#baseball coach aren

[spatio-rift]

does arens delinquent baseball team like saiko? thats irrelevant. what matters is that upon hearing saiko call him middle part ONCE (affectionately)(but they dont know that) they all start calling him that because it annoys him. (before that they just called him by his name with no honorifics) ALSO, when they learn that arens engaged to saiko and didnt even buy him a ring they all viciously heckle him and call him cheap for days. they dont care about saiko though its just not cool. until aren finally explains that whatever expensive ring he could have bought would have just looked cheap asf to saiko anyway so he MADE one himself. from old parts of his motorcycle that he had to replace after crashing it that one time and breaking every bone in his body. which has infinitely more sentimental value considering his bike is like, his most beloved possession. his best friend. his lover even. having to admit that to a dozen teenagers so they stop making fun of him is embarrassing beyond words but the kids think its kind of hardcore. #respect

[tabithapalino-blog]

Now one would think they would

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[howrry]

forbidden fruit

a/n: i made something new! self indulgent high school enemies with benefits ok! i was high writing a lot of this so.. hope it doesn't show. tiny bit of 5sos sue me. this will probably have a pt 2 eventually

warnings: smut, and harry’s a jerk

w/c: 4.3k

You pushed the front door to your school open and the A/C of the building blew your hair back a little. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and let the door slam behind you. The halls were loud with student chatting and lockers slamming and feet scuffling before first period began.

"I love your skirt, Y/N," one of the school aristocrats complimented, beaming a bright white smile.

"Thanks babe! From the boutique off 2nd street," you said with a wink.

"Hey Y/N!" some girls with wet hair called from the lockers. The volleyball team practiced before school and had to shower before going to class, and most girls couldn't be bothered to dry their hair.

"Hey guys! See you in history," you waved, tucking your textbook closer to your body.

You finally reached your locker and popped the door open. You switched out your books for your first class and checked your face in the mirror you'd taped to your locker door.

"You look great, no need to even look," a voice said from behind the door. You shut the door to reveal Luke, the school's star baseball player and one of your academic rivals.

He stood a bit taller than you, with his hands shoved into his bomber jacket pockets. The corners of your mouths curled up bashfully. "Aren't you sweet? What's going on, L?"

His head lulled over and rested on the locker. "Just wanted to say hi. And thanks for the help in trig-- you could've left me in the dust with that one to be valedictorian, and for that I'm very grateful."

You giggled. "It's no big, Luke. Let me know if you need help on other stuff, like your times tables," you teased, readjusting your bag again.

It was Luke's turn to laugh, but his was more hearty. "Ah, your banter is the highlight of my day." The bell rang, indicating it was time to go to class. "Saved by the bell. I was out of stuff to talk about. I'll catch you later?" It was a statement, but him walking away gave it a bit of in inflection. You were still smiling by the time you got to your first class.

Life was so good. You never understood where the stereotype about hating your high school years came from, because you were having quite a good time. You never found the curriculum too difficult and thus were near the top of your class, you were overall liked by your teachers, and you got along with everyone at your school.

"Good morning, babe," you heard a new voice call, making your insides shrivel and your face pinch.

Well, almost everyone.

"What do you want, Harry?" you groaned, intentionally pushing past him to get to your desk.

He feigned being hurt, clutching a ringed hand to his broad chest. "And I thought Bradley Cooper over there would have put you in a good mood this morning. Why so sour?"

"Being within even a hundred feet of you can kill flowers, no wonder it kills my mood."

Simply put, you couldn't stand Harry. He was arrogant, selfish, condescending, and for the past couple of years the two of you had been at each other's throats. Neither of you were quiet sure who started this feud (though, knowing Harry's behavior, it was probably his fault) but neither of you could even look at each other without making a biting remark or glaring at the other.

"Styles, get your feet off the desk," your teacher reprimanded. You looked at the desk next to you and saw Harry had kicked his boots up onto his table and laced his fingers behind his head.

He sighed heavily and slid his legs over lazily until they drop off the edge of the desk, choosing instead to lean his chin on the heel of his hand, one lone dark curl dropping into the center of his forehead.

As much as you couldn't stand his personality, you hated how attractive he was. He had such an aura of power that on some rare occasions rendered you speechless. Not only was he was gorgeous, but sometimes the two of you would make eye contact during an argument in class that would make your knees go a little weak. You were pretty good at keeping your composure, but it still bothered you from time to time. He was like forbidden fruit; so beautiful, yet so hate-able.

Today he was in a black jacket and dark jeans with a white t-shirt. Across his chest laid a simple cross necklace and his fingers were adorned with rings. His hair always looked like he just pushed it back with his hands and left it as is, but there's always one curl on his forehead giving him a Clark Kent kind of look. His head was cocked to the side, showing off his jaw. Son of a bitch probably didn't even realize how hot he was being-- that's just Harry in his natural state.

Then you were suddenly reminded that you were totally staring down Harry, and your eyes tore from him to the board in the front of the class. You made a note to yourself to get your thoughts and your life in general together.

Fortunately, you only had one class with Harry. For the rest of your day you could go about being yourself, without having to deal with his attitude and desire to annoy you in addition to your weird thoughts about how hot he is.

The next day, your car wouldn't start in the morning because of the cold front that swept over your area. Your parents had already left for work, and you were left with the only option of walking to school. You didn't live too far away, but the freezing weather made the walk miserable.

Perhaps Harry had sensed your already bad mood and decided not to make it worse, but he was actually quite tolerable during the school day. The rest of your school day went without incident, and you thanked the universe for being so kind to you after your rough morning.The walk home was slightly better, as the temp had warmed up a little bit, but the small remedy quickly ended when Harry rode up next to you walking down the sidewalk on a blue bicycle.

"Hey, Y/N," he chirped, immediately irking you. He pedaled slowly to match your walking pace.

"Should I call Harvard and let them know there's a strange kind of ape who learned to use a human tool?" you bit, shoving your hands in your jacket pockets.

"Mm. Seems like you've put on a little weight in these winter months," Harry noted.

You whipped your head and glared viciously at him. He was smirking a little but kept his eyes on the sidewalk. "So how am I supposed to respond to that other than punching you in the face?" you growled. Frankly, it wasn't even true-- your heavy coat just added a lot of volume to you. And even if it was true, how dare he?

He pretended to think. "You could start by taking off some of those clothes and proving me wrong."

"Ugh!" You grabbed a stick next to the sidewalk and jammed it into the spokes of Harry's slow moving bicycle, effectively snapping the branch and making him tumble off the bike.

He lied on the ground in a daze, blinking a couple of times before jumping up and catching up to you. "Alright. I deserved tha' one."

"Glad we agree about something," you muttered, then turn back to look at the abandoned bike. "What about your bike?"

He shrugged. "Wasn' mine anyways."

