Apples and Oranges, or Not

 By the time Clare turned 19, she was sweating bullets over making her college softball team.  The coach who had seemed so friendly to a high school senior was all of a sudden demanding and skeptical of any freshman’s talents, or so it seemed.  A few weeks before her birthday, our daughter called to tell us that she probably wasn’t going to make the team because she had gone 0 for 3 in a scrimmage, with a walk and two strikeouts.  Clare ended up the only freshman to crack the starting lineup, and the rest is history, as noted in the Elmhurst College record books.

As a 19-year old playing in the NBA, Jahlil Okafor is still trying to figure out what to do with his down time.  On top of the two nightclub incidents that have come to light, The Philadelphia Inquirer is reporting that in early November Okafor was clocked driving at 108 mph in a 45 mph zone.  Elmhurst didn’t allow freshmen who lived on campus to have a car.

Clare got a car her sophomore and managed to stay off the radar screens; as of this morning on her drive back to Valpo, she’s still good in that regard.  Back in April, when he announced he was leaving Duke after one year for the NBA, Okafor released a statement that said in part, “I can’t thank my coaches, teammates and family enough for making this year so special and helping me grow on and off the court.” 

I’d hate to see the immature version.  I’d love to see grownups get involved before it’s too late.  

He Did What?

At 0-17, the Philadelphia 76ers are in a bad way, and it’s going to get worse if they can’t get a handle on 19-year old rookie center Jahlil Okafor.  After a loss earlier in the week in Boston, Okafor went to a nightclub, which, for professional athletes, is a lot like going to a strip club; only bad things happen at those places.  Sure enough, around 2 AM Okafor got into a fight with hecklers.

“I’m ashamed with what I did and that’s not who I am,” Okafor told reporters after the incident.  “Everybody that’s reached out to me, that’s in my circle, they know that’s not who I am.”  But now comes news of another nightclub incident, last month in Philadelphia.  More heckling, with someone allegedly pulling a gun on Okafor.  If Okafor isn’t that person, then who is he?

Basically, he’s a kid, and kids do dumb things.  As an 18-year old in the minors, Bryce Harper blew a kiss to the opposing pitcher after he hit a home run.  That’s on-the-field dumb, for which there are remedies.  But the stuff that happens off the field can lead to gunfire or, in the case of Johnny Football, whatever an excess of alcohol can fuel. Mr. Football, aka 22-year old Browns’ quarterback Johnny Manziel, has already been to rehab this year, which makes this week’s video of him partying rather sad; his lying about it is more pathetic than anything.  Nobody forced Cleveland to draft Manziel, and apparently nobody in the Browns’ front office did the necessary due diligence.

Long story short—tons of sudden money can corrupt a person, a young person most of all.  Families of said young athletes need to take heed no less than the teams that employ said athletes.

The Little Things

Because it was a gray day after Thanksgiving, I passed the time surfing the Internet to end up on the White Sox website.  I listened to ex-Tigers’ catcher Alex Avila, just signed to a 1-year deal, admit that his father, who happens to be the new Tigers’ GM, did not make an offer to his son.  Talk about cold, though Avila handled it well.

I also watched Micah Johnson deliver turkeys to residents at a Chicago public housing project for senior citizens.  Johnson talked with people—in Spanish to at least one resident—and posed for pictures.  The guy does all the little things right.  He’s going to be 25 come February.  This spring training will decide if Johnson can start at second base in the major leagues.  Please, oh please.    

A House Divided

A House Divided

We had my in-laws over for Thanksgiving; they’re both what I’d call social Bears’ fans, like me.  We don’t lose sleep over the often dumb play that comes out of Soldier Field, but put us in a roomful of people watching a game, and we’ll cheer right along.  We also had their daughter and her family over, Packers’ fans one and all (and five).  My in-laws also have a son who bleeds Cheesehead green and gold.  So does Clare’s boyfriend, Chris.  Now guess what two teams faced off against one another in Green Bay last night and you have a Chicago version of civil war right in the living room.

