Dreaming on a Summer's Day

The White Sox just took two out of three from the first-place Tigers, and I start to dream (while disregarding the Detroit trade for Cy Young winner David Price).  Why can’t baseball be centered on the Midwest for the next ten years or so?  The coasts have had it long enough.

Let there be pennant races in Chicago and Cleveland, Milwaukee and Detroit, St. Louis and the Twin Cities, Kansas City even.  Save the cellars for New York, with Boston and Washington just above.  As for Los Angeles and San Francisco, they could use some well-deserved mediocrity.  For the real baseball would be played in the Midwest.

At some point, of course, it would come down to an all-Chicago World Series, the only thing standing in the way of ending a curse a certain South Side team.  And that team would win again and again, and the other team would try again and again, while all the rest of the world looked on in wonder as balls disappeared in ivy and the Bridgeport night.

This is what I dream. 

What Hitless Wonders?

Jose Abreu hit another homer and drove in four runs last night in the White Sox 11-4 win over the Tigers.  Abreu leads the majors in homeruns and rbi’s.  So, why don’t I feel more excited?  It’s all about roots, I think.

I grew up a White Sox fan in the 1960s, when the Sox led the American League in team ERA four out of five years, 1963-1967. (They finished .001 runs behind the Orioles in 1965.)  For Sox fans then, you wanted Gary Peters and Juan Pizarro pitching as often as possible, and batting as often as possible, that’s how bad Sox hitters were.  Having never been exposed to power in my formative years, it always left me a little cold, starting with Dick Allen and going on to Ron Kittle, Frank Thomas and now Abreu.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m ecstatic the Big Hurt made the Hall of Fame and went in as a White Sox; the man could hit, as a career .301 batting average and 521 homeruns attest.  But hitting alone doesn’t win pennants or divisions.  In 2004, the Sox clubbed 242 homeruns, which got them all of four games over .500.  The 1964 White Sox hit 106 homers, which brought them to within a game of the Yankees and first place.      

The really good news here is that this is all proof positive of the existence of God.  I love pitching and have a homerun hitter for a child; that’s what you call divine irony.  We took Clare to a softball pitching camp the summer between sixth and seventh grade.  For never having thrown windmill style, she did pretty good, nearly making the cut as someone who was supposed to get serious about her craft.  I can only imagine what would have happened had she kept on pitching.  Schizophrenia, probably: I love to pitch, I hate pitchers, I love to pitch….

Did I say homeruns leave me a little cold?  I should’ve said homeruns in early spring around these parts usually happen in the cold.  To be honest, I loved it each time Clare went yard.       

Hall of Fame

It was an interesting weekend at Cooperstown.  As if to prove what I’d said about so-called selfish players, a Sun-Times’ columnist wrote of Frank Thomas, “The self-absorbed hitter we had witnessed so often over the years, that guy we media members had no trouble portraying, was nowhere to be seen.”  Who knew the Big Hurt could be gracious?  Well, maybe we all would have a lot sooner had media people bothered to see that part of his personality.  I’ll bet it was there all along.

But my favorite (just kidding) newly inducted HOFer was manager Tony La Russa, who had a score to settle with long dead Harry Caray.  Between La Russa and Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf, you’d think the ghost of Caray nearly kept La Russa off the ballot all by himself.  The knock on Caray was that he turned Sox fans against their new manager back in 1979-80.  Talk about bad revisionism.

In 1979, I suspect Caray was portraying La Russa as both a breath of fresh air and a genius who got a very bad team to play .500 ball for him after he took over from Don Kessinger.  And I doubt Caray had much to complain about La Russa when the Sox went 70-90 the next year; God Almighty couldn’t have done much better with that collection of ballplayers.  Yes, Caray did badmouth La Russa in 1981, but here’s the thing:  Caray was let go by the Sox after that season, and La Russa was fired midway during 1986.  Sox fans had 4-1/2 years to decide for themselves about Tony La Russa.

With the Sox, La Russa always seemed to put as much time into his hair as the lineups.  Now, he says Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens and Mark McGwire should be allowed into the Hall of Fame, but with an asterisk noting suspicions over the validity of the respective records.  He’d also accept putting an asterisk on his own managing mark of 2728 wins-2365 losses given how some people complain that he had McGwire in Oakland and St. Louis.

Now, that’s a good idea. 

Selfish or Dumb

The knock on Frank Thomas, if there is one, is he was a selfish player.  In part, this means he didn’t hide keeping track of his stats.  It also means some sportswriters didn’t like him.  The label is never stuck on anyone who gives good quote.

