father

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.”

TV producer Sid Krofft, the puppeteer and co-mastermind behind fantastical 1970s Saturday morning television shows like “H.R. Pufnstuf” and “Land of the Lost,” has died. He was 96.

Krofft died in his sleep on Friday at the home of his friend and business partner Kelly Killian, she announced on Instagram. His youngest brother and business partner, Marty Krofft, died in 2023.

“I loved Sid with my whole heart. The last six years of my life were devoted to him, and his to me,” Killian wrote. “In that time, he taught me more than I could ever put into words — about the art of Hollywood, the magic of the stage, and the depth and complexity of human nature. I wish so very much that I had more time with him.”

“Sid Krofft was an icon who did what he loved most until the very end — being out in public with his legions of fans,” his publicist Adam Fenton said in a statement. “Sid never slowed down, attending his final show where it all began just last November in his home state of Rhode Island. Sid was a beacon of light and will be greatly missed.”

Sid co-created 1960s and ’70s children’s TV shows that featured colorful and quirky characters like Weenie the Genie, Horatio J. HooDoo and Cha-Ka the ape-boy. Together, he and Marty produced through their production company, Sid & Marty Krofft Pictures, popular series, including their television debut and cult hit, “H.R. Pufnstuf.”

“H.R. Pufnstuf,” a combination of live-action and puppetry that Sid once referred to as “our first baby,” follows the adventures of a young boy, a talking flute and a 6-foot-tall dragon. That was the start of a television enterprise. The brothers went on to create more (mostly short-lived) shows, including “Lidsville,” about a teenage boy who falls into the top hat of a magician. He finds himself in the titular Lidsville, a land of living hats.

Other shows included “The Bugaloos,” about four teenage musicians with wings and antennae, “Electra Woman and Dyna Girl,” which follows the adventures of a superhero and her sidekick, and “Pryor’s Place,” a live-action children’s show starring comedian Richard Pryor.

The Krofft puppets frequently made cameos on other well-known shows during the 1970s and ’80s.

Most recently, the beloved character H.R. Pufnstuf appeared in the brothers’ 2016 Nick Jr. show, “Mutt & Stuff,” about an animatronic dog at a canine school.

The brothers also produced other beloved shows such as “Sigmund and the Sea Monsters,” “Land of the Lost,” “D.C. Follies” and the prime-time variety shows “Donny and Marie” and “Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters.”

Sid, left, and brother Marty Krofft pose with some of the life-size puppets created for their syndicated series “D.C. Follies” in Los Angeles in 1987.

(Reed Saxon / Associated Press)

Because the shows often featured eccentric and larger-than-life characters, Sid once told The Times that people were convinced the ideas came from using psychedelics. But he insisted the concepts were born during his daily runs along the Los Angeles coastline.

“I’m a runner, and I thought of them during my runs on the beach at Santa Monica,” Sid said. “That’s where they came from.”

While the 1970s were the defining decade for the Krofft brothers, they got their start as puppeteers decades prior.

In a long-standing rumor, Sid and Marty were said to be fifth-generation puppeteers. In an interview with The Times, Sid confessed that the whole thing was a lie concocted by a publicist in the 1940s. Their father, Peter Krofft, was a clock salesman and joined Sid when he was on tour as a teenager.

Sid was born July 30, 1929, in Montreal. The brothers immigrated to New York City from Canada with their father. Sid started working as a professional puppeteer at age 10. By the time he was 15, he had joined the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus as “the world’s youngest puppeteer.” By his late 20s, he was working as the opening act for big industry figures like the Andrews Sisters, Judy Garland and Cyd Charisse. That’s around the time he hired his brother — who was seven years younger and a salesman — as his assistant.

“I desperately needed an assistant and saw this as a great opportunity to bring out my brother Marty,” Sid said of his youngest brother. “That single moment in my life is what started our long-running career together.”

They later created cabaret-inspired “Les Poupées de Paris,” which opened in 1961 at the Gilded Rafters in the San Fernando Valley, then played at Hollywood’s P.J.’s. It toured the country throughout the ’60s.

While Sid was the creative force behind their projects, Marty was the brains behind the business operation.

Sid Krofft sits for portraits at his home in Los Angeles in 2021.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Sid wrote a tribute to his brother for The Times after his death.

“Marty and I were oil and vinegar,” he wrote. “We worked in different ways, but if you shook us up, we were a great dressing.”

The brothers’ relationship was publicly known to be rocky at times. “It’s not easy for two brothers to work together,” Marty told The Times.

Their shows were low budget; shot on sets that were once thought to be outdated by the 1980s. But the brothers maintained the rights to their creative properties, and some of their most popular stories had revivals or remakes.

In 2009, Universal Pictures adapted “Land of the Lost” into a $100-million box-office flop about the tales of a family stranded in a dinosaur-ridden jungle.

In 2018, the brothers were honored with a lifetime achievement award at the Daytime Emmys, and in 2020, they received stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. In 2021, Kroff resurfaced in the public eye with an Instagram Live show called “Sundays With Sid.” Marty created his own YouTube series soon after called “Mondays With Marty.”

AUGUSTA, Ga. — Lawrence Bennett wasn’t only a guardian of the green jackets — the iconic garment of Augusta National — but he also oversaw their cremation.

That was among his many responsibilities in a career that spanned 51 years, where he first picked up litter then picked up everyone from celebrities to sports heroes to ex-presidents as the club’s top chauffeur.

“All I’ve known from Day 1 was Augusta National,” said Bennett, 72, sitting in the living room of his tidy home six miles from the storied course. His hallways are painted Masters green. Paintings of the course hang on the walls, as do photographs of famous people with heartfelt inscriptions.

For decades, he embraced the club. The members hugged him back, from bankrolling his college tuition to sending him generous gifts when he retired in 2013 and donations when his beloved wife, Cheryl, died in 2020 after suffering a massive stroke.

Lawrence Bennett, a longtime chauffeur at Augusta National, holds a framed portion of the logo that appears on the green Masters jackets.

(Sam Farmer / Los Angeles Times)

Bennett isn’t watching the Masters this week — he tuned in for Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods and some other greats over the years — and he said he’s never swung a golf club. But his job was his life, even though he moonlighted as a high school teacher and administrator.

His father, too, bled green. The late and legendary Freddie Bennett began as a young caddie and worked his way up to caddie master, looking for that ideal chemistry between club members or tournament competitors and the men who carried their golf bags and advised them on putting lines.

