Resolutions

In the coming year I resolve to:

·         Not bait the ump, too much.

·         Not stomp my foot every time Clare misses a pitch.

·         Not despair, too much, unless despair precedes my daughter doing something incredible, which she usually does after I give in to despair.

·         Take a breath between pitches and appreciate the drama.

·         Treat this season, every game, every at-bat as the joy it’s been since Clare first played in t-ball.

·         Let go, when the time comes.

·         Pray that that time takes forever getting here.

The Quality of Coaching

The Quality of Coaching

Clare hated our one-on-one baseball practices.  I made her field a hundred grounders, then made her hit a hundred pitches, as many curves and sliders as I could make my arm throw.  I like to think I exhorted rather than yelled and that the two years I coached Clare’s teams I never showed up my daughter and I never gave her special treatment.  What really saved me, though, was softball.  There was a whole line of coaches who made me look good in comparison.  That’s how I got on the short list of “people I’ll listen to,” as Clare puts it.

The hardest thing for me to learn was “when,” when to say something and when to keep quiet.   That inability boiled over freshman year at Elmhurst during a godforsaken doubleheader at Judson University, former home to the Chicago Bandits; it was a doubleheader that started at 5:30 in 39-degree cold.  I wouldn’t even have wished game two on a Cub fan.

First inning of game one, Clare smoked a ball to dead center that would have gone out of any regular college field, but thanks to the Bandits the fence was 230 feet.  So, homerun number six turned into a double off the fence.  Everything after that, Clare got under the ball trying to launch it, only to pop up.  Between games I let her know what she was doing wrong, but I forgot the hitter in question wasn’t 11-years old anymore.  That’s to say Clare poked me in the ribs with her bat and told me to “Go away.”  I have not repeated that mistake since.

The above serves as my introduction to the following:  We went to the batting cages on Saturday, and Clare’s unhappy with her stance; she can’t put a finger on it, but something’s off.  In general, Clare likes to stride into a pitch with her front foot tippy-toe.  “Is it too much?” she asks later, showing me video from a session last year with her hitting coach.

So, for ten minutes in the living room when she should be getting ready for a date, we discuss stances and approaches at the plate.  I come from the Yogi Berra school—hitting can be fifty percent half-mental.  I think the best way for my sweet little girl to go into the season is with the look of a homicidal maniac on her face so frightening pitchers will be afraid to look at her.  Then, see ball, hit ball.

            Short of that, it’s back to the cages on January 2^nd after we study more video I shot last year.

Old Stereotypes

Clare is spending Christmas break working at a park district holiday camp in a nearby, and very progressive, suburb.  (Hint: In a new ordinance approved by the Happy Village board, parents can be fined if their children are caught riding a bike without a helmet.)  One day at camp this week included a game of “Two Truths and a Lie.”

            When it came to Clare’s turn, she said she had traveled out of the country; had a brother; and held a homerun record.  The consensus among the boys in her group was that number three had to be the lie.  People have been sent to re-education camps for less.

Trending

For some reason, Toronto’s Jose Batista (“Joey Bats”) is following Clare on Twitter.  I can’t even begin to understand.

Christmas Gifts

Last Christmas, Santa spent close to $300 on a new bat for Clare, but the bat had hardly any hits in it.  So, Santa had to go out and buy a replacement soon after the season ended in April.  He will not be putting any bats good or bad under the tree this year.

Clare started hitting before she was four years old, which upset any notions of gender-appropriate toys.  Through a system of trial and error, we learned that our daughter liked girl stuff-girl stuff-BASEBALL-girl stuff.  Gloves were to be leather from Rawlings, the doll pretty from American Girl.  So, the die cast airplanes were a bust, and Daddy’s old Lionel train set was, in the long run, Daddy’s.

Molly, the American Girl doll, always looked sharp dressed in her baseball uniform, complete with cap, spikes, bat and glove.  The four of us—husband, wife, daughter, doll—drove to Cooperstown the summer Clare was ten, following her second appearance as a Mustang Baseball all-star.  I have a picture of Clare and Molly sitting in the stands at Doubleday Field.  Talk about your number three and four hitters.

There’s talk about a return visit to Cooperstown next summer, not Christmas but a graduation gift.  Maybe Molly will join us.  

South Side

South Side

Clare picked yoga over LA Fitness last night, which necessitated a trip to Oak Park.  From the way the girl talks, you would never know she spent the first four years of her life there.

Let me preface that by saying my father was South Side, working class and Polish to his dying day.  I’m all of the above, as filtered through a Ph.D.  And my daughter is all of that, too, as filtered through sports, the Berwyn bungalow belt and God knows what else.

            Anyway, she ended up next to two girls, both probably high school seniors.  One of them talked a little too much about how thrilled she was to be going to Oberlin, that bastion of women’s education.  “She’s obviously not an athlete,” Clare decided because, if she were, the girl would have known we slaughtered Oberlin 9-0 in Florida last March.  A certain somebody spiked the third baseman.  I think it was an accident.  At least I hope it was.  