Basically, all players are either selfish or dumb.  Hitters want to dominate in as many categories as possible; ditto pitchers.  With Thomas, of course he wanted to hit homeruns and generate a ton of rbi’s.  What, he should have been trying to move runners along instead, like a number two- or eight-hitter?  I also once heard Jim Palmer referred to as selfish, as if a starter wanting to win games is a bad thing for the team.

Now, a dumb player is a selfish player without the requisite skills.  “Why did he try to pull an outside pitch?” or “What’s he swinging at?” or “Why’s he nibbling at the corners all the time?” was never said of Thomas or Palmer.  Any team with 90-plus losses, though, is full of dumb players.  And their fans are left to dream of selfish ones.

Big and Tall Aches and Pains

I keep waiting for White Sox slugger Jose Abreu to go on the Disabled List; the signs are all there.  Since just before the All-Star break, he’s taken to stepping out of the batter’s box and squatting, which is never a good sign.  Neither is the way he stretches his back while playing first base.  So, I wonder, does size count in baseball injuries?

Ever since Brian Downing popularized lifting weights some thirty years ago, the trend in baseball has gone in the direction of bigger, stronger players.  Mike Squires had a ten-year career as a part-time first baseman with the Sox from the mid-70s to the mid-80s.  Squires was 5’11” and 180 pounds.  In comparison the 255-pound Abreu stands at 6’3” while the increasingly injured Mark Teixeira is 6’3” and 215 pounds.  Somehow, 6’4”, 240-pound Jim Thome managed to play 22 seasons, though the last seven featured a very delicate back.  What’s my point?  Big guys swing hard, throw hard and get hurt often.  How do you say “oblique” and “Tommy John surgery”?

Frank Thomas will go into the Hall of Fame on Sunday.  The Big Hurt put up such incredible numbers in the first half of his career it didn’t matter that he started falling apart at age 33.  The same is true for Albert Pujols, except for the age.  Pujols seems to have started his decline at 31.

Now consider that Hank Aaron stood all of six feet; at 180 pounds, he had strength enough to hit 755 homeruns.  Pitching wise, I keep thinking of Tom “Flash” Gordon, a righty starter-reliever who managed a 21-year career in the majors.  (Gordon’s son Dee, an infielder with the Dodgers, stands two inches taller than his father.)  Two of the most impressive pitchers I’ve seen this year are starter Marcus Stroman of the Blue Jays and closer Greg Holland of the Royals.  Stroman is 5’9” and Holland 5’10”.  Maybe teams need to put away the tape measure.

Isn’t there a saying about good things in small packages?  

Bush League, Big League, Little Girl Tall

The campers and one administrator-turned-counsellor-for-a-day had an outing today at a minor league ballpark in south suburban Crestwood.  The Windy City Thunderbolts topped the Evansville Otters in Frontier League action by a score of 6-1.  Clare wasn’t impressed.  “They were really bad.  I think the fastest pitch came in at 84-86 miles per hour.  They could’ve given me a bat, and I could have hit it,” which is precisely what I’ve been saying for years.  If I had the money, I’d field a team of women players in one of the independent leagues.  It would be interesting to see what would happen.

Clare has a history with the Thunderbolts.  Once upon a time, they were the Will County Cheetahs, playing in the Heartland League.  Clare wasn’t six yet when we went to a game.  I’d set up a meet-and-greet with the manager of the visiting Altoona Rail Kings, who just so happened to be my favorite ballplayer when I was growing up.  Who, you ask?  Why, Walt Williams.

I have a picture of the three of us:  Clare, Williams and me.  I was the tallest then, and now Clare probably is the same height Williams was when he ran out to play the outfield at Comiskey Park.  Size doesn’t matter so much in baseball.

Gender does.

Coach

Clare’s work schedule makes it impossible for her to get away to Elmhurst and pick up her all-conference plaque.  So, I went yesterday and had lunch with Coach, to boot.

His office is what you’d expect, all clutter with photos and player info everywhere.  This one can hit, that one’s a good fielder, maybe they’ll all come to Elmhurst, and maybe they won’t.  “You never know,” says Coach.

