Dave's Faves (Children's Books): Three of Three!

I find myself, as I prepared the final installment of this list, thinking about how the modern book covers and theHollywood-produced animated versions of these books inevitably try to attract readers/viewers by emphasizing that the protagonist is a kid. Big eyes. Small. Again and again, as I compared the covers I recognized from my childhood to their current counterparts, I was struck by that difference.

And it's profoundly wrong-headed. Kids don't want to go to baseball games with their Dads because the game is "for kids" — they want to go because it's an adult thing, and they want to enter that adult world! Kids don't like the Muppets because they're children, but because they're adults! (Indeed, the Muppet Babies were, initially, made as a flashback in a Muppet movie, not in a stand-alone product aimed at kids). Kids don't need to see Baby Yoda, or 8-year old Leia — they want to see Luke, and Han. They want to learn about the adult world, and learn how to function within it!

So these new book covers, that say "see?! She's a little girl, just like you!" are so frustrating. Let the kids approach adventures as adventures — often involving real threats, and real dangers — not as "kid adventures," which belittle and patronize them as readers before they even open the book. Check out these covers!

Ok, last-but-the-opposite-of-least: David's all-time favorite children's books! I read each of the final books in the countdown many, many times during my childhood, some of them almost every year. No need to waste more time building them up. Let’s get to it.

No. 8: Swallows & Amazons (series) (Arthur Ransome, 1930)

 

I came to this book a little later than I should have, because I kept putting it off. A book about sailing, in England? Not interested. I rolled my eyes, and delayed. That, it turns out, was a regrettable mistake.

 

Because once I finally got into the first book of this series, about a brother and sister (as I remember it) on vacation in England’s Lake District who find themselves in a friendly rivalry with – and then sharing adventures with – several local kids, all taking place on or facilitated by their small sailboats, I was immediately hooked. As with so many of the best kids’ books, parents are more or less absent, and the protagonists are independent, forced to make important decisions and deal with consequences on their own. Still, unlike some of the other books on this countdown, Swallows and Amazons is not dark and scary at all. It's light-hearted, nobody is an orphan, and nobody faces death. Somehow, Ransome captures how fun childhood — just regular ol' childhood – can be. I wonder if that kind of independent and outdoors racing-around adventure is still available to kids. I fear not.

 

Yes.

No.

No. 7: The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster, 1961) 

 

According to Wikipedia: “Though the book is on its face an adventure story, a major theme is the need for a love of education; through this, Milo applies what he has learned in school, advances in his personal development, and learns to love the life that previously bored him.”

 

Boy, that makes a book that is so creative, so wonderful, and so funny – a modern day Alice in Wonderland – sound remarkably dull. It is, of course, anything but. In fact, in the 60s and 70s, the book was everywhere, and it seemed like every family of readers in America had a copy of it. I must have read it – and enjoyed the famous illustrations by Jules Feiffer (the author’s housemate at the time of the book’s writing) – like five times. It was, in each and every page, a joy.

 

I don’t know, though. I vaguely remember the cartoon movie they made out of it (here’s the trailer), but again, Hollywood seems unable to really capture the intelligence of kids’ books and the kids' pride in getting the jokes and word play (or at least, getting some of it, and more with each reading) – instead the stories are flattened out, and almost patronizing in how concerned the creators are that kids will become bored. Give me the Spiderman cartoon from the 60s, if necessary. That one at least didn’t talk down to me, as a kid, and posited that I could not only handle darkness, risk, and danger, but actually welcome it. I don’t mean that the Phantom Tollbooth story is particularly dark, but … it seems to me that Jules Feiffer’s drawings are much more attractive and appropriate than the Disney-fied cartoon.

Again, do we need Spider-man to be eight years old? No!

No. 6: The Princess and the Goblin (George MacDonald, 1872)

 

I haven’t read this book, and its equally compelling sequel, The Princess and Curdie, in many decades, and I need to pick them up again sometime soon. Although these books are “timeless classics” (trademark), I’m not quite sure they’re as familiar to people of my generation (let alone the generations that followed) as others on this list. Which is a shame – they’re mysterious, dark, and profoundly compelling. Though I’ve always enjoyed them, the books aren’t spoiled by over-exposure (despite, apparently, the existence of a 1991 movie which I never saw and don’t actually ever remember hearing much about). They are, in fact, wonderful adventures into dangerous worlds.

