New car report

     
     It wasn't much, as test drives go.
     Out of the driveway, down the street, right on Cedar, right on Cherry, under the viaduct, past the Sunset, right on Shermer and park in front of our goal, Lou Malnati's.
     I'd usually walk. But we had four guests, the pizza augmented with salads and wings and such. Might be a bit to carry. So I suggested we drive, and since our visitor's car was behind ours in the driveway, we took that.
     "Do you want to drive?" my pal asked. Your brand new Audi E-Tron? Sure.
     The car has a grille but no engine. You have to admire that. Humans cling to tradition, particularly when it comes to our automobiles. Thus trunks and glove compartments, even when we stopped strapping trunks to the back of our cars long ago, and ladies don't need a place to stash the gloves they no longer wear. Drivers want to pretend their car is cooling the internal combustion engine that isn't there. It would look odd otherwise. Maybe that'll change as more electric cars are sold and designers start to explore their possibilities. Right now, only about 2 percent of new cars sold are electric.

     Cedar presented a two-block stretch, and I mashed the accelerator. The E-Tron surged ahead nicely. 0 to 60 in 5.5 seconds. (Not that I got it to 60, understand). Generally I drove extra carefully and got there without incident. My buddy went in for the pizza. The folks at Lou's were backed up, which gave me time to examine the car. I ran my finger over the ... wait for it ... faux wood, or maybe ersatz stone; some odd gray and white mottling that someone in Germany considered decoration.

     "You'd think they'd pop for a piece of actual wood," I said, to my pal's brother-in-law, who came along for the ride. The car costs, what? $70,000? He explained that the dynamics of buying the car required quickness, and so it had to be purchased as is. You could, he said, get better materials if you ordered a car, but time hadn't permitted that.
     A pity. Rule number one of design is that it shouldn't be worse than no design at all. Had that area of the dashboard (another name that lingers, as I've pointed out, even though the entity supplying the horsepower no longer dashes) been plain black, I'd never have minded. But this...

   The E-Tron (a dubious name, by the way, redolent of that 1982 Disney movie, "Tron") did try to redeem itself, style-wise. When I returned home and got out, the driver's door cast the car's name in light on the ground where I was to step, I guess in case the owner forgot what he was driving. Still, that was cool. And my pal's son showed me the neat way, with a press of a button, that the hatch containing the charging equipment presented itself.
     But driving a new car is supposed to inspire covetous, not relief that your 2005 Honda Odyssey has not yet given up the ghost. Which, I should point out, is not a car radiating impressiveness. But it drives, which is about all I ask of a vehicle nowadays. That said, I'd take the E-Tron in a heartbeat, the dashboard be damned. It's still a cool car. Particularly that blue.

Industrial Workers of the World still unite

Jessico Dickerson and Gabe Galloway.

     If you think of the Industrial Workers of the World as relegated to Chicago’s distant labor past, the solemn faces of Big Bill Haywood and Eugene Debs gazing out of faded photographs, you should have been with me on Milwaukee Avenue Friday afternoon, on the picket line talking with living, breathing Wobblies Gabe Galloway and Jessico Dickerson.

     “A few weeks after we finished bargaining a contract, management just started ignoring the fact we had a contract or started reading the contract in absurd ways,” said Galloway, union secretary, explaining the two-day strike against the Dill Pickle Food Co-op near Logan Square.
     “Complaints about nine unfair labor practices went before the National Labor Relations Board,” said Dickerson, shop steward of the Dill Pickle Workers Union. “The NLRB found merit in eight.”
     Since the Sun-Times is owned in part by labor unions, and some readers think the way this works is a boss snaps his fingers twice, points at a story, and I go running, I should explain how I got there, because, to me, that’s the most amazing part.
     I was researching the espionage trial of 113 I.W.W. members in Chicago in 1918, most guilty of what today would be considered pacifism or labor advocacy which, in the patriotic passion of World War I, seemed like treason to authorities.
     So I’m picking over the historical record and notice the I.W.W., founded in Chicago in 1905, still has its international headquarters here, on Belmont Avenue. It has a store that sells pins and pennants. That was astounding, like discovering the Bull Moose Party is still around, still pushing for Teddy Roosevelt. Naturally, I had to reach out to them.

