The first international game of cricket was played between the United States and Canada in 1844 in New York. I don’t think much cricket has been played in either country since that time. In all my years living in the United States, I never knew of a cricket game being played locally. That indicates the American appetite for cricket.
Cricket does have drawbacks from a North American perspective. One of the biggest issues today in American baseball, arguably America’s ‘national pastime,’ is slowness of play. Major league baseball is trying to ensure 9 inning games are played in less than 3 hours. The same is true in the Japanese leagues.
In cricket, they try to complete 2 innings in 5 days for Test matches. If they fail to conclude 2 innings in 5 days, a draw (tie) is proclaimed. That’s right; play for 5 days and no one wins. This is hard to accept for Americans who are often so focused on winning.
I am pretty sure cricket in Australia was invented by one of the local beer distributors for a couple reasons. First, beer is very popular in Australia. In our corporate office, we have three refrigerators for the employees; and the biggest one is for beer only. Woe to anyone who tries to sneak a lunch in the beer frige.
Secondly, consider how much more beer can be consumed in a five day test match compared to a nine inning baseball game, especially when played on hot summer days. I suspect cricket started out as a three hour contest until the beer distributors re-invented it.
The owners of the early cricket teams were almost certainly cheapskates. The facts are compelling:
The ball is not even round or smooth sided. Clearly the cricket teams were saving money by using factory seconds for balls and then subsequently created some law requiring uneven balls.
They also created a law requiring the use of one ball for the entire match; imagine using one baseball for five baseball games! And the consequences for losing a ball in a match are particularly onerous.
Only the keeper is allowed to wear gloves even though the ball is very hard.
There are no groundskeepers to smooth out the pitch between at bats; they just let it go unattended
Can there be any doubt the guys who owned cricket teams implemented rules to keep costs low and then called them ‘laws’ to prevent future and more expensive innovations? And then they sold beer at the games so the fans would not realize the balls were warped or the grounds uneven. Over time fans came to believe oddly shaped balls and cracked, uneven dirt were essential and strategic parts of the game. This is really brilliant marketing.
In baseball a single run often determines the winner of a game: in soccer a single goal often makes the difference between victory and defeat. In cricket, if you don’t realize 350 runs in the first at bat, your team is probably in trouble of losing. Miss a few runs going to the bathroom, its okay; you can watch a few hundred more when you return.
Americans like to keep score, and at a baseball game many of the spectators will have score cards duly recording what happens with each batter. I do not advise trying to keep a score card in cricket. Meticulously recording 600 or 700 runs on a scorecard seems like a futile exercise.
As an American visitor in Australia, let me share some insights and instructions to those visitors less familiar with cricket, using more familiar baseball terminology.
A ‘bowler’ throws a ball somewhat like a baseball pitcher but with a few differences. First, the bowler does not bowl; he bounces the ball toward the batter. For ease of description, we could call him more appropriately the ‘bouncer.’ We can’t call him a pitcher because the ground is also called the ‘pitch’ when it is not being called a ‘wicket’ (more on wickets later). He starts from somewhere in the outfield, runs like a wild man toward the batsman (i.e. the batter), stops suddenly and bounces the ball using an unusual arm motion.
There are actually two bowlers in the game at the same time. One bowler faces batters at one end (say to the west) while the other bowler faces batters to the east (there are actually two home plates but only one is used at a time). The bowlers (i.e. bouncers) take turns, switching after 6 pitches which represent an over even if the bounces were not over the proper batting area, in which case the referee could declare the over is not over. .
In cricket, everything is called a wicket. If you don’t know what to say, just complain about the wicket or talk about a challenging wicket, or whatever. Aussies have a habit of truncating words; in cricket they just use the same word for almost everything; it must save effort.
A wicket is an out. It is also the thing (a piece of flat wood on top of a three pronged stand) behind the batter. It is also the ground that the bouncer bounces his ball. It may be a few other things too. It would be like baseball calling everything a ‘base’ including outs, the infield, the bases, and the pitching mound.
So the bowler runs in from another postal code, bounces the ball on the wicket, the batter swings and hits the ball, which is caught on the fly for a wicket unless the batter misses the ball and it hits the wicket behind the batter, which is then declared a wicket. Okay so far?
