Noble Ideals and Complicated Truths: Understanding the American Revolution

To make sense of our present, we must understand our past. This is the essence of history. We are currently a divided nation. Individual states are described as red or blue depending on their political leanings. People are reluctant to engage in meaningful conversations with friends and family members about politics and current events for fear of starting an argument or causing irreparable tensions. What cable television network you watch or newspapers and periodicals you read has become a reliable predictor of where you stand on most issues. We long for the days when Americans were united and could proudly stand together in support of a common cause. But to study American history is to learn that those days never existed. We have always been a nation divided.

I recently finished watching The American Revolution, the epic PBS documentary co-produced and directed by Ken Burns, Sarah Botstein, and David Schmidt. Over six parts and twelve hours, this magnificent film achieved the nearly impossible task of encapsulating the complex motives and myriad conflicts that led to American independence and the founding of our nation. As with Burns’ other documentary films—on the Civil War, World War II, the Vietnam War; on the history of baseball, the national park system; on Franklin Roosevelt and Benjamin Franklin—we are reintroduced to familiar stories with fresh insight and new perspectives. Burns’ films instruct that most American history involves division, yet his films help bring us together, for this is what insight and perspective bestow.

To grasp the American Revolution is to understand the complexity and messiness of our history. While our national origin story drew from virtuous ideals of liberty, freedom, and equality (“we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal”), it arose out of violence and brutality, contradictions and hypocrisy, and involved deep divisions and disagreements.

The history of the American Revolution is an inspiring story. It is also a complicated, confusing, and deeply human one. The people who risked their lives in defense of an idea and the pursuit of independence, were deeply flawed human beings, as are we. Coming to terms with the reality and complexity of the Revolution requires that we undo the mythology of America’s founding and examine the lives of the people directly and indirectly impacted, the importance of land, geography, and competing national interests, and the political and economic motivations that influenced the divergent actors involved.

As a documentary, The American Revolution provides a holistic and comprehensive understanding of the American story. The film sheds light on a widely diverse group of people who lived through the Revolution, not only those who led and instigated the revolutionary fervor that eventually took hold in the colonies, but also everyday Americans whose voices and perspectives are frequently ignored or forgotten. A complete look at the American Revolution must include women, free and enslaved Africans, Native Americans, and an assortment of mostly poor immigrants who descended from Ireland, Scotland, England, Germany, Poland, and other nations.

Women played integral roles in taking care of the homestead, following the troops into battle, healing the wounded, and burying the dead. Black Americans were excluded from the aspirational visions of America’s founding yet understood profoundly the universal ideals espoused. Thousands would risk their lives by joining forces with the Loyalists (fewer with the Patriots) in the hope of a better future. Native Americans were forced to navigate competing factions of people they did not trust in a war they did not ask for and which would threaten their survival, national identities, and land.

And yet, the principles set forth in the Declaration of Independence united thirteen diverse colonies based on the idea that anyone who arrived on American shores and committed to the nation’s principles could be an American. It was these aspirational ideals, along with the leadership and wisdom of men like George Washington, which held the union together. These revolutionary ideas, and the people who planned and led America’s fight for independence, continue to inspire me. The American Revolution only reaffirmed my profound gratitude towards Washington, without whom we could not have prevailed, and to Benjamin Franklin, John and Abigail Adams, Thomas Paine, Benjamin Rush, and many others.

The American Revolution examines the good and the bad, juxtaposing the noble underpinnings of the revolution with the tragedy of slavery, the exclusion of women and Black Americans from the body politic, and the dispossession of Native Americans lands. It also examines the dreams and aspirations of ordinary Americans who combined distinct cultures and religions, spoke different languages, and knew little about the people from other colonies who also came to identify as Americans. Out of this complexity and messiness is the miracle and promise that became America. The film helps us better understand that, when we live up to our ideals, we truly are a light unto the nations.

So much of what we understand of the American Revolution is encased in myth, sentimentality, and nostalgia. I learned at a young age that Americans were aggrieved by a neglectful and detached British monarchy that imposed unfair taxes on us without our consent—taxation without representation—and imposed a series of repressive decrees that were enforced by British authorities with no input from American colonists or their representatives. Then, an energetic assortment of patriotic Americans aspiring to liberty, freedom, and equality gallantly fought for our independence. Although partly true, this version fails to do justice to the entire story, which is far more complex and human.

In fact, the Revolutionary War was a brutal civil war involving tens of thousands of Americans on both sides of the conflict. When the war began at Lexington and Concord in 1775, most American rebels had no interest in breaking with the British empire. As the war progressed and it became more about independence and sovereignty, Americans were forced to choose sides in a conflict that divided families, communities, cities, and villages. As the film notes, for many American colonists, the decision to become a patriot or loyalist was not an easy one, and those who chose to remain loyal to the King were not bad people; their reasons seemed rational and sensible at the time.

The war encompassed eight years of uncertainty and terror that left tremendous loss and destruction in its aftermath. Officers in Washington’s Army served with little or no pay, endured poor supplies, a lack of adequate clothing, terrible conditions, food shortages, illness, and harsh weather. More died of disease than died in combat. Over time, many deserted, some threatened mutiny. Prisoners of war on both sides were treated inhumanely, some were tortured, and many would die of starvation or disease. Retaliation and recrimination against loyalists by their patriot neighbors included incredible acts of cruelty. Tens of thousands of Americans became refugees when forced to flee their homes depending on which army occupied their town or city.

Black Americans deciding where to place their allegiances had no easy choices. The British were the world’s foremost slave traffickers at that time, so Lord Dunmore’s proclamation promising emancipation in exchange for joining British forces understandably raised skepticism. But it was abundantly clear that emancipation was not on the agenda of the Continental Congress. Approximately 15,000 Black Americans chose to risk it all by escaping their slaveholders and fighting on the side of the British. Only 5,000 Black Americans opted to align with the Continental Army.

For the Black Americans who sided with the British, the end of the war brought inexpressible terror and anguish – the thoughts of returning to their cruel and brutal masters was too much to bear. During peace negotiations, General Washington insisted that the British return every runaway slave to their rightful owners, but the commander in chief of the British forces refused. Britain had promised to free all slaves who came to fight for them and it was a question of national honor for them to live up to their word.

At war’s end, thousands of Black Loyalists fled the newly established United States and sailed to Nova Scotia, Britain, or the islands of the Caribbean, rather than take their chances in America. As Andrew Lawler wrote in the November 2025 issue of The Atlantic, “The story of the Black Loyalists and their postwar diaspora highlights an irony long ignored: Thousands of those with the biggest stake in securing liberty ultimately had to flee a country founded on the premise that all are created equal.” For those who left, life continued to be harsh and unfair. But the unlikely alliance between Britain and enslaved Africans during the Revolutionary War “set in motion a series of events that would … undermine the foundations of slavery on both sides of the Atlantic.” In later years, American abolitionists, including John Quincy Adams, would view Britain’s wartime proclamations as important legal precedents in the movement to end slavery. Such are the power of ideas.

Also forgotten in the history of the American fight for independence were the millions of native Americans who lived among the colonists and the land west of the Appalachians. The idea of liberty embedded in the Declaration of Independence and our founding documents included, for the colonists, a quest for unfettered access to the lands and resources of Native nations. Britain had restricted settlers from claiming land beyond the Appalachians, and this decree, even more than taxation without representation, was deemed intolerable. Across the colonies, native independence was a threat to colonists who wished to claim the very lands that native peoples had occupied and nurtured for hundreds of generations.

Nevertheless, thousands of Indigenous people fought in the Revolutionary War, more for the British than for the Americans. Native tribes had to assess which uneasy alliance would better serve and protect the interests of their sovereign nations. The end of the war brought no peace for them. The newly formed United States dismissed and exploited the native tribes, dispossessed their lands, and restricted their individual liberties. Indigenous Americans would not become citizens until 1924, and their struggle to remain sovereign would never end.

As Ned Blackhawk, a native American historian interviewed in the film writes in The Atlantic, “The colonists sought not just territory, but unchallenged dominion. To achieve this, they needed to erase the legitimacy of Native governance and justify violent dispossession.” Indeed, to study the American Revolution is to learn that “[m]uch of American history has involved efforts to impose constrained visions of liberty—rooted in individualism, private property, and patriarchal norms—on Native peoples.”