We had a two-hour lunch, with a little bit of food and a lot of talk.  Coach remembers everything and everybody, though not necessarily in any kind of order.  Clare gets mixed in with five years ago, this season with all the summers he spent in travel.  If there are six degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon, make it two tops with Coach.  The best part came when he told me about a couple of balls Clare hit I didn’t know about.  One pretty much went the length of the football field during a scrimmage and the other happened when Clare helped with his travel team tryouts three years ago.  “Kids and their fathers just watched.  They couldn’t believe it.”

But, of course, I could because I’ve seen it.  That makes me Thomas.  Coach has to do it on faith, high school stats and instinct.  That’s why they pay him the big bucks.  If only.

Pillow Talk, Almost

Clare and her mother went shopping for mattresses Sunday afternoon, so I was a little surprised by the direction our conversation took when they got back.  Instead of anything “posturepedic,” it was all hitting.

“Dad, do you know what Bryce Harper did over the All-Star break?”  No, what?  “He decided to rework his swing because he isn’t doing as well as last year.  He’s standing up straight more.  I like that.”  Not the new stance necessarily, but being “a ballplayer who wants to do better, not like Adam Dunn [he of the .221 batting average].  He goes up to bat, strikes out, and says, ‘Oh, well.’”

For Dunn’s sake, I hope he never gets my daughter for a hitting coach or, perish the thought, manager.  Either way, he’d be laid out flat in no time.

Time's a Wastin'

Time’s a Wastin’

Last night, the White Sox beat the Astros, 3-2, in a game that featured all of fifteen base runners.  Two runs scored on a homer for the Sox; Houston turned two double plays; there were no pitching changes during an inning; and the Astros failed to put a runner on base after the second inning.  So, why did this little gem of a game take two hours and fifty minutes?

Well, Commissioner Selig says the hitters are partially to blame with all their routines in the batter’s box, and he’s right.  But Selig also says of the overlong All-Star Homerun Derby that “television wants a three-hour program.”

Earth to Bud:  It’s your game.  Own it.

  

All-Star Memories

Growing up when I did as an American League fan, I don’t have many pleasant memories of the All-Star Game outside of Reggie Jackson hitting a light standard on the roof at Tiger Stadium in 1971.  I also remember Harmon Killebrew tearing his hamstring doing the splits at first base trying to field a throw in 1968, but that was more weird than anything.

It’s different for Clare.  In her lifetime, the American League has gone 15-6-1.  So, what’s not to love?  We sit on the couch, watch the game and analyze.  I’m always pointing at front feet, she’s looking for signs of hustle.  Summer, and life, don’t get much better than this.

Some Dance, Others Hit

The batting cages at Stella’s are connected to an indoor/outdoor facility that used to be for hitting and fielding but now seems to have gone over to the dark side: We saw girls lined up outside in three chorus lines.

“I really don’t mind dancers,” Clare told me as we got into the car after hitting.  “It’s just that what they do is so useless.”  OK, Clare, now tell us how you really feel.  I can only imagine what she would’ve said if things had gone badly in the cages.  That we were even there was amazing.  Credit the All-Star Game for putting my daughter in the mood.

Clare had been talking about going hitting for some time now, but couldn’t.  She was mad about graduating, mad that it’s so hard to find an over-21 team to play on, afraid that a college degree kills your ability to hit.  Well, it doesn’t.  The last time Clare hit was Senior Day, April 27.  Of the 120 pitches she saw yesterday, nearly three months later, there were 0 swinging strikes.  Ted Williams would’ve been proud.  I bought Clare a copy of Williams’ The Science of Hitting for her 21^st birthday, and she reads it from time to time.

Now, all we have to do is find a way outside the cages for the girl to keep honing her skill. 

All-Star Lessons

Well, the good news is the American League won last night, 5-3; Alexi Ramirez actually got a hit; and I get a pizza.  The bad news is Fox broadcast the game, which went on and on….

The game also highlighted one of my pet peeves, Chicago’s inability to find homegrown talent.  Twins’ fans went crazy when Pat Neshek and Glen Perkins were introduced; they’re both local boys.  Neshek has a funky sidearm delivery that looks to be almost windmill.  He was a free agent over the winter, but the White Sox took a pass.  We found other pitchers to sign, although none of them comes close to Neshek’s .70 ERA/4-0 record with the Cardinals.  We have, however, constructed a bullpen with thirteen blown saves.

Ex-Twin Jack Morris, another Minnesotan, was on hand for the festivities, and I’ll bet Kent Hrbek was, too.  We just don’t scout local talent like that in Chicago.  No, we let Curtis Granderson sign with the Tigers and Kirby Puckett go to the…Twins, of course.