According to Wikipedia, J. R. R. Tolkien's depictions of goblins was heavily influenced by the goblins in The Princess and the Goblin, and G. K. Chesterton wrote of the book that:

I for one can really testify to a book that has made a difference to my whole existence, which helped me to see things in a certain way from the start; a vision of things which even so real a revolution as a change of religious allegiance has substantially only crowned and confirmed. Of all the stories I have read, including even all the novels of the same novelist, it remains the most real, the most realistic, in the exact sense of the phrase the most like life. It is called The Princess and the Goblin, and is by George MacDonald …. 

 

Ok, it's a weird cover. But definitely not patronizing!

No. 5: The Dark is Rising (series) (Susan Cooper, 1965)

 

Despite the terrible movie based on this series, these books (which include Over Sea, Under Stone and The Grey King) were by far the most “adult” of the children’s books I remember reading as a kid; not simply “dark,” but literally (as I remember it) frightening. Threatening. Ominous. Powerful. I know I repeat myself, but these books, loosely based on Welsh and Arthurian legends, were extremely compelling. 

 

In fact, when the Harry Potter books came to prominence, it was this series I found myself thinking of. They’re not exactly similar – the magic is ominous and threatening in Susan Cooper’s series, not ubiquitous and playful as it is in J.K. Rowlings' – but certainly both extended series of books involve a group of young friends in the modern world defending that world against a growing and powerful threat, all building to a dark and powerful climax. I would recommend this for any kids who find that more playful Harry Potter paradigm insufficient. These books are scary in the best way -- and, in presenting kids with a scary world, reward them for embracing it.

 

No. 4: The Silver Crown (Robert C. O'Brien, 1968)

 

Boy, it’s getting really tough to rank the remaining books on this list. I used to read each of the remaining four books (including this one) almost every year, and while I don’t now remember many specific plot details, I certainly remember the excitement with which I re-approached each one, each time. The Silver Crown is an example of what I came to recognize as a common theme: a girl protagonist, apparently (or actually) an orphan, forced to make decisions in a threatening world on her own – forced to “grow up,” essentially, over the course of an adventure she has no choice but to enter into. The next two books on the list are almost identical in that. This, of course, is the point of fiction. It’s not about “morals” or “lessons.” It’s about being given the opportunity to experience the world from a perspective other than our own, and to think about the decisions the characters make, and consider the consequences, from the safety of our own homes. It’s about empathy.

 

What makes The Silver Crown stand out is the science-fiction and fantasy elements. Our heroine witnesses the apparent death of her parents and is thrust into a world of mind-control, assassination, and an evil organization bent on world domination. It’s a lot of fun.

No. 3: A Wrinkle in Time (Madeleine L'Engle, 1962).

 

A Wrinkle in Time of course – I say "of course" because I assume everyone has read it and remembers it – is another of the books in which a teenage girl is forced to go out on her own, without parents, to protect and/or save younger family members. In this case that girl, Meg, goes out with her odd-but-brilliant younger brother, Charles Wallace, to rescue their Dad, who has been kidnapped on another planet. Another sci-fi/fantasy novel, with a young woman from our own world forced to engage with a decidedly other world, involving magic, advanced technology, and very real threats.

 

Also, I remember Meg, at one point, zipping up her “cardigan,” which had such an effect on me that I always wanted a cardigan for myself, whatever that was, and was delighted in my twenties when I finally got one.

By the way. Compare the book cover I read to the modern one. This literally sums up everything wrong with how we treat kids today.

Mine: Mysterious, Scary, Challenging

Today's. Take the darkness and mystery right out of it. Bleccch.

 

No. 2: Island of the Blue Dolphins (Scott O’Dell, 1960)

 

Island of the Blue Dolphins, about a young native American girl named Karana who is stranded alone for years on an island off the California coast, is based on the true story of Juana Maria, who was left alone for 18 years on San Nicolas Island during the 19th century. The true story, I fortunately didn’t discover until many many years later, is pretty sad. This story is yet another of a girl on her own, without parents, forced to adapt and survive in a threatening environment, requiring of her resolve and resilience, creativity, courage, and ingenuity. It’s exciting, remarkable, fascinating, and profoundly entertaining.

No. 1: Call It Courage (Armstrong Sperry, 1941)

 

I literally read Call it Courage for at least four straight years, until we moved to Germany in 1977. The book, which is set in the Pacific Islands, is about Mafatu, the son of the chief, who is afraid of the sea after seeing his mother die in it as a child. His fear shames his father, and he is referred to as a coward by his tribe. Finally he takes a dugout canoe and sets sail into the ocean, before being caught in a storm and ending on a deserted island, where he learns to hunt and fish for himself, along with his companions, a small yellow dog and an albatross.