My father-in-law’s youngest grandchild, a fearless 10-year old, walked through the door and up to his grandfather, to let him know, “The Bears are going to lose tonight.”  Thank you very much.  My brother-in-law no doubt was texting my wife about how the Pack was going to dispose of the Bears by halftime, when everyone at Lambeau Field could cheer their heads off for Brett Favre, who was having his number retired, and Bart Starr, who was intent on showing that a heart attack and stroke could not keep him from appearing.  And still the Bears won, 17-13.

I have no idea why so many football fans in these parts prefer the Packers to the Bears.  When I wax eloquent about the departed Cardinals being the South Side NFL team, hardly a person knows what I’m talking about, as the Cardinals checked out over 50 years ago.  Both the Packers and Bears are known for hardnosed football, with Green Bay having the better quarterbacks and Chicago the better running backs.  The Bears were pretty good in the 1950s and the Packer even better in the 1960s; both teams pretty much stunk in the ’70s while Chicago was always the more interesting team during Da Age a Da Coach, 1981-1992.  Favre came to Green Bay in ’92, and the Packers have dominated ever since.

Still, none of this explains why there are so many Packers’ fans south of the Wisconsin state line.  The best I can offer is that Vince Lombardi had something to do with it.  Deserved or not, Lombardi had the reputation of being extremely tough but fair (and a little brilliant) while George Halas was tough, arbitrary and cheap.  I know that last quality really rubbed my blue-collar father the wrong way.  That, or Chicago-area football fans reacted to the local team the same way I did with the White Sox—since the Bears rarely had a good quarterback, it was more fun to watch the team of Starr, Favre and (Aaron) Rodgers.  Except I never took the next step and switched over to the Braves or Red Sox.     

On the Beauty--and Safety--of Going Deep

Growing up a White Sox fan in the 1960s, for sanity’s sake I took to following mirror-opposite teams like the Red Sox and Braves; if only we had Tony Conigliaro and Mack Jones, or even Gene Oliver, I was certain we could win a pennant.  It was the same in football.  The Bears back then lived and mostly died pounding the ball into the line, so I liked to follow teams with an honest-to-goodness passing game.  Naturally, Sonny Jurgensen became one of my favorite players.  Oh, how that man could throw passes long and on target.

So, when critics talk about violence being a major part of football’s appeal, I disagree.  What makes the game special is a Jurgensen or Johnny Unitas or Aaron Rodgers doing the hitting, be it short, middle or long.  Because I watched Dick Butkus so much, I also enjoy seeing a running back break tackles or in the case of an otherworldly talent like Gayle Sayers, avoid tackles altogether in a 50-yeard dance to the end zone.  At least in my version of the game, a good offense lessens the chances of a concussion. 

A Well-Dressed Man

So, there I am walking through the shoe department at Nordstrom’s with my wife yesterday when this guy comes out of nowhere to shake my hand.  “That is a great throwback jacket,” he enthused.  My wife is now used to this kind of thing happening to us.

The jacket in question has become old in and of itself.  I bought it Christmas Eve 1992, with a 1-year old Clare in tow.  A Mitchell and Ness beauty, the jacket is red with yellow leather sleeves and a White Sox logo from the 1940s, big S with a small O and X fit into the curves.  Billy Pierce liked it, and so have a number of other people in addition to that fellow at Nordstrom’s.

I had a 1959 White Sox jacket, but wore that one out.  When I’m in an Eddy Stanky mood, I wear the 1966 jacket.  Michele wears it, too, and gets guys hitting on her when she does.  I have also been known to wear a Philadelphia As jacket (with white elephant logo) and an Oakland Oaks beauty, forest green with dark brown leather sleeves and an oak leaf patch on the front.  That jacket along with a bunch of caps comes from Ebbets Field Flannels.

