Baseball in Chicago 

By Patrick F. Cannon

My brother Pete called from Pittsburgh the other day to congratulate me on the Cubs World Series victory, and suggested I write something about it. I should mention that we were born in Braddock, Pennsylvania, which is in the Pittsburgh area. Pete has been a loyal Pittsburgher for most of his life, except for time in the Air Force and in Southern California, when jobs in Pittsburgh were almost non existent. In the end, he just couldn’t stay away.

He is a loyal Pirates and Steelers fan, and has loved sports, particularly baseball, all his life. As kids, he would drag me out of bed to play in a summer park league. On our way, he would often have to wake up the other laggards needed to make up the needed nine. This was in McKeesport, then the second largest city in the Pittsburgh area. Earlier, in our few years in Chicago, Pete played any game that involved a ball and a bat, including baseball, 16-inch softball and the local version of stick ball.

It was in Chicago that we first attended a Major League game, at the then Comiskey Park. Since we lived in South Shore, it was natural that we go to Sox games. In fact, several Sox players, including Gus Zernial, lived nearby. He came up in 1949 and in 1950 hit 29 homers and batted in 93 runs. He had his best year in 1951 but, alas, spent most of it with the Philadelphia Athletics after being traded early in the season.

Two of the games we attended stick in my mind. In the late 1940s, the Sox were perennial cellar dwellers (as were the Cubs for that matter). My father took us to a Sunday double header when the Sox were playing the St. Louis Browns, who vied with the Sox for worst team in the American League. The game was scoreless through 17 innings. In the top of the 18^th, the Browns managed to score a run, which was enough as the Sox failed to answer in the bottom of the inning. Satisfied that we had actually seen two games, we didn’t stay for the second game.

On another occasion, Pete and I went alone. We took the 67^th Street (Marquette Road) street car to State Street, then the famous “Green Hornet” car to 35^th Street and the ball park. As the older brother, Pete held the dough. As fate would have it, we became separated. Cash rich Pete somehow ended up in the Loop, having caught the wrong street car. He was eventually able to call home, and my dad drove down and picked him up.

In the meantime, poverty-stricken me, with no money but a good sense of direction, walked home. On the way, I did make a tactical error. It was a week day, and my father’s office on 75^th Street was actually closer, being just east of State Street. It never occurred to me that he might be frantically searching for his overdue son, so the office was closed. The detour added two miles to the walk, which totaled about 12 miles by the time I walked in the door to the general relief of all concerned. As I recall, I was fed a steak and the cops were told to call off the hunt.

Oh, yes, the Cubs. As far as I recall, we only went to one Cubs game during our South Shore years. A friend of the family, whose name and appearance have long faded from memory, offered to take us to Wrigley Field. I’m sure our parents were delighted to get rid of us, so off we went. In addition to being the only Cubs game we attended as kids, it was the only time we ever rode the El. When we went downtown, we always rode the Illinois Central electric commuter train. This time, we took what was then the Jackson Park-Howard line from 63^rd and Stony Island. Although it now ends at Cottage Grove, the South Side portion is now part of the Green Line; and the North leg, the Red.

I don’t recall who the Cubs played that day or whether or not they won. Since I returned to Chicago in 1956, I’ve been to Wrigley quite a few times. As the Cubs got more competitive, it got to be both expensive and a hassle. When I was still working, one of my suppliers had season tickets, so I got to go gratis occasionally, although his tickets were on the lower deck, first base side, behind a column. You had to do some swinging and swaying to follow the ball. I used to park about six blocks away and walk, but I hear even that’s impossible now.

Comiskey Park became US Cellular Field and is now Guaranteed Rate Field. I hope the stupid name brings them luck!  Frankly, it’s easier to attend games there. They have an actual parking lot, and no columns. They did win the World Series in 2005, but it didn’t have nearly the same impact as the Cubs win this year. Anyway, I’ve lived long enough to see both Chicago teams win the big one. Now, it’s the Bears who have become the “loveable losers.”

It’s a great city though, isn’t it?

