Random Sports Notes

Way way back when I frequented the golf course, I recall someone older confiding to me that he found his enjoyment increased when he began playing for good shots rather than fret about his score. This was not enough to keep me out there trying to acquire a passable game. All I concluded was that great golfers may have varying personalities and approaches to the game but whatever I was doing wasn't working.

So last night I found myself absolutely enthralled with a wonderful book called The Match, in which Mark Forst, the author, tells the amazing story of a four-man match that took place at the spectacularly scenic Cypress Point golf course out on the Monterey Peninsula near the very famous Pebble Beach layout. It was the two great Texas pros--Byron Nelson and Ben Hogan--against the last two real amateurs in U.S. golf--Ken Venturi and Harvie Ward. The story makes that day on the course rank right up there with the day in 1913 when Francis Ouimet managed to best two English greats, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, and maybe Arnold Palmer's most famous last-day chase at Cherry Hills in the 1960 U.S. Open. It was the perfect foursome, the perfect day and the perfect course. And it's true that with the way sports are run and covered today, it never could occur now.

But back to the great shots, or better, great moments. I turned on the TV last night in time to see a Ravens defensive rookie, Paul Kruger, haul down an intended pass by the Steelers' sub quarterback in overtime to set up a Ravens win by a field goal. I'm also hoping that the Texas Longhorns drop their final game so with the fact that either Florida or Alabama will not remain undefeated after they clash for the Southeastern Conference title, the TCU Horned Frogs might slip into the BCS national championship game.

Yes, you love to see an underdog have its day, or even moment. And I imagine about as many fans root for the Bowl people--the BCSers--as root for baseball owners. Every time I hear that players are overpaid, I recall someone, probably Howard Cosell, who asked who ever rooted for an owner. What makes it fun to see Texas Christian back up there is that they haven't been undefeated since the days of Sammy Baugh and Davey O'Brien in the 1930s. And of course this is all happening in a year when some ask whether they still play football in South Bend. And it will be fun to see which Oregon team gets to beat Ohio State in the Rose Bowl this year.

Growing up in the Hudson Valley region, I did cheer for the Black Knights of the Hudson as a boy. That was before I experienced the Army first-hand, not at West Point, thank you, but Fort Polk, Louisiana. I've now lived in Navy territory for three decades and although I'm delighted to see them return to the success column in college football, I'm not sure I can root strongly for them, except of course when they managed to show this year that their win two years ago at South Bend was no fluke.

To quote Mark Twain, we will draw the curtain of charity over the Ivy League as a football conference. The level of play has degenerated significantly since I used to cover the sport as an undergrad, not forgetting how much it had already dropped by the time I was around to observe the proceedings. Maybe I'm just not imaginative enough: after all, I should have realized that Cornell's winning at the Yale Bowl really presaged not the extinction of the age-old jinx the Big Red encountered on that field but instead the reality that Cornell would drop all its other League games this year following that win on opening day. And no, I wasn't at Franklin Field Saturday before last. I wasn't there either a few years ago when they restored that game to its Thanksgiving Day tradition, albeit at 10 in the morning. It had snowed the night before and there were about 500 fans on each side of the 60,000 capacity stadium.

Goetterdaemerung

It's the fourth and final opera in Wagner's Ring and it was performed in concert version today, this afternoon, by the Washington National Opera at the Kennedy Center. I almost forgot to say that it was absolutely superb. I had not realized before how amenable to a concert production this opera is. We always kid about Wagner's stage directions--at the finale, he calls for the Rhine to overflow its banks as Valhalla and other buildings topple.

The singers were fine--Irene Theorin got huzzahs as Brunnhilde, but Gidon Saks as Hagen and Alan Held as Gunther were two old pros at their best. Jon Fredric West played the hero of all heroes, Siegfried, and his voice was good; he's a bit difficult to envisage in the role because he's short and stout--yet another good reason for the concert performance. Bernadette Flaitz got raves from the Washington Post reviewer as Gutrune and I agree she was good but the part is a small one.

