The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?— William Blake, 1794
Monthly Archives: September 2020
This Just In: Trump Bad President
One of the highlights of my professional career is to have once shared a front page with Bob Woodward.
While a cop reporter at The Washington Post, I wrote a small, local piece (about a gas leak, I believe) that broke late in the day, prompting editors to put it on 1A. Woodward, an associate editor at the paper, had another blockbuster investigative piece on political goings-on in D.C., so it naturally graced the cover.
I am still humbled to have shared real estate with the man, who remains a living hero of mine.
But I write this as an old man and former colleague of Woodward, not fawning neophyte.
And Bob screwed the pooch on this one.
Woodward made headlines Wednesday with details in his new book, Rage, a damning indictment of Donald Trump and his administration. The book, made up of Trump’s 18 taped interviews with Woodward, depicts a president who has betrayed the public trust and the most fundamental responsibilities of his office.
The meatiest detail is Trump’s disregard for COVID. Woodward writes that Trump called him on Feb. 7 to inform the journalist of the secret briefing he had with White House intelligence officials about the virus. The book and Post write:
“You just breathe the air and that’s how it’s passed,” Trump said in a Feb. 7 call. “And so that’s a very tricky one. That’s a very delicate one. It’s also more deadly than even your strenuous flus.”
“This is deadly stuff,” the president repeated for emphasis.
…Trump admitted to Woodward on March 19 that he deliberately minimized the danger. “I wanted to always play it down,” the president said. “I still like playing it down, because I don’t want to create a panic.”
Which leads me to this painful question: What the fuck were you doing, sitting on that detail, Bob?
We are hurtling past 190,000 American deaths to COVID-19, thanks largely to a populace ill-informed about the virulent threat of the global pandemic. Yet you knew about it by the first week of February, Bob (and, presumably, The Post)? And you chose to save that little news nugget for the hardcover book?
I love you both, but fuck both of you.
The 24-7’s have run wild the outlandish details of the book (of which there are many). And few seem to take issue with the facts in the tome, including the president.
But I haven’t seen much in the way of anger or concern about Woodward and The Post relinquishing their duties as journalistic icons to inform and protect the public. How many people would have had to die before writing a straightforward news piece, book sales be damned? Apparently, not 13,899, the current body count.
I will try to keep my soap box narrow, but reporters — especially old school newspapermen — got into this job to be flashlights. Our job is to illuminate the world, particularly when there is a risk to public welfare. It’s why we once held the title “The Fourth Estate” of government.
Titles, though, don’t trend on Amazon, and they certainly can’t compete with tell-alls from Trump’s thug fixer. Or neice.
Imagine if Woodward had been covering a war instead of a pandemic, and American casualties were nearing 200,000. And Woodward had taped interviews in which the president admitted soldiers were being sent on suicide missions to boost morale back home. Woodward would be up for treason for costing thousands of lives, and rightly so.
There are so many damning allegations in the book that it seems hard to justify a reason for the information blackout. In another instance, Woodward had terrific details on Trump’s unmarked federal crackdown on civil rights protesters:
“We’re going to get ready to send in the military slash National Guard to some of these poor bastards that don’t know what they’re doing, these poor radical lefts.”
Now that’s a detail that can wait for the book.
Trump, who is arguably the most honest liar ever in politics, has labeled the book a “political hit job.”
Wrong, Donnie. You should have taken that punch a long time ago. And Bob? You should have thrown it.
The Ass-to-Risk of Pandemic Sports
First off, let’s be clear. It’s great having sports back. Fall is traditionally the finest season in professional athletics, as baseball, basketball and hockey wind to championships in their fields and football begins its ceremonious unveiling.
And athletes, in particular, deserve praise for putting their asses on the line during a global pandemic. In a time of virulence and existential uncertainty, it’s clear that sports means so much because they mean so little. We human beings need the trivial, particularly when treading the River Gravitas.
But any championship this year (and perhaps next) in worldwide sports will come with an asterisk. And that’s a good thing.
Because what we’re watching now, however entertaining, is essentially a sublime scrimmage, a professional practice, an elegant exhibition. For without an audience, how do we accurately measure athletic achievement? Can we really claim expertise in anything if we can’t display it in front of others?
Take the NBA playoffs, which began last month. As in all sports, teams typically compete for the best record during the regular season to secure home-court advantage throughout the championship run. Now, however, there is no such thing as a “home” game for any sport. There is no advantage to having a home crowd cheer you on — or, just as importantly, to jeer your opponent.
Consider the seismic effect COVID had on major sports. Before coronavirus, this was the winning percentage of teams playing at home, by sport:
MLB | 53.9% |
NHL | 55.7% |
NFL | 57.3% |
NBA | 60.5% |
MLS | 69.1% |
The percentages go even higher during playoffs. Now, though, sports have been left essentially spectator-less, and already, basketball has been upended. The Milwaukee Bucks, which were favored to win the Eastern Conference title this year, are down 1-3 and struggling to survive against the middling Miami Heat. At this weekend’s Kentucky Derby, Authentic, an 8-1 longshot, beat heavy favorite Tiz The Law.
Both developments would be big news had they occurred in front of raucous crowds. But does anyone consider Authentic a great horse? Or that the Miami Heat are The Bad News Bears of this year’s basketball season?
Alas, probably not. Part of athletic prowess has to include a measurement of a player’s nerves under pressure. Would quarterback Tom Brady be great without staring down belligerent crowds in opposing stadiums? Reggie Miller once scored eight points in nine seconds, a feat made famous only because the Indiana Pacers guard taunted hostile New York Knicks fans while doing it.
And so it will go, for all sports. During the U.S. Open tennis tournament (also in full bloom) this weekend, an ESPN commentator noted how loud the players were this year, perhaps because of amped-up virus tensions, time off, etc.
“No, that’s how they normally sound,” replied retired tennis champ Lindsay Davenport. The announcer was just hearing a match without crowds, she explained.
This isn’t to say sports haven’t been a blessed respite from the world. Many of the games have been thrilling buzzer-beaters, unlikely upsets and multi-period sudden-death overtime matches.
And god knows I’d dance a jig if one of my teams won a Super Bowl, NBA crown or World Series. I’d be just fine with any grammatical addendum.
But lets face it. Professional sports finds itself facing its own existential question: Does a tree make a sound if there is no one around to witness it?
The the case of sports, the answer is yes. It just sounds like caveat.