Good-bye Panda

In J.D. Salinger's classic The Catcher in the Rye, the hero Holden Caulfield says at one point, "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." 

I was only 9 years old when I first read that line from Catcher, but I understood then implicitly what it meant. Nostalgia can be a drug if taken too often, or in too large doses, but the remorse we feel about the irredeemable past is a familiar sensation, at least to me. Losing people along the way, through death or departure, is an inexorable fact of growing up, aging, moving on. Those with whom we shared time, or event, or space, may come eventually to haunt our consciousness, as Evelyn Waugh puts it, in Brideshead Revisited, "as ghosts are said to do."*

Yesterday, it was reported that Pablo Sandoval, the San Francisco Giants' redoubtable, eccentric, and oddly charming third baseman since coming to the majors in 2003 at age 22, had signed a five-year contract (worth a reported 95 million dollars) with the Boston Red Sox. 

The free-agent signing wasn't unexpected. The Giants had failed to offer "The Panda" (as he had come to be affectionately known) a contract extension before the start of the 2014 season, and there was palpable suspicion on both sides--Pablo, and the Giants management--that the team's sense of his worth was less than might be deserved. 

Statistically, Sandoval has always been an interesting case. As his career stats (below) show:  


year       age           games         at-bats  R    H     2b   3n   HR RBI  SB       BB SO  BA           SLG

2008	21	SFG	NL	41	154	145	24	50	10	1	3	24	0	0	4	14	.345	.357	.490	.847	118	71	6	1	0	4	1	352
2009	22	SFG	NL	153	633	572	79	189	44	5	25	90	5	5	52	83	.330	.387	.556	.943	144	318	10	4	0	5	13	*53/2D	MVP-7
2010	23	SFG	NL	152	616	563	61	151	34	3	13	63	3	2	47	81	.268	.323	.409	.732	99	230	26	1	0	5	12	*53
2011 ★	24	SFG	NL	117	466	426	55	134	26	3	23	70	2	4	32	63	.315	.357	.552	.909	155	235	12	0	1	7	9	5/3D	AS,MVP-17
2012 ★	25	SFG	NL	108	442	396	59	112	25	2	12	63	1	1	38	59	.283	.342	.447	.789	123	177	13	1	0	7	4	5/3D	AS
2013	26	SFG	NL	141	584	525	52	146	27	2	14	79	0	0	47	79	.278	.341	.417	.758	116	219	19	6	0	6	5	*5/D
2014	27	SFG	NL	157	638	588	68	164	26	3	16	73	0	0	39	85	.279	.324	.415	.739	111	244	16	4	0	7	6	*5/D
7 Yrs				869	3533	3215	398	946	192	19	106	462	11	12	259	464	.294	.346	.465	.811	123	1494	102	17	1	41	50

--he was consistently a very good but not consistently great hitter, with some power. In fact, inconsistency was a given with Pablo. Emotionally, he presented the case of an immature, impulsive, undisciplined athlete, given to swinging at bad balls, especially in clutch situations. His physical mannerisms, and presence, suggested boyish enthusiasm. 

Also, as became routine each season, Pablo had a weight problem, which threatened to impede his balance, speed and efficiency, both at the plate, and in the field. For a man of his physical build, he seemed incredibly agile and quick, "like a cat," announcers would often remark. He could dive for screaming line drives on either side of him, leap to his feet, and make lightning throws to first base. 

Opposing pitchers often despaired of facing him, since he was as likely to strike a ball well out of the strike-zone, for a hit, as he was to swing through a straight fast-ball down the middle. You could outsmart him, pitch around him, but he might still beat you, swatting a pitch a foot outside into left field for a double. 

Though nominally a switch-hitter, his performance has increasingly been from the left side of the plate, this comparative advantage being as much as 100 points average difference. Given his height and weight, he was a slow runner. Playing at China Basin park, his home run totals, given the long right field dimensions, would never be impressive. Pablo was a "contact hitter," a "spray hitter"--unpredictable, frustrating, and perplexing. 

