Resolutions

In the coming year I resolve to:

·         Not bait the ump, too much.

·         Not stomp my foot every time Clare misses a pitch.

·         Not despair, too much, unless despair precedes my daughter doing something incredible, which she usually does after I give in to despair.

·         Take a breath between pitches and appreciate the drama.

·         Treat this season, every game, every at-bat as the joy it’s been since Clare first played in t-ball.

·         Let go, when the time comes.

·         Pray that that time takes forever getting here.

The Quality of Coaching

The Quality of Coaching

Clare hated our one-on-one baseball practices.  I made her field a hundred grounders, then made her hit a hundred pitches, as many curves and sliders as I could make my arm throw.  I like to think I exhorted rather than yelled and that the two years I coached Clare’s teams I never showed up my daughter and I never gave her special treatment.  What really saved me, though, was softball.  There was a whole line of coaches who made me look good in comparison.  That’s how I got on the short list of “people I’ll listen to,” as Clare puts it.

The hardest thing for me to learn was “when,” when to say something and when to keep quiet.   That inability boiled over freshman year at Elmhurst during a godforsaken doubleheader at Judson University, former home to the Chicago Bandits; it was a doubleheader that started at 5:30 in 39-degree cold.  I wouldn’t even have wished game two on a Cub fan.

First inning of game one, Clare smoked a ball to dead center that would have gone out of any regular college field, but thanks to the Bandits the fence was 230 feet.  So, homerun number six turned into a double off the fence.  Everything after that, Clare got under the ball trying to launch it, only to pop up.  Between games I let her know what she was doing wrong, but I forgot the hitter in question wasn’t 11-years old anymore.  That’s to say Clare poked me in the ribs with her bat and told me to “Go away.”  I have not repeated that mistake since.

The above serves as my introduction to the following:  We went to the batting cages on Saturday, and Clare’s unhappy with her stance; she can’t put a finger on it, but something’s off.  In general, Clare likes to stride into a pitch with her front foot tippy-toe.  “Is it too much?” she asks later, showing me video from a session last year with her hitting coach.

So, for ten minutes in the living room when she should be getting ready for a date, we discuss stances and approaches at the plate.  I come from the Yogi Berra school—hitting can be fifty percent half-mental.  I think the best way for my sweet little girl to go into the season is with the look of a homicidal maniac on her face so frightening pitchers will be afraid to look at her.  Then, see ball, hit ball.

            Short of that, it’s back to the cages on January 2^nd after we study more video I shot last year.

Old Stereotypes

Clare is spending Christmas break working at a park district holiday camp in a nearby, and very progressive, suburb.  (Hint: In a new ordinance approved by the Happy Village board, parents can be fined if their children are caught riding a bike without a helmet.)  One day at camp this week included a game of “Two Truths and a Lie.”

            When it came to Clare’s turn, she said she had traveled out of the country; had a brother; and held a homerun record.  The consensus among the boys in her group was that number three had to be the lie.  People have been sent to re-education camps for less.

Trending

For some reason, Toronto’s Jose Batista (“Joey Bats”) is following Clare on Twitter.  I can’t even begin to understand.

Christmas Gifts

Last Christmas, Santa spent close to $300 on a new bat for Clare, but the bat had hardly any hits in it.  So, Santa had to go out and buy a replacement soon after the season ended in April.  He will not be putting any bats good or bad under the tree this year.

Clare started hitting before she was four years old, which upset any notions of gender-appropriate toys.  Through a system of trial and error, we learned that our daughter liked girl stuff-girl stuff-BASEBALL-girl stuff.  Gloves were to be leather from Rawlings, the doll pretty from American Girl.  So, the die cast airplanes were a bust, and Daddy’s old Lionel train set was, in the long run, Daddy’s.

Molly, the American Girl doll, always looked sharp dressed in her baseball uniform, complete with cap, spikes, bat and glove.  The four of us—husband, wife, daughter, doll—drove to Cooperstown the summer Clare was ten, following her second appearance as a Mustang Baseball all-star.  I have a picture of Clare and Molly sitting in the stands at Doubleday Field.  Talk about your number three and four hitters.

There’s talk about a return visit to Cooperstown next summer, not Christmas but a graduation gift.  Maybe Molly will join us.  

South Side

South Side

Clare picked yoga over LA Fitness last night, which necessitated a trip to Oak Park.  From the way the girl talks, you would never know she spent the first four years of her life there.

Let me preface that by saying my father was South Side, working class and Polish to his dying day.  I’m all of the above, as filtered through a Ph.D.  And my daughter is all of that, too, as filtered through sports, the Berwyn bungalow belt and God knows what else.

