Baseball bloodlines

A year to the day since the last post, I come here with the need for expression. Maybe no one will ever see these words, and I don't really care. That's not my motivation. It's baseball season, and that has me feeling nostalgic.

My soon-to-be-old-enough-to-vote-and-die-but-not-drink-high-school-graduate-by-the-hair-on-his-unshaven-chin son was quoted in the local paper after leading his team to victory in last night's season opener. There's nothing noteworthy, I suppose, about a 5-4 win over a team one class below yours to open the season, unless your coach runs the season-opening practice and then takes an unexplained leave of absence within 24 hours before resigning shortly after.

And Cedar Rapids may be Iowa's second largest city (trailing only the state capital Des Moines), but there's nothing big city about a place where the sports reporter doing the interview, the prep athlete spewing quotes and his dad who used to work at the same daily newspaper all belong to the same fantasy football league.

To say my kid led his team to victory is not entirely parental pride. He was 2-3 at the plate with 2 runs batted in before making his first relief appearance of his senior season. As frustrated as I often get by his lack of urgency, it takes a cool customer to put out the fire of a 2-on-none-out situation with your team nursing a 1-run lead. Cooler heads also prevail an inning later when a homer cuts your 2-run lead in half with victory close enough to touch.

Live tweeting the game for anyone who cares to listen -- though I often question if anyone but me cares -- I'm struck that this is the beginning of the end of a long baseball road. Jordy, Dan, Cole, Sam, Mike, Dakota and my Zach form the nucleus of a team that has been together for the better part of a decade. After the game, a player from tonight's opponent says hello and shakes the hand of his youth soccer coach, me. That Dane and Zach played soccer together and are now friends from rival high schools is a marvel when you realize neither would even exist if Dane's mother and I had had more than a fleeting relationship way back when in high school (same town, different school, much different world).

Among the things afforded by Monday's win, regardless of tonight's outcome, is the opportunity Wednesday to play at the local minor league ballpark. Its not the major leagues, by any stretch, though you can get there from here, as many have. It's also not the same park I frequented in my youth, usually for free as marketers of the day didn't have a stadium to pay for and didn't understand that people associate value with the price of admission.

But it's a place that has come to hold great meaning in my life, prompting me to open my purse strings to help build a new stadium to preserve minor league baseball in my hometown a decade ago. It's a place where easy interaction with players helped fuel many a father and son's love of the game, and each other.

"Is this Heaven?" is the most famous line from the most famous movie ever filmed in Iowa -- "Field of Dreams." Twenty-two years after the film's release, Ray Kinsella's followup question to his father, remains most relevant.

"Is there a heaven?" asks Ray.

"Oh yeah," says John. "It's the place where dreams come true."

Ray looks around, seeing his wife playing with their daughter on the porch. "Maybe this is heaven."

You know the rest.

father-daughter

"I've only got a minute," says my retired father from the cellphone he uses so rarely I don't recognize the number.

I wonder, briefly and in passing, what's wrong: it's nearly the reaction inspired by a phone that rings too early or too late: "Who's in the hospital?" or, "Who died?" In a moment I am stepping into my shoes and pulling my coat, but only to meet him, as instructed, in the driveway. He doesn't negotiate the steps easily, and, as he said, he only has a minute.

As I walk out, I look to the passenger seat to confirm: he's solo. And already standing at the back of the Escape; he moves better when he's motivated.

And there it is: a duplicate of the aerobic step he'd purchased at some great discount for my mother.  "I thought it could help build up your leg."  I smile at the gesture without even trying to anticipate how or when that kind of activity will fit into my stress fracture rehab protocol. Sooner or later or never: whatever.  I'm not even faking it as I begin to express my appreciation for this unsolicited gizmo. He stops me with a raise of his hand:

He points out with ex-machinist precision the dimensions and height options. I can almost see his metal ruler; I certainly recognize the pause that precedes his inevitable, concluding warnings about the dire fates that could befall me were I to get carried away and trip over his gift. But darkness is falling and it's too cold for an extended debate on the likelihood of an ER visit.  "Okay," I concede; it's not as if grace is in the gene pool.

Mission accomplished, he's backing out almost before I've got the front door closed. I love you, too, Dad.

imaginary nuts

"Is this officially an in-joke now?"