At this point you should expect this of him, or at least not be surprised when you hear about it, but you can't help but sigh. "Ah, right. Always forget you're a criminal."

He threw an arm around you, pulling you into his chest. It was awkward to walk like that, but you were just sure-footed enough to make it work. "'M a fun person to be around, though, aren' I?"

"On the contrary," you groaned, jerking your way out of his grip on you. "Actually, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure do bother me a lot. What's up with that?" you hissed.

He stopped in front of you and towered above you, staring down. This... was one of those times where your stomach flipped when his green eyes locked onto yours. "Well, am I annoying you?"

Your eyes rolled back almost involuntarily. "Yes!"

"That's why."

All you could do was glare. "Go find someone else to annoy, I have to go study for a midterm tomorrow. Ya know, that thing you've never heard of because you don't care about school or anything, for that matter." At this point you were just unleashing random things you didn't like about him, but it still felt good to vent.

"I care about some things," he said bluntly, raising and dropping his shoulders.

You scoffed a bit, but then sighed in defeat. "Glad you took something important from that. Now please, fuck off for the rest of the week." Before Harry could counter that, you'd already slipped past him and went back home.

That Thursday, after school had ended and you were getting things out of your locker as the halls quickly emptied of the eager-to-leave students. You'd nailed the exam you'd taken that day and were ready to go home and enjoy the rest of your day. A friendly voice said your name, and you glanced up to see Luke.

You smiled at his presence. "Hey L!"

"So, Y/N," Luke began. "Some of my friends and I were wondering if you like to party." He flattened his hands against each other and pointed them at you.

A little laugh escaped from your lips. "Uh, yeah, I do. Why, are you offering one?" One of your eyebrows shot up in curiosity.

The corners of his mouth lifted a bit and he leaned his shoulder against the locker next to yours. "Actually, yeah. We throw this cool rager every year after midterms. Josh's parents always go skiing in the Poconos and leave us the house, and his older brother buys us so much alcohol. It's a good way to kick off winter break, and you should totally co--" Luke was cut off by none other than fucking Harry marching up.

"Luke. Coach Bass needs you," he spat, eyeing the athlete up and down.

"What for?" Luke asked, irritated.

"Fuck do I look like? Your secretary? He didn't tell me, just saw me and asked to find you. Which, mind you, was generous enough on my part." Harry punctuated his sentence with his big arms crossing over his chest.

"Can it wait like 5 minutes? I'm trying to have a conversation here," Luke gritted, gesturing at you.

Harry's eyes drifted over, as if he hadn't even realized you were standing there until then. Without looking back to Luke, he muttered, "Nope. Think yeh should leave now."

The blonde boy groaned and stood up off the wall. "Fine. See you around, Y/N, I'll text you about the party!" he called, waving goodbye and headed off to the coach's office.

"The hell are you doing talking to 'im?" Harry questioned the second Luke was out of ear range. He replaced his spot leaning on the lockers.

"Not really any of your business, is it?" you snapped back. You couldn't even look at him, so you grabbed all your books out of your locker.

Harry caught on quickly. "Oh... I see. Yeh don't wanna be messin' with him, love," he advised with a small smirk on his lips.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, exasperated.

"Heard he's been seeing Sierra lately." Harry rolled from leaning against his shoulder to leaning on his back, staring across the hallway.

You stopped your movements. "What does that have to do with me? That's her business."

His head lulled back to look at you. "Jeez, Y/N. Didn't think you'd be fine dating a two-timer."

"Who said anything about dating?" It was your turn to smirk, giving Harry a little glint in your eyes before slamming your locker shut and walking away from him.

Harry's eyes widened as he chased after you. "Yeh little minx. Perfect little Y/N doesn't mind being the other woman. Or any woman at all. Who woulda thought?"

You rolled your eyes. "See. You don't know shit about me. And you definitely don't know shit about Luke. What were you even doing near Coach Bass's office in the first place for him to have asked you?"

He snickered. "Oh, I lied. I think Bass already went home."

Your jaw dropped a little as the two of you reached the door at the end of the hallway. "You little scoundrel. Why did you do that?"

He shrugged, following you outside. "I lie to get things I want. I wanted him gone. This isn't uncommon for my behavior, Y/N," he explained without emotion. "Anyways, 've got to meet up with someone soon. Great talking to you," he concluded sarcastically, before simply turning and walking away.

"Hey Harry!" you called after him, making him stop and do a 180. "Is Luke even really seeing Sierra?"

He smiled. "Nope." Harry turned again leaving you with a swirl of emotions.

The party had been on Friday, the night after Luke invited you. Your parents were glad you were finally getting to relax after your obsessive studying for the past week or so. You excitedly got ready to go while listening to Break Up With Your Girlfriend, I'm Bored, and made plans for a DD to drop you off and pick you up at the end of the night.

You were just tugging on your short boots and fluffing your hair when you got the text that it was time to go. One jacket, a quick wave to your parents drinking wine on the couch, and you were off.

By the time you finally arrived to the party it was late in the evening and the house was bumping. The lights inside had been replaced like blacklights, turning everyone's white clothes into ultra bright purple and some girls' bad bleach jobs appeared green.

You showed up just in time; and by just in time, you mean when Mo Bamba started playing and all the people dancing and screaming the lyrics provided a good cover for you to sneak around the house to find someone you knew. You fought your way through the hot living room, back to the kitchen where freshman sorority girls from the local university were trying to steal alcohol from kids, to the backyard.

You opened the door to the back porch to find a group of seniors passing around a bent joint. Your nose instinctively wrinkled at the smell and you bounce back inside, slamming the door behind you.

"Y/N!" you heard Luke call. You whirled around to see him holding a cup in one hand and a Juul in the other, arms extended to hug you. He engulfed you and you breathed in the cologne clinging to his jersey. You couldn't lie... he smelled good. "Glad you made it. Can I make you something to drink?"

"Vodka soda, please," you requested, and Luke poured out a drink for you. Meanwhile, you scanned the room to see who else had come to the party.

Hmm. There was Andrea from trig, the host, Josh, Hannah from chemistry, Lucy, Sam, Harry, Claudia from English. You cocked your head a little, surprised that Claudia partied, and Luke handed you your drink.

Wait. Your head whipped back to see Harry talking to one of his friends, and his attention drifted towards you with a devious smile. When he realized who you were with his smile was replaced with a grimace.

You immediately start drinking from your cup, trying to forget who you just saw. Nearly half the drink was gone before Luke stopped you. "Slow down, there, cowgirl," he laughed, taking the red cup from you. "You drinking away your problems or what?" he teased.

You rolled your eyes flirtatiously, and intentionally avoided his question. "Give me my drink back! Or we will have a problem."

"Feisty," Luke noted, handing you your cup back. "Redirect that energy to dancing," he suggested, gesturing over to where everyone was bouncing to the music. He grabbed your free hand and pulled you into the middle of the crowd where the two of you started dancing... pretty close. The music was well selected so that there were no awkward pauses in between songs, and you and Luke danced until your drinks were empty and you were too sweaty to keep dancing.