And yet, despite the injustices and inequities, the American Revolution remains a story of inspiration and hope. Eventually aided by the French, ordinary Americans with little status won the war because they refused to give up, shared in the hardships, and supported each other in trouble and sickness. They did this for an aspirational vision of an independent republic founded on notions of liberty, freedom, equality, and a government of the people guided by the rule of law. It was the first time in history a nation was founded on such ideals. That not all Americans would share equally (or at all) in those fruits at war’s end does not erase the promise of liberty and freedom that the American Revolution inspired across the globe.

The power of words to unite competing factions of colonists and galvanize a movement for independence is another part of the unique American story. Powerful writings, such as Thomas Paine’s Common Sense and the words of the Declaration of Independence helped transform hostility to British rule into a national movement that would inspire people and countries around the world for the next two centuries. The challenge for us is to draw on the aspirations of liberty, freedom, and equality, and strive to be the nation our forebears thought we could become.

In 1963, while standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., declared, “When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.” As we approach 250 years since the signing of the Declaration, we have a more developed and inclusive understanding of the “self-evident truth that all men are created equal,” one that includes women, persons of color, immigrants, and people of different cultures, creeds, and ethnicities. The aspirations of our forebears have inspired people and nations, across continents and centuries, even when we failed to live up to them ourselves. There is no going back; the promissory note is due and it must be paid.

On April 19, 1775, when the first shots of the American Revolution were fired, the outcome of the war was uncertain and full of risk. The story of America’s founding is thus hopeful and inspiring. But we cannot do justice to our past unless we reckon with all its complexity. Human rights, equality, and the rule of law were ideas worth fighting for. The American Revolution remains a work in progress. Whether we live up to those ideals and behold the promise that is America, is up to us and future generations.

A Better Society: The Legacy of Frances Perkins

Frances Perkins, Time Magazine Cover, August 14, 1933

When I studied economics in college during the late 1970s, I learned about supply and demand, how competitive markets are supposed to operate, the impact of monopolies and oligopolies on free trade; I studied evolving theories of price inelasticity and economies of scale, and debated differing views of monetary and fiscal policy. The study of economics helped me understand the foundations of a capitalist economy. But what was frequently missing was the real-world impact of our economic system, its successes and failures, winners and losers, and how different economic policies affected the lives of everyday people.

It was only when I combined economic theory with history and began to examine how economics applies in real life that I fully appreciated the initiative-taking ingenuity of the New Deal under President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The New Deal was not just a slogan, but an ambitious and comprehensive set of government programs aimed at rescuing the United States from the Great Depression, countering record-high rates of unemployment, homelessness, hungry people in bread lines, mass bank failures and foreclosures, and an economic system that had failed so many Americans. From public job programs and unemployment insurance to improved workplace safety and health requirements, the FDR government showed that people mattered, that hope survived, and that the common good was an essential component of a compassionate society.

“The test of our progress,” said FDR, “is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little.” That, to me, is the true test of a nation’s character. What kind of country and society do we aspire to be? It is why, for most of my life, I have believed in the power of government to do good and provide a basic level of economic security for those left behind.

I also believe in the power of private sector innovation and ingenuity and understand the limitations and inefficiencies that have burdened certain government programs. But when I see how badly corporate America repeatedly has failed the working class and how easily and cold-heartedly companies let go of thousands of loyal and dedicated employees to improve profit margins by even a little bit, I come back to the values that inspired me throughout my life, faith-based values of compassion for those in need and a belief that government exists for the common good.

One significant, often overlooked, figure of twentieth century American history who shared this view is Frances Perkins. Appointed by President Roosevelt as Secretary of Labor in 1933, Perkins was the first woman in U.S. history to serve in a presidential cabinet, a position she held for the next twelve years. When FDR appointed her, Perkins was known as a social reformer who had advocated better working conditions for factory workers and an end to child labor. But only after I read The Woman Behind the New Deal by Kirstin Downey (Vintage Books, 2009), did I understand just how fundamental she was to the creation and implementation of the most important legacies of the New Deal—social security, unemployment insurance, and the minimum wage, to name a few.

Although Perkins had a privileged upbringing, from an early age she aligned herself with the Christian Social Gospel movement and believed her mission in life was to help the poor and those in need. Her first real exposure to poverty was when she worked at Hull House in Chicago, a settlement house founded by Jane Addams that provided social and educational opportunities to lower and working-class people. Settlement houses were communal boarding houses where social workers and community activists lived and ate together as they served individuals and families in need. As described by Downey, “Hull House offered job training, health services, childcare, a library, and a savings bank. It operated a kindergarten, day care center, English-language and U.S. citizenship classes, and clubs for new mothers, camera enthusiasts, and aspiring artists and musicians.” It brought hope and dignity to those in need and lifted the spirits of the people impacted.

The success of Hull House inspired a national movement and eventually led to hundreds of settlement houses across the United States. Working at Hull House changed Perkins’s life. She witnessed firsthand the problems experienced every day by the urban poor—people living in overcrowded conditions without basic sanitation services in decaying city tenements, in neighborhoods regularly exposed to contagious diseases. From that point on, Perkins devoted her life to improving the lives of the poor and those left behind by an unforgiving economic system.

Perkins eventually received a master’s degree in social economics from Columbia University and worked for the National Consumers League in New York, where she focused on child labor, poor wages, excessively long workdays, and unsafe workplaces. In the first three decades of the twentieth century, young children were frequently employed for twelve hours a day in factories and sweatshops, and thousands suffered serious injuries from work unsuitable for their small, undeveloped bodies. In the lower east side, women worked in unsanitary and harsh conditions in garment factories at excessively low wages. In most factories and workplaces around the country, if a worker became sick or was injured on the job, they were left to fend for themselves. The government offered no protection. There was no unemployment insurance, workers’ compensation, social security, or disability insurance.

On March 11, 1911, Perkins was having tea near Washington Square Park when she learned that the ten-story building that housed the Triangle Shirtwaist factory had caught fire. She rushed outside and saw flames coming from the windows of the building as the women, mostly young Jewish and Italian immigrants, were trapped inside with no means of escape. Fifty women jumped to their deaths rather than burn to death, their bodies landing one on top of another on the street below. Before the fire department extinguished the flames, 146 workers died. It was later discovered that workers complained to management about the unsafe working conditions two years before the fire. The company ignored the complaints, fired the complaining workers, and did nothing to address their concerns. For Perkins, this was another turning point in her life.

After the fire, Perkins’s advocacy led to the creation of the New York State Factory Investigation Commission, whose first order of business was to investigate the causes of the fire. The Commission held hearings and learned that the factory’s managers had padlocked exits to all but one stairwell to prevent workers from leaving with leftover scraps of cloth. To compound the danger, the door to the stairwell swung inward making it nearly impossible to open when frightened workers attempted all at once to flee the rapidly spreading fire. The factory building contained no automatic sprinklers, and flames quickly consumed the only open stairwell. A rickety fire escape, built to accommodate only a few people at a time, collapsed as panicked workers piled on. With no way out for the remaining workers, their only hope was to be rescued by the fire company, but the firefighter’s ladders only reached the sixth floor, thirty feet below the igniting flames.

Based on the Commission’s findings, the New York Legislature passed a series of bills that prohibited smoking in factories, required mandatory fire drills, required automatic sprinklers in all buildings taller than seven stories, and established a system of building registrations and regular inspections. At the time, these were pathbreaking reforms. The legislature eventually required all factories to provide washing facilities, clean drinking water, and sanitary restrooms. All these measures mirrored the reforms advocated by Perkins.

Perkins caught the attention of New York Governors Al Smith and, later, Franklin Roosevelt, who recognized that this intelligent, industrious woman understood the issues facing the poor and working classes in American society. In 1930, at the start of the Great Depression, Perkins convinced Governor Roosevelt to appoint a state commission to study unemployment and propose solutions, and she pushed him to create a system of unemployment insurance. When Roosevelt was elected president, he asked Perkins to become his Secretary of Labor.

