Book Reviews

I’ve decided that if Stew can write book reviews, well, so can I. As it turns out, we’re not doing much fun stuff, and I’m on my three-week break, so it seems a good time to mention some of the non-fiction I’ve read this summer.

The overriding theme of my summer reading has been the national pastime. I’ve read four books on baseball since June, and the kids and I have watched two DVDs from the Ken Burns baseball series from the ’90s. Here, in chronological order, is an overview of these four books.

The first was Season Ticket by Roger Angell. Last year, Summer got me a Selected Shorts CD set on baseball, three hours of readings hosted by Bart Giamatti and Roger Angell. Later that year I read an anthology of Angell’s works, and this year, while Summer and the kids were away, I picked up this one. It recounts several seasons of spring training, regular season, and playoff ball through the late ’70 and early ’80s. Angell’s voice is crisp and lucid as he explores nuances of the game—base stealing, pitching, infield defense—and the evolution of the game in one of the most overlooked periods in the game’s history. I flew through the nearly 400 page time in about a week.

The second read was a vastly different book. WrigleyWorld by Kevin Kaduk—in some ways the un-Angell of baseball writing—recounts the 2005 season, when the 26 year old author quit his sports writing job in Kansa City, moved back to Chicago, and attended as many Cubs games as possible. Kaduk has the ironic, irreverent voice of the young 21st century sportswriter, and his prose is riddled with pop culture references and reflections on the socioeconomics of Wrigleyville. It is also a highly melancholy book, as Kaduk knows this is his last shot at arrested development, his final year as a 20-something adolescent, and the ChiSox won the World Series that year, to the chagrin of North Siders.

At the same time, WrigleyWorld, while well written, was a frustrating book. I walked away from it dreaming of Ryan going to college in Chicago and inviting me up for an early-season day game in Wrigley, but dreading it too. The scene Kaduk presents is one of abject loneliness, of young and not-so-young urbanites going to games for the chicness of being Cubs fans. These are in fact not fans, or at least not baseball fans. They are fans of themselves, seeking to squeeze pleasure from a life antithetical to what I see in the game—connection to something larger than oneself. When I sit in the stands, I seek a bond to my father and grandfather, my mother and brother, the other fans, the players, my sons. When the fans Kaduk describes go to the game, they are focused on the scene, not the experience.

The third book is the understated Baseball by George Vecsey. A long-time New York Times writer, Vecsey puts together, in under 250 pages, a thorough but digestible history of the game, debunking myths and highlighting key moments in the game’s annals. Like most histories of the game, Vecsey’s spends a lot of time on the early and mid 20th century, exploring the rise of the American League, the 1919 Black Sox scandal, the Yankees dynasties of the 1920s-1950s, the role of the game during and immediately after World War II, the integration of the major leagues, and the end of an era with the Dodgers and Giants moving west. And like many similar books, this one skips over much of the 1970s and 1980s, touching briefly on free agency and the drug and gambling scandals of my childhood, before entering the post-1994 resurgence of Cal Ripken’s streak and the now-questionable home run race of 1998.

What bothered me after I finished Vecsey’s book is how it (and Angell’s works) stand in contrast to Kaduk’s, and how neither type is fully satisfying. Baseball writers tend to either eulogize the game’s past or revel in a present that is more booze and appearance than sporting event. It is as if the only options for writing about the game are the old man recalling listening to the 1941 Series on the radio, or a young writer recounting his exploits with his buddies watching a game from the sports bar down the street. I want instead a voice I can relate to, a writer who connects the game to relationships, to history, while also looking to the future with something other than regret.

For example, Kaduk talks briefly about games he saw as a child, but there is no sense of how he will pass the game on, in part because he’s living as a child who cannot fathom teaching his own son to catch a fly ball. And both Vecsey and Angell, while discussing their own childhood experiences with the game in masterful detail, never touch on sitting at a game with a son or daughter or grandchild, passing the torch. And for me, that sense of bridging the past and the future is vital to my love of the game. I just want to see it in someone else’s writing. I mentioned this to Summer, and she got a mildly horrified look in her eyes as she said, “Well, maybe you’ll need to write that book. But finish your dissertation first.”

