!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!; ALCS Game 5

An agnostic doesn't believe in God due to lack of evidence. I don't believe what the Boston Red Sox did Thursday night, despite all the evidence that could possibly be. A greater leap of faith is required than I am capable of.

The Sox dropped a heartbreaker in game 2, were demolished in games 3 and 4, and down 3 games to one in the series, the Sox were down 7-0 with 2 outs in the bottom of the 7th inning. And they won 8-7. They won. Astounding. Astounding.

I need all the reassurance I can get that this actually happened. Sometimes its thought the difference between a scientific and religious temperament is displayed in the reaction to the same set of facts- a scientist looks at existence and sees something explainable, a religious persons sees that same world as mystery. I'm trying to understand how this one really happened, but I'm not sure I can, so I'm just going to go over it again, and stare ga-ga at the facts.

Lowrie lead off the 7th with a long double to right. After Varitek and Kotsay failed to deliver, Coco slapped a 2 out single to left, keeping the inning alive. Dustin Pedroia toughed out yet another 8 pitch AB, fouling off pitches long enough for TBS to run out of ways of anointing Tampa and actually get to some relevant statistics, mentioning that Pedey was far and away the league-leader in BA with 2 strikes this year, at just under .300, until Pedey shot one to right in front of Gross. Lowrie scored, breaking up the shutout, and Crisp advanced, putting 2 runners on.

And up strode the man once awarded with the greatest Red Sox clutch hitter plaque, Big Papi, but who had really come up small in this years postseason. Now, you can always watch a baseball game hoping for a homerun, but they rarely happen. The very best home run hitters only do it every 15 plate appearances or so. And Ortiz had zero homers in his last 61 postseason ABs, and was 1 for 14 with runners on in this postseason. Down 6 runs, with the season on the line, with the defense of the world championship on the line, I cannot imagine a single person watching or playing in this ballgame that was thinking about anything other than Big Papi crushing one. Had he woefully continued, a 7-1 game goes to the 8th. But he got a fastball down and in- his sweet spot- from Balfour, and he absolutely hammered it. In a rare moment, Papi looked almost surprised at himself; he did not characteristically flip the bat in a signification of dominance, and only tentatively left the box. But Fenway erupted, as did my studio apartment. A blowout had just turned into a ball game, the Sox were only down 7-4.

In that moment when Ortiz connected, fantasy became reality, wishes were fulfilled. Baseball really does do that sometimes; it makes the trite tremendous. TBS appropriately showed the guy with the 'i like baseball' sign. Three simple words, and all was right with the universe.

With the metaphorical wind at his back, Papelbon went back out there for the top of the 8th, buried some splitters, elevated some fastballs, and took 2 K's with him back to the dugout, getting those Boston bats back out there to batter the bullpen some more.

Wheeler walked Bay to start the 8th, missing badly low and away on the 3-0 pitch. Clearly rattled, he fell behind J.D. Drew, who righteously rifled one into the right field seats. It was now just a 1 run game, with the Sox only trailing 7-6. Wheeler then feel behind Lowrie, but Lowrie helped him out on the 1-0, swinging at a pitcher's pitch and popping to left. Outs are precious, and that one was squandered. And when Casey, pinch hitting for the captain in what might have been his final fenway plate appearance had he appeared, chased a splitter outside for the whiff, the realization hit that scoring 6 runs is great, but when the other guys have 7...

But Mark Kotsay delivered with 2 outs in the 8th, driving yet another liner to leftcenter field. B.J. Upton, who plays the laziest center field this side of Andruw Jones, yet again nonchalantly glided after the ball, but this time coming up empty, and deservedly so, as Kotsay's double clanged off his glove. Miraculously, the Sox had put the tying run in scoring position just 3 outs after having been down 7-0.

The lineup turned over. And even though Crisp had lined a single his previous attempt, no Boston fan hopes that the man who strides to the plate in the season's most important at bat is Coco Crisp. But whatever Coco hasn't done in his time here in Boston, and whatever he does or doesn't do from here on out, that at bat with the tying run on second with 2 down in the 8th inning of what had rapidly become a one run game was legendary. He fouled off pitch after pitch after pitch, 4 after the count had run full, even some that may have been out of the zone, as Coco was determined not to let the ump make the call; this was in Coco's hands, and he put up a noble fight. Finally Wheeler gave up, conceded, threw the 10th pitch of the at bat down the middle and Coco earned that clean, pure, single to right, that beautiful soft line drive, that sent in Kotsay and tied the ballgame at 7 apiece.

