The insults, the barbs,
the teasing galore.

The candidates fight
every night, but what is it for?

These men and this woman want our trust.

At this point, many warrant disgust.

Who are they who want a job like no other?

Do they listen, or do they make us shudder?

Are they good, are they smart, do they have what it takes?

Can they bring us to glory
and not become fakes?

What do we need in this
election year?

Are they really the ones
to calm our fear?

Hillary and Bernie duke it out,

they argue, fight
and sometimes they pout.

On the right, Cruz, Kasich and formerly Rubio chase
the man with the hair.

Trump is his name,
and they want their share.

He’s a bully, a braggart
and he’s way ahead.

The others sound desperate
and they seem to see red.

Mitt Romney has come
to throw sand in Trump’s face.

Mitt’s presence is odd, some say it’s a disgrace.

He lost but didn’t go gently
into that good night,

he’s worried about Trump
and wants a fierce fight.

We like to believe we are part
of a whole,

but we have huge differences down to our souls.

Some believe Muslims
should all stay away,

others suggest we should all have our say.

Protesters appear to cause
commotion,

the sounds and sights are fraught with emotion.

The wife of the president long ago,

Hillary is under fire for
making dough.

A university fight
nips at his heels,

Trump says, “It’s OK,
the school is real.”

The debates offer jabs
and tough one-liners,

some of these leaders could
be sporting shiners.

Tough choices now, the voters have to take sides.

With each new vote,
there’s nowhere to hide.

The country is vast,
it’s hard not to offend.

We’re different in New York from those in South Bend.

Bernie Sanders shares plans
that people adore.

He wants the working class
to have so much more,

but can he do half of what
he desires?

Or would he wind up putting out vast fires?

The people crave change,
it’s clear as a bell.

The same old approach
has no chance to sell.

We’re sick and tired of being tired and sick.

We the People don’t want
something so slick.

The rhetoric has grown
increasingly coarse,

it’s ugly, messy and the leaders sound hoarse.

Who will you choose
on Election Day?

Do you really want
anyone to stay?

Will the candidates discuss
issues that matter?

Or will they just make their own pocketbooks fatter?

On what do we agree,
from sea to sea?

What is there that’s common
to you and to me?

Can you picture these people when they were kids?

Do you think they were proud of all that they did?

Were they good to friends,
to teachers and foes?

Or did they know better
than average Joes?

When one of them wins and wants to lead us together,

will he or she make us stronger and help us get better?

They fight with their rivals
and say others are wrong,

how can any of them help people get along?

You have to vote, like it or not,

it’s our duty, we’re in a big spot.

Tune out the bluster
and the attacks,

and ask yourself if they
have our backs.

Who are they who want a job like no other?

Do they listen,
or do they make us shudder?

Are they good, are they smart, do they have what it takes?

Can they bring us to glory
and not become fakes?

Technology has made it possible for us to stick both of our virtual feet in our virtual mouths.

Last week, I wrote about poor sportsmanship by a father at a basketball game. Before I started the column, I asked my wife if she thought he might see the article and get upset. She said, “Wait, first, what’s the chance that he’ll look for it; and, second, it’s not like you’re going to be naming names.”

She was right. I wasn’t planning to put his name in the paper or call attention to him. He made a sudden barking noise while one of the players on the other team was about to shoot a free throw. The players on the other team, their coach and, most importantly, the referee took exception to his conduct. The referee ejected him.

Recognizing that there was something to share with TBR readers, I wrote about the incident. I’m sure this gentleman isn’t the only one to cross a line at a child’s sporting event. I’ve heard parents screaming at their kids, at their kids’ coaches, at referees and anyone who will listen in the heat of the moment. After all, these games are critically important. A loss might mean their child only gets a second-place trophy that will collect dust on a shelf somewhere, while a win would mean they would get a slightly bigger trophy that collects slightly more dust on a shelf somewhere else.

I wrote the column, sent it to my editor electronically and went about the usual business of my day. By about 6 p.m., it occurred to me that my editor didn’t acknowledge the column the way she usually does. Then it hit me, like a punch to my stomach. My breathing got shorter and shallower and my hands felt hot and cold at the same time.

