Rolling the Dice

The White Sox took a gamble over the winter by signing 27-year old Cuban exile Jose Abreu to a six-year, $68-million contract.  So far, it looks to be a steal for the Sox.  Abreu has set records for the most homers (10) and rbi’s (32) by a rookie in the first month of the season.

The Cubs tried to do the same thing with Kosuke Fukudome when they signed him to a four-year, $48 million deal in 2008.  That one was a bust, and one the White Sox were lucky to avoid.  They wanted the Japanese outfielder, but he wanted to be the first Japanese player on the team he signed with; thank you, Tadahito Iguchi, for choosing the Sox in 2005.  The point here is that teams gamble on talent all the time.

Except, that is, if the talent belongs to a female.  If just a fraction of the money spent on free-agent busts went into developing women baseball players, Cooperstown would be a lot more interesting place to visit a few years down the line.       

Oh, and rain has washed out the last three games of my daughter’s college career.

Sendoff

Sendoff

Our daughter was not a happy camper the twenty-four hours before Senior Day.  Sometimes, it’s best just to let them be.

In high school, Senior Day hardly fazed Clare because she knew it wasn’t going to be her last.  Four years later, all she can do is look back, like the time Coach had her sacrifice freshman year in a 1-0 game against Carthage; we needed a sweep against Carthage to make the CCIW tournament.  Clare got the bunt down, and we lost anyhow; in her first at-bat the second game, against the same pitcher, she homered.  That’s one of the things I remember.  Lord knows what Clare has been going over.

Maybe I’m wrong to say Senior Day is all backward looking.  Senior softball players can see the future, and it doesn’t have much softball in it.  Anyone can play 16-inch, but to play 12-inch (or baseball) well requires practice, and who has the time come graduation?  I have no idea how college-done athletes make the transition into everyday life.  I guess we’ll see.

The good news is that no one in the Bukowski family had a breakdown during the ceremonies.  Mother, father and daughter stood at the pitcher’s circle while the p.a. announcer read off the career stats—most homeruns in a season and a career, second-most career rbi’s and extra-base hits.  Those last two are within reach, or would have been had Mother Nature cooperated.  Oh, well.

Clare had a sizable cheering section—my sister and brother-in-law, roommates and people out of her past.  Tom Eukovich, her high school coach, came because he’s a secular saint, and so did three teammates from freshmen and sophomore years.  They were the ones shouting “Clare!  Bear!” rather than “Boo-kow-ski!”  It must be hard to go back to the old field but Genesis, Julie and Rosie did it for a friend:  Bluejays forever.    

We hosted Millikin University, a school with an absolutely atrocious home field; I swear gophers go there to practice tunneling.  And the dugouts are more of a pillbox with the machine guns taken out.  Players have to get in and out via a narrow stairway at one end; the stairs, at least in the visitors’ dugout, are no more than sagging wooden planks.  Four times in two years Clare’s Bluejays have visited, and not once did they come away with a win.  This is what you call payback time.

In the first game, Clare was nervous but still managed an rbi single (eight away from a new record) in an 11-6 win.  Game two she started off with a triple and finished in the seventh with a double off the right-field fence, scoring what proved to be the winning runs.  She is now six away from a new record.  I’m not sure which is the bigger delusion, that the weather will let us play the last three games on our schedule or that we’ll get a miraculous at-large NCAA bid.  But with that double I can dream.  

Surprise!

Let me count the reasons for not wanting to play the University of Chicago Maroons (what a name) Friday.  For openers, they’re 23-5 on the season, close to an NCAA at-large bid, and we’ve gone all of 3-11 against them since the dawn of the new millennium.  On top of that, it was senior day in Hyde Park for four starters.  So, our chances ranged between slim and none.  Guess what?  Slim took two, by scores of 2-1 and 6-2.

Again, Elmhurst’s defense is enough to drive me to wonder; the Bluejays turned two double plays in each game, with the last two as rare as a Cubs’ winning season.  I have never in my softball life seen an around-the-horn double play, from third to short to first, let alone one from first base to second, with a tag necessary to complete the play.  But we did it, not to mention scoring two of the ugliest runs ever in the top of the seventh of game one, on a bases-loaded walk and an error.  Did I mention that we held on for a change?  That was followed by lots of hitting in game two.

Clare had a strange day, with two hits, a walk and a run.  Too bad the wind took such a dislike to her.  First, it probably blew a home run foul.  Then, it kept blowing balls away from her in right field.  No damage, though, and Clare even managed to turn one of the hits into an outfield assist.