He led you to a corner of the living room, where not as many people were. "Damn, it's dead," he declared after pulling his Juul out of his pocket and tapping it twice. "My charger's upstairs, I'm gonna go plug this in."

"I'll go with you," you offered, trying to get out of the party area and away from Harry. God knows how he'd try to bug you if you were alone.

Something in Luke's eyes glinted, but he nodded and the two of you trudged up the stairs and the noise quickly died down. He casually walked into a room and you guessed it was the host's room. Luke plugged in his Juul and plopped down on the bed.

"So, do you wanna go back downstairs?" you guessed, though Luke appeared too comfortable to be getting up any time soon.

"Nope," he responded casually, affirming your suspicions. "Can you do me a favor? Hand me that guitar." He pointed to the corner of the room, where a shiny guitar was nestled in a stand.

You passed the instrument to him and he began plucking out the song Twin Sized Mattress. He hummed some of the lyrics and dropped off just after the first guitar solo. You were amazed while watching him.

"Luke! You're so talented, I had no idea!" you fawned, making the blonde boy blush a little.

"Thanks, that means a lot. I've always loved playing but never told anyone so I wouldn't look like a hipster or anything. But honestly, I wanna be a musician." His eyes gazed over the strings, then up to yours.

"Sounds like a glamorous lifestyle. Think you could handle it?" you cooed, leaning in slightly.

He matched your movements. "I think I could," he practically purred. You and Luke were inches from kissing, and all you wanted to do was close the gap, but you were unfortunately interrupted by the door swinging open, making you jump back from Luke, frightened.

None other than fucking Harry, stood in the doorway. You groaned and Luke blurted annoyedly, "You again?!"

"Yep, s'me. I'd love to verbally have it out with you some other time, but I'd like to talk to Y/N right now, so find somewhere else to be, Wonderwall," Harry announced, filling your veins with anger.

"Seriously, Harry? You can't leave me alone for five fucking minutes?" you jumped up to face him, but any attempt at being menacing was futile as his sheer height dwarfed you.

Luke placed the guitar on the ground leaning on the wall and awkwardly creeped out of the room. "I'll, uh, I'll just go," he noted before slipping out.

But you weren't distracted by Luke ambling around, and still had a bone to pick with Harry. "You follow me around, you go to parties you know I'll be at, you interrupt my attempts to get laid. Why won't you just go away!"

The corners of his mouth curled up. "Because you're so cute when you're angry." He reached up to pinch your cheek but you smacked his hand away.

"You make me so mad I wanna slap you sometimes," you huffed, shrugging your shoulders.

Harry's green eyes rolled dramatically. "Yeh won't." Several heavily silent seconds passed, and the palm of your hand collided with his cheek.

His hand drifted up and cupped his red face. "Did yeh just fuckin' slap me?" he asked, in awe.

"Yeah," you deadpanned. "You stupid or something?"

Harry stared at you, his eyes not showing much emotion other than shock. Without even saying anything, he lunged forward, grabbed your face with both of his large hands, and pressed your lips together. Your knees immediately buckled, Harry's scent infinitely better than Luke's. His mouth was so soft and he easily kissed into your mouth, licking and biting at you.

You came to your senses, trying to pull away, but Harry had his arms wrapped around you. You made a move to escape his grasp, only making him tighten around you. "Stop being so scared of what yeh really want, Y/N," Harry huffed, eyes scanning all over your confused face.

"What?" was all you could say.

"Tell me yeh don' want this, n'I'll stop." His eyebrows lifted slightly, in almost an amused manner. You really, really, really hated yourself to say it, but you didn't want this to stop. So you closed the gap between you two yourself.

When Harry kissed, there was no option of being gentle. He wanted to devour you, kissing so deeply your back was starting to tilt backwards a little and you could feel the electricity on your lips.

"Yeh're a real minx, yeh know tha'?" he huffed over your lips in between kisses. "Actin' so cute and innocent when yeh're really a good time and a half. Trailin' around school and parties with that other guy. Then, when I kiss the life out of yeh and make y'weak in the knees, you've got the audacity to act like you 'aven't wanted this all along. Hmm," he tsked, staring down at you, making you feel tiny. "I truly believe the only way I can get yeh to behave is to fuck yeh into bein' good," Harry hypothesized, staring up and down your body until settling for staring at your heaving chest (and you were glad you picked a good bra to wear to this party).

His words sent sparks to your core and a whimper left your lips when he pressed his against your neck, licking and sucking at the soft flesh. One hand gripped your waist, bunching up your shirt with his fingers.

"S'that what you want? To be silenced with m'cock?" he mused, breath fanning across your skin. All you could do was nod and you felt his mouth curl into a smile. "Fine. But keep quiet, pet, we don' wanna disturb the other party goers. Do we, now?" he purred, making you shake your head no.

Harry's hips bucked into your thigh involuntarily, and you dropped down to your knees to be eye level with his crotch. Your nimble fingers ghosted over the zipper of his pants, making him exhale shakily, but when you lifted your gaze to his, his face was extremely focused on your actions.

You decided not to beat around the bush and popped open the button on his trousers, and the zipper practically undid itself. You licked him through his black boxers, making him groan a little and thread his ringed fingers through the hair on the back of your head. It was easy to read what he needed, so you pulled down the elastic of his underwear to free his cock.

It was big. You weren't a stranger to seeing big dicks, so you knew one when you saw one. The last thing you wanted to do was feed into his ego, so you dove into sucking it before he could read any surprise in your face.

You went about as far down as his head resting on the middle of your tongue. You sucked around his cock and fluttered your tongue, stimulating the super sensitive spot on the bottom just below the head. Harry was nothing if not responsive, and groaned while trying to push you down further using his big hand. Normally you would refuse and take it at your own pace, but something about him fucking your mouth sent even more sparks to your center.

You relaxed your throat and let him slide down your throat. It burned, you had to admit, and breathing through your nose with a huge cock in your mouth is no picnic. Just before you were about to gag, he pulled you off his member and let you breathe for a second. A thin strand of spit connected your now red and puffy bottom lip to the tip of his cock.

"Fuck, pet, tha' feels way better than I'd like to admit," he huffed as you took him back in your mouth again. You swirled your tongue around him with your cheeks hollowed out, your comparatively small hand gripped the base while you paced yourself. When your jaw got tired from accommodating to his size, you stroked him from base to tip.

Harry was starting to lose his composure; you could see it in his eyes. You decided to play all your cards and made the most innocent look you could muster with his cock buried between your lips. "'f yeh keep lookin' at me like tha', no chance I'll last."

So you went wild, licking, sucking, stroking his cock with your hand, pushing it all the way down your throat until your nose was buried in the coarse dark curls at the base. This sent him fully over the edge, and his grip in your hair was tighter than ever as he came.

