A demigod

One of the joys of childhood is that it allows for sports’ heroes.  Fans tend to reach an age where the suspension of disbelief becomes difficult if not impossible.  We want to know why Joe was at the strip club instead of home with the family or why speaking in full sentences is so hard for him.  With luck, though, you can hold onto the heroes from your youth.

So, I always delighted in meeting Billy Pierce and Minnie Minoso, or Walt Williams; among other things, they made me feel like a kid again, as did reading today’s obituary for Bears’ great and HOFer Doug Atkins.  As a 12-year old, I was naturally drawn to a player with the same first name.  That he happened to stand 6’8” gave me hope I might get that tall, too, someday.  Alas, I stopped eight inches short.

Atkins was a monster of a defensive end who played 12 of his 17 years in the NFL for the Bears, from 1955 to 1966.  One thing I never understood was why he wanted to get out of town so badly.  Now I do.  The NYT obituary noted how Atkins and coach George Halas once fought over a difference of $500 in contract negotiations.  Halas said Atkins would just spend the money if he got it, to which his player replied, “Coach, that is what I want it for.”

Then there was the time the team came into locker room trailing at halftime in a game early one season.  Halas, in his role as emperor, wouldn’t allow players to have a Coke, but Atkins took one, anyway.  This led to a struggle between the short man and the tall one.  I can’t imagine that happening today.  Oh, and the Bears came from behind to win.

Hot Stove Musings

The White Sox appear intent on spending my tax dollars on a new outfielder, so let’s consider the possibilities—Yoenis Cespedes, Alex Gordon and Justin Upton.  The good news is we’re not choosing between a poke in the eye and a punch in the stomach, I think.

Cespedes hit 35 home runs for the Tigers and Mets last season; the past four years, he’s hit 106.  That’s nice power to go with 508 strikeouts over a career that’s included four different teams over the last two seasons.  Would you give a 30-year old left fielder a six-year deal worth $100 million?

Or what about a soon-to-be 32-year old left fielder?  Alex Gordon might be had at five years and $100 million, or four years at $80 million.  Gordon doesn’t have Cespedes’s power but does own four Gold Gloves in left field, and he has a higher career on-base percentage, .348 vs. .319 for Cespedes.  Still, $20 million—and remember, some of that coming from yours truly—for a player who’s never done better than 101 runs or 87 rbi’s?  I’m not so sure.

Which leaves us with Justin Upton, who won’t turn 29 till next August.  Upton has hit 55 homers the last two seasons, though he’s never cracked 100 rbi’s.  He’s been in the bigs since the age of 19, has hit .300 once and scored 100+ runs twice.  Does a career .271 hitter with a .352 obp and more errors than assists in the outfield deserve Cespedes/Gordon/Jason Heyward money?

You tell me.

Not on My Dime

 Proponents for an increase in the minimum wage generally favor a figure of $15 an hour.  By way of contrast, the minimum salary for major-league baseball last season was $507,500.  That’s nice work, if you can get it.

Unlike many local, state and national politicians, to say nothing of their business buddies, I have more of a problem with the bigger figure.  Too much of that $507,500 comes from fans.  Too much of a team’s payroll is derived the same way, for that matter.  I can’t speak for other people, but I personally object to kicking in to help pay for the likes of Adam LaRoche, and I was none too happy contributing to the salaries of Albert Belle and Adam Dunn.  How/why do I lend out the cash? you might ask.  And the answer is, through a publicly funded stadium and the sweetheart lease that goes with it.

If the Red Sox want to sign David Price or the Cubs Jason Heyward, that falls on their fans and no one else.  So it goes for any team that owns its venue.  But with the vast majority of sports’ franchises, the public foots the bill for where the teams play, and gets next to nothing tangible—as in cold, hard cash, as opposed to shots of the downtown skyline from the Goodyear blimp—in return.  Chicagoans are supposed to believe they didn’t pay anything for the Cell because it was funded by a hotel tax, but guess what?  Tax money that goes to a new stadium is tax money unavailable for schools, potholes or parks.  Oh, and guess who pays a hotel tax when they go watch a game in other cities? 

Baseball isn’t playing the extortion game much these days; that “honor” falls to the NFL.  The Raiders, Rams and Chargers are all threatening to move, leaving the cities of Oakland, St. Louis and San Diego to trip over themselves offering new deals for the respective teams to stay.  Raiders’ fans are loyal to the point of crazy and beyond; I wonder how many of them have gotten skin cancer from the crap they put on their faces season after season.  No matter, the team wants a new home, and loyal fans will get with the program, if they know what’s good for them. 

