We Don't Have to Talk

"Will you still need me, will you still feed me..." her singing voice is softer, more childlike than her speaking tone.

"...When I'm 64!" I'd sing on cue, with a flourish.  

She would chuckle.  I'd say something else, try to make her chuckle again, maybe a little scream of laughter.  She'd tell me she's getting old.  Then she'd tell me which politician was pissing her off or which athlete was cute.  She would tell me about the latest movie she saw at the Uptown, or what Bobby the Cleaner said about the hated Red Sox, or her latest Indian dinner.

"So howya doin' kiddo?"

She would have said all these things on her birthday, if she could still talk.

My Aunt Jessica turned 64 this week.  She lives in an assisted living home in Maryland.  She is clean, safe and well fed.  She doesn't get out much.  She doesn't talk, not anymore.  Dementia has ruined her life.  We could talk about the how: How did this happen at such a young age?  Or the why: why why why why why.

Jessica Goldstein has been, at various times, a shy kid, a Phi Beta Kappa student, a Congressional aide, a resident of San Francisco, an owner of a little red convertible, an accountant, a Yankees and Redskins fan, a Sidney Poitier groupie, a Ms. Pac-Man addict, a puzzle lover, at public television hostess, the greatest Trivial Pursuit player I have ever known, a chain smoker, a Chardonnay drinker, a stock guru. a piano player, and a true friend to her three nephews.

She has also lived the private life we all carry within ourselves, the inner voice which cannot be captured in words.  And there is a chance that my Aunt Jessica continues to live that private existence even after most of her external connections have been stripped away. 

When I talk to her on the phone or visit her in person, she gives signs of recognition.  If I tell her a story she enjoys she'll say "exactly! exactly!"  If I mention a sports team or politician she likes, she might make an "mmmm hmmm" sound.  She is thus still connected to the world around her; tenuously, silently, and like a final scene in a Charlie Chaplin movie, trapped inside a bubble of light shrinking quickly, the darkness closing in around her.  

If she can understand me then she still possesses thoughts, and therefore memories, and if so then maybe her days are still full.  Is that good?  I don't know.

My brothers and I never called her Aunt Jessica.  We used the Yiddish word for aunt, Tante, which quickly became Tanti and eventually, Tonsil.  Tonsillitis.  Tonsillectomy.  She loves it. 

I used to tease Jessica that she was “one of” my favorite aunts, but really she is the only relative I knew well outside of my immediate family.  I have no uncles, no first cousins. Tonsil never married, never lived with anyone, never had kids.  Being our aunt is the best and most important thing in her life. 

Tonsil was, for a long time, the person I could confide in above all others.  Her sympathy and advice helped me get through the tough moments.  I would have been lost without her.

At some point I got more preoccupied, needed her less, but she also started acting strangely, drinking more.  She stopped visiting me in New York, would cancel weekend trips at the last minute citing some bizarre excuse.  She lost her job, watched some of her closest friends die from AIDS, cancer and other ailments.  She filed people’s tax returns out of her apartment, supplemented that income with her stock earnings (she made a killing off Disney and Coca Cola), lived frugally, sold her car, and that worked for a while.  Until things started to fall off the cliff, and I won’t recite the events that led to my aunt losing her freedom, her apartment, her entire life, other than to say it was either get her in a home or wait for the inevitable, and it wouldn’t have been a long wait.

I called Tonsil on her birthday.  Our phone calls last 9-10 minutes these days.  They used to go 90-100.  I do all the talking now.  The phone at the assisted-living home rang three times.  A man answered the phone.  I asked for Jessica Goldstein.  The next thing I heard was the man, in the background: “Say hello.  Say hello.  Say hello.  Say hello.” Don’t you think she wants to??? 

I started in.  “Tonsil, it’s Josh!  How’s it going? Doing okay?  How’s the weather?  I heard it’s been raining down there.”  And off we go. 

On her birthday I got three laughs, two “mmm hmmm”s and zero “exactlys,” which might not be coming back.  She listened to me talk about the kids, my brothers, sports, politics, movies, whatever I could think of.  While I rambled on I thought about writing a screenplay in which a teenager is forced to watch his dementia-afflicted grandfather once a week, during which time he ends up sharing his deepest secrets or maybe even a crime committed, the grandfather’s silence proving therapeutic, the son coming to relish these one-sided conversations until…

I could cast Sidney Poitier as the grandfather.

I said goodbye to Tonsil, wished her a happy birthday again, and listened to her put down the phone on the table and walk away, no doubt back to the couch in front of the TV and her spot alongside the left armrest.  She’s at least ten years younger than anyone else in the home.  Her birthday was last week.  She’s 64 years old now.  There isn’t much more left to say.

Never Forget What?

As the articles, video tributes and Facebook posts continued to roll in this weekend I wondered: to what end?  People have their hearts in the right place.  They want to connect, to a moment and to each other.  People talking about where they were that day, what they felt, how they coped on 9/12/01.  It's natural and good and maybe even cathartic in small doses.

Yet I was not feeling nostalgic.  I was there on 9/11, three blocks away from the World Trade Center.  I was unharmed.  I knew people who died that day, but not anyone I loved.  The day was scary and overwhelming.  It is the most important historical event of my lifetime, and I witnessed it.  But the anniversary and the looking back wasn't speaking to me.

When the Holocaust Museum opened in Washington D.C. in 1993, the Washington Post published a letter from my father, a Holocaust survivor.  My father questioned the merits of a museum dedicated to the memory of the genocide against Jews and other groups at the hands of the Nazis when another genocide was being conducted in Bosnia and Herzegovina, at a time when the United States and United Nations were not yet willing to combat the Bosnian Serb Army.

Have we learned from 9/11?  Darfur happened in the years since 9/11.  Half a million murders, millions displaced.  The killing of innocent people in Iraq, people and a country who had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11.  At least 100,000 civilians have lost their lives since the Iraq campaign began.  And we sent soldiers to die in a war that didn't have to be waged.  Those lives were worth every bit as much as the lives lost in 9/11.

How many lives have been lost due to ongoing environmental disasters, many of them preventable?

What are we never forgetting?

This is how I felt as I rolled my shopping cart down Seventh Avenue at 8:38 this morning on my way to the food coop, slightly resentful of the "healing power" of remembering, tweeting away our guilt and grief while Rome continues to burn.

Right next to the Park Slope Food Coop is Squad No. 1 Firehouse of the New York City Fire Department.  As I turned onto Union Street I saw that both fire trucks were parked out front.  There were 20-30 people gathered around, many of them brandishing cameras.  I slowed down, took off my headphones and turned off the iPod.  The front door to the fire house opened.  A dozen firefighters walked out onto the sidewalk.  They joked and chatted amongst themselves as the crowd hovered closer.  At 8:46 they formed two lines facing, and saluted each other.  One firefighter read a short statement about 9/11.  Squad No. 1 lost twelve firefighters on 9/11.  A wooden statue stands between the fire house and the food coop, the names of all 343 firefighters who died that day inscribed on its base.

The firefighter finished reading the statement.  Another salute.  The firefighters exchanged handshakes, hugs.  Someone from the crowd yelled his gratitude, and others seconded it.  The firefighters disappeared back into the squad house, never acknowledging the bystanders.  A private ceremony on the open sidewalk.

