Author: Michael W Jackson

Hub Fans Bid the Kid Adieu: On Ted Williams (2010 [1960]) by John Updike.

Good Reads Meta-data is 64 pages, rated 4.46 by 329 litizens.  

DNA: Baseball.

Genre: Belle lettre.

Verdict: One of a kind, both subject and author.

Tagline:  It’s gone and so is he.

28 September 1960 the Green Monster hosted an historic occasion, one of many over the years.  As totemic as it was, this essay, appearing in the New Yorker afterward etched it into the stone of memory.  It has been reprinted with supplementary material in a small book. 

Oh, the occasion?  The last home game for that rarity, Ted Williams. 

In the eighth inning of a meaningless game that became meaningful, Ted Williams (1918-2002), came the plate for what would obviously be the last time at Fenway Park.  At 42-years old he was baseball elderly.  By that day the record books were full of his extraordinary accomplishments with the bat. All the more remarkable considering that he missed parts of five seasons in his prime to war service where he flew combat missions in the Pacific and Korea. The only thing he could not do with a baseball bat was carry the Boston Red Sox to championships. 

There is no doubt the Red Sox Nation depended on him and they, like many drug addicts, hated him for that dependence, and he reciprocated.  Long before Steve Carlton made an art form of refusing to speak to journalists, Ted let his bat do the talking. He would not do interviews. Period.  It was his reaction to some early print criticism and once he set out to do it, he stuck to it. Stubborn does not begin to describe the man.  

There was a similar pique with the bleachers whose denizens had occasionally booed him when he played for himself and not the team, and he did do that.  Thereafter, he never acknowledged the fans. Never. He did not look into the stands. He was alone in the crowd, long before David Riesman coined that phrase.  

The baseball convention, for the benighted, is that when the crowd cheers a player, he tips his cap to the crowd.  Williams’s accomplishments often brought cheers but no cheers ever brought a tip of his cap in more than two decades.

Not even on that day of days in late September 1960.  

When he came to bat in the eighth inning, the members of the crowd rose to their thousands of feet to cheer this wayward idol, but he steadfastly looked at his shoe-tops and took his place.  In a similar valedictory at bat before taking position, Babe Ruth took off his cap and did a 360 turn to take in all the crowd.  Ditto many others from the pantheon. Not Ted. He took his stance and waited as though he was alone, just him and the pitcher in that forever war across the no man’s land between batter’s box and pitcher’s mound. 

The young fast baller on the mound, one Jack Fisher by name, a stripling at 21, reasoned that the old man would be tired late in the game and distracted by the occasion and the noisy crowd, so he decided to get to work with his tool of choice.  He drilled a fastball and Williams swung and missed, clearly off in his timing.  Puffed up with satisfaction, Fisher supposed what worked once would work twice, and served up another fastball high and in.  

The rest is history.  A William of old seemed to emerge and with that effortless and economical swing planted a home run into right centre. The crowd went crazy.  Video of the event can be found on You Tube. 

Now some players would have savoured this victory lap in a slow trot, lapping up the adoration of the crowd. But Williams never did that and he did not do it now.  As always he ran it out. Head down.  

Another player would have looked up at the crowd and acknowledged the ovation after scoring, or upon entering the dugout.  Not Williams he ran into the dugout never to reappear.  Another player would have emerged from the dugout to tip his cap, and, indeed, to his credit Fisher paused to allow this to happen, but there was no hat tipping now or ever. ‘Boo me once and I will never ever forget or forgive,’ was the subtitle of this final aria. 

The next day I read the line score for this game in the Hastings Tribune.  It seemed fitting that ‘Teddy Baseball,’ as he was sometimes called, and not always affectionately, should leave on own his terms.  He did play for himself but not always. In his playing days he drove the Jimmy Fund in Boston for children with cancer and his Cooperstown induction speech advocated the inclusion of the greats from the Negro leagues into that temple.    

A final note, in retirement this Achilles did do interviews and once an interviewer said to him, ‘I saw you hit a home run on a certain date years ago.’  Ted, who was a close student of his game, replied that in that at bat the pitcher was Bob Shantz, the count was 2-2, and he threw a fastball low and away. ‘I pulled it down the right field line into the third or fourth row.’  We idolators were convinced that he could recite the particulars of each of his 521 home runs, none chemically assisted as so many have been since his days.

See also Howard F Mosher, Waiting for Teddy Wiilliams (2005) a novel.  

My recent baseball reading led me to revisit this diamond on the diamond. Updike was never better. To this reader his essays have more depth than his fiction, or that small part of it which I have read.   Some have said that this essay is the best thing ever written about baseball, others say it is the best single thing Updike ever wrote.  Both could be right. 

The Crime on Cote des Neiges (1951) by David Montrose

Good Reads meta-data is 233 pages, rated 3.23 by 57 litizens. 

DNA: O’ Canada.

Genre: krimi; Species: Noir.

Verdict: Round and round we go, and finally land.

Tagline: Montréal sans Quebecois.  

Tough guy drinks himself silly, punches out old men, slaps women around and thinks that makes him Mike ‘The Man’ Hammer, or something.  He goes hither and yon in English Montreal, never crossing Boulevard Saint Laurent. Whew!  Everyone lies, everyone is crooked, everyone gets killed.  Well, almost.  Unravelling the plot is ingenious, but uninteresting.  

