A Year in Essays - 10/25/22: Down Memory Lane

 4391… 4391…

The other day, I reached for my ATM PIN for the first time in a while. At the same time a distraction pulled my attention away and I simply lost the number. I tried in vain to recapture it for the next few days, eventually locking out my poor PIN altogether. With the leftover cash from our France trip finally running low, I had a need to use an ATM, so rather than struggle and potentially lose the card, I gave in and had the number changed, a move that naturally required going to the bank in the driving rain.

Later this evening, the number popped unbidden into my head… 4391. The synapse of over twenty years memory magically restored.

It was humiliating to go into the bank and admit to forgetting something as vital as my PIN number. For the first time, I felt like there may have been a cognitive skip in my brain function. Am I getting old? I have had so many dreams about forgetting numbers, although usually things like my mailbox combination from summer school forty years ago. To have something that I used not two or three weeks before simply vanish was terrifying. But I was comforted by the fact that this was hardly the first time that something like that has vanished from my mind, and not even just in recent times. Always the memory finds a way back, but this time it seemed so far gone.

And then, after it was no longer needed, there it was again... 4391.

The memory is a strange place. We have no idea how we process information into storable and retrievable chunks. The models, which are most certainly wrong, talk about short term storage, probably as some sort of protein package which later converts into a hard neural network. It’s weird to think that the fact I just learned is the equivalent of a slice of beef jerky. But no weirder to think that the poems I memorized in grade school are just jolts of an electrode.

Memory retrieval is even harder to understand. In our imaginations we think of there being pigeonholes and filing cabinets – the holes for the new memories, the cabinets being for long-term storage. But there are of course no such structures in our brain. If the models are correct, there are not even physical structures to store. So how do we read the electrical impulses as a memory? How do we know that the impulses are accurate? We don’t know and they probably aren’t. Memory is fallible from the moment it is formed. It is affected by mood, context, background, every factor that is imaginable. As is the retrieval. How many times have you grieved over the memory of a loved one’s face or voice only to laugh later at the exact same memory?

4391… a number now obsolete, but after twenty or more years it is so deep in my long-term memory that it will probably never completely vanish. Except when I might need it again.

Now what was my new number?

 

 

A Year in Essays, 8/2/22: On Bill Russell

 

A few days ago, the icon Bill Russell died after a full and rich life. His life was difficult because he was the star of a beloved team in a city that was slow to embrace him because of his color and his outspokenness. Nevertheless, he stayed with the Celtics for his entire career and, where he might have flown the coop after retirement, he remained in Boston, continuing to bear with the indignities and fighting the great fight for equity and equality.

It's funny how the arguments about who is the best basketball player of all time seldom include Russell. Magic, Larry, Michael, Kobe, and LeBron are always on people’s lips. Some throwback fans will argue for Wilt or Kareem. But Russell is without question the greatest defensive player that ever stepped onto the court. At a time when Wilt averaged almost 40 ppg, Russell would shut him down to 10 or 15. The Russell led Celtics owned the pre-Showtime Lakers and in fact the whole league, winning eleven championships. Everyone points to Jordan’s six or however many LeBron James has secured (you lose count due to the peripatetic nature of his career).

Russell has other accomplishments on the court that his chief competitors for the GOAT mantle don’t. He has NCAA titles and an Olympic Gold Medal (in the pre-Dream Time era). He never played for a losing team. Even the LeBron or Kobe camps, if they know their history, will admit that there has never been as great a team player as Bill Russell.

Then there is the social activism that Russell embodied. Never one to steer clear of a struggle, he and his teammates of color were outspokenly Black in a city that was not known for its racial equity. Where the Red Sox were slow to bring in Black or Brown players (not the Bruins though. Willy O’ree was the first black hockey player in the NHL), Walter Brown and Red Auerbach were never going to let color get in the way of winning. That didn’t mean acceptance though. Celtic fans and sportswriters were notorious for double standards and slights, while cheering on the successes of these players. You can wear green and win the championships, just don’t try to live in my communities. But Russell stayed. He charmed, he cajoled, he fought where he needed to, he led. With time, he became an institution. That doesn’t mean necessarily that he won acceptance for all POC in sports, perhaps, but I think we would not see a David Ortiz being the most popular Red Sox player of all time without Bill Russell paving a way.

Finally, towards the end of his life, he began to achieve the reverence that he had deserved. I was thrilled at my 25^th (?) Harvard reunion to witness him awarded an honorary Doctor of Law. To see him standing, head high and literally towering over everyone in the Tercentenary Theater was a glorious moment. Recently, he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, a well-deserved national accolade. There is no question that he is accepted in the pantheon of Boston sports by fans and writers alike, alongside Orr and Yaz, Flutie and Brady (perhaps). I am happy that at the end of his life, he recognized the love that his adopted city had for him and that when he left, I hope he left with his heart at peace.

Argue about the GOAT all you want. It doesn’t matter. Bill Russell never questioned his self-worth and from my standpoint, that’s exactly the type of player I would want to build a team around, and a city as well.

