Little League and the Girl

He's not that tall. He's not very strong. Reed thin or chubby. Every thing he is – he doesn't know yet. But for some small minutes – he walks with kings and and pulls their garters – giggling all the way. He loves games all day free of care. Simple ones with dirt and sunshine. And - the girl he really loves is back where he lives and cares deeply for him. She is the woman in his life. There is no other for him. All is not so perfect though, he will fight this woman of his. Endless complaints of his habits. Strife over careless strewn garments can ignite fits of parliamentary debates across their home.This lover of his competes for his time, demands his obedience, and wants his heartbeats tocall her own. She has one goal....a strong man. Every waking thought she has is towards this building of a man. Strength as she would define it. As a Kind man. As she would define it. So with this wisdom she understands his games must be played. Out where dirt and sweat feeds hunger, with no little admiration for his appetite. She feeds him to grow ever stronger. Games in sunshine. Bronzing him as gods of old. He has freckles and a smile to melt the arctic heart. Skin still soft and free of whiskers. Soft muscles and strong mind for his fun and games. Somewhere the woman knows how this play must be given rein. In their playing he'll learn what she knows he must. Hurt will find him and she'll be there to comfort. A man she can love will have some scars and poured some tears. This man will know how to feel. Days of joy these are, as the young one grows into his gangly bones. Each season a reckoning of size and strength. Each season a love song deeper for this one true woman of his. His strivings a supplication to the one queen . There is no other girl he must impress so. His sweat and toil for her eyes. Her smile puffs his chest. Wherever he may stand on his field of dreams a compass points to her true north. Desperate for her approval and acknowledgment of his deeds. Knights of old in their battles not as eager to please. “Mom!!! Hurry UP!! - A-ROD 'S coming up! .........”A pole who?” “Bases loaded with a full count.......OOOOOOHHHH....You guys are so gonna get SLAMMMMMEEEEDDDD HERRRERERERE...!!!.....” At first she pretends to understand the rules and rituals of his contests. Yet she'd never reveal her ignorance. To encourage she must feign enthusiasm and understanding. In time though enlightenment comes and her deep love gives her the eye she will need to steer his course straight. Now a true appreciation for his efforts gives her a new source of love to feed him. With this nurture his pride grows stronger and confidence soars. A mother and her son. She drives him to t-ball practice and games. Sits on splintered bleachers and watches as her baby boy tests his limbs as a young colt might do – dashing around a paddock on shaky legs. Not all limbs moving in sync yet, athletic grace comes with much running and playing and time. Adoring the view of him in his helmet – a pumpkin of blue or green or yellow perched on his shoulders with his face beaming at her. Handling a baseball bat whose length near matches his height. After a frenzied day it is pleasure to sit out on a spring evening gliding towards dusk. Time for the pressures of the day to deflate and float away. Dads and Uncles and Brothers in charge for the moment. Teaching the skills to their young charges. A leisurely pace allowing for motherly discussions on raising their broods. Watchful eye cocked at all times lest he cast that inquisitive “is mom watching me?” look her way. On the drive home a rehash of all his plays and estimations of effort. Perhaps a stop for ice cream – his cleats clacking on concrete and tile, his dirt smudged and sweat streaked face scanning a neon menu. Soon home to bath and bed. A scene played out all across America (and an ever greater part of the globe). For some lucky ones out of thousands a trip to a small Pennsylvania town beckons. From all 50 states the best of these teams of “Little League Baseball” players descend on Williamsport for a “World Series” - one that is indeed global. With one major distinction – all others than the U.S.A. will compete in a tournament amongst themselves to meet the winners of the American team's tournament – best of the U.S. against the champions of the rest of the world. For this competition - to win the U.S.A title will be considered the great goal. To advance and overcome consistently excellent teams from Asia and Latin America may be seen as icing on a delicious cake. Sweet indeed. Arriving here entails a great deal of luck as well as skill. Balls bounce oddly on less than perfectly manicured fields of small town America. Every step