With an anxious scowl on my face, I went back to my email “sent” folder and I saw it. “Oh no!” I shouted, stunned by my blunder. You see, my editor and the wife of the man who made a scene at the basketball game have the same first name. I had typed the first three letters of my editor’s name and the computer mischievously misdirected the column. I stand by what I wrote, but I had no intention of sending the column to this man’s wife.

Realizing my error, I frantically called my wife, which compounded my mistake. In the panic of the moment, I dialed my daughter’s cellphone number, who was in the middle of volleyball practice. She raced to call me back in case something was wrong. Something was, indeed, wrong, but I didn’t want to distract her. Forcing myself to try to sound calm, I said something like, “Nah-everything-all-right-bye.”

I finally reached my wife, who patiently talked me back from the ledge. She suggested I write to the man’s wife and tell her that I misfired in my email. It wasn’t the end of the world and, before long, my wife assured me I’d find it funny in a “I can’t believe I really did that” way.

I did what my wife suggested and the man’s wife said she thought I had sent her the column on purpose. I assured her it was a mistake. That’s where the conversation ended.

I have been on the other side of such emails. One of my editors wrote to someone she thought was another editor about how annoyed she was with my story. It’s about 20 years since that email reached me and I had almost forgotten about it … almost.

I can relate to Charlie Brown’s teacher. She speaks — and Charlie and his pals in the “Peanuts” cartoon hear noise without words.

As a coach of numerous teams, I have seen that blank look, recognized the glare and the stare and wondered if anyone would notice if I switched to a discussion of lollipops and subatomic particles.

I am near the end of a basketball season. As we were winning a recent game by 20 points, one of the boys on the bench confided that he wished the game was more competitive.

In our next game, he got his wish. In a physical contest, the officiating seemed unbalanced. How, several parents articulated with increasing volume as the first half drew to a close, did we get so few foul calls when we could see the red marks on our children’s arms and necks from contact with the opposing players?

With concerns about calls, parents and the kids became increasingly vocal. During my halftime talk, I could see the hurt and anger in the kids’ eyes. “How come he can keep pushing me and he doesn’t get called for a foul, and I go near him and the ref blows the whistle?” one of them asked.

Officiating isn’t easy. I was an umpire for baseball games in which every full-count pitch was a borderline strike. It was up to me to decide whether the boy struck out or to send him to first base.

Still, in that moment, as the coach of those boys on the basketball court, I was frustrated. I did what I imagine chairmen do: I sent my assistant coach to ask the referees about the calls. It was cowardly, but I wanted to stay on the court and try to manage through this tense contest. I could be the good guy and he could be the one whining.

I told the boys to play hard, stay focused and stick together. An eight-point deficit, I insisted, was manageable, especially with an entire half left in the game.

But then something happened early in the second half. As the game got close, one of the boys from the other team got fouled on a 3-point shot. He stepped to the line in a quiet gym. Just as he was getting ready to shoot, one of the parents on my team barked at him, making him alter his shot and causing him to miss. The referee threw out the parent and the boy made the next two free throws.

While I didn’t agree with many of the foul calls, I understood the need to eject the parent.

With the game close the rest of the way, parents, coaches and players became increasingly animated, sharing the kinds of noises you’d hear at a Red Sox-Yankees game. What’s the right message to offer the kids at the end of a tense game?

I got my answer a few days later, when I interviewed Port Jefferson Station’s Annie O’Shea, who has had a breakout year in the World Cup in skeleton racing. Driven by teamwork and an ability to prevent any adversity from turning into negative internal dialogue, O’Shea found the kind of consistent success she’d always sought. She won gold and silver medals in races against the top international sliders and finished fourth for the entire season in the World Cup.

She said she stays focused on each turn, without worrying about the clock, what someone said or anything else that might slow her down. It all started with a positive attitude. That kind of attitude doesn’t come from barking or from screaming about calls from officials. It comes from working together and staying focused.

