So Long, Andruw

I never really liked Andruw Jones. I emphasize "really" because I loved him for a short while at first. What Braves fan didn't? In games 1 and 2 of the '96 World Series, this kid came out of nowhere and hit two home runs against the Yankees we hated more than Clinton. For a brief while, all of two games, Andruw was our hero. And then we lost the Series 4-2. Our streak of bad luck has continued ever since.

Maybe he's to blame, then. I'm only kidding, of course, but it's worth a consideration, at least. The Braves never had much success in the playoffs following that '96 Series with the Yanks. Sure, we made it to the Series a time or two after, but we never won. Most years, it was plumb disappointing, losing to Houston or some other wildcard team in the first round.

A few days ago, I was looking back at old stats, looking at the Braves W-L record in the late '90s and the first few years of the century. We did pretty well. We probably averaged 100 wins from '98-'05. You'd figure we'd get lucky one of those years, like the Marlins, Angels, or Cardinals, but we never did. It didn't make any sense why we weren't winning in the postseason, when it mattered.

Try to remember those years, if you can. If you followed baseball, even peripherally, try to remember. The way I remember it, Andruw Jones never made it big. Sure, in all, he won 9 straight gold glove awards; he's one of the greatest center fielder of all time. But what does that mean to an American audience saturated by the media with famed athletes from dozens of sports all over the globe? If you're playing baseball, and your name isn't ARod, Bonds, or Clemens, no one's going to think much about you. Players like Vlad, Manny, Big Poppy, Andruw, and a host of others are decent gamers, but they're not great. Maybe what they have in common is that each has the ability to be great, but none has the consistency to be great.

Andruw never excelled as a batter. There was a year he hit over .300, but for all the Braves baseball I watched growing up (and I watched a LOT), I never wanted him batting in the clutch, with two on and two out. He could hit homeruns, but he couldn’t hit. I wanted Chipper, or Javy, even Klesko some years, but I never wanted Andruw. I always thought he would ground into a double play. Most of the time, he did.

Andruw might have been the last great player to come through Greenville. I think Jermaine Dye passed through AA a few months before Andruw showed. Dye always struck out, but when he hit the ball, it was beautiful; that's how you knew he was going to be good, sort of like Francoeur. We never saw Andruw swing the bat much, but when he did, he was great. After just 40 games, he was off to Richmond. This kid's star was always on the rise. Some players struggle to find their footing in the minors; most never do. Andruw soared through Greenville with a batting average near .350, 37 RBIs in as many games. He was supposed to be great.

As I said before, the sport I grew up in love with is almost dead. Few people care to watch it relative to just a decade ago. Blame the strike of '94, the constant shift of players from team to team, the steroids. I just don't feel as if I can relate to baseball players anymore. I feel as if I knew Sid Bream, Jeff Blauser, Terry Pendleton, Fred McGriff, and Mark Lemke. Those guys were your average run-of-the-mill ball players. They made me believe they played, as the cliche goes, for the love of the game. I can see those guys as kids, playing on a sand lot.

I loved the Cecil Fielders and John Kruks of the sport, the guys who weren't uber-athletes, but who played with heart. I can't recall anything these days that makes me the feel the same way Sid Bream did, huffing and puffing his way from 2nd to home to the cry of "Braves win! Braves win!", or the same way Kirk Gibson did, slamming one of the most memorable homers in baseball history and pumping his fist as he rounded first.

Guys back then didn't play for a salary or leave the teams they loved for more money; at least not as much as they do now. They loved baseball and everything else--their fans, their city, their teammates. Back then, we had teams to cheer for, groups of guys we'd recognize when we saw them on TV! Nowadays, with players switching jerseys on a monthly basis for higher salaries and hopes of greater popularity, you can hardly recognize the guys on "your" ball club.

All this raises another issue--are the Braves even my team anymore? All the guys I grew up cheering for, the guys I admired, are gone, save Smoltz. I recently moved to Arlington, VA, 700 miles from Atlanta. But it's not so much what I've done; it's what the players have done. They've started selling themselves to the highest bidder. Fans don't control the players anymore. Maybe we never did, but at least the players showed us respect. Now they couldn't care less for respect, but why should they when they're getting paid millions regardless of whether we like them or not?

It's possible I don't keep up with baseball as much as I used to, but I'm not so sure about that. I still watch it quite a bit, and I always keep up with the stats. I'm fascinated by statistics, and I'm not quite sure why. They're only numbers, and they're usually the same each year. I'd like to think it's not the numbers, but what they stand for.

