Difficult Times Call for Superman, Jesus, and Arthur Ashe
They may not be the most likely trio of superheroes, but I'll take all the help I can get.
On a crisp autumn afternoon, as sun-washed sailboats slanted across Elliott Bay, I was too distracted to notice how much they resembled a corps de ballet from Swan Lake. Nor did Superman, Jesus, or Arthur Ashe come to mind then as they would today. I had all but forgotten how much fun I had downstairs as paying customers got fish thrown at them by employees. Nor did my mind gravitate to how grateful I should feel to be alive and well, having lunch at Seattle’s Pike Place Market on such a beautiful day. Instead, I allowed an Ugly American halfway across the room to steal my attention.
His face was red, his head bald, and his puffy index finger poked a folded tabloid inches above his plate. A man already old at 55 or 60, he was lecturing a woman, presumably his wife. Who sat across from him and whom he apparently thought too stupid to live.
She remained neutral, her face the picture of benign resignation. She could have been Edith Bunker, brooking another of Archie’s apoplectic rants. Waiting to join him at the piano after he cooled down so they could remember the kind of September when…those were the days.
Watching them, I recalled a cautionary line from an admired writer—Joan Didion or Philip Roth—I forget which. Something about not turning into the kind of person you hated when you were young. Looking at the old man and his wife, I said to myself: I’ll never be like that. Never.
But then along came 2025, and I found myself distracted by another old man in bad temper, filling the news almost hourly with attention-seeking headlines. Even without his antics, the news was filled with plenty to feel angry about. None of which I could control. But I was furious enough to pitch a fit. Would this be the year I turned into Archie Bunker?
Not so fast, said an unexpected, un-narrated download from a Seattle-area friend. Look at this view from the ferry landing, it said without words. See how the sun shines. Isn’t it lovely? “Your old friends would like to see you again,” her followup said. “We are still here. Come visit.”
I am discovering that it’s easier to digest the current attack on American decency via print. Still, the news of the day sometimes keeps me up at night. Which is why my friend’s unexpected download came in the nick of time with a much-needed chance to reset, change the channel in my mind.
When I stop thinking about the ruffians and attention-hogs on TV, I remember Julie Andrews and John Coltrane. In a film released 60 years ago, she sings of her favorite things. Trane riffs on it. But the message is the same either way. Think positive. Change the channel. Remember this: Whatever is true, honorable, and right. Whatever is pure, lovely, and of good repute. If there be anything worthy of praise. Let your mind rest on these things.
Thank you, St. Paul. And by all means lighten up, I tell myself. I remind myself that half the world isn’t even paying attention. So think about Superman, Jesus, and Arthur Ashe.
Look up in the sky!
After all, everyone’s talking about the new Superman movie these days. How much fun it is. Giving it its due as it recouped its $220 million production cost on opening weekend. But remembering also how noble Christopher Reeve played it. And tragic George Reeves before him. And what it felt like to be young and innocent—and to look up in the sky. Repeat the words made famous by TV. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Superman.
How good it felt back then to believe in Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Back when we were sure we were the good guys. Even though we were the ones—the only ones—to unleash nuclear bombs called Little Boy and Fat Man on the civilian population of a nonwhite country. The horror, the horror, said Mr. Kurtz in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. He had no idea what was coming.
Superman is 87 years old now. Some fans can even name all 12 actors who’ve squeezed into the blue leotard, donned the red cape, and puffed out their pecs beneath the chest-wide “S” shield emblazoned on his chest. But few seem to remember the one and only time Muhammad Ali played Superman.
That happened shortly after he settled into a first-class seat aboard a commercial airliner. “Excuse me, sir,” said the flight attendant, as she moved through the cabin. “Please buckle your seatbelt.”
The champ nodded at the pretty woman and smiled. But when she came back, he was still seatbelt free. “Please, sir. You must buckle your seatbelt prior to take-off.” But once again the famous boxer ignored her.
On her third trip down the aisle, she was adamant to the point of raising her voice. Please fasten your seatbelt, sir! This time the champ did not ignore her.
“Superman don’t need no seatbelt!” he snapped.
“Superman don’t need no airplane, neither,” she clapped back.
And so, the great Muhammad Ali took it on the chin and went down for the count. Because nothing hurts more than a sucker punch, especially when you’ve got it coming. The blow landed like kryptonite, and the champ never played Superman again.
Meanwhile here in 2025
the whole world seems to be going to hell in a hand-basket. Nobody, it seems, wants to be the good guy anymore. It’s me first, and you last. Too bad if there’s a genocide on TV. Not my problem. So it stands to reason that traffic through the Pearly Gates has slowed to glacial. Which is why Jesus reached for his golf clubs. “Come on, Peter,” he said. “Let’s hit the links.”
With a major golf tournament every month since April, it probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Since everyone else was fixated on tournaments in Augusta, Charlotte, Oakmont, and Northern Ireland, they decided on TPC Sawgrass in Florida.
