Left Field Dreams, Sunday Afternoon

My father took me to the last game of the season in 1964.  It was a cloudy, sad Sunday despite the White Sox winning their 98^th game of the season maybe because the Yankees won 99.

Fifty years later, on a warm cloudless Sunday afternoon, I took my family to the last game of the season, and Paul Konerko’s career.  For a while it was easy to dream.  Marcus Semian homered; Josh Phegley had an rbi double to go with his two homers the night before; and rookie starter Chris Bassitt pitched decently.  Every time Konerko came to the plate, we stood and chanted:  Paul-ie!  Paul-ie!  It all looked like a White Sox winner until the relievers came in.

The season ended, we drove back home, and Clare left to go back to Valpo.  Next spring seems an eternity from now.  

A Few Choice Words

Too many athletes build walls around themselves with entourages, mansions and publicists.  This insures a desired isolation along with the likelihood people will forget the face and talent behind it soon enough.

Last night, Paul Konerko addressed a U.S. Cellular crowd of over 38,000 there to honor a favorite son.  Instead of addressing Sox “fans,” Konerko spoke to “all my friends in this building right now.”  Those eight simple, elegant words will keep #14 from being forgotten on the great South Side of Chicago.

More Brian on Derrick

Poor Brian Williams just couldn’t help himself.  Yesterday, Williams gushed over Derrick Jeter’s walk-off hit against the Orioles Thursday night, and, again, according to the NBC anchor, rooting for the Yankees was not necessary to see the full measure of Jeter’s greatness.  I wonder, do Yankee fans ever feel that way?  After all, they’re very good at opposing players what they think of them.  Maybe a few will write letters to the editor on how moved they were by Paul Konerko’s last game or ex-Yankee Bobby Abreu announcing his retirement.  But I won’t hold my breath.   

New York, New York

Brian Williams devoted a part of the nightly new to soon-to-be ex-Yankee Derek Jeter saying, with a New Yorker’s certainty, “you don’t have to be a Yankee fan to appreciate a guy who has played it right.”  Meanwhile, one of the commentators on MLB Network called Jeter’s retirement “a story that transcends baseball.”  Well, I’m not a Yankee fan, and there was nothing transcendent for me in Jeter’s last-ever home game, walk-off single or not.

I happen to live west of the Hudson, in flyover America; we play baseball here, too.  Chicago has even sent a few shortstops to Cooperstown.  Maybe you’ve heard of Appling, Banks or Aparicio.  On Sunday, White Sox fans say goodbye to their own guy played it right.  His name is Paul Konerko.

It’s a name Brian Williams isn’t likely to mention.  His loss.

Time Flies

Last night, the Blue Jays beat the Mariners 1-0 in 1 hour and 59 minutes.  A game that fast can only mean one thing—Mark Buehrle pitched, picking up career win number 199 along the way.

Buehrle spent the first twelve years of his career with the White Sox.  A 38^th (!) round draft choice, he worked fast and fielded his position with a Gold Glove (four so far).  Buehrle pitched two no-hitters with the Sox, one a perfect game, and he has never been on the disabled list.  He’ll start next season at age 36, after which time Jamie Moyer, another soft-tossing lefty, would go on to win 165 games.  Buehrle can make the Hall of Fame, if he wants it and stays healthy.

The only drawback, for me, is that he comes from the “there are no bad pit bulls just bad owners” school of thought.  I could live with that, though, if Mark Buehrle wanted to bring his 13-15 wins a year back to the South Side.   He’s always had sense enough to keep his dogs out of trouble.

Lingo

Clare hates it when Hawk Harrelson says a batter with a 2-0 or 3-0 count “is in the catbird seat,” courtesy of the late, great Red Barber.  Clare’s still young, so she may yet develop an appreciation of baseball language the way I have.

I love how a pitcher wants to get the ball into the batter’s kitchen but never the wheelhouse; how it’s better to hum that pea than feed your gopher (ball); and while it’s always fun to touch them all, a well-placed Baltimore chop is a thing of beauty to behold.  One of my prized possessions is the third edition of The Dickson Baseball Dictionary.  Where else could I get the definition of “anvil chorus” (loudmouth fans) or “Sunday pitch” (the best one in a pitcher’s arsenal)?

Compare this to the language of football.  Forget that they’ve stolen terms like “homerun” and “centerfield” or the whole George Carlin routine comparing terms from the respective sports.  On second thought, keep in mind the sacrifice vs. the blitz and then listen to Jon Gruden, the NFL coach-turned-commentator who did color on the Bears-Jets game Monday night.  Gruden speaks a language I’ll never understand.  It’s all double and triple zones or low stunts right or some combination thereof.  Give me a can of corn to a real ball hawk any day.     

A Taste of the Bigtime

Sunday, Clare had to set her alarm for 5:30 AM or thereabouts in order to leave with the Valpo softball team on their drive through the Indiana countryside to West Lafayette, where they played Purdue and Ball State.

Too bad Purdue didn’t have Roger Bossard or one of his kin working.  The White Sox master groundskeeper knows how to deal with rain.  Just putting a tarp on the infield won’t keep it dry; water has a way of going left and right as well as down.  In other words, the infield was muddy after they took the tarp off.  That would explain why Clare didn’t get to her apartment until well past 6:30 PM.  You live and learn.

I asked if she saw any difference between Division I and III players.  True to her D-III roots, Clare said, “Not too much,” more depth of talent than anything else.  Officially, she helped keep charts.  All sports seem to have fallen under the spell of sabermetrics; no pitch, no hit, no play is too trivial to keep track of.  Unofficially, I’ll bet my daughter imagined herself going up to bat every time a right-handed hitter stepped in.  As they say, old habits die hard.  And that may be part of the reason why Clare was exhausted come evening.

Just so long as she hit a few imaginary balls out, it was worth it.