“Once you work at Augusta National, they don’t want half of your time,” the younger Bennett said. “They want all of your time. And that’s what he did, and that’s what I did.”

Father and son were highly regarded at the club.

“There’s no doubt they commanded respect,” said Ward Clayton, author of “The Legendary Caddies of Augusta National.” “But at the same time, they understood, whether you’re working for Augusta National or a top corporation, you’ve got to follow the guidelines of the place you’re working for. I think they understood that to the highest degree.”

Augusta National opens its gates to the world every April but otherwise is so secretive that it won’t confirm how many members it has, let alone name them. The waiting list for Masters tickets has been closed for decades and patron badges are passed down through families like heirlooms. The club is closed from mid-May until October, and new buildings appear as if by magic, yet fit in as if they’ve been around forever.

As his father and other club employees did, Bennett signed a non-disclosure agreement that lasted 10 years. Now, more than a decade after his retirement, he’s telling some of his stories.

Hot pockets

When an Augusta member died, left the club or simply wanted a new green jacket, Bennett was responsible for disposing of the old garments. That meant cutting off a coat’s emblem on the pocket, buttons and name tags in the lining, then taking what was left to a local funeral home for cremation. It wasn’t an everyday event. Bennett and a security guard from the club would bring 20-30 of the jackets that would be placed in a coffin-like cardboard box and pushed into a 2,400-degree oven.

Lawrence Bennett, longtime chauffeur at Augusta National, points to a painting of the course in his home.

(Sam Farmer / Los Angeles Times)

“We had to wait until the ashes cooled down to make sure we weren’t leaving buttons or anything identifying about it, and the funeral home would take care of the rest,” Bennett said. “They would just toss it.”

Occasionally, deceased members were buried in their green jackets.

“Some members’ families started to request that,” he said. “And I know one guy — I had to go take the jacket, a local member — I had to watch them put it on him. Didn’t like that too good. Watch them put it on, fixing it neat, and report back to the club manager that it was on.”

Watch your speed

The club had three station wagons and a long blue limousine when Bennett began chauffeuring at age 17. He was well spoken and polite, so his bosses soon began sending him on the most important jobs.

Once, a member named Alexander Chisholm from Mississippi had come into town for a party and round of golf, then stayed over for a dinner at a fancy place called the Green Boundary Club in Aiken, S.C. Bennett brought him in the limo.

“My dad said, `Boy, if you’re going to South Carolina, slow down because they’ll give you a ticket in a minute. They watch for Augusta tags to give you tickets,’” Bennett recalled.

He started slow and cautious.

“Mr. Chisholm, with a big cigar in his mouth, said, ‘Can you go any faster than this?’” he said. “Now, I’m 19. That’s all I needed to hear. I stepped on the gas.”

As soon as he crossed the Savannah River, the police lights pulled up behind him.

“The officer wasn’t real nice,” Bennett said. “He said, `Boy, can’t you read? Can’t you see that speed limit?’ Mr. Chisholm was in back and said, `How much is the ticket?’ The officer said it was going to cost me $150.”

Chisholm peeled off three $100 bills.

“Here,” the member told the officer. “Take $300, because we’re going to be coming back the same damn way.”

Hail to the chief

Back when he was in first grade, Bennett feigned illness so he could get sent home and spend some time with his dad, whom he hadn’t seen in two weeks.

“I would hear him come home and get in the bed, but I didn’t see him because he came home when I was asleep,” he said. “He left when I was asleep. So one day I was at school, and I played sick. So I told my teacher my stomach was hurting.”

His mother was working at the time, so the school called the club.

“Dad came to get me, and he took me to work, gave me a Coca-Cola and a little pack of crackers,” he recalled. “He said, `You can’t be running around, because the President is here.’ Well, I’m 6 or 7. I thought he was talking about George Washington.”

Then, his father pulled a milk crate up to a hedge.

“He said, `You want to see the President?’ So I went out, and he put me on this box, and I could look over the top of the hedge, and there was Eisenhower. That was Clifford Roberts, and that was Bobby Jones,” he said, referencing the Roberts and Jones, co-founders of Augusta National.

Bennett has some snapshot memories of the president.

“I remember him being a big man, big stomach,” he said. “He had brown pants on with pleats, and he got up and made his tee shot off number one, and he looked over and saw me. He did just like this [crisply saluting the child]. I did it back at him.”

The moment left an impression.

“That was my first really inkling of what my daddy did,” he said, “and the type of people that were at the club.”

Supreme honor

As a young chauffeur, Bennett had all sorts of driving duties. He would take members’ wives antique shopping or sit through movies with the children of members who were bored at the tournament.

He picked up Christopher Lee at the airport once, and — as a big fan of Dracula — he half-believed he saw the English actor transforming into a vampire while they drove to the club.

“As we got back, it was getting dark, and all I could see — this was in my mind now — those fiery red eyes in the rear view mirror,” said Bennett, recounting the meeting on the “70 Years of Masters Magic” podcast.

Lawrence Bennett, longtime chauffeur at Augusta National, shows some Augusta National keepsakes at his home.

(Sam Farmer / Los Angeles Times)

“When he got out, I had to tell him. I said, `You know what? I was nervous because all I saw was your eyes and your face in the mirror.’ And it was illegal to get an autograph, but I got it.”

In 2013, the last Masters for Bennett, he drove Arnold Palmer back to the airport and they both got teary rolling back down Magnolia Lane and out of the club.

Maybe the most memorable assignment was picking up Sandra Day O’Connor. He was especially excited because he had just been teaching his ninth-grade students about her, the first female justice on the U.S. Supreme Court.

The two became fast friends, and O’Connor gave him her personal pocket constitution. She inscribed it: “For Lawrence Bennett and his ninth-grade class, always remember the constitution protects you. Sandra Day O’Connor.”

Her husband, John Jay O’Connor, told Bennett: “Do you know what she has given you? She takes that to the bench every day she goes to work.”

It’s framed in Bennett’s den.

From the heart

Bennett, whose mother was a nurse and semi-professional bowler, was the first in his family to finish high school, and first to go to college, where he would earn three degrees. His younger sister followed him, earning a degree in nursing.

Tuition at Paine College wasn’t easy on the family. That’s where the club stepped in.

“Sometimes my dad didn’t have the money, so the club manager [Phil Wahl] said, `Lawrence, Freddie, everything OK?’ My dad said, `No, Mr. Wahl, I’ve got to pay $855.53 for that boy’s semester.’ Mr. Wahl said, `Go to the front desk and get a petty cash slip.’ They gave daddy $855.53 per semester for four or five years. Never asked for it back.

