Piano Man

 In November of 1976, I took a road trip with a friend to Cooperstown.  We started Saturday morning and drove straight through to Albany, I think.  Around Detroit, we slipped into Canada with a stopover at Niagra Falls.  After that, we were on an expressway somewhere in New York State when I heard Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” for the first time.  The things you remember.

Joel has always struck me as the reincarnation of Tin Pan Alley; he has a real knack with words and music.  He’s beloved by all, save for critics and maybe himself; the drinking and four marriages suggest a certain level of unhappiness.  But nothing like that was on display last night at Citi Field for game three—Mets 9 Royals 3—of the World Series.  First, Joel sang the National Anthem; then, in the bottom of the eighth, fans did a “Piano Man” singalong.  Joel was moved enough to join in.

I hate many if not quite all things New York, but I’ll take the Piano Man any day over “Sweet Caroline.  

Tools of Ignorance

My vote for first Kansas City Royal to go downhill is catcher Sal Perez.  The man is a magnet for foul balls.  If Perez changed professions to become an NHL goalie, he’d face less contact and have more padding.  In game one of the World Series, a foul ball caught Perez in his throwing hand (why he had it resting against his right thigh is a question for another day).  You could actually see the hand swell up.  How Perez stayed in the game is beyond me.

That catchers can hit at all is a miracle.  Between the foul tips and the crouching and plays at the plate, they’re lucky to be able to walk to the plate, let alone swing at the ball.  The two best all-around catchers I’ve seen are Ivan Rodriguez and Yadier Molina.  If Rodriguez, with his rocket throws and considerable pop, didn’t do steroids, he belongs in the Hall of Fame.  Molina is another good candidate for Cooperstown.  Yes, I’d take either of them in their prime to Carleton Fisk (average arm at best) and Johnny Bench (super arm, mediocre pitch-calling).

In college, I tried catching one day when I worked at a summer camp; it was not a pretty sight.  My, those little tykes swung the bat awfully close to my head.  I kept watching for the bat, which led to a lot of passed balls.  Thank God nobody thought to steal.

Clare always wanted to catch, until she did.  She put gear on one day when she was in Pony ball, and I threw to her; she didn’t like how some of my shorter pitches bounced up and hit her in the thighs.  That was it until college, when she filled in at practice now and then to help warm up pitchers; either Coach trusted in her athletic abilities or didn’t much care if the team’s all-time homerun hitter broke a finger in February.  Now, Clare warms up pitchers all the time at Valpo.  If nothing else, it helps pay the freight.  At least there aren’t any batters or foul balls or base stealers or knuckle balls or sliders in the dirt to worry about.

And the Home of the Brave

 How can major-league baseball play the National Anthem gamer after game, year after year, and still act so cowardly?  Or did I miss it when Abner Doubleday ruled that the best baseball is played in late October—dare I say early November?—at night?

The World Series games start at 7 PM in my neck of the woods.  If you live on the East Coast, too bad about that 14-inning game one, which ended at 1:19 AM.  And if you live on the West Coast, why aren’t you lucky, but I’d look out for the drought, brush fires, earthquakes, threatened football team moves…

Why doesn’t MLB just throw in the towel and bow down to the power of the NFL?  I mean, they’re killing the game bit by bit.  Kids can’s stay up late to watch the game’s premier event, and adults can’t stand the commercials, unless Fox starts running one where Mulder and Scully abduct Buck and Reynolds.  Show some guts, people, and set the first pitch for no later than 6 PM Eastern Time.  Those of us living elsewhere will adjust just fine.

Until then, we should all be thankful that last night’s 7-1 Royals’ victory came in at six minutes under three hours.  They must have lost a commercial somewhere. 

Acorn

The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, they say, which may be why Clare and I are having a hard time picking a team to root for in the World Series.  The White Sox are in the same division as the Royals, so we’re not exactly big KC fans, and the Mets did us both a solid by sweeping the Cubs.  Still, it comes down to the heartland or the Big Apple, so Kansas City it is.

That said, it did my heart good to see Eric Hosmer boot a ball at first base that would have been the winning run, save for the home-run heroics of Alex Gordon in the bottom of the ninth; it’s good to be humbled, right, Eric?  Clare had to get up at 4:45 AM to do softball work, so she didn’t watch extra innings; I quit after the 12^th.  Prudence was rewarded with victory: Royals in 14 by a score of 5-4.

Say What?

Last week, Bears’ defensive lineman showed up to practice only to end up earning his release.  So, what happened?  Good question.  Too bad the Bears aren’t saying.