I won’t wax nostalgic about “the good old days,” not when they included tuberculosis, polio and lynchings, but the ballparks and uniforms, yeah, I’ll take those any day.

The Reality of College Sports

The Reality of College Sports

Clare woke up yesterday to a text from a friend who’d heard that the Syracuse football coaching staff had just been fired.  That’ll make you want to get out of bed.

Scott Shafer’s Orange started the season with three straight wins, only to follow that with eight straight losses; it’s never a good thing to go a combined 2-13 the last two seasons in the ACC.  By all accounts, Shafer is a really nice guy who may have been too loyal to his defensive coordinator, a close friend.  After a 3-9 record last season and a new athletic director wanting to see improvement in the program, Shafer found himself on the proverbial hot seat.  Syracuse was his eighth coaching job in 24 years of college football.

So, now Clare’s boyfriend Chris is left in a kind of limbo.  As a graduate student, he can’t be fired, but that doesn’t mean the new regime will give him the same chance to coach the way the old offensive coordinator did.  You watch a college football game, one team beats up on another, and you don’t think twice about it.  But somewhere there comes a loss too many.  Yesterday, it happened in Syracuse.   

 

Enough Already

Clare joked during the playoffs that she knew she was watching baseball by all the Viagra commercials.  I saw them, too, though my reaction was probably a little different from a 23-year old’s.

Football, of course, doesn’t have to worry about attracting a long-in-tooth demographic.  Judging by the truck commercials during yesterday’s Bears-Broncos’ game, the target age was about fifteen.  Two commercials in particular irritated me the more they played—one had a pickup barreling through the desert with a da-de-da-da humming version of “Ride of the Valkyries”; the other extolled the virtues of playing in mud and riding in a comfy chair, pulled through—now, wait for it—yes, the desert.

God forbid, we act like adults.  No, Madison Avenue wants every couch potato football fan to harness their inner man-child.  I am truly a dinosaur out of step with the times.     

Is It Sport?

Clare is more a fan of mixed-martial-arts’ fighter Ronda Rousey than I am.  I can see the appeal in how Rousey comes off as confident in the face of very real danger.  But what the 28-year does for a living is by no stretch of the imagination a sport.  I’d say it’s more along the lines of bear-baiting in the 21^st century.

Rousey stepped into a cage of a ring last weekend, only to be dropped by opponent Holly Holm with a brutal if not vicious leg kick to the head in the second round.  Down Rousey went with Holm on top delivering more blows until the ref could pull her off and declare the fight over, Holm the surprise winner.  Man or woman, this kind of fighting crosses over into savagery.  It dehumanizes all involved, those in the cage—less animals in a zoo than in a marketplace—and those watching.  Boxing really is a “sweet science” in comparison.    

Traditions

Clare likes to play Jeopardy! on her birthday because she knows her introduction into this world coincided with Final Jeopardy (Question: What is haggis?) and I appeared on the show when she was three (Final Jeopardy Question on which I bet and lost the farm: What is the Rhodesian Ridgeback?).  We’re a family big on tradition.

Apparently, that now includes a birthday dinner at Frank Thomas’ Big Hurt Brewhouse in beautiful Berwyn.  We were there last night and met the big man for the third time in a year.  He and my daughter talked about bats; she noticed at the Louisville Slugger Museum that his name wasn’t on the list of happy customers.  Thomas said he didn’t like the length of their contracts—seven years—and being locked into using something that might not feel right for him.  “What if I didn’t like the wood?” he asked in the way of a true Hall of Famer.  When we walked into the restaurant, I had made sure Mr. Thomas knew that one person in our group held the career record for homeruns in softball at Elmhurst College.  That elicited a high-five, a birthday/Christmas gift that won’t soon be forgotten.

When "Next Year" Rolls Around

 Right now, Cub fans can’t wait for “next year” to come.  They think that in five short months everything will break their way.  Maybe, maybe not.

