The Clockmaker

Call me a deist, someone who believes God created the universe and then stepped away; the common metaphor is of a clockmaker who makes his timepiece, winds it up and then waits for it to stop ticking, whenever that millennia might be.  What better way to explain 50 inches of rain in Houston or the preseason injury to the Bears’ Cameron Meredith, who suffered a torn ACL in his left knee in a preseason game Saturday?  Sports doesn’t care anymore than nature does.  Time just keeps on ticking.

Worse yet, Meredith is one of the few Bears it’s easy to root for.  He played his high school ball literally down the street from us at St. Joseph’s (Clare beat up on St. Joe’s pitching every spring) and college at Illinois State (where my daughter considered going before settling on Elmhurst).  He was an undrafted free agent who showed just how wrong scouts can be in evaluating talent with a good rookie season last year.  He also talked about his craft the way that Paul Konerko did, without the ego.

Meredith is only 24, so he could come back from his injury.  It all depends on how much time is left.

Dollars and Sense

Last night, James Shields did his ever-diminishing impression of a major-league pitcher in a 6-4 White Sox loss to the Twins.  With runners on the corners and one out in the bottom of the first, Shields fielded a comebacker, turned around and did his best to toss the ball into center field.  Somehow, second baseman Yolmer Sanchez snared the throw to get the runner going to second, but the damage was done, one run in and one more to go in the first.

On the night, Shields yielded four earned runs on five hits and three walks (and that mental error) to put his record at 2-5 with a 5.72 ERA, but you know what?  Odds are, he’ll be back.  Want to know why?  Because he has one more year guaranteed on his contract at $21 million.

Basically, the Padres (who signed him) and Sox (who agreed to take on part of the contract) will split the cost, so, theoretically, the Sox could buy Shields out for $11 million.  This would be textbook addition-through-subtraction but that would require the front office admitting it made a big mistake trading for Shields in 2015.  Given that nobody yet has owned up to signing the Adam twins (Dunn and LaRoche), don’t expect a sudden fit of honesty on 35^th Street.

It could be worse.  The Tigers’ Miguel Cabrera cleared waivers, and the only way any team picks him up is if Detroit assumes virtually all of the $184 million (!!) left on his contract, that extends another five years.  If nothing else, baseball will punish any team that goes dumb by going long.

Take a Cold Shower

The way we dress conveys all sorts of messages—dress like a slob, get taken for a slob, if you will.  Dress for work, be taken as someone seriously on the job.  Alas, the one exception appears to be women sports’ commentators, Jessica Mendoza excepted.

Not long ago, I turned on the MLB Network to catch ex-player Eric Byrnes going ga-ga over the heels worn by his female co-host; she, on the other hand, said nothing about his shoes.  Then, over the weekend I happened on an NFL preseason broadcast; the studio co-host was wearing an off-the-shoulder number, and I don’t mean the guy.  This is gender stereotyping by décolletage, hemlines and spike heels.

I suspect that the female broadcasters were adhering to a dress code, stated or implied.  All I know is that women on sports’ broadcasts show a lot more skin than their male counterparts, who on average also look a heck of a lot older.  If I were master of the universe, or just the head of a television network, I would mandate grownup clothes for the on-air talent and make sure they had something to say.  Otherwise, bye-bye.

I mean, do we really need to watch and hear the likes of Terry Bradshaw or Howie Long?    

The "Sweet" Science

The “Sweet” Science

That circus act in a ring, aka the Saturday night fight between boxer Floyd Mayweather and mixed-martial arts’ fighter Conor McGregor, was delayed due to difficulties with pay-per-view.  P.T. Barnum never would’ve left his suckers waiting.  For those who care, the black man stopped the white man, the white man lasted into the tenth round, and both men made an obscene amount of money.  As to what it all means, who cares?

My father took me to a White Sox game, maybe 1965 or ’66.  The game ended a little after ten, and we were walking out of the park when he pointed out a newspaper vendor hawking a very late—or early—edition of the Chicago American.  “He used to be a good fighter,” said my dad, pointing to a middle-aged African-American the imprint of whose life showed all across his face.  I was left to wonder what had brought him to selling newspapers outside a ballpark on a weeknight.

Maybe twenty years later, I found myself in a sports’ memorabilia shop on Kedzie Avenue just south of 63^rd Street; it was run by a father and son.  The older man pointed out a foot-tall cardboard cutout of him in all his boxing glory.  “I forget things sometimes,” he informed me, standing way too close to someone who was a stranger.  Another minute or so in the place, and I could’ve been on the receiving end of a nine-count.