The moment triggered my own memories of 9/11/01.  I suddenly felt some of what I felt that day.  It reminded me how much we carry emotionally, just below the surface, and how small moments can summon up even deep and ancient feelings.

But my moment was not a tribute.  I was reminded how inept I feel when it comes to making the world a better place.  How inept our political leaders are.  How jaded and comfortable so many of us are, unwilling to sacrifice or too busy to do more.

I continued on to the food coop.  At 9:03 AM I remembered that we were out of organic string cheese.

I will never forget 9/11.  When will we start remembering what we have to do?

A Greek, An Indian and a Jew Get Into an Elevator...

Recently Archie asked me what S&M meant in Rihanna's hit song by the same name.  Normally I'd be as flustered as any other parent confronted with a similar question from their six year old child, but thanks to something that happened to me 15 years ago I had an answer ready.

In 1996 I was working for an insurance company in Newark.  The job wasn't anything great but it was a fun work environment: lots of young, fun-loving and weird people with plenty of idle time on their hands.  One day I got on a down elevator with two co-workers.  One was Sanjay (not real name), an Indian male in his late 20's who worked in IT.  The other was Hercules (real name), a Greek guy who bore a strong resemblance to John Belushi until he opened his mouth.  Not only was Hercules not the funniest guy around, he was pretty weird to boot.  Every once in a while he'd come by my desk and ask me "should I do it?  Should I do it?"  No intro.  Invariably I'd give him a puzzled look, get no further explanation, and reluctantly reply "go for it man, go for it."  That was pretty much all I knew about Herc.

So it's Sanjay, Hercules and me on the elevator.  Hercules immediately starts packing his Marlboro Lights against his arm: PACK-PACK-PACK-PACK-PACK.  I never understood that move.  Sanjay is in the other corner, and he cannot keep his head up.  I asked him if he was okay.

"Oh I am so tired, so very tired!" he said.

Herc leveled his gaze at Sanjay.  "What you need," PACK-PACK-PACK, "is a little R," PACK-PACK-PACK, "and R," he said.

Sanjay was puzzled.  "Tell me," he asked, "what is R and R?"

Hercules had the voice of a late night FM radio jockey.  "A little Rest,"  PACK-PACK-PACK, "and Relaxation."  Sanjay beamed, took pleasure in Hercules' mellifluous flow.

I got involved. "You could probably also use some S&M."

Immediately Sanjay exclaimed. "Aha!  Sweets and Money!"

Hercules never looked at me, only at Sanjay.   "I'll explain later."

First floor.   PACK-PACK-PACK.

Little Stars, Bears, Rainbows and Me

[Written Friday, August 5, 2011]

When I started this blog, it was about self-expression  Writing was what I really wanted to do with my time, my next career.  But increasingly I ask myself: who am I writing for?  I have come to realize that I am writing this blog for my kids, so that one day they'll know a side of me I can't express to them directly. 

Today I want to document the place and the people that took care of Archie and Layla the past five years, the families we've met, and where Daddy has been so many nights the past three years.  You see, today is Layla's Graduation Day from the Park Slope Child Care Collective, and it marks the end of a five year relationship with PSCCC.  It hasn't always been pretty, but it has been beautiful.

In Park Slope we love collectives and coops the way Memphis loves barbecue.  PSCCC was formed almost 40 years ago as yet another post-hippie institution in what we now call Brownstone Brooklyn, the yuppies glomming on to what the yippies built, urban bohmeia replaced by Brooklyn Industries.  PSCCC defied gentrification and remained true to core values: Diversity. Socialization. Expressing feelings. Working families.  Volunteering families. Teacher loyalty.  Love.

Platitudes, made real.  Parents who sent their kids to PSCCC raved about it, were a family, looked out for each other, had only fond memories. 

For a very long time the school's impresario, its director, was a woman named Renee.  She was a true throwback: no teeth, no bra, no inhibitions.  She was Woodstock and Hair and Free to Be You and Me embodied in one person, a guide to children and parents alike.  When you visited PSCCC she would talk about the love, the feelings, personal growth, emotional development over ABC's and 1-2-3's. 

And the school delivered as promised, classrooms that were diverse in many senses of the word, with high teacher ratios, teachers who had been there for ten years or more, many of them a product of minority educational initiatives that gave Brooklyn women who had fallen through the cracks a second chance at having a career.  PSCCC was a tireless advocate for these women, and in turn they were "going to love your children all up," the first thing any PSCCC teacher ever said to me, a moment that will stay with me. 

To be a parent of a not-yet 2 year-old, nervous about letting go, trusting a new place, new faces - us, not Archie; at his first school visit, just 16 months old, he offered Renee his bagel and ate a green marker instead, thus guaranteeing his admission.  To walk into a place you instantly knew you could trust was not just a godsend, it was unique.

Archie started school in the fall 2006, then a few weeks later Layla was born, and a few weeks after that, as we sat in our apartment at 5 AM, everyone having been awake for quite some time (as was the norm back then; Archie has the early bird gene), we heard sirens, then more sirens, coming closer to our apartment building and then thankfully, or so we thought, trail away.  Soon enough, we learned those fire engines were headed for the church where PSCCC was located.  A hot water heater had somehow started a fire and the venerable, largely wooden building was quickly aflame, a four-alarm fire that drew the attention of the local news, a fire that could have begun to rage in the middle of the day, during nap time, or yoga, or free play.  But it didn't. Nobody was hurt. 

Still, many families were traumatized and the school was displaced for the rest of the school year.  We used parents' living rooms, then the Old First Church, then a space at Power Play, and finally an abandoned Catholic School in Carroll Gardens that overlooked the BQE.  Through it all, PSCCC didn't miss a day.  Renee, teachers and parents worked tirelessly to keep things together.

A year later, the school was back at the original church space but things were still chaotic.  The parents met and eventually decided to re-form the school board which, as a non-profit entity, the school was required to have.  My “big break”: I was chosen to be board president, a position I ended up holding for three and a half years until stepping down last month.

During that time PSCCC has faced countless challenges.  In 2009 we discovered that Renee and her husband had embezzled a lot of money, had put us in tremendous financial peril, that we faced legal liability with the IRS, the State of New York, and others.  As a result, PSCCC has had to dig itself out of a hole a mile deep.  The first step was convincing the parents not to abandon ship.  A few weeks after the 2009-10 school year began I stood in front of the parents and told them what we knew.  I told them not to lose faith, that we needed their loyalty.  That the teachers needed their loyalty.  In the end, not a single family left PSCCC that year. (At graduation I will wear the same shirt I wore when I faced the parents two years ago)

There were many obstacles to regaining stability the past two years, but the dark clouds have passed.  PSCCC has largely resolved its tax problems and legal obligations.  We are at full enrollment.  Over 100 families visited the school for 15 open spots during our winter open house.  A few teachers have come and gone but most have stuck it out, and no paychecks were missed.  Parent volunteerism is at an all-time high.  The school has a computer, a website, and a new director.  PSCCC has persevered.

A pre-school's existence is tenuous, however.  There are regulations, narrow profit margins, staffing issues, parent demands, lease problems.  PSCCC will have to be vigilant in order to thrive, but no more or less than any other Brooklyn pre-school.

