Northern Iowa, Ali Farokhmanesh and the Vernal Equinox
In and around New York City, the weather was delightful this past weekend. Saturday, in particular, was sun-splashed and warm. It was a glorious day. It was a holy day.
And, no, I'm not talking about those of who us who consider the first four days of the NCAA men's basketball tournament to be some sort of civic holiday. Which I do. Rather, I'm talking about the vernal equinox.
March 20, 2010 was the vernal equinox, one of two days during the year when there is a location on the equator above which the center of the sun is directly overhead. The day during which this moment occurs is composed of equal parts day and night. Each year, this occurs once in late March and once in late September.
For centuries this has been a holy day. It was considered the first day of the new year in many ancient calendars and is still commemorated by celebrations around the globe. In Persian culture, the day is called Nowruz which roughly translates into "New Day." Possibly begun by Zoroaster, the holiday is still widely observed in Iran (present-day Persia), throughout the Middle East, parts of Eastern Europe, large swaths of the former Soviet Republics and even parts of China. It's sort of a big deal.
And for Iranian hoops fans this one had to be the most joyous Nowruz in years. Because Ali Farokhmanesh shot the Panthers of Northern Iowa University into the Sweet 16. The American-born Farokhmanesh, whose father played for the Iranian volleyball team in 1980 Olympic Games, hit key three-point shots in each of UNI's upset wins over UNLV and top-seeded Kansas. His game-killing shot against the Jayhawks was particularly impressive.
With his team leading with less than a minute to play, most teams would have drained as much of the remaining time off the clock before taking a shot. They would have played it safe and looked to seal the game at the free throw line. Farokhmanesh (pronounced fuh-ROAK-muh-NESH) stunned everyone, most specifically Kansas, by lofting an uncontested three-point shot from the wing early in the shot clock. His shot was pure and the game was all but won. It was an amazing show of courage and calculation. His sweet long-distance stroke has endeared the senior marketing major to a national, and perhaps international, audience. His player bio at Panthers' website lists his favorite sports memory as "qualifying for state basketball tournament at Iowa City West."
I'd imagine that he's got a few new moments to add to his list. Best. Nowruz. Ever.
When I was growing up in the suburbs north west of the Big Apple, I spent the second weekend of several Octobers playing in a youth soccer tournament in the town of Parsippany, NJ. A lot of kids did. It was a big deal. Tents were rented. Canopies erected. Coffee and hot chocolate were poured from those heavy-duty brown plastic multi-gallon thermoses. Bagels were plastic-wrapped and marked C or B and arrayed on folding tables alongside candy and other things that my mom wouldn't buy me because she had made me a sandwich that was in a soft cooler . Paper boxes of munchkins were picked up at Dunkin' Donuts (by someone else's mom) en route to the first game on Saturday morning. Merchandise was hawked and kids clamored for t-shirts with clever slogans (like "soccer stud" with a picture of a screw-in stud for your cleats). Like I said, it was a big deal. Especially if you were like nine.
The travel soccer club in my town was the Ramapo Wildcats. I played with the team in my age group from the season it was founded early in grade school right on through high school when it was broken up. I was the only one that lasted that long. This, more than my play, allowed me to be team captain at various points throughout the years. I didn't get an armband but I did get to call a lot of coin tosses. We wore a green and white kit and took our name from the nearby Ramapo Mountains. The Ramapo Mountains are part of the Appalachian Mountain chain and were/are home to the Ramapough Lenape Indians. To travel to this tournament, my mom would drive us in our big black Chevy Suburban along Rt. 202 which ran along the foothills of the mountains.
My younger sister's team played in this tournament as well. And eventually the team's of my two younger brothers did. I recall my sister's squad having the most success. My teams? Not so much. Not that we weren't good, because we were. Seriously. Be impressed by me. Please. We once won the fabled Virginian. I know! But we couldn't seem to crack the nut that was Parsipanny. And the victory carried some cache. Not the trophy. Or the extra patches from other clubs that could be acquired by playing a few extra games. Nope. The prize was Monday. It was having to play in the finals on Monday and then getting to miss school.
