Scobe | Frank Scoblete

The Great Horned Owl in Our Backyard!

It was early morning, maybe 5:30, and I was working on an article for this web site when I heard it. “Who! Who!”

My wife the Beautiful AP came into the office. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Who! Who!…Who! Who! Who!”

“Wow, it sounds like an owl,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah,” I agreed. “It does.”

Our office is in the back of the house and it is three-quarters windows. The “who, who” seemed to be coming from the corner of the room nearest to my desk. AP’s desk is in the center of the room; behind her back are the cages of our two parrots that were not yet uncovered from their night’s rest.

“Who! Who!” came the sound again.

“Oh, man,” I said. “Now that is definitely an owl. It sounds like it is right outside this window in front of me.”

“Who! Who!…Who! Who!”

“No, no, it’s to your left on Brendon’s side of the house,” she said gesturing towards our neighbor’ home.

“Who! Who!”

I went around my desk to the window and peeked through the shade. “I don’t see anything in the bushes or on the fence. Nothing on Brendon’s side either.”

We shut off all the lights in the office and both of us scoured the yard.

“Who! Who! Who!”

“Oh, yeah, that damn thing is right here!” I said.

“I’m going out with my camera and binoculars. I might be able to get a good picture,” she said, scurrying to grab her gear. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“I remember that owl in the tree about 15 years ago,” I said. “But that was really far away. This thing is right here.” I pointed to the windows.

The Great Horned Owl is an apex predator, a large creature that can even scare hawks. It’s not a creature you want to have hunting you.

AP went outside and I kept looking out the office windows. In about 15 minutes she came back. “Nothing,” she said, disappointed. “I couldn’t even hear it.”

“Really?” I asked. “It cooed a few times while you were out there.”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” she said, perplexed.

We didn’t solve the mystery right then. But when we came back from the pool (we swim most mornings) we heard the owl again.

“We’re never going to find that thing,” I shouted from the kitchen.

“We don’t have to,” she said from the office. “Listen!”

And the owl gave a double hoot, loud like crazy. It sounded as if it were in the house.

“Come in here!” AP called to me.

I came in.

“It’s right there.” She pointed to my computer.

“Huh?”

“It’s the live cam that Paul gave us,” she laughed.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said.

Paul is one of the members of the South Shore Audubon Society. He runs a monthly book discussion group and often recommends books, videos and websites.

He recommended a Cornell University web site (https://explore.org/livecams/).

The site has all manner of birds and animals with live web cams. I usually keep mine at the Great Horned Owl and check this creature and her babies out every morning. The site was up but the screen was minimized. So when mama owl hooted, well, it sounded as if she were hooting outside our windows.

No live sighting, no great photograph to add to my wife’s portfolio, but one mystery solved.

Frank Scoblete’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Second Chances

His name was McKenna and he was without question the best pitcher in the league. He was a lefty with an amazing fastball and a curve that seemed to fall off a table.

McKenna played for our rivals. He crushed hitters. Our teams were rated one (his) and two (mine) by the New York City newspapers that covered local sports.

I was a part of a recruited team—yes, recruited, as the coaches scoured the City for the best players they could sign up—playing in one of New York City’s elite baseball leagues. I think I was 15 years old and most of the players were a year or two older than I. Didn’t matter. I batted second and played shortstop. I was a damn good player even in the elite leagues.

We played McKenna’s team midway through the season. Both of our teams were undefeated, which was amazing because so many of these recruited teams were good and it was hard to stay undefeated.

My father always attended my games. He’d give me advice. I’d listen intently. He knew his stuff. He was a good father and a good coach.

So our undefeated teams met at Marine Park in Brooklyn. They beat us 1-0. Why did they beat us? Because of me; completely and utterly because of me. That’s right. I struck out three times with runners on base. I made the error that let in the one run that lost the game for us. I was awful. I was embarrassing.

I didn’t know McKenna as a person; he was an opponent. The third time I struck out—looking as if I should never have left the stickball games in the school yards—I could see the sneer on his face. He had a cold, hard face. He was a good-looking kid, just like the cool, blond villain that the girls liked in the movie Karate Kid. He had his beautiful girlfriend at the game. She laughed and cheered, especially when I went down on strikes. I didn’t have a girlfriend.