He emptied himself down your throat, pulled his cock out, and wiped the head on your lips before pushing himself back into his boxers.

"Wait, wha--" you stammered, shocked at his sudden motions to leave as you were still on your knees with glassy eyes.

Harry rebuttoned his pants and straightened himself out. "'m going to go home. Thank you for helping me out, love, I'd love to reciprocate another time. Let me know." He nodded at you scrambling to stand back up and left you in Josh's room with pink cheeks, puffy lips, and a racing mind.

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[spatio-rift]

this is too fun to think about.... i want to involve everyone

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You can never be wrong There Is Only one Dangerous Breed Humans shirt . With a classic swimming trunks! Our collection here at Standout has some of the old school classics and many of the best sportswear brands. The old school trend from our top brands is sure to make a statement on the beach this summer and bring you to the top of the best-dressed list at any pool party. Is a classic surfing style, showing subtle pink and blue tables on both sides of the shorts. This addition of colors gives you the freedom to wear them with anything, such as wearing a pink or blue T-shirt with a baseball cap for a casual look or a black shirt that can be worn. Give you a casual, smarter look with a couple of coaches. The possibilities are endless with the classic board shorts. Hoodie, long-sleeved shirt, female tee, men's shirt, 3-hole shirt, V-neck shirt. There Is Only one Dangerous Breed Humans shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirt

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Unisex I have two Chihuahuas - both are VERY trained as far as a potty, leashes, small tricks and are good at publicity There Is Only one Dangerous Breed Humans shirt . One was a service animal trained to carry out his duties later in life and he reacted very quickly and did very well. Someone who dislikes new people approaching him. He will never attack or bite; He ignored everyone. But if everyone comes to him, he will do the Chihuahua. Another is the sweetest dog ever and never makes sense to any person or dog. So it's partly intrinsic, but a lot of upbringing and training. I think a lot of small aren dogs are very well trained by lazy owners and that makes me disgusting regardless of breed. Didnith implies anything about them makes sense - I'm sure they're sweet if you make them care about you. I have a friend who owns a pet mouse, it looks pretty cold. As for chihuahuas, I guess it's a bit of an exaggeration, but I really can't imagine them surviving a tenth of the difficulties a normal mouse does. You Can See More Product: https://trendteeshirts.com/product-category/trending/ Read the full article

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more than a teacher i want aren to be an unemployed baseball coach for a team of highschool delinquents who have recently seen the light thanks to their teacher. who in this case would be hairo.

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Notable Deaths in 2019: A World of Women Who Shattered Ceilings

Almost all were born between the world wars, one even before women had the right to vote. They came from white-collar homes and blue-, from black households and white. But when they died this year, they had something in common besides the final leveling that death brings. They had all found a place in a world that rarely, if ever, had been open to women.Whether one or the other was the absolute first to break a glass ceiling could be open to debate. But let’s say, at the least, that each planted a foot inside a door that had long been closed to women and then shouldered her way in — to a roomful of men.Ruth Abrams was one. In 1977 she became the first woman to take a seat on the highest court in Massachusetts, the Supreme Judicial Court. It had taken 285 years (that is not a typo) — since the court’s founding in 1692. (Another notable juridical event that year was the start of the Salem witch trials.)Ellen Bree Burns overcame similar obstacles in Connecticut, also in the 1970s — a signal decade in which feminism’s second wave was just beginning to build strength. She became the first woman to rise to the bench of her state’s major trial court and the first woman to be named to a federal court there.Patricia M. Wald, too, was not to be denied a black robe, even after taking a decade-long detour to raise five children at home. In 1979, she became the first woman to serve on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, by most reckonings the second most influential court in the country. A kindred progressive spirit, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, soon joined her on that bench.In a quite different arena but one no less fueled by testosterone, Bonnie Guitar, born Bonnie Buckingham, had one of the earliest records (“Dark Moon”) by a female country singer to cross over to the pop chart. Even more significant was her work away from the mic. Crashing another men’s club, she became a force in the studio, engineering records, scouting talent and starting her own label.Barbara Gardner Proctor had to force open two doors before finding a place in the “Mad Men” advertising world of the 1960s: one blocking women, the other African-Americans. But she pushed anyway, becoming, according to the industry, the first black woman in America to establish her own agency, Proctor & Gardner, in Chicago. (There actually was no Gardner; she added the name to reassure wary prospective clients that “her partner” was a man.)Before 1972, an educational institution could discriminate against women and still receive federal funding, no questions asked. That changed with the passage of Title IX that year, encoding equity in law. And if there was one person to thank for that sea change, it was Bernice Sandler, who had once been told, in being denied a full-time university teaching job, “You come on too strong for a woman.”She did come on strong. Through scholarly writings, tireless lobbying and persuasive advocacy in the courts, she was, more than anyone, the catalyst behind Title IX.There were others: Barbara Low, one of the few women in scientific research in the 1940s, advanced our understanding of penicillin, leading to a cornucopia of antibiotics that continue to save lives. Rosemary Mariner, a baby boomer pilot, became the first woman to command a naval aviation squadron and then led a successful fight to get Congress to lift a ban on women serving in combat. And Florence Knoll Bassett, a designer and businesswoman, gave the modern office its streamlined shape and feel. Ms. Knoll ran a thriving company with her husband, but one look at a grainy black and white photo that ran with her obituary in these pages last January will tell you everything you’d need to know about the world she had to navigate: There she was, in 1953, the lone woman seated at a large conference table ringed by white men in white shirts and ties.For every glass ceiling broken, however, there was an untold number of women who in reaching higher came up empty-handed. By all accounts, Geraldyn M. Cobb had the right stuff to become an astronaut in the early years of the American space program. A veteran pilot, she held records in speed, altitude and distance before sailing through a battery of demanding physical and psychological tests that put her in the top 2 percent of all the program’s aspirants, including men. She was nevertheless left behind as a group of NASA pioneers, all men, paraded off into history. Though she lived a rewarding life — notably as a humanitarian flying medicine, food and clothing to indigenous people in the Amazon — she died, in her eyes, forever earthbound.

