Games and Gamesmanship

Just two weeks ago, Saturday, August 9, I encountered Mr. Pant at the fitness center and he won handily that round, after I failed to return even one lob volley. After I finished my workout, I began to realize -- with a thump -- that I was victimized by a master gamemeister. No, I was victimized by my own poor gamesmanship skills. I had made a fatal mistake of taking Mr. Pant seriously, and I was being punished for my naivete.

For the next two weeks I consoled myself by watching hours of boring commercials interwoven with riveting glimpses of highlights of popular games. Just about every organized sport imaginable or so it seemed (actually 28). Every four years we're treated to the spectacular feats of professional (or quasi amateur) athletes whose ability to train untold hours, months, and days on end is remarkable itself. For the athletes, the Olympic games (and preliminary contests in between), there comes the moment when -- according to the rule bibles -- crowns them winners or losers. All their efforts pay off in a brief "15 minutes" of fame, and bragging rights forever.

It is all to show mankind's humane side to have these extended ceremonies, especially when compared to the world of "sports not" -- murders, wars, assassinations, bankruptcies, divorces, disease, and a multitude of other disasters (man-made and natural), plus all the games for which there are no written rules for winners, only rules of punishment for the losers.

The nice thing about organized sports is that there's a beginning and an end at which moment the entire endeavor is scored and thus a "final" reckoning, unlike the game of life which ends in a score of years lived, and, for which accomplishment there is no medal or garland, but there may well be flowers and wreathes. Isn't that why we watch or play organized sports -- at the end there's the dead reckoning, also, come to think of it, would include gambling (casinos, insurance, capitalism, etc.)?

The game that I find myself playing, only because I'm a player with Mr. Pant, supposedly has unwritten rules that apply. And, right now, I have every right to become, if I want, a sore loser. But out of adversity, I can overcome my awkwardness, my naivete, and witlessness. Supposedly. But, what if the other player is from another Galaxy or time in history? What if every response, every statement, has been programmed into a supercomputer -- programmed to keep the opponent hopelessly off balance?

I know what Jake would advise, if I was so beaten as to ask. "Awesome, just awesome", he'd say, and, with equal fervor he'd say the same if I wreaked the car -- Jake is, if nothing else, a perennial booster, an genuine enthusiast for things that move. Or the Missus -- no, no, she'd tell me -- quit while you're ahead.. Like the lottery, you can't lose if you don't play. But, THEY SAY, you can't win IF YOU DON'T PLAY. And, you do want to win, don't you? Don't you? You can't win if you don't try, that's what the Voices are telling me. Not one of those Voices are telling me to quit.

Americans don't quit! True Americans don't quit, do we? Why, that's the same as surrendering. John Wayne never surrendered, did he? Our great political leaders didn't surrender, did they? They don't accept defeat. They must never surrender, even to overwhelming odds against them, do they? If you've been sitting at the game table and lost a fortune, you don't give up, you must believe the odds will turn in your favor -- ultimately -- and so you give the house your IOU which obligates your precious grandchildren, who, after all, will inherit your recovered fortune, won't they?

So, watching the Olympics 2008 has served to revive my faint heart and vow to continue to play this game with Mr. Pant. The tide will surely turn -- ultimately -- won't it? I'm going to keep thinking of those some 940 athletes who stood on those podiums and listened so valiantly to their nation's anthems, and tried very hard not to think of physical embrace due on delivery. I'm not letting those 10,000 plus losers mess up my dreams. After all, most will get another chance in just four years. And, so, next month, maybe next week, I'll think of a way to get even.

Now, while I'm turning my attention to my contest with Mr. Pant, I'll watch the other spectacular quadrennial sport of the U.S. presidential election preliminaries called the major party conventions. The one in Denver this week features the Democrat party and all it's fractured elements and next week the Republican party in St. Paul, Minnesota featuring it's star windbags.

Can This Be Gamemanship?

It was Saturday, just before noon, when I encountered Mr. Pant again. He was sitting alone in the snack alcove at the fitness center, reading a magazine and biting his fingernails, as if he was waiting for someone. I almost missed noticing him as I was so preoccupied and wired for scanning for a raccoon fur coat and whatever it was concealing. This time he was wearing the proper male costume -- long baggy shorts and a tee shirt without affiliation affixed. As I approached him, I realized he was not biting his nails but sucking his thumb (his left thumb, if you must know) .

"Hi", I said, "I wasn't sure it was you . . . " Mr. Pant looked up and cocked his head to one side, and then to the other, like a hawk. "Wuzzup?" he says. "Wuzzup?" I repeated (like a parrot). "You tell me," I added. "May I?" then promptly sat across from him at the round table.

Pant leaned back and again giving me the once over, pretending he didn't know who I was. "Look", about that report, I've decided to go ahead and do it -- I just need you to tell me what the topic is, what the subject is -- for the report". I was feeling on top of the situation, calm, ready, I thought, for his off-the-wall shots.


"Whatever," he says and then repeats it for emphasis, "Whatever." "That's okay with me, " says Self. "Now, what about compensation? We need to talk about that, you know." "Of course, of course", says Mr. Pant. That's when his cell phone rings (Call to Post ringtone). Now, I can get a sense of who he deals with -- maybe the poor woman who has to make do with the dog food plus condiments galore. It's all one sided, the caller is doing all the talking and Mr. Pant was either grunting or growling. I wait, I wait. And I wait. Finally, I realize I've been snookered and get up slowly to leave, when suddenly he snaps shut his cell phone, leaving it on the table.