aided by the community and neighborhoods. Bake sales and car washing to fund trips to ever distant advancing tournaments. Excitement building across the lengthened days of summer. Disrupting family vacation plans and other pursuits. This lightning strikes but one year in the lives of these youngsters. What a glory it must be for 12 year old boys to arrive knowing they'll end up playing to a national audience. Stepping to the plate, hitching their sleeves in imitation of major league heroes. Knocking dirt from cleats with bats in effected nonchalance. Our national past time in miniature. A stadium built for the purpose with dimensions suited to their stature and strength. Shorter distances – yet bleachers to accommodate the spectacle. Small town gazettes with front page features on the local boys made good. Interviews with national network sportscasters – left near mute by this sudden brush with the narrators they've known from the great star maker machinery. “Mom ! I was talking to Brent Musberger!!” Cameras waiting at every turn. Reporters with microphones everywhere. Now they can know how A-Rod , Manny and Big Papi feel. After marathon drives from the small corners of America or international flights across oceans – to sleep in motels and campers. Retinues of family and friends from the proud Hometown following in a caravan of support for the boys of summer. Baseball as rite of passage, played for the sport and joy of it. As pure as sports can be. Mini vans stocked with coolers and cousins, blankets and sleeping bags. Summer nights in the Pocono woods. Home made banners and painted faces. Each team with it’s own rooting section. There are other girls along – grandmas and aunts, sisters and cousins. They too will shape the young man along his way. Here to cheer or console. Still it is mom the cameras will find in it’s ceaseless search for the freeze frame of emotion. Television – the insatiable hunger. A constant search for new narratives of our national myth. No details too small to escape scrutiny. What will be the next act in this grand play? In a nation too young to have reverence for the wisdom of elders and a red-hot cultural jambalaya – our childhood is still the great collective memory. America is the headstrong , vigorous adolescent of the world. Given to impetuous and perhaps fool hardy rushes into adventures with no thought of the ends. Youngsters at games of the world. And so we are still enthralled with youth and strength. In absence of ancient fairy tales – ours are being written and acted out in front of us and more significant - the GREAT EYE in the sky. The ‘Babe’ , that man-child who came roaring out on stage in a riotous decade , raw talent and massive appetite a mirror to the nation. Loving the boy of our game like no other. First media superstar – playing the boys game, a Baltimore orphan writing a menu of hot dogs and beer for summer afternoons. Down through the decades – and now our little men of the pastoral game there to remind us of our reverence for the biggest boy of them all. Modern TV graphics scrolling beneath extolling the favorite movie - “Harry Potter”, favorite food - “chicken tenders” , hobby – “sleeping until noon”. Celebrity culture for the internet age – thrust upon the sons of John Q. Public. Sons who give us inspiration and hope. Confirming for us our teachings. During this week of natural drama all the foibles and triumphs of the human experience will be shown to us through the eyes of our children. How they react is a validation. There for all to see will bejoy and heartbreak, laughter and tears, finesse and fumbling. More often than not we’ll marvel at the heart, skill and maturity of our young ones. Arriving here required devotion and dedication from all. Judges high up in the media chairs will remark on such a high level of play and mastery of nuance. Yet the one true beauty of it all is what can be seen on these young faces. No stoic adult countenance with a lid over boiling and surging feeling. 12 Year olds cannot hide what nervous strings are singing every minute of competition. Baseball’s drama springs from the absence of time – there is no clock. Each year a new story is told under Pennsylvania skies. Underdogs and long shots – America’s favorite Bed-time fable told every summer. There will be game ending catches, walk off home runs and courage over pain. Fair play and teamwork. Focus and drive. Facsimile of their major league heroes printed small. Our little men show us how to play with love. Grand is a green lawn and glove leather and Mom watching me play. Golden days indeed. Fair mother how honored are thee. Cheering for your little man. All that you give him shows polish fit for another woman. A circle unbroken.