This week, their team has collected three awards: Kris Bryant, Rookie of the Year; Joe Maddon, Manager of the Year; and Jake Arrieta, Cy Young.  That’s only happened one time before in ML history, and, guess what?  It was the 1983 White Sox, who did the same with Ron Kittle, Tony LaRussa and LaMarr Hoyt.  Then next year rolled around, and Kittle turned into little more than an occasional power threat and Hoyt a so-so pitcher and victim of substance abuse.  LaRussa was still LaRussa, which is to say a gifted but by no means perfect manager.  It was always “us against the world” with him, and that didn’t have a long shelf life in Chicago.

Hoyt was traded after one more season with the Sox; Kittle and LaRussa left midway through the 1986 season.  So, dear Cub fans, you would do well remember that awards are fleeting, and next year can come all too quick.   

Getting It Right

Even a stopped clock gets the time right twice a day, they say.  The NFL should be so accurate.  They confused high noon with midnight this week, suspending Raiders’ linebacker Aldon Smith a year for violating the league’s substance-abuse policy.

This is not a workplace-related issue.  Smith is accused of doing a whole lot of stupid and potentially dangerous stuff stemming from an August DUI incident, which was not his first.  According to the San Jose Mercury News, Smith could face a maximum jail sentence of 2-1/2 years if convicted on all counts.  But that’s not good enough for the NFL, which has an image to protect.  Where once the league stuck its collective head in the sand over player misconduct, now it acts like judge, jury and executioner. 

If Smith goes to jail, there’s your suspension.  If he beats the charges, no one has to give him a job in football.  Smith was cut by the 49ers after the DUI arrest, and the Raiders picked him up despite his five arrests.  Oh, now I get it.  Roger Goodell has to step in when teams can’t stop themselves from doing wrong.  

Football is Family

You’ve seen the commercials with the tagline “Football is family,” yes?  If football is family, how do you explain Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson, or Greg Hardy?  Is the NFL so tone deaf they don’t see the hypocrisy?  If football is family, what are the Dallas cheerleaders, exactly, sisters or mothers?  If football is family, why has the NFL been so reluctant to confront the issue of concussions?  If football is family, what blood relation would stick it to you with a personal seat license?     

Rookie of the Year

 Baseball’s awards link the past season to all the others.  Cy Young, MVP, Rookie of the Year means both an honor and inclusion on a list for future reference.

Yesterday, Kris Bryant of the Cubs was named NL Rookie of the Year; he is the sixth Cub so honored, joining Billy Williams, Ken Hubbs, Jerome Walton, Kerry Wood and Geovany Soto.  One of those six, Williams made the Hall of Fame, and another, Hubbs, had his life cut short at the age of 22 in a plane crash.  Wood was bedeviled by pitching injuries; Walton was a one-year wonder; and Soto quickly became a journeyman catcher.  So, you never know.

But in that first year, it just feels right, for player and fan alike.  If Bryant hit 26 homers this year, why not double that next year?  Forget Joe Charboneau.  Ron Kittle of the White Sox won AL Rookie of the Year in 1983 after hitting 35 home runs, all of which seemed to go over the roof at Comiskey Park and driving in 100 runs.  You just knew he would go on hitting and hitting, but he didn’t.  Like the Cubs, the White Sox have had six Rookies of the Year: Kittle; Luis Aparicio; Gary Peters; Tommy Agee; Ozzie Guillen; and Jose Abreu; one of them, Aparicio, is in the Hall of Fame.  This year, Abreu became only the second player ever to start off his career with back-to-back seasons of 30-plus homers and 100-plus rbi’s.  Maybe that will transfer into a Hall-of-Fame career.  You never know.  Maybe it’s not one but two out of six Chicago Rookies of the Year who make Cooperstown.

After all, it’s November, when baseball hopes spring eternal.

Circling the Drain

There are three ways to approach sports, by playing the game, watching the game played and reading about it.  #3 may not be long for the world in these parts.