I just couldn’t hit the damn guy. It was as if his pitches had magic.

After that third strikeout I couldn’t find my father in the stands. I looked out and way in the distance I finally saw him. I walked down the third base line and shouted to him, “What are you doing?”

“I’m digging a hole,” he said.

I had to laugh a little. I could certainly throw myself into a hole. Just bury me.

Striking out three times—three times!—was a disgrace. It meant the pitcher dominated you. Today’s players don’t seem to be upset as they ring up strikeouts one after another but for me? I was, despite laughing at my father’s quip, ready to hide from the world. Yes, indeed, dig me a deep hole.

And we’d have to play his team again at the end of the season.

No one beat us the rest of the season, so in our last game we had only one loss. I was having a good hitting season and my fielding was excellent. The error in the McKenna game was the only error I had committed the whole season.

McKenna’s team lost one game during this time—a game he didn’t pitch—so both of our teams were tied with identical records. Everything hinged on this game; this one finalgame.

In the month between my total humiliation and this upcoming decisive game I thought of McKenna a lot. I thought of his sneer. I thought about how embarrassing my first run-in with him had been. Strikeouts, the error that cost us the game…the worst I have ever played a game. I could see his girlfriend laughing and jumping up and down as he destroyed me.

Now the encore:

In the car, driving to the game, my father said, “Baseball gives you a chance to come back and redeem yourself. You will own McKenna today; you will own him. Oh, and I left my shovel at home so you have to own him.” Did my father really believe that? Would I be even able to touch the ball as it flew towards me? Did he really leave his imaginary shovel at home?

I knew that on McKenna’s fastball I kept swinging under the ball. I had to get my swing level with the pitch. How to do that?

I had read about Ted Williams saying that when you go up against a fast pitcher, you have to swing for the very top of the ball; even try to miss over the top. On a fast pitch, swinging for the top or above the top of the ball would mean the swing would actually land in the middle. In short, if your swing can’t get up high, then aim higher!

I practiced that at a local batting cage – spending all my hard-earned part-time money on a 100 mile-per-hour machine at the Rockaway Avenue Batting Range. Swinging high allowed me to own the machine. Of course, McKenna wasn’t a machine.

But what of McKenna’s curve ball? That damn thing was impossible to hit —seemingly impossible. My father told me that Joe DiMaggio had said that the curveball was easy to hit if you could pick up the spin of the ball. So in batting practice I would have the pitchers throw nothing but curve balls to me. I learned to see the spin.

Now the moment of truth came calling as I walked to the field. This game was being played at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, the premier field that had fences and plenty of seating for the fans—and (wow!) there were plenty of fans at this game! It had been written about in the papers as the ultimate New York City baseball confrontation.

And here’s how it went:

I had anticipated being put at the end of the batting order, perhaps hitting seventh or eighth due to my previous encounter with McKenna. My coach came over to me.

“I’m changing the batting order,” he said.

Okay, I was prepared for this. I had failed miserably in my last confrontation against McKenna so down I’d go in the batting order.

“You are not hitting second today; you’re hitting third today. You’ve been creaming the ball lately so third you are!” he said.

And the game began. We were the home team and McKenna’s team came up first. It happened right away. Our pitcher loaded the bases with two walks and a single. There was one out and we were playing the infield in to try to stop a run. With McKenna pitching, one run could be the game—as it was last time.

A wicked line drive was hit to my right. I dived, caught the ball and then threw it with all my might to the third baseman to get the runner scrambling back to third base. A double play to end the inning!

McKenna walked our first batter, nicknamed Speedy because of his, yes, speed. Immediately Speedy stole second base. McKenna struck out the second batter and then it was my turn. Did I just see him sneer as I took my place at home plate? He was probably thinking he had destroyed me in the last game and he’d destroy me in this game too.

The first pitch was a blazing fastball and I swung above it. Bam! Into the outfield it went, a single, and Speedy scored from second. A double play ended the inning for us.

I hit two more singles that day, one off McKenna’s curve ball. I made several great plays at shortstop. Each of my singles—each one!—allowed us to score a run. We won 3-1.

Redemption!

In the previous game McKenna dominated me; today I dominated him. As my father had said, “You will own him today.” I did.

That season taught me that you often do get second chances in baseball and in life, but you just have to work hard to take advantage of them.