Athletic Firsts, Too

Not all the barrier breakers who died in 2019 were women, of course. The N.B.A. lost one in Wat Misaka, a son of Japanese immigrants who became the league’s first nonwhite player, and Major League Baseball lost three. Elijah “Pumpsie” Green is not much remembered for his career on the diamond, mediocre as it was, but he made a bit of history just by striding onto the field for the Boston Red Sox in July 1959, becoming the first black player on a team that was the last in the major leagues to breach the color line, 12 years after Jackie Robinson had made the Brooklyn Dodgers the first.Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field was also home to Don Newcombe, widely regarded as the major leagues’ first outstanding black pitcher, a Cy Young winner and a National League M.V.P. As fate would have it, his death, in February, came just 12 days after that of an even grander man of the game, Frank Robinson, who stayed in baseball after a Hall of Fame career in Baltimore to become the major leagues’ first black manager.They are on a long roster of sports stars who died this year. The N.B.A. mourned the loss of John Havlicek, a basketball dynamo who tasted championship glory in two distinct eras with the Boston Celtics. The N.F.L bade farewell to Bart Starr, the Green Bay Packers’ champion quarterback, whose sterling execution on the field was a visible manifestation of Coach Vince Lombardi’s genius.Athletes give us drama about human struggle, determination and excellence, but they also entertain us, and in that they share something with all those who mount stages and appear in front of cameras. Broadway typically (and wonderfully) dims its lights when one of its own has gone. But when it did so for Carol Channing last January, the gesture was never more apt. It may be falling back on press-agentry boilerplate to say that the star of “Hello, Dolly!” and “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” lit up stages with her irrepressibly high-spirited performances over an impossibly long career. But, really, more than almost anyone, didn’t she?Equally incandescent was the ballerina Alicia Alonso, who overcame near-blindness to become a globe-trotting star and ambassador of Cuban ballet; Norma Miller, the “Queen of Swing,” who cut rugs, stages and even Harlem sidewalks with her spectacularly acrobatic Lindy Hopping; and Jessye Norman, the magnificent American soprano who seemingly collected as many laurels — Grammy Awards, Kennedy Center honors — as curtain call bouquets.Like Ms. Channing, Doris Day, too, bridged singing and acting. But she did it in Hollywood, becoming its biggest box-office star in diverting romantic comedies opposite leading men like Rock Hudson and Cary Grant, all while earning a reputation, deserved or not, for sugary wholesomeness to rival that of apple pie.And Albert Finney found a kind of trans-Atlantic crossover appeal by bouncing between Hollywood and the stage in his native England, where he had gotten his start as one of the fabled “angry young men” of British postwar theater.The year saw a host of familiar faces from television’s past become instantly recognizable once more — only now in photos accompanying their obituaries: Diahann Carroll (“Julia”), Valerie Harper (“Rhoda”) and Luke Perry (���Beverly Hills, 90210”), to name just three. (By contrast, Caroll Spinney, under all those feathers, was faceless to his viewers, but his alter ego, Big Bird, as bright as sunshine, needed no introduction.)Popular music lost the likes of the drummer Ginger Baker, one of the rock gods of the ’60s; João Gilberto, the Brazilian guitarist and singer and a founding father of bossa nova; Dr. John, the rollicking, gravelly voice of New Orleans; and Ric Ocasek, the singing engine of the Cars, the hit-making band that arrived with rock’s new wave in the late ’70s. And practically every genre of music could claim the death of the restlessly versatile André Previn as its own particular loss; a composer, conductor and pianist, he had crisscrossed boundaries in a peripatetic career that brought him a clutch of Oscars and a shelf of Grammys — half of them in classical music, half of them not. Behind every performer, of course, is someone who provides the stage, and few impresarios had as much boffo success as Hal Prince, the king of Broadway; Franco Zeffirelli, whose opera stagings were as extravagant as he was colorful; and Robert Evans, the Hollywood executive who essentially greenlighted a new film era while leading so cinematic a life, of downfalls and comebacks, that it will doubtless one day resurface in a biopic script.The world at large offered a different stage, with all too real dramas, to the likes of Robert Mugabe, the liberator-turned-tyrant of Zimbabwe; Jacques Chirac, the French president who embraced European unity when that was still a bold idea; Yasuhiro Nakasone, who could still recall the embers of war in championing Japan’s return to international influence; Moshe Arens, the politician and statesman and one of the last of Israel’s founding Zionists; and Mohamed Morsi, who, speaking of barrier breakers, became Egypt’s first democratically elected president after all those millenniums, only to be ousted within a year in favor of more autocracy.In Washington, Elijah Cummings’s lawmaking was cut short. As the powerful, principled and full-throated chairman of the House Committee on Oversight and Reform, charged with protecting the integrity of government, he was in the thick of investigating actions by President Trump when he died at 68 in his beloved Baltimore, a little more than two months before his fellow Democratic House members voted for impeachment.His death was followed 10 days later by that of his colleague John Conyers, the longest-serving African-American in congressional history (52 years).

IX, 18 and 25 = Impact

The Senate, too, lost pillars. Birch Bayh, the liberal Democrat from Indiana, had as impactful a career as any in that chamber, attaching his name to landmark legislation identifiable by numbers: enforcing fairness through Title IX, lowering the voting age to 18, and providing for the removal of a president through a constitutional mechanism other than impeachment, the 25th Amendment.Within about six weeks of his death, in March, two former colleagues, Senate lions both, were gone: Ernest Hollings (Fritz to almost everyone), a South Carolinian and Democratic civil rights champion who had his eye on the White House at one point; and the courtly Republican Richard Lugar, another Hoosier, who had as much clout in foreign affairs as any modern-era senator ever had.In July, the 99-year-old body of Justice John Paul Stevens lay in state across the street from the Capitol in the Great Hall of the Supreme Court of the United States, where he arrived in 1975 as a former Republican antitrust lawyer and left 35 years later a changed man — a stalwart of the court’s liberal wing.And in early December it was Paul Volcker who was remembered — for shaping his country’s economic policy and taming inflation from the corridors of another marble-clad Washington institution, the Federal Reserve, where he was chairman under Presidents Carter and Reagan.If Mr. Volcker was at heart a public-spirited man of business, a well-paid product of Wall Street who took a cut in salary to work for his country, Ross Perot was a politically minded one who would have gladly given up his executive suite in Texas for the Oval Office. A billionaire force in the computer services industry, he became an unlikely and surprisingly strong independent populist candidate for president in the ’90s, a folk hero to some and a folksy odd duck to others.For all the publicity Mr. Perot received, however, his influence on American politics paled before that of the industrialist David H. Koch, who went about his work far less noisily. He and his brother Charles tapped their vast energy and chemicals fortune to finance a right-wing libertarian movement that by all indications will far outlive both.The most powerful of business leaders inevitably acquire a public face, and none did so more successfully than Lee Iacocca. More than running two of the nation’s biggest automakers, he “came to personify Detroit as the dream factory of America’s postwar love affair with the automobile,” as his obituary said. A son of a hot-dog vendor, he was a gregarious self-made man who became a household name as an industry titan, television pitchman and best-selling author.Felix Rohatyn, too, became a public man after scaling the heights of Wall Street, summoned to rescue New York City in the gritty, scuffling ’70s as it teetered on the edge of a fiscal abyss. And while we’re thinking about New York (command central for eruptions of “Auld Lang Syne”), let’s not forget Robert Morgenthau, a patrician son of the city who chased every known sort of criminal as Manhattan D.A. for so long that one might be forgiven for mistaking his age at his death, 99, for the number of years he served.Other giants fell. The world of letters lost Toni Morrison, still another groundbreaker as the first African-American woman to win a Nobel Prize in Literature, honored for her powerfully moving novels that sang of an often brutal, racially torn America in the resilient cadences of the black oral tradition.And Harold Bloom, the prodigious literary critic who, in championing the Western canon in an ever more multicultural world, endured ample criticism himself, earning a characterization seldom attached to a scholar: America’s most notorious.And Mary Oliver and W.S. Merwin, Pulitzer Prize-winning poets who earned the added distinction of being widely read.And Herman Wouk, the prolific, best-selling, movie-inspiring author who practically died writing, mid-book, leaving a sheaf of blank pages.

