Americans say it was their politician, Mario Cuomo, who first said ‘you campaign in poetry, govern in prose’, and we won’t deny them their glory for one of theirs making such a real statement. When one seeks a leadership position, one has to woo those who will vote, but after the ballots are counted, it is no longer about seeking to be loved, it’s about trying your best to deliver on the promises you made.
I’m doing so much reading of late that I can’t recall where I read a piece about parents and teachers who want to lead in poetry. Beginning with teachers, let’s say that all students want to be teacher’s pet, but teachers have to be firm with students if they try to get too close. You’ve heard about play wid puppy, puppy lick yu lip. Teachers have to encourage students, show them compassion when they are down, but the relationship must always be at arm’s length.
Parents that roll over for children, spare the rod when their child deserves a lashing, they are imparting wrong lessons. We all want our children to love us, but we shouldn’t beg them to do so. Children are commanded to love their parents, and there should be no debate about that. Whatever our parents are, without them, the physical, we aren’t. Naturally, it helps our children if they love us, but we’ve got to be tough. The Good Book says, don’t spare that rod.
Ah, political leaders. For now I’ll just say that leaders have to make tough decisions, so they will lose popularity during the main governing phase of their term in office. If they are fair, and perceived to be honest, people will give them the space to get the job done.
When leaders are soft, want to be friendly, people who have philistinic tendencies run over them. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, because people should pay for their sins, but unfortunately the trampling of the nice leader extends way beyond their personal business.
You know that in Belize, maybe not only in our country, there are leaders who confuse the country’s assets with their own/their party’s. I’m about to get in too deep here, so I’m cutting out, for now. A parent is called to give their best to raise their children right, a teacher is called to maintain good discipline, and government leaders have to be tough, because the assets don’t belong to them, they belong to us.
P.S. I wrote this generic piece on Monday. On the Channel 7 newscast Wednesday night, I heard the tail end of a beef people’s champion Mr. Petillo has with my nephew, the Deputy PM. My piece is a very wide broom, so it could be construed that I have a little innards there. Today, Thursday at 8:00 a.m., I do not.
Football boxers
In my youth, I loved football, but after some of my heroes got into boxing at Henry Young’s Big Bird’s Isle, I trekked over there some Sunday mornings to watch the fisticuffs. Boxing was popular those days, and the unpopular Deputy Prime Minister, Lindy Rogers, was one of the stars. The government owned the only radio station in the country, but if there was private radio, Lindy would still have gotten the nod.
Before I tell you more about the great side of Mr. Lindy, let me tell you the bad that I remember about him. He dumped the NIP, left us for the PUP. He broke up the nurses’ strike at the old hospital. I believe he hired scabs to do them in. He was in charge of the truncheon-wielding paramilitary unit. Now, let me write of that good thing about the brother. Lindy Rogers loved sports, he had a great voice, as good as any of the world-famous ring sportscasters, and he knew his boxing. In boxing season, no Sunday morning was complete until some overmatched warrior got clocked and the very colorful Lindy spiritedly announced to the world: “It’s all over; it’s all over.”
The most exciting boxing class, at least for me, was the local heavyweights. I don’t think any of our football guys would have been over light heavyweight, but Gilly Dunn, Joseph “Hurricane Bowza” Stallard, Thor Middleton, and Charlie Good were our big boys. I had a special place in my heart for Bowza, but that was before he joined Landivar, the arch-rival of my favorite team, Independence. Thor was a favorite because he played for Diamond A, a club my older brothers were associated with. Charlie Good was the man between the sticks for Police, the paramilitary, so he wasn’t in my good books. I was in Gilly Dunn’s “corner,” because he once played for Independence.
The footballers who were into boxing might have been fighting for more than pugilistic excitement; they might have been after a buck. There was not a legal red cent to be made from playing football, because there were men at the top of the sport who couldn’t think beyond what was, a status quo that served men with jobs who were completely content with their earnings. We can say we were brought up by our colonial masters to accept our lot. I will say that Belize has produced many interesting minds, none more so than the ones who insisted that grown men play ball, only for fun.
Boxing is a sport for rough and tumble guys, but I never had an inclination to go there. I’ve looked at boxers, and I’ve concluded that the most important asset is a big neck. My younger brother, Ron, who ran track at Notre Dame, told me that the athletes in his field marveled at how the necks of young athletes on their football team (American football) grew with their specialized strength training. If you know anything about that football, the head is an especially endangered part of the anatomy from whistle to whistle, hence the big helmets they wear.
I had a good reason for never contemplating getting in the ring. I couldn’t know if the first punch to my face would knock me out, but I knew that it would make my tears flow, and then I would get very, very angry. The late Blaka Bradley and I were the burly boys in Standard One, and, naturally, we had to face off when school closed for the long holiday. In those days, boys fought only with their God-given tools, so the only real danger to knock-out-the-bomb-and-touch-the-man was the ego.
Ah, when I returned from long holiday, my little friends informed me that Blaka had been boxing on Big Bird’s Isle. I’ve always thought I nearly failed first term in Standard Two because I was put in a class with girls who had breasts, but maybe I was also leery of Blaka, who was a trained fighter now. Hmm, the good news about that is that not long after school re-opened his parents transferred him to another school, ending that danger.
Oh, I also caught measles and chicken pox in first term, and not coming into this world with the best immune system to deal with respiratory illnesses, I was always having things. But I insist the problem was breasts. I bet if you met any of my old boy school pals, they’d tell you about the same excitement—breasts.
Incidentally, my memory bank says it was Thor who knocked out Charlie Good, cock cold. The referee counted to ten, and Charlie was still out. Then, when the referee went to the center of the ring to hold up Thor’s hand, the formality for victory, Charlie Good sprang up from the canvas and started bouncing around the ring, shadow boxing. He was incredulous when the referee told him the match was…It’s all over; it’s all over!