So, did we win? Does it matter?

Recent headlines, displayed prominently on news sites around the world, were alarming, such as: “150,000 Adélie penguins killed by iceberg.” The stories suggested our flightless black-and-white friends were cut off by a Rhode Island-sized iceberg from their food supply. It was too late to save the “Happy Feet” characters. But the reality was anything but black and white.

“These headlines, while eye-popping, are not necessarily true,” said Heather Lynch, an assistant professor in the Stony Brook University Department of Ecology and Evolution. The stories came from a recent study, published in Antarctic Science. Lynch did not participate in the study, but is involved in monitoring penguin populations from satellites. “This idea that [these] penguins have perished doesn’t reflect the biology in hand,” she said. It will take “many years” before scientists are able to sort out the effect of this iceberg on penguin survivorship.

That’s because penguins can take a year or two off from breeding during unfavorable environmental conditions, which means that penguins displaced from breeding by an iceberg aren’t likely dead.

The scientists in the original study were linking the change in the breeding penguin population at Cape Denison — the site of a research station for famous Australian geologist and explorer Douglas Mawson about a century earlier — with the number of nesting pairs recorded after the arrival of iceberg B09B in 2010.

“There was some concern that there were dead chicks or frozen eggs at the site,” Lynch said. “We need to be cautious about interpreting that as evidence of some kind of catastrophic mortality event. There’s extremely high chick mortality rate under normal circumstances. That is the cycle of life.”

Reports about penguins losing habitat, breeding grounds or access to food typically lead to the kind of questions that were central to the “Happy Feet” story: What role do humans have in the process and what action, if any, is necessary to save the birds?

Kerry-Jayne Wilson, the lead author on the study and the chairperson of the West Coast Penguin Trust in New Zealand, offered some perspective.

“We did not suggest adult penguins had died,” she said in response to an email request for comment. “Some media outlet started” this rumor.

She said she believes most of the missing penguins are probably “out at sea, having assessed conditions as unsuitable for breeding.”

The authors sent out a clarifying press release in response to the stories: “It is unlikely many, if any, adult penguins have died as a result of this stranding event. This iceberg stranding event only affects Adélie penguins in the Commonwealth Bay area; the millions of Adélie penguins breeding around the rest of Antarctica are not affected.”

So, where did the story go wrong? For starters, a press release announcing the study used the headline: “Giant iceberg decimates Adélie penguin colonies.” The statement suggests that breeding has declined in the area, without indicating that 150,000 of Mr. Popper’s pals perished.

I turned to a representative at SBU’s Alan Alda Center for Communicating Science, which teaches scientists to make their research accessible to the public, to see if there are any lessons from this communication misfire.

Elizabeth Bass, director emerita of the center, suggested scientists needed to know their audience when sharing their research. “Be crystal clear about your findings,” she advised. In all the courses the center teaches, the message is to stress characterizing the work in a way that’s “not going to be misunderstood.”

Lynch is concerned that these type of stories, taken out of context, make it more difficult to share well-grounded science from future studies with policymakers.

“At some point, people stop listening and that’s what concerns me,” she said. “Real science whispers, it doesn’t shout.”

About 61 years after he died, Albert Einstein is still right. The legendary theoretical physicist predicted a century ago that a space time continuum would contain gravitational waves.

This past September, a team of more than 1,000 scientists heard a sound from a billion light-years away that was generated by two black holes colliding. The scientists were working at the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory, known as LIGO. The announcement of the results, made on Feb. 11, was greeted with considerable excitement by physicists, mathematicians and scientists, with one of them saying that astronomers have long had eyes but this breakthrough gives them ears, too.

I asked Marilena LoVerde and Patrick Meade, Stony Brook University assistant professors at the C.N. Yang Institute for Theoretical Physics, for their take on the big announcement.

DD: How does the significance of any potential finding of gravitational waves compare to that for the Higgs boson particle? Some people have suggested that it’s on the scale, if not larger, than the Higgs boson particle.