After the game, my daughter let me in on a secret:  If everything had gone the way she’d dreamed, Friday would’ve been her senior day, too.  “I always wanted to go to the U of C,” Clare told me through a fog of dollar signs.  “But the coach never looked at me at exposure tournaments, no matter what I did.”   Well, that means we get to postpone the inevitable another two days.  For that and pocketbook reasons, I’m grateful.

Flashbacks and Faith

Wednesday against Wheaton felt like old times, playing a conference foe with something on the line.  Wheaton won’t be going to the CCIW tournament next weekend, either.  Thank you, Clare.

In game one, we were down to our last out in a 3-0 game with two runners on and Clare up.  The first pitch she launched in the vicinity of the space station, over 250 feet, which in softball qualifies as Frank Howard-like.  It’s not that my daughter hits homeruns all the time, it’s just that she looks so normal (outside of the biceps and shoulders) and hits them so far.  But never fear, we managed to lose the game in extra innings, starting with two out and nobody on base.

In game two, we score a run in the first, but Clare strikes out on a two-strike changeup.  The second inning, we score a run, but our leadoff hitter Meg strikes out on a two-strike changeup.  Meg and Clare then compare notes before heading to the outfield.  Third inning, Clare’s up with a runner on, and she has two strikes on her.  Here comes the change, and there it goes a very long way.  Elmhurst wins 6-2, and everybody forms a prayer circle before going home.

We do this because Wheaton is an evangelical Protestant school and the alma mater of Billy Graham.  I don’t like us praying with them because ten years ago Wheaton fired a professor who had the temerity to convert to Catholicism.  If we’re not good enough to employ, we shouldn’t be good enough to pray with.  On this at least, my daughter agrees.       

Past and Present

There was next to no reason to stay in the present tense at Benedictine University yesterday.  The opposition conducted yet another clinic, including—wait for it—a walk-off win in extra innings; better yet, we were ahead by a run, with two out and nobody on.  Clare collected one hit on the day.  She also took a pitch off her front thigh, payback, I think, for our pitcher hitting one of their players.

God bless my daughter for the way she’s handling adversity.  As captain, she told the team after their second loss, “We have eight games left.  It’ll either go hard or easy, depending on us.”  She was particularly upset because of all the energy that went to waste in game two.  Clare told me before heading to the team bus, “Winning is what keeps the energy up.”  If she in fact does turn to coaching, these past few weeks will serve as a great lesson in how not to do things.

What kills me is the infield defense.  Things are going so bad right now we’re disproving the idea that good defense wins ballgames.  Last season, we had more errors at the corners than rbi’s; that’s totally changed.  Yesterday, I watched two different players at third base combine for fifteen chances all day without an error, and still we lose.  The best overall defense I’ve seen in four years, and still we lose.  Two years ago when we went to the CCIW tournament, we committed a whopping 71 errors.  Going into yesterday's game, we had 25.

No, better to drift off to 2006 and the first time we visited Benedictine’s home field in the boondocks of Lisle, Illinois; this was when Jennie Finch and the Chicago Bandits called the field home.  The grandstands were packed with fathers and daughters, the one pointing out things to copy, the other watching and dreaming.  We stayed for autographs after the game.  Clare was so happy, unlike now.

And I remember corn growing the other side of Maple Avenue.  That’s gone now, too.

Transitions

The memories and emotions come as they will; I try not to fight them.  Clare could be eight, or eighteen, in t-ball or travel.  Whatever, she’s always hitting, and I’m always there, watching.

I have no right to demand that it go on indefinitely; the aches and pains aren’t mine any more than the knee or shoulder wrapped with ice.  I merely watched while my child played.  It was an altogether satisfying way to pass the time for fifteen years.  Yes, it’s criminal how time flies by.

Of course, I did more than watch.  There was some coaching and yelling along with expectations:  You will do this, you will persevere.  That will form an indelible part of our relationship.  But, if I’m smart, all the yelling and tough-guy tactics will be retired because they have no place in an adult relationship. 

On the other hand, I did bring Clare into this world, and I can take her out if she does anything stupid, like move to New York or fail to utilize her God-given talents.  I mean, what’s a father for if not making sure his kid does well—and right—in the world?  

Words Fail Me--

But what would a blog be without them?  I mean, what is there to say about our third conference loss by a walk-off homerun?  It happened yesterday in the first game at Augustana.  After that, the results of the nightcap were pretty much a foregone conclusion.

