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On the outskirts of Philadelphia is a very exclusive country club does not admit women. The prohibition against women is so strictly enforced that members are even discouraged from having their wives drop them off at the clubhouse. Indeed , some of the stories about how far the club goes to preserve the sanctity of this all male bastion are difficult to believe.

For instance, it is rumored that once or twice a year, a burka clad figure can be seen flitting about the clubhouse offices. No, it is not some religious fanatic; it’s merely the female accountant who has been smuggled in to balance the books. Then there is the apocryphal  story about the time, some years ago, when a club member passed away and left a substantial sum of money to be used for the renovation of the the clubhouse. The bequest was gratefully accepted and the renovation completed but the club stewards then faced a tricky problem. Should the widow be invited to the dedication ceremony? There was a long discussion, behind closed doors, and an agreement was finally hammered out. The widow was invited to attend … providing she left the premises immediately after the ceremony.

One final anecdote : A club member was stricken with chest pains while he was in the clubhouse. He was made as comfortable as possible and the First Aid squad summoned. The ambulance was there in minutes  and two EMTs quickly alighted and rolled out a gurney. But there was a problem and you can guess what it was. One EMT was a man, the other a woman. Even in this dire situation, the club stuck to its rules; the female EMT was told that she could not enter the premises. Luckily, the male EMT was able to load the patient into the ambulance with the help of the other club members and  rushed to the hospital where he made a complete recovery.  Some weeks later, when he was back at the club, he was told what had transpired and is reported to have responded: “Had to do it! Had to do it! Perfectly understand!”

No doubt, you who are reading this have questions to ask . Questions like ” What is the membership of this club like? What’s so great about the club? And, finally, How can such blatant discrimination be tolerated nearly one hundred years after women secured the right to vote? Here are the answers:

The club members are rich old white men, most of whom have their money in a variety of businesses.( They have to be rich because the annual membership dues run into the tens of thousands). They like the club’s all-male environment because they can make business deals in peace and’ boys can be boys’. The club does boast an excellent golf course but it is underused. It also has an excellent kitchen which puts out gourmet food. The members don’t come to the club to play golf; they come there to eat, drink, gamble and doing whatever they want unfettered by the presence of women. Gambling is very big at the club. A member once wagered and lost his car lease on a bet. Another member is reputed to have gambled away a million dollars in a single year. Yet another, no doubt under the influence of drink, is supposed to have played a ground of golf while clad only in his underwear. Crude behavior, it seems is not only tolerated, it is the norm. One member, a Cardinal no less, is alleged to have let out a loud fart while in the clubhouse and said, unapologetically, ” Cardinals fart too”.

Which woman would want to be in an environment like this where crudity and boorishness are the order of the day? No wonder women have not tried to overturn the restrictions against female membership.

 

 

 

 

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After their runner-up finish in the just concluded Women’s World Cup, the Indian women cricketers came home to a rousing welcome from fans and unprecedented coverage on TV and newspapers. Hundreds of fans, more than half of them girls and women, were on hand to greet them at the airport, to cheer them and get them to pose for selfies. It must have been an unbelievable experience for the cricketers who have labored in obscurity for all these many years.

Prior to the WWC ( Women’s World Cup), most cricket fans in India would have been hard put to name any of these women cricketers.  I myself had only heard of two of them, Mithali Raj and Jhulan Goswami but I live in the U.S where cricket coverage  is almost non-existent. Once the WWC started , however, I quickly became familiar with all of the players, their stats and even some of their life stories. As the tournament progressed, my interest grew and their performances in the semifinal and final blew my mind… as it did the minds of cricket fans in India, male and female. Mithali Raj, the Indian captain, had only 7,000 Twitter followers at the start of the World Cup; by the time it ended, the number had swelled to 155,000. It was recognition long overdue for a player who has devoted over 20 years of her life to the game.  A former teammate has related how during training camps, Mithali’s day would start at 4:30 each morning and end only at 8 at night; in between, she would go full tilt all the time. Knowing that curries would not be available when touring abroad, Mithali would go on a diet of boiled vegetables and saltless food one month before the tour started. Now that is dedication.

What I’m really happy about is that the fans adulation  did not diminish in spite of the loss in the final. I hope that fan interest in women’s cricket will continue and result in TV coverage and financial opportunities for the women players.

The truth is  that Indian women cricketers have been shamefully neglected until now. Of the 15 players who represented India in the WWC, only 11 had been awarded contracts by the BCCI and of those eleven, seven had contracts paying them less than $ 1,500 per month. Such parsimony on the part of the BCCI is unconscionable when one considers its bulging coffers and the riches it  lavishes on the men cricketers and the opportunities it gives them in terms of TV coverage, fame and endorsements.