“So I owe a lot to Augusta National. I tried to pay it back but they wouldn’t take it.”

Freddie Bennett retired in 1999 after 46 years as caddie master and 51 years on the property — just as long as his son would work there. He died in 2006.

“Paine College, this huge chapel, we had daddy’s funeral down there,” the younger Bennett said. “It was packed. If you looked at the private field, you thought it was tournament time. The private jets came to his funeral.

“The club manager got up and spoke, and he talked about all of the things that Freddie had done, all the achievements he had done. But he said Freddie’s greatest accomplishment at this club: `He gave us Lawrence.’

“I lost it,” he said, tears welling, “I never thought anybody thought that of me.”

The ex-guitarist of Turnstile has been arrested for allegedly intentionally hitting the lead singer’s father with a car.

Brady Ebert, a founding member of the Baltimore hardcore punk band, was arrested Tuesday in Silver Spring, Md., on charges of attempted murder in the second degree and first-degree assault.

Montgomery County Police responded to a call Sunday saying a pedestrian had been struck by a car. Upon arrival at the front yard of a home, officers discovered William Yates, the 79-year-old father of Turnstile frontman Brendan Yates, with “trauma to his lower extremities,” the Baltimore Banner reported.

William Yates and his family told police that Ebert first drove up to their house “honking his horn and yelling obscenities,” per Fox 5 in Washington, D.C. Ebert then allegedly returned and hit the elder Yates with his car.

According to the Banner, police obtained surveillance video of the incident that shows Yates moving out of the way and throwing a rock at Ebert’s vehicle and Ebert then accelerating up the driveway before swerving and striking Yates with his car. Yates told police that before first responders arrived, Ebert returned once again to yell that he “deserved it.”

Turnstile told Pitchfork in a statement that Yates underwent surgery for the “severe physical trauma” he sustained during the altercation and that the band’s members are “hoping for the best possible outcome in his recovery.”

“Turnstile cut ties with Brady Ebert in 2022 in response to a consistent pattern of harmful behavior affecting himself, the band, and the community,” the “Never Enough” band said in the statement. “After exhausting every available resource to support his access to help and recovery, a boundary ultimately had to be set when healthy communication was no longer possible and he began threatening violence.”

“We have no language left for Brady,” the band added.

Formed in 2010, Turnstile broke into the mainstream with the 2021 album “Glow On,” which earned the band its first Grammy nominations. The band’s first Grammys came in February 2026 for metal performance (“Birds”) and rock album (“Never Enough”). Turnstile is scheduled to perform at both weekends of the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival later this month.

“Kim’s Convenience” may not win points for originality, but originality isn’t really the point of an immigrant family drama meant to be instantly, one might say universally, recognizable.

The play, which opened Tuesday at the Ahmanson Theatre, was a runaway hit at the 2011 Toronto Fringe Festival. That success led to a larger production at Toronto’s Soulpepper Theatre that brought more attention to the show, paving the way for runs off-Broadway, in London’s West End and Washington, D.C.

But the show’s familiarity has another source. “Kim’s Convenience,” which was turned into a sitcom for Canada’s CBC, found an international audience on Netflix.

The story is set in Toronto, and the Kim family (owners of the titular convenience store) is of Korean background. But immigrants from Ireland, Italy, Latin America, India and Eastern Europe and their more assimilated children won’t have any problems relating to the generational conflicts at the heart of this gentle comedy.

Author Ins Choi, who once played the role of the prodigal son, has matured into the part of Appa, the patriarch who left Korea with his wife, Umma (Esther Chung), to start a new life in Canada. He opened a 7-Eleven-style shop, which he once considered calling 7-12, and has been living above the store with his family in what has been an all-hands operation.

Appa made sacrifices to give his son and daughter a better life — and he’s more than happy to tick off a list of what everyone owes him. He’s a mostly benevolent tyrant, but his crotchety side can get ugly and he’s not always in control of his temper. His son Jung (Ryan Jinn) ran away at 16, absconding with money from the store safe, after one of Appa’s flare-ups sent him to the hospital.

Janet (Kelly Seo), Appa’s 30-year-old unmarried daughter, bears the brunt of being the adult child who remained at home. She still works at the store, though her true calling is photography. Her father considers this just a hobby, a weekend recreation that shouldn’t interfere with her taking over the store one day. But she has other ideas for her future.

Change is coming whether Appa likes it or not. A Walmart is heading to the area, and with this news comes an unexpected offer for the shop that would allow him to comfortably retire. But selling the store is tantamount to discarding his story.

Brandon McKnight, left, and Kelly Seo in “Kim’s Convenience.”

(Dahlia Katz)

He explains this to Janet, hoping that she’ll continue his legacy. But she’s put her life on hold for too long. Both her parents never let her forget that she still doesn’t have a husband. But how can she get married when her father subjects any man she dates to the third degree?

Alex (Brandon McKnight), the police officer who answers the 911 call Appa had Janet place to report a Japanese car parked illegally by the store (he still hasn’t forgiven Japan for its invasion of Korea), turns out to be a childhood friend of Jung’s — and someone Janet used to have a crush on. The sparks between them are obvious, and Appa, the soul of indiscretion, can’t help meddling in his overbearing way.

Choi isn’t averse to shtick, if the result is an explosion of audience laughter. One comic gimmick involves Appa’s superhuman grip that can subdue even the mightiest of men. A shoplifter (also played by McKnight, who portrays all the customers and passersby) learns the hard way that Appa is not to be underestimated.

Esther Chung, left, and Ins Choi in “Kim’s Convenience” at the Ahmanson.

(Dahlia Katz)

The scene involves an unsavory routine on how to recognize a shoplifter. Janet challenges Appa’s racist assumptions, but father knows best and no one can convince him otherwise. Janet can’t win with him, but don’t count Appa’s daughter out.

Or his son, for that matter. Jung, who had a stint in rehab, hasn’t had an easy path in life, but he’s stayed in touch with his mother and eventually he and his dad will have their dramatically inevitable reckoning. There’s something determinedly hopeful about “Kim’s Convenience,” which like the store it’s named after, wants its patrons to leave satisfied.

The cast members, under the direction of Weyni Mengesha, all deserve high customer ratings. Choi’s Appa is impossible to stay mad at even when he’s said or done something unforgivable. He doesn’t mean to offend, though other people’s feelings are a luxury he has never been able to afford.