It pulls a trick I had never encountered before with the doppelgänger, but then did not make much use of it. Tant pis.  

It is all too obviously inspired by reading Mickey Spillane at the time.  But it lacks Spillane’s snappy dialogue. There are two or three  other titles by the author from the same period. But this one is probably enough for me.  

‘Neiges’ is snow for those that must know.  In Quebec the snow slope would that facing north. 

Ad Infinitum: A Biography of Latin (2007) by Nicholas Ostler

Good Reads meta-data is 382 pages, rate 3.77 by 455 litizens. 

Genre: History (not biography)

DNA: Linguistics.

Verdict: Granite.

Tagline:  Vivos lingua mortua.   

A zombie language, Latin has had a long half-life.  As late as 1840 it was the legal language of the political assembly in Hungary.  It remains the common language among scientists well into the Twenty-first Century and that fact lives on in the Latin names for plants and animals, including our bones.  Law schools test graduates on the use of Latin tags. In these ways, and a few others, it remains a universal language.  Sort of.  

In one of Ben Pastor’s World War II novels The Road to Ithaca (2017) an English prisoner want to tell a German officer something dark and deep but it is impossible to do so without being overheard, and so he tries Latin…and it works.  

Presidents of the European Union have, at times, communicated in Latin so as not to favour any one language of the Union.  To wit, a recurrent Finn in that office issued weekly summaries in Latin, thereby employing Latin scholars who had no students.  Perhaps somewhat in jest, two, at least, of the Harry Potter’s tales have appeared in Latin translations.  

In the Sixteenth Century Renaissance the tiny educated minority of men in Europe had a common language, Latin.  Erasmus from Holland, Thomas More from England, Niccolò Machiavelli from Italy could have all talked or corresponded in Latin. 

Or could they? Did they have regional accents that limited comprehension?  Did they all use the same syntax? German, Danish, and Dutch all evolved from the same Frisian core and geographically they are much closer to each other than the far flung Latin speakers, but they are not one language.  Did Dutch Latin, English Latin, and Italian Latin have similar differences? Then there was the Latin exported to the elites on the edges of the Empire in the Levant, or the North Africa of St Augustine, or Scots borderlands, or the Black Sea shore. I found no answer in these pages.  

Thomas Hobbes translated his book the Leviathan into Latin to insure its immortality, he said.  He had learned this from his employer Francis Bacon who wrote in English but had all of books translated into Latin to reach world’s learned readers.    

Much of the history of Latin is the history of Rome from Republic to Empire to its long decay.  Though curiously enough Latin did not always rule the roost in Rome itself where one important sign of distinction was to speak Greek.  Even in Cicero’s day as the Republic became the Empire, Greek was still the preferred language of the Senators who killed Caesar. In his exile Cicero literary efforts were animated partly by the goal of making Latin into a contemporary language.  Huh?

In the Eastern Roman Empire of Byzantium Greek was the language of culture and power, but even so, that European toe of contemporary Turkey was and is called Rumi for Roman.  

Emerging in Latium, Latin was the language of farmers with a rich vocabulary, mainly descriptive, for that bucolic life.  Poets long found it good for a pastoral celebrations of sights and sounds. But it lacked the abstract and conceptual registers of Greek, and these Cicero and others later set out to rectify.  The pendulum swung too far and for hundreds of years Latin became ever more elaborate, ornate, and rhetorical until the foliage overgrew the meaning.  

When Latin became the language of the Christian faith an effort was made to reverse engineer it, to simplify it so that believers could understand the services, the spoken texts, and the sacraments.  Ironic then that today Latin remains the language of Catholicism but the few if any of its followers understand the language now.  Protestantism spoke the vernacular when it split from Rome.  

The spread of Christianity travelled down Roman roads and was communicated in the language that the Romans had sown far and wide, but farther and wider in the West than in the East where Greek hung on as the language of the literate and the earliest Bibles.

Though Roman roads carried Latin, the Roman Republic and Empire made no effort to sow its language.  Where Rome ruled administration, law, army, and tax was conducted in Latin but there was no requirement of any local person to learn it.  The author makes a distinction, which eludes me, between Romance as the everyday languages of the Empire and Latin.  Best I can fathom is that Romance was like Chinenglish, Singleish, or Franglais, a miscegenation of Latin and the local vernacular, and so it varied for one place to another, spawning the family of Romance Languages.  

Latin was never the universal language of humanity, despite many claims to that effect, because much of the world never learned it in Asia and sub-Sahara Africa. By the way, it was exported into Latin America, and had takers up north, too.   

It was also gendered in that during the long history recounted in this book, few women learned it and fewer still used it.  It was a male prerogative, though the author pays due respect to some few exceptions.  Ergo, the Liberal Arts were the arts a free man was to learn to value, use, and keep that freedom.  Down my long bow I see a connection between the decline of liberal arts and the rise of general ignorance that now sweeps across many lands.  

Why is it called Latin and not Roman? It is a good question that the author raises but cannot answer.   

From Cicero on Latin modelled itself on Greek, and in the forensic investigation of Greek gave birth to the concept of grammar.  Centuries later this notion of an underlying structure would emerge in all those books or rules and usage. 

***

The book is replete with interesting tidbits of information but the prose is hard and far too technical for this reader, contrary to the newspaper blurbs quoted on the back cover.  I also detected the shadowy presence of Noam Chomsky, which I always find distasteful.  

If there is the appetite, this author has several other books on language.