Russian roulette

As an amateur military historian, the one most important thing that I've learned about war from the books I've read and the lectures I've attended is that war is mostly about miscalculation management and the resulting unintended consequences.

War is also about death, destruction, horror, sorrow, famine, misinformation, collateral damage, displacement and cruelty among its many injustices.

As a species, we seem to be in a constant state of war, killing each other in droves somewhere or another on the planet at any given moment.

Found in Ukraine: Putin as Hitler.

 The latest miscalculation seems to be Russia's unprovoked invasion of Ukraine, now in its fourth day. Russian president Vladimir Putin, a former KGB agent and current Russian mafia oligarch, is waging a vanity war again his neighbor. He's fearful that Ukraine, a modern and Western-leaning sovereign state, will become a member of NATO, thus adding another country to what he perceives as an encroaching ring of democracy around Mother Russia.

Putin's assault is also history repeating itself, as if we needed another lesson. While falsely claiming the intervention is for the "de-Nazification" of Ukraine (there are no Nazi's in Ukraine. Here's Putin's misinformation campaign on full display), he is ironically mirroring the tactics of Adolf Hitler's land grabs in the late 1930's. We've seen this before. Putin is not fooling anybody.

So far, Putin's paranoia seems to be a huge miscalculation on his part. The set-piece battles so far have reportedly cost Russia 3,500 of its soldiers, 14 airplanes, eight helicopters, 102 tanks and one BUK missile. We are probably days, if not hours, away from seeing the war go urban. That will make it even more costly for the Russians. And that will not play well to those soldiers' mothers, wives and sweethearts on the streets of Moscow.

It seems Putin's less-than-lightning war is coming at an unexpected cost. Not only are there surprisingly high losses in men and material, but growing worldwide economic sanctions against a nation that has an economy about as large as Texas are becoming effective. Economic sanctions could hinder the Russian war machine as badly as Stinger rockets, and soon. It's costly to keep an army on the field, and costlier to occupy that country. Did they already forget about Afghanistan?

The real danger, of course, is how much of this humiliation can Putin stand? He's already bandied about the "nuclear" word a few times. Chernobyl, site of the nuclear power plant meltdown in 1986, could see the release of radiation pockets into the atmosphere, thus creating a European environmental disaster.

Clearly, Putin is a heartless, soulless megalomaniac, sheathed in lies and untruths. We've seen it for decades. How much more proof do we need?

Knowing that, why is former president Trump praising Putin as a genius while Ukranians die in the streets? Why is Trump's former secretary of state and former CIA director Mike Pompeo lifting Putin above the Biden administration in this conflict as Biden brings NATO together like never before?

Russia has been an opponent of the United States political system since the end of World War II and the ensuing creation of NATO. That basic political tenant has never changed, even when Trump was licking Putin's shoes in Helsinki a few years ago and apparently not comprehending that Putin was not his dear friend. It's astounding to me that the Republican Party, not long ago once a party of hawks against the Russian bear, has caved to the Russian point of view.

Maybe it's time to recalculate those miscalculations.

 

Figuring out figure skating

Decades ago, while still in my childhood, I remember the family gathering around the old black-and-white Motorola to watch the Olympics.

These were the Winter Olympics, mind you. I have it in my head that I enjoyed watching the Winter Olympics long before I ever watched the Summer Olympics. I don't know why that is, but it could have been because of some of the rather exotic sports we were seeing: slalom, luge, bobsled, cross country skiing, and the oddly named skeleton.

I think one of the reasons I liked the Winter Olympics so much is that mom made waffles for us. Waffles were generally a rare breakfast treat (rare because I think it was rather labor intensive for breakfast), but she'd occasionally make them as our evening meal during the Olympics. I particularly enjoyed the copious amounts of Log Cabin maple syrup I was allowed to pour on my waffles, not to mention all the powdered sugar sprinkled on top.

It's a wonder I'm still alive.