Monday Miscellany

 

In no particular order, managers Bobby Cox, Tony LaRussa and Joe Torre were elected to the Hall of Fame; Robinson Cano didn’t feel the love, which could only be expressed by a ten-year, $310 million contract from the Yankees; and we went hitting at the batting cages.

I’m not sure how Cox amassed 2504 wins with the Braves and Blue Jays; he always seemed to be dozing off in the dugout.  As for LaRussa and Torre, they were both astute, up to a point.  A balk or a missed call at a hundred feet, and they were up on their feet screaming, but their own players using steroids in the clubhouse, not so much.  LaRussa in particular never saw anything fishy about Jose Canseco or Mark McGwire.  Mark was just cursed with adult acne that followed him (as he trooped after LaRussa) from Oakland to St. Louis, I guess.

Which brings us to Robinson Cano, who signed with the Mariners for ten years at $240 million.  Fans will love watching their 40-year old second baseman try to field a ball in 2022, I’ll bet.  It’s all about love for Cano, and respect.  Apparently, his former team didn’t have any.  “I didn’t get respect from them, and I didn’t see any effort.”  Remember, that’s respect as in “I want a $310 million contract from you guys.”  The Mariners, though, “They showed me love,” or at least a lot of money.  Here’s my prediction:  Ticket prices won’t be going down in New York, but they will be going up in Seattle, probably a good deal more than the team winning percentage.

           Back in the real world, this father showed his love by taking his daughter to the batting cages.  Everything was gray and cold and slow.  The balls came in slow, no matter what speed Clare hit at, and they went out slow, no matter how hard she hit them.  It’s the middle of December, and spring seems years, not months, away.  People ought to be rewarded for showing such dedication as Clare did today.  Not Cano money-love, but something.  Oh, wait, the White Sox just traded closer Addison (Watch ‘Em Hit a Walk-off) Reed to the Diamondbacks for a third base prospect.  That will have to do. 

Flipping Colavito

The best part of this week’s baseball meetings in Orlando was having App Girl home; she kept me up-to-date on all the latest rumors.  Other than that, not much happened on my side of town, unless getting Adam Eaton really is the second coming of Lenny Dykstra, pre-felon.  It was different in the days of the reserve clause.

Then, the offseason was trades-only, and what trades they were.  I was seven when the Sox traded away Earl Battey, Norm Cash, Johnny Callison, Don Mincher and John Romano, all of whom combined for over 900 career homeruns; nine when Billy Pierce was shipped off; ten when it was Luis Aparicio’s turn to go; and eleven when Nellie Fox got dumped.  Two years after that came the Rocky Colavito trade.  First off, understand that the 1960s White Sox truly were the Hitless Wonders, part II (see above, Battey et al for reasons why).  They could pitch, field and run but hitting was a skill beyond most all of them.  The team batting average in 1967 was a “robust” .225 with 89 homeruns.

The 1964 Sox lost the pennant to the Yankees by all of one game; New York hit 56 more homers and scored 88 more runs than we did.  So, trading Jim Landis and Mike Hershberger to the A’s for Rocky Colavito seemed like a good idea, especially given that Colavito would lead the American League in RBI’s the next season.  Only Colavito did it with Cleveland because we turned around and traded him to the Indians for two prospects, Tommy John and Tommie Agee.  Those two were definitely worth Colavito, if only we had hung onto them.

            The Sox reacquired Colavito in 1967, when he was well past his prime; that .221 batting average fit right in.  So, when I hear Adam Eaton, I tend to think of trades long ago and shudder.    Can you blame me?

Homegrown

Last week, the Padres traded reliever Luke Gregerson to the As.  The right-handed Gregerson, with a 2.88 career ERA over five seasons, would have been a good fit with the White Sox.  He also happens to be a graduate of Morton West High School, Clare’s alma mater.

I don’t know why, but Chicago teams don’t want Chicago area players.  It’s all about California, Florida, Texas and the Caribbean, with Japan optional.  But send a scout to check on University of Illinois at Chicago outfielder Curtis Granderson?  That’s too hard.

The Tigers took that chance, which is a little surprising.  Usually, it’s the Cardinals who scout the Midwest.  Guess who signed Gregerson before trading him to the Padres?  Last season, the Cards had two players who went to high school in Missouri—third baseman David Freese and pitcher Trevor Rosenthal.  In addition, starter Lance Lynn went to high school in Indiana.

Not only do the Cardinals scout the Midwest, they develop their talent close to home, too.  Three of the top four St. Louis farm teams are in Memphis, Springfield and Peoria.  That allows both fans and team officials to take a short drive to check up on the future.  On the South Side, we can drive to Charlotte, Birmingham, Winston-Salem or Kannapolis.