She is 12 and a half, a newish arrival to the world to having a verbal password into a group.

"It is!" I confirm, as we giggle through the aisles in search of imaginary nuts. (You had to be there.) She is, I must admit, too often too wary when I speak in exclamations. That she can't always tell when my rants are serious is not a credit to me, her mother. The stories she will tell won't be flattering.

But this one,this is a keeper, an grocery list mishap turned in to "that one time when." It is, we agree, each for her own reasons, the best trip to the grocery store ever. She couldn't explain, wouldn't guess, exactly what it meant to me, but I think the eavesdropping grandma smiling down into her cart in the baking aisle could.

P-T

I always work it in.

These four words are part of any initial exchange I have at my daughter's school: "I'm a teacher, too." As in, "So I know what you mean," as in, "I can relate," as in, "Don't try to pull one over on me." Except for the many for which I make an exception, I'm not a great respecter of teachers, at least without proof. Mostly it's the off-putting attitude that seems bundled with their certificates, that vague, "You're not, but I am." So my claim is some reverse psychology playing field leveler; it's likely all in my head, but I don't care. It can't hurt.

Tonight, meaningless mission accomplished, I immediately turned parent as I listened to the trio who spend near as much time with the girl as I. I smiled as I digested the praises that were sung by the Comm Arts teacher who really does seem to appreciate her. And then I laughed-- though not in disagreement-- at the former cheerleader who proclaimed the girl, "an eccentric young woman" (quirky had already been taken). "What a nice way to put it," I said, meaning, "is that the best you can do?" as I pictured what opinion I'd be putting a front on if I trotted that phrase out to a parent. It's an experience, being on the other side.

As I left I was satisfied that these strangers know my child well enough and will do all right by her; in my mind, it's mostly up to her. Of course, a glowing academic report makes it easier to assume that they'll do no harm and might help her. Flattery works even on skeptical me.

high tech

"What?" says the girl, eyes full of at-me or with-me as she seeks the source of my chuckle. She looks at the monitors, she looks at the screen, she looks, again, at me. As if there's nothing just a little bit funny about the two of us propped in my bed side-by-side, each with a lap-full of keyboard, sharing the wireless and vaguely inappropriate TV. I "nothing" her question away, and we click and we giggle--one of us wondering if she should be cringing--until she nudges me to check another tab. She's e-mailing me, from six inches away. What an excellent use of technology.

I do not take this opportunity for any questions, for any capital-C-Conversations or capital-P parenting, though I do sneak a sideways glance at her inbox. Instead I just match her animated emoticons pixel for pixel in a nonsense string of replies and make a note to remember.

My Father's Day

Twenty dollar bills and oil change reminders. Dire warnings about, oh, everything. A paralysis of worry over what might and who could and what will. Sentimental tears and shouted impatience. A certain family resemblance in the lines of my face or the edge of my temper. That's what I think of, when I think of my dad. That and talents rarely used but always perfected; pride in accomplishment. That and a laugh at the kitchen table. That and money being no object even when it was. The best was all he ever wanted. Sometimes, he'd tell ya, he got it.

dialogue

She does not, shall we say, tread lightly.

And being a mother, I seem pre-programmed to shout over the rattle and the thump of the stairs as I wonder if it actually matters:

"You sound like a herd of buffalo!"

She leaps off the last step and peers in the laundry room door: "At least you didn't say elephants this time."

"This time?" I think, despite instantaneous evidence. "Do I really have a mom-speak repetoire?"

"Elephants," she grins, already pleased with herself, "are significantly larger than buffalo."

Score one for the girl.

parade

It's a few minutes past as I navigate a sidewalk shoved off-kilter by tree roots; I look up when I hear a band. The intersection ahead is yet empty--I've made it, technically, despite a poor choice at that last crossroads. I look up and I look ahead. A float concocted out of a pick-up truck and good intentions passes as the percussion grows louder; I reach the corner as rows of grey polos and khaki shorts approach. My mission is almost accomplished. I scan trombones and trumpets, clarinets, saxophones, clarinets, and then a pony-tailed flute-player not too far out of line.