PM: I would certainly say it’s a very big discovery. However, unlike the Higgs, gravitational waves were on a much stronger footing that they should exist. The Higgs told us something new about how the universe worked, and it didn’t have to be true — there were many other options. However, gravitational waves are exciting because it’s a validation of the theory we already use, general relativity, and it may provide a new way to search for physics we haven’t discovered yet.

ML: This is absolutely on the scale of the Higgs boson. Similar to the Higgs boson, gravitational waves were predicted and expected to exist — and in fact indirectly measured through the spin down of the Hulse-Taylor binary pulsar — but the direct detection of gravitational waves is an absolute triumph of experimental physics and opens an exciting new era of gravitational wave astronomy.

DD: What has the email traffic about this announcement been during the last week? Have you received emails from scientists, colleagues, collaborators and friends who all want to know what this would mean and what you make of it?

ML: Rumors have been going around for months, but the frequency of people emailing/discussing such rumors and adding pieces of evidence suggesting they were true, and the details of the rumors have all increased significantly in the past few weeks.

PM: Since this isn’t directly my field I wasn’t as involved as with some other rumors, but rumors through Twitter, blogs and conversations with colleagues at other places who heard things were all happening over about the last month.

DD: Is there a chance that whatever was detected was an artifact?

ML: The signal looks very compelling. Of course I haven’t had much time to study the details of the statistical methods used to extract the signal and I’m looking forward to doing that.

PM: I’d say it’s extremely unlikely to be an artifact or statistical anomaly, because the same signal was seen in two separate detectors — one in Washington [state] and one in Louisiana.

DD: Will the existence and detection of gravitational waves open up the sky to enable us to “see” much more than we can now in terms of matter and the universe? Will they help us see and understand dark matter and dark energy?

PM: Gravitational waves definitely open up a whole new way to see the universe. However they won’t directly give us any information on dark matter or dark energy in the foreseeable future. To make gravitational waves that are observable with our technology you need very violent gravitational events, like these two black holes merging that LIGO saw. However, by developing new detectors with better sensitivity we may be able to look back and see other violent events in the history of the universe.

Clinton, Bush, “Star Wars,” McDonald’s, Target. It sounds like the setup for a joke, except that the joke seems to be on us.

Somehow, a nation that prides itself on rugged individualism has wound up with a case of “the more of the same, please.” It’s like we’ve all been chewing the same gum for a long time. As soon as we’re not sure what to do with it in our mouths, we pop in another piece, which tastes OK for a while but then runs out of flavor.

Hey, look, I get it. The unfamiliar could be worse and confusing. We have, politically and culturally, become a country that is comfortable with the devils we know.

Drive through almost any town on the East Coast and you might feel as if you are taking a short trip, over and over, through a movie set with the same props, signs and stores on every corner. What happened to mom and pop stores? Is there such a thing as local flavor anymore? Do we even want to try local flavor, lest we don’t like it or, worse, our digestion doesn’t appreciate an unfamiliar combination of foods? We are a society of specific tastes, avoiding gluten, peanuts, dairy, animal protein and a host of others.

What that’s created is a collection of picky eaters and picky consumers who want things their way from specific restaurants and stores. That has become a recipe for the same stores to open in towns throughout the country.

We have become a society in which franchises reduce the amount of thinking we have to do, trimming the highs and lows of unique experiences.

We don’t have to think about any of our consumer choices, because we can go to the same stores with the same layout everywhere. In fact, many of these stores have saved money on staff, allowing us to self-checkout, so we don’t even have to converse with people about their lives and towns anymore. We can continue to interact with our friends and family on the phone, removing ourselves from our current setting. When we’re done shopping, we don’t have to worry about the type of hotel we sleep in at night because we can stay in the same place everywhere. “Yes, as my profile demonstrates, I like room 518.”

Here we are, 24 years after Bill Clinton took office and Hillary is hoping to move back into the White House as Clinton II. Of course, she’s not Bill and she has her own ideas for the country. But it feels as if we’ve been here before, as if we are in another “Star Wars” between the Clintons and the vast right-wing conspiracy she decried all those years ago.

