father

A Palestinian father in Hebron has buried his seven-month-old son after the baby was killed by Israeli gunfire directed at the family’s car. The shooting, which also wounded the child’s parents, is the latest deadly incident amid escalating Israeli violence in the occupied West Bank.

Japanese filmmaker Chie Hayakawa isn’t afraid to look death in the eye. The writer-director’s 2022 feature debut, “Plan 75,” imagined an unsettling future in which the elderly are offered a subsidy by the government to be euthanized. For her follow-up, she travels into her own past, drawing from memories of her father’s battle with cancer.

But while “Renoir” features no sci-fi elements, the nearness of oblivion remains just as prominent. Shorn of sentimentality, this gentle drama follows a quietly observant fifth-grader who feels the grim shadow of mortality all around her. How the character will absorb that realization is anyone’s guess — including Hayakawa’s.

Newcomer Yui Suzuki stars as Fuki, who lives in a nondescript Tokyo suburb in 1987. Her soft-spoken dad, Keiji (Lily Franky), is suffering with terminal cancer in its final stages, the emaciated man spending as much time in the hospital as he does at home. Fuki’s mother, Utako (Hikari Ishida), doesn’t seem very despondent, though: One senses an emotional exhaustion that comes from preparing so long for the inevitable that she’s now mostly numb, her anticipatory grief having given way to frayed nerves.

Fuki’s pre-mourning process is equally complicated. Outwardly, she shows no signs of being devastated by her dad’s imminent passing, happily playing with him, almost in denial of his fate. But “Renoir” subtly suggests the impressionable girl is more aware than she lets on, surrounding her with random reminders of death. Local news breathlessly reports on random domestic murders. Even when Fuki gets away from the city, the camera lingers on her watching a campfire’s dying embers. The film derives its title from the girl’s interest in “Little Irène,” a painting by influential French impressionist Pierre-Auguste Renoir. She asks if Renoir is still alive. No, he’s dead too.

Hayakawa pulls from her childhood in multiple ways for her sophomore feature, which premiered in competition at Cannes last year. “Renoir” takes place in 1987 specifically because that’s the year she turned 11, and, like her protagonist, she was infatuated with “Little Irène.” But there’s a refreshing absence of nostalgia in Hayakawa’s conception of Fuki and her quizzical processing of her father’s fatal illness.

For school, Fuki writes an essay about her wish to be an orphan. She becomes obsessed with hypnotism and mind-reading, an unorthodox strategy to create a sense of control. And, occasionally, she wanders into daydreams that Hayakawa presents so matter-of-factly that viewers may sometimes be unsure if what they’re seeing is actually happening. In “Renoir,” Fuki’s flights of fancy are as naturalistic as her everyday life — a sharp reminder that, for children, imagination and reality are often indistinguishable.

If death has been integral to Hayakawa’s two features, it’s society’s callous reaction to aging that is her primary focus. “Plan 75” eschewed dystopian-thriller conventions to ponder how Japan might one day treat its senior citizens, viewing them as little more than a drain on resources. “Renoir” makes a similar point within a memory piece. Keiji is the one dying, but it’s telling that Hayakawa centers the story on Fuki and Utako, who each, in their own way, seem more concerned about their own personal dramas.

As Keiji’s situation grows more dire, Utako enters the orbit of Toru (Ayumu Nakajima), a workplace advisor with whom she’s instantly smitten, pondering pursuing him romantically. Ironically, Toru preaches the importance of good communication skills in the office, a lesson the film’s guarded family would be wise to heed. While Utako hides her feelings for Toru, Fuki begins a secret odyssey in which she impulsively joins a phone dating service, engaging in conversations with a creepy college student (Ryota Bando) who pushes her to meet in person. This potentially traumatic subplot is the closest “Renoir” gets to traditional suspense, but even here Hayakawa adopts a muted approach, sidestepping shock value for bittersweet commentary about young people’s confusion around love. Both Utako and Fuki chase after human connections fraught with danger, each trying to insulate themselves from the tragedy waiting at home.

“Renoir” may be a delicate wisp of a film, but it’s flecked with thoughtful questioning about whether childhood’s sorrows leave permanent scars on us as adults. Suzuki exudes the fragility and buoyancy of adolescence, playing Fuki as someone constantly imbibing the world, rarely revealing what she’s doing with that stimulus. The simplest moments resonate the strongest, such as when the moody 11-year-old holds a balloon over the balcony of her family’s high-rise apartment, casually releasing her grip so that it tumbles to the ground far below. Does it speak to a desire to jump herself? “Renoir” won’t say, but the character is so poised you feel confident she’ll survive her father’s death. Who knows: Maybe years from now, she’ll even make a touching, emotionally astute movie about it.

Instead, he must now reset and recharge to go again at Wimbledon next month.

Given he is a seven-time champion on a grass surface which younger players have struggled to master, Djokovic will always fancy his chances at the All England Club.

Djokovic can never be ruled out of becoming the oldest major men’s singles champion in the Open Era, but Father Time has been sat waiting on his shoulder for a good while.

By rights, he should probably be basking in a post-retirement glow by now.

Coaching a young compatriot away from the public glare like Andy Murray, perhaps. Doing a promotional tour for a new Netflix documentary like Rafael Nadal, maybe.

While his long-time rivals move into the next phase of their lives, Djokovic was retching at the side of a court in an attempt to summon the energy to beat a teenager.

It is a testament to his superpower that he still wants to push himself to such limits against much younger opponents.

As we have seen time and time again, Djokovic’s insatiable appetite for the sport’s biggest prizes will never diminish.

But, having reached at least the semi-finals at the past five Grand Slams, this was the clearest sign yet that the ageing process was finally catching up with him.

Djokovic looked in complete control as he moved two sets ahead, but could not maintain his level as Fonseca proved he is the real deal.

“It would be nice if it was best-of-three,” Djokovic smiled.

“I just ran out of gas, to be honest. I didn’t feel good at all on the court in the next couple of sets.”

Djokovic has always thrived in the best-of-five format of the majors, beating almost anybody who has stood in his way for the best part of two years.

The only exceptions have been Sinner, Alcaraz and the muscle injury which forced him to quit against Zverev at last year’s Australian Open.

Everyone else has not been good enough, or not had the mentality, to see veteran Djokovic off.

Kyle Busch was one of NASCAR’s biggest stars and most successful drivers.

He was Cup Series champion in 2015 and 2019 and his 234 wins in NASCAR’s top three series is an all-time record.

The driver known as “Rowdy” and “Wild Thing” may have been known for brash behavior that included post-race fights and feuds with other drivers, but he was also respected as a fierce competitor and dedicated family man.

His death Thursday at age 41 came as a shock to the racing world. No cause of death has been disclosed.

“Our entire NASCAR family is heartbroken by the loss of Kyle Busch,” NASCAR said Thursday in a statement released jointly with the Busch family and his team, Richard Childress Racing. “A future Hall of Famer, Kyle was a rare talent, one who comes along once in a generation. He was fierce, he was passionate, he was immensely skilled and he cared deeply about the sport and fans.

“Throughout a career that spanned more than two decades, Kyle set records in national series wins, won championships at NASCAR’s highest level and fostered the next generation of drivers as an owner in the Truck Series. His sharp wit and competitive spirit sparked a deep emotional connection with race fans of every age, creating the proud and loyal ‘Rowdy Nation.’”

The statement concluded: “NASCAR lost a giant of the sport today, far too soon.”

Busch is survived by his wife Samantha, son Brexton, 10, daughter Lennix, 4, parents Tom and Gaye Busch, and older brother Kurt Busch, a NASCAR Hall of Fame inductee who was the Cup Series champion in 2004.

Kyle Busch, left, and Kurt Busch pose with their mother, Gaye Busch, prior to a race May 8, 2022, in Darlington, S.C.

(James Gilbert / Getty Images)

RCR announced Friday that it is suspending the use of Busch’s No. 8 and will run No. 33 in its place.