 

I don’t remember much about it at this point beyond that bare summary, but I do remember the sense of adventure, of courage, of resolve. Interesting that this one, unlike most of the others on the list, is about a boy rather than a girl — I have a feeling if Hollywood made it today they would have gender-swapped it. That’s fine – works either way. 

Also: Don't you wish you could come up with a title as cool — as perfect — as "Call it Courage"?

 

That's it! 

Well, almost. Needless to say, in the course of considering and preparing that list, I remembered important-to-me books I had forgotten. I would be angry at myself if I omitted the following books altogether. So, Honorable Mention: Heidi; all the Hardy Boys books (boy that was an entertaining world, with best friend "Chet" and jumping on the running board of their car, whatever that was); The Narnia Chronicles (though I re-read the first one recently, and ... it really is aimed at young kids); The Adventures of Robin Hood (by Roger Lancelyn Green), Mistress Masham’s Repose, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, The Thurber Carnival, the Judy Blume books, and Jacob Two-Two and the Hooded Fang. Loved 'em all.

Dave's Faves (Children's Books): The Countdown — Part Deux!

When I was growing up in the 70s, the Ann Arbor Public Library encouraged kids to continue reading during no-school summer months by rewarding those who read a certain number of books (10? 20?) with an invitation to an end-of-summer party at the main branch, complete with ice cream and the showing of an age-appropriate film. Progress would be tracked throughout the summer with stickers on a cardboard display at each local branch – each sticker representing one book read.

I was one of those kids who read a lot back then, so this was never a problem for me. Inevitably by the time August rolled around I was either at or near the top of the sticker-board. It’s funny, looking back, how much I enjoyed going to the local Reading Branch (that was its name) of the library and scanning the shelves for new books to read. A pleasure that’s sort of … lost in the mists of time, unfortunately. But a good memory.

 

Our countdown continues!

 

No. 14: The Mad Scientist’s Club (series) (Bertrand R. Brinley, 1965)

 

It’s possible this should be higher-up, nearer 20. I don’t remember this book being profound, or meaningful, in any really significant way. It’s just a collection of stories about the adventures of the eponymous club of kids – the story I remember most has them creating a fake Loch-Ness-Monster-type machine for … some reason. But those stories were engaging, entertaining, and fun. Not bad on a summer afternoon!

 

No. 13: The Book of Three (series) (Lloyd Alexander, 1964)

 

The series by Lloyd Alexander (which included The Black Cauldron, Taran Wanderer, etc.) served as my introduction to the fantasy genre, and as such to stories with stakes beyond “will we get in trouble with our parents?” These stories involved characters who were actively evil, with death, love, honor, resourcefulness, and real courage all on the table. Another series I got into over a decade before Disney brought it to the silver screen with the really weak “Black Cauldron” movie. 

 

No. 12: The Gammage Cup (Carol Kendall, 1959)

 

I’m not sure there’s another book on this list that’s as difficult to categorize as this one. Is it fantasy? Is it action? According to Wikipedia (as I have little memory of the plot): “It tells the story of a race of little people called the Minnipins who, despite inner divisions, must unite to defend their village and the valley in which they live against an evil race of humanoid creatures called the Mushrooms or Hairless Ones.” It sounds like fantasy, obviously, but at least as I remember it there’s no magic or dragons or anything. It’s just … a different world. The main themes are individualism and conformity – as they are in many of the books on this list in some way or another – but the lessons are subtle, and masked by an entertaining drama.

 

No. 11: The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett, 1911)

 

When I was young, the prospect of actual adult anger was a real fear for me, and books and movies that included it were often beyond simply scary. The scene at the end of the Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory movie, for instance, where an enraged Willy Wonka whirls on Charlie and Grandpa Joe to berate them for sneaking the Fizzy Lifting Drinks, terrified me, and to this day adds a darkness to that movie that affects my memories of it. And that scene took something like 10 seconds!

 

My feelings about The Secret Garden are similar. The famous children’s book, about a young girl who discovers and then enters a secret garden in her intimidating uncle’s house despite his express instructions, and the (again, fairly brief) scene of his discovery of her disobedience, haunts my experience of the book. I loved the story, and read it several times, but each time caught my breath as she expressly disobeyed him (“no! he told you not to do that!”), and hurried past the description of his anger.

