Tim, Meet Bobby

Ex-NFL quarterback Tim Tebow had his baseball tryout yesterday, and everything went great, as long as the pitchers kept throwing fastballs.  Those Tebow could hit, the breaking balls and change ups not as much.  In all, Tebow showed he could catch, run and look good in a uniform.  Is it enough for an MLB contract?  You tell me.  But I do know this—if I’d spent the season in Double-A or Triple-A enduring bus rides, fast food and lumpy hotel mattresses in the hopes of a September call up, I wouldn’t be thrilled if my organization signed and fast-tracked Tebow.

And if I were a scout, I’d remember Bobby Douglass, another lefty ex-quarterback who tried to switch sports.  As a signal caller for the Bears during the first half of the ’70s, Douglass was forever overthrowing his receivers, but could that young man run.  In 1972, Douglass rushed for 968 yards, good for a 6.9 yard-per-carry average and eight touchdowns.   He just couldn’t quarterback.

After a seven-year NFL career, Douglass resurfaced in 1979 with—wait for it—yes, the White Sox.  Bill Veeck thought it might be fun to sign him as a pitcher because, if nothing else, he threw hard.  Douglass was either 30 or 32, different sites give him different birth dates.  Whichever, he went to Triple-A Iowa and pitched seven innings in four games.  That translated into 7 earned runs, 13 walks and a 9.00 ERA. 

The moral of the story is this—try to pick the right sport the first time around.  The second time may be too late.

Breather

If yesterday was Monday, that must mean I was hitting a bike trail, the 606 to be exact.  It was close to 90 degrees again, but a breeze off the lake kept things bearable and helped me realize yet another thing I like about the trail.

It’s 2.7 miles long end to end, from Lawndale to Ashland.  Chicago being Chicago, a city built on a grid, that basically means you’re travelling 27 blocks, with street names.  For me, the neat part is that I grew up with the great majority of these names—Sawyer, Whipple, California, Damen…They may not mean anything to you, but for me they’re a portal to time travel.

I set out to do fifty miles and didn’t stop until I hit forty.  I don’t recommend this; it just works for me.  The trail, though by and large a straight line, curves and dips in a way that I can only say makes biking easy, which makes it fun as well.  So, once I was sufficiently covered in sweat and dipped out, I pulled over to a grassy area that overlooks St. Louis Avenue, a street I once passed pretty much every for a couple of decades of my life.  I found some shade, parked my back against a fence, drank some water and commenced time travel.

The sky was half-cloud, half-blue, perfect for reminiscing.  It was 2016 and 1964 and that day in 1995 when I bought the wiffle-ball-and-bat set for Clare.  I called my daughter to challenge her to a race on the 606, a dare I knew she couldn’t take me up as she’s working at Northwestern University right now.  I can remember all those days we raced one another in the backyard and the stairs at the library and…

It was time to get back on the bike and finish the fifty before my legs decided it was time to call it a day.    

Protests

Protests

Last week, 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick refused to stand for the National Anthem, and he has no intention of doing so anytime soon.  “I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color,” Kaepernick (who’s biracial) said in an interview with NFL Media.  “To me this is more important than football, and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way.  There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder.”

Kaepernick has the right to sit; there’s no law that says we have to stand at attention for the National Anthem or that the anthem be played at sporting events.  Of course, Kaerpernick opens himself up to a ton of criticism and questions.  I hope he can avoid the hate-filled stuff to comment on such related issues as gun violence that doesn’t involve the police; the lookalike appearance of many football players and street criminals; and the role of pro athletes in trying to solve the problem.  No matter how bad the booing might get for Kaepernick, sitting down is the easy part.  Will he be putting his money where his mouth is?

Truth be told, I have my own problems with this kind of stuff at the ballpark.  Not the National Anthem.  That’s a tradition I revere and will try to pass on to my grandchildren.  But it would be nice if we weren’t expected to sing “God Bless America” every Sunday or applaud military personnel returned from unnecessary deployments abroad.  For my money, one patriotic song is enough, and one bad war is one too many.  The White Sox have a cash drawing every game, with a portion of the proceeds going to charity.  What better way to honor veterans than giving the pot to the Veterans’ Administration or a legitimate veterans’ organization?  Then we’d be cooking with gas at least.

Lest you think I tilting to Trump here, read on.  I also dislike the POW/MIA flag that flies at the Cell.  POWs still in Vietnam?  Really?  And how come virtually all of the MIAs went missing when their aircraft were shot down?  The POW/MIA movement was the granddaddy of the Tea Party folks, and I never want to be next to them at a ballgame, singing or not.      

Oh, those Bears...

Oh, those Bears…

I wanted to go to the beach at Northerly Island yesterday; the island used to be Meigs Field, before Richard M. Daley bulldozed it into a nature preserve.  On the east side of the island (really a peninsula) is a small beach, very nice.  The only problem was that yesterday happened to be a Bears’ game at Soldier Field, and that means everything closes down two miles in three directions.

I’m not kidding.  Go downtown on a Sunday when the Bears are home, and you won’t find any parking.  Worse, you’ve got all these football “fans,” both for the Bears and the visitors, walking the streets.  How to put this?  Football fans tend to carry a lot of extra weight on their frames which they either hide in sweatshirts and hoodies or try to stuff into undersized clothes.  Not a pretty picture.

So, I stay home and the Bears still stink up the joint, losing to the Chiefs by a score of 23-7.  I think coach John Fox said they didn’t score enough points.  You think, Coach?  The man hates the media, and he downplays injuries by calling them “owies.”  Why, oh why did the Cardinals ever move?  

Freudian Slip

Two weeks ago, a Chicago sportscaster reported on a rift in the White Sox front office; GM Rick Hahn reportedly wants to start rebuilding while team v.p. Kenny Williams doesn’t.  Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf was so upset that news of disharmony had reached the public that he crawled out from under his rock to tell said sportscaster over the phone how everyone in the Sox front office was “100 percent in lockstep” over the team’s future.  What an interesting use of language.

For the second time this week I broke out my Webster’s dictionary to check on a definition.  Definition #1 says lockstep is a kind of marching with “a body of men going one after another as closely as possible.”  Definition #2 says it’s “a standard method or procedure that is mindlessly adhered to or that minimizes individuality,” which sounds about right for Reinsdorf et al.  Oh, and Wikipedia has a great photo of prisoners marching in lockstep.

The future’s never looked brighter on the South Side, not since 1919 at least.  

More Viewing

Clare has been keeping tabs on the women’s pro softball season, which ended Tuesday with the Chicago Bandits winning the deciding game of the championship series over the USSSA Pride by a score of 2-1 in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.  The game was broadcast on CBS Sports Network, or channel 411 on our cable system.  Maybe numbers don’t matter, but ESPN gets channels 33 and 34.

My Xfinity homepage had nothing on the game, and neither did the Sun-Times.  This is what the Tribune had to say:  “The Bandits held on for a 2-1 victory over USSSA Pride to win the National Pro Fastpitch championship in Tuscaloosa, Ala.  The Bandits won the last two games of the best-of-three series.”  It probably was a coin toss between printing the box score or the WNBA standings, in which case the WNBA won.

I don’t know how many cameras are used in an MLB game, but I’m pretty sure it’s double or triple what they had on hand in Tuscaloosa.  Anything to the outfield came across onscreen as very, very far away, and dark.  The play-by-play announcer called the game as if he wanted to use as many sports’ clichés as he could fit into seven innings.  Commercials featured a country-and-western duo I’d never heard of performing in pro-softball tee shirts, along with an invitation to come visit Tuscaloosa.  (Not likely.)  I wouldn’t be surprised if the league got a good deal on the stadium, which is home to the Crimson Tide softball team.

The stands weren’t half-full from what I could tell, with little more than family and friends; it’s to the players’ credit that they played as if to a packed house.  For whatever reasons, Americans don’t like professional women’s sports nearly as much as they do amateur women’s sports.  Nothing I saw on TV Tuesday night did anything to change that.

The Circus on 35th Street

 The joke that is the Chicago White Sox filled up two rings yesterday, what with James Shields pitching and the announcement of a new naming rights’ agreement.  The ball mall used to be known as new Comiskey Park, then U.S. Cellular Field, or just the Cell for reasons obvious to anyone who’s been to a game there.  But starting November 1 (because April 1 must’ve been taken), the White Sox will give naming honors to Guaranteed Rate mortgage company, which has a big red arrow pointing down as part of its logo.  How fitting.

If only James Shields’ ERA could go in the same direction.  Oh, wait.  It did after he gave up four earned runs in six innings—that translates into a 6.00 ERA, which lowered Shields’ season mark to 7.49.  Here’s the good news—Shield may only make three more starts this year.  Why?  Because right now his record stands at 5-16.  Three more starts should mean three more losses, and that would put him right on the brink of 20, usually a career-breaker, and the Sox wouldn’t want anything bad happen to their $27-million “star” pitcher.  Mark my words.  Shields will be taken out of the rotation before he can hit 20 losses, and the name of the Cell changes to G-Bad Park.   

Viewing Choices

With the Rio Olympics not having softball, my daughter is in a cranky mood, especially given the fact that ESPN has been broadcasting the Little League World Series.  “Why can’t they broadcast women’s softball?” she wants to know.  “Why should I want to watch little boys play baseball?”  Good question.

But, in truth, Clare could’ve watched 14- and 16-year olds playing some sort of softball championship for a new level of travel ball that’s popped up since we aged out.  I don’t like any of it.  Kids are kids.  We shouldn’t confuse them with adults, or make them think they are.  The only time I want to see high school athletes on TV is for state playoffs.  Anything more and anybody younger is just wrong. 

Word of the Day

 The Cubs got rocked in Colorado on Sunday by a score of 11-4.  After the game, philosophe/guru/bon-vivant/manager Joe Maddon said, “This is an anomaly game for me.”  Well, if Joe can go to his thesaurus, I can break out to my Webster’s, which lists “anomaly” as a noun.  Joe, I think you were looking for “anomalous,” though I would’ve gone with, “The game today sure was out of character for us.” 

Remember, the purpose of language is to communicate with people, not impress them with your vocabulary.

A New Day

The Arizona Diamondbacks are unhappy with Chase Field.  The team doesn’t want to cough up the $187 million required in maintenance fees over the remainder of its lease with Maricopa County through 2027, and it wants improvements.  So what does a team threaten to do when it’s unhappy?  Why, it threatens to move.  Only that threat don’t work no more.

The county hasn’t jumped through hoops the way the team must have expected it would.  One soon-to-retire county commissioner went so far as to tell team owner Ken Kendrick that he could “take your stupid baseball team and get out,” preferably to Kendrick’s birthplace of “f------ West Virginia.”  I do declare the practice of holding up communities to build stadiums may be coming to an end.  You do have to feel sorry for the Diamondbacks, though.  They’re on record as saying that have to play in the fourth-oldest facility (opened in 1998) in the National League, after Wrigley Field, Dodger Stadium and Coors Field.  Poor babies.    

Playing the Contract

James Shields started for the White Sox Friday night against the As, which is to say the Sox got their bell rung to the tune of 9-0.  Shields gave up six earned runs in 4-2/3 innings.  “Only” three of the eight Oakland hits went for homeruns.  That’s why you have to love anytime Shields walks a batter—it takes longer for the base runner to score.

Shields has given up 27 earned runs and 33 hits over his last 14 innings.  His record now stands at 5-15 with a 7.62 ERA.  “I need to finish strong,” Shields said after the game, and manager Robin Ventura intends to give him a chance.  Ventura thinks Shields is “going to figure that [his pitching woes] out.”

In the old days, Shields would be demoted to the bullpen, but these are different times, when teams play the contract regardless how much the player connected to it stinks.  Shields is owed $58 million on the two years left on a four-year contract he signed with the Padres in 2015.  Unless Shields decides to opt out of his contract at the end of this season (don’t hold your breath there), the Sox will owe him $27 million this year and next.  So, they hope for a miracle rather than eat $27 million.

At least misery loves company.  On the North Side last December, the Cubs signed then 26-year old Jason Heyward to a 6-year, $184 million deal with opt-outs after seasons three and four.  Right now, the Cubs have to be hoping either Heyward remembers how to hit or that he takes the opt-out.  Heyward is hitting a robust .225 with five homers and 32 rbi’s.

But not to worry.  “It can’t be a numbers game at this point,” Heyward told the Tribune on his 27^th birthday the other week.  Of course not.  Why, “You can’t ever look at numbers, not that I personally looked at numbers anyway.  Right now, it’s not going to matter.”  Just one question, who’s he crappin’?

It’s all about the numbers, the ones argued by Heyward’s agent in the offseason and the ones crunched by the Cubs’ front office.  Only the numbers don’t mesh anymore.  Heyward’s younger than Shields, so there’s a better chance that he’ll bounce back, maybe to the point he can walk away from the Cubs after the 2018 season.  But it’ll have nothing to do with his numbers.      

Self-correcting

Thank God for Ryan Lochte.  I’m serious.  I was all ready to sign off on the feel-good images and stories being peddled by NBC.  You know, how it’s more important to stop and help up the runner who’s fallen than to win the race, unless you’re Michael Phelps or Usain Bolt, in which case it’s all about the winning.

And along come Lochte and his three drinking buddies.  Lochte claimed the group was mugged in the wee hours of Sunday morning.  Only now it appears that pee had something to do with the events of wee.  There’s now strong evidence of Lochte et al acting like drunken clowns, one or more of whom did a number on a gas station bathroom.  The gun that Lochte referred to in his story belonged to a security guard who happened on the scene.  Oops.

As my friend Forrest says, stupid is as stupid does.  Ryan Lochte most likely has drunk and lied his way out of who knows how many lucrative endorsement deals.  God may not punish the wicked, but fools are another story.   

One for the Recordbooks

 In his first full season at the age of 25, Brewers’ third baseman Hernan Perez had the at-bat of a lifetime yesterday against the Cubs’ Aroldis Chapman.  Start with the fact that it went twelve pitches.

The right-hand hitting Perez soon found himself in a 1-2 hole against Chapman, trying to protect a three-run lead.  The left-handed fireballer/flamethrower/troubled soul then threw not one, not two, not three, not four but five—count them, five—strikes at 100-mph or more, along with some changeups.  Each time, Perez fouled off Chapman’s pitch for a strike, even the one coming in at 102; he also took a pitch at 100 mph or more for a ball.  Perez worked the count full until singling to left on an 87 mph changeup.  The Cubs won, 9-6.

If only it were October, if only Perez had done it in the World Series.  Maybe he will.

Sisterhood of the Travelling Freshmen

 Clare went out with two friends Sunday, one of them a teammate from the Elmhurst softball team.  They have a connection unique to teammates.

Clare was one of seven terrified freshmen who started fall ball in September of 2010.  Come Senior Day, only Clare and Rachel had made it through all four years.  Along the way, they formed quite a bond, going through stuff together no one else can really appreciate.  For instance, not long ago Clare told a story about freshman year for the first time, about hitting a home run.  You would think this would be a happy story, all high-fives, but it was a lot scarier than that.  Apparently, Coach followed her back into the dugout and started screaming (I was there for all of my daughter’s 18 college homeruns and never saw this happen) about That’s How I Want You to Hit!  That’ll be a warm moment for her to carry through life, I’m sure.

The other thing that’s interesting about this is how it seems to happen every year.  The freshmen players from 2011 feel the same way about one another.  They like Clare, but she was already a sophomore, so she couldn’t possibly know what they were going through.  One of the girls told Clare she hated hitting behind her because “I couldn’t hit like you.”  No, the Toy Cannon was one of a kind, just as each band of freshmen seems to be.   

Name that Tune

On Sunday, after Cubs’ reliever Aroldis Chapman had retired the Cardinals in the top of the ninth, he walked back to the dugout serenaded to the sounds of “Smack My Bitch Up” playing over the P.A. system.  The person responsible for that decision is no longer in the employ of the Cubs.

Here’s the thing, though.  According to the story in today’s Tribune, the employee got the song off a tape popular with people who run pro sports’ stadiums throughout the U.S.  So, that little ditty heard at Wrigley Field could make the rounds at other venues, if it already hasn’t numerous times.

That’s the monkey-see-monkey-do mindset of major league baseball for you.  If one team has a mascot, they all do.  If one team has young interns dancing on the roof of the dugout, they all do.  If one team used to play rock music before the start of the game, they all did.  Please, someone tell me what AC/DC or U2 has to do with Abner Doubleday?

When I win Powerball and ransom free the White Sox, here’s what’s going to happen—the only current music that gets played inside the park will be walkup songs; everything else will come from the organist or a library that stops around 1960.  You want to hear “Carmen” or Duke Ellington over the sound system?  Then come to my rebuilt Comiskey Park.

I’d also have live music outside the park, with all up-and-coming performers welcome, regardless the genre, so long as they agree no potty-mouth lyrics.  Did I say all genres?  Oops.  There’ll be one exception.  Dixieland has no more to do with Opening Day or the rest of baseball than Smack….

A Tree Falls...

A Tree Falls…

This is how the White Sox lost in Florida yesterday afternoon, with the tying run thrown out at home.  It looked like the Marlins’ catcher was blocking the plate without the ball, and the Sox challenged the ruling, to no avail, so no three-game sweep.

After the game, manager Robin Ventura said, “You get a hit, and you make them make a good play, and they did.  It was a great throw.”  Ventura also liked how his team went “about it and put some at-bats together.  You just come up short.”  Oh brother, do they.

What should’ve happened at the end of the game was Ventura doing his best Lou Piniella/Earl Weaver imitation.  Demand a review, then complain that it took all of 15 seconds—I’m not making that up—to decide on a play that literally ended the game.  Then go into the postgame news conference and let the media know you’re playing the game under protest.  For added measure, blast the vagueness of the Posey Rule, re-enact how the catcher was blocking the plate without the ball.  Finally, say something along the lines of “What was my guy supposed to do, barrel into the catcher?  God forbid.”  Last but not least, make sure you’ve said enough to earn a big fat fine.

For better or worse, a team takes on the personality of its manager.  Robin Ventura is mellow to the point of comatose.  Players feel it, and I suspect umpires act on it; three close calls all went against the Sox in that game, and not once did Ventura make like Piniella-Weaver.  When I told Clare how they lost, she said, “That’s what happens when you suck.  Nobody cares.”  Again, out of the mouth of a child comes unheeded wisdom. 

Splish-splash

Clare’s boyfriend Chris has what’s known as a real job, viz., offensive line coach at Elmhurst College.  That means no more Saturday date nights until late November, so it was home on the couch with the folks last night.  We switched between the Olympics and the White Sox game in beautiful Miami, where no color is too garish for a baseball stadium.

I was under strict orders not to miss Michael Phelps in the 400-meter men’s medley relay, under pain of death (stares).  So, we saw Phelps win his 23^rd and most likely last gold medal.  But I wish someone would explain to me the purpose behind the butterfly stroke other than as a form of torture.  Nobody jumps off a sinking ship and does the butterfly, so why are the Olympics different?

Again, it was a surprise and a pleasure to hear Phelps praise his three teammates and bow out of competition.  Ordinarily, I dislike and try to avoid clichés, but Phelps has earned the benefit of the doubt.  If he wants to talk about turning a new page in his life, let him.  I’ll start criticizing right after I earn my first gold medal.

Until then, there’s always James Shields.  He’s listed on the Sox roster as a pitcher, but I don’t know.  Last night, he took a 4-0 lead and turned it into a 7-5 deficit before leaving in the bottom of the fourth.  Shields gave up ten hits in three-plus innings, four for extra bases.  Oh, and the Marlins’ pitcher also managed two hits off of him.  The Sox rallied for an 8-7 win, so Shields avoided an eighth loss to go with his 7.34 ERA since joining the team.    

And I’m supposed to trust a front office that traded for this guy to deal Chris Sale or Jose Quintana for prospects?  Michael Phelps winning another gold in 2020 makes more sense.

Self-Expression

Despite my best efforts, I’ve been watching a lot of the Olympics this week.  I don’t care all that much how well the Olympians do; the people who finish dead last perform at a level all but beyond my comprehension, let alone anyone who breaks a world’s record.

What strikes me, though, is how the American athletes talk in the post-event interviews.  They’ve just poured their heart and soul into an event and are expected to make nice with the camera.  Most professional athletes and coaches are well-practiced in giving clichés while still others can get away with being surly SOBs because of their talent.  But the Olympics have been different.  Who knew that American swimmers and gymnasts could be so articulate?

Lilly King showed poise in calling out a Russian swimmer for doping; she also set a world record in the 800-meter freestyle.  Simone Manuel becomes the first African-American woman swimmer to win a gold medal, and she displays wisdom, joy and humility all at once.  Simone Biles did the same, this after jumping and flying through the air in a way that would tax the imaginations of the people at Industrial Light and Magic.  Michael Phelps?  He always struck me as the typical jock; take him out of his element, and watch him struggle.  But Phelps showed poise and introspection—befitting an ancient, 31-year old athlete—when asked to comment on his latest windfall of medals.

All of which brings us to U.S. women’s soccer goalie Hope Solo, who couldn’t help her team get past Sweden in the quarterfinals yesterday.  Sweden decided the best way to defend against the high-octane American offense was to flood the area around their goal with defenders and hope for some lucky shots at the other end, which is exactly what happened.  Ever magnanimous in defeat, Solo said, “We played a bunch of cowards.”  There mustn’t be any mirrors in the Solo household.

As ever, the gold goes to those who deserve it.

As My Guitar Gently Weeps

 This is all my daughter’s fault.  If Clare hadn’t graduated college, hadn’t graduated high school and was still in travel ball, I’d be fine.  Right about now is when travel teams hold their tryouts.  So, I could be hitting fly balls and grounders, then pitching a little BP to her ready.  But no, Clare has to go and age out.

Then again, I could also say it’s all the fault of my White Sox.  They suck, now six games under, or the equivalent of 19 losses in a row since their 23-10 start to the season.  Even worse, the Bears played first exhibition game of the season, and a 22-0 drubbing by the Broncos means a torrent of “woe is us” coverage in the papers, on TV and on the radio.  Which is just how Jerry Reinsdorf wants it:  Everybody is either counting down the days until the Cubs start their march into the playoffs, or they’re consumed with worry over the latest installment of the McCaskey family follies.  White Sox?  Who that?

I saw in today’s paper that Mets’ manager Terry Collins went ballistic in a postgame press conference after the Mets dropped to .500 for the first time since April.  Wow, I’d just love the Sox to be at .500 now.  Anyway, Collins announced, “Starting tomorrow, we’re going to get after it here, and those who don’t want to get after it, I will find somebody else who does.  In Las Vegas [the Mets’ AAA team], there’s a whole clubhouse filled with guys who want to sit in this room, and I’ll find them.”

The now almost five-year regime of Robin Ventura has been the mirror opposite of Collins.  Nobody gets called out, nobody gets mad.  They may as well put a big banner on the front of the Cell proclaiming, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”  This is no way to run a major-league ball club.  Then again, who says the Sox are major league?  Not me.        

Still Crazy

Hey, here’s a great way to see if it’s time to drop dead:  Take your bike out in 90-degree temperatures and high humidity for a five-hour ride.  You’ll either end up crazy dead or just crazy.  I got option #2, even though I really pushed things by taking the bike on the ‘L’ first to get downtown to the lakefront trail.  People act weird when you bring a Schwinn onboard.

But a ride along the lakefront does have its advantages, namely that breeze coming off the water.  Had I gone a little later, I could’ve met Clare.  She’s working at Northwestern right now at their Near North location.  For lunch, she can walk through a tunnel and eat her sandwich at the Ohio Street Beach.  I like to tease her by asking how many cyclists’ bodies she saw in the water that day.  You never know.

You’d be surprised how many people there were yesterday with that very same death wish I had.  The really strange types were those people on rollerblades.  In this heat?  Then again, that’s probably what they were saying about me when we passed one another.  Once I made it up to the North Shore, the lake receded, but I still got a lot of shade on the trail I took.  So, nothing was too crazy, that is, until the trail ended.  That’s when I had seven miles’ hard time on city streets—bad pavement, bad sidewalks, bad drivers, no shade.  I seem to remember Arte Johnson on Laugh In playing an old man on a bike; he went so slow the bike just fell over, with him on it.  That was me by the time I pulled into the alley behind the house.

Here’s an oddity about me, if biking in hot weather doesn’t qualify as odd enough—fatigue doesn’t make me tired.  No, I was able to sit wide awake on the couch and watch the White Sox bullpen blow not one but two leads in Kansas City before falling to the Royals 3-2 in 14 innings.  David Robertson picked up his sixth blown save of the season in 33 chances.  Of course, he feels bad about it, not enough to fork up some of that four-year $46 million contract he signed last year (when he had seven blown saves in 41 chances), but bad nonetheless.  

Clare had an interesting idea when she heard about the game at breakfast this morning.  “The starters should get together and pay Robertson not to pitch.”  And Robin Ventura not to manage.  No, wait, the team is already doing that. 

They Really, Really Don't Like Him

 And all this time I thought New York protects its own.  I read an NYT editorial yesterday that all but called Alex Rodriguez a Donald Trump clone.  A-Rod “was long exposed as a liar and a cheat, and was barred for all of the 2014 season for doping.”  Ouch.  Too bad the Times’ bars its sportswriters from HOF voting.  They’d make a formidable anti A-Rod bloc.

Or not.  Until recently, the Times employed a columnist who could never bring himself to condemn Barry Bonds for that very same “doping.”  Talk about someone who conflated “not-guilty” with “innocent.”  Well, that fellow’s retired now, and times seem to have changed at the Gray Lady.  What’s a little pun after the bad joke that was Alex Rodriguez?     

From the Peanut Gallery

 I’m sitting in the kitchen reading, and all of a sudden I hear, “Yes, beat that cheat!” coming from the living room, where my daughter is cheering on an American swimmer against a Russian.  I guess you could say the Cold War hasn’t officially ended in our house.

Clare doesn’t care what it is—beach volleyball, swimming in all its distances, men’s gymnastics.  If it’s a competition, she’ll watch and root.  I mean, it’s 10:30 at night, and we’re watching guys twirl around the pummel horse.  A gym teacher in high school dragged one in, junior year high school.  Anyone who didn’t pay a bribe had to go on the horse, I think.  This is what you would call some painful cup training  Anyway, the thing’s crazy, and so are the spectators.

Then again, I picked Clare up from the train, and she said, “The White Sox are dead to me.”  Out of the mouth of a child….  

A-Rod

Alex Rodriguez, he of the .204 batting average and strange idea of what it means to tell the truth, announced he will retire after Friday’s game.  Bye-bye, don’t let the door hit you on the way out, write if you can, or not.  Rodriguez will retire fourth on the all-time homerun list, behind Barry Bonds, Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth. 

Note to Cooperstown:  There are two cheaters on that list.  Don’t let either of them in.  Note to Yankees:  You’re still on the hook to Mr. Rodriguez for the $27 million remaining on his contract this year and next.  Suckers.  What did you say, he’s going to be an advisor imparting wisdom to young players?  Good luck with that. 

Run, Hide

What did Joe Louis say about one of his opponents, he can run, but he can’t hide.  We tried hiding in the Art Institute today, only there’s no escaping James Shields.

Michele texted Clare where we were at 1:40 PM.  Clare answered, “I know why you went.  Shields is pitching.”  Know that Sunday games at the Cell start at 1:10.  By the time Clare texted us, the score was 8-0, Baltimore.  Shields recorded all of four outs on the day, in effect giving up a homerun to go with every out.  Yup, he gave up four long balls, two to Manny Machado, who had three on the day.  “Big Game” James dropped to 5-14 on the season, with a 5.43 ERA.  Better yet, he did this in front of a crowd of over 31,000 Sox fans.

This is so depressing on so many levels.  We stink, the Cubs don’t.  There’s talk about trading Chris Sale and/or Jose Quintana in the offseason.  What, we should trust the same front office that traded for Shields?  If I’m Rick Hahn, I start wearing a disguise in public.  Manager Robin Ventura doesn’t need to.  He already wears a night shirt to games.

We were at an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant on Oakley Street when Sox fans started to trickle in.  You would’ve thought they’d been rescued after spending two weeks in an open boat on the high seas.  I wonder if Jerry Reinsdorf knows the baseball season has started yet.     

Empty Nest

For as long as I can remember, we’ve always watched the Olympics, with me usually in the kitchen providing commentary.  Has there ever been an opening ceremony that didn’t look like a bad Busby Berkeley production?

Only yesterday the audience was reduced by one, with Clare away for the weekend in Michigan with her boyfriend Chris.  I wonder if this is how my father felt with his two daughters, or my father-in-law with his two girls.  You get used to the audience, grow to depend on them, even, and then they’re gone.  So, what goes around for the young man who steals away a daughter comes around for the father who loses one decades later.

 Rowing, anyone?

 

Good News, Bad News

 The Olympics have decided to let baseball and softball back in after an absence of twelve years.  The IOC must want to get the games back in North America ASAP and figure this is the way to do it.  An organization susceptible to bribes could be trying to return the favor.

Clare mentioned the news at dinner last night.  “You know, if they’d done it for this year, I would’ve found a way to try out.”  And I believe her.  The very fortunate, the anointed ones, never have to worry; there always seems to be a place reserved for them.  But for everyone else, the Mark Buehrles of the world, you have to earn it and not get depressed about being part of a cattle call.  We tried to teach Clare to wait for her chance and perform to the best of her ability.

Too bad she’ll be 29 in 2020.  Wait a second.  Twenty-nine?  Why, that’s a baby for knuckleballers.  Hoyt Wilhelm didn’t even reach the majors until he was 29, and he made the HOF.   

 

Back from the Edge

 I’m an adult soon to reach exulted senior status.  I’ve experienced the joys and challenges of parenthood as well as the sadness that comes from the loss of family members.  And still I act like a kid whose life revolves around baseball.

The White Sox are a benighted franchise, from the days of the Black Sox to last night’s loss when Chris Sale gave up a pinch-hit homerun on the first pitch in the bottom of the eighth to someone batting for the first time in almost seven weeks.  The night before, rookie center fielder Charlie Tilson, just acquired from the Cardinals, tore his hamstring trying to chase down one of the many extra-base hits given up by starter James Shields.  A team at one time thirteen games over .500 is now five games under.  It’s a good thing I’m too old to cry.

And thank heavens I’m putting new tires on the car; that should keep me from spending any money on baseball tickets.  And thank you, Jesus, for having me walk home from the gas station this morning along East Avenue.  I happened by Home Run Alley, where Clare played baseball with the boys.  The sprinklers were on, turning the fields a glistening green and silver in the sunlight. 

Restored, I’m ready to suffer some more.   

Ninjas and Shackleton

With the Olympics starting later this week, Clare and I will be denied our guilty pleasure of watching American Ninja Warrior on NBC.  I love how pride goeth before the fall, literally, on this show.  My daughter and I both agree ANW is just a grown-up version of Legends of the Hidden Temple.  Come to think of it, working temple guards into the course would make it kind of interesting, especially if they could poke at the contestants as they ran or swung or jumped by.

The sad thing about the show is how many of the contestants are identified as “gym operator” or “personal trainer.”  To me, this is code for “get a life.”  I know, I’m being too hard.  Michael Phelps and many if not most Olympic athletes struggle with everyday life; it’s the athletic skill that has come to define them.  Until we can get into outer space, glorified obstacle courses and the Olympics may be the best challenge we can offer such people.

From the 15^th into the 20^th centuries, there was always exploration, an uncharted river or unclimbed mountain to conquer.  I keep thinking of the Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton.  The man had no discernible skill other than to lead others through the cold.  Shackleton once spent 20 months in and around the bottom of the world 1914-1916 leading 27 companions safely back to civilization after their ship got caught in the ice.  Back home in England, though, the guy couldn’t hold a steady job.

It’s really too bad he never encountered Mt. Midoriyama on a Monday night in August.  

Better Late than Never

The White Sox over the weekend traded relief pitcher Zach Duke to the Cardinals for minor-league outfielder Charlie Tilson.  “We have liked him as a player since the Cardinals selected him out of New Trier [High School] in the second round in 2011,” said Sox general manager Rick Hahn in announcing the trade.  So, if you guys liked him so much, why didn’t you draft him in the first place?  I mean, Tilson’s high school is located in Cook County, same as the Cell.

Maybe the Sox would have, but I doubt it.  The Cardinals drafted one ahead of them that June.  They picked Tilson, and we went for the recently departed Erik Johnson.  I just don’t think it would’ve mattered, though.  Up until this year’s draft, the Sox couldn’t be bothered with area talent—Jim Thome, Kirby Puckett, Curtis Granderson and on and on.  The nice thing about Tilson is he was developed in a system where the ghost of Branch Rickey can still be felt.  That means Tilson should know how to lay down a bunt and hit the cutoff man.

We’ll find out soon.  The Sox just called up their latest acquisition, who should get a start in the upcoming series in Detroit.

Birthdays and Trades

My birthday was Saturday, the same day a guy jumped out of a plane at 25,000 feet over the California desert and landed in a big net.  My challenges are more along the lines of an extended bike ride.  There’s less chance of me going Splat!

So I went out today along the Illinois Prairie Path, which links to the Fox River Trail, which includes two rises away from the river that are killers.  The last time I did this, a guy I passed by yelled out, Good Luck.  The really tough part, though, isn’t peddling uphill, it’s knowing I’ve got another two hours of biking ahead of me before I’m back at my car.  Then, when the ride’s over, it feels like I’m lifting a thousand-pound weight up on the carrier.

I do it because I want the challenge and I love the Midwestern landscape in summer.  I’m also forever mystified by how the sky can be full of clouds yet sunny.  Better yet, I can ponder this and other profound questions without being bothered.  Unlike the Chicago lakefront trail, I can go miles on the path without seeing a person.  At one point, an eagle dove out of a tree a couple of hundred feet ahead; that was impressive, and I feel for Mr. Eagle’s prey.  Occasionally, I run into people on horseback.  Wait, I should rephrase that.  You never ever want to run into a horse with a bike.  Any creature that big is entitled to the right of way.

I got home just in time for the end of MLB’s version of Festivus, aka, the trade deadline.  Chris Sale and Jose Quintana aren’t going anywhere, at least not yet.  That’s a belated birthday gift I’ll happily take.