His coach, Bruce Bochty, understood Pablo's character, and usually left him alone, realizing that his fragile emotional immaturity would be unlikely to respond to direct criticism or scolding. Pablo rewarded this patience with great performances in big games. Christened the "Kung Fu Panda" by x-Giants hurler Barry Zito, the nickname stuck, and before long, the stadium was full of "panda hats" and head-masks. Sandoval was a fan favorite, as much for his roly-polly onfield presence as for his unlikely heroics. As a regular fan of the team, I probably heard or saw him play at least 500 times, and he became an accustomed persona in my world. 

Pablo didn't speak good English, and tended to seem a little exotic in person. You wondered what he thought about things, and how he might seem off the field. A native Venezuelan, he must certainly have felt strange in 21st Century America. 

Playing for the Boston Red Sox, given is big free-agent contract, Pablo will have big expectations to fulfill. Bosox fans will undoubtedly become impatient with him, and one suspects that, unless he exceeds the usual demands of a big-time free-agent star, he isn't likely to command the same respect and appreciation he did in San Francisco. 

Just before the beginning of Game 7 of the 2014 World Series, in Kansas City, the television cameras panned into the Giants dug-out, where Pablo could be seen going down the bench, whispering into the ear of each Giants player. It seemed clear that he was probably making his heart-felt good-byes to each of his team-mates, the implication being that he already had decided, perhaps unconsciously, that this would be the last chance he would have to do that. Or so it seemed to me at the time. 

As it turned out, the Giants apparently had ended up offering Pablo an equivalent amount of money for an equal number of years, as Boston had. But Pablo must have felt, in some sense, betrayed, and wished to go somewhere he was appreciated. 

Professional baseball is a business, and the players are employees. Baseball is a game, with rules, but a great part of the appeal for the fans, perhaps the most important part, is the sentiment of joy and caring that go into their appreciation. Identifying with players, spending one's hopes and fears on the performance of a group of grown men striving to succeed at a "boy's game" is a kind of legitimate folly that is as much a part of the American experience as democratic politics, or outrageously avant garde art, or fighting in foreign wars. 

It may be that we crave unlikely heroes, people who (like us) dream of being on the world's stage, striving to exceed our native abilities, and occasionally overcoming impossible odds to achieve feats of daring or skill. This certainly accounts for some of Sandoval's appeal. He was one of us, imperfect, unusual, and not always in complete control of his emotions. 

The hole he leaves in the Giants' heart can't be filled. The Giants may sign a slugging outfielder, or a new young rookie third baseman may arrive on the scene. But the Panda is irreplaceable, a key component of three championship teams, and a quirky, funny boy-man who alternatively broke our hearts, and heartened us. 

He will be missed.
                
___________________________________

*The full quotation is "I felt that I was leaving part of myself behind, and that wherever I went afterwards I should feel the lack of it, and search for it hopelessly, as ghosts are said to do, frequenting the spots where they buried material treasures without which they cannot pay their way to the nether world."     

Social Criticism Masquerades as Poetic License, or Vice Versa

Poetic license is defined as any departure from convention or from factual accuracy taken by a writer to achieve a desired effect. It's a colloquial term, used to denote a distortion or alteration of the conventions of grammar or language.

In the sense I'm using it here, it's also the freedom to--deliberately, and perhaps obviously--say things which may be harsh, critical, or exaggerated about a subject--things which we might ordinarily refrain from saying out of courtesy, or things which are simply (though perhaps, again, obviously or expediently) untrue.

Social criticism in literature refers to an appraisal of society, for any perceived flaw or condition which results in hardship, implying an alternative mode of social construction.

Putting these two principles together makes social satire in literature. Satire may take many forms: In drama, the representation of objects or subjects of ridicule;  in poetry, a rhetoric of mockery or disdain or burlesque.  

The early Modernist poets were adept at impersonating the mannerisms and conceits of the classes they despised or were amused by. As the 20th Century looked disdainfully back at the Victorian Age, it aped the platitudes of, and aimed literary arrows at, the decaying archetypes of presumption or mediocrity.