A Minute of Hope in the Motor City

“I've got Sunshine on a Cloudy day” My Girl The Temptations Egg Cartons. Yes, Egg cartons are an ingredient in the grand American cultural stew. Somewhere in a working class neighborhood of Detroit cardboard - a cheap yet prime ingredient would be used in the creation of a musical movement. Covering the walls of the “Hitsville” basement. The beginnings of an African-American entertainment empire. A shoe string budget and running on faith, these egg cartons were the affordable sound proofing available to a young entrepreneur secure in his vision of a new sound in the land. Recognizing an abundance of talent in his small neighborhood amongst a population hungry to grab whatever brass ring could be seen. Civil rights movement creating a new wave of hope across the land for minorities. A bright shining vision full of promise and hope. In a city of blue collar grit. The 1964 mustang – a strong and sleek horse manufactured here. A vision of power and forward movement, the embodiment of the strength of Ford's vision and legacy to this most Midwest of cities. Across the ocean a young vision was crystallizing amongst British youth after years of privation and frustration from the great war. Some young working class lads from Liverpool were making a 'big noise'. And on the golden sun kissed coast of California a family of brothers caught the mood of their own Xanadu. Last stop in the American dream has for decades been the coast. No further vistas to march towards. End of the American horizon. Looking only out towards a deep blue sea. Next stop – the Orient. The final roadblock to the ever westward expansion. Here! Here we stop and must make our stand. The sun would not set on this new sonic wave traversing the globe. Later the California Kids would define it - “Good Vibrations”. A young nation – fully convinced of it's powers. Dangerous foes vanquished by the might of the American engine. The indefatigable colossus able to conquer enemies across all theaters of a global war. An economy the envy of the world. The great savior of the globe and self-anointed moral guidepost. In this year of 1964 the U.S.A was indeed Shangri-la. Unbridled optimism and confidence. This great civil rights battle proclaiming the very self honesty we would show to the world by our self cauterization of wounds. Yes, we were even strong enough to heal ourselves. And so ALL WAS POSSIBLE. It is then no wonder that a young man in Detroit would have visions of his own empire. Had Mr. Ford not started his own in this city? Not a hard material product the city was noted for. It would be entertainment – his love. The soul he felt from his people. That essential blackness he knew and loved. Knowing something deeper and with a style only his people could offer a nation living a life of ease and hungering to be entertained. He would mold something new and palatable to the larger culture. Breaking across racial barriers , reflecting the same confidence pulsing as some new national heartbeat. Civil rights act a ticket for traveling on the toll road of the American dream. Finally, equal status and opportunity! Shed the southern dirt and put on the silk of urbanity. Neighborhoods filled with southern emigrants eager for a good blue collar job. Factories humming with a rhythm of purpose. And perhaps , just perhaps, legislation that would regulate our fair chance. And so. Young Berry Gordy followed his vision as sure as any of those striding across the grand stages of the Gilded Age. That surety of purpose so few of us are strong or brave enough to attack with the hammer of the gods. Defiant, cocksure and with the swagger of the immortal. And no little lack of the taste for blood , required to vanquish enemies. He would SUCCEED. Berry Gordy - the visionary of this moment. And for his people. Those of his world – in that urban jungle with sweet soul music on every street corner and church choir. This sound , his peoples sound. Born around burning trashcans with young men harmonizing for the comfort and warmth of a a shared street corner. Angelic voices from hard young men looking for promise. Girls on the stoops smiling and singing and braiding hair. Yes this was the sound of the 'streets', with all the joy and sorrow IT could speak of.. And this visionary knew to speak of hope and glory to his people – and more prescient -to the larger society. This would be the music of 'Young America', our proof. Our time. The ticket on the toll road has been paid!! Egg Cartons. 