To obtain a wicket, the fielder must catch the ball on the fly. So the bowler bounces the ball and the batter tries to bounce it back so it cannot be caught on the fly or it would become a wicket. If you’re a batter, wickets are really bad.
If the bowler bounces the ball and the batter bounces the ball, the batter and his partner (another batter who is not a batter because only one batter can bat even though two play at the same time) can run back and forth passing each other from base to base. Instead of four bases there are only 2 in cricket, so there is a lot of back and forth but it does seem rather efficient.
A grand slam home run in baseball is equal to 4 runs and is achieved when the ball goes over the outfield fence on the fly with the bases full. In cricket, you get 4 runs also, but you just need for the ball to reach the fence line while bouncing or rolling. Cricket has another advantage; you can hit a foul ball that rolls to the fence line and is still worth 4 runs. You can even miss the ball and get a home run if it rolls far enough. Baseball has one catcher; cricket often has several for this reason.
In cricket, if you hit the ball over the fence on the fly, you receive 6 runs; but bouncing the ball is usually safer.
There are also some very weird rules in cricket. They probably all had some obscure origin -- such as Lord So-And-So did something in 1624 that had an unacceptable result. For example, if the catcher (alias the keeper) takes off his hat and puts in on the ground and the batter hits the ball which hits the hat, the batter is awarded 5 runs. It is unclear if the 5 runs is a penalty for the sloppy keeper or a reward to the batter for making a trick shot. If you enjoy reading the Rules of Golf, I suspect you will find nirvana reading the Laws of Cricket. The Law on not running far enough to reach the base line after hitting a ball should be fairly simple (as in no run scored). The Laws of Cricket devote several paragraphs to definitions, and multiple consequences under various conditions depending on whether the failure to score was viewed as deliberate or unintentional. Cricket fans definitely like rules (which they call laws, suggesting criminal penalties for transgressors).
So for baseball fans, calling a cricket match using baseball lingo would go something like this.
The bowler bouncer (as opposed to the non-bouncer who is between overs) runs a 440 dash, bounces the ball off the wicket which careens toward the batter batter (as opposed to the batter non batter). The batter batter swings his bat as the ball bounces off the wicket, assuming the potential over is over, trying to avoid having the ball hit the wicket behind the wicket or hitting it on the fly to a fielder who would earn a wicket. The batter batter only nicks the ball, which goes between catcher 1 and catcher 2 (which could be the bowler non bouncer) and into the field behind the wicket behind the wicket but fails to hit the keeper’s hat. The batter batter and the batter non-batter run back and forth slowly and earn a run each time they cross the line by the wicket that is behind the wicket unless the fielder hits the wicket behind the wicket with the ball while the batter batter or batter non batter are not yet over the line with their bat.
If a batter makes a wicket, he is retired and the next batter comes up. A side is retired when everyone but the last batter non batter has made a wicket. Then the other team bats, unless it is tea time or too late.
There is an element of dodge ball in cricket which adds another aspect of interest. Unlike baseball, if a bowler hits a batter with a ball, it is the batter’s fault. If a batter dives to avoid being circumcised, the ball may hit the wicket, causing a wicket. And if the batter stands steady and bravely takes the hit, he will still get a wicket if the referee determines the ball would have caused a wicket had it proceeded through the batter’s body and come out the other side. I think this rule must have been sponsored by the National Rifle Association (Aus branch) a few years ago.
The condition of the pitch or wicket plays a big role in cricket. In baseball, the infield is carefully manicured to ensure consistency in the bounce or roll of hit balls. In cricket the pitch is hard dirt (I was told it is grass but I did not see much green so unless Aussie grass grows brown, the pitch is compacted dirt). The surface develops cracks and ridges contributing to dramatic uncertainties and inconsistencies on the path of the bouncing ball. This works to the advantage of the bowler, because the batter must remain a bit tentative or risk being decapitated.
There are lots of subtleties to the game of cricket, none of which I fully understand. It does seem like the perfect sport to share conversation and a beer, unafraid of missing too much of the action but enjoying the skills of the players and late game suspense. Like so much in Australia, it is a game to be savored and not rushed to conclusion. And the relatively few breaks mean fewer TV commercials and TV timeouts, which would otherwise slow the game down and probably add a few more days to the Test. And when in doubt, you can always remark about the wickets and order another beer.