 

On another note … who would have thought a story about two kids finding a hidden playground would be so entertaining? It’s not a magic garden. It doesn’t even have slides or a merry-go-round! It’s just a story of exploration, discovery … as well as loss and grief. Really powerful stuff.

 

No. 10: Nobody’s Family is Going to Change (Louise Fitzhugh, 1974)

 

I have a lot to say about this one. First, it’s almost certainly the least-well-known book on this list — the only one without its own Wikipedia page, in fact – so it’s quite possible you don’t know of it. It was written by Louise Fitzhugh, the author of the “Harriet the Spy” books (which I never read) … who died of a brain aneurysm eight days before this book was published. 

 

Nobody’s Family is Going to Change was challenging in a way no other kids’ book I read was – in a way most adult books aren’t. It was about an overweight African-American girl and her younger brother, each trying to convince their parents to accept them for who they are. The girl wants to be a lawyer, and her brother is desperate to become a dancer, even though everyone in their family is convinced that neither role is appropriate. 

 

The book is presented as a series of plots and schemes put forward by the two to catch their parents’ attention and bring them around. What’s so breathtaking is that … none of those schemes work. Not even the ones that all of our experience with such stories has prepared us to believe will be effective. You’re sure that when the parents are tricked into coming to one of the boy’s dance performances, for example, they will see and understand how good he is, and how much he needs to do this. But … they don’t. 

 

My memory of the conclusion is that the two kids, independently, learn that they’re going to have to push through to be who they want to be without getting approval from everyone around them, and that that’s just what the world is. It’s – as I said – it’s a breathtaking take-away, and one that I couldn’t quite believe I was being left with. Everything I had ever read and been told said that if you’re clear enough, and committed enough, people will realize how special you are. This said, “no, probably not – but that’s ok too.”

 

The author, I just read, was a lesbian, and that obviously informs much of her writing, especially in this book, about desperate hopes for acceptance, but the need to push forward even when it’s not coming. 

 

I love this book.

 

No. 9: James and the Giant Peach; Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; Danny, the Champion of the World (Roald Dahl, 1961, 1964, 1975)

 

It’s obviously cheating to include three books here (you could even add Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, 1972), but Roald Dahl would otherwise crowd other authors out of this list, and that wouldn’t be fair. Nonetheless, I read each of them multiple times, and Danny, the Champion of the World captures a healthy father/son relationship so magnificently – accurately capturing the thrill a young boy gets when he feels valued and appreciated and trusted and actually liked by his father – that it resonated profoundly with me.

We wrap up our countdown next time with ... David's all-time-favorite children's books!

Dave's Faves (Children's Fiction): The Countdown Begins

No. 19. This seemed ... ominous.

I want to start by reprinting this review I came across on Amazon for The Silver Crown: 

“I made the mistake of loaning this book to a ‘friend’ who never returned it, about 5 years ago, and it has haunted me ever since. I was horrified when I searched for it and found out it was out of print, and delighted when I found it today on Amazon. I first read it as a teenager and I must have re-read it a dozen times. This is an absolute MUST READ for every teenage girl out there wishing for a fantasy/adventure story whose hero is a girl, not a boy, and where typical misogynistic themes such as how pretty the heroine is and what she is wearing are completely irrelevant. I cannot wait to get my book in the mail!!!!!”

 

What I find so interesting about this is that it so accurately reflects the spirit of the present moment, when Disney and other creators of pop culture have taken it upon themselves to correct a crisis that I don't believe ever existed: That women have been under-represented in children’s stories and movies — and that when women were present, they were inevitably given sexist, gender-role-conforming, secondary, and supportive roles. Never as the heroes. 

 

I disagree with this thesis. Indeed, the great majority of books I read growing up had female protagonists, and I read them happily, without objection, and without, by and large, even noticing. Give me a good protagonist. The rest is unimportant.

 

Anyway, with that in mind, here are the first eight of my all-time top 22 children’s books, with some comments. I wish it were easier for readers of this blog to leave their own comments, though. I’d love to hear what you all think of these, or which books you think should be added/removed from this list, and why.

 

No. 22: Mrs. Pepperpot (series) (Alf Proysen, 1956)

 

This series of books is for littler kids — I remember reading it with my Mom (first) at 6 or 7. It features the kind of magical protagonist — an older woman who would often, and without warning, shrink to the size of a pepperpot — that I was fascinated by at that age. (See also: Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle, by Betty McDonald, published in 1947). Despite this pretty sizable (no pun intended) handicap, Mrs. Pepperpot was resourceful and good-humored, and always found ways to get out of problems. Good stuff.