Speaking of “Star Wars,” it’s a relief that the current film isn’t as bad as the forgettable three prequels. And yet the plot devices and decisions seem to have come from the recycling bin, albeit with a humble woman from a desert planet who has developed the ability to use the force.

Maybe we’ve had enough of the same. Maybe the country has decided to take Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump more seriously because we don’t want to be on automatic pilot anymore. Then again, Sanders sounds like the George Steinbrenner character from “Seinfeld” and Trump sounds like, well, himself from TV.

Where will we be a year from now? Well, we will probably have another “Star Wars” film; we will have a new president, or maybe a different iteration of something familiar; and we will be somewhere in America, surrounded by familiar stores and choices.

Then again, maybe, just maybe, we will make our own decisions and find our own way, without big box retailers and familiar characters and story lines passing in a blur past the windows of our minds.

Midterms are nothing short of a mental battlefield. Our sleep-deprived children step out of the house, their hoodies raised over their ears like helmets, covering hair they didn’t have time to comb while also keeping inside their overburdened heads the Latin words for “seize the day.”

They clutch their swords — their No. 2 pencils and erasable pens; and grasp their tiny shields — the one-page sheets filled with the equations for photosynthesis and the description of the domain Archaea.

When the kids arrive at school, they don’t look left and right because they don’t have much time to chat with friends, avoid enemies or wonder what fashion statement the popular students are making. They are bracing for battle and they have to climb the mountain in front of them without allowing too many mistakes to slow them down.

We adults have been through these moments before, just as we have had shots, skinned our knees and struck out in a big game. And yet watching our kids go through all these challenges brings a whole new level of anxiety, butterflies and, like Pandora’s box, rays of hope. Might this be the time when they succeed just as they feel they are about to succumb? Could this be just the confidence boost they need to help them relax and attack these tests with the equivalent of the light side of the force on future tests?

While the kids write about epiphanies, rarely, as those of us who have gone through this know, do they happen in the middle of an exam. Sure, there might be a moment when they say, “Oh, right, of course, I know this. The answer is ‘0’ because it can’t be anything else.” But more often, even if they figure that one out, they still have another six pages of mysterious questions, such as “What king believed in absolutism?” [Louis XIV of France]; and how did Dante know what my world would be like on test day when he wrote “The Divine Comedy”?

There are all kinds of lessons that await them, some of which apply to the material itself, while others relate to the best test-taking strategy. I recall a test many years ago in which the teacher urged everyone to read all the instructions first before starting. Few of the students did that because they didn’t want to lose time and because any sound outside their heads competed with the pneumonics they were repeating inside their brains like lines in a play.

As the tests arrive on their desks, their legs might start shaking involuntarily, trying to get their minds moving, the way Olympic runners take short, quick jogs before crouching down in the starting blocks. They go through whatever lucky rituals they might have, thinking about the words of a friend or relative, taking a few deep breaths or looking up at the clock, knowing that — one way or another — the hands that slowly circumnavigate those 12 numbers all day, every day, will move them toward their uncertain future.

Maybe they chuckle to themselves at the higher dose of perfume than normal from the girl to their right or the stronger scent of Axe deodorant from the boy to their left. Maybe these other students didn’t take showers that morning because they got up too late or because they sat on the edge of their beds cramming through those last few facts.

Few of them will emerge from the battle completely unscathed. Hopefully, next time around, they’ll remember their earlier wounds and will learn how to avoid making the same mistakes. That, in any context, constitutes progress.

Steven Strogatz picked up the phone to hear the familiar voice of someone he’d never met.

“I got a call from out of the blue, which was really shocking,” said Strogatz, a math professor at Cornell University. “He said, ‘this is Alan Alda. I don’t know if you know me, but I’m an actor.’”

Alda had read an article Strogatz wrote for Scientific American about synchronization in the natural world, which included phenomena like thousands of male fireflies flashing in unison like a Christmas tree. Alda said he wanted to discuss the article.