The Bird Needed Gift Boxes

“Ma’am, you ordered thirteen dollars’ worth of gift boxes,” said the representative.

“No, I didn’t,” said the woman.

“Yes, you did,” said the representative.

“No, I didn’t,” said the woman.

“No, I didn’t,” said her parrot in her voice.

As recently reported in the New York Post, in London a clever African Grey parrot spent $13 on gift boxes from Amazon.com. That’s right; the parrot mimicked its owner’s voice, activated Alexa and placed the order. (Why? I have no idea! Maybe to send seed to its friends?)

Those in the know in the parrot world are fully aware of the intelligence of parrots and particularly of the African Grey whose greatest individual was the late Alex, the bird who could reason and accurately use basic vocabulary under the tutelage of animal psychologist, Irene Pepperberg.

My parrots—Augustus, a Quaker parrot of about 21 years, and Mr. Squeaky, a green-cheek conure, about five years old— are not as smart as the parrot mentioned above. They can’t order from Amazon.com like the parrot in London or have a vocabulary of over a hundred words, like the legendary Alex.

However, Augustus and Mr. Squeaky can pitch food and cutlery with the aim of Sandy Koufax to get our attention. They can strategically poop on us to convey disdain or give a mild bite to express annoyance. Actually, only Augustus can regulate his bite. Mr. Squeaky will draw blood every time; but he’s a teenager.

There is a great documentary about the intelligence of parrots and crows titled Beak & Brain: Genius Parrots from Down Under. It can blow you away if you think a bird’s brain is merely a birdbrain.

And if a bunch of gift boxes arrive at your house? Who knows who ordered them?

Are Today’s Baseball Players Better Than Those of the Past?

Breathe deeply baseball fans: Today’s baseball players, those who play the field, those who are designated hitters, those who pitch and those who are relief pitchers, are not – and let me emphasize that – not better than players of the past. In fact, players of the past might actually be better than today’s players!

My quest started simply enough. I was watching an excellent Jonathan Hock documentary titled Fastball. The film explores the combat between pitchers and hitters (batters) and how fast a fastball can be thrown and how talented and skilled a batter has to be to hit such a pitch.

The fastest fastball ever recorded and the one that is in the Guinness Book of World Records was supposedly thrown by Aroldis Chapman and clocked at 105.1 miles-per-hour in 2010.

In the past certain elite fastball pitchers were also timed.

Two of baseball’s greatest were Bob Feller (1936-1956) and Nolan Ryan (1966-1993). Note that these two pitchers cover seven decades for their combined careers and were supposedly the fastest pitchers of their times (at least the fastest ever recorded).

Feller was recorded at 98.6 miles-per-hour and Ryan was recorded at 100.9 miles-per-hour. It would appear that Chapman has wiped the floor with those two. But in truth, he hasn’t.

You see the method used to test both Feller and Ryan was different from the one that tested Chapman—and that difference creates a false comparison. Chapman’s fastball was clocked in the first 10 feet of his throw—some 50.6 feet away from home plate. Both Feller and Ryan’s tests were of the fastball as it came over the plate. In short, Feller and Ryan’s fastball was slowed down by the air it went through in those 50.6 feet of travel.

The Fastball documentary makers clocked Feller and Ryan’s fastballs using the same method used with Chapman, and guess what? Feller’s fastball came in at 107 miles-per-hour and Ryan’s came in at a remarkable 108.5 miles-per-hour! Both of these estimates leave Chapman in the dust.

Today, of course, all pitchers have their throws clocked on each and every pitch – and the speeds seem outrageously high; some are clocked at 95 to 102 miles per hour. (Chapman regularly throws this latter speed). Still these speeds are based on the modern 10-foot metric, not how fast the ball actually goes over plate.

What if we measured today’s pitchers using yesteryear’s metric? To do that, we reduce today’s speeds by 8 percent (combining Feller and Ryan’s increase in speed using the 10-foot rule). Today’s pitchers throwing 102 miles per hour are actually throwing 93.8 miles per hour and those throwing 95 miles per hour are actually throwing 87.4 miles-per-hour – as the ball crosses the plate. Those speeds are not record setting. The air influences them just as the air influenced Feller and Ryan.

