A Different Kind of Fan ***

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been passionately rooting for sports teams, political causes, and those few special politicians I consider heroes.  Even at six, having watched my father speak on street corners, I cared deeply for Henry Wallace and bemoaned Harry Truman’s presidential victory.  I reveled each time the Brooklyn Dodgers won the Pennant and mourned with equal depth when they lost to the Yankees in the World Series.  I felt personally defeated when the Celtics of Russell, Cousy, and Heinsohn, year after year, demolished the Knicks.  Years later, as a Bostonian of a few decades, I exulted when the Patriots and the Celtics soared to championships.

My political causes, or teams, have been those that urge us to bend toward justice. This goal has been at the center of my moral universe ever since I sat, each evening, at our family’s kitchen table for dinner and politics.  (It was hard to say which was more nourishing.)  Progress towards a just society has not followed a steady or even, at times, a sturdy course.  But I’ve been able to endure the down times — McCarthyism, Reaganism, even Trumpism — because I’ve always had faith.  And faith, not reason, is the right word here — that those on the side of justice would outfight and outlive those who care so much less for “the people.” 

As for sports, from my college days on I knew that it wasn’t cool for a “serious” person like me to let my moods rise and fall with the fates of my teams.  But they did.  In my younger days I’d admit to Franny that, if I knew half as much about my professional fields as I did about football and basketball, I’d have made something of myself.  We’d laugh, but that statement was true to who I was—a fan, a partisan, an expert. 

As I grew into adulthood during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, it also wasn’t cool to be passionate about politics.  It was un-American, more in keeping with the radical mobs in Latin America who were overthrowing this or that government.  Dwight Eisenhower, the post New Deal president, was beloved for his calm, measured demeanor.  Eventually even Joe McCarthy was spurned, partly because he had let his passions get the best of him.  It wasn’t cool to be so engaged in political, but I was.  Truth be told, I have never been cool.

As I step back to gain perspective, it seems that my passion must have something to do with the comfort of being part of a team, a mythical community.  Joining with millions of others and roaring our pleasure and pain, our loyalty and companionship — much as I roared on the Civil Rights and anti-war marches in Washington.  I remember very well the feeling a deep comradeship with my fellow marchers, something akin to love.  I have sought that feeling through my life.

On the other hand, I never particularly cared for the sports communities I joined.  Nor did I identify with them.  I often thought them loud, boorish, and ignorant.  But that didn’t stop me from joining in the cheers for a great pass, a beautiful shot, a championship victory.  During the frenzied moments of big games, that mob felt like a community to me.  We were united in pursuit of a goal. 

But being part of a team or community was only part of the equation.  When I was young, we were poor and identified with the working class but hoped for more.  My temperament directed me to the future, a better future, to what might be … if only.  Not to the present.  I now see that that future-orientation, that quality of mind, has turned my attention away from many of the glorious things that are part of my daily life.

This realization comes not a day too soon, because my teams are losing, and I see no end in sight to their slides.  The glorious championship runs for the Patriots and Celtics are done.  My jump shot and my unsurpassed sprint to the end zone are in the past. 

More importantly, my political teams are losing, consistently.  The fight for democracy, justice, and climate control seems weak, while the forces of zealotry, selfishness and bigotry seem likely to triumph, at least during the coming decade.  I find it hard to imagine that we will find the will to clean up our planet before it is too late. The opposing political teams grow stronger as they spew hate, lies, and carbon dioxide with abandon. 

So, I feel a bit lost.  Rooting and hoping for victory has been an immersive part of my life.  It has been what I think and read and talk about.  I need to find the discipline to move rooting out from the center of my mind and my heart.  But I wonder what will replace it. 

Figuring that out seems to me the central project for the years I have left.  Rooting is an inherently future-oriented activity.  You hope that your team will win, each game, each season.  If it does, you savor the victory, then plan for how to keep it going strong.  If it doesn’t, you consider how to make things better for the next game, the next season. But I need something that feels whole, complete, in the nearer term.  And something less attached to victory.  Something with a community, however small or large, that I like for its own sake.  

Any friend would tell me I don’t have to search far. I can just change my focus.  There are many people and experiences that I value immensely.  It’s a matter of shifting my figure/ground perspective.  I can’t imagine purging myself of the rooting habit, but I can hope to increase the wattage of what I’ve got.  In other words, I want to let what is be more important than what might be. 