But, hey, the frequent-flyer miles are great. And, really, who wants a stiff like Jason Kipnis (Glenbrook North/Arizona State) on your team, anyhow?   

Paul's Back (and Paul's back)

I’m one of those Luddites who rarely carries his cell phone, so Clare had to call home three times before getting me.  Did I hear?  What?  “Paulie’s coming back.”

By that she meant Paul Konerko will return for a 16^th season with the White Sox, not bad for a guy who was traded twice by the time he was 22.  Of all the ballplayers she could model herself after, Clare’s picked a good one.  Konerko never complains, never makes excuses, never says he’s underpaid and underappreciated.  He also works like a crazy person on his hitting.

Once upon a time, teams and players were synonymous: Giants-Mays, Red Sox-Williams, Braves-Aaron.  That world ended with the advent of free agency, where only big-market teams have the luxury of keeping a player for long, e.g., Derek Jeter, 19 years and counting for the Yankees.  Without a core of identifiable players, most teams have turned to “branding” the franchise, which basically means turning the ballpark into an amusement zone.  At least in the old days, fans and players were both wage slaves. 

And in Chicago, we had such teams to follow, first the Go-Go White Sox of Minoso/Fox/Pierece (with Aparicio coming a little later) followed by the star-crossed ’69 Cubs of Banks/Santo/Williams/Jenkins.  But try recalling names from any of the division winners for either team, outside of the 2005 White Sox.  We’re basically talking players stopping by for a few years, Ryne Sandberg and Frank Thomas excepted.  If the franchise doesn’t have a face (other than Sammy Sosa), you’re basically stuck selling the ballpark experience, and at some point that inevitably leads to drunken fans relieving themselves in parking lots and alleys after the game.  Thanks but no thanks.

Clare particularly enjoyed Paulie talking about the adjustment he's going to have to make as a part-time player, because “I’ve had the same role since I was 10-years old—go out and drive in runs and hit homeruns and be a number-four hole hitter and be that big guy in the middle of the lineup.”  Guess who’s looked at her own career the same way?

            Now, all we have to do is hope the Captain’s back holds up. 

What Rubs Off

 

Supposedly, people take on the personality of their dogs (and we’re a basset family).  I think the same holds true for baseball teams.  New Yorkers are the way they are because of the Yankees while Cub fans tend to be a sorry lot because, well, it’s a hundred years and counting.

And White Sox fans over the past decade or so are a bunch of schizophrenics.  We love Paul Konerko for his (millionaire) blue-collar work ethic, and we loved A.J. Pierzynski for his in-your-face personality.  The more A.J. got into it with opposing players, the more likely we were to overlook his reluctance to run out groundballs in July and August.

Konerko-Clare embraced A.J. up to wearing a replica jersey; she never quite imitated the A.J. attitude, though I suspect it’ll happen at least once next spring.  We accepted A.J. signing with Texas last year after eight seasons with the Sox, and we hope he does well now that he’s signed with Boston.  If the Red Sox are smart, they’ll include an incentive clause to keep their new catcher from rolling his eyes every time he hears the Fenway faithful break into “Sweet Caroline” in the eighth inning.

             On the South Side, we just go na-na, hey-hey.

Making Adjustments

White Sox GM Rick Hahn said this in today’s Tribune about Sox catcher Josh Phegley, that “it was his first exposure to the big leagues and obviously the league adjusted to him fairly quickly and he was unable to adjust.”  After a nice start, Phegley wound up hitting .206 with 4 homers and 22 rbi’s. He had real problems laying off of pitches that broke outside.

That was the first adjustment Clare had to make, sliders away.  I don’t know which was harder, the 50-year old pitcher trying to throw them or the 10-1/2 year old trying to hit them.  Talk about your shouting/scowling matches, but she learned.  I think.

The next adjustment was the rise ball; how my little high school freshman loved to go swinging after those.  By her junior year, she could consistently foul off rise balls, at which point pitchers pretty much stopped throwing them.

The one challenge in college has been the change up; you can almost hear the body parts crack as Clare tries to check her swing.  Her hitting coach, bless him, will spend close to an entire session throwing change ups.  So, now my daughter knows how to handle those pitches, too.

           There’s just one more adjustment to go, life after softball.  That one should be interesting for the two of us.

Intern cum Apprentice

 

Back in the proverbial day, a college job bore little to no relation to the rest of your life.  Otherwise, I’d still be stocking shelves at Walgreens or dealing with eight-year olds at a daycare center on the North Side.  My, how times have changed.

It’s not the job so much, which is good because Clare has spent the last four years working in the football office at Elmhurst (Coach Clare a da Bears), as the internship.  Who came up with this idea?  I mean, it’s not enough for families to cover tuition along with room and board.  Now, students have to work unpaid internships in what may or may not prove to be their future profession.  How do you spell indentured servitude for the 21^st century?