30 January 2009
19 January 2009
Obama in the Morning
This Tuesday (Wednesday in Sydney), Barack Obama will be sworn in as the 44 th President of the United States of America. People in Australia and around the world will celebrate his inauguration because of what he represents to the world: a man with global vision, leadership, intelligence, and moral values. They will welcome his spirit of cooperation and mutual respect, his first reliance on consultation and diplomacy, and his moral suasion. He is a welcome replacement for the dark, insular years brought about by his predecessor.
Many Americans welcome his ascendancy for other reasons. Those of us who have lived long can remember the dark times of segregation and racial hatred that consumed and divided our country. We have our own stories.
As a young man at University in the 1970’s, I became friends with a black woman, who was a classmate. She told me of her efforts with friends to work for the election of a black candidate for mayor of Bloomington, Indiana, where we lived. Soon I joined the campaign and became very involved. Bloomington was a southern city at the time. While home to Indiana University, the non-University community was conservative and rural. Blacks and whites lived in separate neighborhoods and did not mix. Whites socialized in country and western bars; blacks had their own destinations. A black man running for mayor was easily dismissed in the white community.
As we begin to build some momentum drawing on the Black and the University community support, the threats begin to arrive. The hate mail, the death threats, especially to our black campaign workers, the midnight phone calls threatening to kill children and families brought a terror I had never before encountered. I saw it in their faces every day; fear, real fear for themselves and their families. The Klu Klux Klan threatened to mobilize. The feeling of terror was real and omnipresent.
At campaign meetings we counted attendees, worried that some would be missing and not found. Campaign workers in Mississippi had been killed recently working on a similar mayoral election. We were scared, but we persevered. We were on a righteous mission in a democracy we all believed in.
In the end, our candidate won in a historic election for southern Indiana. It was a point of light on an otherwise dark canvas.
Having witnessed the intense racial hatred in my lifetime, it is overwhelming for me to see a black man become President. Having grown up with racial violence dominating the news, listening to the racial slurs and intolerance in my own family, and believing personally and fervently in human dignity and equality, I could not imagine a President Barack Obama. I am sure millions of others could never envision such a thing either.
Tuesday is my day, and it is the day of millions of Americans who thought they would never experience the nation coming together to elect a black President, not in their lifetime.
******
Barak O’Bama never had much of a chance. Hilliary Clinton had the Democratic nomination all but locked up. But Obama went to Iowa, a rural farm state in the middle of the country to campaign in the first primary contest. He was the longest of long shots.
On a cold winter night last February, my older brother who was then 70 years old and his 69 year old wife braved the cold and ice and snow to drive to the meeting hall in Algona, Iowa, a small town in the northeastern part of the state. . In a primary caucus, you have to show up in person and announce your vote for your candidate. My brother, Bing, formerly the head of the opposition Republican Party in the County, stood with his wife Molly, shivering from the cold but waiting patiently to announce for Barack Obama. With Bing’s determined support and thousands like him, Obama won Iowa and went on to win the nomination.
So when Barack Obama puts his hand on the same Bible that Abraham Lincoln used in 1860 and is sworn in as the 44th President, my brother Bing in Algona Iowa and I, in Sydney Australia will be watching. For me, it will be around 3:30 AM on Wednesday, but that’s okay. This is my day. This is the day I never thought I would see.
If I appear a little tired Wednesday at work, please excuse me. I will be up early watching my new President and wondering how so much can change in one lifetime.
Many Americans welcome his ascendancy for other reasons. Those of us who have lived long can remember the dark times of segregation and racial hatred that consumed and divided our country. We have our own stories.
As a young man at University in the 1970’s, I became friends with a black woman, who was a classmate. She told me of her efforts with friends to work for the election of a black candidate for mayor of Bloomington, Indiana, where we lived. Soon I joined the campaign and became very involved. Bloomington was a southern city at the time. While home to Indiana University, the non-University community was conservative and rural. Blacks and whites lived in separate neighborhoods and did not mix. Whites socialized in country and western bars; blacks had their own destinations. A black man running for mayor was easily dismissed in the white community.