For all the pitches fouled off, all the swings that slice air, all the balls low and away, one pitch on a full count can end all hope, that last pitch, a strike, taken, looking, that makes you 0-1 for the game, that makes your average dip .003 immediately, that makes your season average end up .003 percentage points short of the NL batting title for the 2007 season. But it's just one statistic. 0-1.

As baseball has died off as a sport and football has risen to the ranks of royalty, few baseball players are outstanding enough to catch the attention of the media, to make a splash in the human interest stories. Players like Andruw Jones are old news, a consistently good defensive player with only a semi-decent swing. Every now and then, he'll generate some hype with an incredible catch, but he'll always be overshadowed by the home runs and the 5-5 days of the guys who can hit.

In football, the Peyton Mannings, the LTs, and the Chad Johnsons--the guys who score, the guys on offense--make the highlight reel. Still, in football, defensive players can make a name for themselves, guys like Champ Bailey and Sean Merriman, and show up on TV quite often. Maybe baseball's sunk so low that defensive players aren't even in the ranks of the "almost" famous. Seriously, who's the second best defensive outfielder in the majors? Who even wins the gold glove awards these days?

It's sort of sad, the slow death of baseball and, now, the departure of Andruw Jones from the Atlanta Braves. I don't feel as if I'll miss him as a player, though, but I'll miss what he takes with him. See, he played for the Braves in the '90s with the likes of Glavine, Maddux, Smoltz, Klesko, Javy, Chipper, Wohlers, and Rocker. I miss that he'll take those memories that seem like family memories to me. He doesn't deserve them as much as I do.

He played pathetically all year long. He never came out of his slump. It was painful to watch him swing and miss so many times. Even batting in the 5 spot, he couldn't drive in 100 runs. Andruw undoubtedly played 2007 with 2008 on his mind. Unfortunately for him, 2008's going to be here soon, a lot sooner now that the Braves failed to make the playoffs. There isn't a single at bat left for him to improve his pitiful .222 average, an average that isn't going to impress a single team out there, certainly not the guy cutting the salary checks.

Maybe Andruw always failed when he felt pressured to do well, like in the postseasons. From '97 to '05, he never did surprisingly well in October, certainly not as well as we'd hoped he would when we saw him play in Greenville as a kid or the '96 Series as a rookie.

If there was a reason we didn't make the playoffs this year, it was him. All those strikeouts, all those double plays added up. No one on the Braves played as poorly as he did. Well, maybe Scott Thorman, but only by 2 points on the average. And when we start comparing Andruw Jones to Scott Thorman, it's time to say farewell, Andruw, and good riddance.

Bar & Grill

In Greenville, you might see a restaurant include the words "Bar & Grill" in its title (e.g., Uno's Chicago Bar and Grill). As my friend Paul would say, "No worries!" Although you'll certainly find a bar, a staple in restaurants these days, you'll also find a significant portion of the establishment dedicated to food service.

Not so in Arlington. Assume it's only a bar unless told otherwise. Yeah, there's probably a grill somewhere in the back, but no one's eating, and no one goes there for food.

I've found out that learning a city means hitting and missing. Mostly missing, but when I hit, it's pretty cool. When I miss, it rots.

Goodnight.

Marshall justifies America's claiming ownership of Indian land

This type of post, justifiably, appears unorthodox. Not the scholar, I'm definitely not the type to blither on, sounding old toast all the while, about "intellectual" muck. I've been in the library all afternoon and just read an interesting, well-articulated SC decision from J. Marshall in 1823.

Here are the basics of the case (NOT to bore you): this guy Johnson purchases a piece of land from some Indians. Later, this dude M'Intosh obtained a land patent (right of ownership) from the US gov't to the same land. So who owns the land? Does Johnson, who got the land from the original inhabitants, or does M'Intosh, who got the land from the ruling national authority? Well, as much as Americans back then loved Indians ( . . . ), they loved land more and claimed ownership of any land they discovered (n. The act or process of finding or learning something that was previously unknown). So, yeah, I mean, realistically, the Indians discovered the land first. But evidently lacking a soul excludes you from owning land. So although Indians, technically, discovered the land first, they didn't own in; they just occupied it.

And guess the only person to whom the Indians could sell the land? Or, as Marshall puts it, who possessed the exclusive right to purchase from the Indians? Yeah, Uncle Sam. Not that Johnson guy, or anybody else, for that matter.

BUT before you start feeling all sorry for the Indians, as I did (I mean, there is this issue of natural rights . . . ), read the following:

". . . the tribes of Indians inhabiting this country were fierce savages, whose occupation was war, and whose subsistence was drawn chiefly from the forest. To leave them in possession of their country, was to leave the country a wilderness; to govern them as a distinct people, was impossible, because they were as brave and as high spirited as they were fierce, and were ready to repel by arms every attempt on their independence.