Yesterday, Clare reached the 200-hour mark required for her internship.  In other words, she took her classes, worked and interned with the athletic departments at Benedictine University and Immaculate Conception High School.  The good news is that IC is a five-minute walk from the Elmhurst campus.

For better or worse, the internship has propelled Clare well out of her comfort zone.  She’s kept score for volleyball and basketball, worked the clock at games and written a media guide.  Now, we argue who had it harder, me keeping the book for varsity softball (scoring games plus doing team stats) and tracking the pitchers (first-pitch strikes, walks, strikeouts, ERA and pitch counts) or Clare doing stats for sports she’s never played.  Of course, I think I had it harder.  Try sharing the dugout with someone as intense as Ted Williams.

From what I gather, the refs are about as (in)competent as umps, plus they like to flirt; one ref we know from high school softball.  According to Clare, he spit on the basketball court floor during a recent game and didn’t care who saw.  Now, there’s the wide world of sports for you, up close and unfiltered.  

Elements of Thanks

 

The TV was tuned to the MLB Network.  Wonderboy is leaning up against the wall next to a heating vent, to get the bees out in case there’s a spur-of-the-moment visit to the batting cage or hitting coach.  We shared a comic in the paper about Mr. Met and discussed Frank Thomas’s chances of getting elected to the Hall of Fame on his first try next month.  My daughter’s home for the holiday.

Injuries

Clare hit that monster shot in Appleton the same day, and just about the same time, as Derrick Rose of the Bulls tore his ACL in the NBA playoffs.  And today Rose had surgery on his other knee for a torn meniscus.  Parents may hate injuries more than even their athlete-children do.

I worry about things breaking—arms, wrists, ankles, fingers and legs—or tearing a la Rose.  I worry about concussions and double vision and colds that bring on asthma.  I worry about a rehabbed shoulder from high school flaring up and back spasms.  I worry for a reason

            There has to be one last season because there has to be.  And there are no guarantees.   

Bridgeport

We spent part of last night attending a wake in Bridgeport, a neighborhood most people know about as well as Jon Stewart does pizza.  Irish Bridgeport, home of the Daley clan?  No, Polish Bridgeport, where the Bukowski and Skonieczny clans once roamed.  It all depended what block you were born on.

Bridgeport was, and in many ways still is, a hardscrabble place my father left at the age of thirteen, but we often went there to visit his mother and one cousin.  I never ceased to be amazed by how all the homes in Bridgeport looked to have sunken yards; back in the 1850s, the street levels were raised several feet, which is what caused the “sinking.”  The sidewalks also had a tendency to buckle because they did double duty as roofs; in other words, basements extended underneath.  I grew up in what is known as Chicago’s Bungalow Belt, where everything was neat and orderly.  Bridgeport was one step the other side of chaos.

My father particularly enjoyed seeing his cousin, Doc Krops, Bridgeport royalty of a non-political sort.  The man drove a Cadillac, had a bar in his basement straight out of Las Vegas and vacationed in pre-Castro Cuba.  How a dentist and a fireman with a seventh grade education could be so close is beyond me, but they were.  The best part of these visits was sitting in Doc Krops’ kitchen on a summer night, the windows open, a bottomless glass of Pepsi in my hand, when all of a sudden, Boom!  “Somebody musta hit a homer for the Sox,” said Doc Krops, his way of letting me know we were no more than a mile west of Comiskey Park.  “They coulda used that last week against the Yankees.  But what are ya gonna do?”  And he went back to telling some incredible story about Castro or serving in the Pacific during the war or parallel parking his Cadillac.

             Doc and now his son were waked just down the street from where the fireworks echoed.   

Breaking News

The birthday express arrived from Elmhurst in the late afternoon for dinner and cake.  The princess wanting cheese pierogi on her special day meant going to a Polish restaurant on Belmont Avenue.  Me, I’d like beef tongue in carmelized gravy like my mother used to make, but I digress.

I was saying something on the drive home when Clare, the cutest little Borg with phone attached at the hand, interrupted from the back seat.  “Breaking news, the Tigers have traded Prince Fielder.  Guess who they got.”  I considered the likely choices for some fifteen seconds before saying, “Ian Kinsler.”

For that Clare gave me a “Way to go, Dad.”  And the third person in the car, both mother and wife, must have wondered, How did I end up with these two?

            On a possibly related front, Clare also noted that the Orioles are monitoring the progress of White Sox free agent pitcher Gavin (“I get the first fourteen guys out before giving up five runs in the fifth”) Floyd, who is rehabbing from Tommy John surgery.  Talk about a birthday wish.  Go, Birds.

On This Day in American History....