I may have found this book—or at least something very much like it—in Sox and the City by Richard Roeper (the movie critic from Ebert and Roeper). It turns out he’s not just a movie guy from Chicago, but also a Sox fan from the South Side. Roeper’s account focuses on the 2005 World Series championship season, but he cuts away from this one year to discuss his life as a Sox fan. Born in 1959, he grew up with a range of Sox teams—the lousy teams of the ’80s, the Go-Go Sox, the heartbreak strike seasons of 1981 and 1994 when the Sox were World Series bound, only to have labor strife throw off their postseason dreams, and the Ozzie Guillen team of destiny two seasons ago.

This narrative connects Roeper to his father and extended family of Sox-afflicted fans without waxing nostalgic, and he rhapsodizes about 21st century ball without simply reveling in beerball. And while there’s no future generation to whom he connects, there is a clear sense that a fan today—true fan—is a descendant of fans who came before and a link to the future. I cannot, for all my O’s allegiance, feel the same passion for a single team, but I find his partisanship authentic and real. And I appreciate that it never clouds the larger perspective that the game is not about a player or a team, but a balance, the balance between the pitcher and batter, the past and the present, the fan and the team, the individual and the group.

Petroglyph National Monument

This past week we made a few trips to the Petroglyph National Monument along Albuquerque's West mesa for some hikes. Loyal readers know that we usually visit Boca Negra Canyon, but this time we visited two other areas of the monument.

On Wednesday, Isaac and I went to the Volcanoes section, a series of three long-dead volcano cones along the western edge of the city. The trails wind along the base of all three volcanoes for about four miles, but we just did the first part, a one-mile in-and-out near JA Volcano. Here Isaac leads the way with the volcano in the background:
A series of shelters along the way provide some shade and rest. The clouds billowing up to the east eventually turned into a nice monsoon storm, but while we were hiking it was still pretty sun and warm.

After climbing the eastern edge of the cone, we turned around and hiked back to the car. The scrub grassland of the mesa is typical of this part of the state--too high and cold in the winter for the cactus and yucca of the deserts, too dry and warm for the pinon and juniper. Storms also tear across the mesa; we once got caught in a torrential downpour driving Paseo del Volcan, the road leading to the volcanoes.

On Saturday, the whole crew suited up early to hike Rinconada Canyon. This three-mile loop leads into the heart of a box canyon at the base of the escarpment, where hundreds of petrogylphs line the south-facing rocks. The hike itself is pretty easy, but three miles is still a bit much for the kids. Summer--who made this hike too, in her continuing efforts to bring on labor--and I spotted three or four small rabbits, and once away from the street noise, the canyon is full of songbirds, and we even saw a good number of hummingbirds. Here the kids pose for a before shot:

A Request for our Readers

I love the blog and the ability it gives us to communicate with friends and family across the country. But there are some limitations to what Blogger can do, especially in terms of my work blog (royturner.blogspot.com). So I am running a beta version of the work blog on another platform, WordPress, which has most of the features I like on Blogger, along with the ability to upload files. This is of special interest to me, as I want in a blog the ability to post entries and attach to them materials from class--handouts, PowerPoint presentation, etc.

So, here is the request. Please check out the new blog at royturner.wordpress.com and let me know what you think. It's under construction, so there's not much to see yet, but it should give you a sense of what I'm going for. Constructive (or, I suppose, not-so-constructive) criticism is welcome. Thanks.

P.S.--If I move the work blog to WordPress, I may also consider migrating this blog over, so watch for updates down the road.

Another Hike in Town

On Saturday, after a lazy afternoon nap, we set out once more for Boca Negra Canyon, one of the kids’ favorite hiking spots. The summer heat has begun to wane here, and by the time we left, a wall of dark clouds had risen over the Sandias, threatening rain. Our hike to the mesa top, therefore, was a very pleasant one.
Isaac led the way most of the up the hill, as seen here:

In many ways, the Mesa Top Trail at Boca Negra serves as a coming-of-age tradition. When we moved here, Ryan had to be carried most of the way. He then graduated to climbing up and being carried down, and soon he was hiking—and leading—the whole way. The same process has now been repeated with Isaac.

One of the things I most enjoy about this hike is about halfway to the top, when the winding trail, which begins by going due east before turning south and then north, dips downhill for a spell before veering west. After a steady ascent, this brief downhill forces the children to switch from climbing to careful descending. Here Allyson leads the crew down this part of the trail:

The view from the mesa top is great, but even more awe-inspiring with the clouds billowing up to the east. Here, Isaac poses with the city and the Sandias behind him:

The best part of this outing, however, has no picture, as such photos have been banned. You see, Summer, 38 weeks pregnant and wearing flip-flops, came along, and, to make a point to all who have tried this hike and not completed it, hiked the trail to the mesa top and back down.

