Sports: ESPN and USC

Jonathan Chait over at Slate and I don't agree on much, but apparently we view USC in the same light:

The ESPNers also entertained the thought of this year's Trojans facing off against great powers from a generation ago. May noted that the 1969 Texas Longhorns ("the size of the players ... forget it, they're gonna roll over them") and the 1955 Oklahoma Sooners ("Not even close, and I look at the size of the players … their starting center was 5-8, a sophomore, and 158 pounds") would both be overwhelmed by today's Trojans. Which is probably true, though one could use this method to prove that the 2005 Temple Owls were the greatest team of all time. Fielding H. Yost's 1901 Michigan team trampled opponents by a cumulative score of 550-0. But, hey, the forward pass wasn't legal then, and those guys didn't even wear helmets. The concussions alone would make this a huge Temple blowout.

What makes this orgy of genuflection so odd is that there's a team from the very recent past that could beat this year's USC Trojans—last year's USC Trojans. There's no one perfect statistical gauge, but the best measure of football dominance is probably a team's ratio of points scored to points allowed. If you score 200 points and allow 100, that's a ratio of 2.0. The 2005 Trojans have a ratio of 2.3, which is not terribly impressive for a national championship team. Last year's USC team had a ratio of 2.9. The 1997 Michigan team had a 3.1, and the 1991 Washington Huskies outscored their opponents 4.6 to 1—twice the ratio of this year's Trojans.

Nor is it clear that USC is better than this year's Texas Longhorns. Both teams have fantastic offenses. (USC averages 50 points a game, Texas 51.) But Texas' defense is very good (allowing 14.6 points a game), while USC's is barely above average
(allowing 21.3.) . . .

While USC may be wildly overrated, they're still very, very good. They were not as dominant as Texas throughout the year, but their battered defense will return a lot of injured players in the Rose Bowl, they'll be playing in their hometown, and they have a coach who makes the most of bowl preparation. But maybe we should play the game before considering how much they would win by if the team consisted of a bunch of 14-inch Pete Carrolls.

Chait takes the words right out of my mouth . . . and then changes them into different, and far more elegant, words.

Sports: Winning vs. Losing

This article from the Post-Tribune sums up my attitude towards sports very well:

There’s no better Chicagoland team in any sport to root for than Northwestern.

It was exactly five years ago today that I came to this conclusion. It was my senior year at NU, and I was in San Antonio covering the Alamo Bowl for The Daily Northwestern. The Big Ten champion Wildcats (man, I just love typing that) had just been shellacked by Eric Crouch and Nebraska (nope, don’t love typing that) 66-17 in one of the most lopsided bowl games of all time.

But as we walked out of the Alamodome that night, we weren’t commiserating. We were commemorating. We were reflecting on the most fun season we’d ever have as fans. We made it to a bowl — only the fourth in our school’s history. We had an awesome run, winning eight games, including three of the most exciting last-minute victories you could imagine. It was a phenomenal season — one I’ll still talk about when I’m 80.

Meanwhile, the victorious Nebraska fans were miserable. They were actually offended to be in such a piddling bowl against such a piddling opponent. A 9-3 record? A bowl game on Dec. 30? Terrible!

I pity them. See, when wins are harder to come by, they’re far more appreciated. Each game actually means something.

The very same thoughts went through my mind this year as a tracked Notre Dame's fabulous season. It's going to be hard for any future season to top the experience that this season has provide me, from the shellacking of Pittsburgh to the titantic clash of the USC game. Next year will not be the same. I'm going to expect the Irish to be GA Tech and Penn State, let alone Purdue.

Now I realize I'm a bit of an odd duck--I don't even like winning board games. Whom else (whom: technically correct but awkward) do you know willing to play Risk for untold hours with the hope of losing honorably? But it comes down to the same point. In my mind it's more phone to plan how you're going to beat them next time than to actually beat them next time.

Miscellenea: The Lord of the . . . Whatever

I'd like to use this post to comment on the part-excellent-part-terrible satire of The Lord of the Rings on the Tolkien Sarcasm Page. Different authors took different chapters to parody, so the results are obviously mixed. Those chapters done by O. Sharp (the owner of the site) are by far the best, in my opinion, although Ovejind Lang also does a fine job. "The Voice of Aruman" towers above the other chapters; however, because it requires a rather large amount of prior knowledge of the satire, I'll provide quotes from one of Sharp's other fine chapters: "A Stab in the Back," based upon "A Knife in the Dark" from The Fellowship of the Ring.