That left father and daughter more or less beside themselves; Clare would not get to end her career in the postseason.  Instead, we talked, about what she could still accomplish and why Elmhurst always seems to fall short.

Clare put it like this.  “All the good teams have pitchers they can bring in as soon as we start hitting, and they can keep doing it until they find someone to shut us down.”  She’s right.  Illinois Wesleyan has five pitchers, Augustana six and Carthage an unbelievable eight.  We carry two starters along with an emergency pitcher.  “And if they can hit our starter, they get to keep on hitting.”

Augustana has incredible athletic facilities for a school of 2500 students.  Either Ken Anderson put the school on the map when he quarterbacked the Bengals to the Super Bowl in 1982, or Augustana already had a field and support facilities to die for.  Either way, Augustana softball in particular benefits from what I call the paradox of good fortune:  The more the team wins (four CCIW championships and five NCAA appearances in the past ten years), the more good players want to go there, even if it lessens the chance of their starting.

They were interested in Clare, but she picked Elmhurst for the simple fact they badly needed a power hitter.  The good news is she started all four years; the bad news is we went to the postseason only once in that span of time.  She also met the person who looks likely to become my son-in-law.

Right now, Clare is planning on going to graduate school in sports administration, then it’s on to a job where she can apply what she’s learned on and off the field.  If they’re smart, Elmhurst will hire her to help bring the paradox home.  

Finally

It was no more than a stay of execution, leaving us at 2-6.  Still, there was a whole lot to like yesterday at Carthage.  These Bluejays have guts.

Coach also did something gutty in game one by starting Katie, who had given up those five runs in the seventh to North Park.  Clare helped things with an rbi double off the 220 foot sign in dead center field to give us a 1-0 lead.  This held up until the home plate umpire decided to screw things up in the bottom of the third.

Carthage had a runner on second with two outs when the batter lined to third.  End of inning, you might reasonably think, but no.  The ump called a foot fault.  Allow me to explain.  There’s a pitcher’s lane eight-feet long and 24 inches wide in softball; if the pitcher’s front foot lands outside the lane in the delivery, it’s a ball, and a balk if anyone’s on base.  So, that put the runner on third.  Next pitch, and the ump makes the same call to give Carthage its first run.  They scored their second and winning run on a bloop and a bounce.  Oh, how the rowdy Cheeseheads cheered.

The day before against North Park, Katie was called for an illegal pitch because she had somehow deceived the batter with her delivery.  “Great call, Blue!” I shouted.  “Now, work on your strike zone.”  Mr. Umpire did not appreciate the needle, at least I don’t think he did because he took his mask off and turned around to stare at me.  Anyway, I brought along a very low tolerance for umpires or opposing fans to Carthage.  Oh, and Coach informed Blue that the Carthage pitcher had erased the lines of the lane when she took the circle in the first inning.  “I didn’t see,” the umpire replied when told.  Truer words were never spoken.

In game two, Carthage was up 2-0 in the fifth when Tiffany decided to put on a hitting clinic, with two rbi’s to tie it and another in the sixth to put us ahead.  This time, the seventh inning came and went without incident.  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I let out in a voice meant for all Carthage fans to hear.  If there was a challenge in my tone, Carthage fans were as deaf as the umps were….

It was an interesting day for Clare, who just missed two home runs and had to run around right field like a cat after mice, what with making four catches and nearly throwing out a runner at the plate.  She also pulled off a “Johnson,” named for travel coach Harry Johnson, who insisted that his outfielders sell a shoestring catch to the umpire and anyone with vision problems.  Diving for a ball in the early innings, Clare caught it and popped back up, glove held high.  Even the umpire could see, and somewhere an old travel coach was proud that one of his kids from long ago had indeed paid attention.

This is Easter Weekend, a time of miracles.  At the risk of my sounding profane, tomorrow we travel to Rock Island on the shores of the Mississippi to play Augustana.  Like I said, I believe.    

The Thrill of Victory...

ABC’s Wide World of Sports promised to show “the thrill of victory” along with “the agony of defeat.”  I can do without the losing part, especially coming at the end of my daughter’s playing career.

Yesterday against North Park, Tiffany gave up two runs in the first inning and nothing after that; she also hit a solo homerun to cut the deficit in half.  We threatened in the seventh with two runners in scoring position and one out but couldn’t get the walk-off hit.  We lose, 2-1.

Between games, Clare asked me if there were any changes in the batting order; I had to be the one who told her she was being dropped from fourth to eighth.  That would have been tolerable, for me at least, had we held onto a 4-1 lead going into, yes, the bottom of the seventh.  Two homeruns, the second a walk-off, gave North Park the nightcap, 6-4.