     The I.W.W. is doing what it’s always done.
     “Pretty much the same,” said Maxim Baku, communications officer of the I.W.W. “But of course the politics and times have changed a lot. ... The Second World War reshaped the labor movement, and shifted the I.W.W.’s place in the national dialogue. These days, we’re still very much focused on being a labor union, charting out an independent path.”

To continue reading, click here.

Flashback 2005: "Here's hoping Jesse Jr. falls far from his father's tree."

 

    Happy 4th of July! In the spirit that all of us deserve a break, I thought I would dig into the vault and pull out a past Independence Day column. This one is from back when my column ran over a thousand words and covered a page. I could have trimmed off the topical stuff, but figured you might have time on your hands, so left it in, along with the original subheads.    

     Jesse Jackson Jr. never ran for mayor, instead running into a ditch, flipping over and burning, personally and politically. He was institutionalized in 2012, and later pled guilty to fraud and went to prison, along with his wife. The war people were protesting in 2005 is just ending now, 16 fruitless years later. The Supreme Court Justice that George W. Bush was nominating ended up to be John Roberts. I have no memory if readers sent any checks. I sure hope not. Anyway, have a safe and sane holiday, and remember, every time you light a firecracker, you're terrifying some poor dog.

Opening shot

     Just like the Bible, I don't believe in visiting the sins of the father upon the son. Not if I can help it. But sometimes you can't. Can I be alone in viewing Rep. Jesse Jackson Jr.'s increasingly bold language directed at Mayor Daley in the light of Jesse Sr.'s career? The Rev. Jackson's particular trademark iniquity has always been The Big Threat—the spectre of a boycott, or picket, or other race-based corporate embarrassment that has kept countless CEOs up at night and inspired countless fat checks cut to Operation PUSH to make all the trouble go away.
     Those boycotts and strikes rarely happen—they're not supposed to, because when they do they're not that effective. As with any other kind of extortion, the idea is to get the payoff, not to burn down the grocery store.
     So while I realize that Rep. Jackson is not his father, and sincerely hope he does run in 2007, just to watch Daley squirm and sweat, I can't believe it'll ever happen. I can't help but assume Jesse the Younger will beat the mayoral drum for the next year or two, perhaps be a thorn in Daley's side then, at the right moment, he will revert to form. The deal will be whispered, the big slice of pie cut, and Jesse Jr. will put on a straight face and declare the palpable untruth that he can better serve his district as one vote out of 435 than as the mayor of the City of Chicago. Unfair of me to say? Perhaps. But let's see what happens.

July 4, 2005

     A rainy Independence Day in my leafy suburban paradise of Northbrook. But a wavering, fickle kind of rain, now downpour, now sunshine, that skirted the day's major scheduled events.
     Thus the pancake breakfast on the Village Green went off without a hitch. A dramatic family game of bocce ball was played. Then a monsoon that let up 15 minutes before the parade's kickoff. Cynic that I am, I walked the two blocks over to the route, to see if the event had been scrapped, and was shamed to see my hardier neighbors lining the streets, confident. I returned with my family, and while the rain did start up, it was a light, cooling drizzle that my wife decreed was more pleasurable than the hot sun.
     Passersby stood up and clapped for the veterans, while the "STOP THE WAR" contingent was met with a noticeable silence. I bumped into a fellow tribe member, who suggested that our synagogue march in the parade next year. I readily agreed—provided we wore uniforms and marched in formation, perhaps twirling wooden Torahs like a drill team. That seemed to dampen her enthusiasm, but I didn't want to make the mistake of more than a few organizations that presented a rather bedraggled appearance (not to single anyone out, but let's say that one float struck me as sorely lacking the kind of gilded splendor normally associated with Rome).
     Toward evening, some—we had houseguests—wanted the fireworks, others the sofa. You know where my desires rested. Let's just say I was pulling for rain.
     But fireworks won, and I had too much hard-won sense to grumble, because grumbling always comes back to bite you. We walked the several blocks to the velodrome (Doesn't your town have a velodrome? All the better towns do).
     The fireworks were—duh—great. Big exploding puffballs of red and green and purple, plus some golden bursts of fizzing blossoms I had never seen before.
     My wife turned her face to mine and said, "Kiss me," and I had the presence of mind to nod toward the fireworks exploding overhead and say, "Kiss you? I thought we were kissing."

Put down that dictionary!

     Ve-lo-drome, n., A bicycle racing track, especially with steep banked curves.

