A Tree Falls in theForest...

Lucky tree, no one sees if it’s an awkward or silly exit from this world.  Not so my White Sox.  They played to an empty stadium yesterday, and still the world knows they laid an egg vs. the O’s, 8-2.

With racial unrest gripping Baltimore, MLB decided the game must go on, not in Chicago or D.C., where there are empty stadium at the ready, but at Camden Yards, which was to be made empty for the safety of the fans (in order to protect the village, first we must destroy…).  If only they could’ve enforced a news’ blackout so nobody would know how Jeff Smardzija coughed up six runs in the first inning.  We traded four prospects to Oakland for this kind of performance?

Marcus Semien, one of those prospects, is batting .298 with 12 rbi’s for the A’s.  Had we kept him, Semien would’ve played second, where Micah Johnson is batting .244 with 0 rbi’s.  Johnson is supposed to be fast, yet Semien has more runs scored and stolen bases.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like Johnson, and I can even stand the Smardzija deal, but things aren’t clicking as we head into the second month of the season.  Somebody wake Robin up in the dugout to convey concerns.

In the meantime, it feels like that tree is landing on my head, again and again.     

Deja Vu

Senior Day wasn’t any easier for me yesterday than it was a year ago when Clare ended her career as an Elmhurst College Bluejay.  First off, I apologized to all the seniors for showing up as the fourth old man in their dugout this season, and I proceeded to let them in on a secret—watching them play allowed me to see my daughter again.  Shakespeare wrote of “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”  Too bad he never saw the Bluejays this year or last.

Just Desserts

Angels’ owner Arte Moreno thought he was ever so smart by signing outfielder Josh Hamilton to a five-year $125 million contract back in 2013.  Forget about Hamilton’s drug and alcohol addictions and his relapses.  Moreno knew better, in part because he had the contract drawn up in such a way the team would be protected if Hamilton relapsed yet again.  When he did, lo and behold, there was no clear-cut “out” in the contract for the Angels.

But Moreno wasn’t alone being too smart by half; the same holds for Hamilton, who apparently thought it was enough to proclaim in front of every TV camera how Jesus was his savior.  (Note: I share Hamilton’s faith in Christ if not his need to publicize it.  I figure the Son of God is embarrassed enough having me as a fan w/o the whole world knowing.)  That the Lord helps those who help themselves must have been a lesson Hamilton forgot on the way to the bank.

So, this week the Angels traded Hamilton back to the Rangers while picking up $60 million of the contract.  Texas kicks in another $6 million and Hamilton gives the Angels what he would have been paying in state income tax had he stayed in California.  (Texas has no state income tax.)  Everybody wins, kind of, just as nobody will remember the next time a talented but troubled free agent comes on the market.  Professional sports are full of people too smart for their own good.      

Told You So

At age 32, reliever Matt Albers can point to enough good years for general managers to overlook the bad ones.  Albers made the White Sox out of spring training and has looked sharp in limited action this month.  Or he did until Thursday against Kansas City.  Guess who broke the little finger on his pitching hand during the punch-and-shove-athon with the Royals?  Now all Albers can do is hope his replacement isn’t lights-out during his stint on the DL.  There is nothing as sad as a 32-year old reliever sent down to Triple A, unless it’s a 32-year old reliever being released altogether.

Baseball Fight

“Violent” may be the word most associated with football; depending on the teams involved, I’d say the same holds true for hockey.  But baseball fans are more likely to think of their game as “pastoral” (or “boring” to its critics). All of which makes baseball fights so interesting and different from other sports.

One broke out Thursday night between the Royals and White Sox.  Long story short, you root for your team while blaming the other guys.  So, the Sox were in the right, and Royals starter Yordano Ventura is more than a little nuts.  I mean, who yells at a batter for hitting the ball back to him, the way Ventura did to Adam Eaton?  After the usual shoving and sideways punching, peace was restored, and there were no reported injuries, thank heavens.  See below.

The two biggest brawlers for the Sox appeared to be starting pitchers Chris Sale and Jeff Smardzija; Sale wanted to start things up again after the game when he tried to get into the Kansas City clubhouse.  In football, fans would be shouting, Yeah!  In baseball, we say, Are you nuts?  What if you break a hand?  And Sale already has suffered a broken foot in spring training.