Philippe Auguin, the conductor was fantastic. The music of course is the overwhelming part of the opera and he brought the orchestra to a marvelous height. What's wonderful about Goetterdaemerung is how Wagner does bring everything together--especially all the themes, (known as leitmotifs by the connoisseurs) for the Valkyrie Brunnhilde, for the Rhinemaidens and the Rhine, for Siegfried the conquering hero, for the fire and Loge the fire god, the dark chords for the villains, and the warm, reconciling wonderful themes as the opera closes.

The concert version makes some of the improbabilities of a story featuring gods, dwarfs, giants, and dragons a bit easier to deal with. No one has to worry if the stage dragon is realistic in Siegfried, the preceding opera, for example. So I for one was delighted that Maestro Domingo decided to take advantage of having a production ready to go save for the funding that the downturn eliminated.

I'm not exactly a Washington party circuit-rider but it was also nice to run into more than a half dozen folks whom I know well at the opera today. One old friend came in from New York to attend. I ran into three senior judges I know--I think all that says is that I know a lot of judges.

Bismarck on the Fly

I'm not sure what I expected from my first trip to North Dakota but a few days in Bismarck made me realize that it's a different kind of place. Yes, there are shopping malls and chain restaurants and stores just as there are everywhere else in the U.S. But then there's a local concoction called knoepfla soup that turned up first in a well-known local diner (where people "buy it by the bucket") and then in the cafeteria in the State Capitol. It's basically a chicken broth base with small dumplings. The dumplings are solid and pretty heavy. No feathery gnocci here. This was something the pioneers needed on the frozen northern Plains.

And then I learned that some towns have Sauerkraut Day when they bring out vats of the stuff. There was also a Reuben soup, with, yes, corned beef, cheese, and sauerkraut, or maybe it was bacon instead of the corned beef. It made me recall the Army--where cookbooks are based on the use of bacon as a garnish.

I had heard of the famous Hall of Honor in the State Capitol where there are portraits of famous North Dakotans. Most know that high among the honored are Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris. I had not heard about Peggy Lee or Phil Jackson being North Dakotans, but they are. It turned out that you didn't have to be born there to qualify, well, at least not if you were Teddy Roosevelt, who ran some ranches in the state in his early days.

Next to the Capitol, however, is a fine museum called the Heritage Center. It has superb re-creations of dinosaurs and mammoths from bones found in the state as well as extensive exhibits about pioneer days and Indian tribes. There are several reservations in the state and one occupies an entire county. I especially liked the exhibits on how people fared in the 1930s, which don't seem all that long ago right now.

North Dakota, to point out something you may not have heard, is one of the few states running a surplus these days. This is mostly attributable to the significant oil deposits being extracted in the northwestern corner of the state known as the Williston Basin. Williston apparently is the closest place there to a wide open town, with lots of oil workers coming up from Texas, Oklahoma, and the Southwest. So the state runs a surplus but the legislature is very conservative and is not appropriating much to support state operations.

The Capitol is by far the tallest building in Bismarck. Things were quiet inside as the legislature convenes only every other year and was not now in session. The building is about 12 storeys high. Bismarck is on the Missouri River, which crosses the western part of the state from northwest to south central on its way from Montana to the Mississippi in Missouri. The Missouri is fairly wide at Bismarck and was the route taken by Lewis and Clark in 1804-05, well before permanent settlements arose.

The population center is on the eastern border with Fargo at its center and Grand Forks, 80 miles north of Fargo, is where the University of North Dakota, the Fighting Sioux of college hockey fame, is located. While I was in Bismarck--named after the Iron Chancellor in order to encourage German financiers in the 1870s and 1880s to invest in the state--the weather was delightful, hitting 60 degrees Fahrenheit, which I was told was most unusual for this time of year. As I was waiting to leave at the airport (four gates), there was a brisk breeeze and it was clear that when the wind and other elements pick up, there's nothing on the flat plains to get in their way.