Of course, every serious golf fan knows the infamous 17th hole at Sawgrass. Completely surrounded by a large lake (except for a small land bridge), it is one of the most challenging holes on the professional golf circuit.
After a mostly routine day of play, Jesus and Peter found themselves in a bit of a pickle when they reached the 17th. Confident as always, Jesus decided to use a TaylorMade M3 driver like the one Tiger Woods used when he played the 17th hole. Unfortunately, when Jesus teed off, the ball landed in the lake.
“Not sure how I missed that,” he said. “Do you mind if I try it again?”
“No problem,” answered Peter. “I’ll get the ball for you.”
Saint Peter promptly jumped into the lake, retrieved the ball, and returned to the 17th hole soaking wet.
Jesus thanked him. “You know, Peter, I’ve seen Tiger Woods make this shot 19 times. If he can do it, I know I can.”
But once again, his ball landed in the lake. And once again, Peter jumped into the water so Jesus could try the shot again. This happened three more times.
When the ball hit the water on the fifth attempt, Jesus intervened.
“I’ll get it myself this time,” he said. “But I’ve got to try at least one more time. After all, I’ve seen Tiger Woods did this 19 times. And if he can do it, I know I can do it.”
Naturally, instead of jumping into the lake like Peter, Jesus simply walked across the water as he searched for the ball.
Soon two other golfers appeared at the 17th hole, where they spotted a drenched Saint Peter watching the spectacle out on the lake.
“Who does that guy think he is — Jesus Christ?” asked one of the golfers.
“Noooo!” replied Peter. “He thinks he’s Tiger Woods!”
This is the kind of story that helps me lighten up. Some may find it blasphemous. They’ll want to point out that Jesus could have willed the ball back to himself, without anyone ever having to search for it in the lake.
To which I would say, correct. Just like he could have willed himself to come down from the cross. But he didn’t do that, did he? Because he chose to be human. To show us what a human being could do if he loved God with his whole heart and his whole soul AND his neighbor as himself. And that has made all the difference. How would we benefit from the lesson of his life if he were always one-upping us with his supernatural super powers?
Which is why I still love Arthur Ashe
He wasn’t just a great tennis player. He was an exemplary human being. A reminder to the rest of us that decency and dignity are always options. All we have to do is reach for them.
Of course, it doesn’t take much to remind me of the iconic tennis star. It’s summertime. Wimbledon 2025 is in the record books, and the US Open begins in September, where much of the play will take place in a stadium that bears his name.
Midway through this year’s Wimbledon, ESPN aired a tribute to him. I watched the story of his life play out in the video. Saw his younger self recalling how he’d been denied permission to play on the tennis courts of his home town in Virginia, for one reason and one reason only—because he was Black.
I listened to the broadcasters discuss his legacy. His South African friend Chris Drysdale described what it was like to play in the 1968 US Open when Ashe became the first African American man to win it. The video they played showed Ashe himself announcing to a crowded news conference that he had contracted AIDS from tainted blood received during open-heart surgery.
All of that took me back to the time I met and interviewed this hero of mine during a tennis clinic in Atlanta. But mainly, I would remember how I felt in 1993 when I learned that Arthur Ashe had died at the age of 49.
I was living on a sailboat, working part-time at a bank and writing for a Seattle newspaper. That night, I’d been watching a National Geographic Special about the significance of circumcision among the Masai. As the documentary unfolded, I was unexpectedly moved when the young Masai boys were initiated into the tradition Ashe would be remembered for. Grace under pressure.
Among the Masai, circumcision marks the transition from boyhood to manhood. The nature of that manhood is determined by the way the initiate conducts himself during the ceremony. Above all, he must not cry out. During the initiation, older warriors gather to witness how the boy bears pain. This was his right of passage. Bearing pain beneath a mask of frozen calm is what the Masai culture expects of him.
In the video I watched during this year’s Wimbledon, Arthur Ashe said being Black was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Think of what he had to go through just to find somewhere to practice the game when the city’s courts were closed to him. Think of what it was like to play tennis in a white world that did not want him, even after Civil Rights legislation opened everything up.
When he entered a tennis court, he carried all of that with him. But he never cried out. Bore it all with dignity. Behaved always with decency. When he won the US Open (1968), the Australian Open (1970), and Wimbledon (1975), he won more than a tennis match. He won a victory for the human spirit. He couldn’t walk on water. Or fly faster than a speeding bullet. But he knew how to be a decent human being.
And also how to let go of things. During the interview that became the tennis classic Levels of the Game, John McPhee asked him what was on his mind when he paused and looked toward the horizon before making the winning shot against his opponent in the 1968 US Open. You know what he said? Fried chicken.
And you know what else, I prefer to let my mind rest on these things.
© Andrew Jazprose Hill / All rights reserved.
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Wonderful. Just what we needed this morning! Thank you!
“Whatever is true, honorable, and right. Whatever is pure, lovely and of good repute. If there be anything worthy of praise. Let your mind rest on these things.”
That’s my takeaway from your beautiful essay, Andrew. Thank you got that reminder.