Still, his paternal bluntness is not without its infuriating charm, as when he informs his headstrong daughter, “You have to understand, now is desperation time for you. Sudden death, overtime, penalty kick shoot out. Expiration date is over. Take over store is only choice you having.”

Esther Chung and Ryan Jinn in “Kim’s Convenience” at the Ahmanson.

(Dahlia Katz)

Seo’s Janet is as feisty as she is loyal, making it easy to root for her and her quickly budding romance with McKnight’s worthy Alex. Chung’s Umma doesn’t take up a lot of room in the play, but her maternal presence registers sharply nonetheless. Jinn endows Jung with hidden dimensions of pain and regret.

But the most vivid performance might in fact be the convenience store itself, brought to fluorescent, sanitized, colorful life by scenic designer Joanna Yu and lighting designer Wen-Ling Liao. Nicole Eun-Ju Bell’s video and projection designs subtly transpose the setting when, for instance, Umma meets up with her son at church. The production seems right at home at the Ahmanson, a function of both the broad sitcom-friendly style and the warm Korean American reception that was audible at Tuesday’s opening.

“Kim’s Convenience” has an eager-to-please TV sensibility that can seem formulaic at times. But representation, particularly these days, can be a radical act, and there’s something heartening at the sight of the Kim family enjoying their turn in the mainstream spotlight.

It’s an hour before Monroe High’s baseball team takes infield practice. In the dugout dressed in his uniform, Miguel Gonzalez has his scissors out giving a free haircut to a teammate.

“Ten out of 10,” infielder Alexander Hernandez said when describing Gonzalez’s barber skills.

His pitching skills aren’t bad either. He struck out 12 in six innings in his season debut. He’s 5-0 with a 0.69 ERA. He’s a four-year varsity player for the surprising Vikings, who are 13-1 to start this season under second-year coach Eddie Alcantar.

The fact that Gonzalez is still playing might come as the biggest surprise if you knew all the responsibilities he faces as an 18-year-old.

Alcantar was getting worried last January when Gonzalez didn’t show up for winter workouts.

“I have a rule if you don’t show up for practice, you don’t play,” Alcantar said.

They finally met and Gonzalez revealed he’s been too busy working as a barber. And then came the big news: He’s going to become a father in July.

The Monroe High baseball team is off to an 13-1 start.

(Eric Sondheimer / Los Angeles Times)

It’s a delicate balancing act between work, school, baseball and the seriousness of being a parent as a teenager.

“I’ve been able to figure scheduling little by little,” Gonzalez said. “I do sleep. Maybe five hours.”

Gonzalez said he worked seven days a week as a barber during the summer. He’s been saving for his future while also making sure he did not have to ask his parents for money. He works weekends and sometimes has to leave practice after an hour for work.

As far as baseball, he added a slider this season, picked up some velocity and tries to throw three pitches for strikes.

Against Eagle Rock, he struck out 10 and gave up two hits in a 3-1 win. Against Arleta, he struck out 10 in six innings during a 6-1 victory with one walk. Against Westchester, he got two outs — both strikeouts — in a 3-1 win. Against Vaughn, he gave up two hits in six innings of a 2-0 victory..

Monroe, which used to be a City Section powerhouse in the 1970s when Denny Holt was head coach, also has received a strong season from junior Luis Martinez, who has 21 hits and is batting .500.

Pitcher Miguel Gonzalez has helped Monroe to an 13-1 start with a 5-0 record and 0.69 ERA.

(Eric Sondheimer / Los Angeles Times)

He said his parents have been supportive: “They have told me it’s a really big responsibility.”

After high school, he plans to go to an occupational school to learn more about being a barber. He’d love to continue playing baseball, but that will depend on his development and his priorities. So far, his balancing act is keeping him levelheaded and determined.

He’s been working since he was 5 when he helped his father in landscaping. He switched to cutting hair and loves it. His clients swear by him.

“He’s a good kid,” Alcantar said.

The anti-nuclear artists collective whose work is on display at Pitzer College in Claremont never predicted a nuclear proliferation crisis would break out in the Middle East during their exhibit, or how grimly topical their work would quickly become as a result.

“Atomic Dragons,” wrapping April 4 with a closing-day symposium of nuclear experts, is the work of SWANS, which stands for Slow War Against the Nuclear State. The group is made up of artists, activists and academics with ties to the nuclear industry, including children and spouses of nuclear industrial complex workers — putting a new spin on the “nuclear family.”

The show examines the environmental and human cost of the atomic era through an artistic lens, tracing present day nuclear risk back to its Cold War roots.

The SWANS’ warning call has always been clear, but ”Atomic Dragons” took on a whole new meaning when the United States and Israel launched a joint assault on Iran over its illicit stockpile of nuclear materials Feb. 28, three weeks after the show opened.

“We’re at the start of what will be an exceedingly dangerous period in terms of the Iranian nuclear program,” nuclear policy expert Scott Sagan, who co-directs Stanford’s Center for International Security and Cooperation, said. “We’re likely to have a major, major conflict over this.”

In a time of acute nuclear anxiety, SWANS is an outlet through which the artists process the fear and gravity of our atomic reality.

Fiona Amundsen, “Yoshino Cherry Tree, Sanyo Buntokuden, Hiroshima (lovingly held),” 2025, from the series, “The Trees are Leaking Light,” 2024-25, 4 x 5 inch negative processed using seaweed, gathered from the ocean current of the Fukushima wastewater release, inkjet washi photograph.

(Chloe Shrager)

“My maybe-naive hope is that the artworks help to provide an avenue into that understanding of the severity of what it means to play with the nuclear,” said Fiona Amundsen, whose arresting film photography of three trees in Hiroshima that survived the 1945 nuclear bomb was developed using contaminated seaweed growing in the Fukushima wastewater release line.

The resulting images are dotted with delicate white flares: trace amounts of radioactive tritium that transferred to the film from the nuclear effluent during the chemical processing, bearing physical witness to the usually invisible effects of radiation.

Amundsen’s work is in keeping with the rest of the show, which fills two halls at the liberal arts school with visual and multimedia works that probe the persistence of radioactive materials. Artifacts from the birth of the nuclear age are also featured, including items recovered from postwar Hiroshima and a letter from the father of the nuclear bomb, Robert J. Oppenheimer.

The artworks are as likely to unsettle as they are to move.

Elin o’Hara slavick labored over an expansive series of photochemical drawings of every above-ground nuclear test — 528 in total, a selection of which are featured in the exhibit— on salvaged darkroom paper from Caltech, the institution that played a role in developing the detonators for the U.S. nuclear bombs dropped on Japan under the top secret Project Camel.

elin o’Hara slavick, selection from “There Have Been 528 Atmospheric Nuclear Tests to Date,” 2022, photo-chemical drawings on outdated and fogged silver gelatin paper.