I probably followed baseball in the newspapers more than the average kid, in large part because asthma kept me from playing anything until I was nearly twelve.  I’m not complaining, really.  Other kids were better players, I was the better student, so to speak.  And I loved box scores.  Henry Chadwick came up with the idea in 1859.  To condense an hours’ long contest into a few square inches of readable type was sheer genius on Chadwick’s part.  I can’t imagine baseball without box scores.  Too bad the Chicago Tribune doesn’t agree.

All this past baseball season, their sports’ section trimmed box scores to fit the space available. They might skip the time of game and attendance or who got the rbi’s.  It irritated me enough to send an angry email to the sports’ editor, not that he replied.  I won’t do it again even though it’s gotten worse, with out-of-town NBA and NHL box scores disappearing altogether.  Snip enough lines, drop enough scores, and you can shrink the sports’ section by a page or two.  Why?  There’s not enough ad revenue to keep doing stuff the old way.

From what I gather, the paper is hemorrhaging money and staff.  It won’t be long until the people left in Tribune Tower won’t know how to read a box score, let alone print one. 

Heads I Win, Tails You Lose

 The Tribune reports that the Cubs intend to raise ticket prices by an average of 10 percent for next season.  Including tax, the highest ticket will go for $118.  And let’s not forget flexible pricing.  The team will up the number of games when they charge extra because of the competition.

This year, with the team coming off a 73-89 record in 2014, the Cubs had the third-highest average ticket prices in MLB.  What does that mean?  First, Cub fans don’t care about cost.  Second, all clubs wish they were the Cubs.  Third, the nature of rooting for a baseball team is undergoing a sea change.  Into my thirties, I could deal with periodic unemployment—so much for the benefits of a higher education in liberal arts—and still afford to see twenty or more games a year; I saw the game up close.  And I still do, on television in the comfort of an air-conditioned living room with 100 other channels a click away as soon as the Ken Harrelson becomes too much to bear…                

Insanity

The White Sox made a qualifying offer of $15.8 million for one year to pitcher Jeff Samardzija, who turned it down yesterday.  The soon-to-be 31-year old went 11-13 with a 4.96 ERA in what will most likely be his only season on the South Side.  In olden days, a pitcher hoped to have a job come spring after posting stats like that.  Today, a pitcher such as Samardzija looks to parlay those numbers into a multiyear contract averaging well over $15.8 million a year.

To paraphrase the immortal Hank Hill, something’s not right about this.

Rise and Shine

As a softball graduate assistant, Clare gets to wake up at 5 AM three days a week to supervise 90 minutes of lifting, 6-7:30; so, right now, that means going out in the dark and the cold.  My daughter is not what you would call a morning person.  In fact, when the light’s right (which it hardly ever is at 5 AM), her profile shows a little T Rex, and I don’t mean the ’70s band.  That the girl can keep her raptor tendencies in check is a true testament to character.  Some athletic department is going to do well by my child, provided they don’t start the workday at 5 AM.  Even the most disciplined T Rex has limits.

A Chicago Star Just Not Meant To Be

 A good way to rile up Cub fans is to bring up the trade of Lou Brock to St. Louis for Ernie Broglio.  The sharper ones—all two or three of them—used to come back with, “Yeah, but you gave us Sammy Sosa for George Bell,” which is true, though the steroids’ scandal long ago robbed that deal of its sting.  Which brings us back to Brock.  He could’ve played for the White Sox.

Brock tried out for both teams in 1960, in that time before the annual draft, which started in 1965.  And why didn’t one of the greatest and fastest players ever sign with the South Side?  He thought the Cubs gave him a better shot at reaching the majors.  Oh, what could have been, Lou Brock leading off for Al Lopez and Eddie Stanky.  Brock would have been enough for us to steal the pennant in ’67.

I bring this up because the Cardinals this week announced that Brock, now 76-years old, had his left leg amputated below the knee due to a diabetes-related infection.  Life isn’t fair sometimes, inside baseball or out. 