As we begin to build some momentum drawing on the Black and the University community support, the threats begin to arrive. The hate mail, the death threats, especially to our black campaign workers, the midnight phone calls threatening to kill children and families brought a terror I had never before encountered. I saw it in their faces every day; fear, real fear for themselves and their families. The Klu Klux Klan threatened to mobilize. The feeling of terror was real and omnipresent.
At campaign meetings we counted attendees, worried that some would be missing and not found. Campaign workers in Mississippi had been killed recently working on a similar mayoral election. We were scared, but we persevered. We were on a righteous mission in a democracy we all believed in.
In the end, our candidate won in a historic election for southern Indiana. It was a point of light on an otherwise dark canvas.
Having witnessed the intense racial hatred in my lifetime, it is overwhelming for me to see a black man become President. Having grown up with racial violence dominating the news, listening to the racial slurs and intolerance in my own family, and believing personally and fervently in human dignity and equality, I could not imagine a President Barack Obama. I am sure millions of others could never envision such a thing either.
Tuesday is my day, and it is the day of millions of Americans who thought they would never experience the nation coming together to elect a black President, not in their lifetime.
******
Barak O’Bama never had much of a chance. Hilliary Clinton had the Democratic nomination all but locked up. But Obama went to Iowa, a rural farm state in the middle of the country to campaign in the first primary contest. He was the longest of long shots.
On a cold winter night last February, my older brother who was then 70 years old and his 69 year old wife braved the cold and ice and snow to drive to the meeting hall in Algona, Iowa, a small town in the northeastern part of the state. . In a primary caucus, you have to show up in person and announce your vote for your candidate. My brother, Bing, formerly the head of the opposition Republican Party in the County, stood with his wife Molly, shivering from the cold but waiting patiently to announce for Barack Obama. With Bing’s determined support and thousands like him, Obama won Iowa and went on to win the nomination.
So when Barack Obama puts his hand on the same Bible that Abraham Lincoln used in 1860 and is sworn in as the 44th President, my brother Bing in Algona Iowa and I, in Sydney Australia will be watching. For me, it will be around 3:30 AM on Wednesday, but that’s okay. This is my day. This is the day I never thought I would see.
If I appear a little tired Wednesday at work, please excuse me. I will be up early watching my new President and wondering how so much can change in one lifetime.
13 December 2008
The Email
It’s Tuesday. Tuesday is better than Monday but it is not as good as Wednesday or Thursday or Friday. There is still too much work to do; too many problems to confront; too many obstacles to overcome.
I am dressed and ready for work; but it is still early. The ferry does not leave for another 25 minutes.
Emails: a daily tidal wave of information, requests, copies, and commerce. Time to sort out the critical ones from the spam-lite versions. I probably receive 200 to 300 emails a day; most are quickly dismissed and many deleted unread. But the important ones hide amidst their trivial cousins and must be identified, considered, and responded.
First my work Blackberry. Early morning holds the overnight messages from Morgan Stanley and offices around the world. Fortunately, not too many today; I will respond to most from work. Remind me to call Chris in New York.
It’s still early. I open my North American Blackberry where messages from home linger, waiting patiently for their turn. My investment banker in San Diego asks if I want to sell any investments and capture the tax loss this year. Since all I have are loses this year, there are no gains to offset. God, I used to think I was an investment genius, using asset allocations and shrewd stock picking to beat the averages and build our wealth. This year, I have lost millions and the year is not over. What a disaster.
As I scroll through the remaining emails, I stop. I see it hiding among the commercials from stores and annoying solicitations. My chest tightens, my heart rate escalates; my breathing hesitates. It is an email from Jill, my wife in California. Should I open it? What time is it? Should I leave for the ferry and read it later? It is still early.
Jill’s emails fall into two categories: simple requests frequently with thinly veiled criticisms (How do I access …website; you never told me) and diatribes condemning me for 30 years of misdeeds. I can deal with the former; I always have difficulty with the latter. How can someone I was married to for 30 years be so hostile?
“Dear Scott, I have decided to serve you with divorce papers…” My heart is pounding as though it will break through its cavity; my breathing has stopped; time has stopped; I am immobilized; I stand in stunned silence, confused, grasping. 30 years of marriage over; notified by email. I feel sick. I cannot continue to read; I close the offending Blackberry and walk unsteadily toward the ferry.