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

Ghosts of Halloween Past 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Halloween has come and gone, but this year was a disappointment to my wife Jeanette. We now live in an apartment building with a secure lobby; thus, no access for the little trick or treaters. We did see a few when we walked the dog, but nothing like the three or four hundred that would sometimes struggle up the stairs to the front door of our former Oak Park home, delighting Jeanette with their costumes and enthusiasm.

The early years of my own trick and treating are getting a bit dim. I just vaguely remember doing it in the final couple of years of World War II (I was seven when it ended). We moved to Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood during the winter of 1946-47, and my memories are clearer for the years we lived there. Unlike the single-family neighborhoods of Braddock and Homestead, Pennsylvania we had come from, the area of South Shore were we lived mostly consisted of large courtyard apartment buildings. Unlike the elevator building were we live now, they were walk-ups. You still had to be buzzed in, which some kindly tenant usually did.

An evening’s swag could  be considerable. In anticipation, you would carry a kraft-paper shopping bag, of the kind grocery stores provided then. (They’re making a comeback now that many areas are banning plastic).  While not an exhaustive inventory, here’s the kind of stuff you were likely to get: loose pieces of penny candy; apples or oranges; popcorn balls; pennies or (hurrah!) nickels; and occasionally (hurrah again!) an actual candy bar.

The penny candy was usually OK, but the fruit was a disappointment, since it was something you got at home on a regular basis. Popcorn balls were widely reviled. They were hard to eat, and stuck to the other stuff in your bag. Money was  and is always welcome. You  mostly got pennies, but an occasional nickel did appear (remember, in those days a nickel bought you most candy bars  and a bottle of pop). They didn’t have those tiny candy bars that come in big sacks at the supermarket then, so when you got a candy bar, it was the real thing. I still remember once getting a Mounds bar, which came in two pieces and actually cost a dime! Of such moments, lasting memories are made.

For future reference, let me advise those who are active trick or treat dispensers that kids want candy, not some healthy snack. Foist such things on your own children during the rest of the year, but for God’s sake don’t ruin some poor kids Halloween by  giving him or her sealed sacks of oats.

One particular Halloween in South Shore was most memorable. My brother Pete was a Boy Scout and went on a weekend camping trip. Alas, he was gone on the Saturday when the holiday fell that year. When he was deep in the woods, it dawned on him that he was missing the hail of goodies that were justly his. When he returned, he insisted on going trick or treating anyway  For some reason, my parents made me go with  him.

You can imagine the results. While some people were kind enough to give him whatever they had left, most lectured him, and not kindly, on the undoubted fact that Halloween had come and gone. I have often wondered if this scarred my brother for life. There is no outward evidence of this, as he is the most outgoing and enthusiastic man I have ever known. But who knows what darkness lurks in his soul? Anyway, he quit the Boy Scouts post haste.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

I’ll Have the Iced Tea, Please 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I met Cook County Board President Toni Preckwinkle the other night when we were both guests on WTTW’s Chicago Tonight. She was there to talk about the Cook County budget and I was being interviewed about my book, The Space Within. She was on first, but while she was waiting, her staff rehearsed her in some of the questions that interviewer Carol Marin was likely to ask her. Quite a few of them were related to her proposed tax on soda and related drinks.

If it passes, people in Cook County will pay a tax of one cent per ounce on carbonated soft drinks and other bottled and canned drinks, except  water and pure fruit juices. Being a mathematical wizard has permitted me to tell you that it means an additional $2.88 on a case of Coke. At current levels of consumption, the County will rake in $74 million or so. Along with a similar amount in budget cuts, this will just about balance the budget.

In her questioning, Marin suggested that the tax might affect the poor more than anyone else. Fortuitously, President Preckwinkle was armed with a recent statement from the World Health Organization (WHO) that strongly suggested taxing sugared drinks as a way of reducing the consumption of sugar and thus obesity (as a matter of information, diet drinks  would be included in the county tax) . WHO’s diktat was heaven sent, in this case. As we know, politicians love to save people from themselves. Whether this will be the beginning of a cigarette-like trend that will eventually lead to a ban of Coke drinking in public places remains to be seen.