“We’re not boxers, we’re baseball players,” Sale told reporters afterwards, and he wants everyone to know “this isn’t going to turn into ‘Fight Club’ or anything like that.”  Well, let’s keep a good thought.  

Heartache

Tuesday afternoon, the Elmhurst College softball Bluejays controlled their own destiny; three out of four wins against the next two foes and they were a good bet for the CCIW postseason tournament.  Instead, they ended up with four losses.

Underclassmen don’t feel the sting as much as the juniors and (especially) seniors.  Four starters will graduate in another month.  There’s no crying in baseball, and next to no chance of turning pro in softball.  And just try finding a serious adult fast-pitch league.  Nearly all the teams Clare has found are mixed, as in “You want to go out for a drink after the game?”  That tends to give the final score a whole new meaning.

From experience, I know what the senior fathers are going through.  I talked to two of them yesterday.  One was OK, the other was sitting all alone behind the fence in left field; his daughter is leading the team in hitting.  He may already be in the early stages of withdrawal.

Youth sports ought to come with a disclaimer for athletes and parents alike: Warning.  May be habit-forming and hard to break.  Still, I doubt anyone at the game yesterday would have been scared away.      

Lightning, Twice

For the second time in a week, it happened and to the same pitcher.  Forget the blue skies.  Lightning in the form of a 12-inch softball can strike twice.

We were at Wheaton College, bottom of the fourth inning when a batter for the home team (the Thunder, I kid you not) hit a rocket our pitcher sort-of deflected with her glove, but not enough to keep her from hitting the ground so hard she may have suffered a concussion and whiplash.  Nothing a mother wants more than to see her child wheeled off the playing field into an ambulance.

Of course, the game continued, to be followed by another.  Softball doesn’t need to make changes any more than that bandit needed to show a badge to Humphrey Bogart in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.  Happy endings all the way around  

Face of the Franchise

 Former Bears’ linebacker Doug Buffone died unexpectedly yesterday at the age of 70.  Buffone was held in high regard for a quick mind and a sharp wit, both of which he employed covering the Bears on sports’ talk radio.  You can’t expect to win the Kentucky Derby with a donkey, Buffone said after a recent Chicago loss to Green Bay.  We’re a town where owners are forever trying to pass off donkeys for thoroughbreds.

Buffone’s death qualifies as another passing of the guard; Chicago sports has been especially hard-hit this year with the losses of Ernie Banks and Minnie Minoso.  You can debate the talent of athletes then and now or argue over which eras were better, but what you can’t argue is ex-athletes are different now.  Very few are interested in being public personalities or the face of a particular franchise, if you will.

Maybe the simplest way to define a “face” is by the willingness to sign autographs—for free.  Major sports teams all have their fan fests, heavy with favorite ex-players.  But fans pay through the nose to get an autograph or a picture.  With the Bears, Blackhawks and Bulls, I can’t think of a single player under the age of fifty who would do what Banks and Buffone did for so long and at no cost.  Michael Jordan?  You’re kidding, right?  The situation is a little better with the baseball teams.  Kerry Wood, Ron Kittle and Frank Thomas seem willing to take up the role of public ambassador for their respective teams.

It’s a different world, as we old folks like to say.  Free agency means players rarely have a career with one team anymore, and even those who do aren’t often inclined to open a restaurant, a bowling alley or a car dealership like in the old days when the reserved clause reigned supreme.  That’s progress, I guess.

Twelve or so years ago, Michele was walking along State Street when she spied Minnie Minoso sitting at a table outside a restaurant.  My wife screwed up her courage, walked up to Minoso and asked for an autograph.  Minnie being Minnie, he just so happened to have a picture of himself at the ready.  “To Clare Best Wishes [one of his four names] Minoso #9.”

That is what fans now have to pay dearly for.

Learning Curve

Learning Curves

Clare says she’s learned a ton about coaching this spring while a graduate assistant, the importance of forbearance probably most of all.  A coach has to go with the flow and not give in to impulses, no matter how tempting.  The law will get you in the end, if the parents don’t get to you first.