"Norm, the maintenance guy, said he saw you doing some advanced yoga exercises the other day. What kind of yoga exercises were they?" "Ashtanga", says Pant. "What?" I ask. We repeat. "How do you spell it?", I ask. "Why?", he asks. "Because . . .", and then I lose it.


"I was told you know everything," Pant said without bothering to spell ashtanga. "You were?", I said. "Yeah, that's why they said to ask you to do a report", Pant says. "Who they?", says I. "People in the know," Pant replies. "What?" I say incredulously. "They said you were a know-it-all", says Pant. '


Of course, it hurt to hear someone say that to my face. Know-it-all? Well, yeah, there was a time, in my youth, but not now -- as I grow older I know less and less and there will come the day when I will join the great voting bloc of "Know-Nothings".


Well, at least I was getting some information and was loading up for another question when he suddenly he stood up and said, almost in a whisper, "Gotta go, bye", and he went.


I was left with a bruised ego, nothing new really learned and I trudged slowly up the stairs for the waiting treadmill. For the next 45 or so minutes I'd be going nowhere fast, but I'd have some time to reflect on my latest encounter with Mr. Pant.


What was I to make of him sucking his thumb? Well, at least he's human, I supposed. He was clearly indifferent to me and my assignment. Whatever? If James Bond or Batman were dealing with some strange bird, they wouldn't have been blocked by a smart-ass nonchalant retort, "Whatever"'.


It slowly dawned on me that in addition to dealing with someone obviously from some other galaxy or period in history, I was being confronted with a master of gamesmanship. I realized with a thud that I'm way over my head (and there's nobody I can go to and whine).

The Victim Is Always Guilty

Well, there's enough truth to the statement -- the victim is always guilty -- to let it stand as is.

Alright, since you insist, I will explain. You ask: what about all those people, children and old folk, mothers and fathers, all ordinary people who are victims of earthquakes and typhoons and civil war and drought and viral epidemics, and sinking ships and accidental shootings? What did they do to deserve untimely deaths? Answer: they were all guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know, then you argue that just about everybody is "in the wrong place at the wrong time". No, for example, if you're a pedestrian jaywalking and no car runs over you. you are in the wrong place but not the wrong time if no auto ran over you.

The problem with conventional sense of justice is that you might well believe that for every unfortunate thing (getting in the way while Mother Nature is having a fit or by Acts of God, if you're legally disposed) there is a villain or culprit or perpetrator.

See, this business of wanting to see justice (or fairness, if you're still in kindergarten) done is the way of our species to find malevolence wherever there is violence whether the perpetrator is Mother Nature, another government or your own or your neighbor's or even your own kin..

Must we haggle about verbal postulates? Just take my word for it, you can be guilty of being a victim without deliberately intending to be victimized by punks, thugs, robbers, neighbors, et al. If you are so inclined, you might find some comfort in arguing the role of various gods or God himself or herself has taken note of some degree of sin in the victims prior behavior.

I noted in my previous post that there had been no trials at Guantanamo in the seven years since the prisons were opened for detainees. Last Friday, August 8, the trial of Osama bin Laden's driver (why wasn't he referred to as his chauffeur?) Salim Hamdad was found guilty of providing material support of terrorism, but acquitted of charges of conspiracy, a more serious charge (dare I inquire why providing material support is more serious than conspiracy?). He was sentenced to 66 months, but has already served all but 5, after which time served he will remain a detainee for legal reasons yet to be ascertained. You should note that Hamdan was stopped at the Pakistani border by Afghan troops, and then was turned over to U.S. troops. Hamdan cooperated fully with the U.S. forces, thus, avoiding torture forcing him to give false or unimportant information to his captors.

I suspect that the primary reason more detainees at Guantanamo have not been brought to trial is because they have not cooperated with the prosecutors, leaving them with skimpy dossiers of evidence. If you were an Afghan native and were brought in by Afghan war lords in exchange for $5,000 bounty, without collaborating testimony by the captures, the charge obviously is "being in the wrong place at the wrong time" And if you're a detainee and have failed to provide sufficient confessional testimony, then you are, ipso facto, guilty of being in the wrong place in the first degree.

Now, aren't you sorry you just had to know about a rule of life so elementary and manifest as the victim is guilty? You' may find out someday when you are found to be in the wrong place at the wrong time -- and you try to exonerate yourself by pleading innocence. Alas, even if you are later exonerated for being wrongly imprisoned, you'll find out that being proven innocent (by DNA etc.) hardly renders you newly innocent and wrongly accused by the Public. You may find some groups who are Soft on Crime who will support you, but all those who have never been caught being in the wrong place at the wrong time will hardly sympathize, even if you've done 20 plus years in prison. [Don't despair: there's a magazine just for you: "Justice Denied: the Magazine for the Wrongly Convicted".}

I hope you're happy now. I was going to tell you about finally finding Mr. Pant in a place where we could sit and talk for a few minutes. You''ll have to wait for the next exciting encounter with the Stranger from Out There Somewhere.