Ratliff wasn’t allowed to practice; he got into an argument with GM Ryan Pace; and police were called.  Rather than provide particulars, the team just wants to move forward, and Coach John Fox just wants to talk gibber.  Among other gems, Fox told reporters this is why you have security.  Apparently, ex-Bears’ coach Lovie Smith left behind his notes on how to jerk around the Chicago media, those gluttons for punishment.

If Ratliff were any other kind of public figure, the media would cover the story down to and including what Ratliff had for breakfast that morning.  Remember the sexting scandal with Anthony Weiner?  I bet Weiner wishes he’d had sports’ reporters covering him instead.

The guess here is that Ratliff, who was suspended three games for violating the NFL’s substance abuse policy, did something along those lines at the workplace.  If the threat of violence felt real enough for the police to be called in, the team should pursue charges.  This is the real world, not the fantasy football one that shows up in the sports’ pages and the nightly sports.    

From Buffalo to Syracuse to Berwyn

Ex-Buffalo Bills coach Doug Marrone sure complicated the lives of my daughter and her boyfriend (and maybe two sets of parents), all by quitting as Syracuse head coach at the end of 2012 for a shot at the NFL.  When Marrone shuffled off to Buffalo, that left a vacancy at Syracuse, filled in part by the former head coach of Elmhurst College, only now he’s the offensive coordinator for the Orange.  And he liked Chris enough from their days together at Elmhurst (Chris was the starting center) to make him a graduate assistant for football.  And that’s why Clare spent 72 hours of her short fall-term break in Syracuse last week.  Thanks, Doug.  

From what I can tell, an assistant assistant coach works crappy hours, eats crappy food and comes home Saturday night sounding all hoarse over the phone.  Such is life in sports beyond high school.  But there was still time enough for the two of them to go to a Darius Rucker concert, walk around downtown and take in the fall colors.  You can’t ask for more when you’re in your twenties.

We picked Clare up from the airport yesterday, and she spent the night.  The highlight of the evening was our couch conference with the TV turned to the MLB Network.  How would we pitch the unbelievably hot Daniel Murphy, he of the seven postseason homeruns this fall?  We said it together, sliders down and away.

Pitino-Nixon

Those times I saw Ray Meyer put his De Paul Blue Demons through their paces at basketball practice, “The Coach” never struck me as the kind of guy who would want his players having sex parties.  Clare’s two college softball coaches were the kind of people to blush at the mention of sex.  And I should note that Clare has been searching high and low for just the right hotel when Valpo softball plays in Las Vegas early next year.  That’s “right” as in no strippers, no gambling.

And then we have Rick Pitino, the basketball coach at Louisville.  It seems his assistant arranged sex parties for recruits and players, not that his boss knew anything about it.  As far as Pitino is concerned, ignorance is a suitable defense against dismissal.  The boss doesn’t have to know what his subordinates are up to.  Richard Nixon couldn’t pull that one off, but he was no Rick Pitino.    

Darwin Barney

Jesus teaches us to love the sinner but not the sin.  That’s basically how I approach the Cubs.  With Sammy Sosa long gone, there are certain players I kind of root for.  Second baseman Darwin Barney was one of them.

Two things about Barney—one, he’s a whiz on defense, winning a Gold Glove in 2012; and two, he comes off as a really decent guy; see Sosa for comparison. I particularly enjoyed a story Barney told of his collegiate days at Oregon State—opposition fans would serenade him with the “Barney” song from the PBS kids’ show; no doubt those clever fans from UCLA and Stanford put a nice spin on lyrics.  Factor in that Oregon State is the Beavers, and you can see where Barney might have been one tortured ballplayer on the road.  But he always made light of it, which impressed me.

On Thursday, the Tribune ran an obituary for a security guard at Wrigley Field who’d died, most likely from a form of heartbreak after his daughter’s passing in September.  He was 78, the kind of person who often goes unnoticed in life.  He worked the tunnel connecting the dugout and clubhouse and was fond of saying “You have a wonderful day” to players, coaches and management.  Two years ago, Barney gave this man a pair of shoes from the players.

Barney isn’t with the Cubs anymore for the same reason his counterpart Gordon Beckham probably won’t be with the White Sox nest year—they can’t hit half as well as they field.  I just saw that the Blue Jays sent Barney to the minors, which could allow him to become a free agent.  There are some people you only wish good things for, even if they are ex-Cubs.  

You Can Bet on It

Let me get this straight:  Shoeless Joe Jackson and Pete Rose can’t get into the Hall of Fame because they bet on baseball, but the Commissioner has no problem with all those WINBIGBUCKS!!!-commercials running between innings of playoff games. 

According to an editorial in yesterday’s Tribune, Internet fantasy sports (betting) is generating tons of revenue along with suspicions of insider cheating.  Worse yet, one site has Fox TV and NHL investors while another has backing from NBC and the NBA.  There’s no better way to insure a betting scandal among players than for a league to invest in a glorified Internet bookie.