And after five years, PSCCC will go on without us.  Layla has made such good friends there - Clara and Oviya and Julius and Julian and Soha and Sophia, from Aalioune to Zoe - and she has grown into a smart, fun, funny and caring person, just like her brother.  Not for a minute did I ever have to worry that she wasn't being taken care of and looked out for.  That is a gift for any family.  I trust there will be more great schools and great teachers in Archie and Layla's future. But never again will we, as a family, feel the intimacy that PSCCC gave us.

It is also possible that someday Archie and Layla will be betrayed by someone they cared about, much like Renee betrayed all of us.  Hopefully I won't be the culprit.  Even better, maybe I can be there to give this advice: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

And to all parents, a reminder: You will never love your children as much as they love you.  PSCCC showed us love and support that was truly humbling.

Last month twelve PSCCC families went camping together.  When it rained torrentially the first night, we went to a diner and made the best of it (“you get what you get and you don’t get upset”).  When we barbecued for dinner, every family made food for everyone else (“sharing is caring”).  Plans were made for next year’s retreat.  A neighborhood is great; a community, even better.

A few weeks ago the teacher surprised me with a thank you party.  Cupcakes, gifts, sparkling cider (it was during school hours) and cards.  It was an overwhelming gesture, thoughtful and generous as one would expect from this group of women.  Parents often talk about the love these teachers show our kids, but sometimes it borders on patronizing.  These women are also smart, thoughtful, intelligent, insightful.  The teachers made toasts.  I bit my lip, hard. 

Near the end one teacher, a woman whose self-esteem is far lower than her talents and compassion deserve, spoke up.  She is now the first-ever teacher representative on the school board.  She thanked me for giving the teachers a voice they never had.    In that moment, I was reminded that I had gotten something I never had as well.

I Get It

Georgia, Ira and James.  

Not exactly Mick and Keith or JohnPaulGeorgeRingo.  

But they are the trio who play in my favorite band, Yo La Tengo.  And having just seen them again last week at the Bell House, right here in Da Slope (is there anything better than being able to hear great music in your own neighborhood?), I am reminded this week not just of why I love them so much, but the importance of going with what you feel.  I want to pay tribute to my favorite band in the world, and will try to do it without sounding like either a Bieber Head or Robert Christgau.

But knowing what we like is more important than ever.  Consider what the internet has done to personal taste.  Now we have five star systems for our literature and music.  We have an Artist of the Day competition.  We have Dancing With the Stars.  Opinions are aggregated so that marketing dollars can be put to their best use.  The Yelping of the arts.  

In the face of all that, well we all need someone we can lean on.  I lean on Yo La Tengo.

         whatever you want from me

whatever you want I'll do

try to squeeze a drop of blood

from a sugarcube

Even now, fourteen years after I first heard I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One in my West Village apartment, my head exploding to Sugarcube, (ever seen the video with the Mr. Show folks?), blown away by Deeper Into Movies, the whole album like nothing I had even heard before, I am still in awe of what Yo La Tengo does. 

The way their songs seem to speed up and slow down all at once.  Hopeful whispers floating over dissonant guitars. A suburban Sonic Youth, smart but not knowing.  Melodic, angry; tender, raw.  Ethereal vocals, shredding guitar solos, thumping rhythms.  

Acid lullabies.  

try to be more assured

try to be more right there

try to be less uptight

try to be more aware

whatever you want from me

is what I want to do for you

sweeter than a drop of blood

from a sugarcube

Yo La Tengo got their name from the Spanish version of a baseball player saying “I got it” when catching a fly ball.  The name fits because, as they say about baseball, every time you see Yo La Tengo you see something you have never seen before.  They are always trying something new, always giving you a new version of your favorite song, tirelessly mining the material. 

You always know they care deeply about what they do, and despite their years of success approach the music with freshness, energy and curiosity.  At Bell House the band was winding down on The Race Is on Again, Ira playing that irresistible melody, and you could just feel it was taking all his self control not to leap into another riff, a new idea, set the place on fire yet again.   Small songs about love, what we think about lying in bed late at night, minds raging while the world sleeps.

         And that's why

If you're looking at me

I'll try

To be what you want to see

And if I

If I'm ever that lucky

You won't have to be so

You won't have to be so sad

Last night

I was trying to read in bed

I got to watching you sleep instead

Even when I got tired I couldn't stop

Because I love you so

And I pray you know

But I'm not one for praying

You knew I couldn't say that without making a joke

I love that Georgia and Ira have been living and working together for more than 25 years.  There have been other married couples in bands but I can’t think of one that works as well musically as Georgia and Ira.  Maybe Richard and Linda Thompson but that was more short-lived. 

         when I heard the knock on the door

I couldn't catch my breath

is it too late to call this off?

we could slip away

wouldn't that be better?

me with nothing to say

and you in your autumn sweater

Georgia’s talents are absolutely crucial to the band.  She is a fantastic drummer, powerful and precise.  Her lilting vocals give the band its Velvet Underground ambiance.  She carries herself with dignity and humility.  Yo La Tengo called one of their albums Genius + Love = Yo La Tengo, and though Ira is one of my favorite guitar players ever, there’s no question Georgia completes that equation all by herself.

I love the way the band members exchange places during the show, James on drums, Ira on keyboard, Georgia on theremin, whatever the song calls for.  When I hear Ira play keyboard I wonder why he doesn’t do it more. I wonder why Georgia doesn’t sing lead vocals all the time.

I love that the band played its own version of Wheel of Fortune at the Bell House.  The wheel was spun to determine the set list for the first half of the show.  The winner: Songs with a Proper Name. (great set)

I love that Yo La Tengo is true to its Hoboken roots, that the band that opened for them (Antietam) is a New Jersey band that opened for them on their very first tour in 1985.  Yo La Tengo loves to collaborate, and you can tell that when an outside musician steps on stage to play with these guys, it is an honor.  And to this day Yo La Tengo sponsors a fundraiser for independent local radio WFMU 91.1; they take requests all night long in exchange for pledges.  True to their roots.

I love that Yo La Tengo plays all eight nights of Hanukkah at Maxwellís every year.  Eight straight nights of great comedians (Eugene Mirman, David Cross, the woman from Flight of the Conchords, Todd Barry), great opening acts (The National, Magnetic Fields, Alex Chilton), and then a huge, awe-inspiring set they perform for 150 of their closest friends.  It is always an incredible night at Maxwell’s, though as Ira likes to say “the best night is always the night you weren’t there.”

         Driving in the south, the motor's on fire

Let's put it out, before the flames go higher

Monday matinee, in pull we are life's throb

So hard to choose between conceit and rock

Some college in the spring, the sound is all wrong

Reset the mate to our Flamin Groovies song

Driving, night again, they're late, car crash

We'll turn to look unless we're going too fast

I love that Yo La Tengo is something I can just feel.  I don’t know all their lyrics by heart, or even the order of songs on their albums.  It doesn’t seem to matter.  I just get it.  

They ended the Bell House show with Neil Young's For the Turnstiles.  NY used to be my guy, and I still love his music.  Yo La Tengo loves performing covers, but this one was extraordinary.  The anxiety of the original version was replaced with a sense of affection and appreciation.

         All the bush league batters

Are left to die

on the diamond.

In the stands

the home crowd scatters

For the turnstiles.

And here's a can't miss offer: I will make a Yo La Tengo mix CD for anyone who asks.  Shipping and handling included.  Order now... 