Oh, Grow Up

Last week, play got nasty between the Carolina Panthers and New York Giants.  Words led to cheap shots led to a one-game suspension for Giants’ receiver Odell Beckham Jr., who said in his defense that a Panthers’ player threatened him with a baseball bat.  Apparently, the Panthers’ secondary had been using a bat as some kind of motivational tool.  (I’m trying to imagine shoulder pads working that way in the dugout, but can’t.)  On the Tuesday after the game, Carolina coach Ron Rivera said there’d be no more bat antics on the sideline.  “It’s the ‘No Fun League’ for a reason,” harrumphed Rivera to reporters in partial explanation of his decision.

Yesterday, after Panthers’ quarterback Cam Newton rushed for a touchdown, Newton stood in the end zone pretending the football was a baby, which he proceeded to rock to the delight of himself if no one else.  Football is family as they say, and Vince Lombardi is spinning in his grave.  

Is This Anything?

David Letterman used to have a bit called, Is This Anything.  Usually, it involved a performer who juggled, danced, balanced or managed some combination of the three, although it could also get bizarre.  Anyone remember the Grinder Girl shooting sparks off her hips?

So, in the spirit of Letterman, let me ask, is bowling anything like a sport?  David would probably consider it something, but what exactly?  Physical activity?  Social?  Both or neither?  For me, it was mostly an act of independence, going off to a bowling alley on my own with enough money in hand to pay for a few lines.  The score was incidental.

Let me confess here that I have a weird arm.  For the first game midway into the second, every ball I roll goes straight down the center of the lane, which requires me to move ever so slightly to the right of center.  (My politics may or may do the same.)  Then, halfway through game two, I don’t so much start to curve the ball but angle it, which means starting far to the right; call it my Tea-Party approach.  And that’s pretty much how it goes for the rest of the night.  Pick a number between 90 and 180, and I’ve bowled it.

I used to take Clare bowling every blue moon or so, if only to work on our Flintstones’ imitation; I could make the ball bounce, and so could my little Pebbles.  But giving instruction was hard, considering the arm thing.  Basically, I just wanted Clare to let go of the ball and not fall face-first into the lane.  I’ve seen it happen, and you know who you are.

The sound of a strike is nice, as is the cheering and even a little of the bench jockeying.  It’s amazing how much you see of yourself during your approach, legs moving, ball in one hand steadied by the other, and then, if everything goes right, arms and legs synchronized into a delivery that leads to a strike or spare.  Repeat over the course of ten frames.

I might go bowling more, if they’d just stop tearing the alleys down—Miami/Clearing/Gage Park Bowl, the haunts of my youth, all gone.  Even the place I took Clare—named appropriately enough, Mt. Clare Lanes and Banquets—is gone.  Anything keeps turning into nothing.

You Can Bet on It

 Illinois Attorney General Lisa Madigan has decided that on-line fantasy sports’ betting is illegal.  And I don’t know what to think.

On the one hand, an industry that Forbes says will be a $1.7 billion dollar business in a couple of years does make an inviting source of tax revenue.  On the other hand, so would legalizing heroin and other hard drugs.  On the one hand, I don’t do drugs or place bets, so anything that reduces my tax burden is good.  On the other hand, taxes legitimize things.  In other words, a tax on fantasy sports—heroin for those addicted to the action—says in effect, It’s OK.  No, it’s not.

I don’t gamble because I stink at it.  I used to play cards with friends until I realized my “poker face” was pretty much an open book—Doug’s smiling like a Cheshire cat, I fold.  So, my winning pots were small, and it took a while for me to see how bull-headed I could be—Doug’s got his scowl on, I’m in—with a losing hand.  I have opinions on sports and politics, which every once in a while requires me to put my money where my mouth is, but not to the extent anyone’s headed to the poorhouse.  But it’s the memory of Bingo that keeps me from saying tax the fantasy.

When Clare was in first grade at Catholic school, I had to volunteer a certain number of hours at Bingo.  There was nothing cute about seniors spending their Social Security in pursuit of B5.  I particularly remember a non-senior, very attractive and out of place with a crowd given to lucky troll dolls and whatnot.  She was an addict, I’m sure.

Long story short, you cause as many problems as you solve when encouraging addictive behavior.  In the end, Bingo couldn’t save Clare’s school.  It closed a few years ago.  And the gamblers moved on.

Memories, Christmas and Other

 To live in Chicago is to be forever on alert for water, the kind that floods a basement.  I have childhood memories of my father in wading boots moving through the sewer water that filled our basement after a storm.  There seems to be more water the older you get (sorry, California).  I spent the past spring pricing out big Shop Vacs.  They’re better than a bucket, and so are sump pumps, to a point.  The problem with either is you need a power backup if the electricity goes out.  Maybe I should mention here that water usually comes with wind and lightning, both of which do teardown job on power lines.