I think twice about calling her name, do it anyway, am somehow glad when she doesn't notice. For half a block, I walk alongside, in plain view, out of sight, out of mind. Minutes later, the middle school marching band debut will have ended at the edge of this neighborhood that claims city limits, and so I head to my car to beat the buses back to the school. Given the sprouting corn and furrowed fields that fill the ten minutes between here and our suburban home, it feels as if we're in a much different place now. And in a way, we are.

repetition

This is 12, as I remember. Not exactly, but the gist. 

This afternoon I stand at the counter, giggling-- some of us don't outgrow it-- at the pair of girls flitting through the clearance racks. One of them, mine, cares nothing for clothes or whether they match or whether they're clean. But give her an array of chunky plastic bracelets or sparkling cut glass pendants or, today, long summer scarves knit out of blue and black stripes and she's like a crow collecting. 

She comes over, especially: "It's only two dollars."  

My "I wonder why,"  doesn't even lift my eyebrows before she wanders away. Her money, her fun-- doubled,  I soon see: her friend is buying an identical accessory. Of course. They both wear them out of the store, discussing whose is "cooler," oblivious to all else. A generational deja vu that somehow confirms what I knew was someday coming. 

As we walk to the car I remember a picture that was, back then, my favorite. The seventh grade me and two friends out of three were wearing nearly exact sweaters. I'm not sure I noticed it at the time. 

the morning after

The house is quiet, finally.  I choose to believe they're finally asleep. They being the half-dozen 12 and 13 year-old girls who are under my roof, still. I don't hear the TV or the video camera or the desktop; I'm taking the silence at its face. Because at four a.m. they were steadfastly awake and even a caffeinated sugar high runs out eventually-- doesn't it? 

But better-far-to be self-sufficiently oblivious to the clock than to be caught in some don't-wanna-be-here-can't-get-home-crying-vomiting-loop of exhaustion with some woman who is not your mother! 

I'm pretty sure the newly minted 12 year old--mine--assumes her birthday present was the iPod. Little does she know.

A First

"Only Madison," I say as we walk through the doors, and the band director laughs and shrugs. His expression says, "You have a point," and I think, "At least he knows her."

But my assertion is not true. This gym and the halls and the classrooms turned competition rooms are filled with dozens of kids who could have just as easily clutched a sheet protector without realizing that the solo music had slipped out. It's just that it happened to her, more evidence that she lately seems charged like the polar ends of a magnet, repelling any and every thing of value. It must be some hormonal byproduct.

But today the search party adrenaline slips out of my system as she is rescued by a copier, and we make our way to the designated room. Her accompanist is there and no one else's is, so she plays early, without waiting, for the judge and me and a few other bundles of pubescent nerves. She plays easily and well, coming through when it matters. We applaud. I exhale.

In the minutes that we wait for her rating, we laugh at her band parent-concession stand breakfast of champions as she tells me of the check she may or may not have delivered and the thank you card she forgot to make. I question, but manage not to scold. And then we walk back to confirm what seems a given and see the "I" by her name for ourselves. This year she did it, and we are both proud.

this time around

Her English seems to be improving. Either that or she's grown comfortable with me. I wish she wouldn't have so many reasons to talk, but I know better than that.

The first times we met she was collapsed on her couch, pausing between jobs in a blue uniform t-shirt. We'd spend a polite hour trying not to bother each other as I tutored her daughter in the bedroom. She'd sometimes get up, bring me a drink, sometimes bring me a chair. We would both look at the baby. In the beginning, she only said, "thank you," and I would nod, smile, and come back tomorrow.

More than a year has passed. The baby is full of bilingual chatter, and now her aunt is my student alongside the mother: a freshman and a wanna-be junior. Most of the time, they're here. But more often than I'd hope at a few minutes past my phone rings on an outside line, and a grown voice asks for Ms. P. I know who it is from the Caller ID; I know who it is from the timing. But I don't cut off her introduction. I listen to her more confident voice, and I promise to relay the message. I don't mind if she'd rather call me than the actual attendance secretary. Calling anyone is progress, a change for the better. An attempt to do it right.

Last January, the daughter called nearly every day for a while swearing she'd attend-- and then showed up in August. Better late than never, indeed. This being real life, the return hasn't been triumphant, but it hasn't been half bad. For a full-time worker/full-time student/full-time mother/ full-time teenager, she makes an honest effort. Or at least she tries more than she did when there was neither job nor baby. She's not there yet, but she might be. It's possible. It could happen.

I don't know what her mom expects, but I know what she hopes for. In the meantime we do what we can.