It’s true that the rich don’t worry much about stuff like this. Either their personal chef makes a home brew with rare ingredients and one of those soda machines, or they smuggle in expensive French Chateauneuf du Pop along with their Chateauneuf du Pape aboard their private jets.

Alas, if the soda tax is successful in reducing consumption, then the income from the tax will steadily decline, and the County Board will again have to begin looking elsewhere for income. I didn’t have time to share my ideas on other possible new taxes with Preckwinkle, but perhaps some of these will make their way to her.

I was appalled to discover that bicycle riders, those daredevils of the streets, get off scott free. They consider themselves immune from any traffic fees or laws. Yet, they increasingly clog our highways and byways, and have been favored with special lanes and other perks. While I don’t think little tykes should have to be licensed, I say when you’re 18, you buy a license just like the motorists who spend so much time avoiding you and cursing when you ignore stop signs and red lights.

Another group who don’t pay their fair share is the pedestrians. Their constant backing and forthing on our sidewalks eventually wears them down and out. Make them pay! To be fair, the tax should be related to their weight and shoe size. I’m sure a formula could be devised to accomplish this to everyone’s satisfaction. By the way, having to pay a “walking” tax whether you walk or not would encourage exercise, another fortuitous consequence of social engineering.

Finally, I think people who talk on their cell phones in public should be licensed. When I first noticed this phenomenon, I assumed I was sharing the streets with lunatics, whose numbers were increasing day by day. I soon discovered that they were people who couldn’t resist the urge to talk to somebody, anybody, during every waking moment. They are particularly annoying in enclosed places like El cars and buses. Make them pay, I say. Make them put up or shut up!

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

 

 

Petey Did it Too 

By Patrick F. Cannon

As children, many of us were faced with parents who caught us in a lie or some other transgression. A common response might have been: “Petey did it too!” Whereupon, most parents would have responded: “Just because Petey did it doesn’t make it right.”

While you might not have looked at it that way at the time, it was an early moral lesson. Then, as now, we are responsible for our own moral choices. So are politicians who justify their behavior by mouthing their own version of “Petey did it too.” The concept is still the same: your immoral act is your own responsibility, regardless of what your opponent does or says.

We’ve all seen the political commercials that associate the opposing candidate with every (presumed) outrage of his or her political party, followed by the opponent’s statement, “I’m Joe Blow and I approve this message.” By doing so, Joe has committed an immoral act. Let me repeat that, so there is no misunderstanding: Joe Blow has committed an immoral act.

Then, of course, we have the commercials produced by the PACS (political action committees); they tend to be even worse. But rarely so horrible that the candidates they support actually disavow them. Typically, they simply say they aren’t responsible for them, and let it go at that. When was the last time you heard a candidate actually call a PAC out and tell them to stop? Please let me know. I’ll cherish the moment!

There is an extensive apparatus behind these negative ads. Over the years, a new profession has reared its ugly head, whose practitioners I would call political gunfighters. Instead of “have gun, will travel,” there motto is “anything to win.”  What they do is largely amoral. They go from election to election, from candidate to candidate. While most specialize in one party or another, quite a few are happy to work for anyone who pays them. Fact checkers don’t bother them, because they aren’t interested in facts, only impressions. They are creative liars, but liars nonetheless. Did I say “amoral?” Immoral is more accurate.

A good example is a recent ad that seeks to associate Illinois governor Bruce Rauner and, by extension, Illinois Republicans with Donald Trump, who Rauner has consistently refused to endorse. It uses a statement made by the governor during the primary season when there were still numerous Republican candidates. At the time, Rauner refused to endorse any of them, simply saying he would support the party’s nominee. His comment is repeated over and over in the ad, following a series of appalling remarks by Trump.

The ads, according to the PAC that prepared and paid for them, are meant to counter what they say are negative ads about House Speaker Michael Madigan by Rauner’s forces. You know, “Petey did it too.”