 

A Year in Essays - 7/6/22: A Week Full of Cakes

So much cake! Just past was a week imbued with desserts. We celebrated Marge’s birthday and Julia’s retirement. Julia baked and we noshed for three days. Then we had dinner topped with a special-order limoncello cake. You know, to tide us over for the few cakeless hours.

I once had a birth-week celebration that resulted in no fewer than five cakes, my personal best. Each of the offices in which I worked had a cake for me (and colleagues who also were born in late August). Then, Julia and Cameron contrived to get me one for home, just in case the work ones weren’t enough. No complaints. You can’t have too much cake, at least not until you step on the scale at the beginning of the next week.

Where did the tradition of birthday cake start anyway? Why does every party have to end in a sugar frenzy of sugar icing and sponge (and the dreaded ice cream, which I have always hated in accompaniment)? How different would the world have been if the tradition had been for a birthday fruit pie, perhaps, or birthday cream puffs (which my Grandma Ann used to provide for David when she’d visit us in June, just before bolting to Florida for three months)? How about birthday muffins or sticky toffee puddings? Why sweet at all? Why not birthday biscuits and gravy or birthday Yorkshire pudding?

It's all food for thought. Angel or devil’s food, no doubt.

A Year in Essays - 5/25/2022: The Same, Sad Song

I’ve written, far too many times, about public shootings. The latest atrocity in Texas may be particularly horrific in its attack on elementary school children, but all the others have been equally tragic and distressing. The biggest problem by far is that these events are no longer shocking. They no longer have the stand-alone starkness of the past. We have had mass shootings at least six times this month alone and there is yet another week before Memorial Day.

It is so frustrating to hear our so-called leaders wringing their hands as if there was nothing to be done. “We already have laws,” they mewl, ignoring the fact that, here in Texas at least, the laws are all but ignored in the race to get guns into every hand. “We have to protect the Constitution,” they simper, as if the right to life and freedom is not enshrined in the very document that they cite to protect the right to slaughter. “I get paid so much by the NRA,” they never whine, but they don’t need to. Their behavior is self-evident.

Later this week, that bastion of Russian influence, the NRA is descending on Texas like a biblical plague. Several of our elected, sitting leaders are on the docket to attend, including Governor Abbott and Senator Cruz. Why we allow sitting officers of the state to attend private conventions is beyond me. When they were elected, they became Texas, at least in representation. All of Texas, not just their own ideals or the constituency who voted for them. They represent everyone in the state, including the 80% of people who want gun regulation.

The decision that these two feckless stooges make in the next few days will speak volumes. Will they attend, pretending that it is business as usual or will they choose, this year at least, in the face of unspeakable tragedy, to boycott? “Not this year, Wayne. It’s too soon.” Will they choose to stand with the slaughtered innocents and their families or with the instruments of their slaughter?

I know which way they will decide. Large donations and personal appearance fees will win in the end. They may even convince themselves that they will be doing some public good, putting themselves in a position to speak about the need for gun responsibility. Positioning themselves, perhaps, but not speaking out, I’m sure. A bloodthirsty mob of your most ardent supporters is not the time to ameliorate.

But can we dream about a leadership who does have the will to try something, anything to stem the tide of domestic terrorism? Because doing nothing is not working. And any dreams we have of life, liberty, or even the pursuit of happiness are rapidly turning into a nightmare of false liberty and selfish freedom.

A Year in Essays - 4/24/2022: Unwritten Rules

 

A lot of talk about unwritten rules in sports lately. I have to laugh about the hypocritical purity of anyone talking about the “gentle” arts of professional sport. We are long past the time when we can pretend that pro sports are about anything but making the most money possible and the way to do that is dominance.

The latest great offence comes from the SF Giants of MLB. In a game against the Washington Nationals where the Giants entered the ninth inning trailing 1-0, they proceeded to score six runs to take a commanding lead. Their crime against the “unwritten rules?” At 6-1 up, the base runner on first dared to steal second and then to try to score on a single before being thrown out at the plate. How dare the Giants try to “run up the score” like that? The unwritten rule is that they should have… what? Stopped trying to score during a big rally? Tipped their caps with a hearty, “Well, we have ours, gentleman. No need to make you feel bad about the whole thing?” The Giants had just proven that a team can score a lot of runs in an inning and the Nationals had another at bat to go. Why would they have taken their foot off the proverbial brake?

The thing about unwritten rules is that they presuppose a kind of give-and-take that doesn’t exist anymore if it ever did. I doubt Ty Cobb would have declined to steal that base. Heck, he would have gone up spikes high even if his team were up 12-1. Look at Pete Rose, the Great Competitor, destroying catcher Ray Fosse in a meaningless All-Star Game. These players would say you play, or you don’t. There is no concept of going easy. And this was before a time when an extra stolen base or run scored may be worth millions of dollars for the player.

Sports is controlled cheating. The reason we have rules is that teams cannot be trusted to do the right thing without them. Doubt that fact? Try playing a game of pickup basketball sometime. The best sportsmanship we can expect or hope for is that at the end of the day, no matter how rough the going is, the two sides line up and shake hands. Even at the professional level, it’s just a game. Somehow, though, I don’t think the Nationals will be shaking hands with the Giants anytime soon.