The Parsipanny tournament was held Columbus Day weekend every year. The first two rounds were Saturday and Sunday and the championship games in each age group were Monday morning. The way I remember (which may be wrong), the public schools in my town used to get this day off. Until we didn't. It became just another Monday. Except one with more talk of the Pinta than normal. And perhaps a little preview of the first Thanksgiving. The only way to get excused from school was to reach the Final. So many kids in town were played with the Wildcats that all the teachers knew about the tournament and didn't give you a hard time about the absence.
That tournament in Parsipanny is what I think of every year when Columbus Day rolls around. I think of Smith Field, cool early morning games and the Burger King that was just outside the entrance to the field complex and that we would sneak over to, click-clacking in our cleats, in between games. I remember the white t-shirts from that tournament that had a picture of a three boats. Those boats stretched across the ample chests of soccer moms who wore them on the sidelines were sailing to America. Carrying fair-skinned folks whose arrival would eventually produce, among many other things, this tournament.
The name of the town comes from the Lenape word "parsipanong," meaning "the place where the river winds through the valley." Before there was a Burger King, a Smith Field complex and public schools classrooms to avoid on Mondays, the area had been populated by the Lenape. Not only were they spread up to the Ramapo Mountains, but also throughout New Jersey, eastern Pennsylvania, northern Delaware and up into the Hudson Valley. Today, though, the Lenni Lenape are not recognized by the U.S. Government. Meaning, they've got no reservation of their own. Not that having a reservation is the cat's pajamas. It's usually not. But it's something. It's a place where you can invite me to gamble and buy cheap cigarettes. It's also a place where, for example, you could have schools teach a version of history that accounts for your existence. It's a place were Columbus Day might not be viewed quite the same.
The arrival of Christopher Columbus in the "New World" might not seem like a day for celebration for those who are really from Parsipanny. For Native Americans and indigenous peoples throughout the Western Hemisphere it probably seems like a pretty shitty holiday. And no amount of zeppolles or sausage and pepper sandwiches at the various Italian-themed street fairs taking place around the country are going to change that. That said, I enjoy those items. But I'm not Native American. I'm a white guy from the 'burbs who likes greasy food served outdoors.
Italian-Americans have increasingly adopted Columbus Day as a day to celebrate their heritage since Columbus was from Genoa even though he sailed for Spain. It's also a big day for those who are looking to commemorate the audacious use of flags in history.
Oct. 12 has been a day for celebrations going back to the days of the 13 colonies. Oddly enough (at least it seems odd to me), Colorado was the first state to make Columbus Day a state holiday in 1906. It became a federal holiday in 1934. This was initially opposed by many in the middle of the nineteenth century. And not because folks realized that Columbus didn't exactly "discover" this land. Or because people felt it was giving undue glory to one of the sadder chapters in human history (that being the chapter in which Spaniards and assorted Europeans lay waste to civilizations on two continents in the Western Hemisphere, clearing space to allow for the destruction of a third continent). Rather, nativists and anti-immigration activists in America didn't like that Italians and assorted Catholics were increasingly using the day to celebrate their heritage. That was the problem: Catholics getting a little too uppity. WASPS, Masons and other right-wingnut "patriots" were afraid that the Catholics were going to take over the country. Probably to turn it over to the Vatican. That old gag.
In the twentieth century, South American countries began to celebrate Dia De La Raza in place of Columbus Day. This "Day of the Race" was meant to run counter to the Eurocentric holiday in the U.S. and commemorate the pre-Columbian cultures that had been nearly expunged from the continent. In 2002, Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez renamed the holiday Dia De La Resisencia Indigena, meaning "Day of Indigenous Resistance" to remember the struggle of those ancient cultures living in the New World against their would-be colonizers. Two years later, a statue of Columbus was toppled in Caracas on Oct. 12. Things were getting interesting.
This past weekend a soccer tournament was held in Parsipanny. It's now called the Parsipanny Pride Tournament rather than the Columbus Day tournament. I'm not totally sure what that means. Although I don't suspect that Hugo Chavez had much to do with it. Needless to say, I wish I could have been playing in the finals instead of at work today.
