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To dope the racer is as criminal, as sacrilegious, as trying to imitate God; it is stealing from God the privilege of the spark. ~Roland Barthes
The late Chief Justice Earl Warren once said, “I always turn to the sports section first. The sports page records people's accomplishments; the front page has nothing but man's failures.” Fortunately, the Chief Justice is not around to read today's sports pages, which look more like a cross between a police blotter and the “Wall Street Journal”. A day does not pass without some said piece about cheating, doping, franchise financial troubles, or athletes' exorbitant contracts. On a really bad day, we can get all of them at once.
On today's sad news front, American Floyd Landis has been essentially stripped of his Tour de France title because his second drug test came back with the same results as the first. Landis continues to maintain his innocence, saying he normally has abnormally high testosterone levels, he was dehydrated, he was taking medication for his hip, and so on. Unfortunately, his body also appears to create synthetic testosterone, which is a little hard for anyone to explain. Landis still has avenues of appeal, and part of me wants him to be exonerated because, lordy, I am so tired of having wonderful sports moments destroyed by athletes cheating in some way.
In other news, Maurice Clarett, the one-time Ohio State hero and attempted NFL draft-buster, has been arrested again. You may have lost track of Mr. Clarett after he failed in his attempt to beat the NFL draft rules. He was ultimately drafted legtimately in 2005 in the third round by the Denver Broncos, who cut him before the season started. He was later arrested for aggravated robbery, for which he was awaiting trial when he managed his latest headline-grabber.
Bobby Bonds is under a continual threat of indictment by a grand jury for his involvement with BALCO and for tax evasion. Jose Canseco writes a tell-all book about steroids, which is roundly criticized until it is found to be extremely accurate. Rafael Palmeiro sits in front of a Congressional committee and swears up and down that he has never, ever, ever taken any illegal drug then promptly fails a drug test (if there were a Nobel Prize for stupidity ... ).
I don't know who started all this drug -taking, but football was into steroids years ago, often quite openly. It wasn't illegal, and, despite not knowing the long-term effects of steroid use, no one seemed to mind. No one cared, that is, until Lyle Alzado died from brain cancer, which he and others linked to his steroid use. Weightlifters and bodybuilders used them. Ultimately, baseball players, claiming to have gone on weight programs, were found to be using them.
Baseball players, of course, already had a long history of "greenies" and other colorful "uppers" to keep them going.
Then there's the ever-increasing number of stories of athletes at all levels getting caught by police doing all manner of stupid things. The ultimate incident had to be the Duke lacrosse team, getting accused by a woman of rape. Even if the rape story is untrue, the kind of party these guys were throwing was certainly inappropriate.
Lacrosse players. Good lord, what next? A scandal involving the Chess Team?
Sports has always had a seamy side, but it used to be winked at. Babe Ruth missed huge chunks of one season because he had syphilis, but newspapers went along with the team's cover stories about indigestion. Problems with booze, battered wives, and other legal scrapes were carefully hushed up to maintain the image of "clean, character-building sports." But, in the 1950's, college basketball point-shaving scandals could not be covered up. It seems that once the press started admitting that the ivory tower of sports was built on a foundation of sand, the whole structure started looking rotten.
I heard about an interesting study, for which I wish I had a link (however, an equally interesting and depressing study summary can be found here ). The study involved which college athletes had the best moral reasoning abilities, in essence, which ones were the most ethical. It turns out that at the top of the list were golfers, followed by tennis players. At the bottom of the list were " you'll love this " lacrosse players. Right above them were hockey and football players. Apparently, soccer, baseball, and basketball finished somewhere in between.
The conclusions drawn from the study ran something like this:
In sports involving individual integrity, where the athletes call their own penalties and keep their own scores, the athlete is less inclined to cheat.In team sports, the object is to sneak fouls past the officials. In fact, “good” coaches actually teach illegal techniques to their players, giving them methods, for example, to hold in football without being caught. Add a weapon (like a lacrosse or hockey stick) and you simply make matters worse.
On a side note, one announcer, interviewing someone about the study, allowed as how perhaps the reason golfers were so honest is because they come from a more “elite” (his word) portion of society. He is, of course, an avid golfer. In one instant, he managed to show himself to be elitist and racist (consider the number of black golfers besides Tiger Woods). To his chagrin, the study had taken socio-economic factors into account and found no correlation between social/ethnic background and being a cheat.
Cheating is as old as sport. In the olden days of professional baseball, when there were only two umpires, runners would occasionally take the straight route from first to third, ignoring second base. The other team would complain, but if both umpires were out of position, there was nothing to be done. Early football was an organized mugging that got so far out of hand that President Teddy Roosevelt considered having the game banned.
So, it's always been with us, but now it seems to be getting out of hand. Winning is not the main thing, to paraphrase Vince Lombardi, it's the only thing. Millionaire coaches lose their jobs for having a 9-2 football season. Athletes think that they are above the rules, both in sport and in real life.
