The Daily Procrastinator

With the announcement of the death of Harry Kalas, I feel like another part of my childhood is gone.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in Philadelphia, Harry was the voice of the Phillies, the sound that I most deeply associate with summer in my baseball family.  From the AM-only radio in my grandmother’s 1978 Ford Granada, to the transistor radio that my mother listened to while doing laundry and ironing in the basement, Harry’s voice was everywhere.

Having said goodbye to my mother and grandmother — both avid fans — and the giant concrete donut that was Veterans Stadium five years ago, it’s almost as if Harry’s death severs my last tie to the most pervasive part of my childhood summers.  I’m left feeling a little bit older, a little bit sadder and a little bit more nostalgic for the past.

Goodbye, Harry.  If there’s a heaven, may it be filled with real grass, blue skies and great weather for a ballgame.

American author John Updike died on the morning of January 27. As soon as I read the headlines announcing his death, my mind immediately transported me to moments in my life when I encountered Updike’s work. As a freshman in college, I was assigned his short story A&P for an entry-level literature course. I distinctly recall sitting in a dimly-lit back corner of the university library and being totally absorbed in the world of the story, cheering for Sammy as he took a stand against his overbearing boss, only to grieve at its futility moments later. The honesty of the characters’ emotions and the depth to which Updike understands human nature made such a distinct impression on me that my reading of A&P stands out in my mind as one of the defining moments of literary life.

Three years and two colleges farther down my road, summer hung heavily upon southern California, and we students hadn’t much to do between classes. We sat inside the air-conditioned Student Union building, mostly, and wiled away the hours in idle chat. Among the most popular topics of these chats was baseball. As I encouraged everyone within earshot to read Malamud’s The Natural, a friend sauntered into the room, recently liberated from a class in Spanish or psychology or some other undergraduate drudgery, and butted into my monologue. “If you want to read good baseball writing,” he told me, “go find Updike’s Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu.” A few days later, once again enshrined in a university library, while reading Updike’s account of Ted Williams’ career and final game with the Red Sox, I was struck with awe at the grandeur of The Splendid Splinter. Although I’d never seen Williams play and didn’t consider myself a fan, the power of Updike’s words transported me to a time and place that enveloped me as truly and completely as my own memories.

After my years in university libraries finally paid dividends, I found myself in the lucky position of choosing pieces of literature to teach in a 10th-grade English classroom. As I considered characterization, metaphor, and themes to which teenagers could truly relate, I settled upon Updike’s poem Ex-Basketball Player for inclusion in my curriculum. Every year, I watch as students slowly nod their heads, beginning to grasp the metaphor of Pearl Avenue as Flick Webb’s life, the contrast between five “idiot pumps” on each side of the gas station and the five graceful athletes Flick once called his teammates, Flick’s disillusionment as he stares into the tiny, silent bleachers filled with dimestore candies. Even to the teenaged mind, Updike is good.

Those who are familiar with Updike’s work have undoubtedly noticed that I haven’t begun to scratch the surface of his accomplishments, and I confess that I have no intentions of doing so. These three pieces are all I have read of Updike’s voluminous contribution to American letters, but they are enough to convince me that we have lost a master today.