Faced with a political process that has become increasing immoral, what can we do? Frankly, with the way candidates are now chosen, very little. Let’s look at the way political parties choose their candidate. Whether it’s by primary, caucus or some other “democratic” method, the system encourages all and sundry to dream of becoming president. The political gunfighters are only too happy to encourage their dreams and take their money.

This year, at the end of a grueling and expensive process, the “democratic” process produced two candidates no one seems to like. Far better, it seems to me, if the process stayed within the state and national committees of the respective parties. It would eventually become clear which candidates had the best qualifications and most support, with the final decision left to the delegates at the national convention (who would not be bound to any particular candidate). With such a system, it’s hard to imagine that Trump or Clinton would have been the choices.

Keep in mind that the primary systems are not enshrined in the Constitution or any law. They are the construct of the party’s themselves. It’s time they admitted their mistake. If they did, it would remove vast sums of money from the process, much of which goes to the gunslingers and their accomplices. To be sure, it would cause a temporary spike in the unemployment rolls, but perhaps some of the savings could be set aside for a retraining program. I would suggest “How to Lead an Ethical Life” as a prerequisite.

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Copyright 2106, Patrick F. Cannon

 

 

 

 

Is it a Caddy, Daddy? 

By Patrick F. Cannon

There was great jubilation at the University of Chicago recently when a work of art that many had feared might have been lost forever was returned to its rightful place on the University’s Hyde Park campus.

Titled “Concrete Traffic,” it was by the well known German modernist Wolf Vostell (1932-1998). Vostell was a leader in the early days of video art and in organizing the “happenings” that were such a feature of the art world in the 1960s and 1970s. In this case, he took a 1957 Cadillac Coupe Deville and encased it in concrete. Commissioned by the fledgling Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, it was finished in 1970 and parked in a nearby parking lot. It was there for some time and apparently accumulated numerous parking tickets. Who paid the tickets seems lost to history. As for me, I wondered how they were attached, since there were no windshield wipers. Perhaps the cops taped them on the concrete, artfully one hopes.

Anyway, the sculpture was eventually donated to the University of Chicago, where it graced the campus until moved into storage to make way for the construction of the Logan Center for the Arts. In storage it may have remained – slowly crumbling away – were it not for art historian Christine Mehring. She heard about it, and arranged a visit. What she found appalled her. Here was this great work of 20^th Century art moldering away out of public view.  Hunks of concrete were actually missing, as if it were merely a public sidewalk or something!

It was a challenge, and one that Professor Mehring has heroically met. At a cost of some $500,000, “Concrete Traffic” has been restored and proudly placed in a stall of honor at the University’s main parking garage. You may wonder how it could have possibly cost that much to do a bit of concrete patching. Instead of going to Craig’s List for a local concrete guy, they sought out the experts who had restored the concrete at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan. While the niceties might be lost to the layman, there is a great difference between a concrete conservator and a concrete repairer. The former usually has a beard and charges more. I should mention that the only part of the Caddy that’s visible is its white wall tires. As you might expect, expert opinion was also sought on the proper tire pressure.

The result, according to Mehring, is a work from an “important transitional period from the happenings in the 1960s to the monumental sculptures and environments of the 1970s.”  Since Herr Vostel is no longer with us, his intended meaning is lost to us. Most people think it was an ironic comment on the wasteful consumer culture of America, typified by the land yachts that floated over the (concrete) superhighways that connected our car-mad cities, towns, villages and hamlets.

Europeans in the 1960s, burdened as they were by astronomical gas taxes, tended to drive around in cars like the VW Beetle and the iconic French classic, the Renault 2CV, which, I recall, had a suspension that consisted of husky rubber bands and tore down French roads at a breathtaking 50 miles per hour.

As it happens, I was in France in 1961-62, courtesy of the United States Army. In 1962, the Tour de France was going to pass through La Rochelle, where I was stationed. One day, my buddies and I were watching some of the preparations from a table at a harbor-front outdoor café. Imagine our surprise when a pink Cadillac convertible pulled up and parked in front of the café. Out came two couples, middle-aged and prosperous looking. The spotted us for Americans immediately and happily (for us) plied us with drink and food. They were Texans and, for a lark, were following the Tour around France.

