His Sunday columns used a staccato format of various topics separated by ellipses borrowed from previous sports writers, but William Forrest “Blackie” Sherrod (1919–2016) perfected it. I am doing so here to honor this native of Belton, Texas, who attended Baylor and Howard Payne, graduating from the latter and majoring in English. My prose is not as witty, elegant and erudite as his, so I ask your forbearance.
I am about one-third of the way through KL / A History of the Nazi Concentration Camps by Nikolaus Wachsmann. Grim reading, this 700-page book is nonetheless deeply researched and quite well done. I found Wachsmann’s e-mail address (he teaches modern European history at Birkbeck College, University of London) and complimented him on his achievement. He sent back a perfunctory “thank you.”
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On the evening of April 30, 2025, former Denver Broncos QB John Elway was at the wheel of a golf cart. Four other people were on board—his wife Paige, his son Jack, John Devenzanio (better known as “Johnny Bananas”) and Elway’s longtime friend and agent Jeff Sperbeck. The latter two were perched on the back, where golf clubs are usually deposited. No golf was involved since they were going to Elway’s house after a visit to the Madison Club in La Quinta, California. Sperbeck somehow fell off and hit his head. Bloody and unconscious, he was taken by paramedics to a nearby hospital but died three days later. The Riverside County sheriff has assured us that Elway was not driving erratically and he was not soused. But how can he know that since law enforcement was not called until 48 hours had passed—enough time for Elway to sober up? If Sperbeck’s survivors don’t file a civil lawsuit, I’m a monkey’s uncle.
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One Saturday morning about three years ago, I had taken the subway to Sindorim Station, outside of which Mr. Park operates his fruit and vegetable stand; I was a fairly regular customer before finding a closer one. I bought grapes, oranges, carrots and a watermelon. On my way home and without giving the matter much thought, I placed that Citrullus lanatus on the overhead rack. Had it been oblong, there would have been no problem. This one, however, was almost perfectly round. When the subway driver applied the brakes at the next station and we came to a stop, my watermelon rolled off the overhead rack and fell to the floor. It sounded like a small bomb had gone off. You can imagine the mess and my embarrassment.
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Here is what I got for 110,000 won on my most recent visit to Noksapyeong Book Store: One Man’s America / A Journalist’s Search for the Heart of His Country by Henry Grunwald, The Book of Unusual Knowledge (no author per se), Bury Me Standing / The Gypsies and Their Journey by Isabel Fonseca, Hazardous Duty / An American Soldier in the Twentieth Century by John K. Singlaub, The Happy Isles of Oceania / Paddling the Pacific by Paul Theroux, Chocolate Wars / The 150-Year Rivalry between the World’s Greatest Chocolate Makers by Deborah Cadbury, 1,000 Places to See before You Die / A Traveler’s Life List by Patricia Schultz, Ghost Wars / The Secret History of the CIA, Afghanistan and Bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001 by Steve Coll and The Metaphysical Club / A Story of Ideas in America by Louis Menand.
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In the WNBA, which has been piggy-backing on the NBA and losing millions of dollars every season since its formation in 1997, the players are heavily black (65%) and lesbian (38%). When Caitlin Clark—a White heterosexual—joined the Indiana Fever last season, she got knocked around pretty good. They seemed not to like it that Clark received an inordinate amount of fan and media attention, so they made her pay. The refs, for the most part, let it go. Paige Bueckers, this year’s No. 1 pick (by the Dallas Wings), is also a White hetero. In an effort to preempt a repeat of the ugly treatment Clark got in 2024, she did some virtue-signaling, confessing that she benefits from “White privilege.”
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Whenever I walk out into the courtyard of my apartment complex, Yeoksam Single Livingtel, I feel greatly blessed. There, towering high above me, are the twin steeples of Chunghyeon Presbyterian Church, established in September 1953. It’s a rather dramatic scene, one of which I never tire. I have entered this big (but not quite “mega”) church numerous times during the last 18 or so months, and I favor it very much. Upstairs, two rows are reserved for foreigners. I am handed an electronic device with an earplug, permitting me to have a decent English translation of most of the proceedings. I listen and I observe, respectfully, how many Korean people take notes during the sermon. After the service, a basic lunch is provided in the basement. Perhaps the only thing I do not like about Chunghyeon is that the pastor, Han Kyu-sam, is too focused on the Old Testament. He talked in the last two Sundays about Josiah and Ezra, with the obligatory references to the Jews’ Babylonian captivity. I sometimes want to holler out from the balcony, “Preacher man, what about the King of Kings?”