“Kyle Busch was instrumental in the design of RCR’s stylized No. 8 and it has become synonymous with Kyle and an important symbol for his fans and the NASCAR industry,” the team said in a statement. “No one can carry it forward to the level that he did. The No. 8 is reserved and ready for Brexton Busch when he is ready to go NASCAR racing.”

Busch spent the early years of his NASCAR career with Hendrick Motorsports.

“This is an incredibly painful shock for all of us and a heartbreaking loss for the NASCAR family,” team owner Rick Hendrick said in a statement. “Kyle was one of the most talented drivers I’ve ever seen and a racer in the truest sense of the word. He had a fire and competitive spirit that drove him to be great.

“I watched Kyle grow up in this sport and valued the friendship we shared long after he drove for our organization. As much as he loved to drive a race car, nothing brought him more joy than being a husband, a father and watching his son race.”

Busch won his first Cup Series race in 2005 and claimed rookie of the year honors the same year.

Jeff Gordon, left, talks with Kyle Busch prior to a race Oct. 30, 2016, in Martinsville, Va.

(Robert Laberge / Getty Images)

“Kyle was a fierce competitor who demanded the very best from himself each time he put on the helmet,” former Hendrick teammate Jeff Gordon wrote on X. “As teammates, I saw firsthand the passion and intensity he brought to the sport every single day. He was a champion and prolific racer who made a tremendous impact on NASCAR and was a lifelong advocate for all forms of motor sports.”

Fellow former Hendrick teammate Jimmie Johnson wrote on X: “Kyle Busch wasn’t just one of the fiercest competitors our sport has ever seen, he was one of the most talented race car drivers I’ve ever shared a track with. We spent years as teammates at Hendrick Motorsports, and even as competitors, there was always a deep respect for what he could do behind the wheel.

“Kyle pushed all of us to be better. His passion, intensity, and love for racing were unmatched, and his impact on this sport will be felt forever. I’ll always remember the many laughs and conversations away from the spotlight, and most importantly the way he cared so deeply about his family. …

“NASCAR lost one of its greatest talents today, and we’ve all lost a friend.”

Busch was let go by Hendrick Motorsports after the 2007 season, making room for the team to sign Dale Earnhardt Jr.

“Kyle and I had a really challenging existence for many years,” Earnhardt wrote on X. “But we luckily took the time to figure out our differences and that was something he instigated with a conversation in his bus around how we each managed our racing teams. I was super eager for us to get on better terms. But it was he who made the effort for that to be possible.”

Earnhardt added: “Kyle was one of the greatest drivers in NASCAR history. No one can deny that. But he was also a father, a husband, brother, son, and a friend to many. My heart is broken for the Busch family. I will never be able to make sense of this loss but I am thankful that we had found a way to become friends.”

Busch then moved to Joe Gibbs Racing, where he remained until 2023 and saw much of his career success.

“Kyle was a fierce competitor, an incredible teammate, and, far more importantly, a devoted husband, father, and son,” Joe Gibbs Racing said in a statement. “His impact on our organization and on the sport of NASCAR will never be forgotten.”

Kyle Busch, left, stands in the garage with Denny Hamlin before a practice Oct. 11, 2007, in Concord, N.C.

(Streeter Lecka / Getty Images)

Former JGR teammate Hamlin wrote on X: “Absolutely cannot comprehend this news. We just need to think of his family during this time. We love you KB.”

Busch was ranked 24th in the Cup Series this year, with his best finish being eighth place at Watkins Glen International in Dix, N.Y., on May 10. He also was racing part-time for Spire Motorsports in the Craftsman Truck Series. He had two victories in that series this season, including one last week at Dover Motor Speedway in Delaware.

“Simply put, he was one of the best to ever do this,” Spire Motorsports co-owner Jeff Dickerson said in a statement. “But for those closest to him, there was always another side. For years, many of us would tell people there was a softness behind the public persona they rarely saw. As much of a bad ass as he was on the track, some of us were lucky enough to experience how deeply he loved, how much he cared, and yes, how much he hurt. …

“We used to tell people about that side of him, and some would assume we were just trying to reshape public perception. No one could question it now. By now, the world has seen the incredible devotion he had to being a father to Brexton and Lennix. He loved his kids more than anything. The pride in his voice whenever he talked about them is something I will always remember with gratitude. … My heart absolutely breaks for you, Brexton and Lennix.”

Here are more tributes to Busch posted on X by members of the racing community:

— “I made him earn every victory and stole a few from him along the way,” Brad Keselowski wrote. “We took our shots at each other, in the media and on the track. But I’d like to think that somewhere deep down there was an appreciation that we pushed each other to perform at the highest level, even if neither of us would’ve admitted it. Tonight, I feel a little like the coyote with no more roadrunner to chase. His loss is all of our loss, but none more so than his family’s.”

Kyle Busch, left, and Clint Bowyer sit together in the garage during practice Sept. 21, 2007, in Dover, Del.

(Russ Hamilton / Associated Press)

— “There aren’t really words for today,” Ricky Stenhouse Jr. wrote. “I’ve raced against Kyle for a long time, and anyone who’s lined up next to him knows exactly what made him special, he gave you everything he had, every single lap, and he made all of us better for it. But more than the wins and the records, I keep thinking about Samantha, Brexton, and Lennix, and the entire Busch family right now. That’s where my heart is. Rest easy, Rowdy. The sport won’t be the same without you.”

— “I just talked to him Friday,” Clint Bowyer wrote. “In complete shock, as we all are. The devastation and sadness is beyond words. Praying for Samantha, Brexton, Lennix, his entire family and loved ones.”

— “I’m so sad and stunned to hear the news about KB,” William Byron wrote. “He meant so much to a lot of people, not just myself. Kyle was the best mentor you could ever have. He was incredibly unselfish, cared about his people and his family deeply. And helped shaped my career to what it is. I’m heartbroken.”

The daughter of mosque security guard Amin Abdullah is remembering him as the “absolute best dad in the world.” Family and community members gathered Tuesday to honour Abdullah, who was killed while confronting gunmen during the attack on a San Diego mosque.

CANNES, France — Cannes is technically half over and the hunt for a masterpiece continues. Critics on the Croisette are starting to resemble that classic comic-strip panel in which an explorer crawls desperately across the sand toward an oasis that’s only a mirage.

This far into an underwhelming festival, good films have a way of looking like great ones, such as James Gray’s “Paper Tiger,” a grimy thriller with Adam Driver and Miles Teller playing brothers in 1980s New York who get mired in a scheme to sanitize the Gowanus Canal. Driver’s ex-cop knows the codes of cutting deals with the Russian mob; Teller’s engineer is the square who can’t grasp how doing things the right way just makes the situation worse. As the normies, Teller and his naive wife, portrayed by Scarlett Johansson, feel like kids playing dress-up. (Johansson’s perm is a bit much.) Still, the script is tense and tight — and at this point, I’m happy to see anything with a plot.

Rodrigo Sorogoyen’s “The Beloved” has two of them: It’s a film within a film about a famous director (Javier Bardem) who casts his estranged actor daughter (Victoria Luengo) in his latest project. The fictional movie he’s making looks stiff, a period epic about Spain’s colonialist withdrawal from the Sahara in the 1930s, which doubles as a metaphor for the father’s destructive absence from his now-adult child’s life. A boozer, she’s not stable enough to stand up to the scrutiny of his sudden attention. Luengo herself holds the camera splendidly even in her character’s weaker moments, turning her charisma off whenever her father needs her to turn it on.

Consider it a shot and chaser to “Garance,” which stars a vibrantly sloppy Adèle Exarchopoulos as another alcoholic actress. Sharp, smartly paced and entertaining, it’s fantastic until the last stretch, which peters out and then abruptly stops.