Right now, MLB merely looks hypocritical, but that could change, if not Shoeless Joe’s chances of making it into Cooperstown.

Swept Away

Alright, now I will write about the Cubs, after the Mets swept them in four, the last nail in the Cubbies’ coffin being an 8-3 spanking in front of the Wrigley faithful last night.  The home team was outpitched, outhit and, dare I say, out-managed throughout the series.  When a Mets’ team with all of 51 stolen bases in the regular season steals seven bases in four games, you’ve got problems, right, Joe?  And we won’t even mention the four homeruns by Daniel “Who He?” Murphy.

There was no Maddon Magic in the dugout for the NLCS.  That was evident when Maddon let reliever Hector Rondon go after a water fountain with a bat after pitching a scoreless inning in game three.  Rondon said he was trying to motivate his teammates.  This is where the manager should have told his player to act like a grownup.  Oh, well, playing the theme song from “Rocky” was a nice touch.

Conventional wisdom has the Cubs being good for a long time to come.  We’ll see.  Kyle Schwarber looked more at home on a soccer field than in left, and Kris Bryant had some shaky moments at third; bad gloves could lead to sophomore slumps.  And the pitching will have to be addressed.  The Cubs are short two starters and probably two righty relievers of the power variety.  Sportswriters are chanting David Price, but that would be expensive.  If Theo Epstein is smart, and I think he is, he’s going to trade for young pitching instead.  Might I interest him in a package deal involving White Sox starter Jose Quintana and reliever Nate Jones, the 100-mph dart-thrower?  As a mean-spirited Sox fan, what I want is two-fold: the Cubs forcing Sox ownership to upgrade the team or give up, and sell.  I also want the North Siders to face more heartbreak in the postseason, year after year until, oh, 2108 or thereabouts.

But I do have a heart.  Clare came home last night.  Valpo has a short break at midterms, which our daughter is using to go see her boyfriend in Syracuse; nothing like getting up at 5:30 AM to say Good-bye before the cab took her to O’Hare.  Some hours before that, with the Mets ahead by a comfortable 6-0 margin, we all went to the Tastee-Freez on 26^th Street for ice cream.  It was a preternaturally warm evening, which made the neon signs glow all the more and my medium chocolate taste extra rich.  Ahead of us in line was a Cub fan in his Rizzo t-shirt and tattoos.  We didn’t talk baseball at all.

But we knew the score.        

Meet the New Boss...

 I’m not going to write about the Mets going up three games to none against the Cubs in the NLCS after their 5-2 win last night because, well, you know why by now.  I will, however, write about the Houston Astros.

If the Cubs’ front office is the next cutting-edge, hot thing in baseball with its focus on analytics and youthful folks studying laptops (while on the go, of course), the Astros are right behind them.  They made the playoffs this year, going 86-76, up 16 wins from the year before and a whopping 35 victories from 2013.  The team announced a number of promotions the other day.

They’re for director of player personnel; director of baseball operations; director of research and development; director of minor league operations; director of sports medicine and performance; assistant director of minor league operations; and manager of advance scouting.  Now, guess what?  This New Wave organization couldn’t find a single woman for any of those jobs.  I guess none of those female vice presidents working over on the business side in marketing and communications, foundation development or human resources was interested.  But I’m sure they’d give my daughter a shot in baseball operations if she sends along a resume.

Yeah, right.      

I’m not going to write about the Mets being up two games to none over the Cubs in the NLCS because of Theo Epstein; his 2004 Red Sox came back from a three-game deficit against the Yankees on their way to winning a World Series for the first time in 86 years.  I don’t want it to come back to bite me.  But I will write about players I would have on a fantasy team, if I did that kind of thing.

Curtis Granderson is having himself a nice postseason, and so is Kyle Schwarber.  I just wish White Sox scouts knew how to use GPS.  That way, they could have driven the three-four miles to the University of Illinois at Chicago campus, where Granderson played, or the five hours it would’ve taken to get to Bloomington, Indiana, where Schwarber hit his homeruns for IU. 

And let’s not forget the Royals’ Ben Zobrist.  He grew up in Eureka, Illinois, oh, maybe two hours from the Cell in good traffic.  And he spent part of his collegiate career at Olivet Nazarene University in Bourbpnnais, where the Bears train.  Too bad nobody thought to ask a sports’ writer for directions.  Zobrist has hit well over .320 in both playoff series this postseason, which is what I would expect from a renowned White Sox killer.