That calculation started me thinking; perhaps today’s players are not as good as yesterday’s players or perhaps yesterday’s players are just as good as today’s.

The usual analysis of pitchers is their ERAs – earned run averages; that is, how many runs they give up in nine innings of pitching. Are the ERAs better today than in the past?

If we look at the team ERAs, we can see that teams from 1920 to 2017 have similar ERAs. That’s right. Even though today’s starting pitchers rarely pitch nine innings anymore, and relievers have become essential for modern teams, the total ERA of the entire team resembles the ERA of past teams.

Let me give you a few examples to prove this point.

The top five teams from 2016 had ERAs of 3.13, 3.53, 3.57, 3.64 and 3.71.
The top five teams from 1927 had ERAs of 3.20, 3.36, 3.54, 3.57 and 3.65.

Not much of a difference, although the ERAs from 1927 are somewhat better.

The best five teams from 2016 had ERAs of 5.09, 5.08, 4.91, 4.91 and 4.63.
The worst five teams from 1927 had ERAs of 5.36, 4.95, 4.72, 4.27 and 4.22.

Not much of a difference, although the ERAs from 1927 are still better.

Now what of the hitting? Were the hitters of the past as good as or better than the hitters of today?

Again, let me take 1927 versus 2016 and only strictly at batting averages.

In 1927, the major league batting average was 284.
In 2016, the major league batting average was 255.

So you have slightly better pitching and somewhat better batting averages in 1927 than you do in 2016.

Now, there are many records for many accomplishments, good and bad, in baseball. It is indeed a sport of statistics. You can argue that Babe Ruth’s 60 home runs were achieved with beer and hot dogs as performance enhancers while Bonds, McGwire and others allegedly achieved many of their records with steroid use.

I’ll leave it to you to argue the points.

Still, if you take a broad picture of “back then” and “right now” you discover that today’s players are not really superior to those of the past.

In my opinion, if we could transport the top players of yesteryear to today we would find that:

Joe DiMaggio would still be able to hit in 56 straight games.

Lou Gehrig would still be the hard-hitting “Iron Horse.”

Willie Mays would be, well, the incomparable Willie Mays.

And Babe Ruth? Babe Ruth would still be the best player in history based on his hitting, fielding and, yes folks, his amazing pitching!

To me, the baseball past is not dead. It’s just not appreciated.

School Days

The Beautiful AP and I were coming back from swimming on Tuesday morning. It was the first day of school for kids on Long Island, New York. AP was driving. It was 7:45. We swim weekday mornings from 6:30 to 7:30. It’s a great way to start the day.

“Look at the four of them,” I said.

“Off to school they go,” said AP.

“Look at the little guy,” I said.

She laughed.

Two of the four kids were in high school; they were chatting with each other. The third kid, probably in eighth grade, was buried in his phone. The little one had to be, maybe, sixth grade? My, my, my did he strut!

“The poor kid has to show he is something special, walking with all these older kids. So he has that exaggerated strut, ‘Look at me!’ his strut says. ‘I’m not just a little guy. I’ve got it!’”

“First day of school is nerve wracking,” said AP.

“Especially for the teachers,” I said. “The day before the first day of school, Labor Day, that night’s sleep—if you do sleep—can be filled with horror. If you teach high school, you will be meeting 130 to 160 kids. You know some of them will be PITAs [pains in the ass]. The high schoolers are only meeting about nine teachers. Teachers have it tougher.”

“I feel sorry for the kids,” said AP. “I mean they all have to act cool or at least most of them do. They could be shaking inside.”

“True,” I said. “But I do think the teachers have more to fear.”

We were on Ocean Avenue, with the High School on our right and the Middle school on our left. About 10 teachers were heading for the Middle School.

“Look at that group,” I said. “Which of those teachers will be destroyed this year? Which will go home many a night and cry? Which will go home after a good day of teaching only thinking of the kid or two who gave them trouble that day? At times it’s hard to even enjoy the good days.”

“There are plenty of teachers who love what they do and enjoy teaching,” said AP.

“Yeah, that may be so, but just about all of those teachers here and across the country are going to be emotionally stripped and whipped on given days. They’ll know what pain is.”

In my 33 years of teaching I never had to send a disciplinary referral for a kid or even yell at a class but I was well aware that at any moment I could be hung out to dry by my students.