Early Morning in Istanbul

If it wasn't strange enough waking up extra early in Istanbul to catch a plane back, it was even wilder to turn on the tv and see the Yankees-Phils 6th game picking it up in about the 6th inning. To me, the climax of the game was Damaso Martes striking out the two top Philly batsmen on six pitches. Rivera came in and did his usual (the only time he ever fluffed was that seventh game in Phoenix) and even this non-Yankee fan enjoyed the outcome. For one thing, how could I cheer for Philly--as a National League fan--it would be like rooting for Brooklyn (as a Giant follower). Hearing that they were stealing signs, though, brought back memories of the classic National League manager of all time: Leo.

Istanbul looks fantastic in the morning. The cab drove to the airport the old traditional way, down the main road along the Bosphorus to Karakoy and over the Galata Bridge, past Serkici station, where the Orient Express arrived, and around the historic peninsula past Topkapi Palace and out to Ataturk airport along the Sea of Marmara. It was a bit misty that early but the ferries were plying their way across the channels and early commuter trains and trams were already under way.

Now I have lots of reading to do to catch up on learning more about where I was--beginning with Orhan Pamuk's recollections of his native city in the eponymous book he wrote about and then one of the newer biographies of Ataturk, recalling having been recently told by another friend that Churchill bemoaned what he felt was the truth that Ataturk was the greatest man of the 20th century. Another friend has put me on to General Lew Wallace's account of the conquest of Constantinople--"better than his Ben Hur" was the recommendation.

Not only does Turkey have an incredible culture and attractions for visitors, of which I barely scratched what was a very rainy surface, but visiting there made one realize that the Europeans need to recognize their need to include the Turks in European affairs. As was noted in local media during my visit (and possibly because of the presence of Bill Clinton and Gerhard Schroder as well), there needs to be progress on human rights in the country, but one might recall that Bulgaria and Rumania were allowed into the EU before they really satisfied anyone with true reforms, especially in their judicial sectors.

Not to let grass grow under my feet I'm off again Sunday for a two-day stay in Bismarck, ND. Having never been to either part of the old Dakota Territory, I'm certainly looking forward to a new place and maybe seeing the hall of fame I understand they have for famous North Dakotans such as Lawrence Welk and Roger Maris.

It's Raining in Istanbul

Not too sure how to describe Istanbul on this visit—unlike some of the places I’ve been, this remains a popular spot for tourism, so many of you likely have been here and can readily tell me the great hidden places I’ve missed or others that I’ve overrated. No matter. And more than that, I’m here for a conference, which just limits my roaming time as much as a bad cell phone contract.

Nevertheless…there’s no getting around it: this is a wonderful, exciting, fascinating city. Sure, there are sections that are hardly auspicious, but this is no third world location. The nice parts—the hilltops, the places by the Bosphorus, the views from the hilltops of the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara , and the Golden Horn —make you appreciate why people have fought over this prime spot for centuries.

The U.S. papers may have been full of accounts of Hillary Clinton’s trip to Pakistan but you may not have noticed that at the same time, Bill Clinton decided to stop by here yesterday, with Gerhard Schroeder in tow. Since they both told the Turks they belong in the European Union, the accounts in the English-language press were glowing. I’m not sure where Bill decided to step out later for some fun, but he was in the right place.

Probably more than New York , this is the city that never sleeps. I’ve never seen or read about as many restaurants and bars and clubs that stay open until morning—or never bother to close at all. The only dampening influence was something totally out of control—it’s been both cool and rainy most of the week.

One high point was a chance to see the Çirağan Palace , an Ottoman grand building by the Bosphorus that has been revived as a hotel—but most of the rooms are in a new annex that leaves the public rooms in the palace part, lovingly restored. The Turkish Ministry of Justice picked this place to host a celebratory dinner for the conference, so beneath the massive chandeliers, we dined on traditional Turkish meze, the first courses now popular in the U.S. , and then some good fish—not surprisingly this turns out to be a great place for seafood of all kinds.