One of the festival’s big themes seems to be connection: that we’re all stuck on this rock together and, ultimately, the difference between human and android, man and woman, is moot. At least three movies have someone saying, “That’s life,” with a shrug. The films themselves, however, are lifeless. Worse, they’re long. I can roll with movies that are mostly vibes, but only to a limit — say, 85 minutes.

Sophie Thatcher in the movie “Her Private Hell.”

(Neon)

Nicolas Winding Refn’s “Her Private Hell” is longer than that and the inertia is excruciating. The Danish director of “Drive” hasn’t made a feature film since “Neon Demon” premiered at Cannes in 2016 and this grim fairy tale feels more like a feint than a comeback. A sulky daughter (Sophie Thatcher) skulks around a misty skyscraper with her hot young stepmother (Havana Rose Liu) idly fretting about a murderer named the Leather Man. Down below, an Army private (Charles Melton) hunts the killer. Little happens other than chain-smoking, costume changes and interminable shots of color-shifting strobe lighting splaying across the cast’s cheekbones. Thankfully, Kristine Froseth adds pep as a bimbo who hasn’t yet learned how to talk as leadenly as everyone else.

Too much of the program is made up of tedious movies by beloved Cannes veterans — essentially affirmative action for auteurs. Eight years ago, Hirokazu Kore-eda won the Palme d’Or for “Shoplifters,” a chaotically enchanting portrait of a family of fraudsters. Now, he’s returned with “Sheep in the Box,” a slick and dull story about two grieving parents who adopt a clone of their dead son. “Sheep” aspires for Spielbergian catharsis — one scene seems to consider itself an art-house take on “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” — but the human characters come off as mechanical as the little robot boy. Between the musty setup and saccharine score, it’s the film equivalent of a bowl of stale candies.

Arthur Harari, who co-wrote 2023’s Palme- and Oscar-winning “Anatomy of a Fall,” is here as the director of “The Unknown,” a stilted drama about a sulky male photographer who wakes up in the body of Léa Seydoux after a nameless, wordless one-night stand. You can imagine Brian De Palma running with the sex-contagion idea (or “It Follows” director David Robert Mitchell grumbling that he deserved an inspired-by writing credit). But “The Unknown’s” shape-shifting intrigue stalls out once you realize that none of the characters have a personality to begin with. Who cares what soul is inside each shell if they’re all monotonously slack-faced? “Face/Off” it isn’t.

Léa Seydoux in the movie “The Unknown.”

(Festival de Cannes)

On that note, one emotional highlight to date was the presentation of an unannounced honorary Palme to John Travolta. (Yes, his face-swapping 1997 thriller with Nicolas Cage was in the celebratory montage.) Already bursting with passion to be world-premiering his directorial debut, “Propeller One-Way Night Coach,” Travolta was moved to tears. “Surprise complète!” Travolta gasped, kissing his trophy and blurting, “I was just happy to be here.” Indeed he was, as evident by the jaunty white beret he’d worn for the occasion, which quickly went viral on social media.

Travolta’s infectious enthusiasm carried over into the movie itself, a semi-autobiographical trifle about his childhood love of air travel. Set in 1962, a boy roughly Travolta’s age voyages from New York to Los Angeles on a series of hopping flights with his mother, who is hoping to land a rich husband or a good Hollywood role in that order. The kid’s joy is as stratospheric as the plane; he adores everything but the airline’s chicken cordon bleu. As a nostalgia piece, it’s “A Christmas Story” with a third of the jokes, none of the cynicism and not quite the length to justify itself as a movie. At barely an hour, it skedaddles in time to leave you with a sheepish smile.

Given the choice, I’d prefer to see a truly terrible movie over one that’s merely bland and mediocre. With that context, I’ve been literally raving over “Butterfly Jam,” a film so fundamentally misguided it could almost be the cineaste version of “The Room.”

Set in New Jersey, “Butterfly Jam” is a tale of toxic masculinity among braggadocious Circassian immigrants played by Barry Keoghan, Harry Melling and Riley Keough — actors who, despite their talent and effort here, are too notoriously Irish, English and Graceland-ian to be convincingly a part of a subculture this specific. It’s filmmaker Kantemir Balagov’s fault more than theirs. Despite supposedly arriving to the States as teenagers, the cast don’t even have accents, just dyed jet-black hair. While adamantly miserabilist, it does have a plot or at least one shocking plot point that’s so ghastly it made me giddy. A few scenes later, a pelican switches on a cotton candy machine with its bill, sending hot sugar whirring through the air — seriously — and I nearly applauded in delight.

Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart in the movie “Full Phil.”

(Festival de Cannes)

Likewise, a friend warned me against staying up through 2 a.m. for the premiere of Quentin Dupieux’s “Full Phil,” cautioning that it was the worst film they’d ever seen at Cannes in over a decade. But there was no way I’d miss watching Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart play a miserable father and daughter on a Parisian vacation, directed by a French oddball who rarely fails to entertain — although this time, he comes close.

The story is simple: The dad flusters, fidgets and whines; the girl gobbles room service as though aspiring to become human foie gras. “Full Phil” took about an hour to reveal its point — that parenthood makes you a glutton for punishment — and the jokes are more gestures at where a joke should be. Still, I support Harrelson and Stewart signing on to a project this cuckoo. Better still, it boasted something in short supply: a satisfying ending. Here’s hoping the festival itself ends stronger too.

Donald Gibb, the actor who played the hulking fraternity bro Ogre in “Revenge of the Nerds” and Ray “Tiny” Jackson in “Bloodsport,” has died. He was 71.

Gibb’s son Travis confirmed his father’s death to TMZ on Tuesday evening after he died earlier that day at home in Texas surrounded by family. Gibb, a former professional wrestler under the name “Don Gibb,” succumbed to “health complications,” according to his son.

A statement from the family, provided to People, described Gibb as a father, grandfather, great-grandfather, brother, uncle, friend and actor.

“Known for his larger-than-life presence on screen and his kindness off screen, he brought joy, laughter, and unforgettable memories to countless people throughout his life and career,” the statement said.

“Above all else, Donald treasured his faith and the people he loved,” it continued. “His strength, generosity, and spirit will never be forgotten by those who had the privilege of knowing him personally and by the many fans whose lives he touched over the years.”

“Bloodsport” star Jean-Claude Van Damme remembered Gibb in an Instagram story, posting a photo from 1986 and writing “Rest in peace, my brother.” He also reposted a reel showing himself and Gibb in the 1988 movie.

“Whether he was the lovable brute Ogre in Revenge of the Nerds or the fearless Ray Jackson in Bloodsport, Donald brought a heart as big as his frame to every role,” the caption on the reposted reel said. “Watching him alongside Jean-Claude Van Damme was the ultimate display of brotherhood on screen. In the clip, JCVD asks, ‘What took you so long?’ It’s a bitter-sweet reminder that while he’s gone too soon, his legacy in the martial arts and 80s cinema world is timeless. ‘Anytime, anyplace, anywhere.’”

A representative for Gibb didn’t respond immediately Wednesday to The Times’ request for comment.

Gibb had about 100 credits, including the sequels “Bloodsport” and the movie and TV sequels to “Nerds.”

Born Aug. 4, 1954, Gibb started his career in the early 1980s with uncredited roles in “Any Which Way You Can,” “Stripes” and “Conan the Barbarian.” His TV credits included episodes of “Cheers,” “MacGyver” and “The Young and the Restless.”

He acted into 2011, then tagged on one last credit, for the 2026 movie release “Hands.” According to IMDb, that filmed sometime in 2023 or 2024.

It’s early in the morning, and Birmingham baseball coach Matt Mowry is at the supermarket looking through the flowers section before classes begin. He’s engaged in an unseen, often undervalued duty as a coach — providing comfort to players and their families.

One of his players, 16-year-old sophomore outfielder JJ Rodriguez, lost his father, Anthony, 53, on a Saturday morning last month when he died in his sleep at home. Mowry is looking for a bouquet of flowers to present to JJ’s mother, Nancy, before his first game back.