The old Red Sox would have squandered it in the 9th, of course. Carlos Pena, who has been death to Sox pitching, came up with 2 on and 1 out. But the kid Masterson buckled down and got the 4-6-3, sending a tie game to the bottom of the 9th.

But Pedroia and Ortiz went down, the former on a great play by Bartlett in the hole on a sharp grounder that had deflected off Longoria. Longoria then made an amazing stab on the short hop off a Youkilis chopper, but he threw off balance in the dirt, Pena couldn't make the stop, and the Sox had the winning run on second base. Bay was intentionally walked, and J.P. Howell faced J.D. Drew, the man who had hit the 2 run bomb to bring the Sox to within a run just one inning ago. Drew, nearly motionless, poised and ready to strike, walloped a 3-1 delivery, a screaming sinking liner over the wild leap of rightfielder Gross, and Tampa walked off in defeat, acquiescing to a Game 6.

Watching this one, logic and law goes out the window (I should get better insulation.) My girlfriend Rebecca was sitting at the kitchen table when Drew hit the homer to make it 7-6, but then moved over to the couch. Lowrie promptly popped up, and I yelled for her to go back to the table. Later, she had to go get ready for bed, but I wouldn't let her. She must sit at the table and not move. She had already made Lowrie pop up. I blamed her. She stayed put, and we won.

I imagine millions of other people refused to move from their spots too. To think logically where it clearly doesn't apply, we might reason that our not moving cancelled out the Tampa fans' not moving, that the sit in your spot jinx is a zero-sum interaction, and the players took it from there. Or one might think, as I clearly did, that my actions and mine alone were responsible for sending out anti-rays metaphysical rays from Brooklyn to Boston. When the transpiring are just so fantastic, so utterly unbelievable and absurd, doing anything to disturb that precious, teetering balance the universe has so fleetingly achieved seems like a sin.

I'm still out on the idea of retroactive meaning, both enhanced and diminished. If we lose Game 6 or 7, does that take away from game 5? I don't know. I'll cross that bridge after I pay the toll. For now, even after 2 rings in 4 years, and considering all the differences between now and '04, baseball, out of all the things in the world, still has this unique ability to perform the alchemy of turning despair into nervous hope into sheer delight, of creating a little universe where things can go right.

I like baseball.

Easier Done Than Said

In Moneyball, a big deal is made of the ineffectiveness of traditional small ball strategies, and the hypothesis is floated that managers bunt, hit and run and steal because the familiarity of these strategies will save the manager from public humiliation.

Well, Terry Francona is a post-Moneyball manager, and so I suspect he has a different fear. Private humiliation. Tito seems too embarrassed to tell his players that they can't do what the player thinks they can do. Apparently, for Francona, underperforming is like performing in underwear. Decline is awkward.

This is obvious with Varitek, whose nonexistent bat baited the boobirds in Game 3. Supposedly, the Sox are carrying three catchers on the playoff roster so that Varitek can be pinch hit for early enough in the game so that Kevin Cash can be pinch hit for too. Yet Tek has continually hit in crucial spots during the 7th innings of this series. So I can only imagine that the 3 catchers idea was Theo's, and the keeping Tek in there was Francona's. Keeping Tek in is not the safe move for Francona publicly- fans are fickle and feel no loyalty at the expense of postseason results (color me that kind of fickle as well), given that a Tek AB is bound to fail, but it avoids the private confrontation. Loyalty, and dignity for Tek, rather than a confrontation with the inevitable, even in the apparent safety of the clubhouse.

Game 2 was not a highlight for Francona. He left Beckett over and over again, to see the former ace squander three separate leads, embarrassing himself and his postseason record with a 9 hit, 8 run, 3 HR performance in just 4 and a third. This wasn't a matter of simply missing spots- Beckett induced only 4 swings and misses all night. The stuff wasn't there. In a tie game threatening extras, he removed former starter Masterson after only 2/3 of an inning, depleting the bullpen. Javier Lopez threw as many pitches as he made appearances. Francona brought in Timlin, rather than Byrd, to pitch the 11th. This on a day when Maddon had burned his two best relievers- Balfour and Howell- by the 6th inning, and was vulnerable. And Ellsbury continues to bat leadoff.

