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University Daily Kansan, July 29; 1983
Opinion
Ruling fixes sticky mess
We're always being told that baseball is a game of inches. A pitcher may just miss the strike zone, or a batted ball drops just inside the foul line.
George Brett and the Kansas City Royals are involved in a new twist to this game of inches — how far can the pine tar be on the bat and what should the umpires do about it.
In last Friday's game against the New York Yankees, Brett hit a two-out, two-run homer to put the Royals ahead 5-4. But Billy Martin, Yankees' manager, came out to talk with the umpires. Maybe Brett missed a base and Martin was bringing this blunder to the umpire's attention. No, it had to do with the amount of pine tar on Brett's bat.
The official rules, in part, state: "The bat handle, for not more than 18 inches from the end, may be covered or treated with any material to improve the grip." Unfortunately, Brett's bat did indeed have more than 18 inches of pine tar.
This being the case, the rules state that the bat should be removed from the game. The umpires in this case
also included another rule. "A batter is out for illegal action when he uses or attempts to use a bat that, in the ampire's judgement, has been altered or tampered with in such a way to improve the distance or cause an unusual reaction on the baseball."
We do not believe that a hitter of Brett's caliber needs a substance to improve his batting average. It would also appear that American League President Lee MacPhail thinks the same. Yesterday, MacPhail upheld the Royal's protest of the game.
Instead of a loss, the game has been suspended and will be made up at a later date.
It would be too easy to put the blame on the umpires, or think that the umpires had it in for the Royals. In this case, the umpires based their decision on how they interpreted the rules. It should be remembered that the game is based on judgment as well as skill and inches.
We would like to think that the rules will be clarified on this matter. A game should be won or lost because of the ability of the teams involved.
Stateside visit filled with ups, downs
The past two years at the University of Kansas went by a shot. They were the fastest two years of my life and now I'm equipped with a degree and am homeward bound.
It seems that I landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York City just a few months ago, eager for an enriching and rewarding experience. I can remember feeling lost in the hustle and bustle of the airport, faced with unhelpful TWA officials. The air controllers' strike was at its peak and my flight to Kansas City had been cancelled. I was confronted with having to find shelter for the night in the big city of New York.
Making an SOS call to a friend seemed like a momentous task because I didn't know how to use the pay phones. I was still getting used to American money. Hailing a taxi forced images of mugging, rape and plain old murder through my mind. But it all worked out in the end and I am now living in New York, driving through Manhattan and enjoying the lights from the Empire State building.
It has been a learning experience ever since. All on my own, in a land, 7,000 miles away, I think I have done well for myself. From the frightened foreign stage, I quickly graduated to a state of more confidence. The butterflies in my stomach appeared as I wisered up to the ways of life here.
Traveling to a different country does that to you. You are forced to learn things about yourself and there is no family to hide behind.
You learn quickly and you learn well. The initial weeks of every foreign student are the most difficult. Feeling extremely homeick and alone in this wide world, students go through the why-dl-come-here stage. A few disappointments only reinforce the feeling.
Frequent visits to the Foreign Student Office in Strong Hall help. At first it seems that they are the only set of officials who understand your plight and whom you can trust. To find solace,
SEEMA SIROHI
foreign students often turn to others from their own country. Having found the right clique, they feel slightly more at ease. Life soon becomes a busy cycle of trying to open a bank account, gathering security number, making regular visits to the job board in Strong Hall and writing letters home.
Once out of this phase, I started to enjoy life a little more. Classes and grades became an acceptable part of days at KU and all the pressure and stress made the weekends something to look forward to. The awe of being in one of the top journalism schools subsided and
the erudite professors walking the corridors of
that Hall have more accessible. And thus
they are depicted by Fy.
I remember spending my first Christmas in America in that North Pole they mistakenly refer to as Minneapolis. Having never been to the Himalayas in the winter at home, tackling Minnesota weather in December almost bordered on adventure. Many inches of snow and a frozen Mississippi were just some of the buildings built for it, as part of the Minnesota initiation rites. Thankfully, a big Christmas feast awaited my "damped" spirits.
While traveling within the United States, I met some of the most memorable people. I remember the couple from Missouri who saved us in the Smokey Mountains by letting us camp in their camping area. Our food had been stolen by bears and they not only fed us but they also ate our vegetables. We exchanged facts about India on the way and parted with a promise to correspond.
Those promises to correspond are accumulating as time draws near to leave KU, which was home for two years. I tried desperately to capture people and moments on film but, like all imitations, it won't be the "real thing." Photographs are merely an appendage to a higher feeling, and friends and experiences here will always remain a part of my future.
Leaving America means another beginning in my life and I am looking forward to it.
Mr. Moneybags isn't welcome in this bank
By FRED FERGUSON
United Press International
NEW YORK — When the banks won't take your money, it must mean something.
It's not paranoid. We just don't think they reduct't
want our money. They're really拒到 tau.
tai.
Take what happened the other day. We were in trouble from the start. The guard watched with acute suspicion. We were lugging this big plastic bag.
