In Olden Days

In these hot lazy days of July we have been given time to relax and ruminate and that instinct has been nourished by the recent spate of commemorations that have replaced Michael Jackson Overkill with Nostalgic Vibrations from years past. Specifically the year is 1969 (which I believe was also the title of a movie, though one with a lot less prominence with other titled fare such as "1900." "1984", "2001," and "2010").

It's a matter of some distress to me that 1969 was forty years ago. 40 years. That's two generations, the time it took the Hebrews to cross the Sinai desert, and as close in history to 1929 as it is to our present day. And it also means I will be observing my 40th year since I graduated college (actually next year, but who's counting?) The latter fact is a little too difficult to grok (there's a '60s word!) but so is the fact that I'll be entering my seventh decade in a few months.

But, as Obama said, this isn't about me. It's about an amazing technical accomplishment that fulfilled a fantastic promise of an idealistic young president and got us to the Moon and back--one of the great heroic engineering feats, and perhaps the only good event to have come out of the Cold War. It's about a music festival in Woodstock that was all pot and stink and mud and somehow became an iconic cultural confluence of every music trend that began with the Beatles.

Coincidentally, what both events have in common today is the detritus that were left in their respective wakes. How unfortunate that the strides in space flight that were not so comparatively expensive did not lead to the wonders of the "2001" moon colony but just a few expeditions to study cosmic rocks. And that there has never been anything to compare with Woodstock, since it was a social Happening specific to one rebellious generation and not likely to recur given the staid and smug Gen-Xers, Yers and Millennials with their twittering and IPhone forms of discourse.

I did not attend Woodstock, and was not aware of its significance at the time, though I was one of the billions who watched the grainy telecast of the Moon landing and Neil Armstrong's first steps. It was the first time, perhaps, that I was aware of the historical import of a moment before it happened, which is perhaps why I always thought Neil Armstrong's rehearsed line was, well, less than what Ralph Waldo Emerson might have said. Where was Maya Angelou then?

Yest for all those historical benchmarks, what is it that most endears me to the year 1969? Well, here's a hint: I was a dedicated New York sports fan. And the year 1969 produced a double miracle from both the baseball and football worlds. In January Joe Namath led the Jets to a very unlikely win--which he publicly and outlandishly predicted--over the superior Baltimore Colts. And that was not nearly as improbable as what graced the other denizens of Shea Stadium, the New York Mets, later that year. They also upset a vastly superior team from Baltimore, the Orioles, thanks to some amazing catches by Tommy Agee and the flat-footed Ron Swoboda, homers form Al Weis and Donn Clendenon, and shoe polish that proved a hit-by-pitch in a critical spot. The entire series had the makings of a miracle, and in fact God Himself (well in the person of George Burns in "Oh God!") took credit for that as his most recent beau geste.

Fortunately for me I could root for both the Jets and the Mets, thanks to their underdog status, even though I was more a fan of the New York Giants and Yankees. But the edification I got from those victories was more aesthetic, and nothing compared ot the joy of a Yankee Series triumph or the recent Giants win over the arrogant Patriots.

I am not likely to be around in 2049, but those that are may be reading of this day, 40 years ago, when a White Sox pitcher named Mark Buehrle pitched a perfect game that was saved in the ninth inning by a miraculous over-the-fence catch by defensive replacement DeWayne Wise. The ball popped out of this glove and he snatched it back with his bare hand, allowing the crowd and of course the distraught pitcher to exhale in awesome wonder. Of course with that help the conclusion of the game fell nicely in line. I was privileged to be able to watch the final inning this afternoon thanks to my MLB subscription, so I can add that memory to some of the more engaging baseball highlights I've seen. And that's what nostalgia is about.