There are no easy answers how to help a family dealing with grief. Mowry went through his own tragedy in 2022 when his wife, Amy, died of cancer. He prays for her before each game, looking up to the sky while grasping his wife’s necklace, then kissing a ring that has her fingerprint tattooed on it.

The message Mowry told JJ: “Times are going to be tough There’s moments you’re going to break down. It’s OK. You don’t have to hide it.”

The reason No. 1-seeded Birmingham doesn’t open the City Section Open Division baseball playoffs until Thursday is because Anthony’s funeral is Wednesday, and players and coaches will be there to provide support.

Anthony Rodriguez, the father of Birmingham baseball player JJ Rodriguez, died last month.

(Eric Sondheimer / Los Angeles)

JJ missed a couple days of school and one game after his father’s death. He wanted to be alone and was skeptical about coming back any time soon.

“He would message me and tell me coming here and being around my teammates would make me more comfortable and get my mind off things,” JJ said of Mowry. “I wanted to be alone a little bit because my mind was not in the right place. But the day I came back, I learned these guys are my family.”

JJ has become an important part of his team, starting in left field while batting No. 9 in the order. The Patriots won their first West Valley League title in 20 years and are trying to win their sixth City title under Mowry.

JJ and his mother have appreciated the emotional support, allowing them to try to heal from their sorrow.

His mother told him, “Be strong for everyone else. Your dad will always be proud of you.”

There’s a candle in the room where his father was found.

“I sometimes go there and be alone at night and talk to myself,” he said.

Before games, JJ says a prayer and thinks of his father.

“Every game,” he said. “It’s for you, Dad.”

On May 23, the City final will take place at Dodger Stadium.

Imagine the thrill for players of the two teams who reach the final. They’ll get to walk the infield, put some grass in their pockets, look up into the stands, hang out in the dugout of the two-time defending world champions.

For JJ, his father won’t be able to watch him. Or maybe he will. Every day is a step forward to healing. It’s hard, but he’s got a coach watching over him.

“I talked to him about what my son went through in the same situation,” Mowry said. “I had him get back out with the guys and be there whether he practiced or played.”

JJ is back and thankful to his baseball family.

When political commentator Ana Navarro recently arrived at Mercado Little Spain, the José Andrés-owned food hall downstairs from CNN’s New York studios, a seat was ready for her constant companion, a rust-colored miniature poodle named ChaCha.

“I am her service human because I’m servicing her all day,” Navarro said of the well-behaved pooch who has been by her side since the 2020 COVID-19 lockdown.

As Navarro and a reporter order tapas dishes for the next two hours, patrons at nearby tables raise their cellphone cameras. Andrés’ daughter Carlota stops by and gives an update on her father, a Navarro pal. Later, a Spanish-speaking young woman comes over and thanks Navarro, a political exile from Nicaragua, for defending immigrants amid the aggressive deportation efforts of the Trump administration.

In a fragmented media world where critical mass is becoming harder to attain, Navarro has become one of media’s most recognizable political talking heads thanks to her two high-profile TV roles.

She is a co-host of ABC’s “The View,” the No. 1-rated daytime talk show that has become a target in Federal Communications Commission Chairman Brendan Carr’s efforts to discipline President Trump’s broadcast media critics. She is also a regular panelist on CNN’s roundtable program “NewsNight with Abby Phillip,” which extends its reach far beyond its modest ratings through frequent viral clips on social media.

In February, Navarro, 54, joined the growing list of media personalities who have launched a digital platform to reach consumers no longer watching traditional TV with a weekly podcast for iHeart called “Bleep! With Ana Navarro.”

Navarro is her uncut self on “Bleep!” She interviews guests but can also go into a 30-plus minute monologue without a script when she records at iHeart’s midtown Manhattan studios, where ChaCha looks on from a cushy pillow.

Navarro delivers her arguments against the Trump administration as if she’s schmoozing with friends across a kitchen table. She always appears calm but as the podcast title suggests, she serves up a few four-letter words she doesn’t use on TV.

“Bleep!” gives Navarro her own platform at a time when the legacy media networks she works at are under pressure. Upheaval is expected at CNN if parent company Warner Bros. Discovery becomes a part of Paramount and its Trump-friendly owners David and Larry Ellison.

Carr recently called for an early review of ABC’s TV station licenses. He said its related to an investigation into parent company Disney’s diversity practices but it comes amid the administration’s criticism of the network’s Trump coverage, which has included “The View.”

Ana Navarro on the set of ABC’s “The View.”

(Lou Rocco (ABC))

Navarro was pulled into the fray last year when she was approached by Walt Disney Co. Chief Executive Bob Iger at ABC’s upfront advertiser presentation in New York. The huddle led to reports that they discussed the anti-Trump commentary on “The View.”

“We had an honest conversation but I’m not going to tell you what it was,” she said. “Nobody is muscling us. All I’ve got to do is show up and do the same thing that I’ve always done, which is be as truthful, and authentic and informed.”

(On Friday, ABC filed a petition with the FCC over the agency’s recent scrutiny of “The View,” and whether the program qualifies for an exemption from seldom enforced equal time rules for political candidates. The network accused the FCC of actions violating its 1st Amendment right to free speech.)

Navarro has been pounding at Trump for so long, it’s hard to remember that her rise as a TV pundit began 14 years ago when she was a loyal conservative Republican. Jeff Zucker, who ran CNN from 2012 to 2022, said her personal evolution sets her apart from other pundits.

“She’s funny, insightful, knows how to turn a phrase and she’s gone on a political journey,” Zucker said in a recent interview. “So she understands the entire political spectrum as well as anyone.”

Navarro was eight years old in 1980 when her family fled Nicaragua and sought political asylum in the U.S. after the socialist Sandinista National Liberation Front took power. Her father stayed behind to fight with the anti-communist rebel Contras in the country’s civil war.

“Reagan was taking on the Sandinistas when Bernie Sanders wasn’t,” she said.

She was granted amnesty and became a U.S. citizen under the immigration reform bill signed by President Reagan in 1986.

Growing up in Miami, Navarro was part of the enclave of Latinos whose political perspectives were shaped by having fled Fidel’s Castro’s Cuba and other communist regimes in Latin America. She became a political operative in Republican politics, starting in local Miami races and eventually served as national Hispanic chair for 2008 GOP presidential nominee John McCain. Her Cuban-born husband, Al Cardenas, was on Reagan’s transition team and once led the Republican Party in Florida.

Navarro watched in dismay in 2015 when Trump came down the escalator of the midtown Manhattan skyscraper that bears his name to announce he was seeking the Republican presidential nomination. “Calling Mexicans rapists and criminals — that just hurt my heart,” she said.

When Trump mocked a disabled journalist during a campaign rally, Navarro was reminded of family struggles with one of her older brothers, who has non-verbal autism and is self-injurious. “That brought back so much outrage and anger,” she said. “For me that was a line I could never forgive.”

But being an anti-Trump Republican has become a lonelier job in recent years as the party establishment’s support solidified behind Trump during the historically successful campaign in 2024 that returned him to the White House. For Navarro, it has meant the end of many long-standing relationships.

“I’ve lost some very close friends over Donald Trump,” she said. “And I’ve had to make peace with that. They feel that I’ve betrayed the Republican Party. Some of them think I’m an opportunist, doing this for today.”

One of those friends is Secretary of State Marco Rubio, who she’s known her entire adult life. Navarro still has his cell number in her contacts, but it’s been awhile since she’s called. She still respects Rubio‘s credentials in foreign policy but doesn’t see herself ever supporting him if he runs for president.

“Unless he was running against Satan incarnate, no, I would not go over to him,” she said.

Navarro keeps her cool on “NewsNight,” which occasionally erupts into bedlam when guests clash with Scott Jennings, the show’s resident MAGA Republican. But she misses the days of sparring with Democratic operative Donna Brazile when they were on opposing sides on CNN’s Washington set, and then went out for oysters and wine at Old Ebbitt Grill afterward.