 

November 20, 1991:  The athlete Clare Bukowski was born, an afternoon baby who debuted just after Final Jeopardy (answer that day:  What is haggis?)  As a first-time father with a queasy stomach, I appreciated the presence of a TV in the delivery room.  It gave me something else to look at.

At 6 AM on her 22^nd birthday, my daughter went to do her weightlifting.  Alas, she forgot to bring a tiara from home to wear, as was the plan.  The girl is downright goofy about birthdays, hers and anyone else’s, which is a good thing.  We all need to feel special, if only for one day a year.  And the world is better off for those people who announced to their first grade teachers, “Today is a month from my birthday…two weeks…a week.”  You know who I’m talking about.

           As for the tiara, hey, if you can pull it off, why not?  

Watching Friends Fall

 

Elmhurst has had very good volleyball teams these past four years, with deep NCAA runs the last two seasons.  For some reason, Clare has been close to a number of the players.

            One of them is her roommate, Katie.  In Friday’s regional win, Katie rolled her ankle.  This meant a night of electric stimulus followed by ice so she could be taped up for Saturday’s regional finals.  According to Clare’s texts (like tickertape updates in olden days), Katie went out a warrior, as did the rest of their team in defeat.
           
            Later, we talked on the phone, as always.  “My athletic career has coincided with theirs,” Clare told Michele.  Autumn’s warriors fall.  Long live winter sports, then spring. 

Tell Us How You Really Feel, Contd.

 

The thermostat on Clare’s PT Cruiser cracked Wednesday, necessitating a visit to our favorite garage.  One of the owners used to be involved with the local baseball travel team.  Believe me when I say the Berwyn Bulldogs were terrors of the diamond back in the day.

 It wasn’t enough for them to win tournament after tournament; no, the Bulldogs also played Pony Baseball in Berwyn, as did Clare.  She hit their pitching and tried to catch their line drives.  That’s what happened to the only girl in Bronco level baseball, for 11- and 12-year olds.

Clare was, literally, hit-or-miss the summer of 2004.  I think she had more extra base-hits than singles and more strikeouts than either.  Whenever I got upset about the strikeouts, she’d line the ball to the fence.  In the season finale, she homered, pulling the ball to left, over the concession area into the parking lot at the aptly named Homerun Alley.  By my reckoning, the ball could have gone out at the Polo Grounds, where it was 280 feet down the left field line.  Not that Clare was done.

 “I want to compete in the homerun hitting contest,” that took place as part of All-Star activities the next day.  Are you sure?  “Yes.”  Think of what Linus said in the pumpkin patch about a woman scorned for a sense of the emotions involved here.  If I’d refused, Clare probably would have walked the two miles to the field by herself.

She didn’t hit any homeruns, just double after double to the fence, which generated a whole bunch of points.  Of course, the Bulldogs showed up to strut their stuff, only to have the girl finish 5^th out of 25 participants.  I remember that morning like it was yesterday.

            But not what happened next.  There was a special Bronco travel team picked to play in California, and Clare wasn’t invited.  Getting the car fixed led to this not-so-pleasant stroll down memory lane yesterday.  “It’s not that I was jealous,” Clare told me.  No, but some snubs hurt too much to let go of, even close to ten years later.  How could I forget?

Tell Us How You Really Feel

 

From out of the depths of the school library on a Wednesday night came this text from our daughter:  I hate Adam Dunn, which is to say Clare loves Paul Konerko.

Over the course of three seasons with the White Sox, Dunn has struck out 588 times.  Compare that to 205 strikeouts for Hall of Famer Nellie Fox during the 16 years he was a starting second baseman.  The thing about Dunn is he doesn’t seem to care.  Most people couldn’t get out of bed if they were so bad at their job, but not Dunn.  He’s the Energizer Bunny with a chaw in his mouth.  He keeps swinging, and missing, swinging and…

To be fair, a good part of Dunn’s perceived nonchalance has to be his way of coping; there are probably days, weeks and months when he’d rather not get out of bed, only he’s getting paid an outrageous salary.  What Dunn and the Sox front office don’t appear to realize is that the “Who, Me Worry?” look on their dh’s face could be driving some of his teammates crazy.  It certainly has most fans, Clare included.

She’s more like Konerko, a no-nonsense perfectionist who speaks thoughtfully to the media.  (When Clare was in high school, I had her practice doing interviews in order to deal with the prep-page reporters.  I didn’t want hear “duh” followed by a cliché coming out of her mouth, and it’s worked.)  There’s one difference, though—my daughter doesn’t suffer fools as well as Paulie seems to.  Maybe a long-term contract would mellow her out. 

It’d be nice to find out.  

They Said What?

 

The Cubs spent five weeks looking for the right manager to get their message across.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Rick Renteria, who said, “We’re so excited about the potential, the idea, and the coming of fruition of truly winning and taking this Cubs Nation to the next level” and “I hopefully take this responsibility with a lot of pride and understanding that everybody will possibly count us out.”  Well put, Rick.