Before Perkins accepted, however, she needed assurances that Roosevelt would support her policy ideas and initiatives. By then, a third of the workforce was unemployed. There was no public assistance. Charities were running out of money and forced to turn away the hungry. One in six homes was lost to foreclosure. Sick people stopped going to doctors because they could not afford medical care.

Perkins wanted Roosevelt to agree to a public works program to immediately address unemployment, a national labor policy to protect the rights of workers, a forty-hour workweek, a federal minimum wage, workers compensation to ensure that people injured at work did not desperately slide into poverty, a national system of unemployment insurance, an old-age pension (Social Security), a revitalized public employment service, and a system of national health insurance.

As Downey notes in A Woman Behind the New Deal, “The scope of her list was breathtaking. She was proposing a fundamental and radical restructuring of American society, with enactment of historic social welfare and labor laws. To succeed, she would have to overcome opposition from the courts, business, labor unions, conservatives.” Roosevelt agreed to all of it. And except for national health insurance, which the American Medical Association fought with all its might, Perkins and Roosevelt achieved all her original demands.

When Perkins took over the Labor Department, she found an ineffective agency filled with malfeasance. She worked diligently to cleanse the department of inept and corrupt management. She professionalized the Bureau of Labor Statistics, which permanently improved the accuracy of employment and wage statistics, and modernized the cost-of-living index. One of her first official acts as secretary was to racially integrate the department’s cafeteria. Frances Perkins was truly a woman ahead of her time.

She collaborated closely with the president to help alleviate the suffering of millions of Americans who were out of work. Under her leadership, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) was established within days of inauguration. As Downey notes, by August 1933, the CCC had put 300,000 men to work “planting trees, building bridges and fire towers, restoring historic battlefields, and beautifying the country’s National Park System.” Soon, the government created other public works agencies, and millions of people were employed building dams, tunnels, bridges, roads and parkways, schools and hospitals, playgrounds and public parks. Although the economy continued to stagnate, the unemployment rate declined, and New Deal programs built much of the nation’s infrastructure that contributed to the dramatic expansion of the U.S. economy in the years to follow.

Although Roosevelt treated Perkins as a peer of equal importance and intelligence, she faced frequent sexism, condescension, and disrespect from the male dominated ranks of labor leaders, Congress, and the Cabinet. Although she did more to advance the cause of workers than anyone else at that time in U.S. history, the heads of major labor organizations treated her with disdain and never accepted a woman as Secretary of Labor. Even the press often failed to recognize that Perkins drafted the New Deal’s most important and enduring laws, helped get them enacted, and then administered them fairly and effectively.

Perkins was instrumental in the drafting and passage of the Social Security Act of 1935, which the Washington Post proclaimed as the “New Deal’s Most Important Act.” It is difficult to exaggerate the importance of the Act, for to this day it affects the lives of every man, woman, and child in the United States. Another of Perkins’s signature achievements was the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938, which introduced a federal minimum wage, restrictions on child labor, and an eight-hour workday. The law, as described by Downey, “ushered in a new way of life for many workers, permitting them an opportunity for rest and relaxation.”

If that were not enough, Perkins stood alone as the administration’s most vocal advocate for the admission of Jewish refugees throughout the 1930s. In the face of strict immigration quotas, an isolationist Congress, and an obstinate State Department, Perkins worked behind the scenes to relax the formal requirements to bring tens of thousands of German Jewish refugees to safety, thus rescuing them from the calamity of the Holocaust.

Perkins achieved what she did, as Downey describes, “selflessly, without hope of personal gain or public recognition.”

It is a great historic irony that Frances is now virtually unknown. Factory and office occupancy codes, fire escapes and other fire-prevention mechanisms are her legacy. About 44 million people collect Social Security checks each month; millions receive unemployment and workers’ compensation or the minimum wage; others get to go home after an eight-hour day because of the Fair Labor Standards Act. Very few know the name of the woman responsible for their benefits.

The lives of all Americans are significantly better over the past ninety years because of Frances Perkins. Her legacy remains with us to this day. Despite the efforts of the current administration, it is imperative that we not aspire to resurrect the wrongs corrected by the wisdom, compassion, and tenacity of Frances Perkins. Our failure to protect her legacy may determine the kind of country we will have for the next ninety years.

"Why Me?" Ralph Branca and the Lifelong Pain of Defeat

Ralph Branca, Brooklyn Dodgers, October 3, 1951

My father grew up in Jersey City during the 1930s and 1940s and developed an early attachment to the New York Giants Baseball Club, which played at the Polo Grounds, also known as Coogan’s Bluff, across the river in Manhattan. Back then, baseball fans in the New York area had three good teams from which to choose—the New York Yankees, Brooklyn Dodgers, and New York Giants. Once loyalties were attached to one of those teams, the others became intensely hated rivals. This was especially so with the Giants and Dodgers, cross-town opponents in the National League. Even more than today’s Yankees-Red Sox and Cardinals-Cubs rivalries, the enmity between the New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers was the most intense in the history of sports. If you were a Giants fan, you detested the Dodgers. If you were a Dodgers fan, you passionately hated the Giants.

In the fall of 1951, my dad and mom were living in Springfield, Ohio, where my dad was doing his graduate studies in theology. Dad remained a loyal and enthusiastic Giants fan. By early October, the Dodgers-Giants conflict had reached its peak. All attempts at diplomacy and reconciliation were futile. You see, the Giants had overcome a 13 ½ game deficit to tie the Dodgers for first place on the final day of the season, thus requiring a three-game playoff to determine the outcome of the National League pennant. After splitting the first two games, the entire season came down to one game, to be played at the Polo Grounds.

On October 3, 1951, Dad listened to the game on the radio while my mom, apparently less interested in this epic battle of life and death and existential struggle for the souls of man, had left to run errands. For Dad, things were going poorly, the Dodgers holding onto a 4-1 lead as the Giants came to bat in the bottom of the ninth. But Dodgers starting pitcher Don Newcombe, who until then was pitching a brilliant game, holding the Giants to one run over the first eight innings, began to show signs of fatigue. Three of the first four Giants batters hit safely in the ninth, driving in a run and putting runners on second and third with one out. The Dodgers had Carl Erskine and Ralph Branca throwing in the bullpen, but Erskine was spiking his curveball in the dirt during warmup tosses. So, when Dodgers manager Gil Hodges walked out to the mound and took the ball from the tiring Newcombe, he called for Branca to come in and get the final two outs.

Branca was a fine pitcher. Normally a starter, he was a three-time all-star who won thirteen games that season and, in 1947, was the second youngest pitcher in history to win twenty games (Christy Mathewson was the youngest). But Branca had given up a home run to Thompson in the first play-off game, so it was a choice that may have given Dodgers fans a dose of angina. At 3:58 pm, with the count 1-1 on Thompson, Branca threw a high inside fastball. Thompson swung and hit a low line drive that sailed over the left field wall to win the game. My dad listened intently as Russ Hodges of WMCA radio announced, “There’s a long drive… It’s gonna be, I believe?... The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”

It was at this precise moment, based on Dad’s recollection, that my mom returned from the store, grocery bags in hand. As my dad jumped up and down like a madman, he grabbed my mom and twirled her around while yelling indecipherable nonsense of utter joy and delight. My mom, failing to fully appreciate the historic enormity of the occasion, was slightly annoyed and told him to settle down. Oh, the loneliness of being a fan.

Bobby Thomson home run, October 3, 1951

Thomson’s home run would be forever known as “The Shot Heard Round the World” and later dubbed by legendary sportswriter Red Smith as the “The Miracle at Coogan’s Bluff.” It is a memory that stuck with my dad for the rest of his life. When he died, the one memento of his of which I made sure to take possession was his framed photograph of Thomson hitting the home run and showing the trajectory of the ball from Thomson’s bat to the left field stands. Ralph Branca and Bobby Thomson signed the picture.

As a loyal and dedicated fan of the St. Louis Cardinals, I fully appreciate the elation and joy my dad felt that October afternoon three-quarters of a century ago. When David Freese hit a triple with two outs in the bottom of the ninth in game six of the World Series against the Texas Rangers in 2011, driving in two runs to tie the game, and then hit a home run to win it in the bottom of the eleventh, I nearly passed out from excessive exhilaration. The Cards winning the World Series in 1967, 1982, 2006, and 2011 are sources of blissful memories in my life that will forever stay with me.

