In the past couple of weeks, Carey and I rewatched the recent film versions of The Lord of the Rings. I love the values of fellowship, sacrifice, valor, standing for what is good, and hope that these stories display. Within the first thirty minutes of The Fellowship of the Ring, I thought, my kids will know these stories. Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Eowyn, and Gandalf will be household names.

Returning to The Lord of the Rings has been more than a reunion with some of my favorite stories; watching the films has also connected me with my father. For the vast majority of my life, I could not think of J. R. R. Tolkien’s masterpieces without thinking of my father. He read the trilogy while as a student at NC State. My mother bought him nice, leather bound editions of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit for one of their early anniversaries. My brother and I watched the Rankin/Bass cartoon version of The Hobbit often as children. I would pull down Dad’s green hardback book and fold out the copy of the moon map to follow along with Bilbo’s adventures onscreen. In high school I finally read The Hobbit and loved it immensely. During the Memorial Day weekend of my sophomore year, our family stayed at our friends’ cabin at Shaver Lake. Dad and I discussed the chapter “Riddles in the Dark” as we grilled dinner one dusk. When I expressed my amazement of the imagination behind Tolkien’s creation of Gollum, Dad, with the knowledge of the wonder before me, quietly said, “Just wait until you read the trilogy. Gollum’s written even better there.” Dad never wore his emotions on his sleeve like I do, but when he felt excited about something, he expressed it in his unique way. I could sense his gladness that I was reading some of his favorite stories and that we could share our experiences. Later that year, my parents went away on a day trip to the California coast and stopped in Cambria. Dad returned and presented me a small, pewter figurine of Gollum you see on the right from The Soldier Gallery. It has sat on my various desks in high school, college, seminary, and today.

I also find the connection between Dad and The Lord of the Rings sealed within the story itself. In The Fellowship of the Ring, when Frodo awakes in Rivendell after enduring the Ringwraiths’ attack and escaping them at the Ford of Bruinen, this exchange takes place.

“Where am I, and what is the time?” [Frodo] said aloud to the ceiling.

“In the house of Elrond, and it is ten o’clock in the morning,” said a voice. “It is the morning of October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”

“Gandalf!” cried Frodo, sitting up. There was the old wizard, sitting in a chair by the open window.

Dad was born on October 24, 1942. The fact that both the novel and film versions of The Lord of the Rings so prominently mention the date October 24 always brings smiles to my family. It seems fitting that our family’s original and biggest Middle Earth fan would somehow make his way into the story.

As we watched the films, thoughts and emotions concerning my father came to me in waves. (Spoilers lie ahead, but I assume most know the stories by now.) I have never witnessed a more evocative piece of mourning on film than the scene following the Fellowship’s escape from Moria after Gandalf sacrifices himself in The Fellowship of the Ring. Peter Jackson represents the emotion so movingly and so convincingly that though I’ve seen the films and read the books numerous times and know not only that the scene will happen, but also the outcome of Gandalf’s fate, I always cry. This time, however, I said, “I know that pain—I’ve felt it.”

The Return of the King moved me the most as we see many deaths of beloved characters. I found myself jealous of Eowyn for she got to hold her uncle Theoden in her arms as he died. I desperately wish I could have had a moment in my father’s presence at his death. I wish I could have held him or at least touched him before he left us. Similarly, I wish I could have said goodbye to Dad like the Hobbits did with Frodo at the Grey Havens when he leaves Middle Earth for Valinor (the Undying Lands). I don’t imagine the pain I feel would be any less had I been able to say farewell to my father, but I desperately want that last moment of connection. As the film ended, I could only think about my father. I will always think The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and other tales of Middle Earth as my father’s stories.

The films’ writers took Tolkien’s narrative description of Frodo’s first sighting of Valinor from the end of the novel and put the words in Gandalf’s mouth as he and Pippin ready themselves to fight the armies of Mordor in the city of Minas Tirith. The words paint a beautiful image of Heaven.

Pippin: I didn’t think it would end this way.

Gandalf: End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.

Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what?

Gandalf: White shores. And beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Pippin: Well, that isn’t so bad.

Gandalf: No, no it isn’t.

I hope my father experienced something like this.

Dad was right about Gollum in the trilogy, by the way.

Now that the Mitchell Report is out and available to read (you can view a PDF here and a fair summary of who gets named can be viewed here), we baseball fans have some serious thinking to do. My love of the game grew up and matured during an era when two of the greatest players of their generation—Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens—appear to have taken performance-enhancing drugs. I’m disgusted. I’m outraged.

Senator Mitchell is right, I believe, to lay blame across the board on players, owners, clubhouse officials, management, the union, the commissioner’s office, etc. The thing that makes me most upset, however, is that the people who may actually lose their jobs are those least in the spotlight. Yes, Clemens and Bonds may never sign new contracts—both are free agents—and their careers will end in ignominy. The memories of the careers of the former players named will be tainted. These are reasonable outcomes. Current players, however, with productive years left, such as Miguel Tejada (who won the AL MVP whilst playing on my team, the Oakland A’s in 2002) will continue playing and continue making mounds of cash even if their public image is marred. The management in the teams will likely stay the same, as will the leaders in the Players Association and the commissioner’s office. Some heads might roll, but these will be lower-level folks, like the clubhouse management.

Players cheated and management turned a blind eye. How in the world Bud Selig can be held partly responsible for this disgusting era and maintain his job as commissioner of baseball is far beyond me. Well, it’s not that beyond me mentally, but it is beyond me ethically. The revenues of baseball have expanded greatly under Selig’s watch, and that’s what matters to the business folks in the sport. Also, the commissioner is picked by the owners and Selig comes from the ranks of the owners. They’re not going to throw one of their own out to the wolves. Selig should resign. The owners need to choose a new commissioner who is not an owner of any team and whose interest is in the integrity and total well-being of the game, not primarily in the financial health alone. We need a Bartlett Giamatti. The leadership of the Players Association also needs to leave. Their charge is to represent and protect the players, but they sacrificed the good of the game in shielding their players from reasonable demands of accountability such as drug testing and consequences for failed tests.

I agree with Senator Mitchell that MLB needs better testing and stricter consequences. The most recent policy, while better than what existed before, is still horribly toothless. MLB ought to adopt the policy found in most international sports: a first positive test leads to a year-long suspension, and the second positive test leads to a lifetime suspension. Despite Selig’s claims yesterday, I doubt that until there is a change in leadership among both the owners and the players, that any major transformations in MLB’s drug policy will occur.

This controversy is worse than the pettiness of the strike of 1994. As of now, I will likely boycott MLB next season, which saddens me because I love the game. Living in Southern California has afforded me the first time in my life when I can see games in person at a reasonable cost and I try to go to several games each summer even though I despise both home teams here. My boycott will likely extend until I see significant changes in how MLB handles itself and the integrity of the game. I want to see a competitive, honest game, not professional wrestling run by greed.