Time

Didn’t MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred say something about speeding up the game?  If he did, you wouldn’t know it from the postseason.  The shortest of the eight games so far has been 3:02 and the longest an agonizing 5:08.  There’s only so much John Smoltz and Ron Darling a fan can take.

Think about it.  Trevor Bauer of the Indians had a no-hitter going against the Yankees through one out in the sixth; Steven Strasburg of the Nationals did Bauer one better, no-hitting the Cubs until two out in the sixth.  The Cubs-Nats contest featured all of seven hits, and still it took 3:02 to complete.  The Indians-Yankees game had one more hit and went 24 minutes longer. 

Mark Twain is credited with saying that no—or few—sinner is saved after the first twenty minutes of a sermon.  How many new baseball fans does Commissioner Manfred think he’s going to get with 8-2 games that range between 3:26 and 4:00 (the Astros over the Red Sox, twice) on into November?

(Not Necessarily) Random Thoughts on the Rebuild

 Well, the Yankees are certainly happy they traded with the White Sox, after ex-Sox David Robertson and Tommy Kahnle combined for 5-2/3 shutout innings against the Twins in their wildcard win.  And let’s not forget the Red Sox, who won the Eastern Division in large part because of Chris Sale (who admittedly got clobbered by the Astros in their ALDS series opener).  Meanwhile, my old friend Jose Quintana is expected to start this weekend for the Cubs against the Nationals.  Adam Eaton would be playing in that game, too, if only he hadn’t torn his ACL early in the season for Washington.

The Sox also traded other players to other teams down the stretch—Anthony Swarzak to the Brewers, Miguel Gonzalez to the Rangers, Dan Jennings to the Rays and Melky Cabrera to the Royals.  It would seem, then, that the parts were greater than the sum that was the Chicago White Sox in 2016 and 2017.

If the Mets are really serious about considering Robin Ventura as their next manager, they might want to ask Ventura a few questions, like:  Why did your teams do so poorly?  If the teams were bad, how come so many contenders wanted your players?  How much of the underperforming was your fault and how much was the front office?  Curious minds want to know.      

Put a Cork in It

The one superstition I picked up from being the parent of an athlete is that you don’t pack up the equipment until the last out is recorded; otherwise, bad things can happen.  I saw proof of that twice in the high school playoffs, the opposition assuming when it should have been attending to business.  Both times, Clare made them pay.

In freshman year, she singled in the top of the seventh inning with her team down three runs to over-cocky Riverside-Brookfield.  Four runs and three outs later, Morton won.  Then, in senior year against an even cockier St. Ignatius team, Clare hit her tenth home run of the season in the bottom of the seventh to tie the game, which Morton won four batters later with a walk-off single.  In the Riverside-Brookfield game, the players had merely committed the sin of packing stuff away.  With St. Ignatius up by two runs going into the bottom of the seventh, I overheard the parents wondering about the next game, who the opponent would be and where it would be played.  Since they didn’t win, it didn’t matter.

All of which brings us to possibly the biggest cliché in professional sports, the champagne-soaked locker-room scene after a team has clinched…something.  I’ll bet the Twins and Rockies uncorked the bubbly last week when they qualified for the so-called play-in game, and now they’re history.  And after each playoff series, the winners will no doubt spray one another with yet more champagne.  But in the end, only one team can have champagne and enjoy it to the max. 

Drink it too soon and you might as well pack away the equipment before the last out of the World Series.

HOF Praise for Small Ball

Major-league baseball set a record for strikeouts this year, in excess of 40,000, and Goose Gossage for one is sick of it.  Gossage is my favorite loose cannon of an ex-player.  Unlike, say, Curt Schilling, Gossage doesn’t venture into the realm of politics.  The Goose’s focus is strictly baseball, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

The HOFer says, “It kills me.  I can’t watch the game.  It’s not baseball.  The only thing that’s the same is the bases are 90 feet and the mound is 60 feet, 6 inches [form the plate].”  Gossage wants a return to small ball, including bunts to thwart infield shifts.

Hmm. The onetime White Sox fireballer also complained, “If you struck out that many times back in the day [Gossage’s day, that is], you’re a** would be back in the minor leagues.”  Right you are, my old schooler (provided you forget about Gorman Thomas).  And if you want to fix things, start looking at female ballplayers.  They know how to bunt, they know how to go to the opposite field, they know how to make consistent contact.  Twelve-inch softball is nothing if not a tutorial on “small ball.”

I wonder if the Goose would agree.

Terry Belichick, Manager Cleveland

I’m going to be rooting against the Indians throughout the American League playoffs because of Chief Wahoo and what Cleveland manager Terry Francona pulled on Friday night.  It was the top of the ninth inning, one out and nobody on with the Indians ahead by nine.  Francona then channeled his inner Bill Belichick by bringing in Andrew Miller, he of the miniscule ERA under 1.50.  This was the 160^th game of the season.  Did I mention the score was 10-1, Indians?

I don’t wish injuries on players.  If I did, that would have been the time and the place.  As for a reason, you’d have to ask Mr. Francona why he felt the need to make a pitching change.

Homecoming

Between high school and college, I went to all of one homecoming, which is one more than my wife, for what it’s worth.  I’ve lost count of the Elmhurst College homecomings we’ve attended.  Is it five or six?  Will we ever stop going?

Saturday, Michele and I walked amongst the tailgaters until we found Clare and some of her fellow alums.  We ate, we small-talked, we made our way to the stadium in time for the 1PM kickoff.  I’m pretty sure the game ended just a shade under 2-1/2 hours.  Really, there is no better way to spend a perfect autumn afternoon than to watch a crisply played football game.

Except, maybe, if you can watch your daughter hit the next day against live pitching.  I was that lucky, kneeling behind the backstop to record Clare bat in the game between softball alums and the current team.  Clare being Clare, she did something out of the ordinary, with a 12-pitch at-bat that went on for four minutes and seventeen seconds.  My daughter being my daughter, she quickly went into the hole at 1-2 before working the count full.

I long ago taught myself to find respite in the time between pitches; Clare’s at-bats were so draining I would’ve passed out otherwise.  And so I reverted to form, holding the camera steady, trying to breathe steady, waiting for the next chance to relax.  The only intrusion on my routine was that “whack-whack” of bat to back, which happened after every pitch; some hitters adjust their batting gloves, my daughter hits her back like a baseball flagellant.  Three balls, eight fouls, a line shot to center that hung up a second too long.  Marlon Brando had nothing on Clare Bukowski.

Plutocrats Welcome

Did I say something the other day about popcorn at the ballpark once costing a quarter?  Silly me.  The Cubs will soon be opening their various Wrigley Field clubs for well-heeled fans, and quarters stacked to the top of Sears Tower (I don’t care what they call it now) probably wouldn’t be enough to get you in.

According to a story in the Tribune, full access to one of the clubs will clock in at a maximum of $56,295.   Per-game access to the other clubs will range from $235 to $495.  Somewhere, the founders of Studio 54 bow down in homage.

Not every team can do what the Cubs are because they don’t have the same demographics.  If the White Sox did (and Jerry Reinsdorf has tried everything short of voodoo to change the nature of the Sox fan base), we’d be talking about The Bards Room II or the Old Roman’s Room instead of the “American Airlines 1914 Club” and the “Catalina Club.”  Come the revolution, though, I say we storm the ivy-covered home of these plutocrats.  Fans of the world, you have nothing to lose but your chains!