Remember starting pitcher Marcus Stroman, who tore his ACL in spring training?  Well, not only did he return this season to post a 4-0 record in September for the Blue Jays, he went back to Duke to finish his degree in sociology while using the school’s facilities to rehab; talk about multitasking.  Stroman also picked up the Jays’ first win against the Royals last night in the ALCS.

All of which brings us to tonight’s starter for the Cubs, Kyle Hendricks.  I’m betting the Dartmouth man keeps his team in the game at the very least.  We’ll see.    

Old School, Low Tec

 I’m not going to write about the Mets beating the Cubs 4-1 in game two of the NLCS because that could just come back to bit me.  What I will write about are manual scoreboards and home run apples.

Wrigley Field was never a dime-a-dozen ballpark, but it was on of fourteen classic parks—of the original sixteen MLB teams, the Phillies and A’s shared Shibe Park while the Cardinals and Browns did the same at Sportsman’s Park—of which only two remain.  Among their many charms, both Wrigley and Fenway have manually operated scoreboards.  Nothing better highlights the dangers of going too high tec than those two new video boards that divert attention from the iconic centerfield scoreboard at Wrigley.  The board used to command the outfield by virtue of its size and location, Deco flourishes, clock and flag masts that fly the respective league standings.  The new board in left field doesn’t so much dominate the site as bully it.

From what I can tell, Citi Field looks to be yet another bait-and-switch concoction, all retro on the outside—in this case, design elements meant to evoke memories of Ebbets Field—all cantilevered mausoleum on the inside.  The one saving grace looks to be the Home Run Apple, a 16-foot tall production that pops out of a suitably large hat after every Mets’ homerun.  Met catcher Travis d’Arnaud homered into the hat Saturday night, and someone came up with the clever idea of affixing a bandage to the apple. 

That and old scoreboards, my friends, are part of what makes baseball great.

Wrigleyville(s)

I’m not going to write about the Mets beating the Cubs 4-2 in game one of the NLCS, because that could just come back to bite me.  Instead, I want to talk about the neighborhood around Wrigley Field.  It may be the most popular place in town.

You don’t drive all that much in Wrigleyville; you walk, bike or take public transportation.  You don’t head to one of the area malls, because there aren’t any.  You don’t eat at one of the chain restaurants because, yet again, there aren’t any.  Residents tend to think they’ve invented a new kind of urban living, but it’s been around in these parts for more than a century.

I was reminded of that yesterday on our architecture tour.  We mostly did churches out of fear that many of these extraordinary edifices will soon go the way of Comiskey Park.  You could see the way the world once was from the church parking lot—across the street in one direction what used to be a funeral home, and in that direction an old corner grocery.  Look a little further, and you could find what used to be a factory that provided the wages that helped build the steeples that still point to the heavens.

Most Chicago neighborhoods centered around worship and work.  Back in the day, recreation was whatever young and middle-aged men had enough energy for at the end of the week, which could be up to six workdays long.  There was softball and pickup football for the motivated, bowling for those who wanted to socialize and drink a little, too.  The joy of baseball was that it left the hard stuff to the players, leaving the fans free to cheer, chat and call for the beer man.  All it took was a walk or bus or L ride to the ballpark.

The Braves want to head out to the suburbs away from Atlanta, and the A’s would love to abandon Oakland if only they could.  Thank God Chicago is old school, even if the denizens of Wrigleyville think they’ve invented the wheel.  

The Road Not Taken

 Today, Michele and I will drive around looking at buildings that are part of a city-wide open house sponsored by the Chicago Architecture Foundation.  With luck, I won’t get too mad over what might have been.  Think Wrigley Field, only at 35^th and Shields.

I belonged to a group that wanted to preserve and renovate the real Comiskey Park.  We proposed turning it into a working national monument for the national pastime, complete with an archive of oral histories provided by former ballplayers.  The White Sox wanted no part of us or the past.  If we don’t get our way, they threatened, we’re going to move to Florida, to the indoor monstrosity that is now home to the Tampa Rays.  I kid you not.  Never have local and state leaders united in collective cowardice as when they gave the Sox and Jerry Reinsdorf the free stadium he felt he was entitled to.

The thing I never understood about Reinsdorf is he’s supposed to be some sort of genius when it comes to real estate, but he’d done nothing in 35-plus years to help develop the area around either ballpark his team has played in on 35^th Street.  Rather, ever since the Cell opened in 1991, Reinsdorf has been intent on channeling the spending of all dollars inside the stadium, beyond what people pay to park at the “iffy” lots.  Cub fans get Wrigleyville, Sox fans stand in line at the concession stands.  The lines aren’t long, though, because who wants to see bad baseball?