While all this was going on, the Caddy was drawing a crowd. The looks on the French faces was not ironic disgust, but wonder and envy. The only place in France where one could then see a Cadillac was Paris, where they tended to be black and chauffer driven.

Alas, there aren’t too many Caddy convertibles of that vintage to be seen here any more. Those that survive are cherished; many are housed in museums. But, thanks to Professor Mehring and her colleagues, you can at least sense the existence of a 1957 Coupe Deville beneath the concrete at the University’s parking garage at 55^th and Ellis. If you want to park near it, it will cost you four bucks an hour. But walk-ins are always free. At the cost of a little shoe leather, you can relive the ironic “happenings” of a bygone era. And wonder, as I have, how they’re going to change the tires when they inevitably collapse under the 34,000 pound weight of German irony.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Bring Your Pencil 

By Patrick F. Cannon

In last Sunday’s edition, the venerable Chicago Tribune, that bastion of conservative Republican values, couldn’t bring itself to endorse Donald Trump for President; nor could they find it in their hearts to once again endorse a Democrat, as they had done with Barack Obama. While recognizing her experience and undoubted intelligence, the Tribune editorial board found it impossible to overlook Hillary Clinton’s long history of secrecy and what to many seems like a persistent pattern of outright lying.

So they decided to endorse Gary Johnson, the Libertarian candidate. Now, Johnson – a two term governor of New Mexico – is now best known for not seeming to know what was going on in Aleppo, and for forgetting the name of the former president of Mexico. Frankly, off the top of my head I don’t know who he was either, but Johnson was a neighbor and I guess met him on occasion. His running mate is William Weld, former governor of Massachusetts, who has also served as a US Attorney. Together, they have the executive government experience that both Trump and Clinton lack.

If they were the Republican candidates, I would not hesitate to vote for them. But, like many I’m sure, I have the nagging suspicion that voting for them would primarily help Trump, whose election would be a catastrophe for the country. For this reason, my wife Jeanette thinks the Tribune made a serious mistake in endorsing Johnson. Better, she thinks, not to have endorsed anyone.

She may be right. The last time there was a serious third-party candidate was 1992 when Ross Perot received almost 19 percent of the popular vote. Some folks at the time claimed that, absent Perot, George H.W. Bush would have beaten Bill Clinton. Actual analysis of Perot voters suggest that he took votes fairly equally from both and that Bush was going to lose anyway.

What would happen this time? Keep in mind that both Johnson and Weld were Republican governors, known for their fiscal restraint. Would disaffected Bernie Sanders supporters really vote for candidates that would likely tell them to stop whining and pay off their student loans? (A brief aside. When Calvin Coolidge was urged to forgive Great Britain’s World War I debt, he responded: “They hired the money, didn’t they?”) Or would they hold their noses and vote for Clinton, who has happily promised them a free ride (while knowing full well that Congress isn’t likely to go along).

So, my thought is that Republicans unhappy with Trump are more likely to vote for former Republicans Johnson and Weld than Hillary Clinton, thus making her chances better. Please keep in mind, however, that I’m the one who said Trump would never have enough support to get the nomination.

As for me, I plan to write in Lewis Black, who is younger than either candidate, and has a master’s degree from Yale into the bargain. So what if he’s a Socialist? He’s a funny Socialist! Also, he’s not married. Think about it.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

Tattoo Mania 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I think tattoos are uniformly unattractive (I was going to use a stronger word, but I’m trying to be reasonable here). Let me also stipulate that people I’m related to and have great affection for have them, although fairly discrete ones. I also readily admit that you can be a fine human being and still have a tattoo.

With these provisos out of the way, let me say that I have never seen a tattoo that improved anyone’s appearance. How does the old saying go: If God had wanted you to have a tattoo, you would have been born with one?  This leads me to explore the history of tattoos, to see if God fits in there somehow.