The Manhattan-born actor visited Strogatz, who was then at MIT in Massachusetts.

“He was this super-famous TV and movie actor,” Strogatz said. “He was not particularly well-known for work in science communication, like he is now.”

At the time of his call to Strogatz, which was more than 20 years ago, Alda was only one year into hosting the PBS series Scientific American Frontiers, in which he wound up interviewing hundreds of scientists during the 11 years he hosted the program.

Alda, who is turning 80 on the Thursday this newspaper comes out, has developed a second career as a science communicator, winning a star-studded list of new fans who appreciate his passion, intellect and, most of all, thirst for knowledge that has turned this seven-time Emmy winning actor into a champion of scientific knowledge and scientists.

Alda is “phenomenal,” said Eric Kandel, the director of the Kavli Institute for Brain Science at Columbia University. Kandel explained that Alda and a talented Norwegian journalist have been the master of ceremonies for the Kavli Prizes, which are given out in Oslo, Norway, every two years to researchers in astrophysics, nanotechnology and neuroscience.

The prestigious Kavli awards are modeled after the Nobel Prize. Kandel, 86, knows a thing or two about those awards as well: he shared the Nobel Prize in 2000 in Physiology or Medicine.

Alda has helped teach Kandel about the communication of science. Alda’s “range is quite broad and his ability to communicate is quite remarkable,” Kandel said.

Kandel attended an 80th birthday bash for Alda a few weeks ago. He took a turn talking to those celebrating an extraordinary life.

“What had been emphasized by the family was his acting career,” Kandel said. He described two important features about Alda.

First, “He’s revolutionized the communication of science to the public. He’s made an enormous impact. He does not have a peer.” And second, “He’s the most unpretentious guy you’ve ever met. You’d never have thought he’d done a movie.”

In 2006, the unpretentious Alda approached Shirley Kenny, the former president of Stony Brook University, about starting a center that would help scientists share their goals, approaches, and results with the public.

Alda met with several people in East Hampton, including Howard Schneider, the dean of Stony Brook’s journalism school.

“The creation story” that explains the origins of the Center for Communicating Science, “starts with this porch meeting,” Schneider said.

When the group returned from East Hampton, they discovered that there were occasional programs and courses and workshops about communicating science, but there didn’t appear to be any center devoted exclusively to “improving the ability of scientists to communicate with the public,” Schneider said.

Aided by former U.S. Rep. Tim Bishop and current U.S. Rep. Steve Israel (D-Huntington), Stony Brook applied for, and received, a federal grant of $220,000 to start the effort.

Alda “was the inspiration and remains the inspirational figure in this effort,” Schneider said.

The seed money led to the founding in 2009 of the Center for Communicating Science, offering students an opportunity to learn how to connect with a range of audiences through various types of training, including improvisational acting, which is the only training Alda received.

Improv requires people to listen to what other people are saying and build off of that, forging connections through shared common ground, Schneider said.

“One rule of improv is that you say, ‘Yes and,’” said Elizabeth Bass, a founding director at the center. “You have to take what [the other person] gives you and add to it.”

Valeri Lantz-Gefroh, the improvisation director at the center, came from the world of theater to the center. She said Alda helped her learn more about a “skill I’ve been working on for 30 years by teaching it in a different way. That gift has come from Alda.”

Indeed, scientists who have taken these courses suggested that they have been invaluable in helping them deliver their message and connect with their audience.

Colin West, a research assistant at the C.N. Yang Institute for Theoretical Physics at Stony Brook, took six courses at the center. Before he attended the classes, he said he was introverted.

“It’s not enough to eschew the jargon from my own vocabulary,” West said. “I should be trying to understand the jargon and phraseology that’s typical in their patterns of thought and incorporate them into my language.”

Alda has also helped a wide range of scientists. He has “made many of us look from the outside at what we do and ask how we can do better in telling our stories and be more engaging about our fields,” said Louise Leakey, a research professor in the department of anthropology at Stony Brook who works on human evolution in Africa.

Alda asked Leakey to sit on the advisory board at the center because she was working to make the fossil collection accessible online and set up a citizen science project in paleontology.