Water just loves boxes, or cardboard sponges as they’re probably called in water lingo.  And people are hardwired to store things, precious things, in boxes.  So, you can see the problem with Christmas items—all those wonderful glass balls and Nativity pieces drenched in a summer downpour.  And I’m lucky where I live.  The water we get is seepage, not sewage.  But if the house is 80-plus years old, there are plenty of cracks in the foundation to let the water in.  At some point in the last five years, there was a thunderstorm that led me to start throwing out boxes and storing things in those plastic containers you see at Target and Home Depot.

This keeps everything dry, at the expense of memory.  The big computer box from ten years ago or the TV box from twenty gets recycled, and you forget about the time you went shopping, only to get stuck in line behind a crazy person who had Bluetooth long before it was invented.  Or the big box from Marshall Field’s or Weiboldt’s gets tossed and with memories of an aunt now dead over forty years.  Thank heaven for the attic.  Mind the transom and windows, and you can still store your stuff up there in boxes.

Last night, Christmas Eve, Michele took out special holiday mugs stored in a long narrow box that used to contain a Razor scooter.  Clare got it for Christmas when she was eight.  On the first warm day in March, she went scootering out front, hit a bump, fell and broke her arm.  The same day the cast came off, she had Mustang baseball practice that she insisted on going to.  My daughter had a homerun to hit.

And she did.  

Christmas Eve

I’ve lived through cold Decembers, and I’ve lived through warm Decembers.  The warm ones are better.

Just don’t watch the local news unless you want to get irritated.  Producers love to show people golfing; playing touch football; hitting a 16-inch softball; and jogging or biking along the lakefront.  Never mind the mud (and the rain came down in torrents yesterday) or the chill wind off the lake.  And, most of all, don’t mention a downer like global warming.  It’s like spring out there, [insert name of co-anchor here]!

No, it isn’t, not with sunset before 4:30 in the afternoon, but it is nice to be able to walk and drive without fear of ice.  And a little sun allows me to dream of spring, warm enough so I can do real biking and not chance pneumonia or turn on a baseball game when I get back.  Who knows, by then maybe Hawk Harrelson will retire from the broadcast booth.

Now, that would be a great Christmas present to humanity.  

Guys Rule

Looking to grow the game, baseball has named Charles Hill, a 31-year old wunderkind from Google, as managing director of MLB Europe, Middle East and Africa.  That probably leaves female managing directors for the North and South Poles and maybe Atlantis, too.

Too Early to Pull the Plug?

 On Friday, the Bulls lost 147-144 to the Pistons in quadruple overtime.  Obviously, there was plenty of offense; defense, not so much.  On Saturday, the Bulls travelled to New York, where they lost to an average Knicks’ team.  After the game, Jimmy Butler sounded off.  “I believe in the guys in this locker room, but I also believe we probably have to be coached a lot harder at times.”  Hello, Fred Hoiberg. 

Hoiberg is trying to make the jump to the NBA from the college ranks.  John Calipari and Rick Pitino precede him in that regard, to mixed results.  Pitino was good with the Knicks and bad with the Celtics while Calipari didn’t do much with the Nets.  Right now, the Celtics’ Brad Stevens is enjoying rave reviews after a successful run at Butler, but how to put this?  Fred Hoiberg doesn’t look to be the second coming of Brad Stevens.  And Stevens had the advantage of growing into the job.  The Celtics were in deep rebuilding mode when they hired him in 2013.  The Bulls are expected to challenge for a title, now if not sooner.

It’s early yet, but, still, things aren’t looking good for Chicago basketball.  Butler and Hoiberg had a heart-to-heart talk yesterday, then played the woeful Nets at home.  New Jersey had been 1-12 on the road this season.  Make that 2-12 after surprising their hosts, 105-102.  Somewhere, Tom Thibodeau is smiling.     

Plan of Succession

 It was a classic Sunday-page-1 puff piece on Bears’ matriarch and majority stockholder Virginia McCaskey, complete with mention of McCaskey’s friend the nun and her commitment to the three f’s of family, faith and football.  Too bad the story ran on the same day McCaskey’s team “played” and lost in Minnesota to the Vikings, 38-17.  Trust me, the game wasn’t nearly as close as the score would make it.

And too bad Bear defenders didn’t play barefoot; that way, they wouldn’t have been faked out of their shoes so much.  Quick, what do you call a team that can’t tackle, block or score?  Why, the Bears, of course.

