She Gone

A good professional athlete is someone who gets the job done, so to speak.  From the perspective of management and the media, the better professional athlete looks good getting the job done.  Best of all is the athlete who looks good getting the job done, addressing the media at the post-game news conference, and then appearing at a downtown restaurant for dinner.  Think Michael Jordan.

Up until now, I also would’ve said Elena Delle Donne of the WNBA Chicago Sky, but maybe not.  It has nothing to do with Delle Donne’s performance on the court or off; she excels at both.  Still, the Sky is reportedly trading her to the Washington Mystics, where she’ll be closer to her Delaware roots.  Delle Donne is particularly close with a special-needs sister.

But you have to wonder why the photogenic Delle Donne didn’t make more of an impression here, in what is one of the three or four best sports’ markets in the U.S.  Delle Donne reportedly wasn’t happy with the commitment to winning shown by Sky ownership.  What that team and what the WNBA need more than anything is ownership with deep pockets willing to advertise and showcase the talent no matter the cost.  Without it, women’s sports will continue to limp along until the day a female athlete finally makes it in a man’s world.

And by then it’ll be too late.    

No Hope for You

Sometimes I wonder about sportswriters.  Check that—I always wonder about them.  Here’s a headline in today’s Tribune: With rebuilding project underway, get ready for grim times on the South Side.  The accompanying story outlined why I should expect to suffer while reminding me this is what the Cubs did in order to reach the Promised Land.

Well, yes and no, as in apples and oranges.  The Cubs stunk at the start of Theo Epstein’s tenure (61-101 in 2012) because they stunk before he took over.  In 2011, they were all of 71-91 with four starting position players over the age of 30 (five until they dumped outfielder Kosuke Fukudome) and two starting pitchers 30 or older.  Marlon Byrd, Ryan Dempster, Carlos Peña, Aramis Ramirez, Alfonso Soriano and Carlos Zambrano were nothing if not old.  With all due respect to Epstein, only a fool would’ve kept that group around.  It was the general decrepitude of the roster as much as anything that forced his hand.

The White Sox in 2016 were different, a bunch of dots that never connected; that the front office failed to fashion a winning team around the likes of the now-traded Chris Sale and Adam Eaton—not to mention still-here Jose Abreu, Tim Anderson and Carlos Rodon—should stand as an indictment of Jerry Reinsdorf.  Let’s just say GM Rick Hahn is one lucky guy who gets a do-over, and let’s admit he got a whole bunch of young talent in return for Sale and Eaton.  I also happen to think that the team’s 2016 draft was the best it’s had in years, if not decades.  Now what?

I think I heard new Sox manager Rick Renteria say that nobody goes to the ballpark not wanting to win that day.  Indeed.  A team ought to go into every season thinking it will finish no worse than .500, and its coaching staff should be forever thinking of ways to improve the product on hand.  The 2017 White Sox are not the 2012 Cubs.  By saying things will be grim, sportswriters are in effect giving the team a pass for the next couple of years.  Paying fans deserve better, always.

Still a Fan

It’s just occurred to me that lately I’ve been sounding like a real sports’ carp if not a downright sports’ agnostic—or worse, if that’s possible.  Hmm.  I have to admit to not liking much of what passes for professional sports in the city of Chicago these days.  I can also tell you horror stories about youth, high school and college sports to boot.  So, why care about or follow anything?

Well, for openers there’s always a favorite player, which in my case, was my daughter for a good 14 years.  Her victories were my victories, her defeats mine (though she’s never once offered to share a home run with her father).  I’ve found other players to identify with, too, from J.C. Martin and Walt Williams a half-century ago to Tyler Saladino today.  Tyler showed off a great mustache at SoxFest over the weekend, very Asian Pacific with real handlebar potential.  He also added 58 points to his batting average from rookie year.

I like Paul Konerko because he showed kindness to my daughter (one autograph, two game balls tossed to) and marvel at someone like Michael Jordan; to have seen him is to have some idea what Ted Williams must have been about.  I’m impressed by Serena Williams and wish Jennie Finch had tried to throw a baseball at some point in her career.  Right now, the White Sox have a lot of rookies who remind me of my daughter with their enthusiasm and hopes for the future, though Yoan Mocada’s attraction to fast cars is worrisome.

In sum, the sports’ page still interests me as much as the arts’ section.   

All in the Family

I caught the end of the Bulls’ game Wednesday night against Atlanta, and talk about fun.  Our hometown heroes were in the midst of coughing up a 10-point lead with three minutes to go on its way to a 119-114 loss.  After the game, Jimmy Butler and Dwayne Wade both blasted teammates for a lack of effort.  The next day, Rajon Rondo blasted Butler and Wade for bleating instead of leading.  And yesterday everyone said everything was fine, as demonstrated by a 12-point loss at home to the underperforming Heat.

The Bulls’ front office practices Trump 101 in dealing with the media—you don’t need to know nothing, no how, no time.  GM Gar Forman—was he named for the fish?—does a mean John Fox imitation without bothering to move his lips.  In Wednesday’s game with about a minute to go, TV cameras showed coach Fred Hoiberg signaling for a timeout and then cut to Jimmy Bulter.  If I read lips right, Butler said, “What?  No!”  What we have here is a failure to communicate, folks.

The Bulls are a Jerry Reinsdorf operation, and Mr. Reinsdorf is perfect save for mistakes borne of generosity, don’t you know.  The Bulls’ roster and coaching staff are not a traffic accident in slow motion.  Move along, everyone.  There’s nothing to see here.

Break a Leg, or Two

Break a Leg, or Two

For anyone who’s missed it, the state government here in Illinois has pretty much stopped working.  The Republican governor and the Democratic leader of the General Assembly have been unable—as in unable to humiliate the other side—to agree on a budget for three years running now.  Recently, state senators from both parties have sat down and tried their luck at hammering out an agreement.  Here comes the plot twist, from politics to sports to business: the Chicago Bears are involved, sneakily in a McCaskey family sort of way.

Budget negotiations have reached the sweetener stage.  A senator from Chicago floated the idea of firming up workers’ comp requirements for football players.  Nothing strikes Halas Hall as more unfair than having to pay a claim filed by an ex-player in his 40s or 50s.  Has this family no shame?  You can only hope the idea goes nowhere.  

Hanging On

Winter in Chicago can be cold and or snowy and or dreary.  Maybe thanks to climate change, this January has skipped the first two and doubled down on the third; day may as well be night.  If the TV schedule suddenly switched from Monday night to Saturday morning, I doubt anyone would catch it.

How to cope?  I try looking at the wall in front of my computer; it’s adorned with baseball memorabilia I’ve collected since before Clare was born.  There’s the White Sox score book from 1952 (year of my birth); two phantom tickets for the 1964 World Series, the one not played in Comiskey Park; a postcard from John Updike on the merits of a new ballpark for Bosotn (didn’t happen, thank God); pictures and trading cards.  For close to three decades, I’ve been staring at Ted Williams in mid-swing; Monty Stratton smiling; and Smead Jolley at least trying to.  Did I mention the pennants?

I bought a whole bunch before they got too expensive, and some more even when they cost too much.  There are “scroll” pennants with the names of players listed (not always spelled correctly, by the way) and pennants with team mascots, e.g., the ever-traveling white elephant of the ever-moving Athletics along with that sublime Cardinal from St. Louis.  And let’s not forget the picture pennants.

Among my favorites are the 1961 Angels (Ted Kluszewski and Steve Bilko, Eli Grba) and 1962 Yankees (the dynasty winning its last World Series).  And my favorite, of the 1964 White Sox, the arches of Comiskey Park showing behind seats painted a long-forgotten red and blue.

The wall is all about color and memory, enough together to feed hope of the sun's return come spring.

Decisions, Decisions

Once upon a time, before the revolution wrought by Marvin Miller, most athletes, no matter how great, ended up where the teams that held their contracts decided.  Think Willie Mays and Eddie Mathews, for example, or Johnny Unitas.  The Brooklyn Dodgers even traded Jackie Robinson after the 1956 season.  Robinson retired rather than report to his new team, the still-crosstown Giants.

But now, with the advent of free agency, athletes control their own destinies, depending on injury and the level of talent left in the tank come time to look for a new home.  Take future HOF guard Dwayne Wade, who spent the first 13 years of his career with Miami before signing with his hometown Bulls at the age of 34 (and now 35).  Wade probably would’ve stayed with the Heat, but they wanted to shed salary, so the veteran signed a two-year deal with Chicago worth $47 million.  The contract includes a player option for the second year.

This week, Wade gave notice that he may walk away from the remaining $23.8 million if his new team doesn’t start playing better.  “Some nights, we take the approach where we’ll do anything to try to get a win.  And some nights, we just go through the motions,” Wade was quoted in today’s Tribune.  How nice to be able to walk into the sunset, or anyplace else, if things don’t work out.

       

General Sherman and George Halas

You could say that the Falcons did unto the Packers as General Sherman did to Atlanta back in 1864.  Talk about a torching, 44-21 in the NFC Championship game Sunday.  Personally, I like it when Green Bay quarterback Aaron Rodgers has his grumpy face on.  Now you know how most Bears’ fans feel most every game, Aaron.

But the real story for Bears’ fans comes from the AFC, where the Patriots will be going to the Super Bowl, again.  This time, New England got there with sizable contributions from two ex-Bears, tight end Martellus Bennett and linebacker Shea McClellin.  Bennett was always good, and he knew it, which made for a problem.  George Halas always liked his players humble, talented and dumb, two of which Bennett can’t do.  So, off he went in a trade because the Bears’ front office is nothing if not ruled over by the ghost of old man Halas.   

The real surprise is McClellin, a first-round draft choice in 2012 who flopped first as a defensive end (too skinny) and then as a linebacker (Halas dumb but not good).  So, McClellin became a free agent at the end of 2015 and signed with New England, where he got good.

The last year both Bennett and McClellin played for the Bears was 2015, when they finished 6-10.  Without those two, the Monsters of the Midway finished 3-13 last season.  Any correlation is all in the imagination.  

 

Behind the Wheel

Yesterday morning, Royals’ pitcher Yordano Ventura and former ML infielder Andy Marte were killed in separate car accidents in the Dominican Republic.  In October 2014, Cardinals’ outfielder Oscar Taveras and his girlfriend were both killed when Taveras lost control of his car while driving in the Dominican Republic.  Not all ballplayers die in accidents on a Caribbean island, as Jose Fernandez proved in September in Florida.  Either way, major-league baseball may want to start connecting dots and formulate some kind of policy.

Because they’re young and young people oftentimes delude themselves into feeling immortal (let those of us without sin here be the first to cast a stone), athletes will do dumb things.  Baseball players today aren’t dumber than in Mickey Mantle’s time; they just have more money.  And partying may have been a little different back in the day, with Mick and the boys haling a cab to the Copa for a night on the town; as we all know, cabbies have been blessed by God for reasons not entirely clear.  Anyway, come season’s end, those Yankee players went back home to work their offseason jobs. There were no boatloads of money back then for the young and physically gifted.  They could, however, get work selling cars or men’s suits.  

Teams and agents would do well to act as parents/disciplinarians/wardens to keep their charges alive and in one piece.  The alternative is too sad to consider.  Taveras was 22, Fernandez 24 and Ventura 25.

Purpose

Clare has a better idea of the purpose of sports than most any professional athlete or owner.  She’s spent the past week getting over the flu.  We stopped by her apartment Wednesday to drop off her laptop from work (such good parents she has).  What was on the TV?  Why the MLB Network, of course, with a lively discussion of the results from the HOF voting.  All I can say is it’s a good thing for Ivan Rodriguez, Jeff Bagwell and their ilk that my daughter didn’t want to be a sportswriter.  If she did, not only would Cooperstown be free of steroids but the slightest hint of PEDs’ use as well.

The child dragged herself to work on the Magnificent Mile yesterday; to miss four days is criminal in her mind.  If there’s anything left in the tank, tomorrow she’s going to her alma mater Elmhurst to help Coach Paolo with a clinic.  After all, sports nurtures the body along with the spirit.

There is no There There, or Raiders

There is no There There, or Raiders

Gertrude Stein didn’t like Oakland, and apparently neither do the football Raiders.  For the second time since 1982, the team is leaving Oakland, that is, if 24 NFL owners give their OK and Oakland doesn’t come up with a Hail Mary of a stadium deal.  All things considered, color the Raiders black and silver and soon-to-be gone.

Where to?  Why, Las Vegas, of all places.  In other words, the NFL is likely to embrace a place called “Sin City.”  So much for the pretense of pro football being “family” entertainment or being on the up and up, for that matter.  Las Vegas exists for one reason, gambling (sorry, no “gaming” or other euphemism used here), and gamblers have been known to try and influence the outcome of sporting events.  Anyone out there remember the Black Sox?

Here’s where it gets really interesting.  Raiders’ owner Mark Davis wants a $1.9 billion football palace, with $750 million of it publicly financed.  Supposedly, casino owner Sheldon Adelson is set to kick in $650 million, with the remainder coming from the NFL and Davis (how big of him).  Davis may be on the hook for about $300 million.  You don’t think he’ll be shaking down fans with seat licenses, do you?  You don’t think having a casino owner involved in the project is cause for concern, do you?

A better question is, does the NFL? 

Cause and Effect

Put a clown like ex-MLB commissioner Bud Selig into the Hall of Fame, and bad things will happen, as they did yesterday with the announcement of voting results for Cooperstown.  New inductees Jeff Bagwell and Ivan Rodriguez (especially) have been dogged by rumors of steroids’ use.  Maybe they did steroids, maybe not.  But the really scary part is that guilty-until-proven innocent candidates Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens both saw their vote totals rise.  Bonds went from getting 44.3 percent of the vote last year to 53.8 percent this year while Clemens’ total climbed from 45.2 percent to 54.1 percent.

Sportswriters do the voting, so everything has to be taken with a grain of salt.  This time next year, most of them may not even remember who they voted for, so I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s been a shift in thinking.  But if those numbers keep going up, then obviously something’s changed, and I can’t argue with the logic.  Selig, who let White Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf talk him into locking the players out in 1994, then compounded his incompetence by turning a blind eye to steroids’ use, by the way as did all those sportswriters who saw the physiques of Sammy Sosa and company change before their very eyes. 

For me, Selig deserves enshrinement in a hall of clowns.  This is what happens when things go in the opposite direction.       

Another Tree Falls in the Forest...

 I don’t even know how I saw it, given my general disinterest in tweets, but I did.  This one said the Pennsylvania Rebellion women’s pro softball team had ceased operations.  Clare was wondering why there were so many recent transactions involving Rebellion players.

As the saying goes, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and the Rebellion had managed a 42-104 record in its three seasons of existence.  Life is rarely fair, especially in women’s athletics.  In men’s pro sports, a bad team doesn’t bring down a league; if it did, the ’62 Mets would’ve been the death knell of the National League.  Ditto the ’70 White Sox and AL.  But if hardly anyone comes out to see the best teams, who bothers with the Rebellion?

Here’s an accurate gauge as to the health of women’s pro softball—the NYT, in many ways the biggest media champion of women athletics, didn’t report on the Rebellion’s demise.  If your friends don’t know you’re dead, it’s not a good thing.    

My Sweet Lord

Since we’re on the matter of religion, Clare asked me if I’d heard Clemson football coach Dabo Swinney Jesus-talking in the wake of his team winning the NCAA D-I football championship against Alabama.  Swinney appears to be one of those Christians who sees the Almighty dictating the good things that happen in life.  My daughter begs to differ, and she is a religious person.

Maybe so many Americans have become so secular that they can’t see the difference between an evangelical Christian and a Roman Catholic; an Orthodox and a Reform Jew; a Shiite and a Sunni Muslim.  That would explain a lot.  But for anyone wondering, different faiths within respective religions can be as different as night and day.  (And if you don’t know the difference between a faith and a religion, you should be able to find it on Google.)

At the risk of repeating myself, we faced this problem in softball whenever Elmhurst played Wheaton College, an evangelical school that counts the Rev. Billy Graham among its alumni.  Every year Elmhurst players were “invited” to pray with Wheaton players; nobody ever turned down the invitation as far as I could see.  I also never saw an Elmhurst player lead the assembled teams in prayer.  That would risk a Catholic being in charge, and evangelical Wheaton hasn’t always felt warmly towards its fellow Christian denomination.  Why, we pray to saints, which in some circles—including Wheaton past if not present—qualifies as idolatry.  I once suggested to the Elmhurst coach that we bring along a statue of St. Francis to the prayer circle and see what happened.  So, you can see how religious people might not rally around Coach Swinney.

From what I can tell, Swinney wears his faith on his sleeve but doesn’t wield it like a club.  As far as I know, none of his players has ever complained about being coerced into praying or been kicked off the team for his religious beliefs, or lack thereof.  That’s two points in Swinney’s favor.  He also seems to run a clean program, guilty of no worse an NCAA violation than Facetiming a high school player too soon.  As long as Clemson players don’t break the law and their coach doesn’t require proof of the “right” faith in order to play, may Coach Swinney enjoy his championship.  

Daydreaming

So, there I was in church yesterday, the pastor striving mightily to make a theological point that could save my immortal soul.  Did he succeed?  I have no idea, which is an answer in itself, though.

Should St. Peter ever ask, I will admit to daydreaming during that homily on that Sunday in that January of that year.  I was thinking of my daughter, a proud graduate of St. Bernardine School who will even now critique the performance of the altar servers at Mass; she belonged to their ranks for four years, you know, and was even called out of the congregation once to serve during high school.  But I was thinking more of Clare on the playground.

How she loved to throw a football with the boys, why, I haven’t a clue.  We never played catch with one at home, and she was never much of a TV football fan.  But if boys were doing it, that was a challenge Clare couldn’t pass up.  She even bugged the principal to start a flag-football team or two.  Possibly out of concern for the boys, he said No.

And so it goes on a Sunday morning in January, not too cold, sunlight pouring in through the stain-glass windows, this one a gift of the Class of 1940….

Moving Day

The San Diego Chargers are moving to Los Angeles, where they will share a stadium with the newly returned Rams.  Owner Dean Spanos used the team website to say goodbye to the Chargers’ former home, which “will always be part of our identity,” except on game days.

From what I read, the Chargers are going to have to pay the NFL a relocation fee of somewhere between $550-$650 million, this in order to play in a soccer stadium with all of 30,000 seats until the new stadium is ready in 2019.  Does anybody really believe an NFL owner would take that kind of hit if it’s his own money on the line?  I don’t.  Somewhere, somehow, that penalty and lost revenue from playing in a band box will be more than made up.

Baseball pioneered franchise relocation in the 1950s.  Nowadays, professional sports’ teams aren’t fleeing old stadiums or “decaying” neighborhoods.  Instead, they’re chasing pots of gold in the form of seat licenses; luxury suites; sweetheart development and rent deals; television contracts.  The Dodgers leaving Brooklyn may have qualified as a tragedy; the Browns, Cardinals, Chargers, Colts, Rams and maybe Raiders packing up does not.  Fans who have their hearts broken long ago had fair warning.  It’s the nature of the beast, pro sports.     

Critical Eye

Clare called the other day to ask, “Have you seen that clip of Yoan Moncada hitting?” No, I said, “why?”  “He’s got a loopy swing hitting left handed.  I don’t like it.”  So says a girl who ought to be a hitting coach.  I’m serious.  “He popped a ball up taking BP.  That’s not good.  Who’s the catcher?”  Zach Collins.  “He’s got a better swing.”

I want Moncada, the centerpiece of the Chris Sale deal, to work out, but if he doesn’t or underwhelms from the left side, I’ll know who to thank for the insight.  And, if she’s wrong, hey, that should put her in good standing with a front office that thought signing Adam Dunn and Adam LaRoche made sense. 

Don't Pin This on Me

I read two Chicago columnists the last couple of days about Derrick Rose.  The one said “we” enabled Rose when he was in Chicago.  The other believes the onetime MVP is exhibiting signs of depression and needs help.  No, maybe, and what’s your point?

Sorry, but I didn’t enable anyone.  My daughter earned her own SAT scores, which her college coaches were ecstatic about; ditto her GPA.  Together, test scores and grades signaled there’d be no eligibility problems the next four years, and there weren’t any.  Yes, female college athletes play the same eligibility games their male counterparts do, with all sorts of majors that require the skill set of a third grader.  But not in this family.

And if Rose is depressed, what are the Knicks supposed to do about it?  Their “star” guard has made it known that he intends to test free agency at the end of the current season, so it’s not as though he’s generated a lot of good will during a half season in New York.  Yes, someone could pull Rose aside and suggest he talk to a professional, but the Knicks’ front office can be excused if they don’t do it.  Rose is, after all, an adult in line to make $21.3 million this year.  He has an agent and a family, which he says he visited during his absence; those should be his first line of support.  If Knicks’ president Phil Jackson reaches out to Rose, good for Jackson in embracing one of the Eight Beatitudes.  But that’s not his job, or mine.    

Bad Cub Bits and Pieces

The back of today’s Tribune’s sports’ section was full of Cubs’ stuff, which is to be expected; I mean, my team jumped off a cliff.  Some news and notes struck me as funny, like Kyle Schwarber batting leadoff.  And what verb comes to mind in describing Schwarber going from first to third, “lumber” or “motor”?  Tell the truth.

And then there’s Joe Maddon talking about authenticity:  “The fact is, authenticity has a chance to repeat itself without even trying.  It’s part of who you are.  It’s not fabricated.  It’s real.”  I swear this guy makes it up as he goes along.  Jibber jibber, jabber jabber, grand slam.  Let’s see if people still hang on Maddon’s every word once his players stop hitting the way they did in 2016.

Lastly, we have the story of starter Jake Arrieta, who pulled down $10.7 million last year and could earn in the vicinity of $16.8 million this season because he’s arbitration-eligible.  Bad Doug hopes Arrieta breaks the bank and then lays an egg every time he takes the mound, but Good Doug knows that wouldn’t change the nature of the game.  Baseball economics are moving inexorably to the point of $100 general admission tickets.  It’s not a matter of if, but when.  My solution for some time now has been to watch games on TV, but there will come a point, sooner rather than later, when every ballgame telecast will come with its own ticket price, and, so help me God, they’re going to find a way to offer different coverage packages.You want instant replay?

That’ll cost extra, my friend.     

Cause and Effect

Today, the Tribune reported in normal-sized type that the Dodgers signed closer Kenley Jensen to a five-year, $80 million deal.  A corresponding move was relegated to the tiny type in Transactions.

To make room for Jensen on the 40-man roster, the Dodgers designated ex-White Sox Micah Johnson for assignment.  Johnson was part of a three-team trade that brought Todd Frazier over from the Reds last season; Sox prospects including Johnson and outfielder Trace Thompson went to LA while Dodger prospects went to Cincinnati.

Johnson finds himself in the same boat as former Sox outfielder Thad Bosley, a onetime phenom who said, “I used to be a prospect.  Now I’m a suspect.”  Johnson had a chance to start at second base for both the Sox and the Dodgers, only to underwhelm each time.  At the age of 25, he should be hitting better than the .261 he put up in Triple-A last year.  Johnson’s career is, as they say, at a crossroads.

Personally, I hope he finds success on and off the field.  Clare follows him on Twitter and sends along some of his tweets; the man can string words along, maybe better than he can base hits.  He draws and speaks in complete sentences and has expressed an interest in law school.  It’s time for something good to happen in his life, whether a starting job on the major league level or good LSAT scores.  Either way, I wish him well.   

So Nice They Named It Twice

 These have been a tough couple of days for sports’ fans in the City that Never Sleeps.  On Sunday, the Giants got skunked by the Packers 38-13, and people couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the one-day trip Odell Beckham Jr. and three other New York receivers took to Miami on their day off of practice last week.  “I’m a grown man,” Beckham told the New York Daily News, responding to criticism of the trip.  The “grown man” had three drops—one for a touchdown—in the game, after which he reportedly put his fist through a wall in Lambeau Field.

A day later, the Knicks’ Derrick Rose decided not to show up for a game at the Garden, no reason given either by Rose or the team.  The Knicks have lost eight of their last nine (how is that possible with Rose and Carmelo Anthony both on the floor?), the only win coming when Rose was benched the entire fourth quarter, his place taken by an undrafted free agent.  And this happened just a day after the Tribune quoted Rose that playing in New York “motivates you to work hard.”

Just not on a Monday in January.        

Six of One...

What is it about the Greenbay Packers I so dislike?  By population, they should be perennial underdogs.  But the Greenbay Packers, underdogs?  Hardly.  My earliest football memories are of Vince Lombardi and George Halas.  Pick your scowl.

In my more rational moments, I have to give a tip of the cap to the franchise for being so good for so long.  The Packers come as close as you can to a dynasty in their sport.  We’ll see what the Patriots are made of once Tom Brady retires.  Brady is one star quarterback versus Bart Starr, Brett Favre and, now, Aaron Rodgers.

There was even a time when I really liked Wisconsin.  My parents would find a cabin on a lake somewhere north of the state line, and off we’d go for a week, my mother vising the Piggly Wiggly or some such place for groceries.  I can still hear the waves lapping against the side of the rowboat tied to the pier, and I remember listening to a Cubs’ game on the radio.  It was in the mid-90s back home while we cooled off in the shade of the North Woods.

But the flies always liked to bite, that I remember, too, and I wonder how much our hosts could stand us.  Nowadays, it’s an open secret that Wisconsinites detest “flatlanders” from Illinois; we drive too fast and probably talk too loud.  Maybe that’s a recent development, in which case, how sad.  If not, the flies were a tipoff and I hate the Packers.

Yesterday, they demolished the Giants, 38-13.  Chicagoan that I am, the score makes for good lemonade because I hate things and people New York more than I ever could Greenbay.  Next week, the Packers travel to Dallas to face off against the Cowboys, Cheeseheads vs. Jerry Jones’ kids.  Oh, well, I hate things and people Texas more than I ever could Greenbay.  Maybe, sometimes.

Culture

Bears’ general manager Ryan Pace praises coach John Fox the “culture” he’s instilled in the locker room.  New University of Minnesota football coach P.J. Fleck told reporters Friday, “I’m here to change the tradition.  I’m here to change the culture.”  I don’t think Fleck is talking about getting a team membership to the Art Institute or symphony.

This culture-talk is unique to football; other sports talk more about chemistry.  Either way, it boils down to winning, nothing more, nothing less.  The NCAA is full of Division-I basketball and football teams awash in allegations about player misconduct; if said team wins big year after year, the allegations are allowed to pile up even if the occasional player goes to jail or gets kicked off the team.  But once a team tanks or a coach doesn’t meet expectations, then comes the “culture” talk.

Bismarck did that, too.    

Transactions

Clare called today, a Saturday, to tell me the White Sox claimed outfielder Willy Garcia off waivers from the Pirates and designated outfielder Jason Coats for assignment.  This allowed me to give her a refresher on the intricacies of the 40-man roster, after which I mentioned Coats might stay with the Sox organization, unlike J.B. Shuck, who signed with the Twins after being taken off the roster.

I wonder if I did something like this with my parents after getting married.  My father had a passion for the newspaper and could’ve talked about anything from any section, though he didn’t have the same interest in the Transactions’ tiny-type that I always did.  And we didn’t talk politics because you just didn’t talk politics with my father.  As for conversations with my mother, they always danced around the question, When are you having a baby?  It took twelve years before she got the answer she wanted.

And now that answer updates me on moves our favorite baseball team makes.  I should have called more.

The Path Taken

My daughter chose an apartment based on her father’s time on the Illinois Prairie Path bike trail.  Allow me to explain.

Around the time Clare was in eighth grade, I got very serious about biking.  Metropolitan Chicago is great for this sort of thing.  To those of us born here, almost all “hills” are the work of engineers, viz., overpasses.  Just about everything else is flat land and easy to bike across.

Among my discoveries twelve or so years ago was the Prairie Path, which follows along an abandoned interurban line (think “L” line running through the countryside) that goes west to Billy Graham’s Wheaton before heading north to Elgin, where they used to make those wonderful watches.  At the time I was riding this particular stretch of the Path a lot, developers were working to turn an old Ovaltine plant into the anchor for an apartment complex.

Ovaltine just happened to be my Grandma Gurke’s favorite drink.  I took it as a sign one of her grandchildren should live there.  The more I biked, the more convinced I was that it ought to happen.  My sister Betty was thinking of moving back home from Texas, and I kept telling her to check out the Ovaltine plant.  Only she died before she could make the move.

Apparently, her niece had been listening, too.  When it came time for Clare and her fiancé Chris to find an apartment, they tried Ovaltine and really liked it.  (Please forgive the pun.)  If Chris can figure out where to put his bike, he may use it to commute to his coaching job at Elmhurst College, which is no more than two or three miles from the path.  So, there you have it, destiny by bike path.

Ship of Fools

My apologies to author Katherine Anne Porter, but how better to describe the Chicago Bears front office than that?  Well, maybe the Tribune comes close, borrowing the Warner Brothers’ signoff for their cartoons, with a bear instead of Porky Pig announcing, “That’s all, Folks!”  And the way the Trib added “Blah…Blah…Blah…” was a nice touch.  So too the Sun-Times’ punny head, A Bore of Words.

Never has a 3-13 team been so close to greatness, or so team chairman George McCaskey and his designated flunkies would have you believe.  Why, when McCaskey walks the parking lots at Soldier Field, he says the fans tell him how much they like general manager Ryan Pace and coach John Fox.  Trust me, George, with fans like that you don’t need enemies.  The Times said your team sold its fewest tickets since 1979.  You know what the no-shows are up to?  Getting the tar and feathers ready for when those nice fans you’re talking to get you in a corner.  The hottest tickets in town come September may be for carrying you on a rail out of town.

All laughing and sarcasm aside, this is pretty sad.  Chicago is the worst-served major sports’ town in America, where just about every team talks about a teardown and rebuild.  The Cubs did it; the White Sox are in the midst of doing it; and the Bulls might do it yet.  The Bears are less a rebuild than an ongoing disaster, the kind you can’t help staring at.  The only good news is fewer and fewer people, whether fans or media, are willing to drink the Kool-Aid.  In these parts, that’s real progress. 

Making Sense

I’ve been trying to make sense of the football scandal at the University of Minnesota.  The team threatened to boycott the Holiday Bowl after 10 teammates were suspended over an alleged sexual assault.  Football coach Tracy Claeys then tweeted “Have never been more proud of our kids.”   The suspended “kids” at the very least put themselves in a compromising position and at the worst escaped prosecution for a crime they took part in.  At latest report, authorities are not pressing charges.  Oh, by the way, the other kids dropped their boycott after a couple of days.  Claeys has since been fired.

I prefer life simple, dry and cut, black and white, if for no other reason that a gray instance like this is all too hard to deal with.  Bigtime college sports and alcohol are not a good mix, not when a sense of entitlement is thrown into the stew.  If only college football coaches acted like Woody Hayes, off the field instead of on.  Then, players would be too afraid to try anything possibly felonious.  But I have to admit there is also a part of me that believes if no formal charge can be drawn, the accused have to be deemed not guilty, unless the school can discipline them for breaking team or school rules, e.g., in-season and/or underage drinking.  Then by all means throw the book at the offenders.

I’m lucky as a parent of a daughter that nothing like this ever happened to Clare.  There was a party I heard about where one of her teammates punched a guy.  That’s one way of getting the message of “‘No’ means no” across.  Unfortunately, not everyone has that option available to them.   

Connections

My father-in-law has some peculiar notions about basketball, in particular that #1 draft picks should always excel because they were so good in college.  To me, a bust at number one means bad scouting.  To him, it’s one of life’s great mysteries.

But I get why he likes the Bulls’ Jimmy Butler, who scored 52 points yesterday in a win against Charlotte.  Yes, Butler was a #1 selection, but that’s not it.  Butler attended Marquette, and so did my father-in-law’s grandson Nate.  Whenever we happen to be watching the Bulls, my father-in-law sees Butler and mentions Nate, who also attended Marquette.  Nate never graduated because he died of cancer.  But as long as Jimmy Butler can play in the NBA, a boy taken too soon still lives.  And what kind of son-in-law would I be to have a problem with that?    

Now What?

Yesterday, the Bears ran a full-page ad in the Tribune sports’ section, “From the entire Bears team, thank you for your passion,” none of which showed in their last game of the season, a 38-10 drubbing by the Minnesota Vikings.  Chicago finishes with a 3-13 record, its worst ever for a 16-game season.  They also managed to go 0-8 on the road, no mean feat that.

As for that passion, none was evident at U.S Bank Stadium.  (If only businesses were embarrassed by the bland names they pay for to put on stadiums.)  I saw Minnesota runners met at the line of scrimmage, still able to gain another 3-4 yards on the play.  I saw a Bears’ player screen a teammate trying to catch a punt subsequently recovered by the Vikings.  I saw Bears’ quarterback Matt Barkley get stripped of the ball and his teammates stand pretty much motionless as a Minnesota defender picked it up and ran for a touchdown.  I saw absolutely no reason for head coach John Fox to be back next season.

Bears’ fans have been so docile for so long they really don’t know how to show disgust; the best way would be to cancel season’s tickets.  That the McCaskeys would understand and respond to.  Making the right changes is an entirely different story.  Personally, I think all the talent was buried with George Halas.  Let them prove me wrong.       

Regroup

It’s a new year, with my daughter engaged and living elsewhere.  Note to parents: Nothing like moving the kid out of the house in December snow.  About the only thing better is moving her into her apartment, on the second floor.

Of course, none of that stopped Clare from calling yesterday; we will probably talk about sports from now ’til kingdom come.  “Did you hear about [UFC former champion] Ronda Rousey?”  She lost in like a minute.”

Actually, it took all of 48 seconds for the onetime darling of the martial arts’ circuit to be declared out on her feet after absorbing 27 (!) punches from UFC bantamweight champion Amanda Nunes.  Rousey hadn’t fought since losing the title in a second-round knockout to Holly Holm in late 2015.  Ostensibly, she’d been training for this fight for months.  If so, she either did a whole bunch wrong or walked into a human buzz saw.

But my guess is that Rousey is at war with herself.  Two humiliating defeats in a row could be a coincidence, but I doubt it.  If her subconscious is talking, Rousey needs to listen and call it a career.  What she does for a living will kill her, as it basically does all fighters.

Joe DiMaggio spent decades after his baseball career ended looking more like a movie star than an ex-jock.  Hank Aaron looks good in this his 82^nd year, and even the occasional old football player like Dick Butkus or Mike Ditka does as well.  But name me a fighter who ages gracefully.  Joe Frazier?  Muhammad Ali?  Joe Louis?  Jack Dempsey?  Mike Tyson?  Adonais does not dare wear boxing trunks.

The ring—or cage, and think about the symbolism inherent in that word—is just as unforgiving as the street and alley.  I understand why Victorians and their heirs have wanted to outlaw the sport.  But fighting would go on, worse even for being forced underground.  So, the “sweet science” will go on claiming victims.  Ronda Rousey needs to think long and hard about her future, while she still can.