What Have We Learned

Today is the last day of my stint between jobs.  Specifically, Day 9 of the nine work days I had off, a relatively paltry figure but a welcome respite all the same.  It's the longest vacation of any kind that I have had since Ora and I went to South America in 2002.  I would say parenting is more taxing than the Inca Trail and relaxation is more remote than the Galapagos, but I am not complaining.

Some observations on my time off:

I have two full-time jobs.  It was nice not to be in an office all day, but parenting obligations kept me busy.  The time went by very quickly and most of my days got carved up by shopping, pickup, car issues, etc.  Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are always a very busy time of year, and there were a lot of errands to be run.  Plus we had people over for dinner three straight nights, which was very fun but also a lot of work.  So I was jobless but not carefree.  That meant I didn't go away for an extended trip, didn't stay out late at night, didn't take cooking classes or spend all day on an Arrested Development marathon.  This break was neither unpleasant nor decadent.  It was...not bad.  And I am grateful to have a new job to look forward to.  But the dilemma of trying to be a responsible parent and indulging oneself at the same time proved beyond my capacity.  I think it will get easier in about twelve years, fifteen tops.

Blogs are better when they have a consistent theme.  Sometimes I like to write about sports and sometimes I don't, AND THAT'S OKAY.  However, I have come to the conclusion that a blog that sticks to one field just makes more sense, unless having a polymath's scope of topics and information is the selling point of one's blog.  And not that I am trying to sell anything, but some people tell me "oh I saw you posted on your blog but then the first line was about basketball so I tuned out."  The best solution I have concocted is to start a second, all-sports blog with a different name, since General Rodetsky was not known for his athletic exploits.  I need a good blog name.  Anyone who submits a suggestion will win an autographed copy of my food coop receipt from Sunday morning.  If I use your suggestion as the new blog title, you will win $1 million.  Guaranteed.

I can't wait to win the lottery.  The things I like most: writing, sports, cooking, wine/foodie stuff, reading, movies.  I would never lack for things to keep my attention if I didn't have to work.

I still suck at the piano.  Turns out it takes more than a few weeks to become a good pianist, or even a barely competent one.  I have had offers of free lessons from two masters of the (ebony and) ivory, and hope to take them up on it one day soon.

Our apartment is still a partial mess.  DO NOT LOOK IN THE BEDROOM!  THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE IN THE BEDROOM!  We would need ten Martha Stewarts working round the clock for two weeks just to make a dent.  I decided it would be easier to go through sensory deprivation training so I no longer notice the clutter.

People have much bigger problems than I do.  Unemployment and depression are the two biggies.  Life is hard.  The end of the year holiday cheer can be a huge bummer for a lot of people.  On a personal level, I hope all my friends find what they need in 2011.

On a national level, I hope President Obama finds what he needs: backbone.  If Frank Rich is to be trusted, and I believe that Frank Rich should always be trusted, Obama is about to extend the Bush tax cuts, which means Obama saved $5 billion taking away the annual raise for federal workers but gave away $80 billion annually in the tax cuts.  In fact, today's headline on Yahoo indicates that "Obama prefers a two-year extension of the Bush tax cuts because one year would mean a similar debate in six months, and a three-year extension would lose support from liberals."  The extension is being framed as the only way the Republicans can be convinced to extend unemployment benefits for another year.

Here's one option that isn't mentioned in the article: the zero-year extension.

I am starting to think that President Obama and the Senate Democrats really are part of the problem.  I am trying with all my might to support Obama with the same conviction I had two years ago.  But he seems totally unable or unwilling to fight the bad guys, to stand up for what he said he believes in.  It's pretty damn depressing.  Extending tax cuts to the rich while unemployment hovers near 10 percent.  Our United States Government: Brought to you by: Con-Agra Foods!  Halliburton!  Merck!  And by, the Chinese Government, co-sponsors of the National Deficit.  For all your deficit needs, order Chinese!

I like Brooklyn.  I really do.  I like walking places.  I like not having to maintain a house, avoiding traffic, avoiding Republicans, avoiding the Olive Garden, avoiding two cars and raking leaves.  I like the people we know here, the stimulation of urban life for my kids, for me.  I like that Brooklyn is not as crowded or expensive as Manhattan.  And with global warming and the aforementioned spineless dithering of our supposed progressive leader, in 10-15 years we'll probably have 70 degrees year round.  Take that, current tropical zones!

I don't like shaving.  But I never keep the beard, and this time is no exception.  Always fun while it lasts.

And now it's time to get back to the daily grind.  It's almost like I never left.

Cardinal Sin?

Earlier this week Derek Anderson ripped into a reporter for questioning why he was "laughing" on the sidelines, as the reporter put it, while Arizona was down by 18 points to the San Francisco 49ers in a Monday Night Football game.  Not surprisingly, everyone who follows sports has a strong opinion about what transpired, including Magic Johnson.  It seemed like only Dwight Howard was able to find some humor in the situation.

Following along with the latest sports media "controversy" is like eating at McDonald's or watching "The Kardashians".  You know it's wrong, you know it's bad for you, but sometimes you just can't help it.  I'm going to take the bait this time around because I don't think anybody has expressed what is really wrong about the "controversy."  Let's first address what happened.

The video clip in question shows Anderson smiling in response to something his teammate, Deuce Lutui, said to him on the sideline.  Smiling is not laughing.  If smiling were laughing then Dane Cook would be a funny as Louis C.K.

We later learned that Lutui said something to cheer up Anderson, who was in the midst of an embarrassing performance in front of a national audience.  I watched some of the game and it is safe to say that Derek Anderson will not be in Hawaii in January.  He was inaccurate, made poor reads, just didn't seem capable of running the offense of a winning football team.  One need look no further than the drop off in Larry Fitzgerald's stats this year to discern that Anderson is a mediocre quarterback.

Lutui was acting like a good teammate should, bolstering Anderson's spirits when he was probably just about ready to hang up his helmet for the night.  Anderson smiled back.  What should he have done, told Lutui to piss off?

Apparently, a lot of people started tweeting and commenting about how awful it was that Anderson was laughing while the Cardinals were losing.  Again, he was Dane Cookin' it, not laughing.  But the "public outcry" was enough pretense for the reporter to question Anderson about the exchange.  In interviews since the incident, the reporter has said he never intended to upset Anderson.  But the reporter referred to SmileGate as "a big problem with this team."  It was an inflammatory take on the situation where he could have just as easily asked "Hey Derek, the cameras caught you laughing, I mean smiling on the sidelines, what was it you were laughing about, I mean smiling about?"

So yeah, Anderson should have just answered the question, shouldn't have lost his temper.  However, the reporter should have asked his question in a more professional way.  He made Anderson look even worse than he already had looked on the field, and that's saying something.  If I were Anderson I would have walked out too. The fact that media jackals like Colin Cowherd have come to the reporter's defense only emboldens my take on the CONTROVERSY, I mean "controversy."

And now we come to the issue that I think has been overlooked.  Let's say Derek Anderson was laughing, and let's say Deuce Lutui had just told him the one about the priest, the rabbi and Michael Jackson in the airplane, or even said "man, we SUCK.  I mean the Niners are killing us, and THEY suck!  Who at ESPN decided it would be a good idea to show two 4-7 teams on national television?  Kurt Warner isn't playing anymore!  Neither is Joe Montana!  The NFC West has become the Screech of football divisions.  What did they expect?  We S-T-I-N-K, am I right Derek my man?"  At which point Derek started guffawing and slapping his leg like he was Arsenio Hall.