Act now to save our country!

     Attention conservatives!!!
     Having done so much to try to save our nation from the moral abyss, our president, George W. Bush, now faces his toughest challenge yet: the nomination of a new justice to the U.S. Supreme Court. He needs your help!
     The right candidate can solidify our hard-won gains of the past five years and stem the tide of degeneracy. But the wrong person—a liberal in sheep's clothing—will continue America's sickening slide toward ruin. If the Democrats prevail, the Supreme Court will approve drive-thru abortions for lascivious teens and allow Affirmative Action to snatch away your job and give it to bus station loafers while encouraging gays to marry in your church and then forcibly adopt your children and convert them to homosexuality. Don't let it happen!
     Only direct public pressure can avert this affront to God. Send as much money as you can now to:
     Americans United for a Fair Judiciary
     Neil Steinberg, chairman
     350 N. Orleans, 9th floor
     Chicago, IL 60654

Act now to save our country, Pt. II

     Attention liberals!!!
     The criminal junta of the Warmonger Bush and his claque of Constitution-shredders are poised to further undermine our personal freedoms with the nomination of a new justice to the U.S. Supreme Court. Our voices must be heard!
     Difficult as it is to imagine a police state more repressive than our own, it is likely unless you help.
     Imagine: a ban on abortions, on contraceptives and on women working outside the home. A return of the draft, racial segregation and girdles. Your children compelled to begin their school day by kneeling on a rail and praying to God. The risk is real.
     Only immediate public action will prevent this latest mortal blow to our liberties.
     Please send a generous donation to:
     Citizens Together for a Balanced Court
     Neil Steinberg, chairman
     350 N. Orleans, 9th floor
     Chicago, IL 60654


Disclaimer

     I try not to write for stupid people (God, I can feel the letters being penned: "Dear Idiot: My brother Timmy has an IQ of 25—does he not deserve the respect you so mistakenly lavish on yourself???")
     But I do need to point out that my two pitch letters are satire. Yes, I will cash your checks, and apply them to my own unspeakable purposes (well, give them to the Sun-Times Charity Trust). But no, they won't go to underwrite more badgering of the president on either side of the issue. Jeez, let the guy squeeze out a name before we all pile on.

            —Originally published in the Sun-Times, July 6, 2005 

Chicago notes: Opening Up

The Lake Shore Dames

  

     After living in Northbrook for 20 years, the accusation of being "suburban" is woefully familiar. The thought I always have in reply is a less articulate version of, "If living in the city were the ennobling state you seem to believe it to be, then you wouldn't have to constantly pump yourself up by putting down those whose pillows are a few miles past some arbitrary border." But dissing the outlanders does seem some kind of inevitability. I noticed that our younger son tossed off a sneering "suburbanites!" at his parents exactly two days after he moved to the city. Anyway, for those who wondered whether former Austin Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey would find the kind of unexpected Texan splendor here that she uncovered in the Lone Star State—the Lake Shore Dames! Who knew?—worry no more. Her Saturday report:

     The midnight blue Honda with darkly tinted windows came to a quick stop when it spotted a tiny parking space between two SUVs on Milwaukee Avenue in Logan Square. It waited for impatient drivers to pass—none yielded— and when the coast was clear the little Civic angled sharply towards the curb. It backed into the small spot, then maneuvered back and forth a bit for the perfect fit. The driver got out, surveyed the situation only to realize they had achieved an epic parking fail, got back in and tried again. After two more tries the car finally rested comfortably, only a half a foot or so away from the curb. Not perfect but good enough.
     The driver was me. I used to boast, with confidence, that I could fit a Mac truck into a space the size of a motorcycle. That’s how amazing my parking skills were. Not anymore. I poked fun at Neil a bit in my post a couple weeks ago for his “suburban” parking skills, and I guess this is my just dessert. Seven years away from Chicago and looks like I am as rusty as the next guy.
     Will someone please explain to me why we have harrowingly narrow two-way streets all over this city? With parking allowed on both sides? Whose great idea was it that we have to squeeze a ton of metal mere inches away from other heavy metal boxes, trusting drivers of all sorts not to knock our sideview mirrors off? Driving in the city has been quite the adventure. 
     Despite the challenges of congested streets and a dearth of ample parking spots, I am taking pure delight in our fabulous city. I don’t feel great on the inside— it’s proving to be a challenging and rocky transition “home”— but the beauty and rich texture of Chicago almost fixes things. As I drove west on Wacker towards the Civic Opera House to pick up a friend the other night, I marveled at the burgeoning skyline along the river. Glistening mirrored high rises with curves that fit perfectly into the framework are our city’s mountain ranges.
     As I walk and drive around in a bit of daze as I try to find my feet again, the welcoming arms of Chicago summer embrace me. I caught a sunset that was too purple to be believed the other night. Lake Michigan, in its placid endless glory rivals an ocean view. Last weekend I reunited with extended family and we played Cards Against Humanity until way past our bedtimes. I value family time more than ever.
     A friend since third grade and I had a delicious meal at Taste of Havana (https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/cuban-restaurant-taste-of-havana-logan-square/Content?oid=60390500) to celebrate her birthday. I savored our time together, all too aware of the preciousness of life and my good fortune to have a golden friend like her to spend time with.
     Yesterday I finally got a ten mile walk in, broken toe and all. I just couldn’t help it. Prior to the big freeze in Austin this past February, walking long distances had become my saving grace. As the endorphins increased, my overactive mind quieted down. I am grateful that I had the motivation to get back to this mellowing practice.
     It’s also been a disquieting time. Since I checked in last we've had yet another tornado warning. This time I was at Fork on Lincoln for brunch (with their floor to ceiling windows wide open for circulation). All of a sudden phones all around us started belting out warning tones. A tornado might touch down in Ravenswood, the alerts said. When the tornado sirens came on I was the first person to leap up and let the manager know “basement. NOW.” No discussion. He shepherded us down to the wine cellar where we hung out until we were safe.   Well this is fun! The good ol’ Midwest where a tornado took out my elementary school field last year (https://blockclubchicago.org/2020/08/11/rogers-park-residents-clean-up-after-tornado-destruction-like-ive-never-seen/), and this past tornado devastated a swath of homes in the Naperville area. If I thought I could bury my head and pretend global warming was not happening I’m quickly realizing that won’t be possible.
      One of my favorite comrades and I took an impromptu walk after dinner walk recently. We came across a group of women dancing with beach balls in the parking lot of Amundsen High School. It was a fun and campy choreographed routine, and we were hooked. When they took a break we chatted with Magda, a co-founder of their group. "If I had to boil down to one sentence what the Lake Shore Dames stand for; we are on the eternal quest to bridge the gap between everyday gals, the art of dance, and our local community. We were born from the need of embracing community by bringing people together, using dance and music as our currency. In respect to future plans, we are working on creating inclusive dancing opportunities for every-day gals. Still figuring out format, drop-in classes, performance focused gigs etc., so much to figure out. We call it a great problem to have.” https://lakeshoredames.com/founders
     I also found myself lost in Caldwell Woods one day this past week. If it weren’t for the omnipresent airplanes overhead and the swoosh of traffic rushing down Devon and Caldwell I could almost pretend I was back on an isolated Greenbelt in Austin.
     If you are out and about you will happen upon outdoor concerts at venues such as Comfort Station on Logan and an Irish Pub on Church in Evanston. You’ll also find tango dancing in a new square in downtown Evanston. Everywhere you turn there will be a chance to sway to the music. 

     Various neighborhoods will display fireworks for us to enjoy this evening (https://blockclubchicago.org/2021/07/01/neighborhood-fireworks-shows-parades-and-parties-your-guide-on-where-to-celebrate-fourth-of-july-in-chicago/). The world is starting to open up again (though of course we still must be COVID-safe), and there’s nowhere better to be than Chicago right now. See you out there.

Good for mittens, scarves and, yes, garroting

 