In my fantasy world, Comiskey Park stands resplendent, the white paint Bill Veeck slapped on it peeled away.  Those glorious arches again stretch from behind home down the lines and across the outfield.  Researchers hit the archives; fans choose from all the new bars and restaurants that have gone up; a power hitter like Kyle Schwarber hits a ball over the roof in right into the light standards.  And in my wildest dream, we trade for Schwarber.     

By Process of Elimination, the Mets

 So, what does a baseball payroll of $289 million get you these days?  Judging by the Dodgers, a first-round exit from the playoffs.  Color clueless LA manager Don Mattingly gone.  If you can’t beat a hitting-challenged team like the Mets with Zack Greinke on the mound, you don’t belong in the postseason, as the Dodgers obviously don’t.  Mattingly will pay the price for failing to motivate his overpaid hitless wonders.

It was hard to tell which was the more pathetic sad-fan camera shot, the one showing talk-show Larry King or Dodger part-owner Magic Johnson.  The two of them know so little about baseball they must have needed help to their seats and cues when to cheer.  In Chicago, we have a basketball guy who also pretends to know baseball.  His name is Jerry Reinsdorf, and he’s beyond help.

Cubs vs. Mets?  If the Mets can come up with a descendant of the black cat that ran by Ron Santo in the on-deck circle during a game at Shea Stadium in September of 1969, they have a chance.  Otherwise, Chicago’s National League club goes to a World Series for the first time in 70 years.   

Degrees of Separation

I’ve been fortunate meeting ex-ballplayers.  Luke Appling claimed to have broken up Bob Feller’s Opening Day 1940 no-hitter with what should have been a double down the left-field line; Feller wondered about Appling’s mental state.  Billy Pierce recalled his surprise in 1960 when a very young and talented Johnny Callison was traded away while Bill “Moose” Skowron told me I couldn’t afford the World Series ring he was putting up for sale.  I don’t count the time Joe DiMaggio hid behind a screen at a memorabilia show.  DiMaggio did that to everyone.

The summer Clare was five, I took her to see Walt Williams, my favorite White Sox player of all time; Williams was managing the independent Altoona Rail Kings, who were playing at Lewis University one night in August 1996.  We took pictures, and players laughed when they saw the tiny comic book I brought along of “The Walt Williams Story”; given its dimensions, the comic probably was put in packs of baseball cards.  Being in the presence of a big-league ballplayer hardly registered with Clare.  She had more fun being chased around the bases by a team mascot between innings.

Paul Konerko is my daughter’s Walt Williams.  She grew up watching him, cheered him throughout the playoffs in 2005 and said Good-bye both last year and this.  I wonder what Paulie thinks of the Cubs’ playoff run so far.  Winning a World Series must give a person perspective on things.  Oh, oracle, what should we do in the face of Cub victory?  A little louder, please.

Ghost-talk

Fall is the most beautiful season in Chicago, autumn colors tinged with the melancholy of approaching winter.  Each day grows shorter, and closer to the cold that can grip a person close to death.  When the wind rustles what leaves remain on the tree, I swear you can hear the voices of those who have gone before.   It’s nearly mid-October, and hardly any of the leaves have fallen.  The ghosts have a lot to say.

The Cubs did away with the Cardinals yesterday and await their next opponent, either New York or Los Angeles.  Listen closely once the drunks exit Wrigleyville, and you can hear Ron Santo—it has to be the Mets, to reverse the Curse of ’69.  If the Cubs move onto the World Series (yes, White Sox fans, I think they will), they should be given a dispensation to pick their next foe, which would have to be the Tigers.  That would do away with the Billy Goat of ’45.

But the baseball gods won’t bend the rules that much; it’s enough for them to give the North Siders home plate umpires who call the friendliest of strike zones.  What could happen, what I fear will happen, is that the Astros will emerge as American League champs.  Talk about karma.  Houston could end up the first team to lose a World Series in each league, both times to Chicago, in 2005 and 2015.  Those are the whispers I hear. 

Sisters and Saints

When it came time to pick a Confirmation name, Clare wanted nothing to do with saints who passively accepted their fates; she wanted someone who went down fighting.  She said as much to the bishop who asked her why she’d picked Joan of Arc.  I doubt he understood her reasoning.  But if he had just seen her on a ballfield, he would have.

This past Sunday’s style section in the New York Times had a page-one feature on Ronda Rousey, the 28-year old mixed martial arts champion.  Guess who has the same Confirmation name?  Rousey picked it “because St. Joan of Arc was the only girl saint that killed and kicked ass on her way to martyrdom.  I was like, ‘Go Joan!’”  Rousey used to have a problem with the size of her arms, but she doesn’t anymore.  I know a homerun hitter the same way.