Let's just say that's what had happened.

All that would tell me is that Derek Anderson and Deuce Lutui have that certain something, that special one in a million quality that is all too uncommon in our modern age, what's it called again?  Oh yes:

Perspective.

I remember when I was a kid back in the 70's, my Scholastic Books order always included book titles like "The Wild and Wacky Side of Football," "Crazy Bastards from the NBA," or "Funny Sports Quotes from Old White Men Who Were Probably Half in the Bag at the Time."  The precise titles escape me.  But I used to love those books, and this was back when the only sports information you received about teams and athletes outside of your metropolitan area was in Sports Illustrated, so these books were priceless tales about the world of professional sports and all the funny, zany and memorable things that transpire when a bunch of grown men band together and spend inordinate amounts of time with each other working toward a common goal.

It brought sports to life for me.  Crazy nuts like Kenny Stabler, Ted Hendricks (really the entire 1970's Oakland Raiders team); Rollie Fingers and Dan Quisenberry in baseball, e.g.; Daryl Dawkins, World B. Free and Charles Barkley in basketball; They had personality, humor, individuality, emotions.  Fine by me, as long as they played their asses off when it mattered.

I want the athletes who play for my favorite teams to play their hearts out.  I want them to care if they win or lose.  I don't need them to be stone-faced robots, or even worse, phonies.  Life is funny sometimes.  Humor helps in good times and bad.  A mildly humorous exchange is not the Cardinals' "big problem."  Their big problem is a lack of talent.  The fact that Ken Whisenhunt, the Cardinals coach and most definitely an old-school guy, found nothing wrong with the Anderson-Lutui exchange ought to tell people all they need to know.

The people who have been calling for the Cardinals to waive Derek Anderson because he smiled on the sidelines during a loss are the ones who need to rethink their mental game, or lack thereof.

This Post is about Basketball. If you don't know who Paul Mokeski is you can stop reading right here.

Football has become America's Pastime.  The NFL dominates the professional sports landscape in the United States.  No other sport can approach the NFL's TV ratings.  Baseball is still licking its wounds from having been surpassed by football.  It continues to lean on its history, tarnished records and all, which works for the already converted but doesn't bring in new fans the same way football attracts pretty much everyone. Hockey is...hockey.  I love hockey.  But it is the fourth sport; we can all agree on this.

That leaves basketball, probably the most star-driven pro league.  In recent years TV commentators have taken to promoting "Kobe versus the Magic!" or "LeBron takes on the Bulls!" instead of focusing on the team unit.  This pattern has served the NBA well during the David Stern era.  Magic and Bird drafted the blueprint.  Michael Jordan took it to the next level, and his legacy is still the grandest of any basketball player, not just in terms of championships and greatness (Magic and Bill Russell might have a thing or two to say about that) but for his magnetism, his marketability, for making the NBA a billion dollar enterprise.

Since Jordan's retirement there have been pretenders to the throne: Shaq, Kobe and LeBron are probably the most notable "celebrities" of the bunch, but none of them has impacted the NBA and pop culture the way Michael Jordan did.  And the NBA's peak popularity has not been seen since.

Still, the NBA is popular and has a large, devoted fan base.  More than ever, it feels like you either are or are not an NBA fan.  You don't dabble in it like so many football fans, or baseball fans who just like to go to a game once in a while or whose interest is now limited to their rotisserie squad.  In many ways the NBA fandom now feels like a bigger version of the NHL.  That might not be a good thing for the NBA owners, who see many franchises struggling to maintain decent attendance.  But devoted NBA fans enjoy seeing the casual observers fade away. [Archie Kranz is the newest hardcore fan; we watch highlights on nba.com on a regular basis.  He loves the Orlando Magic, a result of Dwight Howard's Superman dunk routine]

Another consequence of the post-Jordan void is that from 2002 to 2009 we had a different champion every year.  In order: Los Angeles, San Antonio, Detroit, San Antonio, Miami, San Antonio, Boston, Los Angeles. The Lakers, having won titles from 2000-2002 and the past two seasons, have supplanted the Spurs as the team of the decade.  Kobe has elevated his legacy in the process, as has Phil Jackson.  And the Lakers have looked very good in the early going this season.  Still, nobody would be entirely shocked if another team hoisted the Larry O'Brien Trophy in June, whereas that trophy was the property of Michael Jordan 1991-93 and 1996-98.

It is a great time to be an NBA fan.  There are so many stars whose careers are in peak form, so many teams with talent and intensity to burn.  [and if you haven't seen Blake Griffin's best dunks this year, you really need to drop what you are doing.  BG is primed to become a top 10 all-time dunker)  In the end, however, there can only be no more than 4-5 teams who have an honest to goodness chance to win the NBA title.  Even though I have been impressed with the early play of so many teams - Chicago, Indiana, Utah, Oklahoma City and New Orleans come to mind - I think the NBA champion will be one of the following five teams, so in this post I will only talk about the contenders and not the pretenders:

Los Angeles Lakers  At times the Lakers have looked like they are clearly the best team in basketball.  The passing and scoring game has clicked in large spurts of play at a level of efficiency we don't get to enjoy very often.  Matt Barnes and Steve Blake were savvy additions to the rotation.  Shannon Brown has elevated his game.  And LA is still waiting for Andrew Bynum to get healthy.  If Bynum shows up and stays healthy through the rest of the season, I think the Lakers can win their third ring in a row.  I don't think anybody can play basketball at top gear quite as well as LA can do it.  But the Lakers are relatively old and could wear down, especially with their currently short rotation in the front court.  Still, they are my favorites with 20 percent of the regular season completed.

Boston Celtics   A few weeks ago a TV commentator pointed out that this year for the first time, Rajon Rondo always brings up the ball for the Celtics.  It's about time.  In the two Celtics-Heat games played this year, Rondo was the best player on the court, anticipating steals, dropping dimes and dunking on people's heads like he was Miami 6 rather than Boston 9.  RR is averaging 14.2 assists a game.  That his an historic pace.  Rondo's athleticism and smarts are the difference maker for the C's.  Ray Allen, Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnett have been solid, and Shaquille O'Neal has been remarkable.  Shaq leads the team in PER while averaging 12.3 ppg and 7 rpg in just 22 minutes a game.  Glen Davis has played like a sixth starter, and Nate Robinson has made a big contribution, especially when Rondo sat for three games.  Boston is clearly the most dangerous defensive team in the league as well, an honor previously held by the Pistons and Spurs this decade - two teams that won a title or three by shutting down its opponent.  The Celtics are capable of doing the same this year.  They are old and it's still not clear whether a returning Kendrick Perkins and developing Delonte West will eventually give them needed depth.  But right now it's pretty hard to bet against them in the East.  I don't think Orlando can summon up another upset like what they pulled off in 2009, and I don't think Carlos Boozer will put the Bulls over the top (I could be wrong on that one).  Boston is a threat.