The Last Survivors

Journalism — and the Washington that reared her — lost Cokie Roberts, who brought a tough, knowing take on American politics to television audiences for decades, and Russell Baker, the New York Times humorist (and “Masterpiece Theater” host) who, with his wry observations on politics and other arenas of national life, didn’t so much bash his targets as poke them.Elsewhere, three of the most renowned architects of the last half of the 20th century died in 2019: I.M. Pei, Kevin Roche and Cesar Pelli. And Karl Lagerfeld, that indefatigable definer of high fashion, and Gloria Vanderbilt, who poured a generation of women into designer jeans, left their most stylish of scenes.The art world lost, among others, Robert Frank, who changed the course of documentary photography with his 35-millimeter Leica and a penetrating eye that saw an increasingly disjointed world in a new, strikingly off-kilter way, and Carlos Cruz-Diez, a towering figure of postwar Latin American art whose deep immersions in brilliant color seemed to evoke the dazzling sunlight of his native Venezuela.The sciences, too, were drained of immense brainpower — for one, that of the physicist Murray Gell-Mann, the Nobel laureate who glimpsed the structure of the universe through its tiniest particles of matter the way a geologist might comprehend the Earth in a grain of sand.Which, in a free-associating sort of way, brings to mind an hourglass — one that might measure the passing of an era’s few remaining survivors: grains of sand, pulled by gravity, trickling away until all are gone.The scholar Charles van Doren was one, his death evoking the distant quiz show scandals of the 1950s. Edward Nixon was another, carrying the unwelcome burden — familiar to overshadowed siblings everywhere — of forever reminding us, by his very facial features, of Richard. Edda Goering and Rudolf von Ribbentrop carried pedigrees that harked back to the evil of Hitler, while Dick Churchill (no relation to Hitler’s nemesis) recalled a bracing moment for the Allies in World War II, the “Great Escape” from a prisoner-of-war camp. He was the last survivor of the 76 who had made the attempt. But he had been a survivor before: After only three men had made it to freedom, and after the Germans had executed 50 of those who had failed, Churchill was somehow spared. He lived another 75 years.And then there was Julia Ruth Stevens. It’s been 71 years since her “Daddy,” Babe Ruth, died, but over those many decades she remained a living link to him, showing up at old-timers’ games to accept the cheers of baseball fans to whom the Sultan of Swat was more legend than flesh and blood. Ms. Stevens reminded us that, yes, he put his pinstripes on the same way the ball boys did.“I miss him even to this day,” she said not too many years ago.Who among his intimates is left to say that as 2020 is about to dawn? To hazard a guess, no one. The last grain of sand has fallen.William McDonald is the obituaries editor of The Times Read the full article

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Fear Of God Is Now Making Hats, In a Very Fear Of God Way

#http://blog.hair-terminator.com PIERRE TOUSSAINT Jerry Lorenzo is bringing back "90s-style caps with a new New Era collaboration. Fear Of God has quickly become a go-to for men (and now, women) of a certain style tribe looking for pieces that are bold but actually wearable. Despite a lack

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PIERRE TOUSSAINT

Jerry Lorenzo is bringing back "90s-style caps with a new New Era collaboration. Fear Of God has quickly become a go-to for men (and now, women) of a certain style tribe looking for pieces that are bold but actually wearable. Despite a lack of logo-heavy branding, the label"s jeans, sneakers, bomber jackets, and tees have become identifiable with their exaggerated silhouettes and stealth luxury details. For the latest lineup, a.k.a. the Fifth Collection, designer Jerry Lorenzo channelled his most reliable motif—his own childhood—and drummed up a collection heavy on basketball and baseball influences with, fittingly, a spanking-new collaboration with New Era. These aren"t your average throwback ball caps. When Lorenzo was a kid, his dad, Jerry Manuel, was an up-and-coming coach in the major leagues (he eventually went on to win AL manager of the year in 2000 leading the White Sox), so baseball has always played a major part in his life. And if you grew up in the "80s and "90s like Lorenzo did, you know the New Era caps sported by guys like Pedro Martinez, Ken Griffey, Jr., and Pirates-era Barry Bonds are wildly different than more tech-y, stretchy ones worn by big leaguers today. So Lorenzo decided to bring back some signature details unseen on New Era hats since the 1990s, particularly the green silky fabric under the bill and the old New Era logo (which is particularly special considering they haven"t brought it back for any other brand but Fear Of God), and produce them in two colorways—one dedicated to the Pirates and the other to the Tigers. Perhaps most noteworthy is that the caps are made right here in America at the New Era factory in Buffalo, New York. Of course made-in-America comes with a literal price, which is part of the reason these hats retail for $295. Additionally, Fear Of God and New Era Cap are supporting the Major League Baseball Urban Youth Foundation, RBI (Reviving Baseball in our Inner-cities) and the Jerry Manuel Foundation with each purchase. Still, we know 300 bucks is a lot for a baseball cap. But unlike a hat you"ll scoop up at your local mall or ballpark, these are a true statement piece. And knowing how much celebs love Fear Of God, it"s only a matter of time before these caps become the standout headwear of 2017.

Watch Now:

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In a Year of Notable Deaths, a World of Women Who Shattered Ceilings

Almost all were born between the world wars, one even before women had the right to vote. They came from white-collar homes and blue-, from black households and white. But when they died this year, they had something in common besides the final leveling that death brings.

They had all found a place in a world that rarely, if ever, had been open to women.

Whether one or the other was the absolute first to break a glass ceiling could be open to debate. But let’s say, at the least, that each planted a foot inside a door that had long been closed to women and then shouldered her way in — to a roomful of men.

Ruth Abrams was one. In 1977 she became the first woman to take a seat on the highest court in Massachusetts, the Supreme Judicial Court. It had taken 285 years (that is not a typo) — since the court’s founding in 1692. (Another notable juridical event that year was the start of the Salem witch trials.)

Ellen Bree Burns overcame similar obstacles in Connecticut, also in the 1970s — a signal decade in which feminism’s second wave was just beginning to build strength. She became the first woman to rise to the bench of her state’s major trial court and the first woman to be named to a federal court there.

