joy in mudville

Lord, I believe. Forgive thou my unbelief.

And Go Cubs!

-T.J. Godfrey

the player to be named later

Well I believe in the snow – the goose – the beaver – the smell of flannel pyjamas, the rolling puck, high taxes, universal healthcare, that the novels of Margaret Atwood should be read aloud by anyone but her. I believe Don Cherry should stick to hockey. I believe the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens ought to be Crown Corporations. I believe in strong beer, public broadcasting, attaching the booster cable to the frame rather than the battery and I believe in short, hot, dry summers that last three weeks. G'day eh.

prelude to a curse

Any theologian worth his salt has a little streak of pantheism in him. God is in everything. Any theologian wishing however much to be not of the world but still in it should always read the sports pages.

Is Mark Maguire’s bat a holy relic? How about Brooks Robinson’s glove?

Scholars and writers more learned and eloquent than myself have certainly made the connection between religion and baseball. They invoke the timelessness, the rhythm, the mystery and the simplicity of the game to elevate baseball from mere sport to holy ritual.

As a theologian and a baseball fan I can’t help but subscribe to parts of this philosophy. I won’t go so far as to say that I am a Christian today because of Carl Yastrzemski, but I do understand the martyrs better because of the Boston Red Sox.

All of mankind’s religions have their dark tales, tales of floods and plagues and even curses. If baseball is not simply a sport but some kind of peculiar latter day religion, the darkest tale in its canon is the Curse of the Bambino.

The legend is not complicated. The Boston Red Sox have not won a World Series, despite four game seven appearances, since they traded one George Herman (Babe) Ruth, Jr., the Bambino, to their arch enemies the New York Yankees for money in the dark year of 1919. In that time, the Yankees have won the Series 26 times.

The mishaps, meltdowns, bad trades and bonehead plays are too numerous to be disregarded as coincidence. The Red Sox haven’t been a bad team or a poorly run organization. Bad trades are part of every franchise’s history including the Yankees. But the Red Sox trades historically come back to haunt them like no other club in baseball.

Are they cursed? Yes, they are. Are they the only ones? That bears some examination.

What about the other Sox, the White Sox who haven’t won a World Series since they conspired to lose one, for money, in 1919? The White Sox drought has lasted longer than Boston’s and is surpassed only by their cross-town rivals the Chicago Cubs. Is the entire city of Chicago operating under a baseball curse? Sportswriters don’t seem to think so.

The truth about the Cubs and the White Sox is they haven’t been successful ball clubs. There have been a few great players and some good seasons for both. The Cubs may have very well been robbed last year of a World Series appearance by the poor judgment of one unfortunate fan who now finds himself in the FBI Witness Protection Program.

That bizarre incident notwithstanding, Chicago teams have never been victim to the sustained barrage of spooky last minute acts of God that have shot down the otherwise competent Red Sox, the single most famous example being the shocking error of the otherwise competent Bill Buckner.

Most religions have a scapegoat or two as well and poor Bill Buckner, with a lifetime batting average of .289 over 22 seasons, wears the horns in this pantheon.

That established, who are the other mythic figures in the Red Sox tale and can we, by identifying them, find a hidden prophecy?

Bearded Johnny Damon - batting average six feet under the Mendoza line and needing an extra base hit even more than a haircut - was he the unlikely instrument of God against the despised Yankees? He may have been.

But he is not the Messiah. His unkempt appearance holds the clue. He is the one who goes before, the one who makes clear the path. He is the voice of one crying in the wilderness of Red Sox Nation, “Make straight the way of …”

Who is the Red Sox saviour? Martinez? Ramirez? Has he even been born yet?

That is the mystery of Red Sox faith.

As for this year the St. Louis Cardinals, the best team in baseball this season, may have some say in the outcome, curse or no curse.

-T.J. Godfrey

haiku to you too

For a good time call
Huckleberry Finnegan
Cicero's Garage

poetic justice

Muse Blues


I haven’t wrote a single verse
in over thirty days
My fickle muse is playing me
in not so subtle ways

My best friend wrote a ballad and
my brother wrote an ode
The seeds of my suspicion now
beginning to be sowed

I went to see my doctor who
for diagnosis said
in iambic pentameter
it all was in my head

So I ran off to find the priest
and he confessed to me
that limericks were helping him
spice up his homily

I hired a detective then
to find out where she slept
When he reported back to me
I bowed my head and wept

The milkman signed a book deal and
he’s getting good reviews
while I stay up alone at night
cuckolded by my muse

-The Unknown Poet

let us give thanks

The Unknown Poet, Reverend Godfrey and I hopped in the red convertible (Unknown drove) and went to the old folks home to spring Uncle Ray and take him out for Thanksgiving dinner. On the way, we tried to determine whose uncle, Uncle Ray was. The general consensus was that he was my uncle and that nobody else in the car was related.

I’m not exactly sure how I’m related to Ray. I don’t remember whether he’s my Father’s brother, my Mother’s brother, my Mother’s sister’s husband or just an old friend of the family. I don’t think he remembers either.

But he made the unusual decision of nominating me family historian when he gave he me his old diaries, dating back to 1945. The diaries hold no clue to Ray’s personal or familial relationships. But they are informative in other ways.

My favourite entry, one of Ray’s longer entries, is also his final entry, dated appropriately November 11, 2002 – Remembrance Day.

I’m in an old folks home now and everything is taken care of - groceries, dry cleaning - the works. My Power of Attorney is some preacher named Godfrey. I don’t even have to sign cheques anymore. I don’t have to remember anything at all. Why keep a diary?

I’ll give them all to Huckleberry. He’ll know what to do with them.

And indeed I try to make use of them. But I struggle to know how. It may be fascinating to me to know that Ray washed his car the day Kennedy was shot or that he ate corned beef for lunch the day man first walked on the moon but most people wouldn’t care.

When we got to Ray’s favourite restaurant, Mac’s on 5th, and had ourselves comfortably settled, I decided to broach the subject.

“Ray,” I said. “I’ve had your diaries for two years now and I enjoy reading them very much. I particularly like your perspective on the 1960s. But I’m not sure what exactly you want me to do with them.”

Ray thought this over for a moment and asked, “What diaries?”

Our food arrived. Unknown, the Reverend and I all had Mac’s Thanksgiving Day special, turkey and the customary trimmings. Uncle Ray had the liver and onions. I thought at the time it was important to note that.

The Reverend asked the blessing. It went something like this.

Dear Lord, thank you for the fellowship of friends and family. Thank you for this food we are about to receive and thank you for Mac, if that is her real name.

Amen.

As we ate, the topic of conversation turned to the occasion. The Unknown Poet announced that he had laboured most of the day to compose a poem with a Thanksgiving theme but had failed. He asked each of us to tell him one thing specifically that we were particularly thankful for.

I indicated that I was particularly thankful that day for God’s gift of cranberries. Unknown told me I could do better than that. So I said I was thankful that Uncle Ray enjoyed good health, a good appetite and was able to join us for dinner.

The Unknown Poet seemed satisfied with that and turned to Reverend Godfrey. The Reverend said that he too was grateful for Ray’s company and added that he was also thankful for the post-season success, thus far, of the Boston Red Sox.

Unknown jotted that down on a table napkin and turned to Uncle Ray.

“Ray,” said The Unknown Poet, “what are you most thankful for today?”

After some consideration, Uncle Ray spoke. With clarity and resolve he stated unequivocally that blessing for which, at his age, he was most thankful.

“Thank God,” he said, “I haven’t lost my marbles. Merry Christmas.”