Hot Stove

For as long as I can remember, the hot stove league has gotten me through the offseason.  Through high school, I had the same routine:  Chicago Tribune sports in the morning during breakfast, Chicago American sports in the afternoon after school.  How and why the White Sox acquired Rocky Colavito (January 20, 1965) or traded him away (on the same day along with Cam Carreon, for Tommy John, Tommie Agee and Johnny Romano) was my pretend way of escaping the winter cold, until going to watch Clare play college softball allowed me to do just that.  The hot stove still gives structure to this life.

How interesting, then, to read speculation in both Chicago papers that the Cubs and Sox would not be adverse to a North Side/South Side deal with Sox pitcher (dare we say “southpaw” here?) Jose Quintana the centerpiece. If the papers know anything (discuss that idea among yourselves), the Cubs would ship Jose Baez or Starling Castro to the Sox for Quintana.  This would be high-stakes for two reasons.  First, it’s hitting for pitching, an everyday player for a once-every-five-days player.  Second, fans and media would hold it over the losing side in any such deal until hell froze over.

I’m on record already of wanting to go after Kyle Schwarber.  Yeah, I know, Cub fans want Chris Sale.  But the back and forth of it is what stokes the old hot stove. 

Mute Button

Jon Gruden has earned the nickname of “Chucky” for his resemblance to the murderous doll of movie fame, and Gruden certainly had the knife out last night broadcasting the Bears-Chargers’ game.

The last time I heard Gruden do a Bears’ broadcast, he was all techno-babble, on why the Calais-stunt on two made perfect sense to counter a draw play.  But Monday night, the ex-Buccaneers’ coach kept unloading on San Diego.  Either Gruden is best friends with the Bears’ John Fox, or he wants to coach the Chargers.  San Diego has had a ton of injuries, as Gruden himself noted, but that didn’t stop the vitriol; apparently, the second and third string in Tampa Bay played like All Pros when Coach Gruden needed them.  Forget that the Chargers could have tied the game late with a field goal, or that they were just one Chicago defensive breakdown from pulling the game out (and the Bears are nothing if not generous in that regard).  No, it was all—

At which point, I hit the mute button.

Louisville Slugger

Clare drove down to Kentucky from Valpo over the weekend to see Louisville play Syracuse; this allowed for a little Chris time.  When in Rome, she also made like the Romans do, which for my daughter meant a trip to the Louisville Slugger factory and museum.  It wasn’t her first visit.

We went five years ago, on our way back from Chattanooga, the site of Clare’s last-ever softball nationals.  We took the tour, saw a hunk of wood turned into a sleek instrument of batting average and power (depending on who they were going to) and then went to lunch.  Oh, wait, Clare insisted on using the batting cage on the premises.  As I recall, a nine- or ten-year old boy watching couldn’t get over how hard that girl was hitting the ball.   

This time, Clare bought a souvenir bat she wants to hang over her bed someday.  A girl with a wooden bat—it’s a start.

....A Rose by any Other Name

 The Boston Red Sox made a bunch of front office moves this week.  They named an executive vice president for partnerships; a senior vice president for strategic planning and senior counsel; a senior vice president and chief marketing officer; and a senior vice president for finance strategy and analytics.  Those people have Troup, David, Adam and Tim for first names.

The Red Sox also named a host of vice presidents, for ticket services and operations; Florida business operations; community, alumni and player relations; and Fenway Park tours.  These people have Naomi, Katie, Pam and Marcita for first names.

The pattern here is all in my imagination, right?

High School Sports

Morton West, Clare’s old high school, made it to the state soccer semi-finals before losing, 2-1, last night.  Forty-nine buses packed with proud, excited Mustang backers made the trip to Hoffman Estates for the match. 