800 Dollars on a family loan. A rickety old piano, if the gods are benign - it would have been have been hauled across the plains to Detroit and land here in this basement as a 'holy talisman from the Brill Building'. Perhaps with some fine residue of pixie dust for use in this new franchise of 'hit songs'. Now let it be named....Yes..... THE MOTOWN SOUND. Egg cartons and a dilapidated piano are at the very core of music that has made us smile and dance since 1959. Heartache and joy. Some danceable bright sunshine. Maestro defining this sound, this feel. Determined to project the image of progress. This new success that civil rights promised. A style that would play on all the stages of America and Television – the great communicator. Hitsville would also employ the talents of choreography. The great electronic hearth would bring the ballets of urban soul to the masses of white and black America to the dinner table. Diana in her bouffant glory, diaphanous gowns and megawatt smile. Temptations in tuxedos making Fred Astaire look like some dilettante with such supple and sophisticated choreography, every girl knowing she could dance with one of them. Yes America, here's where our kids could dance to the 'race music' . Look at them ...such handsome young men. ....and so well dressed....... black males without any demeanor of threat to the white bread suburbs. Girls so sweet . Any hint of sex drowned in the dazzle of high fashion and glamour. No threat to anyone. The first ingenues.A look that would dazzle on the stages of high society nightclubs as well as through the fish-eye lens of television. Every performance planned to perfection. The black man must always give twice the effort for half the recognition. A smooth and polished act crafted with crossover appeal in mind. The sound would break through the quiet muzak behind white picket fences.Teaching a nation of white kids to find their rhythm drowned and lost in the Eisenhower years. Elvis busted a move, but it took the Temptations as they danced with each other in perfect choreography to teach the nation about smooth, urbane and the “cool” of the black man. This would be laughter and sweet harmonies on a street corner. Know our neighbors, baby sitting and hair dressing on front stoops in the afternoon. Back room apartments with ironing boards making all the threads clean and serene.Everyone aware of the voices in the church choir and neighborhood bars. Who could sing? Diana Ross would grow up two doors down from Smokey Robinson! Brothers – Jimmy and David Ruffin. Rhythm of the streets – birth of the 'stroll'. Gait of the urban black man sure of his new steps. Sartorial splendor on dirty streets – reaching back to the legacy of the “Duke” - Ellington that is. Inherited elegance with a new flash. New York Tuxedo meets Carnaby Street hip. Uptown was the direction – that's where the nightlife breathes deep. Syncopation – stepping in tune with the inner soundtrack. The first happy feet black america may have ever felt. A boulevard was a dance floor. Easy to roll on down with 'sweet soul music' bouncing from all the eyes you'd meet on the street. And yet this was serious music in every way. It was the time of Dylan turning folk from obscure Americana towards a new intellectual depth. Seismic shifts from Pat Boone to Elvis to Berry to Jerry Lee and the blues – the ROOT OF ALL. Beatles on Ed Sullivan – the great volcano. The eruption of a generation whose history was scarred by war in intimate ways. Those blonde surfers were led by a mad Pied Piper with a genius for harmony – singing their hedonistic tales about that Technicolor dream born in the next neighborhood - Hollywood. Living THAT VERSION of a Postwar apogee of the boomers. But who were these 'factory' workers? What did they produce? What of the conditions of working in this 'factory'? ...... The Temptations...Diana Ross & the Supremes....The Four Tops...Martha & the Vandellas....Smokey Robinson & the Miracles....Marvin Gaye with Tammi Terrell....Little Stevie Wonder .... and a host of others. All from the working class neighborhoods of Detroit. Cousins and friends with common backgrounds. Knowing each other at school and church. There would be familial threads weaving all through these 'hit factory' stars. A school woud be developed by the soon to be mogul for the purpose of putting that great and glamorous sheen on the presentation,look and performances that would enthrall young america. Unity would be stressed with matching stage outfits impeccable and stylish and endlessly updated. Fashion would follow, that quality so valued in the upscale venues the master had his eye on. These performers would have all the style and panache those arbiters of culture would expect. It would be adult and sophisticated, yet hip enough for the kids. Everyone who saw them would leave impressed with their grace and dazzling performances. The maestro also had his coterie of talented engineers. Those Hit Makers.....the team of Holland/Dozier/Holland.....Barrett Whitfield and Norman Strong.....and the multi-talented savant.... Smokey Robinson. All in some blooming of unparalleled creativity almost supernatural in it's strengh and longevity. In their primitive lair with the most basic tools available to record popular music , raw native talent would be given it's head. Ably assisted by the 'house band' – session men, the wizard's helpers. The Funk Brothers would play on more chart busting hits than any group of studio musicians in history. Given material that was heaven sent, their stamp and the peculiar acoustics of the basement's magic chamber , this fresh , joyous and soulful sound would be collected for posterity. They would pioneer new techniques with limited equipment but inventiveness their daily work. No boundaries to obey – it was the song and the sound and what