The first tattoo that we know about was found not too long ago, when intrepid Swiss mountaineers came upon a grizzly site as they traversed a melting glacier. What on initial appearance looked like a pile of old leather, turned out to be, on closer examination, human remains. Young Fritz was sent down the mountain to alert the proper authorities, while the others stood guard over the discovery. In due course, a helicopter from the Swiss Bureau of Mountain Cadaver Discoveries descended from the sky. Upon landing, a team emerged with a carbon fibre casket, into which they carefully placed the shriveled horror.

After a secrecy-shrouded period of extensive study, the Bureau announced to the world the discovery of a more or less intact body that was at least 20,000 years old, and whose relative preservation was likely due to being frozen in the glacier. How it could be 20,000 years old when many believe God had only created the heavens and earth some 8,000 years ago they were loathe to explain. They did speculate that the “Swiss Mountain Man,” as they called him, had been the victim of foul play, as he had a hole in his skull. Perhaps, they posited, he had been headed for warmer climes when he had been set upon by wandering brigands.

But the most stunning revelation was the discovery that he had what looked like a tattoo on his upper right arm. While somewhat faded, it appeared to be a heart pierced by an arrow. Below the heart were some symbols that may have been words of a forgotten language. Linguists are now toiling away trying to find the key that would unlock the ancient tongue, but so far no dice.

While there is no conclusive evidence, evaluation of bas reliefs at ancient ruins of Assyrian and Babylonian cities seem to show that some figures either have tattoos or are wearing Hawaiian shirts. And everyone knows that the Greeks were enthusiastic tattooists, since Homer wrote in the Iliad: “Brave Achilles, with ‘Mom’ proudly emblazoned on his manly pecs, hurled his lucky javelin at the cowering Trojans!”

When Rome came to power and subjugated the Greeks, tattooing was outlawed throughout the Empire. The guild of Greek tattooists had to go underground, but found a ready market for their talents in Egypt. While primitive tattoos were to be seen on early mummies, later mummies like the so-called “Sailor Pharaoh,” Wetses III, had quite sophisticated anchors on their biceps. Even these underground tattooists were victims of the Dark Ages that followed the Fall of the Roman Empire, but a few of the Greek tattooing families survived in the mountain fastness of the Pindus range.

In the meantime, so-called primitive peoples in the dark corners of places like the Amazon, New Guinea and the Outer Hebrides, continue to use tattoos to mollify their Gods and frighten their enemies. As they slowly become exposed to civilization, they do generally abandon tattooing in favor of Michael Jordon tee shirts.

Back to the Greeks. As the Dark Ages began to lighten up, they left their mountain hideouts and made their way to the world’s ports, where they once again began to ply their trade. There was no lack of drunken sailors, prime candidates for anchors and full-rigged sailing ships. After sobering up and reentering polite society, the former swabbies took to wearing long-sleeved shirts to hide their youthful indiscretions.

So, tattooing remained in the seedier back streets of the world’s ports of call until the now legendary Hellenic needle man, Aristotle Pennassis, changed his sign from “Tattoo Parlor” to “Body Artist.” This struck an immediate cord with rebellious youth, now as always on the lookout for ways to annoy their parents. Instead of a tattoo, they were now sporting “body art.” As with young people throughout the ages, they live only for the moment, not foreseeing that the bloom of youth will inevitably give way to the sagging wrinkles of age. And that today’s passion for Jessica may give way to tomorrow’s lust for Joe.

While I might not live long enough to see the coming horrors, it’s frightful to contemplate. Were I younger, I would put my money on the inevitable rise of tattoo removal technology. Someday, tattoos may be easier to remove than graffiti on the sides of railroad tank cars. But in the meantime, think twice before you mess with God’s handiwork (see, I did fit God in after all).

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Rah, Rah, Rah, Sis, Boom Bah! 

By Patrick F. Cannon

As an alum, I was pleased to see that Northwestern University was ranked #12 on the US News and World Report’s list of the country’s best universities. As a matter of interest, it was also ranked #25 on a list of the world’s top universities. While these rankings are gratifying, it should be noted that they reward universities that offer numerous graduate degree possibilities and carry out extensive research. It is well to remember, however, that there are many smaller schools of lower rank, particularly liberal arts colleges, which provide a comparable undergraduate degree. You may not have heard of them, since they don’t play sports as the highest level.