“It’s a completely different world than it was,” Navarro said.

The highly self-confident Navarro has always spoken her mind, encouraged by her father and the Sacred Heart nuns who operated her private school in Miami where she still resides. “Those nuns could run Fortune 500 companies,” she said.

She is not afraid to draw on her own painful, personal experiences to deliver a point. Another older brother died of a heart attack at age 38. Her cousin’s son was a fatality at the 2016 Pulse night club shooting in Orlando, Fla.

“I refuse to live in hopelessness and trauma,” she said. “The things I’ve gone through have shaped me into who I am and made me resilient and empathetic. One of the reasons I abhor Donald Trump is because he completely lacks empathy.”

Where Navarro often separates herself from most Democrats is foreign policy. When Venezuela President Nicolás Maduro was ousted and arrested by U.S. forces, Navarro, on holiday in Madrid, joined exiles from the country as they celebrated in Puerta del Sol.

Navarro expects to have the same reaction if Trump makes good on his threats to end Cuba’s communist regime.

“I will go out there with my metal pan and my metal spoon and I will bang the drums in joy,” she said.

IN northern Arkansas on the banks of South Fork Spring River in the region known as the Ozarks, you’ll find a tiny settlement called Saddle.

Today, it comprises a modest Baptist church, an old timber-clad general store turned events venue (now up for sale) — and very little else.

Not so far away, out in the wilds, is the farm where country star Ashley McBryde grew up.

It is the place where she first picked up a guitar and discovered her passion for music, the starting point of her journey to the world stage.

Along the way, she rebelled against her strict preacher father, sang in biker bars, acquired the striking collection of tattoos adorning both arms and fought alcohol addiction.

Yet her inspirational climb has taken her to country music’s spiritual home, the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville and the O2 Arena in London for the C2C festival.

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And next month she will support a titan of the genre, Garth Brooks, at Hyde Park in front of 65,000 people.

Since becoming sober in June 2022, Grammy-winning McBryde is making some of the best music of her life, and she’s doing it by returning to her roots.

On one of the rousing songs on her fifth studio album, the aptly titled Wild, she sings these lines with mighty conviction…

“It’s in my throat, it’s in my bones, it’s on my boots and in my blood. That Ozark streak sureе runs deep and it sticks to me like that Arkansas mud.”

I tell her that my only experience of her childhood stomping ground is the TV series Ozark about a Chicago family who decamp to the area, for money- laundering reasons as you do, where they encounter small-time hillbilly criminals.

“Yeah, I’ve known some characters like those,” says McBryde with a knowing smile. “They did a great job on Ozark.”

She is one of a new breed who has learned to accept “the Nashville machine” while remaining true to themselves.

“I’ve done a good job, not a perfect one, of being inside the machine but also sticking to my guns,” she affirms.

“It’s an industry that asks the brunette to be blonde and the girl that’s 5ft 3in to be 6ft.”

At times, McBryde felt she was “falling short of being shinier, blonder, skinnier” but, she adds hand on heart: “You’re just not getting rid of what’s in here.”

In the same bracket, you will find two big bearded male artists keeping it real — Luke Combs and Chris Stapleton, who are among America’s biggest selling artists right now.

These are the natural successors to the original country “outlaws,” who include McBryde’s hero Kris Kristofferson, fellow Arkansawyer Johnny Cash and last man standing Willie Nelson.

She delivers kick-ass songs, drawing on rock and roll as much as anything, but she can also turn her intuitive talents to tear-stained balladry or a country-pop masterclass like recent single What If We Don’t.

I’m meeting the vivacious 42-year-old during her whistle- stop visit to London, and we find ourselves beside a picture window overlooking Kensington Gardens filled with people catching the glorious spring sunshine.

I can’t help sensing the contrast between the swish hotel suite in a teeming capital city and Ashley McBryde’s isolated upbringing that is, in part, the inspiration for her new album.

Taking my cue from the name of her album, I ask her if she was a “Wild” child.

“I think I was a good kid but I was also in trouble a lot,” she replies.

“I asked a lot of questions that people didn’t want to answer. They didn’t care for a child who wanted to know why things had to be a certain way.

“But I was always out in the woods, dreaming up this or that. I would be one of the X-Men, making swords and guns out of sticks.”

The youngest of six, she paints a picture of her childhood that conjures up classic American literature — Little Women, Tom Sawyer or Little House On The Prairie.

In fact, every night her “angel” of a mother would read her a chapter of the latter book as well as one from the Bible.

“I didn’t own shorts until I was an adult,” continues McBryde.

“Because my legs would get so ate up with tick bites from being out in the briars and thorns. It was a very physical existence.

“We worked real hard. We had cows, chickens and horses but my favourite thing about it was I could go wherever I wanted.

“I could go out walking for a whole day. I remember one time I asked mom if I could camp out for the night.

“She said, ‘Why would you want to do that?’ And I said, ‘I just want to cook my soup on a campfire’.

“She was like, ‘Well, knock yourself out’.”

But there was a duality to life in this rustic idyll because McBryde’s farmer and preacher father, William, imposed his strict religious beliefs at home.

This perhaps explains why she has been singing the late Randall Clay’s storming Rattlesnake Preacher live for several years and why, finally, her studio version opens Wild in such uncompromising fashion.

“There was freedom even though we lived in a very, very rigid household,” says McBryde.

“It was all right as long as what you wanted to do was within the parameters of what was considered to be right.

“So there was nothing wrong with going for a walk or riding a horse or digging a hole or learning to play a guitar. Those things were totally OK.

“But it was very much a case of the man being the head of the family, the way Christ is the head of the church — and anything that went against that could go to hell. There was no break.”

Although she was generally expected to attend church on “Wednesday night, Sunday morning and Sunday night,” sometimes even that was off-limits “if they were doing something that my father deemed not in alignment with his book”.

This brings McBryde to an extraordinary revelation: “To my knowledge, my father has still not listened to my music.”

That said, she admits that he had to hear one of her songs, Bible And A .44, written about him and appearing on her debut EP in 2016, Jalopies & Expensive Guitars.

It includes the lines: “He taught me how to hunt and how to love the Lord/He carried a Bible and a .44/And they just don’t make ’em like that no more.”

McBryde says: “I sang it to him after I wrote it. He told me, ‘You painted me in an awful nice light. I wish all of it could be true.’

“And I said: ‘You don’t see what I see because you’re not looking at what I’m looking at.’

“It was a nice way to give him a break from being the villain because a lot of the time he was. There were really great qualities about him, too.”

As for her beloved mother Martha, she says: “She’s an absolute angel. I don’t think she’s ever done anything wrong.

“She can make you an outfit right now while she’s making you a casserole while she’s praying for someone who has lost a limb.”

It was in this old-school world that McBryde developed her love of making music, becoming enchanted by the songs of the rugged Kristofferson and the more polished John Denver.

“I knew I wanted to be a singer and a songwriter from a really young age, even before I was a teenager.”

She knew she was on the right path when, after leaving home, she “started making enough playing in bars not to wait tables anymore and to keep the lights on in my apartment”.

A rebel at heart, McBryde recalls playing biker dives and, like the clientele, she got tattoos, wore leather and drank heavily.

As she tried to get a foothold in the country music scene, there wasn’t much hope “for a non-blonde who was covered in tattoos”.

“I did meet a lot of friction,” she says. “Some labels were not in any way interested.”

But her irresistible talent was spotted by, among others, Eric Church, another country star who likes to say it how it is.

“He was a great champion,” says McBryde. “A great name to be associated with because of the way he makes records and the way he approaches music.

“For him to say, ‘I like this songwriter’ does open a door.”

Evidence of that door being opened arrived in 2018 when McBryde’s major label debut, Girl Going Nowhere, was released on Warner Nashville, including one of her signature songs, A Little Dive Bar In Dahlonega.

It’s about resilience in the face of a break-up and, among its references to drinking is the line, “We’ve all got a number we don’t wanna drunk dial.”

