S T A T E M E N T
8 — Wednesday, September 14, 2022
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
CHARLIE PAPPALARDO
Statement Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
I think I was 17 when I came to
the realization that my relation-
ships with God and Major League
Baseball are very similar.
I was half-born into both
Catholicism and the San Francisco
Giants because with each, only one
parent really cared. My dad would
lecture me about all the mediocre
ballplayers from his heyday and
my mom would take me to Catholic
school every Sunday — the after-
math of this is that I can now name
an equal number of saints and
baseball players from the 1970s.
But aside from the half-baked
devotions to God and baseball that
were instilled in me throughout my
upbringing, I’ve realized that these
two things still occupy very similar
spaces in my life. I go to mass, and
the ballpark, maybe four times a
year respectively — and usually
with my grandpa. Half the time
I get bored while I’m there and I
don’t know whether I’ll carry on
the practice in the future. I could
retain a loose connection to both,
or it could fade. But the moment
someone mocks either institution,
I get really defensive.
In many cases, I think faith
embodies more than just the stated
belief. Yes, there’s a holy book to
follow, but I think the core tenet of
belief is that there is an order and
justice present in a seemingly cha-
otic life. And just because I don’t
totally know if I believe that’s true
doesn’t mean that I don’t envy that
comfort, and dislike when it gets
disrupted.
In theory, I’m a big fan of both
God and the Giants, but the honest
to God truth is that I don’t know if
I believe in God, and I don’t know
if I give a shit about baseball. But
I like faith being an option, and I
God and baseball — in no particular order
sure as hell like the ambiance of a
ballpark.
***
I remember when I was 16, I got
way too drunk for the first time.
It was a day or two before New
Year’s and my parents left me at
home with my Grandpa because
they deemed me “level-headed,
intelligent and mature.” So being
the “level-headed, intelligent and
mature” child I was, I stole my
Grandpa’s gin and took shot after
shot with my friend Michael in a
park play structure.
Michael didn’t handle the gin
well, and within the hour, he was
vomiting everywhere. On my
couch, on my floor, on me. It quick-
ly dawned on me that I was in way
over my head. I could only sit in a
rocking chair, hold back tears and
let Michael sleep. I was convinced
that he’d choke on his vomit and
die if I let him out of my sight,
and that it’d be my fault if he did. I
finally walked him home at 5 a.m.
because his family was leaving on a
road trip, but of course his parents
caught us because we were neither
quiet nor particularly intelligent
with our entry strategy.
So I got back at about 6 a.m.,
cleaned up the vomit, and stared
at the fan for two hours. I was still
half-drunk and convinced that
Michael’s parents would hate me.
I knew that my parents would find
out and presumably hate me. And
frankly, I thought that I would hate
me.
But for some reason, I walked
back downstairs about two hours
later, and my Grandpa was awake.
Knowing nothing of the seven
disastrous hours that had just
occurred, he asked me something
he always asks me: “Do you want
to go to church?” And for the first
time in a while, I said yes.
I remember sitting in that
pew, barely sober, and feeling an
intense wave of tranquility. The
sun was shining warmly through
the stained glass, the priest was
speaking on love and sin and I felt
content.
There’s this moment in Catholic
mass after you receive communion
when you kneel and pray. And as
I knelt, I understood that my life
would go on, long past the gin and
vomit and parental retribution
that I was sure I’d face. I under-
stood that the world would keep
spinning, and that I’d be okay.
That was faith. And yes, in that
moment, it was borne out of neces-
sity. I was 16, new to delinquency,
awkward and terrified. And in
that moment when I felt like I was
careening, I needed something
omniscient and omnipresent to
center me. Even just for a morning.
But I don’t think the circum-
stances negate the belief. Because
faith isn’t a static thing. I had it
then, and I don’t know if I have it
now. But I don’t think that either
state of belief is permanent. I think
this cycle of belief, skepticism and
secularism applies even in a non-
divine context.
For example, I have a lucky five
dollar bill tucked into the right side
of my wallet behind a Walgreens
receipt. I won it from a gas station
lottery ticket I bought the night I
turned 18, and when I walked out
of the 7-11 that night, I was con-
vinced that I must be lucky. The
bill must’ve been an omen of this,
so I decided I’d keep whatever luck
had stuck itself onto that bill, and
tuck it into my back pocket.
Do I think the bill brings me
luck now?
No.
But did it make me feel lucky
two years ago?