(Chloe Shrager)

Slavick said she found the abandoned silver-gelatin paper, which was fogged despite being stored in closed boxes, in the basement of the university near a door labeled “Radiation Science,” which led her to believe radiation exposure from Caltech’s Manhattan Project past distorted the photographic paper.

SWANS seems to double as a support group for families impacted by the nuclear industry. Many members believe they’ve lost loved ones to radiation, or were themselves likely impacted by early-life exposure as children of Manhattan Project engineers. The tension between the anti-nuclear artwork and its artists’ familial ties to the production of the very technology they reject is an enticing dance of its own.

Judith Dancoff, “The Milk Pathway (still),” 2023, video, briefcase, antique milk bottles, and tempera.

(Chloe Shrager)

Writer Judith Dancoff links her hyperthyroidism and long-term reproductive issues from a pituitary gland tumor to childhood radiation exposure during a summer spent at the Oak Ridge uranium enrichment site in Tennessee where her father worked as a student of Oppenheimer. Her father died young of cancer, and the story is woven into her featured SWANS work.

One of the largest pieces on display at “Atomic Dragons” is Nancy Buchanan’s interactive full-wall exhibit of documents her father brought home from his government work as a Manhattan Project physicist, alongside material from the FBI file on his mysterious death, on display for viewers to read under looming red letters spelling out “SECURITY.”

Nancy Buchanan, “Security,” 1987, installation with file folders, photos, map pins, and documents.

(Chloe Shrager)

The current crisis in Iran has sent memories bubbling to the surface for the collective, and chills down the spines of viewers.

Many have expressed fears of an Orwellian-style forever war, or worse, the use of the atomic weapon invented “to end all wars” in a twisted attempt to do so, poisoning the region as a byproduct. But nuclear policy expert Sagan said the likelihood of the conflict escalating to involve nuclear weapons is “exceedingly low,” even if Iran has the capability to build them.

Iran possesses enough 60% highly-enriched uranium to build about 10 nuclear weapons if further enriched to 90% weapons grade, he said. This could take a matter of weeks to complete depending on the state of Iran’s enrichment centrifuges, which Trump claimed to have “obliterated” during air strikes in June.

Iran could also craft a primitive nuclear device out of minimally enriched materials for an offensive attack (“60% could actually create an explosion, it just wouldn’t be a very efficient one,” according to Sagan), but George Perkovich, senior fellow for the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace’s Nuclear Policy Program and author of “How to Assess Nuclear Threats in the 21st Century,” points out that “you have to build more than one for it to be useful,” especially under the wrath of a nuclear-armed West’s expected response.

What is more likely, and probably more dangerous, experts say, is the now-heightened long-term risk of global proliferation. “This war is going to suggest to some countries that if they want to secure their sovereignty, they need nuclear weapons,” Sagan said.

elin o’Hara slavick, selection from “There Have Been 528 Atmospheric Nuclear Tests to Date,” 2022, photo-chemical drawings on outdated and fogged silver gelatin paper.

(Chloe Shrager)

Since 1968, the world nuclear order has rested on the delicate architecture of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, enforcing the international norm that countries without nuclear weapons won’t try to get them, and countries with nuclear weapons won’t help arm their allies. Now, experts say the rulebook has been thrown out.

“What this does is it breaks the old system that was based on the non-proliferation treaty,” said Perkovich, who has worked on nuclear issues for 44 years. “It’s now ‘might makes right,’ everybody’s on their own, friends versus enemies. I think the terms now change, and we’re not bargaining.”

Though the timing of the military operation in Iran with the “Atomic Dragons” exhibit could not be described as kismet as much as brutally ironic, slavick said the “sick and sad thing” is that “it’s always topical when you’re an American.”

“We do this. We wage wars. We are the leading nuclear country,” she said, speaking to the heart of the SWANS message: In a world where nuclear materials exist, it is not a matter of if humans will be harmed, but when.

There is a historic relationship between visual art and nuclear war, said Jim Walsh, a senior research associate at the MIT Security Studies Program on nuclear weapons risk issues in Iran and North Korea, who is also a speaker at the exhibit’s closing symposium. As the world enters a “more disruptive period” after the post-Cold War cooling of nuclear tensions, he expects to soon see “a flowering of artistic projects,” as nuclear risk reaches a local peak. “It’s a super powerful thing involving life and death, the planet, the entire environment, love and hate,” he said.

“Atomic Dragons,” which also features work created decades ago, highlights questions that are as relevant today as they were at the dawn of the nuclear era: Can we make the world safe enough so we can once again dream? Is the strength of a country found in its military rather than its culture? Is fear our gross national product?

MINNEAPOLIS — Airport security video shows another way federal agents are taking immigrants to detention centers — in some cases they’re using commercial flights, with escorts dressed like any other passenger.

Video obtained through a public records request shows a 5-year-old boy who became a face of the immigration crackdown in Minneapolis being flown with his father to Texas on a Delta Air Lines flight, just a day after they were taken into custody. He had been detained while wearing a bunny hat.

Adrian Conejo Arias and son Liam Conejo Ramos seemed calm in these recordings as they were being escorted through the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport by a man and two women dressed in plain clothes. Since the father and boy didn’t appear to be in custody, their trip to San Antonio probably went unnoticed by fellow passengers.

The Trump administration, like its predecessors, is mostly using ICE Air Operations charter flights as it detains hundreds of thousands of people for deportation. Human rights monitors are trying to keep track as detainees are loaded onto planes in shackles in parts of airports the public can’t easily see.

The video of Liam and his father, they say, exposes another route that’s harder for rights monitors to document, despite happening in plain view inside the same airport terminals where Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents wearing tactical, military-style gear are now being deployed to support security checkpoints.

What happened in this case?

The father, who was seeking asylum from Ecuador, and son were detained by ICE officers in Minnesota on Jan. 20 and taken to Texas. They were released on a judge’s orders and returned to Minnesota, but then an immigration judge denied their asylum request. The family’s lawyer said they’re appealing.

The video that revealed their commercial airline travel was first obtained by Nick Benson, an aviation enthusiast and activist with MN 50501, a grassroots group involved in anti-ICE and No Kings protests. Benson said he’s never seen children while monitoring ICE charter flights, so he suspected the agency was flying them commercially. He identified the time and day the father and son were flown out of Minneapolis, filed a public records request for the security video — and there they were.