I guess it alludes to another aspect of McBryde’s life because, running parallel to her early years in the business, was a dependence on alcohol, which she’s finally coming to terms with.

One of her new album’s most captivating songs is the beautifully sung ballad Bottle Tells Me So.

“I didn’t want to have a problem with alcohol but, like it or not, it’s part of my story,’ admits McBryde. “And I didn’t want to talk about it for a long time.

“I was either drinking, drunk or hung over at all times – and that’s really tough.”

In 2022, matters came to a head when, on the advice of her team, McBryde went into rehab.

Now proudly four years sober, she says: “Writing Bottle Tells Me So was a way to acknowledge it without saying, ‘I’m sober and you should be too.’

“You don’t want to preach but life is so much better for me now that I don’t drink.

“In that song, I’m not saying I’m never going to drink again. There’s no shame involved.”

In explaining why a habit that began while “acting cool and hanging with friends”, McBryde says: “I’ve heard it said that the addicts of all types aren’t addicted to any substance.

“They’re addicted to not feeling their feelings. I would say that is spot on for me.

“Not consuming alcohol anymore is probably the simplest part of becoming sober. You have to completely re-meet yourself and rewire everything.”

McBryde says she feels “1000 per cent” better, both physically and mentally. “I look better and I feel better. Despite still feeling anxious, I’m stronger than I knew and that makes me happy.”

She recalls her first show after leaving after getting sober: “I left treatment on Tuesday, got in the bus on Wednesday and was on the stage on Thursday.

“It was my first time being more than 30 days dry and it was the most terrifying, coolest thing I will ever experience.

“I was worried and asked myself, ‘What if I can’t do this?’ But I got out there and was spot on. Bullseye! Now I’m at the top of my game.”

McBryde is undoubtedly dialled in on Wild, produced with sparkle and empathy by John Osborne of country duo Brothers Osborne.

“John’s magical, playful and curious,” she says. “When I try something, he will say, ‘If you love it, we keep it. If you hate it, we toss it.”

It’s a healthy state of affairs for an artist who is increasingly cherished by the country music establishment in Nashville.

She says: “My friends and I always joke, ‘You can never change where the machine is headed unless you climb inside the machine.’

“I want to make music that people will hear. I like being able to make your guts hurt.

‘And the only way to get it heard is to abide by certain rules.”

One her proudest achievements is becoming a member of Grand Ol’ Opry, showcase for the greats from Hank Williams (even if he did get banned) and Patsy Cline onwards.

“I love it,” says McBryde. “Just thinking about it now, I smile so big. My face is complete cheese.”

And there we have it. Ashley McBryde, force of nature, born and raised in the Arkansas Mud but reaching for the stars.

ASHLEY McBRYDE Wild

4.5 STARS

A Palestinian boy mourns his father, one of three people killed in an Israeli strike on a security post in Gaza. The attack is part of ongoing Israeli violence, despite a fragile ceasefire, which has killed at least 846 Palestinians, according to Gaza’s Health Ministry.

The ninth in an occasional series of profiles on Southern California athletes who have flourished in their post-playing careers.

When the Dodgers drafted David Lesch in January 1980, they had visions of his fastball lighting up radar guns at Dodger Stadium.

He never made it that far.

Lesch never climbed above the lowest rung on the minor league ladder, where he pitched just 10 innings and gave up more runs, hits and walks than he got outs. Less than 18 months after he was drafted, Lesch, wracked by a rotator cuff injury, was released, his major league dream over before he was old enough to legally buy a beer.

“I went to Disney World after that,” he said.

But that wasn’t the only decision the Dodgers made that changed Lesch’s life. When he was drafted, the team gave him just a small bonus, but sweetened the deal by offering to pay for college if he ever went back to school. For the team, it seemed a safe bet.

“They probably have this algorithm saying ‘this is the No. 1 draft pick. If he doesn’t make it, he’s not going back to college. He’ll be assistant baseball coach of his high school or something,’” Lesch said.

Oops.

Lesch not only went back to college, but he also wound up getting three degrees, including a master’s and a PhD from Harvard. It was arguably the most important investment in humanity the Dodgers made since signing Jackie Robinson, because Lesch went on to become one of the world’s top experts on the Middle East, writing 18 books and more than 140 other publications while advising four presidents and a cadre of United Nations diplomats.

David Lesch interacts with students in his history class at Trinity University in San Antonio.

(Lucero Salinas / Trinity University)

“That was the best deal,” Lesch, 65, said by phone from San Antonio, where he is the Ewing Halsell Distinguished Professor of History at Trinity University.

“Without that I probably could not have said yes to Harvard because of the price. The Dodgers committed to paying.”

And by doing so, the Dodgers may have altered history just a bit.

Lesch’s regular meetings with Syrian president Bashar al-Assad, which ended with Lesch facilitating an important if temporary breakthrough in U.S.-Syrian relations? The diplomatic and conflict-resolution work in Syria and the wider U.N. initiatives on regional issues throughout the Middle East? The thousands of students Lesch inspired to go on to perform important diplomatic and public-service roles of their own?

None of that happens if Lesch’s shoulder had held on or if the Dodgers had reneged on their deal.

“It was very fortunate that he hurt his rotator cuff. Baseball’s loss is academia’s gain,” said Robert Freedman, a scholar and expert on Russian and Middle Eastern politics who taught Lesch at the University of Maryland Baltimore County.

“I’ve been teaching for, I guess, 60 years now and I can tell when a student can see a complex problem and can penetrate right to the heart of the problem very quickly. He was one of those students.”

Still, it took a slightly offhand comment from Freedman, who now teaches at Johns Hopkins, to launch Lesch on his post-baseball career.

“We were having lunch and he was looking for a project and I mentioned to him ‘you know, there hasn’t been a good American scholar doing work on Syria for many, many years,’” he said.

“That struck his interest.”

Playing a child’s game and managing life-and-death Middle East politics share very little in common. But Lesch made the transition seamlessly.

“It is like he’s several different people, or has been,” said journalist and author Catherine Nixon Cooke, whose book “Dodgers to Damascus: David Lesch’s Journey from Baseball to the Middle East” traces those parallel lives.

“I’m wondering if, in a sense, it all worked out the way it was supposed to,” Cooke continued. “Even though his dream was to be a major leaguer, David certainly has reinvented himself to this really remarkable man following a completely different path.

“It was the Dodgers who paid for him to go to Harvard and so it’s kind of a weird thing. Baseball took away his dream because he got hurt, but baseball also gave him his backup plan.”

Lesch was still a teenager when, 20 minutes into his first spring training camp in Vero Beach, Fla., Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda plucked him off a minor league practice field to pitch batting practice in the main stadium.

Waiting for him were Ron Cey, Bill Russell, Steve Garvey, Davey Lopes and Reggie Smith, the heart of a lineup that would win a World Series a season later.

It was the first time — and nearly the last — that Lesch faced big-league hitters. And it didn’t start well.

Batting practice pitchers throw from behind an L-shaped screen that protects them from comebackers and Lesch had never used one. That, combined with his understandable nervousness, caused him to short-arm his first fastball, which sailed at Cey’s head, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

“He got up and gave me this mean look,” Lesch said. “I remember it so vividly right now. I really thought I was going to be released that day.”

Instead, he gathered himself and finished the session, earning pats on the back from both Garvey and Lasorda. The incident, he said, has colored the rest of his life.

“I’ve met with presidents, prime ministers, been in war zones, all sorts of things,” Lesch said. “Anytime I say ‘well, you know, this should make me nervous,’ I think about that episode and the fact that I made it through and did OK.”

In high school, Lesch had focused on basketball and baseball. Academics? Not so much. So after spending his freshman year of college at Western Maryland College, he transferred to Central Arizona, a junior college, so he would be eligible for the January 1980 draft, allowing him to trade his books in for a baseball.