But Theo Epstein is right about the importance of being on-message.  I cringe whenever make-believe coaches talk about “opening up your hips too soon” or the right way “lock and load” for a swing.  Throw in the passive voice and an overreliance on adverbs, and you’re asking for trouble, as well as a new manager, before long.

Players almost always try to listen, and they get the message, whether intended or not.  I saw that with Clare, never more so than after a scrimmage where she went 5 for 6, with a homer and two doubles.  At the end of practice, Coach called everyone together and said:  Look at what Clare did, and she’s not that athletic.  Yes, smoke will come out of human ears just like in the cartoons.

On a possibly related note, the non-athlete athlete visited for Sunday dinner yesterday, so you know MLB Network got turned on at some point.    Two rooms away, I could hear my daughter shout at the television, “Go home, Barry Bonds.  No one likes you.”   

Now, that’s effective communication.

Calling Games

Some schools broadcast and stream their softball games, which can be interesting.  Nothing like hearing a 20-year color analyst say a 20 year old softball player has a swing like Rusty Staub, who retired over 25 years ago.

I didn’t hear the 2012 game broadcast at Lawrence University in Appleton, Wisconsin, in part because I was too busy shivering through a doubleheader, but one of the Elmhurst parents caught the stream version and told me about it.  First off, understand that Clare was in a perverse zone.  She had eight at-bats on a raw, wet Saturday in April.  Six times she swung at the first pitch, and five times she made contact for an out.  But it took too much energy to yell.

We’d won the first game and were trailing by a run in the top of the seventh in game two, one out and a runner on second with Clare up.  She swung at the first pitch again, sending the ball in the neighborhood of 275 feet; to get a baseball distance, add 150 or so feet.  From what I gather, the announcer streamed the sound of his jaw dropping.

I think of this game from sophomore year because this week Cubs’ announcer Keith Moreland said he’s stepping down after three years in the radio booth.  Moreland was as good as his predecessor Ron Santo was unintentionally funny.  The one would have called Clare’s shot with a Texas drawl while the other might have missed it entirely on account of his toupee catching fire (true story, Shea Stadium).

And Harry Caray, aka the Greatest Frontrunner of All Time?  Well, it depends.  If he had Clare in his Bill Melton doghouse, Harry probably would have said something like, Where was that yesterday with the bags loaded?  Otherwise, Holy Cow!

Riding the Ump, Courtesy of Ichabod Crane

My taste in television runs to Supernatural and Fringe, at least that part I could make sense of.  Sleepy Hollow is ok, too, if only for Revolutionary War officer Ichabod Crane (huh?) brought back to life in 2013.  I can’t wait for a story arc with Rip Van Winkle.

Anyway, on Monday’s episode, Ichabod and his costar were at a Little League game when she started talking about baseball as metaphor for the American experiment in democracy.  Ichabod was so moved that he stood up and shouted at the home-plate umpire:  “I thought only horses slept standing up.”

            I for one intend to use that line come spring and thank the writer(s) for providing it.   

The Bully the Other Side of the Glass Ceiling

 

If and when a woman breaks the glass ceiling shielding the all-boys’ club of major league baseball, she’ll need to worry more about her teammates than the fans.  Old habits die hard, if at all.

Jackie Robinson was a black man in a white league where white fans predominated.  For him, hell was a road trip to Philadelphia or St. Louis.  A woman ballplayer won’t face that situation, not with half of every ballpark filled with female fans.  Let me put it this way: if the first woman big leaguer hits a homerun at Wrigley Field and a female Cub fan catches it, odds are the ball won’t get thrown back.

That woman pioneer is going to face a different kind of pressure than Robinson did.  The fans will be more supportive from the start, and there probably won’t be any Dixie Walkers trying to lead a players’ revolt; male ballplayers have evolved, kind of.  They’ll be more inclined to go the hazing route, make the girl carry their bags and pick up the tab time and again.  This happens all the time to rookies in pro sports (though a woman big leaguer would probably end the baseball tradition of first-year players dressing up as girls).  The question the recent Miami Dolphins’ bullying scandals raises is this, When would it stop?  My guess is, probably as soon as men stop feeling threatened by women.

Until then, boys will be boys when it comes to talking—or whispering—about the opposite sex; the same goes for the media.  I can imagine how the first women ballplayer will be expected to show her “feminine” side, whether wearing earrings and eyes shadow for a game or doing photo spreads in the offseason.  Annie Leibovitz beckons, and Playboy, too.           

In pro sports today, there’s no greater insult than “playing like a girl.”  With a woman ballplayer it would be “looking like a man” or a “dyke,” each inviting yet more comment.  Will that be easier or harder to handle than what Jackie Robinson went through?  We’ll see.        