For example, it’s easy to appreciate my children and grandchildren – each one of them.  Right now at this minute, they are whole, vibrant, fascinating people.  I don’t have to imagine what they might achieve some day.  So, too, my dear friends.  And even the large circle of acquaintances who often delight me. 

Then there are the little things I do socially and politically that feel right, that mean well, even if they don’t lead to, or even intend to create, dramatic victories or transformations.  Like coaching those young organizational leaders who work with immigrants in our cities, with families trying to send their children to college, and doctors trying to cope with hospital conditions during Covid.  Like coaching political operatives, just behind those in the spotlight, helping them to be and feel effective, despite the odds against them, and to let them know that they are doing well enough.  When I can acknowledge that these bits of support are often helpful, or at least I’m told that they are, I feel that I’m doing enough.

Like listening to podcasts about aging, poverty, scientific invention, while taking my daily walk, and getting a kick out of learning, just learning.  Like the beauty of sitting with Franny, each morning, reading the newspaper and glancing through the giant window doors that look out on a forest, and especially when we are privileged to share our world with a pack of 4 or 5 white-tailed deer, prancing by like ballet dancers.  At that moment, they are mine, and I am entranced.  These are unearned gifts and special for just that.

There are so many, many experiences, every day, that call on me.  Focus here, Barry.  You’re getting better at it. 

*** This is a revised edition.

A Different Kind of Fan

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been passionately rooting for sports teams, political causes, and those few special politicians I consider heroes.  Even at six, having watched my father speak on street corners, I cared deeply for Henry Wallace and bemoaned Harry Truman’s presidential victory.  I reveled each time the Brooklyn Dodgers won the Pennant and mourned with equal depth when they lost to the Yankees in the World Series.  I felt personally defeated when the Celtics of Russell, Cousy, and Heinsohn, year after year, demolished the Knicks.  Years later, as a Bostonian of a few decades, I exulted when the Patriots and the Celtics soared to championships.

My political causes, or teams, have been those that urge us to bend toward justice. This goal has been at the center of my moral universe ever since I sat, each evening, at our family’s kitchen table for dinner and politics.  (It was hard to say which was more nourishing.)  Progress towards a just society has not followed a steady or even, at times, a sturdy course.  But I’ve been able to endure the down times — McCarthyism, Reaganism, even Trumpism — because I’ve always had faith.  And faith, not reason, is the right word here — that those on the side of justice would outfight and outlive those who care so much less for “the people.” 

As for sports, from my college days on I knew that it wasn’t cool for a “serious” person like me to let my moods rise and fall with the fates of my teams.  But they did.  In my younger days I’d admit to Franny that, if I knew half as much about my professional fields as I did about football and basketball, I’d have made something of myself.  We’d laugh, but that statement was true to who I was—a fan, a partisan, an expert. 

As I grew into adulthood during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, it also wasn’t cool to be passionate about politics.  It was un-American, more in keeping with the radical mobs in Latin America who were overthrowing this or that government.  Dwight Eisenhower, the post New Deal president, was beloved for his calm, measured demeanor.  Eventually even Joe McCarthy was spurned, partly because he had let his passions get the best of him.  It wasn’t cool to be so engaged in political, but I was.  Truth be told, I have never been cool.

As I step back to gain perspective, it seems that my passion must have something to do with the comfort of being part of a team, a mythical community.  Joining with millions of others and roaring our pleasure and pain, our loyalty and companionship — much as I roared on the Civil Rights and anti-war marches in Washington.  I remember very well the feeling a deep comradeship with my fellow marchers, something akin to love.  I have sought that feeling through my life.

On the other hand, I never particularly cared for the sports communities I joined.  Nor did I identify with them.  I often thought them loud, boorish, and ignorant.  But that didn’t stop me from joining in the cheers for a great pass, a beautiful shot, a championship victory.  During the frenzied moments of big games, that mob felt like a community to me.  We were united in pursuit of a goal. 

But being part of a team or community was only part of the equation.  When I was young, we were poor and identified with the working class but hoped for more.  My temperament directed me to the future, a better future, to what might be … if only.  Not to the present.  I now see that that future-orientation, that quality of mind, has turned my attention away from many of the glorious things that are part of my daily life.