Sydney Harbor is one of the most beautiful sights I have ever witnessed. I stand at the dock today, looking over the Harbor and seeing nothing. My heart is still racing; unless I can get some measure of control, I fear a stroke is coming.
I open the Blackberry again. “I have asked the process server…;” I am to be served like a criminal here in Sydney. Should I go back to the apartment or should I go to work? I cannot make a decision; I do not know what to do.
The ferry pulls up and the crowd behind me pushes forward; I guess I am getting on the boat; but others made the decision for me. I am incapable of making decisions. I am unused to such paralysis; CEO’s are leaders and decision-makers; what is happening to me?
I find myself in an ocean of people exiting the ferry and let the wave carry me to shore outside the wharf. I take the familiar path to work, not thinking just following habit.
At work, I see Bonita, our HR executive, and ask her to watch me, explaining what happened and telling her I am having trouble coping. In my office, I close the door; it is still early and few employees are around. I must get control of my emotions; with Bonita my voice cracked and I almost broke down. The employees will be watching me; I am their leader and the economic times are difficult. If I falter, they will fear the Company and their jobs are at risk.
I do not know what to do. I reread the email, now in its entirety. It lies there like an infectious bacterium, poisoning that which surrounds me and paralyzing my body and mind. My new assistant arrives; this is only her second day. I tell her about the email and tell her to expect a process server. I am shaken, but Elpie sits and tries to comfort me with wisdom gained from her earlier divorce. What a burden I am placing on this woman. I hope she understands today is not normal.
*****
Three days have passed since I was felled by that electronic arrow. I pulled myself together and survived Tuesday and my angel friend, Julia, came over that night and we talked until midnight. Wednesday and Thursday were spent in Melbourne with back to back to back meetings beginning very early and lasting very late. No time to feel sorry for myself or think. Not thinking is good sometimes, especially when bad thoughts linger in the unconscious waiting to escape.
Friday my mobile phone rang as I sat in my office. I felt a cold chill. I knew who was calling even though I had never met or talked to him. The messenger was coming for me.
We met in the lobby and he handed me the package from America. Just a kid in shorts and a tee shirt; seemingly innocuous but carrying a time bomb unlike any I had ever received. I had expected an officious lawyer in a suit; the surf dude was less threatening but I oddly felt disappointed; my marriage should have commanded greater respect.
I carried the papers to my office and closed the door, which I rarely do. I needed to be alone with this toxic brew. Slowly I unfolded the document, which carried on it all the official stamps and seals to reinforce its self important image and gravity of the journey on which I am about to embark.
It was a court order obtained by my wife against me. I know most of the language is boilerplate; but as such it assumes the worst in man and restricts me as someone who has committed vast crimes or was a threat to my wife or society. For someone who has always tried to do the right thing and views himself as an upstanding citizen, it was a cruel blow.
As I read, I sunk further into depression. How could my life have come to this? What did I do wrong? How did I fail so badly at something so important?
My new assistant came in. “Are you going to be okay?” I don’t recall my reply but it must not have been convincing. She tried to reassure me, her new boss, that time will heal the open wound that was so apparent. She left me alone to ponder further amidst the doubt and angst. I was very alone and sinking fast.
My mobile phone beeped with a text message. My angel said, ‘hi….’ The timing seemed ordained. I texted back my latest setback, and she replied with encouraging and supportive words. With this sudden intervention, I regained composure and steeled myself to go out into the office, show I was still alive, and at work. Now I worried how I would perform my routine at the Company Christmas Party that night, but something else to worry about temporarily replaced the despair that document brought.
*****
It’s Saturday, the day after the document was delivered and four days after the noxious email appeared. I survived the Christmas party, but today I am in the apartment alone with my thoughts. Both Blackberries are quiet; it is as though they know it is my time for reflection.
I will think about what happened for years to come; but it is important for me to try to understand what I can now. I have been searching my memory for clues: what was said in marriage counseling sessions, Jill’s seemingly outrageous attacks, our lives together over time, the good times and bad. I do not have the answer but I think I can see a few things through the fog of anger and depression.
I see now that we were divorced earlier - at some time in the past – not in a legal sense but in an emotional one. Jill was never there for me when I had a personal problem; but then I was not there for her either. I learned to deal with my problems myself, and she sought outside help when she needed it.