Iowa joins teacher-student sex craze

That's right. Even in this wholesome, family-friendly state, we've got teachers hooking up with students.

Granted, this is no Pamela Short affair. But still. When did this become fashionable?

Here's the gist from the Des Moines Register:

A Des Moines Dowling Catholic High School teacher has been arrested on a charge of sexual exploitation by a school employee.

West Des Moines police said today that Erin Marie Rohwer, 27, had a sexual relationship with an 18-year-old male student.

Rohwer was arrested at her home at 3900 Bel Aire Road in Des Moines. She was released on a $5,000 bond.

School president Jerry Deegan said at a press conference today that a member of the "Dowling community" called him to report "a possible inappropriate relationship."

He declined to say whether the tip came from a student, parent or teacher.

Sexual contact between any school employee and a student, regardless of age, is against the law in Iowa. A one-time encounter is an aggravated misdemeanor, while a pattern of sexual contact is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison.

Rohwer faces the felony-level charge.

Polk County Attorney John Sarcone said his office has prosecuted teachers, ministers, counselors and a psychiatrist in recent years. He declined to comment about specifically about Rohwer’s case.

“It’s not a daily thing,” Sarcone said. “But it’s not all that unusual."

Deegan confirmed that Rohwer is the daughter-in-law of Dowling choral director Karl Rohwer. She is the head of the English department and has taught at Dowling since 2003. Deegan called her a "very good and effective" teacher.

In a note to parents, Deegan wrote that Rohwer has been suspended.

"It is our understanding from law enforcement that this matter occurred off campus and outside of school hours," he wrote.

12/24

The family has come and gone, the dinner has been eaten. The kitchen is more-or-less clean, the living room cluttered with the first round of gifts. It's twenty-four minutes to Christmas-- and I have nothing much to do. No train track to snake around the bottom of the tree, no plastic bits to assemble and sticker, no doll house to arrange. No milk to drink or cookies to crumble-- no Santa, finally, for the very first time. (The girl is six months past eleven.) I wonder if she forgot, or if, until now, she truly did choose to believe. It's possible, as is anything. Apparently she was lately recounting a story of how she had once awoken to the sound of hooves over her head, and when her fellow sixth graders responded that "it was [her] parents," her firm rejoinder was that her parents would never get on the roof (no kidding), so therefore her memory must have been real. Oh goodness. Score another one for her campaign to be thought of as weird. Or just herself, which she so firmly is. To think I was so anxious for her to let go, for her to stop playing the extended bonus rounds of the Santa game. Don't know what I was thinking.

Kid gloves

It never ceases to amaze me how two children born of the same parents can be so different. Not good and bad, although both have been each at one time or another, just different. It's taken me all of 15 1/2 years -- give or take -- to learn you can't parent them the same way either. Also, I recently discovered, my "tough love" approach worked for neither.

So I'm experimenting with a "kid glove" approach. Ignoring the fact that I communicated via e-mail, only because I worked late and they were asleep when I got home, how did I do on report card day?

First, the straight-A sixth-grader:

Way to go! I was so proud and impressed when I looked at your report card tonight. Of course, I wasn't surprised after seeing your continued stellar ITBS scores. Your mathematics total equates to a student in your brother's grade! And your problem solving and data interpretation scores are off the chart. Maybe you will be president some day -- or a detective like Nancy Drew.

Anyway, congratulations. You've done very well. Now keep it up.

Your reward? I don't believe in paying for grades and, though we set up a plan for Zach, it wasn't until he was in high school. (So far, it hasn't provided him much incentive anyway.) But we should discuss an appropriate reward for your accomplishment. What do you think? I'm sure you have ideas. Let's talk about it.

Meanwhile, remember I love you no matter what. And at the moment, you've made me
very, very proud.

Now, the underachieving 10th-grader:

Don't worry. I'm not going to yell at you. I've learned that doesn't accomplish the intended goal. I'm trying to look at the positives and I have to say, you kept your word about getting your geometry grade up. Good job! Unfortunately, it seems to have come at the expense of your Spanish grade. Not exactly what we're looking for.

I hope you will take Mrs. Stiles comment to heart and "report for extra help."

Your GPA of 2.715 isn't horrible. But 3.0 is well within your reach, and I hope
you'll strive for that this trimester.