In our first vinette, Sharp mocks the scene where Fredegar Bolger (left behind in the Shire to pretend that Frodo is still there) feels a sense of overwhelming dread at the approach of a Black Rider:

In a flash Fredegar realized the source of his terror. Wood table, wood sill, wood-planked walls, floor and ceiling. He was surrounded by wood! Like being surrounded by trees, only more cunning! So they domesticated themselves, the evil bastards! And now we rely on them! Only a matter of time till they kill us all. It all made sense, that perfect kind of sense that only comes with excessive drinking. A dawn of understanding came to Fredegar. Visions of a brick house, with a stucco ceiling and wrought-iron patio furniture, came to him as visions of peace. No longer would anyone have to fear slivers! In a flash his purpose was clear. His mind resolved, Fredegar Bolger stood and went to the closet. Inside behind the bowling balls and collections of pocket lint was the great Axe. With a grim chuckle he hefted the steel-handled Axe over his shoulder and walked towards the door. There could be no compromise. Deforestation was the only answer.

Bolger smashed open the wooden door and walked into the night.

To understand this next scene one must recall the moment where Sam sings the song of Gil-galad to Strider and the other hobbits. One also must take into account that this Sam is crazed Bolshevik who desires the coming of the Revolution:

"This feels like the country we were in a week or two ago," Morrie [Merry] noted. "Are there Barrow-wights around here?"

"Not here," Strider answered, and Frodo felt oddly disappointed. "Though the Exiles from Atlantis once lived here. Upon Gambletop there was once a watch-tower, set as a defence against the Leech-king of old. Many generations it stood. It is said that Isildur himself once stood upon it waiting for Gil-Gallamine, at the time of the Last Relaxing."

"Who was Gil-Gallamine?" Pipsqueak [Pipin] asked. After a moment a voice began quietly singing:

I dreamed I saw Gil-Gal-la-mine,
Alive as you or me.
'I thought they killed you, Gil,' I said,
Said Gil, 'I did not flee;'
Said Gil, 'I did not flee.'

'You went to Mor-dor, Gil,' I said,
'To fight mon-o-po-ly,
And kill the Rob-ber Bar-on there,
And end the Bour-geoi-sie;
And end the Bour-geoi-sie.'

'I went there, sure, and fought His greed;
'I went there, sure,' said he.
'And wor-kers brave and free;
And wor-kers brave and free.'

The voice fell silent. Suddenly they realized the voice had been Sam's! "Don't stop there!" Pipsqueak said. "Keep going!"

"Uh, I don't think I should," Sam answered quickly. "You might not like the rest."

"I wonder what the song means by robber baron?" Frodo asked. "And workers brave and free. Honestly, the stuff they write into these old songs. They don't make any sense. Give me a nice simple tune about ale and fox-hunting any day, that's for me!"

Pipsqueak and Morrie mumbled agreement, and proceeded with Frodo down the path. Strider gave Sam a short and knowing glance before walking away, then left him and Gates [the pony] to fend for themselves.

Finally we have a mockery of the exploration of the top of Weathertop:

At the hill-top they found the circle of broken stone. In the middle of it was the remains of a campfire, and a handful of fist-sized stones. Strider examined the remins of the fire expertly. "Someone else was camping here," he said, "and recently. I suspect it may have been Gandalf! This fire was started by burning old Racing Forms, as is often his way."

"You mean Gandalf was here in the last few days?" Frodo snapped. "And didn't even stay to wait for us? That cantankerous old bastard still has my money, too!"

"And lo!" Strider continued, lifting up one of the larger stones. A soggy note was beneath it. Pipsqueak reached for it, only to be hit by Strider with the rock. "A note of stationary stolen from the Prancing Pony," Strider continued, picking the note up himself. "It's Gandalf, I'd put money on it. If I had any."

Frodo craned in to look. "What does it say?" he asked.