One thing I don't remember seeing was curling, which has now become one of my favorite events to watch. But there was always the figure skating.

Ahh, figure skating. That was back in the days before it had become so highly nationalized. It was pretty girls doing impossible twirls in the air. It was handsome men skating backwards, complete with what seemed like 100-mile-per-hour spins.

I couldn't even skate forward without falling, much less backward. Still can't. This was magical stuff.

But somewhere between then and now, we've reached the Kamila Valieva saga, the 15-year-old Russian figure skater who, for one night, was magical in her own right in the women's individual figure skating in the Beijing Olympics.

She was expected to win the gold. That's how good she was. Then, on Thursday morning our time, she fell or stumbled three times during her routine, something she never does. She ultimately finished fourth, out of the medals, devastated, and pretty much emotionally violated by the adults, coaches and teammates around her. That's the Russian system, I guess.

The general consensus is that she probably shouldn't have been competing in the first place. A banned drug was found in her system back in December (a heart medication supposedly belonging to her grandfather and taken by mistake. Yeah, right. And the Russians didn't interfere with our elections, either. Sheesh).

She was allowed to compete in Beijing by the Court of Arbitration for Sport, whatever that is, even though Russia has a long and palpable history of doping its athletes. Russia, in fact, has been officially banned as a competitive nation for this Olympics but is allowed to compete as the Russian Olympic Committee (ROC in the medal standings). The CAS cited otherwise "irreparable harm" as its reason to let the equivalent of a high school sophomore compete.

You've got to be kidding. You can't compete because you're doping your athletes, but if you change your name, you're good.

What we saw on global television the other night was the systemic demolition of a 15-year-old girl before our very eyes, pathetically clutching a stuffed panda bear doll while her world crumbled around her. Valieva was berated, not comforted, by her coach when she first came off the ice. It was worse than pathetic. It was as cold as the ice in the rink. It was as cold as a Siberian heart.

The International Olympic Committee is now facing a serious integrity issue, if it hasn't already, over the past decades of doping antics.

And why are children allowed to compete in this type of competitive world?

Meanwhile, I think the Court of Arbitration for Sport, established in 1984, has some explaining to do, too. I just hope it doesn't become involved in the current Major League Baseball negotiations. We wouldn't want to do "irreparable harm" to the sport, would we? Yikes.

The Beijing Olympics are in their fading hours now, trying its best to squeeze out a semblance of success in a world of covid and controversy. Empty stands. Empty gestures. Empty hearts.

I miss my waffles.

 

 

 

71

It's not as if turning 71 is a milestone birthday, but I do think every year you take in your 70s, at this point and almost by definition, is a milestone.

I turned 71 yesterday – Lincoln's birthday – so all these thoughts about aging come rushing pell-mell into my brain. I think it's probably a natural thought process for us. I had this conversation with one of my septuagenarian friends the other day and we both agreed that – actuarially speaking, anyway – we are most likely in our decade of death.

So there's that.

It can be a time for review, to see if we've reached any of our life goals over the previous 70 years. And I have to say, I feel pretty good about that. I've never been arrested. I think I've helped people – some people, anyway – when they've needed it. I think I've been a good friend, son, brother and husband. I think I was a pretty decent journalist, which was my lifelong profession. Bear with me: This is now my It's a Wonderful Life moment.

I've been told that I don't look nor act my age, which kind of presumes we should know what people in their 70s should look and act like. But I'll take it as a compliment.

Although I have a countertop littered with various medication bottles, I've been reasonably healthy over the years. I acknowledge the medications probably help maintain that good health, but I also think genetics might be involved. Somehow I inherited the camouflage gene that disguises the way I should look and act at this age.

I work out at the YMCA four or five days a week, for two hours each session, which means, ultimately, most of my clothes still fit.

I think my mental health is OK, too. I read a lot, and I play computer puzzle-solving games, each activity designed to keep me active. There are those moments, though, when I can't find my car keys or where the heck did I put my glasses or my cell phone? As a writer, I occasionally find myself searching for the right word more often. I don't want to let my words get away from me.