By contrast, the women’s game has no televised games or regular tournaments. The BCCI even refused to let the team participate in multi-discipline tournaments such  as the 2014  Asian Games where the Pakistani women won the gold. I can’t conceive of any reason for such step-motherly treatment except sheer bloody-mindedness and arrogance on the part of the BCCI. After the 2017 WWC, it is difficult to imagine the mistake will be repeated for the 2018 Asian Games to be held in Jakarta.

The lack of international experience definitely affected player performance in the WWC. Only two of the players had played abroad ( in Australia’s WBBL) :Harmanpreet Kaur and Smriti Mandhana. The former played one of the greatest ever innings in the emifinal against Australia and almost singlehandedly catapulted India into the final. Mandhana had two big scores in the first two matches before tailing off. Who knows but that with more experience against foreign players and big match opportunities India might not have held their nerve and pipped England in the final.

These women cricketers have it tough every step of the way. No financial security, poor coaching, no regularly scheduled tournaments and no TV coverage. Most of them got their starts by chance. For instance, some were noticed by perceptive coaches when they went with their brothers to the practice nets. Their parents made great sacrifices to give them the opportunity to compete at higher levels of the game. And , in order to do so, they themselves had to make considerable personal sacrifice,  forgoing education and putting off marriage to play the game they loved. A fortunate few got BCCI contracts or jobs in the Railways or other such organizations, the rest got nothing.

All this will change. There is no way things will go back to what they were before. The women’s  performances  have caught the imagination of the Indian cricketing public and you can bet the BCCI will be quick to capitalize. There is talk of an IPL type tournament for women. If it happens, the resulting TV coverage and financial perks will increase participation in the women’s game, create a larger pool of players who will be better equipped to challenge Australia, England and S, Africa and, down the road, bring greater glory to the country. Good for them. I can hardly wait.

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( I ‘ve only just started posting again after a two month long hiatus. The reason… many things, but particularly, the birth of our first grandchild, our granddaughter Saya, in San Francisco. This post is about our emotions on seeing her for the first time).

When we told our friends that we were leaving for San Francisco to see our new granddaughter, they were delighted for us. Those who had grandchildren of their own were particularly effusive. ” We’re so happy for you. That moment when you see her for the first time: cherish it. There is nothing like it'”, said one. ” Sheer magic”, gushed another. With such a build -up, we were eager to see the baby.

We arrived in San Francisco, took a Lyft to our son’s apartment, greeted him and were ushered into the living room where Saya was cradled in her mother’s lap. My first thought upon seeing her was how small and vulnerable she appeared. She  was not yet one month old and I had not dealt with babies that young in a long, long time. I took in her features : the gimlet eyes that seemed to look right through me, the Cupid’s Bow mouth ,the cute little nose, the neatly combed hair – and I began to feel the first stirrings of love, an emotion that grew stronger day by day as this little stranger became a person and stole into my heart.

I remember the exact moment when it happened.

Little babies have it so hard. Thrust suddenly into a world they cannot comprehend, utterly helpless, completely dependent on large strangers for their every need, they can communicate their needs only by crying. Life is an endless cycle of eat, burp, sleep, eliminate and get clean. Even after being burped, Saya would be affected by hiccups. At such times, the only thing that brought her comfort was sitting in her grandma’s lap and being rocked gently until the hiccups subsided. We also discovered that Saya loved to hear the Hindu chant, Soham, sung by a church choir. As soon as we put it on, the crying would stop and , in minutes, she would doze off. I loved to look at Saya as this happened. One day, she was apparently asleep and my wife was thinking of putting her in the crib, when Saya opened one eye and looked at us. The look was so knowing and yet trusting that my wife and I were both charmed. It was magical.

Another such moment happened when she was fast asleep in her crib. As I watched, a beatific smile stole across her face. What could she be thinking of that brought such peace and contentment ? I thought of angels and Heaven and was reminded of the Inner Divinity that resides in all of us. The smile lasted for only a few seconds but , as I wondered if it had really happened, it happened again! O happy day !!

When we came back to New Jersey it was a wrench, parting from Saya. Even now, our thoughts are often with her. After we left, we heard that she was sad for a couple of days. Then, she got her shots and was miserable for a week. Hearing that, we were too. Luckily, her other grandmother is there now to take care of her and to pamper her and Saya is smiling again. We FaceTime with her on Sundays and, while it is no substitute for face- to face interaction, it is the next best thing. We get to see her and how fast she is growing and keep tabs on what is happening with her. We count the days until we can see her again in November.  Will she remember us then? Or will we have to make her acquaintance all over again?