"What was the inevitable consequence of this state of things? The Europeans were under the necessity either of abandoning the country, and relinquishing their pompous claims to it, or of enforcing those claims by the sword, and by the adoption of principles adapted to the condition of a people with whom it was impossible to mix, and who could not be governed as a distinct society, or of remaining in their neighbourhood, and exposing themselves and their families to the perpetual hazard of being massacred."

Abandon America or take control using the sword to create order? A utilitarian concept, for sure. But moral, as well -- save lives? The Indians could not be controlled (think Lord of the Flies), even when Americans attempted to live peaceably among them. So was the US Gov'ts ultimate use of the sword justified? Upfront compensative measures would have been a more justified approach, rather than the immediate claim to ownership of land and later (necessary, I believe) domination by the sword.

Enough on that. I'll get to posting normal stuff soon enough. Until then, love y'all.

two phrases I coin for the world tonight

Anticipation heightens satisfaction.
- me

Once you've loved, you always want to be in love. You don't want to jump, though. You want to fall all over again.
- me

The guys cabin beat the girls in Scripture memory, so it's only fair . . .

 

Two of my Boys -- GO CC!

 

The Two Craziest Calhouns!

 

Guys of the Crazy Calhouns!

 

Ladies of the Crazy Calhouns!

 

message from camp

I thought I'd update my blog for the first time in a little under a year. I earlier explained why I don't much care for blogs -- people who keep blogs constantly updated have either perfected their time management skills or time to waste (I know the parallelism isn't quite there, but this grammar and spelling on this blog should still rank in the 99th percentile of internet blogs).

So I've been at camp. Three Saturdays ago, I packed up and sped off to the Wilds Christian Camp near Brevard, North Carolina. One of the largest Christian summer camps in the world, the Wilds (accurately penned "WILDS" [an acronym of which I've long since forgotten the meaning]) attracts approximately 800-1000 kids, graded anywhere from elementary school to senior high school, each week during the summer.

I began staff training week that very Saturday I arrived, and I wasn't ready. I thought counseling would be fun. I thought I'd be able to use my persuasion and intellect to the glory of God. I had no clue that God had other plans. God revealed my self-centeredness more than anything else that first week of camp. At this point, I should interject to mention that I'm describing all the gory details neither to make my reader revere me nor to draw a sympathetic vote. I hope you'll examine your heart all summer long, determined to root out anything that makes you think you've got it down (Rev. 3 -- referring to the Laodiceans).

Almost everyone who knows evangelist Tom Farrell has an opinion about him. I can't see how criticism does any good. It's cliche, but nobody has it down perfect; God's not preaching to us. At times, I disagree, but at most others, I couldn't be more satisfied that God's put him in the pulpit. He preached to us staffers a few times during staff training week and every night during the first week of camp. When you realize your complete dependence on God, you tend to take more notes during services and absorb more of the biblical references. I've taken in so much Scripture and studied so much more that I can, from the Bible, lead somebody to the Lord, assure someone of his salvation, or help him root out and replace the sin in his life. I couldn't do any of that before. SURE I knew what Scripture said, but I couldn't place the references. It was as though I had a debate case with a lot of evidence, but I didn't know what the sources were for the evidence. Now I can truly say that I have both a logical and a biblical defense for the blessed hope inside me.

The very nature of a large university, divided into many different colleges, makes it impossible for any one student to know, either nominally (correct usage?) or personally, more than half of the other students attending the same university. When I chose to counsel at camp, I placed myself among Bible, Camp Ministries, Missions, Women's Ministries, and Music majors -- VERY FEW of whom I had every met. The counselors come from a number of Christian colleges and universities: BJU, Maranatha, Crown, Tennesse Temple, Clearwater, PCC, etc. With over 120 counselors, the Wilds is a place where I've not only met a ton of new people, but also made a ton of new friends -- close friends. The religious aspect ultimately forces counselors to be closer friends, constantly discussing the most-asked questions (Who am I? What am I doing here? Where am I going?) and most controversial subjects (Music, Suffering, Addictions, etc.).

I finished my first week of camp this past week, and thank God for his strength in my weakness! I had junior high-aged teens (12-15), and, once again, a hearty THANK GOD that my campers didn't destroy me! During the week, I heard horror stories. One counselor had his mattress, pillow, and bed sheets thrown on top of the bath house. Another counselor had to deal with campers flashing cameras after lights out . . . for hours each night! I think all of us counselors had to deal with lazy campers, but that's the essence of a junior high boy, so no surprise there :) I had some great kids who made even greater decisions. If I can remember how, I'll place pictures on this blog. The camp divides into three teams: red, blue, and GREEN! I'm on the GREEN team, and we're the Calhoun Crazies. The theme this year is "Friendly Feudin,'" so red=McCoys, blue=Hatfields, and GREEN=CALHOUNS! With more Peggy passion (don't worry about it), more games won, and more voices lost, we CALHOUN CRAZIES won the first week of camp.