Yes. And I’m glad it was with
me then, so I’ll keep it in my back
pocket now.
I think I treat faith the same
way.
***
After church that morning, my
Grandpa and I went to breakfast
at a diner, and while I can’t tell
you exactly what we talked about,
if I had to bet I’d say he told me a
brilliantly meandering life story
before we talked about horse rac-
ing and baseball.
He
probably
lamented
the
woes of his Philadelphia Phillies
and I probably pretended like I
knew what was going on in the
Giants organization. I always
liked talking about baseball, but I
never quite had it in me to watch
enough games to sound smart.
I’d watch when the Giants were
good, or when “Jeopardy!” wasn’t
on, but rarely without some sort of
prompting.
In 2016 I had a personal connec-
tion to the World Series because I
wanted the Cleveland Guardians
to win. Not because I particularly
liked Cleveland, but rather because
my sister lived in Chicago and I
had decided that she shouldn’t
have nice things. I have a distinct
memory of being 13 and watch-
ing Game Seven, half-dressed in
hockey pads, standing outside of a
locker room.
It was the bottom of the eighth
— the Guardians were down two
and the Cubs had their star closer,
Aroldis Chapman, in. The game
seemed all but over. There was a
runner on second, and this real
mediocre player was up to bat for
the Guardians named Rajai Davis.
He was a “journeyman” type who
bounced around from team to
team and never really stuck. He
was having a bad series, and was
not at all who Cleveland wanted at
the plate. But there he was, playing
out the moment we’d all dreamed
about while playing catch in the
driveway.
On the seventh pitch of the at
bat, he launched the ball to deep
left where it snuck over the wall
and knocked the cameraman over
— and I went insane.
In
that
moment,
baseball
became everything it was cracked
up to be. In the most exciting and
suspenseful way, the underdog
came up big when it mattered most.
I thought to myself, “God this is
incredible, I gotta watch more of
this.” In that moment, baseball was
a romantic and poetic thing that I
knew I needed to love.
And I’d try. I’ve always loved
going to games. Whether it was
the Giants, or their minor league
affiliate, I could sit in a ballpark
and watch a game any day. Enjoy-
ing early summer evenings with
fresh air and Cracker Jacks, chant-
ing and heckling, and watching the
truly bizarre intermission games
involving golf, faux horse rac-
ing and children face planting, I’d
feel contentment like I felt in that
church.
NATE SHEEHAN
Statement Columnist
Content Warning: Quotation of
f-slur.
Leaving my last “History of
Sexuality” lecture, I pondered:
What attaches me to this label of
a “man?” Does it serve what I want
from my life?
I had never thought deeply
about my gender before, but with
a newfound awareness of the gen-
der system I lived in, I realized
What is a man?
I might have always been more
conscious of its weight on me than
my other cis male peers. Didn’t
we all question why we have to
deepen our voices when talking
on the phone? Did no one else
consider how the paleness of their
skin allows their lips, a light but
notable pink, to appear as if they
were wearing lipstick and think
about the sex appeal of their nar-
row hips? Did more than a few of
us occasionally adopt hyperfemi-
nine behaviors when drunk? Hips
swaying as I walk, thinking “I’m
gentle. I’m fluid.” Surely we all
must? Right?
I never thought that others
might not. But suddenly, my edu-
cation forced me to think about
the above considerations. For the
last few weeks that semester, as I
studied the history of sexuality,
my gender and I were in a tug of
war. I came to realize then that
I’m not particularly interested in
the expectations that come with
being a “man,” spanning from
closing off segments of my emo-
tional range to not being allowed
to sit with my legs crossed. Fol-
lowing these expectations makes
me less happy. Yet, it’s difficult
not to observe them.
On most days, I feel like a man.
That makes some sense, given I
was socialized as one. I’ve often
associated my manhood with
soccer, a sport I’ve played since
preschool. I loved the rhythm of
the ball and foot, the hive mind
of a team. I was always told that
I was a fun player to watch, mov-
ing gracefully with the ball, like a
dancer weaving through a crowd
and discovering space. For most
of my life, soccer ate up at least
two hours of my day, five days a
week. As the field dominated my
time, so did its gender norms.
The spirit of a sports team is
mostly one of hypermasculine
comradery. These were boys I
won state titles with. How could
we not cling to a sense of fra-
ternity? Many of us did. But in
eighth grade, this macho envi-
ronment also enabled one team-
mate to repeatedly tell me that I
was a “faggot.” I remember how
ostracized I felt, how quickly I
had been degraded from being
recognized as a teammate to
being targeted with a slur.