When Clare went to Morton, spring sports mostly ruled.  Her softball teams won regionals four straight years, and the baseball team was pretty good, too.  In fact, one of the pitchers, a year ahead of Clare, was drafted by the Angels.  He made it to high-A ball.

I never played high school sports, and I didn’t particularly like the guys who did.  You have to understand I went to an all-boys Catholic prison back in the Dark Ages.  Nobody liked the honors’ students, and they didn’t like anybody back, not that it ever bothered the football players, trust me.  But as a parent, I soon realized that my high school experience had no bearing on my daughter’s life.  Truth be told, I can’t imagine Clare without sports.

And I will admit that sports can bind a community together.  I keep thinking of the school personnel who’d run out of the building to watch Clare hit and how we’d meet people on the street we knew from school because of sports.  The same is happening right now with the soccer team, I’m sure.  Texas high school football may be as tainted as the college version, I don’t know or care.  But from what I saw with Clare and in the time since, high school sports in these parts are what sports are supposed to be like.  We’d all be better off if pro teams had more rah-rah to them and less police blotter.

Nothing Wrong, Nothing Right

 Authorities in Erie County, New York, have decided not to prosecute the Black Hawks’ Patrick Kane on rape charges following an early morning incident at his suburban-Buffalo mansion in August.  Kane released a statement through the team which stated in part, “I have repeatedly said that I did nothing wrong.”  Sorry, Patrick, but that’s open to debate.

On the night in question, you and a friend picked up two women in a bar and brought them back to your place.  You either had sex with the other woman (who did not file a complaint); watched other people have sex; or left other people, including two strangers, to do whatever they wanted at your house in the middle of the night while you read a book—right—played video games or went to bed.  How is any of the above not wrong?

To stay out of future trouble, may I suggest the Ed and Mary Ann Bukowski test?  Just ask yourself if what you’re about to do will cause loved ones to rise out of their graves to beat the bejesus out of you for being stupid.  If the answer is Yes, then don’t.  It’s that simple.   

Vacancy at Short

As a former college instructor, I can understand how a teacher might get upset—a student bolting from class unannounced can disrupt your flow, and good teaching depends on the ability to stay in the flow of the zone, so to speak.  But, as a father, I couldn’t help but smile.  Clare left her class last night after getting an alert that the White Sox had declined to pick up the $10 million option of shortstop Alexi Ramirez.

Any way you look at it, this is a business decision.  Ramirez may be over the hill, or he just had a bad year at age 34; the front office has to decide and may even bring him back, assuming he’ll settle for less.  My one strong memory of Ramirez is of him throwing to first for the last out in Mark Buerhle’s perfect game against Tampa in 2009.  We were watching the game on ESPN from our hotel room in beautiful Salisbury, Maryland, where Clare’s softball team was playing in nationals.  We were all just happy she’d missed becoming a paraplegic a few hours earlier.

The field was slick from a persisting morning drizzle, and Clare hit a swinging bunt.  The first baseman charged to field it while the second baseman moved over to first for the throw, only she tripped Clare coming down the line; never have I seen a person do a perfect 360-degree somersault like that.  Clare landed hard and flat on her back.  She was lucky to escape with no more than a possible slight concussion.

This was the summer of softball hell, with new travel coaches who didn’t care if Clare hit five homeruns in a weekend to win them a tournament; her reward was to bat seventh the next week and to be told later by one of the coaches that she would never hit in college.  Ramirez’s throw came after centerfielder Dewayne Wise had stolen a homerun from pinch-hitter Gabe Kapler, then juggled the ball, then snared the ball in his glove as he fell to the warning track. 

That’s what you remember when your daughter calls on a Thursday night.  I’m sure the teacher would understand.  

This is Progress?

The Nationals hired Dusty Baker as manager yesterday, a move that prompted MLB Commissioner Rob Manfred to declare how “encouraging” this was because “the best person for the job turned out to be African American.”  Well, maybe.