ever could make it better, best, great. Finger snaps and hand claps – heard in the background, such human instruments. And the soaring choruses – taken from the church but not of the church. It was music of love and loss, hope and redemption. Yet not of the religious – it was of the human condition. The SECRET – yes - was that warm humanity. In every word and in the orchestral use of strings. Underneath it all was the urge to dance, young bodies would not, could not resist these rythms. These were not silly love songs. There was tragedy and pathos as the conductor understood how mature and deeply a young audience would handle their own emotions regarding love and life. Melding of soul's grit and blues with snappy pop music , all coated with a veneer of sophistication. Irresistible, music America would embrace across all it's patchwork of cultural tribes. “Calling out around the world - are you ready for a brand new beat?” The show would go on the road. See and be seen. Packaging as brilliant as P.T. Barnum's. Something for everyone who'd buy the ticket and come see the show and hear all the hits in one place. Who would not come out in the greater land outside Detroit ? If young Englishmen could cross an ocean to entertain a captive generation and create hysteria then our show would be better. Performance and the ongoing search for the next big hit. Smokey teaching the Temptations “My Girl” backstage at the Apollo. The track came alive when strings were added. How many other moments of genius would occur as the polish shined ever brighter and talents matured? Bringing the songs alive – reality would intrude and send out it's tragic message. The handsome and silky-voiced leading man would one night have his partner – a young pretty ingenue - die in his arms on the stage. The musical genius of a blind boy. Their private lives would reflect back to us all the fragility of simply being alive. As in any family – squabbles and intrigue and jealousy. Happy for one another, yet above the master's hand was pulling all their strings. He and only he could see the blinding vision. Trust would not be handed to his puppets, leading eventually to mutiny as ego and freedom from the grind would call. This trust would be hard fought with the master. Years would flow before any new hands pulled the strings. So to remember - this recollection from a nation's collective memory, what sights and sounds reverberate from decades ago? A great summer day......something about..... “My Girl” – decades later it is still the perfect song. One need only remember those primitive AM Car radios. May all men feel this way to their dying day. Sheer heartache and happiness in every song. Theatre revues and dance steps. Levi Stubbs grit and soul with soaring strings and driving rhythms perfect for 64 Mustang top down cruising. '45 platters' with the distinctive blue / silver label a roadmap to Motown. Songs of love about hope and loss full of resounding faith in the future. Every possible angle about boys and girls falling in love. Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Little Stevie Wonder. Ed Sullivan on a Sunday night. Gordy's endless parade of talent beamed straight into the American Living Room. 3 Minute operas for young America. Suburban parents nodding approvingly.“Stop in the name of Love” - girls showing the HAND. Finger snaps and hand claps. Heartache from Jimmy Ruffin - “What becomes of the broken hearted?” Incomparable 'Temps' walking in rhythm. Always “Sunshine on a Cloudy Day”. Diana in all her sophistication , backed by Supremes in matching couture. “I hear a Symphony”. Cherry Hill,NJ and the 'Latin Casino'. The Copa in New York - all the way up to “DREAMGIRLS”. Style – always incomparable style. Leading the way for a coming cultural cataclysm defined by the young generation with a sense of big change in the air. Pop music as a force. Dylan, Beatles and the Beach boys – siblings in the march to a new kind of freedom. Free to be young and in love, to doubt what the elders would have us believe. Reaching for the full and frenzied meaning of creativity and independence. There would be years before the lure of Hollywood sang loud it's siren's song. Glamour and the call of the 'Big Money' would dare the Black Man – the visionary daring to take a seat at the table with the 'Big Men'. Ever confident this would happen. Relocate to a 'No Mans LAND' for this black man. Meet me, greet me, talk to me of large money !!....My product is proven...!! I have STARS!!....you know it - I know it.... LET'S TALK. But this might just be a different and darker story , one left for telling in a later chapter. Later, Later, Later, somehow the American Dream would always grow large and ugly from greed and ego. Not yet...No Not Yet... Not in this: 'Minute of Hope in the Motor City' We are talking about ' Shining Times'. Dreams we carry with us every day of how it should be. One Place, One Time and some inexplicable dance and a feeling of who we are. Perhaps a snapshot of what heaven might look like. This sound and vision perhaps never to be duplicated. This National Treasure not given it's due. “Dancing in the Streets” May we always do so.