Only now, the faithful are showing signs of unrest.  On the radio yesterday after the game, ex-Bears Dan Hampton and Ed O’Bradovich could barely speak in sentences they were so mad.  Advice to linebacker Shea McClellin—cross the street if you see Hampton or O’Bradovich walking your way.  And run.

Sportswriters have come out of their stupor, too, to ask how this team is any better than last year’s; if the Bears lose their last two games, they won’t be.  The puff piece quoted McCaskey’s son George as saying there is a plan for what to do with the team after she dies.

Like sell it, maybe?

Christmas Come Early

Clare and I went to Stella’s the other day so she could give the pitching machines a workover.  She whacked the wooden canopy over the machines and turned one of the roof supports into a carillon she hit it so hard.  I wonder what would have happened to this talent had my daughter been born before Title IX.  I wonder where this talent will lead to.  I know Clare wants to teach it and perhaps scout it.  I wouldn’t put it past her to try and hustle unsuspecting pitchers:  Wow, you throw really hard.  Could I stand in against you for a few pitches?  Tell you what, strike me out and you can have ten bucks….   

Gilbert, Ask What LeBron Would Do

 During a timeout of the Cavs-Celtics’ game Tuesday night, LeBron James looked up at the video board, which was playing a tribute to a 16-year old with severe brain damage who happens to be a two-sport athlete in high school and an MVP at a recent Special Olympics event held in Boston.  The fans gave the kid a standing ovation.  Let me repeat—a Boston crowd showed some class.  Then it got even better.

James broke from the team huddle, walked over to the young man and messed his hair; for that kid, it was as if God had come down through the roof to say, Hi.  After the game, James said he didn’t do it for the fans or the media.  “When I saw that, when I saw his story, it was just like, I don’t know, I felt like I was a part of him.” 

Out of the mouths of babes and the occasional sports’ mega star come words of true wisdom.  I nearly cried after seeing a clip of the James-fan encounter.  LeBron James taught a lesson beyond X’s and O’s.  I may never root against the Cavaliers again.

Insert Foot

Poor Gilbert Arenas, the onetime gun-totin’ All-Star guard for the Washington Wizards.  Retired—and I wonder why—at the age of 33, Arenas has plenty of free time on his hands, so much so that he needs to twitter on the great issues of the day, like uniforms for WNBA players.  I’d quote him, but we strive to maintain certain standards here.

It’s safe to say, however, that Arenas favors lingerie over baggy shorts as proper court attire.  This is just so depressing.  When Clare was a freshman in high school, the local paper interviewed one of the senior players on the upcoming season.  The story ran with a photo, which was pure softball cheesecake.  Have you ever seen a baseball player or, better yet, a 45-year old 16-inch softball player, pose with his elbows cradling the bat behind his back?  The chest is thrust forward but, alas, never the beer belly.

Elena Delle Donne of the Chicago Sky had a nice comeback to Arenas.  “Women were not put on this earth just for men to look at,” Delle Donne tweeted two days ago.  “We are people. We have a purpose.  We are role models.  I am an athlete first and foremost.”    

And what exactly is Gilbert Arenas?

Never Can Say Goodbye

 I must be getting old.  The White Sox pull off a trade for Todd Frazier, the Cincinnati third baseman who hit 35 homers last year, and all I can do is think about the two nice boys they shipped off to the Dodgers in a three-team deal.

I’m serious.  Second baseman Micah Johnson has everything you want in a major league ballplayer—smart, articulate, willing to be the face of the franchise.  Ditto for outfielder Trayce Thompson, who seemed to realize what a break he got in being promoted last summer; Thompson hit 35 points higher for the Sox over his AAA-.260 batting average.  The camera loved Thompson even more than Johnson.  You just can’t beat an athlete with good looks and a humble disposition.

But Thompson is a career .241 hitter in the minors, so that .295 in 122 at-bats with the Sox could be a fluke, and Johnson basically played himself out of a job by the end of last May.  As for pitcher Frankie Montas, he throws the ball very hard, which is the same way it goes out.  Put a gun to my head, and I’d make this deal, but I can still wish we’d hung onto Thompson at least.  Maybe we can interest the Dodgers in giving him back for Avasail Garcia.

If I am getting old, the memory hasn’t started to go on me yet.  I thought I remembered another big trade the Sox made in December.  Indeed, on December 15, 1967, the team sent Tommie Agee and Al Weis to the Mets for Tommy Davis, Jack Fisher, Billy Wynne and Buddy Booker.  The Frazier trade happened 48 years and one day later.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

 …should be so dumb.  According to MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred, he met with Rose in September to discuss reinstatement.  At some point in the meeting, Manfred told Rose of evidence showing he had bet on baseball as a player as well as a manager.  Rose denied the allegation, then owned up to it, sort of.  It seems that Charlie Hustle can’t remember details of his gambling days so well any more.  You’d think he’d crawl into that meeting on his hands and knees, ready to admit to everything, but that’s not the Pete Rose way.

