and I made it to my destination with time to spare.

I learned from this that workers in the hot country, the bush where there is little refrigeration or electricity or running water, appreciate my frozen and cold items, especially. And moreso, in the hotter parts of the day they are willing to pay! I am a young man but I know how to acquire the products, I have my contacts and networks that trust me; soon I will hire the cousin of my aunt (not directly related to me) Ibikwe to go around selling ice cream from coolers, especially in the mid day, and I will benefit from his sales and after him perhaps I will expand. Within enough time I may gain enough money to buy a moto or a small furgon or car. I will do the faster sales and more of them, and continue to expand the business. I can see myself being a fleet master and having my own office where I run things and I count the monies, or hire someone else to do so. The future is bright here in Nigeria.

I believe that within 5-10 years I will be able to return to beloved Benin, to our ranch area outside Ketou, and live comfortably with the hard work of our hearts and minds, and "put our shoulders to the wheel". Be married and have children. I have enjoyed going to the church here, mostly on Sundays when I avoid working, as we believe it is the Lord's day, but I also get involved with some weekly activities and programs.

God is Good, as the Muslim brothers say, and God is loving, as we Christians say. I believe God is blessing all of us.

Please pass my highest affections and warm salutations to your wife, Dear Tata, and all the children and grandchildren.

Your faithful grandson,

 

 Onneeyu

 

April 2021.

 

[The great-grandfather wrote a similar letter from the same place back in 1921, to his grandfather.] 

History continues and repeats.