 

No. 21: How to Eat Fried Worms (Thomas Rockwell, 1973)

 

I believe this American novel was read to our 2^nd or 3^rd grade class in elementary school by our school librarian, but I frequently checked it out to re-read it on my own afterwards. A young boy makes a bet with a friend that he can eat a worm a day for 50 days, and as he gets closer and closer to winning the bet the friend starts trying to keep him from succeeding. The gross subject is of course an instant winner for the 3^rd graders in the room, but the story is exciting and funny, and it’s ultimately about commitment, persistence, and even doing what you want/need to do regardless of whether other people think it’s cool or not.

 

No. 20: Pippi Longstocking (series) (Astrid Lindgren, 1945)

 

The series of stories about the mysterious little girl with the bright red hair. We all know Pippi, of course, and the stories are — like Mrs. Pepperpot — magical and funny. But they may also have been the first stories I read — they’re certainly the first stories I remember reading — about sadness. Pippi’s longing for her absent father colors many of the stories, and she is really the first sort-of complex character I ever remember coming across. Even as an 8-year old I could tell that her gaiety sometimes covered up an inner sadness, and while she was genuinely an enthusiastic and happy child, there was more going on. Amazing what Astrid Lindgren packed into those stories.

 

No. 19: The Wolves of Willoughby Chase (Joan Aiken, 1962)

 

I remember putting off reading this English novel because the cover was … serious, and that somehow made me think it was going to be painful, and maybe even boring. Of course it was neither of those things. It was, instead, dramatic, action-packed, and thrilling, set in an alternative England that was dark, sinister, and threatening, and about three young orphans forced to avoid dire threats posed by their governess and teacher.  For what it’s worth, although I never read any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events books, my sense is they were fairly similar. 

 

No. 18: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (E. L. Konigsburg, 1967)

 

Everyone knows this book — it’s hardly even worth summarizing. Even today, though, I remember Michelangelo was born in Bologna because of this story of a brother and sister who run away from home and live in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, avoiding the guards, living off the coins they take from the fountain, and eventually getting wrapped up in a mystery. It’s a classic for a reason.

 

No. 17: Encyclopedia Brown (series) (Donald J. Sobol, 1963)

 

Oh, I’m not sure the quality of the writing holds up to most of the other books on this list. But I came from a family of mystery readers — Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh, and PD James paperbacks were all over our house on Wolverine Road in Ann Arbor — and, when I was about eight years old, Encyclopedia Brown served as my entry into the genre. These stories, featuring a teenage detective often forced to foil his arch-nemesis, Bugs Meany, with the conclusions to each mystery (including the solution) included at the back of the book, were genius. It’s how I remember to this day that squirrels don’t back down trees, they go down head-first — a fact that Encyclopedia once cited to prove that a story put forward by Bugs was in fact completely bogus. 

 

No. 16: Homer Price (Robert McCloskey,1943)

The most famous of this collection of stories featuring the eponymous hero is almost certainly the one about the donut machine that does … not … stop … making … donuts. They actually transformed that story into a short movie that I remember seeing on TV in the early 70s, and that, surprisingly, I was able to find on YouTube (here). It’s not as good as the book, though. It’s funny; although I see that the book was first published in 1943, somehow I don’t remember feeling, as I read it in the mid-70s, that it was old-fashioned or irrelevant. The stories were timeless and funny. Close in style, maybe, to the “A Christmas Story” movie. Maybe.

 

No. 15: Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (Robert C. O’Brien, 1971)

 

Proud to say that I read it (well, first it was read to us by the Mary Mitchell Elementary School librarian, then I re-read it) before Disney got ahold of it. An adventure/escape story involving super-smart rats who had themselves escaped from the National Institute of Mental Health (where they had been “lab rats”), that had drama, suspense, sacrifice, courage, and everything else you could want. I’m not surprised Disney made a successful movie out of it, but again — I got there first. 

That's it for tonight. Only three of the eight books had male protagonists (and Encyclopedia Brown was given a female partner very early in the series who was every bit his intellectual and physical equal). At least in the children's books genre, female characters have been allowed to flex their wings for many many decades now.

Come back soon for Nos. 15-8!

UST-Freakin'-A: You Cannot DO That!