Last week, the Tribune ran a story on Gerald McClellan, a former middleweight champion from Freeport, Illinois.  McClellan suffered permanent brain damage from his 1995 fight with Nigel Benn.  He’s also blind and mostly deaf, living on a mix of disability support and charity.  His sister is his primary caregiver.

Of course, this won’t be Floyd Mayweather and Conor McGregor’s future, and I doubt either of them will be visiting McClellan anytime soon.     

Stupid is as Stupid Does

I don’t get this whole notion of jogging or running for health.  If a zombie or Dick Butkus is chasing me, OK, I’m running to save my life.  Otherwise, stay calm and keep a steady pace.

Maybe I act differently on my bike; you’d have to ask the people I pass by.  I admit to trying to push myself the other day on a 57-mile ride.  The first and end parts of the trail go through forest preserves, much of the rest on streets and sidewalks.  If you don’t stay focused, you’ll never finish, and some guy in a Subaru will try to run you off the road.  If this makes me sound like I’m running a marathon, so be it.

Anybody who wants to run, I say let them.  What bothers me, though, is people jogging with their dogs on a leash.  Did their animal come up to them and say:  I’d really love to do five miles with you in the heat and humidity.  And don’t worry about me not being able to cool off by sweating the way you humans do.  I’m a dog, your-ever obedient friend.

Is there anything dumber or meaner than running with a dog?  Until yesterday, I would’ve said, No, but I now stand corrected.  I saw a clown—I’m using the word in full, South-Side derision—riding his bike with his dog following on a leash.  This is wrong on so many levels.  If our pets ever do rise up and rebel against us, it will be on account of runners and cyclists who abused them. 

More of the Above, Contd. Again

It was twelve years ago this weekend, with Clare starting eighth grade and my Auntie Fran celebrating her 80^th birthday.  (The card for #92 went out on Monday.)

You could say that everyone was on pins and needles; Clare had just tried out for two travel teams, and we were waiting to hear back from them.  I had never seen my daughter perform at such an intense level before the way she did at the first tryout; Pony baseball had been a slightly more casual affair.  Among other things, we didn’t use a stopwatch to time anyone running the bases.

The day before my aunt’s birthday, Clare put on a second display at a tryout, pretty much rifling every pitch she saw from the pitching machine; at one point she hit the coach who was sitting by the machine and taking notes on each player.  At the end of the tryout, he came up to me and said, “In the fifteen years I’ve been doing this, I have never seen anyone so relaxed at the plate or with hands so fast.” Yes, I wrote it down the better to remember, that and when he said, “Obviously, you’re thinking college.”

In truth, I was thinking my aunt’s birthday party, eighth grade, high school and the possibility of the White Sox going to the World Series (they did), in no particular order.  Clare was 13 at the time.  What did I know about college softball?  I didn’t even know she’d basically tried out for a 16u team.

After the barbecue and birthday cake, we came home early that Sunday evening.  Clare got two phone calls, within minutes of each other.  One coach had changed his mind and now wanted her on his team, the other just wanted her.  Nothing was ever the same after that.

It’s a good memory folded into another.

Marking Time

Sports are and always have been a primary memory aid for me.  I can remember being seven because of the 1959 Dodgers-White Sox World Series.  In the same way, I have a distinct memory of being eleven, sitting in the backseat of the car and listening to the Bears beat the Giants for the NFL Championship.  Anything I can recall from the summer that followed is set against the backdrop of the 1964 White Sox.  Oh, what could have been.

I can recall high school and my undergraduate years; there are any number of baseball-infused memories; the Bulls of Jerry Sloan and Norm Van Lier also help.  I started Ph.D. school as the South Side Hitmen started to sputter and was deep into my dissertation the day of the Bears’ Super Bowl parade in January of 1986.  Parenthood came nearly six years later, in November 1991.  Trust me, a child helps you remember things on an altogether different level.

Clare generated sports’ memories, so everything starting to reinforce itself starting in the late 1990s, after t-ball.  Then comes grade school, high school and college, some of the memories sports-connected, some not, but all of them tied to an athlete.  I may even come to see 2017 through the lens of the “great rebuild.”

The one thing I can’t remember is the Beatles playing two shows at Comiskey Park fifty years ago this week.  I can definitely remember the second-place Sox trying to catch the Twins, and I know I was dreading the start of eighth grade, where a not-too-friendly math teacher awaited, but the Beatles?  No, not a thing.

I guess it’s because I wasn’t really into pop music then; that would only come later, towards the end of high school.  Did I mention that Walt Williams had five hits and five runs scored in a game against the Red Sox on the date of my high-school graduation, May 31, 1970?

How could I forget?