In the puzzle today, at 31A “Metal ring that holds a pencil’s eraser” was FERRULE. How’s that for obscure? Why in the world would there be a word for that? Well, it’s not just the thingie holding an eraser on a pencil — it’s any “ring or cap, typically a metal one, which strengthens the end of a handle, stick, or tube and prevents it from splitting or wearing.” OK.

Guess what? It’s a different word if you lose one of the Rs. “Ferule” means a flat piece of wood, like a ruler, used to punish children. Ouch!

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Al Oerter was in the puzzle today at 97D: “Discus thrower in the U.S. Olympic Hall of Fame.” I knew the name. He was the first to win gold in the same individual event in four straight Olympics: ’56, ’60, ’64, and ’68. Carl Lewis and Michael Phelps did the same years later. Oerter was from Astoria, Queens, NYC. (Hi Bob and Justine!) He threw college discus at U. Kansas.

In the 1960 Olympics, Oerter outthrew his teammate who held the world record at the time, and had perhaps the greatest name in the history of Olympic sports: Rink Babka. Rink was from Cheyenne, WY.

As a child, Oerter frequently traveled to his grandparents’ in Manhattan and admired their art collection. As a retired athlete, he became an abstract painter. For his “Impact” series, Oerter would lay a puddle of paint on a tarp, and fling a discus into it to create splashing lines on a canvas positioned in front of the tarp. If the discus landed painted-face up, Oerter would sign it and give it to whomever purchased the painting. He founded the Art of the Olympians organization, supporting the work of Olympians in the arts.

He was humble and funny. He said: “I don’t think the discus will ever attract any interest until they let us start throwing them at one another.”

Oerter suffered from heart disease. When he was advised to seek a transplant he refused, saying  “I’ve had an interesting life, and I’m going out with what I have.” He passed away on October 1, 2007, in Fort Myers, FL, at the age of 71. He was survived by his wife and two daughters, long-shots all.

This painting, not from his Impact series, is called Red Chair. You can see his signature in the corner.

It was good to see you in the puzzle, Al. Rest in peace.

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This poem, from today’s Writer’s Almanac is called “I Ask My Mother To Sing,” and is by Li-Young Lee.

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordion and sway like a boat.

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers
running away in the grass.

But I love to hear it sung;
how the waterlilies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back, and fill with more.

Both women have begun to cry.
But neither stops her song.

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At 108D, I learned a new word. The clue was “Polemology is the study of them” and the answer was WARS. Working off of the W, at 108A, the clue was “Picture book with characters like Odlaw, Wizard Whitebeard and Woof” and the answer was WHERE’S WALDO. Here’s Rex: “Characters? Don’t you just find the stupid stripe-shirt / ski-hat guy in a crowd? Is there really drama? A narrative arc? ‘Characters’ implies such things. I had no idea.” He also confessed to not knowing “polemology,” for a while oddly thinking the answer was TARS. But he knew that had to be wrong, because it would have made the across answer THERE’S WALDO, which he noted would have made a hell of a sequel. (Ha!)

Speaking of obscure: the clue at 42D was: “______O’Malley Dillon of the Biden White House,” and the answer was JEN. Gimme a break. Here’s a nice tune though.

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This Tiny Love Story was in the NYT today. It’s by Rebecca Gaghen Veron.

I was 41, single and no longer looking. Rushing back to work from lunch, I was climbing the Metro stairs when a briefcase brushed against my leg. A tall man in a Barbour jacket excused himself — a rarity in Paris — and smiled, revealing his dimples. We entered the same Metro car, and five stops later, both exited. “Madame, if you do not stop following me, I will call the police,” he said, as we waited to cross the street. His dimples reappeared, and soon after, I was no longer single.

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The following is from a piece in the Times today by Jessica Shattuck.

I have never played on an athletic team. As a child, I was not fast or coordinated or interested in anything that involved chasing, catching or otherwise playing ball.  But in the long, cold and gloomy spring of 2020, I found myself the mother of an 8-year-old son who wanted nothing more than to play ball. This was the heart of early Covid; there were no organized sports, no activities, no babysitting, no school. 

Will was an excellent coach: He broke the actions of catching and throwing down into a series of discrete steps: Crook your elbow just so, put your weight into the throw, follow through after release. We fell into a rhythm and played for hours on our dead-end street.

We also weren’t talking. I am a writer who loves putting things into words, but Will doesn’t always love my questions or my boring mom-talk gambits. Here our closeness was measured in tosses, not words. Best of all, by the simple necessity of keeping the ball in the air, we were both fully present.

Our game, miraculously, continued even after lockdowns were lifted. I still love the satisfying smack of the ball into the mitt, the almost magical feeling of stopping it midair. I like the thrill of reaching some number of consecutive catches, the singular focus of our combined concentration. Most of all I love spending the time, outside, with my son.

Will is 12 now, and on a travel baseball team. We have reversed roles: Now I’m the one asking him to get up off the couch and play.

Parenthood is so full of letting go — not just of children turning into young adults and leaving home, but of so many little selves along the path to adulthood. The smiley, round-cheeked toddler becomes the shy 7-year-old; the thoughtful, shaggy-haired kindergartner becomes the clean-cut fifth grader. Sometimes the urge to hold on feels almost frantic. The only way to pin time down is to remember: this moment, this boy, this place. Ritual and repetition.

When we first started playing, we would begin a few feet apart and with every completed catch take a step back, expanding the distance between us. Now when we play, I’m all the way up by the neighbor’s pine tree, and Will is down by the mailbox. He is almost a foot taller than he was at the start. Even if it’s been a while, the muscle memory kicks in: Catch, draw your arm back, crook your elbow, let go.

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Phil was sober just long enough to snap this Mother’s Day shot for us before keeling over. A young mom and her daughter in the traditional garb of Ukraine. Hang on tight, Mom.

See you tomorrow!