Take me out to the smorgball game

4/24/2007

“I might as well not wake up tomorrow. It’s not going to get any better than this.” — conversation overheard in the right field stands at Dodger Stadium, Los Angeles.
Imagine gorging yourself at a baseball game, and living to tell the tale. That’s how the L.A. Dodgers want it.
The storied major league baseball franchise recently announced they are turning their right-field bleachers into an all-you-can-eat pavilion this season.
For a paltry $35 in advance, or only $40 on game day, right-field fans can happily stuff themselves with nachos, hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn and soft drinks—basically, all the health food that ballpark regulars already enjoy.
Dodger management has obviously not geared the pavilion toward food yuppies, or the fancy folk who shell out the biggest bucks. You won’t find any organic lettuce or feta cheese up in the right field rafters. This feast is for the beasts and, when you get right down to it, most people would rather whoop it up on pork and beans, than sit quietly in a box like kings and queens. Whether it increases attendance as much as waistlines remains to be seen.
Regardless, baseball could use the boost. Any boost.
As far as spectator sports go, baseball is a colossal bore for the bulk of sports fans, even the bulkier ones wolfing down dogs in right field. It lacks the speed of hockey, the punch of football, the purity of rugby, and the gangsters, goons and gargoyles of professional basketball.
People who understand baseball, and study it, find the game enormously entertaining. This is a good thing, but it is nothing that can’t be improved by filling a pumpkin with nachos and cheese, throwing it in the deep fryer, and then selling it to some drunken, shirtless bleacher creature.
The all-you-can-eat approach is sure to be a winner, not so much with fans who are content to sip a few overpriced cups of foam, but with those true die-hards who prefer the more legally risky, but cost effective, strategy of intoxicating themselves in the stadium parking lot.
In the end, I have to give the Dodgers credit for recognizing that Americans are genetically engineered to appreciate the lure of unlimited food consumption. Gas stations in L.A. have more food in them than some countries.
The food is available 90 minutes before game time, and the stands close two hours after the first pitch. In the spirit of mercy, the Dodgers also offer free bottled water.
The only glitch in the perfect logic of smorgball, is the tendency for waste when you know a supply is unlimited. The Dodgers had better make sure they win some games, or it won’t be long before some of those free hot dogs and peanuts come volleying out of the right-field stands.
There is a reason why they stopped selling tomatoes as refreshment at live events years ago, and it isn’t because no one likes biting into a warm, wet tomato.
The best part is, if baseball fans wind up feeling sick by the ninth inning, lost in a hazy blur of foul air, reduced vision and clammy skin, they can always blame it on the loser—which may or may not be the Dodgers, but will undoubtedly be your digestive system.

Must be something in the water

4/18/2007

Last week a rather astonishing email appeared in my inbox. This one didn’t come from a friendly Nigerian wanting to give me his millions, or a friendly Rolex peddler, or even a friendly pharmacist wanting to sell me blue pills to extend my... life. It was from my cousin in Caledonia.
It seems her community newspaper, the Grand River Sachem, recently reprinted a photo and story that first ran in the Monday, June 25, 1951, edition of the Toronto Star.
The headline on the story read: “Caledonia, village of 1500, boasts 24 sets of twins and credits the healthy, Grand River air.” The photo was snapped at the town bandshell, a popular spot at the time, and included 16 sets of twins. Two tall boys in the back row, listed as Bill and Bob Clark, are none other than my Dad and my uncle.
I knew they were twins, but I had no idea the streets of Caledonia were running wild with multiples back then.
The article went on to say, “There’s a powerful elixir in the air around Caledonia, the people claim. There have been 24 sets of twins born in the village in the last 15 years. Most of them have arrived in the last six years.”
“Most of the fathers of the 48 wouldn’t hazard a reason for the numerous double births. One old timer declared the river air has been good and healthy for 50 years, but it’s sure taken effect in the last 15.”
There must be something in the water. Some folks suggested the town’s main industry, the Gypsum, Lime and Alabastine Co., might have something to do with it, but I like Reeve Alex Blackwell’s explanation the best:
“It’s just that there are no worries in a small town.”
The history of Normanby Township details how, from 1889 to 1989, the township produced nearly 90 sets of twins or multiples. The only explanation offered is “the fine drinking water of the South Saugeen River.”
Must be something in the water up here too.
Some families such as the Pfeffers and Wettlaufers have produced more than one set of twins and, in 1943 alone, twins were born to the Wettlaufers, Meyers and Haaks.
In 1983, the Meyer and Pfeffer boys were born and, a year later, the Patterson twins came along. It wasn’t long before the three sets of twins were playing hockey on the same team—a remarkable feat in any arena, let alone one nestled in the sprawling metropolis of Ayton.
Over the same 1936-51 time period as Caledonia, Normanby produced about a dozen sets of twins, although Caledonia still has the edge with their 24 sets.
It is rather incredible when you think about it, and sounds more like something out of a science fiction movie than a local history page. No one has been able to determine why twins tend to spring up in bunches, or just what that powerful elixir is floating around the air and water.
The dictionary says an elixir is “a magical or medicinal potion, supposedly able to prolong life indefinitely.” I like the sound of that, but the smart money says we shouldn’t go plunging our faces into the Grand and Saugeen rivers just yet. The answer could be anywhere—or it could simply be that there are no worries in a small town.