All these moves simply reinforce the preestablished roles for these players. Beckett is the ace, he should stay in. Varitek is the captain, he should stay in. Papelbon is the closer, he should pitch the 9th. Lopez is the lefty specialist, he should throw one pitch. Timlin is the veteran reliever, he should pitch before a starting is thrust into the unfamiliar role of reliever. Ellsbury is fast, he should hit leadoff.

Confronting the players would create the dissonance of casted role and performance, of expectation and fact. It would require distinguishing the pre-programmed from the pragmatic, what should be from what is. Facing reality can be uncomfortable, and downright embarrassing. But its Francona's job to not be complacent, to do whatever it takes to win. Even something unconventional, risky, or even humbling or humiliating to his favorite players. Tito can't hide out in the open, he can't lose himself in the crowd to avoid that intimate conversation. A players' manager yes, but a team's manager too. A team that's down 2 games to win and needs to win.

For Those Of You Scoring At Home

So it turns out the game is less pixely sitting 5 rows behind the first base dugout than at a desktop computer via windows media player. Who knew? The shock was only slightly less, I imagine, than when my Dad went to his first game, and saw what had hitherto been a black and white field look green.

But on an grad student's salary, this was 5 rows behind the dugout of the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Mets' single A farm team. On Saturday, the Cyclones, who play with the eponymous roller coaster at Coney Island visible over the left field fence, were taking on your very own Lowell Spinners.

The bush leagues do not rely on baseball to fill the seats, and the Cyclones absorb the amusement park atmosphere; no moment between innings is not imbued with a carnival attraction- a ketchup and mustard race, multiple mascots dancing, t-shirt guns, a "wacky" mc introducing costumed weirdos, video clips and blaring obnoxious music, and even a cracker jack vendor who donned a sequined tuxedo and rode a unicycle on the dugout while juggling bowling pins.

And in between they manage to squeeze in a baseball game.

My girlfriend Rebecca has been a fantastic sport for learning about The Game from me. When I met her, she wasn't sure what direction the batter ran; these days, it's 'Ellsbury hasn't been hitting well lately'. (I count my stars, as they say.) But she's been going to the Cyclones for years, as her parents are avid fans. Rebecca's favorite thing about the Cyclones? The ketchup and mustard race. Of course.

But not this day; I was determined to further wisdomize her by teaching her to score the game. As someone who studies the boundaries of knowledge in his not-spare time, I think I know about limits, so I didn't try to get her started on keeping score until the 6th inning. But first, naturally, I explained the virtues of scoring- "what you have is a semi-graphic and symbolic representation of the ballgame, which allows for it's reconstruction after the fact. See, each plate appearance is a discrete event, an individual, but also an inseparable part of the larger whole that is the baseball game. The numerical symbolism allows for the tracking of individual plays, and the graphic layout of the lineup by inning and the diamond within each square allows the gestalt qualities to be read off at a glance. Basically, the synthesis of distinct part and seamless whole in one cognized perception yields the pleasing aesthetic of keeping score." Yup, I make things fun.

So out came the pen, and I got the ball rolling, but Rebecca quickly insisted that she get to do it, and from there the scorecard is legible. Which is nice.

She immediately took to it, but that there wasn't a baserunner for the first 2 2/3 innings she scored helped out. Brooklyn even took a 1-0 lead into the 9th inning, only allowing Lowell 2 hits thus far. But the Brooklyn pitcher walked the first Lowell hitter in the top of the 9th, and the next batter bunted him over to second. After a ground out to third, Lowell was down to its last out, with the tying run remaining at second. The next hitter, Mitch Dening, Lowell's whisker thin number 3 hitter, grounded to the left side. The Brooklyn third baseman dove to his left, and deflected the now trickling ball to shortstop. With no chance to the make the play, it should have been first and third, two down. But the shortstop forced the throw, and the ball got a lot closer to us in our 1st base dugout-adjacent seats than perhaps he would have liked; infield hit, E6, tie ball game, go-ahead run on second. The crowd, up to this point sated by t shirts and jugglers, groaned in collective scorn for the headstrong actions of the young shortstop.