It would also be a good idea for my daughter to watch and see how Robin Ventura goes about his job as manager of the White Sox, and then do the opposite.  The full Ventura was on display this weekend in Detroit.  On Fr4iday, the Tigers led off the bottom of the ninth inning of a 1-1 game with a double to right field, only the runner may have been out at second base.  Only Ventura doesn’t rush out to challenge the call because his replay people say the runner beat the tag, then he does go out only to be told by the umpire he’s too late.  Robin, it’s the bottom of the ninth.  Were you saving your challenge for extra innings?

Then came yesterday, a 9-1 drubbing set up by the purportedly talented Jose Quintana, who needed 42 pitches to get out the first inning.  Quintana gave up a grand slam and a two-run shot to Yeonis Cespedes, who now is six for eight in his career against the lefty, with four homers.  So, Robin, what was the game plan here, exactly?  Have Quintana go 3-2 on batter after batter (three out of the first four by my count) until he got comfortable?  And where was the pitching guru, Don Cooper, in all this?  After giving up the second homer by Cespedes, Quintana whacked himself in the head with his glove.  First off, that’s the wrong body part.  Second, all hitting—or kicking—should be done by a member of the coaching staff.

Oh, did I mention that Sox leadoff hitter Adam Eaton is batting a “robust” .136 two weeks into the season?  Eaton should come around, but there’s no reason to keep him at the top of the order.  The idea is to win now while working around your guys who are slumping.  But that’s not the Ventura Way.

Pay attention, Clare.  

Cheers

Cheers

How does a softball dugout differ from its baseball counterpart?   To this observer, it’s not the swearing—ballplayers are, after all, ballplayers—but the cheering.  Boys don’t do what girls do so well.

Back when Clare was in eighth grade, I admit this bothered me.  I assumed that cheering was one stepped removed from cheerleading, but I was wrong.  The softball cheer is nothing short of first-rate performance art done on the fly:  One/one/one you’re the one.  I just would’ve thought no. 11 was batting.

Feel a shot comin’ on, shot comin’ on.  Four, four (repeated in the seagull voice proclaiming “Mine” from Finding Nemo).  And names twisted and teased to fit the moment and the voices available: Clare-Bear!  Clare-Bear!  Boo-kow-ski!

This may all sound pretty tame, but trust me, there’s at least one cheer with an undertone so intense I can’t help but wonder if it’s about softball or something a wee bit more primal, and remember that everything is performed at a decibel level high enough to impress the most rabid Seattle Seahawk fans.  I have no particular love for softball because young women are entirely capable of playing baseball, and should be.  But a baseball dugout is all testosterone and whatnot.  I’ve really come to appreciate the softball alternative.         

Draft Day Kool Aid

 I have to give the Chicago papers credit; they held out against the NFL juggernaut for as long as they could.  The Tribune even tried to find out how much it will cost to hold the NFL Draft downtown and what kind of inconveniences to expect.  But the big day is just two weeks off, and those pictures from the NFL’s PR people are so neat.  They’re going to erect something in Grant Park that could pass for a blimp hangar.  Oh my!

Don’t forget to visit Draft Town and Selection Square or check out the interactive stations! And remember what Mr. Vice President in charge of events said—it’s “not just an in-theater experience, but a massive free fan festival that allows so many more fans to experience the draft.”  Bah-bah, go the sheep.  Entertain us, and we won’t care how crappy a draft our team pulls off.  Or how high ticket prices will go in the fall.

Bah-bah.   

Masks

Softball face masks and guards come in a variety of styles; some resemble an old catcher’s mask while others look like clear plastic versions of a grasshopper’s jaw.  I started noticing them as soon as Clare switched to softball.

Pitchers standing 40-43 feet from the plate were in obvious need, as were first and third basemen; the baselines are all of 60 feet.  Insert a strong hitter like Clare into the equation, and you’re asking for injury.  Of course, being both a guy and a lover of baseball, I thought a far better solution than face masks would be for softball to adopt baseball-like distances.  As of last night, I stand corrected.

Melky Cabrera of the White Sox lined a pitch up the middle against Cleveland in the top of the first inning.  Indians’ starter Carlos Carrasco was barely able to deflect the ball; what could have struck Carrasco directly in the cheek or eye socket appears to have been more of a glancing blow off the side of the face.  The next pitcher may not be as lucky.