Northwestern does. It’s an FBS school. For the uninitiated, FBS stands for “Football Bowl Subdivision,” a designation of the NCAA for schools that belong to the conferences whose schools are eligible to play in NCAA recognized bowl games, including the one designated as the National Championship. Northwestern had a good year last year and was chosen to play in one of the lesser bowl games. Over the years, they have had a spotty record in this regard and, alas, have not gotten off to a promising start this year.

They are currently unranked among the top 25. The top ranked team, the “Crimson Tide” of the University of Alabama, is ranked #103 on the academic list. But Northwestern is at the top of another ranking – it graduates 97 percent of its football players, including 94 percent of its African-American players. Alabama’s African-American graduation rate is 56 percent. After Vanderbilt, it actually has the highest African-American graduation rate in the Southeastern Conference.  The worst is Arkansas with 31 percent!

The statistics that interest me most, however, are the ones that compare the percentage of African-American football and basketball players to the percentage of African-Americans in the student body as a whole. At Alabama, 4.5 percent of the student body are black men against 71.6 percent in the two sports. At Arkansas, 2.4 percent of the student body are black men, but 63 percent in the two sports.

The reasons for the relatively low graduation rates for black men are very complicated, too complicated for this space. But it is clear, however, that some FSB universities are perfectly willing to recruit talented athletes, knowing they are unlikely to graduate. They do this with the promise that their programs are the ones most likely to lead to high-paying careers in the NFL and NBA. These professional sports are true meritocracies, able to pick and choose the most talented prospects. What some FSB schools fail to tell recruits is that fewer than 2 percent of college athletes will every make it to the professional level, even though 68.7 percent of players in the NFL are black, and nearly 75 percent in the NBA.

What the dry statistics truly mean is that too many African-American athletes go home without an education, and without a career. It also means, to me, that if the universities with low graduation rates worried as much about education as they do about winning championships, those graduation rates would increase. Schools like Northwestern may not realistically aspire to the ultimate athletic prizes, but can take pride in having the highest graduation percentage of African-American athletes, even if it’s just slightly better than that somewhat more athletically successful school in far away South Bend, Indiana.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

 

Numbers, Numbers, Numbers 

By Patrick F. Cannon

I heard a radio report recently that claimed that 40 million children go to bed hungry every night in the United States. I’m not sure where they got this number. An admittedly quick check found another source that said that one million was the correct figure. But then I found another source that took a somewhat different approach: it said that 50 million people of all ages went to bed hungry and woke up hungry.

I’m not sure where the larger figures come from either, but I suspect it has some relationship to the number of people living below the poverty line. The latest statistics I could find put that number at 13.5 percent of the population in 2015, or roughly 42 million, down a full percentage point for the year. The percentage has fluctuated over the years, but the current rate is below the average since 1960. But like all the numbers I have quoted, it’s misleading.

In 1960, for example, the rate was nearly 20 percent in a period before President Johnson’s famous “War on Poverty” began to take effect. Now, even though the resulting programs are now quite extensive and have expanded regularly in both Republican and Democratic administrations, most are ignored when the government computes the poverty line.

According to Harvard University sociologist Christopher Jencks, who carefully studied this issue, the true poverty rate is 4.8 percent. Unlike the Federal government, he included the programs that were designed to raise low income families out of actual poverty. While it would take up too much space to list all of them, the more familiar include the Earned Income Tax Credit; housing subsidies; food assistance including food stamps and school meals; and Medicare and Medicaid and other healthcare assistance through the Affordable Care Act. When you add the numerous privately-funded programs, including food pantries, you can well believe the Kaiser Foundation’s study that concluded that parental neglect was the cause of most childhood hunger, not actual poverty.