Dallas Mavericks    I don't think this team is deep enough to get it done in June, but right now the Mavericks are playing great basketball thanks to its two superstars.  Jason Kidd continues to dish and score and steal the ball like the all-time great point guard that he is.  Perhaps my favorite statistic of the season has been that Kidd now ranks 5th all time in 3 pointers made.  Not bad for a guy who can't shoot. [Can you name the other five active players who rank in the all time top 10?  No peeking. It's pretty tough.]   Once again, Kidd sits among the league leaders in assists and steals.  But Dirk Nowitzki drives this team.  He is scoring 26 points a game on 54% from the field, 40% from 3 and 85% from the free throw line.  His PER ranks him seventh in the league.  And Dirk is always ready to take the big shot down the stretch.  I love what he is doing this season and hope he continues to play at this level.  However, unless Caron Butler and Shawn Marion return to their All-Star caliber levels, this team just doesn't have the guns to win the title.

San Antonio Spurs   As it turns out, one of the biggest storylines of 2009 turned out to be one of the biggest storylines of 2010 instead: Can Richard Jefferson help the Spurs return to the NBA Finals?  Yes he can.  Jefferson is scoring 15 ppg.  The Spurs are third in the league in scoring.  Last year they finished 15th.  Big Jeff, big diff.  Factor in the addition of Tiago Splitter, Gary Neal and James Anderson, and the continued growth of George Hill, and the Spurs can beat you in a lot of different ways.  But not if Manu Ginobili isn't on the floor, and his health is always an issue.  Bill Simmons recently said that Ginobili's ankles are in much worse shape than most people know and that Manu will not last the entire season.  If that is true, the Spurs will not beat the Lakers in the playoffs.  With Manu healthy?  I think they have a great shot, and at 14-2 it's hard not to love what the Spurs are doing.  [btw, here is another great stat: Matt Bonner, 212 minutes and 0 turnovers.  It helps that he can't dribble in the first place.]

Miami Heat   
[ducks to avoid thrown objects]

Miami Heat   I know they are barely over .500, can only beat bad teams, lack depth, lack rebounding, lack intensity and mojo and seem totally ill-equipped to win the NBA title this season.  I know that LeBron just threw Eric Spoelstra under the bus today, further cementing his reputation as a selfish, immensely talented baby.  I know that Chris Bosh's double digit rebounding totals in Toronto look like they must have been calculated as Canadian rebounds, which have to be adjusted for American rebounds, and expectations for Bosh similarly have to be adjusted. I read the papers too you know.  And LeBron's stats are down, no question.  His assists are close to what they have always been but his points and rebounds are down.  And at times his shoulders sag and he seems to be tuning out.  And Wade and LeBron both need the ball to be effective.  And Haslem is out for the season.  And a team that relies heavily on Eddie House CANNOT win the title, can it?  I know, I get it.

But the Heat still have two of the five best players in the world.  They are still trying to figure out how to play with each other.  When I have watched the Heat play I have seen a lot of discussion and instruction between players, like they don't even know exactly where to be.  Which tells me that the unspoken communication, the intuition that can be formed only after you have played together for a while, just isn't there.  However, we have only played 15-20 games.  What if the Heat eventually develop a rapport, understand each other's games?  And now I am really talking to the "Big Three," who I am no longer even sure would win a theoretical NBA 3 on 3 tournament.  I think eventually LeBron and Wade will get familiar with each other, that Bosh's offensive game will be an asset and he will start to assert himself more on the boards.  Then the Heat will recruit another big body before the trading line, and suddenly I don't think a Boston-Miami playoff series looks all that one-sided.

People are loving to hate the Heat.  I don't get it, especially if you weren't a Cavaliers fan, which most people mercifully are not. LeBron chose to play where he wanted.  NOT a crime.  Miami's early season swoon could prove to be cathartic for the Heat, who no longer have to be concerned with claims that they have stacked the deck in their favor.  10-8 is not stacking the deck, not even a little.  The Heat are thin, brittle, and perhaps ill-conceived.  If they turn things around and get to the Finals, they will have earned their stripes.

The LeBron-Wade-Bosh pairing was good for basketball either way.  If the Miami Thrice succeed, it shows that a team has to enjoy playing with each other and must play hard on both ends of the court to have a chance.  If the team fails, people can point to the Heat and say "three superstars will never beat five good players who play well together."  Lesson learned.  Or not.  And that's the NBA in 2010: It's easy to predict exactly how the season will play out.  Not.

Out of Jersey City, Into the Wild

So here I am, back at the keys, fresh off the boat; the ferry, that is, running from the World Financial Center to the Jersey City Harbor.  Though on my last day as an employee of Arch Insurance Group, Inc., I used my car to get to the office at Harborside Plaza.  I stayed just long enough to say a few goodbyes and throw four boxes of my things into the back of the car - having spent six years on the job that comes out to 18 months per box - and I was off, and OFF, for 2.5 weeks, something I haven't experienced in many years.


I luxuriated in the non-congested midday Holland Tunnel.  The chilly November sun of lower Manhattan washed over me, flooded my Honda with light, flooded my head.  The moment screamed for a  Harry Nilsson CD.  I spent the afternoon at home, "decompressing."  On the walk to pick up Junior from after-school I felt energy coursing through my fingers, my shoulders settling down, down, down.  Two weeks of notifying people, wrapping up files, transferring emails and personal documents, boxing up crap, saying goodbye to people by phone, in person, via email; the exit interview, turning in the laptop, ID cards, corporate credit card, Blackberry.  All of that build-up until finally it was time to really FEEL the ending, to live the ending, to turn off the lights and lock the door behind me.


Almost immediately I felt the loss of the Blackberry.  I mean it in a good way; I realized how much of a yoke on my concentration it had become, how infrequently I really needed to read that new email right away.  A tool of convenience?  Absolutely, in the best and worst sense.  It organized my life in a way that just can't be done toting around a Date Planner or scribbling Post-its to yourself twenty times a day.  But quickly, my first resolution: when I get my new work Blackberry, not to carry it around with me all the time.  To leave it home as much as possible, especially weekends.  To keep it turned off on my commute to work.  Etcetera.  (Freshly formed resolutions are about as stable as a souffle, so let's review this one in three months.)


That same day I watched the movie Into the Wild.  I had promised my friend and world-famous philosopher, Ira Saiger, that I would watch the movie before his birthday, which was the next day.  It is the story of Christopher McCandless who, upon graduating from Emory University in 1990, embarks on a two-year odyssey through America, in the process removing all encumbrances from his life: passport, money, family, car, lodging and, eventually, companionship.  His journey ends in the Alaskan wilderness, alone in the wild, dead at age 24.  


The movie brilliantly brings alive Chris's story.  Emile Hirsch leads a remarkably gifted cast.  Sean Penn beautifully picks and chooses from Chris's life story to show us who he was and what he lived through.  And the cinematography is inspired, elevating but not overshadowing the material.  It is a mystery to me why movies like this don't get more attention, more adulation, though A.O. Scott did praise it back in 2007 for being "alive to the mysteries and difficulties of experience in a way that very few recent American movies have been."  Well said.


Chris McCandless was a genuine idealist who lived his ideals all the way to their ultimate logic.  In Into the Wild he quotes Henry David Thoreau and channels him too, at one point declaring that true happiness lies in nature, not companionship.  He explains that he set all of his remaining money on fire because "money makes people cautious."  Chris lives monastically, ruthlessly shedding as many skins as he can discern, trying to get to an essential truth.  As I watched this movie, having left a job that same day, I felt that Chris McCandless's life was a reminder that we are defined just as much by what we are not as by what we are.  


