In our short time here in Switzerland and our even shorter time with kids in the Swiss education system, we’ve found a lot to like, and a few things not to like, about it so far. But far and beyond the biggest advantage it has over the U.S. educational system is the wine.
In my very small sample size of three events, if you go to an evening event at a Swiss school or daycare, there is eventually going to be wine. Last night, Madame Melendez and I got a babysitter and, together, went to parents night at C’s little community day care. Yes, there were all of the normal parents night things. Grownups sat in comically small chairs, pre-school teachers spoke in slow, bright, and effusive language even though they were talking to adults. (Note: This is fantastic when you don’t speak the language. I genuinely wish everyone in the francophone world spoke like a preschool teacher. If they did, I’d be approaching fluency.) There are adorable pictures of the children playing, napping, eating and so on. (Note: A small criticism of the slide show—there was a lot of C, but I demand more C. The camera loves that kid.). In addition, as I’m sure is true in many American preschools, there was a discussion of the school’s pedagogical approach, its philosophy. The difference, of course, is that it sounds much more sophisticated in French. Apprentissage simply sounds way more impressive than “learning.” Children who are “learning” seem like they’re going to pick up their ABCs. A child in an “apprentissage” seems like he’s going to be able to rewire my house or operate a lathe.
We also learned important things like “children are gourmets, they will not eat brown bananas, so please bring a nice piece of fruit for daily shared snack.” And it’s true, my children will, in fact, slurp down raw oysters but not brown bananas.
And finally, there is the obligatory creative activity. In this case, it was parents decorating their child’s artwork folder. We got to work making a little frame around a picture of C, accenting it with stickers of things he will like, like cats, birds, suns, and stars. The parents next to us did an exact replication of The Death of Marat by Jaques-Louis David, so everyone did a good job!
By virtue of being the first parents finished, the Melendezes were the first invited back into the main room for refreshments. The refreshments included cheese and dry sausage (note: of course!), a few crispy nibbles, fresh-pressed local apple juice, and three bottles of wine: one red, one white, and one rosé. And, at least the merlot I quaffed, was drinkable wine. No three buck Chuck! (Note: Or three Franc…. Frank?)
I have not been to a lot of events at schools in the U.S., what with COVID, but I am pretty sure there isn’t a ton of wine at them. And it’s probable that if you brought wine, people might thing negatively toward you. Maybe you would get a visit from a social worker! Greatest country on Earth indeed!
Now, it’s easy to think “Well, this was a parents event, it’s not that weird to have cocktail hour.” But at the previous event we attended at L’s primary school, which was a real back to school celebration, the kind with adorable kids singing a song as a hyper enthusiastic conductor waves her arms and encourages them to smile and EEE—NUUNN—SEEEE—-AAATTEE (note: In French, ÉÉÉÉÉÉÉ—NOONNNN—-SSSSS) there was still wine, quite a bit of wine, in face at the refreshment hour.
If this had been the case when I was growing up, maybe the Belmont Public Schools wouldn’t have had to shorten the annual December band extravaganza Band-a-Rama, from 14 hours to a mere four and a half in order to keep the parents from revolting.
And while, it was nice to get a glimpse into C’s day at school, the wine (note: okay, fine it was the social component, not the alcohol). made it seem reasonable to burn a night’s babysitting, at the standard rate of CHF25 per hour (approximately $45,000) on sitting around a preschool.
It’s time for today’s KEY TO THE GAME.
I haven’t been doing many of these lately. The Red Sox stink, the Patriots are horrible, and all I’m not able to watch much more than football, but damn it, Timmy deserves it.
It is tempting, extremely tempting, to look a the far too early death of knuckleballer Tim Wakefield as evidence that the universe is fundamentally unjust. I have been around far too long to fully believe any public figure who I do not know personally is as good as his reputation; I’ve been burned too many times. Hell, even people I know well personally don’t always live up to their reputations or my expectations of them. But I would be surprised if Tim Wakefield is, beyond the normal failings of a normal human being, one of those people who falls well short. There are just too many people with too many good things to say about him.
And now he’s gone as if stuck by a bolt from the blue. I am no theologian, but while this may not disprove the existence of a loving God, it sure isn’t an argument that there is one. What may, however, be evidence of a loving God—and Wake was a devout Christian so I know he believed in one—is the life of Tim Wakefield. At the very least, the life of Tim Wakefield is proof that there is magic in the world, light magic, not the magic of curses and revenge, but the magic of marshmallows and butterflies—the magic of the knuckleball.
All Sox fans know the story. Tim Wakefield is a man whose dream was dead. Drafted by the Pirates as a first baseman he couldn’t hit. In a normal story, that is the end, and he never makes the majors. To be grandiose, the Egyptians drive the Israelites into the Red Sea to drown; the tomb is not empty.
But from somewhere, or perhaps nowhere, Tim Wakefield was the recipient of a magical gift, the ability to make a baseball take just a quarter turn forward over a distance of sixty feet and six inches and then disappear. On the one hand it might not be as grand as parting the Red Sea or making the Statue of Liberty “disappear” but on the other hand it was, indisputably, real.
It happened.
Over and over again, I saw the world’s greatest hitters—and catchers ranging from poor Josh Bard to the great Jason Varitek—made to look ridiculous by Wake’s enchantments. One can rightly say that it’s all physics, that the movement can be explained by the baseball’s stitches disrupting the pocket of turbulence around the moving ball, and it can. But that doesn’t explain how the magic came and went. Just one year after debuting with the Pittsburgh Pirates and nearly wining NLCS MVP, Wakefield seeming lost his sorcery and became one of the worst pitchers in AAA. Physics simply isn’t that fickle. It doesn’t come and go.
But magic?
And then, when Red Sox general manage Dan Duquette took a flyer on him in 1995 the charms were back stronger than ever. During his 14-1 start that year, Wakefield looked as good as any starter ever had. Teams organised special press availabilities for him during starts that some compared to the ones Cal Ripken was having every game as he marched towards Lou Gehrig’s games played record.
And then it was gone again. I was in Jefferson, Maine listening to him pitch in the Seattle Kingdome—I listened to or watched every game Wake pitched that year. And he got shelled. And just like that, it was over. Tim Wakefield would be good again, sometimes very good, but he would never again be Cinderella. The magic hadn’t abandoned him completely, though. He’d keep pitching for the Sox for the rest of his career, sometimes dazzling as in the 2003 ALCS, and sometimes failing, also as in the 2003 ALCS, almost entirely it seemed, at the whim of the fates.
As much as Tim Wakefield’s death shows that there is darkness in the universe, that whether it is evil, bad luck, or cold indifference, that permeates the ether, his life and his career shows that there is also magic in the air and that the days of miracles are not past.
Rest easy Wake. Whatever the reason, be it physics or magic, luck or labor, you were special.
How I look forward to these episodes. Keen ‘em coming
Jose, you are always a treasure, and I laughed on cue at the crack about babysitting rates. But your tribute to Wake moving - thank you!