Part II: 

Really, as hard as it may be to believe given my posts so far on this blog, I’m really quite calm on the tennis court. These are really the only three times, in my 400? (600? 1000+?) matches, that I’ve lost my composure. In any event, as the conclusion to this story will make clear, this is ultimately – to me, at least – one of the funniest things that’s happened to me in the past year or two.

So last year my Men’s 55-and-over 4.0 team won our league tournament, ensuring us a place in the September 2023 regional tournament, in which teams from Northern Arizona, El Paso, Albuquerque, and Phoenix would participate. I was, as the tournament (in Tucson!) rolled around, in a deep funk with my tennis (see my earlier “The Better Angels Take the Day Off” post). Indeed, I had just the week before bottomed out at another tournament in Irvine, California, and I had already decided to put down my rackets and take a couple months off once this tournament ended. I was not playing well.

 

At this regional USTA tournament a teammate and I lost our first match fairly quickly, and I was teamed up with my friend Jim for the second match against a pair of players from El Paso. As it was one of the last matches of the day darkness was falling, and a small crowd of the El Paso team's friends and family had gathered behind the fence to watch the match. Although we fell behind quickly 0-3, we fought back, and eventually – to nobody’s surprise more than my own – forced the first set into a tiebreaker.

 

At 2-3 in that seven-point tiebreaker, one of our opponents mishit a lob, which floated really high, then landed about an inch or two wide of the sideline. I casually said “out” and caught the ball on the bounce, and nobody protested. 

 

At first.

Then, from behind the fence, a voice spoke up. The USTA official – we’ll call her “June” – had come over to watch, and from behind me she overruled my call. This was, if anything a more egregious overstepping than Stan’s call described in the last post, as hers came from behind me, and from behind a fence! (I was told later by a friend that USTA rules expressly prohibit officials from overruling calls from the other side of a fence, though I have no independent verification of that). Let me note that, while I am convinced my call against Bob I described yesterday was correct, I am willing to allow the possibility that I got it wrong (though that still wouldn’t justify Stan’s involvement). This one, however, I still have in my mind’s eye as clearly out, and both my opponents and, later, one of their wives (the wife of one of them, that is), who was watching from right next to June from behind the fence, told me later they thought it was out as well, and were equally surprised when June decided to step in.

 

I couldn’t believe my luck. I literally don’t know anyone this has ever happened to even once … and it had just happened to me a second time. 

 

Again, I lost my composure. “You have got to be kidding me!” I yelled. “You cannot do that!” Like Stan in the earlier match, June was unmoved. I whirled back away from her in anger, ripped the hat off my head, and threw it at the net in frustration. (“That’ll show her!”).

 

The reason I tell this story is what came next. Jim, my teammate, ambled over to me. “Dave, Dave, it’s all right,” he said, calmly. “Let it go! It’s ok. It doesn’t matter, come on.”

 

I allowed myself to be mollified, but, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I tried to hit the next few balls that came my way harder than any human being had ever hit tennis balls before –obviously missing them both. Jim and I ended up losing the tiebreaker, and then the next set and the match.

 

Jim, as is his wont, was sanguine and calm about it all. It was only a few weeks later over beers, as we recalled the match, that he discovered what I was really angry about. It turned out that he hadn’t realized at the time that the person behind us who overruled my call was a USTA official. He had thought it was just one of the spectators – a stranger to us – who had been voicing her opinion about my call (“that ball was in”). From his perspective, I responded to this unimportant stranger’s call unexpectedly, overreacting dramatically to a conflicting opinion voiced from behind the fence.

 

I tell this story because, at least once a month since, I find myself in bed replaying the events, and literally chuckling out loud. I love trying to imagine the conversation going on in Jim’s head. “Gee, David seems to be taking that woman’s opinion awfully seriously. That's weird." Trying to make sense of that weirdly personal and offended reaction he was witnessing. He must have thought I was extremely sensitive to having my opinions challenged.

 

I wish I had known of his misunderstanding at the time. It might have broken me up so much I could have refocused on the tennis, instead of on my frustration. 

 

Still, be warned. If anybody suggests that my opinion is incorrect, I will lose all control, scream, and throw my hat!

UST-Freakin'-A: Part One

Part one. 

So, in December of 2020, I played in a USTA singles tennis tournament at Reffkin Park in Tucson. My first match was against a good player, and the two of us played at a really high level. Indeed, to my surprise and delight, I found myself playing perhaps my best tennis in several years. The match was competitive and hotly-contested, with each point feeling significant – but the two of us remained friendly, complimenting each other’s shots and acknowledging the quality we were playing at.

