Sacrilege

If they had the power, MLB and Commissioner Manford no doubt would have me beaten to within an inch of my life for the following heresy as to how baseball works best in the lives of its fans.  But I’m officially at a point in my life that I don’t care.  So, here goes:  It all started when Clare slept over this weekend because her fiancé had to be out of town.  Saturday night, we watched the White Sox and again yesterday afternoon.

Sitting together on the couch as always, we discussed what’s wrong with Tim Anderson’s swing (the consensus—pretty much everything).  We waited for the Sox to get their first hit; a game-tying homerun by Leury Garcia, that didn’t  happen until the sixth inning, and we watched as Matt Davidson launched a two-run walk-off in the bottom of the ninth to stop the Indians’ win streak at nine.  Then we went out and played two games of bag-toss in the backyard.  The father won both bitterly-fought contests.

After dinner came cake, for the day was special.  Happy birthday to Joe Nuxhall and Gus Triandos, and happy birthday to me.  The blessings are infinite.

Tweet, Tweet

Clare told me yesterday that the White Sox tweet out minor-league updates during Sox games.  The message, again, is: Forget this year.  It’s the future that counts.  Didn’t anybody tell the front office what happens when you play with fire?

You tweet that Joe Hardy is having a great year, and fans will start to think he’s the real deal.  I speak from experience, minus the tweets.  Me, I never would’ve traded quality pitching in its prime, definitely not Chris Sale and probably not Jose Quintana.  I would’ve held on to those two and traded just about everyone else, Adam Eaton and Jose Abreu included.  That, and I would’ve started treating the draft as though it counted, which is supposedly what the Sox did starting in 2016.  Let’s see.

Outfielders Alex Call and Jameson Fisher sure looked to be on the fast track to the majors.  After being drafted in June, Call hit his way out of rookie ball to low-A Kannapolis, where he hit .308 in just under 200 at-bats.  This year, he started slow—.244—at high-A Winston-Salem before suffering a muscle injury that sidelined him for close to two months.  Then Call went on the rehab assignment from hell, going 3 for 51 in Arizona before being reassigned to Kannapolis.  Call is hitting .152 his second time around in A ball.

Fisher did even better than Call in rookie ball, hitting an impressive .342.  He started the season at Kannapolis, where he hit a respectable though not great .269 before getting called up to Winston-Salem.  Let’s just say a .214 batting average won’t get you to Double-A Birmingham, let alone 35^th and Shields.

Like Call and Fisher, catcher Zack Collins was a highly-touted ’16 draft pick.  The Sox thought so much of Collins they sent him to Winston-Salem after just three games of rookie ball, and Collins responded by hitting .258 with six homeruns and 18 RBIs in 120 at-bats.  Carlton who?   Or so Sox fans might’ve dreamed.  Then came a second season of high-A for Collins.  The 15 homers are encouraging but not the .211 batting average or 107 strikeouts in 299 at-bats.

Long story short—be careful what you tweet.  Like they say, what goes around comes around.

Tutorials

White Sox broadcasts have gotten rather interesting lately, what with the team and front office pulling the plug on 2017, despite more than two months to go.  So, instead of focusing too much attention on yet another loss—9-3 to the Indians, dropping the Sox to 39-61—fans are treated to all sorts of rebuild-tidbits.

So, mention of the farm teams is de rigueur, even if it entails the 15-8 shellacking Triple-A Charlotte took Friday.  And let’s not forget Kannapolis, where two June draft picks are hitting the ball at a nice clip.  But why aren’t there any hitters doing well in Double A Birmingham or in Charlotte?  Alas, the graphic doesn’t say.

But there was a whole bunch of stuff on the Indians’ rebuild(s); from what I could tell, it all started back in 2008.  Think about that for a second.  I’m supposed to buy into what Cleveland did over the course of seven seasons and then apply it to the White Sox.   In another seven years, I’ll be old enough to be venerable, if not quite venerated.  To paraphrase Queen Victoria, we are not amused.      

Tomato, Tomahto

Really, what’s the difference between a rebuild and an expansion team?  Either way, you end up with a bunch of new and unproven talent.  In the last two weeks alone, the White Sox have traded away six veterans in exchange for ten “prospects.”  General manager Rick Hahn doesn’t seem too concerned about any of them reaching 35^th and Shields anytime soon.  I mean, the last two trades netted us minor leaguers on the disabled list.

Hahn sees a double-play combination of Tim Anderson and Yoan Moncada as a soon-to-be wonderful thing.  I see one guy hitting .239 (to go with his 22 errors), the other .111, and keep thinking of Casey Stengell on the immortal Greg Goossen:  “Goossen is only 20, and in 10 years he has a chance to be 30.”  Until shown otherwise, the same could be said of all that new talent down on the farm.

A Tale of Two Sox

Last night, James Shields and Chris Sale started for the White Sox and Red Sox, respectively.  Shields retired the first nine Cubs’ batters he faced, leading analyst Steve Stone to declare in the top of the fourth inning that Shield’s “power change” was back.  Alas, Stone spoke too soon.

Shields gave up a run in the fourth and another four in the fifth before being lifted; three of the five runs were earned, giving Shields a 5.86 ERA (and sure to be rising).  For anyone interested, Shields earned $21 million last season and is in line to earn another $21 million this year and, you guessed it, $21 million in 2018.  It’s nice pay for a 2-3 record.

In Seattle, Chris Sale—he used to pitch for the White Sox, I’m told—threw seven scoreless innings.  Sale gave up three hits and a walk to go with 11 strikeouts.  He’s now 13-4 on the season with a 2.37 ERA.  He leads the known world in strikeouts, tallying 211 in just 148.1innings.  Sale made $9.15 million last year compared to $12 million this season and $12.5 million due in 2018.  That’s what you call a healthy return on your investment.

Meanwhile, Yoan Moncada, who turned into an ex-Red Sox when he went to the White Sox as part of the deal for Sale, hit his first career homerun Wednesday, this off Jake Arrieta.  That’s nice.  Moncada is currently batting .130 since his call up.  That had better improve, or we’ll be dealing with an inverse Curse of the Bambino.     

Only in Chicago

We don’t do World Series in Chicago too often, usually a hundred years or so per team.  But the Crosstown Classic is a whole different animal.  Milton Bradley, Carlos Zambrano, A.J. Pierzynski—this has been your stage.  Rarely do fans go home disappointed.

The two games at Wrigley Field this week have been nothing short of Crosstown-classic.  The White Sox took the first game 3-1 on home runs by Adam Engel and Matt Davidson, whose shot to left field travelled an estimated 476 feet.  Yesterday was all Cubs, 7-2, and all weird, as in Carlos Rodon of the Sox striking out 11 of the 12 batters he faced; never has a ballgame featured a strike zone as mammoth as the one home plate umpire Lance Barksdale staked out on Tuesday.  How big?  So big that mild-mannered, gee-whiz, by-golly Kris Bryant got tossed for the first time in his career after arguing with Barksdale over a called third strike. Bryant had gone down swinging the two times previous (mixed in with a foul ball off a knee), so it wasn’t exactly his day.

Too bad I can’t say the same for Cubs’ starter John Lackey, who hit Sox hitters four times, and Jose Abreu twice.  Of course, he wasn’t trying to.  In postgame comments, Lackey all but blamed Matt Davidson and Yoan Moncada for getting in the way.  The really fun part of it is how Sox announcer Ken “Hawk” Harrelson reacted after Lackey loaded the bases on hit batsmen:  “That’s enough of that, Lackey!  That’s enough of that BS.”  Hawk demanded retaliation, and got it when Sox reliever Chris Beck plunked Ian Happ in the right thigh, though that might’ve been Option B in his book.  Hawk thought it might be better if the Sox—one or more, he didn’t specify—waited for Lackey after the game.  “That way, no one could break it up.”  Hey, we’re not the City of Brotherly Love here.

Speaking of Davidson, he seems to have become incredibly relaxed after the trade of Todd Frazier to the Yankees.  Speaking of Frazier, I saw him do something against the Reds I had no idea was possible—he grounded into a triple play while a run scored.  The bases were loaded, and Frazier hit the ball to short.  For some reason, the runner on second didn’t go all the way to third and was caught in a rundown.  Only in New York.  Too bad the Yankees won.  

Time Flies, Except in Baseball

 The Tigers beat the Twins Sunday afternoon by a score of 9-6.  Pity the poor Twins’ fans who had to sit through 4 hours and 19 minutes of losing baseball, the longest nine-inning game in club history. 

In light of that and other unwanted baseball marathons, MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred says he wants to do something about the length of games.  OK, then put me in charge.  Twins’ manager Paul Molitor used six, count them, six, relievers, and guess what?  They still coughed up seven runs.  I doubt Molitor made the Hall of Fame by being a dumb player, but his  managing Sunday is a real headscratcher.

Give me a team, Mr. Commissioner, along with a mandate to carry no more than 11 pitchers.  Before long, I guarantee I can win more games by utilizing the 4-5 extra players on my roster with pinch running; pinch hitting; late-inning defensive substitutions; and platooning than I’ll lose by not having all those pitchers.  And I’ll do it in less time because I won’t be making all those pitching changes.

I see the Royals are carrying not 11, not 12, not 13, but 14 pitchers.  So, in the spirit of “put up or shut up,” let me go up against them, first.  OK, Commissioner?      

Gone, Gone, Gone

Wow.  This is the first time in my life I’ve been on the exercycle while a team—not the White Sox, of course—hit back-to-back-to-back homeruns.  Thank you for that experience, Derek Holland.

But the Sox were actually in a position to win; thank you for the bases-clearing double, Adam Engel.  If only we had a bullpen.  I thought the sign of a good general manager would be to have replacements ready for the people you trade away, but Rick Hahn works off a different plan.  In the ideal world, yes, he had replacements, three of them in fact.  Too bad Zack Burdi, Jake Petricka and Nate Jones are all injured.  But Hahn wanted those Yankees’ prospects, and, if a trade for them gutted the Sox pen, so what?  Hey, it’s a rebuild.

Speaking of prospects (and the White Sox p.r. department is happy to do so 24/7), MLBPipeline.com says the Sox have 7 of the top 50 prospects in the game, and 10 out of  the top 68.  Wow, again.  The minor-league system must be kicking some major butt, right?

Not really.  The top four farm teams are a combined 166-228 on the season so far, with only low-A Kannapolis posting a winning record.  But hey, again, it’s a rebuild.  What do won-lost records count for?

Everything.

That Sinking Feeling

Let’s get one thing straight—any team that features James Shields, Mike Pelfrey and Derek Holland in its rotation is not in the rebuild stage.  It’s more a teardown, with the accent on “implosion.”

Shields started against the Royals in Kansas City Friday night and couldn’t hold a four-run lead.  He managed a mere 4.1 innings, giving six runs all earned on ten hits and three walks; his ERA is now up to 5.79.  What keeps him on the roster, let alone in the rotation?

Last night, it was Pelfrey’s turn.  Here’s two things to know about him, starting with opponents’ batting average.  The first time through the lineup, batters are hitting .271 against Pelfrey; .181 the second time through; and, if he hasn’t already been knocked out of the box, .425 the third time through.  Oh, and baserunners have been successful 15 times out of 16 stealing against the righty.

That said, Pelfrey only gave up one run in five-plus innings.  If only he hadn’t seen fit to walk six hitters, then maybe manager Rick Renteria wouldn’t have lifted him with a two-run lead (and a relatively stellar 4.46 ERA).  That was problematic given that we don’t have a bullpen anymore after trading away David Robertson and Tommy Kahnle.  Right now, it’s the equivalent of open-mic night at the Comedy Shack.  But five homeruns by our relievers wasn’t exactly funny, or a 7-2 loss, the Sox’ eighth in a row and eleventh in twelve games.  Oh, well.  Nobody said rebuilds were easy.

And nobody said the talent is anywhere near ready to replace Shields, Pelfrey or today’s retread starter, Derek Holland, who’s 5-9 with a 5.18 ERA.  As for replacements down on the farm, we traded Adam Eaton away for a package of prospects including starting pitcher Lucas Giolito, only he has a 3-9 record to go with a 5.38 ERA starting for Triple-A Charlotte.  There’s also our no.-1 draft pick from two years ago, Carson Fulmer.  He’s another Charlotte starter, with a 6-6 record and 5.42 ERA.

Rebuild?  No.  We’ll still in race-to-the-bottom mode.

What Used to Be

What Used to Be

Every year around this time, White Sox Charities holds an All-Star Game of high school players as part of their inner city baseball outreach.  It’s named after Negro Leaguer Ted “Double Duty” Radcliffe, who earned his nickname when sportswriter Damon Runyan saw Radcliffe catch one game of a double header between the Pittsburgh Crawfords and New York Black Yankees in 1932, then start the second.  In his later years, Radcliffe could often be seen at Sox games.

The Double Duty Classic, though in truth just one game, makes for a perfect feel-good story on the nightly news.  The story I saw Thursday included film of a Negro League All-Star Game, which was held at Comiskey Park.  There were those unmistakable arches circling the field, just as they did when Joe Louis won his heavyweight crown; Larry Doby broke the color line; my father took me to my first game; the Beatles came to play; the South Side Hit Men put on a power display; and a later team found joy in winning ugly.  The memories stopped accumulating after 1990.

Ted Radcliffe lived to be 103.  He outlasted Comiskey Park by almost fifteen years.

Too Smart by Half

Sports’ writing in the 21^st century is all about cute, as witness this sentence in today’s Tribune sports’ section:  “Looking ahead to next June’s draft, which is now the [White]Sox’s World Series, it’s just a shame the Sox still aren’t worse than the Phillies and Giants.”  Oh, that’s a good one, not.

 Mr. Columnist must’ve been on a tight deadline, or else he would’ve listed at least some of the top prospects in the ’18 Draft Class; surely, he wasn’t too lazy to do a little digging on Google.  This is hardly the first time this self-acknowledged dealer in “snark” has banged his lose-lose-lose-to-get-prospects drum.  I only wish he would say when the Sox should go into win-win-win mode.  Maybe he did it on his podcast.   

Dazed and Confused, and a Little Cranky.

 Back in olden days, when the peasants came in from working the far fields on their nobleman’s estate, we gathered ’round the radio or television to catch a few innings of the ballgame, or read about it in the paper the next day.  But as sure as sure as our work stayed the same one year to the next, so did the rosters of our favorite ball clubs.  Baseball’s serfs labored for their respective owners year after year, until traded or released.

Put a gun to my head, and I can still give you the starting lineup of the 1965 Cubs and White Sox, along with a few other teams from that year and time; just don’t ask me to do that for teams today.  Between free agency and rebuilds, you can’t tell the players without a scorecard, and try to find one of those the next time you’re at a game.

For what it’s worth, I can start in on memorizing the names of new White Sox players if for no other reason than Phase One of the Grand Rebuild seems to be over; really, there’s no one of much value left to trade.  Chris Sale went last November; Jose Quintana departed for the North Side last week; and two days ago it was David Robertson, Todd Frazier and Tommy Kahnle going to the Yankees.  If nothing else, I won’t have to watch Quintana give up any more walks after getting ahead 0-2 in the count or Frazier lunge after yet another pitch as he strikes out.  By the way, guess who went down swinging in his first appearance for the Almighty Pinstripes?

Where the Sox had four major-leaguers this time last year, they’ve traded them for 17 prospects.  Just about everyone from ESPN to sports’ talk radio says GM Rick Hahn has stocked what is now the best minor-league system in all of baseball, which is nice, I guess.  But if the other teams involved in the trades—the Red Sox, Nationals, Cubs and Yankees—weren’t totally asleep when the deals went down, they got some value (see Chris Sale) in return.  Which leads to the observation—in these quarters, yet again—that the problem on the South Side in recent seasons hasn’t been the players (the two Adams, Dunn and LaRoche, excepted) as much as it has been the coaching.  Rick Renteria is certainly a better manager than Robin Ventura, but is he a good manager?  We’re going to find out.

I hate losing because, well, I hate losing.  Renteria should, too, given how the guys in the dugout at the start of a rebuild, e.g., Dale Sveum and Bo Porter, aren’t always around when it’s complete.  But I will make an exception every time James Shields pitches.  Shields has nothing left, as demonstrated by he’s given up 11 homeruns in 42.1 innings, which translates into a 5.10 ERA.  If it’s a rebuild, Shields needs to go.   

 

Analyze This

The first time Clare called last night she was on the way to getting her nails done for the “save the date” invitations she and her fiancé Chris will be mailing out shortly; in case you weren’t aware, simple wedding invitations are so 20^th century.  Now, engaged couples let people know months and months ahead of sending the formal invitations.  Anyhow, my daughter alerted me, “They scratched [soon-to-be-ex-White Sox third baseman Todd] Frazier from the lineup.  You know what that means.”

A few hours later, nails done, she called again to say, “Frazier, [closer] David Robertson and [setup man] Tommy Kahnle are going to the Yankees.  Oh, wait.  No, I was reading a false tweet.”  This didn’t happen back when we conducted business by carrier pigeon, let me tell you.  But the tweet ended up being merely premature, not wrong.  The above three are headed to the Bronx for yet more prospects.

By my informal count, recent trades and draft picks leave the Sox three-deep with supposed prospects at each outfield position.  As for pitching, the intent looks to be to go with a 20-man starting rotation; that’s how many “quality” hurlers we’ve acquired.  Only time will tell.

But the really big news is that Yoan Moncada has passed his “Hahn exams.”  The centerpiece of last year’s Chris Sale trade will be making his Chicago debut tonight against the Dodgers.  GM Rick “The Professor” Hahn is satisfied his star pupil has learned everything he can at Triple A.  Now, what Moncada does counts for real, and Professor Hahn will be judged accordingly.

Get on your marks….

You Can't Catch This

Baseball is a sport both beautiful and cruel.  In Sunday night’s game at Fenway Park, Aaron Judge, the Yankees’ 6’7” rookie phenom, hit a ball so hard that microphones actually picked up the proverbial crack of the bat.  Anywhere else in the American League and Judge would’ve had his 31^st homerun of the season, best in all of baseball.  But Red Sox centerfielder Jackie Bradley Jr. denied him (oh, another Judge pun), thanks in part to one of Fenway’s many quirks.

Judge hit the ball a few feet to the right of dead center, where there’s a kind of notch some 420 feet from home plate formed by where the grandstand and bullpen jut out; this exists nowhere else in baseball.  The 5’10” Bradley—mind you, one of four Sox starters who stand under six-feet tall—raced into the notch, jumped and caught the ball over a railing.  Goodbye two-run homer in what ended as a 3-0 Red Sox win.

This could never happen on an NFL field or NBA court; each and every one has same regulated dimensions.  Fenway is different in the same way Wrigley Field is different, and Cmiskey Park and the Polo Grounds used to be.  Long live that part of baseball’s past.    

This is What He Was Talking About

This is what Richard Sherman is talking about.  Over the weekend, the Red Sox released third baseman Pablo Sandoval, signed by Boston in 2015 to a five-year contract for $95 million.  In two-plus injury-plagued seasons with the Sox, Sandoval batted .237 with a grand total of 57 RBIs, not all that much more than his 21 errors.  If no one picks up Sandoval (and why would they?), Boston is on the line for the rest of the contract.  If someone does take a flyer on the erstwhile Kung Fu Panda, the Red Sox would still have to eat the contract, minus a pro-rated minimum for the season paid by the other team, around $500,000.

In football, that contract never would’ve been guaranteed for all five years.  Right now, NFL general managers are laughing at their baseball brethren, and at Boston most of all.  Personally, I think this is great.  The Red Sox did not do due diligence on a 29-year old player with weight issues, so they literally have to pay for their mistake.

What could be fairer than that?

Copycat

Copycat

The Seahawks Richard Sherman told Jalen Rose in an ESPN interview the other day NFL players have to be willing to strike if they want to improve their status vis a vis the other sports.  “You’re going to have to miss games, you’re going to have to lose some money, if you’re willing to make the point [about bigger contracts], because that’s how MLB and NBA got it done.  They missed games, they struck, they flexed every bit of power they had, and it was awesome.  It worked for them.”  In the case of baseball, yes, definitely for the players but not so much the fans.

In several respects, the NFL is more like the NBA than MLB, so Sherman’s call to arms may not alienate fans as much as it has in baseball.  By that I mean basketball and football fans go in accepting players as different beings given their size and shape.  Baseball, and even more so hockey, still have players who don’t stand out in their street clothes.  Kyle Long and LeBron James will always draw a crowd wherever they go, not so much Mookie Betts and Tommy La Stella or even Patrick Kane.  Someone like James or Michael Jordan has demigod status, which includes the right to untold riches.  It’s different with a guy who looks like me—or how I used to look in my 20s—making $10-million plus can rub people the wrong way, especially if he starts criticizing fans for getting on his performance.

I don’t begrudge Sherman or any NFL player for wanting to make more money.  Football is a brutal game that can shorten lives in a way baseball doesn’t.  But in the short run, a strike will irritate fans the way work stoppages did in baseball.  After that, who knows?  Owners being owners, they’ll no doubt try to replace any revenue lost to players by recouping it on tickets.  I wonder how fans will react.  

Any Regrets?

Regrets?

There used to be two wrongs that made a bond between baseball players and fans—each group got the short end of the stick from their employers.  Money didn’t get in the way of rooting for a guy who would have to take a regular job come the end of the season and the end of his career.

Free agency and broadcast revenue broke that bond.  Now, a journeyman can enjoy multimillionaire status while the proverbial “cup of coffee” can translate into a pension to die for (or not).  The “boos” come out of the stands a little quicker these days as the unrich lose their patience over the on-field performance of the young rich.  So it goes.

   One of the risks of being an MLB ballplayer today is falling victim to the temptation of calling it quits, on the game, the season or a career.  As a kid, I can remember all sorts of players hanging on—Charlie Maxwell, Curt Simmons, Frank Lary.  As a hitter in the 1960s, you pretty much knew you were at the end of the line when the White Sox released you, as they did to the likes of Rocky Colavito and Ken Boyer.  Anybody in his mid-30s playing today is a fitness-freak and/or a lefty reliever.  When you’re a millionaire, it’s easy to walk away.  The Sox have had three pretty good players do that since Clare first started hitting a ball.  For openers, there’s Jack McDowell.

McDowell pitched 12 years amassing a 127-87 record, mostly with the Sox.  A feud with the front office led to a trade to New York and infamy as the “Yankee Flipper.”  (It had something to do with Yankees’ fans, wouldn’t you know.)  McDowell retired at age 33, in part due to arm injuries and a belief in his talents as a rock musician.  It didn’t hurt that he’d made just over $28 million during his career, either.

Jon Garland made nearly double that, $52 million over a 13-year career that saw him go 136-125.  Garland forever irritated me with an Alfred E. Neuman “What, me worry?” attitude on the mound.  I thought he could’ve been great, rather than merely good.  It seemed Garland was in it more for the money than anything else.

And then we have the now 38-year old Mark Buehrle, two years retired with a 214-160 mark over a 16-year career.  Buehrle retired four outs short of pitching 200 or more innings a season for 15 straight years.  As it was, he had two no-hitters, one of them a perfect game.  Thirty-five more wins from the age of 36 on and Buehrle would merit serious consideration for the HOF in Cooperstown.  But, hey, he made $138 million.

In fairness to Buehrle, he’s a Missouri boy who never took to the spotlight or city life.  He never really wanted to leave the White Sox in free agency after the 2011 season, but GM Kenny Williams knew better (yeah, right).  I have a hunch Buehrle would still be pitching, if it always could have been on the South Side.

Will he regret his decision to retire early?  McDowell and Garland seem to.  McDowell recently coached in the Angels’ system, and he’s now going to head up a brand new baseball program at Queens University of Charlotte, with the intent of having it ready to compete as an NCAA Division II program in 2019.  Garland was in Chicago last month for Buehrle’s retirement ceremony, pitched a little and said he’d like to come back at the age of 37.

Or maybe he shouldn't have retired in the first place.   

I Apologize

I apologize to Matt Davidson of the White Sox for making fun of the way he talks.  To his credit, Davidson tries hard to explain his struggles as a major-league hitter.  I have no idea what Cubs’ manager Joe Maddon is saying, let alone thinking.

After last Sunday’s 14-3 drubbing by the Pirates, Maddon came pretty close to talking in tongues during the post-game press conference.  He said he had hoped the Cubs would be doing better “but this is our reality.  You deal with reality, you don’t deal with theory.  Theory is wonderful, and theory and reality coming together in a positive moment is always a good thing, but our theory and reality have not met yet.”

In comparison to that, Matt Davidson is a model of clarity.  Joe Maddon sounds more and more like a shorter version of Phil Jackson.

Brown, Kaepernick...Aparicio

In All-Star pregame ceremonies Tuesday, MLB honored HOF Latino ballplayers.  Seven former players and the family of Roberto Clemente were on hand to throw out the first pitch.  The only person missing was White Sox great Luis Aparicio.

The ex-shortstop tweeted:  “Thanks MLB for the honor at the All-Star Game but I can’t celebrate when young people of my country are dying for their freedom.”  Aparicio was referring to the street protest embroiling his native Venezuela.  The government of Nicolas Maduro may not be long for this world, and there are indications it will be a bloody fall from power.

Jim Brown left the NFL to advocate for social and racial justice; Colin Kaepernick may have been blackballed from the NFL for advocating the same issues.  Aparicio is taking advocacy a step further; to speak out in such a climate as envelopes Veneauela is to put one’s life at risk.  What’s interesting and ironic about the situation is that former White Sox outfielder Magglio Ordonez was elected mayor of Sotillo—a city of 250,000—in 2013 as a Maduro candidate.

I wonder where Magglio stands today, with Maduro or Aparicio?       

Meaningless

For the first time since 2002, the MLB All-Star Game didn’t decide home-field advantage for the World Series.  In fact, the All-Star Game didn’t count for anything but a bad joke.

There was Alex “Mr. Juice” Rodriguez walking out in his wingtips and suit to interview NL infielders as they took their positions in the top of the second inning; Joe Buck and John Smoltz of Fox chatting with outfielders George Springer and Bryce Harper as they played the field; and NL catcher Yadier Molina taking a picture of the AL’s Nelson Cruz posing with home-plate umpire Joe West, after which Cruz proceeded to bat with the phone stuffed in his back pocket.  Oh, if only Cruz had needed to slide into second base.

The only thing there didn’t seem to be was a stadium full of raucous fans. The standing-room capacity of Marlins Park is 37,442, as opposed to the reported attendance of 37,188 last night, not to mention all those empty seats I spied beginning midway through the game.  I can’t imagine that tickets were overpriced, not in a town that has so taken to Marlins’ owner Jeffrey Loria.  Just Kidding.  As much as anything, those empty seats showed that the Miami locals knew the game was going to be nothing more than a spring-training affair for the well-heeled.  Still, hats off to Cubs’ pitcher Wade Davis for giving up what proved to be the winning run in the 10^th inning of a 2-1 affair.  That won me a pizza.

Wade, let me know your schedule so you can come over for a slice or two.

Home for the Holiday

Someone at work asked Clare yesterday if she was staying late, and my daughter replied, “No, it’s a second Christmas,” or what we in these parts call Home Run Derby.  Brawts on the grill followed by taters on the TV, if you will.

You would think—at least I would—that watching baseball players hit mammoth shots off of soft toss either wouldn’t be that interesting or a little depressing.  Clare stands 5’6” while Aaron Judge, last night’s Derby winner, is a good thirteen inches taller.  But Clare loved it, watching balls sail into the shadows of Marlins Park or hit against the wall of windows in far left field.  It takes one to know one, I guess.

We also discussed a number of matters involving the White Sox, in particular the strange case of Adam Engel, who probably plays a better center field than Aaron Rowand.  Engel is scary fast and muscular, yet he’s prone to grounding out to short.  Clare says he’s not getting his bat through the hitting zone.  To make her point, she jumped up off the couch and mimicked Engel’s swing.  The girl is a natural hitting coach, I swear.

At one point, Clare’s fiancé Chris teased her that the 6’7”, 280-pound Judge probably picked baseball over football because he was afraid of the contact, words spoken like the true former football player Chris is.  Clare would have none of it.  As soon as she heard that Judge has “179” on the screen of his phone to remind him every day what he batted with the Yankees last year, she had herself a new sports’ hero.  Later, I checked to see and, yup, the Sox could’ve drafted him.  Oh, well, the balls are pretty to watch as they leave the atmosphere.   

 

Halfway Gone

Things were going really well for me yesterday afternoon, courtesy of the defending world-champion Cubs.  It’s not often starter Jon Lester gives up 10 runs (4 earned) in 2/3 of an inning.  In fact, it was the first time in Lester’s 12-year MLB career that the lefty didn’t make it through the fourth inning, and it was the first time since 1947 that the Cubs had given up at least 10 runs in the first at Wrigley Field.  Final score, Pirates 14 Cubs 3.

Because I am a great lover of culture (and a keeper of marital peace), I accompanied my wife on a walk of suburban Riverside to learn about the work landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted did there.  Not to worry, though.  The baseball fan in me was satisfied to TiVo the White Sox-Rockies game in Denver.  I didn’t want to miss out on my team taking a series to go into the All-Star break on a high note, no sir.

To get through a recorded game, I fast-forward through the outs to watch the Sox get their hits (and/or do dumb stuff).  So, I fast-forwarded through the first inning, then the second and the third and the fourth all the way into the ninth inning.  That’s right, Colorado rookie Kyle Freeland took a no-hitter into the ninth inning.  With one out, the 24-year old lefty lost the battle while winning the war.

As I watched Sox hitters strike out, pop up, ground out and fly out, I couldn’t get over how Freeland pounded the ball inside to right-handed batters.  Not only inside, but hard, and oftentimes high, as in chin music.  (Carlos Rodon, please take notes.)  Freeland did it to Melky Cabrera in the top of the ninth with one out, spinning him around.  The look on Cabrera’s face after that was pure Ed Bukowski; you did not want to be around my father when he looked like that.  Cabrera channeled his inner Ed to single sharply to left on Freeland’s next offering.  Final score, Rockies 10 the one-hitted Sox 0. 

Both Chicago team websites are pure milquetoast.  The Cubs’ headline read, “Forgettable finale for Lester, Cubs.”  With the Sox, it was “Sox avoid no-no on Melky’s late 1B.”  Guys, one of you risks laying a huge egg a year after breaking your 108-year championship drought while the other one could disappear from sight without anyone knowing or caring.  Something along the lines of “The sky is falling!  The sky is falling!” would be more appropriate.

A Few Bricks Short...

It’s nice to be proven right every once in a while about sportswriters being among the dimmer bulbs in the chandelier of journalism.  The Tribune has a columnist, David Haugh, who knows as much about baseball as I do astrophysics.  Today, he pretended to be one of the Ricketts’ family, which allowed him to issue an order to Cubs’ president Theo Epstein: Get Crackin’.

Haugh’s exact words were “A little urgency seems appropriate for a defending World Series champion on pace for a historic decline, according” to some website for fans and sportswriters with too much time on their hands.  Ricketts cum Haugh is feeling optimistic, though.  He thinks, “History says Epstein’s actions will belie his words [about not intending to do much before the trade deadline], and baseball’s best executive will make at least one move that makes an impact on October.”  Such words of wisdom, I declare.

Of course, it would have been more impressive had Haugh or one of the beat writers pointed out during the winter that the Cubs weren’t doing much of anything save for picking up odds and ends for the back of the starting rotation and bullpen.  What comes around goes around, bad decisions made in the offseason come back to haunt a ball club come mid-July.  But apparently there was too much Cub-hoopla back then for a sportswriter to notice.  Hence the 43-44 record for the North Siders.  

And then I turn the page to read another columnist’s midseason report.  He gave kudos to the Brewers for being “ahead of schedule” in their rebuild.  Really, you have to post a schedule for this sort of thing?  I did not know.  Someone tell White Sox GM Rick Hahn to publish his.  That way we can hold him accountable.

Huh?

I like the White Sox Matt Davidson, I really do.  He’s worked through the adversity of high expectations coupled with poor performance and injury to give himself the chance of a major-league career.  The eighteen homeruns certainly don’t hurt the 26-year old rookie.

But I wonder, what planet is Davidson from?  I remember an episode of the X-Files where an alien who fell in love with baseball was able to play unnoticed in the Negro Leagues.  Could Davidson be related to that green fellow in disguise?  I ask because of his use of the English language.

Davidson is very streaky at the plate, alternating between swinging at everything—which is what my daughter did at the age of eleven—and being selective.  On top of that, playing mostly at DH lends itself to thinking bad thoughts on the bench between at-bats.  Davidson told the Tribune recently, “I’ve done a pretty good job for the most part, but I do at times think too much about hitting, get in my head a little bit, because you’re just sitting there.  You have nothing else to do but think about what you just did.  I’m trying to not do that and stay out of my head in between at-bats.”

Matt, where exactly do you go when you get outside your head? 

Once Upon a Time

Growing up, I bowled and played miniature golf a lot.  It started off as pity come-alongs, my sisters and their dates bringing me with, probably at the insistence of my mother.  In high school, I bowled on Sundays with my brother-in-law Bill, my reward for being such a good honors’ student (who couldn’t get a date for the life of him).  The miniature golf course was next door to Miami Bowl, but I never did both on the same day.

The bowling continued into college and beyond, into parenthood.  My style never changed in all that time.  I start by rolling a straight ball, which three games in will start angling right to left; I have no idea why.  On the South Side, we were all descended from Fred Flintstone, not the twinkle toes so much as underhanding the ball halfway down the lane.  As for mini-golf, it was a great and fairly cheap date. 

With Clare, we did mini-golf (I refuse to say putt-putt) enough as a family for her to want to do it on dates, too, but nowadays try and find someplace that’s still open.  Bowling went out of fashion, too, but it’s come back as a hip and expensive night out.  I know I never paid more than a dollar a line (and am pretty sure it used to be fifty cents).  With Clare in grade school, it was pushing $3 a line.  She loved going to the Mount Clare for obvious reasons, until a few years ago the owners decided they couldn’t make a go of it.  Condos stand where the Flintstones once rolled.

The one thing I did Clare hasn’t, at least not yet, was play croquette.  Don’t ask me how a bunch of teenagers in the Bungalow Belt on the South Side of Chicago started playing a game more associated with the leisure class, but we did, in our friend Bob’d backyard.  What you have to know about that yard is it sprawled into another dimension.  It had to, what with a junk car and a rowboat squeezed into a tight city lot.

But when I think of it, the yard went on forever, allowing us to walk and wallop at our pleasure.  There was no greater joy this side of wiffle ball than to knock your opponent’s ball into the weeds (Bob was an indifferent lawn mower, and his parents were indifferent homeowners).  I’m pretty sure that part of the yard was in fact African savannah.  You absolutely did not want to end up there.

Croquette went on the four years of high school, after which we focused more on bowling (and poker).  I can’t even remember how to keep score anymore, but those weeds and that rowboat hazard.  Some things you don’t forget.       

Say What?

It would be wrong of me to call sportswriters morons for several reasons, so let me just say they can be moronic when they put their minds to it.  The other day, a columnist in the Sun-Times took a look at the Bulls’ roster now that they’ve traded Jimmy Butler in a rebuild and decided “the roster is still too talented.”  Over at the Tribune, a self-proclaimed purveyor of snark says the White Sox are winning too much and thanks James Shields for doing his bit to change that.  Har-de-har-har.

These self-proclaimed general managers never say how long the losing should go on before fans can expect relief, and they really don’t have any suggestions as to who’d be a good steal in the third round.  No, they just prescribe losing now (just like they prescribed the kind of mega deals that quickly turn toxic and make rebuilds necessary).  The problem, of course, is that losing takes root and refuses to stop.  I’ve already mentioned the Pirates going through a 20-year stretch under .500, and you have to wonder if the Philadelphia 76ers want to join them.

The 76ers haven’t made the NBA playoff five years and counting, during which time they’ve posted seasons of 34, 19, 18, 10 (!!) and 28 wins.  Oh, but the draft choices, right?  I mean, look at how the 2016 draft class nearly led to a tripling of wins in just one season.  Too bad they started from a base of 10.

Rebuilding is a sign of failure, pure and simple.  The longer the rebuild, the bigger the failure it’s been.  Just ask the fans in Pittsburgh.  Or how about the Jacksonville Jaguars in the NFL, with their six straight losing seasons?  The Phillies have joined the 76ers with five straight losing years, and, barring a true miracle, they’re a lead-pipe cinch for number six come October.  All this losing which guarantees all this new talent, and yet the losing continues.

What do you say, oh sportswriters, other than the dumb stuff?

In the Swing of Things

How the bird has left the nest.  Chris, Clare’s fiancé, bought her a set of golf clubs, this for a sport that could repulse any self-respecting zombie.  Oh, well.  The interesting thing is that people in the know told Chris to get senior men’s clubs for Clare.  Women’s clubs are just too light in her hands.  Well, at least that’s stayed the same.

Speaking of golf, the Women’s PGA tournament in south suburban Olympia Fields took place over the weekend.  Onetime wunderkind Michelle Wie, now a venerable 27-years old, finished tied for ninth; her parents were reported hovering around early on, a presence that has not been of a particular help to Wie.  At least no one ever accused me of physically getting in the way of my daughter’s athletic development.

Women playing golf and tennis apparently merits coverage in Chicago, basketball and softball not so much, if at all.  Part of me wants to say there’s a cheesecake factor involved, as in exposed legs, but I could be wrong.  Who knows, maybe men care how well women can hit a golf or tennis ball. 

Retired tennis great John McEnroe definitely seems to care about Serena Williams.  Last week or thereabouts, McEnroe called Williams the greatest female tennis player ever, but one who would rank “like 700 in the world” if she played on the men’s circuit.  McEnroe took a lot of heat, deservedly, for the remark.  It would be interesting, though, to see how Williams in her prime would fare against male players.  I’m betting a whole bunch higher than 700.

Who cares?  Well, questions like this in sports not only aren’t going away, they’re going to increase as women continue to enter what used to be an all-man’s world from business and politics to the military.  If women can run for President, complete Army Ranger training (and do the same bizarre stuff men do on “American Ninja Warrior”), people are inevitably going to wonder: Could she do that, too?

Eventually, the answer will be Yes, with or without senior clubs.

Grab Some Bench

It always used to bother me in softball how a player would run back to the dugout after striking out, as if in the hope her coach wouldn’t notice.  To me, you own what you do and move on, at a good but not altogether breakneck pace.  That said, I wish major-league baseball players would take a cue from softball and get back to the bench before anymore paint dries.

What we get instead are players who need to show how disgusted they are with themselves (you know who you are, Todd Frazier); who stare at the pitcher in disbelief (hello, Tim Anderson); and who look like a whipped dog (as in Matt Davidson).  At least no one on the White Sox has picked up Adam LaRoche’s psycho-stare-at-the-mound routine.

Guys, a bit of advice—don’t strike out, and you can avoid the slow-motion act at the plate.

Smile, Please

Bartolo Colon has never been one of my favorite players.  Former White Sox GM Kenny Williams felt differently, or else why would he have brought Colon to the Sox twice?  It must be those fuzzy warm feelings the now 44-year old starter gives off from the mound.  That, and all those smiles, like Stalin.

Colon is a textbook case of the mercenary athlete—have talent, will travel for the right price.  Over the course of a career that began when Clare wasn’t yet 2-years old, Colon has pitched for the Indians; Expos; White Sox (twice); Angels; Red Sox; Yankees; Athletics; Mets; and, most recently, Braves, who have designated him for assignment.  Along the way, Colon has picked up 235 wins to go with his frequent-flyer miles.

This is a case where the each of us needs to walk in the other’s shoes.  Colon needs to realize that fans want a connection with their players; showing up every fifth day doesn’t count.  I need to appreciate that Colon comes from the Dominican Republic, where baseball is the difference between a decent life and lifelong poverty, for a player and his extended family; in that environment, smiles can seem like a waste of time and energy.  

Mark Buehrle had his number retired by the White Sox last week, and fans filled Guaranteed Rate Whatever to show their appreciation for a player who offered them a connection.  It’s something Bartolo Colon will never know, even as he smiles all the way to the bank.

11-3, But Who's Counting?

Chris Sale, he of the Red Sox and formally of the White Sox, won again yesterday to bring his record to 11-3 with a 2.61 ERA.  Sale has 166 strikeouts in 120.2 innings to go with a .90 WHIP.  My money’s on Sale to start the All-Star Game for the American League.

But, hey, the White Sox will have Yoan Moncada, obtained with three other players for Sale last winter, playing in the Futures Game.  Moncada, at Triple–A Charlotte, is batting .281 with 10 homeruns, 30 RBIs and 50 runs scored.  Righty starter Michael Kopech, the other principle in the Sale trade, has 97 strikeouts in 75 innings at Double-A Birmingham, which isn’t bad for a 21-year old, outside of those 49 walks that help push Kopech’s WHIP to 1.33. 

The present vs. the future, or, put another way, the majors vs. the minors:  where would you rather be, as a player or a fan?

Adam Engel

My favorite White Sox have tended to be  role-type players—J.C. Martin, Walt Williams, Aaron Rowand, even.  Minnie Minoso was before my time, and Luis Aparicio didn’t register with me until his second time around with the Sox, 1968-70; anyhow, Aparicio wasn’t the warmest of human beings.  Neither was Frank Thomas, though I did grow fond of his bat.  Probably the biggest Sox star I’ve ever really been a fan of is Paul Konerko. Something about his name and studied approach to the task at hand.

Rookie outfielder Adam Engel could go either way, star or role player.  Engel is 25 and has never really hit for average in the minors, but, my oh my, can that boy fly around the bases and track down a fly ball.  An injury to Leury Garcia has opened up a spot for Engel in center, and he hasn’t disappointed with a .296 batting average in 54 at-bats including five extra-base hits and 11 runs scored.

But we live in a era short on hope.  I ran across an on-line review of Engel that said, “The White Sox may have found a nice fourth outfielder/defensive substitute/pinch-runner type.  That ain’t much, but it’s not nothin.’”  Wow, could you afford all that praise?  Perchance to dream, for ourselves and through the athletes we identify with.  Why can’t Engel be a star, the 19^th round draft choice who makes it big?  If he turns into something less, remember that Martin and Rowand helped win a World Series or two.  As for Walt Williams, everyone should conduct their lives with the humility and good grace he showed.

J.C. or the Big Hurt--you go, Adam, you go.