No, the Rose way is to hold a news conference in Las Vegas—let me repeat, LAS VEGAS!—to say that he’s a changed man, though he still bets on baseball, recreationally, of course.  My God, this is embarrassing, more so when Rose says, “All I look forward to being someday is a friend of baseball.  I want baseball and Pete Rose to be friends.”  Don’t hold your breath, Pete.

I’ve already laid out the conditions I’d impose on Rose for entry into the HOF—public admission of guilt and having a plaque in Cooperstown that details both his gambling and longtime denials of it. But off that meeting with Manfred, I can’t blame the commissioner for keeping the ban on Rose in place.  But I also seem to remember an old saying about Caesar’s wife needing to be above suspicion.  Baseball games with commercials for fantasy sports’ betting websites make me suspicious.             

History Repeating Itself

Around the same time I was writing about Bessie Largent last week, the Mariners went out and hired 22-year old Amanda Hopkins as the first fulltime female baseball scout since…Bessie Largent retired in the 1950s.  Hopkins’ father works in the front office for the Rangers, so it’s a good bet the child was influenced by seeing what the parent did for a living.  We all make an impression on our kids.  Too bad for Clare it was watching her dad trying to fill up a computer screen with words.  If only the old man had any decent connections, she might be out bird-dogging in Georgia or Oklahoma during the holidays.

For Real?

Clare brought back a brochure from a glove manufacturer that was at her softball convention in Atlanta last week.  I can’t believe these guys out of Kansas are for real.  They make “Shoeless Joe” and “Shoeless Jane” baseball and softball gloves.  Factor in the $170-$190 price tag, and you’ve got yourself a good Black Sox joke in there somewhere.

The brochure has the same sepia-tone feel as the catalogues for Ebbets Field Flannels, and they allude to quality craftsmanship in the same way, to the point I think they’re ok with customers confusing them with Ebbets.  One difference, though, is that Ebbets goes to great length publicizing that their jerseys, jackets and caps are made in the USA.  I couldn’t find notice of that with the Kansas folk.

The most interesting—or weirdest, I’m not sure which—gloves were the replicas.  For just $150, you can get a fielder’s glove from 1910, 1925, 1937, 1949 or 1956.  They better come with a warning along the lines of “New gloves are like bushel baskets, this one is more of a thimble, so be advised as that bouncing ball takes aim at your head.”

WAR This

White Sox centerfielder Adam Eaton stands 5’8” and weighs 185 pounds.  New Cubs’ outfielder Jason Heyward stands 6’5” and weighs 245 pounds.  Last season, Eaton had 610 at-bats; 98 runs scored; 14 homeruns; 56 rbi’s; 18 stolen bases; .287 batting average; and .361 on-base percentage.  With the Cardinals, Heyward had 547 at-bats; 79 runs; 13 homers; 60 rbi’s; 23 stolen bases; .293 batting average; and .359 on-base percentage.  Goliath would not seem to have that much over David at the plate.

On defense last season, Eaton handled 356 chances with 342 putouts; 8 assists vs. 5 errors; and a .986 fielding average.  Playing 144 games in right and 10 games in center, Heyward handled 303 chances with 290 putouts; 10 assists vs. 3errors; and a .990 fielding average.  If in fact Heyward does shift over to center (as opposed to, say, the venerable Ben Zobrist, who’s found himself in center for all of 34 games in 10 big-league seasons), it will be interesting to see how much Heyward improves on Eaton’s defensive stats.

The above figures plugged into the appropriate equations—plus the right incantations—produce a 2015 WAR (Wins Above Replacement) of 3.9 for Eaton and 6.5 for Heyward.  As to salaries, Eaton earned $850,000 in 2015 and should make in the neighborhood of $2.75 million next season.  Heyward earned $7.8 million in his only season with the Cardinals and, depending how the deal is structured, can expect a 2016 paycheck of about $24 million.  The experts I read in the paper all say that will be a bargain once the Cubs win a World Series.

Cubs Win! Cubs Win! Blah, Blah

 Oh, how happy the herd.  Sportswriters, sportscasters, fans and blowhards can’t say enough about what an offseason the Cubs are having.  First, they sign pitcher John Lackey away from the archrival Cardinals, then they sign super-sub Ben Zobrist, and, yesterday, they land outfielder Jayson Heyward from the Cards in a six-year, $184 million deal.  Get measured for those rings, boys.  Or maybe not.