Design by Tamara Turner
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
JOHN JACKSON
Statement Columnist
Once my housemates leave for
the summer, I stop wearing socks
altogether.
The wood making up the floor
of my front porch, paint long
faded, turns slowly to compost
day by day. The floor sits damp
beneath my bare feet, and all
around, Church Street recovers
from a summer storm. There’s no
damage to count, but remnants
rise for the eager observer. The
pavement remains slick and dark
and the city sun hides behind a
low-hanging mist. Residents peek
shyly from their front doors, peer-
ing upward every few minutes, as
if succumbing to a delayed bio-
logical instinct: lightning inspires
fear. I watch two men unload sup-
plies from an unmarked white
truck; they’ve patched the same
twelve missing bricks in Weiser
Hall for ages.
The natural goings-on of the
city block reach out to me – not
just through droll sights of the
determined pedestrians on fad-
ing crosswalks, through ringing
sounds of the fresh construction
on another high-rise, through
unfriendly scents in a nearby pile
of neglected compost, but most
often, through solid feel of the
steady earth beneath my feet. The
day we started wearing shoes,
humankind abandoned our fifth
sense.
Stepping gingerly down onto
the sidewalk, I scan for broken
Walking freely
glass. Shards of a long-discarded
Budweiser bottle lie on my left.
The newfound danger thrills, and
I discover the safe path on my
right. I traipse down the street,
bound for Palmer Field, arches
of my feet aching with every con-
tact to the pavement’s unforgiving
flatness.
Grass poses a new challenge.
The squelch in the dirt screams,
“you’ll have to shower immedi-
ately,” but I walk on anyway. The
moisture reminds me of life, of
hope, and just now, I realize I’ve
been away from them too long.
Once, in middle school, my
brother remarked that I had
“Hobbit feet,” and thus, an aver-
sion to exposing my bare feet was
born.
The comment wasn’t malicious
or personal. His remark that day
was merely the punctuation mark
on a sentence that had already
been written. Long gone were the
days of absent-minded flip flop-
ping. I’d grown up, and the sub-
sequent loss of tactile sensation in
my feet was a price I’d gladly pay
for maturity.
As young adulthood waxed and
waned, my aversion to foot visibil-
ity only grew stronger, until even-
tually, the casual covering of feet
became an undercurrent in my
life: unheard, like the hum of an
air conditioner I’d forgotten was
running. Only with all the noise
switched off and the housemates
shuttled away was I finally made
aware of how loud my fear had
been.
The day my roommates moved
out, I became acquainted with
a new level of loneliness. I had
friends in town, but my meal prep-
aration, my laundry, my living
room television consumption —
the little whims and activities that
comprised my life — took place
largely alone.
It felt nice. And my shoes were
the first thing to go.
There were no spectators at
home to comment, “Put those bad
boys away” or “I see the dogs are
out today” or even just “Woof.” In
fact, I walked, shoe-free, straight
out the front door to set my Nor-
folk Pine plant in the afternoon
sun.
In our little red house, other-
wise teeming with the quirks and
every-day amusements of commu-
nal living, the unwritten addition
of, “Those with bare feet will be
mocked” never made much sense
to me. It’s not unique to us, is it?
Aversion to bare feet has been
a long-lasting cultural trend in
America. In 1969, the town of
Youngstown, Ohio made it illegal
to walk barefoot downtown, an
ordinance which was eventually
declared unconstitutional. On the
University of Michigan’s campus,
some dreaded combination of Ann
Arbor snows, OnlyFans jokes and
blowback from vestigial hippie
trends have rendered the exposed
foot a subject of friendly ridicule.
Freshman year, a friend in Bursley
walked barefoot down the hallway
once and was thereafter known by
all those present as “foot girl.”
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Design by Melia Kenny
Design by Leilani Baylis-Washington
A public lecture and reception; you may attend in person or
virtually. For more information, including the Zoom link,
visit events.umich.edu/event/95671 or call 734.615.6667.
ANN CHIH LIN
Scapegoating
Chinese American
Scientists in the
Name of National
Security
Kenneth G. Lieberthal and Richard H. Rogel
Professor of Chinese Studies
Associate Professor, Gerald R. Ford
School of Public Policy
Thursday, September 22, 2022 | 4:30 p.m. | 10th Floor Weiser Hall
LSA LECTURE