A Year in Essays - 4/9/22: Cricket Calls

Let’s talk some cricket – four words I never thought I’d say. Cricket is my new fascination, having discovered a channel on my cable package that shows the sport (or commentary about it) 24 hours a day.

In point of fact, my fascination goes back much further. In 1978, freshly scrubbed and graduated from high school, I traveled to Scotland and England with my brother for the only boys out vacation of our lives (not strictly true, we had a short jaunt to Pittsburgh for a baseball game much later). It was June, so the British weather was spotty at best. There were a few pleasant days – our jaunt to Cambridge was sunny and bright, but for the most part we faced the bracing English (and Scottish) mist for much of our time abroad. For museum and bookstore folks like David and me, it was no big deal. Contrary to the old song, in foggy London town, the British Museum had not lost its charm. But on one foul day, it was too rainy even for that esteemed institution, so we stayed in our hotel room, munching pork pies and drinking orange squash. English television was (and remains) a mystery, and the only remotely captivating event I could find was a cricket Test Match – the English national side against someone (I don’t remember whom). England were batting and seemed, to my limited knowledge to be doing well. I settled down as David read and dozed, intent on learning the rules of this mysterious game.

I knew cricket existed because I had British and Indian friends, and I was obsessed with the Avengers (the British spy show, not the Marvel superheroes) and other British TV. But all I knew before was the shape of the bat and the ball and a rough idea of the layout of the field. It was no easy task to piece together the language and the rules of a game jumping midway into a broadcast meant for aficionados. What is an inning? What is an over? Why do the batters (‘batsmen’) run sometimes and not others? Why are some hits worth six points and some four? Why does the bowler (I got that term quickly) change out every few balls – six, as it turns out? Why does he sometimes raise his hands in triumph when nothing appears to have happened? I did fairly well in the four or so hours spent on that gloomy day. It helped that I had a hero to catch my eye – legendary all-rounder Ian Botham was just rounding into form and that day he hit for over 100 runs before looping a ball in the air and being caught out. By now, I had lost interest, David was restless, and the rain had abated enough for us to go outside in search of entertainment.

That was the last I had thought of the sport except for occasional exposures (the T20 World Cup Cricket was being played on Eurosport when we cruised to Austria and Hungary not long ago, so I caught a few short-form matches). Now suddenly, Cricket is a daily presence. My original interpretations of the rules were actually quite good (for a neophyte) and I’ve honed a lot more of the information. I can speak intelligently about batmen’s production rates, about extras and ‘no-balls’, about bowlers’ efficiency. I can even tell you a bit about strategy, although I’ve yet to learn the fielding positions. Those come next.

But every time I see the batsmen set in his (or her – I love the women’s game!) crease and the bowler makes his run-up, I think back to that gloomy hotel room, rain pouring outside, a small television crackling, Ian Botham swaggering, and my brother fussing in the background.

A Year in Essays - 3/26/2022: The Four Way Test

This morning, I attended, as representative of the District, the Rotary Four Way Test Speech Competition for all-Plano high schools. I was allowed to give a brief welcome and introduction to the small crowd of speakers, welcoming to the status of “Rotary Alumni,” and then listen to the first handful of their speeches.

First off, let me say how impressive they all were. Although I think I could have given a savvy speech in High School, I know most of my comperes could not. Most of current comperes could not do as well as the bright young things did on display today. So, congratulations to all involved.

There were problems with the inherent set-up of the competition. By dividing the kids into small groups which rotated to the three judges (strictly speaking it was the judges who did the rotation), no student got to hear more than the three or four other speakers in their panel. This diminished the inclusivity that is inherent in both Rotary and the Four Way Test (“Is it fair/beneficial for ALL concerned?”). Also, allowing each student to present three times gives a different function to the competition. It should be a “give it your best shot” process, rather than a “learn as you go one.” By having the panel of judges listen to each of the speakers in turn, it would have allowed the event to seem more of an occasion. Held in an auditorium or a big enough classroom, it could have featured an audience, which would have improved much of the quality. These are quibbles.

The most curious thing that I saw is that the interpretations of the Four Way Test were pointed in the wrong direction. Whether this was due to an error in the instructions or perhaps a misinterpretation of the Test itself, all of the speakers I heard used the Test to evaluate outside things. One looked at social media, one at verbal abuse, one at the fall in empathy, and one even used it to evaluate the Russian invasion of Ukraine. All of the speeches did a good job of touches on the tenets of the Test, and it is no surprise that none of the four circumstances passed the process.

But that’s not what the Four Way Test is for. The preamble to the four question instructs that it be used to evaluate “the things WE think, say, and do.” Not what THEY do, nor what YOU do. What WE do. It is an inward facing test. The one who came closest to it was the girl who talked about verbal harassment. She essentially summated her talk with the idea that before you tease, you should ask yourself the Four Way Test. She was still judging others’ behavior but at least had incorporated the Test as preview rather than a review.

The talks were interesting, savvy, surprisingly sophisticated, and well-performed. But there was no difference between this competition and the opening salvos of a Debate event. I somehow feel that the Four Way Test should be taught as so much more.