I used to have schoolmares. I’d dream that I had suddenly lost control of a class and the kids were now tearing me to pieces. I’ve been retired going on 16 years and I still have schoolmares! As it turns out, all teachers have schoolmares at one time or another.

I saw horror visit many teachers; their careers painted in the colors of torment. I don’t know how they did it; year after year, students mocking them, baiting them, and ganging up on them. Some of these teachers were true experts in their subjects—but devastated almost daily.

There were quite a number of new teachers who couldn’t make it into their second year—or even their second semester. I saw a big, strong Marine come back to the teachers’ room and cry. He left soon after this. A former cop took up teaching in his retirement. On the third week of school, he jokingly asked me, “How do you do this without a gun?” He left after his first year to enjoy his retirement from the police force.

I knew teachers who had only honors classes because they couldn’t survive “regular” classes. And how were those honors classes? Pandemonium.

“What about teachers who say they look forward to a school year?” asked AP.

“I’ll place a bet that often enough they will write referrals; they will have dreadful days. Their mouths say they are looking forward to the year but their hearts? No. They will have tough times.”

Ah, yes, the first day of school! When that bell rings before each period, it ushers in the next round—and that bell rings day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and…how could I still have schoolmares?

“So are you saying that you hated your teaching career?” asked AP.

“I loved it,” I laughed. “I loved it.” Yes, I did.

You Look Just Like…

A person says to you, “You look just like…” or “Do you know you look just like…” and you give a small smile and say, “Yes, I have been told that before,” or “Really?” or “I’ve never been told that.”

I am convinced that telling someone he or she looks like someone else—usually someone famous—while not an outright insult is definitely not a compliment.

I knew a guy who thought I looked like Regis Philbin. Okay, first time he said that (which was the first time we met in 1990 in Las Vegas) I gave the traditional reply, “I’ve never been told that.”

He was unrelenting. At blackjack tables he’d ask other players, dealers, pit crew, “Hey, doesn’t he look just like Regis Philbin?” There were a variety of answers from such people. But my wife, the Beautiful AP insisted, “No, he doesn’t. He looks like himself.” (Now that is a good wife!)

You know who he looked like? A less-handsome Robert Redford. But I never told him this. I allowed him to be his own less-handsome self.

Even though Regis Philbin and Robert Redford were good-looking men in their prime, here is what is “bad” about saying such things: the person is always put in second place. “You look just like…” The primary person in the look-alike comparison is the star to whom you are being compared. Who wants to come in second—or in this case, last?

I was just at a restaurant in Cape May, New Jersey and the waiter looked just like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn’t tell him that because in the comparison, Schwarzenegger is top dog; the waiter isn’t. The waiter looks like him. Schwarzenegger doesn’t look like the waiter. No one would say, “Arnold Schwarzenegger looks just like you!” In fact, if you met Arnold you wouldn’t say, “You look just like this waiter in Cape May, New Jersey.”

So that person whom you are so eager to say looks just like someone else should be spared the comparison. That person, as my wife says, only looks just like himself.

Are there people who look just like other people? Hell, yeah. Should you tell them this? Hell, no!

There may even be times when someone looks like a non-celebrity that you know. Should you tell this to him or her? Again, no.

Keep in mind, all look people like themselves…even if they don’t.

Ban the Bible!

My name is Veritas Honesto, PhD. I am the leader of W.A.T.E.R which stands for We Are The Ever Righteous.

Our goal is to eliminate all evidence of slavery in the world since the dawn of humanity. We believe all Confederate statues and pictures should be removed from public displays and that private displays of such statues and pictures should be cause for the elimination of public funds for the private institutions (such as private schools and private museums) showing such statues and pictures.

We also believe that statues of anyone who had slaves in the past such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and famous people such as Teddy Roosevelt who made indigenous peoples feel bad and Franklin Roosevelt who enslaved Japanese Americans during World War II (I could add many more!) should never have any statues or pictures celebrating them in public places and that private showing of such statues and pictures would mean the cutting off of any public funds for those private institutions. We would recommend strong protests of such institutions, perhaps even ones where we wear our ski masks.

***Christopher Columbus should never have his name said even at Italian functions.

But these sanctions do not go far enough in W.A.T.E.R’s view. There are so many incidents of slavery among different types of people, yes, even here in the Americas.