 

The first set was really close, and I won something like 7-5. As my opponent (let’s call him “Bob”) began the second-set tiebreaker (first to seven points, win by two), someone I recognized (but didn’t really know) from my tennis club (the Tucson Racquet Club), wandered over and started watching. At 1-4 down in the tiebreaker, I called Bob’s first serve out. At that point, the observer – we’ll call him “Stan” – spoke up: “that serve was in, it’s his point.” 

 

It turned out he was a USTA official overseeing the entire tournament, empowered in certain circumstances to adjudicate controversial calls. I was dumbfounded. My adrenaline was already way up, as I had been highly focused on each point in the match, and I exploded. “You can’t do that!!” I said, loudly. “The ball was out,” Stan responded. “It’s his point.”

 

I don’t know if I had ever “sputtered,” before, but I certainly did here. “But … but! That’s crazy! What about all the calls that went against me before you wandered over!?” I said. “And it was out!” I insisted. I was fuming at this point. (Remember, this was the best I had played in maybe three years – to have a bystander all of a sudden hand a free point to my opponent at this critical stage of the match took the floor right out from under me.)

 

Bob was standing on the other side of the court, watching, and a little embarrassed. Finally, although I was completely distracted and off my game, he and I resumed the tiebreaker, now 1-5. I quickly lost it at 1-7, and then — with Stan still standing there, watching — the third set tiebreaker as well.

 

The rule is that officials are supposed to become involved only when asked to by one of the players (generally when they feel their opponent is making deliberately bad calls), which certainly hadn’t happened in this case, where Bob and I were both enjoying the match and crediting each other with good shots. It may be that they are technically empowered to overrule calls where they are especially egregious, but Stan was no closer to the call than I was, so all he was really doing was imposing his judgment on the call instead of mine … and of course I had only called Bob’s first serve out, so he still had a second serve. I wasn’t giving myself a point. In those circumstances, awarding Bob the point was especially unfair.

 

Indeed, what happened to me in that match has never happened to any of my friends, although several of them told me of other similar controversies they had seen Stan involved in over the years. Still, while what happened to me may have been rare and unjustified, c’est la vie. It’s only tennis, right? I laugh about it, generally.

 

(And to this day I get extra pleasure out of giving Stan the cold shoulder when I see him around the Tucson Racquet Club, responding to his occasional greetings when we pass each other in the hallway with a grunt and mumbled response. I can’t bring myself to act like nothing happened and be friendly with him. If, some day, Stan wants to ask me why I’m cold to him (or flat-out apologize, though I doubt he even remembers our encounter at Reffkin), fair enough. Until then … eh. I’ll nurse my grudge quite contentedly.

 

Part 2, tomorrow.  

David Turns Into a Grumpy Old Man

Stories of insensitivity and cluelessness abound, for all of us, and I could easily fill a book with aggravating examples. People walking slowly down the middle of supermarket aisles with shopping carts, effectively blocking people behind them. A woman in the airport security line, barely conscious of her two small children running around, let alone of the people backing up behind her as she fails to move her container of shoes and bags forward on the table to give us room to unpack behind her, or to move her things after the x-ray to the end of the table so people can grab theirs behind her. People talking on or listening to their phones at full volume on busses, or in libraries, or coffee shops.

 

Just now, on my flight to Ohio that took off around 6:45 am, the guy with the window seat kept it closed throughout boarding and taxiing (in violation of FAA guidelines, for what it’s worth, but it’s not that that bothered me). Only as we started to generate speed did I finally sigh, smile, and say, “excuse me, but could you open the window? I like to see what’s going on.”

 

(“What’s going on” is … a pretty poor paraphrasing of what I would have liked to say to him, which was something like, “it’s dark, and I’d like some natural light, and we’re in a beautiful part of the country, with mountains and desert, and why do we have to sit in a cave even now, at take-off, and in any event, couldn’t you at least ask me, the person in the aisle seat, if I share your uncommon (as all the other windows on the plane seem to be open) preference?”).

 

He looked a little confused, but he turned to the window and opened it … half-way. Which worked for him – he was happy, it turned out, to stare out the window to watch us taxi and take off and circle above the mountains – but because of my distance from the window, the half-closed shade forced me to hunch down or lean as far back as I could to see the mountains. He never even looked at me to notice. Then, after about 5 minutes, still without looking at me, he concluded he had done all he possibly could, closed the shade fully, and turned back to the movie on his laptop.