When Michele read the Joan of Arc quote over the phone, I could hear Clare scream “Yes!” from ten feet away.  Clare is doing a lot of screaming these days, mostly at the St. Louis Cardinals for their inept play against the Cubs.  It was nice not to hear any anger in her voice.  And who knows, the Cards could bounce back.     

A Difference of Opinion

 On Saturday, Chase Utley of the Dodgers slid hard into second base trying to break up a double play in the game against the Mets, so hard that he broke shortstop Reuben Tejada’s leg.  Utley was initially called out, then safe on appeal even though the replay shows he never touched the bag.  And now he’s been suspended for two games.

I say there was no attempt by the baserunner to reach the base (and he started his slide no more than two feet from second), only the intent to take out the fielder; that means the umpire should have called an automatic double play, taking the Dodgers out of an inning where they scored what proved to be the winning runs.  My daughter, Little Miss Pop-up Slide, says the slide was clean, if hard.  For someone who played second base all through high school, she’s not showing Tejada much love.  Thank God her grandfather never tried to put a tag on her, or me, for that matter.  You just don’t get in the way of some people.

The Playoffs, an Idyll

 We saw Clare for the first time in five weeks when she came home Thursday night ahead of a Friday exposure tournament—a cattle call for high school softball players—she was attending for Valpo.  It was out in St. Charles, and she didn’t get back until after the Cubs-Cardinals game; I should note that she and her mother both had run-ins Friday with people who wanted to know why they couldn’t be Chicago fans and root for the North Siders.  We all had a good laugh on that one, and talked about the bar on Western Avenue that’s offering free beer for every Cardinals’ home run.  Our kind of place.

I had the Mets-Dodgers game on for background.  We talked about the camp—one of the CCIW softball coaches was there and recognized Clare, saying, “You were pretty good” in a way that let her know she remembered that walk-off homerun junior year—and something the Valpo coach said about why so many girls throw poorly; Coach thinks it’s because girls learn to throw with a softball, which is too big for their hands, instead of a baseball.  Clare blames poor instruction from fathers (I appear to have earned a pass there) and went on to discuss remedies, either watches or walls.

My daughter says girls are told to “hit the wall with the ball,” in other words pretend there’s a wall behind them and reach for it before going into their throwing motion.  “But that gives them all sorts of bad mechanics.”  Coach Buk prefers the double-watch approach, whereby the player fielding a ball pretends she has watches on both hands which she should check before throwing; apparently, this will lead to a nice, compact throwing motion .  Me, I think you take your kid out when they’re four or five and play catch—first with a wiffle ball, then a baseball—until they’ve got it down.

Mets over Dodgers, 3-1, and we go to sleep a family one more time.

Scripted

Before the Greatest Playoff Game of All Time (because it involves the Universe’s Team), local news did stories on the brave Cub warriors who would bring victory to the universal—this family excluded—faithful, many of whom showed their undying loyalty by showing up in St. Louis, where they could be their obnoxious selves.

After the game, the results of which didn’t shake the confidence of warriors and faithful alike, local news led with highlights—oh, so close to victory, which then would have made the game important again—before cutting to the bars, where the more sluggish of the faithful watched the flat screens and said brave things about Game Two of the Most Important Playoff Series of All Time (because it involves the Universe’s Team).

Repeat, as necessary.

For the Price of a Ticket

 I don’t like taking sides in the tug-of-war between owners and players, as neither side cares about me.  Yes, it’s nice that the Astros, with the next-to-last payroll in major-league baseball, knocked off the Yankees, with the second highest.  But now that Houston has moved on to play Kansas City, that doesn’t automatically mean I’m going to root for the Astros.  Why?   Because, according to CNBC, Houston had the ninth highest ticket prices during the regular season while the Royals came in at 24^th.  Their figures are based on what it would cost a family of four for a ballgame.

All of which brings us to the Cubs (as some of you might suspect).  I dislike the idea of blowing up a team and starting over with draft picks.  The whole notion of sticking with your team through thick and thin is predicated on “thin” being the result of actions taken by the baseball gods, of promising players injured and respected veterans suddenly losing it.  “Thin” should not be the product of dumb front-office moves, Milton Bradley or Adam Dunne (or LaRoche), take your pick.

I’ll allow that new ownership has the right to clean house, as the Astros and Cubs did when the teams changed owners in recent years, but, again, the idea of losing now to win later strikes me as wrong, and an insult to already injured fans.  At the very least, fans should get a break on their tickets and at the concession stands (yeah, right).  The Cubs?  Why, they never bothered lowering their prices in any meaningful way.  Their fans are supposed to forget the premium prices they paid 2010-2014 while watching a crap product.  All is supposed to be forgiven because the darlings have entered the promised land of postseason play.

That's where I get off the train. 