A few months ago, my friend Julia and I had a deep discussion of our individual emotional experiences and needs. We talked until the restaurant asked us to leave because we were the only ones remaining past the closing hour. We could have talked all night. I never had such a discussion with Jill. We always kept each other at a distance.
I do not know when the emotional separation first occurred. Maybe we were always so different that emotional connections were difficult. She came to the marriage from a close nit family; I came from a dysfunctional situation at home. She was Jewish and liberal in philosophy; I was raised as a Christian and am less ideological. I grew up without money or resources; she grew up with the support of a middle class family. Perhaps, these many differences, which were obscured by other life events at the time, reemerged as we aged.
I know men and women are different in so many ways. What I did not appreciate until more recently, however, is how women seem to remember every slight or harsh word and hold a grudge even if apologies were given at the time. Men, by contrast, seem to be better able to move on and forget past conflicts.
Many of Jill’s complaints about me seem to go back to such comments or perceived slights over 30 years. Maybe the build up was inevitable, but I believe our relationship worsened when Jill went through menopause. She seemed to become more negative and interpret my actions in an unintended negative context; I think she saw negatives where others would have seen positives or at worst, neutrals.
Clearly when our children were younger, our devotion to them and to parental tasks pushed any emotional disconnect into the background. When the children grew up and moved out, we were left with nothing to cover up any interpersonal deficiencies which hovered in the background.
When I resigned as President of New Plan and started consulting for Morgan Stanley, it meant more time at home and more interface with Jill. I do not think either of us was ready for the greatly increased time together. She had developed a lifestyle predicated on me being somewhere else and I had developed an office based comfort level that caused great resentment when I transferred it to a home office.
I have observed in others less tolerance in differences as people age. I always felt I was immune to increasing intolerance because I recognized the problem and was aware of its character. However, as both Jill and I aged, perhaps we became less tolerant of our differences including lifestyle preferences. I loved living in London for example; Jill hated it and yearned to be with her friends at home. This created conflict. And Sydney appealed to my sense of new adventure but was not favored by Jill and her desire to remain in close proximity to friends.
So maybe it is not too difficult to understand. We did not have a good emotional underpinning – maybe we never did. Our differences were hidden by our commitment to raising our children and building a financial nest egg (me) or finding reward and recognition in the community and political environment (Jill); and then we were left alone without emotional commitment but confronted by aging, lifestyle, and physical change.
I find it difficult to forgive Jill for her detachment – separate bedrooms, emotional and sexual distance – and for her constant criticisms and abuse from which I fled to Australia. Jill seems unlikely to forgive me for accumulated past grievances and my departure to Australia. If we had a better relationship in earlier years, I suspect conditions would not have deteriorated so badly in the present context.
I try but do not understand the depth of hostility Jill has for me. I think of myself as a nice guy, a good person who tries to do the right thing; yet the person who I have lived with for almost all of my adult life hates me so. This is very hard for me to deal with.
Sadly, our divorce may lead us both to a worse place. 30 years of building mutual friendships is mostly lost; although I will lose much more than Jill. A lifetime of common and shared experiences means less today. The many good times are submerged in an ocean of darkness. We each have access to less money, less companionship, and are more alone. Jill has nearby family; I am adrift and will need to find someone else.
I am dressed and ready for work; but it is still early. The ferry does not leave for another 25 minutes.
Emails: a daily tidal wave of information, requests, copies, and commerce. Time to sort out the critical ones from the spam-lite versions. I probably receive 200 to 300 emails a day; most are quickly dismissed and many deleted unread. But the important ones hide amidst their trivial cousins and must be identified, considered, and responded.
First my work Blackberry. Early morning holds the overnight messages from Morgan Stanley and offices around the world. Fortunately, not too many today; I will respond to most from work. Remind me to call Chris in New York.
It’s still early. I open my North American Blackberry where messages from home linger, waiting patiently for their turn. My investment banker in San Diego asks if I want to sell any investments and capture the tax loss this year. Since all I have are loses this year, there are no gains to offset. God, I used to think I was an investment genius, using asset allocations and shrewd stock picking to beat the averages and build our wealth. This year, I have lost millions and the year is not over. What a disaster.