Don't get me wrong. I love watching many sports, and I like my favorite teams to win. But, when winning begins to corrupt the sport, when adulation for star athletes completely warps their sense of right and wrong, it's time for us to take stock in ourselves to see if we really understand what's important. If coming out on top is all that counts, we lose the joy of participation. We forget that these are games and that games are supposed to be fun for both the participants and for the fans.
When success always implies cheating, we lose all sense of honor. I don't mean to imply cosmic significance to sports, but sports mirror our behavior in other facets of life. If we can't play a simple game honorably, how can anyone be trusted to deal honorably with anyone in business or legal affairs?
Come to think of it, I think the front pages Earl Warren mentioned are telling that story.
FROM Regina Chavez y Sanchez:
My beloved husband, Trinidad Sánchez, Jr., died today at the Methodist Hospital. He was such a loving man, gentle spirit and leader. His words and laughter will live on forever. The poet, activist and teacher must live on in all of us!
UPDATE: Check this website from Gemini Ink for information on upcoming memorial fundraising events and donations.
Woke up this morning to an email box full of blues shining blue light in my dawn blue room. Sad news. I am proud to say that I knew Trino. I was strongly and profoundly influenced by his energy and actions over the past 15 years. Like so many, I saw him as a role model. I loved the beret he wore proudly. (Not many people know that I was recruited for college by the Brown Berets -- who knows what would have become of me without an education.) I loved the Mexicaness of his passion, his passion for life -- even if that sounds like a cliche -- I had my father to show the way in that light; what a "whole man" is like, the literal translation of "macho" just as "hembra" is a woman, like Frida, realized. He was not afraid of sentiment. As one of my favorite musicians and philosophers, Joam Armatrading, once sang: "Show some emotion!" I say that as the first order of advice to developing poets. Emotion, not the end-all, but the kick that gets the wheel turning for turning out the perfect urn. Trino understood this Master/Slave dialect better than Hegel. The only comfort I can muster is knowing that I am not alone, that there is a heart-force of his influence ready to help. Please help. Like so many of our artists, teachers, activists, Trino died without health insurance. At one point there was a fund established in the name of Jose Antonio Burciaga to help in such cases -- I'm not sure what happened, other than the fact that it's funded by out-of-work community workers, and low-paid professionals, like me. (I know Alfred Arteaga could use the help for his heart right now. And raulsalinas was recently hospitalized with a serious condition and faces more surgery.)
Sad to think how many are saddened right now. Maybe this sadness should be oil for the pump.
If you are in Texas, come to San Antonio for a benefit reading and memorial event August 6 at Ruta Maya. Thanks to Tammy, "Sunlit Doorway" for this info in the comment box of the previous message about Trino:
What: Trinidad Sánchez Jr. Celebration and Fundraiser
When: Sunday, August 6, 2006, 2-8pm
Where: Ruta Maya Riverwalk Coffee House
107 East Martin
San Antonio, TX 78205
210-223-6292
There will be an opportunity to sign up and share our words, read from his poems, tell stories and make music that celebrates Trino and the spirit he has imparted to us and so many others.
All proceeds (donations as well as a percentage of the sales revenue of that day at Ruta Maya) to help defray health care and rehab expenses for Trino.
For more info, you can click here and here for previous blog entries concerning Trino.
Anyone in Denver who can help with a venue for a fundraiser, let me know. One at Cafe Cultura would be good. I'll be in San Francisco for a reading at the Intersection of the Arts on August 6 (my birthday), but I'll be back around the 14th.
Here's a few of his poems. And, yes, write a poem and right a wrong, and light a light in some child's eyes for Trino. And light a laugh in some friend's face, and light a light in the heart of your lover. Regina, I am so, so saddened for your loss. As my mother often said of my father: "There will never be another man like him."
THE FIRST TIME
You tell your father "I love you."
It's not easy. For we are taught
to love women....not men.
My father was the one I wanted
to be near, to feel his strength,
to know his passion for life.
The distance between us went unnoticed
until that fateful day of the phone call.
It would be my first airplane ride
from Cincinnati to Detroit,
ironically, to be with him at death.
Funny, for years I saved the ticket stub
not sure whether to remind me
of my first flight or his death.
Standing next to him,
I remember being strong
after all, I was his namesake
and others were expecting me
to be a man.
The day I cried was months later,
when I went to my mailbox
for his weekly letters and poems.
The box was empty no letter, no poems.
I was so alone. Lost. Confused.
I had been taught about sex,
but no one had explained
the overwhelming sensations
that arrive with the death
of the man who for twenty years,
I called "papa".
He lay so still, properly embalmed.
His amigos from the Monterrey Poolroom
paid their final respects.
The priest said some stupid prayers.
I cursed God for the strange feeling
of being a young man without a father.
I wanted to hug him one last time
or would it be our first?
The line from the poem
he wrote to me,
after my leaving home,
"it was papa who took a drink
and wanted to hug you tight".
floated around
like a bad taste in my mouth.
Now the distance between the family
has separated us
to different parts of the country.
Mama, lost her voice,
she quietly waits for your return
at the Nightingale Nursing Home.
She teaches us a lesson how sometimes
death sneaks slowly up on you
weakens you till your last breath.