Strider held the note up and squinted at it intently. "I can't make it out at all," he answered. "His scrawling was tortuous in the best of times. He wrote this in a hurry, and it's all wet and smudgy. But here is the G-rune for Gandalf," he added, pointing at a particularly messy ink-smudge.

"This word near the middle of the letter could be trap," the Ranger continued slowly. "And this word just before it might be Gambletop. And I think this little bit here in the Feenamintian runes could be . . . uhm . . . nazdaq. Yes! Yes, that's it."

With a curious sinking feeling the four of them looked past the rim of the hill and out into the falling night. On the ground far away they could just make out three dark shapes some leagues distant, who seemed to be pointing straight at them and gesticulating wildly.

Well, that should be enough to either whet your appetite or put you off this site forever. A word of warning, some--make that most--of the chapters are not exactly kid friendly.

Book Review: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

This third book of Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia (I refuse to use that destestable re-numbering of the books) had long been my favorite. I don't think can say that any longer. While re-reading the series for the first time in five years (I'm halfway through The Silver Chair.), I found The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to be consistently the best.

I do not mean to denigrate Dawn Treader in any way. The first sentence is absolutely priceless:

There once was a boy called Eustace Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.

More importantly, the period from the exploration of Ramandu's island to the end of the book is simply superb. Far superior to anything else Lewis wrote in the Narnia books. I am especially moved by the scene of the Telmarine lords arguing over their next course of action, though perhaps my conception of what the scene should be replaces what Lewis actually wrote. I would not quite place this scene on a par with Ransom's conversation with the Voice in Perelandra, Mark's conception of objectivism in That Hideous Strength, or Orual's partial sighting of the god's castle in Till We Have Faces; but it is undoubtedly one of Lewis' best.

Lucy's encounter with the merfolk is one of those scenes that shows the applicability of fantasy to the real world--even the real world as held by Gopnik (See the two previous posts if you don't catch the reference.). Lucy's slow realization of what she sees enables the reader to behold the world he inhabits in a new light. Lovely.

I would describe this book as a great read with the final chapters bordering on the sublime. For almost any author this designation could only attach itself to his greatest book; for Lewis, however, this signifies only the second best in just one series.

Literature: Lewis in the New Yorker Part II

I just can't turn away from Gopnik's article. It's just so wrong headed that I can't help myself. On the face of it, Gopnik offers a thoughtful condemnation of Lewis' portrayal of Aslan:

Yet a central part of the Gosepel story is that Jesus is not the lion of the faith but the lamb of God, while his other symbolic animal is, specifically, the lowly and bedraggled donkey. The moral foce of the Christian story is that the lions are all on the other side. If we had, say, a donkey, a seemingly uninspiring animal from an obscure corner of Narnia, raised as an uncouth and low-caste beast of burden, rallying the mice and rats and weasles and vultures and the other unclean animals, and then being killed by the lions in as humiliating a manner as possible--a donkey who reemerges, to the shock even of his disciples and devotees, as the king of al creation--now, that would be a Christian allegory. A powerful lion, starting life at the top of the food chain, adored by all his subjects and filled with temporal power, killed by a despised evil witch for his power and then reborn to rule, is a Mithraic, not a Christian, myth.

It is clear the Gopnik is missing a key point about The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. It most emphatically not a Christian allegory. Not because it is not Christian, but because it is not an allegory. That it shares a very close correlation with the Crucifixion is beyond dispute, but Aslan is not a Christ figure. He does not represent Jesus. He is Jesus. Remember the Pevensie children are from twentieth century England. Nearly two thousand years have passed since a certain incident in Judea. For those of you still doubting me, in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, when Edmund asks Aslan if he is present in his (Edmund's world) also, Aslan responds:

"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little you may no me better there."

Animal Farm is an allegory because Stalin is not actually present. Were he to be present the allegory could no longer exist. Thus since Aslas is Jesus, i.e. the Second Person in the Triune God, it need not follow that events should replay exactly as they did on Earth. There does not seem to be be any especial reason why God should be so limited. As to why Lewis chose to make Aslan a lion rather than a lamb, the answer is quite obvious. Religion in the modern era has no trouble with Jesus as outcast. That, in fact, seems to all he is portrayed as. The Last Judgement is not a particularly common theme these days. Lewis was attempting to convey to his readers some idea of the awesome nature of God. That Gopnik can only see Jesus as a man and not as the omniscient and all-powerful God says much about where he is coming from.