This realization comes not a day too soon, because my teams are losing, and I see no end in sight to their slides.  The glorious championship runs for the Patriots and Celtics are done.  My jump shot and my unsurpassed sprint to the end zone are in the past. 

More importantly, my political teams are losing, consistently.  The fight for democracy, justice, and climate control seems weak, while the forces of zealotry, selfishness and bigotry seem likely to triumph, at least during the coming decade.  I find it hard to imagine that we will find the will to clean up our planet before it is too late. The opposing political teams grow stronger as they spew hate, lies, and carbon dioxide with abandon. 

So, I feel a bit lost.  Rooting and hoping for victory has been an immersive part of my life.  It has been what I think and read and talk about.  I need to find the discipline to move rooting out from the center of my mind and my heart.  But I wonder what will replace it. 

Figuring that out seems to me the central project for the years I have left.  Rooting is an inherently future-oriented activity.  You hope that your team will win, each game, each season.  If it does, you savor the victory, then plan for how to keep it going strong.  If it doesn’t, you consider how to make things better for the next game, the next season. But I need something that feels whole, complete, in the nearer term.  And something less attached to victory.  Something with a community, however small or large, that I like for its own sake.  

Any friend would tell me I don’t have to search far. I can just change my focus.  There are many people and experiences that I value immensely.  It’s a matter of shifting my figure/ground perspective.  I can’t imagine purging myself of the rooting habit, but I can hope to increase the wattage of what I’ve got.  In other words, I want to let what is be more important than what might be. 

For example, it’s easy to appreciate my children and grandchildren – each one of them.  Right now at this minute, they are whole, vibrant, fascinating people.  I don’t have to imagine what they might achieve some day.  So, too, my dear friends.  And even the large circle of acquaintances who often delight me. 

Then there are the little things I do socially and politically that feel right, that mean well, even if they don’t lead to, or even intend to create, dramatic victories or transformations.  Like coaching those young organizational leaders who work with immigrants in our cities, with families trying to send their children to college, and doctors trying to cope with hospital conditions during Covid.  Like coaching political operatives, just behind those in the spotlight, helping them to be and feel effective, despite the odds against them, and to let them know that they are doing well enough.  When I can acknowledge that these bits of support are often helpful, or at least I’m told that they are, I feel that I’m doing enough.

Like listening to podcasts about aging, poverty, scientific invention, while taking my daily walk, and getting a kick out of learning, just learning.  Like the beauty of sitting with Franny, each morning, reading the newspaper and glancing through the giant window doors that look out on a forest, and especially when we are privileged to share our world with a pack of 4 or 5 white-tailed deer, prancing by like ballet dancers.  At that moment, they are mine, and I am entranced.  These are unearned gifts and special for just that.

There are so many, many experiences, every day, that call on me.  Focus here, Barry.  You’re getting better at it. 

Where Wisdom Hides

I had picked up my 12 year old grandson, Eli, at 3 PM on Wednesday, as I always do.  As we drove from Needham to Lexington, we reviewed our regular checklist. What did you think of the Patriots this Sunday? What about the Celtics? What’s happening in your social studies class? I wish I had had a class like that in 6^th grade.  During the review, he proudly told me that he came in second in a geography contest, just one behind Justin, with time still to catch him.

For a while after we got home, Eli and Franny tried their hands at eggs benedict with some success. Since it was now 5:00 and he had been on the move since 6:00 in the morning, Eli and I thought to watch our favorite Nature program on TV.  B8ut we decided instead on a movie, The Seven Samurai.  I was a little hesitant to propose something as esoteric and lengthy as the 1954 Kurosawa classic about 16th century Japan, but we had already seen the American adaptation, The Magnificent Seven, and I figured The Seven Samurai might catch his fancy. As is his wont, Eli jumped right in.

At first, he was quiet and I wondered if he was just relaxing—his day begins at 6 AM after all—taking pleasure in just hanging out with me, feeling the nearness we have shared during his entire life.  Still, I worried a bit that I was taxing his almost boundless curiosity a little too far and that he’d find the movie too strange and off­-putting, maybe likely dull.   So, I asked if this was a poor choice.  “No,” he declared in a matter-of-fact way. 