Fete de la Federation and the National League Although the French are often lampooned by Americans for their perceived cowardice and easy conquerability, today is a big day for the Friends of Francoeur. It is Bastille Day. Which is their Independence Day. So, just think "Fourth of July" except with wine instead of beer, crepes instead of burgers and insouciance rather than jingoism. Bastille Day commerates the storming of a fortress-prison on July 14, 1790. This was widely considered the tide-turning act that signaled the people's intent to overthrow the Ancien Regime and create modern France. It was a big deal.
Originally a fortress intended to defend the east end of Paris, the Bastille was a prison in the later years of the eighteenth century. When several thousand french persons showed up there on July 14, 1790 they wanted access to the arms and gunpowder that were stored within its walls. Because they were angry. And hungry. Freeing the handful of prisoners was not the point. It was about the guns. Because at this point in time, the French were not really to be trifled with. They were about to wear out the guillotine over the next few years, beheading up to 40,000 rich folk. In an attempt by the fourth estate, the regular folk, to determine the fate of their land after centuries of rule by monarchs.
The French Revolution that began with the storming of the Bastille was bloody. It was violent. I mean, they were cutting heads off all over the place. It would have a bit that has since been referred to as "The Terror." In other words, it was many things that Americans today consider very un-French. But what was is not always what still is. And vice versa.
Sort of like the Major League All-Star Game. Our current understanding of its dynamics doesn't totally jive with the way things used to be. The weak were once strong.
Even though the American League has dominated the quaint National League for more than a decade in the All-Star Game (11-0-1 in the last 12 games), there was once a time when the Senior Circuit pwned the Junior Loop in the Midsummer Classic. They even reeled off 11 straights wins of their own at a stretch. This bygone era of NL dominance was the 1970s and 1980s.
Today's NLers find themselves looking to topple their own Ancien Regime tonight in St. Louis. Vive le revolucion!
If a Friday should happen to fall upon the 13th of any given month then you're in trouble. We all are. Friday the 13th is considered a day of bad luck and danger in the U.S. of A. as well as most of Western Europe. Except in Italy, where they get all freaked out by Friday the 17th. Which is just crazy.
This superstition arose in part because of the unholy union of the number thirteen and Friday, which have each been considered unlucky for a really long time. So, that makes Friday the 13th like the exact opposite of peanut butter cups, which take two things that are great on their own - peanut butter and chocolate - and make one thing that is even better together.
The number 13 has been the unwelcome table guest at the all-numbers dinner party ever since Jesus's last Passover seder. Ever since that fateful sitdown - also known as the Last Supper by people who don't really know what Passover is - it has been considered terribly unlucky to have thirteen people seated at a table. The fear is that as soon as that last person pulls up a chair that one of the diners is doomed to die, imminently. Another reason that mankind has been totally uncomfortable around the number 13 is that it is most decidedly not the number 12. Apparently, everyone loves the number 12 and everything afterwards is sort of a letdown. In numerology, the number 12 is deemed the number of completeness. This is why there are 12 months of the year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 tribes of Israel, 12 Apostles of Jesus and 12 steps to sobering up. Or, are there 12 of those things only because that number really is completeness? Total mind blow. Remember, there is no spoon.
Either way, 13 is no good. Insofar as it is incomplete and may have played a larger role than Judas in the rucifiction-cay of a certain personal savior. And, this neatly brings us to Friday. Which was the day on which the aforementioned J.C. was crucified, possibly because of that whole 13-guests-at-a-table thing. Not surprisingly, Christians have viewed this day of the week a little skeptically ever since.
Of course, the holiday celebrated on the Friday during Easter weekend is called "Good" Friday. As ever, the Roman Catholic Church is ironic through and through. Some folks who were less versed in the actual lack of goodness of Fridays may have taken this whole "Good" Friday thing a bit too literally and eventually opened up a chain of reasonably-priced restaurants called T.G.I. Friday's. Or they may not, but either way, there is something also ironic about naming a restaurant with an acronym that stands for "Thank God It's Friday" since, you know, Friday is very, very unlucky because that was the day that some people may (or may not, we're not here to debate the historical reality of any of this, just to deal with the anecdotal reality), have killed God's kid. So, this deity probably wouldn't be too keen on Fridays no matter how much he/she loved potato skins. Or, maybe I'm just over-thinking this.