Let us examine a specific book and the movement based on that awful book. I am speaking about the bible, a book that not only condones slavery but even has laws for such abuse of human beings—a book that must be destroyed. The Jewish Torah contains laws regarding how to handle slaves; some stayed in slavery for about seven years (usually Hebrew slaves) but non-Hebrew slaves were slaves for life.

Christians believe in what they call the Old Testament books, which are essentially the Torah and the Jewish scriptures (with some minor changes here and there), which, as I already stated, contains guidelines for slavery. Nowhere in the New Testament is slavery condemned by Jesus Christ, who many Christians believe is God, or by any of the Gospel writers. Slavery was acceptable to those Christians. It was acceptable to Jews. It was acceptable to Muslims too.

Do not be fooled by biblical apologists who claim that “servant” and “slave” have different meanings in the bible. There are no nuances to those two words; they are synonyms. Slavery flourishes in the bible. In fact, in many passages God condemns people into slavery.

So what should we do to those who use this book as the bedrock of their belief system?

***No churches or temples that owe their allegiance to the bible (in any of its forms) should receive tax exemptions unless they publically renounce the book and to show their love of non-slavery, they must have mass burnings of bibles

***Catholic, Protestant and Jewish hospitals should receive no public funds

***The bible should be banned in all public libraries and public schools

***Any statues, symbols or quotes from the bible should be outlawed on public property

***Christmas should no longer be celebrated as a national holiday

***No schools or public libraries should be closed for any religious holiday

***Revoke tax exemption status to all religious institutions that rely on the bible

And what about areas still practicing slavery? There are now about 25 to 40 million slaves in the world; although just about every country claims they no longer use the practice. Any area that still allows slavery should be punished.

W.A.T.E.R would be happy to send our ski masked legions to such countries to teach them in a non-violent way about human rights, although violence might break out.

But slavery goes even deeper than this. Too many Americans celebrate the people they call “Native Americans” who were immigrants who came to the north and south continents earlier than the Europeans. Such foolishness! Such ignorance!

Native North and South Americans used to enslave each other; some slaves would work, some would be sacrificed to the gods after being viciously tortured. Some of the slaves would be eaten during religious rituals.

When black slavery was brought to the continent by Europeans, Native Americans happily owned black slaves and participated in the black slave trade. They even sold other Native Americans not of their particular tribe into slavery!

What should be done with these people?

***No tribes who participated in the slave trade should be given public funds or public schools or hospitals, etc., unless they renounce their slave trading heritage

***No statues of prominent Native Americans of the slave era should be allowed on public property.

***Native Americans must condemn their slave-owning pasts.

The African slave trade went on for centuries, long before any Europeans set foot on the continent. Many African kingdoms sold members of other tribes to the Europeans to be brought to “civilization.” Those kingdoms must renounce their slave trade and ask for forgiveness. No aid should be given to these countries unless they destroy all vestiges of their slave-trading past. Those areas still practicing slavery should be protested.

What else should be done?

***African-Americans must renounce all areas of Africa that engaged in slavery.

***African-Americans must find another name to call themselves since most of them came from slave owning and selling countries.

Now what about Europeans who may be the biggest villains in history? What about the Asians? What about every single human being on planet Earth that came from cultures that practiced slavery – which means probably every single human being?

W.A.T.E.R will happily picket all of them! Our ski masks are ready! We are ready, willing and able to protest all of this everywhere. Down with statues! Down with offending pictures! Down with the bible! Down with religion! Down with all cultures that practiced slavery!

Only You

It was my first year of teaching at Lawrence High School in Cedarhurst, New York and I was finishing my first master’s degree. I would drive into the City to meet my advisor and this particular trip was to discuss my thesis on Ernest Hemingway titled “Hemingway Mystic.”

We met at a restaurant and got down to business. We discussed this, that and all the other things about Hemingway and I showed the professor point by point and line by line why I thought Hemingway had a strong mystic streak in his writing. When we were done my professor said, “Frank, is it true that every Italian has someone in his family in the Mafia?”

“What?”

“I heard that all Italians have at least one member of their family in the mob,” he said. “I just want you to confirm that.”

“No, no, my family doesn’t and none of the Italian families I know have Mafia guys in them,” I said.