Patricia M. Wald, too, was not to be denied a black robe, even after taking a decade-long detour to raise five children at home. In 1979, she became the first woman to serve on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, by most reckonings the second most influential court in the country. A kindred progressive spirit, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, soon joined her on that bench.

In a quite different arena but one no less fueled by testosterone, Bonnie Guitar, born Bonnie Buckingham, had one of the earliest records (“Dark Moon”) by a female country singer to cross over to the pop chart. Even more significant was her work away from the mic. Crashing another men’s club, she became a force in the studio, engineering records, scouting talent and starting her own label.

Barbara Gardner Proctor, who died just before the year began, had to force open two doors before finding a place in the “Mad Men” advertising world of the 1960s: one blocking women, the other African-Americans. But she pushed anyway, becoming, according to the industry, the first black woman in America to establish her own agency, Proctor & Gardner, in Chicago. (There actually was no Gardner; she added the name to reassure wary prospective clients that “her partner” was a man.)

Before 1972, an educational institution could discriminate against women and still receive federal funding, no questions asked. That changed with the passage of Title IX that year, encoding equity in law. And if there was one person to thank for that sea change, it was Bernice Sandler, who had once been told, in being denied a full-time university teaching job, “You come on too strong for a woman.”

She did come on strong. Through scholarly writings, tireless lobbying and persuasive advocacy in the courts, she was, more than anyone, the catalyst behind Title IX.

There were others: Barbara Low, one of the few women in scientific research in the 1940s, advanced our understanding of penicillin, leading to a cornucopia of antibiotics that continue to save lives. Rosemary Mariner, a baby boomer pilot, became the first woman to command a naval aviation squadron and then led a successful fight to get Congress to lift a ban on women serving in combat. And Florence Knoll Bassett, a designer and businesswoman, gave the modern office its streamlined shape and feel.

Ms. Knoll ran a thriving company with her husband, but one look at a grainy black and white photo that ran with her obituary in these pages last January will tell you everything you’d need to know about the world she had to navigate: There she was, in 1953, the lone woman seated at a large conference table ringed by white men in white shirts and ties.

For every glass ceiling broken, however, there was an untold number of women who in reaching higher came up empty-handed. By all accounts, Geraldyn M. Cobb had the right stuff to become an astronaut in the early years of the American space program. A veteran pilot, she held records in speed, altitude and distance before sailing through a battery of demanding physical and psychological tests that put her in the top 2 percent of all the program’s aspirants, including men. She was nevertheless left behind as a group of NASA pioneers, all men, paraded off into history. Though she lived a rewarding life — notably as a humanitarian flying medicine, food and clothing to indigenous people in the Amazon — she died, in her eyes, forever earthbound.

Athletic Firsts, Too

Not all the barrier breakers who died in 2019 were women, of course. The N.B.A. lost one in Wat Misaka, a son of Japanese immigrants who became the league’s first nonwhite player, and Major League Baseball lost three.

Elijah “Pumpsie” Green is not much remembered for his career on the diamond, mediocre as it was, but he made a bit of history just by striding onto the field for the Boston Red Sox in July 1959, becoming the first black player on a team that was the last in the major leagues to breach the color line, 12 years after Jackie Robinson had made the Brooklyn Dodgers the first.

Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field was also home to Don Newcombe, widely regarded as the major leagues’ first outstanding black pitcher, a Cy Young winner and a National League M.V.P. As fate would have it, his death, in February, came just 12 days after that of an even grander man of the game, Frank Robinson, who stayed in baseball after a Hall of Fame career in Baltimore to become the major leagues’ first black manager.

They are on a long roster of sports stars who died this year. The N.B.A. mourned the loss of John Havlicek, a basketball dynamo who tasted championship glory in two distinct eras with the Boston Celtics. The N.F.L bade farewell to Bart Starr, the Green Bay Packers’ champion quarterback, whose sterling execution on the field was a visible manifestation of Coach Vince Lombardi’s genius.

Athletes give us drama about human struggle, determination and excellence, but they also entertain us, and in that they share something with all those who mount stages and appear in front of cameras. Broadway typically (and wonderfully) dims its lights when one of its own has gone. But when it did so for Carol Channing last January, the gesture was never more apt. It may be falling back on press-agentry boilerplate to say that the star of “Hello, Dolly!” and “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” lit up stages with her irrepressibly high-spirited performances over an impossibly long career. But, really, more than almost anyone, didn’t she?

Equally incandescent was the ballerina Alicia Alonso, who overcame near-blindness to become a globe-trotting star and ambassador of Cuban ballet; Norma Miller, the “Queen of Swing,” who cut rugs, stages and even Harlem sidewalks with her spectacularly acrobatic Lindy Hopping; and Jessye Norman, the magnificent American soprano who seemingly collected as many laurels — Grammy Awards, Kennedy Center honors — as curtain call bouquets.

Like Ms. Channing, Doris Day, too, bridged singing and acting. But she did it in Hollywood, becoming its biggest box-office star in diverting romantic comedies opposite leading men like Rock Hudson and Cary Grant, all while earning a reputation, deserved or not, for sugary wholesomeness to rival that of apple pie.

And Albert Finney found a kind of trans-Atlantic crossover appeal by bouncing between Hollywood and the stage in his native England, where he had gotten his start as one of the fabled “angry young men” of British postwar theater.

The year saw a host of familiar faces from television’s past become instantly recognizable once more — only now in photos accompanying their obituaries: Diahann Carroll (“Julia”), Valerie Harper (“Rhoda”) and Luke Perry (“Beverly Hills, 90210”), to name just three. (By contrast, Caroll Spinney, under all those feathers, was faceless to his viewers, but his alter ego, Big Bird, as bright as sunshine, needed no introduction.)

Popular music lost the likes of the drummer Ginger Baker, one of the rock gods of the ’60s; João Gilberto, the Brazilian guitarist and singer and a founding father of bossa nova; Dr. John, the rollicking, gravelly voice of New Orleans; and Ric Ocasek, the singing engine of the Cars, the hit-making band that arrived with rock’s new wave in the late ’70s.

And practically every genre of music could claim the death of the restlessly versatile André Previn as its own particular loss; a composer, conductor and pianist, he had crisscrossed boundaries in a peripatetic career that brought him a clutch of Oscars and a shelf of Grammys — half of them in classical music, half of them not.

Behind every performer, of course, is someone who provides the stage, and few impresarios had as much boffo success as Hal Prince, the king of Broadway; Franco Zeffirelli, whose opera stagings were as extravagant as he was colorful; and Robert Evans, the Hollywood executive who essentially greenlighted a new film era while leading so cinematic a life, of downfalls and comebacks, that it will doubtless one day resurface in a biopic script.