And, from all of these mystical and religious underpinnings sprang that most spiritual of film cycles: the Friday the 13th series featuring murderous Jason Voorhees and all manner of nubile young men and women who are doomed to be mutilated (not too long after being titillated).
The first film in the series featuring a hockey-masked killer was released in 1980. This troubled fellow later turned up in space, Hell and the nightmare realm where Freddy Krueger resides. Oh, and he also went to Manhattan. He didn't care for it. Today, a new installment of the story comes out. It's considered a reboot. Which is sort of like the film-making version of a mulligan. This film, released cleverly on Friday, February 13th brings Jason back to his original haunt Crystal Lake.
[Ed note: this post is culled from the WWOD? archives and is a slightly edited version of a post that originally ran on WWOD? on 6/13/08.]
If a Friday should happen to fall upon the 13th of any given month then you're in trouble. We all are. Friday the 13th is considered a day of bad luck and danger in the U.S. of A. as well as most of Western Europe. Except in Italy, where they get all freaked out by Friday the 17th. Which is just crazy.
This superstition arose in part because of the unholy union of the number thirteen and Friday, which have each been considered unlucky for a really long time. So, that makes Friday the 13th like the exact opposite of peanut butter cups, which take two things that are great on their own - peanut butter and chocolate - and make one thing that is even better together.
The number 13 has been the unwelcome table guest at the all-numbers dinner party ever since Jesus's last Passover meal. Ever since that fateful meal - also known as the Last Supper by people who don't really know what Passover is - it has been considered terribly bad unlucky to have thirteen people seated at a table. The fear is that as soon as that last person pulls up a chair that one of the diners is doomed to die imminently. Another reason that mankind has been totally uncomfortable around the number 13 is that it is most decidedly not the number 12. Everyone loves the number 12. In numerology, the number 12 is considered the number of completeness. This is why there are 12 months of the year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 tribes of Israel and 12 Apostles of Jesus. Or, are there 12 of those things only because that number is completeness? Total mind blow. Remember, there is no spoon.
Either way, 13 is no good. Insofar as it is incomplete and may have played a larger role than Judas in the rucifiction-cay of a certain personal savior. And, this neatly brings us to Friday. Which was the day on which the aforementioned J.C. was crucified, possibly because of that whole 13-guests-at-a-table thing. Not surprisingly, Christians have viewed this day of the week a little skeptically ever since.
Of course, the holiday celebrated on the Friday during Easter weekend is called "Good" Friday. As ever, the Roman Catholic Church is ironic to the last. Those less versed in the actual lack of goodness of that day may have taken this whole good Friday thing a bit too literally and eventually opened up a chain of reasonably-priced restaurants called T.G.I. Friday's. Or they may not, but either way, there is something also ironic about naming a restaurant with an acronym that stands for "Thank God It's Friday" when, you know, Friday is very, very unlucky because that was the day that some people may, or may not (we're not here to debate the historical reality of any of this, just to deal with the anecdotal reality), have killed God's kid. So, this deity probably wouldn't be too keen on Fridays no matter how much he/she loved potato skins. Or, maybe I'm just over-thinking this.
And, from all of these mystical and religious underpinnings sprang that most spiritual of film cycles: the Friday the 13th series featuring Jason Voorhees and all manner of nubile young men and women who are doomed to be mutilated (not too long after being titillated).
In and around New York City, the weather was delightful this past weekend. Saturday, in particular, was sun-splashed and warm. It was a glorious day. It was a holy day. 
And for Iranian hoops fans this one had to be the most joyous Nowruz in years. Because Ali Farokhmanesh shot the Panthers of Northern Iowa University into the Sweet 16. The American-born Farokhmanesh, whose father played for the Iranian volleyball team in 1980 Olympic Games, hit key three-point shots in each of UNI's upset wins over UNLV and top-seeded Kansas. His game-killing shot against the Jayhawks was particularly impressive. 