But what about Willie Randolph?  He did pretty well with the Mets, and he’s said he wants another shot at it.  Ex-Cub Derrek Lee always struck me as a pretty smart guy.  Did anyone ask him?  Barry Larkin got into the HOF as a shortstop, and that’s a brainy position.  How could he do any worse than Baker, who blew a World Series in 2002 and topped himself a year later with the Cubs?  Forget Steve Bartman in the stands.  You had Dusty Baker comatose in the dugout with his team just five outs from a World Series.

And, if you want to expand the list of minority candidates, consider Raul Ibanez, Sandy Alomar and Dave Martinez.  And what about Ozzie Guillen?  He sounds mellower these days, and he has a Series ring to prove his smarts.

Coincidentally, Clare called this morning, to complain that she misses baseball.  She also she’d been looking at available MLB jobs.  A good thing baseball doesn’t discriminate against women.  Right?     He

Dumb and Dumber

Movie mogul George Lucas wants to open a museum devoted to narrative storytelling on the Chicago lakefront and put it in a building that looks like a supersized Hostess Sno-Ball, with a flying ring attached (I kid you not).  And where does he want to put his white blob? you ask.  Why, in the parking area next to Soldier Field, where da fans tailgate.

The Tribune sent a reporter to sample opinion before the Bears-Vikings’ game on Sunday.  Surprise, the fans are mostly opposed.  They want to grill their food and toss their bean bags, weather and George Lucas be damned.  Really, it’s hard to pick a side to root for here, the rich guy with bad taste or a bunch of middle-aged fans who have nothing better to do with their lives.  The only fair way to resolve this—and there’s a federal court case seeking to block the museum’s construction—would be a coin toss at midfield.     

Seems Like Old Times

 Pity the poor Mets, having to depend on Addison Reed and Bartolo Colon to stave off World Series elimination by the Royals.  I remember them well from their time on the White Sox—the one always seemed to give up the big hit while the other never looked like he gave a damn’.  Reed and Colon combined to let five runs score in the top of the 12^th, more than enough to say: Good night, New York.

If I ever get to own a team, the first thing I’d insist on is having my players run the bases like the Royals do; always try and take the extra base, always keep the pressure on the opposing battery.  Will he steal?  When?  Will she steal?  When?  (Remember, it’s my team.)  You have to wonder what KC would’ve done to the Cubs’ Jon Lester, with his inability to keep runners close.  Talk about running wild.

The next thing I’d do is take away the sacrifice bunt by insisting my fielders throw, not just look, to second.  From what I can tell, this would have more of an effect on strategy than shifts do now.  And the last thing I’d do is make use of a 10-(wo)man staff, at least in the playoffs.  Have a speedster plus a really good pinch-hitter in your arsenal, I guarantee you’ll win.  Just give me a team, and I’ll prove it.  

I Pity the Fool (Media)

 Mr. T, that sage and ex-resident of Lake Forest, had it right when he said, I pity the fool, in this case the Chicago media for being longtime lapdogs of the Bears.  What’s their reward for loyalty and perpetual glass-half-filled coverage? you ask.  They get thrown under the bus, or should I say, exposed to potential deadly violence.

Last week’s Halas Hall incident in Lake Forest with now ex-defensive lineman Jeremiah Ratliff was, as I suspected, more serious than the Bears were willing to let on.  In the last two days, the police report has been making the rounds.  It appears a disgruntled and possibly unbalanced Ratliff—his agent claims Ratliff has no memory of the details—threatened to kill everyone in the building and hoped that the children of someone on the staff would die.  Bears’ employees at Halas Hall were alerted to the situation.  Sports’ reporters and people conducting a bank promotion in the parking lot were left in the dark.

Not that Coach John Fox cares.  The police presence was “kind of an alert, at least in my book.”  To me, those are actionable words, as in immediate dismissal.  But the Bears don’t care about public safety.  With the McCaskeys, it’s all about the public’s cash.  Always has been, always will be.