The best teacher I ever had

4/10/2007

“How do you do ladies and gentlemen, and boys and girls, and men and women, and people, and my friends everywhere and abundant. I am Julius Sumner Miller, and physics is my business. The Professor they call me in this place, and wonderful things emerge from here.”
—Julius Sumner Miller (May 17, 1909 - April 14, 1987)
This week marks exactly two decades since the death of the best teacher I ever had, the Professor.
School was in nearly every Saturday morning when I was a freckle-faced, tangle-haired lad, and my classroom was the Hilarious House of Frightenstein; a delightfully zany and campy children’s program produced, for what seemed like ten dollars a show, at CHCH TV in Hamilton.
The program was famous for its many oddball characters, from the Wolfman to Grizelda the Ghastly Gourmet, all brought to life by the talents of Billy Van. Julius Sumner Miller, however, was the castle’s resident genius.
He helped me to better understand the behaviour of nature, and when he said physics and mathematics were good for the mind, spirit and soul, I actually believed him.
You believed Julius Sumner Miller, because not only did he appear brilliant, playful and enthusiastic, but he was also a little scary, hidden away in his castle laboratory.
What little hair the Professor had left was white and wild, as if thrown upon his head in a windstorm. His eyes, topped by eyebrows that looked more like big, black, furry caterpillars, burned right into you. Scariest of all was his powerful forearms, which looked capable of tearing you to pieces, if he ever caught you not paying attention.
But, I did pay attention, and I learned all about how the world works; from force and friction, to insulation and inertia, to expansion and contraction and density.
My favourite of his experiments was the one where he used two ashtrays to illustrate the conduction of heat. After fumbling with which end of his cigarette to light, warning young viewers about the dangers of such an activity, the Professor demonstrated how a cigarette will go out in a glass ashtray, because glass is a good thermal conductor, whereas a wooden ashtray does not take the heat away, and the cigarette will continue to smolder and burn.
For more advanced viewers, the Professor would often throw in a few heavier topics, such as Bernoulli’s principle, Pythagoras’ law of vibrating strings, Newton’s laws of motion, and Faraday’s electromagnetic induction.
The Professor said his job was to entertain and amuse you and excite your enthusiasm, curiosity and spirit, but also to raise some questions which are good to think about. And, if you are not enchanted by this, as I have been for 50 years—he would say—you need your soul awakened, your spirit enlivened, and your curiosity stirred.
Hilarious House of Frightenstein was only a brief stop on the teaching journey of Julius Sumner Miller, and he roamed the world bringing the light of physics to the masses. He even had a hit TV show in Australia. And, although my days are filled more with language than science, I am still more than a little enchanted by the kindly Professor.

A new batch is already on the go

4/3/2007

As far back as I have been legally able to drink it, I have tried to make alcohol, at home, in my spare time.
You might think this is easy. You should think again.
The process itself is embarrassingly simple. All you have to do is find some yeast, give it a whole lot of sugar to eat, and the end result is alcohol. There is nothing difficult about that. The trick lies in making a grog that people, perhaps not too many people, will want to drink.
My first attempt at brewing beer involved a plastic bucket, a closet, and a hockey stick. An old brew maker told me to “kick the pail” every once in a while to activate the yeast, to get the most out of it. His nose looked like an old cauliflower that someone had painted red and purple, so I figured he knew what he was talking about.
I used the hockey stick to fire tennis balls at the bucket, and it actually produced a pale ale, no pun intended, which I bottled away in mason jars. A rookie mistake.
It was some of the worst beer ever made in any closet and, just to add insult to injury, the bottles kept exploding until foam started oozing out from under the closet door.
I tried making red wine after that, and it even bordered on drinkable, provided you added a little ginger ale and pieces of fruit, and served it only to people who were already good and drunk, or didn’t know the difference.
The notion of making moonshine never crossed my mind. That can get dangerous if you don’t know what you are doing. It might even be illegal, and prison is no place for a twitchy blind man with an unpredictable bladder.
Finally, success arrived with a recipe for apple cider.
Of man’s many loves, his affair with the apple is among the oldest. Where the two first met is anyone’s guess, but archeologists feel it stretches as far back as 750,000 years, when survival was a matter of foraging for fruits, roots and nuts. Many an early apple picker probably enjoyed a belly full, after being chased up a tree by something snarling.
The carbonized remains of apples found in Asia date back to 6,500 B.C., and one of the earliest records of apple growing is a notation by scribes of Ramses II in 1,300 B.C., describing the planting of apple trees along the Nile delta. Egyptians brought apples to Greece, and then to Europe.
Pliny the Elder, who died in 79 A.D. in the eruption of Vesuvius, was able to record 36 different apple varieties.
The word “cider” goes back to the ancient Hebrews, where “schechar” meant strong drink, or any intoxicating beverage. Hebrews prized cider for its healthful qualities, and because it did the trick while abstaining from wine.
Many people drinking cider for the first time are disappointed, expecting it to taste like fresh, sweet cider. The taste is acquired, like it is for beer, wine, olives, oysters, tea, coffee, cigars, and cabbage. Once your palate has accepted its unique zest, you will always want a bottle at hand.
My own cider is by no means excellent, but not so bad that friends don’t drain every drop that’s set in front of them. It would probably be much better if left to age for a while, but none of my friends have that kind of discipline.
Not to worry, though. A new batch is already on the go.