From Fall 2000

In a recent bout of tidying, Summer asked me to sort through the dozens of old floppy disks from my collection of stuff that I no longer need. Stretching back to my freshman year at college, these disks included old papers, teaching materials, and journals I had kept through my undergraduate and graduate years. Most of this was trash and ended up there, but I did find some interesting pieces. I plan on sharing some of them as a sort of "greatest hits" feature over time.

What follows is from a class I took my first year in the MA program. We were asked to write the kind of personal narrative we would read from our freshman students. This is the version I submitted for that class:

Our daughter was just a few weeks old when I first gave her a bath. The dark little knot that had remained from her umbilical cord had shriveled up and fallen off, so she was ready for a real bath, and since I could not do anything else for her, it was my job to bathe her. I was very excited; watching my wife do all the things I couldn’t do for her —feed, comfort, dress—was difficult to handle. So I set off to do the one parental thing I could.

She was so tiny and thin, and holding her made me feel so awkward. And then there was the fact that every time I picked her up she would let out this sad little cry, as if she were afraid she would never see her mother again. I set the plastic baby bath over the kitchen sink and began to run the water, checking it with the thermometer we had purchased for this purpose. I grabbed the baby care reference book (Allyson’s instructor’s manual, we called it) and found the page about bathing an infant. The water was to be between 40 and 45 degrees Celsius, and I waited patiently to get the perfect temperature before filling the basin. I set the baby wash, baby shampoo, washcloth, lotion, and baby oil next to the plastic tub in preparation for this most important event.

“Is this enough water?” I asked my wife. She looked carefully at the level, tested the temperature, and smiled approvingly. The bath had her blessing, so I was convinced that things would go just smoothly.

I picked the scrawny little girl up and gently took her pajamas off. Her arms and legs were so skinny, and every time I changed her diaper I feared that I would break her. I set her down and got ready for the transfer across the room to the bath. I looked at her pink little face, trying in vain to communicate to her that she would be okay, that she could trust me.

Carefully I picked her up and carried her to the tub. Until now we were told to only wash her hair under gentle running water and give her an occasional sponge bath, and she had always enjoyed this brief bath times. I had also read that bathing your baby was an excellent way for a father to be involved as a parent. As I held her over the bath I smiled at her and promised her how much fun bath time would be.

I then put her down in the perfectly still water, the water that was the precise temperature and depth, the water that my wife herself had approved and accepted. Gently I placed Allyson on the soft foam back of the tub and prepared to bond with my daughter. She responded to my careful preparations and loving gesture by emitting an earth-shattering scream and thrashing her thin little legs around desperately. Water splashed out of the tub and drenched me, the counter, and the floor. With every contortion of her body Allyson became more and more upset, realizing that she was not only wet and defenseless, but also unable to escape. Her shriek reached higher and higher pitches and her first real tears worked up in the corners of her eyes. She looked at me with horror, her worst suspicions—that this big man could not be trusted—confirmed.

Her face froze in a look of fear and dread; the color drained and her mouth gaped open in shock at what was going on. Tears welled up in her eyes, and I felt them gathering in mine as well. I tried to speak comforting paternal things to my frightened baby, but nothing escaped my lips except a faint apology. “I’m sorry,” I muttered again and again, hoping that somehow she would begin to understand and forgive me. Each repetition was made more and more ineffectual and muted by her screams, which by now had become deafening. And so we were there, both of us crying, Allyson wailing, with water being splashed all over the kitchen.

I grabbed the washcloth and began desperately to wash her face and neck, forgetting completely the baby wash. I even skipped over washing her arms and hurriedly scrubbed her legs, rushing to get to her hair and the end of this disastrous bath. Her crying had either subsided or desensitized me, because it seemed less ear-splitting. I now wet her hair—something she was more accustomed to at bath time—and washed her hair. Her tears seemed to have dried up, and she looked at me more knowingly, more reassured, more trusting. The fear that had gripped her was slipping from her face, and she almost smiled. She plainly was not happy with the whole turn of events, but her features had softened and she looked more compassionately at her stumbling father.