But for every team, player, and fan who jumps for joy when victory is rescued from the jaws of defeat, there is another side to the story. In sports, for every win there is a loss. While Bobby Thomson was being mobbed on the field and elevated to the mythical status of Baseball Hero, Ralph Branca, who threw the pitch that led to the home run, threw the rosin bag on the ground in anger and despair, and held his head in shame. Just as Giants fans will forever remember the ecstasy experienced as Thomson blasted the home run that won the National League pennant, every Dodgers fan, especially those alive when it happened, continue to endure painful memories of that fateful day in October.

After the game, Branca was an emotional wreck, distraught and shaken by what had transpired from what he called “that goddamn pitch.” It haunted him for the rest of his life. Branca was a devout Catholic, a man of deep faith, and he could not help but ask, “Why me?” When he left the Polo Grounds following the game, he met with his priest to discuss the “tragic” event. He asked, “But why me, Father? I love this game so much. Why did it have to be me?” Father Rowley responded, “God chose you because [God] knew you’d be strong enough to bear this cross.”

Branca struggled the remainder of his life to come to grips with how a single pitch out of an otherwise good career that encompassed thousands of pitches could define for so many people their perception of his worth. It was a tough cross for Branca to bear. He was never the same pitcher after the 1951 season. “You know, if you kill somebody, they sentence you to life,” he often said. “You serve twenty years, and you get paroled. I’ve never been paroled.”

In Ralph Branca and the Meaning of Life (McFarland & Company, 2025), Bob Mitchell writes that “sometimes life can be a zero-sum game, with winners and losers canceling each other out and leaving nothing at all in between.” Like my dad, Mitchell was a lifelong Giants fan. He was seven years old when Thomson hit his legendary home run, and it was a moment he continues to recognize as one of the happiest moments of his life. He describes once meeting the legendary talk show host Larry King, a lifelong Dodgers fan. Although Mitchell had been invited onto the Larry King Show to discuss what was then a recently published memoir that reflected on how Mitchell’s 2015 heart transplant impacted his understanding of life and death, all King wanted to talk about was The Game and The Pitch. Just as that game and pitch positively changed the trajectory of Mitchell’s life as a young Giants fan, the same game and pitch nearly ruined King’s life as a seventeen-year-old boy who lived and died with the Dodgers. Here they were, 65 years later, still obsessing over “that goddamn pitch.”

As Mitchell explains, for himself and King, their different experiences of that game “formed our two different ways of looking at the world—then and for years to come: Hope vs. Cynicism, Certitude vs. Doubt, Ecstasy vs. Agony, Gratitude vs. Anger, Contentment vs. Envy—all evinced, simultaneously, by the very same spectacle, the very same single pitch.” King told Mitchell in the Green Room before the interview that the moment Thomson’s home run disappeared into the left field stands, “I felt as if I had just died. Damn near killed me, that Branca fastball.” Similarly, King’s good friend, the great sportswriter Dick Schapp, once said, “When Bobby Thomson hit that home run, my childhood ended.”

Why do sports fans care so much about the outcome of a game? Is it a flaw in our character? Or is it mostly an American thing? Americans, after all, are a competitive lot who take pride in winning and shame in losing. And yet, people learn so much more from losing than winning. Losing prepares us for life’s disappointments, and teaches us humility, perspective, justice, and dignity. It is failure, struggle, and conflict, not winning, that inspires great art and literature. But Americans tend to overlook, ignore, and hold in disdain those who fail to win. Yet everyone suffers the experience of failure.

During my first year in high school, I played on the freshmen football team. Although I was a tall, lanky kid, I had capable hands and was an adept receiver. Indeed, I led the team in scoring that year (not a great accomplishment on this particularly mediocre team). But the only experience I remember about that year was what happened in one game about halfway into the season. We were playing Lawrence Township and, with the score tied and one play left in the first half, the coach called for me to run a deep route on a pass play. I made a good move on the defender and had him beat by several steps when the quarterback threw the ball my way. A perfect spiral, it came right at me. I stopped in my tracks and waited for the ball to reach me and, with visions of scoring a dramatic touchdown filtering through my thick skull, the ball went through my arms and landed like a deadened grenade on the opponent’s thirty-yard line. Although it happened over fifty years ago, to this day, I still can’t believe I dropped the damn ball! I joined the team during the coach’s halftime meeting in utter humiliation and defeat. I’ll never forget the disdainful look from the coach and the mean-spirited remarks from teammates. For the rest of the season, I lost my confidence. I never played football again.

In sports, as in all competitive endeavors, someone must always lose. It is as much a part of sports as it is a part of life. But winning and losing too frequently defines how we perceive ourselves and others, especially as Americans. Although we learn so much more about ourselves when we lose, about how we manage defeat and struggle, our resilience and ability to overcome adversity and disappointment, too often we hold our heads in shame and let the noise of critics define our worth as human beings. If the goal of sports is merely to win, we miss its ultimate value. Shouldn’t the goal of sports be to compete, to excel, and to bring out the best in the human spirit? Mitchell described it well in his 1997 collection of philosophical prose, The Tao of Sports (Frog Books, 1997):

I win, you lose: so this means I’m better than you? Winning and losing are imposters, posing as self-worth and inadequacy. . . . Do you think you’re better or worse as a person, depending upon the result? Fact is, you’re no better or worse than the fullness of your effort, than the focus and dedication and enthusiasm with which you play. . . . It is the Game, not winning the game, that will ultimately bring you satisfaction. And losing comes not from losing, but from missing out on the learning and the growth and the challenge.

I cannot really claim to have learned this lesson, though in quiet moments of reflection I know it to be true. Losing and failure remain incredibly painful. When my kids were younger, my daughter Hannah, in seeing me become upset over a Cardinals loss, would say, “Dad, don’t sweat the small stuff!” To which I responded, “I agree – but this is not small stuff!” Yes, I have much to learn indeed.

I am afraid I am more like Ralph Branca, who years after surrendering the home run to Bobby Thomson, said, “I still have nightmares about that goddamn pitch.” Well, I still have nightmares about that goddamn dropped pass. And yet, the internal punishment we inflict on ourselves is eased by the recognition that failure and losing are integral parts of life. Failure is often more interesting and inspiring than success. The suffering and despair of losing helps us better understand the shortcomings, conflicts, and struggles of the human condition, and is even necessary to give deeper meaning and context to winning and success. In life, what is felt deeply can bear fruit only through struggle and disappointment.

Ralph Branca never forgave himself for throwing “that goddamn pitch.” When it was discovered some years later that the Giants were stealing signs and that, possibly, Thomson knew a fastball was coming, Branca experienced relief and later bitterness, for perhaps he was cheated, and it was not all his fault. But if bitterness and anger replace agony and despair, one is no better off than before.

I am happy that my father and millions of Giants fans experienced the thrill and excitement of the Shot Heard Round the World. But I also know from experience that my dad kept it all in perspective. He understood that, for Ralph Branca and millions of Dodgers fans, the pain and suffering experienced from that same game, and the pitch that resulted in Thomson’s home run, were just as real.

As Confucius wrote, “A man is great not because he hasn’t failed; a man is great because failure hasn’t stopped him.” In the end, we can all learn from the example of Boris Becker, the star German tennis player who in 1987 lost a major tennis match during the peak of his career to a low-ranked player named Peter Doohan. When reporters asked Becker how he lost to a virtual nobody, Becker replied, “I lost a tennis match. It was not a war. Nobody died.” Well said, Boris. It is a perspective we should all take to heart, and one I believe Ralph Branca himself eventually understood. 