Young Edward Estlin Cummings took aim at the world of his parents' Harvard society, skewering their pretensions and meddlesome gossip in this deliberately eccentric sonnet.

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls     A

are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds             B

(also, with the church's protestant blessings              C 

daughters,unscented shapeless spirited)                     D

they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,     D 

are invariably interested in so many things—             C

at the present writing one still finds                               B

delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?               A

perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy              E

scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D                                  F

.... the Cambridge ladies do not care, above                 G 

Cambridge if sometimes in its box of                              G

sky lavender and cornerless, the                                       F

moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy                E

The degree of sarcasm displayed here--as with so many of Cummings's poems--far exceeds the putative limits of sophisticated lampoonery, sounding clearly adolescent in spirit and intent. It's the kind of mockery that teen-agers delight in, but which a more mature mind sees as hyperbole; which explains why Cummings has always been, and will always be, popular with young readers, especially those with a rebellious streak. 

At about the same time, Thomas Stearns Eliot was composing archly poisonous darts of the same variety, albeit with more subtlety and style. An Englishman by adoption and manner, Eliot could look with chilling irony on the hypocrisies of respectability and social decay which characterized the devastation of Europe following the First World War. In this sense, his view of American prosperity, and its attendant nouveau sanctity, was filtered through his personal alienation, symbolized by his abandonment of his native homeland.  

Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,                                     A
And lived in a small house near a fashionable square                  B
Cared for by servants to the number of four.                                  B
Now when she died there was silence in heaven                            C 
And silence at her end of the street.                                                    D
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet--   D
He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.           B
The dogs were handsomely provided for,                                          B
But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.                                       E
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,           F
And the footman sat upon the dining-table                                      G
Holding the second housemaid on his knees--                               H
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.           I



The diction underscores the condescension I'm calling here poetic license: "servants to the number of four" and "aware that this sort of thing had occurred before" etc. The delightful turn from "his knees--Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived" in which the subject switches, underscoring the impropriety with a nice sarcastic twist.



Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them--
The barren New England hills--
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.

Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
And danced all the modern dances;
And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
But they knew that it was modern.

Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
The army of unalterable law. 


Matthew and Waldo, of course, are Matthew Arnold and Ralph Waldo Emerson, standard-bearers in the "army of unalterable law." Here we stand apart from the social phenomena of the younger generation as it blunders and flaunts its way towards a familiar disgrace, pleased (along with Eliot) to imagine ourselves immune from (or cheered by) the diversions of youth. Eliot characteristically can celebrate this mischief while taking a not very convincing moral tone. We're never altogether sure whether Eliot actually invests emotionally in these personified ironies, or whether he just enjoys the unbalanced pretense. I suppose that, as an artist, he could have it both ways. 


The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."


Francois de La Rochefoucault [1613-1680], it will be recalled, was the great French author of Maxims, witty one-liners which deconstruct human frailty and cupidity with panache. The fantasy image of seeing the French nobleman of three centuries earlier appearing as a figure in the little episode of Eliot's visit to his Cousin Harriet, sets up a tension between the sheepish complacency of the readers of the Boston Evening Transcript (a newspaper that went defunct in 1941), and the impish speaker of the poem. The whole tone of the lines is a kind of knowing weariness, supercilious, condescending, and sad.    
We might say that when poets wish to criticize society, they may do so with a permission that derives from the license granted any artist, but which carries certain risks. Art is not science; the social sciences are a relatively new invention, which have grown up out of the study of behavior, in the mass, as well as in the individual. 

Art (poetry) is first and foremost entertainment; any artistic criticism of society must be inspiring, or pleasing, or amusing, or it's nothing but hot air. Any writer who pretends not to be implicated in the problems he criticizes, risks being thought vain, or heartless, or both. As readers, we may join in on the fun, or feel offended by its daring ruthlessness. Art is a mirror we hold up to ourselves; or it is a window through which we view the world; or it is a wall on which are represented images of whatever design. Reflective, translucent, or illusionary--we inspect and judge each other according to our lights. Everyone does this, whether they admit it or not.