The Associated Press obtained the same video through a similar request to the MSP Airport Police Department. It shows the father carrying the boy’s Spider-Man backpack as a woman shows an airline agent their boarding passes. A man and the other woman follow them onto the jet bridge.

Delta declined to comment on the video. But the airline said most government travel is booked through third-party agencies, with no advance notice about who is flying or why. The Department of Homeland Security did not immediately return messages seeking comment.

What is ICE Air?

ICE Air Operations transfers and deports people mostly using flights chartered through airline broker CSI Aviation, which has subcontracted with small airlines such as GlobalX, Eastern Air Express, Bighorn Airways, Key Lime Air and Avelo Airlines.

ICE Air continues to rapidly expand both domestic transfer and deportation flights, according to Human Rights First, which documented 1,630 immigration enforcement flights in February alone. Of that total, 183 were deportation flights and 1,170 were domestic transfer flights.

ICE also uses U.S. Coast Guard planes. Flight Monitor said it has tracked hundreds of flights since June in which Coast Guard planes were used to transport immigrants domestically.

“It seems that ICE sometimes uses commercial flights to destinations where they don’t carry out kind of larger scale ICE Air deportation flights,” said Savi Arvey, director of research and analysis for refugee and immigrant rights at Human Rights First.

The monitors use flight-tracking websites to follow the charter planes, but these tools can’t track individual passengers on commercial flights, making them “less in the public eye,” Arvey said. “It adds another level of opaqueness.”

Bellisle and Vancleave write for the Associated Press. Bellisle reported from Seattle. AP writers Rio Yamat in Las Vegas and Rebecca Santana in Washington contributed to this report.

Jeff Webb, known as the “founder of modern cheerleading” for his role in turning the activity into a competitive sport, died Thursday following “a tragic accident,” a family spokesperson said Tuesday. He was 76.

A former yell leader for the University of Oklahoma cheerleading squad, Webb went on to form several organizations — including Varsity Spirit, the Universal Cheerleaders Assn. and the International Cheer Union — that helped him reshape what was once largely a sideline activity into an International Olympic Committee-recognized sport that features elements of gymnastics, stunts and dance.

Cheer Daily reports that an email sent by Varsity Spirit president Bill Seely to the company’s community said that Webb fell while playing pickleball earlier this month and suffered a severe head injury.

Webb was buried in a private ceremony for family on Sunday. A larger celebration of life will be held at a later date.

“Our father was, at his core, a man of inexhaustible energy, and he poured that energy into everything he did, from revolutionizing cheerleading to his never-ending — and constantly growing — list of activities,” Webb’s children said in a statement.

An avid outdoorsman, Webb managed a farm and hunting lodge and enjoyed offshore fishing and boating. He was also a pilot, author, publisher and guitar player.

“He brought that same spirit of dedication and encouragement to being a father and grandfather,” his children added. “To most people he is a legendary entrepreneur — to us, he was our soccer coach and on-demand comedian, our mentor and father-daughter dance partner, our solace and our source of strength.

“He taught us by example that a life well lived contains balance, that seriousness and silliness are not in fact opposites, that focus and discipline do not and should not preclude care and kindness.”

Through his organizations, Webb established hundreds of cheerleading competitions — including national championships that have been broadcast on ESPN for decades — and training camps. He was a pioneer in the manufacturing and marketing of cheerleading apparel and equipment and also played a role in establishing safety guidelines for the sport.

“The founder of modern cheerleading, [Webb] spent his life building the sport he loved and advocating for young people everywhere,” the International Cheer Union wrote on Facebook. “Our thoughts are with his family, friends and the entire global cheer community.

Varsity Spirit wrote on Instagram: “Join us in honoring the life and legacy of Jeff Webb, founder of Varsity Spirit and modern cheerleading. His impact has built a community that will continue to inspire generations to come.”

The Varsity Spirit post included a tribute video that featured an audio clip of Webb discussing the instant he realized just how much of an impact his efforts had on the sport.

“I was at UCA High School Nationals, and I looked out there — everybody had a smile on their face,” Webb said. “People think this is a little corny, but I had this almost epiphany experience. And it was just this emotion that came over me. It was, how lucky am I? How fortunate have I been to be able to have this idea and to build on it and have fabulous people kind of hook their star to my vision and for us together to build this great thing?”

Webb is survived by his wife, Gina, and his children, Jeffery and Caroline, and two grandchildren.

Call them the Geek Squad, the Surfer Dudes or the Genius Squad from Redondo Union High.

In an unprecedented achievement, three starters for the Sea Hawks’ 13-2 volleyball team — Tommy Spalding, Vaughan Flaherty and Carter Mirabal — are headed to MIT this fall.

Their final assignment in Advanced Placement Physics 2 should be figuring out the astronomical odds of how three best friends from the same volleyball team could be admitted to one of the most prestigious universities in the world.

“There’s no way,” was the reaction of Mirabal’s father when he heard the news.

“It’s crazy,” coach Kevin Norman said.

Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak founded Apple hanging out in a garage. Who knows what inventions, ideas or technological feats will be imagined in gyms or on surfboards as these three Southern California teenagers unleash their brain power and love for having fun on the East Coast.

“Probably twice a week, I’ll call him, ‘Yo, I have this idea,’” Spalding said of his conversations with Mirabal. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, we usually don’t do anything about it. But it’s throwing ideas out there and hopefully one is going to stick.”

One Spalding idea: “When I was driving home from Joshua Tree, I was stuck in traffic. I was like, ‘Dude, what if we made a Google Maps type of app that utilized AI and had a camera in your car that analyzed the road, tells you what lane to be in to go the fastest and also be able to look at the traffic lights and tell you if this left arrow is red, then go straight, turn left at the next street.”

Elon Musk, beware.

MIT-bound Redondo Union volleyball players Tommy Spalding, left, Vaughan Flaherty and Carter Mirabal.

(Eric Sondheimer / Los Angeles Times)

They’ve formed a band, “Ratiohead,” a parody of the English rock band Radiohead, with lyrics from math. They’re preparing for the battle of the bands. Spalding is the vocalist, Maribal is on keyboard and Flaherty, the 6-foot-5 redhead, plays guitar.

“We’re looking for a drummer,” Spalding said.

Spalding has a 4.65 GPA and 1490 SAT score. Flaherty is at 4.4 and 1560. Mirabal is at 4.4 and 1510. Spalding said his hardest class was AP European history. Mirabal chose honors chemistry. Each received one B in four years of high school. Flaherty has received multiple Bs and said, “I think it goes to show you that you don’t have to be perfect to get into these schools if you have the potential and you’re willing to work hard and be a good fit.”