But I am expecting the Sox and Cubs to announce a joint venture, the first-ever baseball academy at the South Pole, to be followed by a satellite facility on the moon.

Cheesecake and Helmets

I opened up the Sun-Times’ sports section this morning to behold Frank Thomas surrounded by a bevy of short-skirted models.  C’mon, Frank, and ladies and national pastime, too.  There are enough stereotypes in that photo to choke a horse.  Start with race, move to gender and see if you can add any others to the list.

Cheesecake may have its place in life, but not here.  I feel the same way about the Gillette Home Run Derby.  It comes off as more show than competition.  If it was serious, they’d all be wearing batting helmets, or caps at least.  Let’s see Gillette pony up a hundred grand, and maybe that will take the kidding out of things.

Of course, Clare looks at it from her own perspective.  She’s won two homerun contests and placed fifth out of twenty-five against a bunch of boys in another.  The Derby is a chance for her to look at swings and approaches.  My child is taking mental notes for reasons she keeps to herself.

Short Shorts

The U.S. national team played Canada in softball this week, winning 5-3.  What caught my attention more than the score was the uniforms.  They were straight out of 14u.  Adult women sliding in shorts?  Really?

The shorts reminded me of the 1976 White Sox in their clam diggers.  That was a bad idea then, just like softball shorts are now.  The players ought to strike for the right to have pants.  Unless they like blood and scars, that is.    

A Lone Girl, Again

Clare went to pick her mom at the train last night and came upon this scene:  “There were a bunch of little boys playing baseball at Proksa Park, and I saw a girl standing on first base; she had a pink helmet on.  She was the only girl.”

I can only wonder why. 

Regrets

As a writer, James T. Farrell understood the South Side of Chicago and baseball, which at one time were more or less synonymous.  Last night, I was reading The Face of Time, one of Farrell’s many autobiographical novels.  The main character is a poor six-year old boy who has been shipped off to live with his lace-curtain relatives, just as Farrell was.  In the book, Danny O’Neill’s older brother and father have stopped by to pick him up for an outing.  “Pa and I came to take you to the ball game,” says Billy O’Neill.  “The White Sox are playing in their new ball park, the New Comiskey Park.”  So, we’re talking the inaugural season of 1910 here.

I grew up thinking the White Sox would always call Comiskey Park home.  As a nine-year old, I’d never seen a place so beautiful.  It had brick walls out front topped by a series of broad, beautiful arches that framed the golf-course sized outfield; heaven for a pitcher was the mound at 35^th and Shields.  Joe Louis won his heavyweight crown at Comiskey Park, and Larry Doby broke the color line there for the American League, but that was before my time, which dates to June 15, 1962.  The Sox beat the Angels, 7-6.  Too bad baseball considers obstructed sightlines a crime worse than gambling or steroids.  The wrecking ball is not subject to appeal. 

Comiskey Park was the place I very much wanted to take my daughter for her first baseball game, just as my father had taken me and James T. Farrell’s real or imagined father had taken him.

More Mechanics

So, what kind of hitting coach were you, Mr. Know-It-All Dad?  I’m glad you asked.  Call me Doctor, as in, Do No Harm.

For openers, only a fool would’ve goofed around with the kind of swing Clare has, and had from the first time she picked up a bat at the age of three years and ten months; it took all of three pitches before she started lining balls at my head.  From that time on, I pretty much decided to let the prodigy be.

If she wanted to bat legs wide apart like Jeff Bagwell, fine; she made two baseball All-Star teams that way.  If she wanted to go tippy-toe with her front foot, fine again; that helped her earn All-Conference both in high school and college.  The only thing that got me worked up was breaking balls away.

Clare would chase them, the bat going after the pitch and the front foot going away from the ball at the same time.  Foot in the bucket or something else, it was a bad habit that I’ve always kept after her about.  Even this spring, I’d put in my two cents about having an ever-so-slightly closed stance with the front foot pointed towards the plate.  Of all things a father and daughter could ever argue over, who knew it would be a front foot in the batter’s box?

Mechanics

Today’s Tribune had a big story on Jose Abreu’s all-but-perfect mechanics.  My, my.  Last fall, the “experts” were all saying he might have a slow bat, and now he’s got a perfect swing.  That’s what 27 homers by early July will do for your reputation, I guess.