Despite the irony of this 99% Muslim country being a haven for serious drinking, my recollection of local love for cherry juice has been confirmed. Turkish Airlines must have run out on the late flight to New York by the time I boarded for its return here but I’ve been making up for it ever since I got here. As with every other country at this end of Europe , one may imbibe all the raki you want but I’ve been steering clear of it. It seems that it originally made its way to the Balkans from here, another benefit conferred by the Ottoman Empire .

The beauty of Ottoman architecture is evident from many of the old and thus beautifully stone-carved mosques, not at all like the modern ones I recall from Pakistan and Indonesia that have all the charm of most contemporary religious buildings. Dolmabahçe Palace , right up the road from the one where we dined, is overwhelming right from the massive carved gates that greet you at the entryway. This is where the sultans came to escape the summer heat of the old part of the city, Sultanahmet (naturally), although today you would probably say they left to get away from all the tourists and grifters at Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, and inside their old in-town hangout, Topkapi Palace .

This is also heaven for transportation buffs—you have your choice of a new Metro, not completed, so it operates in isolated sections, modern trams, old trolleys, two funiculars, and ferries of all kinds connecting the two continents, even though there now are two bridges tying them together across the Bosphorus. The city itself is vast—with many different distinct sections, some quite swell—especially the ones by the water, on the Bosphorus. Just like everyplace else.

My timing hasn’t been the best: next week they have a major international film festival, Filmekimi, here where Woody Allen debuts his latest, Whatever Works, a return to Manhattan featuring Larry David. There’s also lots of art and music of all kinds around. And although I’ve mostly been on the European side, the traffic is totally Asian, relentless and forcing to remember that the motorist always has the right of way.

The conference I’ve been attending is totally up my alley, in that it’s on court administration, and I’ve met up with people with whom I’ve worked all over, from a young lawyer from Georgia (the country) who’s now deputy on a project there, to other consultants with whom I’ve labored from Macedonia to Tulsa. It’s also impressive to see that other countries are as advanced or even ahead of us in some areas—the Turks, for example, demonstrated a fantastic computer system that almost is able to lean up and spit in your eye, among other capacities.

I also missed Republic Day, which was last week, commemorating the founding of the Turkish Republic and yet another occasion to remember Ataturk, whose picture graces many stores and offices—including the hotel where I’m staying—and appears in displays along at least one major thoroughfare on which I traveled yesterday. In one of the English-language papers today, a woman recalled the day in 1937 when he turned up at her history class. Lots of Turkish flags remain hanging above many streets.

Not too much chance to shop or tour, mostly because it’s been raining most of the time—which did wonders for conference attendance. But I explored the markets and shops yesterday—particularly enjoying the mountains of spices for sale. In addition to the fabled Grand Bazaar—the world’s largest salesroom—there now are about 15 major shopping malls hereabouts, emphasizing upscale British stores like Harvey Nichols as well as Marks & Spencer.

Enjoyed a chance in a brief sunny interval (to use one of the BBC ’s favorite expressions for weather) to join an American student here whose parents are friends of friends and hear about his adventures while we looked out across the Bosphorus at a delightful little village called Ortakoy, which is hard by the first bridge built over the famous strait. With many meals included in the conference schedule, I’ve also been less rangy in my explorations on the dining front, but I did savor gulbroken, which are Turkish pancakes, sometimes filled with spinach or other vegetables. On the dumpling front, the Turkish version of manti are small dumplings on the order of small Siberian pelmeni, as compared by the larger-sized manti found in Kyrgyzstan or the even larger khinkhali of Georgia.

The streets along the Bosphorus are particularly upscale, with small shops and restaurants that are more reminiscent of the well-heeled sections of European cities: think the quais of Paris . This is also a city of hills—sometimes I’ve seen references to the Seven Hills, which is yet another bow to Rome , whose equal this town originallybecame when the Roman Empire was divided. I trudged up and down a few steep ones yesterday—thinking of doing “hill work” preparing for a race—in an area called Karakoy, which is at one end of the Galata bridge that goes across the Golden Horn to the “Historic Peninsula,” which is the old city. This section was a lot scruffier, with the auto and electrical parts stores and huge old solidly-built bank buildings that had been constructed in the early 20th century by the Greeks and Jews who settled in this part of town and became major merchants. The Galata bridge itself is unusual, in that it has a lower deck that is populated largely by cheap but excellent fish restaurants.