Abraham Joshua Heschel and a Life of Meaning

Abraham Joshua Heschel speaking at UCLA, May 25, 1963

I find it helpful in life to identify role models, people who inspire you to live with meaning and purpose, to act in ways worthy of praise and admiration, and who move you to be kinder, seek justice, and help in some small way to make the world a better place. Some of our role models are found close to home—a parent, a teacher, a coach, a minister or rabbi, a mentor. Others are less personal but equally important, people of history who opposed injustice, spoke out when others remained silent, and led exemplary lives filled with integrity and meaning. For me, one such person is Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Heschel was a rabbi, teacher, philosopher, writer, and social and political activist. He was a loving father and husband. And he was a man of spiritual faith, a Jewish theologian who wrote beautifully and convincingly, with eloquent and poetic ease, about humankind’s desperate need of purpose and connection, and of his belief in a living God who sought human partners to repair the world.

Born into a Polish Hasidic community in 1907, Heschel was an observant Jew who respected the mosaic of all faiths and lived experiences he encountered along the way. He was a seeker who asked, “How can I rationally find a way where ultimate meaning lies? Why am I here at all, and what is my purpose?” In the academy, many of his colleagues and professors found these questions unworthy of philosophical analysis. But to Heschel, these questions were essential to a life well lived.

Heschel combined his theological studies with a study of philosophy and poetry, literature and political theory, theater and music. As explained by the historian Julian E. Zelizer in Abraham Joshua Heschel: A Life of Radical Amazement (Yale University Press, 2021), Heschel was “fascinated with the nexus between the secular and the sacred” and, although for him a belief in God “was at the center of understanding all human ethical and religious activity,” he appreciated secular culture and respected the many secular writers and thinkers who shared his desire to better the world.

As a theologian, Heschel embraced a degree of intuitive thinking even as he accepted the scientific rationalism of modern society. His belief that all human beings were created in the image of God and that every person had the capacity for holiness deeply influenced his sense of justice. And yet, historic realities would challenge that belief. As a university student in Berlin in the 1930s, Heschel witnessed the disintegration of the Weimar Republic as the Nazi Party rose to power. He witnessed first-hand the rise of Hitler and Germany’s acquiescence to the brutality of Nazism. He saw Jewish-owned stores forced to place yellow stars on their doors as part of a national boycott on Jewish businesses and professions. He watched as an autocratic government brutally and systematically suppressed the freedom of fellow Jews.

On October 28, 1938, the Nazis detained Heschel and placed him in a detention camp as the Gestapo raided Jewish homes to deport thousands of Polish Jews then living in Germany. Less than two weeks later, on the night of November 9, violent mobs organized by the Nazi Party wreaked havoc on Jewish life in Germany. In what came to be known as Kristallnacht (“the night of the broken glass”), German authorities did nothing as violent mobs set hundreds of synagogues on fire and vandalized thousands of Jewish-owned businesses. Mobs of Nazi paramilitaries broke into homes, smashed furniture, and terrorized Jewish families. Following orders given by Nazi leaders, police forces and fire brigades did nothing to stop the destruction.

Although an invitation in 1939 to teach at the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, Ohio, allowed Heschel to emigrate to the United States and escape the Holocaust, Heschel’s mother and other family members who remained in Europe were not so fortunate. Their tragic deaths at the hands of the Nazis would profoundly influence Heschel’s life’s work and mission. The passive silence of most German Christians during the Holocaust deeply troubled Heschel and caused him to focus more intensely on how human detachment from God and morality can have tragic consequences. This would become the foundation of Heschel’s social and political activism.

As Heschel learned more about the catastrophic destinies of European Jews, he became convinced that humankind’s silence in the face of evil made everyone complicit in the persecution and suffering of fellow human beings. In trying to understand a broken world, Heschel came to believe that humankind’s relationship with God had weakened and contributed to a spiritual crisis in modern society that revealed itself in the brutality of a world war, the Holocaust, and the development of weapons of mass destruction. Humanity became disconnected from morality and ethics.

As the reality of mass genocide and the Holocaust became widely known, it challenged deeply held beliefs and created an existential and spiritual crisis for many people of faith. How was it possible to believe in God after Auschwitz and Treblinka? Heschel never wavered in his belief in God, but these historic realities profoundly challenged his life’s work. How could Germany, which had been the center of scientific inquiry and cosmopolitan culture, so quickly transform from light into darkness? How could an otherwise enlightened civilization suddenly turn into such a morally depraved and brutal country? As Zelizer explains, “Heschel spent the rest of his life trying to make sense of this, wrestling with the question of whether and how Judaism—and all religion—could offer the key toward preventing this kind of mass injustice from rearing its head again.”

Heschel believed that societal indifference, more than anything, had allowed the evil of Hitler and Nazism to take root in German society. Advances in science, economics, and modern technology did not produce a peaceful world. Economic advancement and self-interest surpassed humanity’s need for lives filled with meaning and purpose. Heschel partly blamed religious leaders and institutions for the resulting spiritual crisis. In God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1955), Heschel wrote:

When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion—its message becomes meaningless.

God in Search of Man expanded upon Heschel’s thesis that God needed human partners to achieve a just world. But how are individuals and societies to deal with the problem of evil? The “essential predicament of man,” according to Heschel:

…has assumed a peculiar urgency in our time, living as we do in a civilization where factories were established in order to exterminate millions of men, women and children; where soap was made of human flesh. What have we done to make such crimes possible? What are we doing to make such crimes impossible?

To answer these questions, Heschel looked to the Hebrew Prophets, who embodied a relationship between God and humankind essential to a functioning moral universe, in which indifference to injustice was unacceptable. In The Prophets (Jewish Publication Society of America, 1962), Heschel argued that the Hebrew Prophets refused to be neutral when witnessing evil in the world. Societal indifference was the root of how something like the Holocaust could happen. To “remain neutral, impartial, and not easily moved by the wrongs done unto other people . . . is more insidious than evil itself; it is more universal, more contagious, more dangerous.”

The Prophets became one of Heschel’s most influential books and impacted the thinking of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., and fellow civil rights activists. It helped them to combine their theology with real-world activism. Heschel himself became more actively engaged in the affairs of humanity. In Selma in 1965, when Heschel locked arms with Ralph Bunche and the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth, with King close by and three thousand peaceful protestors behind them, they shared a feeling of interfaith solidarity. The progressive religious community was on the side of the protestors, leading a movement for justice and morality.

From left: John Lewis, unidentified nun, Ralph Abernathy, Martin Luther King, Jr.,
Ralph Bunche, Abraham Joshua Heschel, Fred Shuttlesworth

Heschel’s religious beliefs influenced his understanding of social justice and his pursuit of social justice helped shape his understanding of religion. It was what moved him into the world of protest and political activism. It was why he helped lead a progressive interfaith movement in support of civil rights and opposition to the Vietnam War, why he worked to free Soviet Jewry, and why he willingly engaged in a dialogue with the Pope during the Second Vatican Council to convince the Catholic Church to condemn antisemitism and recognize the “religious dignity of the Jews.”

Heschel believed the purpose of religion was not to seek God’s salvation but to offer human beings moral guidance in a perilous world. And it came with expectations. “What is expected of me? What is demanded of me?” he asked. Perhaps for world humanity this was too much to ask. But if collectively we ever choose to accept the task of making the world worthy of redemption, it is difficult to imagine a world in which obvious injustices go unaddressed, or millions of people acquiesce in mass murder and destruction.

It would be easy to dismiss Heschel’s thesis in an age when belief in God is ridiculed and organized religion has lost credibility in most liberal intellectual circles. But to do so is to miss what he was trying to say. In a talk he gave in April 1963, Heschel explained that the task of religion “is to cultivate distrust for violence and lies, sensitivity to other people’s suffering, the love of peace. God has a stake in the life of every man.” Philosophy and religion, to be relevant, must offer wisdom to live by. “There is no human being who is not moved by the question, Am I needed?”

As a rabbi and theologian, Heschel believed that an openness to God, a sense of awe and wonder for the universe, and the ability to “feel the hidden love and wisdom of all things” would help lead humanity to more and deeper understanding, kindness, justice, and peace. To our more modern ears, this may sound naïve and unrealistic. But when societies do not have healthy alternatives, when people lose a sense of principled morality and spiritual connectedness, whether through organized religion or not, people inevitably gravitate toward something that is more authoritarian by nature. This has been true throughout history. Even if we focus on developing a purely secular sense of meaning and purpose, of love for our neighbor and compassion for human suffering, the result is a better, more just world.