Literature: Lewis in the New Yorker

After reading this article on C.S. Lewis in the New Yorker, I planned to write a comprehensive response; however, after rereading it, I realized that it would take far too much time. Thus, my comments will be limited only to the opening and closing of the piece:

The British literary scholar, Christian apologist, and children's-book author C. S. Lewis is one of two figures—Churchill is the other—whose reputation in Britain is so different from their reputation in America that we might as well be talking about two (or is that four?) different men. A god to the right in America, Churchill is admired in England but hardly beatified—more often thought of as a willful man of sporadic accomplishment who was at last called upon to do the one thing in life that he was capable of doing supremely well. In America, Lewis is a figure who has been incised on stained glass—truly: there's a stained-glass window with Lewis in it in a church in Monrovia, California—and remains, for the more intellectual and literate reaches of conservative religiosity, a saint revered and revealed, particularly in such books as "The Problem of Pain" and "The Screwtape Letters." In England, he is commonly regarded as a slightly embarrassing polemicist, who made joke-vicar broadcasts on the BBC, but who also happened to write a few very good books about late-medieval poetry and inspire several good students. (A former Archbishop of Canterbury, no less, "couldn't stand" Lewis, because of his bullying brand of religiosity, though John Paul II was said to be an admirer.)

I assume Adam Gopnik is an intelligent man--he certainly has the vocabulary of one--but he seems to be oblivious to a rather obvious fact. America is both very conservative (by European standards) and very religious, while England is hardly either. That a nation among whom only 7% attend Christian services weekly should think little of an orthodox Christian apologist is hardly surprising. Does anyone question why Bertrand Russel isn't honored more among Americans? Likewise with Churchill, though I would suggest that it would behoove Gopnik to take note of a not too distant survey. That an Archbishop of Canterbury "couldn't stand" Lewis is not altogether surprising either, since the current archbishop seems to be preoccupied with other things than even "mere Christianity." I also heartily appreciate the designation of Lewis' faith as "bullying." Not for anything he did on behalf of his faith, mind you, but because of his faith: a faith that believes in absolutes. This condemnation begs the question by what standard do you call Lewis' faith bullying?

Gopnik finishes his article on a similarly ignorant note:

For poetry and fantasy aren't stimulants to a deeper spiritual appetite; they are what we have to fill the appetite. The experience of magic conveyed by poetry, landscape, light, and ritual, is . . . an experience of magic conveyed by poetry, landscape, light, and ritual. To hope that the conveyance will turn out to bring another message, beyond itself, is the futile hope of the mystic. Fairy stories are not rich because they are true, and they lose none of their light because someone lit the candle. It is here that the atheist and the believer meet, exactly in the realm of made-up magic. Atheists need ghosts and kings and magical uncles and strange coincidences, living fairies and thriving Lilliputians, just as much as the believers do, to register their understanding that a narrow material world, unlit by imagination, is inadequate to our experience, much less to our hopes.

The religious believer finds consolation, and relief, too, in the world of magic exactly because it is at odds with the necessarily straitened and punitive morality of organized worship, even if the believer is, like Lewis, reluctant to admit it. The irrational images—the street lamp in the snow and the silver chair and the speaking horse—are as much an escape for the Christian imagination as for the rationalist, and we sense a deeper joy in Lewis’s prose as it escapes from the demands of Christian belief into the darker realm of magic. As for faith, well, a handful of images is as good as an armful of arguments, as the old apostles always knew.

These two paragraphs contain almost too much too critique; a book, at the least, is required. First, I would argue that the argument Gopnik makes here is more of a slam against Atheists than against Christians. He seems to arguing that atheists turn to fantasy to willfully deceive themselves into thinking that there is some order in the world. The Christian, even if he is wrong, is at least honest. Gopnik's view on religion is also revealed here as almost helplessly prejudiced. He seems to think that organized religion is equivalent to the worst stereotypes and lies of about 1950's Catholicism. I, for one, find it odd that the means one chooses to escape the "necessarily straitened and punitive morality of organized worship" is to read works of literature dedicated to defending just such a morality. Tolkien spent nearly his entire life writing The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion and saw them as deeply rooted in his faith, apparently he was merely trying to escape from it. I also find the notion strange that Lewis' writing grows stronger the further he gets from Christianity. Some of the most powerful scenes in The Chronicles involve Aslan. Lewis, better than any other writer, makes goodness seem interesting.