            Anyway, she ended up next to two girls, both probably high school seniors.  One of them talked a little too much about how thrilled she was to be going to Oberlin, that bastion of women’s education.  “She’s obviously not an athlete,” Clare decided because, if she were, the girl would have known we slaughtered Oberlin 9-0 in Florida last March.  A certain somebody spiked the third baseman.  I think it was an accident.  At least I hope it was.  

Monday Miscellany

 

In no particular order, managers Bobby Cox, Tony LaRussa and Joe Torre were elected to the Hall of Fame; Robinson Cano didn’t feel the love, which could only be expressed by a ten-year, $310 million contract from the Yankees; and we went hitting at the batting cages.

I’m not sure how Cox amassed 2504 wins with the Braves and Blue Jays; he always seemed to be dozing off in the dugout.  As for LaRussa and Torre, they were both astute, up to a point.  A balk or a missed call at a hundred feet, and they were up on their feet screaming, but their own players using steroids in the clubhouse, not so much.  LaRussa in particular never saw anything fishy about Jose Canseco or Mark McGwire.  Mark was just cursed with adult acne that followed him (as he trooped after LaRussa) from Oakland to St. Louis, I guess.

Which brings us to Robinson Cano, who signed with the Mariners for ten years at $240 million.  Fans will love watching their 40-year old second baseman try to field a ball in 2022, I’ll bet.  It’s all about love for Cano, and respect.  Apparently, his former team didn’t have any.  “I didn’t get respect from them, and I didn’t see any effort.”  Remember, that’s respect as in “I want a $310 million contract from you guys.”  The Mariners, though, “They showed me love,” or at least a lot of money.  Here’s my prediction:  Ticket prices won’t be going down in New York, but they will be going up in Seattle, probably a good deal more than the team winning percentage.

           Back in the real world, this father showed his love by taking his daughter to the batting cages.  Everything was gray and cold and slow.  The balls came in slow, no matter what speed Clare hit at, and they went out slow, no matter how hard she hit them.  It’s the middle of December, and spring seems years, not months, away.  People ought to be rewarded for showing such dedication as Clare did today.  Not Cano money-love, but something.  Oh, wait, the White Sox just traded closer Addison (Watch ‘Em Hit a Walk-off) Reed to the Diamondbacks for a third base prospect.  That will have to do. 

Flipping Colavito

The best part of this week’s baseball meetings in Orlando was having App Girl home; she kept me up-to-date on all the latest rumors.  Other than that, not much happened on my side of town, unless getting Adam Eaton really is the second coming of Lenny Dykstra, pre-felon.  It was different in the days of the reserve clause.

Then, the offseason was trades-only, and what trades they were.  I was seven when the Sox traded away Earl Battey, Norm Cash, Johnny Callison, Don Mincher and John Romano, all of whom combined for over 900 career homeruns; nine when Billy Pierce was shipped off; ten when it was Luis Aparicio’s turn to go; and eleven when Nellie Fox got dumped.  Two years after that came the Rocky Colavito trade.  First off, understand that the 1960s White Sox truly were the Hitless Wonders, part II (see above, Battey et al for reasons why).  They could pitch, field and run but hitting was a skill beyond most all of them.  The team batting average in 1967 was a “robust” .225 with 89 homeruns.

The 1964 Sox lost the pennant to the Yankees by all of one game; New York hit 56 more homers and scored 88 more runs than we did.  So, trading Jim Landis and Mike Hershberger to the A’s for Rocky Colavito seemed like a good idea, especially given that Colavito would lead the American League in RBI’s the next season.  Only Colavito did it with Cleveland because we turned around and traded him to the Indians for two prospects, Tommy John and Tommie Agee.  Those two were definitely worth Colavito, if only we had hung onto them.

            The Sox reacquired Colavito in 1967, when he was well past his prime; that .221 batting average fit right in.  So, when I hear Adam Eaton, I tend to think of trades long ago and shudder.    Can you blame me?

Homegrown

Last week, the Padres traded reliever Luke Gregerson to the As.  The right-handed Gregerson, with a 2.88 career ERA over five seasons, would have been a good fit with the White Sox.  He also happens to be a graduate of Morton West High School, Clare’s alma mater.

I don’t know why, but Chicago teams don’t want Chicago area players.  It’s all about California, Florida, Texas and the Caribbean, with Japan optional.  But send a scout to check on University of Illinois at Chicago outfielder Curtis Granderson?  That’s too hard.

The Tigers took that chance, which is a little surprising.  Usually, it’s the Cardinals who scout the Midwest.  Guess who signed Gregerson before trading him to the Padres?  Last season, the Cards had two players who went to high school in Missouri—third baseman David Freese and pitcher Trevor Rosenthal.  In addition, starter Lance Lynn went to high school in Indiana.