There is no such thing as a “perfect” swing without allowing for one-of-a-kind approaches.  Craig Counsell stood straight up in the batter’s box, with the bat lifted up and back of his head.  You would never teach that to a young player, yet Counsell played for 16 seasons.  Tony Batista looked like he was leaning over to smell the roses when he batted; that netted him 221 career homeruns.  And who can forget the helicopter whir of the bat while Kevin Youkilis waited for a pitch.  “Perfect” is as “perfect” does.

What it all comes down to is you can’t teach perfection or natural ability; Abreu has plenty of latter and probably the former.  But since most players don’t, they’re constantly subjected to the “cookie cutter” approach of various hitting coaches.  Give me Bill Robinson any day.

Robinson was a “can’t miss” prospect who did.  He was pretty much a 27-year old has-been during spring training with the White Sox in 1971.  Then something happened, a light went on, and Robinson went on to hit 166 homeruns, most of them after the age of 30.  He won World Series rings playing for the 1979 Pirates and coaching for the 1986 Mets.  Robinson believed, “A good hitting instructor is able to mold his teachings to the individual.  If a guy stands on his head, you perfect that.”

Amen.

Fourth of July Standings

According to tradition, teams in first place on the Fourth go to the postseason.  If so, Chicago baseball will be ending around October 1^st this year.  On the plus side, the White Sox have some good young players in Jose Abreu, Adam Eaton and Chris Sale.  How any left-handed hitter can hold his ground against Sale is beyond me.

The White Sox also have Paul Konerko for another 2-1/2 months before he retires.  After Konerko hit his 439^th career homer last night against the Mariners, Clare said, “He’s been the only Sox first baseman I can remember.  What will I do?”  As in all things concerning life, accept change but don’t forget what came before.

Once upon a time, the Sox were known for their talented shortstops.  Luke Appling, Chico Carrasquel and Luis Aparicio combined to play the position from 1931-1962, with Aparicio coming back for another three seasons, 1968-1970.  Now, the same is happening at first base.  Konerko and Frank Thomas owned it from 1991-2013 before Abreu took over this year.  With any luck, first will be like short in the annals of Pale Hose history.   

Fireworks Revisited

Fireworks Revisited

It happened ten years ago, plus two days, July 2, 2004.  Clare was finishing her second season of Bronco Ball, for eleven- and twelve-year olds.  As in the previous four seasons of baseball, she was the only girl on the team.  But, with me as coach, nobody gave her grief.

I’m pretty sure it was the only time that season anyone on the team hit a real homerun, over the fence.  In fact, the ball travelled over fence and concession stands before landing in the parking lot, over 250 feet away.  Better yet, it was a walk-off on the last game of the season.  The way her teammates reacted, you would’ve thought there wasn’t any boy-girl gulf between them.

The next day was the homerun hitting contest, Clare and 24 boys; she finished fifth.  That showed anyone who cared to notice that the girl could handle pressure.

Time passes too fast.

The Wrong Kind of Message

The White Sox have just signed three 16-year olds, two from the Dominican Republic and one from Colombia.  One of the Dominican teenagers reportedly received a bonus of $900,000 while his Colombian counterpart got $750,000.

What a great message to send to women athletes: We don’t care how young the players are or where they come from, as long as they’re guys.  Unless I missed it, no women players were selected in last month’s MLB draft.

Twin Bills

Doubleheaders are a staple of college softball.  The only difference between games in Florida and the rest of the season is that the games down South don’t always go back-to-back.  The weather’s nice, so you don’t mind.  Back home, though, you play two as fast as you can, before the April snow or thunderstorms roll in.  Players and fans have twenty minutes between games to eat and do whatnot.

Doubleheaders used to be a part of baseball, too, before the national pastime felt a need to take every last cent from its fans.  Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day—they all called for a twin bill.  But now, two games on the same day offends the bottom line.  I mean, how can you charge people twice for parking?  Oh, wait, you can do that with a day-night doubleheader.  Clear the stands and lots after game one, and charge ’em when they come for game two.  Even then, the doubleheader has fallen out of favor.  The day-night variant is treated at best as a necessary evil.

Yesterday, a rainout led the White Sox to play an old fashion doubleheader, the games back to back like in the old days.  Why, if they did more of that, baseball could get its schedule in order and keep from going into November, but we wouldn’t want that, now would we?  I have a sneaking suspicion the Commissioner would love nothing more than to play the World Series at a neutral site, with game seven scheduled for the Thanksgiving Day weekend.

The great thing about twin bills is the chance to win two.  Conversely, the bad thing about doubleheaders is what the White Sox did against the Angels last night.  Thank you, non-existent pitching.