I’m a crank from the South Side, so you know I won’t be jumping on the World Series bandwagon anytime soon.  Here’s why:  There’s a difference between big contracts and big players.  Zobrist gets a four-year deal at $56 million; he’ll be 35 in May.  Lackey signed on for two years at $32 million; Lackey turns 38 next October.  And Heyward comes in at eight years for $184 million, kind of.  The contract apparently includes two performance-based opt-out clauses.  In other words, if Heyward’s real good, the rest of the deal becomes make-believe, and, if he stinks, well, guess who gets stuck honoring the remainder of the contract?  Heads I win, tails you lose.  And don’t ask why a player who stands 6’5” and weighs 245 pounds has only hit 97 homeruns in six years.

With all due respect to the workings of Theo Epstein, I think the Cubs’ glass remains half empty.  Zobrist and Lackey are a twinge away from going downhill while Heyward is expected to shift from right field to center; usually, it’s the other way around.  The Cubs also traded away Starlin Castro to the Yankees for starter-reliever Adam Warren.  Zobrist and Warren could end up being two toys too many for manager Joe Maddon.  Normally, versatility is a good thing, but with Maddon I’m thinking good thing gone bad.  He’ll put Zobrist in at three positions during the course of a game to the point that everyone, especially Zobrist, gets dizzy.  Oops, the winning run scores on the Zobrist bobble.  Warren joins Travis Cahill, Clayton Richard and Travis Wood as someone who can either start or relieve.  How many times do you think Maddon will be tempted to use all four, with one of them starting?  When smart becomes cute, it stops being smart.

Oh, and did I mention sophomore slump? Not that Cub fans think it could happen to Kris Bryant or Kyle Schwarber, but I do.  And Jake Arrieta, Mr. Cy Young, looked awfully average his last two or three starts in the playoffs….

Punch-drunk

NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman would have you believe there is no scientifically proven connection between concussions and the brain disease chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), yet ex-players keep suing the league in this regard.  NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell would have you believe the league is doing everything possible to minimize concussions among players, so please don’t go see “Concussion,” the movie starring Will Smith as Dr. Bennet Omalu, who did the research that has made the football establishment so unhappy these days.

I’m not immune to getting on a high horse to sound holier than thou, but not here.  Hockey and football will never be legislated away.  Sued out of existence, maybe, but not voted out.  To live on this earth is to struggle, to fight, to compete.  Given that sports are part of life, well, you can see the challenge of trying to outlaw one.  Think of boxing.  Our national identity is bound up in part on the exploits of Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis and Muhammad Ali.  How do you wish that out of existence?

The saving grace of boxing is that it has never pretended to be anything but a brutal sport, the notion of a “sweet science” notwithstanding.  You saw the punishment ringside and again years later when certain ex-boxers shuffled by.  No one would dare deny the connection between the sport and the devastation that befalls many of its participants.

Hockey and football could use some of that same honesty.

Beginning of the End

 Baseball used to thrive on utility players and starter-relievers.  For the one, think Cookie Rojas and Don Buford (or, more recently, Willie Bloomquist), for the other Dennis Lamp and Bob Stanley.  Ben Zobrist is of that mold, able to play most any position short of catcher and pitcher and play it well.  He’s also a good switch-hitter.  So, what’s not to like, especially if Zobrist’s an Illinois native come home, so to speak?

Well, the contract he just signed commits the Cubs to four years at $56 million…for a player who turns 35 in May.  You couldn’t blame Buford and Rojas for cursing their bad luck to have been born too early.  The Tribune also reported today Zobrist may have turned down more money to play in Chicago.  In other words, another team—exhibiting all the baseball smarts you’d expect to find on Pluto, maybe—was willing to pay even more for a soon-to-be 35-year old. 

Cookie Rojas played until he was 38.  As a 35-year old second baseman with the Royals in 1974, Rojas batted .271 with 60 rbis.  The next three years he totaled all of 63 rbis.  It’s a good thing that won’t happen on the North Side, right?  Contracts can keep getting bigger and bigger for players no matter their age, yes? 

The World According to the NYT

 The New York Times is always certain of itself, as is each and every columnist in its employ.  Consider William C. Rhoden in sports.

Back in November, he couldn’t say enough about Dusty Baker getting his fourth managing job; flopping in San Francisco, Chicago and Cincinnati did not factor into it.  Rhoden wrote that, “I filtered the decision to hire him not through race or experience but through baseball [Huh? What?], though when Baker appeared to be passed over for [Bud] Black, it seemed that Washington had fallen back on a familiar old boys’ network.”

