I just finished The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis - a correspondence between the demon Screwtape and his nephew and neophyte tempter Wormwood. Without getting too bogged down in theology, I thought this was a good choice for the Lenten season – the 40 days and 40 nights before Easter when Jesus was sent into to the desert to be tempted by Satan (as you can tell, I actually wrote this a while back.)  In a series of letters, Screwtape lays out to Wormwood the most effective ways to corrupt a man’s soul. 

It’s a pretty standard list: temptation, lust, greed, contumely, scorn, pride and fear. Screwtape continually refers to humans as “vermin” and “scum” and can never quite figure out why God sacrificed so much to save our collective and eternal souls.

As an avowed believer, this was an interesting read because it focuses on something I think about all the time – how do we find God?  Again, I’m no theologian, but my thought has always been (and echoed in this book) is that God wins when we find Him on our own. But, where is He ? Wormwood is instructed to keep his target away from where he finds fulfillment – something as simple as a walk in the woods or an evening by the fire can offer the kind of peace that gives us a sense of the divine.

When I think about spirituality, I mostly consider it in terms of my flaws and failures (a list that would break the Internet if I were to give to type it all up) and how when I see hardship. Neither God or the Devil can “make” you do something. God won’t stop you from stealing a cookie nor can the Devil force you to pick someone’s pocket. We make the choice on our own. 

Thrilla in Manilla

I just finished watching Thrilla in Manila, an HBO documentary about the third and final fight between Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier. It left me with an interesting question - at what point does something become more important than life or death? Because, for Frazier and Ali, that question was answered in the 14th round when they tangled for the last time on a 100-degree morning in the Philippines in October of 1975. The temperature was only matched by the white-hot fury Frazier felt toward Ali and Ali’s racist hectoring of Frazier.

In a very real way, this was a match to the death. Simmering anger between the two superstars had turned into a full blown rage. Ali couldn't get over the fact that, up to that point, Frazier was the only man to beat him. (Ali said it was "the white man's decision" that he lost, even though Frazier knocked him down twice). Frazier was tormented by Ali's taunts, which included calling him "ignorant," "Uncle Tom" and a "Gorilla." 

During the fight’s middle rounds, the hooks from Frazier were so severe that Ali told his trainers something to the effect of “This must be what it feels like to die.”  By the late rounds, Ali had regrouped and started throwing the kind of punches that could have killed Frazier. He could have literally beaten the man to death while the entire world watched.

The 14^th Round is considered one of the most vicious in boxing history. Boxing fans will tell you that the sport’s overt violence is balanced by a sort of brutal harmony. Its two people doing all they can to pummel each other, but there is a science behind it. Not in the 14^th round of that fight. 

It was carnage. 

Ali had taken so many body blows that his hips were locking up and his internal organs were beginning to slow. Ali unloaded right hand after right hand in Frazier’s face. It was so swollen he was nearly blind. It was two men working on instinct and that instinct told them to destroy the other one.

One of the talking heads noted that that round typified the allure of boxing. At some point, life and death takes a back seat to the match. Rather than stay in their respective corners, they opted to go back in, knowing that Death was sharpening his scythe at ringside.

Although Ali technically won, it's said that the toll was so great that both men were never the same. 

Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football

I just finished Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football by John U Bacon.

Shocked. That was how I felt the night of Dec. 1 2007. All we (“we” is the football team of my beloved West Virginia University) had to do was beat what seemed to be a clearly inferior opponent. Win this game against arch-rival Pitt and we would be playing in the National Championship game.

We lost.

It was, in a word, devastating; truly surreal. Sleepless nights followed. I kept playing the game in my head over and over again and thinking of all that we could have done to win. So, when our then-Coach Rich Rodriguez called it quits a few days later and headed to coach at the University of Michigan, it capped what had to be one of the worst weeks in Mountaineer athletics.