The so-called secondary draft, which was discontinued six years later, was specifically targeted toward winter high school graduates, junior college players, college dropouts and amateurs who had been previously drafted but did not sign. As a result, the bonuses teams offered winter draft picks were just a fraction of what players taken in the June draft received.

Lesch’s was so low, he can’t even remember what it was.

“I want to say $10,000 to $15,000,” he said. “No more than $20,000.”

When it became clear the Dodgers weren’t going to budge on the money, Lesch’s father, Warren, a family physician in suburban Baltimore, pulled out the Harford County phone book and looked up the number for Baltimore Orioles coach Cal Ripken Sr. Lesch played high school ball against Ripken’s son Cal Jr., who had been a second-round draft pick of the Orioles two years earlier. So his father thought the Ripkens might have some advice on what to ask of the Dodgers.

David Lesch, a former Dodgers draft pick, stands on the baseball diamond at Trinity University in San Antonio.

(Lucero Salinas / Trinity University)

“Ripken goes ‘does your son like school and is he smart?’” Lesch’s older brother Bob remembers. “So Ripken suggested if they offer you XYZ bonus money, take less and say ‘I’ll take this amount, but you have to cover education if he doesn’t make it.’”

Neither side thought that clause would ever be triggered; Lesch, a big, intimidating right-hander who threw bullets from behind Coke-bottle eyeglasses, wasn’t headed to a classroom, he was going to Dodger Stadium.

Until he wasn’t.

Lesch missed a couple of weeks with a back injury. By overcompensating for the sore back, he developed paralysis in the ulnar nerve in his right arm, limiting him to five appearances in his first minor league season.

He arrived healthy for his second spring in Vero Beach and threw three no-hit innings in his first outing against double-A and triple-A players, creating such a buzz that Ron Perranoski, the Dodgers’ major league pitching coach, showed up to watch his second game. By then the shoulder and back stiffness that shortened his first season had returned, and Lesch was rocked. Perranoski left early and unimpressed.

Lesch’s delivery had one major flaw: He threw directly overhand, as opposed to three-quarters or even sidearm, which can increase velocity but also places additional strain on the shoulder and elbow. As a result, his fastball could top out in the mid-90s one day, but when the stiffness and pain returned, it left him throwing in the low 80s.

The inconsistency continued to plague Lesch, and eventually the Dodgers decided they’d seen enough and released him. When he got back to Maryland, Lesch’s father sent him to see an orthopedic surgeon, who found the problem wasn’t in his back or elbow but rather the rotator cuff.

“We didn’t live in the era of pitch counts. So he just pitched,” said David Souter, a high school and college teammate who went on to develop big-league pitchers.

“He had the ability if he was developed and stayed healthy. I think he probably overthrew and tore his rotator cuff and nobody knew it.”

If Lesch had come along 10 years later, when rotator cuff surgeries were common, he might have returned to the mound. But in 1981, a rotator cuff injury was a death sentence for a pitcher.

“It’s just a crapshoot based on physiology,” Lesch said. “I probably was destined. Something would have happened.”

If he could do it over again, Lesch said he would change one thing.

“I’d throw sidearm,” he said. “It’s much less stress.”

He threw to big league hitters just one more time. Following the strike that interrupted the 1981 season, Ripken Sr. phoned Lesch back and asked him to throw batting practice at Memorial Stadium to help the Orioles prepare for the resumption of play. As a reward, the Orioles let Lesch hit — he never had batted in the minors — and he drove a pitch over the left-field wall, then dropped the bat and walked away.

He never stepped on a major league field again.

The Dodgers’ investment in Lesch’s education appeared manageable when he enrolled at a satellite campus of the University of Maryland, in part because his brother Bob was the school’s sports information director.

But it was 1981 and the Middle East was at the forefront of geopolitics. Lesch became convinced the Middle East would be central to world affairs for decades to come. Inspired and encouraged by Freedman and another professor, Lou Cantori, he applied to graduate school at Harvard, Georgetown, Johns Hopkins and the University of Chicago, knowing he couldn’t afford any of those schools on his own.

“I probably could not have said yes to Harvard when they accepted me because of the price,” Lesch said. “The Dodgers had committed to paying and whatever it was, it was a lot more collectively — my undergraduate MA and PhD — than I had gotten in the bonus.”

That wasn’t the only time his baseball background worked in his favor. Years after starting at Harvard, Lesch stumbled upon written evaluations of his application and learned that his grade-point average and other factors were similar to those of other applicants, but it was his athletic career that had swung enough votes in his favor to get him accepted.

“Failure is at the core of sports. And so you have to have this resiliency,” Lesch said. “What a lot of the top colleges have found is that these young kids out of high school who somehow get a 4.6 GPA, they come in — and I’ve seen this as a professor — they get their first C and they’re distraught.

“Athletes stick with it. They say ‘how can I turn this around? How can I get better?’ Admissions departments across the board have looked at athletes much differently.”

The struggles Lesch experienced on the diamond did not follow him into academia. Yet becoming an expert on the Middle East definitely was a backup plan.

“His first passion was clearly baseball and basketball,” said Souter, the former teammate. “Every kid dreamed … that.”

If the shoulder injury wasn’t a strong enough sign that that dream was over, the fire that destroyed Lesch’s childhood home a few years later was. The flames, which severely burned both his parents, also erased his baseball career, consuming all the photos and memorabilia he had collected, save for the championship ring from his one minor league season, which he found buried in the embers. It was the only thing to survive the blaze intact.

David Lesch’s championship ring from his one minor league season, the only surviving keepsake of his professional career after a his family’s home was destroyed in a fire.

(Courtesy of David Lesch)

A post-graduate trip to Syria, the first of more than 30 visits he has made to the country, sealed the deal a few years later. The love he once had for baseball he now felt for a strange and mysterious place that was as old as history itself yet as secretive as the classical ciphers.

Soon Lesch was helping arrange high-level meetings between Syrian president Hafez al-Assad and President George H.W. Bush, a baseball fan who seemed as interested in Lesch’s Dodgers days as his Middle Eastern expertise. But his big break came during the first presidential term of Bush’s son George W. Bush, when Bashar al-Assad, who succeeded his father as Syria’s president, welcomed Lesch for the first of many interviews that informed his book, “The New Lion of Damascus: Bashar al-Assad and Modern Syria.”

“His forte is listening,” Cooke, the biographer, said of Lesch, whose polite, unassuming manner reflects an adult life spent mostly in San Antonio. “When he goes in to try to mediate something, he is a big listener. There is a side of David that doesn’t talk much. But he’s listening.”

The book humanized al-Assad and opened, for a time, the possibility of normalized relations between Syria and the West, with Lesch serving as an unofficial liaison between Damascus and Washington, as well as other Western capitals.

“He’s absolutely a critical player in what we would call two-track diplomacy,” Freedman said. “If the government wants to reach out but doesn’t want to take the political consequences, they send somebody to sound out the situation.

“It’s absolutely critical that we have people like that who can speak the language and understand the overall context, which sadly is lacking in the current administration.”

David Lesch teaches students in his history class at Trinity University in San Antonio.

(Lucero Salinas / Trinity University)

But that opening closed as quickly as it opened. Lesch’s close contacts with al-Assad raised suspicions among some in Syria, and Lesch was poisoned twice. His relationship with al-Assad was severed completely shortly afterward when he criticized al-Assad for failing to implement promised reforms and becoming a “bloodthirsty tyrant.” The Syrian civil war took nearly 700,000 lives and displace another 6.7 million people before al-Assad and his family fled into exile in Russia in 2024.

“Many governments think that they can reduce war to a calculation,” Lesch said. “What we cannot measure accurately or fully appreciate is the human element. We cannot assess a people’s sense of grievance, passion, revenge, ideological commitment and historical circumstances that shaped the nature of their response and staying power.

“This is where academics can make a contribution to policy, giving it the depth and insight gleaned from years of study and learning the culture and the people.”