By Rhoden’s way of thinking, Black is “a baseball lifer” while Baker is an entity unto himself, sent from Olympus even, because “Sometimes the baseball gods grant franchises unearned miracles and second chances.”  Too bad the miracle worker opened up his mouth yesterday at the baseball meetings in Nashville.  Baker did an interviewing channeling his inner Jimmy the Greek and Roger Goodell.  The Nats’ new manager wants faster players and he thinks “you’ve got a better chance of getting some speed with Latin and African Americans.  I’m not being racist.  That’s just how it is.”  So says the man who never saw Barry Bonds do steroids but let his Cub players chase after a broadcaster who dared to criticize them on the air.

But wait, there’s more, as Baker felt the need to weigh in on Aroldis Chapman, who in October was involved in a domestic dispute with his girlfriend.  She told police the Reds’ reliever pushed her and choked her.  Chapman admitted to taking a gun into his garage and putting seven rounds into a wall and another through a window, maybe for good luck.  What does Mr. Baker think about this?  “Sometimes abusers don’t always have pants on.”  Right.

I can’t help but feel sorry for Bryce Harper.  Oh, and William Rhoden, too.             

Help Wanted

That softball convention really motivated my daughter, but not in the way you might think.  She called yesterday to say that she had in fact applied for a job…with the Dodgers in player development.  “I won’t get it,” she reassured her slightly surprised father.  “But if I can do a phone interview, that would look good on my résumé.”  This is what I get for railing against the status of women in professional sports, a budding GM.

And you can be assured my wife blames me, too.  If only to pass the buck, I’m fingering Luke Appling.  I met him at a memorabilia show back in October of 1989, two years and a month before Clare was born.  Appling was signed by what must have been the first-ever husband-and-wife scouting team of Roy and Bessie Largent.  Mrs. Largent is credited with making the call to the Sox urging them to sign Appling.  Some of Mrs. Largent could have rubbed off on Appling, who passed it onto me.

And when I held my child for the first time on November 20, 1991, the connection was complete.  

Just My Imagination

The Arizona Diamondbacks have a new television contract worth in excess of $2 billion, a sum they felt compelled to share with free-agent pitcher Zack Greinke, who will get about 10 percent—$206 million over six years—of that figure.  Instead of giving so much money to one player, why not share it with millions of fans?

The Diamondbacks are the perfect team to carry out this experiment, with young players and a near-.500 winning percentage.  What would $200 million or $400 million or—don’t pass out on me here, owners--$600 million in ticket subsidies do over the course of a season or two?  Put 35,000 fans in the seats for a Wednesday game against the Padres or Marlins, and those young players could respond accordingly; performance could generate electricity that inspires performance.  Oh, and enough revenue to plow back into the team.  As it stands, what Arizona gets in Greinke is a mercenary, an extremely talented mercenary, who opted out of a $147 million contract.  Maybe Greinke was just following the adage about never being too rich or too thin.

Of course, no team in any sport would try the above.  That would require thinking outside the proverbial box, and owners are nothing if not the most predictable of lab rats.  I sometimes wonder if Branch Rickey was given a shot on reincarnation and passed on a return to the sports’ world.  No, Rickey must have come back as Steve Jobs.    

The Abyss

Tomorrow starts the baseball winter meetings in Nashville, which means four days of news, rumors and intrigue, the lifeblood of the sport in its hot-stove phase.  After that, the abyss.

I can watch football and enjoy basketball, but the one is basically a Sunday commercial fest while the other doesn’t get real until midway through the third quarter.  Hockey?  It just never clicked with me.  Golf?  If I end up in hell, golf will be my eternity, not playing a game I dislike but watching it, the ball forever soaring against the blue sky to land on the green at Pebble Beach, the gallery laughing politely as Bill Murray makes a fool of himself; it’ll be Groundhog Day through eternity.  Maybe I should mention some of the other winter sports like skating and skiing, but that would just be too depressing.  I may as well strap a snowshoe on my head.

Let me note here that old, normal people such as myself don’t go biking in winter; that’s for young kamikaze types.  But if the weather holds this week, I may walk the 606 Trail and daydream of a South Side Renaissance the product of the winter meetings.

My Little Conventioneer

Clare has spent the last four days in Atlanta at a (the?) college softball convention.  She went in thinking there’d be all sorts of in-game stuff and tips on networking.  What she got was seminars on being a happy, well-adjusted camper, preferably one who whistles while she works.  Much of the networking takes place after hours over drinks.  If her next job depends on anything more than a beer, the girl’s in trouble.  And the presence of so many Division I people has brought out the D-I chip on her shoulder, but so far no fights.    