After reading Bacon’s book, I have a better understanding of why he left and, a few years removed from all the severe, abject and debilitating pain, I can see his point. The lack of support Rich Rod received from both the higher ups in the athletic department and school itself was painful. Michigan’s courtship and WVU’s response seemed to culminate in a showdown between Rod and school president Mike Garrison (a man who lasted less than a year after being installed by former Governor Joe Manchin.)  During this meeting, which Garrison attended in his pajamas, the president basically said the following: “You’ve got a tough decision to make” and “take it or leave it.” Despite this stunningly shrewd negotiation tactic, he failed to keep Rich Rod on board.

My friends gave me nine shades of hell for defending Rod at the time he left but I said it then and I’ll say it now – he was put into a corner by the good ol boys and rather than back down, he came out swinging.

I hated that he left and I can see why some would think he betrayed the state and the school, but I respect his reasoning behind it. Garrison and those responsible for his installation saw Rich Rod as a threat, plain and simple. Even the biggest Rich Rod hater could look over his want list and think “this doesn’t seem out of line.” If you do, what do you think Nick Saben gets? Or Chip Kelly? What about Urban Meyer or Les Miles? Do you think the AD is going to cringe when he asks for “better pay for his assistants?” What about this world beater – “free passes for high school coaches?” How about this pound of flesh – “an all-access pass for his wife?” These slight demands were too much for WVU’s brain trust.

It’s telling that Bacon was able to interview so many for this book and most everyone at Michigan answered his questions, but Manchin, Garrison and Pastilong refused to talk to him. To this day, I’m still infuriated by everything surrounding this situation. Rich Rod wanted to win and take West Virginia football to the very top of intercollegiate athletics. I have no doubt he would have done just that.

I’ll go back to this point one last time, but when Rich Rod asked Garrison “Where do you want to take this program,” all he could respond was “take it or leave it.” Are we only getting one side of the story? Yes. Has Garrison ever bothered to refute this or even discuss his version of what happened that night? No. Every fan of WVU football paid for that lack of leadership for three years (save the Fiesta Bowl, a game that was called by Rich Rod’s offensive coordinator). 

If he thought things would be better in Ann Arbor, he was mistaken. According to the book, the Michigan football family has a lot of factions, but legendary coach Bo Schembechler was able to keep everyone in line. After he died, that family lost their father. From the day he arrived at UofM, a vocal and powerful part of that family was always against him, including the Detroit Free Press, which, it could be argued (and Bacon does) served up hit piece after hit piece which relied on innuendo and whispers over old-fashioned, shoe leather reporting.

Here’s one example of the way Rich Rod never fit in – a higher up at the school sent word that Rich Rod needed to watch his language. When he tried to think of what profane word or term he used at a public gathering, he was told the misstep was the word “ain’t.” In West Virginia, using ain’t is a sign of solidarity, the kind of grammatical rebellion that goes right along with Montani Sempre Liberi. Rich Rod was not a “Michigan Man.” There was friction with former coach Lloyd Carr and Rich Rod had frosty relationship with a number of backers.

His outsider status aside, Rich Rod also failed to embrace much of the tradition. Rather than rely on the tried and true, he thought that winning would take care of it all. And it would have. If he had actually won. Only one winning season at a place like Michigan and three straight loses to Michigan State and Ohio State isn’t going to do the trick.

Part of the problem might be the proud tradition that the school holds so dear. When Nick Saben got to Alabama, the first thing he did was tell anyone who would listen that Bear Bryant isn’t going to win any more games. He maintained that the Crimson Tide isn’t going to beat anyone just because they’re the Crimson Tide He preached from day one that winning meant investment in facilities, coaches, players, everything.  The school wisely listened and the results have shown.

Next up is Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Down in the Willow Valley

I just finished listening to Down in the Willow Valley by the Chieftains featuring Bon Iver.

The murder balled, which is likely centuries old and has been covered by everyone from Art Garfunkel to Nick Cave to the Everly Brothers, is a dark of tale of a man who poisons his lover, stabs her and dumps her body in the river.

