Draft Day Kool Aid

 I have to give the Chicago papers credit; they held out against the NFL juggernaut for as long as they could.  The Tribune even tried to find out how much it will cost to hold the NFL Draft downtown and what kind of inconveniences to expect.  But the big day is just two weeks off, and those pictures from the NFL’s PR people are so neat.  They’re going to erect something in Grant Park that could pass for a blimp hangar.  Oh my!

Don’t forget to visit Draft Town and Selection Square or check out the interactive stations! And remember what Mr. Vice President in charge of events said—it’s “not just an in-theater experience, but a massive free fan festival that allows so many more fans to experience the draft.”  Bah-bah, go the sheep.  Entertain us, and we won’t care how crappy a draft our team pulls off.  Or how high ticket prices will go in the fall.

Bah-bah.   

Masks

Softball face masks and guards come in a variety of styles; some resemble an old catcher’s mask while others look like clear plastic versions of a grasshopper’s jaw.  I started noticing them as soon as Clare switched to softball.

Pitchers standing 40-43 feet from the plate were in obvious need, as were first and third basemen; the baselines are all of 60 feet.  Insert a strong hitter like Clare into the equation, and you’re asking for injury.  Of course, being both a guy and a lover of baseball, I thought a far better solution than face masks would be for softball to adopt baseball-like distances.  As of last night, I stand corrected.

Melky Cabrera of the White Sox lined a pitch up the middle against Cleveland in the top of the first inning.  Indians’ starter Carlos Carrasco was barely able to deflect the ball; what could have struck Carrasco directly in the cheek or eye socket appears to have been more of a glancing blow off the side of the face.  The next pitcher may not be as lucky.

Masks look strange, I grant you, but a fractured cheek, nose or socket is infinitely worse.  Looks be damned.  Softball should make masks mandatory—and yes, adopt longer distances—while baseball should offer the option to any pitcher who wants a mask.  Macho can’t protect a head by itself.

Parents Say the Darndest Things

 Ah, midseason for spring sports, a time for high school and college coaches to check the standings.  If they’re lucky enough to be in first place, life is good, and hope springs eternal with playoffs approaching.  But if they’re .500 or below, look out, the parents are coming to give them an earful.  It’s the nature of the beast.

A good parent has to be an advocate.  We all want our kids to succeed, and there are times they need our help when dealing with other grownups to do so.  In Clare’s case, we were more likely to go toe-to-toe with a teacher than a coach.  What that says about me, I don’t know.

Sports-wise, we were lucky; there was no gnashing of teeth from ninth grade through college because Clare was stuck on the bench.  One of Clare’s high school coaches likes to tell of the time the team was at the hitting cages the same time as this eighth grader; she was in one of the faster speeds.  “You could hear her bat going Whack! Whack! Whack! and I’m thinking, ‘Please, oh please, let her go to our school.’”  She did and started from her first game of freshman year.

Then came college, and it was the same thing.  Clare made the starting lineup as a freshman and stayed there for four years.  I wasn’t always happy where she batted, and let my wife know the child she bore should always hit in the three-hole.  But that was it.  I never went up to the coach to complain or talk loud enough from the stands for the coach to hear, maybe.  Nor did I ever start rumors about a coach.  Watch a sport long enough, and you’ll see all three.

Whatever complaining I witnessed—and took part in, below—involved playing time.  In high school, a parent sent an anonymous letter to the coach.  In college, there were confrontations; you’d be surprised how often mothers get into it with coaches.  I preferred to save my complaining for travel ball.

The first time came in freshman year after a tournament in Toledo, very hot and not very many at-bats.  Clare went six for fifteen over three days, for an average we both thought should have meant more playing time.  I told one of the coaches his second baseman wanted to talk to him, and they did.  That was it on my part.  I was pretty sure the conversation would be civil and there’d be no repercussions because Coach Harry was a very decent guy.  The two clowns who followed, not so much.

They didn’t like Clare at second base, and I told them she was the best player they had there.  Again, that was it; no curses crossed my lips, although given how Clare was treated later, I should’ve sworn up a storm.  Long story short, one of the coaches told Clare she’d never hit in college, and this after she clubbed five homeruns in a weekend.