As the national election nears, all of us need to be careful about taking on faith the numbers that the candidates throw at us. I have mentioned before in this space that Mr. Trump continues to try to convince the electorate that the country is gripped in a crime wave.  It’s not. Nor is free trade the calamity that Hillary Clinton and her union supporters claim. Although there are other factors, free trade agreements have been a key factor in reducing abject poverty in the world (defined by the World Bank as an income of $1.90 a day or less) from 44 percent in 1980 to a projected less than 10 percent at the end of 2015. Pandering politicians have also conveniently forgotten that protectionist policies in the 1930s only served to deepen and prolong the Great Depression.

Oh, and by the way, median household income increased 5.2 percent in 2015. The Democrats will take credit for this, just as the Republicans would if they held the White House. All of them conveniently forget the historic ebbs and flows of the business cycle. I try not to.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon

The Drama Begins II 

A One Act Play 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Scene: We are in the Oval Office at the White House at 5:00 pm on January 20, 2017. Former President Bill Clinton, alone, sits behind the desk. He smiles wistfully as he looks around the room, decorated much as he remembers it, except for a photo of the Class of 1965 from Maine South High School in Park Ridge, Illinois that has pride of place on one wall. The door opens and President Hillary Rodham Clinton enters, pauses when she sees her husband at her desk, mutters “shit” under her breath and walks directly to a side door that leads to a small private space. She opens it, looks around, and seeing nothing, slams it shut and faces her husband.

Hillary: You’ve had your fun. I don’t want to see you there again.

Bill: Ah, Hill, just havin’ a little fun. Here, take a load off.

(Bill Clinton gets up from the chair and moves to the other side of the desk, Hillary takes his place, and looks around the Oval Office with a look of pure joy.)

Hillary: Well, it took awhile, but I finally made it. By the way, just what did I promise old Bernie if he would support me?

Bill: It was kind of vague – I think you mentioned some kind of cabinet position.

Hillary: Well, it’s one thing to make a promise, but what cabinet office would suit an unreconstructed socialist like Bernie?

Bill: How about Secretary of Agriculture? I can hear the old coot now advocating the redistribution of the land and forming collective farms. He’ll put the fear of God in Monsanto and the rest of that crowd.

Hillary: Well, maybe I need to think about Bernie a little more. Elizabeth Warren is the more immediate problem. I just know she’s going to ask for Treasury. Imagine what my donors would say to that! By the way, someone has to tell her she can’t wear the same color pants suit as me. They’ll start calling us tweedle dum and tweedle dee. You’re the Chief of Staff now. Have our people talk to hers and get this coordinated. By the way, what president started this thing about walking part of the way during the Inaugural Parade?

Bill: I think it was Jimmy Carter.

Hillary: Fat lot of good it did him. Anyway, he didn’t have to wear high heels – my feet are killing me.

(Bill picks up a phone.)

Bill: Darlin’, would you send someone up to the residence and get the President a pair of flip flops?  She does love her flip flops.

(He hangs up and smiles.)

See, Hill, what the President wants the President gets.

Hillary: Who’s this “darlin’” you called?

Bill: Just one of the new interns I hired to help out around here.

Hillary: Intern! Intern! Don’t you ever learn? I want all of our female interns sent over to work for Rahm at Homeland Security.

Bill: Ah, Hill, can’t I keep just a couple?

Hillary: No way. We barely won the election, so I don’t want people to get started talking about you. And please try to remember to call me “Madame President” when anyone else is in the room.

Bill: OK, OK. But keep in mind that no one likes you, and it was me who put you over the top. And of course the dumb Republicans helped too by nominating a knucklehead like Trump.

Hillary: It did help me, but keep in mind that they did keep control of Congress. So much for the death of the Republican Party.

Bill: I think that might work out just fine. You know most of them, and what makes them tick. His eminence the former President wouldn’t stoop to their level, even the Democrats. But you never minded being down in the mud where they’re comfortable, and they know they’d lie and cheat just like you to be President. That’s why they liked Lyndon more than Jimmy, and why they’ll be willing to deal. And that’s the Gods honest truth.

Hillary: It is a great country, isn’t it? And that’s no lie.

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Copyright 2016, Patrick F. Cannon