“Ah,” he said. “But you really don’t know about them do you? You only know what you think you know or what people lead you to believe.”

“Doctor Carlson, I’m sorry, but give it some thought. There are so many Italians in America that if every family had at least one person in the mob, and maybe even more, there would be hundreds of thousands or a few million Mafia in America. It just isn’t so.”

“So you don’t know about the ones in your own family? You are not a good representative of your people” he laughed.

I shook my head. This guy was dense. Obviously I couldn’t change his mind, but the fact that his information was wrong, that I knew I didn’t have Mafia members in my family, didn’t seem to sway him in the least.

And what was this idea about me being a “representative” of my “people”? I didn’t speak for the Italians in America, nor the Germans nor Irish who also made up my heritage. I didn’t actually speak for anyone but myself.

“Italians get really offended when people make jokes about them don’t they?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Come on, you’re Italian, you should know.”

I learned something from this guy. No one represents his or her group, especially in the classroom. Yes, you might want to have fun with students, crack jokes at a kid’s expense as kids will cracks jokes at your expense; you do have to have a sense of humor about yourself, after all.

I realize that I can crack jokes about Jim and June and Bob and Jaime as Jim and June and Bob and Jaime – but not on what race, ethnicity, or religion they are.

Sometimes a stereotypical trait exists in the person with whom you are dealing. Fine. But that stereotype does not dictate all the traits of such an individual. And that stereotype is not that individual and, worse, that individual will feel slighted if he or she is made to feel you are stereotyping him or her. (“You people are all alike.”)

I am a man but I don’t represent men. (“All men are alike,” she says.)

Because she is a woman she does not represent women. (”All women are alike,” he says.)

Because a kid is Italian, he doesn’t represent Italians.

Because a kid is Jewish, she doesn’t represent Jews.

Because a kid is black, he doesn’t represent blacks.

And so on.

In the classroom; in the school; in professional or personal contact, then, it is just me and the other person, no matter who that person is.

Stand in front of your classroom; look at each and every student and say, “Only you.”

A Husband and Wife Talk Craps

They have totally different views about gambling. She doesn’t love it but she plays a little; he loves it and he plays a lot! His game is craps.

HIM: I make no bones about it. I love playing craps and we both go to the casino once a week.

HER: I do play the slots for one hundred dollars and no more. He plays craps all day. If I lose that hundred, I am done. That’s my limit. I play the nickel machines and keep the amount I bet very low on each decision so I can last.

HIM: We get everything for free. A great suite; free gourmet meals. My play is rewarded by the house.

HER: His play is rewarded, if you call losing a lot of money over the fifteen years we have been playing. I have lost. I admit that. I’ve lost a little. You really can’t beat the slot machines but his craps play is off the wall.

HIM: I am what they call an “action” player.

HER: That’s one way to say it.

HIM: I like to really get into a game. I will bet the Pass Line but I enjoy my other bets much more. I place the six and eight for one-hundred fifty dollars each and I usually go with the five and nine for one-hundred twenty-five dollars each. I buy the four and ten for one hundred each. I don’t necessarily go up on all of them at once but if I take a few wins, then I go for it big time. I am in the game to make the most money I can and the only way to do that is to bet big and go with the flow. I do believe there is a flow to the game.

HER: Oh, yeah, the flow is usually his money going across the table to the casino’s tray.

HIM: Hey, I’ve had some big wins!

HER: He’s not telling it all. Action player means he makes some of the stupidest bets at the game. Come on tell them…honey.

HIM: Okay, okay, she is right. I love to bet the Hardways and occasionally I will throw out the two or twelve, but only for ten dollars each. I go twenty-five bucks on the Hardways. They have good payouts and if you get hot on them, you can really bring in a lot of cash.

HER: I know the percentages of these bets because I did research on them. The Pass Line is good, maybe too the placing of the six and eight, but those others? Phew!

HIM: Those others are where the big payouts are. You hit a two or twelve and you get paid a lot.

HER: He works twelve-hour days and he is very successful in his business. He would never approach business the way he approaches gambling. He is very conservative with his money but in the casinos he lets it all hang out, in the worst way.

HIM: I play to have fun. I don’t consider this a business. I’m letting off steam; once a week is my steam-letting-off time.