Flaherty is so witty he might be able to do a comedy routine, with Spalding serving as his wing man.

“Someone might have messed up, but I’m not going to tell them,” Flaherty said of the threesome earning a spot in the MIT class of 2030.

“Maybe it was chemistry,” Spalding quipped.

If they can make a movie, “The Social Network,” about the invention of Facebook. and a TV series, “Big Bang Theory,” about smart geeks, just wait until someone figures out the entertainment value following around this threesome.

Spalding has all the attributes of a future entrepreneur and loves tinkering with cars. He sent a two-minute video to MIT as part of his application process that showed himself and his father, Michael, turning a 2002 yellow school bus into an RV.

Mirabal has his own YouTube channel, “Carter’s Stuff Review.” He wants to be a mechanical engineer and explore the business side. Flaherty would be happy sending rockets and satellites into space while living near the beach.

All three hang out at the beach, either playing volleyball or surfing. Spalding brought his grandfather’s ping-pong table to the volleyball room at school for more fun. Cornhole is another game they play.

None set out at the beginning of high school seeking a path that leads to MIT, which accepts only about five students for every 100 applicants. “We weren’t taking the classes because we want to go to MIT,” Spalding said. “We just enjoy the subjects.”

There are smart genes in their families. Spalding’s parents are both educators, one an AP physics teacher at Peninsula High, the other a middle school vice principal. Mirabal’s father is an accountant. Flaherty’s father owns two Handel’s ice cream stores (everyone wants to hang out with Flaherty on a hot day).

Each has a story to tell about how they learned of being accepted to MIT.

Mirabal was playing volleyball in his backyard on Dec. 15 with teammates. He was going to wait until his friends left to check the email for fear of rejection. Instead, with them huddled around, he opened the email and everyone started screaming, “Yo!”

Spalding was with Mirabal and headed home to share the moment with his parents when he received a text from the MIT volleyball coach walking out the door congratulating him. “Welcome to the MIT family,” it read.

Flaherty had to wait until March 14 — Pi Day — to see if he was going to make it three for three.

He was driving home from Joshua Tree national park with his girlfriend and Tommy’s girlfriend in the car. The traffic was so bad it came to a standstill so he checked his cellphone.

“I opened it up. I saw the confetti but didn’t realize what it meant until I got a couple lines down,” he said. “The first reaction was disbelief because I thought there was no chance after these two got in.”

In fact, Flaherty said the person doing the MIT interview admitted later, “I’m not going to lie. I thought that was the killer for your application.”

They’ll be playing NCAA Division III volleyball. Mirabal and Spalding will be roommates. “Vaughan will room with someone else because he said he’d be too comfortable with us and be a bad roommate,” Spalding said.

So are they really OK leaving Southern California?

“I wouldn’t say OK with it,” Spalding said.

“It is a sacrifice,” Mirabal said.

Just know the beach will always draw them back to sunny Southern California as the three sat in the Redondo Union volleyball locker room wearing shorts, sandals and their MIT shirts.

“As much as we study, I feel at the end of the day we want to have fun,” Spalding said.

They’re not expecting to re-create “Animal House” at MIT, but let’s see what happens when three surfer dudes from the same high school in California show up with open minds and lots of ideas to explore.

Ben Keaton, who is best known for playing Father Austin Purcell in the iconic Channel 4 sitcom, has died at the age of 70 – tributes have poured in for the ‘wonderful actor’

Father Ted actor Ben Keaton has passed away aged 70. Keaton, who portrayed Father Austin Purcell in the beloved comedy series, alongside appearances in Casualty and Doctors, died at Lincoln County Hospital on Friday, it has been announced.

His death notice reads: “Ben will be forever greatly missed, loved and fondly remembered by his ex-wife Polly, son Waldo and daughter Daisy, brothers Des and Thom, sister Jeanette.”

In tribute, the Nottingham Playhouse said: “We are so sorry to hear of the death of Ben Keaton, a wonderful actor who is fondly remembered in our 2008 production of Vertigo. Sending our deepest sympathies to his family and friends.”

READ MORE: Family friend of Brit, 22, left to rot in Dubai jail shares update on ‘year of hell’READ MORE: Donald Trump threatens to obliterate Iran’s power plants and gives 48 hour deadline

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Meanwhile, a Father Ted fan X account shared: “Saddened to hear of the passing of actor Ben Keaton. We knew him as Father Austin Purcell (one of my favourite one-off characters). He was a regular at ComicCon events, so I imagine many got to meet him over the years. My thoughts are with his family, friends, and many fans.”, reports the Daily Star.

Outside his television work, the Irishman was a distinguished stage performer. He dedicated much of his professional life to The Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester, appearing in an eclectic array of productions from American Buffalo to Hay Fever.

A versatile artist, he co-established the improv group South Of The River and served in a senior position at the Creative Academy. His awards collection showcased his range, including the 1986 Perrier Comedy Award and two Best Actor accolades from the Manchester Evening News, culminating in a nomination for the esteemed Laurence Olivier Awards.

Honouring him in a message on X (formerly Twitter), one admirer wrote: “RIP Ben Keaton. A great actor and comedian – there can be little praise higher (if at all) in that he stole the scene every time he appeared in Father Ted. Off to the great parochial house in the sky.”

In 2022, Keaton witnessed an unexpected surge in digital popularity after being surrounded by fans seeking autographs at the CovCon event in Coventry. The frenzy intensified when he joined forces with fellow Father Ted cast members Joe Rooney (Father Damo), Michael Redmond (Father Stone), and Patrick McDonnell (Eoin McLove) to film an impromptu TikTok video.

Looking back on the viral sensation, Keaton told The Irish Sun: “The video went from 500 views to 50,000 and up and up. Joe now says we are up at half a million views on TikTok. It’s incredible.” He confessed he was frequently astonished by the lasting impact of his fleeting, scene-stealing turn as the world’s most tedious priest.

Drawing comparisons to his other roles, Keaton remarked: “I appeared in Casualty for three years, nobody cares. I did three minutes on Father Ted and it’s all people want to talk about and something which just sails through time.”

For more of the latest showbiz news and gossip, follow Mirror Celebs on TikTok, Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and Threads.

Neil Sedaka, the singer and songwriter whose signature hits include “Calendar Girl” and “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,” died of atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease.