     July. Peak summer, at last. A long holiday weekend ahead. Escapist book season is here. What are you reading, and why?
     Being a journalist, books are constantly pitched at me. Most are easily allowed to fly past without swinging. “This book is a must-read for all who want to understand the current crisis of identity and the importance of reaffirming European and in particular Swiss democratic traditions...”
     But “On Skein of Death” by Allie Pleiter caught my attention, for two reasons.
     First, it’s a mystery set in a yarn shop. You might recall that five years ago, staring into the abyss of the Donald Trump presidency, I took up knitting, hoping it might be a distraction from the gathering disaster.
     Knitting proved harder than expected and I soon gave up. But not before several visits to Three Bags Full, the local yarn store, which seemed a perfect setting for a mystery. That might require some explanation. Whenever I visit a cactus show at the Botanic Garden, I amuse myself imagining that the quiet, pale succulent society members, when not in public hovering over their beloved prickly pears and saguaros, are privately at each other’s throats, riven with conflict, betrayal and death. Something like that.
     Second, the author lives in a western suburb.
     Pleiter grew up in New England, came here to go to Northwestern, as a theater major, then ended up in fundraising. She started writing professionally on a dare.
     ”The bulk of my career is in category romance,” said Pleiter, who has written 50 books and can have four in the works at any given time. “I’m such a passionate knitter. I’ve been putting knitting characters in my books for years. It’s part of my brand.”
     A yarn company was looking to start a knitting-based mystery series.

To continue reading, click here.

Kamala CRUSHES our freedom with border chaos! State of the Blog, Year 8.

Northbrook street repair crew, July 29, 2020

     Can things be going great and you don't even know it?
     I sat down to assess the State of the Blog as its eighth year comes to a close, and eight years just seems an impossibly long time. Every ... goddamn ... day.
     Then again, a lot's been going on. This past year Donald Trump was dragged kicked and screaming from the stage, but not before his clown coup gave us a taste of worse to come. COVID dialed back from raging lethal lockdown to semi-controlled openness, at least for the moment. The decent and somewhat effective Joe Biden was ushered into power.
    On the home front, both our boys graduated law school, snagged brass ring jobs and are studying eight hours a day for their bar exams. I finished my next book, based on this blog, suggested by the University of Chicago Press, which is not generally known for its vanity projects. I enjoyed writing the book and it was enthusiastically receive by the academic readers, and is steaming toward publication in the fall of 2022.
     So why the sour-stomach sense of dread? Well, there is the Tribune, cashiering its top columnists. My reaction was not, "Hooray, I'm still here, I win!" Rather, dark foreboding. Alden Capital kneecapping their own paper by way of hello is bad enough, but it made me look at the crop of new columnists coming up. Or rather, look for them, not find any, and realize: there isn't one. It's almost as if writing a column is not a thing anymore, as my kids would say.
     How did the Washington Post put it, in sending off the Tribune's Mary Schmich and the nameless drudges who left with her? "But columns like Schmich’s are becoming nostalgia items. While people still write about cities, the classic metro newspaper column is fading as fast as the sound of a bundled bag of newsprint dropping on the walkway each morning."
     "Nostalgia items." Ouch. Does that sting because it's true? Or because it isn't? Maybe the operative word here is "classic." If the classic metro newspaper column is Mike Royko, whom the Post lights a candle for, sitting in the Billy Goat in front of his vodka tonic, talking to an imaginary friend then yes, the appetite for that kind of thing has dwindled, and rightly so. Times change and we change with them. But looking back over the past year of EGD, it seems a lively reaction to a difficult time. Yes, I'm biased. But it's not just me. The numbers are up, at last: over 81,000 readers in June, up from 72,000 in May (Blogger, which doesn't change for the better, no longer offers a month-by-month breakdown. And those numbers seem to be people, not robots. That's improvement. Closing in on a million readers a year.
     This past year (EGD debuted July 1, 2013) began in the COVID summer of 2020 with what turned out to be the most popular column of the year, "Virus mystery: The case of the missing Fresca." With Chicago in flames and people dying and no end in sight, picking the topic seemed embarrassingly unimportant. But the Internet rewards not only malice, but triviality, and if you typed "What happened to Fresca?" into Google that column came up first. I heard from grateful readers across the country, and it was so popular that my bosses did something highly unusual: they asked for an update, which ran in August, "Fresca's back: Mystery of its absence solved!"
     In September I wrote a column I was even more proud of, "A do-it yourself colonoscopy? Sign me up." I might not be sitting in a basement bar talking to Sam Sianis, at least not anymore. But I am the guy who wondered "Who opens the jar?" I can live with that.
     In October, Ashlee Rezin Garcia and I visited a vast Amazon procurement center for "Amazon robots, workers speed stuff to you."
     One thing about my column that I believe sets it apart is that it is a bit more writerly than most. Certain forms present themselves. In November, summing up the never-ending shock of the Trump administration, writing a single run-on sentence seemed the way to go.
     Researching the book pointing me toward a number of columns. Perhaps my favorite was in December, after learning The American Bee Journal was based in Chicago for decades and is still going in downstate Illinois. That led me to look into the apiary situation, resulting in a piece with the legendary—to me if no one else—opening sentence. "But how has COVID affected beekeeping in Illinois?" 
     The day of the Jan. 6 insurrection at the Capitol, I wrote about the lingering echo of the Civl War and saw a flash of what was to come:

     The Lost Cause marches on, as we will see Wednesday, when Congress faces another ego-stoked rebellion: Donald Trump’s insistence that his clearly losing the 2020 presidential election in the chill world of fact can be set aside, since he won the race in the steamy delta swampland between his ears.

     In February, I reflected the city's souring view of Lori Lightfoot, "Mayor needs less hope, more responsibility." In March, I drove down to Springfield to get my Pfizer vaccine. In April, I indulged my curiosity for obscure medical conditions by attending a Zoom therapy session for men with paruresis. In May, Ashlee and I reunited for dinner at a billet house in Aurora with three teenage hockey players. In June, my family bid farewell to our cat Gizmo. The column began, "Gizmo was a naughty cat..." and varied that phrase throughout, prompting one reader to observe that I should have included, "Gizmo is a lucky cat," for being so well tended. He's right.
     Then again, I have a way of either ignoring good luck, or analyzing it to death, and the bottom line is, while American society shatters and journalism crumbles, my platforms remains intact. I am lucky, employed, read, and grateful to be able to do what I do. No stopping now; the blog has to chug on to a decade, at least, of solitary mornings, tossing up this ball of words, batting fungos into the weeds.
      Solitary, but never alone. Caren Jeskey, our Austin Bureau Chief, who had her own notable year, quit the loathsome conservative hellscape of Texas to return to pleasant, cool, comfortingly blue Illinois. She carries the ball every Saturday, and I'm grateful to her. I tried to let Marc Schulman off the hook this year; I figured, he'd sacrificed enough. But he insisted on running his Eli's Cheesecake ads on the blog for the seventh holiday season, which was very much appreciated. I have a cast of regular readers, who enhance and correct what I do. Thanks particularly to Jakash, who has fixed 100 errors. And thank you readers. I sure would feel stupid writing this stuff if nobody read it. Love and gratitude to my wife Edie, who never misses an opportunity to say, "I don't know why you bother with that thing." It's complicated, honey.

GOP tries to sucker punch U.S. history

Muhammad Ali at the 1966 Bud Billiken Parade (Sun-Times Photo)

     Chicago is a boxing town. Or was.

     That shouldn’t be news, but I suspect it is, to some. The three most important heavyweight champions of the world in the 20th century all lived in Chicago. Jack Johnson bought a home for his mother on South Wabash Avenue in 1910, then moved in himself in 1912. Joe Louis lived at 4320 S. Michigan Ave. and won his first title at Comiskey Park in 1937. As a teen, Muhammad Ali won his first fights as a Golden Gloves champion here and later lived at several locations on the South Side.
     I could share inspiring tales — the luxurious life Johnson led, the silver spittoons at Café de Champion, the club he owned on West 31st Street. Louis’ humility in the face of global fame. How Ali would stop his Rolls Royce and shadow box kids on the street.
     Pause here, and consider how learning about this historic connection makes you feel about Chicago. Proud? Happy? Eager to know more?
     I hope so. Because I left out something crucial. Johnson, Louis and Ali were — stop the presses — Black. Their race was in no way incidental to their athletic careers and personal lives. Just the opposite; it was pivotal. Because of his race, Johnson was at first prevented from fighting for the title; he had to go to Australia to do it. Johnson was then vilified for winning, and for dating white women. He was hung in effigy at State and Walton streets.
     Louis had to act humble, trying to avoid the trouble Johnson got into. When named Cassius Clay, Ali was initially sneered at by the public as a poetry-spewing clown. After he found his Muslim faith and changed his name, white America refused to use it, as if he wasn’t a man who could call himself whatever he liked. Nobody objected to “Bob Dylan.”
     Does the second, racial element of my boxing tale wreck it for you? Make you feel small? Or does it, as I believe, enlarge the story, nudging it from a mere gloss toward the complexity that real history demands?

To continue reading, click here.