We go back to Carthage today, down and pretty much out.  I’m from the fire-and-brimstone school of motivation, but Coach is more detached, so it’s going to be up to the girls to find the will to win.  Cub fans may be fools to hope, but they have nothing on me.  

If You Don't Like the Weather...

Just wait a couple of minutes, so long as you realize it can always get worse around here.  Saturday, it was 62 degrees when we left for Kenosha and twenty degrees colder at Carthage.  For those of you who enjoy meteorological whiplash, the temperature hit 80 by the time we got back home.

Sunday started warm, around 70, only to turn wet and cold by mid-afternoon.  Then, on Monday, it snowed a good—or bad—inch.  The sun came out on Tuesday, in order to mock anyone who dared hope it would melt everything.  No such luck, and Tuesday’s game with Benedictine University was postponed a second time.  Ah, but today the temperature reached 38 by 8 AM, boding well for our afternoon tilt with conference rival North Park.

Still, I think I’ll wear my long underwear just to be safe, to say nothing of warm.  

Jackie Robinson: A Second Meaning

 Today is the 67^th anniversary of Jackie Robinson breaking the color line with the Brooklyn Dodgers.  Major league baseball will commemorate it by having all players wearing Robinson’s #42 and repeating stories of what Robinson did and what it all meant.  At no time will anyone suggest that the story of Jackie Robinson has any bearing on the role of women in baseball, especially on the field.

Which leads me to wonder why Clare did all those reports on Robinson back in grade school.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Noah floated by us yesterday morning on I-294 about half-way to Kenosha.  Horizontal rain I can handle, it’s the hail that gets to me.  But that stopped too, after a while.

Carthage College is situated on a rise overlooking the shores of Lake Michigan.  The buildings are on top of the rise while the athletic fields sit at the base.  This is not a good thing come rain, unless the idea is to turn the outfield into a pond.  No games, so sorry, now turn around and go home, which we did, to wait and see if we’d be driving to Rock Island today to play Augustana.  The answer, again, was No.

That means two conference dates have to be made up.  How I hate spring weather in the Midwest.

Making Sense of Things

Several of the younger Bluejays took to despair after losing two at North Central; I certainly did.  That’s when Rachel brought up the debacle of two years ago—we dropped two to perennial CCIW doormat North Park and still made the postseason.  Thank God for seniors with moxie. 

I’m just happy I stopped replaying that walk-off in my head—and finally figured out a cheer.  For three years, between “Clare-Bear!” and “Boo-kow-ski!”, there was a cheer that always sounded like gibber to me, until Wednesday.  Clearly, I was deaf, but now I hear.  It goes something like this:  “Shot comin’ on/shot comin’ on!  I feel a shot comin’ on!” 

Clare.

Hell

This is the circle of hell known as (20^th ranked) North Central.  Clare led off the second inning of game one with a double off her high school teammate Vlasta; the two of them have been going at it since forever.  Alyssa followed with another double and scored on a single.  The score was 2-1 Elmhurst going into the bottom of the seventh inning.

The first batter for North Central made an out; the second was down in the count before singling.  Then came the line drive that barely cleared the fence for a walk-off North Central win.  There’s no coming back after a loss like that, at least not for mere mortals.  Elmhurst dropped the nightcap, 4-1.

And now we wait for the weekend, which starts off at Carthage College in Kenosha.  A perfect name, Carthage, signaling great victory or defeat.  The Romans would know what to do, and we better, too.

Walkup Music

You can’t tell the player without a scorecard—or walkup song.  Freshman year, Clare picked something straight out of Nashville.  Really, all country and western music sounds like “Okie from Muskogee” to me.  I’m just too “city” to care about heartbreak in a pickup truck.

So, imagine my surprise when Clare said she wanted a new song sophomore year.  “What about ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got that Swing)?” I suggested way too hopefully.  Alas, there would be no Duke Ellington to strike fear into the heart of opposing pitchers.  No, it would be MC Hammer instead.  But I have to admit, “Stop, Hammer Time!” does have a certain swagger to it.

And sometimes, as on Sunday, an element of prophecy, too.

The Fine Points of Theology and College Softball

The Fine Points of Theology and College Softball

These were our choices yesterday against 16^th (!) ranked Illinois Wesleyan—heaven, hell or limbo.  Translated into more secular terms, we could sweep, get swept or split.  The Bluejays went with option three, winning the first game 4-3 against an opponent who did not expect to be challenged.  What a difference a year makes.