As I scroll through the remaining emails, I stop. I see it hiding among the commercials from stores and annoying solicitations. My chest tightens, my heart rate escalates; my breathing hesitates. It is an email from Jill, my wife in California. Should I open it? What time is it? Should I leave for the ferry and read it later? It is still early.
Jill’s emails fall into two categories: simple requests frequently with thinly veiled criticisms (How do I access …website; you never told me) and diatribes condemning me for 30 years of misdeeds. I can deal with the former; I always have difficulty with the latter. How can someone I was married to for 30 years be so hostile?
“Dear Scott, I have decided to serve you with divorce papers…” My heart is pounding as though it will break through its cavity; my breathing has stopped; time has stopped; I am immobilized; I stand in stunned silence, confused, grasping. 30 years of marriage over; notified by email. I feel sick. I cannot continue to read; I close the offending Blackberry and walk unsteadily toward the ferry.
Sydney Harbor is one of the most beautiful sights I have ever witnessed. I stand at the dock today, looking over the Harbor and seeing nothing. My heart is still racing; unless I can get some measure of control, I fear a stroke is coming.
I open the Blackberry again. “I have asked the process server…;” I am to be served like a criminal here in Sydney. Should I go back to the apartment or should I go to work? I cannot make a decision; I do not know what to do.
The ferry pulls up and the crowd behind me pushes forward; I guess I am getting on the boat; but others made the decision for me. I am incapable of making decisions. I am unused to such paralysis; CEO’s are leaders and decision-makers; what is happening to me?
I find myself in an ocean of people exiting the ferry and let the wave carry me to shore outside the wharf. I take the familiar path to work, not thinking just following habit.
At work, I see Bonita, our HR executive, and ask her to watch me, explaining what happened and telling her I am having trouble coping. In my office, I close the door; it is still early and few employees are around. I must get control of my emotions; with Bonita my voice cracked and I almost broke down. The employees will be watching me; I am their leader and the economic times are difficult. If I falter, they will fear the Company and their jobs are at risk.
I do not know what to do. I reread the email, now in its entirety. It lies there like an infectious bacterium, poisoning that which surrounds me and paralyzing my body and mind. My new assistant arrives; this is only her second day. I tell her about the email and tell her to expect a process server. I am shaken, but Elpie sits and tries to comfort me with wisdom gained from her earlier divorce. What a burden I am placing on this woman. I hope she understands today is not normal.
*****
Three days have passed since I was felled by that electronic arrow. I pulled myself together and survived Tuesday and my angel friend, Julia, came over that night and we talked until midnight. Wednesday and Thursday were spent in Melbourne with back to back to back meetings beginning very early and lasting very late. No time to feel sorry for myself or think. Not thinking is good sometimes, especially when bad thoughts linger in the unconscious waiting to escape.
Friday my mobile phone rang as I sat in my office. I felt a cold chill. I knew who was calling even though I had never met or talked to him. The messenger was coming for me.
We met in the lobby and he handed me the package from America. Just a kid in shorts and a tee shirt; seemingly innocuous but carrying a time bomb unlike any I had ever received. I had expected an officious lawyer in a suit; the surf dude was less threatening but I oddly felt disappointed; my marriage should have commanded greater respect.
I carried the papers to my office and closed the door, which I rarely do. I needed to be alone with this toxic brew. Slowly I unfolded the document, which carried on it all the official stamps and seals to reinforce its self important image and gravity of the journey on which I am about to embark.
It was a court order obtained by my wife against me. I know most of the language is boilerplate; but as such it assumes the worst in man and restricts me as someone who has committed vast crimes or was a threat to my wife or society. For someone who has always tried to do the right thing and views himself as an upstanding citizen, it was a cruel blow.
As I read, I sunk further into depression. How could my life have come to this? What did I do wrong? How did I fail so badly at something so important?
My new assistant came in. “Are you going to be okay?” I don’t recall my reply but it must not have been convincing. She tried to reassure me, her new boss, that time will heal the open wound that was so apparent. She left me alone to ponder further amidst the doubt and angst. I was very alone and sinking fast.