He kept watching during the writing of a deposit slip and the slip to the teller's cage. The contents of that plastic shopping bag — actually two, one inside the other because of the
weight — were plopped on the counter in front of the teller. Trump, thump, thump.
Our favorite friendly people's bank teller let a uplift before filing off to check on us at the bank.
"Harry," she said to the guard, "why do you do this to me? Didn't you see what he was talking about?"
She counted: 19 rolls pennies — $9.50; 10 rolls nickels — $20; 4 rolls dimes — $20; 3 rolls quarters — $30. In all, $79.50, the product of a lot of careful hardening.
"You shouldn't do this," she went on. "You're hurting circulation."
said. "We'll have to debit you if it comes out wrong."
The experience left us with a feeling we should try another method. Perhaps we should buy something with all that money we occasionally bring the bank. But we've tried that before. It upsets cashiers. They don't like our kind of money any more than bank tellers.
Eventually, our deposit book was returned almost reluctantly. The fact it showed a higher balance, after all, might encourage such an action. But inadmision about coming in earlier next time.
"You know we can't count this today," she
We felt hurt.
Slowly an idea is dawning. Our money must not be the right kind. Only paper money is in our hands. Money is a tool.
Unexpected note from I.R.S. sends taxpayer into a panic
I'm not at all sure that some of our governmental bodies are performing as well as they could, or should. Now that may seem like a generally noted observation. And, indeed, it would be impossible for all of the organizations, groups, etc., within the government to work perfectly.
On the other hand, some instances are ridiculous.
The other day I received a rather serious-looking envelope which caused me to panic — not only the size, but the contents.
WARREN BRIDGES
rather, panic because the return address read,
"Internal Revenue Service."
I am not a millionaire, for that matter, even a thousandaire. In fact, the occasion is rare that I receive an amount more than $100,000.
My assets include a car, if it can be called
I've named it Pokey. The name more than
speaks.
I also own a stereo system. The repairmen also seem to like it, as they often see more of it than I do.
So why would the IRS be interested in me?
In a kind of frightening, grudging manner, I openly
suggest that I should be
"The first two words I noticed were "incorrect"
and "missing."
and "missing."
This didn't appear to be just another random questionnaire about how I feel about paying taxes. That would have been simple.
The letter went on to say something about a problem with something in my file. That could be bad news or good news. Perhaps it caught on the headline and somehow became switched with a millionaire's.
tax return for money I never made or owe a huge amount of money I don't have.
I figured either I was going to receive a huge
"Please help us verify your name." "Now that made a lot of sense. The IRS seemed confident enough of my name in the past to make it happen within a portion of my paychecks twice a month.
But the most odd thing was that the envelope which I received, directly from the IRS, had my name on it.
"In the box below marked Correction Information, enter your . . . name, and any former names."
That's easy enough. My parents gave me only one name at the time of my birth.
In an effort to find out, I called the toll-free number listed in the letter, apparently for people who face such dilemmas.
The letter also asked for something I didn't quite understand — my "taxpayer identifying number." I wonder if I didn't give it to them, whether I would no longer be considered a taxpayer, which would mean that I wouldn't have to pay taxes.
After receiving a busy signal for an entire day, I was ready to toast the form where I thought it would be.
But there was something quite important looking about this particular letter, so I called the number the next day and, surprisingly, received an answer.
The sweet-sounding voice at the other end of the line told me the form was, indeed, important.
But when I asked her what the IRS did with the number, she said she did not know. I can understand that. I mean, just because she answers a toll-free number, designed to answer questions, is certainly no reason for her to know what the IRS does with "taxpayer identification numbers," or as I later discovered, Social Security numbers.
Now that would have been easy. They should have just asked for it.
As for my name, well, I hope they get that
right. I'd hate to get someone else's tax return.
Turn the page, take a sip and drive
The man in the next car is drumming on the steering wheel as we wait for the light at 9th and Iowa, southbound. His stereo is so loud I can hear it through the closed, tinted windows of his Cordoba. It is playing Wagner's "Ride of the Valyries."
ed, air-conditioned world and is about to spruft Viking horns out of his head.
The man is dangerous. He is in his own seclud-
HARRY MALLIN
The light turns green and he cracks his whip on the backs of his horses. The man is a nomadic hero, off to save Brunhilda and get his oil changed.
It's amazing how four panes of glass can close
us off from reality. Behind their mock safety, we play with our noses, sing along with Milech and the rest of the band.
Haven't we all done it? Grooming activities we'd never do in public, we perform at a stoplight without batting an eye. Some people who wouldn't dare harm the National Anthem at a Royal's game, belt out "Cat Scratch Fever" as it comes on the radio of their Nova.
I've seen it all. A lady next to me in her Subaru is watching "Days of our Livet" on a small, dashboard-mounted television. She is applying eye makeup with one hand, drinking coffee out of a Renee traveler's mug in the other hand and using it with her knee. At least I hope she's steering.
The man in the Volkswagen on my left is reading "War and Peace." He is munching on a doughnut in his left hand and I can see a small crab in his mouth acutely on the edge of his seat between his feet.
I hate to think what the man behind me in the back truck is doing. Was that my imagination or a real life?
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