Masks look strange, I grant you, but a fractured cheek, nose or socket is infinitely worse.  Looks be damned.  Softball should make masks mandatory—and yes, adopt longer distances—while baseball should offer the option to any pitcher who wants a mask.  Macho can’t protect a head by itself.

Parents Say the Darndest Things

 Ah, midseason for spring sports, a time for high school and college coaches to check the standings.  If they’re lucky enough to be in first place, life is good, and hope springs eternal with playoffs approaching.  But if they’re .500 or below, look out, the parents are coming to give them an earful.  It’s the nature of the beast.

A good parent has to be an advocate.  We all want our kids to succeed, and there are times they need our help when dealing with other grownups to do so.  In Clare’s case, we were more likely to go toe-to-toe with a teacher than a coach.  What that says about me, I don’t know.

Sports-wise, we were lucky; there was no gnashing of teeth from ninth grade through college because Clare was stuck on the bench.  One of Clare’s high school coaches likes to tell of the time the team was at the hitting cages the same time as this eighth grader; she was in one of the faster speeds.  “You could hear her bat going Whack! Whack! Whack! and I’m thinking, ‘Please, oh please, let her go to our school.’”  She did and started from her first game of freshman year.

Then came college, and it was the same thing.  Clare made the starting lineup as a freshman and stayed there for four years.  I wasn’t always happy where she batted, and let my wife know the child she bore should always hit in the three-hole.  But that was it.  I never went up to the coach to complain or talk loud enough from the stands for the coach to hear, maybe.  Nor did I ever start rumors about a coach.  Watch a sport long enough, and you’ll see all three.

Whatever complaining I witnessed—and took part in, below—involved playing time.  In high school, a parent sent an anonymous letter to the coach.  In college, there were confrontations; you’d be surprised how often mothers get into it with coaches.  I preferred to save my complaining for travel ball.

The first time came in freshman year after a tournament in Toledo, very hot and not very many at-bats.  Clare went six for fifteen over three days, for an average we both thought should have meant more playing time.  I told one of the coaches his second baseman wanted to talk to him, and they did.  That was it on my part.  I was pretty sure the conversation would be civil and there’d be no repercussions because Coach Harry was a very decent guy.  The two clowns who followed, not so much.

They didn’t like Clare at second base, and I told them she was the best player they had there.  Again, that was it; no curses crossed my lips, although given how Clare was treated later, I should’ve sworn up a storm.  Long story short, one of the coaches told Clare she’d never hit in college, and this after she clubbed five homeruns in a weekend.

So, I may be as bad as the anonymous letter-writer and the rumormonger.  There are some things you do as a parent without caring what other people think.  Given that there are consequences in life, you just better be right.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall....

 No doubt crushed by the end of their 38-game winning streak at the hands of Wisconsin in the NCAA semi-finals, the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team reacted by…heading out the door, literally.  Seven Wildcats, including three freshmen and three sophomores, declared for the NBA draft this week.  What else do they have to learn in college, right?

Forget the double entendre here and focus on the sports’ aspect.  I’d like to see a statistical breakdown for NBA performance by year of entry: after freshman, sophomore, etc.  Then, factor in length of NBA career.  I’d suspect you’d have a lot more journeymen players and worse vs. All-Stars, not that any such statistics would change minds.  Too many voices whispering into too many gullible ears for that to happen.

Think about it.  Seven of sixteen college players for one team think their good enough to go pro in the fall, not just to make the team, mind you, but as starters.  Do any of them think they need to improve their skills?  Are they worried that suddenly they’ll be banging bodies bigger than they’ve ever faced before?  No, posse and agent assure them, the NBA Development League is for other guys.  And college, too.  

Role Reversal

Talk about strange.  A spring monsoon washed out Valpo’s game yesterday, so Clare drove over to watch Elmhurst play North Central instead.  She sat in the stands while I kept score in the dugout.  Since around the time of the dinosaurs, it was the other way around, child inside parent outside, occasional messages exchanged through the side opening as necessary.

The aspiring coach made several observations that I missed, not the least of which was the importance of playing through an error.  Hanging your head or kicking the dirt doesn’t stop the play; the other side will take advantage of the gift for as long as you let them, up to and including the chance to score all possible runs.

