Fearsome Dominican baseball slugger Rico Carty died at the age of 85 last Saturday. He had 15 brothers and sisters. His dad worked in a sugar mill and his mom was a midwife. His first full season was 1964 and he hit .330, second in the majors only to Roberto Clemente. But his career moved forward in spurts with long absences due to a plethora of injuries, and he missed the entire 1968 season with tuberculosis. His only post-season appearance was in 1969 with Atlanta against the Mets who were on their way to their miracle WS win against Baltimore. They disposed of the Braves in three games. Carty went 3 for 10 with four runs scored.
In 1970 he started off hotter than hell and was batting .436 at the end of May. He wasn’t included on the All-Star game ballots since they had been made up too early, but fans mounted a write-in campaign for him which garnered over 500,000 votes, and Carty started in the NL outfield alongside Mays and Aaron. It was his only All-Star game.
His last season was 1979 with Toronto after which he was released at age 40. The last of his many injuries was crazy — he reached into his carry-on bag and stabbed himself with a toothpick. I’m not making that up — it’s from the NYT obit. I guess those little f*ckers can do more harm than you think. He finished with a career BA of .299 and 204 home runs.
Here’s how the obit ended:
In 2019, asked about the faster pitching in the modern game, Carty replied: “You think Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Dick Allen, Roberto Clemente, Orlando Cepeda couldn’t hit this pitching?
“I’d kill it.”
Rest in peace, Rico.
OMG, Leonard COHEN is in the puzzle today. Right up there at 2 Down: “Poet Leonard.” The crossing C was from ACHE, and here’s his lyric from “Tower of Song:” Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey. I ache in the places where I used to play.
This lyric is from his song “Did I Ever Love You?”
The lemon trees blossom
The almond trees wither
Was I ever someone
Who could love you forever?
This poem is called “Juke” and it’s by Diane Seuss. It was the poem of the day today from the Poetry Foundation. (Anybody else smell gasoline?)
What kind of juke do you prefer?
For me, it’s the kind with three
songs and thirty-seven blank
title strips. Three songs, and two
are “Luckenbach, Texas.”
The third is beautiful and arcane,
but the patrons hate it,
and the record skips.
I prefer the three-song juke
and the three-toothed human
smile. I found the juke of my dreams
in a bar called “Chums,” no clue
the origin or meaning
of the quotation marks. It was a prime
number of a bar, and now it’s dead.
One night, drinking half-and-
halfs, half beer, half tomato juice,
with schnapps chasers, a cheap
source of hallucination.
A soon-to-be-defrocked Catholic
priest, Vic Jr., my mother, and me,
our faces streaked blue with pool
chalk, juke red as a beating heart,
and just a strip of hollyhocks
and a tree line between us
and the northern lights.
I was young. I looked like a Rubens
painting of a woman half-eaten
by moths. What lucky
debauchery, the ride back
on a washboard dirt road,
taking everything for granted,
flipping off the aurora borealis
like it was some three-toothed human
in flashy clothes dancing
to get my attention.
I wasn’t a mean drunk then,
just honest.
Next morning, mom walked in
on the naked priest
in the shack’s garage,
washing himself with a rag
and cold water from the well
in a metal dishpan. I’d later do dishes
in that pan and wash my hair
in that pan. We popped popcorn
on the one-burner wood-burning
stove and ate it out of that pan.
I’m talking about a time and a place.
All I can say of it is that it was real.
The song choices were limited,
so the grooves were dug deep.
Here’s Diane.
At 40D, for “Maori ceremonial dance” the answer was HAKA. Earlier this month, the New Zealand parliament exploded as Maori members protested proposed changes to a treaty by performing a HAKA on the parliament floor. I mean no disrespect in pointing out that part of the dance involves “jazz hands,” a topic that came up recently in Owl Chatter. Take a look:
Have you heard the term BEL ESPRIT? It was new to me. The clue was “Clever person.” I generally like learning things from puzzles, but, tbh, I usually forget whatever it is in short order. Next week a clue will be “bel esprit” and I’ll be certain it has something to do with cheese.
The puzzle’s theme today generated a bit of an uproar. The revealer clue placed across the center of the grid was “Corn, beans and squash, in Mesoamerican tradition,” which, as it turns out, is referred to as THE THREE SISTERS. Then in the top half of the grid, the three Bronte sisters appeared: CHARLOTTE, ANNE, and EMILY, of course, which was fine. But the bottom half was “graced” by the appearance of the three Kardashians: KOURTNEY, KIM, and KHLOE, and the commentariat was outraged!!
Here’s a sampling:
First, equating the Brontes with the Kardashians borders on criminal, and, second, calling the Kardashians “Showbiz” implies they have talent which is just wrong!
Debasing the Brontës by this gratuitous grouping with the Kardashians and causing revulsion in solvers by the very inclusion of the Kardashians does not make for a good puzzle.
Couldn’t get past the Kardashian thing. This puzzle sucked.
Pairing the Brontes with the Kardashians?? An outright insult to women everywhere (spoken as a male with three highly accomplished sisters). For shame Joel Fagliano! [Joel is the current NYT puzzle editor.]
A couple of us didn’t get our panties in a bunch. [First time I’ve used that phrase — it’s great!] Here’s what I posted:
I’m going to try to be charitable (not in the sense of donating money, perish the thought) — perhaps the constructor was going after the humorous effect of juxtaposing the more refined trio of sisters with the far less refined ones. Like the NYer cartoon in the fancy dining room of the ocean liner. Seated at the table are all the diners dressed to the nines and one fellow shirtless, sweaty, and covered in coal dust. He’s saying: “The captain couldn’t make it this evening. I’m the stoker.”
Leonard — Can you send us off tonight?
See you tomorrow everybody. Happy Thanksgiving!
The Wellington Files 