The C+ in driver's ed kind of surprised me. I guess you should have taken it pass/fail. Regardless, it's good to have it out of the way. Now you won't have it to distract you from your other studies. You need to find out the procedures for getting a school permit and we'll get that done. I still don't know what we'll do for a vehicle, but we'll work on it.

Financially, here's how the payout works (PE and Driver's ed do not count). $10 for each A that isn't canceled by a D. $5 for each B that isn't canceled out by a C. Obviously, straight A's or A's and B's is not applicable. So your A- in Biology is canceled by the D+ in Spanish, or you'd have earned $10. The B+ in LA (though I'm really proud of you improvement in this class) is canceled by the C- in Geometry. That leaves a B- in world history, for which you've earned a grand total of $5. I think you can easily see how eliminating the D's and reducing/eliminating the C's would be much more profitable.

I would like for us to meet with your counselor to discuss your educational goals. If you'd rather meet with her alone, that is fine, as long as you do it. Please let me know how you'd like to proceed.

Keep working hard, buddy, and don't slack off between now and Christmas break. You've learned how hard it is to make up ground when you've fallen behind. And please, please, please make sure you turn in all of your assignments.

Don't be afraid to ask for help, whether from your teachers, your classmates or even your parents. We love you and only want the best for you.

Parenting for dummies

Oh, how I wish someone would write this book. Maybe I should. It seems I'm qualified.

I don't know quite when I got so dumb, though the transition to high school seems logical. Once best buddies, our relationship seems to have deteriorated to angry dad and brooding son.

"Why can't you just let me figure it out on my own?" he said for the second year in a row as grades that started out so promising continued their downward spiral as the trimester quickly draws to a close. If only you gave me some reason to think you could.

Much as I appreciate e-mail progress reports from teachers, they only add fuel to the fire. Less-than stellar grades I can accept. Missing assignments I can't.

"You yell too much." Guilty as charged. My intentions are pure, even if my methods are flawed.

"Sounds like a normal kid," said the youth pastor we consulted today. Also, "does he understand consequences?"

Yes and no.

Serious consequences like throwing away a free education or accomplishing a dream of playing college baseball don't seem to resonate. But trivial consequences like the threat of missing a high school football playoff game as a spectator? That's enough, apparently, to prompt the suggestion that he might just quit baseball.

He didn't mean it, I hope. He just knows how to get my goat.

Maybe I went too far with the academic contract, but it doesn't seem unreasonable to me.

--Meet with your teachers to discuss strategies for improving grades and/or submitting missing assignments.
--Meet with geometry or Spanish teachers after school for extra help, or attend study table.
--Spend 20 minutes each without distraction studying geometry and Spanish each night.
--Begin using your planner so you don't miss any more assignments.

Is that really so unreasonable?

Failure to comply results in grounding, including loss of cell phone, computer, television, IPod and video game privileges. Most of those things didn't exist when I was his age, so maybe I don't understand how dire the consequences are.

Or maybe I just don't understand teenagers.

Much as I'd love to have my buddy back, my first responsibility is to be your dad. Admittedly, I have much room for improvement. But so do you. What do you say we work on that?

Like mother

"Who do you think did it?" asks my daughter in the middle of my parking lot rant.

"Some. . . REPUBLICAN!" I sputter, refraining from repeating the other descriptors that are going through my mind. She is, after all, impressionable. Proof of that perhaps being her eagerness to spend half a Saturday with her mother and sixty-thousand others listening to the next president under the Arch.

But in the meantime, I'm ticked, and I can't stop gesturing at the circle of dust left behind where some. . . REPUBLICAN . . . stole the Obama magnet off my car.

I try to focus and finish loading the groceries.

"Don't worry," says my helper. "I'll give you a pillow to punch when we get home . . .and," she giggles, "I'll put John McCain's picture on it." I'm surprised only that she didn't say Palin.

Leonard Pitts: Do yourself a favor-- read a book

It took some time for the daughter to become a reader. Some time, and some funny exercises to help her eyes work together, and some colorful books about a mouse named Geronimo. The mother was relieved, though perhaps she needn't have worried. The child's life has become so full of so much reading and writing so quickly that surely it was inevitable. Whether nature or nurture, though, as ever it's hard to say. Perhaps as a control group we could check the habits of all those Palin kids in Alaska.

by Leonard Pitts
the Miami Herald

Of course, we all have questions for Sarah Palin:

Does she actually think living across the Bering Strait from Russia constitutes foreign policy expertise? Does she really take the parable of Adam and Eve as literal truth? How, exactly, does one field dress a moose? And why would one want to?