So what am I?  What am I not?  Chris McCandless thought he knew, thought he had found his place in the world when he stumbled upon an abandoned school bus in the Alaskan territories, and there he lived his final days.  But even in his most extreme days of existence, Chris maintained a connection to others: he wrote.  He kept a detailed written account of everything that happened to him out in the wild.  His journals are the only record of what happened to him in Alaska.  In fact, he kept a journal throughout his two-year adventure.  Chris might have believed happiness existed in nature and not in companionship, yet even he felt an irreducible desire to share his experience.  


When people have asked me what I plan on doing with my time off, I have named various errands and to-do lists.  But most of all, I want to write.  Sports, politics, family, movies, food, and one big project.  Can't wait.  And I have so many friends whose commitment to their writing is an inspiration for me.  Let's see if I can build a habit in 2.5 weeks.


I shed a skin on Friday.  Snakes shed skin when they become too big for the old skin.  By the time it is shed the old skin is almost transparent, colorless.  


Sounds about right.

Cleveland Rocked

Cleveland seems to always be taking a hit. They say things happen in cycles. When it comes to Cleveland, it seems the cycle is “trauma-recover from trauma-more trauma,” and somehow the triumph and vindication part of the cycle gets bypassed. The economy there is tanking.  And let’s not forget the newly thin, hosting someone else’s game show version of Drew Carey.

But July 2010 was especially unkind to the Forest City. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that last month Cleveland suffered the loss of two of its own, though it wouldn’t exactly be right either.

It’s true that the Cavaliers lost LeBron James but, as this month’s Esquire profile makes abundantly clear, LeBron never considered himself a Clevelander.  Even so, Miami’s gain was Cleveland’s loss.

Just five days after LeBron’s Decision, George Steinbrenner died. Steinbrenner was a Buckeye to the bone. He was born and raised in Ohio, his first major business venture was a Great Lakes shipping business, and the first sports franchise he ever owned was the Cleveland Pipers of the ABL. But George will be forever remembered as a New Yorker, the American Dream as sung by Frank Sinatra.

I’ll discuss Georgie Boy in more detail in a separate post. That’s my Decision and I’m sticking to it. Let’s start with LeBron, who has taken a lot of Heat, I mean heat since announcing he is headed to Miami. Only some of it is deserved.

The argument that LeBron owed it to Cleveland to stay put and win a title rings hollow. The Cavaliers had seven years to put together a title-worthy squad and failed to do it. Cleveland’s appearance in the 2007 NBA Finals was a testament to LeBron’s individual brilliance against an unfocused Pistons team. Over the past three seasons Dan Gilbert and Danny Ferry have made moves that smacked of desperation or misjudgment. High on the list was keeping Mike Brown as coach well past the point when Cleveland’s half-court was exposed as nothing more than LeBron and four guys standing around. Maybe the lack of spacing and movement was a function of LeBron’s selfishness or uncooperativeness. Even so, seven years is long enough for LBJ to know that the brain trust in Cleveland wasn’t to be trusted. And Dan Gilbert’s histrionic response to LBJ’s decision didn’t engender a whole lot of sympathy for the Cleveland owner.

A pro athlete can choose where he wants to play when he becomes a free agent. That includes playing with your friends or mutually agreeing to join forces to try to win an NBA title. LeBron exercised his rights, period.

And the Heat still have to prove they can live up to the hype. Is there steak behind the sizzle? I wasn’t disappointed when I found out Wade, Bosh and LeBron were going to play together, but when I saw the three of them appear together a few days later, preening and vamping while the smoke machines and disco lights worked overtime, I yearned for the day back in 1983 when Moses Malone predicted “Four, four and four” (some people say the exact quote was “fo, fo fo”) before the NBA playoffs began, and came within one game of delivering on his promise.  Give me Derek Jeter, who doesn’t celebrate until the final out of the World Series, and who only stands under the disco lights in a disco. 

Dwyane Wade has won a title, but Chris Bosh has never won a playoff series. Are these guys tough enough to get through Boston and Orlando and the Lakers? Time will tell. I am hoping that a team with two of the three best two-way players in basketball will play some beautiful basketball. Since you can’t really double team two guys at the same time, there are sure to be lots of mismatches for the Heat to dissect. Will they do it was well as MJ and Scottie did? Will the team defense be Bulls-worthy? I look forward to finding out.

Here’s what LeBron did that he shouldn’t have done:

1. He didn’t tell the Cavaliers his decision before the Decision telecast. That showed a lack of courtesy and made a tacky production even more graceless.

2. He ceded alpha dog status to D Wade, and thus lowered the ceiling on his legacy. It’s almost as if LeBron didn’t care about winning an NBA title as much as he cared about how never winning an NBA title would affect his brand name. So he was going to stack the deck any way he could to get over the hump, even if it meant being Scottie to someone else’ MJ. Given that LeBron just strung together three of the greatest statistical seasons of the past 40 years, that’s a damn shame.

So now LeBron’s career is a no-win proposition. If he wins a title in Miami, he shares top billing with Wade. It’s never going to be LeBron’s team, not the way Kobe pushed Shaq out the door and took over the Lakers in 2006. LeBron will never be vindicated for as long as he is in South Beach. And I think this is where the LeBron decision becomes ironic and sad because LBJ’s brain trust, by trying so hard to elevate LeBron James’s marketability, only succeeded in hurting his reputation indefinitely.

Here’s hoping that in three years LeBron comes to Brooklyn, regains alpha dog status and finds redemption by bringing an NBA title to Kings County.

Faster Times (at Ridgemont High)

Last week I had an article published on the Faster Times, the on-line newspaper that is an alternative to The Examiner.  Very grateful for the opportunity.  My piece was posted last Thursday July 15, and for the past week it has been in the site's Top 10 most popular articles.  I was beating Sarah Silverman for a few days there!  It dropped off the Most Popular list today but is still linked on their front page. 

Hopefully it is a first step of many.

Here is the link:

http://thefastertimes.com/blog/2010/07/15/help-im-terrified-of-dropping-the-torah-in-a-room-full-of-jews/

The Beautiful Game - World Cup 2010 review

There is life during the World Cup and life the rest of the time.

The 2010 World Cup disappointed no one.  South Africa proved up to the task of putting on the most important sporting event in the world.  Perhaps some of the pitches could have been in better condition, but that is small potatoes.  And I for one loved the vuvuzelas, loved the literal buzz that added to the buzzing going on in my own brain as the clock ticked upward to 90.  This Cup was a grand success and produced a worthy champion. 

The biggest surprise of the first round was Italy's departure.  The Azzurri relied on the same crew that won the Cup in 2006.  Four years later, hampered by an injury to the great Buffon, they were outworked and outplayed in what looked to be an easy group for passage.  But Slovakia's tenacious victory in the third game spoiled the champions' return party, and those of us who wish the Italians left the theatrics at the opera were just fine with a Paraguay-Slovakia top two.

