This baseball season, we are faced with the prospect of the last year of New York Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter. When Jeter first put on a Yankees uniform, the world was a profoundly different place.

As Jeter was leading the Yankees to the 1996 World Series championship while winning the rookie of the year award, we were still reading newspapers. We still wrote letters. And only Gordon Gekko had a cell phone. As for Jeter, he played in Yankee Stadium, which at the time had yet to be bulldozed and was still the baseball cathedral where Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, and Mantle once performed their exploits.

Receding hairline aside, the thirty-nine-year-old Jeter still looks exactly like his twenty-one-year-old self. In a chemically addled era, he was never accused or even suspected of taking performance-enhancing drugs. His body never ballooned with steroids. His injuries never healed with suspicious quickness. In fact, in our age of hypercynical fandom, Jeter may be the only person who would shock us if he was revealed to have sought a chemical edge. All Jeter did, throughout the years, was compile hits and play solid shortstop. He is a first ballot Hall of Famer with five World Series rings, and the only thing really debatable about him is the quality of his defense.

Maybe it was his matinee good looks or perhaps . . . 

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Trump's politics are not the problem.

The fiery Milwaukee Sheriff is on the shortlist to head the Department of Homeland Security.

By Wendell Berry

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more 
of everything ready made. Be afraid 
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery 
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card 
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something 
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know. 
So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord. 
Love the world. Work for nothing. 
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. 
Denounce the government and embrace 
the flag. Hope to live in that free 
republic for which it stands. 
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man 
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers. 
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested 
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus 
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion—put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come. 
Expect the end of the world. Laugh. 
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts. 
So long as women do not go cheap 
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy 
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep 
of a woman near to giving birth? 
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head 
in her lap. Swear allegiance 
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos 
can predict the motions of your mind, 
lose it. Leave it as a sign 
to mark the false trail, the way 
you didn’t go. Be like the fox 
who makes more tracks than necessary, 
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Wendell Berry is a poet, farmer, and environmentalist in Kentucky. This poem, first published in 1973, is reprinted by permission of the author and appears in his “New Collected Poems” (Counterpoint).

Public School Shakedown

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