The former captain was treated with the respect and affection due her, most of all by this year’s seniors.  Each year younger was a little more reserved until you got to the freshmen wondering what the big deal was.  The girl could hit, ladies.  Look it up in the record books.

North Central being the opposition, we found a way to drop both games despite some pretty good pitching.  Then it was over, and life went on for Bluejays past and present. 

Stengel, Alston, Lopez et al

 What makes a good coach or manager?  Part of the answer, I fear, is doing everything the opposite of Robin Ventura.  (Wake up, Robin, your team is 0-3).

But there has to be more.  I wonder because Clare is in the dugout now with a whole new role to play; what counts is how well she motivates and evaluates players while employing tactics to strategy.  In other words, she’s learning to play chess with human pieces.  And Bobby Fischer never had to worry about a wet field or a sore hamstring.

It’s still early, but I’m detecting evidence of a fair but tough approach from my only child.  Clare always worked hard as a player.  In high school, it was grounder after grounder for practice at second base; at Elmhurst, Clare wanted her coaches to rain down fly balls at her in right field.  And she never showed off circling the bases on one of her homers.  So, she’d expect the same from her players, all hard work and head down.  That may or may not qualify her as a “players’ coach.”

Moreover, there are issues on the college level Casey Stengel and his buddies never had to worry about.  Casey went ballistic over a harmonica on the bus.  What would he do about iPad, iPhone or ITunes?  A girlfriend/boyfriend suddenly deployed to the Middle East?  Temptations in the next dorm room scary enough to turn Billy Martin into Billy Sunday?  No, coaching these days is a 21^st century challenge, and we’ll just have to see how my daughter handles it.   

The Big Time

Clare wanted us to see Valpo play at U of W in Madison so we could get “The Big Ten Experience.”  Well, I will say it was the first time we ever paid for parking to a college softball game.

For some reason, the (Lady?) Badgers play in a complex named for two guys.  The stands seat 1600 give or take, with 275 people showing up yesterday.  Either they counted passerby to reach that figure, or some folks dressed as aluminum seats. 

Valpo lost both games, though not for lack of effort.  The Crusaders actually jumped out to an early lead in game one on a two-run homer.  I can only hope that irritated the Wisconsin coach, who used to be the Loyola coach when Clare attended high school camps there trying to impress her.  But no dive my daughter did or ball she hit to the fence impressed the woman sufficiently, so that Valpo shot was a nice bit of revenge for me if not Clare.

This was also my first game dealing with an aggressive school mascot.  Bucky Badger wandered over to steal Michele’s purse, but he gave it back.  I bet no wolverine would be as nice.
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Truth in Advertising

My favorite part of March Madness were those self-serving commercials the NCAA loves to run, about the student-athletes who get out of bed at five in the morning to work on the balance beam and then stay up past midnight to tackle the big paper.  What a joke.  What about a commercial showing a different bunch of NCAA athletes, the ones who get stinking Saturday-night drunk and/or sport neck tattoos?  The camera could zoom in to show “Citius-Altius-Fortius” inked in Latin across an adam’s apple.

For no particularly sane reason, I’ve volunteered to score the Elmhurst softball games this spring.  Yesterday, we traveled to North Park College on the northwest side of Chicago.  Two teams played before a crowd of 34 people.  Where was the NCAA to film the kids showing their love of the game in the 41-degree chill and mist? 

Today, Michele and I are driving up to Madison to watch Valpo take on the U of W (a nice working definition of parental love, that).  The crowd may be a little bigger, but I don’t expect to show up in the background of another student-athlete promo.  The NCAA only cares about its image when commercial time is at a premium.  That’s next to never in D III and not often in D-I women’s sports.  For that matter, baseball doesn’t draw a whole lot of attention, either.  And that’s just fine by me.  Leave the hypocrisy for the big and the tall.

1968 Deja Vu

After the White Sox lost the American League pennant by all of three games, they made a series of offseason moves highlighted by trades for Luis Aparicio and Tommy Davis.  (Note: Don Buford and Tommie Agee, the traded-away Sox, would face one another in the 1969 World Series).  There would be no stopping the South Siders in 1968, which turned out to be true for all the wrong reasons.  The Sox dropped the season opener 9-0 before a home crowd of less than 7800 fans on their way to ten straight losses and 85 more that year.