HER: Steam? I think it is fun to have a decent chance of winning. What steam is let off by losing? He rarely wins, and when he gets those big wins he wants, they aren’t anywhere near enough to be ahead or even close enough to being even in his playing career. How is that a loser of steam? I would think the steam builds up even more. If he just played the Pass Line and maybe a Come bet or two, he’d have a better chance of coming home with some money much more frequently.

HIM: She doesn’t understand the craps player’s mentality. The game is fast and the players are really into it. Most of the players are rooting for the shooter to hit numbers and to make his point – the players who aren’t rooting for the shooter are pains in the you-know-what if you ask me – and when the shooter gets hot, there’s nothing like it. It is like a jolt of lightning going through your body. I mean you really feel it. I used to play blackjack but in that game there is no electricity shared by all the players.

HER: I think if electricity like that happened the players would be electrocuted. They are kind of electrocuted during the game if you ask me.

HIM: I look at it this way too. She is right that I work hard and earn good money but I also want the chance to spend that money as I see fit. If I played craps the way she suggests it wouldn’t be as much fun. That I can tell you for real; the game wouldn’t be much fun to me. I don’t tell her how to play those slot machines.

HER: I have very strong money management tools. That means I use a little amount to play with and I stretch that money out over time. Most of the time I do not lose much money at the machines based on the way I play.

HIM: Her way would kill me. I play it safe in real life but at the craps table? Come on. The casino is telling you to come and get it – and I am coming and trying to get it! I recognize that I play a high risk way –

HER: Of course, he’s an action player after all.

HIM: But the reward of that risk is that I am having fun. What’s so wrong with having fun? She wants me to have fun her way. I want to have fun my way.

FRANK’S VIEW: In my opinion the wife has the better gambling strategy. Yes, the husband can play anyway he chooses with his money but his choice of bets is lacking an understanding of how fast and how much money he will lose even over a relatively short period of time.

Killing Whales

On our recent trip to Torshavn in the Faroe Islands, my wife the Beautiful AP and I visited the National Museum that has artifacts of early sailors, Vikings and whale hunters—particularly whale hunters.

I must tell you that seeing the small size and limited power of the boats that the whale hunters used has put me off becoming a whale hunter in the 1600s. Sorry, that’s not for me. Actually that, added to the killing of those magnificent animals, probably won’t make me a whale hunter in any era.

Among its outstanding artifacts, this museum had an excellent film about the killing of the whales circa 1920. Picture a Sunday with women and children dressed in their Sunday finest, many having come directly from praying and praising their eternal loving God at church.

These well-dressed folks—men in suits, women in their Sunday best, children miniature versions of them – stood on the docks talking and laughing and looking out to the harbor; parents holding their children’s hands, other children skipping and playing. A true family day; a true town day; a truly wonderful day for all concerned.

Then they appeared; dozens upon dozens of pilot whales being herded by the whale hunters to the small harbor where the Sunday-go-to-meeting folks were now cheering. Kids were jumping up and down and clapping. The adults’ faces showed glee; a truly wonderful day for all concerned.

And the slaughter began.

The whale hunters started hacking away at the whales, the people cheering wildly as the blood splashed onto the docks, splattering many onlookers. The kids skipped happily as the blood washed over the land and over their little well-dressed bodies.

The water of the harbor turned red. It was reminiscent of one of the plagues Yahweh sent to destroy the Egyptians – only now it was the whales, thrashing and dying ignoble deaths in the shallows of the harbor.

Oh, how the boys and girls, the fathers, mothers, grandparents, the newly married and the single people looking for love cheered the blood and guts slaughter of these sentient creatures. There would be meat tonight and every night, and whale blubber for myriad uses.

I admit, the video engaged me, enraged me and fascinated me; it sickened me too, but it also made me realize that mankind must eat and we have the ability to turn just about everything into food and resources that we need. Our ways are at times grisly, yes; but nature—our human nature—is drenched in blood. It always has been so and perhaps it always will be so. Humankind dances our dance on the death docks even if we are vegetarians killing plants and vegetables with no blood to be seen. To live, the other living often must die.

I highly recommend visiting the museum should you be sailing the North Atlantic. I do not recommend killing the whales, if you can avoid it.

[Frank Scoblete’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.]