Now, I struggle to be father
for my beautiful ten year old daughter.
You are not here but I want you to know
I don't blame you anymore.
The poet in me wants to share a poem
with you, make you smile, laugh
but all I can do is tell the children
" . . . my father was a poet."
I feel so proud, at the precise moment
when I express your words with my voice:
but I remember too well
how the first time I told my father
"I love you" . . . was not easy.
* * *
ON THE QUESTION OF RACE
based on a poem by Michele Banks
They ask me to write down my race, and I think and think very seriously
and consider writing down the truth and have my answer read . .
I am the penúltimo of seven “Cepillos” and three seeeesters
"now at 61 I wash my hair with a washcloth!
Mis papas are from the edge of two countries y el Río Bravo
some say divides us while others agree unites us.
The countries I am from are full of languages that I have yet
learned to speak. Inside this body, I can carry four types of spit
Spanish, English, Poetry and Fire.
Jorge Negrete, Lucha Villa, Pedro Infante, Alfredo Jiménez,
legends de un otro tiempo echando gritos los corridos of a historia
never taught to me in school, a history I sometimes do not remember.
Loneliness inside this body has driven me to the sounds of Satchmo,
The Duke, Ella, Lionel pushing me away from the edge of death.
The American hamburgers, Chinese fortune cookies,
which I learned in my old age que no son de la gran China
Italian spaghetti, Arabic Hummus, the Greek salads
Mexican menudo, Puerto Rican tostones, Lebanese Pistachios
mama’s tortillas, frijoles y arroz tastes & flavors
linger in the bowels of a 170 lb. body.
In a poolroom as far as you could get from Monterrey
sounds of billiard balls clicking against each other
chasing after the classic 8 & 9 for a win are inside this body.
The gritos of Mexican men shouting ‘bolas, bolas, bolas’
wanting their balls racked echo in the drums of my orejas,
the smoke smell from papa’s cigars are carried
on the sides of my nostrils.
Mi padrino, tío Fermín y mi madrina tía Odila
the smell of oils, their paintings from visits to
their casita in a big city of iron, steel and cars
remains another world and a strong part of this body.
Ron Allen often threatened in his poems to kill
us with his blackness and he did and I have died
a thousand times inside the poems of people of
color in a city known for the death of her children
only to be given back in resurrection
of brown words others have called poems.
Cerveza y tequila cuentos have invaded
the veins & arteries leaving embarrassing
recuerdos y crudas inside this body.
El dolor y confusión de la muerte
the first death in my life
my best friend my abuela Abigail,
makes me afraid to really love
for in the end only death and loss remain.
The wins and losses of racquetball games,
cribbage games if you stand close enough
to my own embarrassment, I carry the smells
of being skunked.
The mystery of springtime, primavera uncovering
herself in the simple conversations of new friends . . .
how my father died on Good Friday . . .
tiempo de primavera finally connected us
the struggles of becoming a man - respecting other men
accepting them as replicas of my father
whose name and legacy I carry in the initials Jr.
But I stop
and simply
write down
CHICANO!
* * *
POEM FOR MY BROTHERS ON FATHER'S DAY
Brothers-
Valiant/committed to peace
The ones who struggle for dignity
and do not run from the suffering
of their people,
sincere, good gentlemen
who are not afraid to ask for pardon
and who know how to forgive.
Those who in the sacred moments
so human in life
are not afraid to cry
and who with out embarrassment
are not afraid to hug their sons & daughters
trying to be a brother and father
or who are also mother and sister
a companion sharing friendship.
Brothers"
projected to the future"the cosmic race
connected to his roots"his past
forming community, respecting his culture
the ones who love life
and know how to celebrate it.
the ones who respect women
without dominating with their machismo,
those who know how to be persons of faith
and are not afraid to pray.
Brothers"
honest, some-Chicanos/Latinos/Blacks
Americans and those who are Puerto Ricans . . .
these are the men
who have shown me how to love and
who today, we remember
these are my brothers
we salute
on their day of celebration.
* * *
Trinidad Sánchez, Jr. is a renowned Chicano performer, poet and author of several books of poetry including the best seller Why Am I So Brown?, the venerated Poems by Father and Son, and Compartiendo De La Nada, which addressed politics in Central America. In more than twenty years of teaching and performing he has been featured over 1000 times in various schools and poetry venues. In January 2005, after years of literary performance and activism in Denver and Albuquerque, he and his wife, Regina, returned to live in San Antonio Texas.
Described by the late Ricardo Sánchez as singing “the shaman song of meaning and justice,” Trinidad has been recognized for his activism on behalf of those in the penal system and his commitment to peace and the struggle against racism and other forms of oppression. He was awarded the Martin Luther King “Keep the Dream Alive” Award for serving as an inspiration to students. For promoting the mission of the public school system, he was awarded the Champion of Education award by the San Antonio Independent School District. He has worked as a trainer/counselor with developmentally delayed adults in a group home for Mission Road Development Center, San Antonio, Texas.
SOURCE--newspapertree/
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