Heschel died in 1972. Were he alive today, he may have found himself on the margins of society. But to understand Heschel’s life and legacy, and to read his writings and speeches, is to peer into the heart of a genuine zaddik, a holy man. Just as he spoke prophetically for civil rights and opposition to the Vietnam War, Heschel could have offered much needed moral leadership today on the tragic conflict in Gaza, the authoritarian overreach of the Trump administration, the cruel and unlawful crackdown on immigrants, the abandonment of foreign aid, the disregard for the environment, and the dismissal of morality in the affairs of the nation.

Heschel saw politics in moral terms and addressed what he perceived as a spiritual crisis facing the modern world. He saw the violence and injustice all around us as a direct outgrowth of an emptiness in the human spirit. But amid anguish and despair, he taught that the human capacity for goodness and love can repair a broken world. The nation urgently needs Heschel’s moral guidance now more than ever. “The choice,” wrote Heschel, “is to love together or to perish together. Let the love of life have the final word.” 

A Tip of the Hat to the Milwaukee Brewers

It should come as no surprise to my faithful readers that I do not like the Milwaukee Brewers. Indeed, when it comes to baseball, I do not like any team not named the St. Louis Cardinals. I will not here rehash the psychological complexity of growing up in New Jersey as a Cardinals fan, nor attempt to explain why I have remained loyal to a midwestern team located in a city to which I have no personal or familial connection. But resolute and loyal I have remained for six decades of my life, including the past three seasons when the Cardinals have been, at best, mediocre, and more often deeply disappointing. The current version of the Cardinals does not resemble in any manner the Cardinals of my youth, the Cardinals of Gibson, Brock, and Cepeda in the 1960s, nor the speedy and scrappy Cardinals of the 1980s, and certainly not the teams that produced over two decades of mostly first-rate baseball starting in 2000.

My love of the Cardinals generally precludes me from praising another team. It is a defect in character, I know, but ask any passionate fan to look objectively at the opposition and you will get disgruntled mumbling in return. So, it is with trepidation that I tip my hat to the Milwaukee Brewers.

As I write, there are five days remaining in the 2025 season, and the Brewers have the best record in all of baseball. Yes, better than the Philadelphia Phillies and Los Angeles Dodgers in the National League, and far better than the Toronto Blue Jays, New York Yankees or any team trying to distinguish itself in the American League. The common denominator for each of those teams is a massive payroll. Those teams pay their players, especially a few select superstars, big-time money. The Brewers, on the other hand, have the 23^rd lowest payroll in the major leagues. The Brewers’ payroll is almost $200 million less than the New York Mets ($323 million), who are hanging by a very thin thread in the Wild Card pennant chase, holding a one game lead over the Reds and Diamondbacks with four games to play. Only seven teams have a lower payroll than the Brewers. Heck, the Brewers spend less money on their players than the Colorado Rockies, who have the worst record in the major leagues and will be lucky to win 45 games all season.

Outside of Milwaukee, most people – even earnest baseball fans – cannot name three players on the Brewers. Go ahead, try it. This is a team without superstars. The Dodgers have Ohtani, Freeman, and Betts. In fact, they have an entire roster of All-Star caliber players. The Phillies have Harper, Schwarber, and Turner. They play with bravado and confidence and bring a dangerous combination of sluggers and crafty pitchers that fill the opposition with anxiety and dread.

The Brewers? Their top players are guys with names like Turang (is that a soft drink?), Chourio (bless you), Frelick (who?), and Yelich (is he still playing?). I only know of William Contreras because his brother Willson plays for the Cardinals. Their third baseman is Caleb Durbin (enough said). One of their best starting pitchers is Quinn Priester, who I might have told you until a few weeks ago was most likely the name of a Catholic seminary student. I mean, this is an entire roster of “players to be named later.”

Since 2017, the Brewers have consistently finished at or near the top of their division. Only the Dodgers, Yankees, and Astros have won more games than the Brewers in that time. And yet, they are never mentioned by the professional baseball analysts and reporters as a team to watch during pre-season predictions. No one takes them seriously. This season was no different, with most analysts predicting the Cubs to win the NL Central. Yet here we are. The Brewers have won more games than any other team in baseball as the Cubs sit quietly in second place, 6.5 games back.

How do the Brewers do it? By playing solid, fundamental baseball. They do not swing at pitches outside the strike zone (only four teams have struck out fewer times than the Brewers) and they get on base (only five teams have more walks than the Brewers). They play superb defense, run the bases well, are almost always in the game and find a variety of ways to win. They make contact, steal bases, advance the runners, and play small ball while also hitting home runs. Although they will not outslug anyone (they rank 20^th in total home runs), they have one of the best-ranked offenses in the major leagues, as only two teams in baseball have scored more runs than the Brewers. At the same time, they have the second-lowest team earned run average in the major leagues.

As the manager of the Durham Bulls said in one of my all-time favorite movies, baseball “is a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball. You got it?” The Brewers score a lot of runs without giving up a lot of runs. That’s a pretty good combination. And they do it without much chest pumping and flamboyance.

Baseball is a wonderful game in part because it is so difficult. The more I watch baseball, the more I am convinced that hitting major league pitching is the most demanding thing to do in sports. As Willie Stargell said about hitting, "They give you a round bat, and they throw you a round ball, and then they tell you to hit it square." Hank Aaron, one of the greatest hitters of all time, said “it took me seventeen years to get 3,000 hits in baseball, and I did it in one afternoon on the golf course." The Brewers hit the ball well up and down their lineup. Sal Frelick (.291, 12 HRs), Brice Turang (.284, 18 HRs), Jackson Chourio (.270, 20 HRs), Christian Yelich (.266, 29 HRs, 102 RBIs), William Contreras (.262, 17 HRs), and Caleb Durbin (.262, 11 HRs) provide a steady drumbeat of offense without much fanfare. None of these guys knock your socks off but what the Brewers lack in superstars and MVP candidates, they make up for with their competent work ethic and blue-collar consistency. It is frustratingly impressive.

The Brewers do not sign expensive free agents. Shohei Ohtani and Juan Soto did not even talk with the Brewers when contemplating where to sign in the offseason. As certain as death and taxes, you can take it to the bank that upcoming free agents Kyle Schwarber and Kyle Tucker will not be signing with Milwaukee in the offseason. The Brewers not only have one of the lowest payrolls in baseball, but they also play in the smallest television market in North America. From a marketing perspective, Milwaukee is the opposite of New York and Los Angeles, and you can be certain the executives at Fox Sports and ESPN desperately do not want the Brewers to advance in the playoffs.

The Brewers succeed with a combination of home-grown, young talent from a first-rate farm system, quality minor league instruction and player development, and smart trades, often taking a chance on players that other teams have passed on. Turang and Frelick were first-round draft picks in 2018 and 2021, respectively. Starting pitcher Jacob Misiorowski (how do you spell that?), who routinely hits over 100 mph on his fastball and combines it with ridiculous breaking stuff, was a second-round pick in the Brewers 2022 draft. Contreras (C), Durbin (3B), Priester (RHP), and Chad Patrick (RHP) were each acquired through under-the-radar trades.

Taking an early lead against the Brewers does not mean much. The Brewers have come from behind to win thirty-eight times this season, including five times in the ninth inning. And once the Brewers grab a lead, they are difficult to score against. They have one of the best bullpens in the game and consistently shut down opponents in the late innings. And they have done it with pitchers named Trevor McGill (30 saves, 2.54 ERA), Abner Uribe (1.72), Jared Koenig (6-1, 2.95), and Aaron Ashby (2.24). See what I mean?

Their starting pitching is solid, too, but like everything else about this team, there is no one who causes opponents’ knees to shake. Freddy Peralta (17-6, 2.68) is their ace, but does anyone even mention his name when people talk about the most dominant starting pitchers in the game? The 24-year-old Quinn Priester (13-2, 3.25), who the Brewers acquired from the Red Sox in the offseason, is turning into one of the top pitching talents in the league. Their pitcher with the third most wins (11) is 36-year-old journeyman Jose Quintana, who played for seven other major league clubs before the Brewers acquired him at the start of the 2025 season. No one else has more than seven wins.