So 9 more weeks. I can't promise an update every week, but I'll do my best. If you happen to think about it, pray for us. I thought the majority of campers would be Christian kids from good homes who wanted to have a fun week at camp. Boy was I surprised! From so many different backgrounds with so many different stories, these kids need Christ badly! Pray that each counselor can continue to be used of God for his perfect work. Pray that we'll remain (or get) healthy. Finally, pray that the kids will be tender to the amazing love of our God.

"All glory, laud, and honor, all majesty and praise,
to Creator and Redeemer, to the Ancient of Days!"

And finally, Lily & me in front of the White House

Jake and "L" Wood

Mom & Dad with Calliope

Lady with a Carisol

My favorite artist and a favorite painting of mine

Still life

I'm a sucker for landscapes

Adam & Eve thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Note the lion's look of shock and the lamb's face of anger.

This is a picture of a young Bacchus :o)

Did someone say tennis?

It was pretty busy at the July 4th festivities in DC on the Capitol lawn

Should this guy really be in the 4th of July Parade?

Korea. 52,246 US Dead. Thanks, Harry.

Mom & Dad by the reflecting pool

Girl at the Vietnam Memorial

Vietnam Memorial

Lily and me at the WWII Memorial

Mom & Dad at the WWII Memorial

How radiant!

Puck in front of the Folger

"His drama is the mirror of life" - SJ

Milton's praise of Shakespeare

A side view of the Folger Shakespeare Library with the Capitol in the background. The engravings depict a few of Shakespeare's plays (Macbeth, Juliet Caesar, and Midnight are just a few).

Will, busy at work......

Russell—constructed from 1903-1908. Senators moved into Russell in 1909. At that time, each Senator had 2 offices. Currently, Senator DeMint has 9 offices. The oldest Senate office building, Russell is also the most aesthetic: 26 huge Doric columns line Constituion Avenue while Corinthian columns decorate the Russell Rotunda.

Here's a picture of the Capitol from the Southeast side

The Final Day

Now that it’s all over, it’s hard to believe it ever happened. I guess that’s just cliché; however, it’s also true. I’m back at home, a fact that makes this post seem a little less distant. I had a great time in DC this past month and I learned a lot.

I had a final day that defied the limits of misfortune. Usually, one or two bad things happen to a person in one day, causing him to label his experience “a bad day.” I lost count.

Earlier in the day, I gave my parents a tour of the Capitol and helped Jacob move out. Around 3:30 pm, I met Mr. Razmgar at his car dealership in Clarendon; he drove me back to the house so I could pick up my car. When I arrived at the Razmgar residence, Dave Williams, a graduate of BJU and a member of Pi Gamma, was waiting in the driveway. He had been working in Alabama this past year; just recently, Dave was promoted and was transferred to the DC area.

I got the keys, jumped in my car, and—voila—the battery’s dead. No surprise here. The car hadn’t been driven in a month. When I came to DC, I had planned to drive my car on the weekends; that never happened b/c I could get anywhere I needed to go using the Metro. Luckily, I put jumper cables in my trunk before I left SC earlier in June. I took them out, hooked them up to my car and Dave’s, and I started up my car. I thanked Dave and Mr. Razmgar, and I headed back to DC.

My plan was to keep my car in a parking garage overnight, pick it up and pack it up in the morning, and leave. As I look back on the evening, Burns’s “To a Mouse” comes to mind: “The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley.”

During my drive into DC, I most wonderfully discover that my air conditioning doesn’t work anymore. How does that happen? One month it works, the next month it doesn’t. Did somebody steal my A/C? When my A/C decided to give up the ghost, I’ll never know. I rolled down the windows in order to keep my sweat to a minimum (here, “minimum” means 2 gallons of sweat/minute instead of the usual 17). At this point, Zeus gets a sick idea in his head and turns on the clouds. Of course, this action adds balance to my life. The day after I arrived in DC, it rained; it only makes sense to have it rain the day before I leave.

Ever seen the movie Airplane? Remember when that pilot guy starts sweating profusely at the end of the movie? That’s what happened to me. With no A/C in the car and pouring-down (an adjective) rain outside, I started to get hot. But that’s hardly something to complain about. My interior lights start to blink, indicating (I think) a problem with the battery. After the first 30 or so blinks, I understand that there exists a problem with my battery. Did you hear me, you stupid car, I realize there is a problem! SO STOP BLINKING!!!!! Note: I have discovered a technique that the U.S. military might find useful at Gitmo.