This offseason, the Sox made a number of moves, not the least of which was acquiring righty starter Jeff Smardzija, who started the season opener against the Royals in Kansas City.  Smardzija gave up five runs and the new if not improved bullpen added another five-spot for a 10-1 smack-down.  If Sox fans weren’t fatalists by nature, this would be really depressing.   

Keeping Tabs

Clare and I are both interested in White Sox rookie second baseman Micah Johnson.  According to today’s Tribune, this is how Johnson reacted to the news he’d be starting on Opening Day against the Royals—he called his parents and his high school coach and then personally thanked his minor league coaches.  “I didn’t make this on my own,” admitted the 24-year old.  “It was God and those guys.”  Well said.

Johnson took college classes in the offseason, knows Spanish and French, and is thinking of attending law school as a way to prepare for a post-playing career in somebody’s front office.  This is what I call a role model, and my daughter agrees.  Now, we cross our fingers in the hope that performance matches potential.   

Justice

In February, Angels’ outfielder Josh Hamilton admitted in public that he’d had a relapse.  Hamilton suffers the double curse of cocaine and alcohol addictions so bad they nearly derailed his career.  Even after he’d cleaned himself up with the Rangers, Hamilton twice fell off the wagon, as they used to say, but neither episode led to a full-on relapse.

Yesterday, an arbitrator ruled that Hamilton would not be subject to suspension.  The five-time All-Star is still following his treatment program, which appears to have carried a lot of weight with the arbitrator.  “Oops” must have trumped binge, to the benefit of Hamilton.

Only the Angels wish it hadn’t.  The team said in a statement it was “disappointed” in Hamilton, who has pretty much been a bust two years into a five-year $125 million contract.  Gosh, who held a gun to their heads to sign a 32-year old player with a history of addiction?  Really, you get what you pay for in life, and sports.

All Lines are Open

 I got out of the car yesterday afternoon with the radio turned to the White Sox game and came back to a call-in show.  Apparently, Joe Blow from Schaumburg was upset with Cubs’ spring-training sensation Kris Bryant, who said he was “disappointed” at not making the Opening Day roster.  In some parts, “old school” means a rookie is better seen and not heard.

In a way, you can’t blame fans for feeling frustrated.  They can vote to put players on the All-Star team but have no say—other than boycotting games—on the direction of their favorite team.  So, they vent, oftentimes to hosts who believe their role in life is to mock all of the human race, or at least that portion calling in.  It’s not pretty, we deserve better, and we ought to act better whether or not we get it.

Besides, why make your phone carrier any richer?     

Bus Trip, Anyone?

Growing up, Clare loved the movie, “A League of Their Own.”  I doubt that’s changed much since sixth grade.  If I had a dollar for every time someone in our household said, “There’s no crying in baseball,” well, what a wealthy family we would all be.

The bus scenes were probably the one part of the movie that never registered with my daughter right.  Then came high school with the occasional 45-minute ride, followed by twice-a-year two hour drives in college to a CCIW opponent.  Now, the girl has gone and graduated to the bigtime, three hours one way to Indianapolis with Valpo facing off against Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis, or “OO-E-POO-E” as those in the know like to say.

Long story short, Valpo dropped both games and then got caught in traffic on the way home.  A bus ride isn’t as much fun without Tom Hanks or Madonna onboard.  Of course, you could always stream the movie on your device of choice.  Just saying.

What's the Rush?

Tonight, ESPN will broadcast the 38^th McDonald’s All-American Boys Game from the United Center.  The game features the best graduating high school players in the country.  Some, or many of them, will never earn a college degree, but no matter.  ESPN will also be doing the girls’ game, on one of its lesser outlets.

I’m supposed to care about the game because it features local product Jalen Brunson, a 6-foot-2 shooting guard.  Talk about pressure.  At the size, Brunson has to shoot—and score—in his sleep, let alone college (Villanova) if he wants to make the NBA.  Who came up with the idea of showing teenagers at play, anyhow?

Oh, right.  ESPN also gave us the Little League World Series.  That worked out great, except for when the Chicago team was stripped of the U.S. title.  Maybe we should wait until our kids get into college to put them on TV.