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I take a 30-minute walk every evening, usually a clockwise loop involving Nonhyeon-ro, Eunju-ro, Bongeunsa-ro and Teheran-ro. Four right turns, and I am back home. Just over a week ago, I was on the sidewalk beside Bongeunsa-ro when I heard a honk and somebody calling my name. A man had rolled down his window and was extending his hand for a hearty shake. It was Lee Seung-joon whom I had met at some point during my bring-Jikji-back-to-Korea campaign (2013–2019). And then there was the time I was visiting some little town in the southern reaches of the country and the driver of the taxi in which I was riding looked in the rear-view mirror, pointed at me and said “Jikji!”
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Gwanghwamun is the Main Street of Korea. It oozes history, with one rebuilt royal palace (Gyeongbokgung) at the north end and another (Deoksugung) at the south. The Sejong Center for the Performing Arts looks across the plaza to the U.S. Embassy, and don’t forget the National Museum of Contemporary History and Seoul City Hall. I wish Gwangwhamun were not so given over to political protests, but as an American friend informed me shortly after I arrived here in late 2007, “TIK: This Is Korea.” Most recently, right-wing rallies on behalf of Yoon Seok-yeol—the former president impeached for having tried to impose martial law—dominate. Although the Constitutional Court voted unanimously on April 4 that he is out, his supporters still gather, sing and chant loudly on his behalf. The assumption that all of them are old is not quite correct since I saw quite a few young ’uns the last time I was there.
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I met Blackie Sherrod once. It was in the summer of 1963, just after my family had moved to a different neighborhood in east Dallas. It so happened that another family had preceded us. The Andersons—consisting of mother Janelle and kids Jerry, Ronnie (also known as “Buggy”) and Anita—had a house about five blocks from ours. Janelle, a divorcee, was being wooed by Sherrod. Buggy introduced me to the big man, and he could not have been any more aloof. But then again, did I expect him to jump up and down in excitement?
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I mentioned Noksapyeong Book Store above. There is—or was—another such establishment in the vicinity of Hongik University called Geulbeot Book Store. Founded in 1979, it had been a hang-out place for Hongik students, professors and writers. A treasure-trove of books with a decent English collection on the second floor, Geulbeot won special recognition from Seoul’s city government in 2018. I was sorely disappointed to go there in January and find that it had closed.
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Sabine Ringering is a German woman with whom I worked at McElroy Translation Company in Austin circa 1999. Blond and vivacious, I liked her a lot. We have been in semi-frequent e-mail contact in recent years. But when I informed Sabine that I had voted for Donald Trump in each of the last two U.S. presidential elections, she went silent. I asked twice, and finally she responded yesterday with a Teutonic blast. I read it once, moved it to the trash and then emptied the trash. Yeah, I support Trump. He’s our president, and a historic figure given that he has won the last three elections. What exactly does Sabine not like? Trump’s in the process of securing our borders, he’s bringing Hah-vahd and Columbia to heel, he has forbidden boys from playing in girls’ sports, he is equalizing the tariff situation, he’s deconstructing DEI, he’s slimming down a bloated federal government and more.
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As a part of my nightly routine, I go through short reels on Facebook made by various people for various reasons. They involve music, dancing, skydiving, farming, humorous skits—you name it. This has allowed me to become friends, if you will, with two young Filipinas: Scarlett Advincula in Zamboanga and Blessy Arellano in Roxas, aged 8 and 6, respectively. Scarlett was born blind but is a superb singer; her piano skills are getting better all the time. Blessy, God bless her, has legs that end just below the knees, a right arm that ends above the elbow and a left arm that is somewhat longer, but still no hand or fingers. These girls cope with their disabilities and are attractive, smart and good students. I think each of them has a bright future.
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