The notion of sharing science with non-scientists has only recently become more acceptable and more popular, in part because scientists are struggling to get funding for projects ranging from basic science exploring physical properties at an incredibly small scale to discoveries that might help treat diseases like cancer, Alzheimer’s disease or schizophrenia, researchers said.

Alda has continued to be a driving force at the center, which, in 2013, was renamed the Alan Alda Center for Communicating Science. In what friends suggest was typical self-deprecating fashion, Alda said he was flattered that the school was named after him and suggested that, to that point, only a horse had shared his name.

Committed to the center and passionate about science, Alda continues to keep a schedule that would exhaust someone half his age. Years ago, he shot his final episode of The Blacklist, in which his character, Alan Fitch, dies.

That night, Alda flew to Chicago to give a talk as the keynote speaker of the American Association of Medical Colleges to an audience of more than 1,200. Alda didn’t get his wake up call and got up 20 minutes before his 8 a.m. speech, when he inspired leaders about the need to share science with the public.

That night, Alda flew back to New York, where he opened on Broadway in a matinee of “Love Letters.”

Bass said Alda’s work ethic has inspired others at the center.

“We want to help” these efforts become “an important part of his legacy,” Bass said.

It’s a legacy that continues because of a lifesaving surgery Alda had when he was meeting with a scientist in Chile in 2003.

When a local surgeon made a diagnosis and told him the procedure, Alda said he’d need an end-to-end anastomosis. The surprised surgeon asked him how he knew that, and Alda said he used to pretend to perform that in the show “M*A*S*H.”

Friends, colleagues, and scientists appreciate the active intellectual life Alda and Arlene Alda, who have been married close to 59 years, share.

Arlene Alda, a photographer and children’s book author, and her husband have numerous books in their house, Strogatz said. They use these books to continue to feed their curiosity. Alda has also asked Strogatz to give him geometry problems to solve.

“He works on them with great effort for weeks or months at a time,” Strogatz said.

For Alda, the final product, however, is less important than the process. And that process continues as Alda heads into another decade.

These days, the people who imagine his distinctive voice aren’t picturing Hawkeye Pierce in a red robe running to a helicopter so much as they are looking for inspiration in their efforts to share the wonder and beauty of science.

“Sometimes when I have to explain a complicated topic to a nonscientist, I imagine Alan sitting next to me and asking me questions like I’m a guest on Scientific American Frontiers,” West said. “Trying to envision what questions he would ask often helps me figure out what answers to give.”

The team moves as a unit, wearing the same clothes, often with the same hairstyles and even, on occasion, with the same walk or swagger.

They laugh together, lean on each other, share embraces and confess their inadequacies.

“I was terrible,” one of them said, while she took a restorative homemade brownie from a friend.

“You’ll get ’em next game,” her friend suggested. “We’re back on in 15 minutes.”

We took our daughter to a regional volleyball competition in Pennsylvania recently, where teenagers from all over the area trekked in packed cars to bump, set and spike together.

The weekend presented an opportunity for our children to play a sport they love, while it was also a chance for parents to squirm, squeal and celebrate alongside them.

The younger generation exuded joy and confidence. After every point in teenage volleyball, the girls cheer, offer a quick huddle and then return to their positions on the floor.

Our team developed its own ritual after long points in which it emerged victorious. The players all jumped straight up in the air, then met in the middle of the floor to celebrate the hard-won point.

When they’re not on a volleyball court, these children mostly move around individually, even if they can stay in touch with friends and family on their phones and through social media. They don’t take tests together, they don’t study together — most of the time — and they don’t have a common goal. Sure, they might all wish each other the best but, ultimately, they learn on their own and succeed individually.

Modern team sports which, admittedly, take an extreme commitment of time and money, have also created opportunities to make memories, to grow together and, for the moment at least, to share a goal that is bigger than any one person.

That, of course, isn’t limited to sports. That can be true of a music group where everyone creates the kind of live performance that reverberates in audiences’ minds long after the instruments are put back in their cases and the musicians return to their homes and their homework.

