opinion_
War Powers Act
can't allay doubt
Last week, after a bitter partisan struggle, Congress finally
voted passage of the War Powers Act and sent the measure to
Pres. Ronald Reagan. But this serves to only allay and not silence
doubts over United States involvement in the war in Lebanon.
The War Powers Act authorizes Reagan to keep 1,600 U S.
Marines in Lebanon for up to 18 months. Reagan said he would
sign the measure — but with reservations.
This is the first time the War Powers Act has been invoked
since its passage in 1973. The act was intended to give Congress
more say about how the president deploys U.S. troops overseas.
The War Powers Act was the result of wholesale abuses in
the deploying of U.S. troops during the Vietnam War by the Nix
on administration.
The debate surrounding the recent passage of the act was
heated. Various segments of the Congress sought amendments
to shorten the time-limit from 18 months to six months or even
60 to 90 days.
Senate Majority leader Howard Baker Jr., usually a staunch
Reagan supporter, urged approval of the act with its original
18-month limitation. Baker said he had “grave doubts” about
sending U.S. Marines to Lebanon. However, Baker added, “They
are committed, they are under fire and it would be a tragic
mistake if the Congress were to withdraw them.”
Whether shortening the time limit or keeping it the same we
share in Baker's “grave doubts” concerning deploying U.S.
Marines in Lebanon. The presence of U.S. Marines is intended
to keep the peace. It's difficult to keep the peace when caught in
a fatal cross-fire.
Invoking the War Powers Act is a good move on the part of
Congress. The act is another check in a system whose strength
lies in checks and balances. .
The act will certainly have diplomatic significance. Putting a
time limit on the presence of U.S. Marines in Lebanon reaffirms
to an ever-suspicious world they are there temporarily.
Enforcing a time-limit is only second-best to bringing the
U.S. Marines home.
Another Democrat
jumps into ring
George McGovern announced his intention to seek the
Democratic nomination for president. George who?
Meanwhile, down in Lynchburg, Virginia, one of the few
unannounced Democrats Edward Kennedy ventured into the
bastion of fundamentalism Monday at the invitation of Moral
Majority prophet Rev. Jerry Falwell. Needless to say Kennedy,
probably one of the most articulate spokesmen for the liberal
cause, was nothing short of "boffo" playing to a room of 7,000
people at Falwell's Liberty Baptist College.
McGovern is trying again. FHe was unsuccessful when he ran
against Richard Nixon in 1972. As a matter of fact, he ran very,
very unsucessfully.
But Kennedy was magnificent telling the devoutly conser
vative Falwellites "people of conscience should be careful how
they deal in the word of the Lord." That's giving them their
comeuppance.
McGovern is hoping to shoulder his way through the throng
of Democratic presidential hopefuls. Fie doesn't really have the
shoulders to carry the nomination.
And Kennedy, staring into the very teeth of the Fundamen
talist pack, bluntly stated his opposition to a school prayer
amendment, his support for the nuclear freeze, his opposition
to a constitutional ban on abortions. People have probably been
lynched in Lynchburg for less.
One of the unforgettable moments of McGovern's forget
table '72 campaign was the time he told a heckler to "kiss my
(his) ass." Maybe this time he won't select a running mate who's
gone through electro-shock therapy.
Kennedy bearding the lions of fundamentalism makes us
wonder if he might be cleaning up his image.
McGovern will need a lot of luck in his bid. So, good luck
Teddy.. .er George.
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The boys of summer — 'Betty-Ball'
Her name was Betty. And she worked in a bar.
No, this isn't one of those turbulent stories of a
summer passion that flickered in )une, flamed in
August and burnt out by September. Well, maybe it
is, if your passion happens to be softball.
Without malice
Harry Esteve
It was your basic motley crew. The right center
fielder was approaching 40 and prayed when a fly
ball came his way. The third baseman spent-as much
time in the hospital as he did playing.
The starting pitcher was heavily into cannabis
and often began a game by walking the tirst seven
batters. "|ust finding my zone, man," he would mut
ter. When he was at bat and they yelled at him to get
a hit, he would reach in his pocket for a match
Eminently casual.
It was a team of college kids, wanting to retain
what was left of their youth, trying their luck in the
big times — city league softball. They pooled their
money for the $200 registration tee and were placed
in Eugene's A-League, the city's best.
But they were ready — ready to take on the log
gers, mechanics and tavern patrons ol the city. They
even wore color coordinated jerseys.
The coach's name was |ohn. The money for the
jerseys came from the )ohn's mother. Her name was
Betty. Trying to be regular guys, they called
themselves Betty's Bar and had the name printed in
large white letters on their deep blue shirts, in def
ference to a mother who would fork out the money
so her son's team would be well-dressed on the
diamond.
And that's when fate took a hand.
It was the tirst game of the season. Betty's Bar
was playing a team from a West Eugene watering
hole.
"Never heard ot Betty's Bar," said their first
baseman. "Where is it?" He stood well over six feet
tall and resembled Ken Kesey's description of Chief
Bromden, the mammoth Indian in "One Flew Over
the Cuckoo's Nest." His mitt could have fielded a
line-drive pumpkin
|ohn told him about his mother. Chief Bromden
wasn't impressed.
The tavern team had better, bigger hitters than
Betty’s Bar. They also had better, bigger infielders,
outfielders, pitc hers, catchers, etc. But Betty's played
with heart. They scrapped on the field, dove for short
flies, tried to stretch singles into doubles
They lost 19-0
It was immediately apparent that the season
would be a long one. The chances were good that
their right center fielder wouldn't get any younger or
any more pious, the third baseman would probably
keep getting injured, and the pitcher would remain
convinced that weed helped him relax before each
game.
So to Betty's it became not a question of how to
improve, but a question of where to drink after each
game.
Someone suggested the Vet's Club where the
drinks were cheap and wicked, and the atmosphere
conducive to post mortem celebrations.
When they strode into the club, there was a com
motion around the bar. Buzzes, murmurs, exclama
tions. Someone was buying the team a round of
drinks.
"It’s from the woman behind the bar," someone
said. Everyone looked up. "Her name is Betty."
It seems that Betty, a tall woman in her early TOs,
with curly hair and laughing eyes, had always wanted
a softball team of her own. Now one had drifted into
her bar, dusty and defeated, an orphan of the dugout
and diamond, and she adopted it. She bought the
first three rounds.
There were many losses and much drinking to
follow. The team convinced Betty to watch them play
one evening, so she took time off from tending bar,
wore her complimentary Betty's Bar jersey, and wat
ched her team suffer a 22-2 drubbing. Drinks at the
Vets’ Club again.
Betty's Bar completed the season with a perfect
0-10 record.
Last weekend the team gathered at the Vets
Club tor what was to be their final meeting. Betty had
arranged a small banquet in the dining area adjacent
to the bar.
They told jokes, handed out awards, drank, of
course. Most would not be back next year, as they
were graduating or moving on in search of a better
life somewhere else.
The jokes were waning, everyone had won at
least two awards each, conversation was drifting
toward baseball trivia. The right center fielder stood
up and commanded silence. There was silence. He
raised his glass.
"To Betty," he said, and sat down.
To Betty, they all echoed to themselves, in their
own way. For in her own way, Betty had become the
one for whom they played, lost, struck out, made er
rors, hit into double plays, threw the ball away. They
had endured 10 humiliations, in 10 summer
weekends and had walked away satisfied. And now
the summer meant something to them, a meaning
that comes from failing week after week and know
ing that someone — besides themselves — cared.
Oregon daily . .
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