After a while, Eli began asking some questions and I would pause the TV to respond.

“Did they really run that way?” 

“Yes, I think so,” I said, “though I don’t understand if their style was really so different than ours.” 

I like that he’s responding to cultural difference.    

“Why are all the farmers so scared of the bandits when there were so many of them?”  And “Where are the women?”

“In hiding,” I said. 

“Why?”

“Because farmers and villagers in those days had long experience of being bullied by bandits, Samurai, and aristocrats.  And the bandits would take advantage of the women.”  We didn’t go deeply into the meaning of taking advantage.  It seemed enough for Eli and enough for me. 

Eli also wanted to know why a young woman from a farmer’s home said that she could not marry someone from the samurai class.

“Because the class system was very strict, very rigid in those days.  In fact, for most of history and in virtually every country.”

Eli perked up at this and began to ask question after question about class systems and poverty and bullying.  The invitation to explain these weighty matters is mana from heaven for me—and for Eli.  We’ve been learning buddies for years.  Nothing forced.  Just the joy of it all.  We went on and on: question, answer, question, explanation.  Until we’d start the film again.    

Then the samurai and the farmers had to decide about their role in defending the village against the bandits who raided and exploit it every year, following the annual harvest.  The farmers insisted on consulting the village elder, a stooped old man, almost blind and deaf.  The Samurai are utterly respectful of this requirement and, though the old man offers little in the way of advice, his imprimatur is deemed essential to the strategic decisions they must make. 

This puzzles Eli.  Why should the opinion of such a feeble old man be so important?  I explained that throughout history, people believed that elders were considered wise.  “Really?” he replied.  “Why?”

“Because they had much more experience than the young farmers.”

“Really?” Eli responded.  That’s his cue for me to elaborate.

“Because they knew—they were entrusted with—the cultural rules that guided life in the village.  They could interpret each new experience in light of those tried and (sort of) trusted rules and beliefs.”

“Really?”  This time Eli wasn’t just urging me on.  He couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that age brought wisdom—or that wisdom was any different than knowledge.  After all, his parents know so much more about the world we live in that I do.  He didn’t say that but I imagined that might be what he was thinking. 

I was both bemused and saddened.  In so many worlds for so many years, our place, the place of old people, has been a place of honor.  Our counsel and wisdom are rarely sought.  But, in modern times, we are, for the most part, separated from the world of youth, middle age, and decision making.  In often kindly ways, we are encouraged to accept and enjoy our well-earned rest. 

Last week I read the New York Times Magazine section dedicated to obituaries.  They are beautifully written, often poignant, always compelling.  In one of them, Norman McDonald is quoted: “I live in an atrium of diminished expectations.” 

It’s true that we elders have infinite troubles navigating twentieth century technology.  We are frustrated, irritated, even hurt by our ineptitude, and sometimes by the mostly unintentional condescension of youth.

But the fundamental problem isn’t what we don’t know. It’s the lack of opportunity and respect for what we do know.  Unlike the Japanese farmers, we have mostly lost our villages: the communities within which our accumulated learning is akin to wisdom.  At least most of us have left our work villages.  Others have left our residential villages, downsizing ad simplifying our living arrangements.  We knew how to be at least relatively wise in those old places but it now becomes harder to find an ear for what we have learned over a lifetime.    

There are still people who appreciate the wisdom we would happily share with them.  I, for one, am fortunate in having nonprofit leaders and political operatives to coach, people who seek me out.  I, and some of you, still seem occasionally wise to our children and grandchildren.  The loss isn’t total.

I do believe that that, no matter how fast-paced and technological the world, we still have a good deal of wisdom to offer about life’s course.  As long as we’re close enough, connected enough to offer and to be asked.  That’s they key: staying close enough to the action. 

When he was 3, 4, and 5, Eli and I would take a two or three-hour ride on the MBTA every week.  We sat very close, often with him on my lap.  He’d announce to the stations in a high but commanding voice: “Porter Square. Next stop, Harvard Square.”  People would stare.   And as we sat there, when we weren’t discussing subway lines, we’d talk about anything and everything.   

He asks me still about everything under the sun.  I delight in sharing what I know and think.  Thank goodness for grandchildren!