Baseball’s loss wasn’t just academia’s gain. It may prove to be humanity’s as well.

“I don’t really have any regrets,” Lesch said. “My career turned out great. I could not think of doing anything else at this point and, in fact, in a way I’m glad [baseball] didn’t work out.”

A young girl in southern Lebanon joined hundreds mourning her father, one of three paramedics killed in an Israeli “double-tap” strike during the US-brokered ceasefire. At least 95 emergency responders have been killed in Lebanon, a pattern the UN says may amount to a war crime.

Jacqueline Falk, daughter of the late “Columbo” star Peter Falk, died Monday by suicide, according to the Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner. She was 60.

Jackie Falk died at her Los Angeles residence, the department’s website said. The case is still listed as open.

The Times was unable to obtain further information about Jackie Falk’s death Wednesday as the medical examiner’s public information office was closed because of staffing issues.

Peter Falk was 83 when he died at his Beverly Hills home in June 2011.

He and first wife Alyce Mayo married in 1960 and later adopted sisters Jackie and Catherine. The college sweethearts divorced in 1976, but according to Catherine — who was around 5 when her parents split — they remained “best friends.”

“I remember watching my mom and dad laugh and tell stories about their college years,” she told Closer magazine in 2023. “It was nice as a teenager to experience that.”

Peter Falk would bring both her and her older sister Jackie to movie premieres and set visits, and loved to take them ice skating, Catherine Falk said.

In 1977, he married actor Shera Danese, who he met while making the 1976 movie “Mikey and Nicky.”

“He saw me walking down the street, and that was it,” Danese told The Times in 1991. She said with a giggle that at 15 years or so into their marriage, “I tell him what to do.” Danese has not acted in film or TV since the year before Peter Falk’s death, according to IMDb.

The family story grew complicated when Catherine Falk alleged that Danese hindered access to their father.

After what she said was an expensive legal battle to gain visitation late in her father’s life, Catherine Falk has a website dedicated to the passage of laws to guarantee a new spouse can’t prevent children from a previous marriage from visiting an incapacitated parent. She said on the site that her dad maintained a 30-year loving relationship with her and Jackie despite alleged interference from his new wife.

In 2009, after petitioning the court to have her ailing father placed under a conservatorship, Catherine was permitted to visit Peter Falk, who was suffering from dementia. Danese was named the “Columbo” actor’s conservator. Jackie, who did not join the court fight to have access to her father, was not able to visit him during the three years before his death, the Catherine Falk Foundation website said.

The women found out about their father’s death via media accounts, the website said.

BOISE, Idaho — Former Idaho Gov. and U.S. Interior Secretary Dirk Kempthorne has died at age 74, his family said in a written statement Saturday.

Kempthorne died Friday evening in Boise, the statement said. No cause was given. He had been diagnosed with colon cancer last year.

“Beyond his public service, he was a devoted husband, father, and grandfather whose greatest joy came from time spent with family and the people he met along the way,” his family said. “He had a rare gift for truly seeing others — remembering names, stories, and the small details that made each person feel known and valued.”

Kempthorne, a moderate Republican, was elected mayor of Boise in 1985 at age 34, and he was credited with revitalizing the downtown by securing an agreement to build a convention center and promoting other development. He served seven years before winning the U.S. Senate seat vacated by Sen. Steve Symms in 1992.

During his time in Washington, he authored legislation — signed by Democratic President Clinton — to end unfunded federal mandates on state and local governments.

Rather than run for reelection in 1998, he entered an open election for governor, trouncing his Democratic opponent by garnering more than two-thirds of the vote.

President George W. Bush appointed him Interior secretary in 2006, a position he held until the end of Bush’s presidency — and during which he lived on a houseboat docked in the Potomac River.

“Dirk was one of the finest public servants I ever knew because he was one of the finest men,” former President George W. Bush said in a written statement Saturday. “He was considerate, smart, and capable. Dirk loved our lands and waters, and as Secretary of the Interior, he was an effective steward of our natural resources.”

He protected polar bears

Environmentalists often found Kempthorne too accommodating to industry, citing his efforts to push oil and gas development in the Gulf of Mexico and off Alaska. More than 100 conservation groups opposed his nomination as Interior secretary, saying that as a senator he had voted to eliminate federal money for recovery of the endangered wolf, to open the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil and gas exploration, and to sell off federal public lands.

Yet in 2008, he bucked other advisers in the White House by insisting that the polar bear should be listed as a threatened species under the Endangered Species Act because of the loss of sea ice in the Arctic. He was prepared to resign over it when Bush decided to back him.

“As Governor, Dirk left an enduring mark on our state,” Idaho Gov. Brad Little said in a written statement. With the partnership of his wife, Patricia, Kempthorne “championed children and families, strengthened public education, and led transformational investments in our transportation system that will benefit Idahoans for generations.”

After leaving the federal government, he became the chief executive of a trade association of life insurance companies.

He helped Afghan refugees

In a 2023 question-and-answer session with the George W. Bush Presidential Center, Kempthorne recalled helping evacuate nearly 400 U.S. citizens and Afghan allies from Afghanistan two years earlier, as many were being sought by the Taliban following the U.S. military’s chaotic withdrawal. Kempthorne and others worked frantically for months to raise money and garner the support of diplomatic channels to charter buses and an Airbus A340 to help resettle the evacuees in the U.S. and Canada.

At one point, with the flight fully booked, the organizers received a list of more people who needed to leave urgently.

“That night, at a total loss for answers, alone, I knelt in prayer,” Kempthorne recalled. “I said, ‘Dear God, we cannot leave these people behind, please give a path forward.’”

He said he then had a vision of Mother Mary holding the infant Jesus. It gave him an idea: The babies on the flight didn’t need their own seats, as their parents could hold them. The organizers confirmed that with the airline and were able to add an additional 50 people to the flight, Kempthorne said.

Kempthorne was born in San Diego and grew up in Spokane, Wash. His father was a regional representative for Maytag, the appliance company. His mother, a homemaker, once worked as a secretary for the Legislature in Nebraska, her home state.

Kempthorne attended San Bernardino Valley College in California before transferring to the University of Idaho, where he served as student body president and met Patricia, his future wife. After graduation he worked as executive assistant to the director of the Idaho Department of Lands before joining the Idaho Home Builders Assn. as the executive vice president.

Kempthorne is survived by his wife, as well as their children Heather and Jeff and their families.

Johnson writes for the Associated Press. Johnson reported from Seattle.

Ricky Hatton’s son Campbell said the family have not been able to grieve his father’s death privately but called the support they have had from people a “blessing”.

The former world light-welterweight and welterweight champion died last September aged 46.

Thousands of people lined the route for the boxer’s funeral procession from Hyde to Manchester Cathedral the following month.

“As a family we’ve not been able to grieve with any privacy and there’s a lot of negatives that have come from that – but if there’s a positive, it’s that people walking down the street say nice things and check up on us. That’s the blessing behind it,” Campbell, who has also boxed professionally, told BBC Radio Manchester.

“To everyone it’s heartbreaking. Not just Manchester, the whole country and the sport are heartbroken because they have lost Ricky Hatton but it’s just my dad to me.”

He added: “We were all so proud of the fanbase he had but to see it day to day… It’s nice.

“It shocked me the most at the funeral when we were in the cars making our way to the cathedral.

“There wasn’t a part of the route that wasn’t full of people. You couldn’t see a bit of pavement for the three hours we were in the car.

“We knew how popular he was but to actually see it in front of you was something else and we can’t thank people enough.”

A special Evening4Ricky is being held at Manchester Arena, a venue where he enjoyed some of the greatest successes of his career, on Sunday, 7 June.

Campbell said they want the event to be “a celebration and a party” for the much-loved boxer.

“I think everyone in boxing, if they’re available, they want to be here and that is a testament to the man he was. It’s massive for people,” he said.

“I think it will be impossible for it to end up being a sad occasion. It’s going to be a great night.”