I wish my father were here to watch his granddaughter play.  He’d have cheered on her first homerun of the season and pointed out the Jays’ “Polish Connection,” Clare and our new infielder Alyssa; she’s a transfer student who hadn’t played ball in going onto two years, courtesy of a bad experience with her first college coach.  All I can say is: Thank You, Coach.  Your loss has been our gain.  We now have someone who can play short and third equally well while giving Clare some much-needed protection in the batting order.

In the bottom of the first of game one, we had two runners on, one out and Clare up.  She smoked a ball to straightaway center field; the center fielder, who was already playing deep, only had time enough to back up two steps before she leaped and caught the ball.  Back in the old days, this would have counted as a sacrifice because both runners tagged up and advanced.  Alyssa then followed with the first of her three hits in the game.

Her next at-bat, Clare rifled a 1-0 pitch out to where the trees grow beyond the center field fence.  There is no greater joy—for me, at least—than to watch your child circle the bases as her teammates pour out of the dugout to congratulate her as she crosses the plate.  After that, all I could do was hold on, which Tiffany did, too.  Dizzy Dean turned into Harry Houdini, giving up nine hits and four walks in a complete game win.  But she got the outs when she had to, and everyone caught the ball.  That’s how you win.  A pity game two didn’t follow that script.

We get a day off before facing 20^th ranked North Central Tuesday afternoon and the choice again of heaven, hell or limbo.  I know which one my dad would take. 

P.J. Hoff

A very long time ago, as in a half-century or more, there was a TV weatherman by the name of P.J. Hoff, who included cartoons with his forecasts.  Among the characters in Hoff’s repertoire was the Vice-President in Charge of Looking Out the Window.  That’s me today, 24 hours before our first scheduled conference game.

It’s all blue sky and sunshine, along with a chill.  If we can take two tomorrow, that meteorological two out of three ain’t bad.

Killing Time

Elmhurst hasn’t played a game since getting back from Florida eight days ago and won’t play until Sunday, against Illinois Wesleyan.  A person of less faith would curse deity and weather, alone or together.  Trust me, I’m wavering.

All I can do is wait and keep my daughter calm.  She wants to play so badly, which becomes dangerous if you drop the “so”; anxious anticipation will do that.  My job is to accentuate the positive, then practice what I preach.  I also watch baseball to pass the time.

Two things about the White Sox: they have better hitting than last year and worse relief pitching, giving up nine runs the last two games.  There are a couple of guys who need to start checking flight times to Charlotte.  I also noticed something interesting on the opening day broadcast—the roving female reporter.

She went from section to section interviewing people.  I doubt this is anymore unique to the South Side than those college-age girls (and some guys) who toss tee-shirts into the crowd between innings or the female reporter who handles the postgame interview.  They’re always young, always attractive, but they never get to wear a uniform or play a position.

How come, Bud?

Conspiracy Theory

Opposing teams exist for my daughter to hate.  They’re all the Cubs to her, starting with Benedictine University.  As is always the case, there’s history involved.

A lot of it dates to a visit two years ago.  For some reason, the first game started an hour late and then went on for a good long time until we fell to the Eagles by a score of 13-11.  No one was worried about field conditions for the second game because Benedictine has lights, that is, they did until a goose flew into a generator.  Then we jumped ahead 7-0 by the second inning, and all of a sudden the Eagles turned to snails; never did a coach so allow players to dog it.  Naturally, we responded with hyper-hustle and a tendency to swing at anything—and I mean anything—that rolled our way.  Still, we tagged on another two runs; the only thing worse was letting Benedictine score four in the fourth.  Game called in the top of the fifth.  Goodbye two hits for Clare.  Thank you, goose.

Now, fast forward to Tuesday afternoon:  Benedictine calls during practice to postpone Wednesday’s doubleheader on account of expected rain, which just so happened to hold off until early Thursday morning.  What gives?  Clare thinks a five-game winning streak is the reason.  “They’re afraid we might break it.”  I hope she’s right.  It’s good to be feared. 

John Hamm, April Fool

The timing was perfect with Disney running an ad in today’s Trib sports’ section for Million Dollar Arm, the new John Hamm movie.  It’s based on those two young men from India who won a baseball throwing contest-cum-reality show.  Neither finalist had ever played ball, but the Pirates signed them anyway.  And that’s how little the national pastime thinks of women athletes.

As for Disney, they’re busy on a project that will focus on women in the 21^st century; I hear it has something to do with a princess.  April Fool.