Open Gym

There used to be a popular ad jingle on Chicago radio:  At three in the morning when you’re in bed, the Holsum bakers are baking bread.  I think of that whenever Clare calls late at night to talk softball.

Last night wasn’t as bad as the time sophomore year; then she got me out of bed, she was so excited about her hitting.  No, that was around midnight, and last night it was just a little after ten.  She told me about the start of open gym.

According to NCAA rules, coaches can’t do practices until the season starts early next year.  But players are allowed to work out alone or as a group.  What this means for softball is weight training and open gym on a regular basis.  So, any girl on campus who wants to spend two hours on a Sunday night 8-10 PM learning bunt coverage and outfield cuts is welcome.  Funny how only members of the softball team show up.

Clare the captain and Rachel her lieutenant are running a pretty tight ship.  They either want everybody lifting and going to open gym or having an excuse better than “I forgot.”  My daughter has already called people out on this.  If she can manage to avoid a car-trunk execution in the next few weeks, Clare will make a good coach of the no-nonsense variety.  And I can expect more yawn-and-talks.

Season's End, Seasons Start

 

So, the 2013 major league baseball season draws to a close the day before Halloween.  Now, those occasional Christmas commercials on TV won’t bother me as much.

With the Red Sox winning, Tim McCarver will take his profound insight into retirement.  Who will ever forget him criticizing Boston for holding the runner on with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the Sox two runs ahead in game four?  I mean, that run didn’t matter, right?  Oops, the game ends with Red Sox pitcher Koji Uehara picking off pinch runner Kolten Wong.  What do you say to that, Tim?

Or how about the length of the games, the shortest one clocking in at 2:52.  That was game five, 3-1 Red Sox, with a total 13 hits and walks between both teams.  Just for fun, take a look at game seven of the 1960 World Series, Pirates over Yankees, 10-9.  One of the most exciting games in Series history, featuring 29 total hits and walks, took all of 2:36 to play, from first pitch to Bill Mazeroski hitting his walkoff homer.  Someone tell Bank of America or Fox Network (“Almost Human” premieres Sunday….)

           For me, the end of this season marks the start of the next two.  In a little over three months, catchers and pitchers report, and, a month after that, spring training will be in full swing.  By then, we should be in Florida, watching, waiting, hoping to see 12-inch softballs fly over the fence.  I shouldn’t be too much of a wreck by Opening Day.

A Short Visit

 

The Army of One, aka my daughter, arrived for a visit with dirty laundry, laptop, notebook, sundry journal articles and an appetite.  She was going to work on her senior thesis, have dinner with us and watch game four of the World Series.

I have two seats from Comiskey Park, a 40^th birthday gift from Michele, that come out for special occasions, like the White Sox playing in the World Series.  So, this was only a “couch” game, father sitting next to daughter asking mother about syntax and synonyms (e.g., for “participant”).  The game ended with a pickoff at first base, after which the PT Cruiser was loaded up and the visitor left.

A half-hour later came the back-at-school text message.  Otherwise, parents worry in a way they never did when their pride and joy slept in the second bedroom.  

I Hate Tim McCarver...and Umpires

 

Clare called and texted at least four times each during the Cardinals-Red Sox game last night.  Father and daughter talk baseball a lot.  There it t was close to eleven at night, and we were arguing whether a base runner going from third to home could be called out for obstruction.   

The conversations helped take my mind off the “announcing” of Tim McCarver.  How do you translate “fingernails on chalkboard” for a 21^st century audience?  Let’s see, among the more obvious McCarverisms were the Red Sox “teeming with team players” and “that’s what happens when a pitcher gets under it.”  What, does he throw a pop up?

In defense of McCarver, he wasn’t any worse than the umpires.  For starters, Dana DeMuth’s strike zone was a secret unto itself.  And the way the game ended, with Jim Joyce making an obstruction call on Sox third baseman Will Middlebrooks while he was lying flat on his stomach.  Joyce is the same ump who blew the call at first to cost Armando Galarraga a perfect game back in 2010.  Yes, to err is human, and so is replacing people with technology.  With a few more games like this, that day—or night—will be coming sooner than later.  From “men in blue” to cameras in blue.  I could live with that.   

One more thing on McCarver.  He and his broadcasting partner Joe Buck kept complimenting  starter Jake “I Talk a Great Game” Peavy for his four-inning performance.  Not only did Peavy leave his team in a two-run hole, he forced manager John Farrell to go to his pen far too early.  Way to go, Jake.  This may be why you’re not missed all that much on the South Side.  

In the Dentist's Chair

 

To pass the time, we made small talk while the Novocain kicked in.  My dentist is from Downstate, where folks tend to be part of Cardinal Nation.  Her father “lives and dies with the Cardinals,” which didn’t surprise me, “and the University of Illinois women’s volleyball team,” which did.