Sports: College FB Top 10

1. Southern Cal
2. Texas
3. Ohio State
4. Penn State
5. Auburn
6. Notre Dame
7. Georgia
8. Orgeon
9. Miami
10. West Virginia

Well, it was quite an eventful weekend. I thought Georgia had a really good job of knocking off a rather hollow LSU, but I'll admit I never would predicted the results of the FSU-VA Tech game. I'm not really that confident in my current rankings. Nos. 3-6 seem pretty interchangeable, as do nos. 8-10. The bowl games should bring some much needed clarity to the situation. Since ESPN failed to provide a fan poll, you'll just have to take my word that I think these teams belong with their respective rankings. Until then this lovely feature will bid you a fond "adieu."

Book Review: The Philosophy of Tolkien by Peter Kreeft

This book came very highly reviewed to me, though the story behind said review is so complicated that it shall not see the light of day unless an altogether overwhelming desire is expressed by my vast reading public. Since I had previously read a very well written article on Tolkien by Peter Kreeft in The Chesterton Review, some years before, I highly anticipated The Philosophy of Tolkien's release. So much did I anticipate it, in fact, that I ordered it from Amazon before I had a chance to look through it at library or bookstore. This haste was grossly misplaced.

I see little to no redeeming value in Kreeft's thankfully slim yet seeming all too long volume. Like most of Kreeft's work, he gets most of the big questions right but in a thorougly useless way. A sample section in The Philosophy of Tolkien is "Is Humility Humiliating?" He then goes on to explain how it's actually not humiliating and how Tolkien's take on the subject is in fact in line with the teaching of the Catholic Church. That Tolkien's take on morality meshes with Catholic moral teaching is no real surprise since Tolkien was an extremely devout Catholic; however, that Tolkien's Catholic sensibility shines through almost every page of The Lord of the Rings in no way proves the truth of the Catholic position--something Kreeft seems to assume. Obvious conclusions written in stale prose is not exactly a remedy for success. The only real use of Kreeft's book is to prove to a particularly obtuse person who contiues to insist, even after repeated blows to the head with Tolkien's entire corpus, that there is no Christian, specifically Catholic, message in The Lord of the Rings.

The two best books on Tolkien remain J.R.R. Tolkien: Author of the Century and The Road to Middle-Earth, both by Tom Shippey. Since Shippey rather neglects the spiritual side of Tolkien's works, we must turn elsewhere. Until my own mammoth and conclusive volume is published, the article by Stratford Caldecott in Tolkien: A Celebration is probably your best bet.

Music Reivew: Best Disney Song

The best song from an animated Disney picture hands down has to be "Fathoms Below" from The Little Mermaid. An unorthodox choice, perhaps, but no less true. I know it, you know it, your kid brother knows it; end of story. Sing it along with me now:

I'll tell you a tale of the bottomless blue,
And it's, hey, to the starboard, heave ho.
Look out, lad, a mermaid be waiting for you
In mysterious fathoms below,
From whence wayward Westerlies blow,
Where Triton is king and his merpeople sing
In mysterious fathoms below,

Heave ho
Heave ho
Heave ho
Heave ho
Heave ho

In mysterious fathoms below.

Sports: Tennessee's Poor Fate

An absolutely hilarious post from the often-times funny blokes at Every Day Should be Saturday. I wanted to post a rather extended quote from the purloined alleged first draft of Phil Fulmer's apology to Tennessee fans for the rather abysmal season; however, the html is being rather unkind at the moment. Nevertheless, let it be said that any website that has the sentence: "Mmm . . . short order. Tex, fry me up a midget," will retain my firm support. Make sure to read the whole posting. It may start off a little slow, but it eventually builds brilliantly. Be warned. There is some, ahem, salty language ahead.

Miscellenea: Killer Rabbits Eat Your Heart Out

Apparently Man needs to rethink his choice of Best Friend. Otherwise, we could be in trouble.