Ray Brinzer

It seems worth mentioning that there is a very long Ask Ray Brinzer Anything discussion going over at the OpenMat Wrestling Forum. It’s like being interviewed by the Hydra; I answer one question, and two more pop up to take its place. As a result, I’ve been slow to post here, recently.

The questions have been good, and the format has forced me to write a good deal that I’ve been meaning to write; I’ll clean up some of the answers, and re-post them here. But for all I’ve written, it’s still a small part of what I really want to get across about wrestling. Too much of what is written about coaching consists of details, and too little of ideas.

In need of a joke, I checked to see what special day it was, today. At this point, every day of the calendar is something-day; while only a few of these are national holidays, and some others Federal Observances, many others are recognized by a state or local government, or simply announced by some organization. Yesterday was Arbor Day in Nebraska, for instance; but one may also find various claims that it was National Jelly Bean Day, as decided by… well, people who sell jelly beans, one presumes. And tomorrow is National Hairball Awareness Day… but of course, you knew that.

Today, however was William Shakespeare’s (roughly) 445th birthday, as well as Talk Like Shakespeare Day, by no less an authority than that of the mayor of Chicago (PDF). The day has its own website, which is certainly the mark of a significant occasion.

Anyway the site lists some simple tips on how to speak like Shakespeare; and while you might quibble with a few of them, this one is simply bad:

Men are Sirrah, ladies are Mistress, and your friends are all called Cousin.

People often take “sirrah” as a quaint form of “sir”… but it isn’t quite. “Sirrah” is used to address one’s inferior, or to insult a man by suggesting that he’s beneath you. Going about calling men “sirrah” all day is rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. This is a surprising misuse, as the site seems to be the work of the Chicago Shakespeare Theater.

Pardon the density of what follows; it’s not possible to write briefly of something like this without presuming some background knowledge on the part of the reader. It should be possible to presume a great deal less, in my opinion… but I hope to write of that later.

On Tuesday, the Supreme Court handed down Arizona v. Gant, a search-and-seizure ruling. The matter came up in conversation, as the majority was unusual: Stevens, Scalia, Souter, Thomas, and Ginsburg. So I went off to look at the decision. And lo! Scalia wrote a concurring opinion. The opinion was short, and and reasonably light, so I read it.
These words lept from the page: Read more »

It seems Pat Toomey is challenging Arlen Specter again in the Republican primary for the US Senate. Specter survived this challenge in 2004 by a hair. George W. Bush came to Pennsylvania to campaign for him in the Republican primaries, which was really the final straw for me; I voted Libertarian for president that year.

Pat Toomey is best known as a fiscal conservative. He actually seems serious about controlling spending, rather than just cutting taxes and keeping up a deficit, which goes a long way in my book. Possibly he’d even vote to support free enterprise, rather than to protect big business, though that’s a flight of real optimism.

I can’t wait to find out he’s actually a blockhead… probably a dreadful moralist, and I just don’t know it yet. It seems destined to happen. Still, so far, pimping marshmallow peeps on the floor of the House seems to be the worst of it. That’s ridiculous, but ultimately trivial.

Specter, for his part, wants to solve the problem by moving to open Republican primaries in Pennsylvania. That’s virtually enough said all by itself; consulting his dismal voting record is overkill.

This is a no-brainer for me. If Toomey wins the primary, the incumbent goes away no matter what happens in the general election. That really needs to happen. Republicans are talking about a new direction, but without new people it’s just talk.

Of course, it’s probably just talk with new people.

Due to the overwhelming response to We Are Seven (and the fact that I wanted to post something today, but didn’t get around to writing it), I am moved to offer another favorite poem of mine, The Skeleton in Armor.

It is interesting to note this poem was inspired by the discovery of a remarkable skeleton in Massachusetts, in 1832. Regrettably, it probably wasn’t that of a Viking… Read more »

One of the very persistent stories about me involves my missing, or almost missing, an important match because I was playing a video game. There were actually two occasions where something interesting along those lines happened. I recently wrote up one of them in response to a question on on a web forum, so I’m reprinting it here. I’ll try to write up the other one soon.

My last match at states, in 9th grade (1986), was for 5th place. I spent the time between matches playing Gauntlet, and though it allowed you to continue by adding quarters, I never did; I was more interested in seeing how far I could get on one.

So, I was out in the hall playing, and doing rather well, when Scott DeAugustino, our assistant coach and the son of our head coach, Gus DeAugustino, came to find me. “Ray,” he said, “you’re coming up on mat” whatever-it-was. They hadn’t called me yet, though, and I knew I had a reasonable amount of time even after they did, so I said, “Okay, thanks,” and kept playing. Scotty stared at me for a moment, and left.

After a bit he came back and said something along the lines of, “Gus wants you to get ready for your match.” I told him I’d be ready; he left again. I’d been wrestling since second grade, and had been to God-knows-how-many tournaments, so this wasn’t really a new thing for me. I knew what I was doing. Besides, I didn’t really think much of taking 5th.

About a minute later, the screen suddenly flashed off, leaving that little dot in the center which lasts awhile on old monitors. I looked up in surprise, and there was Gus with the plug in his hand. He turned me around and shoved me all the way down the hall, screaming incoherently; the only thing I actually remember was “get out there” several times.

So, I got to my corner… early. They called me to the mat. I jogged in place a bit, to show I was warming up. The match before mine ended. I went out. I pinned the guy. Without saying anything, I think I made it clear on my way back that I wasn’t too happy with what had happened.

It took Gus awhile to understand that I didn’t need to get all worked up before a match, as he did, in order to be effective. He didn’t bother me about that sort of thing the next year, though.

Our place in Manhattan is on the 31st floor of an apartment building. So when we get in the elevator, we push the “32″ button.

Why? Because some people consider the number 13 to be unlucky. So, as with many buildings, the 13th floor gets the number 14, and the rest are adjusted accordingly.

Well, guess what? I consider it unlucky to live on a mis-numbered floor! That makes a lot more sense to me. How about my luck?

What about the luck of all the people living on the upper 18 floors? Quite possibly over half the people in the building are living considerably worse lives than they otherwise would have, suffering needless misfortunes brought on by this numerical travesty. And the irony is: the people living on the 13th story are living on a mis-numbered floor, too!

And this is happening all across America! The toll in human misery is almost incalculable (just like those confounded word problems from math class). A class-action lawsuit cannot arise quickly enough.

While there are numerous potential remedies for this, I favor re-naming the 13th floor “M”, after the 13th letter of the alphabet. Buildings with mezzanines would simply use the synonym entresol instead, and the corresponding elevator button would be labeled “E”. Thus we manage to be educational and lucky at the same time.

The other night, a friend mentioned a desire to write about “the beautiful things in the world”. The first thing which came to my mind, as I thought about it, was this poem, one of my favorites. Read more »

Exhibit A: My son, Johannes, age 2.

On the whole, I am somewhat surprised that people allow me to talk to their children, much less coach them.

By way of InstaPundit, a quote from Dean Steacy, one of Canadia’s Human Rights Commissioners:

Freedom of speech is an American concept, so I don’t give it any value.

As Canada’s Commission on Human Rights is the same body which summons magazine publishers to hearings over distasteful cartoons, Mr. Steacy is to be applauded for his consistency. The right to prevent people from saying what one finds objectionable has a champion up north.

At any rate, this is quite flattering, though an American might sometimes wish we did a better job of earning such unintended praise. But by this point in history, freedom of speech is certainly no longer a distinctly American concept, but one of the hallmarks of civilized nations. Despite their continued tolerance of the CHRC, I have faith that this includes Canada.