Not only do the Cardinals scout the Midwest, they develop their talent close to home, too.  Three of the top four St. Louis farm teams are in Memphis, Springfield and Peoria.  That allows both fans and team officials to take a short drive to check up on the future.  On the South Side, we can drive to Charlotte, Birmingham, Winston-Salem or Kannapolis.

But, hey, the frequent-flyer miles are great. And, really, who wants a stiff like Jason Kipnis (Glenbrook North/Arizona State) on your team, anyhow?   

Paul's Back (and Paul's back)

I’m one of those Luddites who rarely carries his cell phone, so Clare had to call home three times before getting me.  Did I hear?  What?  “Paulie’s coming back.”

By that she meant Paul Konerko will return for a 16^th season with the White Sox, not bad for a guy who was traded twice by the time he was 22.  Of all the ballplayers she could model herself after, Clare’s picked a good one.  Konerko never complains, never makes excuses, never says he’s underpaid and underappreciated.  He also works like a crazy person on his hitting.

Once upon a time, teams and players were synonymous: Giants-Mays, Red Sox-Williams, Braves-Aaron.  That world ended with the advent of free agency, where only big-market teams have the luxury of keeping a player for long, e.g., Derek Jeter, 19 years and counting for the Yankees.  Without a core of identifiable players, most teams have turned to “branding” the franchise, which basically means turning the ballpark into an amusement zone.  At least in the old days, fans and players were both wage slaves. 

And in Chicago, we had such teams to follow, first the Go-Go White Sox of Minoso/Fox/Pierece (with Aparicio coming a little later) followed by the star-crossed ’69 Cubs of Banks/Santo/Williams/Jenkins.  But try recalling names from any of the division winners for either team, outside of the 2005 White Sox.  We’re basically talking players stopping by for a few years, Ryne Sandberg and Frank Thomas excepted.  If the franchise doesn’t have a face (other than Sammy Sosa), you’re basically stuck selling the ballpark experience, and at some point that inevitably leads to drunken fans relieving themselves in parking lots and alleys after the game.  Thanks but no thanks.

Clare particularly enjoyed Paulie talking about the adjustment he's going to have to make as a part-time player, because “I’ve had the same role since I was 10-years old—go out and drive in runs and hit homeruns and be a number-four hole hitter and be that big guy in the middle of the lineup.”  Guess who’s looked at her own career the same way?

            Now, all we have to do is hope the Captain’s back holds up. 

What Rubs Off

 

Supposedly, people take on the personality of their dogs (and we’re a basset family).  I think the same holds true for baseball teams.  New Yorkers are the way they are because of the Yankees while Cub fans tend to be a sorry lot because, well, it’s a hundred years and counting.

And White Sox fans over the past decade or so are a bunch of schizophrenics.  We love Paul Konerko for his (millionaire) blue-collar work ethic, and we loved A.J. Pierzynski for his in-your-face personality.  The more A.J. got into it with opposing players, the more likely we were to overlook his reluctance to run out groundballs in July and August.

Konerko-Clare embraced A.J. up to wearing a replica jersey; she never quite imitated the A.J. attitude, though I suspect it’ll happen at least once next spring.  We accepted A.J. signing with Texas last year after eight seasons with the Sox, and we hope he does well now that he’s signed with Boston.  If the Red Sox are smart, they’ll include an incentive clause to keep their new catcher from rolling his eyes every time he hears the Fenway faithful break into “Sweet Caroline” in the eighth inning.

             On the South Side, we just go na-na, hey-hey.

Making Adjustments

White Sox GM Rick Hahn said this in today’s Tribune about Sox catcher Josh Phegley, that “it was his first exposure to the big leagues and obviously the league adjusted to him fairly quickly and he was unable to adjust.”  After a nice start, Phegley wound up hitting .206 with 4 homers and 22 rbi’s. He had real problems laying off of pitches that broke outside.

That was the first adjustment Clare had to make, sliders away.  I don’t know which was harder, the 50-year old pitcher trying to throw them or the 10-1/2 year old trying to hit them.  Talk about your shouting/scowling matches, but she learned.  I think.

The next adjustment was the rise ball; how my little high school freshman loved to go swinging after those.  By her junior year, she could consistently foul off rise balls, at which point pitchers pretty much stopped throwing them.

The one challenge in college has been the change up; you can almost hear the body parts crack as Clare tries to check her swing.  Her hitting coach, bless him, will spend close to an entire session throwing change ups.  So, now my daughter knows how to handle those pitches, too.

           There’s just one more adjustment to go, life after softball.  That one should be interesting for the two of us.