So, I may be as bad as the anonymous letter-writer and the rumormonger.  There are some things you do as a parent without caring what other people think.  Given that there are consequences in life, you just better be right.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall....

 No doubt crushed by the end of their 38-game winning streak at the hands of Wisconsin in the NCAA semi-finals, the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team reacted by…heading out the door, literally.  Seven Wildcats, including three freshmen and three sophomores, declared for the NBA draft this week.  What else do they have to learn in college, right?

Forget the double entendre here and focus on the sports’ aspect.  I’d like to see a statistical breakdown for NBA performance by year of entry: after freshman, sophomore, etc.  Then, factor in length of NBA career.  I’d suspect you’d have a lot more journeymen players and worse vs. All-Stars, not that any such statistics would change minds.  Too many voices whispering into too many gullible ears for that to happen.

Think about it.  Seven of sixteen college players for one team think their good enough to go pro in the fall, not just to make the team, mind you, but as starters.  Do any of them think they need to improve their skills?  Are they worried that suddenly they’ll be banging bodies bigger than they’ve ever faced before?  No, posse and agent assure them, the NBA Development League is for other guys.  And college, too.  

Role Reversal

Talk about strange.  A spring monsoon washed out Valpo’s game yesterday, so Clare drove over to watch Elmhurst play North Central instead.  She sat in the stands while I kept score in the dugout.  Since around the time of the dinosaurs, it was the other way around, child inside parent outside, occasional messages exchanged through the side opening as necessary.

The aspiring coach made several observations that I missed, not the least of which was the importance of playing through an error.  Hanging your head or kicking the dirt doesn’t stop the play; the other side will take advantage of the gift for as long as you let them, up to and including the chance to score all possible runs.

The former captain was treated with the respect and affection due her, most of all by this year’s seniors.  Each year younger was a little more reserved until you got to the freshmen wondering what the big deal was.  The girl could hit, ladies.  Look it up in the record books.

North Central being the opposition, we found a way to drop both games despite some pretty good pitching.  Then it was over, and life went on for Bluejays past and present. 

Stengel, Alston, Lopez et al

 What makes a good coach or manager?  Part of the answer, I fear, is doing everything the opposite of Robin Ventura.  (Wake up, Robin, your team is 0-3).

But there has to be more.  I wonder because Clare is in the dugout now with a whole new role to play; what counts is how well she motivates and evaluates players while employing tactics to strategy.  In other words, she’s learning to play chess with human pieces.  And Bobby Fischer never had to worry about a wet field or a sore hamstring.

It’s still early, but I’m detecting evidence of a fair but tough approach from my only child.  Clare always worked hard as a player.  In high school, it was grounder after grounder for practice at second base; at Elmhurst, Clare wanted her coaches to rain down fly balls at her in right field.  And she never showed off circling the bases on one of her homers.  So, she’d expect the same from her players, all hard work and head down.  That may or may not qualify her as a “players’ coach.”

Moreover, there are issues on the college level Casey Stengel and his buddies never had to worry about.  Casey went ballistic over a harmonica on the bus.  What would he do about iPad, iPhone or ITunes?  A girlfriend/boyfriend suddenly deployed to the Middle East?  Temptations in the next dorm room scary enough to turn Billy Martin into Billy Sunday?  No, coaching these days is a 21^st century challenge, and we’ll just have to see how my daughter handles it.   

The Big Time

Clare wanted us to see Valpo play at U of W in Madison so we could get “The Big Ten Experience.”  Well, I will say it was the first time we ever paid for parking to a college softball game.

For some reason, the (Lady?) Badgers play in a complex named for two guys.  The stands seat 1600 give or take, with 275 people showing up yesterday.  Either they counted passerby to reach that figure, or some folks dressed as aluminum seats. 

Valpo lost both games, though not for lack of effort.  The Crusaders actually jumped out to an early lead in game one on a two-run homer.  I can only hope that irritated the Wisconsin coach, who used to be the Loyola coach when Clare attended high school camps there trying to impress her.  But no dive my daughter did or ball she hit to the fence impressed the woman sufficiently, so that Valpo shot was a nice bit of revenge for me if not Clare.

This was also my first game dealing with an aggressive school mascot.  Bucky Badger wandered over to steal Michele’s purse, but he gave it back.  I bet no wolverine would be as nice.
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