From what I can tell the highpoint so far has been getting a deal on a new glove.  Gloves and bats are a big thing in our family.  Every one we’ve ever bought and that’s been retired has gone on to reside in my basement workroom.  So, it looks like I’ll have to make room for another.   

Strengths and Weaknesses

On Wednesday the White Sox non-tendered catcher Tyler Flowers.  So ends an era that never should have been.

It’s weird how teams have their institutional strengths and weaknesses.  With the Cubs, it’s an inability to develop pitching.  And when they do, the baseball gods intervene.  How else to explain the star-crossed careers of Kerry Wood and Mark Prior?

The Sox can develop pitchers in their sleep; hitters, no so much, outside of shortstops.  From 1931 to 1970, just four players—Luke Appling, Chico Carrasquel, Luis Aparicio and Ron Hansen—played short on the South Side.  Between them, Appling and Aparicio accounted for 26 of those years.  But develop a catcher?  God forbid.  Carlton Fisk and A.J. Pierzynski don’t count, because they were free agents.  Earl Battey and Johnny Romano would’ve been good catchers for us, but we traded them away; thank you, Bill Veeck.  Josh Phegley would’ve been a good catcher, but, well, you get the idea.  So, now it’s back to free agents, with Alex Avila and Dioner Navarro.  Maybe the baseball gods will be appeased.  

A Million Here, A Million There

 There are stupid sportswriters and lazy sportswriters.  Oh, and stupid, lazy sportswriters, too.  In today’s Sun-Times, a columnist commented on free-agent pitcher David Price getting away from the Cubs.  Why not spend the bucks? he wondered.  “There’s no salary cap (though there is a luxury tax), so why should you, a fan, care?”

Well, let’s consider that sentence two paragraphs down, the one that says, “The Cubs had the third-highest average ticket price in baseball last season, and prices will go up significantly in 2016.”  Price signed a seven-year deal with the Red Sox for $217 million (with an opt-out after year three, so that $217 million figure is more a floor than a ceiling).  Last year, the team signed Jon Lester for $155 million.  Connect the dots, and you come up with a $20 hotdog at the concession stand, with relish extra.

Committing $372 million to two pitchers is tempting the baseball gods to throw a sore arm or elbow your way.  As it is, Price’s contract effects all of baseball as the new benchmark; everybody and his agent will want a deal that comes close.  Eventually, it effects arbitration: This is what a really good pitcher makes, and this guy here came out of the woodwork to have a great year, so….If the Cubs had signed Price, they’d have precious little flexibility to pursue other deals.  No, wait, the columnist says the Ricketts are “a billionaire family,” so they can just open up their wallets.  Now, tell me how many owners try to act like George Steinbrenner and how many like George Halas?  If the Ricketts decide to spend, trust me, fans will pay.           

Whatever Gets You through the Night

 For my money, television doesn’t come any better than Supernatural (sorry, Sopranos, The Walking Dead, Dexter, Breaking Bad…).  The brothers Sam and Dean Winchester in an existential fight against evil, with God looking on and not particularly caring which side wins, really is my cup of tea.

No one plays air guitar with his leg better than Jensen Ackles, and no other show has ever done an episode from the perspective of a car, as happened this season with the Winchesters’ black ’67 Chevy Impala.  (Note: my first car was a gold ’67 Impala convertible.)  And the episode where the boys’ exploits are turned into a high school musical?  Pure genius.

As are the inside jokes.  Some of them involve the aliases Sam and Dean use, especially as FBI agents; if you know your rock groups—hint, Bon Jovi and Styx—you’ll get it and laugh.  Or they might pull a fast one with the names of other characters.  A few weeks ago, the fake agents were interviewing a kid by the name of Brock Buckner.  I thought I was going to die.

Any baseball fan with a sense of irony and humor will know what I mean.

In the Bunker

According to the Sun-Times, the Bears are looking into the idea of “bunker suites” that would allow lucky fans to watch the action from ground level, assuming they could tear themselves away from the bunker amenities.

Somebody who goes around advising professional sports’ teams on how to squeeze more money out of public bodies and private fans says the suites “provide a unique and intimate view of the game and the players.”  That’s because “you feel like you’re right in the action.  You hear the pads clash and the players grunt.  You can almost smell their sweat.”  The sweat-smelling won’t come cheap, though.  Today, an S-T columnist noted the suites run upwards to $140,000 in Seattle.

I have a better idea.  Declare an NFL Sadie Hawkins’ Day, with the players watching from the sidelines as fans risk life and limb for their entertainment.  The players would get a chuckle out of it, and the fans might better understand how dangerous the game can be.  The $140,000 rental fees could instead be donated to the care of ex-players in need.