 

I wonder, sometimes, whether the level of courtesy and simple awareness of others was higher back in the 50s and 60s – were people trained in it? – or, just like now, did some people have it and some not? And if it was higher … what happened? Was it advertising, marketing, and pop culture, which started suggesting that sacrificing any individual rights or preferences in favor of sensitivity to and concern for the needs of others could only constitute weakness? Is it something else?

 

I’ve noticed in tennis in recent years that players at the professional level and down through college are actively encouraged to scream and pump their fists at successful points. Long gone are the days of Arthur Ashe and Stefan Edberg. We now prioritize loud demonstration over quiet dignity. Indeed, I can only conclude that professional coaches encourage loud self-expression, perhaps on a two-fold basis: 1) that your primary responsibility is to stay as focused, positive, and energized as possible, and not to worry in the least about how your opponent feels; and 2) indeed, to the extent that your screaming and emoting gets in your opponent’s head, all the better.

 

This is true in other sports as well, of course. Don Larsen no longer calmly walks off the mound towards the dug-out before being ambushed by Yogi Berra, who jumps on him. Instead, now, we get players falling on the ground in tears or proudly pointing to the skies, or popping their own uniforms, apparently overwhelmed by the moment. 

 

“Me!” we shout to the world. “Look at me!”

Was Danny Boy a Dick?

As a counterpoint to yesterday's grim story, three separate-but-related anecdotes about my grandfather that make me smile, all from late in his life.

First is related to his dramatic "softening" late in his life. He would often tear up at unexpected moments in family gatherings, finally starting to take note of what special people his children were. Frequently, he would ask for and start to cry at "Oh Danny Boy," the traditional song so beloved by the Irish. It happened, once, during one of my final visits to Lawrence during his lifetime, for his and my grandmother's 50th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated in a private room at a local restaurant. As the music played and he began to weep. I leaned over to my Mom and asked her, "um ... are we Irish?" She smiled. "Nope!"

Not My Flag

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A couple years later, in 1998 or 1999, the entire family — 15 of us or so, from four generations (I was in the third), including a few spouses — gathered at my Aunt Kathy's house in Topeka the morning after Christmas. Our family is talkative and good-humored, and family gatherings were ... not known for extended silences. This was a typically laughter-filled and energetic morning, as we sat in a big circle sharing stories and laughing. At one point I made some comment or told some (I thought) humorous story. My grandfather, reacting to the laughter, leaned forward, looking directly at me from across the room, and said, "David, has anyone ever called you Dick?"

A quick silence immediately fell over the room as we all tried to process that comment, and all I could think was that, not only had I been directly and firmly reprimanded for being overly-talkative by my grandfather, but that he had done so in the coolest and hippest way possible. None of my college friends would ever, even jokingly, have thought of insulting me by asking if I had ever been called Dick, and it stunned me that my approaching-80-year-old grandfather would have used this particular construction to make his point.

Still, I immediately got serious, and said, "no sir, but I understand." (I had never called anyone "sir" in my entire life, and have not done so since.). 

My mother and her sisters — my aunts were stunned. Everything got quiet. Silence reigned supreme.

Then, however, everyone jumped in trying to make sense of what had just happened, and it soon turned out that ... in seeing me wave my hands as I spoke my grandfather had been reminded of the basketball commentator Dick Vitale, and was simply trying to make a joking reference. The relief that swept the room was palpable, as none of his children could even imagine him using that kind of pointed and off-color language, let alone towards one of his grandchildren.

My friend James — a best friend from the Peace Corps, who had, in the interim, met and married my cousin Allegra, thus joining my family — was in the room that day, and he has never let that moment slip from his memory. To this day he sometimes asks if anyone has yet called me "Dick." 

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Finally, although I wasn't there at the time, I am told that, on his deathbed a year or two later, somewhat delirious, my grandfather called my cousin Sarah over to him, and instructed her clearly and firmly to "stay out of jail." Sarah, a nice young woman in her early 20s who had not ever been to jail but, let's be fair, up to that point, had not devoted much mental energy to avoiding it, promised him that she would.

Delirious or not, that has always seemed like a good final instruction to give to your grandchildren on your deathbed. My generation could have avoided a lot of trouble, it seems to me, if they had been told, in their youth, in no uncertain terms, to stay out of jail.