With that, I slipped into Branch Rickey mode and talked about holding big-league tryouts for softball and volleyball players.  Why the second?  Because of their size and speed.  What they might lack as hitters they could make up for on defense.  Now, here’s the thing.  After hearing me out, my dentist said, “I agree.”

And then the drilling started.  

From an Early Age

 

The New York Times reported today on a study about word recognition among very young children.  Given the right environment, they can connect words and things by eighteen months.

That would explain a lot about Clare sitting on my lap watching baseball on TV.  She picked up on “home run” and “hustle” for sure.  But “clown”?  Well, my father was always fond of the word to describe a certain kind of driver, and I doubt it skipped a generation.

!@**#!

Clare called yesterday on her way to the library.  “I’m pissed off,” she informed me.  (This is about as blue as the child gets around her father.)  Why?  “There’s no baseball until Wednesday.”

On a somewhat related note, the White Sox signed Jose Abreu, a Cuban prospect, last week.  Abreu has never had a single minor league at-bat, let alone in the majors, and won’t record one until he’s 27.  No matter.  Abreu still received a six-year, $68 million contract. 

And in all the baseball world, there wasn’t a single female player worth scouting.  But the ladies are still welcome to cheer.  They ought to boycott instead.

Let the Child Be

 

My mother had a definite idea of what I should be, which would explain the accounting class I took (and very quietly dropped) my junior year at DePaul.  My father, bless him, was free of any such conceits.  He just didn’t want his son to be a bum.  In that, I think I’ve succeeded.

Clare says she gets antsy if she’s not active, and I believe her.  Weightlifting, yoga and the gym are all part of her routine the way reading the paper is for me.  My daughter doesn’t much care whether or not her life goes examined.  But it has to be active.

I wonder what she would have done fifty years ago, a visiting nurse, maybe, or union organizer always on picket-line duty.  For that matter, I wonder about the girls in my accounting class.  Did they ever get antsy the way Clare does?   I’m not sure first-wave feminism saw women as power-hitting athletes.

Michele and I practiced what my mother did, if with a bit more subtlety.  Maybe you’d like to teach or go into the sciences.  What about law?  Each time the suggestion generated some initial interest, only to be followed by disappointment.  The mustard seed of a career kept falling on sandy soil.  At least with law, that was a good thing.  Seeing what my daughter thinks of umpires, I doubt she would have done well with judges.

At one point or another in my education, I picked up minors in Spanish, Russian history and 20^th century urbanism; go ahead, ask me what style that building is.  Clare has minors in sports psychology and, thanks to a new offering this fall, coaching.  The senior captain is already acting like a coach, and next year she may formally become an assistant, graduate school in sports’ management permitting.

All a parent can do at this point is step aside and let the child be.

Ten Years After Bartman: Who Cares?

 

Ten years ago, my nearly 12-year old and I watched the Cubs blow a chance at the World Series when Moises Alou jumped with all the poise of an Asian carp and Dusty Baker forgot that managers can visit the mound to settle their pitchers down after things go bad.  As White Sox fans, we loved it.

Yesterday was the tenth anniversary of fan Steve Bartman outmaneuvering Alou for a foul ball.  Clare took the train in from Elmhurst to pick up the PT Cruiser.  (Dad pays to fix the car, daughter drives it—what a deal.)  She talked about having to run a timed-mile in softball and seeing her hitting coach this week.  Never once did either of us mention Bartman.

I have a hunch most serious Cub fans didn’t either.  For them, what’s past is past, and Theo is the future.  That strikes me as a very healthy attitude.  Revisiting The Curse of 2003 is more important to sportswriters (and maybe a blogger or two) in need of a story idea.       

Andy Pafko

             

I used to freelance features to the Chicago Tribune when Clare was small.  This made for some interesting situations along the lines of, Shh, Honey, keep it down.  Daddy’s on the phone with Arthur Schlesinger.  And Captain Kangaroo (really).

There were also a couple of times I interviewed former Cub outfielder Andy Pafko.  Talk about your dream source.  Pafko was generous with his time, humble in talking about his career (17 years, 1796 hits, .285 average and four World Series) and concerned about the health of sportswriter Jerome Holtzman.  Ballplayers weren’t necessarily better before the era of free agency, they were just more human.

Pafko died last week at the age of 92.  The Trib managed an obituary of 738 words.  A few days earlier, it ran a1898-word profile of a fan whose chief talent is the ability to  inject “woo” (at the top of his lungs) into the lives of others, as in Ron “Woo” Santo “Woo.”

There but for the love of God go I, so give the man his 1898 words, but why did Andy Pafko merit so much less?  And why does the New York Times do a better job on the life of a Chicago athlete?  Yes, Pafko was playing left field for the Brooklyn Dodgers when Bobby Thomson hit “the shot heard ‘round the world.”  But he also played on the last Cubs’ team to reach the World Series (1945) and was named to the team’s all-century team.

            It’s just woo not woo right woo.