Meanwhile, Rebecca has gone from enjoying the placid, pastoral pursuit of keeping score at a ballgame to frantically trying to render the transpirings semi-graphically and symbolically. Meanwhile, the cleanup hitter Luis Sumoza was intentionally walked- that's 'I' BB, Rebecca, 'I' BB!

So here we are, tied 1-1 on an unearned run, first and second for Lowell, two outs. The 5th place hitter then bounces to third, and the third baseman, opting for the force out at second, flips an easy chest high toss in plenty of time for the out. But the second baseman missed the ball!, and it rolls into shallow right field. One run scores, it's 2-1 Lowell, Sumoza rounds third, the second baseman recovers the ball, Sumoza is trying to score all the way from first, here's the throw to the plate, he's out! The inning's over, but Lowell scores 2 on 1 infield hit and 2 errors, two walks, one intentional, and a sacrifice. What an exciting inning! "I hate scoring!" wails Rebecca, "I don't want to do it anymore!" But it's just an FC 5-4, E4, with the previous batter out at the plate 5-4-2, and the one before him scoring on the E4, no RBI. What's so complicated about that?

Brooklyn went quietly in the 9th, yielding a clean and simple scorecard on their side of the program. That was a relief. It was such an easy inning I figured Rebecca was ready to relive her anxiety, so I reconstructed the wacky events of that bush league 9th inning, according to her scorecard. It's the only way to learn.

P.S. I now owe Rebecca many dinners. And flowers. And whatever else men have to buy on sitcoms when they've been too stereotypically male at their ladies.

Across the Universe; Manny Finds a Wormhole, Dodgers lose 2-1

There's an old old paradox about sand. (You heard me.) Take one grain of sand, that's not a heap. Add another, that's not a heap. And so on. Adding just one grain never gets you a heap, but, presumably, eventually a bunch of sand is a heap. What seems like a simple continuum reemerges as a mysterious discontinuity.

One might think that walking, jogging, and running lie on a continuum, that there's a difference in degree, not in kind. But the sand paradox applies here too.

On Friday, Los Angeles Dodgers leftfielder Manny Ramirez proved both that there is an infinite, unbridgeable chasm between jogging, and running, and that if a man continues to put one foot in front of the other, a man can run.

In the bottom of the sixth inning, with the Dodgers up 1-0, Manny Ramirez checked his swing, rolling a slow grounder to the right side of the infield. Arizona first baseman Tony Clark ranged to his right, and flipped to Randy Johnson covering. Too late. Manny legged out an infield single. That's right. Manny Ramirez legged out an infield single.

Yes, Manny really beat it out. He tore down that line like it was the Berlin wall. Like there were bulls after him. He hustled like it was 3 card monte. He hauled ass like an interstate sex trafficker.

I've never seen Manny Ramirez run so fast. Sprinting down that line, showing a lean physique in his tailored pants, he conclusively proved that there's a universe of difference between jogging and running, a cosmic gulf, an infinite divide, an unbridgeable chasm, a you-can't-get-there-from-here abyss that can be crossed simply by trying.

Manny, in Dodger blue, showed his true colors, on the other side of the country, a universe apart. The knees were strong and chipper, they made him go. He didn't just walk, or jog, and then go one step faster, and one step faster, and then one step faster. He ran. Like a ballplayer. He legged out an infield single in a one-run game.

Now, the universe being what it is, he wasn't rewarded for his act of apparent good faith. As the potential winning run at the plate with the tying run on first, down 2-1 in the 9th with former Sox closer Brandon Lyon on the hill, Manny bounced into a 6-4-3 double play. He was thrown out by just a step.

He almost made it. There's a universe in between out and safe, and Manny tried his hardest to cross that chasm.

How about that?

On Our Rug, In Our Universe; Yanks Win 10-3

Some people use the word 'philosophical' to mean 'stoic', and 'stoic' to mean 'able to withstand an asskicking'.

And though transitivity implies that I'm getting a degree in being able to withstand an asskicking, which I surely am not (since I can't), I'll temporarily accept the appellation 'philosophical' in regards to how to take today's 10-3 drubbing at the hands of the resurgent M F-ing Yankees (who since the break have won 8 straight, and have posted an .858 team OPS and a team ERA of 1.56.)

