4:30 a.m. Wake-up: A Sign of Our Times

A green-colored glowing 4:30 a.m. is the first image I see nearly every morning.  No matter how hard I try to close my eyes and not open them, my mind continues to turn its gears. The harder I try not to wake up, the more my mind fights this by accelerating its pistons.  Ultimately, one to two hours later, I can’t stand it and give up and get up out of bed.

Articles have been written about people who have a similar sleep disorder during the pandemic, called Covid-somnia or coronasomnia.

The year 2020 is almost over, and thank goodness.  If you live in Los Angeles, the Lakers and Dodgers each winning a World Championship in October, the first time that has happened since 1988, were two bright spots in a year that will otherwise forever go into the history books as the year of the coronavirus pandemic. 

Congratulations—we are surviving a world health crisis.  This was a golden missed opportunity for people of all political persuasions to come together on a common goal:  diminishing the impact of the virus.  If we had the right president in office, a unifier not a divider, this would have been an enlightening moment for America.   While not as bad as the Great Depression or World War II, this was our crisis test to continue the American tradition of working together for the common good of our neighbors.

Thank God most of us do not have loved ones defending America around the world.  Limiting contact with friend and family to Zoom sessions should not have been that big of a sacrifice.

Sadly, we failed the test.  If people can’t agree on science, then conflict separates us.  Wearing masks, staying at home, limiting social contact were traits on a resume to see if you were Pro-Trump or anti-Trump.

The new surge in Covid cases across the country combined with a President who does not want to leave office continues playing havoc with people’s sleeping habits.

No wonder I keep waking up at 4:00 a.m. each day.  From mid-March to mid-November, 8 straight months and counting, has been the most anxious continuous length of time most of us have ever lived through.  And it will likely be another 8 months before the majority of Americans receive a vaccination.

If you are waiting for normal to return, best to wait it out until 2022 which is less than 14 months away.

I don’t know about you, but I find myself overeating and not sleeping well.  Even the holidays are dripping with anxiety.  Families unable to be together, arguments in families between those who fear the virus and those who ignore it, masks vs. no masks is enough unpleasantness to kill the Christmas spirit.

Besides sports, during this year I have found solace in comedy.  My wife and I discovered “Schitt’s Creek,” the best family sitcom since “Everybody Loves Raymond.”  What makes the show so appealing is its perfect casting from the stars to the supporting cast.  What makes the show memorable is that it treats a family with a gay son as nothing special.  The show is not about messaging about homosexuality.  Its only message is about the love between parents and children.

The other thing I find calming is watching old Huell Howser episodes.  I just finished the one he did in 2005 on Oak Glen with all the apple orchards.  I still can’t believe he died in 2013 at age 67.  He was such a genuine loving human being, with the curiosity of a child and the heart of a saint.  Not a phony bone in his body.

It didn’t matter if he was visiting an old oak tree or an old man with an elephant as a best friend, his ingratiating personality always reacting with a genuine “wow” at discovering something is a salve for today’s times when it seems Americans are fighting other Americans.

It is also something of a curiosity to see how life used to be not that long ago when people shook hands with one another and stood a foot not six feet apart.  In one episode at Oak Glen apple orchards, customers were encouraged to use the their bare hands in sampling free apple slices from paper bowls.  No social distancing, no washing of hands, no masks.  A farmer with his bare hand used a knife, cut off a hunk, and handed it to Huell who ate it and . . . lived without getting sick.

And every person Huell interviewed was decent and nice, something that is missing in so much of our lives these days.

I am worried about the future of our country and world.  There is little connective tissue that we share anymore.

For so long, Americans shared common experiences.  We now live in a time when each person can create his own world.   Some may like this, that they can tailor their music, social media, TV content to their own taste.  But when each person lives in a bubble when it comes to facts, science, and only feeds themselves political views that they have, they can easily vilify those with different views. 

History has plenty of examples where once people look at other people as unequal, we are only a small step away from causing harm to the “others.”  History is full of these stories.  They are called genocides.

Once people like me die off who lived through better times for America, younger people who didn’t grow up that way won’t even recognize the loss.  I’m glad I won’t be around to see what that America will be like.

And that’s why I see “4:30” each and every morning.

Suffering the Dodger Blues

“As a lifelong Dodger fan, I am in blue heaven.”

That was supposed to be the last line in my column this week, celebrating the Dodgers’ first World Series championship since 1988.

Instead, “I feel Dodger blue” is more apropos after they lost the World Series to Houston on Wednesday.

It has been 29 years since the team’s last appearance in the Fall Classic.   Despite having the best record in baseball and home field advantage through all three rounds, they came up one game short.

The media’s spin is that the Dodgers lost to an offensive juggernaut.  Yet in the three Astro defeats, the Dodger pitching staff limited them to four runs in three games.

Actually, the Dodger and Astro teams were almost identical.

Houston’s team batting average was .230, while L.A.’s was .205.

Houston’s team pitching ERA was 4.64, L.A.’s was 4.45.

While Houston had 56 hits compared to L.A.’s 41, each team scored the same number of runs:  34.

The Dodgers’ three victories were games that they had won without a challenge:  Game 1, 3-1; Game 4, 6-2; Game 6, 3-1.  The Astros’ victories in games 2 and 7 were likewise unchallenged:  5-3, 5-1.

Games 2 and 5 were the battles, exciting for the casual fan, gut-wrenching for the Dodger fan with the team on the losing end both times despite having the lead in the ninth inning of Game 2, and giving Kershaw a four-run cushion then a three-run cushion in Game 5.

The Dodgers should have won five of the seven games.

As horribly disappointed as I am, there were positives that came out of the month-long marathon of playoff games.

For the first time, my youngest son got involved in watching the games, riding the emotional roller coaster that Dodger fans know too well.

The Dodgers put on a show that my whole family sat down to watch together on TV in real time (no DVR-ing).   At jubilant moments, we yelled and jumped up and down; at heart-stopping moments, we turned off the TV.

In following the Dodgers and their October run, I didn’t even get a chance to enjoy Halloween.

I was in a Dodger coma.

Reading every article I could find on the Dodgers, even skimming comments posted on the Houston Chronicle website by Astro fans after their losses, did not satiate my cravings.

On game days, I found it hard to focus on my work.

I would tune in to the Dodger pre-game show on radio, then hear callers voice their opinions after the game concluded.

And I did cross off an item from my bucket list when I got two tickets for my oldest son and I to see the first game of the World Series.

Donned in Dodger jerseys and caps, we sat in the reserved section on the third base side halfway towards the foul pole.   It was a record-breaking 103-degree scorcher of a day; even in the shade, my body glistened with sweat.

The game ended up being one of the shortest played in recent World Series history, clocking in at 2 hours and 28 minutes.

Eight days later, the dream season ended.

Still, the Dodger odyssey gave me a respite from Trump’s tweets, natural disasters, and vans mowing down bicyclists.

And that is the beauty of sports—to take you away from the ugliness in the world and give you hope that your team will win.  For if they do, we are all winners.   And if they don’t, after the dust settles, it was still worth it.

Hey, I got to go to a World Series game with my son.