The condition is caused by the buildup of plaque — meaning fats, cholesterol and other substances — in and on the artery walls, which can lead to events such as heart attacks, strokes and aneurysms. According to the American Heart Assn., atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease is the leading cause of death worldwide.

The musician’s death certificate, published Wednesday by the New York Post, also listed kidney failure as a contributing factor.

Sedaka died Feb. 27 in Los Angeles at age 86. The songwriter’s family previously told The Times that his death was sudden.

“Our family is devastated by the sudden passing of our beloved husband, father and grandfather, Neil Sedaka,” their statement read. “A true rock and roll legend, an inspiration to millions, but most importantly, at least to those of us who were lucky enough to know him, an incredible human being who will be deeply missed.”

Born and raised in Brooklyn, N.Y., Sedaka was a Juilliard-trained classical pianist who translated his skill to pop stardom in the 1960s. His popularity as a performer waxed and waned over the years, but he maintained a steady career writing hits for other artists for decades, collaborating with lyricists such as Howard Greenfield.

“Songwriting is a difficult undertaking that gets harder and harder because you have to top your past work,” Sedaka told The Times in 1996. “You have to keep proving yourself. … It’s wonderful to sing ‘Calendar Girl’ and ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,’ but you need more than that. You have to break new ground. As an artist, I have to choose what I feel is good and hope that the public will go along with it.”

Sedaka is survived by his wife Leba; children Dara and Marc; and three grandchildren.

SACRAMENTO — Every two years, elite athletes compete in the Olympics, biennial plants — like carrots and onions — produce seeds and people across America look on with consternation and mounting impatience as California counts its election ballots.

The prolonged tally has become as much a part of electioneering in the Golden State as wall-to-wall advertising, high-flown promises and overstuffed mailboxes groaning beneath the weight of endless campaign fliers.

The tabulation — which can last weeks past election day — is the product, in large part, of a commendable objective: Encouraging as many people as possible to vote.

California, which mails a ballot to every eligible voter, ranks near the top of states in the ease of its elections. That’s something to be celebrated. Voting is a way to help steer the direction of our state and nation and invest, as an active participant, in its future.

Yay, participatory democracy!

Unfortunately, the lag time between election day and the final results has led to all sorts of wild, unfounded claims, peddled mainly by Republicans seeking to curry favor with the sore-losing President Trump by parroting his conspiratorial gabbling.

“They hold the elections open for weeks after election day,” House Speaker Mike Johnson said recently, falsely suggesting that chicanery cost the GOP three House seats in California in 2024. “It looks on its face to be fraudulent.”

That’s a lot of, um, hooey.

There is no rampant cheating or election fraud in California. Period. Full stop.

Still, those sorts of phony statements have deeply diminished faith in our elections and our increasingly rickety democracy.

So — what if it were possible to preserve California’s friendly voting system while, at the same time, speeding up the tabulation of its many millions of ballots?

Kim Alexander believes it’s possible to do both.

“We need to stop explaining why it’s taking so long and start figuring out how to [produce election results] in a more satisfying way,” she said. “There are a lot of things that we could do better and do differently. It just takes some creative thinking and some will.”

Simply put, “The longer it takes to count ballots, the more voter confidence erodes.”

Alexander, head of the nonpartisan California Voter Foundation, has spent more than three decades working to make the state’s elections more efficient, more transparent and more accountable.

Her interest in politics and election mechanics came about while growing up in Culver City, where her father served as a councilman and mayor.

As a 7-year-old, stationed in the garage, it was Alexander’s job to track the returns in her dad’s first campaign, toting up the numbers at an election night party while her mom, posted in the kitchen, called the city clerk for updates. Even at that young age, Alexander learned the importance of a fair and efficient tabulation process.

Over the years, she watched as her father’s political career was stymied by a Democratic gerrymander, which blocked any hopes he had of being elected to Congress or the Legislature as a moderate Republican. She saw firsthand the influence of money in politics. (Her father told her of turning away donations that came with strings attached.) That helped turn her into a political reformer.

After working as a legislative staffer and serving a stint at Common Cause, the good-government lobbying group, Alexander took over the California Voter Foundation in 1994.

As a political noncombatant, Alexander won’t say how it feels, and whether these days she’s more or less optimistic, watching as reckless attacks on our elections come from inside the White House. “I like to describe myself as a realist with high goals,” is all she’d allow.

There are good reasons why it takes California so long to count its ballots.

First off, there are a lot of them; more than 16 million residents voted in the last presidential election, more than the population of all but 10 states. Voting by mail has exploded in popularity and it takes longer to count those ballots, as many don’t arrive until after election day. Also, there are a number of safeguards to prevent fraud and ensure an accurate count. “We’re checking all the signatures,” Alexander said. “We’re making sure nobody votes twice.”

Simply explaining those facts can help build trust, she said. However, that won’t speed up the state’s vote counting. Here, Alexander suggested, are some things that can:

— Increase funding for California’s 58 counties to expand equipment, staff and the space needed to process ballots. In recent years, the state has been asking local election officials to do more and more without reimbursing their costs.

— Educate voters and encourage them to turn their ballots in earlier. Along those lines, a system called “sign, scan and go” allows voters to return their mail ballots in person at a designated polling place. A pilot program in Placer County found that that shaved three to four days off processing time. The system could be implemented statewide.

— Better manage California’s voter database, doing so from the top down in Sacramento, rather than having counties oversee their data and feed it into the system. That bottom-up approach creates delays and a lag time in processing ballots.

— Create “ballot swap” days to speed delivery of out-of-county ballots where they belong, also saving time. (Under California law, voters can return their ballot anywhere in the state, but it must be routed to their home county to be tabulated. That process can now take more than a week.)

The problem, apart from perennial budget pressures, is that interest in election mechanics — a technical and arcane subject if ever there was one — is episodic and fleeting. It’s like worrying about a leaky roof when the temperature is 95 degrees outside and the sun is blazing.

But even without voters clamoring to address California’s slow-poke vote count, lawmakers should act.

Gov. Gavin Newsom recently rose to defend the state’s “safe and secure elections” against one of Trump’s many unwarranted attacks. If he wants to burnish his credentials for a 2028 presidential run — which Newsom very much does — one way would be to speed up delivery of its election results.

That way the rest of the country won’t be asking again in November: What the heck’s with California?

A Lebanese father mourned the death of his four daughters, mother, father, brother-in-law and nephew, after they were killed in an Israeli attack. Israel has killed at least 770 people in Lebanon since last Monday. Around 750,000 have been forcibly displaced.

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