Hog Heaven

Nothing like a phone call from your daughter as she screams at the Pittsburgh Pirates to “hit the ball!”  Alas, the Buccos did next to nothing of the sort against Jake Arrieta, he of the 0.37 ERA since August 1^st, and the Cubs are in the playoffs.  Good news is, I talked my daughter off the ledge.

That done, I settled in to watch the local TV coverage.  The three network stations weren’t satisfied to devote most of their regular 10 PM newscast to the game; no, this momentous event, which didn’t even exist until three years ago, needed another half-hour to do it justice.  Anchors and reporters were like pigs in their favorite substance.

The game itself mattered a lot less than how “fans” reacted to it—tell us how you feel.  The coverage felt like one huge selfie: Look at us!  The Curse is over! Who’s Cuno Barragan?  Coverage fed the crowd that gathered outside a shuttered Wrigley Field, and who wanted to miss out on all that fun they were showing on TV?  This will be a recipe for disaster should the unthinkable happen and Cubs win eleven more games this year.  A whole bunch of twentysomethings will think they’re back in college and entitled to tip over that car, just like they did back at U State.

The temptation for me is to complain that the White Sox never got this kind of attention in the playoffs, but that misses the point.  The Cubs are a story that keeps on giving.  The story lines are built in—generations of loyal families, superstitions, triumph over organizational ineptitude, heroes in Cubbie blue….The local media is nothing if not lazy, and a nice long playoff run—in any sport—makes their lives easy and simple:  How do you feel?

If I’ve achieved any wisdom on the subject of identifying with a professional sports team, it’s this—win or lose, your team will not be helping you with the insurance and tuition bills.  Those, like personal seat licenses, are on you.  That realization helps me keep a little perspective.

And Jake Arrieta is having an incredible run, there’s no denying that.      

New York, New York

 Misery, thy home is in the Bronx, where the Yankees reside in a home not at all like the one built by Babe Ruth.  Joy, thy home should be my daughter’s high school, Morton West.

The Astros topped the aged Yankees 3-0 last night.  Houston closer Luke Gregerson, pride of Morton West Class of 2002, faced Scott Boras client Carlos Beltan, who went down swinging.  Next up was the recovering ’roidsman and Boras client Alex Rogriguez, who struck out as well.  Last up was Brian McCann, who grounded out meekly to short.  Game over.  Bye-bye, Bombers.

One slight problem--a game featuring fifteen hits and walks combined (with two homeruns and two double plays speeding things up) took three hours and four minutes to play.  Times will only get longer as the playoffs continue.  So, you take the bad with the good.   

Easter in October

For me the end of the regular baseball season is like the end of Lent.  What did I give up this year?  The White Sox winning, of course.  Now for Easter.

To continue the metaphor if not the cliché, I may have a slight cross to bear in the weeks ahead, that is, if the Cubs beat the Pirates in the wildcard playoff tomorrow night in Pittsburgh.  But hope springs eternal.  What is it with these clichés of mine?

Clare has a night class Wednesday, but she’ll find a way to call me, not for updates (her smartphone will do that) but for color.  How did this happen, or that?  If they win, it’ll be the end of the world.  No, my child, it won’t.  Just remember 2003.

Clare was eleven going on twelve that autumn of the Bartman Ball.  I’d already made my peace with the Cubs winning after they’d dispensed of the Braves.  It happened at Russell’s Barbecue, an old sprawling roadhouse where we were eating.  The ribs were good, but the Cubs did a real number on my stomach; I swear there was a TV set in every room of every establishment we stepped into during those playoffs.  The acquired Zen made the ensuing Marlins’ contretemps all the more enjoyable.  But will this deus ex machina happen a second time?

Hope springs eternal.

A Chip on Her Shouler

 Michele and I always play the “she’s your daughter/no, she’s your daughter” game when it comes to discussing Clare’s makeup.  But, truth be told, the girl who looks like her mother (a good thing, that) thinks and speaks more like her old man, who has never been that big a fan of privilege.

Yesterday, Valpo traveled down the road to South Bend to play Notre Dame and another area college team.  “They’re going to feed us, just like New Trier,” Clare said beforehand, recalling her time as a Morton Mustang.  For some reason, her high school team played nonconference games against one of the wealthiest schools in the state of Illinois.  Come lunch between games, we had everything short of caviar and linen tablecloths.

It was a perfect life lesson on the haves and have-nots of the world, though no one in the visitors’ dugout had a foot in the poorhouse.  We just didn’t have what the North Shore does, in terms of stuff and opportunities.  Not to worry.  We raised our daughter to seize what chances come her way.

Therein lies the paradox: I want Clare to succeed time and again until she can afford a house the likes of which the kids from New Trier call home.  I just don’t want her to live there.

On the One Hand....