In case you thought the rest of the world had given in because the NFL played in Wembley last weekend, they won’t be watching the World Series here tonight: football, i.e., soccer, still rules, and Liverpool v. Lyon is scheduled to be on the screen in the bar.

The Milkmaid

There are important things that one needs to enjoy when in New York, and it becomes more incumbent on one to make sure to enjoy them when visits to Gotham-on-the-Subway are less frequent. One is a stop at the reincarnated Second Avenue Deli, now located on 32nd between 2nd and 3rd. In the grandest of New York deli traditions, they know well how to charge but they do present you with the absolute best.



And another spot that does both is the Met--the Metropolitan Museum of Art, that is. Granted, they still (in very small print) honor the pay-what-you-like policy, but it gets harder to convince yourself every year that you are still the student who found it easy to pay the least. When they have something wonderful to see, too, one spoiled by the last place with free museums--Washington, D.C.--also becomes more willing to ante up.



What they have--and only through the 29th of November--is a rare visit by Vermeer's The Milkmaid, on its first trip to the U.S. since the 1939-40 New York World's Fair. The Met put together a good little group of ostensibly related paintings, including its own five Vermeers, two of which are outstanding. Since there are only 36 extant in the world, and 13 in the U.S., getting to see any Vermeer you have not seen before is an opportunity to be seized.



Two years ago, the Frick Collection down Fifth Avenue from the Met put its three Vermeers on exhibit at the same time. Four years ago, the Philadelphia Art Museum secured a short-term loan of A Young Lady Seated at the Virginals, owned by a private collector with obvious good reason to remain anonymous. The Art Museum, as it is known there (as are The Orchestra and The University), placed the small painting on display in one of many existing rooms of paintings related to it by style, origin, and time. That was an equally good way to arrange its exhibition. Fourteen years ago, the National Gallery of Art in Washington managed to gather 21 of the 36 survivors, attracting record crowds despite a government shutdown during the exhibition (there is a price for those free musuems). All these shows tend to be short and limited in their travels: the National Gallery behemoth was only otherwise displayed at the Mauritshaus in The Hague.



The Met provided a nice service, along with The Milkmaid itself. One wall contains small repros of all 36 known Vermeers. It's fascinating to compare how often he addressed the same subjects, frequently fully-dressed young ladies, and where the paintings may be found. As always in Vermeers, the light is key to the whole presentation. There is a magical rendition of light from windows in many of the Vermeers that no one seems to have replicated.

Vermeer, despite the regard in which he is now held, was unappreciated for centuries. Marcel Proust, who visited an exhibit in Paris that included View of Delft and Girl With Pearl Earring just before his death, was an early 20th-century admirer, focused on the former painting through his character, the writer Bergotte:

At last he came to the Vermeer which he remembered as more striking, more different from anything else he knew, but in which, thanks to the critic's article, he noticed for the first time some small figures in blue, that the sand was pink, and, finally, the precious substance of the tiny patch of yellow wall. His dizziness increased; he fixed his gaze, like a child upon a yellow butterfly that it wants to catch, on the precious little patch of wall. "That's how I ought to have written," he said. "My last books are too dry, I ought to have gone over them with a few layers of colour, made my language precious in itself, like this little patch of yellow wall."

There's a feeling of delight in seeing the great Vermeers such as The Milkmaid. We have grown away from appreciating craft applied in small works, trending away from the miniatures of the past as well as the masterpieces of jade carvers and the Middle Ages. Vermeer attracts our gaze on every part of his often small-sized canvases. And it's fascinating that despite their full-clad costumes, Vermeer may have intimated some degree of ardor in his mere selection of the character of a milkmaid--or so say the commentators.