Today's game was a real gutshot. Shots like these do have to be suffered. And if you can make it through with your dignity intact, and without vomiting, you earn the glory you achieve later. Champions- teams and their fans- have to be able to take a punch too. (But we know that.)

The long view cosmic scheme of things stoicism is justifiable; The Sox are the defending champs, Ortiz is back, we (yes, we) have the best run differential in the American League at +88, 46 ahead of Tampa and 30 better than the Yanks. This is something to bite down on, you know, to be philosophical.

But this was also the kind of game that makes me check the movie listings and resort to posting homoawkward pictures that have probably circulated the interweb twice over by now.

(photo by Stuart Cahill)

You heard it here third. Lester's the stopper tomorrow.

2004 ALCS Preview: Pray-Per-View

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004: On the Upcoming ALCS vs. the Yankees

[Please ignore the Messianic imagery. It was a very exciting time, if you recall. also, I really had a lousy time at Yankee Stadium a year earlier, during a certain game 7. see http://soxlosophy.blogspot.com/2008/06/2003-alcs-game-7-non-je-ne-regrette.html ]

Well, it's happening. And frankly, I don't think I can take it. It’s hard to imagine anything more exhilarating and trying than last year. From Pedro tossing Zimmer, to nelson and Garcia fighting landscapers, to Grady little and broken bat doubles, the gamut was run. But that was just a prelude. And I simply do not think I can take it.

Over the next week and a half, my screams will be heard, guttural howls emanating from places my soul doesn't even know about, in response to every pitch, ever sign shook off, every step shaded up the middle, every last little contingency that will forever change the face of the earth, and life as we know it.

I fully expect to be struck down by a Yankee fan at some point this week, when the angry mob hears me speak one too many truths, and out of hatred and fear of self- realization, must destroy me before I force them to look inside themselves, to see the evil burning within.

This week will be a true test of faith and devotion, one that'll make Job's treatment look like a manicure. A sox loss would be absolutely devastating. If they lose, I just don't know if I could bounce back. I will be suffering heart attack after heart attack, nervous breakdown after nervous breakdown, all week. Any and all ties to the outside world will be severed, I will be completely at the mercy of the epic battle god has seen fit to subject me to, for purposes of deeming me worthy.

I truly believe that we have the better team, and that we should, and deserve to, win. But then, Job didn't deserve what he got. And that was kind of the point. But his suffering was supposed to be rewarded, not merely a sadistic punishment. We are now at the point of judgment, at the point where for all time, suffering and loss are rewarded with eternal righteousness, and the sweet sweet reward. If we lose, I might very well be crushed, my suffering will have been in vain.

This has to be the year- we've never been in a better position. I simply cannot take more Yankee smugness, more favoritism from the proactive Satan against a complacent and negligent god, more evil in the world.

We humbly await your judgment.

I’m reminded of the 'problem of evil.' the problem runs, quite simply, as follows. Assume there is evil in the world. Is god willing to prevent evil, but unable? Then god is impotent. Is god able to prevent evil, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.

But the problem will be eradicated if we win. Because evil will be vanquished, and the long-suffering Israelites, awaiting their messiah, will be vindicated. We will not have suffered in vain.

We humbly await.

In my philosophy, I do not believe in substance, or objects. But now there is one object which concerns me greatly. And that is curt schilling's right ankle. We disposed of the literal and figurative Achilles heel of the red sox, Nomar "thanks beautiful" Garciaparra. But this problem has resurfaced, has been instantiated in another bit of human, all too human, too too sullied flesh. Curt’s ankle, the very fulcrum from which all his power and leverage is derived, is weak. He must muster superhuman strength, to spontaneously generate energy from within, to transcend the physical limitations of his mortality.

We humbly await.

Pedro must continue to find within the great temple a source of oil, though appearing to have run out, that will last for 8 wins, that will combust at 95 miles per hour.

Baruch atah Adonai, elohaynu melech ha-olum, biray piree ha-fastball

We humbly await.

Bronson cornroyo must continue his David cone impression, throwing backdoor sliders and curves with impunity against the evil minions. He must stand bravely, he cannot waver.