Pat Murphy, Manager of the Milwaukee Brewers

Pat Murphy, the Brewers’ likeable manager, spent the first 25 years of his coaching career at the college level, including seven years as head coach for the University of Notre Dame baseball team and fifteen years at Arizona State University. The Brewers took a chance on Murphy, promoting him from bench coach to manager after Craig Counsell, one of the best managers in baseball, left Milwaukee for the Chicago Cubs after the 2023 season. Murphy is a man who loves to joke around and tease his players. It is his way of showing he cares and helps keep the players relaxed in what can be a pressure-filled game. Entering the 2024 season, most baseball analysts predicted the Brewers to finish near the bottom of the NL Central due to Murphy’s lack of managerial experience and the loss of key players from the Brewers’ roster. Ho hum. The Brewers won 93 games in 2024, fourth-most in baseball, and Murphy won NL Manager of the Year honors. So much for predictions.

I do not know how the postseason will work out for the Brewers. Not surprisingly, most analysts predict they will not advance far and almost no one thinks they will win the World Series. It may be that most people still think of Milwaukee as the setting for Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. Ever since millions of Americans watched friends and roommates Laverne DeFazio and Shirley Feeney work as bottle-cappers in the fictitious Shotz Brewery of the late 1950s, the city of Milwaukee is mostly an afterthought. It is after all, only the 40^th largest metropolitan area in the country, which means there are more than a dozen metropolitan areas larger than Milwaukee that do not have a major league team. But anyone who takes them for granted may come to regret it.

I hope the Cardinals front office is taking notice. They are in a needed rebuild period with a new president of baseball operations (Chaim Bloom) taking over this offseason. They would do well to emulate the organizational strengths of the Milwaukee Brewers, their skillful style of play, efficient use of payroll, smart player and instructional development, and a belief that they can win against anyone and prevail in an uphill battle against the odds makers and fancy teams with the big money superstars. The descendants of Laverne and Shirley, Richie Cunningham, and the Fonz will be rooting for them, as will an enthusiastic fan base of a small market city with a rich history. So, here is a reluctant appreciation of the Milwaukee Baseball Club, a tip of the hat from a Cardinals fan wishing you well, even if I cannot cheer with any degree of enthusiasm. Take it while you can, because next season, and every season thereafter, I will be back to disliking you.

Discovering Appalachia Through Fiction

The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between. – Barbara Kingolver, Demon Copperhead 

Kafka once wrote, “In man’s struggle against the world, bet on the world.” In most avenues of life, this is depressingly true, for there are so many things beyond our control. Our life trajectories are mostly determined by the circumstances of our birth, the places we live, and the people we encounter along the way. It is not surprising, then, that these experiences and the cultural influences around us also shape how we perceive people and cultures that are different from our own.

For each of the past 35 years, I have driven by car to visit my mom (and dad until he died in 2015), in western North Carolina. When my dad retired in the early 1990s, my parents relocated from the DC suburbs of northern Virginia to the towns of Etowah, and then Fletcher, in the heart of the Blue Ridge mountains, a part of the Appalachian mountain range. It is a region of majestic beauty, with mountains and trees all around that surround small towns and villages, each with their own quaint character. To get there from Pennsylvania, I drive south on I-81, through a small slice of West Virginia, the Maryland panhandle, and the entire length of Virginia, finally weaving through northeastern Tennessee until I cross over the border of western North Carolina.

Most of the drive is in Appalachia, and as I pass through southwestern Virginia and cross into Tennessee, I witness the rugged beauty of the physical landscape. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of trailer parks, rundown farmhouses, and pockets of poverty nestled into the mountainsides and valleys below. The people here speak with a rural, southern accent, and there is no doubt that some folks I have interacted with at gas stations and mini-marts along the way have historically had the terms “hillbilly” and “hick” applied to them.

For years, this scenic drive provided a brief respite from my busy, more cosmopolitan life in Washington, DC, and Philadelphia, and I often looked wistfully and admiringly at what seemed like a simpler lifestyle in this part of the world. But, if truth be told, I have occasionally harbored pre-conceived and unflattering notions about the people of rural Appalachia, prejudices reflected in snide remarks by an “educated” friend or colleague (or myself) that painted southern rural culture as backwards, bigoted, and unsophisticated. Indeed, if you pay close attention, you will frequently hear such sentiments reflected throughout American higher culture.

Conversely, the educated elites of coastal America are frequently disdained and perceived as arrogant snobs by people from other social classes. It is a stone that flies both ways, a vicious cycle that feeds misunderstanding and America’s political and social divides. But the more you get to know people, spend time with them, and learn about their struggles and life challenges, the more you understand that these stereotypes and assumptions are often false and tell you nothing about the character of the individuals involved.

I have written previously about how an artfully crafted book can help us “experience life from someone else’s shoes. To understand where other people come from, to learn of their dreams and aspirations, their hopes and fears, [and] expose our common humanity.” (See “An Act of Quiet Contemplation: Why Reading Matters”). Concerning Appalachia, I can think of no better example than Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver (Harper Perennial, 2022).

The Pulitzer Prize winning novel, which is modeled after Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, explores themes of child poverty in rural America, the scourge of opioid addiction fueled by the pharmaceutical companies in the 1990s and early 2000s, and the economic and social challenges faced by the people of Appalachia following the decline of the coal industry, tobacco farming, and the timber trade. Kingsolver tells the story brilliantly with great humor and heartbreak. It is one of the best novels I have ever read, and has opened my eyes to the struggles, resilience, and resourcefulness of the people of Appalachia.

Kingsolver’s novel dives deep into the heart of Lee County, in the far southwestern corner of Virginia, which along with parts of eastern Kentucky and Tennessee, make up a section of the country that many have derisively called “flyover country” where the uneducated, uncultured “hicks” of America congregate. Before becoming one of the “cultural elite” as a successful author of ten critically acclaimed novels, Kingsolver was herself born and raised in a small Appalachian town in eastern Kentucky. She understands viscerally the people and culture of the region and knows first-hand the wide-spread and subtle prejudices people from other parts of the country entertain about the people she grew up with (and currently live among).

The protagonist and narrator of Demon Copperhead is Damon Fields, born to a single, teenage mother in a trailer home. We learn quickly that Damon, who everyone calls “Demon,” began life way behind the starting gate, his mother struggling with opioid and alcohol addictions and his father having died by accidental drowning in a local watering hole months earlier. Kingsolver sets Demon’s trajectory early in the novel, describing how Demon was born, fighting his way from his mother’s womb as she lay passed out on the bathroom floor of her mobile home. Demon’s narration implies we should not be surprised how this story progresses:

…If a mother is lying in her own piss and pill bottles while they’re slapping the kid she’s shunted out, telling him to look alive: likely the bastard is doomed. Kid born to the junkie is a junkie. He’ll grow up to be everything you don’t want to know, the rotten teeth and dead-zone eyes, the nuisance of locking up your tools in the garage so they don’t walk off, the rent-by-the-week motel squatting well back from the scenic highway. This kid, if he wanted a shot at the finer things, should have got himself delivered to some rich or smart or Christian, non-using type of mother. Anybody will tell you the born of this world are marked from the get-out, win or lose.

In his early years, Demon spends time with the Peggots, the kind family next door who take Demon in and provide him with stability until his mother recovers sobriety. Later, when Demon is back with his mom, she has married Stoner, a mentally and physically abusive trucker who makes Demon’s life miserable until Demon’s mother dies of an oxycontin overdose. The rest of Demon’s childhood is a tale of survival and neglect; of an overburdened child protection agency that places him in exploitative and abusive foster homes, his case assigned and re-assigned to social service workers who are underpaid and overworked and who lose files and don’t conduct proper follow-up. “I thought my life couldn’t get any worse,” he says at the age of ten. “Here’s some advice: Don’t ever think that.”