 It could be worse, right?  I mean, even if the Cubs look like they’re going to be good for a while, the White Sox have cause for hope.  Maybe.

Two nights ago, Jose Abreu joined Albert Pujols as the only two players in MLB history to start their careers with two seasons of 30 or more homeruns and 100 rbi’s.  Last night, Chris Sale recorded his 274^th strikeout of the season, breaking a 107-year old team record.  Jose Quintana (206 innings 3.36 ERA) and Carlos Rodon (139 and 3.75, not bad for a rookie) give us three pretty good starters, four, if Erik Johnson comes through.  As for the relievers, I’ve seen worse.

Abreu has 101 rbi’s in large part because leadoff hitter Adam Eaton is two short of 100 runs scored.  Melky Cabrera has bounced back from a terrible first half to drive in 77 runs, and I keep my fingers crossed with Trayce Thompson (while wondering how a career .241 hitter in the minors can be hitting .294 after his first 119 at-bats in the bigs).  Too bad we don’t have anybody at second, short, third, right or catcher.

Apparently, GM Rick Hahn can’t think straight with so many holes to fill.  How else to explain his announcement that Robin Ventura will be coming back for a fifth year as manager?  And what kind of endorsement is it when you say your manager has “room for improvement from a tactical standpoint, and even from an off-the-field standpoint”?  I don’t care that Ventura is a “tremendous communicator.”  If, after four years in the dugout, he doesn’t know when to change pitchers or call a hit-and-run, it’s time to pull the plug.

All Justine Siegal wants is a chance; ditto Clare Bukowski.  All White Sox fans get is more of the same.  Oh, and three new video scoreboards next season paid for with public funding.            

Figures and Figurers

What’s the old saying—figures don’t lie, figurers do?  Consider the advanced saber-gibberish on fangraphs.com.

As of this morning, the White Sox’s Jose Abreu ranks as the 12^th best first baseman—out of a qualifying twenty—in baseball, two behind Lucas Duda of the Mets.  Duda has 28 fewer rbi’s mind you, but the magic equation says he’s better than Abreu, who just became the second player in major-league history (after Albert Pujols) to start his career with two seasons of 30 or more homeruns and 100 rbi’s.  Abreu ranks even further behind the Giants’ Brandon Belt despite having 33 more rbi’s and further yet behind the Giants’ Buster Posey.

Hey, wait.  I thought Posey was the Giants’ catcher.  Wow, he gets ranked in two different categories.  It really is the new math. 

A Crack in the Glass, Perhaps

 Earlier this week The As hired Justine Siegal to coach its team in the Arizona Instructional League.  The two-week gig makes Siegal, who pitched BP to six teams during spring training in 2011, the first woman coach hired by MLB.  She has already coached in independent baseball and on the college level.  Basically, Siegal will work with infielders, throw more BP and hit fungos (truly, a lost art).

If Siegal were a man, would I hire her as a coach?  That’s a tough call for me.  I think players relate better to coaches who have a track record; think Bill Robinson (hitting) or Johnny Sain (pitching).  But this is not to deny the success of someone like Walt Hriniak or Mike Maddux. 

Talent evaluation, on the other hand, is not a function of playing but watching.  Siegal has attended scouting school with the Major League Scouting Bureau, so I’d have no problem hiring her to hunt for talent.  Further, managing is not coaching.  A manager handles personalities and strategy.  Siegal has a Ph.D. in sport and exercise psychology, so she could be the next Earl Weaver or Walter Alston, only one of whom made it to the major leagues (Alston, with 1 at-bat in 1936).  Two minor leaguers who went on to win five World Series between them.  Siegal could do that.  And given all the general managers out there who never played, I’d be willing to give her a crack at that job, too.

Siegal is the founder of Baseball for All, an organization dedicated to increasing opportunities in baseball for girls and women.  I like what she says on the group’s website: “If you tell a girl she can’t play baseball, what else will she think she can’t do?”  Clare couldn’t have put it better herself.  

Larry Brown

 I was probably as excited as Clare when the letters and phone calls started right before her senior year of high school.  It meant that coaches thought she could play in college.  It also meant I hadn’t screwed things up, too much, and that was a relief.

We visited Elmhurst College on a recruiting trip and had dinner in the cafeteria.  That was it for perks; there were no parties, hookers or Escalades.  There never are for Division III athletes.  If power corrupts, NCAA D-I corrupts absolutely.  Take Larry Brown.

Brown has coached at three schools—UCLA, Kansas and SMU.  With sanctions announced against SMU earlier this week, the NCAA has punished Brown-coached teams three times; the man seems to have a problem with recruiting and eligibility rules.  Three strikes and you’re out in baseball.  Why not college basketball, too?