With no A/C, pouring-down rain, and blinking lights, the windows start to fog up. See, defrosters require cold air in order to effect (not affect) a disappearance of the fogginess. B/c the A/C is broken, my defroster does not work. So as I enter the DC area where traffic lights are positioned on the side of the road (rather than hanging from wires like I’m used to), my windows start to fog up. I start asking simple questions: Why me? Why now? I start on 26th and Constitution NW, exactly 28 blocks from my apartment and 31 blocks from a parking garage at Union Station. Painfully I drive down Constitution, stopping suddenly whenever I realize that I’m in an intersection and don’t know the color of the light (red, green—who cares, right?).

Go get a drink, get some food, or just read the rest of this later. Anything that could have gone wrong went wrong. I found Union Station and the parking garage without further ado. After parking my car, I headed to the shops at Union Station, where I would meet an agnostic friend for dinner. I met her on the Metro two weeks before. We had gone out to dinner a couple days after I met her. That’s when I was able to get to know her and explain my faith to her. She attends Vassar College in upstate NY, a college known for its extremely liberal students and faculty. Her name is Jamie and, surprisingly, claims to be apolitical.

Her family situation, personal situation, etc. is complex. She’s had a rough life, many ups and downs. I shocked her with my background :o) A nuclear family, a Christian school, and a faith in which I have complete confidence—it was all new to her. The first night, we ate dinner and walked around. All summer, the Lord had been preparing me for this moment. I used what I had learned in Doctrines, The Screwtape Letters, and Can Man Live Without God? to answer all of her questions; and she had a lot of questions! The night before I left, we went to dinner at Hotel Washington.

Both inexpensive and extravagant, Hotel Washington is a restaurant I would recommend. Never a fan of organized religions, Jamie believed that the individual determined his own purpose in life. But she had no answers when I asked her how she determined moral law, or what hope she had for an afterlife, what meaning we had here on earth. We talked about everything: Kant, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, origin, meaning, purpose, Christianity, Catholicism, and Islam. I left her with many questions and hope to keep up correspondence. Please pray for her if you remember her. She couldn’t bring herself to believe. She admitted that she didn’t have the faith.

I left her around 10:00 pm and headed to the Metro. When I arrived at Metro Center, I would have had to wait 15 minutes for the next train. I decided to leave the Metro station and walk back to my apartment. Yes, I’m the idiot who said, “Forget the Metro, I’m going to walk the 14 blocks to my apartment.” I’m not sure why I did that; five blocks into the walk, I was even more unsure. So fourteen blocks later, bathing in sweat, I entered my air-conditioned apartment building to pick up my car keys. B/c Union Station didn’t have overnight parking, my plan had changed: I would drive my car from the parking garage to my apartment complex, pack that night, and leave in the morning.

I didn’t want to spend a lot of time at my apartment; I just needed to pick up my keys. B/c I was thirsty, I wanted to get some water before I left. And I entered the kitchen....... What in the world??? Did my sink throw up? What looked like either fertilizer or wet ground coffee coated the sink and blotched the wall and countertops. I stood there and stared for about 20 seconds. I made sure nothing was moving and then I turned off the light and left, trying to forget what I saw. The only way my night could have been any worse was if my car didn’t start up in the parking garage.............

After that, the only way my night could have any been worse was if my arm got completely stained in soot when I leaned it on a traffic sign while waiting for a jump.............

After that, the only way my night could have any been worse was if my A/C still didn’t work, if it was still raining outside, if my windows continued to fog up, if I got lost while driving to my appointment, and if those STUPID INTERIOR LIGHTS KEPT BLINKING!!!!!.............

But after it all, I picked up a friend I had met at Russell, parallel parked in front of my apartment at midnight, and walked over to the Heritage Foundation, where I watched Sleepless in Seattle. That movie would have given even Ivan Denisovich a warm feeling inside. After watching the movie and saying goodbye to the friend, I headed back to my apartment with a smile on my face. I cleaned what I could in my kitchen, packed everything in my car, and hit the sack around 4:00 in the morning.

What a day, right? And after spending an hour writing over 1,400 words about it, I think I’ll remember it for quite some time :o)

Reflections later. I left my apartment yesterday at 6:57 am (my car started—yay!) and arrived in Greenville at 3:15 pm. I went to bed at 11:40 pm last night and awoke at 4:30 pm today. Sweet :)

Back to bed. I’m out.