Children and grandchildren both bring us joy but, as a friend once remarked, we are more relaxed with our grandchildren. Having brought up children, we know what to expect and are not as nervous as when we were young parents. At our stage of life, we also have less worries than when we were still making our way in the world.

I often think of how fortunate we are, those of us who have children and, perhaps, grandchildren. We have seen our children grow up, tended them through their mishaps, rejoiced in their achievements and shared in their happiness. Now, through our grandchildren, we get to re-live those golden years once again. Truly, we are blessed.

 

 

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I watched the  Wimbledon Mens Singles Final this morning, on ESPN, and it was both a delight and a relief. It was a delight because, as a Federer fan, I’d been waiting for Roger to clinch his 19th Grand Slam ever since the Australian Open in January. It was a relief to a Federer fan who knows all too well that anything can happen in a sport where 35 ( almost 36) years of age means that one is a geriatric.

From a tennis fan’s point of view, the tennis on display this morning was disappointing because the match was so one- sided. Marin Cilic had looked in great form in the earlier rounds including in his four set semifinal win over big serving Sam Querry, and his subpar display this morning was mystifying. Apparently, he suffered an injury to his foot … but when ? The tumble he took early in the match did not appear to be that serious, nor did it seem to result in any lasting injury. I thought I heard one of the McEnroes mention that it had happened in the semifinal but I could be mistaken. More likely, it was nerves that got the better of Cilic, who is a high strung type. In any case, he was outclassed and was never in the match.

Even though the quality of play was not outstanding, there was still a lot to enjoy, as there is in any match in which Federer is involved. First and foremost, there is his style which makes everything look so smooth and effortless. The flowing groundstrokes, the serve effective because of its pinpoint placement rather than sheer pace, the way in which he glides , seemingly unhurried, all over the court and the unparalleled beauty of that one- handed backhand. What I appreciate, too, is his approach to the game, the manner in which he goes for his shots rather than play safe and wait for his opponent to make mistakes. Finally, there is the obvious enjoyment he derives from tennis and his on-court demeanor. He is intense but always in control of his emotions; he is not one to yell, or curse, or abuse his racket. Those are the things that set him apart from everyone else. That is why he is such a fan favorite all over the world and why  the crowd is in his corner even when he is playing the home-town favorite. It was wonderful to see the reaction of the Wimbledon crowd this morning when he won.

With this victory, Roger Federer leaps into second place in the standings behind his arch rival, Rafael Nadal. Even so, even if he wins the U.S Open in September, I doubt that he will be # 1 at year’s end since he plays so few tournaments these days. At this stage of his career, the Number 1 ranking is no big deal. Far more important is to conserve his energy and prolong his career and, hopefully, win another Grand Slam or two and stay ahead of Nadal. With his two Grand Slams this year, Roger has increased his lead over Rafa, from three to four. I think he is safely out of reach but one more GS at Flushing Meadows would put the issue beyond doubt. Go Roger!

P.S There are some armchair ” experts” who will sneer at Roger’s win because he didn’t have to meet and defeat any of the Big Three ( Novak, Andy Murray and Rafa). It is a silly argument because all of them entered in the tournament and their early exits were not any fault of Roger’s.

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There are several lists of the dirtiest jobs in America. Some of the jobs on those lists are:

Septic Tank Servicer         Horse Castrator        Sewer Inspector          Pig Slop Processor

Charcoal Maker                 Road kill Cleaner      Termite Controller      Embalmer

Bloodworm Hunter          Animal Vet                Bat Cave Scavenger      Coal Miner

Slaughterhouse Worker

As bad as these jobs are, and they are all really really bad, there is one that is worse than any of them. The crappiest job in America is White House Press Secretary (in the present administration). Consider what poor Sean Spicer has to go through every day. As in many of the jobs listed above, he has to deal with a whole lot of crap. In his role as spokesperson for the executive branch, he has to explain actions and events within the President’s administration to the world. Thus, he has to deal with the White House Press Corps on a daily basis and explain the President’s latest snafus. He has to use his wiles to evade… and deny … and deflect … and obfuscate. In short, everything short of outright lying.  After tying himself up in knots trying to do the impossible, he is regularly undercut by his boss who contradicts what he has just said. How he must dread those early morning Tweetstorms!