France also showed their 2006 success was past its expiration date.  There is no replacing a Zidane but France's problems ran much deeper, culminating in Nicholas Anelka's mouthing off and refusal to apologize, his dismissal, and the resulting mutiny by the rest of the team.  The end result of all that petulance: lost sponsorship, lost matches, and probably a lot of new money in Nicolas Mahut's pocket.  Au revoir France.  You were not missed.

Italy and France missed out on the European domination that ended up being the overriding theme of this Cup.  Europe advanced six teams into the second round, and none of those teams lost to a non-European foe.  South America looked to be the toast of the world when it fielded five, contiguous countries in the second round, but the top three teams of Europe - Spain, Netherlands and Germany - made short work of Paraguay, Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay, with the rest of the world on the outside looking in.  It will be interesting to see if Europe can replicate their success when they visit Brazil 2014.

Though it would be wrong to accuse Asia and Oceania of failure.  Japan and South Korea advanced with strong midfield play and, in Japan's case, the ability to fire long-range guided missiles at any moment.  Keisuke Honda was a breakout star, and not just for his blonde hair.  North Korea played a proud match against Brazil before falling apart against Portugal.  Australia played in the true Group of Death, Group D, knocking a highly regarded Serbian squad out of contention and tying Ghana but failing to overcome its initial 4-0 drubbing at the hands of Germany.  They did themselves proud.  And New Zealand will polish off many a glass of sauvignon blanc over the next four years, celebrating their status as the only team at this World Cup not to lose a single game.  Well done Kiwis!

Africa had a disappointing showing, with the host country failing to take advantage of France's collapse in Group A, and only one of its six qualifiers making it through to the second round.  But what a performance that was from Ghana, which took out the US of A and failed by inches to make the semifinals, in the process becoming the loser of the most dramatic endgame of the tournament.  Ghana played with style and distinction, but Asamoah Gyan's genius failed him on the penalty kick in the 120th minute that would have sent Ghana through, and from there the result of the penalty kick shootout was all but guaranteed.

Some people accused Uruguay's Luis Suarez of cheating when he intentionally hand balled away a sure goal for Ghana at the end of overtime, leading to his red card and Gyan's miss.  I think Suarez reacted to the moment and did what he could to preserve his team's chances of victory.  I'd rather see ten Suarezes than one Arjen Robben, falling and diving all over the field like he was just hobbled by Kathy Bates.  To me, repeated attempts to feign injury and draw a penalty do far more harm to the spirit of the game than Suarez's overt, readily penalized act of desperation.

Uruguay did itself proud.  Suarez and Diego Forlan were constant dangers up front, and the defense was rock-solid.  I would have loved to see Suarez against the Netherlands.  Without him, Forlan was on his own and could not find enough openings against the Orange.  Forlan became the first player to ever strike three goals from outside of 20 meters in one Cup, proof that the Jabulani ball could be conquered.

Germany once again disproved its detractors, finding itself in the semifinals yet again.  They played a swarming midfield defense and drove hard to the goal every chance they got.  They were technically proficient and creative with the ball.  I was very impressed with this young, talented German squad.  They have everything going for them looking to 2014. 

Germany did us all a favor by dispatching of the perenially underachieving Brits.  Wayne Rooney (not to mention his former teammate, Cristiano "C-Ro" Ronaldo) was a ghost in this tournament.  The lack of chemistry is to blame; as great as Rooney, Lampard and Gerrard are in their own rights, something is missing when they link up for the Three Lions.  Perhaps the EPL is overrated, fragmented and propped up by foreign talent while Bayern Munich and Barcelona field half of their nations' teams on one club.  Perhaps.  Note as well the Curse of Nike: in 2006 they focused their campaign on Brazil, which flamed out early.  In 2010 their big ad featured Rooney, Ronaldo, Ribery, and who else - Messi? Buffon?  Not to mention Ronaldhino, who didn't even make the Brazilian team.  Not pictured: Forlan, Mueller, Villa.  Nike, leave them kids alone.

Argentina-Germany was a true marquee matchup, and until then Argentina looked like the class of the tournament, scoring in bunches and talented all over.  But Germany's pressure wilted the Argentine attack but good.  South America needs to regroup, fast.  Only Brazil has broken through into the finals since Argentina lost to Germany in 1990.  And this year Brazil looked content to ride on its reputation rather than elevate its game.  After a thorough thrashing of Chile and an opening 15 minutes of greatness against the Netherlands they relaxed, and when Felipe Melo and Julio Cesar misplayed a free kick into a giveaway goal they panicked, unable to match the Netherlands' intensity.  The game was over even before Melo's red card.  Brazil will need to do better, much better when the going gets tough.

A few words about the United States: Getting to the Round of 16 is now officially a disappointment.  That, in many ways, is a good sign that we are a serious soccer team with real aspirations.  The USA played with panache and courage.  It came back in all three matches (why all the early goals allowed?).  It showed more attack and creativity than ever before.  And in Michael Bradley we finally have a central midfielder who can do it all.  However, we need better play from our wings, and we have to hope that Jozy Altidore develops more touch over the next four years.  His physicality paved the way for Donovan, Bradley and Dempsey's good deeds, but if he doesn't figure out how to put the biscuit in the basket the USA is going to have a hard time reaching its manifest destiny. 

That takes us to the finalists, and for me the matchup was a morality play.  Spain plays a beautiful, fluid game.  Iniesta et al. are certainly capable of a dive or two, but on the other side you have the Dutch and their own Greg Louganis of soccer.  Robben is a truly gifted wing.  The ball is attached to his foot.  He can turn around the greatest defenders in the world.  He is also a flopper and a cheater, willing to wager that the referee might resist blowing his whistle once, twice, even three times but not forever.  Robben's dives were especially egregious against Brazil, with both goals and the Melo red card all deriving from instances of Robben writhing on the ground and inevitably bouncing back up.  In a sport that sometimes suffers from players' desperate pitches to draw a whistle, Robben is a whore.

In general the Dutch took physical play to new levels, daring the referee to card them.  Van Bommel, Heittiinga et al. tackled with impunity.  De Jong's cleat to the chest of Xabi Alonso in the final is a red card in any league in the world.  The referee called a fairly tight game but shied away from his responsibility in that moment. 

Still, it would be unfair to dismiss the quality of the Dutch attack.  Robben created opportunities almost at will, and Snejder was an assassin time after time.  The Dutch attacked in numbers and linked up well from back to front.  They played Total Football, even if sometimes it looked more like Total Recall.  They earned their spot in the finals.

In the end though, only Spain combined skill and tenacity into something sublime.    Fielding a Barcelona back seven, they were disciplined and organized on defense (though Robben and Snejder found some holes).  Up front, the team spun circles around opponents thanks to the passing genius of Xavi, Alonso, Iniesta and others.  David Villa was tireless and opportunistic up front.  And Vicente Del Bosque deserves credit for pulling Torres, David Silva and Fabregas and finding good moments from Busquets, Navas and Pedro, and ultimately returning to Fabregas in time for Cesc to miss a sure goal opportunity and then atone for it all with his deft pass to Iniesta on the right side of the box, and Iniesta blasted it to the opposite side of the net and we had history.  Iker Casillas, crying on the field while the final minutes counted down.  One team shediding its past, the other bitterly disappointed. 

La Furia Roja, championes.  A happy day for Spain and for people who love soccer. 

Three years, 11 monthts.  Let the countdown begin.