The unbridled and shared joy in the moment is akin to witnessing the flames of a dancing campfire high in the mountains on a starlit night. During these matches there are no tests, no boyfriends, no worries about college, no concerns about acne, no wardrobe misfires and no helicopter parents. There is only the euphoria of the moment, the ecstasy that comes from pulling together and going toe-to-toe with another team and, at least in that second and for that point, emerging victorious. It’s not even about winning the gold medal or even a match.

My daughter’s team defeated one of its opponents easily, winning two games by a wide margin. The other team, however, won several exciting points and, despite the lopsided score and the unbalanced skill sets, celebrated every point with the same energy as if it had achieved something remarkable. And who’s to say it didn’t? The games presented ample opportunities for victories that were independent of the final scores.

Parents were as emotionally spent after exciting matches as their children, as they cheered, clapped, pranced nervously along the sidelines, and hooped and hollered. They basked in their children’s successes and encouraged them to find a way to triumph, where the margin of victory often seemed to reflect perseverance and determination as much as it did genuine skills.

In our lives, we have become so focused on our goals for tomorrow and plans for our future journey that we don’t always get to stand up and celebrate the moment. All weekend, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and a community of new friends celebrated a common goal of finding and sharing the best in each other.

He started, “Once upon a time, three little brown bears.”

“No, no, that’s not right!” she shouted, interrupting him before he could get to the action. “They weren’t little, there weren’t three of them and they weren’t brown.”

“Wait!” he protested, putting up a finger. “Who is telling this story, you or me?”

“No, well, if you’re going to tell it, tell it right,” she argued.

“But it’s a children’s story,” he snapped. “Can’t we just tell the story?”

“You want him to go to school with the wrong details? You want him to come home with a bloody nose because someone punched him when he argued about whether they were little brown bears or medium-sized, endangered polar bears?”

“You think our kid is going to get into a fight because I might have used the wrong details in a story? Weren’t we trying to put the kid to sleep? Look at him now. He’s crawling all over the bed, putting everything he can reach into his mouth,” he said.

“Yeah, well, get the details right next time,” she huffed, storming out of the room.

What is it about storytelling that divides the sexes? Why is it that a man remembers a story one way and a woman seems so much better at remembering the details?

Is it fair to generalize? Well, like every generalization, yes and no.

A friend recently shared his observation that his girlfriend, whom he thinks is absolutely one of the best people he’s ever known, has only one small problem — she tends to take all the momentum out of his stories by correcting him.

Is she wrong, I wondered? And even if she’s not wrong, do the details matter? When I thought about all the couples I’ve known over the years, it seemed to me, in my nonscientific recollections, that the women were more likely than the men to halt a story to fix a detail.

“So, there were we were, in the middle of a fire alarm scare in Boston, and we were standing at the window ledge, eight stories up,” he might be saying.

“No! No! We were in San Francisco, not Boston, and we were on the 11th floor,” she might suggest.

A glare and bad body language often follows, as the man loses the thread of his story while he grinds his teeth, wondering whether he can or should confront the love of his life in front of other people.

Is this one of those differences between the sexes that reflect the fact that men are from Mars and women are from Venus? I suspect it is. The way I see it, the details we share about our lives in stories are like the fish we might collect if we were standing at the edge of a pier in Stony Brook, dropping nets into the water to catch fish — or story details — as they swim by.

The holes in a man’s net are larger, letting the small fish swim through, while the holes in the women’s nets are smaller. The women pull up their nets and notice and count the large and small fish, paying meticulous attention to everything, cataloging the variety of fish in their nets.

The men look at the fish and wonder: (a) “Is this enough for dinner?” (b) “Should I take a picture of it?” and most importantly (c) “Did I catch more fish than my brother or the stranger at the end of the pier who kept bragging about all the fish he caught?”

The next time a man’s story goes off track because of specific details, maybe he can suggest he’s focusing on the “bigger fish.” Then again, a woman might rightfully reply that he’s just telling another “fish” story.