Haunting to be sure, yet there is almost a kind of sad repose in Justin Vernon’s voice. It’s lush and, in a way, soothing - which stands in stark contrast to the actual song. No matter how pretty the melody might be, it's a song about the worst kind of stuff - murder, vengeance, innocence lost, contumely, damnation and, finally, regret. 

My race is run beneath the sun
The Devil is waiting for me
For I did murder that dear little girl
Whose name was Rose Connelly

Winter's Bone

I just finished Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell. Winter is brutal. Ree Dolly, the book’s 15-year-old protagonist, knows that. Winter means chopping firewood, killing squirrels for supper, looking after her nearly-catatonic mother, making sure her brothers get to school and hoping the neighbors from across the way will spare some deer meat.

Even on the best days, life is rough for Ree, but this winter brings even tougher news. Her father, a noted meth cook and continual law breaker, is out on bail and put the family’s house and land up as collateral. When the bondsman comes calling, Ree has to track down daddy. Not easy. The families in her community adhere to a strict and brutal code of secrecy. I’ll leave it at that. This book is a reminder that the “no snitching” code so glorified by hip-hop artists is just as strong in backwoods and hollers. 

Woodrell’s sentences charge off the page, a .45 bunched in their waistband and carrying a greasy nylon cord. They require total submission and you sit helpless while they drop a noose over your head and leave you dangling in the moonlight from a solitary pine. 

Elegant prose can only do much to disguise the pain in this novel. Ree receives a beating so brutal it made my head ache. And it makes you wonder how many places in America are like the places Woodrell describes. I’m sure in my native Southern West Virginia, more than one abandoned mine shaft is crunchy with the bones of those who leaned into a police cruiser and said too much. In one noted case, a woman who was working with the federal government was killed and later buried face down because according to the local drug kingpin who ordered the murder “snitches get buried face down so they can see hell.” (Thankfully, this man was later sentenced to death in federal court).

Next up is Three and Out: Rich Rodriguez and the Michigan Wolverines in the Crucible of College Football. 

Poison & Wine

I just finished watching Poison & Wine by the Civil Wars. 

That’s someone putting a grenade in your mouth, pulling the pin and then making sure it’s them who clamps down so it never explodes. 

Knockemstiff

I just finished Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollack. Painful is one way to describe this collection of short stories. Every piece is expertly crafted, but his characters lead hard, painful lives. Pill poppers, addicts, idiots, psycho hillbillies, doctor shoppers, racists, thieves, killers, rapists, incestuous siblings, gas huffers, speed freaks, abusers, cowards, bullies and just about every type of undesirable you can imagine people this world. Even in the face of all that, Pollack manages to tease out plenty of humor and a some actual tenderness.

Consider the following from the story Bactine:

And even though she was probably the best woman Del Murray had ever been with – gobs of bare-knuckle sex, the latest in psychotropic drugs, a government check, he was still embarrassed to be seen with her in public. Anyone who’s ever dated a retard will understand what he was up against.

Or this one, from the story Holler:

I closed my eyes and sank deeper and deeper into that lonely world known only to those who sleep in abandoned vehicles.

Those are gems. As are so many in this collection. Still, pain comes at you like a nasty bill collector. No matter how many shabby, musty, torn-down trailers you move to, he’s never too far from the door. When a father actually cuts his son’s long hair with a dull hunting knife – and basically scalps him in the process – the boy leaves home, only to end up in the arms of a fat, foul-smelling trucker who plies him with uppers and booze and offers to let him wear his dead mother’s blond wig before he has his way with him. Another father injects his kid with so many steroids his heart literally explodes in his chest.

But, even in all that nastiness, there are some moments of kindness and humanity. When the above mentioned Del hears a cashier insult his wife, he calls bullshit. As a profession of his devotion, he puts a brown paper sack over his and scares the clerk. I guess that’s devotion.  Sorta. Kinda. Maybe. 

Next up is Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell.