Mothers, Don’t Let Your Sons…

Two-plus weeks short of his second birthday, my grandson Leo can hit a ball, hard, off a tee. Granted, sometimes he hits the ball with his hand, but the idea is to start young. Grandchildren allow us to focus ahead, to that game or recital or play coming up. This is important because there comes a point when the past threatens to consume a person; the older you are, the bigger the threat. Right now, I’m gearing up for Leo’s birthday and for his first at-bat in T-ball. That should keep me going for a few more years. How sad if my grandson grows up to be a White Sox fan, like his mother and grandparents. This team is never going to do anything but lose. The owner is simply incapable of admitting mistakes, which means they multiply while going unaddressed. A team that was supposed to challenge for the division crown instead looks likely to lose somewhere between ninety and a hundred games. And it won’t get any better next year, not if the same general manager and manager return. Last night in Minnesota, the Sox gave up two runs in the bottom of the seventh inning to lose 3-2. Would they have won had Elvis Andrus held on to the throw from Seby Zavala that had Byron Buxton out trying to steal second base? That, or at least delayed the inevitable. With Mickey Mouse at the helm, the team exists in a cartoon. No one gets better, the fans get an anvil to the head for daring to watch. I seem to remember Bugs Bunny on the mound once pitching against a bunch of Bums. We could use Bugs. We’ve already got the bums.