I washed her hair and let the warm water run down the sides of her face. By now she had stopped crying and was much calmer than before, although she was still visibly agitated. I picked her out of the water and handed her to my wife, who wrapped the towel around her and set off to dry and dress her. Allyson shivered as Summer dried her back and head. I turned and gathered up the dripping bath supplies, taking them to the bathroom and the hamper, and grabbing a towel to dry the counter and floor. I drained the bathtub and put it to dry, and then I walked over to where the two of them sat. The house was dark except for the one lamp in the corner of the living room that illuminated the ceiling and walls and cast a dim light over the rest of the room.

I stood a few feet away from them as Summer comforted our daughter and rocked her to sleep. Allyson heard me approach and turned her head to see me. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but she seemed to recognize me and approve of my presence. I sat down and Summer handed her to me. Allyson lay there in my arms, her whole body swaying with each breath she took, looking up at me. Her delicate features showed no sing of the trauma of just moments before, and a smile crept over my face. My shirt was drenched and my eyes were red from crying, but I couldn’t help smile at the fact that this little person, who would so many times in the years to come be disappointed and upset with me, was willing to forget all that and just be my little girl. My smile grew, and I held Allyson closer to my face to kiss her tiny nose. As I looked at her this way, a tiny smile broke forth on her face as she looked at me, her innocent little face reflecting so much that I had to learn from her.

A Day on the Town

On Saturday Allyson and Summer planned a girls day in, sewing pillowcases and watching movies in which nothing blows up and no one chases anyone else in a car, so the boys and I went out to hike the bosque. We began in a bit of open space near the bosque, where Montano Road crosses the river. Built in 1997, the Montano bridge was a bit of a controversy, as it cuts through Albuquerque’s North Valley, an old part of town that prides itself on its rural ambiance. The bridge has made the commute from the West Side immensely easier, and helped propel the urban sprawl on our side of the Rio Grande, for better or worse.

The area near the parking lot was burned out a few years ago in a bosque fire, and the city commissioned a local artist to carve some of the dead but standing cottonwoods; here is one of the pieces:
A pedestrian and bike path crosses the river with the car traffic (this was actually one of our first glimpses of the city—a bike path across the river), and we walked out about halfway. Here an overlook extends from the edge of the bridge, and you can stand over a grated surface and watch the muddy water (“too thick to drink, too thin to plow”) beneath your feet:

After working our way back to the car, we headed off to the east side of the bosque. Our destination was the Rio Grande Nature Center State Park. We hiked a spell to the river’s edge and then returned to the picnic area for lunch. But the challenge here was to decide which of the two trails to follow; the boys disagreed when we reached the fork in the road:

After a quick trip to my office, we decided to visit Tingley Beach. Named for the mayor and then governor, Clyde Tingley, who revitalized the area in the early 20th century, the beach is a series of fishing ponds directly south of the BioPark off of Central. We walked over to the train station (a little line runs from the aquarium to the zoo) and watched a few trains come by. Then we wandered around the kids’ fishing pond (the boys begged to go fishing, so maybe we’ll do that some day); here the boys pause by the decorated inlet that fills the pond:

Tingley Beach is a wonderful little oasis in the city, minutes from downtown, but a haven for geese and ducks, 3 or 4 dozen of whom float the ponds and waddle around the edges of the water. We actually saw a mother duck with 6 ducklings coming ashore. Here a small band follows the boys, hoping for handouts:

Ryan at 6

Thursday was Ryan’s birthday, so Summer made the boy a fancy-looking baseball cake. The cake itself is chocolate, and the red striping is melted chocolate piped on.
To celebrate, Allyson, Ryan, and I went to the Summer Nights concert at the BioPark (Summer stayed home with Isaac, who forfeited his right to go by throwing fits all day). The Summer Nights concerts are every Thursday through August on the grassy area near the duck pond at the Botanic Gardens. We got there early and found a nice spot. Here the kids pose right before Pandemonium, a world beat band whose songs typically have 8 words each, performs.

After a few numbers from the band, we strolled around the grounds. On our way to the Rio Grande Heritage Farm, Allyson spotted a rabbit to the side of the path. Here is Ryan watching the critter.

All in all, Ryan had a wonderful birthday. He wears his new Orioles shirt (from my mom and dad) every time it’s clean, and he reads a Calvin and Hobbes book (he got one from us and three from Summer’s parents) at least 2 hours a day. We also got him a big set of legos (a helicopter, ambulance, police car, and hovercraft) from us. Thanks for the gifts.