I do have to say it does feel like I got here in a hurry, though, and I certainly didn't mean for that to happen. I was talking to my brother yesterday when he called to wish me a happy birthday. He's only a few years younger than I am – still in his 60s – but we were reminiscing about our childhoods. "You know," I said, "remember when we were kids and 70 sounded old?" 

It doesn't sound too old now.

Just think. Next year, when you read my blog about turning 72, it's because I've totally forgotten about the blog I wrote when I turned 71. 

Cool, huh?

 •   •   •

It's not often the Super Bowl falls on the same weekend as my birthday, but I guess I ought to throw my two cents out there.

I really don't have a dog in this fight, but I think I'm leaning toward the Bengals, 27-24.

It's been a spectacular couple of playoff weekends, so there's a part of me that is afraid this game, just by law of averages, could end up being a real dog. I hope it's not asking too much to see one more game decided in the final seconds.

We'll see.

Black and white

Well, it was certainly no surprise when several National Football League teams collectively pushed back against the landmark class action lawsuit filed against them by former Miami head coach Brian Flores, alleging discrimination in its hiring practices.

Flores, an African American, aimed his lawsuit at the Miami Dolphins, New York Giants and Denver Broncos.

Brian Flores

 Flores was fired by the Dolphins Jan. 10 after posting consecutive winning seasons, something the team hadn't accomplished since 2003. Furthermore, the team won eight of its last nine games this season, just barely missing out on the playoffs.

The lawsuit could be explosive. One of the allegations being made is that the Dolphins offered Flores $100,000 for each loss – tanking – back in 2019 in order to qualify for a No. 1 draft pick. We'll get to that in a moment.

Flores has also accused the Dolphins of asking him to tamper by recruiting a quarterback on another team. The Giants and Broncos are in the picture for making a joke of the NFL's Rooney Rule, which requires all NFL teams to interview at least one minority candidate for each head coaching position that comes available. That rule in itself is a joke, designed primarily to cover asses.

But to my eyes, the pushback appears to be more reactionary than substantive. Nearly 70 percent of the league's players are people of color, yet the only black head coach in the league at the moment is Pittsburgh's Mike Tomlin.

And all of the owners are white. Sure, players are richly compensated for playing a game, albeit a violent game that can result in lifelong injuries, a loss of brain function, even paralysis or death. But what does 100 percent white ownership of a significant black work force sound like to you? Plantation culture, perhaps?

This is what makes the NFL's pushback seem insincere at best. The NFL can show righteous indignation all it wants, but the simple fact is that numbers don't lie. Or, if you like, 0.043 percent of the league has minority head coaching.

Even NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell has sent out a memo noting the league's hiring practices need review.

In 2022, this is outrageous. But here we are anyway, back to an era of Confederate statues, banned books, synagogue bombings and torchlight parades. Back even to swastikas. How the hell did we get to this? We were here once before. Now we have to do it again?

If tanking games is somehow proven, then we have a little sports cross pollination going  on. Baseball still refuses to induct Pete Rose into the Baseball Hall of Fame for allegedly betting on his team when he was an active manager of the Cincinnati Reds. But he says he never bet on his own team. Not sure that distinction makes his behavior OK, but when the NFL puts a team in Las Vegas and sports betting is alive and well – and legal – and online, what exactly is Rose's crime again?

Flores said he thought long and hard before filing his suit on Tuesday – the first day of Black History Month and in the fortnight of the Super Bowl – and understands he may be blackballed and never allowed to coach in the NFL again.

It's reminiscent of San Fransisco quarterback and civil rights activist Colin Kaepernick taking a knee during national anthems several years back to protest racism in America. That protest seems kind of quaint now. But Kaepernick never took another snap in the NFL after the 2016 season.

It's hard to escape the plantation.