The world at large offered a different stage, with all too real dramas, to the likes of Robert Mugabe, the liberator-turned-tyrant of Zimbabwe; Jacques Chirac, the French president who embraced European unity when that was still a bold idea; Yasuhiro Nakasone, who could still recall the embers of war in championing Japan’s return to international influence; Moshe Arens, the politician and statesman and one of the last of Israel’s founding Zionists; and Mohamed Morsi, who, speaking of barrier breakers, became Egypt’s first democratically elected president after all those millenniums, only to be ousted within a year in favor of more autocracy.

In Washington, Elijah Cummings’s lawmaking was cut short. As the powerful, principled and full-throated chairman of the House Committee on Oversight and Reform, charged with protecting the integrity of government, he was in the thick of investigating President Trump’s conduct in office when he died at 68 in his beloved Baltimore, a little more than two months before his fellow Democratic House members voted for impeachment.

His death was followed 10 days later by that of his colleague John Conyers, the longest-serving African-American in congressional history (52 years).

IX, 18 and 25 = Impact

The Senate, too, lost pillars. Birch Bayh, the liberal Democrat from Indiana, had as impactful a career as any in that chamber, attaching his name to landmark legislation identifiable by numbers: enforcing fairness through Title IX, lowering the voting age to 18, and providing for the removal of a president through a constitutional mechanism other than impeachment, the 25th Amendment.

Within about six weeks of his death, in March, two former colleagues, Senate lions both, were gone: Ernest Hollings (Fritz to almost everyone), a South Carolinian and Democratic civil rights champion who had his eye on the White House at one point; and the courtly Republican Richard Lugar, another Hoosier, who had as much clout in foreign affairs as any modern-era senator ever had.

In July, the 99-year-old body of Justice John Paul Stevens lay in state across the street from the Capitol in the Great Hall of the Supreme Court of the United States, where he arrived in 1975 as a former Republican antitrust lawyer and left 35 years later a changed man — a stalwart of the court’s liberal wing.

And in early December it was Paul Volcker who was remembered — for shaping his country’s economic policy and taming inflation from the corridors of another marble-clad Washington institution, the Federal Reserve, where he was chairman under Presidents Carter and Reagan.

If Mr. Volcker was at heart a public-spirited man of business, a well-paid product of Wall Street who took a cut in salary to work for his country, Ross Perot was a politically minded one who would have gladly given up his executive suite in Texas for the Oval Office. A billionaire force in the computer services industry, he became an unlikely and surprisingly strong independent populist candidate for president in the ’90s, a folk hero to some and a folksy odd duck to others.

For all the publicity Mr. Perot received, however, his influence on American politics paled before that of the industrialist David H. Koch, who went about his work far less noisily. He and his brother Charles tapped their vast energy and chemicals fortune to finance a right-wing libertarian movement that by all indications will far outlive both.

The most powerful of business leaders inevitably acquire a public face, and none did so more successfully than Lee Iacocca. More than running two of the nation’s biggest automakers, he “came to personify Detroit as the dream factory of America’s postwar love affair with the automobile,” as his obituary said. A son of a hot-dog vendor, he was a gregarious self-made man who became a household name as an industry titan, television pitchman and best-selling author.

Felix Rohatyn, too, became a public man after scaling the heights of Wall Street, summoned to rescue New York City in the gritty, scuffling ’70s as it teetered on the edge of a fiscal abyss. And while we’re thinking about New York (command central for eruptions of “Auld Lang Syne”), let’s not forget Robert Morgenthau, a patrician son of the city who chased every known sort of criminal as Manhattan D.A. for so long that one might be forgiven for mistaking his age at his death, 99, for the number of years he served.

Other giants fell. The world of letters lost Toni Morrison, still another groundbreaker as the first African-American woman to win a Nobel Prize in Literature, honored for her powerfully moving novels that sang of an often brutal, racially torn America in the resilient cadences of the black oral tradition.

And Harold Bloom, the prodigious literary critic who, in championing the Western canon in an ever more multicultural world, endured ample criticism himself, earning a characterization seldom attached to a scholar: America’s most notorious.

And Mary Oliver and W.S. Merwin, Pulitzer Prize-winning poets who earned the added distinction of being widely read.

And Herman Wouk, the prolific, best-selling, movie-inspiring author who practically died writing, mid-book, leaving a sheaf of blank pages.

The Last Survivors

Journalism — and the Washington that reared her — lost Cokie Roberts, who brought a tough, knowing take on American politics to television audiences for decades, and Russell Baker, the New York Times humorist (and “Masterpiece Theater” host) who, with his wry observations on politics and other arenas of national life, didn’t so much bash his targets as poke them.

Elsewhere, three of the most renowned architects of the last half of the 20th century died in 2019: I.M. Pei, Kevin Roche and Cesar Pelli. And Karl Lagerfeld, that indefatigable definer of high fashion, and Gloria Vanderbilt, who poured a generation of women into designer jeans, left their most stylish of scenes.

The art world lost, among others, Robert Frank, who changed the course of documentary photography with his 35-millimeter Leica and a penetrating eye that saw an increasingly disjointed world in a new, strikingly off-kilter way, and Carlos Cruz-Diez, a towering figure of postwar Latin American art whose deep immersions in brilliant color seemed to evoke the dazzling sunlight of his native Venezuela.

The sciences, too, were drained of immense brainpower — for one, that of the physicist Murray Gell-Mann, the Nobel laureate who glimpsed the structure of the universe through its tiniest particles of matter the way a geologist might comprehend the Earth in a grain of sand.

Which, in a free-associating sort of way, brings to mind an hourglass — one that might measure the passing of an era’s few remaining survivors: grains of sand, pulled by gravity, trickling away until all are gone.

The scholar Charles van Doren was one, his death evoking the distant quiz show scandals of the 1950s. Edward Nixon was another, carrying the unwelcome burden — familiar to overshadowed siblings everywhere — of forever reminding us, by his very facial features, of Richard. Edda Goering and Rudolf von Ribbentrop carried pedigrees that harked back to the evil of Hitler, while Dick Churchill (no relation to Hitler’s nemesis) recalled a bracing moment for the Allies in World War II, the “Great Escape” from a prisoner-of-war camp. He was the last survivor of the 76 who had made the attempt. But he had been a survivor before: After only three men had made it to freedom, and after the Germans had executed 50 of those who had failed, Churchill was somehow spared. He lived another 75 years.

And then there was Julia Ruth Stevens. It’s been 71 years since her “Daddy,” Babe Ruth, died, but over those many decades she remained a living link to him, showing up at old-timers’ games to accept the cheers of baseball fans to whom the Sultan of Swat was more legend than flesh and blood. Ms. Stevens reminded us that, yes, he put his pinstripes on the same way the ball boys did.

“I miss him even to this day,” she said not too many years ago.

Who among his intimates is left to say that as 2020 is about to dawn? To hazard a guess, no one. The last grain of sand has fallen.

William McDonald is the obituaries editor of The Times

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