My first question, though, would not be one of those. I'd simply ask which books she wants to ban -- and why.

Yes, there's a list of titles floating around the Internet right now, but it's a fake. It is, however, established fact that our would-be vice president has in the past tried to pull books off library shelves.

The New York Times reports that as a member of the City Council of Wasilla, Alaska, Palin complained to colleagues about a book called Daddy's Roommate, described in promotional material as being ''for and about the children of lesbian and gay parents.'' Laura Chase, who ran Palin's campaign for mayor, explained that the book was harmless and suggested Palin read it.

Chase told The Times that Palin replied she ``didn't need to read that stuff. It was disturbing that someone would be willing to remove a book from the library and she didn't even read it.''

Later, as mayor, Palin reportedly asked the town's librarian three times whether she would agree to remove controversial books from the shelves. Three times, the librarian refused. Palin fired her, but eventually bowed to public pressure and gave the woman her job back.

''I'm still proud of Sarah,'' said Chase, ``but she scares the bejeebers out of me.''

And in that context, it seems apropos that next week is Banned Books Week.

As you doubtless know, that's the week set aside each year by the American Library Association to bring attention to attempts by some of us to regulate what others of us may read. The ALA's Office for Intellectual Freedom reports that it has seen 9,700 ''challenges'' -- a challenge is defined as a formal written request to remove a book from a library because the content offends or is deemed inappropriate -- since 1990. Chillingly, the office suggests that's probably an undercount. It estimates that for every challenge reported, four or five are not.

So Palin has company, to say the least.

Count among that number the woman from a Cuban exile group who bragged to a Miami Herald reporter how in 2006 she checked out and kept an elementary school library book she felt painted too rosy a picture of life on that communist island. Like Palin, she thought she had good reason. Would-be book banners always do.

I'm reminded of how someone challenged me the other day on my contention that anti-intellectualism has overtaken this land. I mentioned by way of example Palin's Bible literalism, but really, there's so much more. There's the ''Jay Walking'' segment on Leno. There's this notion that ''elite'' is a four-letter word. There's the White House's censorship and politicization of science. There's the recent survey which found that more people can name all five Simpsons than all five freedoms enumerated in the First Amendment.

And there's this: as many as 50,000 incidents since 1990 in which a book was forced to justify its existence. We're talking books like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, books like The Color Purple, books like Harry Potter and, yes, books like Daddy's Roommate, books that offended because they expressed ideas that made someone uncomfortable. As if any other kind of idea was worth expressing.

We are becoming the stupid giant of planet Earth: richer than Midas, mightier than Thor, dumber than rocks. Which makes us a danger to the planet -- and to ourselves. This country cannot continue to prosper and to embrace stupidity. The two are fundamentally incompatible.

So do us all a favor: Annoy Sarah Palin. For goodness sake, read.

Homecoming

Tonight is the high school homecoming dance and my son has taken an interest, in his second year. He's got a date, even, from a cross-town school, just like dear old dad way back when.

So I'm a nervous parent, after all, I was once his age. But I'm really not concerned. Zach may not always live up to his dad's impossible expectations, but he never let's me down. Besides, he's got a game tomorrow.

McCain imPalin?

Not after what I just saw.

After all the media vetting this week, I can only conclude John McCain may be on to something with his choice of Sarah Palin as his running mate. She can certainly deliver a fine speech -- maybe a bit sarcastic, but consider the target audience -- and, as a Repugnant friend said, ain't bad to look at.

I never fell for the theory that she was selected to woo Hillary Clinton supporters. They couldn't be more different. Except in this respect. After all the suppositions and innuendo of the past week, Palin hung tough and delivered a rousing speech. At it's conclusion, she was joined on stage by her typical American family (except none were obese).

Even with a friendly audience, that's tough duty after what they've been through. The same could be said of the Clintons.

So I take back my assertion that McCain doesn't really want to be president. I still think, hope, expect, demand, etc. that Barack Obama wins. But at least now the VP debate will be compelling.