Demon’s first placement is at Creaky Farm, owned by a cranky and neglectful tobacco farmer who takes in foster kids for the $500 monthly payments from the state, which he uses to pay his debts while barely feeding the kids and making them work for free (and miss school) tending to his small tobacco farm, a dangerous and backbreaking form of hard labor that I knew nothing about until reading this book. A year later, the state places Demon with the McCobbs, a neglectful family that has Demon sleep in the dog’s room in the basement. Mr. McCobb insists that Demon must help with expenses (he is eleven), and he finds work for Demon at a local gas station, whose owner lets Demon snack on the junk food and hot dogs in the station mini-mart. But Demon’s labor is needed for the garbage disposal business run behind the station. Demon’s job is to dig through the dirty, filthy trash bags in the dumpsters to salvage anything that could be useful or valuable for the operators of a suspected meth lab next door. When Demon later discovers that his foster parents have been keeping all of Demon’s money earned at the gas station, he steals the money back and runs away.

Although much of the story is dark and depressing (made more so because you really care about and root for Demon), it contains doses of wry humor. In an implicit nod to David Coppefield, Demon references Charles Dickens, an author he discovered in school. Dickens, he says, is “one seriously old guy, dead and a foreigner, but Christ Jesus did he get the picture on kids and orphans getting screwed over and nobody giving a rat’s ass. You’d think he was from around here.”

And there are moments of hope and uplift when Demon is finally getting his life on track. When he runs away from the McCobbs, he makes it (after being robbed along the way) to Murder Valley, Tennessee, the birthplace of his father,  whom he never met and knew little about. There, we meet Demon’s paternal grandmother, Betsy Woodall, a hardy, no-nonsense woman who lives with her disabled brother Dick, a kind and wise man who bonds with Demon. Betsy passionately believes in education and, upon learning of Demon’s circumstances, contacts the football coach of the Lee High Generals, who agrees to take Demon in and look after him. So, back to Lee County Demon goes. Although Coach is a flawed man and struggles with alcoholism, he has a nice house with a housekeeper and recognizes Demon’s potential as a football player.

High school football, as anyone who knows anything about America, is all the rage in southwestern Virginia (and throughout the south and Midwest), and for a brief couple of years, Demon becomes the star tight end for the high school football team. He is no longer society’s loser. He becomes popular and, for once in his life, is someone who counts. But when Demon severely injures his knee playing football during his sophomore year, the team doctor puts him on oxycontin to help with the pain. “What’s an oxy,” Demon asked the doctor. Back then, Big Pharma was marketing oxy as a shiny new miracle drug.

OxyContin, God’s gift for the laid-off deep-hole man with his back and neck bones grinding like bags of gravel. For the bent-over lady pulling double shifts at Dollar General with her shot knees and ADHD grandkids to raise by herself. For every football player with some of this or that torn up, and the whole world riding on his getting back in the game. This was our deliverance. The tree was shaken and yes, we did eat of the apple.

Before long, Demon becomes addicted to pain killers, an addiction not at all helped by his girlfriend, Dori, whom he met while working at her father’s farm store. What starts out as a sweet high school romance soon develops into a darker story of mutual addiction, as Dori’s own abuse of fentanyl and other drugs propels Demon in an even worse direction, until they are both hard core drug addicts. For me, this was where I had to put down the book occasionally, as Kingsolver credibly describes the sickness and suffering an addict goes through, and the resulting desperation to do what is necessary (i.e., finding a new supply of pills) to alleviate the sickness and pain. The drug high becomes irrelevant and leads eventually to tragic consequences.

Somehow, Demon survives against the odds, for buried within his soul was a hint of optimism: “I got up every day thinking the sun was out there shining, and it could just as well shine on me as any other human person.” And that may be the most inspiring aspect of the novel, a tale of resilience, resourcefulness, and survival. Demon, who could have given up and drowned in the ocean of neglect, abuse, addiction, and self-inflicted wounds, somehow stays afloat, reaches shore, and lives to talk about it.

Throughout the story, Demon’s biggest obstacle in life is his lack of self-esteem. “You get to a point of not giving a damn over people thinking you’re worthless,” he says at one point in the novel. “Mainly by getting there first yourself.” He considered himself a “low life” in part because he had heard messages all his life telling him that he and others like him were society’s losers. When people call you a “hick” and “redneck” and laugh at you enough times, you begin to believe it. “You get used to it, not in the good way,” says Demon, as the world oftentimes feels “like a place where you weren’t invited.” But Demon offers a word of advice: “This is what I would say if I could, to all the smart people of the world with their dumb hillbilly jokes. …We can actually hear you.” 

Although Demon correctly perceives America’s condescending derision, he is wrong about his own worth. Fortunately, there are people at various points in Demon’s life who see his full potential as a human being and try, with differing degrees of success and failure along the way, to help him. The novel introduces us to terrific characters that show the rich diversity of Appalachia. Demon gains the notice of two teachers, Lewis and Annie Armstrong, an interracial couple who take a liking to him. Lewis Armstrong is a highly educated Black man from Chicago who teaches middle school English. He first came to Appalachia as part of the Volunteers in Service to America (VISTA) program, where he met Annie, a “hippie” high school art teacher who recognizes Demon’s exceptional talents as a comic sketch artist. Ironically, Mr. Armstrong attempts to teach the middle school kids about the history of the region (one tidbit I did not know: Lee County fought for the Union during the Civil War) to help them counteract the stereotypes and ridicule that are societally apportioned to Appalachia’s mostly poor, white students. Annie, meanwhile, nurtures and develops Demon’s gifts as an artist, and recognizes his potential for greatness.

We also get to know the coach’s daughter, Angus, a wise soul who avoids all the bad temptations and influences of the high school while taking her education seriously, and she offers Demon positive encouragement and support, becoming his most trusted friend. There is also Tommy Waddell, a fellow orphan who Demon first meets at Creaky Farm, a kind and gentle boy who reads books and shows Demon what resilience and self-reliance are all about, eventually becoming a copy editor at the local newspaper. Finally, the conscience of the novel is the Peggots’ daughter, June Peggot, an intelligent and resolute nurse who resists the irresponsibility and criminality of the pharmaceutical industry’s drug pushing and the medical establishment’s complicity. June has witnessed far too many overdoses, suicides, and fatal accidents as an emergency nurse in Lee County and repeatedly warns, mostly to deaf ears, about the dangers of opioids.

Kingsolver writes credibly about the horrific struggles of opioid addiction and the troubled state of child protection services, with overworked and underpaid case workers. The system’s failures result in thousands of children in need overlooked and forgotten, and nobody seems to care. These are real problems that continue to persist today. She explains how Purdue Pharma targeted and exploited Appalachia to push OxyContin and fentanyl, intentionally taking advantage of a region where people were frequently injured and in pain due to work-related injuries from mining coal, farming tobacco, and other back breaking labor.

But Kingsolver also helps us better understand a region that values community, resourcefulness, and neighbors who look after each other. When someone dies, neighbors chip in, make meals, and give shelter to those in need. Women get together and make quilts for girls who are pregnant. Everyone knows everyone else, and for all its bad connotations, they know when someone is hurting.

In David Copperfield, Dickens’ protagonist had asked “whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life.” In Demon Copperhead, Kingsolver suggests that, when you are a child born into a life without choices, being a hero consists simply of surviving against all odds. In the end, Demon Copperhead is a hopeful story, best summed up by Demon’s resilience:

I've tried in this telling, time and time again, to pinpoint the moment where everything starts to fall apart. Everything, meaning me. But there's also the opposite, where some little nut cracks open inside you and a tree starts to grow. Even harder to nail. Because that thing's going to be growing a long time before you notice. Years maybe. Then one day you say, Huh, that little crack between my ears has turned into this whole damn tree of wonderful.

It would be difficult to imagine anyone coming away from this book without a heightened sense of empathy and compassion for those born without the advantages that many of us take for granted. Although a piece of fiction, Demon Copperhead allowed me to feel more connected to the common humanity all of us share. The need for empathy to better understand and relate to the people of Appalachia applies equally to the struggling poor of our inner cities, to the undocumented immigrants trying to survive in a version of America hostile to their existence, and to the many broken communities throughout the United States that have lost their way, victimized by globalization, the loss of manufacturing, rising inequality, and all of the things that leave some people behind while the rest of us go on with our lives. Before we judge others too harshly, we should strive first to understand from where they come, the challenges they face, and the struggles they have overcome.