The red sox are our army, protecting our fragile Nation's gates against the onslaught of cold oppressive Yankee fascism. Our freedom and fun loving protectors must persevere against the bitter robotic efficiency of the Yankee death machine. They wish to impose their anti-individualist and plutocratic dogma on our democratic, creative and expressive team. They are Sparta, we are Athens. We must defeat their martial empire. The Yankees represent brutal tyranny. The red sox humanistic democracy. The future of the world is at stake.

It had to come down to this. That much was destiny. But for destiny to mean anything, it must guarantee the just future, one in which suffering is eliminated, and faith rewarded. We know that time is near; otherwise, the end is nigh.

We humbly await.

2004 ALDS Game 3: Team Loyalty as Religious Commitment

From the Archive:

October 10, 2004:

[The following was written as an apology for watching Game 3 of the ALDS (Sox win series 3-0) instead of attending my friend Ian's birthday party.]

Firstly, I thought I had explained that I wouldn't be joining the birthday party until the game was over. If this was unclear, then I certainly apologize. If the very fact that I’d make such a decision is the issue, then let me elaborate.

Looking at such an issue 'objectively', one sees clearly a different sort of obligation (not in the 'dammit I have something to do' sense, but more in the category of 'moral duty', the morality of which makes the performance of the act both good and, for lack of a better word, enjoyable) between the acts of being a spectator and honoring a friend.

The main two differences, as I see it on the 'cost/benefit analysis', pertain to consequences of failing to live up to the obligation. With the former, no party is injured by the failure to be a spectator- the red sox will do fine without me- and secondly, that no possible punitive measures could be taken for failing to live up to the obligation- I won't get fired or in trouble for not watching the game. Whereas for the latter, the friend, clearly there may be an insulted party. And one is certainly inclined to think that the feelings of a real person would take precedence over the symbolic icons I have an allegiance to on TV.

I think the only way I can explain this to someone who does not have the feelings of allegiance and passion for a sports team is by relating it to religion. If you were having a party that I should be at, but it happens on, say, Yom kippor, and I can't leave my home until sundown, when Yom kippor is over, and I say I can't go, it would be very easy for the atheist (you) to say 'god will get on fine without you- you don't need to be there to honor him,' and second, 'since there is no god, there is no punitive action foreseeable against you for failing to honor this obligation.' this is contrasted with the hurt feelings of the person who's party isn't being attended. To the atheist, the obstinate insistence on remaining at home might seem both insulting and irrational. And I am inclined to agree. All I can say in this regard is that I simply have to honor my religious commitment.

To make this analogy stick, certainly I must cite precedent, if not already known, of my skipping everything else in order to watch important sox games. Just this week I skipped my Tuesday afternoon class, as the game was on. This, of course, is to the potential detriment of my grade. On Wednesday night, the game didn't end until after 2 am, and I had to teach class at 8am. So I taught on less than two hours sleep, to the immediate detriment of the students, who had an unintelligible professor that day, and to myself, who was too tired to do any serious work for the rest of the day.

Just thinking about this further, one must confront the idea of more drastic conflicts- would I skip somebody's wedding to watch a red sox game in April? Of course not. I skipped many of the games this year for various reasons (although I never like doing it). Sometimes you just have to drive on Saturday. But not on Yom kippor. The red sox in the playoffs is my high holidays, an event far more rare than annual, and one to me that is always fragile and in doubt and bound to end in horrific tragedy at any moment, and moreover, the end goal of which is something that generations of people have died having been denied the allegedly sublime satisfaction of experiencing.

Where I grew up half the kids couldn't show up for soccer practice on Saturdays. Some teams didn't even have games on Saturdays because of Shabbat. Logistically, one has to take such obligations into account. A further difficulty of yesterday was that the game went especially long, and then into extra innings- it’s as if sunset suddenly came over an hour late, thereby further interfering.

So basically, my obligation to the red sox in this regard is basically religious in nature, and the resultant obligations are upheld to the exclusion of all else. I have demonstratively risked both health and general welfare time and time again, particularly in New York, for my beliefs. I would hope, in general, that this is understood about me, such that people are not offended by my actions, just as I hope you would not be offended if someone couldn't go to dinner because it was Yom kippor. As you know, I went to Brooklyn to watch the game just so that I could be a part of your birthday dinner- otherwise I would have stayed uptown.

… I want to make sure that you hold no grudge against me vis a vis my actions towards you, but rather simply judge me to be an insane person with totally misplaced values. I can live with that.