My mobile phone beeped with a text message. My angel said, ‘hi….’ The timing seemed ordained. I texted back my latest setback, and she replied with encouraging and supportive words. With this sudden intervention, I regained composure and steeled myself to go out into the office, show I was still alive, and at work. Now I worried how I would perform my routine at the Company Christmas Party that night, but something else to worry about temporarily replaced the despair that document brought.
*****
It’s Saturday, the day after the document was delivered and four days after the noxious email appeared. I survived the Christmas party, but today I am in the apartment alone with my thoughts. Both Blackberries are quiet; it is as though they know it is my time for reflection.
I will think about what happened for years to come; but it is important for me to try to understand what I can now. I have been searching my memory for clues: what was said in marriage counseling sessions, Jill’s seemingly outrageous attacks, our lives together over time, the good times and bad. I do not have the answer but I think I can see a few things through the fog of anger and depression.
I see now that we were divorced earlier - at some time in the past – not in a legal sense but in an emotional one. Jill was never there for me when I had a personal problem; but then I was not there for her either. I learned to deal with my problems myself, and she sought outside help when she needed it.
A few months ago, my friend Julia and I had a deep discussion of our individual emotional experiences and needs. We talked until the restaurant asked us to leave because we were the only ones remaining past the closing hour. We could have talked all night. I never had such a discussion with Jill. We always kept each other at a distance.
I do not know when the emotional separation first occurred. Maybe we were always so different that emotional connections were difficult. She came to the marriage from a close nit family; I came from a dysfunctional situation at home. She was Jewish and liberal in philosophy; I was raised as a Christian and am less ideological. I grew up without money or resources; she grew up with the support of a middle class family. Perhaps, these many differences, which were obscured by other life events at the time, reemerged as we aged.
I know men and women are different in so many ways. What I did not appreciate until more recently, however, is how women seem to remember every slight or harsh word and hold a grudge even if apologies were given at the time. Men, by contrast, seem to be better able to move on and forget past conflicts.
Many of Jill’s complaints about me seem to go back to such comments or perceived slights over 30 years. Maybe the build up was inevitable, but I believe our relationship worsened when Jill went through menopause. She seemed to become more negative and interpret my actions in an unintended negative context; I think she saw negatives where others would have seen positives or at worst, neutrals.
Clearly when our children were younger, our devotion to them and to parental tasks pushed any emotional disconnect into the background. When the children grew up and moved out, we were left with nothing to cover up any interpersonal deficiencies which hovered in the background.
When I resigned as President of New Plan and started consulting for Morgan Stanley, it meant more time at home and more interface with Jill. I do not think either of us was ready for the greatly increased time together. She had developed a lifestyle predicated on me being somewhere else and I had developed an office based comfort level that caused great resentment when I transferred it to a home office.
I have observed in others less tolerance in differences as people age. I always felt I was immune to increasing intolerance because I recognized the problem and was aware of its character. However, as both Jill and I aged, perhaps we became less tolerant of our differences including lifestyle preferences. I loved living in London for example; Jill hated it and yearned to be with her friends at home. This created conflict. And Sydney appealed to my sense of new adventure but was not favored by Jill and her desire to remain in close proximity to friends.
So maybe it is not too difficult to understand. We did not have a good emotional underpinning – maybe we never did. Our differences were hidden by our commitment to raising our children and building a financial nest egg (me) or finding reward and recognition in the community and political environment (Jill); and then we were left alone without emotional commitment but confronted by aging, lifestyle, and physical change.
I find it difficult to forgive Jill for her detachment – separate bedrooms, emotional and sexual distance – and for her constant criticisms and abuse from which I fled to Australia. Jill seems unlikely to forgive me for accumulated past grievances and my departure to Australia. If we had a better relationship in earlier years, I suspect conditions would not have deteriorated so badly in the present context.
I try but do not understand the depth of hostility Jill has for me. I think of myself as a nice guy, a good person who tries to do the right thing; yet the person who I have lived with for almost all of my adult life hates me so. This is very hard for me to deal with.
Sadly, our divorce may lead us both to a worse place. 30 years of building mutual friendships is mostly lost; although I will lose much more than Jill. A lifetime of common and shared experiences means less today. The many good times are submerged in an ocean of darkness. We each have access to less money, less companionship, and are more alone. Jill has nearby family; I am adrift and will need to find someone else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)