As if this is not enough, he is the butt of jokes and is regularly caricatured on Saturday Night Live and by late night show hosts. As someone has said, working in this administration means being perceived either as a fool or as a liar.

When something goes wrong, as it invariably does, it is never his boss’s fault; it’s his. He may be a decent chap but he is mistrusted by everyone, thanks to his job. Nor can there be any satisfaction in the job itself. Every day is worse than the last and, when his head hits the pillow at night, he must have nightmares about what the next day will bring.

Finally, as hard as he works, his job security is nil. There is constant speculation that he is about to be fired and, in the last week, the whispers have been growing louder. If I were a betting man, yesterday I would have been willing to wager that he would not last six months. Today, amidst reports that a Fox News correspondent is being considered for his job, it seems I was too optimistic. He may not last out the month. Yes, this is the crappiest job in America and Sean Spicer will probably heave a sigh of relief he hears the dread words  ” You’re fired!”.

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Last evening, we went to the Shankar Mahadevan concert at the Newark Symphony Hall in Newark, NJ. The concert was great ( more about that in another post) but what put it over the top for my wife was that she was able to sit very near the stage and have a close-up view of the singers. It really was fortuitous…

There were twenty of us from our Active Adult development going to the concert and because that was a sizable number, the ticket office upgraded two of the tickets to the VVIP class, seats which normally cost $ 250 apiece. The person who bought the tickets chose my wife for one of the upgraded seats in recognition of her hard work with other programs. Very generous of him and a godsend for my wife. She is herself a keen singer and a big, big Mahadevan fan. From where she sat in the fifth row, center she was able to see every little detail, every facial expression, every nuance of what was happening on stage. it’s true that those who are sitting further back can hear everything that’s going on but when you are sitting up front it’s a completely different experience.

That’s true for all kinds of shows, not just for music. Some years ago, we were at a New Jersey Devils game at the Meadowlands and were lucky to be sitting just four rows back from the ice. Wow! Only then did we fully appreciate what a physical game ice hockey is. When you are sitting further away or see the game on TV, you see the collisions but don’t realize how violent they are. That night, from our choice seats, we got the real picture. Whenever, a player was crushed against the plexiglass barrier by an opposing player,  it shook and shuddered and seemed on the verge of breaking up. We saw the missing teeth as faces were mashed against the glass, sprays of perspiration launched into the air when two players ran into each other. We also saw how rapidly the shift changes occurred with players on the ice for  less than minute at a time. Even when there was no scoring, it was exciting to watch the players crash into each other, hear the clackety clack of sticks as they battled for the puck. That night, I understood why violence sells, why hockey and NFL football are so successful in attracting fans.

There are, however, some close -in seats that are not desirable. Those are the ones next to the oversize speakers at shows that feature high decibel music. Once at the Blue Man show in Las Vegas, we had the misfortune to be sitting close to the speakers and the din was ear shattering. My brother-in-law was actually in pain. Apparently, this is not an uncommon predicament because an usher was on hand to give him earplugs so that he could watch the rest of the program without his ears being assaulted by waves of sound.

In general though, the closer the better. I hope you are able to have the experience.

 

 

 

 

 

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We humans are intensely interested in what the future holds for us, particularly in how long we will live. Palmists, astrologers and others tout various ways of determining how many years we have ahead of us. Even though there is no scientific basis for such predictions, these forecasters thrive. There is one numerologist/ astrologist whose ubiquitous TV ads  claim that he has” half a million satisfied customers” in the U.S. I suppose that are always those who want to believe, who are desperate enough to think that someone can help them find what the future holds. As P.T. Barnum famously said,  ” There’s a sucker born every minute.”

As for myself, I remember what a friend of mine discovered when  he was working  temporarily as a morgue attendant. He knew a bit about palmistry and he ” read” the palms of several of the corpses, mainly those who had died young, in accidents. Many, many of them he told me had long tenar lines which are supposed to indicate the length of one’s life. And , yet, there they were in the morgue, well ahead of their time.

There is one story about the length of one’s life that I love. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov ( 1698- 1760) taught that each of us is born with a fixed number of words to speak.  This number varies from person to person and, when we have spoken our allotted number of words, we die. The words we speak are up to us, the number is not. The moral of the story is that since we do not know how many words we have left, we should be sparing with them; that, whenever we are about to speak, we should stop and ask ourselves” Are these words worth dying for?”

This is, of course, a teaching story , one intended to make us careful with our words. I wish though that I could tell it to a couple of my long-winded friends and convince them that it was true. Wonder if it would have any effect.

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